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.

NUMBNESS

October 14, 2006, 6:51pm: After leaving the Missing Digits crew at Caesar's Palace, I decided to take the scenic route back to Palace Station and check out the location of Cooler Lounge in the northern part of Las Vegas.

As I drove, I decided to take a toot of some powder. My cellophane satchel was within reach. I prepared a dollar bill, stuck it in my nose and placed the other end in the satchel. But there was no more powder in the satchel-- I'd sniffed it all.

The coke was in the main stash bag, which I promptly removed from its hiding place. As I waited interminably at a stoplight, I had time to put my fingers into the bag, feel around for a chunk or a nug, and place it into the satchel. Then, after putting the main stash away, I pressed the cellophane between my fingers to break it down.

I tooted and kept driving.

I suddenly got confused-- the address numbers on the street rapidly changed within the span of one minute. I was in the 1800 block but before I knew it was in the 2200s, and I was supposed to be in the 1900s.

I didn't know if I should keep driving or if perhaps I'd gone the wrong way. I kept moving forward but wondered if I should turn around.

I picked up Wolf Man's cel phone and called the Missing Digits. Two of their cels did not pick up due to bad reception; finally, Buddha's phone picked up.

"Yo James!" Buddha was always glad to hear from me.

"Hey man, what the fuck? I'm on Decatur but there's no 1901 here."

"What was that?"

"I said, the address you gave me doesn't exist. Do I have to keep driving or am I going the wrong way?"

"I... I don't know... I didn't drive when we went there last night so..."

"Aw come on man," I exclaimed, my infamous impatience flaring. "You guys went there just last night and you can't even remember how you got there?"

"Well, let's see, uh, hold on, lemme find JJ..."

"Can you at least recall a cross street?"

Before Buddha could answer, JJ got on the phone, and I repeated the same exercise in futility as I did with Buddha. No one seemed to remember how they got there last night. JJ reassured me, however, that the address was correct.

"Let me call you back and see if I can find it on my laptop," JJ said.

At that very instant, as I put the phone down and commenced to driving aimlessly, I suddenly felt my left hand tense up. I tried to open my hand and stretch my fingers but they seemed to be... stuck. Then I noticed my right hand was doing the same thing. I felt a numbness in my arms. It was as if my fingers were incapable of moving anymore. They were stuck on the steering wheel, and this alarmed me.

Oh my God, I thought, I did too much coke and I'm having a heart attack!

I was genuinely frightened for about five minutes. Then I remembered that my fingers had been shuffling around in the main stash bag for longer than necessary when I was refilling my cellophane satchel. That, coupled with Lord knows what amount I snorted from the satchel, made my hands and arms go numb.

Damn, I thought, This is better coke than I thought! I'd better be careful...

I pulled into the nearest gas station and got out of the car. My hands were clutched like talons, and I felt like I was transforming into some sort of horror movie creature. I walked into the gas station and felt ridiculous asking for directions while my hands were clenched tightly, like I was still holding on to the wheel. Of course, no one noticed that, or if they did they thought little of it.

No one in the gas station could help me, so I walked for half a block to see if I could find the exact spot where the address numbers changed. I thought that maybe it was a hole in the wall so tiny that I'd passed it.

Then I remembered JJ's description: strip mall, next to a Food 4 Less... there was nothing like that around. All I saw was a U-Haul rental facility where the 1900 block should've been.

"I bet it's further up," I said to myself. And with that, I got back to the car and decided to go back to Palace Station to meet the bachelor party and get dinner before the show. By now it was almost 7:30, and I figured my time was running out if traffic was going to be a concern.

When I got to the car, the cel phone was ringing. It was Wolf, wondering where I was. I told him I was on my way and if I was later than 7:45 to go on without me and let me know where they decided to go eat. Wolfie said they'd wait for me anyway, since they had no idea where to dine.

I told him about my hands. He seemed a bit shocked, but I could also hear that he was dead tired and also wired on coke himself. He admitted that he hadn't gotten any sleep since we got into town. I told him I'd be there soon and got off the phone, paranoid that I would get into an accident or get pulled over by Vegas cops wondering why my rental car had an expired registration tag.

