Last week I found out an old friend of mine, a woman I have known since high school died from an accidental drug overdose. She had relapsed after 7 years sobriety. I felt compelled to write about her, as she was an extraordinary person. Rest in peace, dear friend.
A personal recounting of the psycho-pharmacological experience that was a 1987 Butthole Surfers show.
When people asked me as a teenager what I wanted to do when I grew up I, at some point developed a stock answer. “I’d like to be one of three things,” I’d say. “A Butthole Surfer, A Beastie Boy or a Pogue.”
Or – an alternate title – “Boston, The Racial Valhalla I Never Knew”
My wife and I went on a trip to New England, where I grew up, to visit my parents. It was pleasant in many prototypically New England ways; the leaves were turning and the angle of the sun painted the world in that most flattering light. Continue reading “A Veiled Love Letter to New England”
Or a less salacious title: Chris from Rosi, Rest In Peace My Friend
Fuck man, it sucks leaving some dudes behind. Chris, I wish you could have stuck around. You were a good dude. I feel like we would have stayed friends…
Los Angeles, 2015
I used to have this friend. Like 20 years ago now. He wasn’t my best friend or anything, but he was a good dude. He was from Boston like I am, and he’d gone down to New York for college, also like I did. That’s where I met him, down there in New York. He’d gone to Columbia where he was a friend of my friend, Kyle – that was how I originally met him. I knew Kyle because he dated my good friend Adelle from high school. Adelle was my connection to that whole crew up at Columbia in the first place. While I was at NYU, I’d go uptown every now and again to hang with those people.
Marnie looks fucking unbelievable as she steps from the shadows into the late afternoon sunlight. She’s gorgeous; a goddess in red crêpe creepers and a floral print dress. She‘s happy to see me and shows it, with a smile that envelops her zit-free, porcelain face. The smile is a gift and if I’m struck dead at this moment I feel as if I will have served my purpose in life. As we walk, I do my best to not look over at her. I want to reach across those electric 3 inches between us and hold her hand. Instead I just stare down at my high-top Nikes. Continue reading “A Goddess in Red Crêpe Creepers”
When I was twelve years old, I fancied myself a serviceable breakdancer. This was before the existence of the Alfonso Ribeiro’s “Breaking & Popping” video with accompanying breakdance board. Oh fuck it, why lie? I knew I was terrible. Continue reading “My Breakdancing Triumph”
It’s “Think!” for short, or “Think for Yourself!” if you want to say the whole thing, the whole slogan. It’s kind of our city’s motto. Well the motto for us hardcore kids anyway. I wrote it all over my Chuck Taylors and you see it spray painted all over Boston. It started with the skinheads I think, maybe down in DC, but fuck, who cares who started it? I figure it’s just as applicable to me and my skate crew as any shithead skin. Continue reading “Think for Yourself!”