League of Their Own

Beerpong fest at O'Shea, not really a throwback when it comes to casinos, but more like that aged wart with hairs grown upon it that has somehow survived the mergers, acquisitions, and transitions toward a more modern strip hotel experience. For whatever reason, the casino gods of Las Vegas have not been able to put the wooden stake through the heart of this low rent vampire who continually has had the ability to carve out a niche amongst the rural middle class twenty somethings and I imagine teens with good fake identifications as their oasis in the desert. A locale of cheap beer, low waged gambling, and all the conveniences spring breakers might find at any roadside bar down in the seedier resort towns in Mexico. Beer funnels, three foot plastic drink containers full of light beer, and spontaneous puking in the corner of this hotel at any given moment feel down right normal for this establishment and from these cornerstone of frat like partying, a foundation has been built, solidified every year with a St. Patrick's Day bash that makes old school fraternity hazing look like an AA meeting.

Small groups of twenties somethings oversaturated on bad comedies and lukewarm romances have led there here tonight as oppose to something more tame like a movie, driven by what they have seen in spoof dramatizations of this concept, this idea, now called Beerpong, a game embraced by fellow college friend in Las Vegas. Being a bit older than most of my college breathern, I missed out on the transition from quarters, up the river, down the river, strip poker, 3 Man, and Thumbmaster, maybe Thumper made the cut to this new generation of binge drinkers, so by now the big thing was to drag out a ping pong table, grab ten red beer cups, fill them half full of beer, some might wonder, why not fill the entire cup, first of all you would go through about a case of beer every game and be stone cold wasted after three games, depending on your skill level, but not too worry social drinking is encouraged during the game if not mandatory, which usual ranges from tame things like Parrot Bay rum to full on shots of Jack Daniels, around my friends it usually depended on who was playing and/or losing, upping the ante on increasing the level of intoxication during the game was always facilitated by shit talking and lewd behavior conducted around the pile of beer cups, tits get taken out, asses, and other organs if the game is on the line, this form of frat play is for the more extreme types. They were enjoyable times and a surefire way to get all the hot girls drunk in the fastest amount of time, where their services would be farmed out for other more carnal like ventures, but the professional boozers, we pretty much played till all the beer, then straight alcohol ran dry.

There is a winner take all fascination with Beerpong for juvenile types like myself who get a kick out of watching two others drink there ten beers then finish off my teams remaining six or being down at the end of the game with two shots left, two cups standing, have to make both in order to go into a three cup playoff, by this time all the people in the party have gathered around so maybe fifty or sixty people close in and believe it or not, a bit of pressure can creep into the mind, drama to rival any final drive in an NFL playoff game, you make the first one, then the second, then finish the other team off in the extra round, total jock fest, but what the fuck, it is my victory, my small contribution the steady decline of american society, to strut around like Kobe Bryant after a game winning shot in the NBA finals, it might look odd to the sober person, but not too many sober types with this college crew. I would usually do more drinking on the side, then during the game which can make things all the more challenging with double vision, have to go zen and just will the ping pong ball into the cup. At the end of it all is truck loads of empties, dead bottles, and a cascade of casualties all about the party house, where a few of the harder souls, talk shit, tells stories, and recall the glory days of college life, so rapidly dwindling down as graduation grew ever closer.

No fun like that tonight here at O'Shea, my kind of fun would lead to fights, gross behavior in the bathroom stalls, and a general desire to smash then set on fire anything not screwed down with strong metal bolts, nothing but the fourth generation of waterdown overkill, looking to model their forty year old uncles and aunts who come to the family parties, do cocaine in the bathrooms, steal then take all the prescription pills out of the medicine cabinet, then dose the punch bowl with MDMA and Ritalin, those wacky Gen X kids, no parents, no rules, restraint, or supervision, this black hole generation, passed over with the steam roller, the weird, the wise, and the invisible the bridge between Leave it to Beaver and Leave it to Technology, that homogenized past has been pureed into silicone, transformed into online masterbation, virtual banking, and re-collecting all those odd musical keepsakes, tossed into the trash when your single substance dependent relationship timebomb parent gave you the boot out the house with all that you could stuff in a suitcase, wish I could have set on fire all my records, posters, concert shirts, clothing, everything, gave all my clothes to the homeless, then left.

But back at O'Shea's where to girls are giving each other the finger, while another shakes her tits trying to distract a guy throwing his ping pong ball, the guy misses, so the tit shaker has been successful, I look over at the cups, they are barely a tenth full, why even play, this all looks so amatuerish, a routine, as if these teenagers had been given orders to come down here and pose, just look like they are getting wasted, instead of spending all their time on their phones Facebooking each other pictures of them pretending to be getting wasted in other parties, that prototypical rot gut brand tequila bottle in hand or pressed against the lips, chugging away in a manner that would make Keith Richards smile, is nothing but a fucking lie, a doctor photoshop slide, tall tales now available on video, not much partying going on in front of me, this younger generation seems thrown off by everything, while in fact they have their own digital world, very content to leave my analouge world in the cosmic dust of existence, so who fucking cares if you, old man, can drink a bottle of Patron, do an eight ball of coke, then take ten hits of LSD, followed up with a hand full of IN-TER-NET, where anything is possible and can be made into reality, believe by all those of my generation who script their own life, we are infinite, boundless, and everywhere all at the same time, who the fuck needs LSD.

I would have to agree with this crowd here tonight, where a video arcade game stands over in a corner that was originally a home video game console product as turned the tables and become what I use to slam quarters into like some junked out digital freak in need of reinforcement in the act of being a winner, of being a killer, being important, reviling in total victory over these overwhelming forces of mediocrity all around me, with a desposition of being lazy and not caring. Off in another corner are pictures of winning beer pong teams from tournaments here at O'Shea's apparently there is a national beer pong tournament held in Las Vegas annually, just one more thing to make someone a adrenline like rush of self importance in a world that looks to dispense it out only through the channels of make believe media la la land. Team titles like Big, Black, and Sexy, Two Ball Jen, and Sex Panthers don this winners circle of subnormals and mental degenerates who have fallen so far as to embrace the endorphine rush of being victorious in beer pong, celebrating a shower of stale light beer that smells more like urine than alcohol, but what does it matter, take that picture, you winner, flash those gang signs, and pull up your girlfriends t shirt to show her tits if you are quick enough, but go home all the same back to the television re-runs, late night fast food, and if lucky half conscious sex to the sounds of todays latest popstars, no revision, its late, work soon, but back in the business of writing, the only real business left.

Saturday Night on the Strip

There are many reasons I no longer frequent the Las Vegas Strip as a sidewalk pedstrian, especially on the weekends where the crowds of tourist hordes only seem to exponentially multiply. The only times I may have to be around these people would concern work that might take place on the strip itself. Today sort of falls inbetween the two as I attempt to brave the elements of the strip masses who are ping ponging in every direction, be it for Cirque shows, happy hours, or the infamous buffet extravaganza, either way, who said the economy is in recession, it feels almost like New Years Eve with all the foot traffic tonight, though not out of the ordinary, all the new sidewalk street vendors give my current trip a bit of almost third world glint, that additional layer of inner city scent, where random people stand off on the sides of the walkways selling everything from bootleg DVD's to bottles of water, now this mentality has proliferated its way onto the Las Vegas Strip, as some Mexican Indian woman catatonically hawks bottles of water from a plastic white cooler, chanting, one dollar for a water, as if it was some ritualistic prayer with buddhist undertones that needed a plethora of repetition before its magical power could be fully realized.

