an absurd tone

Looking back over the year's posts, I noticed that there was a definite change in my tone around the end of May and beginning of June.

It was around May 22, 2006 when I posted a blog about writing here less. It was a de facto farewell, or rather an announcement that I wasn't going to blog as frequently as in the past.

It also happened to be around the time that I quit the radio gig and started the higher-paying job at the prefab factory. I was anticipating that I wouldn't have any time to post at length, as is my wont.

Now that I've been gone from the prefab gig for almost three months, and now that the year is almost over, it feels appropriate to reflect upon what has come before.

New job and less time to blog notwithstanding, there was a definite change in my tone during the past summer.

And I remember what caused that change. I didn't write about it at the time because... well, I don't have any real reason or excuse as to why I didn't.

I guess now is as good a time as any to examine this.


*/*


In the middle of last Spring I saw an ad for a theatrical production of Ubu Roi, an obscure early-twentieth-century absurdist French play written by none other than Alfred Jarry, whom I have obsessed over for some time now.

Imagine my excitement: Jarry's work is strange and satirical, and reading the words on the printed page just doesn't do any justice to what he was trying to stage. Jarry is not the type of figure whose plays get staged regularly, and since I was working on a screenplay based on the eccentric 'pataphysicist's life, I thought it would be splendid to see a production (taking place in nearby Pasadena, no less) of perhaps his best-known work, Ubu Roi ("Ubu The King").

The main character, Pere Ubu, is an over-the-top antihero possessing every negative quality and trait available to the human condition: cowardice, greed, ignorance, sloth, boorishness, full of disgrace and wholly unsophisticated. This was Jarry's intention-- the character was based upon one of his science teachers during his insolent upbringing, a man that young Jarry and his classmates reveled in lampooning.

The best way to describe Ubu (to those who don't feel they can regard someone so repugnant and vile as even remotely comical) would be to compare him to Homer Simpson. If Homer Simpson was actually a real live person, 90% of the things that come out of his mouth (as well as 95% of his actions) would appall the average citizen. But we giggle at his antics because he is a cartoon character, a grotesque so broadly drawn that one must laugh in self-defense lest the gravity of his words and deeds remind us that reality is not that far removed from the caricature.

I knew of only one other person who would appreciate a theatrical staging of Ubu Roi, and that was my friend from high school, Laurie. When I forwarded a link of the ad, she replied that she would love to check it out. She would let both her husband Daniel and Eve know about it so that we could make a couple's night out of it.

It all sounded good to me. Personally, I would've gone by myself if no one had wanted to go.

In hindsight, maybe that would have been the better course to take.


*/*


As the date for the play neared, Eve and I were pretty much done romantically. She'd made it clear to me that she only wanted to be friends. I suspected that she was already seeing someone else, but I figured we could at least try to be friends. After all, I was friends with nearly all of my exes and it never posed any problems. Eve and I had matured enough over the years to be civil and respectful of each other in a post-break-up scenario, right?

Not quite.

I found that I didn't really like Eve as a person if we weren't in love. Absurd, yes, but you're dealing with a person who lives for the absurd.

Things that I could tolerate in her simply became intolerable without the net of an intimate relationship underneath us. Lacking a shared passion, I began to see how vastly different we are in general. Her idiosyncrasies started to grate on my nerves.

Look, I'm not the neatest, tidiest person in the world, but must she always keep her apartment in such disarray, with clothes strewn about and cigarette butts piling to Babelian proportions in her many ashtrays? To me, it was less about good housekeeping than a symptom of a deeper problem.

Still, it would not be such an issue if it weren't for her facile acknowledgement of this supreme messiness-- you couldn't walk into her place without hearing her apologize for the state it was in, even if you had no intention of mentioning it.

But to push matters into the realm of insufferability, she would refuse any offer to help her clean the mess. So here you have it: a girl with an unkempt apartment bitching about something she has absolutely no intention of doing anything about...

I could deal with it when we were lovers, but not when we became friends.

That was just one of the things that was growing on me, and it certainly wasn't the biggest thing either. But it would indeed prove to be the case later on.


*/*


When my friend Nina got wind of the Jarry production, she volunteered to buy tickets for the four of us plus two more for herself and her boyfriend, who later got me the short-lived job at the prefab factory.

She purchased tickets for the last day of the show. This made me even more excited, because I wanted to know what my friends thought of Jarry. I was already sold on the man and his writings, but to finally be able to talk at length with people I respected about something that I was so gaga over filled me with such an elation that I forgot about everything else, including my strained relationship with Eve.

Now that I replay the whole episode in my head, I realize that I should've done more to ensure that things would go off without a hitch. However, I was too happy about seeing a rarely-performed Jarry play in my own backyard to think of Murphy's Law, which is ironic seeing as Murphy's Law is the purest distillation of Jarry's pseudo-science of 'pataphysics that anyone could ever come across.

"If anything can happen, it will"... or so the maxim goes.


*/*


The day of the play, I started to get anxious.

The plan was for Laurie and Daniel to meet us at Eve's apartment, where we could travel together in one car.

Nina and her boyfriend were already on their way, and had called to let us know that they would leave the tickets at the box offfice window in case we were running late.

And running late we were. I was pacing around Eve's disheveled apartment, looking at my watch every two minutes. "Where are they?"

"They'll be here," Eve said, annoyed at my impatience.

"If Laurie and Daniel cause us to miss out on this for any reason..." I didn't finish my sentence. I had no threats to wield.

"Well, why don't we just go on ahead and meet them there?"

"Do you know where the playhouse is?"

"No. Do you?"

"No."

"Well, you should've thought of that beforehand."

That last comment from Eve ticked me off. Obviously I should've done more legwork in that regard... but considering her penchant for bitching and moaning about every litle thing, it was a pretty nervy thing for her to say to me, and at the worst possible time.

I glared at her for an instant and remembered that she and I no longer had any reasons to be phony around each other.

So I lit into her.

I chewed her out for being so petty, so dismissive of my anger, especially since every time she gets angry for the smallest reason I have to sit there and listen to her and take it and hear it again and again, and now that we weren't a couple I didn't have to put up with her sanctimonious bullshit, and why is it that I'm always the one who has to answer for everyone else's mistakes, why is it my fault when someone else is too fucking stupid or unaware to simply be on time for something as simple as a ride to the playhouse...

Eve didn't like that very much. But when I reminded her of the time, she got on the phone and called Laurie to inquire as to what was taking them so long.

"Hey Laurie, what's going on? We're waiting for you two... What was that? His what? He can't find what? Well, tell him he's going to have to can it, because we only have fifteen minutes to get there, and you guys haven't even left yet..."

Upon hearing that, I threw my hands up in the air. "Great... fucking great!"

I know I wasn't acting very mature about it, but at the time I couldn't believe it was happening. I simply could not believe that it was all going down the way it was going down.

Eve hung up the phone, a look of wariness on her face. "She said that Daniel's having some sort of a hissy fit... you know those Brits..."

I went outside to have a smoke. When my lighter wouldn't work properly, I lashed out and punched a tree with my fist.

Eve didn't like seeing this side of me, but when she tried to communicate that to me I retorted that she was going to have to get used to that side of me: Now that I had no reason to pretend I gave a damn about anything concerning her, she was going to see how I really am.


*/*


Fifteen minutes past the hour, Laurie and Daniel showed up. I don't know if their reaction to Eve telling them that they were wrong about the time the play started was genuine or feigned, but apparently they felt bad for being late and wanted to get there as soon as possible.

By that time, I'd stopped talking. I was filled with hatred and anger. Nothing I could say or do mattered. I was at their mercy from that point on.

There were the usual awkward gestures, mostly on the part of the women, to try and lighten the mood. But I had nothing to say, and Daniel, realizing that it would be very easy for me to jump all over him and blame him for our lateness as a group, kept quiet.

I finally said something when we arrived: "Let me out here, I'll check to see if it's too late to go inside while you guys find parking."

I approached the box office and talked to the woman behind the glass.

"A friend of mine left four tickets for the show. Has it started already?"

"Yes it has."

"How long ago?"

"Promptly at seven."

It was now 7:30 pm.

"How long is the show?"

"An hour and a half."

Not too shabby, I thought. An hour is better than nothing.

"I must warn you, sir," the box office woman said, "that the theater is probably full. We cannot guarantee that you will have a seat."

"Shit, I don't care if we have to sit on the floor. Do you have the tickets?"

She gave me the tickets just as the others walked up. I informed them of the situation and we all agreed that missing half an hour would not be a terrible thing.

The entire scenario was starting to brighten. We entered the theater and an usher greeted us.

"I'm going to have to check and see if there is anywhere we can seat you," she whispered.

We could hear the actors reciting their lines. There was strange Parisian music simmering in the background. The audience broke into laughter.

The usher came back to us and said, "I am so sorry, but there is nowhere that we can seat you that wouldn't violate the Fire Code."

My heart sank. All hope was dashed. Rather than try and see if I could sweet talk her into letting us stand somewhere, I mustered the fakest smile that I could and turned around.

"Let's go," I said to the others. I believe it was the last thing I said for the rest of the evening.


*/*


In the simplest of terms, I was greatly disappointed.

Regardless of blame or fault or circumstance, the fact remains that a part of me broke into pieces that night for some reason.

Why should something as trivial as missing a play hurt me so deeply?

Did it represent something in my mind? Did it symbolize the powerlessness and meaninglessness of existence in the face of our inevitable fates? Was this type of badly-planned, poorly-executed misadventure the reason why I embrace the absurd in the first place?

All verbiage aside, I was disappointed because I was really looking forward to it and it didn't happen.

No one is to blame for this. Actually, if anyone is to blame, it's me. If I really wanted to see it that badly, I would've just bought myself a ticket and gone by myelf, as I've done on countless occasions in the past. That way, the only unpleasantness I would have to endure would be the predictable chorus of people telling me that I should've called them because they would've gone if I'd asked them...

...and of course, the whole point of going by myself is so that I wouldn't have to ask anyone to do anything.

I don't know... It really crushed me, and I haven't even wanted to talk about it since because I know what an asshole I was during the whole thing. But at the same time I cannot find it in my heart to laugh it off just yet. It isn't funny to me-- it hasn't had time to gestate and transmutate into a hilarious but bittersweet anecdote.

There's more bitterness than sweeteness here.

