For the record, I'm not exactly what you'd call a computer person. Although I did receive a B+ in Computer Science, I had to flirt, bribe, and cheat my way through. The thought of disks, drives, and bytes makes me queasy. Personally, I prefer the elegance and romanticism of a heaping iron typewriter. There's something so cool and noir about sitting in smoky room, fingers dancing across the keys of a glistening old Royal, (or in this case a Panasonic R210 - circa 1987), I never imagined getting involved with the internet. It was with great reluctance and a lot of peer pressure that I lost my internet virginity! What a net-nympho I've become since that first time. The KUNV page is my home away from home. I've slummed my way through the pages of Ween, the Rugburns and Possum Dixon.

Which brings me to the point of my story...Key words...Possum Dixon and slumming. I was looking at the official Possum Dixon page, when I saw their tour schedule. Salt Lake City, Utah!! Mind you, it's been nearly two years since I've seen the guys...which is ok, considering it's taken nearly all that time to recover from the magical summer of 1994 tour. Most of it is still a blur of vodka and cough syrup. Of course, the Grand Canyon size rift on my skull is a constant reminder of hanging out with PD. Now, I know that the release of Star Maps ushered in the era of a kinder, gentler PD. Personal tragedies and line-up changes rumoredly forced the guys to grow up. But would they still be fun? I'll admit, I've had a great time with them - getting banned from the Edge studios by John Griffin, falling off a speaker, cracking my head open at Lake Mead... Come to think of it, Maybe the mature PD wouldn't be so hazardous to my personal well-being.

I approached Ronn Benway with the topic. "Let's go to see Possum Dixon in Utah!" "Why?" he asked. "They're playing here!" Yay! Just a day after Joe Sib's new band, 22 Jacks was to perform at the Elks lodge (Joe Sib + lots of Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum = hangover from hell). What a weekend this would be.

Band Manager extrordinaire, Jay Scavo, called me two days before the show to do an interview. Due to the short notice, it was hard to arrange a time. Tour manager Satan, I mean Brian, said "just to drop by the sound check at the Beach".

Now, I personally have no problems with the Beach, yet it was pure Hell. (Did I mention my all-nighter with the Captain?) Well, the Beach is NOT the place to be during the final game of the NBA playoffs...especially if you're a hungover, blonde, celibate, female with a keen sense of fashion. Armed with a Marantz recorder and an industrial size bottle of Aleve, I tried to find the band. I was approached by a man who looked like Satan. "You must be Brian." I smiled graciously. "You're not going to steal my kidney, are you?" he asked. Excuse me? Now, in my day I've stolen beer, hearts and a boyfriend or two, but NEVER have I even considered a kidney! I made my way upstairs to see the guys. I met Byron, the new drummer. He looked like a clean cut version of Wax (the KUNV DJ, not the band). Sully, Rob and Celso were perched in front of a giant-screen TV, watching the game and eating hot dogs. The stench of hot dogs and testosterone was overwhelming. To say the least, the scene was slightly surreal. I was greeted with hugs and kisses, except from Celso. "I'm covered in mustard," he exclaimed. We spoke of addiction, sobriety and celibacy all under the images of the Bulls and Sonics. They liked my short hair. "It's so noir," said Rob. How could my hair be noir? Weird. Sully and Celso, being the demons that they are, kept offering me hot dogs and beer. "We have a whole roomful. None of us drink anymore. It's all yours." All mine? It was like my birthday and Christmas combined. "Hmmm". Sully and I hung out backstage, which is actually a little bitty room filled with various rubbish. We discussed Catholicism and the plight of the twenty-somethings and reminisced about our last adventure. We were interrupted by Celso chasing Kat, the scantily clad waitress. You go, boyfriend.

I hung out for sound check, then left to pick up Ivy. We returned only to find out that someone forgot to put out the guest list, so we had to wait outside for forever before the lady at the door felt sorry for us and let us in to pee. We weren't the only ones stuck though, they weren't going to let Byron in either. Even though he pleaded "I'm in the band!" Kelly and Ronn Benway, Puff from the Heroines, and urban legend D.C. showed up shortly there after. We were given Stabbing Westward (the headliner) laminates and ushered backstage. Everyone was sitting around talking when I was suddenly pelted with ice. I looked at Brian, who had guilt written all over him. He protested, "Sully did it!" Gee, then why is your hand dripping? We discussed going to the Stratosphere after the show. I felt queasy just from the idea of the SpaceShot. Brian asked "Will you gamble with me?" I agreed, knowing full well I bring the worst luck to anyone wagering. Kelly then discovered the bottle of Stoli stashed in the ice bin, D.C. found a Pepto Bismol-pink Eva Gabor wig pick and stuck it in his 'do and started preparing Screwdrivers for himself and Ivy (who swore only an hour before she would never drink again, after the 22 Jacks/Heroines/Bomboras-induced binge of the previous night).