Next to her was a cascade of modern day lepors in which chairs and assorted other forms of visual artifacts that let the tourist know as they passed by with their freshly bought high end boutique clothing and jewelry that they needed to fork over some money to these worn down at the heel, helpless, and most unfortunate lot of despots, but their pleas went unheard for the most part, the vibrance, possiblity, and sheer mass of the strip had captivated everyone's attention. Jeez there was beer to drink, gambling, and all sort of forms of carnal activity right at one's fingertips, as highlighted by the gauntlet of workers sporting "Dial 966-SLUT" t-shirts, when those shirts first came out I always tried to buy them off of the workers but none of them ever budged. It was a badge of honor, an ultimate sign of rebellion to go around filling up all those metal magazine racks at 2am, where one or two of the workers went the extra mile by taking out the spray bottle and cleaning the plastic windows as well as the magazine rack itself, who says you can't get into your job. The sex mag ad worker contains a special almost laughable position in Vegas, as the workers do their magic with the small color flyers about the size of a business card, back years ago, the men and women employed by these companies use to smack the cards on their hand in a way a card dealer might shuffle the cards then lay them out on the table. The porno flier distributor brought a certain flair with this deliberate wrist to hand motion as a way to gather attention and for the most part it worked. This point always stuck in my mind even today, as the main artifact of the whole experience, besides the time my son tried to grab one of the fliers from a distributor, who casually replied, " You too young holmes. " an instant classic line that still gets brought up today, even though the event itself happened four years ago.

No matter the slap motion of the fliers has now been replaced by the flipping motion of the fliers like a deck of cards, no one cares anymore, no enough attention, so let's replace this over familiar sound with a new and unheard sound. I can imagine some overpaid consultant sitting in a meeting room with all the distributors discussing new methods of gaining potential customers attention, how do you think the whole portable truck billboard with half naked women on the adverstiments got started in the first place. People were floored while waiting at a traffic light on the strip, and here comes crusing through, 702-HOT-BABE, where a gaint fourteen by eight photo of some woman bent over doggie style in scant clothing enters my visible periphery, granted nothing surprizes me on the Las Vegas Strip, there is no level of base behavior that comes as a shock, this is the arena where the human race dumps such emotions, like an abandon child, to forget and never look back, burn it out of the mind, this never happened, and various other dirt paths of the sort convene. So seeing this steriod like billboard cruising the strip strapped to a small truck did not appear out of the realm of possiblity, just merely smart advertising as well as something to discuss amongst other friends who could take the entire situation and dissect it with a generous helping of dark humor.

Well, the card flick is the new system of passing out porno bills, cool, along with the new motif, well worn out in other tourist destinations which is the guitar music combo, nothing like you might see in New York where real jazz musicians hang out in the park and play standards that will rock your socks off, no this is more like pity employment, where the hell did these two burn outs from the sixties get their funds to buy their axes, you kidding me as the two men sit there in some sort of metaphysical trance, part religious fixation, part chemical induced freak show, but by this point, they look content of run their fingers up and down the fretboard of their guitars in an infinite rock and roll solo, the sound is reminisant of two blenders running at different speeds right before the motors give out for the last time. There is nothing cultural about this performance except for the sheer desperate nature of them being on the crosswalk bridge in the first place, wasn't there cops around to control this kind of impromptu behavior or were they merely sideshow freelancers employed by the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce who had decided that Las Vegas needed a bit more of that downtown metropolitan feel so prevalent in many other large cities around the world. Either way, the strip has now become a fertile ground for new artisans who wish to enchant the masses with ear piercing versions of Santana and Motley Crue, peronsal requests for an additional couple of bucks, but people still felt the need to throw a few dollars at these would be musicans so their place in the circus of the strip had been cemented.

Last of course, who could forget all the drunk teenagers hanging out with large forty ounce white buckets filled with Coors light, smoking cigarettes, talking to other underage teens who have yellow plastic Gutiar Hero like guitars filled with bottom barrel watered down frozen alcoholic drinks that shall only serve a speed train to the platform to the mega headache township, a first class trip to the feeling of a spike being shoved right through both temples of the brain,but that is why you do that kind of thing when you are young, easier to bounce back, recover from all that poison being forced down the throat, do it a couple more times and you get the picture, cheap booze, is cheap for one reason, because it is crap and makes you feel like crap, these teens tonight did not care about such things and only appeared compelled to push the Vegas experience to its known limits or whatever their wallet would allow, probably the main reasion they are sitting on a brick retaining wall at the moment with their buddies like it is spring break in Cancun as oppose to a hotel suite with piles of cocaine and an assortment of loose women moved by the large amounts of readily available blow. Slowly through the throngs of tourists I moved toward my destination, an affordable meal on the strip, now their is something you don't see everyday.

You Can't Stop Rock and Roll

Must have been family night in the Hilton Theater tonight as a small mass of parents with their teenage children pushed forward toward of the stage to get a better view of Twisted Sister. Some skinny youth is waving his arms at the bass player with his hands in a devil horn sign displayed rather proudly like an A+ plus homework assignment after an entire year's worth of F's. It makes me think back to my years as a heavy metal, punk rock, and death metal junky, where I spent almost every dollar I made to go to any sort of concert of the above genres that came to town, even if I had to take the bus, then hitchhike, maybe bum a ride, there was nothing that could stop me from getting to a show, my mother gave up rather early as far as keeping me in the house, plenty of excuses to get away, from staying at friend's homes to just out right walking out the door, what did it matter, there was something larger than my dull life in rural San Diego waiting for me at the doors of whatever arena, nightclub, or veterans hall, either to hangbang, slamdance, or mosh in a pit, an energy existed where all sorts of different characters came together bonded by music, plus it was a point of bragging to the other kids at school who did not or could not attend such concerts, call it independence or outright defiance, music taught me a lot of things, but especially that last concept.

The hangbang fest has already began at the Heavy Metal Christmas Spectacular and unlike the first night the crowd looks rather prepared for the rollercoaster ride of highs and lows this show has to offer. The renditions of standard Christmas tune takes a bit of blind faith at least as far as taking the whole thing seriously, watching the entire band perform some Christmas themed song where Dee Snider comes out as Santa Claus with a reindeer team made of half naked women in thong bikinis and tube tops pulling a sleigh might be said to be quiet a way to start a show, but why not, it caught my interest, shit and I get to point a video camera on the womenwith all sorts of preverted camera shots that I have no doubt shall seal the deal on grabbing the audience's attention. But why stop there as the gathering of the new heavy metal youth start swarming around me, like a beacon, I get it, understand to some degree, how this might feel new, definitely better than current crop of overprocessed music available to them today, but I am fighting with the nostalgic overtones from a bunch of fifty somethings playing songs that almost everyone mocked right out the gate, but it seems Twisted Sister have had the last laugh as another generation is endoctrinated into the mindset of anti-authoritarianism, questioning others, and not to follow trends, these things remain, long after the music is gone, that rather subtle tweaking of the mind, which will have these kids seeking out the music Lou Reed, David Bowie, The New York Dolls, and Ozzy all of whom are considered the quintsential renegades of their time, the hall of fame of don't give a fuck. This is what is going on here tonight, these tourists who have been handed free tickets tonight have no clue, not a clue at what they are witnessing here is not merely a concert, but more like a rite of passage as well as reunion of sorts for the music fans who lived their lives as rebels, outlaws, and outcasts, right now no one is an outcast, just members of the rock and roll tribe, where the elders are respected and always have the last say, none of this corporate get thrown under the bus, never have had any influences in my life, art or music, fans here realize how fragmented the tribe has become as the elders die, the new youth are not replacing them fast enough, which may leave thought, culture, and idealism in the past as another victim of the corporate chopping block, left to be marginalize then discarded into oblivion, eventually erased from existence in this digital age.