When things like this happen, the first question I ask is, "Why me, Lord? Why do these things happen to me? Did you do this to fuck with my head? Or is this what I deserve, for being such a fuckhead all the time?"

Then I start thinking about the dumb looks on everyone's faces as they sheepishly attempt to change the subject; the flat jokes and fragile atmosphere that gets sucked out of the room like a vacuum due to my loud and blistering silence; the speechlessness and inability to articulate anything beyond a choke and a forced gulp in the back of my throat as I struggle to restrain myself from out-and-out strangling someone to death...

That event changed the tone of my blog, and after that I saw the comments dry up, and the posts became less humorous and more mean-spirited. Even if people couldn't put their fingers on it, something inside of me had turned for the worse. It was bleeding through my pores and into the keys of the keyboard, making its way into the computer and up on the monitor screen, imprinting itself on the font of this blog, embedding itself in the html code that makes up what you are looking at right now...

I can't say that I feel bad about my behavior, even as I know how unbecoming it was for me to pout and sulk as I did. But I won't apologize for it, because after all I am human, and we all make mistakes, and my mistake was raising my expectations above what constitutes reality these days.

That's the problem with dreamers like myself: When we hit the ground, we hit it hard.


*/*


As a footnote, Nina and her boyfriend said the play was excellent. They had no idea what to expect from it and came away very pleased, if a bit baffled at first. She told me all of this when I met with her to repay her the money she shelled out for the tickets we didn't get to use.

Daniel took issue with the playhouse overselling the show, and had a thorough chat with their ticket department. He was able to wrangle four free tickets for any play in the upcoming season. There probably won't be another staging of a Jarry play for some time, however-- maybe it will never happen again.

Then again, the play did very well both commercially and critically, and Jarry wrote at least three other Ubu plays... so who knows? Maybe one of these days I'll get to see one after all.

My friendship with Eve suffered greatly after the debacle. She stopped returning my phone calls and made no attempts to reciprocate any gestures on my part. I don't blame her-- when I told this story to a female friend recently, she looked at me and said, "Jesus, remind me never to get you mad!"

As for me, I gave up on completing the Jarry screenplay out of sheer disgust. I started the new job and instantly began to hate it. Then, I started using cocaine with an alarming frequency, even as I made peace with my father after 16 years of holding a grudge against him.

What sucks about me is that whenever I let go of one grudge, I take up another. I guess I am just one of those miserable persons who always needs to have a scapegoat to blame for all of his problems in life.

But this time, the person I am mad at is not my father or Eve or Laurie or Daniel or the playouse ushers or anyone else.

This time, I am mad at myself.

That's why I've spent the last half of 2006 punishing myself.

That's why the tone in my blog changed.

And that's why I'm glad this year is over.

I'm not going to say thing like, "2007 is going to be a great year!" No way, Jose-- that's what got me into this shit in the first place. Just take a look at my blogs from last year, and you'll see me gushing like a sexed-up schoolgirl about how 2006 was going to be great.

Instead, I'll try a little bit of reverse psychology: 2007 is going to suck big fat fucking elephant dicks.

Knowing my luck, Murphy's Law will kick in and 2007 really will suck elephant dicks.

But at this point, who cares? It's all absurd, right? It's all just one big joke being played on all of humanity, right?

Right.

HAVE A HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYONE

the death of soul

Eddie Murphy introduced me to James Brown.

Through his Saturday Night Live impersonations (Anyone remember "James Brown's Celebrity Hot Tub Party"?) and his dead-on bit in the infamous HBO stand-up special Delirious, Eddie Murphy turned me on to the Godfather of Soul, if only as a punch line to a joke that I was too young to understand.

Then, as I always do, I traced the lineage backwards and decided to find out who James Brown actually was, rather than rely on Eddie Murphy's routines. I wanted to understand the joke, instead of pretending I knew what Murphy was jiving at.

By the time Rocky III came out, I thought I knew who James Brown was: he was the guy from The Blues Brothers, the guy from Dan Aykroyd's so-awful-it-was-good Doctor Detroit, as well as the guy singing "Living In America" wearing Old Glory on his tailored suit...

By the time rappers started sampling James Brown, I thought I knew who he was once again: The Godfather of Soul, Black Caesar, The World's Greatest Entertainer, Mr. Dynamite, The Amazing Mr. Please Please Himself, The Hardest Working Man in Show Business, Soul Brother #1...

By the time I actually listened to a James Brown record all the way through, without resorting to a greatest hits compilation, I thought I finally knew who James Brown was: a fucking musical genius with more soul in his left nut than every rapper out there that I was trying to emulate.

But even then, I was not even close to scratching the surface.

The album in question was actually half of an album: Sides One and Two of Revolution Of The Mind, a double-live album that made a lasting imprint on my then-budding musical jones.

To paraphrase the great Flavor Flav, that album stomped a mudhole in my ass.

Yes, Mr. Brown was funky, but he also sang ballads like a man possessed. The version of "Bewildered" off that album is one of my all-time favorite live soul jams, right up there next to Marvin Gaye's legendary live rendition of "Distant Lover".

By the time I was knee deep in Parliament-Funkadelic, I already knew that Maceo, Fred Wesley, Catfish & Bootsy were graduates of James Brown's soul boot camp. George Clinton depth-charged the funk, but it was James Brown who strapped the funk to the body of the mainstream and held his thumb on the detonator.

As a bass player, I owe my love of the instrument to the man who made it cool to be "holding down the bottom end". In rock circles, the bass guitar is the equivalent of sitting "bitch" in a pick-up truck, right between the driver and the passenger; in the world of funk as dictated by James Brown, the bass was the main ingredient, the impetus upon which the beat could find its way back to The One and get everybody on the good foot again...

By the time people were screaming "Free James Brown", I already was wise to the fact that no jail could hold him, no law could tame him, and no mortal could comprehend his phenomenonal presence.

And even then, I was still miles off.

In 1968, James Brown stopped a riot in Boston (and possibly nationwide) when he televised one of his concerts in the wake of MLK's assassination, like Jesus commanding the stormy seas to stop.

The day I learned that bit of trivia, I finally stopped trying to figure out James Brown. The truth is, I will never know what made him tick, as if any of us ever could.


*/*


As with all of my eulogies of heroic icons, I am in tears as I type this.

It was bad enough losing Richard Pryor, because that felt like I'd lost my own sense of humor. But now that I've lost James Brown, I feel like I've lost my soul.

All of my heroes are dying.

If he meant this much to me, imagine how much he meant to African-Americans coming of age in the 1960s, when civil rights was brand new and yet the hoses were still being turned on and the dogs were still being unleashed on those brave enough to demand respect.

He gave them pride, self-esteem, power... but most of all, he gave them soul.

Today, the notion of soul is intrinsically linked with black Americans. White America wanted to take that soul away, by inventing words like 'nigger'...

James Brown gave black people (and the disenfranchised everywhere) their soul back.

And he smiled as he did it, and said, "Heh!" and did the splits and twirled and had Bobby Byrd put a cape on his back as he feigned exhaustion, only to come back (like Jesus, once again) and rock the mic like nobody else.

I love his music. I'm listening to it right now, in fact. "Say it loud, I'm black and I'm proud!"

I think of that scene in The Commmitments, where the band's manager convinces his charges that, since the Irish are the blacks of England, they should adopt James Brown's musical slogan as their own.


*/*


I heard the news on Christmas morning. What a fucking holiday surprise, eh?

Then I rationalized it this way: God finally received a worthy gift on his son's birthday

He got James Brown for Christmas.

We were lucky enough to have him for over seven decades.

They used to call out to "Free James Brown", but I contend that now he is finally free, after all of these years.

Jump back, wanna kiss myself.

'Cause he was Super Bad.

What's in ever he played, it's got to be funky.

PEACE to you and yours, James Brown.

found

I found her.

At long last, I found her.

On My Space.

Seriously.

I am waiting to hear back from her.

My fingers are crossed.

I know it is her. I am absolutely sure of it.

Married now. With two beautiful kids.

It doesn't look like she has logged on in some time, so I might not hear from her right off the bat.

I have no doubt in my mind that she will reply. It may take her a while to remember me, but she will.

This is all going into the novel.

It has to.

Why else would it happen this way if it wasn't meant to be written down and recorded for posterity?

Right?

Right.

Happy Holidays, people.

Fall (enmity aplenty)

I've hit rock bottom in this treacherous Autumn

desperately staring this way and there

Out loud I shout that I don't care

Inside I slide along the side of despair

It's just not fair

how you left me last April

how you left me standing with my cards on the table

and my soul on the dotted line

Last year at this time you and I were fine

In line in synch in smoke and in drink

Our dazed eyes glazed over and hazed for days

And now...

...now you're making me pay...



What do you want me to say?

That I want you back this very day?

That I miss your kiss and wish you missed me back?

It's not as simple as that



It's not as simple as that



And yet there is no substitute

as I sit here destitute

wanting to get the best of you

but knowing you have the best of me

and you could have the rest of me

but you don't want it

and now I am haunted

by the words of a sonnet that a friend sent me

upon reading it I felt so cold and empty

enmity aplenty

The loss of you is the end of me

Decades of friendship bent and now we pretend to be

happy while apart

but we're not (at least in my heart

I am not)



You must want me to beg

Okay, then I'll beg

I'll beg

I'll plead and crawl

and then one day

maybe I won't miss you at all



No, maybe one day I won't miss you at all

But until then

I endure the Fall


--November 2006

the mantra

At a recent show, someone asked me about Eve. They remarked that my so-called "best friend" hadn't been to any of my shows lately.

I was in a foul mood, due to exhaustion and over-partying, so my response was mean and embittered:

"Funny you should ask about her. After branding me a racist and a sexist, insinuating that I was trying to knock her up and all sorts of other delusional bullcrap, she decided that she needed to make up for her lost childhood-- you know, the one she spent getting high on speed with her boyfriend of nine years?"

The person walked away from me slowly, a worried look upon their face.

I'm not so mad about it now. Time has weathered the blows, the rejection, the humiliation (all for a second time, mind you-- this is not the first time Eve and I have traversed these paths) and all I can say is this:

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.


*/*


It sounds like a case of sour grapes on my part, but please hear me out.

That philosophy arose from one of the last meaningful relationships I had, way back in 2000.

Jeanie was a girl with whom I met and had a summer fling. She was my next-door neighbor in the Sherman Oaks apartment complex where we both lived.

