Update!

We will no longer be posting updates on this site.  For future endeavors please refer to our new website by clicking on this link: http://www.moduszine.blogspot.com

Thankxxx.

Modus Posse

New Modus Operandi Website!

Hey dumbshits and smartasses!  Modus Operandi Fanzine has a brand new website in the works.  Click here and get hip!

http://www.moduszine.blogspot.com

 

 

Why I hate Sonic Youth/ appendix five?/ by Kelli McMeats

Why I hate Sonic Youth/ appendix five?/ by Kelli McMeats

 

I think if you ask most people why they listen to music, they will say the same thing that most drug users say about their choice fix- escape.  Music helps us forget where we are and what shitty shit is going on.  The best part is there are no side effects or hangovers and it’s not killing our brain cells slowly and eternally.  Well, maybe not most of the time.  I think it depends on what you consider “music.”

About a year ago, Mr. McMeats and I were moving our friend (and your loyal editor) Schlitz to Vancouver in my tiny Volkswagen.  I wish we would’ve got pictures of him snugly and firmly stuck  in the back seat between his amp and trash bags of clothes, straddling  his guitar.  My knees were pressed against the dash to give him the most possible (yet still insanely limited) room.  On the long drive, the conversation inevitably turned to one of my greatest passions: detesting Sonic Youth.   It started with Schlitz saying he’d listened to the Bagel Dogs that past weekend and how proud he was that he had “made it” through an hour of listening.  He said he had to turn it off and take a couple aspirin.  My husband agreed that this was indeed a hearty meal and congratulated him on his feat.

Most of you know that the Bagel Dogs and Sonic Youth are very similar and possibly influenced each other in a scary parallel universe or on some sort of psychedelic, circular timeline.  What’s totally fucked up is that Shawn and/or Steve are probably reading this right now and creaming themselves thinking I just paid them the ultimate compliment.

Music…scratch that… Real Music is not supposed to be something that is endured or suffered through.  Your not supposed to be tired or worn out after listening to an album and you definitely shouldn’t need a fucking aspirin.  Schlitz says I’m wrong, but let’s go back to my druggie metaphor.  People with addictive personalities are notoriously drawn to whatever is the worst for them.  Have you ever seen a tweeker and thought there is no way there is a high great enough to make up for someone looking that bad?  In most cases, I don’t think the high is that grand.  I think they feel they need it (for one) because they’ve heard from enough smart, sane people who care about them how truly horrible it is and how they should stay away from it.  I think that makes them crave it all the more.

Maybe I should start saying I love Sonic Youth and then my friends will wake up and not want shit anymore.

But we all know I can’t do that and it wouldn’t work anyway, so what the fuck?  They can have it. They’re on Austin City Limits right now.  That’s just fantastic.   Hey Schlitz- I just “made it” through a whole ten minutes!  Aren’t you proud?  Now, I need a couple bottles of aspirin.

To the rest of you who have yet to let your brains melt from noisy torture, remember, Just Say No.

H8 UPD8 BY BR8W8

H8 UPD8 BY BR8W8

The Rolling Stones: Have you heard of these bloody cunts yet? (Oh MY, pardon my English, I’m just trying to sound oh-so sophisticated like everybody over in the Land of the Mother Tongue, where men of wealth and taste use double negatives like “Can’t get no” when referring to satisfaction). What’s that? They were just MOCKING American Bluesmen when they sang that? Figures. The Rolling Stones never wrote any of their own material anyway. They just looted the graves of dead African Americans in an act of racist thievery not seen since the Nazis stole the entire country of France.