Still, even with the advent of our digital culture, they are so many entreprenuers who have created many things for the internet, from chat rooms to social networks to phone applications, the pool of new minds has not dwindled, maybe only changed gears as the environment has changed in the past twenty years, now there might be some moral questions in regards to how useful all this new technology might be, yet it felt like our president used technology rather effectively to gain control of a group of voters who might of otherwise felt alienated, using their comfort of digital culture as leverage to send a message they could understand, embrace, then eventually get behind. has that Brave New World come to fruitition, I personally do not think so, these new tools are merely as such and for the people who can wisely use them, they shall offer a global audience that gives advertisers wet dreams in their sleep. I still can't get over the idea of blogging, like a daily novel that throws in some of Keroauc's spontaneous stream of consciousness with a bit of personal travelouge, plenty of ways to take such a thing, but the personal angle, just allows me to be a bit more open with my ideas, emotions, and experiences.

Who knows where this is going now as all the teenagers are singing We're Not Gonna Take and I hope that they get what Dee is trying to get across, not just as this high school rebellion against having their X Box taken away, grounded for the weekend, but as the larger wing clipping that is going on from presidential adminstration to presidential adminstration, where the political parties change, but the ideology stays the same, which is keep things as they always have been, just present them in a different manner, reprogram the constituents to make 2+2=5 and once you have accomplished that goal, anything is possible and will remain so for an indefinite time unless people speak up against, walking through life with their head in the sand, yet for some of these fans here tonight that might feel alright, having more than one might need is a great cure for expansive thought, wisdom, and truth, words to be planed down into sawdust, why make a mark, make a difference, isn't that what television and the movies are for, someone to cheer, who can do all the hard work, make all the sacrifices, just sit back and let the drama unfold. I think being amongst the people as opposed to a movie screen can be more often than not, be compiled with more drama than the best 10 films ever made, so I will continue to hit the streets, jot down notes at work and sacrifice some of personal indulgences in order to document the rythmn of the streets.

Dee Snider's Twisted Christmas

Been hired to document the lastest Christmas time sensation of the holiday season, Twisted Sister's Twisted Christmas Spectacular. A heavy metal redention of the those ol yule tide classics one might here Andy Williams or Diane Shore sing if you are old enough to recall who those two people are, either way just think of those damn type of music songs played throughout the next week while at work, shopping, or in an elevator and the gist of the Twisted Sister songlist for the show is near complete. Not to leave out the real hardcore fans, the band throws in some of their classic tunes for if nothing else to keep the interest of the crowd from waning too much as Dee Snider kicks into his rendetion of I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus, not sure I even know the lyrics to the song, nonetheless the overall experience of watching some guy in his mid fifties running around in the same New York Dolls/Kiss like spandex pants does warrant an audience, even in the 21 century, nostalgia does not discriminate as the long a crowd of people are willing spend their money, and so the comebacks continue.

My first experience of seeing Dee Snider outside of being constantlybeing plastered on MTV during their Stay Hungry album due to a series of catchy anti establishment rock songs that almost felt difficult to take seriously, because here were these five guys all dressed up like low rent versions of popular glam rock bands of time, as the band themselves got together in this mockery like fashion to illustrate how ridiculous the current crop of long haired pretty boys were. A collective lot who needed to be taken out back and shot like the fluffheaded idiots, the videos, the interviews, and photo shots made them out be. Thoughts of Every Rose Has Its Thorn comes to mind I should seriously consider a lobotomy why does that particular melody haunt me like some Christmas ghost from the past, looming, desiring to channel an entire lifetime of mistakes, errors, and regrets to weigh me down in loathing like some vicious animal in chains requiring immediate sedation. Still have not got to the point while heading off into the cavern of arena rock during the eighties and how it inspired a generation of teenagers like myself to grow out my hair, dress in tight jeans, and then start experimenting with drugs and sex.

The last two I am perfectly comfortable with, even today, pretty much the cornerstone of my existence and possible downfall in my last two relationships, even so Twisted Sister had that punk defience from the Seventies mashed together with the ever blossoming sarcastic mantra of the 80's Regean era, where if you were not, making big bucks, smoking rock cocaine with hookers, and did not have a hidden bank account in the Carribean, you were not trying, so that meant pretty much everyone in the states back then, quite a potential audience for this band to cultivate. Now to the point, the first time I really gave a second thought about Dee Snider was when he had the balls to stand up in court against the Parents Music Resource Coallition and for those too young to remember, this group is basically the reason why every CD, for those who even bother to buy them anymore, has the parental advisory lyrics on the cover, there was actually a time children when Ozzy albums, NWA, and even Slayer albums did not contain such guideful information in regards to protecting the youth of America from listening to Ozzy's Suicide Solution eight thousand times in a row then jumping off a bridge, or going to school with a machine gun, or possibly even putting a pipe bomb in the toilet during gym class, all these were considered light social events before the era of the clampdown, before homeland security, before 9/11, where throwing M-80's into freeway traffic was considered juvenille behavior, nowadays they'll find you a nice quiet space somewhere on the outskirts of Cuba where they will paint you as some sort grand anti-christian terrorist who loves Lenin, prays to Che, and seeks to see the skyline of Manhattan filled with minirets.

Even today, I have a profound respect for Dee Snider with his stance against the PRMC, ran by of all people Tipper Gore, the wife of Al Gore, that golem like beast who invented the internet, man bear pig, and various other sorts of energy saving ideas. Have to say this idea of censorship has had far more reaching results than anything else, number one, if only to drive sales of every piece of music that was fortunate enough to be tagged by the PRMC as profound, violent, sexual, racial, thought provoking, and blantently honest about the government, its citizens, and this facade called society. Total mockery of the powers that be, always went straight to the top, a group of middle age upper class twats with no connection whatsoever with the lives of the average urban, rural, or suburban teenagers, the main source of income for the music industry at the time, became the artistry rubber stamp of approval for music, not that it mattered, Bodycount's Cop Killer, NWA's Fuck The Police, to Nirvana's Rape Me all rung the bells of anti-establishment approval with the PRMC, amongst a hundred others I have already forgotten in my drug soaked, under slept, over sensitized, and relationship ruined brain.

The thing that bugged me the most during this time was how so many of the artist's facing the PRMC label did nothing, said nothing, and sort of just went along with the entire program which I interpeted at the time as them being a bunch of pussies, think Chuck D of Public Enemy went on record against the PRMC, but as for the rest of them, I can't recall too many others who did. How little did I know about the windfall this bad ass attitude labeling would give any artist willing to swear, talk dirty, or just tell the government to fuck itself. The record labels made a killing and the artists as well, just work that anti-family, anti-parent, and anti-rule to the millionth degree, and next thing you know we've hit the motherlode, the easy money, time to buy that island in the South Seas, record my next album from there, not even tour, just keep on fucking bitches, slanging dope, gang bang, beat on the neighbors, set cars on fire and burn down Hollywood, Our Motto: Apocalypse Now.

I is for Intimacy

I am still coming to grips with how readily as humans we can flush down a decade's worth life with someone in just one second. Permanent, final, everlasting, taking all those days, months, and years, discarding them like plastic disposable goods, never a second thought or regret. There is something about the overall feeling of having to let go of a bond of close proximity that only or possibly only a week before appeared perfectly normal, though maybe blind to the reality looming in the future, life had its routine, very little awkwardness, no silent moments, or intentional disregard for the other person. Now, I have to go out of my way when she is around, just for the fact of how the breakup develop rather suddenly, as far as the execution is concerned, that giant wave behind the spilt had been building way off in the horizon until it darkened the entire sky and when it broke, there was nothing left to do but run for cover, somewhere safe, someplace far away from victimization, from dealing with all the new emotions attempting to drowned out my sanity, happiness, and security.

By the time, everything had settled, things were said only to hasten the permanence of the breakup. Which takes me up to today, where for the past few day I have began to really think about how two people could so readily discard so much of their history and seem to not care.
The analysis of ten years by the wayside, this decade of life, experience, rememberance, and growth, ended being nothing more than a flash flood, such since receeded, but leaving all this mess of mud covered streets, broken trees, overturned cars, and washed out buildings in ruin. Not sure that this is what truly confounds me about the turn of events, moreover it has to be how easy the idea of breaking up happened as well as how we both have gone on with our lives, disconnected, muted, and fractured, maybe even lobotimized from intimate partner to passing strangers, alien beings on different levels of communication. Everyday that passes has become easier and there is no return or animosity in the decision to move on, merely the shock of having to supress desires, needs, and emotions that not long along flowed so freely.

