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.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
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!
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!
Friday, October 06, 2006
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.
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.
wonder
I woke up from a paltry two-hour sleep reeling from a crazy dream.
I cannot recall what the dream was about, but it didn't matter. It was what the dream did to me that was so remarkable.
It woke me up stone cold, and I could not go back to sleep.
Conveniently, I woke up five minutes before my alarm was set to go off, so I jumped out of bed and got ready for work.
The dream was in my consciousness when I showered and shaved. As I combed my hair, which has been growing long, the dream flickered in my head like a windy night candle ready to give up its flame. And when I sat down to enjoy a cigarette before getting into the car, the dream manifested itself in the familiar waves of smoke that belly-danced up through the back light and dissipated into the stale air of my apartment.
The dream and its remnants fully faded by the time I hit the freeway. I wonder what it was about. I wonder why it stayed in my head even as I struggled to remember the details.
I wonder.
I cannot recall what the dream was about, but it didn't matter. It was what the dream did to me that was so remarkable.
It woke me up stone cold, and I could not go back to sleep.
Conveniently, I woke up five minutes before my alarm was set to go off, so I jumped out of bed and got ready for work.
The dream was in my consciousness when I showered and shaved. As I combed my hair, which has been growing long, the dream flickered in my head like a windy night candle ready to give up its flame. And when I sat down to enjoy a cigarette before getting into the car, the dream manifested itself in the familiar waves of smoke that belly-danced up through the back light and dissipated into the stale air of my apartment.
The dream and its remnants fully faded by the time I hit the freeway. I wonder what it was about. I wonder why it stayed in my head even as I struggled to remember the details.
I wonder.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
nothing in particular
Work has me busier than a hyperactive child with Tourette's Syndrome on Ritalin.
I am learning the nuances of the Accounts Receivable department. This is new territory for me, because I have an aversion to numbers.
In a nutshell, I hate them.
In school, I was always in the "brown book" group when it came to Math. I was behind my classmates in that field but ahead of them when it came to Spelling, Grammar, and Reading Comprehension. Thus, in my life I have done everything I can to avoid jobs where I have to calculate numerical amounts.
Strangely enough, I've discovered that my math skills, on the whole, are not that bad. In relation to super-whiz-kids Magnet students, I was lackluster; in the real world, I am par for the course, and that is oddly reassuring to me.
I never went past Algebra 2 in high school (in fact, I had to repeat Algebra 2 during the Winter Session that year in order to graduate on stage with my peers) so my background is limited. I never got into the mind-blowing math studies, the ones like Calculus and Trigonometry where you had to forget everything you ever learned about mathematics and embrace a whole new set of rules and maxims.
Of course, nowadays there's computer programs that do all the math for you-- all one has to do is enter the correct numbers swiftly. And since I am a good typist, I think my job security has just tightened a notch.
Who would have ever thought that I'd be doing this?
*/*
I have stopped pursuing muses.
Lately I haven't been trying to meet anyone who can inspire me. Still, it's a bad habit, one that's hard to break: Just last week I wrote a song for a girl, hoping that my effort would pay off in gratitude or affection. So far, she hasn't responded.
It's just as well, because it's a very selfish thing for me to go on about my many muses. I have rendered them as caricatures, stereotypes, objects. They are women and they are human and they are flawed, but my search for the perfect muse causes me to look upon them with some sort of unrealistic respect and admiration.
In reality, I am just projecting my wishes upon them, and when they don't abide by my rules and standards I get upset.
I think I am sincere in my intentions, but that makes no difference. Even though I want to place them on a pedestal, deep down I am starting to see that not only do some of these women not deserve such treatment, but also they don't appreciate me doing that to them.
It isn't flattering-- it's insulting.
So I haven't had any muses for a spell, save for that one girl who inspired a song from me. I can put that song alongside the several others I composed in the past, for girlfriends, lovers, fuck-buddies, platonic friends and complete strangers.