At the age of 28 (the same age as me at the time) Jeanie was serious about making a go of it, and I was (as usual) not interested in anything other than eating, drinking, fucking, and smoking.

When she caught on to the fact that I had no intention of marrying her, she left me. It was hard on the both of us, but eventually I found a mantra to help get me through the pain.

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.

It sounds shallow, detached, perhaps even cynical. But I didn't choose to be put in this situation. For me, the mantra is more of a coping mechanism than anything else.

I could've gone on this way (with both Jeanie and Eve) for as long as possible; they were the ones who demanded definite answers and gave me ultimatums.

Then, when I was revealed to be the commitment-phobe that I am, they both made it seem like I was the one who wanted to settle down.

Whatever. The proof is in the pudding: Both of them went on to steady relationships with potential, while I still play the field.

It was nice while it lasted, and I'm still getting what I want.


*/*


But is this really what I want?

What is the alternative? And why was I getting so depressed over all the news earlier this year concerning my exes and their marriages and their newly-birthed children? Why was that stuff getting me down?

I didn't know the answer, but now I know: I was bummed because for the first time ever it occurred to me that maybe those girls had once thought of me as both marriage AND father material.

Granted, I knew these girls when we were all in our teens. Marriage and parenthood and settling down were faraway goals then, not to be reckoned with for some time. I doubt that they saw a future in me.

But then again, maybe they did.

As outlandish as it sounds, there's also some truth to the notion that women foster their dreams of getting hitched and starting up the homestead far earlier than men.

And I never wanted to believe that I could ever be considered that kind of candidate. It is far easier for me to think of myself as a cad, a scoundrel, a womanizer and a user of fair maidens.

To come to terms with the idea that I may have been wanted, at one time, by someone who saw potential in me, potential that I can never see in myself... it is frightening.

Hearing about all those girls and how they now have kids with good husbands... it made me insane, but not out of jealousy. It made me angry, because it seemed as if they were always certain about what they wanted out of life, and that the choices I've made have been wrong.

But I know, deep down inside, I know that the choices I've made in my life are the only choices I could ever make.

I know that I could never be a good father, or a good husband. I know this. I know these things to be true.

I just wish people would stop reminding me that I am useless in regards to domesticity. And hearing about an ex-girlfriend and her fertile offspring nails that point home with me.

I know myself enough to know that I would've regretted making such commitments. I would've longed to be set free, and I would've left the wife/mother of my children, just like so many wayward, absent fathers have done to their families.

So the answer to the question "Is bachelorhood really what I want" is a loud and resounding "YES".

If I answer any other way, it's because I am under the influence of something more persuasive than a drug.

I think you all know what I am referring to...


*/*


All I wanted from Eve was closure.

I got it.

Now I can see her on the street and not get upset about the whole Sharky episode. I got my apology from her, even if she didn't really mean it and I had to force her to give it to me.

During the last two years, I got some sex, some food, some gifts, some love and affection, kind words, and even a laugh or two.

That's all you can expect from this world. I know plenty of guys who haven't had anything resembling that in the past decade, so I guess I am fortunate.

It won't be the last time that a beautiful woman does that for me either. I am still young, I am still ready to take on the world.

I didn't get everything I wanted from her, but that's because if you give me an inch I'll go for the entire foot.

The mantra is true.

It was nice while it lasted, and I got what I wanted.

Now to move on to other things. There are more instances of closure that need to happen in my life regarding other women.

I think the cuts and bruises I incurred from this last go-round have healed.

Time to get back to work.

somewhere in the middle

So what have I been up to lately?

Well, for starters I'm working at a movie post-production house, scanning film negatives into a computer so that digital airbrushers and retouchers ("dustbusters", as they are known in the industry) can adjust colors, remove motes of dirt, and add visual/lighting effects.

I work at night, which is how I like it. The job affords me enough free time to work on my novel, surf online, and read books.

You might be asking yourself right now, How the fuck does he get these jobs where he just sits around and does seemingly nothing for hours on end? In this case, Wolf Man hooked me up, but I think fate and serendipity have a lot to do with it as well.

It's not as financially fulfilling as the last gig, but it pays more than the radio gig I left to do the last gig... so I guess it's the porridge that's just right, not too hot, not too cold...

Moreover, I am learning about movies, which is cool because although I like cinema I've never really been a cinephile. All of my old group of friends were cinephiles, but they ended up accepting what life handed to them... and here I am, working a job they would've killed to have had they not forfeited their dreams for bland security and shiftless mediocrity.

Realizations like that are what keeps me believing that not only is there a God, but that he is just.


*/*


I stopped smoking pot for the most part.

However, I've been sniffing cocaine, as evidenced by my Las Vegas adventures.

Moving from one drug to another is always a lousy trade, especially if you go from a relatively benign recreational drug to a potentially lethal party drug.

But you have to understand something...

I was sick of being stoned 24/7. I think the cocaine use is a symptom of my refusal to be hazy and slow all the time. Cocaine is the total opposite of pot in terms of the high.

But I can only take the coke high for so long before I get sick of it. It's like being held by the throat by someone who is lifting you off the ground: you might get buzzed from the lack of air but eventually it's going to harm you.

Somewhere in the middle of coke and weed is where I want to be. That middle ground, in my opinion, is complete sobriety-- a state of mind I am in more often than not these days.

You see, coke is expensive. And I can't do it all the time the way I used to do with weed, so in the long run I am actually spending considerably less money on coke than I ever did on weed.

Plus, I've always been wired without needing coke. That's why I smoked pot, to calm me down and mellow me out. Coke only serves to remind me that I am already coked out naturally and biologically.

I confine my coke use to the weekends, because I found out that I cannot make it through a work shift on the stuff. I don't see how people can go to work and sniff coke, because you need it every half an hour and that only compounds the fact that you've got so much more time to go before you can go home and finish off the bag.

Bottom line: All drugs are losing bets. I make no excuses for my coke use. But I think that's a step up from making up tons of excuses for my pot smoking.


*/*


Call me a Scrooge, I don't care. I'm just sick of Christmas.

It's for kids. Therefore, I will only buy gifts for little ones this season.

I'm not buying full-grown adults any gifts. Even if they act like little children, they're not getting a fucking thing from me.

Likewise, I don't want any gifts from anyone. If someone gets me a gift, I will seriously look at them and say, "No, take it back. PLEASE." And if they think I'm being falsely modest, I will make sure to conveniently "forget" the gift before I leave their home.

And if they force me to take it, then I will "re-gift" it.

I don't want gifts because I never get what I want. I haven't received a really good Christmas gift since I was a kid. And the fact that (in recent years) no one has ever gotten me a Christmas gift that made my face light up is proof that I am better off not getting anything at all.

A better gift would be to spend time with me, talking to me, asking me about my hopes and dreams. That would cost nobody anything, and it would make me happier than a thousand gift cards and $20 certificates. It would fit more snugly than a million sweaters. It would taste better than any candy cane or chocolate stocking stuffer.

The thing of it is: A thoughtless gift is an alienating experience for me. It says to me loud and clear, "Hey! I don't know who you are, and have never tried to understand you, but I'd like to think that I know you, so here is my interpretation of what I think you like!"

It's always disappointing. No one ever nails it.

I'm a good gift-giver, for the most part. And until someone gets as good as me, I'm not getting anybody anything. If they want a gift from me, they'll have to get down on their knees and suck it out of me.


*/*


I need to finish the novel.

I am trapped in a parrallel universe that I created for my characters.

I am constantly reliving the events of the novel, which are based upon my own life.

And yet, as I edit and re-shape the text, I sense that I still have more to write.

I have more events to live that will eventually be written into the novel.

Weird.

It's as if I am willing my novel into existence by experiencing it.

Which comes first: the experience, or the articulation of that experience?

Laurie, who is helping me edit this damned thing that has taken a decade to grapple, is concerned that I am doing too much living and not enough working.

But for a writer, the life is the work. Therefore, the two are inseparable.

I do know that I have to finish it up, just so I can grow as a person and move on.

Thus, I know what I have to do, and I have already taken the necessary measures to kick start the last phase of my writing.

And it starts in San Diego, where a young woman lives with her husband and two kids, wondering where certain people she used to know went and if they think of her and whether or not she made the right choices or not...

And there I am, playing the metaphysical detective, taking all the clues of life's mysteries and jigsaw-puzzling them together into one glorious bastard tapestry.

If y'all don't hear from me before year's end, have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

And if you are fiending for some of my writing (as if) then just look to a year ago in my Archives and look at what was on my mind. You'll be surprised.

AGAINST THE ODDS

October 15, 2006, 9:55am: I'd said 'sayonara' to the Missing Digits crew and left the Jockey Club just around sunrise.

Later on in the week, long after I'd returned to L.A. and the Missing Digits had concluded their extended stay in Nevada, JJ called me and informed me that they got a flat tire on their trip home.

The curse was real.

When I got back to the Palace Station, the bachelor party boys were still asleep. After rousing them awake and reminding them of check-out time, I went down to the lobby, still frying off of E and waiting for the Wolf Man to meet me for a breakfast buffet.

I killed time by telephoning Rose, to let her know that I was not going to attend a proposed BBQ she and her "boyfriend" had planned for later on in the day. She didn't pick up; I left a VM.

Wolf Man and I decided to leave Las Vegas after the noontime rush. KD Long wasn't coming with us on the ride back, which was good for me and Wolf: KD talked way too much for his (or anyone's) own good.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 1:23pm: After agreeing to meet Down Low, his brother A-Team, BJ Fornicati and KD Long at the Golden Nugget for one last stab at gambling, Wolfie and I drove to get some gas for the rental.

We had KD Long's credit card, which was his way of reimbursing me for the gas we used on the way to Sin City. Wolf and I joked about spending it on bullshit and strippers, which made KD frown a bit.

As I loaded a bowl in my pipe, I saw a Mexican woman in a truck next to me. She was eyeing me, but not in a sexy way. I put the pipe in my lap and pretended that I didn't see her, but it was too late: her boyfriend, a tattooed gangbanging veterano, also saw me and started trying to signal us.

"Hey man!" He yelled out to me. "You got some herb?"

I nodded.

"How much you got? I'll buy some off you!"

I looked over at Wolf, who merely shrugged and said, "Hey, man... it's your weed."

I was almost tempted to do the transaction right there on the Vegas Strip, in traffic, in full broad daylight, because that would have perfectly capped off an outrageous weekend of brazen illegality such as this one. But I also remembered the curse looming over the proceedings, and decided that the deal must be done at the gas station.

