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My friends. Long have I stayed away from pain medication beyond the Advil Dome because I thought I would like it too much and quickly become a pillhead. Same reason I’ve stayed away from a lot of drugs (though watching other people use is also enormous motivation to skip it). As a woman, I face a lot of pain-based situations, most notably my menstrual cycle. I get the full drama: gut-wrenching pain, vomiting, sweating, passing out immobilized. I’m not trying to brag. So after having a few trips to the emergency room with torrid pain-induced vomiting I decided I would go ahead and fill one of the oxycodone prescriptions they gave me. Otherwise I always threw them out. Turns out that little pill actually takes care of my pain. I get in a nap and I’m good as groggy new, like a dishcloth you left on the floor to catch a persistent drip from the fridge.

I always suspected I was a pillhead who never got the chance to bloom and grow. It turns out I was wrong. Wandering around my house last night, forgetting what I was doing every time I entered a new room, astral projecting every time I started a conversation with my housemate, drifting in and out of a nap every five minutes: none of these are exalted states for me. I didn’t enjoy it. While I almost continuously crave a break from my brain, it turns out I would rather read, swim, write, watch a movie, go for a walk or karaoke to induce a non-harried state. Is this the blog post of a square? Yes. After saying all this, I must add that I do like being a spacy moron for a little while. I’m just saying I don’t want to be this way every day of my life. I don’t want the eyes that look like they’re sitting in rain puddles, I don’t want to stir my martini with a black beauty.

I just want to hold your hand.

I had an experience

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This is cheating, in the sense that I posted it yesterday on a social networking whatever…but now you have it here.

Las Vegassian

Good afternoon, people. I slept ten hours last night in a move to repair from my weekend in Las Vegas. It’s not entirely notable considering I’ve become a nine-hour sleep nerd in the last few months. I feel like I wake up and go screaming yellow balls of fire all day then collapse at night, deep into cellular repair so I can do it again. Just me and Kai (my cat) drifting out on my ship, the bed (that is a Laurie Weeks-ism that I love–“our ship, the bed.”).

Beth and I performed Getting in on the Ground Floor and Staying There in Las Vegas last Friday night. For reasons too boring to enumerate I bought tickets for us leaving SF at 8:00 in the morning and arriving in LV at 9:30. We flew Virgin Airlines, which I have taken to and from NYC several times and enjoyed. The bleary eyes, knot-filled hair and hangover were my own fault. Virgin flights to Las Vegas may as well be called Broham Air. I have never been on a plane with such a dense collection of dingbat dudes. I did spend spring break in some beach town in North Carolina once in high school, and that is truly the closest I’ve come to this experience. I could go into detail about the uniform of jerk-ism, but I think it’s all linked by the currently-mall-popular detailing that looks like mod-prim tattoos-meet-70’s wallpaper, kind of fleur de lis making love to trompe l’oeil with an emphasis on birds via clip art. It’s printed on jeans and sweatshirts and t-shirts and is kind of Rage Against the Machine Hard Rock Hotel Jerkinson’s disease. I think this trend may have been launched by truly great artist Ryan McGinness whom is yet another artist to just create what makes sense to them and then unexpectedly see it harvested by the mega-corps who beat it like a red-headed step-child. Maybe he is seeing a paycheck that eases this pain. Maybe he gives exactly no shits at all.

So anyway, as we touch down the man seated behind me, possibly about 35 years old, gets on the cellular horn and says………
“What’s up!!! Yeah dude. Just landed. I’m already fuckin’ shitfaced, got loaded on the way here. Yeah. You guys at the Hard Rock, right? Alright I’ll check ya. Cool. Later.”
We later see him at the baggage claim on the phone again with his fly down. Beth keeps going back and forth about whether to tell him, and ultimately does not.

We, in fact, are staying at the Hard Rock. This is because our friend got us free rooms. We pick up the rental car I secured for $30 for the whole weekend!! Bargainz! We go through the insurance threat routine with the counter guy (when I decline the insurance he lets me know I’m responsible for everything ever even if it’s not my fault and all reasonable laws are abandoned and I am taking the greatest financial risk of my life by stepping into the waiting Dodge Caliber without the in-house car insurance. I had hoped for a Kia Rio, but no dice.) and then drive to Omelet House for delicious huevos rancheros. Strike up the horn section. Omelet House (the one on W. Charleston) is a never-ending maze of rooms crammed full of kitten posters, framed Nagels, Betty Boop cookie jars, “We Will Never Forget” collages of the twin towers/American flag/eagle heads shellacked on polished curvy-edge-carved slabs of wood, fading plastic flowers, jazzman salt and pepper shakers, all that kind of stuff.

When we get to the Hard Rock we enter to that unrelenting cacophony of slot machines, ROCK MUSIC, and an endless stream of twentysomething sex machines. It does not feel amazing to scorn anyone, but it is even lamer to lead a life attempting to be neutral about any and everything (the scourge of people who meditate/yoginate/retreat-attend in the hopes of turning their backs on that nasty human emotion, anger). I feel completely grossed out by the excess of girls in tiny scraps of clothing and doodz on the make. I can’t believe this is the waaaay dominant presence anywhere, even this hotel. It feels like a successful execution of empty experience. I don’t know that I’m right about that, I mean, it could have been a room full of people leading full and happy lives. In that case, huzzah, jerks! Either way, I shall speak as a very biased observer.

We retired to our fancy suite, complete with a full mirrored wall and pool table. Both items were detailed with the aforementioned perverted McGinness art. Hey, edgy experience: I found ya!

Our show was at the Beauty Bar down in the “old part” of Las Vegas, a stretch of street the city would like to infuse with non-crack-based experiences. The people who worked there were warm and helpful and in every way lovely. We set up the outdoor area behind the bar for the show and retired with some tequila to see if anyone would come. Thanks to our awesome friend and promoter Figler, lots of people came. For the first time we ended the show with a number called “Careers We Don’t Have” which involves me singing and Beth dancing. I don’t believe the world knows what an incredible dancer Beth is. Seeing her in manties and sports bra crawling around the stage, still mustachioed post-Phil, she looked like a swashbuckling Spaniard John Galliano. It was more than I could take in the realm of beauty and humor. Devastatingly amazing.

Saturday we roamed about and I got in a little cable television viewing. That night we had Beth’s birthday dinner, and unbelievably the fly-down shitfaced man who sat behind me on the plane was at the same restaurant, seated at the bar behind us. He was with two ladies who I am certain were both gay and attentive for pay. One of the ladies, an x-tremely tan white, was wearing a li’l top and had the words “hot rod” tattooed on her lower back. She had that magical combination of intensely tan skin, screeching blonde hair, and barbie-pink lipstick. The irony of my “other-ing” that look is not lost on me. I spent a lot of time watching them, so captivating was the seduction ritual. Their gayness leaving him out, turning him on, barbie lips going in for the make-out (with both of them), whatever. A good chunk of my friends have been those ladies. When they got up to leave, barbie lips came to our table, grabbed our friend Jan and foisted a make-out upon her. A few photos were snapped and everyone moved on. I don’t know what exactly her motivation was, but either way, surrealism temporarily ruled the night.

I came home Sunday, happy to be able to cook for myself and bring vegetables back into the picture. I like how cozy and rainy it is right now, though I hope it clears up in time for adult swim team tonight.