It was a hot-rod taxi ride to the airport this morning. I had told the driver to throw some rocket sauce on the accelerator. Time to blast out of this town with the fury of a lush on the run from pink elephants. He obliged without hesitation–blowing past red lights as if they were mere suggestions, which as anybody harnessing true grit and dynamite guts knows is true.

The town had lost its charm about 3 hours earlier when I awoke with that familiar piston-pump squeeze that comes from concentrated amounts of alcohol buried under a brick of hamburger and fries.

I had just spent several hours on the swank rooftop of the Hard Rock Hotel glad-handing and double fisting beers. It was the Wrath of Con Party, one of the big-ticket bashes in San Diego this weekend thrown by IESB.net. Full of celebs, film-industry types, payed high-caliber skanks with duct-taped nipples, and almost every web reporter from a site with daily hits toppling 1000. Good times. Good people. Good bartenders. And through my boss, I scored entry to the V.I.P. lounge–opening up a terrible number of decadent opportunities for a fiend like me. But I only used it for faster access to drinks and left the lap dances and celeb hob-knobbing to those in need of such company last night.

In fact, I had kept my normal throttle in check for the night. No feral screaming or veiled death threats involving tasers and hot tubs. No working the crowd, other than those my boss introduced me to–and even then I was muted. No bottle breaking or visiting the woman 5 floors above who stood in the window most of the night completely nude. And absolutely no stripping and belly dancing from myself. This was a time for relaxation and perhaps meditation, the kind of which only gawking at sexy skanks wiggling their asses can provide.

Yet, despite my efforts, I still had made a fool of myself when I splashed beer across my shirt after stupidly trying to swig from one bottle while holding another full one in the same hand. For the rest of the night, I waltzed around appearing as if a milk gland had burst underneath my t-shirt.

The gig was up. It would only get worse the more time I stayed in this town. Covering a sensory-overloaded spectacle such as Comic Con had taken its mental toll. Once the ability to drink properly from a beer bottle goes by the wayside, it is only a matter of time before the grey matter starts liquefying and the real whoring begins.

Comic-Con revolves around breaking into the V.I.P. room. It is obsessed with that zone of acceptance by those who matter, a place that gives you bragging rights, a magical boat that sets you on a one-way trip to a life of power and the fulfillment of dreams. Everybody wants in, whether it’s the press begging for the exclusive interviews, or attendees craving to see new footage from upcoming blockbusters, or a crowd member relating their life story to a bored celeb sitting on a panel, or even the costumed Martians pretending to be whatever pop-culture icon just to clutch those fleeting seconds when they’ve actually tricked themselves into believing that they are indeed that icon.

Yet, there is no V.I.P. room in Comic Con, just a whorehouse. A mansion-sized brothel with many rooms, none V.I.P., and all selling something different.

My taxi driver had hammered down the accelerator while approaching the terminal. Only the laws of Newton limited our speed. Not even children pedestrians could stop this torpedo now. I stuck my head out the backseat window, slapping the door and whooping it up. The driver laughed maniacally, as I did too. See man, I told you I’d get you out of this city real fast, he yelled above Ice Cube rapping on the radio. That’s my job, taking you people out of this town. As quick as possible.

The car popped up on the curb and suddenly halted. We stumbled out. I paid him. My man, what does that black bracelet on your wrist say, he asked.

“The X-Files: I Want to Believe.” I had to wear the thing last night at a party to get into the V.I.P. area.

The driver winked, jumped back in his car, and burned off while cackling in the cool the San Diego morning air. Godspeed, garbage man.