I have an album's worth of songs about these women. I guess that's one good thing about it. But the question now is: Are they any good?
*/*
Getting DSL at home has helped me vastly.
I thought I would just fuck around on it, and at first I did. But now I find myself using it for the practical reasons it possesses. I can blog at home now; I can upload items to websites and receive files via e-mail that I normally had to wait until the next morning to get; I don't have to go to the library anymore to use a computer just to check my various projects...
This is the first time I have ever blogged from home. I am disappointed to admit that I haven't much to say right now, but at least this is a milestone of sorts.
I really haven't had much to say lately, in general. Life is flying by too fast for me to stop and document it. I have a lot to write about, but it needs to gestate in my head before can give birth to it.
I will be 33 years old in less than four months. I think it will be a good birthday. That's about as far into the future I can go right now.
OK, time to go. I have to go take care of a few things.
PEACE
I am learning the nuances of the Accounts Receivable department. This is new territory for me, because I have an aversion to numbers.
In a nutshell, I hate them.
In school, I was always in the "brown book" group when it came to Math. I was behind my classmates in that field but ahead of them when it came to Spelling, Grammar, and Reading Comprehension. Thus, in my life I have done everything I can to avoid jobs where I have to calculate numerical amounts.
Strangely enough, I've discovered that my math skills, on the whole, are not that bad. In relation to super-whiz-kids Magnet students, I was lackluster; in the real world, I am par for the course, and that is oddly reassuring to me.
I never went past Algebra 2 in high school (in fact, I had to repeat Algebra 2 during the Winter Session that year in order to graduate on stage with my peers) so my background is limited. I never got into the mind-blowing math studies, the ones like Calculus and Trigonometry where you had to forget everything you ever learned about mathematics and embrace a whole new set of rules and maxims.
Of course, nowadays there's computer programs that do all the math for you-- all one has to do is enter the correct numbers swiftly. And since I am a good typist, I think my job security has just tightened a notch.
Who would have ever thought that I'd be doing this?
*/*
I have stopped pursuing muses.
Lately I haven't been trying to meet anyone who can inspire me. Still, it's a bad habit, one that's hard to break: Just last week I wrote a song for a girl, hoping that my effort would pay off in gratitude or affection. So far, she hasn't responded.
It's just as well, because it's a very selfish thing for me to go on about my many muses. I have rendered them as caricatures, stereotypes, objects. They are women and they are human and they are flawed, but my search for the perfect muse causes me to look upon them with some sort of unrealistic respect and admiration.
In reality, I am just projecting my wishes upon them, and when they don't abide by my rules and standards I get upset.
I think I am sincere in my intentions, but that makes no difference. Even though I want to place them on a pedestal, deep down I am starting to see that not only do some of these women not deserve such treatment, but also they don't appreciate me doing that to them.
It isn't flattering-- it's insulting.
So I haven't had any muses for a spell, save for that one girl who inspired a song from me. I can put that song alongside the several others I composed in the past, for girlfriends, lovers, fuck-buddies, platonic friends and complete strangers.
I have an album's worth of songs about these women. I guess that's one good thing about it. But the question now is: Are they any good?
*/*
Getting DSL at home has helped me vastly.
I thought I would just fuck around on it, and at first I did. But now I find myself using it for the practical reasons it possesses. I can blog at home now; I can upload items to websites and receive files via e-mail that I normally had to wait until the next morning to get; I don't have to go to the library anymore to use a computer just to check my various projects...
This is the first time I have ever blogged from home. I am disappointed to admit that I haven't much to say right now, but at least this is a milestone of sorts.
I really haven't had much to say lately, in general. Life is flying by too fast for me to stop and document it. I have a lot to write about, but it needs to gestate in my head before can give birth to it.
I will be 33 years old in less than four months. I think it will be a good birthday. That's about as far into the future I can go right now.
OK, time to go. I have to go take care of a few things.
PEACE
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