Nobody REALLY likes the Rolling Stones AT ALL. Sure, you may hear their irritating wailing at the supermarket and ignore it. It may enter your car radio, and you’ll probably change the dial to something INTERESTING so you don’t fall asleep at the wheel and accidentally wipe out a vanful of GOOD musicians. A crappy wedding DJ may put ONE of their milky numbers into his mix to please GRANDPA. You like the way your ol’ lady looks in the “mouth” logo T-shirt she bought from WAL-MART, and you might even take her to one of their horrible concerts if you ever win the lottery. There’s probably a Rolling Stones record in your collection, but you never listen to it, it’s only there to impress people because you’ve been told it’s mandatory. Follower. Clone. Zombie. Racist. That’s YOU. Your MAMA probably bought you a box set for Christmas, because she knows the Rolling Stones are a SAFE BET. But there it sits in its dusty cellophane, because you NEVER OPENED IT. There’s NOT ONE Rolling Stone song in your Ipod, I PROMISE.

Seriously, who would actually go OUT OF THEIR WAY to listen to these losers? If you were new to Earth and had never heard of them, and you walked into a bar where they were playing, you’d phone home and say “The chicks are nasty, but the music SUCKS.”

You just got off work, you have a headache, the LAST thing you want in your ear is Prick Wanker repeating OVER AND OVER AND OVER “Start me up I’ll never stop never stop never never never stop” (thanks for the warning), or “I’ll never be your beast of burden, I’m never never never never never never gonna be, all I want is for you to make love to me” (all together now, eeewwww!). What the hell is that supposed to mean, anyway, “beast of burden”? Is he trying to sound smart? Well, it’s STUPID. Maybe he’s referring to the great Eric Burdon, a REAL British rocker, the star who originally wrote “Paint It Black”. Mr. Burdon’s was WAY better, of course, he was all like “I see the people walkin’ by me, THEY’RE ALL GOING IN DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS!” Exactly! Then the Rolling Stones had to FUCK IT ALL UP, like usual.

You’re probably saying “Whoa, maaaan, melllow OUT, broman dudebrother, ‘It’s only rock and roll but I like it, like it, yes I do’.” Yeah, you keep telling yourself that. How do you think the Rolling Stones’ backup singers like it when, during “Sympathy for the Devil”, they have to bleat “Ooo oo. Ooo oo. Ooo oo. Ooo oo” how many times? Well, last time I heard it (when I was being “softened up” for interrogation), I counted. They say “Ooo oo” 967 times in a row, making it official torture to listen to, according to the Geneva Convention.

“Sympathy for the Devil” is off their Sgt. Pepper RIP OFF album “Upon Her Majesty’s Secret Satanic Services”, because the Rolling Stones are sooo dark, artsy, mysterious and dangerous. PLEASE. Satan stopped being REMOTELY scary or threatening back in the Eighties. You’re not Satanic. I’ll show you Satanic. “MY NAME IS MATTHEW LEASK BRAITHWAITE, AND I HEREBY PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE DARK EVIL MASTER SATAN. MY SOUL IS ALL YOURS. UPSIDE DOWN CROSS. I LOVE SATAN, BECAUSE HE’S MY SAVIOR!” There. Wow, that felt GOOD. You should try it. Do it NOW. You can even say your name is Matthew Leask Braithwaite.

Look, next time you want to name your band after a shitty magazine, just call yourselves Modus Operandi.

JAY ZEE: Or as I call him, Jay Zzzzz. Down at B.N. Blisters Steakhouse, the boss Big Nasty just LOVES modern pop music, which is why I was surprised to hear him playing the classic 80′s ballad “Forever Young”, written by Rod Stewart. “Man, this is my cut,” I informed him, “I used to stalk this woman by hiding in her bushes singing her name to this tune, ‘For Heather Young’.” I laughed, then stopped, because the song was interrupted with a RAP LYRIC. Rod Stewart has NEVER rapped. B.N. told me “Oh, this is Jay Zee’s new jam. He wrote this entire song.” NO, HE DIDN’T. What’s he gonna STEAL next, “Wind Beneath My Bling”?

