They're still older than me, John's showing his age now looking like the aging rocker that he is, his long locks shot through with steely old man hair making it look more untamed, more neanderthal.

He's all grins now, though all shucks and good times. No trace of the mayhem that will surely unleash itself now peeks through. All those freakshow times past swept under the bridge.

I'm a bit to cagey to believe that the years have mellowed him much.

"Lawless!" he exclaims, striding across the room. "It's going to be just like old times!" He claps me on the shoulder heartily. "Here! Meet Bruce! Bruce is going to be our documentarian."

Bruce is fourty-five, balding with Ben Franklin long hair sprouting from the sides of his clean dome. Straped to his body is a high-end TASS with that chunky writing that denotes high-end TASSISHNESS -- big, bold, white, self-referential -- a shotgun mike held loosely and headphones around his neck. The very cariacture of a sound geek.

"Ah, the dreaded TASS", I say as I extend a hand in greeting. He sheepishly umphs a "yeah" and shakes my hand.

Its weird seeing this other guy, this new interloper. Last time that was my role. Clearly my role had become far more than that last time, the epitome of gonzo terrorist journalism.

I had gone to cover the story, gotten bored with all the bullshit and foolishness, turned things past ten and created my own fable of the moment.

That was long ago, though and I hardly thought about it. Obviously I wouldn't have gotten where I had been if not for that flukey trip, certainly wouldn't be here now dry-humping that past if I hadn't been then who I was.

It was all something of a grand accident in a way. I could have not gone over the edge, not covered the story and I'd still be the guy doing the recording of the event.

Now I'm the honored eventmaker, though its hard to justify a trip around that. Despite the fact that fortune has shone more favorably on my star, we're all going through the old steps, knowing that the roles from back then are necessary to get the train rolling but an ill fit, awkward and patently bullshit.

John sweeps it all aside.

"It's going to be great times, just like before. Except, no fat whoremonsters."

He's talking of Patricia of course, and its unfair. Patricia was my deal all along and while things melted down at the end, she was still a good woman at heart.

"Of course," I tell him.

I go to the textbook with the chapter about our past saga and thumb through to find the pictures of her. There's only two -- one of us all in a group and one of her alone.

She was a thick girl, not unlike Rachel Ray: big in the torso, thick in the butt, kind of small and perky up top.

She was a spirited, mixed up girl and I can't bear any ill will towards her.

I wonder as we kick off this adventure once again where she'll fit into the grand scheme of things because as I feel the wheel start to turn, I can't help but think she's still on it somewhere.

She'll come around to us eventually.

Dharma is unavoidable like that. John might think he can eclipse it, but he's been wrong like that before.

My understanding of these fundamental states of being are the only thing that make me who I am and got us where we went before.

That's not boastful just labeling the state of being as it truly is.

Not that I'd ever share that with the TASS, of course.

I mean, that's why I always kept to paper -- reality is then subjective.

We'll fuck up Bruce soon enough and hopefully by then we'll be able to keep the inevitable cameras that come next away...