I also felt bad for yelling at Buddha over the phone. It wasn't his fault that Decatur Street was mixed up, like so many streets in so many cities in America. I resolved to apologize to him as soon as I saw him later on.

By the time I got to Palace Station, the numbness started to wear off. My heart stopped racing at supersonic speed, and I entered the lobby feeling OK.


*/*


October 14, 2006, 8:35pm: At the buffet, the guys and I feasted on a semi-decent all-you-can-eat spread. As long as Down Low was satisfied, I didn't care. I could eat anything, and even though I was coked beyond belief I still forced myself to eat some salad and antipasta in preparation for the show. My stomach was empty and churning, and I knew I would do more coke and drink beer before, during, and after the show.

Down Low, a finicky eater if there ever was one, gave the buffet his blessing. I aasked him if he was having fun.

"Yeah, man," Low said, weak and frazzled. "I already won $100 at craps so far. It's all good."

Wolf Man chimed in. "How are you feeling, bro? Heartbeat back to normal?"

Low then commented on the state of his heart. It seems that while I was gone, Wolf chopped up some gaggers for Low to sniff out of his own stash back at the hotel. Low immediately had a panic attack and started to freak out, thinking that he was going to drop dead. Apparently, this passed just as quickly as my own little episode in the car earlier.

"I'm going to lay off the llello until we go to the show later," Low said, grubbing on a forkful of processed mashed potatoes.

"You guys still down to hit up a strip club?" I asked aloud. No one seemed to be interested-- they were already beat from partying in the hotel and hanging out in casinos all day.

"Maybe," Low said. "We'll see how I feel later on."

"It's all up to you, Low," I said. "This weekend is all about you." In the back of my mind I knew that Low was going to be more interested in gambling than seeing tits and ass, even if it wasn't on his dime.

"Okay, fellas," I announced as I finished my plate and stepped away from the table. "I gotta go load in for the gig. I gave you directions on this receipt." I handed the receipt to Low's brother A-Team, whom I assumed was the most sober-- and therefore the most responsible --person in the party.

I'd finally gotten the directions to Cooler Lounge back at Palace Station. JJ called me back when I'd arrived and gave me the cross street, and then I looked through a map of Las Vegas in the hotel room's phone pages. The gig was actually not that far away from where we were, and I also discovered that some high-class strip joints were even closer to the hotel than I'd thought.

"I'll see y'all later tonight," I said, and bid the party adieu. As I left, I was afraid that they would not show up, and then I began to wonder if my constant departures and arrivals were sapping the morale from the men. But then I figured that, with this lot, they would've expressed their indignation if they had any.

As I drove to the gig, I also figured that they were all still a little anxious about the incident with the security guard outside the hotel room. It had cast a pall over their good time, which was something I couldn't do anything about. I reasoned to myself that it was a good thing that I made two separate plans for the weekend, as it allowed me to not get bogged down by other people's collective neuroses.

I did a lot of figuring that weekend.

BAND OF THE HAND

October 14, 2006, 3:31pm: Big JJ, the guitarist and leader of the band Missing Digits, called me on the cel phone I borrowed from Wolf Man and told me to head to Cafe Lago somewhere inside of Caesar's Palace.

It only took me ten minutes to get there, but it took me nearly half an hour to pull inside the parking structure and find a spot for the rental. That's because (even though I kept my cool during the Palace Station drama) my heart was racing. I'd only been in Las Vegas for a few hours and hadn't really relaxed, thanks to the copious amounts of cocaine I'd ingested for the long drive.

I parked the car and pulled out a tiny cellophane satchel, created from an empty pack of American Spirits. I had the majority of the llello in another bag stashed inside KD Long's traveling coffee mug, but for quick toot access the satchel was secured within the tiny right-hand-side inner pocket sewn into everyone's jeans.

I laid it out on a CD jewel case in my lap. I sniffed. I played with my nose. I felt the flash. I left the car, remembering to get the keys and lock it.

