"It's nothing but a bunch of shit," Matt insisted. "It's a big promotional gambit put on, run, and voted on by you record industry assholes. The artists who make the songs have no input into it at all, nor do the fans who buy the music."
"Matt speaks truly," said Bill, who was sipping from his second cognac and 7-up (with two cherries and an olive). "If the award nomination and selection process was a true reflection of the popularity of an artist's music with the American public, Thrill, the album, would have been nominated for Album of the Year. After all, it was the third best selling LP of 1984, wasn't it?"
"You would think you would be grateful for being nominated for anything at all," Janice admonished. "Crossing The Line is up for Song of the Year and Record of the Year. Those are the top awards! The top!"
"And there's no way in hell we're going to win them," Jake said. "You do know that, don't you?"
"I'll admit that the ballots will probably favor either Tina Turner or La Diferencia," she said. "But Jake stands a good chance of taking the Best Rock Vocal Performance. A very good chance."
"Over Bruce Springsteen?" Jake asked. "Mr. Patriotism himself? I don't think so."
"All this shit has already been decided anyway," said Matt. "The fuckin' ceremony is still a week away and you people have already picked which ass-sucking bands you're going to promote the next cycle, haven't you?"
"You guys are so frustrating!" Crow suddenly yelled. "Why are you so negative about everything that has anything to do with our industry? Why do you think everything is a conspiracy?"
"The track record of your industry merits the suspicion that everything is a conspiracy," said Bill.
"Yeah," agreed Coop righteously. "It's the way the fuckin' world works, man!"
"Goddamn right," said Darren, who had just shot up with a healthy dose of heroin thirty minutes before and had no idea what anyone was even talking about.
"That is just ridiculous," said Crow. "We stand just as good a chance as Tina Turner or those improbably successful Mexicans of taking that award."
"They're Venezuelan," said Bill.
"A beaner is a beaner!" Crow yelled. "I don't even know why they were nominated! They're not an American band. Why are they in an American awards show?"
"Because an American record label recorded their album," said Jake. "Jesus, don't you even know how your own business works?"
"And what's up with this 'we' shit?" asked Matt. "Why the fuck are you included in the nomination for Record of the Year with us? What the hell did you do?"
"I produced the record!" Crow cried.
"You mean you threatened and tried to intimidate us throughout the entire process," said Jake. "Is that what producing is? And if you'll recall, you originally rejected that song in favor of some of that crap your ass-kissing songwriters came up with."
"Irregardless," said Crow. "I am producer of the record and just as entitled to the award as you are, maybe even more so."
"Regardless," Bill said.
"What?" asked Crow.
"Irregardless isn't a word. The way you use it means the same thing as 'regardless'. I hope you didn't insert that into your acceptance speech."
"Irregardless is too a word!" Crow said. "I hope you don't think you can..."
"There's the ballroom," Janice interrupted. "We're almost there."
"Shit," said Matt. "We'd better finish these roaches quick."
"Right," said Jake.
He and Matt each took a final hit and then blew out the smoke, adding a fresh layer of haze to the compartment. They then removed the smoldering remains of the roaches from the clips and popped them into their mouths, swallowing them.
"That's disgusting!" said Janice.
"Hey," said Matt, "there's no sense wasting even a fragment of good bud. Remember that and you'll go far in life."
The limo slid into the circular entryway to the Hollywood Grand Ballroom where the pre-Grammy party for 1985 was being held. This was an invitation-only event and, since the majority of the nominees were to be in attendance, a large contingent of the press corps was camped out in front to film the arriving stars. As the limo came to a stop more than a hundred video and still cameras were aimed at it. Camera lights blared brightly, lighting them up like they were on stage. Reporters doing live shots spoke into their microphones, speculating on who this latest arrival might be.
"Now remember," said Janice. "There will be reporters and camerapersons inside as well as out here. This is a very high profile event. No shenanigans like you pulled at the movie premier."
"Of course not," Jake promised.
"We've matured since then," said Matt.
The driver opened the back door of the limo and a large cloud of smoke, plainly visible in the light, went billowing out. Matt was the first person to exit the vehicle. He gave a nod to the gathered media and then turned to head up the red carpet towards the entrance. As he took his first step he belched and a large plume of marijuana smoke, formed in his stomach after he'd swallowed the still burning roach, ejected forcibly from his mouth.
"Oops," he said, grinning. "Excuse me."
Janice buried her head in her hands and wondered just how bad this one was going to be.
John Denver, who would be the host of this year's Grammy Awards, was also the host of the pre-Grammy party. He stood in the reception area of the main ballroom, dressed in a perfectly fitted tuxedo, his signature wire-rim glasses perched upon his face. A gaggle of reporters and cameramen flanked him. The band was led directly to him for the formal introduction and welcome. They all shook his hand as he greeted them by name. He wrinkled his nose a little as he caught a good whiff of the odor they were exuding.
"It smells like you boys have been engaging in a little Rocky Mountain high of your own this evening," he said lightly.
"Fuckin' A," said Matt. "Some good shit too. You wanna burn one with us?"
"Hell yeah!" said Coop. "That'd be a trip, wouldn't it? Gettin' stoned with John Denver?"
"Uh... some other time, perhaps," Denver said. "I've heard a few selections from your album. I'm not much of a fan of hard rock music but I must say, Jake, you play an impressive acoustic guitar."
"Thanks," Jake said. "You're not too bad at it yourself. My mom and dad listen to your music all the time."
"I see," he said slowly. "Well, welcome to..."
"Hey," said Coop. "Tell us some stories from Vietnam, dude."
"Vietnam?" Denver said.
"Yeah, when you used to be a sniper. Who would've thought that someone as candy-ass as you used to pick off gooks back in the jungle."
"Well, actually..." started Denver.
"You and Mr. Rogers used to be in the same squad, didn't you?" asked Darren. "Which one of you had more kills?"
"You fuckin' idiots," said Matt. "He wasn't really a sniper in Vietnam. That's just one of those urban legend things." He looked at Denver. "Uh... isn't it?"
"I was never a sniper in Vietnam," Denver assured them.
"No shit?" asked Coop, disappointed.
"No shit," Denver said.
"What about Mr. Rogers though?" asked Darren. "He was a sniper wasn't he?"
Denver thought this over for a second and then nodded. "Yes," he said. "Mr. Rogers was one of the best."
"Uh... why don't we mingle for a bit?" asked Janice, who was blushing bright red. "Thank you, Mr. Denver. It was lovely meeting you." With that, she whisked her musicians away and they quickly found the nearest bar.
For the next two hours, they mingled, sometimes together, sometimes separately. Janice tried to keep track of them — and thus keep them in line — but this task was made difficult by a sudden but insistent interest she developed in the appetizer table. She spent her first twenty minutes piling plateful after plateful of salami, cheese, crackers, and stuffed mushrooms onto the china and devouring them.