Before I could say anything, the O.G. and his old lady in the pickup truck slowed down, pulled behind us, then switched lanes again to get on the passenger side.

"Tell 'em to follow us," I said to Wolf.

"Follow us!" Wolf repeated.

We got to the gas station and the deal was quick and easy: $10 worth from my stash, with plenty left over for me and Wolf to smoke on the ride home.

"I'm new here to LV," the vato said to me as he threw the money through the driver's window into the driver's seat. "I don't know no one out here."

"You're lucky you ran into us," I said, "but we're headed back to Los Angeles."

"I guess you're the only luck I've had so far," he laughed. "I lost $300 this morning on Blackjack."

"Play Craps, man," I recommended. "The odds are better."

"I gotcha, bro. Hey, thanks again. Nice to meet you."

We slapped five, and I had the weed in my palm. He grabbed it and smiled and hopped back into the truck. He and his woman were gone by the time Wolf came out from the pay station.

"How'd you know he wasn't a narc?" Wolf asked me.

"I just knew. Just like I knew we weren't going to get pulled over for the rental's tags while in Vegas, just like I knew we wouldn't get thrown out of the hotel, just like I knew Low wasn't going to want to go to a strip club, or any of it... Sometimes, you gotta have a little faith, even when the odds are against you and the going looks bleak."

"What do you think our ride home is going to be like?"

"There'll be something... there always is... but we'll make it home fine. It might take a while, but if we're smart, we can avoid any bullshit that comes our way."

"Dude, since you were up all night, and I at least got some sleep, I'll drive the whole way home," Wolf said. "Plus, you drove all the way here, so I owe it to you."

"Yeah, thanks. At least KD isn't coming with us."

"I know. Dude, I wanted to strangle him on the way over here..."

"Can you imagine his reaction if we'd hooked up that gangster dude while he was with us?"

Wolf and I laughed.

"He would've shit himself." Wolf was feeling better, a far cry from his near-panic attack during the hotel security guard snafu.

"It's all about keeping your cool when the shit gets gnarly," I said. "No matter what happens, you gotta keep your cool. Nothing can hurt you if you believe in yourself and your ability to persevere."

"Yeah, but you gotta be careful," Wolf cautioned. "Murphy's Law, you know."

"Well, thats' the thing, Wolfie. Everyone wants to play it loose and rough, but when the shit hits the fan no one can deal. Like the hotel thing: Guys like KD and BJ wanna act like they're big shots, but all it took was one old-ass security guard with no power to make them scared. If anyone had rights to be freaked, it was you and Low because you two were the ones who spoke with the guard. But you guys handled it as well as you could."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Everyone wants to live dangerously, but no one wants to pay the price when it's time, right?"

"Right."

We got back on the road and drove over to the Golden Nugget to give KD back his credit card and say 'adios' to the rest of the guys.

We didn't tell the rest of the guys about our impromptu drug deal. It really wasn't necessary.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 7:53pm: The dark clouds that we found ourselves immersed in were from a fire in the El Cajon pass (which we were slightly north of) and by shifting onto the 138 Hwy in time we managed to avoid the snarling traffic that would've delayed us by hours instead of half an hour.

After making the jump to the 138, Wolf and I decided to take a pit stop at a gas station right past the I-15/138 interchange.

The station was near-total chaos: Cars covered in soot, RVs mired in ash, huge lines for the restroom and the food counter, people milling about in nervous anticipation, trying to use their cel phones in vain...

Wolf and I looked at each other. I said, "Our best bet is to get back on the road and get into town before we stop again."

It took an hour before I could look up at the passing night sky and see stars. The smoke was so thick and black that for that duration of the trip we were covered in complete and utter darkness. Finally, some distant stars began to poke their way out, and that clued me in to our escape from the fire zone.

At one point we wondered why the highway hadn't been closed off; It wasn't until we got got back home and read the news that we figured it out geographically.

"Dude, we made such good time," Wolf said to me. "We'll be back at my place in Pasadena in less than an hour. Then you can get home from there. Feel free to take a nap until we get into the city."

"I think I will," I said.

I slept for the first time that entire weekend, and it felt so good.


END

SYMPATHY

October 15, 2006, 7:42am: Back at the Jockey Club, where the Missing Digits crew were staying, Buddha and I were still awake and watching The Cable Guy on TV.

Roy was passed out in the room where Buddha had slept the night before. They'd made an arrangement to trade off every other night.

JJ and Carrie had the master bedroom to themselves.

Mack was passed out on the living room floor, mumbling to himself now and then. JJ would emerge from the bedroom every half an hour and ask us if Mack was OK. After getting humorous reassurances from us that Mack was in good hands, JJ would return to the room.

Buddha and I joked about laying cruel jokes on Mack, such a giving him a Hot Nickel (heating up a coin and placing it on the skin of the passed out person) or placing his hand in water to induce urination (something that would be a tad bizarre, given Mack's missing index finger and all) or possibly writing on his face with a Sharpie.

However, Buddha and I were not feeling that prankish. Even though we were both wide awake, we were also beaten from the night's activities. Buddha did not roll on E but he'd had a few drinks and went the distance with the rest of us.

We would both glance over at Mack whenever an audible groan arose, and we'd laugh. But it wasn't in us to escalate the madness any further. It had nothing to do with being nice guys or feeling bad for Mack: It was simply a matter of knowing that he would get us back for it one day, and then a full-on war would have to be waged, a never-ending battle of pranks that would only stop when both side messed each other up in a near-catastrophic manner.

You see, Mack and JJ liked playing jokes too. But having been a witness to Mack's dark side, having had only the slightest glimpse into his chaotic soul, I thought better of it. Not that I thought Mack would ever try to beat me up or retaliate in an unkind fashion-- it had more to do with knowing my own dark side, and also knowing that if someone pulled a prank on me while I was wasted and passed out, I would not react well due to my composure being stripped away. I would lose my cool and end up having to apologize to whoever wanted to have a little fun at my expense.

I've got a short fuse, what can I say?


*/*


October 15, 2006, 6:20am: Carrie and I returned from the rental car and found the boys exactly where we last left them: In the casino, standing around and talking to a guy that JJ knew from Los Angeles.

Buddha and JJ were chatting it up. As their conversation partner went on at length about his weekend, JJ saw Carrie and I. His face was lit up from the E. He looked like someone had taken the face of a newborn baby from a photograph and Photoshopped it onto the body of a pro wrestler.

"There you guys are," JJ exclaimed, his aura betraying no negativity. I sensed no jealousy or doubt, even though his girlfriend and I were gone for close to an hour. He was glad to see us.

"You take care of what you had to do?" JJ asked Carrie. She smiled and nodded her head. Then he walked away from the conversation (as Buddha was speaking to the other guy) and came up to me and said, "How you feelin'? That E kickin' your ass?"

I responded, "Yeah, but it's not pure E. It's cut. Still, I'm mad fucked up. I took two."

"Mack and I took five each!" JJ said, his crystal blue eyes dilated and pinging beyond belief.

"It's funny to see you guys in this state," I said. "I'm the one who is always torked on something, but I guess you guys like to indulge from time to time."

"Man, I used to be a big-time smoker and drinker. I couldn't take it after a while, especially the drinking. You're lucky you don't have that problem, Mr. Alcohol Allergy."

"Yeah, well, I have to be extra careful due to being allergic. Maybe I won't get addicted to it, but I could die from alcohol poisoning."

"That's true... but hey, anyway, it's great to be hanging with you and the guys in Vegas! You know, James, ever since you joined this band, I feel like it's just improved so much. You're a huge part of that. You brought in Wolf Man when we needed a drummer, and when he left you brought in Buddha, you know all the songs, you write songs as well, you play bass and help arrange the songs, you sing back-up, you bring people to the shows... What do you not do for us? I can't thank you enough, man."

I could blame JJ's effusiveness on the E, but he's expressed such sentiments to me when he was sober. The E merely allowed him to say it without the fear of me doubting him wafting into my consciousness.

"Hey man, thank you for giving me the opportunity to play with some great musicians who actually care about doing it right." I felt the love from all around.

JJ and Carrie went back over to the conversation. I turned around and saw Roy and Mack, sitting in front of some slot machines. Roy was staring at the machine in front of him, his eyes glazed over; Mack was dropping endless dollar bills into the one-armed bandit, alternating between pulling the lever and hitting the "SPIN" button.

I sat down next to them and before I could try my luck Mack handed me a dollar.

"Here, bro, play it. I think you're gonna win something."

I looked at the misshapen bill. "I don't think I can even get this one to slide in, Mack."

"Just try it," Mack barked. He was surly, wasted, completely out of his gourd.

I was so fucked up that I actually tried to force the dollar into the bill slot. The machine kept spitting it out. I tried three times before I handed it back to Mack.

Mack grabbed it back angrily, and mumbled something to himself that was inaudible, sounding like a third-rate Elvis impersonator.

My head was like a carousel by this time, awash in the dazzling lights and the gaudy ambiance of the casino. The non-stop drone of slot machines ringing and clanging meshed together seamlessly like some Bengali raga in an East Asian marketplace.

I looked at Mack, his face twisted from drink and chemicals, mechanically pulling the lever, absent-mindedly gambling and grunting. He was so happy at the Cooler Lounge when his mother showed up. Not even the tardiness of the preceding band nor the minor annoyances of the evening in general had made a dent in his careful facade but now here he was, misery and turmoil etched into his grinding jaw, with eyes that seemed vacant and faraway.

I was going to try and say something to him, but as if he could read my mind he turned to me and started speaking with a nervous stutter, struggling to find coherence with words that he could barely pronounce in the state he was in.

"James, man... I just wanna say, bro... you know, I think that you're... you know, you're a great musician, man... and... and... and you're always on point... you never even blink when the shit hits the fan... solid... you're solid, man... I respect you a lot... I really do... and... man, every time JJ and I have tried to get this group off the ground... you know... shit happens... we've never had a chance to grow with it 'cuz... people left the band... they had 'creative differences'... whatever that means..."

He turned his eyes back to the slot machine, and as he spoke it seemed like he was having a hard time speaking and gambling at the same time. If he pulled the lever or hit the button to add a credit, it rendered him unable to say what he wanted to say, causing him to wait for the machine to spin. Sometimes he would pause to see the results and react accordingly, all the while still trying to say what was on his frazzled, drug-laced mind.

