*Please note that the following has substantial profanity, and please keep in mind that I’m not doing the talking.
Where am I? Here. Blacked out. Where did everyone go? Right, I kicked them out. Why did I kick them out again…right: they get on my fuckin’ nerves.
2:43 a.m. I’m fuckin’ restless now. Damn, I feel wired. I need a joint.
Ah, that’s it. There it is. Mm.
The city is alive tonight. I fuckin’ love this city. Screw New York and L.A. I love Seattle, but this fuckin’ city…man, it’s where it all began.
Ah, this shit is good. Got to ask Babs to get more.
I’m hungry. Maybe I just think I’m hungry. No, I want pancakes. Blueberry pancakes; wild ones. What’s a regular blueberry worth? Nothing. Not once you’ve had wild blueberries.
I’m talking to myself. Who cares? Not me. Not you. Wait, you are me. Fuck, I need another joint. Take more of the edge off.
Ahh, I feel good. Smoking a joint; ordering pancakes.
Who was that little shit telling me to order off the menu? Little shit…I don’t give a fuck if made-to-order breakfast starts at 6. How fuckin’ hard is it to make some pancakes? And I’m getting plain fuckin’ pancakes. No wild blueberries. No blueberries, just plain. I’ve got to tell Babs never to book this shithole again. Fuckin’ Langham. I don’t care who the fuck recommended it.
If I were at the Ritz-fuckin’-Carlton I would be eating wild blueberry pancakes. If they didn’t have it they’d find a way to get it to me. That’s good service. That’s what I should have told that idiot. Lucky for him, I’m not an asshole. I could have his job with one call. He’s merely a fly. Swat it away…not worth my time to squash it. See, that’s what you get for pickin’ a lame, snooty place. It’s like they’re doin’ me a favour. Babs said she couldn’t get the Ritz, but you can get anything for the right price. She’s doin’ a half-ass job lately.
Man, I love wild blueberries. Those little fuckers are the best. These are like rubber. Where the fuck did Babs put that maple she bought for me? I’ll just call her. Wait, there it is.
I can’t remember what the ‘syrup of the gods’ but I’m pretty sure it isn’t maple syrup.
It should be, though. Maple syrup should be the gods’ syrup of choice. People have terrible taste these days. Maybe the gods do too. Maybe the gods are up there drinking high-fructose corn syrup. Maybe I’ve replaced the old gods.
Just me, my joint, rubber pancakes drowning in the syrup of the gods – correction – syrup of this god…and Macallan 25 Year Sherry Oak Single Malt Scotch Whisky. Those pancakes are a blemish to what otherwise would be a decent moment. This bottle isn’t the best, but it’s alright. Who’s the asshole that gave it to me? To Spencer from Paul. To a long working relationship. Who the fuck is Paul? Sure, Paul, whoever the fuck you are.
I’m stuffed. I am stuffed, but I’m coming down. I am finally coming down. Thanks to the genius that discovered marijuana and decided to roll it up and smoke it. Genius, I tell you; one of the brilliant minds of the 21st Century. Nah, pretty sure I’m wrong about the century, but knowing that makes me right, doesn’t it? Sure it does.
I’m tired. Fuck, I’m so tired. I’m full, I’m fuckin’ exhausted and I need to take a piss. Ah.
What the f…ah, I can’t be bothered. I can share the bed. Besides, I may want her around in a few hours. Man, I love groupies. Can’t remember life before groupies.
I’m fuckin’ done. Man, am I done. It’s 8 p.m. I just want to go back to the room and sleep. Duffy’s getting on my nerves. The whole lot of you are all such cowards, trying to keep the peace. Pick a side, assholes. You can’t stand with one foot on both sides forever.
Duffy thinks he runs things now. Duff and his rehearsals. Duff and his ‘tweaking’ and stunts to draw the crowd in – the crowd is drawn in enough. They love us. That’s why they wait in line. That’s why they spent a pretty penny to see us. If he gives me one more lecture about sleeping in, being late, whatever, I’m going to knock his teeth out. I would have done it by now if I weren’t so tired. Besides, if this gives him a hard-on, let him have it. It kills him that he’s not centre stage.
I’ve been in this room far too long today. I need a pick me up. Man, do I ever need one. Can’t keep my eyes open. Hungover, but sober. Too sober. Okay, snap out of it. An hour to showtime. All done, Duff? Good. Fuck, you’re finally shutting that trap of yours.
Where’s my dressing room again? I think I’ll do a few lines. That’ll give me that edge I want for tonight. Hi. Yup, hi, whoever the fuck you are. Why does everyone have to touch me, make eye contact with me? These losers need me to acknowledge their existence. Wish they’d just stay out of my way. Finally, now I can chill a little.
Where did Babs…there it is. Ah, sweet. So fuckin’ nice. Man, I love this shit. I owe a debt of gratitude to the guy that discovered blow. And the bastard that discovered the beauty of snorting snow up one’s nose is brilliant. No booze until later. I like to be high, not slobbering everywhere like some others I know. I like living life hard, but I’m a fuckin’ professional.
Yah. Oooh, yah! Now I’m on fire! I’m ready. Are they ready for me? They better be. I’m coming for them. I feel electric. I’m focused, I feel so fuckin’ good! I’m a god tonight. Here I come, Chicago!
Whoa! Three fuckin’ encores. It’s past 1 a.m. That was awesome. They got the show of a lifetime. Get lost, Duff’s pie hole…reviews can wait ’til morning. I’m too hyper…so fuckin’ high…but I’ll be coming down hard. I hate coming down like this…it’s terrible. I need more coke. No, I need something to relax. Fuck. Babs. Where the fuck is Babs? I need my benzos.