It felt like we were going 12 mph on a crowded highway in Shreveport. Cars were zooming by either side of us, blowing their horns and swerving to get around our five-passenger minivan.

I remember thinking, “Who is this jerk-off driving this machine?” Wait a minute. It was me! Holy sh–t! Get it together. Speed up. Keep it between the lines. We’re good; everything’s good. Just breathe.

Wow! It’s never a good idea to drive an automobile while high on experimental psychedelics, but it felt great to be in control of such a wild, powerful beast of a minivan. It was like holding the reins on a wild stallion. I was the stagecoach driver, and I was on a mission.

How had we gotten into this predicament? We had all dropped the acid an hour or two before, then we selected a designated driver. The selection process went something like this: “Everyone who hasn’t had a DUI, raise your hand.”

Well, I was the only one of the bunch that hadn’t had a DUI. Lucky me, right? (Wow, that really shows what kind of friends I have, a bunch of drunks … )

I managed to get us to Diamond Jack’s Casino, and after a lot of ugly noise and confusion, I was able to find a parking spot. The lights at the casino were so mesmerizing, I felt like I was going to have a seizure before we even stepped foot inside. We walked through the front doors and bang …

It was like opening a portal to another dimension. There was so much all happening at once, I felt like I was being pulled out of my body and my soul was mixing into the chaos like swirly peanut butter jelly. (You know, the peanut butter and jelly that you can buy premixed?) The noise of slot machines alone sounded like a helicopter was hovering in the room.

The guy checking IDs looked at my license for what felt like five minutes. All the while, strange things were happening all around me. The design on the carpet made it look as if it were raised in some spots and sunken at other spots. I had to reach down and see for myself. I didn’t want to twist an ankle walking on this uneven turf.

“Hey. What are you doing down there?” said the burly doorman.

“Huh? Oh, I was just tying my shoes.”

“Those shoes don’t have laces,” he said. “Whatever, here’s your ID. Move along.”

We were only able to last so long on the casino floor. It was too loud and dangerous, the main nerve of heated gambling action, where daddy tosses the dice for a new pair of shoes, and his child’s educational fate is decided by the final resting place of two, small, dotted cubes. Intense.

Gambling’s dangerous and exciting, but I’d much rather blow my money on drugs and alcohol and women. But when you blow your money on bar tabs, XTC tabs, or a hooker named Tabs, you really don’t have much to show for it – nothing except for the occasional overdose, run-in with the law, sexually transmitted diseases, and, in some cases, fatality. Other than that, it’s a safe bet.

We got off the floor and sat at a corner table in the bar. It was much more quiet and peaceful there. I shifted gears and started drinking martinis (gin, extra dirty). The rest of the guys took a cue and started drinking, too. We had a long night ahead of us. The casino was just a starting point.

One of the guys hit the video poker machine for $500, so now we had money. We just needed a place to spend it. We decided to check out the club scene in downtown Shreveport. After all, I don’t make it to that part of the state very often.

To be continued…