Well, what do you expect from THE WORST RAPPER IN HISTORY. NOBODY is able to recite ONE of his lyrics. Maybe the choruses, because they’re designed to be ringtones. Jay Zee is a BIG fan of showtunes, like when he celebrated Little Orphan Annie’s Hard Knock Life. He pretends to be attracted to women, but when he released his song “99 Problems, But A Bitch Ain’t One” on Rock A Fella Records (I’m serious), I started to wonder. NOT THAT I CARE, but I’ll bet the LGBTQLSDCIAFBI community would respect him more if he would just be honest. They’ll probably still watch his fabulous new show on the Oprah Network, regardless. His line of shoes are adorable, too.

He’s never had sex with his wife Beyotche, either. When this classy gentleman proclaimed “Now I’m Bangin’ B”, he was lying. Was I the ONLY ONE who saw his FRUSTRATED wife scream her brutal version of “You Oughta Know” at him during that awards show last year? Then, when the transgendered Rhianna won an award, JZ accompanied her to the stage, and they BOTH HELD THE HANDS OF HER ADOPTED SON! Beyonce cried, went home, and wrote the excellent ”Why Don’t You Love Me?”

What a JERK! For some UNKNOWN reason, JZ was on the cover of Rolling (ugh) Stone for an article called “The King Of Music”. I read the interview, because I swear to MY GOD SATAN this whole Jay Zee thing has got to be some sort of GRAND PRANK. Do you know ANYBODY who has EVER said “I’m gonna go to the store and buy the new Jay Zee record!” I didn’t think so, because NOBODY WOULD DO THAT. Anyway, during the interview, he fucking TAKES HIS PANTS OFF so his secretary can “measure his inseam”. YOU’RE MARRIED, YOU… ohhh I don’t even have the words for fucking assholes that do that shit and brag about it in music magazines. He’s a liar, too. Remember when that PROBATION PUNK Chris Brown beat the HOLY FUCKING HELL out of his girlfriend when he found out she used to be a man? You know, before she got famous for singing “I Love The Way It Hurts”? Well, when Jay Zee found out about the ATTACK, he issued the following death threat: “Chris Brown is a walking dead man”. But DID HE KILL HIM? NO, he invited them BOTH to his mansion for a jet ski vacation! LOOK IT UP! I could do a whole H8 UPD8 on Chris Brown alone, but I prefer destroying people that everyone is ordered to like.

Even Barack O’Bama says that he likes Jay Zee. I’d like him too if he wrote a song about me called “My President Is Black”. He is? Wow, I didn’t know that until you made a boring fucking rap about it. I guess it IS catchier than “My President Used To Extinguish Cigarettes On The Expensive Carpeting Of Hotel Lobbies As A Teenager Back In Hawaii”.

Let’s examine his biggest hit, shall we? “H to the Hizzo, O to the Schmizzo, V to the Somethinzzo”, or whatever. WHAT THE HECK IS THAT SHIT?! Oh, it stands for HOVA, as in Jehova, because he thinks he’s Jesus, like most well-adjusted, intelligent, humble, strong, sane men do. Hip Hop Weekly always gushes “Is Jay Zee a member of the Illuminati?” Oh, you mean the geniuses that secretly run the world, but can’t figure out how to PLUG UP A FUCKING OIL DISASTER? Ooooh, I’m really scared of the Illuminati. Are they anything like the Masons, you know, the senior citizens that have spaghetti feeds at the Bingo Parlor to raise money for their float in the Hazel Dell Parade? UH OH!

Jay, I know you’re reading this, so let’s settle this once and for all. I’m challenging you to a fistfight. Meet me in the Fred Meyer parking lot on Tuesday. I’ll be the one listening to REAL RAP MUSIC by THE GETO BOYS. Bring your crew, coward, my name is Steven Purkey, and I’m ready to beat you up.

Steven Purkey: I have to call him Mr. Purkey. He wears a velvet cowboy hat emblazoned with the words “Money, Power, and Women (FUCK Respect)” spelled out in diamonds. His castle is surrounded by a moat filled with champagne, floating with live strippers. I follow him into the club and watch him toss burning c-notes around until people get injured in the trample.

