Reader’s Note:
If you missed last week’s essay about this story, Part 1 of this essay can be found right here.
This week’s essay might be too long for email, so you can read it online here.
Also, photos are also included in the written version of this essay if you’d like to see the evidence of the chaos.
Lastly, I thought this would be a two-part essay series, but as it turns out, the story is so detailed from my perspective, that it will have to turn into three with the conclusion ending next week.
Appreciating the trainwreck in slow motion?
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Thanks for hanging out this week!
-Shannon
Somewhere between the empty plates and the rising buzz of the Mirage casino, reality started to set in.
Not the glitzy Vegas kind. The kind where you realize you’ve just helped fund someone else’s culinary fantasy while quietly praying your credit card doesn’t bounce on the way back to the room.
Bret and I peeled off from the table without a word. Not because we were upset—we’d moved past that. It was more like emotional triage. We’d just contributed to a financial mess we couldn’t afford and didn’t benefit from, and now we were expected to rally like none of it happened.
The rest of the group scattered into the casino haze, ready to throw more money at whatever distraction lit up first. Eric was already mid-spiral, and no one seemed particularly interested in stopping him. Maybe Fitz was babysitting him, but it was all a blur.
That’s when Larry gave us an unexpected out.
He asked what we had planned for the rest of the night. Both of us shrugged and said we’d probably walk around for a bit, maybe head up to the room and regroup before catching Bret’s friend’s band later—somewhere off the Strip, sometime around 10 or 11 p.m., because... Vegas.
Larry nodded, paused, and then said, “You guys want to go see a show?”
He was talking about Beatles LOVE. One of his favorites. And he said it was on him.
We didn’t need convincing. It wasn’t about the show. It was about sitting somewhere dark, away from receipts and responsibility. But it would be cool to see a Vegas show. I wasn’t complaining.
For an hour, we let acrobats distract us with controlled chaos. Human bodies twisted midair to “I Am the Walrus,” and I started wondering what kind of core strength you needed to survive in either Cirque du Soleil or radio.
It helped. Not much. But enough.
The show ended and, while it was amusing—and I was genuinely grateful to Larry for picking up the tickets—I was already itching to get out into the night. Not to rage or gamble or do the full “Vegas, baby” routine. I just wanted to walk the Strip. To see the lights. To feel like I was part of the thing.
Bret, on the other hand, was laser-focused. He had one mission: get to Vamp’d and see his friend Christian play.
As we exited the theater, Larry asked what we were doing next. Bret told him about the show again, about his friend’s band playing off the Strip, and casually extended the invite. Larry declined. Said he was going to head back to his room and call it a night. And honestly, I didn’t blame him. After the chaos of dinner, the money hemorrhage, and the Cirque mind-melt, turning in didn’t sound like the worst idea.
But I couldn’t do it. I needed to move. I needed to be outside, to feel like I had some control over what came next. I was also starving. I don't remember if I actually ate anything after that dinner. Maybe I grabbed something. Maybe I didn't. The whole thing felt like one long emotional sugar crash.
Bret and I went up to our rooms to freshen up, then met back down in the lobby. We were both still laughing about dinner—about the foie gras, about Fitz ordering like he had just inherited oil money, about the absolute disaster of trying to split that bill. It was the kind of post-trauma bonding that only happens after you’ve survived a luxury menu with a fast-food budget.
We grabbed a cab and headed off the Strip. The ride was a blur of streetlights, dumb jokes, and low-key anticipation. Neither of us really knew what we were walking into, but we were already more relaxed just being away from the Mirage and its $40 salads.
Even though I wasn’t drinking at the time—newly sober, trying to hold it together—I knew that Vamp’d might test that. I wasn’t naive about it. I was doing my best. I also knew there was a non-zero chance I might slip. I wasn’t proud of that, but I was honest about it.
Still, the night had promise.
Back then, being in radio came with this weird VIP credibility. You could show up at a bar, mention a name or two, and suddenly nobody carded you. You didn’t wait in line. You just walked in. In Phoenix, it was practically a cheat code. But in Vegas, it felt different. We were out of our territory.
Luckily, there was a familiar connection. Dennis Huff—a former KUPD night guy before me—had been working at KOMP 92.3 in Vegas since 2005. He knew the scene, and I think his name helped grease the wheels. Christian, Bret’s friend, definitely helped too. We weren’t just crashing—we had people.