Now single again, at 39 no less, does not feel too weird in this forever young society, there is plenty of others out there waiting who seek varying degrees of romance, torture, and insanity, no doubt there will be people standing by that will be more than to happy to grant those people all the pleasures and nightmares they can handle, but for the moment I am quite content to just reaccumulate my senses, reorganize my feelings as well as thoughts, going active again amongst the general population of woman, does not feel any different than before, in fact I feel like a know a few more things than last time, but isn't that what experience is all about, being flirty does not feel so foriegn, dialouge comes out easier, have to be more witty, funny, while noticing all the other men attempting to do the same thing in order to secure that better female, almost tribal, with the bright colors, the precious metals, and blood lines, women choosing men, people choosing people, is more relavent today, either way enough nights drinking since have proven to me, that the single's scene is not much different than when I left it, only thing being, the bars stay open all the time in Nevada.

Thought I would have more to go on in regards to the instantaneous nature of dissovling my last relationship, but it seems like everything in 21st society we fire away at, then move on quickly, void of meaning, going braindead to keep from hurting or turning to chemicals to relieve the hurt, either way like chopping a log cabin down with a axe or dousing it in gasoline then lighting it on fire, the net result is the same. I will still have to wake up and face an unforgiving world which really has no time for the pitiful situation that has reared its ugly head, get past it they would say, don't wallow, go numb, get dumb, like everyone else, dealing with pain, anger, and confusion gets you nowhere, drink up, snort, watch a movie, go online, or read a book, who the hell does that last thing anymore, raise your hands, not too many, anyway, this ten car pile up is slowly clearing the internet highway to return bandwidths back to normal levels while the cyber pedistrians pass by this blog on ocassion to take a brief look like most due during a traffic accident on the freeway, then turn back to focus their attention on what in front of them, while now and then checking the rear view mirror for what's in back till nothing but darkness remains, faint car lights, turn off onto new exits and I am left driving alone on this freeway heading forward like I always, into whatever the future is willing to throw at me.

Poker Stars After Dark

In the vein of access I acquire through my work, last night's camera shoot provided a bit more of private insight into the world of high stakes poker than has already been satuarated on television networks throughout the world. This night was not about betting millions of dollars or the high pressure tension of either taking command of a table or leaving your seat, not even those special sort of personal interviews inbetween hands during a television episode. A gathering of high profile poker stars had come together to show solidarity for a fellow poker player who was battling cancer and after having a series of Chemothearpy treatments had lost all her hair, therefore a night had been established where these other poker stars would shave their heads in tribute to her plight and to serve as encouragement in her struggle against cancer.

The first thing that blew my mind for those who follow poker closely was to find out that Doyle Brunson, who is pretty much the godfather of poker battled cancer in his late twenties, went through all sort of surgeries and hell in order to beat it, he talked about the experience in a barber's chair in a small side room where the camera operator and myself (audio mixer) crammed inside to record the event, other players came in and commented on the overall positive nature of the event as well as how a bet had been created amongst some of the poker players less willing to shorn their locks, nothing like another bet to get poker players interested, something to win, or lose for a good cause. The setting for this close shave was one of the villas located inside the Bellagio, poker player Phil Ivey's personal room and I take it not too many people get a look inside one of these places, where every kind of high end brand of liquor and wine is stock, bathtubs the size of small pools, marble tile, thick carpets, one extremely large patio outside with a gigantic pool/jacuzzi combination and plenty of pickup games of Texas Hold'em being played on coffee tables by groups of poker players who have already spent the past twelve hours sitting at tables in a World Poker Tour event down in one of the Bellagio ballrooms.

The mood is light, plenty of joking amongst the players as to who will be least likely to shave their head, bets go around, tons of action in this place, most of it going on a particular player who is known for winning coin flips, everyone does not want to be on his team, all the other players in the shave off card bet which consisted of black and red cards that determined which team you ended up on, Tee, the woman who was battling the cancer would pick out a card, whatever color was drawn represented the group who had to shave their heads and to add to the action, a couple of jokers were thrown in the mix, which if picked meant everyone had to shave their heads, jeez these guys have to burn both sides, if anything just for the sake of making things interesting. These were the kids back in school during chemistry class who mixed chemicals together cause he or she heard they might make cause a large explosion or who jumped their bikes of the roofs of the school, and maybe even bet twenty bucks that they could go into the principal's office steal his or her's keys then drive off in the principal's car, ditch it and come back to class, just to hear about it in the morning news report during homeroom.

Either way I could see why all these people played poker, the constant pressure, the dynamic highs and lows, the thrill of big money as well as the ability not to crack when the money was heavily lost which is one thing that has always fascinated me about poker players especially in cash games where I have witness millions of dollars on a table at any given time, players with backpacks full of a half million, maybe a million, pulling out a stack of a hundred grand at a time like it was monopoly money, this half mill, fuck it, chump change, wipe my ass with this stuff, blocks at a time, feed the dogs with hundreds, soak them in meat blood, so the dogs eat the bills in entirety. This is the prevailing mentality here with the poker player, one most people in society admire, try to emulate as evident by all the millions of online players, yet somehow cannot simulate because they lack an intutive nature combined with a don't give a shit attitude, players who go in with a larger desire to win it all, then to settle for something middle of the road.

No average people here tonight, only one of the guys on the team who did not have to shave his head who decided to do it anyway after all the other players hounded into it while feeding the guy loaded mix drink after mix drink. He had a pretty good head of hair so watching him go from half shave mental patient, to mohawk, to freaky art school dropout hair do wise had the fifteen or so people watching in tears. He had not looked in the mirror as he held a vodka cranberry in one hand and Jack Daniels in the other, double fisted freely drinking from both, his reaction from my laughter did not unsettle him, fuck it was his motto, in whatever, which I could appreciate, no big deal, but the others who knew his personality thought otherwise and relished at watching him have his head shaved as some sort of psychic recompensation for past poker matches where this guy may have gotten over on them.

Personally, it was great to see all the support for Tee, but she did look rather uncomfortable with the entire situation and the video cameras, though gratified to an infinite extent, but somehow, unsettled, like hey this is great why don't some of you guys come down with me and have a couple Chemo treatments, then you'll really know how I feel and from the look of scar near the front right shoulder bone things looked intense, she talked about during an interview, how they pumped this fluid inside of her, like antifreeze, that is what came to my mind, three weeks of the shit, day after day, dealing with this foreign invasion inside the body, this invisible fight amongst cells, biology, and chemisty, things that had been lost in college level classes, yet now existed inside her in a battle to either live or die, be it in pain to a varied degree. After that speech by her, the entire head shaving thing began to feel rather prankish, fraternity like, a gentle pat on the back to someone facing the chair or the needle, hey we are here for you, one hundred percent, you can beat it, but she was standing alone, others might have been through it, but she was living it, especially being in her mid twenties or early twenties, who the hell is thinking about cancer, even when smoking a pack a day at that age, but life is weird like that, things creep up on you, silent assassins ripping away anything that ever reminded you of being normal, of living life without the reality of thinking about breathing, the heartbeat, or mental breakdown. Tee was looking death in the face and I think it scared the living hell out of her, it scares the hell out of me and I am just crazy, nothing like cancer, some guenia pig for the medical field in hopes they will find an out, just like in poker, getting that river card on the turn that gives you a set and snatches victory away from the jaws of defeat, this is the hand she wishes to be dealt, the hand she needs to be dealt, but like all these great poker players, she'll have her best face on till the end.

