Arthur Fiedler Was a Firebug

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.

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Drugs Come Before Rock ‘n Roll

Sophomore year at school was when things really kicked into gear, drug wise. It was the year that my life credo was imparted to me by a t-shirt. It was 1993, two years after Punk broke and my new roommate Alex was working on a mockumentary about GG Allin.

Hated - GG Allin and the murder junkies
Hated – GG Allin and the murder junkies

Sophomore year at school was when things really kicked into gear, drug wise. It was the year that my life credo was imparted to me by a t-shirt. It was 1993, two years after Punk broke and my new roommate Alex was working on a mockumentary about GG Allin.

Continue reading “Drugs Come Before Rock ‘n Roll”

Date Night

Melissa is killing me tonight. She’s practically whimpering, trying to get me to pay attention to her. It’s pathetic. I take a lady out for a civilized drink on a Tuesday night and this is the thanks I get. I try to remind myself that she’s fucking hot as fuck and that I’m lucky I’m the one she’s fucking, but it’s tough when she’s whining about whatever it is she’s whining about, her classes, her roommate, lord knows what the fuck else. Continue reading “Date Night”

Small town, Small minds

My mother is like an uber-preppie. She loves the little New England town we live in; our rickety little saltbox home and the fact that everything around here dates back to when Hezekiah Maplethorpe buried his only son. That would be the child that died of scurvy back in the terrible winter of seventeen-whothefuckcares. It says so right on the rock buried in the dirt over there. That kind of shit doesn’t do much for me. Not that I think about it, really. Continue reading “Small town, Small minds”