We were also supposed to meet Bret’s buddy Dave, and there was a rumor floating around that a few members of Five Finger Death Punch might be hanging out at the bar that night. Which, for the time, was a big deal. They were everywhere. On the radio. On tour. On shirts at gas stations. If they really showed up, it was going to be one of those “holy shit” moments where you pretend you’re cool but secretly text your group chat under the table.
We didn’t say it out loud, but there was this shared hope that the night was about to shift in our favor—slightly.
When we got to the door at Vamp’d, Dennis was already waiting outside.
Now, Dennis and Bret had a history. A real one. They’d worked together back before I even started at KUPD in 2001. By the time I showed up, Bret already had a couple of years under his belt, and he and Dennis had built a solid friendship long before I ever hit the airwaves. So it wasn’t surprising that they had a better rapport than I did with either of them. And that was fine. I respected it. It made sense.
Dennis greeted us like we were locals. And right away, he hit us with something casual that landed like a pipe bomb.
“Vinnie Paul’s in the club.”
As in, that Vinnie Paul.
From Pantera.
For a second, my brain couldn’t process it. I’d met him a couple of times before—he was actually my very first interview as a full-time radio jock—but still. The idea of walking into a club where Vinnie Paul was just... there, casually posted up with a drink in his hand, was surreal.
He wasn’t backstage. He wasn’t flanked by handlers. He was just sitting at a table like anyone else, watching a band.
Dennis, of course, played it cool. He’d been in Vegas for years and had built his own kind of friendship with Vinnie. The kind where you talk about meat rubs, do shots, hang out—not as industry peers, but like neighbors who just happened to sell out arenas in different decades.
That was wild to me. Dennis had the same kind of bond with Vinnie that he had with Bret. And I couldn’t figure out how to process that. Not with logic, anyway. So I just held onto the moment and tried not to internally combust.
Inside the club, the scene felt more local than legendary. Pockets of people sat around tables with drinks, the kind of crowd that made you forget you were in Vegas until you looked around and saw who was in the room.
Christian was already on stage, and Bret leaned over and pointed him out. “That’s my buddy,” he said.
I had no idea what band Christian was in—and it didn’t matter. It was just cool. Bret still had music-world connections from his days doing A&R for Aezra Records, and this was one of those nights where they came back around in the best way.
We made our way toward the back of bar, and there he was.
Vinnie Paul.
Wearing a black shirt, drink in hand, surrounded by friends—laughing, talking, totally unbothered by the fact that he was, well, Vinnie Paul.
Dennis brought Bret over and introduced him. They exchanged a few words. Vinnie gave the classic head nod. I didn’t get to meet him that night, not formally—but I saw him. I was five feet away. And that was enough.
Because when you grow up watching someone command a stage in front of twenty thousand people, and then you see them just chilling in a bar like a normal dude—it messes with your equilibrium in the best possible way.
It reminded me that this industry—radio, music, all of it—was made of real people. Big names, sure. But also barflies, old friends, and quiet nods in dark corners of clubs.
After the hellos were out of the way, Christian kept playing on stage. Bret’s friend Dave leaned in and said, “Let’s go grab a drink at the bar so we can finish watching the set.”
Bret and I nodded. I had every intention of sticking with water.
Being sober at this point wasn’t easy. Not in Vegas. Not at a rock bar. And definitely not with Bret—the man who referred to himself, semi-ironically, as my work wife. If anyone could enable me back into a bad decision, it was him. Not maliciously. He just missed Drunk Shannon. He thought it was hilarious. He liked my chaos.
Still, I was determined. I was drinking water.
We left Dennis posted up near Vinnie and walked toward the bar. As soon as we got there, I ordered a water. Quickly. Preemptively. I didn’t want the window to open. I didn’t want the questions.
Didn’t matter.
Dave turned to Bret. “What are you having?” Then he flagged down the bartender. Turned to me. “What about you?”
I shook my head. “Just water.”
He grinned. “Come on. What do you want?”
“I’m sober, man. Just trying to keep it together.”
Bret chimed in like clockwork. “You’re in Vegas. Live a little.”
I tried to hold the line, but the pressure kept coming.
One minute later, I caved. “Okay. One glass of wine.”
Just one.
And of course, the guys lit up like they’d won something. “That’s the spirit!” “There we go!” All that live life, you’re in Vegas energy. Like I’d been missing out on the point this whole time.
The drinks came. Bret got a shot and a beer. Dave got something boozy and complicated. I got my wine and immediately decided I was going to nurse the hell out of it.