Food Pellets and the Video Slot Machine

Spent the afternoon dining with my mother who has just recently relocated from San Diego to virtual gambling haven of Las Vegas, luckily she has been sharpening her video slot machine skills over the past decade to fully develop a method of entertainment quite readily enjoyed by many other people in her age bracket. Figures awash in a time warp of bells, clanking coins, and pop hit classics from yesteryear, the continually flow of alcohol only dulls their nature to the concept of time while working out on their tenth one cent video slot machine of the night. The first thing I noticed about the penny slot area besides the people, will get into that in a minute, is the large variety of themed games, today in order to keep the interest of the short attention span populace, the machines must be named Texas Tea, Money Storm, Uncle Sam, Big Game Bob, and Hot Flashes.

Bonus rounds in these games offer extra opportunities to win more credits, more drinks, and dissapear into the mist of gambling oblivion. Today I am riding shotgun with a mother who really enjoys pressing a small square button over a thousand times in a day to watch some video screen spin some virtual reels that consist of animals, vegetables, famous presidents, and other eye catching ideas. It is not enough to merely support my mother, cheer her on as she plays so I put five bucks in the machine in order to pass the time, as well as give my mother another outlet, now playing two machines, doubling the junkie interest in hitting a special large payoff or bonus spin round. Most of the time when she came out to Vegas to visit in the past I would let her spend the video slots time alone at some place like Circus Circus where she could load up on all the free booze and entertainment her hit it big mentality could handle without having to sit there myself on some machine half asleep, going from ten dollars down to three, then back up to eight, never really winning, never really losing, sort of just playing along with everyone else who did not want risk anything, but still demanded the same rights as the real gambling freaks that gladly put their homes, cars, and lives on the line in deseperate chance the odds might fall in their favor and as all the new buildings on the Strip can attest, most of those starcrossed dreamers fail terribly.

It takes about five minutes for the novelty of the video slot machine to wear off even though within an hour I have turned five dollars into forty somehow, through six or seven machines. My mother does not stay on any one game for too long, after ten or fifteen minutes unless she is winning fairly large amounts, say like fifteen dollars, the narrative content of the video slot machine start to feel mundane, so time to refresh gambling need by moving to another part of the penny heaven as it is called at this particular casino. Where convenient little slips of white paper with magnetic strips keep track of the amount of money won or reclaimed at the end of a session. Plenty of paper strip being printed with my mother around, ADHD has set in once more as she bounces around like a hammered thirteen year at some junior high school party, everything feeling fresh and new, unfazed by their actions and demeanor only intent on making the fun last as long as possible.

I keep winning, as my mother belts down another white wine, pleading to stay for another hour and a half, damn already been here for two hours, look around all these other people are paralyized in their chairs, chain smoking, sipping on burbon and water, this is better than television, no one bugs you, handed a refill every twenty minutes, get a ride home from the casino and everything is well, heck, join the casino rewards club, eat at TGIF's for free every week, damn near everyday. This last prospect has my mother in a state of eternal bliss, an eternity of resturant food hamburgers, no pans, dishes, or washing, is Vegas great or what?
Total kid mode now with mother, as I am falling asleep, burn out from being overworked, I am the complete buzz kill as she tries to intentally lose all her credit, about twelve dollars worth, my net gain for the day ended up being over twenty dollars and for not even trying it ended up being not much more than pressing a button, repetitive action without reward or consequence, got a free water, no booze, someone else had that market cornered at the moment. Luckily, in the end my mother won a large bonus that put her about back to even, enough, put down the wine, pick up the stroller, get out the wheelchair, and gather your instincts, time to put the funbox away for another couple of weeks, so here is the great new bonding venture between mother and son, to be honest I probably learned more about her and shared more about myself today with her, than in the previous 39 years of my life, at first it felt weird, almost embarrassing, but she is human like everyone else, has been through every emotion in the book, dealt with adversity, oppression, success, and failure, somehow still standing through it all. At least I did not wait or give up, even though so much time has past between us and my emotions from events in the past are not fully forgotten, finally being ourselves instead of parent and child was a complete wonder, there will no doubt be more trips down to penny heaven as well as more chances to learn more about someone who at one point in my life was more a mystery to me than the next person walking down the street.

The Highway to Hell: Novelty and Megadeth

As things go in life, so does the rapid arrival of new developments when working on other projects as would be the case tonight, when called upon for a promised favor after a long week of working which included multiple nights of staying out till 6am with the client. Tonight, Megadeth, the heavy metal thrash organism piled inside this small corporate conditioned space known as the House of Blues. Since, I got the tickets for free as a favor from a friend in the biz, arriving at any sort of appropriate hour did not have quite as much magnetism, as if I had pay for the tickets with my own money. First thing, all ages show, the concert started quite early, roll in around 9pm expecting Megadeth to have just gone on the stage, yet being fashionably tardy it becomes apparent that me and my friend have missed pretty much the entire concert, however within this four song mini set to be witnessed, many great details about people, the music, and the band begin to appear in grotesque and nostaligic manner.

The music venue is crammed with hundreds of Megadeth fans who came to headbang and occasionaly push the random stranger around on the venue floor in attempt to feel something that has long since left the character of the concert goer which is mad inescapable violence. Does this have to do with all the heavy security in red shirts manning the edges of the arena floor crowd to keep them from slamdancing into each other in fear of some potential law suit or is it the prevailing feelgood nature I seem to be recieving from people who excuse themselves as they pass by me in cramped quarters. Where is the violence, the rushing of the stage into a swirling mass of humanity that need to beat each other into sweaty, messy, and battered pieces of human flesh who leave the concert with a feeling of release, redemption, and a primitive bond amongst strangers who lead all sorts of varied lives yet embrace the angst, the repression, and the animal locked in cage feeling living in modern society can create. Something is missing here, while the happy and fat come fleeing from the downstage pit area where a few strung out souls slam into each other like male animals during mating season, the purpose, the reason, genetic in foundation, environmental in action.

While getting nostalgic, I can recall shows where fans would crawl through urine, fire, and chaos to reach the epicenter of disaster where a tsunami of aggression awaited anyone with the desire to jump in and take the punishment of the overall vibe from the people, the music, and the scene, no escape clause here, just running into others out of pain, anger, and frustration, a giant carthatic orgy, street fight in the stands, and at the end of it all, most people did not take it personally, the violence was accepted, the broken limbs, bloodied clothes, a reminder of dealing with the 80's and all the bullshit neo-conservatism laid at doorstep of a teenage generation that had been taught very little, if only to be number one and to hate everyone else who attempted to take that title away. Fair enough, so why not beat each other into ground beef, feels alright, no wars right now, none at least totally visible on the horizon. Dislocated shoulders, black eyes, and head tramua, no law suits, no crying, no problem. All this has dissapeared tonight with this crowd who seems happy enough to stare at some middle guys playing a genre of music they helped establish to a crowd of youth who never got the opportunity to feel the freshness of the music, if only through idiots like myself who get to gloat over being a little bit older, wiser, and most often debilitated from my life experiences, not much of a reward, wisdom sure, but to rub in the faces of these teenagers only turns them off.

Not that they did not give themselves a fair shake by attempting to get a pit going down on the floor, those same old people, the one guy with the number one finger flowing around the moshpit like some bobbing bottle in the water, heading in any direction the current would take him, as well as the one guy who just kept on going, running into people no matter how long the show went on, continously falling to the floor, as others kept lifting him back toward his next target.
Good to see some brothers in attendence as well, cause back in the day, most were homed in on upon the racist skinhead crowd which cause tremendous amounts of division between pit members, skin heads, and screwballs like myself, anytime the racist skins would start in on a brother in the pit, fights soon followed, a charge against small mindedness, hate, and outright prejudicious, but thankfully tonight the brothers mixed it up without any kind of debate, if only between the bouncers and the brothers in the mosh pit, one bouncer in particular who could grasp the concept of people beating themselves up for no good reason, serving as a corporate barrier to having any fun, this long arm of business justice only reflected a larger government type of beast desiring to control how people live, keeping the cities safe, making sure you do not hurt yourself, big brother taking control, so the bouncer made sure to give all the moshers a nice extra hard shove back into the center of the vortex when necessary, but also had the power to toss people out of the show when they expressed their personal disagreement with his behavior by running full speed and then jumping into his body, so the politics of life, as well as the politics of the modern moshpit.

