If anyone knows how to get in touch with the Kid, I'd greatly appreciate it.

See, we were all partying from the night before the first show straight on through to four days later. Four days with no sleep and plenty of particle accelerators will warp any American Badass, and so it seems Bob (that's what his peeps call him) left his traveling pharmacy behind. I can't travel with the shit since when I put it in my car the tires make contact with the wheel wells, so I'm hoping his representatives can send a semi or something so I can go home and get some sleep.

And before anyone asks, the answer is no, you can't have the drugs.

Anyway, before Kid split, we did manage to check the Internet from our T-1 connection in the Rick James Suite at the Mandalay Bay, and wouldn't you know, there was already a truckload of hoo-hah swirling around Phish's decision to let Kid share a stage with them. So between psychotic episodes, bathroom breaks, smashing the hotel's shit and watching Smackdown on pay-per-view, we got to talking about it, and I happened to have my homey's Schoeps rig going while we talked (the video camera's batteries had ran out right about the time the midget tossing troupe spooked and left).

I transcribed the discussion to the best of my ability, but I think you'll find that the Kid is surprisingly coherent after seven grams of Bolivian marching powder, a half-pound of hydro and twenty-six Miller High Lifes. Check it.

Me: So, dude...these Phish freaks don't know what to make of you (coughs).

Kid: I know this, my son. Trey and I spoke of the fans' inevitable dismay only hours after we forded a gauntlet of hookers at the Mandalay Bay. We were prepared.

Me: And you did it anyway?

Kid: Blake said, "drive your cart and plough over the bones of the dead." Timidity poisons the well of art.

Me: Fair enough. But why do you think they're reacting this way?

Kid: Resisting the temptation to use Gamehendge motifs as allegory, let's just say that it seems some folks forgot to bring their senses of humor to Las Vegas, a surreal Gomorrah that demands great helpings of same.

Me: But what about your misogynist lyrics? Aren't you a symbol of violence against women?

Kid: Violence against women is the only symbol of violence against women.

Me: But you encourage misogyny.

Kid: I depict misogyny...among many other attitudes and behaviors.

Me: Is there a difference?

Kid: Is there a difference between Biblical stories of sin and sin itself?

Me: Um.

Kid: Allow me to rephrase. "I" am at least two people. Right now, "I" may be three or four. One of my personas exists to illuminate a condition of society and common consciousness. If it excites you, threatens you, or angers you, perhaps you should look within yourself for what's manifesting your reaction.

Me: So you're saying that you're a reflection of misogyny rather than a cause.

Kid: You vex me. Pass the bong. [takes huge rip, exhales] Thank you, my son. Now, where were we?

Me: I was vexing you.

Kid: Ah, yes. To understand me and to comprehend my purpose, imagine the lightning rod. The heavens and the earth exist in my absence, and the energy that separates and binds them will eventually create lightning; it is merely a matter of time. Where the lightning will erupt and strike the earth is random and unpredictable, making it hard to observe and study it. But add a lightning rod, and we know exactly where to look. Though a limited mind may choose to confuse proximity and cause, I am not responsible for the phenomenon of lightning itself. I merely make the phenomenon easier to observe. Can you dig?

Me: A little, I guess. But do you have to corrupt Phish with your caveman music? Phish is so sophisticated.

Kid: Now you're projecting.

Me: Fuck you, man!

Kid: Much better. You see, despite their prodigious chops and their flair for Stires-inspired flights of fancy, Phish and the Kid have much in common. We are children of the Mall Jungle; we grew up on blacklights and pussy-flavored incense and flatbed El Caminos and drug-fueled Queen albums. At some point, each of us realized we liked black music, too. We also realized somewhere along the way that music was a mutation of energy, and that this energy can be wielded in many different ways to produce many different feelings. We are simply expressing the sum of our experience, and it is the polarities or differences in these experiences that make music -- and life -- interesting. You may take what you need, and leave the rest behind. The point is to go into the world and live your life as best as you know how, and not worry so much about everyone else.

Me: Oh, yeah! Like, "surrender to the flow."

Kid: Bong. Quickly. [takes another rip, smoke fills room] I believe you are on the cusp of understanding, my son. Continue.

Me: Well, I think what you're saying is, like, stay in your own movie. Take art and music and stuff for what it is. Like it or don't like it, but don't attach all this other heavy stuff to it, because then it's just not fun anymore. Like Wilson.

Kid: You had me right up until this "Wilson."

Me: Wilson is this king who represses the Lizards.

Kid: Is this the Wilson Phish sang of in Las Vegas?

Me: That's the one.

Kid: Word. That song fucking rocks...

This is where my tape player ran out. As a reward for my patience, Kid gave me a few choice stock tips, revealed the meaning of life (which I was contractually sworn not to share with a single soul), and left without saying goodbye.

Oh, and about the drugs -- nevermind. My cleaning lady says Hunter Thompson just checked into the Streisand Suite.