I felt another flash, one of guilt. This is so bad for me, I thought. Why am I doing it? I don't know. I have no answer, no excuse. I'm doing it, though, and at this rate will I ever be able to stop it?

After some roaming and listless shuffling, I found the cafe and walked into the dining area. It was not cheesy and tacky like the casino buffets-- This was a restaurant, probably expensive, and I stuck out like a sore thumb with my ripped jeans, gaunt-faced stare and wild, wooly hair.

The Missing Digits were seated at a table, looking like rockers also-- well-rested, clean-cut, sober rockers. They did not seem to stand out. They blended in, even with their cut-off band T-shirts and grimy sneakers.

Big JJ saw me and motioned to me. Hailing originally from Rhode Island, JJ stood close to six feet tall and was built like a diesel truck-- not muscular, not obese, but solid. You'd have to pack a wallop of a punch to even attempt to knock him on his feet. I had spotted his shaved head from the cafe entrance and made a beeline to the table.

Sitting next to JJ was Mack, the Missing Digits singer and frontman. Mack and JJ put the band together three years ago and endured the typical Los Angeles musician troubles: flaky or non-committal band members, revolving door group line-ups, less-than-stellar gigs at less-than-less-than-stellar holes in the wall, and frustration at playing with talentess friends or ego-driven has-beens and never-wases.

Mack looked good, had a pleasant-yet-amateurish voice, and full-on positive rock star charisma. A former high school and college football player from Scottsdale AZ, Mack was as tall as JJ and more muscular; in short, a recovering jock.

Mack also happened to be the source of the band's name: The majority of the index finger on his right hand was sheared off in a construction accident.

Across from JJ and Mack sat Buddha, a longtime friend of mine and the current Missing Digits drummer. Wolf Man had left the group to pursue other gigs, and I had always wanted to get the amicable, mellow-minded Buddha to play drums with me in a band. Older than the rest of us (in his late-thirties), he was a little bit shorter than JJ and Mack but built just as solidly, and he seemed to get along great with them. His solid frame was a bit shocking considering his pure Filipino lineage, since the stereotype is that Filipinos are always short. His size was just another indication of how well he fit into the band.

Despite the nickname of "Buddha", he did not do drugs. He used to do them a long time ago, but Buddha is the oldest member of the band and gave up on all of that when his health started to decline.

JJ and Mack didn't do drugs either, at least not at the pace that I do them. Occasionally Mack would take a puff of some of my green, and both have admitted to rolling on E here and there, but they were mainly clean-living folk. Mack liked to drink because he is a bartender. JJ didn't have any vices except for energy drinks, excessive gambling and fine meals at pricey Vegas casinos.

In addition to the band, there was Roy, a friend of the band (his official title, I later learned, was that of "road manager") and also Carrie, JJ's girlfriend and a staunch supporter of the band. Carries happened to be a bigger pothead than me or anyone else I know, and I looked to her for some chemical relief when I felt like I needed a toke and didn't want to puff alone.

"Hey, you made it!" Mack said, standing to greet me. I shook his hand fearlessly, accustomed to the still-potent recognition of his hand in mine, his right hand, the one with the missing digit. Every time I shook his hand throughout the past year, I've always wondered how self-conscious he was about it deep down inside.

Mack made the issue a moot one by using my hand to pull me in for a bear hug. His enormous size still intimidated me, no matter how friendly and warm his demeanor betrayed.

I managed to pull away and greet the others with hugs and embraces. They were a touchy-feely lot, which shocked me despite knowing them for over a year. I still had the urge to stay detached, aloof.

"Man, we'd be so fucked if you weren't here for this show," JJ said, looking into my eyes to see if I was stoned off pot. None of them knew I was on coke or even doing it. As tolerant as JJ was about my drug use-- it never got in the way of my ability to play or make shows --I could tell he was trying to gauge my mood.

"I wouldn't miss it for anything," I said, sitting down at the table. I declined a menu, claiming I'd just eaten. That was a lie, of course, but then again the coke had my appetite locked down for the long term.

