Ol' Dead Bastard

It all started on Friday night. Jay arrived the night before and had already found a deep love for this fine smelling town. All that was left was for the night that would surely shock the world was for Paul to touch down at Newark International Airport. Little did we know Big Baby Jesus had less then twenty four hours left on this Earth.

I walked into the beat up motel room dressed in my finest linens (read: jeans and a t-shirt). After exchanging pleasantries with my long lost jew, we threw him into a motorcar and whisked him off to the land of the live nude women, better known as Nardone's (one of the sleaziest and yet pleasant "exotic dancer" establishments in Jersey City).

After sitting less than 7 feet from the man for the better part of a year, I can say with a degree of certainty that I know when he’s having a good time. The disgustingly pleasant look on Paul’s face as his shirt was opened and his jew-belly caressed by a legion of strippers was my first clue. I’d feel remised if I failed to tell how the visage of Paul and Jay surrounded by dozens of Jersey's finest mid-priced professional dancers moved me. It was as if I’d witnessed the second to last supper of Christ and his disciples and yea, oh yea, this penultimate supper was good.

I’d procured a dancer of my own, who’d scored some dank, and dipped for a while to fill my head with smoke in order to elevate my enjoyment of this already splendid evening. Interesting side note: when buying small sacks of weed here in Jersey City, the cellophane bag is sealed shut but it also ALWAYS includes 3 rolling papers. Had I thought of including means with which to smoke the lord’s giggle-weed years ago I could’ve cornered the market on customer satisfaction among drug addicts. Hell, here I was thinking that my buddy including a chip of hash in every quat (quarter-ounce) was cool.

But I digress…

I got back to the strip joint and Jay was at the bottom of a pile of dancers. I think he actually lost consciousness but it bothered him not. This man snapped out of it and wanted to dance again. Like a mighty super powered being from some long forgotten Marvel comic Jay burst forth from the dog-pile of strippers with the force of a god and yea, oh yea, he strutted his stuff on the dance-floor once more and put John Trevolta to dirty, arthritic shame. My man was doing splits, cartwheels, backspins, handspins, I even think I saw him do an elbow spin once and when he popped back on his feet to relish in the admiration of all those present….he made foul comments about everyone’s mother and took a bow.

The applause were thunderous.

It made me smile a wide and toothy smile to see my friend enjoying himself so well. But I had to find Paul and make sure he hadn’t partied himself to death like our most-loved member of The Wu was soon to accomplish.

I found Paul outstretched across two booths in the VIP section. His shirt was tied around his head like a turban and he was speaking in Aramaic. Many a fallen woman suckled upon his nipples and toes and I, high as a kitten, demanded that my stripper teach me Aramaic before we left. And so it began…

Rather, that’s when it all became cloudy and the drums and tambourines began echoing in my head. The world began to swirl and faces pierced the cloudy mist that surrounded me. Faces of the strippers, Jay, Nick the Dutch Lumberjack, Paul, the strippers again then Ol’Dirty Bastard. “Ol’ Dirty Bastard?” I remember asking aloud.

I woke up and found myself sprawled out on my own living room floor on my back looking up at the television. CNN was reporting that ODB was dead and I wasn’t quite sure if my trip from the previous night was over. I actually had to explain out loud to myself what was happening.

“You’re at home. You’re hung over as shit. You’re watching a CNN report upside-down about Ol’Dirty dying in a recording studio and it feels like you’ve soiled your pants at least twice...”

I guess Paul’s first 24 hours in Jersey could’ve gone worse.