1 Back Story Before You Begin

This was written in December, 2009

Fuckno, CA. 1986

In 1986, if you were 18 years old and resided in Fuckno, California, then you might have participated in the party scene.

But first, a bit of back story.

Hmongs had introduced the first drive-by shooting in Fuckno at your high school's front lawn while after you had been there fifteen minutes earlier, and four years previous to the true story I am about to tell you.

This was Roosevelt High School, on Cedar Street, and that shit is another story I will tell you soon. Hmongs and Laotians were re-located into Fuckno due to a promise that if they helped out in Vietnam, we'd help them carry on their fucking shooting craziness here in USA. WTF.

Soon, you young and scared student, you would be transferring out of that hell hole to another high school. You see, there were six in that city at the time, each with about 2,000 kids attending each year.

Bullock High on the upper west had the rich kids. Roosevelt in the southern east had the Mexicans. Edison in the lower west had the blacks. Clovis, high up on the east end, had the rich hicks: wealthy farmers and yuppies. No one ever speaks of the fifth school. No one must ever speak of it.

But my new school had the wannabe surfers; (Fast Times At Ridgemont High was big back then), poor rednecks (Oakies), the obligatory Jocks, potheads, and Punks. Yes, Punks were the underground. Amen.

That new school is where I met Joey, whom I still call each week. Last names will only harm those who haven't given their permission. Yet. He'll come around.

More stories remain, like the one where we discovered that the cops were actually capable of using nightvision. More on that next weekend.

But here, now, we are talking about "after graduation," which was before I got my head together and left the shit hole that is known as Fuckno, CA.


Here we go.


In 1986, one could purchase a sheet of 100 hits of purple dragon yellow blotter for $100, if you weren't a total dickwad. OK, maybe you needed to be a bit more shady than just a "non-dickwad." This blotter was actually quite potent: nice visuals like swaying buildings and wiggly streets (and between "swells," you saw chinese designs in the tree leaves.) But the sounds really rocked. Mucho Echo and slith-th-th-th-ers. Good times.

And, as always, you could drink like a motherfucker, which was fun, but you had to be mindful of the come-down, when those fucking birds started going off with their accusatory chirping at you.

Cigarettes? Holy fuck, best thing in the world when you were up on a swell. Fuckers would always bum off you, bastards.

But eventually, it would majorly suck to become wasted from all the beer you'd been chugging all evening, just when you were done grinding your teeth with the permanent grin you'd had on all night.

Come-downs were not all that good.

So, these hits were pre-perforated, but you never, ever handle this shit without plastic gloves. And you store it in the freezer, lest it turn into strychnine, which makes you ache the next day when your body turns it into that stuff after, anyways. We put five hits in tinfoil packs and sold these as $25 packs.

Anyways, after a previous night of doing our profits a little, it was Joey's idea to go hit the punk gig down at the abandoned Baptist church on Shields Ave. and make some cash. Some group covering the MisFits were in town.

Fat Jerry promised to take us there in his Hearse. He had the MisFits' skull spray painted on the back of his leather.

We were young and into the New Romantic scene, but Fat Jerry had spikes everywhere. Shoulders, wrist cuffs, ears, even in his fucking Doc Martins, and of course, he had his two-foot-tall red spiked hair. He had to drive with his head sideways, the big, fat fuck. He used krazy glue.

Now mind you, it has been said that the brain is depleted of serotonin and/or endorphins or whatever the hell, the day after dropping some of this shit.

Fuck that, we thought. Bullshit.

Two hours before Fat Jerry was to come by with his Hearse, (Quite a lux ride, actually, if you didn't mind the hand cuffs and rings in the back) we decided to test this theory.

Yes, It did not work. Yes, we continued to take more. Yes, we took eight hits apiece. Yes. This did not end well.

You will see.

Here's a song to elucidate this idea.



At the club, (ex-church) we jumped in the mosh pit. This was back when folks used elbows and knees, but not fists. If you fell, someone would pick you up, not kick you.

Punks were quite hardcore, but not fuckwads back then. It was a community, you see.

Anyway, this guy's foot-tall-spiked mowhawk started to wave around like fucking Medusa, and that was the first sign that I needed to get the hell out of there.

NOW.

I found Joey, and he was talking to this hot chick all dressed in white who spoke with a British accent.

"Hey Weeeeee-ill, this is Charles." Joey was flying well. Me, not so much.

"Nice ta meetcha, Shshshshareiisssssee" I sputtered, then pulled Joey aside.

"Get me the fuck outta here."


One thing about a battle buddy, they got your back. True that.

He helped me navigate out, through the fucking mosh pit, and we actually had to stagger back on our feet a couple of miles along the city streets of Fuckno, always diving behind orange trees on lawns and shit.

We made it back without popo intervention. But what a fuck of a night.

Comedown:

A week later, Fat Jerry told us that night he had fucked an English chick and woke up with these words scrawled in lipstick on his bathroom mirror:

"Welcome to the wonderful world of aids."

True story.

God Rest Fat Jerry's Soul.