Sweet House, Steve.

My family had only been in LA for three hours before we wound up at Steve Vai’s house for a barbecue. Most of you probably don’t know who that is. Here’s all the information you need.

He’s the reining king of progressive rock guitar and in case your eyes can’t see awesome stuff, he’s playing that guitar with his tongue. The sweet virtuosity of musical cunnilingus.

I imagine most stories about hanging out at Steve Vai’s house involve LA Gear sneakers and Tabitha Soren passed out in a hanging egg chair.

Not mine.

My wife, two small sons and I romped about Steve’s bachelor pad with two other young families —  including that of Mr. Vai’s guitar technician — each of us ignoring the possibility that we were tainting our children’s innocent souls by exposing them to the epicenter of 80′s decadence.

Steve Vai played with Zappa, Whitesnake, Ozzy, and David Lee Roth, and although I have no direct knowledge of any past drug use, when Arlo smeared his hotdog hands on the immense glass coffee table, the spectre of David Lee Roth bent over with a straw in his nose and a boner in his spandex hovered above him.

I could attempt a lengthy description of the decor, but it might be easiest to display it in a narrative between Steve and his interior decorator in 1984.

Steve: I want the whole house to look like a panther.
Interior decorator: OK.

Pacifiers and rattles were strewn across the black wall-to-wall carpet; half empty bottles of baby food rested atop driftwood sculptures while two mothers nursed their babies on the ten thousand dollar purple corduroy sectional sofa. The juxtaposition of lifestyles could only have been more salient if one of the children was swaddled in Tommy Lee’s boxer briefs.

I hope tonight we’ll all go over to Don Dokken’s house for pizza and lawn darts.

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