Not much life in the band or the pit, like an engine attempting to turn its over in the cold weather of winter after a week of inactivity, Dave Mustane and his crew felt like they were playing at half speed, maybe it had been about twenty years since I last saw Megadeth but they seemed so lethargeic in comparison to the rapid nature of everyday 21st century life, which is true but as is almost anything today, in the instantaneous nature of daily existence, can't blame Megadeth for that one and in fact if you were to read some of Dave Mustane's lyrics you would find him to be someone who has a keen sense of observation of his environment that happens to be the foundation of his music, probably more like the inspiration, so not to write off them off, but having a history with the band as far as listening to them goes, the transcendence through the decades has missed, which could be due to my frumpy old clouded idealistic nature versus the molting of a few new generations of music listeners who have been offered less and less opportunity through channels of new artists to take chances, to get involved, and say what is on their mind, and for those who appear to be talking in this cyberspace galaxy, they did not get much proper schooling on what is going on around them, only in developing content to invent new dramas and tragedys that have nothing to do with the human condition right now.

They played Peace Sells, But Who's Buying and there was a bit of comfort seeing so many young kids singing the song word for word, hoping that they had understood the intented message of living in a virtual global warzone, jeez, why not, aren't some these teenagers of military age, possibly ready for deployment for Iraq or Afganistan (sp?), maybe some have already been there and back, for those people this song I would think has a more definite personal meaning, in my teens, the first Iraq encounter was more like an idea, a possiblity, a movie news reel with digital effects, today, when I run into twenty somethings who have spent a few years in combat overseas, I like to buy them a few drinks in hope they will share some of their experiences, how these things have changed them, and overall their perception of coming back home, which would be a entire another thread, so stick to the point, the thrash fest starts to peak with a old school style grand finale moshpit that would make even the most harden needle junkie skinhead want to rise from the dead and get into play. The fact the venue had their dogs out there as some armed guard presence, this tisk, tisk, tisk, don't play too rough now children okay, that is the kind of garbage which had me beating people in the first place, all the control, all the messaging, the brainwash, santize, cleanse, fold, and manipulate, wasn't their enough in school, at home, and on the television, why should I have to deal with it at a punk rock, thrash metal, or rap show.

Authority shutting the door on a good time, half the reason the music we listen to is created or maybe was, today is for the money, yeseterday, for the fame, and for some the sheer ability to generate instant rebellion in a million souls, could make one feel like a king, until the curtain came down or the media, the government, luckily the current adminstration has nothing to fear while many of the patrons made their way out of the show before the end of the last song in order to avoid having to wait an extra ten minutes at the conclusion of the concert as everyone else gathered what was left of their mind, hearing, and abuse. Time can be such a strange thing when in the middle of an era who has nothing but fighting on their mind, no internet, cheap drugs, or multi-hundred channed television, someone forced us to pay attention to the propaganda then to react to it, against the world, against our parents, against each other to the point where killing became the desensitized entity that covers the news twenty four hours a day, the body counts of Washington DC in the 80's felt like something, all the numbers from the Vietnam War, all the wars, today we try to give every single military solider an identity, then spend the rest of the time making murder seem like taking out the trash, so a family must suffer the loss of another human being, fuck where have I gone, off the rails again.

Novelty, Megadeth supercedes novelty they have been engrained into it by my generation who was influenced by the baby boomers who could just not let go of seeing Elton John, The Who, or the Rolling Stones one more time, so now has come the resurgence of Megadeth, The Pixies, and Public Enemy who have now become my generations Eagles, something played on a predictible list of Ipod listeners that were cooler than the other kids in school, who knows what they all do now, some successful, others dissapeared, and the rest fell into the middle of the bell curve where no one really cares about their existence on any level what so ever. So my big problem today has to do with all this retroism if that is a word, coming around in music I embraced like some naive fool as my own, now nothing but retreads for a new generation, both of us suckers as the aged rockers head back stage after taking their final bows, shirtless, in skin tight pants, looking for the same rocker groupies who are now my daughter's age, and were the same high school wonderfucks that went to the shows when I was a teenager, that is why even today, the bands of old hit the road to feel some of that yesteryear, from the stadiums to the nightclubs, day in, day out, from the drugs to the athletic trainer, moving in a never ending circle that offers nothing but re-runs from adult theme films where clothing trends and hair dos only seem to change.

After the show, I went with a friend who wanted to watch a rock cover band of which he somehow knew some of the musical players. Cover bands are the pinnacle of self indulgence this human like jukebox, according to the lead singer would play any song if written on some form of dollared amount, say a five or a ten for example, sounds easy enough, give them some cash and they will whip up their best version of Paradise City, maybe even Telegram Sam if prodded with enough financial incentive. Whenever I hear a cover band today, I think of the high school dance, oh come on, play Just Like Heaven and get it the fuck over with, need some help in the getting laid dept. with this girl from English class, either way my personal affinity for cover bands depends on booze and narcotics, why lie, the more of the two, the better the idea becomes, a simple Highway to Hell, transitions into Smoke on the Water. The band themselves looked like a bunch of guys who knocked some women up, got married, then just packed it in or never felt the need to give it one last shot at creating something unique, which today seems like an impossiblity thanks to the internet, but why stop trying which to some point I think most artist have, but another time. Rather drink down eight dollar beers pretending to be entertained for two hours while this band goes through the motions of playing Led Zepplin's Heartbreaker, extended solo and all the trimmings, the string bending, grimaced face, arched back, rocker poses, living in the moment, living in the past of something at one time perfect, but only now mere a statue gathering more bird shit stains by the day, but the general public loves it and goes in a mild state of hysteria as rail thin heroin addicted guitarist in Herman Munster Boots falls into a dream like state of Jimmy Page orgasms, almost possessed as the lighters come to life and the occassional drunk odd ball rushes the stage with devil horned fingers, leaning back attempting to take it all in one last time before having to check back into work in the morning.

Pretty much run of the mill the rest of the night, with more solos and more people plopping down in front of tables to pass some time singing along to hits of the past slowly dissolving away into the ash of rock and roll history that the wind quickly sweeps up into the air and dissapates like weekday motor traffic smog, building up slowly over time into something more caustic, more damaging, and fatal, something invisible but reducing the population, reacting with negative effects, wearing down into a translucent being, hollow, without anything to offer, a golem under the control of those who want customers, not questions, look for bigger numbers, not larger ideas and will melt down the next two generations into marinara sauce if the elders as well as the youth of this planet do not do something to change it. It's the Highway to Hell, follow it.

The Artisan

Welcome to Stanley Kubrick's Haunted Mansion, one part Disneyland and one part Lolita but one hundred percent the most obscure attraction in all of Las Vegas. For someone who has lived here for over fifteen years somehow the bar in this hotel had escaped my detection. The hotel itself is a very inconspicous sort of standard issue white colored building, no different than the typical cookie cutter motels that line strip mall districts throughout the highway of middle America. I had been given a tip off that the usual Thursday night house music scene had started to make a bi-weekly transition from the more notable as well as more commericalized Ghostbar over at the Palms hotel, a place of note where many twenty and thirty somethings come together in the practice of ritualize mating where ten dollar mix drinks along with thirty dollar cover charges have become totally acceptable, to the Artisan a more low key yet unexplored territory by your narrator.

