At first, Beacher took me along as he was doing the traditional promoter activities: checking in with box office numbers, checking on the stage and sound technicians, etc. And then we were waiting outside the Hard Rock for Beacher's car, which was supposed to be driven by his bodyguard/driver. "I need to run home and shower," he explained. Soon the car arrived but no bodyguard/driver. No matter, we hopped into the Cadillac SUV and were off. I learned right away that there is a good reason Beacher uses a driver on show nights: his eyes were fixated on his BlackBerry and his attention distracted by phone calls. Driving was definitely not his priority. When we stopped at a red light, I would have to yell "green" when Beacher was too engrossed in texting to notice.  I noticed he wasn't wearing his seat belt. "It will be fine," he said. Though he did put the seat belt on.

But once we drove past the security gate and parked in Beacher's garage, he was suddenly nervous. "Why is my door open?" And it was and lights were on and it was clear someone was inside or had been inside. I asked Beacher if he wanted me to call 9-1-1, but instead we went in the house like idiots in a horror movie. Beacher hung back and allowed me to take the lead. He seemed a bit more freaked out than I was; but he was also more surprised than scared and I was curious (which is one of the most idiotic bad habits of being "working press" at moment like this). At my own home I would have pulled out of the garage, called the police, and waited for them to arrive and go inside. I am not particularly brave. But since I was working, I instead figured this should be good for the story. Besides, if someone had broken into Beacher's home, the person would be long gone. Also, I could see nothing was messy and lots of expensive computer and home theater equipment was sitting about; a robbery in progress appeared unlikely.

On the other hand, weirdness was definitely afoot. Beacher was surprised by a vacuum cleaner in the middle of the downstairs floor and a bathrobe and belt that didn't belong to him near the stairs. Beacher went onto the back balcony of the house, and I started  alone up the winding interior staircase to see if anyone was upstairs. My heart was racing;  I was halfway up the stairs when Beacher called for me to come back to him. I joined him outside on the balcony. "This is crazy, no one is supposed to be here," Beacher said. But now I was distracted. Beacher lives in an exclusive development called The Lakes. And I had not taken that name literally before; on Beacher's outdoor balcony I was looking at a body of water with a boat motoring past us in the middle of the Nevada desert. Water crisis? What water crisis?

Then we heard someone calling Beacher's name from upstairs. We headed back inside to discover Beacher's missing driver/security guard in his skivvies upstairs. The man seemed disoriented.

"Does he have a key?" I asked Beacher. I kept my voice hushed. Beacher shook his head in slow shock. This was clearly a surprise.

"Are you all right, buddy?" Beacher asked the guy in the solicitous way one deals with the dangerous and crazy. And the guy begen to talk slowly and slurred. There was a long story, an incoherent story, about falling from the stairs, building Beacher a new office, a nap and something about accidentally taking another man's suit. That other man turned out to be one of Beacher's investors. Normally, I would expect Beacher's temper to explode. But instead it was a rare moment of speechlessness from Jeff Beacher.

"We have to go," Beacher finally told the man. Beacher was being very gentle. We both knew we were dealing with someone who has had something go very wrong, and somewhere in the conversation the man mentioned he had a collection of knives. I also distinctly heard the word gun. We were also running late for the sold-out Artie Lange show: Jeff Beacher's sold-out Artie Lange show.

"You should go to the hospital," Beacher told the guy. I seconded the opinion. But the man refused. I offered to call an ambulance. But he wanted to work the show. And so we headed back to the Hard Rock. I was actually glad Beacher did not consider letting his driver drive. The man was making crazy mutterings in the back seat. The man wanted to work. Beacher cranked up the radio. We sort of planned between us to put the guy in a taxi to the emergency room from the Hard Rock. But when we got there the guy refused our offer and wandered off when we got back to the casino. But before he left he grabbed my shoulder, hard, looked me in the eyes and said: "If Beacher gets in trouble and needs me tonight, call. I am fine. I want to work." I nodded and told him again that I thought he should go to the hospital.

"You get to know all kinds of people in this business," Beacher said.

All this was prelude. All this, before I even hooked up with Artie Lange