Niacin leads to the harder stuff
(How I took down Pup 'n' Taco)

Me and Jerry Machen. If you asked someone from my old high school who had a chance to make it in show biz, the answer would be me and Jerry Machen.

And Barry Brown. I should mention Barry since he actually made it. Sort of. He's a TV weatherman in Sacramento, last I heard. The public perceives him as being a journalist, but since I'm a phony journalist myself, I know better. He's in show biz.

He's a fuckin' weatherman, for crissakes.

Jerry Machen and I were the only ones who had the balls to move to Los Angeles and take a shot at the big time. Except for Barry Brown. He also moved to LA. (Can we now agree that he doesn't count? Thanks.)

Jerry wanted to be a famous actor, but he made most of his money modeling. He did get a chance to act in a sitcom pilot -- "All That Glitters," a Norman Lear production. Back in the 70s, a Norman Lear production ("All in the Family," "Maude," "The Jeffersons") was as good as gold, but unfortunately this sitcom only glittered. Too bad, cause the show's premise wasn't half bad: Women hold all the power in the world and the men either perform menial labor or perform as boy toys for the women. Jerry had a role as one of the boy toys. Needless to say, he was a very good-looking boy.

Just what I needed, for I had a plan. Jerry entertained a fantasy about becoming a rock star (a common failing among actors) and I figured if I could use him to front my band, it would lead to the fame and fortune I so richly deserved and the fame and fortune I was sure he was going to get one way or another. With his face and my talent, how could we lose?

I called him up.

"Jerry, let's hang out. Let's get together at your place and jam on guitars all day."

He was into it.

I drove from north Hollywoood to his digs in Venice Beach, just two houses away from the coastline (models make good money, I think). The 65 Chevy Nova looked a little incongruous among the Vets and Masseratis lining the roads of Venice Beach, but that only added character to the neighborhood.

I walked up to the door and knocked, looking back to perv on the beach babes who posed half nude on the strand. Jerry answered the door and gave me a big hug (very awkward... we weren't that close in high school and my mom's from New York). Inside, the house reeked of late-60s decor, which included a "Stoned Again" poster taped to the wall and a large tapestry pinned to the ceiling. Very hippie. Very LA. Very dated.

We pulled out the guitars and tried to jam. Man, he looked good playing the guitar. The record companies would eat him up. Unfortunately, he sucked so badly on guitar I could almost hear a slurping noise. He made Rick Springfield look like Dylan (musically, not physically). He brought fire, passion, enthusiasm, drive and charisma to the act, but he couldn't play for shit.

Bummer.

Frustrated from trying to teach him the proper way to play a G chord, I excused myself and went to the bathroom. A dozen pill bottles sat on the counter, vitamins unfortunately. What the fuck, I could use a health boost.I started pumping pills -- C, E and B complex. I spotted a bottle of niacin. I didn't know what niacin was, but I figured it must be good for you since I once saw it listed on the back of a Wheaties box. I popped three pills and returned to the living room, where Jerry struggled with the chords to "Gloria."

Couldn't play for shit, man. I mean.

We were halfway into "Feeling Alright" (only two chords) when I felt a rush pulsate through my veins. My skin burned like Ben Gay and my heartbeat rose to orgasmic proportions (I really shouldn't use gay and orgasmic in the same sentence). Jerry noticed.

"Mike, you're turning red. You all right?"

"Not feeling too good myself. I swallowed some of those vitamins you've got stashed in your bathroom and I'm having a bad reaction. You better take me to the hospital, man. I'm losing it."

Jerry and I jumped into his Austin Healey (very James Bond) and cruised to the closest hospital in Venice. Since it was only eleven in the morning, I got in right away. The shootings don't start till nightfall.

"What seems to be the problem?" the doctor asked.

"I don't know. I took some vitamins and suddenly my heart rate increased and my skin turned red."

The doctor looked at me closely. "Did you take any niacin?" he asked.

"Yeah, three pills. How did you know that?"

He gave me the you're-a-rhesus-monkey look. "You just took too much niacin. Easy enough to fix. I'll be right back."

He came back 20 minutes later with a small vial of a clear, colorless liquid.

"This will make you vomit. Drink it and I'll be right back."

I spent the next half hour puking my guts out.

Before the hospital released me, I took several gulps of water at the drinking fountain. Unfortunately, the doctor forgot to tell me that water worked as a catalyst, so every time I took a drink I'd puke my guts out five minutes later.

Bummer.

Jerry and I headed back to his house, taking the main drag on Venice Boulevard. Halfway home, I felt nauseous again.

"Jerry, pull over. I have to puke."

"What?"

"I'm serious. Pull over or I'm going to throw up in the car."

He caught a red light at the next intersection and I staggered out of the car, straddled the sidewalk and puked like a frat boy. In front of Pup 'n' Taco. At lunch time. While businessman looked upon me with disgust and dumped half-eaten hot dogs into the trash bin. Across the street at the Taco Bell, I could see the smug stares from nine-to-fivers satisfied with their fast-food decision.

Today, Taco Bell remains a thriving franchise, fronted by a world-famous chihuahua with an anthropomorphic penchant for chalupas. Whereas, the mascotless Pup 'n' Taco couldn't overcome its reputation for attracting junkies and falling-down drunks. The company went out of business during the late 70s. See? Appearance matters.

Bummer.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.