"Anyway," he continued, "I really really hope... I hope... shit, I just won it all back! Anyway, like I was saying... we... that is, JJ and Buddha and me... we want you to stay in this band... I know you have other projects, other bands, a whole other life... but we need you here, man... it's where you belong... fuck, another one... I think I'm gonna cash out soon..."

"You're gonna crash out?" I asked, mishearing him.

"No, cash out," Mack said. Then he started to laugh with a low roar. "Crash out... That's funny. No, I'm not ready for that yet, but when I am... I'll be out like a light... anyway..."

"Mack", I said, not wishing him to speak any further out of fear he would have an aneurysm trying to articulate his feelings, "I'm not going anywhere. I've been in this band for over a year. Yeah, I do other projects, but that's because I need to constantly do something creative or else I'll go nuts. But believe me, Mack, I'm giving this all I've got every time I hook up with you guys, and if it weren't for the fact that I have other pursuits and hobbies I'd probably be bugging you guys to death. You wouldn't be able to get rid of me if that were the case. You'd be sick of me you guys would probably even say 'Damn, James is cool and all but he's getting on my nerves' and you'd be correct in that assessment."

Then, without any cause or reason, I started singing that Tom Petty song with the lyrics about getting to the point and rolling another joint. It popped into my head and the drugs impelled me to croon it aloud.

Mack smiled and sang along. He knew the song, since he was a big Tom Petty fan since he was a kid.

When we got to the part where Petty goes, "You don't know how it feels to be me," I understood why that song hit me so suddenly: Mack's vibe was one of frustration, stemming from his disfigurement. Most of the time, on the surface he seems happy-go-lucky and energetic, but there is that bitter realization that he's not getting that finger back no matter what becomes of him.

It's something we all take for granted. You don't miss it until it's gone, and a physical quirk such as Mack's instantly separates a person from the rest of the crowd, leaving him isolated and alone.

In short, no one knows how it feels to be him, just as no one knows how it feels to be me, or Tom Petty, or anyone else out there. We try our best, but we can only get so close before we realize we have to step back or else get swallowed up by someone else's excess baggage.

Unlike my talk with Carrie, I knew that Mack would not be opening up to me about anything of that nature for a long time. This was the closest he could get before retreating behind his mask. Of course, when the time comes I will be eager to listen to him and share my own demons with him, because I can do that-- but only if someone has been brave enough to share their demons with me openly.

"We have a lot in common," I said to Mack after our impromptu chorus ended. "More than you know, Mack."

"No, I know what you mean," he said. "I can see it in your eyes, man. I don't know what it is exactly, but I see it. I recognize it. Maybe one day we'll get a drink, shoot the shit, and nail it to the wall."

He was far more coherent than he was five minutes prior. I guessed that perhaps he had been in the throes of an Exstasy wave rushing through his bloodstream, and now the wave was ebbing away, poising itself to return shortly.

Roy was sitting next to Mack the whole time, listening but not commenting. Finally, he chimed in with, "Man, I'm hungry. No shit, I'm fuckin' hungry now!"

Mack, Roy's childhood friend and confidante, switched gears and humorously pretended to be irritated by his blanket statement. "Hungry? You gotta be kidding. How much E did I give you? There's no way you're hungry right now."

"I know, I agree," Roy said plainly, his Ray Liotta resemblance more startling than ever. "But my stomach doesn't lie. I need food, water, anything."

"There's still some food back at the Jockey Club," Mack said. "I think we're done here anyway. Just wait it out-- we'll go back to the room and you can pig out there. You're not hungry hungry, are you?"

"Naw, I'm not starving," Ray retorted. "I just need a little something in my gut. And I don't want to eat at a buffet, so I'll wait until we get back."

"That's the spirit," Mack said, all smiles now. The demon was gone for now. "Patience is a virtue." Then he turned to me and started doing his version of my Tony Montana impression. "Ay mang, choo not fokkin' hongree too, eh? 'Cuz if choo iz, choo ain't gettin' not-teen brum me, choo caca roach!"

I responded in kind. "Whaddon choo try steekin' choo head opp choo ass an' see eef eet feets, mang..."

Just then, JJ and the others approached us, after bidding his friend farewell.

"Y'all ready to split?" JJ asked, his unflinching blue eyes locked and loaded.

"Yeah, man, we're more than ready," Mack said. "Roy's hungry too. Anyone else?"

The rest of us shook our heads and declined any food requests.

"You OK to drive?" Mack said to me.

"Fuck yeah," I said defiantly. It was true: I was feeling better after the last E wave, and figured if we could make out the door quickly I could get to wherever I was going next without any trouble.

"You going back to your hotel?" JJ asked.

"Not right now. They're all asleep and I think I'd have to crash on the floor. I'll follow you guys and kick it until the sun comes up... if you guys don't mind."

"Listen to this guy," Mack said, incredulous. "If we don't mind? Dude, you were supposed to be in that room with us, remember? You're more than welcome-- there's plenty of space for all of us."

"OK, I'll follow you guys. I passed by it a few times before the show, so I know where it's at."

Buddha spoke up and said, "I know James is able to drive, but as for the rest of you I'm going to get behind the wheel. I'm pretty straight right now."

"Man," JJ said, "Where did we find this guy anyway? So fucking cool, so fucking mellow... Oh, that's right, James brought him in."

I smiled. It always feels good to be acknowledged for positive things.

As we all walked to the parking garage, JJ talked about a new arrangement for our version of The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy For The Devil".

"The way we do it is great, but I had an idea for the intro. When we get back to L.A. I'll elaborate a little more, but I think it will make the song even better than it already is. God, I'm so psyched about our band! We're finally gelling-- we're a team!"

For the first time since I started playing bass for Missing Digits, I didn't feel awkward hearing JJ gush enthusiastically about the band. I didn't cringe at the naked sentiment behind his words. I didn't feel like I was just sitting in with a band until the right opportunity came along.

I realized that the opportunity was right there in front of me, or under my nose, or however one wants to phrase it. I felt like I bonded with the band in a way that I never anticipated.

Or maybe it was just the E working its magic... I don't know.

E

October 15, 2006, 2:57am: I found myself out on the Strip, at a pay phone, using my calling card to call Mack. His phone was still utterly lacking in the reception department, so once again I called Buddha.

He picked up.

"Hey man, what's up? How was the strip club?" Buddha, as always, sounded chipper and happy and upbeat.

"We didn't go. The guys wanted to go to sleep! Can you believe that?"

"Aw man, that sucks. Isn't it supposed to be a bachelor party?"

"Yeah, but I guess they partied so hard during the day that they blew their wad, so to speak. But then again, I had a feeling that Down Low wasn't really interested in going to a strip club..."

My gut feeling was based not upon the fact that Low was loyal to his wife-to-be, even though he is faithful to her (as far as I know). My instinct was based upon the knowledge that if we had gotten him a hooker instead, he may just as well taken us up on the offer.

Maybe I suck as a bachelor party host. Maybe it's some time-honored secret tradition that the Best Man and the groomsmen pool their resources and give the groom one last chance to fuck some pussy other than his fiancee's, and maybe thousands of marriages continue to this day without the subject having ever come up.

Maybe.

Call me old-fashioned. Call me square. Call me whatever, but Low was not interested in getting teased at his bachelor party. A stripper would've been nice but now I think that maybe he thought, for a split second, that we'd arranged a rendezvous with some mid-priced skank we found in the LV Yellow Pages. And as I look back on it, maybe that's why he and the others called it quits for the evening.

Either that, or they were still paranoid about getting kicked out of the hotel.

I tried to hype them up one last time before heading out to the MGM, where the Missing Digits crew said they were headed after the show. Mack had the E, and my night was far from over.

My efforts were met with tired indifference. Low insisted that he was having fun, but the cocaine, the endless alcohol and the seemingly endless weed dulled their collective edge. Low had done well in the casinos with the money we all threw at him, so he was content to call it a night.

Plus, I think they were all apprehensive about riding with me in the rental, since the tags were missing. They probably thought I was a madman, driving around Vegas in that car, with coke on my person and in my system.

I didn't care. The minute they started figuring out who would sleep on which bed, I piled the last of my coke on the hotel coffee table and invited whomever to help me kill it off.

Wolf and Fornicati indulged, but everyone else politely declined.

"All right," I said, pinching my nostrils. "I'll be at the MGM. I will probably just kick it at the Jockey Club with the band until the morning. I'll be OK. Good night guys."

Within a quarter of an hour, I was on the street talking to Buddha on a public phone. Stragglers and hangers-on were drifting like litter in the near-empty, brightly lit streets. I did not look out of place.

Buddha said to me, "Mack says that we'll be at Studio 54, in the VIP Lounge."

"Will I be able to get in?"

"Call us when you're in the casino. Mack will come out to get you."

They assumed I had a cel phone. But with my calling card, I could use a phone from the lobby... Or better yet, sweet-talk a receptionist into letting me use the concierge's phone. I could pretend I was calling someone's room or something like that.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 3:28am: A dusty black mechanic's jacket; Torn jeans that used to be black but turned a curious grey over the passage of time; Ankle-high boots made by Sketchers; and a black pajama top that could pass for a long-sleeved collar-and-button-less shirt... These are the things I was wearing when I pulled up to the MGM and parked the rental car.

I had a change of clothes in the trunk, but all I did was swap the nylon-cotton jacket for the leather jacket and take off the sweat-soaked pajama top, replacing it with a stylish (and more traditional) dress shirt. I rolled up the sleeves, popped the collar and left the top button undone.

I found a phone next to the MGM main lobby elevator and contacted Buddha. He had to shout over the loud techno music blaring in the background. He assured me that Mack would be waiting for me outside of 54.

It seemed to take forever to get through the casino to where 54 was located. After a while, the inside of every single casino in Las Vegas begins to look the same. Running on coke fumes and spent adrenaline, I began to make perceptual mistakes, such as making a left at a corner then realizing that I was thinking of another casino I'd been to earlier in the day.

That's how they get you in Sin City. You get worn down until you cannot trust your own judgment anymore. If I was spending money instead of searching for my friends, I probably would have lost it all at a Blackjack table.

I spied Mack in the distance. He was grinding his jaw, scanning the throngs for any sign of me. Then he spotted me and tilted his head quickly, motioning for me to get my ass over to him.