We raised our glasses.
A toast to being at Vamp’d. A toast to being alive. A toast to the weird little fraternity of radio lifers who knew that sometimes, just being out with friends and music was enough.
Clink.
Sip.
And for a moment, yeah—life felt pretty good.
We headed back toward the stage to watch the rest of Christian’s set. I stuck to my plan—tiny sips, spaced out, just enough to hold the glass and not spiral. I knew how I got when I drank too much: loud, impulsive, generous in a way that got expensive real fast.
This wasn’t going to be that kind of night.
Christian played for about 30 minutes, and while Bret focused on the band, I found myself drifting into people-watching mode. Scanning the room, wondering if anyone from Five Finger Death Punch had actually shown up. They hadn’t. And that was fine. Vinnie Paul was more than enough.
After the set, Bret said we’d give Christian a minute to decompress, then head backstage to say hi.
So we lingered. Me, Bret, Dave, Dennis—hanging out near the back of the club, soaking in the afterglow of the show. Eventually, we made our way behind the stage.
Christian was incredibly nice. Friendly, humble, totally chill. I barely remember the interaction—not because I was drunk, but because the whole night had become one long, vibrating blur of sound and neon and memory overload.
Someone snapped a photo of all of us. A bunch of guys in a Vegas club, smiling like idiots. It looked exactly like what it was:
A good night, preserved badly, in digital proof that we were there.
After a few minutes backstage, Christian told us he was going to pack up his gear and meet us out on the patio. So the rest of us—me, Bret, Dave, and Dennis—grabbed our drinks and made our way outside.
By then, I was halfway through my glass of wine. I’d learned that Dave was retired, had made some kind of money—no idea how much, but enough that he clearly didn’t think twice about buying rounds. Even with the peer pressure, I was sticking to my plan. One drink. That was it.
But as soon as we stepped onto the patio, the cool air hit, and so did the buzz.
It wasn’t bad. Just enough to make things feel a little softer around the edges. Conversations got easier. The noise from inside melted away, and we could actually hear each other.
Bret mostly stuck with Dennis—catching up, trading stories—and I floated between them and Dave, bouncing between convos like a good social diplomat.
My wine stayed where it was. I wasn’t nursing it anymore—I was guarding it. Trying to signal, nonverbally, I'm good. I'm pacing myself. Leave me be.
That lasted about 10 or 15 minutes.
Then Dave said, “Let’s do another round.”
I declined. Again. But that only opened the door to the classic Vegas chorus:
“Come on.”
“You’re in Vegas.”
“Live a little.”
“What happens here...”
And of course, Bret—my ever-faithful enabler—was right there with the assist.
So I negotiated with myself.
“Okay, fine. Just... top off what’s left. That’s it.”
That was the last time I remember actively consenting to a refill. What I didn’t realize—what wouldn’t hit me until after the trip—was that my glass never actually emptied. Every time I set it down, it somehow refilled. Like some cursed goblet in a Greek myth, but instead of water from the gods, it was bottom-shelf cabernet with the power to unravel my dignity in slow motion.
The conversation turned toward the usual radio stuff: good bands, bad bands, legendary tours, industry gossip. I started feeling looser, funnier. Louder.
I took another sip.
Or maybe it was a gulp.
Then another.
And eventually, the part of me that was trying to maintain control started to drift away, replaced by that guy—the one I tried not to be anymore.
I don’t remember all the specifics of what I said that night, but I do know this:
I talked a lot of shit about the band Grade 8.
Specifically their song “Brick by Brick.”
I went on this whole tirade about how that was the only decent track on an otherwise forgettable album. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t even a fair take—the album wasn’t bad. But drunk me had decided Grade 8 was the musical equivalent of a failed energy drink, and I wouldn’t shut up about it.
I was obnoxious. Loud. Slurring words, swinging opinions like a bat in a bar fight no one else was in.
I just kept talking shit.
About Grade 8.
Over and over.
Like they’d personally wronged me.
And the worst part? No one was even arguing with me. I was fighting a ghost.
After about ten, maybe fifteen minutes of me talking unfiltered shit about bands—like I was giving a TED Talk no one asked for—this guy on the patio started watching me.
Eventually, he walked over to our group and looked right at me.
“What bands were you talking about?”
I listed them off. Loud. Proud. Drunk.
And then I got to Grade 8.
That’s when he smiled—real calm, real casual—and said, “I’m in Grade 8.”
Just like that.
