Rome, Italy - September. Flown in to play and DJ music for a private event. A hailstorm of drugs was consumed. Not by us, by the event goers. Many, many substances. It turned into a battle between Italians doing speed and Italians doing MDMA. The “speeds” wanted techno. The “MDMA’s” wanted punk and Siouxsie and the Banshees. The club was called Circolo Degli Illuminati and the soundman’s name was Guido. A stern man with large, slab arms. No one was allowed to touch Guido’s gear but Guido.

We were three, performing with Katie Kate. Keys/guitar, vocals, drums, and DJ. As the evening progressed, the party devolved, folding in on itself.

Guys on speed shed their shirts, strutted, and demanded techno. The bathroom was the epicenter of activity. Some of the Italians stayed in the bathroom the entire time. We were in charge of music for the duration of the event.

Outside, in other quadrants of the ancient city, dulled church bells rang. Moths landed on the Pantheon’s dome, singeing their squalid wings on the spotlights that drew them in. Cats purred next to the heat of other spotlights at Torre Argentina ruin, where Julius Caesar was murdered. The square is now a stray cat sanctuary, home to 250 cats. (Possibly our favorite ruin.)

Back at The Battle of Speed Vs. MDMA no cats purred. Only Guido. A new group of Italians who had taken peyote emerged.

Cake was brought out at some point. Suggestions for techno intensified. Eyes of the peyotees were fastened to the LED screen behind the stage - geometric shapes flew all night. One guy (on all the drugs) was wrapped in a black sheet, swaying like a tree in the middle of the dance floor. He apologized to everyone he spoke with.

The recipient of the cake / host of the party / Magistrate of the Bathroom Activities is a man who holds a PhD in ancient arcadian. A cerebral, sweet human who is beloved by his friends. His Mother, Mama Bruno, is beloved as well. I think he began smoking in her womb.

I was DJ’ing at one point when a girl with a green bowl cut shaved on the sides came onstage. I thought she was going to make a request. Then I thought she wanted to hug, but I ended up in a half-headlock / half-hug. She pulled me closer so she could talk, but it was too loud. Pretty sure she was on the peyote. I didn’t understand a word she said. I was able to discern she wanted Nine Inch Nails played and was pissed off I had none. She was part Shrek, part Girl With a Dragon Tattoo. And her breath smelled like Julius Caesar, if Julius Caesar were mud wrestling a log of salami on a windless one hundred and three degree day.

Multiple times I thought she was either going to kiss me or sock me in the face.

When techno music was played, the MDMA’s booed. When punk was played, the speed people booed, adamantly, shirts off and sweating. It was an all-nighter, going on for around seven hours. Then without word or warning, Guido started unplugging the speakers, signifying the end of the battle.

We had some days to see and delve into the city. Rome is a dense, grit filled, powerful place. So old. So much history. Everything has versions of stories and an aged dimension. The ruins and statues and squares radiate with lives living and lives gone. Every single person in Rome smokes. Even the babies. I saw a man ash on his toddler’s head.

Discoveries during the stay include, but are not limited to: Italian psych and drone bands Trans Upper Egypt and Sonic Jesus. And the Annual Roman Priest Calendar. It’s their version of the Fireman Calendar, only with young, sexy priests.

Fact type items, written in a notepad loose-form are as follows:

Pope stats. Pope mobile. Pope chair- with hole in the bottom. Someone has to feel to see if he has balls.

Innocent was not Pope Innocent The 10th's actual name. Giovanni Battista Pamphilj was.

All the gods and statues are yoked. Totally ripped. They must have worked out all the time. Penises are everywhere, or “peens” as we called them.

Trevi Fountain - mind blowing, galvanic, historic, breath taking fountain. So-so bobble heads. They estimate 3000 euros worth of coins are thrown in the fountain every day.

Rome can’t build a subway because there’s too much ancient shit underground.

Don't believe all the Coliseum stories. Some say they filled the fighting oval with water and had warships battle to the death. Some say there was never water there. Many animals and humans were killed at the Coliseum. Dwarfs were forced to fight obese people to the death with spiked bats for entertainment.

The Vatican has some controversy with the “Raven”, Giuseppe. It was their version of Wiki-leaks, revealing money laundering from the mafia. People were killed. Not sure if Pope Innocent was involved.

The Italian government fines the people who buy the knockoff Pravda bags, not the people who sell them.

Drinking fountains are everywhere. Rome is a city of well supplied water.

Red wine, omnipresent. Aubrie is an expert sommelier, giving wine tours. Her husband Rusty is a writer / English professor. Olevano Migrante is a dessert wine. Made with frozen grapes that are left on the vine through the winter. The grape is cesanese di olevano Romano. Native to Lazio. The freezing of the grape adds sweetness.

Rusty was studying Comte de Lautréamont, who describes the act of having sex with sharks. Lautréamont is the pseudonym of Isidore Lucien Ducasse, a Uruguayan-born French poet who died at the age of 24 in Paris. His only works, Les Chants de Maldoror and Poésies, had big influence on the Surrealists.

Pulled another all-nighter on deadline writing my column in a room with two Italian men on speed chain smoking cigarettes. One small window, partially cracked. Hit my deadline. Two hours of sleep.

Wandered the streets, stale in the daylight. Saying hey to the statues like they were friends I’d forgotten to text back. Drank an espresso every ten blocks. Tried to take in as much as I could. Bought Pope cards, two Pope bobbleheads, and Pope stickers.

To Rome, I hope to return someday. Thanks for having us. Ciao Bella