THERE ARE THOSE FEW SLEEPLESS NIGHTS YOU LOOK FORWARD TO-

LIKE THOSE YOU SPEND WRITHING, CATERWAULING, SURGING—YOUR BODY WARPING FROM THE FRICTION BETWEEN YOU AND A HEDONIST WHOSE NAME YOU DON’T EVEN CARE TO KNOW. PLEASURE VERGING ON TORTURE, COVETING VERGING ON IDOLATRY-

OR LIKE THOSE YOU SPEND TRYING TOO HARD TO THINK INTELLIGIBLE THOUGHT, TRYING TO SOLVE ALL THE MYSTERIES OF GOD, LIFE AND CHAOS, BUT INSTEAD YOU END UP WRITING THE BEST USELESS POETRY IN THE ENTIRE WORLD-

FOR ME, LAST NIGHT WAS NEITHER, THE WHOLE EIGHT HOURS WAS WASTED, ALONE, AS ALL THAT RAN THROUGH MY HEAD WERE THE SONGS OF THE NOT-SO-GREATS OF THE VEGAS MARVEL EXPERIENCE—TOM JONES, NEIL DIAMOND, B.J. THOMAS (OKAY, SO HE’S NOT SO VEGASESQUE). SINGING, IN FULL COSTUME, SONGS I HAD NEVER HEARD BEFORE, AND NOW KNOW WHY. THE HARDER I TRIED TO THINK SOMETHING SUBSISTENT, THE FLATTER THEY SANG AND THE MORE ENRAGED I BECAME. I’VE FOUND THAT TORMENT LOVES COMPANY—MY NIGHT WORSENED. I FELL ASLEEP TWICE DURING MY TOURGUIDED MARCH TO SEQUINED HELL. BOTH TIMES FALLING IMMEDIATELY INTO THE SAME DREAM-

I WALKED INTO AN OLD, ABANDONED WAREHOUSE TO FIND AN ALREADY IN PROGRESS GAME OF HOLLYWOOD SQUARES. FROM THE TOP LEFT CORNER OF THE SET CAME THE VOICE OF AN INTOXICATED NIPSEY RUSSELL SCREAMING, “HEY, BABE, I’LL GET YOU AN X.” AND BOTH TIMES IMMEDIATELY WOKE UP TO THE GERMAN VERSION OF KRACKLIN’ ROSIE BEING BELTED BY DER DIAMOND MANN HIMSELF. BUT WHY??? COULD THERE BE A POINT.

TODAY, AS I WENT ALONG PERPLEXED BY MY NIGHT I FOUND NO GREAT ENLIGHTENMENT, BUT DID LEARN WHAT I’D LEARNED LONG AGO AND HAD FORGOTTEN. THAT IS, THAT EVERYTHING, EVEN THE SMALLEST, STRANGEST THINGS ARE LINKED WITH OTHER SMALL AND STRANGE THINGS. IT IS ALL CONNECTED IN SOME WAY, WHETHER OR NOT WE ARE CONSCIOUS OF IT, WHETHER OR NOT WE KNOW THE REASONS, WHETHER OR NOT THEY HAVE ANY SELF-ACTUALIZING REVELATIONARY EFFECT ON US.

WHEN I TURNED ON THE TEEVEE THIS MORNING, I CAUGHT THE TAIL-END OF REGIS TELLING THE EVERSOSPARKLING KATHIE LEE AN ANECDOTE ABOUT NIPSEY RUSSELL. IN MY CAR, FLIPPING RANDOMLY THROUGH THE RADIO STATIONS, I STOPPED MID FLIP TO LIGHT A CIGARETTE. WHAT DID I HEAR? KRACKLIN’ ROSIE, BUT IN ENGLISH OF COURSE. AND FINALLY, WALKING THROUGH MY FRONT DOOR, I FIND MY ROOMMATE LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AT A CHRISTMAS SPECIAL—THE OPENING ACT BEING MR. TOM JONES. I’M STILL WAITING TO HEAR FROM B.J., PERHAPS I’LL BE OFFERED SOME “…LITTLE GREEN APPLES” OR GET RAINED ON.

BUT NOW I KNOW THAT LAST NIGHT’S DELIRIUM WAS NOT TOTALLY FOR NAUGHT. AND TONIGHT I CAN GO TO SLEEP WITH A MYSTERY TO SOLVE AND POSSIBLY A USELESS POEM OR TWO, BUT ONLY DREAMING ABOUT HEDONS AND FRICTION.