They told me about the ride to Vegas, a mostly uneventful journey except for the car crash they saw on the I-15 an hour outside of Laughlin. They even had taken pictures with their digital cameras and showed them to me. Fortunately, there were no gory images to capture, but the damage to the vehicles in the pics were jarring.

Then JJ went on about the Jockey Club, the hotel where they were all staying. It was under renovation. They got in late on Friday, drove out to check out the Cooler Lounge, then got to their room and tried to sleep, only to be awakened at 6am by the sounds of jackhammers and construction workers tearing down drywall.

I thought about the signs of bad luck in the air ever since I set off to make this trip. My drug-addled mind scanned over the superstitious symbolism I was attributing to every mishap and minor catastrophe that occurred so far.

"I guess it was a good thing that I didn't travel with y'all, huh?" I said.

I saw the looks on JJ and Mack's faces. They had been visibly disappointed when I told them before the trip that I didn't want to travel and stay in the same place as them, and my innocent comment seemed to drive this point further home.

"Yeah, but we still wish you'd gone with us, even in a separate car. We haven't really had a chance to gel as a group, you know? I mean, this is a band, right? We're like brothers. We're like family. I think of you as family." I could tell JJ was being sincere, but I also knew that JJ was a bit of a smooth talker. As the de facto manager and uncontested band leader, he was savvy and sociable. JJ made friends quickly and they seemed to like the fact that he appeared to be a monstrous thug with the heart of a teddy bear.

"Me too, man," Mack said, his emotions less veiled than JJ. "You've been with us a year. You're not just a bass player to me. You're a friend."

"I know, I know," I replied, trying not to go on an insane cocaine-fueled talking jag. I am known as a gabby sort, but cocaine has a way of ratcheting up my jaws to the point where I cannot seem to shut the fuck up. "I've been with you guys for a year, and you know that I always give more than I have to, even if it's not a lot. But I got a thing about riding in other people's cars. If I want to go do something else, I feel trapped. You should never take it personally, fellas. It's just how I am."

"I can attest to that," Buddha said in between bites of crab legs. "I've known James since the end of '99, and he doesn't let anyone get too close. But he's still a cool guy." Buddha turned to me and said, "You and I have always been cool to each other, right?"

"Right," I said. "I'm an Aquarius, man. We're loners."

"But aren't Aquariuses also people-persons?" Carrie asked. She was an American-born Japanese girl in her mid-twenties who liked hip-hop, smoking weed, and talking about whatever. She was smart and pretty and gave off a flirtatious vibe, the kind of vibe that some men mistake for an adulterous impulse.

"Yes, they are," I said, "But it's in an impersonal way. We want to save all of humanity, not just select portions. Overall, we are independent-minded but also stay aware of what's going on all over the world, not just in our own backyard. And we tend to focus on the future rather than the past or the here and now. But I'm also near the cusp of Capricorn, so I have my nostalgic moments on occasion."

"Do you study Astrology?" Roy asked me. Roy resembled Ray Liotta in Goodfellas: Good-looking but not pretty like Mack, and a dead-eyed stare that I often mistook for suspicion.

"No, not seriously," I said. "My next novel is going to be centered around a bunch of characters and how they react to the astrology charts of one particular period of time."

"Wow, man," Buddha exclaimed. "You write too? Fuckin' A, man, what do you not do?"

"Sit still, that's what," JJ said, smiling. "This motherfucker's busier than me, and I got four fucking jobs!"

"How do you do it, James?" Mack playfully asked. "You'd think the weed would slow you down."

I remembered that they had no knowledge of my powder-sniffing, so I deliberated before answering.

"I'm already a keyed-up person, Mack. I don't need anything to pep me up. It's overkill in my case. I need things to weigh me down, keep me from floating up into the air. I always like to say that because of the Capricorn/Aquarian cusp, I'm torn between the heavens and the earth... you know, Capricorn's an Earth sign and Aquarius is an Air sign..."

None of them got the reference, but they pretended to, and that made a difference to me in my coked-up state. I was more acutely attuned to their body language, their mannerisms, the little details that can give a way a person's true motives and intents. They wanted to understand my gibberish, and failing to do that treaded lightly out of concern for hurting my feelings.

