Tao of Pauly

Pink Rabbits

I lost fourteen pounds since Hampton, Virginia where I started my last Phish tour in early August. The road less traveled had a lot less pound cake. More than half the heads were on the “tour diet” of one meal a day with several long periods of sleep deprivation and illicit narcotic snortage. In Santa Fe, my famished body enjoyed having more than a meal a day… and some of the finest Southwestern cuisine at that. I never mentioned the chicken enchiladas that I devoured at the Pink Adobe. Man, I’d consider flying back just for another dish.

Have you ever witnessed a stunning New Mexico sunset? The impressionist array of dozens of light hues of purple, pink, and orange float in the endless sky. No wonder so many painters move out there from the dreary, filthy cities back east. If the West Coast hipsters didn’t flock to Santa Fe in the late 1990s and drive up the rent prices and infest the local area with a gazillion Starbucks… I would have moved there a decade ago. There’s a price to pay to live in one of the most beautiful cities in the world.

One of the drawbacks of being an insomniac is the lack of dreams that I get to experience. Yeah, my blog would be flooded with meaningless tales about my obscure, hypersexual, ironically symbolic dream world. Haley has strange dreams all the time. I've encouraged her to started up her own dream blog. And always, she lazily declines. I used to get the most random calls or emails describing, in freakingly astonishing detail, all of Haley’s dreams. The poor girl could never remember what she ate for breakfast the day before, but she could recant the specifics of the fluorescent orange socks I was wearing one night when I pedaled a bicycle down Fifth Avenue with multiple Japanese film crews following me in two shopping carts. It gets better… seriously, this is a real dream Haley had when I was in Santa Fe… because there were five Japanese guys in each shopping cart shooting my every move. I had been hired by a Japanese reality TV show at the same time I was shooting a documentary. Both crews elbowed each other to get the better shot of me on a bicycle. And whenever Haley finally completes her long, rambling, intricate dream narration… I sarcastically utter up, “Did you drop acid yesterday? And if so, why you holding out? I’d like to see pink rabbits too.”

For the record, I signed a deal with a Norwegian film production company where I’ll produce and direct a series of short films on goat cheese, Post-Modern Eastern European Existentialism, and Burmese sex slaves. My Norwegian is horrible, but I think in my contract it states that after all the shooting is complete… I get to keep either one of the goats or one of the sex slaves. Or both, perhaps, if I’m truly lucky. And yes, I’m laughing right now because I know that some of my sexually twisted readers actually had the fleeting thought... "Hmmm, I wonder if he could get the sex slave to fuck the goat?"

You’re all a bunch of criminals.

Nothing brightens my groggy Sunday mornings that a chat with Al Can’t Hang. Within the first few minutes he admitted some odd things such as how he indirectly works for Kirsten Dunst’s dad and that I'm his "friggin' hero." Always flattering to hear, but this was the gem... "I like little surprises in my life to make me a little happier. I forgot in my drunken stupor last night that I made Mrs. Hang stop for fresh Krispy Kreme. I just walked into the kitchen a saw them there."

Amen for donuts. After long ten hour sessions of playing poker at the Excalibur in Las Vegas, I sprint up the escalator to their food court and devour a few Krispy Kremes. Win or lose, it’s a great treat. I love having a belly full of donuts and watered down vodka tonics and wandering down the Strip, stumbling underneath the stuttering flashes of neon in the few minutes or so before first break of dawn… when the darkness begrudgingly fades into night, and you can count the seconds before it disappears when the morning light illuminates the mountains, and you finally remember that you’re not dreaming… you are wide awake, never more in the moment, felling the bulge in your pocket and it’s really an erection or a wad of cash (again, both if you’re lucky… dude, I can’t believe she fucked the goat!)… and you reach that apex of philosophical dread when you scream at a bunch of disheveled drunk tourists from Alabama… "What the fuck are we doing in the middle of the desert eating buffet eggs for $2.99?"

My awkward spiral into spiritual desolation always happens when I gamble with money I should be using to pay off the thieves at the IRS or using the money for something useful, like cigarette addictions or a manic shopping spree at Williams and Sonoma with a top-heavy stripper I met standing at a roulette table with a Cosmopolitan in one hand and a diamond ring on her other hand that was the size of John Holmes’ cock. I’d like to meet the old, dumb, uber-rich retard that bought Bubbles that exquisite piece of jewelry.

Yeah, I just wrote out a check to the IRS for a monthly payment that I arranged with them after I found myself drowning in a small lake of back taxes. I hate exchanging cash from my poker wins to pay off debts. Sure, I have no problem using my winnings to fund trips to Vermont or Las Vegas… but it just sucks to know I busted my ass at a card table for sixteen hours and accept the sad fact that the money I won was going to my Government. Next tax season, I hope to write off all my poker losses and offset any capital gains that might be taxed. If I only had a hotel heiress to marry, who would pay off my outstanding debts with various entities.

The IRS must have me flagged. I have a online poker account in Gibraltar. I have a sports betting account in Curaco. I have a checking account set up in an off-shore bank in New Zealand. It's a matter of time before I'm brought downtown for questioning.