Showtime! Now, I cannot be objective in a PD review. They fucking rule! They rock my world! Go, Ray! If you've never seen a PD performance, you're missing out. Imagine a swirling combination of Hollywood, tiki torches, polyester, cheap alcohol and great sweaty sex. Words can't describe it. If you are a PD fan, where the hell were you? The strikingly handsome (to quote Spin Magazine) Rob Zabricky didn't have his stand-up bass, and they didn't perform any Madonna covers, but it was still an incredible show. Being Father's Day, many songs were dedicated to everyone's surrogate father, Ronn Benway. Guitarist, Celso Chavez, sang a little song about a hitchhiker they picked up, called East LA Girl, during which he was felt up by Kelly, Puff and me. He and Kelly proceeded to lambada the night away, much to the dismay of the bouncer, who looked like he was about to rip Kelly's head off. In the tradition of PD shows, they did close with that Dream Syndicate classic The Days of Wine and Roses. It's the ultimate song. An added bonus was that the fabulous roadie, Craig kept his clothes on while he joined in on bass.

Then the games really began. I headed back upstairs with Kelly, Ivy and Puff and we lost the men. That was fine, for we did have the vodka (and we finished every drop, probably a bad move in hindsight). Back downstairs, we were removing all the PD posters from the walls, when one of the employees pointed out Brian. "There's the band's manager. Maybe he can get your poster signed". Since I was standing with Sully, I smiled and replied in my best Pamela De Barres, "I'm with the band." Outside we got caught smuggling out unopened beer from backstage and were accused by the valet parkers of bringing them IN.

With shouts of "meet in front of Dorothy!" we all caravaned to the MGM. Sully and Ivy hopped into my car. In doing so, Ivy sat on a leaky water bottle and proceeded to get a soggy butt. Being giddy and intoxicated, it took forever for us to even find Dorothy. By that time everyone else had decided to go to the Hard Rock Hotel. Byron then joined our little entourage. Being so worldly, I gave my version of the MGM tour. There's where we saw Tom Jones, that's were the Go-Go's played. Sully and I deeply lamented how cool the Go-Go's once were.

At the Hard Rock, I realized I had been wearing platform shoes forever and could no longer walk. Sully was the first to hit it big, $40 on a Sid Vicious slot machine. Rob lost about $100, and Celso disappeared fast. The big loser of the night was Brian, who dropped about $200. "It's all my fault," I admitted freely. He lost his PD tour virginity in a major way. The pathetic group of losers returned to their rooms at the Las Vegas Hilton before the street lights even came on. At that point, I had a major dilemma; do I continue wearing the hip yet painful platform shoes, or do I forsake fashion and put on Levi's and Air Jordan's and be comfortable? Byron said pain is a small price to pay for looking good. God bless this boy! Unfortunately, comfort beckoned me. Sully escorted me outside to change; right in the Hard Rock Hotel's front parking lot. Hell, I've changed clothes in more conspicuous places...Unfortunately, I was wearing ugly, ugly underwear... As I removed those god awful shoes, Sully asked, "Have you ever been shrimped?" Now, I love Sully dearly, but I do not want to know anything sick and twisted about his relationship with seafood. He explained that it's a term to describe sucking on toes. And I had always wondered what's been lacking in my life. We returned to the bar (shrimpless - I am not that kind of girl!) and Sully and Ivy began their bonding session. Puff, being the most blind stinking drunk of the group, dumped her purse out all over the floor. Kelly grabbed some guy's butt and tried to blame Sully. The conversation turned to trying to decide whether or not a trampy woman at the bar was a hooker and if Sully should send her an icy cold beverage... Definitely a bad omen for what happened next.

Since I hadn't really kept any food down since the post-22 Jacks adventure, I was starving. Byron and I opted for food, while Ronn, D.C., and Sully had other plans. "Let's go to a strip bar!" Kelly and Ivy joined the battle cry. So, I could either stay at the Hard Rock with Byron and Craig or go to Club Paradise with everyone else. Since I don't even gamble, I reluctantly joined the procession, muttering "We should at least go to the Tender Trap." Now, the Tender Trap is infamous for their pendulous, middle-aged, cellulite-ridden dancers. Mind you, I was kidding, yet no one caught the sarcasm in my voice. Little did we know, the Tender Trap is not only new and improved, but it was also amateur night! Holy shit! Ivy and Sully bailed to the restrooms - leaving me all alone in a topless bar. It was sheer Hell. They emerged, reveling in my discomfort. Sully chose a seat front and center. When the Benways joined us, I was relieved. Puff seemed even more uncomfortable than me, laying face down on the bar in a drunken stupor. Now Sully, that crazy boy. He was a kid in a candy store. He stuffed those g-strings full of dollar bills like there was no tomorrow. The men thought I should donate some money. "They're working hard for it," said Ronn. D.C. pleaded, "Come on, Donna. Fufill my fantasy!" Kelly was this close to strutting her stuff onstage. However, she settled for just taking off her shirt in the bar area. Finally, Sully ran out of money, and we bid adieu and good riddance to the Tender Trap.

Our adventure turned eastward, toward the traditional destination of Lake Mead. We made it as far as Boulder City. I felt too tired to drive, and Sully didn't seem to have the energy to urinate on the art deco statues at Hoover Dam (the tradition of watering statues lives no more).

Like all good things, the night had to end. Bleary-eyed and immensely hung-over, we made our way back to the Las Vegas Hilton. I assume Sully found his room, because he had the number tattooed on his arm in Sharpie. Possum Dixon went on to Area 51 via the "Extraterrestrial Highway". And I made it through another day without getting a concussion, being escorted off any private property, or losing a kidney. There's always the next tour.