No anger. No attitude. Just facts.
I froze. Completely floored. Flabbergasted. Embarrassed. It was like my soul tried to leave my body but got stuck in the doorway.
For the next ten minutes, I tried to backpedal with the grace of a guy tripping over his own dignity.
“Oh man, I didn’t mean that.”
“I was just being loud.”
“I don’t actually know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m just some drunk asshole from out of town.”
I was scrambling. Full panic mode. Wine-fueled damage control.
Meanwhile, my dumbass had already broadcast that we were in radio, that we’d seen a million shitty bands, and that I was an authority on all of them—especially the ones I hated.
Now here I was, trying to PR my way out of insulting someone to their face.
Dennis, Dave, and Bret? They were losing it. Laughing their asses off. Watching me spiral into this slow-motion car crash of accidental career sabotage.
The guy—who said he was either the drummer or guitarist or something in Grade 8—never got mad. He just stood there, smirking, letting me drown in my own awkward.
I posted a photo of him to my Facebook after that trip asking people if they knew which band he played for. Listeners swore it was a member of Grade 8, but couldn’t tell me his name.
I've tried doing a reverse image search on it to confirm—nothing. The band went through so many members that for all I know, I could’ve insulted their lighting guy. Or their bassist. Or the guy who sold merch in 2004.
But they were based in Vegas, and everything he said checked out. So yeah... I probably really did call Grade 8 a garbage band to a member of Grade 8.
And my wine glass?
It still hadn’t emptied.
It just kept refilling itself like some cursed relic. I don’t remember finishing it. I don’t remember asking for more. But it never emptied. Not once.
That’s the last thing I remember clearly from that night: me, red-faced, trying to walk back a drunken rant while three of my friends laughed themselves into oxygen debt on the patio of a Vegas rock bar.
And honestly?
Fair.
I don’t remember when we actually left Vamp’d. Time had stopped working in any measurable way. The bands were done. The energy had dipped. But I still had that drunken electricity surging through me—the kind of wired, glassy-eyed buzz that keeps your body moving even though your brain is melting. 🫠
That’s when Dave started in about menudo.
Loudly. Repeatedly.
He was convinced it was the only thing that could save us. “You know what we need?” he said, like he was about to solve climate change. “Menudo.”
He wasn’t wrong. We all had the drunken munchies. All we could think about was food. Salty, greasy, anything to barricade us against the incoming hangover that would feel like someone nailing a surfboard to our skulls.
It had to be close to 2 a.m. But we called it. Time to head back.
Bret had this whole Vegas sightseeing plan lined up for the next day with Fitz—some tour of specific sights all over Vegas about something I didn’t comprehend at the time—so we needed whatever sleep we could fake.
I thought I wasn’t that drunk.
Spoiler: I was definitely that drunk.
We started our exit process—hugs, thanks, slurred goodbyes. Bret told Dennis he’d see him next time. I managed to string together a full sentence, one of the few pockets of coherence I had left. I told Dennis, “Thanks, brother. If you’re ever in Phoenix, hit us up—we’ll take care of you.”
He smiled back in that way that says, Sure, man. Please stop talking.
Dave, still fantasizing about menudo like it was a lost lover, helped us call a ride. I don’t remember if it was Uber, Lyft, or some late-night Vegas ghost cab, but a van showed up. It had the same haunted energy as the ones you see parked behind pawn shops at 3 a.m.
We stumbled inside. Bret climbed into the front seat like a co-pilot. Dave and I flopped into the back.
I somehow closed the sliding door, though I have no memory of doing so. Motor function was on autopilot. The kind that doesn’t ask questions.
The driver? Unbothered. He’d clearly done this routine a thousand times. Probably that week. Probably that night.
I leaned against the window, eyes closed, completely useless, muttering some incoherent drunk poetry while Dave kept talking about menudo like it was his life’s mission. Bret was cackling up front. I think they were laughing at me. Deservedly.
Then—blink.
We were inside the Mirage.
No recollection of the ride, the valet, the entrance. Just—bam—flushed into the fluorescent lobby air like someone hit skip on the footage.
We were suddenly looking for food.
Someone suggested the restaurant near the elevators. Could’ve been inside the Mirage. Could’ve been on the moon. I had no clue. All I knew was that the walk through the casino felt like a pilgrimage through time. A five-minute trip that felt like crossing three centuries barefoot.
Next thing I know, we’re at a table, stuffing our faces with turkey sandwiches like we’d just been rescued from the ocean.