I raised my hand upon approaching him, ready to high-five him and give him props on his smoldering performance during our gig. As my hand came into contact with his, I felt a strange sensation, as if his missing index finger wasn't enough to unnerve me for the brief instances when we shook hands.

"Take it," he said. No greeting, no 'hello' or 'ayyy mengh' or anything-- just a command. The tablet was in my palm, and he wanted me to take it.

I didn't hesitate. I popped it in my mouth after entering the club, but before I swallowed it I inspected it. Most likely it was cut with something-- it probably wasn't pure E. The only time I'd ever had pure E was the first time, up in San Francisco, at the one and only true rave I ever attended.

That MDMA was in a capsule, with tiny numbers on the side. Since then, all the E I've ever done has been in pill or tablet form. Sometimes they have funny shapes and colors. But none of them were as pure as that first time in SF. The stuff that the majority of people purchase is combined with speed or heroin.

I placed it on my tongue and immediately grimaced: This shit tasted awful! Salty, vinegary, bitter and plastic.

"This is good shit," Mack said to me. I could tell he was already gone.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Trust me, I know..."

I saw that dark side of him making an appearance. It was in his eyes. It's the darkness that is always in my own eyes. I look at myself in the mirror enough to know it, and often times people looking at me mistake it for intensity or moodiness or annoyance.

When we sat down in the lounge next to JJ, Buddha, Roy and Carrie, Mack handed me another.

"Dude, I just barely took one." I didn't object to the generous offering so much as I objected to having to endure that nasty taste again.

"Take another. I took five. So did JJ."

"Five? You're fucking crazy!"

But really, it made sense: These guys are tall and their respective physiques are solid. One or two of these babies would barely get them buzzing.

"How about the others?"

"Roy took four. Buddha and Carrie aren't rolling though."

JJ saw me and gave me a spine-crushing bear hug. He was flying like a squirrel in the trees. He smiled and patted me on the back in that brutal, painful way that big guys like him so often do, without meaning any harm.

On the E, JJ was like a big kid, in awe of everything and wide-eyed. Roy, on the other hand, was a complete mess, staring off into space with that Ray Liotta look on his face. Mack was slurring his words like Elvis in the early Sun Records years.

Buddha had a beer, so he wasn't completely sober. Carrie was drinking too, but as soon as she saw me she started hinting that we should go smoke somewhere.

I told her to wait until the E kicked in.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 5:17am: "How strong is it?" Carrie asked me as she packed a bowl into her pipe.

I was fiddling with the stereo controls, trying to turn the music down so that I could hear if any security personnel approached us.

"It's cut with heroin."

"Really?"

"Yeah, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I can still feel the E. It's pretty good. I took two, so I am FUCKED UP right now..."

"Will you be OK to drive?"

"Oh yeah, sure... No problem."

Carrie searched for her lighter. I pulled out mine-- a red Bic.

"Oh no," she said, nervously. "Not a red lighter."

"Oh, that's right. You hate red lighters."

"I don't hate them. It's an irrational fear. And not just lighters. Anything red."

"That's so silly, Carrie."

"I know. I have a lot of irrational fears." She finally found her lighter, a baby blue Bic, the same size as mine but with a butterfly sticker pasted onto it to designate her ownership.

As she smoked, I felt a euphoric wave of Exstacy wash over me. "I'm just messing with you. I have a weird phobia of my own."

She was too busy trying to hold in the rich marijuana smoke to answer, so I continued.

"I'm afraid of snails."

She almost coughed up a lung from laughing. The smoke exited her mouth in brief puffs. Finally, after a minute of gagging, she regained her composure.

"Dude, that's way worse than mine. You're joking, right?"

"I wish I were."

"I can see how someone could be disgusted by them. They're gross. Icky. But afraid?"

"Hey, at least I have an excuse. Snails are weird. They look like nothing else on earth. They could be alien beings for all we know. They're just... abnormal." I shuddered at the thought of it.

She passed the glass pipe to me and I toked from it. I coughed out an ungodly cloud of hazy smoke and passed it right back to her.

As I choked and struggled to tame the tingling in my throat, Carrie said, "You guys played so well tonight."

"Thank you. We couldn't do it without your support."

She smiled. She began searching my eyes for any telltale sign of how high I was at the moment. She hit the pipe, this time without calamitous hacking from her chest. Then she said, "Ever since you joined the band, the music has gotten so much better. And I mean that. The Digits were around for three years before you joined. I was there for half of that, and even though I supported and encouraged JJ to keep on going I always hoped that there'd be... progress."

"Progress?"

"Yes, progress. Improvement. The other guys in the band, the drummer and the bass player... They had bad attitudes. They were always negative. You and Buddha, though-- You guys are positive, and it shows in the music you guys make."

The E wave that overtook me subsided along with my coughing fit. "I appreciate your kind words, Carrie, but at the same time I have to disagree on one thing."

"What's that?"

"I'm not a positive person. I'm not overly negative either, but I can't say that I am a positive person. I guess I'm more of a pragmatist."

"What's a pragmatist?"

"Someone who goes with whatever works the best. I'm a realist, I guess you can say. Sometimes I'm idealistic, but then reality brings me down to the ground. Other times I'm a pessimist, but then my life reveals something to me that takes me out of my funk and cheers me up."

"What gets you down?" She studied my body language. She was curious as to what I could possibly be down about, and she adjusted herself in the shotgun seat so that she could take all of it in.

"The reality of my situation. Knowing that I can never be a normal person like everyone else."

"Oh, come on, James. What's normal nowadays? There's no such thing."

"I've heard that argument a million times, Carrie, and it doesn't help me at all. What I think of as 'normal' really means 'ordinary'. I wish sometimes that I could be an ordinary person. I wish I had the ability to conform instead of going against the grain all the time."

"That's terrible," she said, as she placed the pipe in my hand. "Why would you wish for that? You're a unique person. You're an individual. So am I. We all are. How could you entertain the thought of wanting to throw your personality away just to fit in?"

"The reason why I wish for it sometimes is because I am so tired of being different. It may seem like fun to people on the outside looking in, but it can be a pain in the ass. I can't turn it off. It's not a costume or an affectation. This is who I really am. I can't help it. Just once, I'd like to do the usual, not the unusual."

"But you'd get sick of it. You'd want to be different once you became like everyone else."

"I suppose... But what about you? Do you feel like you are like everyone else, or do you feel like you are different?"

Carrie paused. No one had ever asked her that question before. "I don't know. I can fit in if I have to, but I can be a big weirdo too. I definitely feel, though, that I have been marked."

"Marked?"

"Yeah. Tagged, tainted, set apart from others."

"What makes you feel like that?"

"Things."

She wasn't ready to open up like that yet, at that particular moment.

I wanted to tell her about the "things" that set me apart from others, such as my issues with my father. Normally I am not shy about bringing it up, but the E had me feeling emotional and I was afraid of opening up too much.

There is such a thing as opening up too much, right?

"I know what you mean. Believe me, I do. I believe that being a woman nowadays is tough. I often feel marginalized like a woman, but since I'm a man I can do something about it. Women have to take so much crap from this world, and they seem to do it in stride."

I took a pipe hit and passed it back to her.

"That's what we do. We're real good at it, I guess."

A moment of silence. She smoked. I clenched my jaws together. The E was starting to rise up inside me again, another euphoric wave.

"That's why I think I'm so hung up on Eve," I blurted out.

Carrie knew about Eve. When Eve and I were dating and she would show up at the shows, Carrie met her. They never really talked to each other-- I don't think Eve wanted to know who Carrie was, even if she was dating JJ and therefore not a threat.

"What's up with you two anyway? I've been meaning to ask."

"She dumped me. Again. She made up a bunch of excuses, but I know why she left me."

"Why?"

"Because she doesn't love me as much as she loves her ex. All she ever does is talk about him. She won't shut up about him. She claims she is past it, but she's not. And he was an asshole to her, too. He beat her up, guilt-tripped her into giving up her acting career, played mind games with her... and then to top it all off, he cheated on her. She gave him a decade of her life to him. And I try to respect her, treat her well, encourage her, and all she can give me is a few months before she decides that I'm beneath her and moves on."

"How long have you known her?"

"Since high school. Then we broke up, and shortly after that..."

I told Carrie about what happened to Eve after we broke up, and how it sent her spiraling downward into drugs and depression.

"James, she's got issues. When something like that happens to you, it fucks everything up. Don't blame her for it."

"I don't blame her for it," I said. "It'd be so much easier to bear if I was able to say 'well she's like this for a reason' but instead I keep thinking that somehow I can make it all better for her... and I can't. I can't save her, or anyone... not even myself. What kind of fucking world is this anyway, where women like Eve get screwed over so badly that they can't even tell that someone loves them?"

"James, stop saying that."

"Why do I care? Why do I even give a fuck? She left me. She's with some guy who has money and good looks and a future... What do I have? Nothing. I don't have shit. Why should she settle for shit? Why did I ever think that she could have ever loved me more than she loves her fucking ex? I think she should just drop the charade and go back to him-- break up with the guy she's with now and just go back to that fucking prick, because she fucking deserves him!"

"James, listen to yourself--"

"I wish I never met her..."

"You don't mean that."

"Yes I do. I am so fucking miserable. I have been miserable since April. I can't do anything to make it better. Nothing I do seems to work."

"You have to give her time, James. She's hurting. I know. I was raped three times by three different guys."

I froze. The shock was heavy, like weights at a gym. I looked at Carrie, trying to see if this was some sick joke she was pulling off. She was serious.

She turned around and exposed her lower back. "See this tattoo?"

It was a Japanese character. I'd seen it before, and thought nothing of it because she is Japanese after all.

"This letter means 'survivor' in Japanese. I am a survivor. I'm fucked up. That's why I smoke so much fucking weed. But I won't give up. I won't let it take me down. I survived those times, and I'll survive any more that are headed my way."

I was still speechless.

"Eve is a survivor too, and that's why she is doing what she's doing. It's fucked up, yes, but it's what she has to do. It has nothing to do with you."

I finally managed to eke out the words, "I'm sorry... I didn't know..."

"So am I, James. So am I. Not a day goes by when I don't think to myself, 'God, why me?' But I'm lucky-- I have JJ. He understands. He knows. He accepts it. He has such patience. I can't believe he is still with me after all this time. I don't know how he does it, because I know I must drive him crazy."

And suddenly everything fit into place: Carrie's seemingly flirtatious nature, JJ's detachment and reticence, his occasional frustration and vocal displeasure with Carrie's quirks and eccentricities.

