...And then I came inside for introductions.

Tiff's daughter, E.J., was playing Tomb Raider 2, not a day past 13 but with a streak of edgy sarcasm that was endearing. Her son was smiling beautific, around 9ish, like a perfectly sculpted Norse mythology possessed by the very spirit of ADD. He'd decided that my coming was a perfect opportunity to dance and hit himself in the head with plastic things and lovingly kiss/nibble Tiff's arm; he reminded me of Lori's son Ian. Not least was Tiff's boyfriend, 'Lance', hair black with wise white streaks, smile easy, with that laid-back musician's manner about him; I recognized it well from the musicians that Mom had dated.

Tiff herself was different from what I'd imagined. Over the years I'd spoken with a sexy, clever streak of a woman, a mixed cocktail of friend and flirt that sloshes around most of our heads.

Seeing and meeting her in person, though, introduced me to her as a mom, as a human-being, someone tangible and reasonably sane in the world I occasionally occupy. 'This was someone I could chill with,' I thought at first. 'What the fuck had I been paranoid about?' came second.

To get off on a small tangent, the paranoid part is kinda funny in retrospect. I'd abandoned plans to see her in 2002 because she mentioned knowing some occultists, who in turn were affiliated with an arch-magus I'd had major shit with years ago. I know what you're probably thinking, but that nutsy fucker tried to off me and I didn't feel fully safe--that and a friend at the time desperately didn't want me to go visit Tiff. You know how it is with crazy drama shit.

Anyway, the lot of us spent several hours talking, mostly about the particulars that slip between the cracks of time. Even though they have guests all the time at that house, I was the center of attention, with me pleasantly answering this or that question while I wondered at how weird it all was: I hadn't heard from Tiff for at least a year and, suddenly, I was sitting in her living room. I felt all familial-like sitting and talking there, being kindof surprised at how talkative and sociable her children were.

Somewhere near but before dusk, Tiff asked me what I was hoping to do in Las Vegas. As any good guest, of course, I said I had no idea and I'd defer to her, the local, the one who could split cool shit from the chaff. There's almost nothing but fucking chaff in Vegas, after all, and I wanted an 'anti-bullshit' visit. She dug that idea heavily.

So first off, she decided that me and her should see the Double Down, with Lance suggesting we three get beers and shoot the shit. The Double Down is the type of dive bar that ferries in every underground or open-minded person in Vegas. Sporting a no bullshit vibe, mural-soaked walls and 'ass-juice', it's not just a full U-turn from The Strip, it's a enclave of badass rebels. Sitting there, I wondered why I couldn't find a place like this in LA, and hoped that I could hunt one down when I got to Madison.

After staying for an hour, we headed back home and waited for a glut of people to come over for dinner. It was an interesting cross-section of people from Tiff's weekly drum circle. You had:

*V-string-exposed handkerchief-haired girl with shaved head taciturn boyfriend.

*Hippyish bohemian geek couple with their lovely newborn.

*Papa J, who fits his nickname perfectly with just as much style.

*Curly haired thoughtful bohemian hippy chick.

I felt about as out-of-place as a bachelor at a baby shower (which I've done). I was getting that sort of 'hmm, that's peculiar, just what is he doing here?' vibe. This was confirmed by v-string girl, who asked me how I knew Tiff with a completely neutral expression. I told her the abbreviated truth and left out the online part; she seemed suitably unimpressed and went back to boyfriend talk. It slowly got better as the night progressed, though, with Tiff giving my soundbyte outside to a few others while they smoked; at least bohemian hippie chick thought I was 'really cool', so far as I could hear. Meanwhile, I was having the best steamed corn I'd ever had; I even went back for seconds on the stuff and I usually despise corn.

People gradually filtered out after dinner, until it was just Tiff's family and I again.

Being night owls, that wasn't the end of festivities for Tiff and I; hell fucking no, my friend. It was punk night over at the Double Down and we decided to hop over there and see the all singing, all dancing road carcasses that'd rolled into town.

We were graced that evening with a true-to-life punk band, with a name like the Seven Shot Screamers and equipment that'd seen the gentler side of Hell. The lead singer was a cheeky cross of Malcolm from A Clockwork Orange and Sid Vicious, rail-thin with a black bowler hat, red pants like a cloud on his body, little handcuffs and chains clinking from it. There was also a double bass player who looked like Beck as a male prostitute, his bellbottoms like a second skin, swooning and humping and doing many such things to his instrument with his instrument. The rest of the band was garden variety.

Tiff and I hung out on the gambling chairs, with her deciding to stand up in some alcove I hadn't seen mid-way through the set.

The band was a one-trick pony, but a damned fine one: go for the balls with a fast-as-fuck beat, bang on shit, have the lead singer dance, throw, drop, or catch his tambourinee, and of course look menancingly pissed off at the system or whatever was pissing him off at the time. The first few songs were fucking awesome that way. I love a good punk band. After awhile, though, I wanted your slower political ballad, or a good irish punk tune--something that sounded different. They hammered away like porn stars, though, my ears mildly shot while I swung this way or that in my seated uncoolness. And as with any punk bits, of course, some middle-aged freight hauler types trying to slam-dance/mosh in a postage stamp of space. People were pushed onto the band, into other people, all with big gruff security dude standing and waiting for someone to fuck up.

No crazy brawl shit broke out, though, and the bar remained well and good. After the show, Tiff showed me the incumbent oddities of the male and female bathrooms. I say incumbent because they were both covered in scribblings, doodlings, musings, and every other some such thing humanity is capable of doing on walls. We hovered around the bar then, with Tiff drinking something as some dude she knew came up and hugged her. He was the twitchy fucker type. I had a feeling I was being examined to see if I would eat Tiff. He gave me a white guy's handshake, holding my hand while he starred into my eyes. For a minute. 2 minutes. 3 minutes. Finally he looked away and started again at being "fucked up". During that whole time Tiff and I weren't talkin' so much as chilling and enjoying one another's company.

4am finally rolled around, my eyes bitterly stinging from too much cigarette smoke, ears still reverberating from the punk show. Driving back to the house was a relief. I had that slightly nauseous feeling that indicated you had a good night. So after some final goodnights and talking and the like, I laid down on an ergonomic matress pad in the music room and slept for about 6 hours...

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