I felt bad. I wondered why I was keeping these people at arm's length. Was it a variation on the classic "fear of commitment" scenario so familiar to single men? Was it a general mistrust of everything that seems foreign to me? Was it a secret disdain at their relentless optimism and bright-faced outlook on the band and the music? Or was I just getting bad vibes that didn't jive with the raps they were dropping on me?

It was really none of those things. It all stemmed from the infamous Groucho Marx maxim about not wanting to belong to any club that would have me as a member. There was never any question with JJ and Mack-- They wanted me to keep playing with them. They liked what I brought to the table: Melodic basslines, energy and chaos, formidable experience and a willingness to take risks... But their total acceptance of me was terrifying sometimes.

And I had to wonder if this band was going to go anywhere.

We weren't young bucks anymore. The youngest member was Mack, on the verge of turning 30 next year. That is old in the rock music industry. We looked young, played young, felt young, and we could probably all get away with lying about our ages. But would anyone want to take a chance on us in the first place? Maybe overseas we could make money and develop a following, but America is the coveted jewel in the global crown, and unfortunately Americans are fixated on youth.

I had never considered the gigs and rehearsals of the past year a waste of time, chiefly because the guys in the band held up their ends of this collective bargain. Even the ultimate non-commitment dude, Wolf Man, found himself playing with us for much longer than he expected. But Wolfie kept his distance by constantly insisting he was only a temporary fill-in until the right drummer came along. He was the weak link in the band as a result, with a drug problem more pronounced and crippling than mine had ever been and even deeper self-esteem issues than me.

When I introduced the guys to Buddha, I could see the spark. I could hear the clicking of cogs meshing and fitting in with each other. I could see it on everyone's faces. Wolf Man was a fantastic musician (and saved the band from losing momentum) but Buddha was the perfect drummer for Missing Digits.

Buddha was far more comfortable in his role in Missing Digits than I was, and he'd only been with us for 6 months. What was taking me so long to admit that I liked being in this band, that I wanted to play with these guys for as long as it takes?

I tried to tell myself that it was our respective lifestyles: JJ, Mack and Buddha had much more in common with each other than I had with any of them. I stood out not just because of my height in comparison with the rest of the band but also in my demeanor, my attitude, my posturing and my vision. I was the odd man out, a role I always relish, but this was more stark than any other band I'd been in prior to this one.

I was the resident pessimist, the Devil's Advocate, the contrarian who always had to point out the catches in everything. I wasn't negative about it, however, and I think the guys had always felt that I possessed a much-needed perspective to counter their buoyant drives. I was the Realist, the Pragmatist, the guy who does the second-guessing just so no one else has to do it.

As we left the cafe and wandered around the casino and shops taking band photos at every opportunity, I felt even worse about the fact that I was zooted on cocaine. It was as if I were trying to keep it a secret from my relatives. They didn't suspect a thing but then again I didn't help matters by excusing myself to the restroom every half an hour.

Finally, I'd had enough of milling about the mall area of Caesar's Palace.

"What do you guys have planned?" I asked JJ.

"Dunno... Walk around a little bit more, gamble a bit, maybe go back to the Jockey Club, maybe hit up another casino."

"What time is the show tonight?"

"Load-in is at 9pm. They don't set the band showtimes until all the bands load in."

"You're kidding."

"Naw, bro. It's funny too, I was apprehensive at first when we went there last night. It's in a strip mall, next to a Food 4 Less."

"So? Lava Lounge is in a strip mall too."

"I guess, but that's in Hollywood. This is Buttfuck Nowhere. I thought I'd made a mistake when we first pulled up, like 'Oh no, what kind of show did I book' but we went in and stayed for a few bands and it was nice. Cheap beer, too."

"We'll be fine. Gotta start somewhere in this crazy town, right? Can't expect to play the Strip on our first out-of-state gig."

"Well, I'm glad you're cool with it. We thought maybe you'd be upset."

"I'll check it out on the way back to the Palace Station. I gotta bone out right now and meet the guys for dinner. Then we'll plot out the evening's festivities."

