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Must Not Die Before These Shows

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LAist woke up in the back seat of our car at six-thirty this morning, somewhere off Ventura Boulevard in the far west Valley, hugging a bottle of Jim Beam in our bloody, sliced-up hands and vowing never again to play a show in Santa Barbara on a Monday night. (We're pretty sure someone else drove us home.)

The last thing we recall is a cute local girl leaving the crowd of sugardaddy-CEOs who were hounding her at the Velvet Jones, and buying us a shot she called a Child Molester. We responded in kind, ordering up several Rocky Mountain Motherfuckers before the night was over. The SoCo settled on us slowly but heavily, like a pile of fuzzy purple bricks.

No amount of water now will cool our raging thirst, and the acid content of the AM-PM coffee we chugged to get us back to Highland Park is eating a new belly button right through our clothes. But jittery and jangly though we are, we're too excited to sleep anyway, considering all the fun stuff that's coming up in the next few days.