There were barely any cell phones and I’d never seen the internet.

Seattle Washington.

They were a band. A large one. Traveling minstrels who knew just how to navigate any situation as a single unit. There was a communal intellect. They moved through the lobby of our posh hotel with fluidity, silence and stealth. In seconds there was fifteen of us in the elevator without a sound.

With the precision of piranhas, they emptied the mini bars in both of our rooms. Appetizers before the cases of beer we’d brought. An organism of free hooch musicians.

We ended up in Rick’s room.

Sometime before five a.m. they sent a team to break into the hotel kitchen. The team returned with a mere few dozen plates. What went on next is something I’m unable wrap my brain around to this day.

Seven or eight of them shut themselves in the bathroom. There was chaos. Dishes shattering and maniacal chanting.  Ridiculous laughter. After a time, drunken pot induced stupor breached, I slithered my head inside the bathroom door. There was red wine everywhere. Everywhere, literally. They were dancing in a way that struck me as pagan.  Wine was gushing from their mouths. The look in their eyes convinced me not to say anything.

I’m not sure they even saw me.

They did.  They all looked right at me.

My mind’s eye has it as a Ralph Steadman painting.

Preservation as insinct reared a welcome head. I sweet talked the lonely waitress with the nice big ass to come back to my room. On the way out, I stole one of Rick’s gay Gucci loafers.

I followed her trailer to the elevator. My room was pleasant after the asylum.  Turn down service. Classical music playing low and sheers blown by  the smell of rain.  Chocolate on the pillow. Her name was Sabrina. She had really nice tits and cute feet.

She was sweet.

She had a way of almost whistling her consonants.  Like an anti lisp.

We talked on the phone for a few months and she came to LA and spent the night once.

The phone rang around eleven. Rick wondering if I’d seen his other shoe.

He was a floor below me. I took it down to him.

I knocked, he answered.  I gave him his shoe.

It smelled like crotches and armpits and booze and they were everywhere. Unconscious and reeking. One of them slept on top of a dresser. Thirteen dudes in one medium size hotel room. Wrappers, beer cans, broken bottles, jackets,ashtrays and wine stains on the walls. Broken dishes trailed from the bathroom as though there’d been a stampede of fucking cattle right out of a china shop.

He asked where the girl was. I told him. Fourteen other guys and she ends up in your bed he said. I’d be back down after I showered I said.

Checkout was noon.

Fifty minutes later I’d seen her off and was back. He answered the door in a towel. All I could smell was the shower. The band was gone and the room was spotless. Immaculate. He was as confused as I was.

There was time to kill before our flight and we had dumbovers that required a booze mop as the very first step. I impressed him by having scrambled eggs with salmon and a gin Mary. We were in Seattle. He had scrambled eggs, toast and  beer. We drank for a few hours until it was time to get a cab to the airport.

We snored on the plane.

The Psychodelic Zombiez from Denver Colorado showed up in LA the following spring.

We made a shit hot record.

Drinks for my friends.

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