And me? Loud. Horny. Slurring come-ons to women seated behind us. Saying who knows what. Probably quoting song lyrics. Definitely sounding like an asshole.
I was full-blown wine-wasted radio guy. The worst kind.
We ate. We laughed. We soaked up what booze we could before gravity took over.
Dave, never letting go of the dream, said we should meet him in the morning—8 a.m.—for menudo. Claimed it would sober us up completely.
I didn’t even know what time it was. Could’ve been 4. Could’ve been Tuesday. But we agreed anyway, like idiots.
“Yeah, we’ll do it. Menudo in the morning.”
After that, we said our goodbyes. Dave peeled off. Bret and I hit the elevator.
We rode up together, leaning on each other like human bookmarks. On our separate floors, we said something like, “Call you in the morning?” / “Yeah, 8 or 9. Dave’ll call.”
That was the plan. Vague, hopeful, delusional.
I walked into my room fully clothed. Didn’t take anything off. Just flopped onto the bed like a wet hoodie. I might’ve closed the blinds. Might’ve prayed to the minibar gods. Who knows.
I passed out still wearing everything I’d left the club in—shoes included.
That bed could’ve been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.
I don’t remember the sleep.
Because it wasn’t really sleep. It was the kind of drunken blackout heat coma where you’re technically unconscious, but your body is actively trying to evacuate the alcohol through sweat, regret, and internal combustion.
I was boiling.
Not metaphorically. Physically. Like I’d been left inside a preheated Honda Civic.
This wasn’t just the drunk sweats—this was the Vegas Drunk Sweats. A full-body malfunction where your organs are whispering, "This is how we die.”
I couldn’t move. Couldn’t dream. Just existed in this soggy, overheating flesh prison until sunlight began slicing through the blackout curtains like lasers made of shame.
At some point, I must’ve set an alarm—because it went off, and I was instantly launched into Level 10 hangover awareness—or I was just still that drunk.
My head was pulsing. My mouth felt like it had been spray-painted with sand. My spine was curled into some unholy yoga pose, and my stomach was a lava lamp of despair.
The thought of menudo—the “hangover cure” Dave had romanticized like it was holy broth from the gods—sounded both revolting and necessary. I wasn’t sure I could eat it, but I knew I deserved it.
That’s when I grabbed my phone.
And saw the real horror.
I had posted photos.
Not just one. Multiple.
There we were: me, Bret, and Dave, in the lobby of the Mirage—smiling like jackasses. The caption?
“We’re WASTED.”
Instagram. Snapchat. Facebook.
Triple-posted. Full send. No survivors.
I’d been pushing this narrative for months—I’m sober now. I’ve turned a corner. I’m making better choices.
And here I was, documenting my relapse like it was a marketing campaign.
I went full damage control.
Delete. Delete. DELETE.
But it was too late.
People had seen it.
There were reactions. DMs. Likes. Laughing emojis.
Too many laughing emojis.
Nothing cuts deeper than a laughing emoji when you're reeking of wine and bad decisions.
And all I could think about was my mom.
Scrolling.
Finding it.
Delivering a lecture from 200 miles away that would feel like I was grounded in my 40s.
So I nuked the evidence. Scrubbed my digital sins.
But the shame had already metastasized.
I dropped the phone on my chest and stared at the ceiling like a war survivor. My body felt hollow. My soul felt… moist.
This was the worst hangover I’d ever had.
And that’s when I picked up the phone.
Called Bret. The line rang. Then rang again. Longer than usual.
I pressed my hand to my forehead like I was trying to hold the hangover in place—shit, I was still drunk. For one glorious second, it felt like I was living through a deleted scene from The Hangover—except no tigers, no roofies, no Mike Tyson. At least not that I knew of.
Just two overworked radio guys trying to remember if we still had to eat soup with Dave.
Then came the click, some shuffling, and a low, broken “Hello?”—like he’d just woken up in a bathtub full of bad decisions.
It was 8 a.m. and the day was just getting started.
Part 3, the conclusion, comes next week!
Stay tuned for Part 3, where we stagger into a Walgreens to worship at the Pedialyte shrine, and Fitz insists on driving us to Liberace’s mansion—not to go in, but to snap a photo out front like it’s the Sistine Chapel of sequins and secondhand embarrassment.
See you next week.
Hydrate accordingly.
—Shannon
Made it this far? That’s basically cardio. Let’s keep it going.
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