Piss hard. Or How to fuck up a dude conversation.

I lived in Tempe, AZ for a couple of years. I loved the Phoenix area and may not have given it enough of a chance. I could see moving back there. Oh yeah. I cooked at a few different restaurants out there. Red Devil Pizza, Pita Jungle and Arizona Roadhouse. That last one was a fairly weak brew pub. Some nice folks worked there though. I had a couple of really good managers. I had a short but sweet fling with a 6'1" waitress (I am 5'9" and do not at all mind dating women who stand nearly a full head taller than I do) who was cool as shit but ended up having to move back to her native Germany.  I liked a few of the waiters for hanging out after work and drinking purposes even though they were borderline frat boy douches who listened to Korn and Limp Bizkit. Fun enough guys though for the occasional beer and bourbon sessions. Most of those sessions went the same path from beginning to end. Drinks. Work shit talk. Drinks. Talk wrestling. Drinks. Drinks. And then they'd kick in with the "once when I was fuckin" tales. I usually kept a low profile in those. Kept my stuff to myself. Most of the shit they'd spew was lies anyway. But one night we got some truth that really rattled their cages. Truth they didn't want. Truth because the kid who told the story was too dumb to make it up.

The dishwasher there was this squirrely little fucker with horrible little braids. Most of the time, Coolio type braids on white guys look awful to me because of all of the white scalp that shows through. Makes the hair style look anemic and sickly, I think. Well, this little dude had them. He was maybe 5'2". And built like a little fire plug. Nobody seemed to like him but I had no problems with him. I had heard from others that he only had this awful disher job as far as work went and lived in a dump with some meth heads out in west Phoenix. He was a creepy little bastard though and was always cranking Jane's Addiction. A big minus in my book. Anyway, he busted his ass at work and never complained about all of the filthy pans, pots, spatulas and grill parts I threw his way to be scrubbed all night long. Once after a really busy night I walked by his dish tank on my way out to invite him out for a beer and shot on me. In his odd little way he seemed happy about my asking him and said he'd be out once he finished. I was about to see him ruin two frat metal dude's evening with only one little story.

Aaahhhhh...a cold pint and shot glass full of Jim Beam later and the two waiters and I were chilled out really nice.They were both wearing fake puka shell chokers and had gone heavy on the hair mousse that evening. Other than that they didn't look a thing alike. One was a skinny fuck with a face that really dumb women found hot and the other was burly and big. Like Fred Flinstone. Disher came out and I told him to go to the bar and get what he wanted and tell the bar dude to put it on my tab for the night. When the other guys saw him they asked me what the fuck was up. They didn't like him and couldn't believe that I had asked him to drink with us. I explained that he'd busted his ass all night without a cross word and I wanted him to chill with a drink for a spell. He came back to the table and sat with us. The other two forgot him as they...yes...started in with the Fuckin Tales.  Skinny told some bullshit story about getting head from his sharp ass high school Spanish teacher and Fred told us about tittyfucking some girl and having her room mates walk in while he was bare assed pumping away. None of this was really good or going anywhere and a lull came up fast. We were all nursing drinks and lighting smokes when Disher breaks his silence by asking, "You guys know what's wild?" We all just looked at him. "Man, sex with dudes is really wild" Before I could react at all Fred and Skinny both hollered, "FUCKIN WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!" I fell out of my chair sideways laughing my head off. And he told the story.

One night he had gone to a local porn shop looking for whack off material. He made his purchase and headed back out to his car. An older guy in a pickup spoke to him and they struck up a conversation about easy ways to make 50 bucks. The old fella offered Disher the money to come to his pad and play around for a spell. Disher took him up on it and followed him there. He told us that once they were there the guy asked him to drink three cans of beer as fast as he could. Once he killed them, the old guy asked him to do something special. He told us, "So he laid down on the couch and asked me to piss on him but to piss hard. I didn't know what he meant. I was confused." I forget which one of us asked him to explain his confusion but he did. "Well, I didn't know if he wanted me to piss hard like force my piss out hard and not like a soft spray or if he wanted me to piss on him with my dick all hard." Skinny and Fred had their faces flat on the table at this point and may have been crying. Not me. I needed to know. "Well...which did you do?" He smiled really wide and said, "Both." He killed his pint, downed his shot, stood and announced that he was on his way to the porn shop and booked. We sat in silence. Well, it was silent but for me laughing at my two idiotic waiter pals. They weren't too happy with me for ruining their dude talk so I got up, booked and went home. Stood at my toilet. Pissed hard.

