I was there, I saw it happen.

Given free entrance to the affair & invited to the Best Parties, one can find himself staring out the window of a Suite at Caesar’s Palace at 12am Friday (with only the loveliest view of air conditioners and the back of the faux-Colosseum), whilst grown men play $100 rounds of beer pong. On the walls will be cheap imitations of Roman freize painting, in the bedrooms will be unused hottubs, and everywhere one looks will be plaster reproductions of the statues of Antiquity. (Limbs pre-broken.)

One will hear the international sound of fun, every twenty minutes: glass bottles shattering, followed by crowds of men screaming their approval. One will be amongst them. For as Antonin Artaud says, and the Misfits too: “If you’re gonna scream / scream with me.”

At 2am Saturday night, in a Penthouse suite at the Riviera, after watching a live band cover the theme songs to Double Dragon and Castlevania, one will find oneself on a filthy floor, watching grown men in The Wall t-shirts playing Wii Sports baseball. One will look at himself, at his surroundings and at the pornography being projected on the wall above one’s head, and one will say: “It is most certainly time to go home.”

One will run to his hotel room, gather his belongings, and take the long drive back I-15, to home, to sanctuary: with the sun breaking over Pasadena at 6am, just another freak in the freak kingdom.