"Cool, man. I'll call you on Wolf's cel if we change our plans."

"I'll be there at 9pm sharp," I promised. JJ smiled-- He knew my word was bond when it came to getting to the show on time.

I said 'goodbye' to the rest of the crew and made my way to the parking structure. I had a chance to refill my rapidly diminishing cellophane satchel but forgot about it as soon as I got behind the wheel of the rental. I pulled out of the casino parking lot and prepared to do battle with the Vegas Strip traffic.

I still felt bad. Those guys like me, I thought. So why does that make me feel unhappy? What's wrong with me anyway?

I turned up the CD player. The Ramones' Leave Home album blared from my speakers. I pressed my foot down on the gas and headed for Decatur Blvd, in the northern part of Sin City.

DARK CLOUDS OVER NEVADA

October 15, 2006, 6:35pm: The Wolf Man and I were returning from Las Vegas.

We were on the I-15 South, wondering if we had missed the exchange to the 138 Hwy that would take us into Palmdale and Lancaster all the way to the 14 Freeway headed for Los Angeles. We were told before the trip that the remainder of the I-15 would be a morass of snarling traffic, and we would be stuck in it unless we took the alternate route.

Right at the moment when we saw the sign for the 138, traffic started to slow down. We imagined that we would only be stuck for a little bit, then we could resume our full-steam blast back home.

Just minutes before we reached that point, I noticed that there seemed to be smoke clouds in the distance. It looked beautiful against the high desert sky, still blue even though nightfall was arriving.

We were listening to Miles Davis' fusion-era soundtrack from a movie about the life of Jack Johnson, one of the first black heavyweight boxers in America. Wolf was driving, even though it was my name on the car rental agreement. I'd been up all night, partying with the band and rolling off of two pills of Ecstasy cut with heroin.

Suddenly, as we started to slow our pace, we both saw the smoke at a closer vantage. It seemed like a dark cloud descending upon Apple Valley. It was a sharp contrast to the perfect weather we encountered on the drive home. We rolled up our windows and made it into the far right lane, unsure of what was next.

"It's like a black hole," I remarked, as I packed a bowl in my pipe and passed it to Wolf.

"No thanks," Wolf said, refusing the bowl, trying to keep his clarity. He'd been high most of the weekend but he'd gotten four solid hours of sleep before we checked out of the hotel with the rest of our friends. That's why he was the one driving.

I lit the pipe and smoked. "This has been something of a cursed weekend, don't you think?"

I was going on about the superstitious earmarks of our two-day sojourn to Sin City. There was the fact that Friday the 13th had predicated the whole trip and also the fact that our hotel booked us rooms on the 14th floor (There are no 13th floor in American structures-- it's bad luck).

All the little controversies and incidents that accompanied not only us but all of our friends who were coming into Las Vegas to do one of two things: Attend a bachelor party for our friend Down Low, and watch a show that my band was playing at some remote strip-mall bar stop way way off the Vegas Strip.

As for me, I was going to do both, and then some.


*/*


October 14th, 2006, 8:25am: KD Long (so named because rumor has it that he possesses an enormous schlong) showed up at my door and proceeded to pack his bag in the trunk of the 2002 Toyota Corolla I'd rented from a cheapie used car company.

What was so queer about the rental company was their insistence that I take the car for the rest of the month, at a discounted price. This was the kind of place where losers with no credit cards (like me) could put a $300 down payment on a rental and collect it upon return.

We got on the 134 Freeway to Pasadena, where Wolf was slumbering in his apartment, waiting for us to pick him up so he could sleep off the coke bender he'd been on the night before.

Halfway to Wolf's place, a cop car got onto the freeway and stayed behind us. It looked as if they were going to pull me over.

"I wasn't speeding or anything," I said. I do drive fast, but not at that particular moment. "What are they pulling me over for?"

"Are your tags expired?" KD asked me.

"Dude, it's a rental. It has to be. If not, it ain't my problem." I pulled out the rental agreement as the cops turned on their lights and siren.

