It was a Sunday, I think, circa 1995. Late night.

I’d just returned home from a 72-hour burn in Las Vegas, that shiny city in the middle of a massive desert where people go to surf the American dream. The real, hollow American dream, where you can eat in a palace, then visit fake New York, Paris, and Venice in the same night on foot. Was it Jim Morrison who said he’d get his kicks before the whole shithouse went up in flames? Yeah, that’s it. Let it roll, baby, roll!

This Vegas jaunt had been especially ruinous. If you’ve been there, you know what I’m talking about. You step off a plane, abandon all pretense of personal responsibility, and spend a whole goddamn weekend flooring it even when you know you’re running on fumes.

My only clear-cut memory was being in a massive nightclub with an illuminated outdoor pool and island bar, over which hung a huge rotating chandelier. The place was awash in gold, black, and bronze, with dance poles that looked like lanterns spread throughout. Our VIP host told me the design was inspired by the sexy curves of the human body, and while I’m not really sure I got that, it was clear they had a specific body part in mind when they set the prices on the drinks menu: the asshole.

So when I got back to my shitty L.A. apartment after that shitty trip to Sin City, I started mixing myself a toxic nightcap of Drano, sleeping pills, and — for taste — a little chocolate syrup, when inspiration suddenly appeared and lifted me up from the depths of Hangover Hell….

“Wake up!” I shouted, shaking Bottomfeeder, who was passed out on the sofa beneath a tattered blanket covered in what looked to be the remnants of a fish-taco platter and a spilled ashtray. Bottomfeeder was my landlord’s ne’er-do-well nephew who — due to a complex legal settlement struck shortly after a cooking-experiment-gone-wrong resulted in a highly destructive grease fire in my building — had taken up residence in my living room. Not just sleeping there, but living there. Like a homeless guy on a park bench, except with access to my fridge and cable TV.

“Wake up, goddamn it, because I just had an amazing idea and I need to share it with someone… even if that someone is, well, only you.”

There’s only one thing worse than one of those hangover-fueled moments of clarity, and that’s realizing that a man whose career goals include understanding the secret of fire was — gulp! — right.

It’s worth mentioning that Bottomfeeder was unemployed, out of shape, clearly in need of some sort of intervention, and spent nearly all of his non-supine time figuring out creative ways to grow his facial hair.

“For Christ’s sake, man, are you high?” he mumbled, wiping sleep from his bloodshot eyes.

“No. At least, I don’t think I still am,” I croaked.

“How was Vegas?”

“Fuck Vegas!”

“How much did ya lose?”

“Everything.”

“Sleep at all?”

“Nope.”

“Take drugs?”

“Of course.”

“Any fights with the soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend?”

“She left a few hours after we got there.”

“Oh, man,” he sighed. “Does this mean you’re going to try to kill yourself again?”

“That’s what I’m so excited about!”

“Hey, do what ya gotta do, man. Is it cool if I stay in the apartment?”

“No, dude. No! I’m not excited about killing myself!” I beamed. “I’m excited because I just came up with a plan that’ll help me and lots of other people deal with PVSD!”

“PVSD?”

“Post-Vegas stress disorder,” I explained. “You know, that feeling of complete and utter despair that follows a debauched weekend spent wreathed in a miasma of cigarette smoke and impurity, throwing away all your money and dignity to everyone, from the dealers to the strippers to the bartenders.”

“Doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Bottomfeeder replied thoughtfully.

“That’s because you’re a professional degenerate,” I said. “But that’s not the point. The point is, you ever notice how after some kid shoots up his school, they always bring in those grief counselors to help the survivors? Well, what I’m proposing is a service that offers on-demand, one-on-one counseling to people who plummet into a suicidal funk after long weekends in Las Vegas.”

“A kid shot up my school in eleventh grade,” Bottomfeeder said.

“Holy shit. Really? Anybody get hurt?”

“Nah. He used a musket.”

“A musket?”

“Yeah. His dad was a Civil War buff. The kid fired one shot, but couldn’t figure out how to reload the damn thing. So all the popular dudes jumped on him and kicked his teeth in.… Bet that kid could have used some counseling,” he added.

“Maybe. Sure,” I nodded, having learned it was best to agree with Bottomfeeder whenever he went off on a tangent — it reduced the odds of getting sucked into an unwinnable argument. “But anyhow, about my plan for PVSD counseling. First, they calm you down by reassuring you that what you’re experiencing is a combination of alcohol poisoning and withdrawal shock–savings account withdrawal, that is. And that after 72 straight hours of sleep and — ”

“I don’t like it,” Bottomfeeder interjected. “For one thing, how do you pronounce that? Peevee-ested? Sounds girly. Besides, there’s a good reason for feeling so shitty after a Vegas trip.”

“And what would that be?”

“It keeps you from going back again too soon.”

There’s only one thing worse than one of those hangover-fueled moments of clarity, and that’s realizing that a man whose career goals include understanding the secret of fire was — gulp! — right. Certainly my accountant agreed. The ex-girlfriend, too.

Bottomfeeder scratched himself under the arm, apelike, and noticed the glass of murky liquid I was holding. “Could I get a sip of that? My mouth’s drier than Steven Wright.”

As I considered the request, he smoothly snatched the swill from my hand. He tossed it back without hesitation, fell straight back onto the floor, and stared at the ceiling.

 "Good drink,” he muttered. “What’s it called?”

 "The Peevee-ested Martini,” I said, making a mental note to copyright the formula.

PHOTO: Tammy Sands