Not much of the glitz tonight, as I turn off onto a side road mostly noted for the array of strip clubs lining it, though while driving up into the parking/valet section of the hotel, a strange feeling of empty mysteriousness began to develop a disturbing sort of vibration in my mind, resulting in a slight sense of paranoia, where the hell is everyone I thought, not really any cars to be found at all, the parking spaces completely void of any sort of sign that anyone human might actually be staying in this hotel, possibly another just casuality of the recent down turn in the economy, have I been led on a wild goose chase to this potentially boarded up relic that looked like some leftover artifact from Hurricane Katrina. The mood here felt dead, silent, and possibly dangerous, yet within another minute out came the valet attendent, non-descript, seemingly pre-occupied with other tasks located in other regions of the hotel. The man was pleasant, grabbed the keys then drove off with the car into the darken depths of what looked like a black hole, not too much lighting around here except in the valet area itself, the entire region drops off into darkness like a small town after the sunset.

Walked into the hotel which at first glance looks like an estate auction filled with all sort of arachiac furniture, movie props, and various other kinds of objects which one might find in the background shots of Citizen Kane. Where the hell is the desk clerk, does anyone even work in this place, total vacany, amongst all the consignment store possessions. A faint sound of house music can be heard coming from a back room, as I past floating empty picture frames supended by wires invisible to the naked eye, dark barely lit book cases full of anonymous novels of various titles, a siena color tone with some amber straw yellows in low levels of intensity washed over most of the backdrop. I had been dropped into some sort of movie set, part The Shining, part Disneyland's The Haunted Manison. But the bar itself has to be one of the best hidden gems in the city. Pretty damn good house music, nothing cheesy, DJ booth way up on the second floor, out of sight, taking a pretty good effort to find it. Old victorian style chairs, coffee tables, and lots of earthy colors as the usual crowd started to pile in for the next hour, where I ran into many people who I have bumped into on various other club nights throughout the city, guess this Thursday night was the new underground haven, the special night only certain peeps get the lowdown on, so don't know how I got involved, yet still nice to finally be around some people who did not, become uncomfortable when discussing dance music, in fact quite the opposite, their input had me listening more often than commenting while drinking down a few Stellas.

After taking some substances, the bar took on a new look, began to grow in demension to the point where all the furniture, suspended artifacts, and ambient lighting gave off a real strong surreal vibe, something to go with no matter where the location, but with all the great people tonight, the appearance of the bar only seem to give the night more flavor, like a personal sanctuary of club music, still could not get over the fact as walked out to use the bathroom, how empty the hotel was, did not feel like anyone might be staying in the place, nothing but more random darkwood coffee tables, roll up desks, oil based painted landscapes on canvas, and an old wooden telephone booth, the kind you walk in, as well as a veener covered fireplace, have I stepped back into the set of Masterpiece theater, where was Alistar Cooke sitting, had they cued him to introduce that bizarre affair of misfits, artists, and professionals who all used this bar as a freak gathering, it would appear after the first woman outside of the bathroom, with full inked up right arm to her chest with various other alt chilche styled dress and overall appearance, asked me if I had any cocaine.

Most clubs, people sort of hint around if they can smell drugs on you, sort of nudge, nudge, wink, wink, but as quiet, deserted, and mellow as the Artisan felt, straight propositions from drugs did not seem out of the question, but all I had was some Molly (MDMA), this did not seem to slow her down from an overall need to ingest some narcotics, maybe due to the fringe like nature of the surroundings or just basic desire to fall into all the bizarre potential of what the rest of the night could mutate into at anytime. Off she went into the bathroom, I was already zinging along on a few things, so looking around at the all the set pieces, mirrors, and the occassional patron helped pass the time, well look, finally a human being who works here, the bathroom attendent, a small little Mexican woman who had to be going with all of this weird behavior beginning to develop at the Artisan, hiding in a dark little corner, smiling, I said a few things in Spanish about the place, she laughed, no big deal here, weekly thing as she ducked back into the ladies room which looked to be the drug den of choice for the ten women in their at the time.

Might as well, kiss that G of molly away, dosing out the whole place, but within a few more mintues, my alt rocker woman of the moment came back out, glassy eyed and somewhat removed from her immidiate environment, must have tooted to the stuff, the molly gets right on you when one honks it down, as opposed to eating it, regardless, I ask her what she does for a living, she is attractive, why not lay down some groundwork, come to find out that my alt rocker princess with short fiery red hair and pale white skin is a professor at the local university. Doesn't that beat all, suit by day, and freak by night, this is life in the 21st century, offered her a drink, set her off toward a friend of mine, as I sat back down, where the bartender already had two more cold Stellas waiting for me, the king of service here, no televisions, just empty frames, and some sexy ass brunette who checked in at about five eleven, as being six two, I think I have a chance with her, as this woman huddles into the comfortable circle of her friends as insulation, as a dare for me to break the circle, she has checked me out a couple of times, but a friend of mine and myself are quickly ascending to the higher planes of altered consciousness, have to reel it in a bit, unless we will drift off into the land of where the insane, demented, and brain fried can only related with all the heavy deep material coming out of our mouths, for most at those times, people clear out, two loons are on a mission to go over the edge, kamikaze style, suicide bomber style, like here come the trails, the nonsense making sense, and the total reevaluation of the human condition, these conversation become uncomfortable, though normal to myself and friend, take concepts and tangents into other galaxies, may burn social norms to the point where subservise behavior comes something of an everyday event, while even more being able to spot this amongst the masses in any given moment puts you in that sort of Matrix land, where there is no turning back, the veil of Oz has been lifted, the game is up, you know the results before they happen, the tendecies and hidden lives of others, the deep dark characteristics of individuals upon first meeting, and lastly how to draw out that dark nature inside to further your own personal needs.

A scary weapon, but one that comes with so many decades of living with two hot wires, one in each hand, then connecting them together, a conduit of energy moving through every living person in this place tonight. Another trip to the bathroom, where an impromptu cocaine key bump session has broken out, eight people in this small eight by ten room, holding conversations about house music, introductions are made as the key makes it way around the circle, talk to the main man with the goods and we hit if off in that sort of two out there people with a mutual understanding for pegging the fun meter at all time so, I get a double dose of the white, now things really pick up speed, must have spent a half hour in there, talking amongst everyone, mostly me praising this club night in amazement, just like the old days, where a common sort of agreement became instantenous, nostalgia set in, recollection of various club nights throughout the past fifteen years, here we were these old thirty somethings, still unable to let go of heading out for a night in order to get weird, bang the gong, and push everyone to make the night even more enjoyable.

By this time, I am in pretty deep, need to get the beers down to offset the new rush of C, so take a bit of MDMA to space out, pop half a downer, then get real loopy, speedball central, for my friend he is off as always talking to everyone, he is way deeper than me and people instantly gravitate towards him, he takes off the gloves and just goes with everything, the masses of our sort worship him for it, by this time I am buying rounds of drinks, passing the molly bag around, things begin to loosen up, no Fun Police just straight good times, dancefloor starts to get packed, move over a few more coffee tables to give people some room to dance, at this Elks lodge on acid, stand behind one of the empty picture frames for a while, getting the reverse vista look of everyone having a good time, well outside the obvious clamor of Las Vegas nightlife, this place is anything but Las Vegas, almost NYC or SF, a private Idaho for some old schoolers and new comers who need a place to be themselves without all distractions of overpriced drinks, weekend warriors, and amatuer drunks with nothing but hate on their minds, no judgements or negative vibes and who can not get with that kind of scene.