The cop eventually approached me and informed me that my registration sticker was expired.

I laughed. "Me and my friend here were just talking about that, officer. This car is a rental." I handed him my license, the rental agreement, and my proof of insurance.

The cop ran the plate and info as KD nervously asked me what I had on me.

"Weed, some coke, a bottle of Sysco, and some Vicodins," I replied. "The bottle and the Vikes belong to Wolfie."

"Dude, we're soooo lucky we weren't blazing up any bowls when he pulled us over," KD replied. He was scared about the coke, even though the officer had no reason to think we were doing anything of a criminal sort.

"OK, the car checks out," the cop said as he gave me my papers back. "I won't give you a ticket-- even if I did it would go against the company, not you. Your rental agreement only covers violations caused by driver error."

"Sir, are we going to get pulled over all the way to Nevada?" I asked. "We're going to Las Vegas, and we're on a tight schedule. I'd hate to keep getting pulled over every 15 minutes."

"If you get pulled over, they'll let you go... so long as there's no other reason to pull you over." The cop's facial expression was immobile, robotic.

"Can't you give me, like, some sort of temporary tag so that I can avoid any future delays?"

"I'm sorry, sir, we don't have anything like that. Have a nice day."

As we drove off, my heart stopped racing. The cocaine blast I'd shot up my nose ten minutes prior caused my heart to beat recklessly, and the stress of getting pulled over compounded it to a speed-metal double-bass-drum tempo.

I was a bit perplexed: I'd had the rental for almost three weeks. I only needed it for a weekend, but the rental guys kept pushing me to drive it more. I had never checked the back plate, I just assumed it had tags. Why would a rental company give me a car with no visible tags? Did they know it was missing a registration sticker? If not, when did it fall off? Or did someone take it off when I had it parked somewhere?

"I guess we're going to have to drive carefully for the rest of the trip," KD said.

"I guess," I said, getting ready to exit the freeway and pick up Wolfie.


*/*


October 14th, 2006, 12:52pm: Upon arriving at the Palace Station in Las Vegas, the three of us went straight to the casino to meet Down Low and the rest of the bachelor party attendees.

It was a small group: Myself, Wolf, KD, Low, his brother A-Team and the one and only BJ Fornicati, so named because he was a shameless opportunist of the highest order: the kind of guy you shouldn't leave your girlfriend alone with for more than ten minutes; the kind of guy who never refused a hit of any drug, a swig of any drink, or the advances of any woman with any degree or lack of common mores.

The plan was to be improvised based upon a simple outline: We would gamble, get high in the hotel suite, drink like fish, dine on buffet food, cruise the Strip, watch my band play at the Cooler Lounge, and possibly either hire a stripper or hit up a strip club.

All of us convened to the room where Low, A-Team and BJ had stayed the night before. As I entered the elevator, I saw A-Team press button 14.

"14th floor? Uh oh," I said.

No one got the reference.

In the room, A-Team, Low and BJ regaled us with stories of inclement weather on the drive to Las Vegas; crazy blackjack dealers and even crazier craps table residents; bad buffet food and late-night shenanigans in the downstairs bar.

We smoked grass, sniffed some "gaggers" (drug slang for coke lines cut so fat that they make the user gag as the excess powder drips down their throat on the first snort), and laughed our asses off. Then, Low and Wolf entered the room (they were outside having a cigarette) and informed us that they had just been sweated by a security guard in the hallway outside the room.

"He said, 'I smell marijuana' and I said "Yeah, so do I' and he said 'I smell it on YOU' and told us that if they find out we are smoking weed in our room we'll be asked to leave," Low said.

This was enough to cause KD and BJ to sort-of freak out. Wolf was slightly unnerved by the ordeal, and A-Team was concerned mostly because the room was in his name and he was waiting to check into the additional suite he reserved at 3pm. Low seemed a bit unnerved as well, probably because KD and BJ's paranoia rubbed off on him.

