This is the eighth in a series. It is someone else's story, told to and transcribed by me. Basically, he gave me the details and atmosphere and a lot of the words and I put them together in my magic hat and pulled this out. His voice, his story, my translation.

23 Lines on A Tree Skin*

Recording. Fuck. Recording. Fuck. I had never done it before. I've been with other people while they did it. I knew the gig. Wait. Drink beer. Wait. Drink beer. Wait. TV time. Little House on the Prairie is on God dammit. Everyone needs to shut up 'cause someone's going blind on the Prairie and I wanna see it! So shut up! Wait. Drink beer. Wait. Taco Bell time. Wait. Go Home. Drink beer.

When I was told we were recording the next week, I was sleeping in a three-story Victorian house in the middle of nowhere. I could barely open my eyes enough to step over bodies to get outside. We had to travel. Yeah, dude. Unfortunately these places aren't in the greatest locations. I wasn't recording for a big time label that fed us cocaine and vodka as we sat and waited while eating steak sandwiches. This was a warehouse in the projects. Just enough locks on the door to let people know you couldn't get in and enough that neighbors wouldn't think it was a meth lab.

It would be a four-hour drive to the studio. Welcome to L.A. You can't fucking go to the bathroom without a four-hour wait. You get used to it, but it doesn't mean you have to like it. We had a friend producing it all at discount so we hopped in the van and headed for the studio. In that god forsaken town. The land of the Mouse. Christ. Anaheim. Fucking Anaheim. When we got into town, we booked into a hotel, dumped our stuff off, and immediately headed down to the studio to check out what we were going to be doing — how it was going to work and who was going to be there. I was tired. The only thing that made me happy was the hat I bought with the last of my money on the drive down. Fucking Anaheim. The last of my money. Spent on shit food and a stupid Mouse hat cause I was too drunk to actually think I might need to eat sometime.

I was so tired, my eyes couldn't see Jesus if he stepped off a plane from heaven and asked me driving directions. I couldn't see anything for that matter. I was wearing a headband fully pulled down over my eyes except for a slit that only let me look out if I raised my head. New hat on head. Bottle in hand.

I walked into the studio and immediately hit the sofa in the front room. Hey dude. In a studio, a sofa is a lifesaver. The comfier it is the more the owner scores "Jesus Points." If you get enough of these points you get to ride in the carpool lane to heaven. I think. Don't quote me on that one.