Heard it from a friend who...heard it from a friend who..heard it from another that you're about a fuckin' dick, asshole.

Growing up in Indianapolis was odd for a young teen music fan/musician. Having started playing guitar at 13 and always wanting to see live music to see people play guitars was tough because outside of arena shows, there was fuck all for live music options. There was the Pizza Castle, a wonderful place where all ages could go see killer regional bands play. But getting a driver license and car was still a couple of years away. Such few options pretty much left arena shows as the only way to see music.

A big problem with arena shows was that even though there were plenty all year long, the bands who played were many times shit you didn't want to see. This is how author here ended up seeing the Grateful Dead when he didn't even want to do so. Just to see some live guitar music. They were awful. One band who played Indianapolis a lot was REO Speedwagon. They had a tradition for a spell of playing here at Market Square Arena on New Years Eve every year. This was big news every time it rolled around. You were special if you had been to one of these shows and had awesome stories about all the ludes you took, weed you smoked and cherry vodka you drank. All the while shouting along with songs like RIDIN THE STORM OUT or 157 RIVERSIDE AVENUE. "MAN THEM MUHFUKKERS PLAYED THAT ONE SONG THAT RIVERSIDE STREET SONG AND MAN THAT DUDE MADE HIS GUUTAWR TALK AN SHIT NO SHIT MUHFUKKER I'S RIGHT UP FRONT WITH WILD BILL MAN AND THAT GERY RICHRATH LOOKED RIGHT AT ME WHEN HE WENT WOO WOO WOO ON THAT GUUTAWR A HIS".  And you can't forget the invented stories that went with shit like this. Locals like to make it all local. About them. "MAN THEY WROTE THAT 648 RIVERSIDE SONG ABOUT RIVERSIDE RIGHT HEER IN INDY MAN NO SHIT THAT NUMBER THATS THUH ADDRESS OF THEIR PARTY HOUSE MAN THEY GET ALL FUCKED UP UP THERE ON REDS AND SHIT MAH COUSIN WENT". Sure you're cousin did.

REO released Hi Infidelity in 1980. The album was huge for them. Shitloads of radio hits. You couldn't turn on Q95 or WNAP and not hear that shit. One of the best things about it was that creamy tone of Gary Richrath's '59 Les Paul. Dude had tone like crazy. It made some of those songs kind of listenable back then. So tickets were a must when NYE rolled around. Oh yeah.

It was Christmas break when the concert rolled around. Arriving early at the arena could be fun for a dumb kid because you could walk around, get high and watch all of the dealers, scalpers and people selling bootlegged shirts all around the arena. Or go up the ramp to the third floor where all of the band's equipment was loaded in. Spy a courier delivering towels to the backstage area. Offer to help him carry them. Watch him get tipped with cash by the band's road manager while you receive an after show only backstage pass. And fuck it, ask for two more for your friends waiting in line up on the 6th floor outer concourse. Get them too. Because you got it like that.

The concert ended up being a standard REO Speedwagon show of the time. Gary Richrath played like a beast too. Excitement built at maybe being able to meet him after the show. We were seated in a special area to the side of the stage and really close that was roped off for pass holders. We felt special and partied hard. More joints. More cherry vodka. Sitting next to me was this older woman - in her 20s!!!- who kept telling me stories about how she knew Alan Gratzer the drummer and blahblahblah. She was fun though and impressed the hell out of 15 year old me by being so nice, sophisticated and beautiful. Finally the show ended and we left our seats to head backstage. Walking in saw me heading bumping right into Neal Doughty, the keyboard player. He's the guy who thought up that stupid ass name for the band. He ended up being super nice, laid back and funny as hell.  Then Kevin Cronin and he was nice as fuck too. That awesome woman from the seat next to me grabbed me from behind and introduced me to Alan Gratzer who ended up being super cool and letting me sneak drinks from the champagne bottle he had. All of this was killer but was really just build up to my dream of talking guitars with my axe idol of the moment, Gary Richrath. Then he walked out of the dressing room. My hand shook as it passed him a pen to sign my pass. "Dude, could you sign this please?"  He bent down (no growth spurt yet for me - was still about 5'2"), started to scribble his name. He didn't finish. He stood up and threw the pen down, looked at me, grumbled "Fuck this shit" and booked. WELL FUUUUU-HUCK YOU PAL!! Nice way to treat a kid you fucking dick. A kid who bought your shitty ass records new at Obadiah's and Camelot and not some fucking yard sale or Goodwill. FUCK YOUR SHIT. Shocked and hurt, the night was over for me. Collected my buddies and headed downstairs to wait for whichever one of our parents was picking us up. Wasn't bummed long though. Cheered up that night once back in my room with my old SG Jr. and Fender deluxe cranked with a Big Muff. REO who? Had a funny story to tell too. Still do.