I didn't give a shit. I barely give a shit about anything these days, but I certainly can't care about some 63 year-old rent-a-cop giving us flak about weed. It was stupid of us to not put a towel under the door at the beginning, yes, but I've been to Vegas many times and each time I visited I was threatened by a hotel person who wanted to have me and my friends kicked out for being too rowdy.

"We're not in any trouble. It's a way of life, OK? It comes with the territory. If you come to Vegas with illegal narcotics and act surprised when someone gives you grief, then you should just leave the toys at home... or better yet, stay home altogether..."

My reasuring words did nothing to calm them down. So as they started taking paraphernalia back down to the cars and trying to air out the room, I took the opportunity to duck out and travel to the South side of the Strip, where the guys in my band were staying at The Jockey Club near Caesar's Palace.

In a way, it was smart move to split my time between the two camps. If one group was doing something I wasn't cool with, I could leave and contact them later while I was with the other group.

After asking if anyone wanted to ride with me over to the Strip (no one did) I got in my car and sped over to the Strip as fast as I could, which wasn't very fast because of the normal Las vegas Strip traffic.

debauchery

Played a show last night at the Lava Lounge. Off the hook, completely bonkers, total pandemonium.

It was great.

Got a job prospect that starts next week. If I can hack the training, I may be scanning movie negatives into a computer for a living by Halloween.

I knew I'd find something quick.

This weekend, I leave to Las Vegas. The band is playing a second show at a place called Cooler Lounge. It will be my first out-of-state gig ever. Then, the bachelor party festivities begin: my good friend Down Low is getting married in November, and I am the Best Man. We're going to get him a stripper, some lapdances, and lots of money to gamble with as we tear Vegas apart.

Should be fun.

I'll tell you what: Getting laid off from the architecture firm has been nothing but a boon to my existence. I am feeling very satisfied with the chaotic shambles that is my life at this moment. It's as if I am more comfortable with the idea of disorder and entropy than I am with the notion of stability and familiarity.

Or maybe I'm just making up for lost time.

Either way, this weekend is going to be memorable, to say the least.

TAKE CARE, Y'ALL!

the well-paid nightmare

Now I know what the dream was about.

I'm sitting at home right now, just like I was on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday of this week, when I inexplicably stayed home for no reason other than I didn't want to go back to work.

I had a gut feeling about something.

I returned yesterday to find that they had sacked one of my supervisors. This came on the heels of the foreman getting canned as well.

I knew my time was coming, but the question for me was: Do I quit now or let them fire me?

I secretly wanted them to fire me, so I could collect unemployment and live like a bohemian for the rest of the year on the money I saved from this profitable but ultimately thankless job.

Looks like I got my wish. I was laughing on the drive home, marveling at how things were turning out.

You have to understand: I felt a great big weight lift from my shoulders the minute I got into my car and sped off to the bank to deposit my last paycheck.

The only good thing about the job was the money. Oh, and my co-workers were really nice. But the management assholes were just that: assholes. Same as every company. And the place is losing money fast: I am one of 30 layoffs that hit the factory this week.

But what's worse than all of that is what the job made me into: a joyless, listless jerk-off who alienated everyone around him.

At least I got a taste of what having a high-paying job is like. I'm here to tell you: it sucks. It's worse than a low-paying job because you feel honor-bound to stick with it, even if the work you are doing is absolutely brainless.

I knew what I was doing when I stayed home this week... or did I? I kept kicking myself around the house, wondring why I was doing this to myself. But now I know the answer.

I was trying to save myself.

It worked.

And now I know why today seemed like everything I did up until 1pm was my last: every step, every glance, every breath felt like I was being led to the execution.

But now...

Now I am free, until the next slave job comes along to box me in.

Until then, I am sleeping in, staying up late, partying it up, and reveling in the fact that life is too short to give a goddamn about overpriced prefab housing.

And what's more: I have the new story angle I was looking for, but it will have to wait until I get some other things done first.

Yes, this morning when I woke up from that dream... maybe the dream was trying to tell me what to expect. Maybe it was warning me, trying to tell me... but I think in the back of my head I knew... Shit, I've known since June!

The well-paid nightmare is over. I am free to be me again.

I missed me. I'm glad to have me back.