Until recently, the pimpcave was the home of a crazy group of my California friends, including yoyopimp, who is both a fully grown man and a national yo-yo champion (he has a glass display case full of yo-yo trophies to prove it). Although technically located in Emeryville, the pimpcave was actually a run-down house on the edge of a crack ghetto in Oakland. There are ghettoes, and then there are crack ghettoes; the particular crack ghetto in which the pimpcave was situated is so violent that the lone grocery store in the area posts armed guards "for your protection." Yeah, right. I'm sure the employees need no protection at all.

If you managed to arrive at the pimpcave without being carjacked on the way, visiting was always a schizophrenic descent into the surreal world that existed there. Just how surreal, you may ask? Imagine hardcore drugs, yo-yos, and (of all things) stale marshmallow peeps--one of the most absurd combinations imaginable, yet the daily reality of the pimpcave.

Sometimes, though, no matter how accustomed I became to the alternate reality that was the pimpcave, it would still manage to assault my sensibilities into an unwelcome state of frightened clarity--notwithstanding the heady intoxication that invariably accompanied my visits there. The best example I can think of is the labels.

You know those Dymo label makers? The pimpcave had one, and everything was labelled. The table was labelled table, the couch was labelled couch, the bong was labelled bong, and so forth in an ordered--but still quite mad--parade throughout the house. It was as if some acid-crazed person had run amok through the place with a labelmaker, furiously labelling ordinary objects in order that he could later reassure himself that the dragon attacking his testicles was actually just an overstuffed chair.

When questioned between bong hits, the residents of the pimpcave vehemently denied any such events had transpired, insisting that the labels had appeared during one of pinky's rare flirtations with sobriety. I didn't believe it, but was willing to let the issue rest considering that they were all heavily armed with yo-yos. In the hands of a national yo-yo champion, a yo-yo can be a deadly weapon--and yes, I'm entirely serious.

Only after the pimpcave disbanded did skully finally let the truth out. The labels were inspired by drugs. In fact, more than 60% of them were created under the influence of LSD. This was the secret shame of the pimpcave. No matter how how many yo-yos or illicit drugs, the residents needed to maintain at least some link to sanity; some connection to the sober reality of the physical world. And this, ultimately, is what destroyed the pimpcave; the surreality of intoxication was overshadowed by the harsh, bright light of reality. The former residents have gone their separate ways now, leaving behind only twisted memories and broken dreams. And while the journey of life will continue, the pimpcave will be sorely missed.