Things begin to blur as C bumps start to take place in the open, the DJ turns up the flavor of the music as the crowd responses, now a full on dance alert to the dancefloor. What time is it? Damn, 430am, shit we have to be to work in three hours, so time to wrap the show up here, exchange emails and business cards, sadly say goodbye to the funnest crowd in Vegas ever. Head up to HQ where our boss is holding down the casino bar, so looks like no sleep tonight as he tells stories of his former years working with rock touring bands, many famous ones that still play today and soon enough it is almost 8am and time to go back to work, where we leave our Sista obsessed boss to workout on some 6am leftover lady of the night as he attempts to wedge her away from some middle aged, balding, contract worker, the man looks a little upset by my bosses move to pull her away, so I have to step in, acid muscle, just in case the other guy gets jumpy, all for the client, my job, my way of life, now off to the easy part, pulling off a live television production with no sleep at all, just another day at the office, the real work will begin again, when the show ends and the instincts of my fellow television brethern turn to more hedonestic ideas such as crashing strip clubs till 8am, who can't love a job like mine See Ya

Dancing Daze Are Gone Again Part 2

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Heart of Glass

Somehow the days have slipped by spinning in this vortex of experience wrapped amongst the subcultures of life that have no real definition or tangible existence if only like portals of time appearing at moments in time, so quickly erased by the morning sun bleeding through light colored curtains, out of focus Las Vegas strip hotels. I have to be somewhere, takes a bit of time to work through the fog of uncontrollable excessive behavior that responsiblily clings to me like burning jellied naplam eating its way through the skin into the marrow of my own sanity. Already late for work, might as make head down to the production room to await the questions, the curiosity, and semi constant pleads to discuss the events of the previous night.

Though, it seems the bigger question on the minds of those who know a bit about my private life are wondering how my recent breakup with a girlfriend of ten years is effecting me physically and mentally. As if there is suppose to be some sort of mental breakdown, all this emotional puking that has become so prolific on the Hollywood big screens. Maybe it might have something to do with how people have handled their own breakups in the past, admittedly, the couple of breakups in my younger twenties felt more like inner body organ dissections without all the drugs and knockout gas, yet now nearing forty, the entire thought of getting worked up over someone who I more than likely appeased, played along with, and looked the other way with a genuine streak of juvenille behavoir that would more than likely never change, a human being who would rather avoid the harsh realities of adulthood to return to the safe naive state of childhood.

Everyone seems so shocked casual reaction to the dissolution of my last relationship. Agreed, it was ten years long, nearly a quarter of my life, but after already fucking up the first thirty years what was another time, if only to come to a point of realization that after having paid for all my actions of my twenties, marriage, children, and divorce along with a thousand other demons swirling around in my head and not that those demons have be completely come to terms with in any form. I am now old enough not to dwell on the actions of others, but to acknowledge what needs to happen in my life in order to make feel worthwhile or to have someone in it who can connect with all the variety, depth, and aptitude that has been compressed into this grey matter of my brain, no more pretending, just to get regular sex, somewhere safe to layup in until I could get my shit together, and falling into a cruise control mentality of not caring wrapped up in a little package of playing like school grade children.

The breakup did not bother me, just the reactions of the people who felt the need to console me offer some sort of advice or empathetic stories that might make feel a little less devistated when in fact I am very relieved in order to get my own life into gear, without having to waist my time encouraging a person who more than content to never amount to anything than average. But back to the sob crew, why do I really care how this relationship ended, she broke it off with me in a manner I expected that she might be hoping for some emotional sort of reaction from me, tears, saddness, some form of emotional leverage she could use to put the final nails in my head for always being one step ahead of her when all she ever wanted to do was be right and have the last world, while waiting for mommy and daddy's checks to roll in. I just told her I did not care, had no feelings at all, after spending the last six or seven years maybe more totally devoid of any sort of real emotion at, this person I felt was never capable of genuine emotion too scared to give up control of herself for reasons she will have to dump upon the next person she looks to twist into her little playhouse.

As for me, most of my friends were fairly shocked about my uncaring attitude in regards to this breakup, why, I had no longer any desire to invest energy into someone who offered nothing in return who soaked up their time in petty endeavors in order to avoid taking on any real challenges. I am actually relieved this mind, this heart, can be free again, can not feel trapped or beyond relation of anyone on the planet. There are so many people who have great things to offer, personality goes a long way, but for plenty fear of rejection scares it out right from them leading to a narrow calculated, logical, but moreover insane frame of mind. My real smile has returned and after meeting someone who I could connect with made me feel so new, so reborn, like a teenager's first kiss, so innocent and so new, beyond all the pornography, debauchery, and drunken college sex years.

My heart is not of glass or stone, either angry or fragile, just pumping with blood and the knowledge to when to walk away from something, forgiving, looking forward to the future and something more of a brief kick in the ass to get at the things that I really want to which do not include living some comfortable life with someone who is afraid of me and does desire to have anything to do with me in any capacity, sleeping their life away, a fate not for myself. At lunch, local bar, a friend from the past who is a cocktail waitress attempts to employ some sort of sympathy tactics after the explainations of how this break up went down. Why bother, is it ultimately necessary to have this gross endeavor of closure, true there have been a few days when the sadness might have gotten to a point which made me feel suicidial, off to binge on drugs, or just put a gun to my head, but why, what is the point, I have been given my life back, a life I should have reclaimed many decades ago.

Midnight Hour

By this time I have already pretty much been up for three days and if not for the usual routine of partying that might coincide with a long mutli-days run the entire experience might have been a bit more fun, instead a cascade of work has fallen into my lap from the long hours amongst the corporate whores attending various medical conferences to the early morning live news reports to the east coast, my chain of consecutive days of posts came to an end, no Joe Dimaggio here or even a Pete Rose, just some who can't deal very well with trying to fall asleep at 8pm, only to wake up at 1:30am, no functional direction only the motivation that I am slowly gravitiating toward some goal that only appears to move further off into the distance. Granted, this exercise here seems to bring that reality closer, very thankful for that, but not this 3am wind storm on the western side of Las Vegas after a day of snow in the upper elevations of the city. It was only a mattter of time before the mild comfortable weather would slowly creep away as the cold artic winds made their presence felt, moving in like an unwanted neighbor, a squatter that after repeated attempts to irratate them to leave only embrace the madness, then begin to turn it around on you until the authorities have to be involved or some sort of aggressive violence. The kind of violence my disturb mind is thriving on at the moment, work will do that to me, why expect any to really care about what they do for a living, it is nothing more than a slight shot of morphine to dull the closing curtain of death, only rising if nothing else to become a nuisance, a chamber orchestra of inept ability bordering on mental retardation.

Some days the odds are stacked against me no matter what kind of positive spin and smile I put on my face, forget it, the dye has been cast long before this day arrived, the only part I played in making it worse was to so willingly give myself up to actions and social pressure I usually tell to fuck off, making things very dark in my mind, half destruction, all pure uncaring nature, which usually takes the work day right down the bar for the remainder of the afternoon if everything falls into place, otherwise, here it comes, a bunch of subnormals who must render in layers of unnecessary input to make the simplist of operations bordering on the complexity of nuclear physics. No much time to hide opinions then, rather just let these people know what is the point of their behavior, to undermind my position, cast me in a bad light as someone who may be incompetent, they may have a point, or just to frivilously pace around throughout the day jotting down notes, spending hours explaining their actions, and finally admitting their decisions might not be the best solution.

Enough, this midnight hour only holds the first cold wind of fall in Las Vegas, a bit late, yet no less uncomfortable, but as these moments for certain things must be endured in order to get a paid education in my line of business, besides the kind of life lessons that are all so plentiful from interacting with strangers, workers, and generally caustic people, whose words take on the form of radioactive waste with a half life of a billion years, while the lights on the Las Vegas Strip grow in size, living in this hotel/condo based city where a portion of the new construction sits empty or unfinished, this once boon town is becoming a ghost town, no matter how many fucking bright lights they put up this city, christmas everyday in this place, so appropriate the holiday season, going green, light up the neon night right out into outer space, even the space station deserves a chance to drowned in the warm glow of an electric centipede frozen in motion, burning through the surface of the earth engulfing itself into the soft sand desert into the hard red rock, dissolving away without character, without voice, and without ever a chance of getting out alive.