After I let her words sink in, I decided to confide in her about my father, and the things he did, and how it has fucked me up, and how I am dealing with it.

We sat in my car and smoked pot and talked for almost an hour. Then, he both realized that the rest of the crew was probably wondering where we were, so we finished the bowl and exited the vehicle.

My head began to spin, from another euphoric wave of E in my system, jarred loose by my body movement. I looked at Carrie, whose face throughout the entire conversation had not wavered an inch. She possessed excellent Asian repose.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the tinted window of a parked Lexus. I looked like hell, with my hair disheveled and my face as pale as a tan boy's face can get.

She and I did not say a word to each other as we walked back into the casino.

I Couldn't Resist This One (it was just too funny to not take the time and post it for the rest of you)

What Race Were You Born To Be
Clear You're clear!! Some might say you're having an identity crisis, others would argu you got it all figured out. For once you're someone who wont let themselves be stereotyped, and you're open to all kinds of new things. Usually you don't go by your culture, you do what comes natural. Also you if you're like me get really pissed-off and confused when someone tells you to Hang with ur own people! because you really don't have people but that's good cause all people are YOUR people. Live clear baby, live clear!!
Take The Quiz Now!	Quizzes by myYearbook.com

TAKING NOTICE

October 15, 2006, 12:05am: It was well past the time we were slated to play. The preceding band took almost as long to strike their set as it took them to load up.

My rig took no time at all: an old 75-watt Peavey amplifier, a Boss Guitar Distortion pedal, and an old Fender P-Bass with glitter pasted onto the scratchguard by a previous owner. The entire set-up costed me $200, which was how much I bought the amp for-- the rest was free or donated to me by friends.

The DJ turntables in the previous band cost about as much as my entire bass rig, if not more.

We would've gone on sooner, but the Cooler Lounge's sound guy was trying to mic Buddha's drums.

I stole one last gagger in the men's room before going on stage.

Rose had placed a beer next to my set-up. I'd asked her in a hurry and she complied. She was standing next to her dude, but she had a camera in her hand.

My brain pulsed as the chemical drip in the back of my throat numbed my windpipe. I snorted, gulped, and started to sweat under the searing stage lights. I took a swig of the Newcastle as I tuned up.

Then, I realized I could smoke on stage. It was OK in Nevada to smoke in clubs... anywhere, for that matter!

I put my sunglasses on and lit a cigarette. "Hello folks," I intoned into the microphone for a sound check, "We're The Missing Digits, and we're from Hollywood."

"Hollywood?" An older man in the crowd stood up and walked over to me. "Didja jess say y'all was from Holly-wood?"

"Yes sir, I did," I replied, off-mic.

"Y'all can't smoke in the clubs out there, can ya?"

"No sir." The cigarette tasted soooooo good.

"I bet you're jess in hawg haven o'er here then!"

Yes, he did really pronounce it like 'haven'.

"You bet, " I said, then added into the mic, "I'd like to take this time to thank the entire city of Las Vegas for letting me smoke anywhere I want."

The crowd cheered. They probably figured all Californians and Angelenos to be Tai-Bo-taking, vegetarian fitness freaks who disdain tobacco.

"The proceeds to this show go to my cancer surgery in the future." A laugh from the audience.

Then I said, "You know, there's a ban in Santa Monica and Calabasas... So maybe I'll just move out here."

The crowd clapped and hooted, and then I shut my mouth, for fear that people would suspect I was coked to the max.

Mack was ready. Buddha was ready. Josh was almost done tuning. I looked at Mack and nodded. I looked at Buddha and smiled.

Then JJ gave us the signal, and we started playing.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 12:25am: I could hear everything.

Normally on stage I can't hear anything except myself and the drums. Even on the best stages, the guitar is so far away from me (on the opposite side of the stage) that I can barely make out what's going on with JJ.

The three best stages we've played so far, in terms of sound fidelity, are:

--The Viper Room on the Sunset Strip
--Linda's Doll Hut in Anaheim
--Cooler Lounge in Las Vegas

All three of those venues are tiny, although the VR stage is wide and contained the best backline as well as the most thorough sound check I'd ever encountered. The other two places were small but acoustically sound.

But at the Cooler Lounge, I could also hear the crowd very well. I could hear their shouts, their yelps, I could hear their hands clapping as if they were in front of my face...

I could hear them whisper. I could hear the compliments and insults.

I could hear, after the first song, the derisive comments of the first band. But I could also tell that they were scared.

Jealous.

Pissed off and yet blown away.

Finally, their timbre changed to grudging respect. By the end of the second song, we'd brought an unholy thunder to this small club that shook them to their core.

I was tweaking so hard.

I looked over at Mack, a Jack O' Lantern grinned etched into his rugged face, his hair jumbling about and releasing streams of sweat into the mob.

I saw local girls swooning in the front row. I sensed their panties dampening.

At one point, the bass guitarist for the previous band was standing in front of me. I thought he was trying to mean-mug me. Then, I took off my shades and saw that he wasn't looking at me-- he was staring at my bass gear.

He looked at my feet, shocked that I was getting such a raucous roar from one pedal, a shitty old amp, and a bass guitar that looked like a toy instrument.

His gear, I'd noticed earlier, cost about three times as much as mine.

But he didn't impress me. His sound was like every other bass player out there. When you buy a lot of gear to sound like everyone else, you succeed in that regard.

I ignored him and smoked my cigarette while turning and lashing on stage, a man possessed.

Buddha was so precise that night. His drums boomed like marching soldiers walking on dead local bands and their know-nothing followers. We were taking the club by storm like Nazi stormtroopers, like the Gestapo, like renegade SS officers, like rogue KGB agents tearing up the Kremlin.

My energy only intesified. I hopped in the air, daring to fall backward. I pulled out every trick in the cock-rock lexicon: windmill arm flourishes; backwards bending, almost as if I was doing rock and roll yoga; pained facial expressions followed by closed-eye open-mouth tongue-lolling manifestations of bliss.

Mack has to catch me sometimes when I careen and carom so recklessly that I might actually fall into the drum kit or off the stage. But this time, Mack was in the zone like I'd never seen him before. With his mother watching and his mood elevated, he dripped confidence and danger and charisma.

The biggest surpise was JJ, normally reserved and passive. I could hear his guitar quite clearly, and there was a relaxed inflection to his playing. He commanded that guitar and strangled virtuoso solos from it, wringing its neck and making it cry in pain and agony...

We left that club-- and the people in it --in ruins by the time we were finished.


*/*


October 15, 2006, 1:15am: After the show, I was actually a bit crazed for a second. Like an animal released from a cage, I stalked around and made sure that I wasn't going to keel over dead.

First thing I noticed was that Rose and her party crew had left without saying a word.

Second thing I noticed was Carrie, telling me to retrieve her when it was time to smoke more pot.

Third thing I noticed was Down Low and the bachelor party ensemble. They were really impressed and congratulatory.

Fourth thing I noticed was the previous band jocking JJ and Buddha, kissing their asses and telling us we rocked.

Fifth thing I noticed was Mack introducing me to a girl who looked 17 but had to be at least 21-- she wore braces, but lots of adult women do that nowadays. Maybe she had a fake ID, I don't know. What I do know is that she was transfixed by me-- she held on to my hand and asked me what my name was again and thanked me for putting on such a great show and she was going to come and see us again as soon as she could...

Then I noticed that the rest of the guys were striking down their gear, so I made sure to go get mine before it got stolen, tossed, or damaged.

I thanked the girl, whose name was Michelle, and discovered that she was one of Mack's friends from neighboring AZ. I resolved to talk to her later on.

Once the pandemonium died down, I found myself outside with a pipe in my hand, smoking weed with Carrie and Low and anyone else who wanted to partake in this sacrament.

I asked Low if he still wanted to do the strip clubs. He said he'd think about it back at the hotel.

Mack secretly asked me if I still wanted to take the Exstasy. I said I'd get back to him on it. I talked with Michelle some more and asked her if she wanted to hang out with us, but she and her friends were leaving town early the next morning.

"Next time you guys play out here," she said with a smile, "I'll definitely come see you."

"It was a pleasure meeting you," I said. "Have a safe drive home."

I packed my gear up in the rental, mingled for a spell, then finished the last of my cocaine and drove over to the Palace Station.

VIBES

October 14, 2006, 9:15pm: I was fifteen minutes late but I was still earlier than the rest of the band. Apparently, I was earlier than everybody else because other than a black man and a white woman nursing spirits at the bar, the Cooler Lounge was empty.

JJ was worried I wouldn't like the place, but I found it to be a change of pace from the blinding garishness of Las Vegas: Located nowhere near the main glut of the strip, the Cooler Lounge resided in a strip mall but was situated near the street-- it wasn't tucked away, it didn't look like a hole in the wall. The interior reminded me of a place called The Chimney Sweep in Sherman Oaks, due to its pool tables and jukebox and an old school furnace with seats circling it.

The stage was big, with a curious foot-high barrier erected at the edge of the stage-- a singer could step on it with one leg for maximum rock and roll posturing; the beers would not fall off the edge if placed at our feet; and it seemed like an effective deterrent to unruly stage divers and drunken fans trying to commandeer the microphone mid-set.

The bartender was an impossibly gorgeous punk rock chick, with jet black hair in Betty Page bangs, alabaster white porcelain skin, and a crimson red push-up bra that elevated her already-ample cleavage to lusty heights. She dripped with raw attitude, so I made my approach carefully.

"Newcastle, please," I asked politely.

I then noticed the band line-up on a chalkboard behind her. We were listed second.

When she served me, I tipped her and asked, "I'm with the second band listed. Is that the order we go on tonight?"

"No," she said, icily, wondering if I was trying to hit on her. "We wait until all the bands arrive, then we decide who goes on when."

"Oh," I said, befuddled. That's not how it's done in Los Angeles, for sure. I guessed that they must get a lot of cancellations. "Thank you."

At that moment, Rose walked in the door with three of her friends.

Rose was my latest crush. I met her at a show in August and was taken by her wit, her intelligence, her warmth, her humor. I know now that, although she likes me, she is not attracted to me-- she didn't have to tell me, I guessed it after many failed attempts to get her to go out with me alone without any friends or chaperones.

I knew that one of the people she brought with her was her "boyfriend", a college friend of hers who lived in Nevada just outside of Vegas. I put quotes on the label of "boyfriend" because they're really just fuck-buddies.