Gary Richrath ended up leaving that shitty band and drinking away one of the most impressive collections of vintage Gibson guitars ever. Playing shitty bars drunk off his ass and pissing off the one or two people who still like him. For years,  Kevin Cronin stated that he wanted nothing to do with that fuckhead at all but recently they have allowed him onstage here and there for a song or two. Fuck him. It makes me happy in a small and admittedly cheap way that his life went to shit. Be mean to people for no good reason, especially kids and see what happens. Dickass. He looks like a drunk goddamned muppet show reject now too. HAHAHA

Flash Back Friday:Movie edition.

In early 1978 I went to the Circle Theater in downtown Indianapolis to see a double bill of Piranha and Eaten Alive. Piranha was an amazing Jaws ripoff featuring Keenan Wynn, Barbara Steele and Bradford Dillman. Eaten Alive was director Tobe Hooper's tremendous follow up to Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The former was a fun romp through a story of genetically engineered fishies killing folks and the latter was a feverish and fucked up acid trip of a version of the story of Joe Ball who fed women to his pet alligator. My buddy, Matt McGlade said of Eaten Alive "this movie is for crazy people". And he is right. Watch it and you'll see. 

The Circle Theater now is a beautiful sight. It has been remodeled and beautified and is indeed one of the most lovely buildings in this city. Back then it was dilapidated. Some good rock n roll shows happened there. Rapper saw Cheap Trick blow Styx off the stage there in 1977. Or 1976. I forget which. I saw Molly Hatchet there when they were touring for their first album and...FUCK...they were great!  Anyway, when I went to see these movies I had the greatest movie going experience of my life. The majesty of which has never been repeated. From beginning to end of the entire double bill, older black gentlemen were hollering, screaming, laughing, drinking booze and tossing lit joints back and forth to each other. There was constant shouting through the movies. 

I TOLE YOU NOT TO GO IN THE WATER

MUFUKKIN FISHES ATE THAT MUFUKKAHS FEET OFF

NAW HELL NAW GET OUT THAT WATER

It was the greatest thing ever.

Those days are long gone now. And that's sad because I would love to be able to experience that again. And take some kid to enjoy it as well. But the young now won't get that. And that's a fuckin' shame. 

Fuck you, Corky. You suck. Or sometimes meeting your heroes isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Life Goes On was a great television show. It always seemed wonderful that a show would be centered around the character, Corky Thatcher played by Chris Burke who has Down syndrome. Truly a first in television history. I was way into Corky. I thought he was awesome. And I liked the way the show would portray him in situations that could be sensitive and dealt with them well. Such as the time he fell in love with the prettiest girl in school. Or my personal favorite, the episode where he took driver ed and wrecked the car about 57 times. That shit was awesome. I really liked Chris Burke. I even owned two copies of his autobiography. Sure. He didn't write that shit but they put the word autobiography on the cover anyway. I was cool with that. I was working as a line cook back in those days and kept a copy propped up on the ventilation hood over the grill and stove top where everyone who came through the kitchen could see it. I was that proud of owning it.

That book sucked though. The stories were really mundane and all except for the story about the time a tree grew in his lung. Seems he was wrestling around with a kid at his school and the kid hit him in the mouth with a handful of dirt and twigs. A few months later he started coughing really bad. And doctors couldn't figure out the source. Then he started coughing up blood. They still couldn't find anything. One doctor finally stuck a camera down his lung and there it was...a fucking pine tree growing in his lung. Somewhere in the handful of dirt he that he had breathed in was part of a pine seed and it took root in his lung and was growing. They had to take half of his lung out. Lucky for him he had cool parents. Had he been my kid I would have said, "Fuck the surgery. You're going to be a big star there, Tree Kid". 

