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« Listen, I hate to say it but... I don't remember you. | Main | 30 Days of Rust »

The Last Day of Summer

Another summer has been shot through the heart and I haven't seen Montana in four years. I guess folks in Montana probably think they should have spent their time more appropriately as well.

If you've ever done a Tribble Run, you miss Montana in the summer.

It feels like being younger.

Like being young.


Not that you can't still call up a hooker here and again to get that sparkle back. Just don't expect the industry has changed.

Hookers in America.    No customer service.

Hotel Derek


The Hotel Derek is all things Ikea and posh, ready for the guy with a boring job and a black suit to show up and turn American Psycho. This is where the Comedy Club puts you up because they know you will be doing coke and the Derek has lots of glass surfaces. Ikea and coke are like chocolate and peanut butter so I bought 50 dollars worth.

Now the green room was full of folks all week - not posse folks like for Earthquake - just mostly busted comics who needed free beer. But still too many noses for the blow-ses at the time I hooked up so I waited until I was back at the hotel to indulge.




I've purchased cocaine before so do not see this as an excuse. But many times after a show, folks will offer you free drugs and you take them. It a courtesy to the giver. I used to refuse marijuana until i realized what an affront to the common man this could be. Then I realized that if I didn't want it, someone else would. And I took it. So when this young gentleman asked if I wanted some cocaine, I said that i certainly would. I didn't know he was "selling" it. So to avoid embarrassment I asked for the smallest amount, which was 50 bucks worth.

The same night I was given a vicodin and a small baggie of hydroponic mushrooms. They said not to take more than two of these tiny things and there had to be ten.

I gave away the vicodin.

Skip to the hotel and the beer drifting into the coke and the coke shaking off with the shrooms and the decision to call a prostitute.

Again an excuse but I wouldn't have necessarily called a prostitute without the goading of a good friend. My friend who shall remain nameless - and you know how hard that is for me - was on the phone as I was doing my internet-jack preliminary work. That's how it works. Coke can make contact with your teenage hormones like a psychic can talk to the dead. A psychic can bullshit you into believing that they are communicating with a relative that has passed. Coke can make you believe that you can bang a hooker although your dick couldn't feel a rat gnawing the cap off of it.

As I have experience with these dilemmas - I can peruse the whores online and get enough of a vicarious thrill just knowing I could fuck this chick with the blurred-out face with a simple phone call and that knowledge alone can get me on track to a fruitless coke-yank without spending a dime.

So as my good friend yammered on the phone forever, I got my Escort google-orgy in line. Then the phone hung up and I was asked what I was doing.

"Looking at hookers", I say.

"Lets get one!" she says.

"Okey-doke" says a man with experience.


And with another bump, we go thru the many photos and decide on the perfect gal-pal, for what reason we never stopped to think. This good friend is just that and what we would do together in the same room as a prostitute would only lead to back-breaking shame but we are already into the shrooms. Shame has been moved to tomorrow.

We pick a girl, make a call, get no answer or a price that is too high and we go back to rambling drug-talk before calling the next.

By the time we get one on the phone, 400 dollars seems like a small price to pay, especially when she says she is buying.


Vixen is her name.

"I'll be there by 4 am." she tells me.

"Um... its 5 am."

"Oh shit. I guess I'll be there by 6."



And we have a bump and wait. We hooker-proof the room, hiding any valuables and tidying up a bit. We speed-talk about what is to come - my good friend has never come close to getting a hooker and is thrilled at the prospect of a new experience and my horny has left for the prospect of funny. I explain the inherent shame that will come in the morning for spending 400 dollars, no matter what should come of this. She doesn't care. You never care when you do drugs. That's why drugs - alcohol included and most guilty - have a bad name. Not the feeling you get but the lengths you will take it to.

We talk and fret and open more beer. She gets a migraine and I start to trip. She showers and I second-guess. It's 6:15 and I tell her not to talk so loud as Vixen may be walking down the hall any second. It's 6:42 and we begin to think that Vixen isn't showing up. It's 7:15 and we know that Vixen has beaten us out of a story but back into 400 dollars. I'm tripping balls and get into the tub. My great friend goes back to her room and orders more Advil to stop her head from popping off.


It's 9:30 before I give up on beating my cold penis into a corner and go to bed until noon when football starts.

Gambling is a different addiction altogether.


The "good friend" referred to in the above story is not who you think it is. I see where some of you would just assume if you were around that week but you would be wrong. It was no one you have met, seen or heard.


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