For about nine weeks in late 2006, Lance had a problem with tranquilizers. Really, when he thinks about it, it was that he had a problem with sleep. Without the tranquilizers he couldn't sleep at all and with them he slept too much and then there was a whole big mess: rehab for almost as long as he'd been a supposed addict and then some really fucking expensive therapy and now he's supposedly all fixed and recovered. Which means he spends a lot of nights watching old concert specials in slow motion and drinking nasty holistic teas that JC has sent by airmail.

The book was something his agent approached him with after rehab, a way to maintain some relevancy in the biz without having to leave his house. After the initial proposal, the first thing Lance thought was, "Oh, the guys are gonna say I'm as bad as Justin," and that right there guaranteed him three nights awake with the PopOdyssey DVD extras and some totally disgusting herbal concoction called "Sweet Dreams" but that tasted like rotting autumn leaves. He sips from his cup, making faces at the taste while Justin and Chris are wheeled out in the same box.

Because Lance still remembers Chris hopping around the quiet room, reading aloud from the proofs of Justin's first book. "' ...and the secretary is a doll, but then after a few weeks, you meet the boss.' J, for the last time, what the fuck does that even mean?" Justin wrote that one when he was twenty-two and since then he's written two more, including the autobiography.

Lance's book is different, though, not a self-help treatise or an expose. The description on the advance agreement said "a survey of pop culture from 1999-2009." Lance was perfect, everyone seemed to think, because he'd been there.

He doesn't know why people think that. He was there, and so when he tries to go back, he gets stuck. Sometimes he wishes he could call up Justin and say, "How did it all end?" but Lance hasn't known Justin's phone number for three years. Lance doesn't even know if Justin has a phone. A month ago there was a fuzzy picture of Justin somewhere in downtown Memphis in the Enquirer, but his hands were empty. More often he thinks he'd like to be able to call up Chris and say, "How did it all start?"

After that, Lance pretty much decides he should stop thinking.

[-->]