You can tell that I maybe knew a bit too much about Chris Burke. And that held for years. I would keep track of what he was up to after the show went off the air. I knew he had some sort of folk band or whatever. Years later in New York City though, I finally met him face to face. And he treated me like an absolute fuckhead.

I was on my second go round with living in New York. I had been working as a legal proofreader and loved the work. Then the economy tanked and I lost all of the sweet, sweet work I had been getting. Before I finally said, fuck it and came back to Indiana I tried finding what work I could. It sucked because I ended up more broke than ever before in my life and was miserable all the time. The miserable relationship I was in didn't help matters much either. One day I was walking down Broadway in the middle of a big day of handing out resumes and filling out applications all over. I was downtown south of 14th street near Astor Place. I was walking pass that ridiculously large Halloween shop, New York Costumes when I saw him. Chris Burke. Corky himself. Walking up Broadway towards me. My mood immediately jumped sky high. I forgot about the job I wasn't getting. I forgot about my meaner than a snake significant other waiting at home. I forgot all of the bad and only saw the good. The good of Corky.

He was short. I hadn't expected that. I knew that I was going to approach him but I also knew I should go as polite as I could. I smiled and walked towards him. "Hey. Chris Burke. I am a huge admirer of your work." He glared at me. "I really liked Life Goes On. It's one of my favorite tv shows of all time." He continued with the stink eye. I fumbled on the inside tying to think of something nice to say. "Chris, I loved your book. I have owned two copies. It was really good and I think everyone should read it." He kept glaring at me but now he changed his look. He fucking sneered at me. I thought he was going to spit but he just said, "So." 

And kept walking.

So. He said so. Well, fuck him! Fuck that motherfucker. So. So, my ass you fuckhead. I try to speak in a friendly manner to you and you Billy Idol face me and say SO??!!?? 

I CARED ABOUT THAT TREE IN YOUR LUNG YOU FUCKING DICK!!!

YOU SUCK!! YOU'RE WORSE THAN GODDAMNED GARY RICHRATH YOU ASSHOLE!!!

FUCK YOU! FUCK YOUR SHIT!

I watched him walk away. I felt awful. Corky had been so mean to me. I never wanted to see his show again. If I had had a copy of his book in my backpack I would have taken it out and thrown it right at the back of his asssholish fucking head. Dick. 

Life Went On. Haha. I ended up leaving NYC soon enough and got back to work in my home town and blablahblah. I have never watched that fucking show again though. And I will always remember him for his meanness and not for the awesome work he did on network tv. His bullshit behavior ruined my warm feelings for him. And if I had a copy of his book here right now, I wouldn't even think enough to wipe my ass with the fucker.

PS: His folk band fucking sucks.

My first buzz.

I suppose that it makes perfect sense that some of us grow up to enjoy being stoned. We experience it early on. Spinning until you are dizzy, holding your breath until you pass out or huffing Super Elastic Bubble Plastic in your sandbox. This wonderful toy had acetates of several flavors and levels of toxicity in it. Smelled wonderfulllllll. I would sit out back all alone and blow bubbles with it and huff them right back up. I felt so awesome when I did that. All floaty and seeing wonderful colors in the air around me and just tripping the fuck out. Just me and Toby. The best St. Bernard who ever lived. I was with him in the sandbox the time he wanted to kill a meter reader. Mom was on the back porch doing laundry and heard this voice saying verrrrry soft, "Little boy...little boy...please go get your mother...PLEASE GO GET YOUR MOTHER". Then she heard me say, "Oh don't worry mister, he's just a puppy". She ran out back and there I was playing with my dope while Toby had the poor motherfucker pinned flush against the back of the house shaking and crying. Toby's monstrous drooling maw pushed into the small of the guy's back ready to bite in, grab spine and wrench it the fuck out for even DARING to come so close to me. Heeheeehee. Mom defused the situation and got the guy out of there. Toby stuck with me while I huffed my toy chemicals and floated back to 5 year old Trip Town. I graduated to weed 7 years later. Not sure when I stopped huffing the bubble plastic though.



  My youngest sister and I with Toby. 1970. He would protect and watch over me while I would binge on bubbles.