I can't see how anyone could have a long-distance relationship these days. Most likely, it was her way of keeping guys like me from making fools of themselves by asking her out.

"James!" she exclaimed when she saw me, and ran to me and gave me a great big hug that lasted longer than I expected. Then, she introduced her man, who went by the initials PG... and she definitely made it a point to say he was her "boyfriend".

I barely blinked as I shook his hand. I'd been through this drill many times before. It never changes-- I am excellent at not showing any disappointment when I put my mind to it. In fact, I keep getting better at it because I've had so much practice.

She introduced her friends, a couple who were engaged to be married next year. The woman, named Catherine, looked semi-attractive but carried herself in a manner that clued me in to her obnoxiousness; the man, going by the handle KC (what's up with guys using initials in Vegas?), shook my hand and immediately turned his attention to the barmaid, hoping to get a drink in him as soon as possible.

Rose and I sat and chatted. She regaled me with the nightmarish account of her trip to Sin City: a plane flight that arrived on time to McCarran Airport, only to turn around and go back to Burbank Airport due to inclement weather; an impromptu drive with two men she met on the plane who needed to be in Las Vegas as badly as she did; a joyless sojourn with the men as they smoked too much weed and got lost on their way...

"I'm sorry," I said, not really meaning it. I was peeved about PG. I tried not to let my disappointment show, even as I was glad to see her.

"Yeah, well, I'm here now, and I'm ready to watch you guys play!"

Rose turned to her friends and asked if they had been served yet. KC, proving to be more immediately obnoxious than his wife-to-be, said within earshot of the hot barmaid, "I haven't gotten a drink yet... if only the bartender would serve me, then I can start getting my drink on!"

The barmaid did not turn her head or let on that she heard him. She was busy counting the money in the register while talking on the phone to someone who wanted directions.

After about a minute, KC repeated his passive-aggressive request, this time slightly louder. "I'd love to get a drink, if only the bartender would hurry up and serve me."

Without turning her back, the barmaid tartly shot back: "That's nice."

I almost did a spit-take worthy of the classic slapstick comedies of the '30s. KC and Catherine looked at each other in amazement, then looked at Rose and PG, who both turned to me as if I had the power to do anything about it.

I smiled, raised my Newcastle, shrugged, and said nothing. Then, I took a swig and continued to talk to Rose, who listened as I rapped on about my weekend so far.


*/*


October 14, 2006, 10:39pm: By the time the other bands arrived and our place in the evening's line-up was determined, I was well on my way to mental oblivion.

I realized that I was almost out of coke, and yet I still kept going to the bathroom to powder my nose every half hour. I drank as many $3 Newcastles as I could-- the club offered the band free pitchers of Bud Lite, but I preferred the taste of Newcastle... and $3 was a good price to pay for a quality ale.

When the Missing Digits crew showed up, the first thing I did was apologize to Buddha for being so short with him on the phone earlier. He thought nothing of it, humble as usual. Then he informed me that they'd almost gotten into a car accident on the way to the gig.

I thought of the curse hanging over the weekend and then patted him on the back. "Dude, seriously?"

"Oh yeah. It was close. We were a bit shaken up by that."

I tried to spin it for him, still repentant for my rudeness on the phone. "Well, at least you guys are OK and made it here in one piece. We're gonna rock tonight, man, I just know it!"

"Oh, hell yeah!" Buddha replied, all smiles and radiating a Zen-like calm.

It was around the time that the first band started to set up on stage when Mack's mother and stepfather arrived at the club. It was a surprise, and it worked its magic: Mack was jazzed to see them. None of his family had ever seen him perform, being that they all lived in Arizona. When they discovered that Mack would be playing in Las Vegas, they called the Cooler Lounge and asked the barmaid for directions, then made the drive.

The effect on Mack set him floating on air. Always an agreeable sort, Mack was now fueled with superhuman excitement and anticipation. I believe that this small but significant show of support from his family contributed to his searing performance later on that night.

Shortly afterward, I watched in awe as Mack charmed the icy barmaid. She was putty in his hands, and he wasn't even trying to lay any lines on her.

"I can't believe my mom's here!" Mack said to the barmaid as he picked up another pitcher. "Did you know about this?"

"Yeah," she said, girlishly, twirling her hair with her fingers and giggling like a teeny-bopper. "They called earlier and asked me to keep it a secret."

Mack sensed her vibe, smiled politely, and took the pitcher in his hands. He turned around and saw me standing behind him, waiting for another beer.

"Ayyy mengh!" Mack shouted, doing his impression of my well-known Tony Montana impersonation. Then he leaned in to whisper to me.

"Got some E. Good shit. You down?"

"E?"

I was a bit shocked, because I always believed the guys in the band were not heads at all.

"Sure, I'm down. Might come in handy for the strip club later. You wanna come with us?" I figured having a stud-bull like Mack in attendance would strengthen our odds of attracting women in Sin City.

"Maybe," he said. I was feeling a bit of the darkness I detected in Mack-- he was a red-blooded American male tried and true, but that sinister edge I picked up from him was slowly creeping its way out into the open. Most likely it was emerging due to the first band's endless delays in setting up.

The first band took half an hour to get ready. They were a local LV band, taking their cue from groups like Slipknot and Korn: Goth make-up, gruesome stage props and visuals, massive equipment flourishes like drum cages, Marshall stacks, and a DJ with vinyl turntables who couldn't seem to figure out how to ground them so that they wouldn't hum mechanically.

We were getting impatient. I was running back and forth between the men's room and my place at the bar, keeping my nose packed with clean cocaine bursts. I was also wondering if Low and the bachelor party crew were going to make it out here or just flake on me.

I saw Rose standing with PG at the billiards table. They were hanging out with KC and Catherine, keeping to themselves. Every now and then she would look over at me, wondering if I was going to stand still for one milliscond.

Finally, she caught me as I was making another trip to the bathroom.

"James," she said nervously, under her breath, not moving her lips, as if she were trying to keep her voice down. "Why are you guys not hanging out with us?"

"What?" I was blazing from countless coke rips, sweating and agitated.

"It's like, you guys are over there, and we're over here... like you're ashamed of us or something."

From previous conversations with Rose, I knew she had a strange fear of being treated badly by unsigned bands she lent her support to, and I was getting a similar vibe from her tone.

"Well, it's not like you all can't come over to where we are," I explained rationally. "We're just mingling, trying to court everybody who came out. Some of Mack's family is here, JJ and Mack's friends are here, JJ's girlfriend is here, my friends are on their way, you guys are here... We're not trying to shut you out. And plus, this band is taking forever to set up..."

Rose was wise enough to use this last comment as an out. "Yeah, what's up with that? it's almost 11, and they're just dicking around up there!"

"I know... Well, when we take the stage, we'll show them how it's done."

"That's the spirit!" Rose said, smiling. I liked her enthusiasm. It made me feel special.

When the opening band finally started up, their fans were in attendance. Their crowd consisted of barely-21 misfits and outcasts who'd rather spend their weekend nights watching loud nu-metal bands kick out the jams than wander aimlessly on the Strip. They were locals, and they wanted no part of the excess of Vegas-- they had to live with it every day, and a place like Cooler Lounge was a refreshing respite for them.

Unfortunately, I didn't think much of the band's music. It was typical detuned noise metal, and while the players were tight and the singer had a hell of a scream on him, their songs were simplistic, brutal riffs that led nowhere. They had energy and spark, but I didn't think it was worth the long wait.

Carrie, JJ's girlfriend, grabbed me as I laid on a couch near the stage. She wanted to smoke weed with me in the car.

This was our routine, our pre-show ritual. Carrie could smoke me under the table but no one else in the Missing Digits circle was as ready as I was when it came to last-minute impromptu smoke-out sessions.

"Let's go," I said to her. We had time before the first band was done with their set, and I needed something other than alcohol to offset the effects of the coke.


*/*


October 14, 2006, 11:15pm: Carrie and I smoked in the rental, making small talk and not getting too deep. She described the near-accident that she and the rest of the crew had almost gotten into, and felt that it was a good enough excuse to smoke herself silly.

I still wondered what her deal was, why she put out this vibe like she wanted me, like she would cheat on JJ if only I'd make a move. Maybe it was the coke intensifying my ego's whimsies, or maybe it was more apparent than in previous smoke-out sessions, but I couldn't escape the awkwardness of Carrie pulling me away, while JJ was standing not too far away, to get high.

As we finished, I saw the bachelor party guys pull up in the parking lot in A-Team's car. Carrie and I piled out of the smoke-filled car, and I motioned for her to walk with me to greet the boys.

They were already shit-faced beyond belief, especially Wolf, who stood out by virtue of his aviator sunglasses covering his eyes when there was no sun out. They stumbled out of the vehicle like circus clowns and greeted me drunkenly.

I introduced Carrie to the rest of the crew.

"This is Down Low, the groom-to-be," I said, "and this is A-Team, Low's brother." Carrie shook their hands and smiled.

I continued. "This is KD Long, and you already know Wolfie... and this is BJ Fornicati."

BJ shook Carrie's hand, and a fiendish look swept over his face. "I know you," he stated. "I've met you before."

"I don't think so," Carrie said, unsure of Fornicati's gist.

The rest of us looked at each other and giggled slightly: Was BJ trying to make moves on JJ's girlfriend?

"I'm positive." BJ contemplated her for a spell, then he brightened and almost shouted, "I remember now! Valley College! We had a class together!"

Suddenly, it all came rushing back to Carrie. "Oh yeeeeaaahhhhh," she crowed. "But that was so long ago, before I met JJ."

The last part of her statement led the rest of us to believe that maybe, just maybe, she and BJ had hooked up.

With Fornicati, anything was possible.

He was a semi-legend in our circle of friends for being an unabashed flirter, oblivious to his lackluster aura and bland appearance. Anything in a skirt was fair game for BJ, and although he didn't always bag the girl, you could never fault him for at least trying.

It turned out that years ago Carrie scored weed from Fornicati after class, and they both ended up going out together to a hip-hop club later that night. That evening ended with Carrie getting pushed to the floor by a rude clubgoer while Fornicati stepped in to defuse the situation. No fight erupted, but Carrie getting knocked down soured the event for everyone involved.

I laughed, the combination of chemicals in my bloodstream elevating my euphoria to heretofore-unseen levels.

"Small world, ain't it?" I cackled aloud to no one in particular.