Please Note: This is a partly fictional tale. Details have been changed to protect the innocent.

We were somewhere around Reno, flying high above the desert, when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit lightheaded. Maybe you should take the window seat.” Suddenly there was a terrible roar all around us, and the sky was full of what looked like huge bats, all swooping and screeching and diving around the plane. A voice was screaming, Holy Jesus what are these god damn animals? No reason to mention the bats to the mad scientist sitting next to me—that poor bastard would see them soon enough.

We had two pounds of purple haze, 10 pellets of mescaline, 1 eye dropper full of high powered liquid acid, a suger shaker full of cocaine, a whole mirage of multi colored uppers, downers, screamers, laughers…also a quart of whiskey, a quart of sizzurp, a case of PBR, a pint of ether and a ounce of opium. Not that we needed all that for the boat ride—but once you get locked into a serious drug collection, the tendency is to push it to the limit.

One toke over the line. There’s something you should probably understand. This was a very ominous assignment, with overtones of extreme personal danger. I’m a doctor of journalism man. Let’s get right to the heart of this thing. 24 hours ago we were sitting pool side at The Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas, in the cabanas of course, drinking Hatori Hanzos with mushroom spores on the side. Hiding, from the brutish realities of this foul year of our lord: two thousand and six.

The telephone rang in the cabana. It was headquarters…they wanted me to go to Portland at once. Make contact with an Italian photographer named Marrel Dathes, he’d have all the details. All I had to do is get to the dock by 10:00; he would seek me out. As my attorney advised me, I needed to get to the Las Vegas airport, fly to Portland and rent a very fast car with no top. And I’d need the cocaine. And why not? If anything’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right. This is the American Dream in action.

We’d be fools not to hop on this floating contraption full of professional snowboarders and industry folk. It was going to be the ultimate ride, full of exciting contest and plenty of booze. That’s what the press release said anyway.

Getting a hold of the drugs and shirts was no problem, but the car and camera were not easy things to round up at 6:30 on a Friday afternoon in Portland. It was absolutely imperative that we got to the boat launch before they closed the press registration. Otherwise, we might have to pay to get on board.

This trip was different. It was only for those with true grit.

The rest of the people on board said they understood. But I could see in their eyes that they didn't.

They were lying to me.

My attorney the scientist has a bad heart. Ingina pectoris. But we had a cure for it.

The scientist needed his medicine.

And one for the doctor.

What the f-ck were doing out here in the middle of the river?

We need help.

We had to get off this thing before somebody finds a cop.

Better be careful. There's plenty of vultures out here, they'll pick your bones clean before morning.

How long do I have before the sunshine acid kicks in?

Was I ready for that? A two-hour boat ride with the intent to commit complimentary booze consumption via my flask the whole trip with a head full of acid?

Thirty minutes...it was going to be close.

I can't explain the terror I felt.

Okay. Be quiet. Be calm.

Name, rank, press affiliation. Nothing more.

Ignore this terrible drug.

Pretend it's not happening.

I have my attorneeeeeeyyyyyy with me. And we must have the suite.

Someone is looking for us?!? NO, we haven't done anything yet!

The faces rang a bell, but I couldn't concentrate.

Terrible things were happening all around us. Order some golf shoes, otherwise we'll never get out of this place alive. Impossible to walk in this muck. No footing at all.

I was right in the middle of a f-cking reptile zoo! And somebody was giving booze to these god damn things. It won't be long now, before they tear us to shreds.

Jesus, look at that bunch over there! They've spotted us.

There's a big machine in the sky. Some sort of electric snake, coming right at us.

Don't come near me...leave me alone.

In some circles, the booze crooze is a far, far better thing than the US Open, the X-Games and the 420 Games all rolled into one.

This thing attracts a very special breed.

It was time to get grounded. To ponder this rotten assignment and learn how to cope with it.

It was time to do the job.

Those of us who had been up all night wanted strong drink.

We were, after all, the absolute cream of the national snowboard press.

We were gathered here in Portland for this very special moment in sport.

Take me back to shore. It was time, I felt, for an agonizing reappraisal of the whole scene. I had witnessed the crooze, I was sure of that much. But what now—what comes next?

Ah yes, this is what its all about. Tooling along the main drag on a Saturday night in Portland. Two good ol' boys in a sliver bullet Volkswagen—stoned, ripped, twisted. Good people.

We're all wired into a survival trip now. No more of the speed that fueled the 90s. That was the fatal flaw of the booze crooze. They crashed around Portland, selling bar tab freedom without ever giving a thought to the grim meathook realities that were lying in wait for all those that took it seriously. All those pathetically eager drunkies who thought they could buy drunken bliss at 10 bucks a pop. But some bartender, somewhere, is tending the light at the end of the liquor cabinet.