He makes his money by EXPLOITING his stable of writers, without paying them a BROWN CENT. He’s basically a pimp, and I’m a hooker who loves my job. I’m making this entire article up as I go along. Mr. Purkey just said “Make sure it’s full of HATE and LIES, and have it done by 5am.” I started at 1:30. It’s now 4:40, and I’m out of cigarettes. I don’t have a punchline. Oh, but I DO have a NEW SPACEWIFE! HI, HONEYFIRE SUGARSPICE! YOU’RE OFFICIALLY MODUS-FAMOUS NOW! (Please don’t leave me after reading this article).

OH, I GOT IT! Do you suppose the Rolling Stones refer to him as JAY ZED?!

A Shitty Exposé On Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds by McMeats

A Shitty Exposé On Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds

by McMeats

So as the story goes, I was handing out some #18’s at the local distro, Roger’s Zoo.  I gave (Disgruntled) Davey his. After thumbing through a few of its pages, he told me I should write an exposé on Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds.  It seemed random enough, especially since #18 was the first issue that I actually did not write anything in. (Well, except for #Four, but that one doesn’t count.)  So I asked him why, and he would not give me a reason.  So I thought, maybe he’s dead, right?  I mean that’s usually why someone starts talking about some famous person for no apparent reason. There was otherwise no relation to anything that was happening at the moment.  So I checked, and no, he is not dead.  And what the fuck does it mean to do an exposé, anyway? Am I supposed to get to the gritty underbelly of Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds?    But I figured, if I had a request to write something I might as well do it.  This one’s for Davey, God rest his soul.

The first time I heard Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds was when I saw them at The Gorge for Lollapalooza ’94 during the golden age of the alternative music movement.  No-Sleeves Steve was there, so was his sister Lisa, as well as Paul “Greco” Wisher and, everybody’s favorite, Leif “Rev. Minesweeper” Brecke. Leif was pretty excited about seeing them, I had never heard of them, I was there to see Green Day, Smashing Pumpkins, Beastie Boys, etc.  But Leif talked ‘em up pretty good so I was interested.  The Bad Seeds came on stage, probably middle billed, so like late afternoon.  It was really fucking hot that late August day. After seeing 2 or 3 bands and being in the thick of the hot, moisty feverbox of a mid-90’s mosh pit, the mist tent up the hill sounded pretty fucking good.  Much more refreshing than watching a band that I knew nothing about.  They had been around for at least a good 10 years, but when you’re source for music was pretty much limited to watching MTV (oh yeah, they used to play videos didn’t they?) or happening upon some weird band at Off The Record, you tend to miss out on some of the Seeds that laid the groundwork.

So after getting mistified, I headed back to catch the last half of their set, and I can tell you it was pretty fucking amazing.  They were touring in support of their album Let Love In.  Which, as the title may suggest, was one of their more darkly pretty albums.  But y’know, in the same sense as The Swans’ The Burning World was a pretty album. After seeing them I bought the cd at the merch table.  I listened to it, quite a bit, actually, but it didn’t seem to give the same punch as when I saw them.  Obviously there was more to them, then that album, so I looked into their back catalog, and started hearing some great stuff.

The early albums had been out of print in the US, but due to the success of Let Love In, a half-dozen albums were re-released over the course of the next few years. Here are some selected highlights of their career.  Their first album, 1984’s From Her To Eternity was some dark atmospheric post-punk carrying over from the days when Cave and Mick Harvey were in The Birthday Party. Any self-respecting Bad Seeds listener should already be well versed in them.  Kicking Against The Pricks, another great record, came out a couple albums later.  It’s a covers album, and usually when a band starts doing these they’re heading south.  But some of the covers like “All Tomorrow’s Parties” and “Running Scared” are such classics that they almost end up being originals, not to mention that they were staples of their live shows 16 years ago when I saw them, and still are.

In 1988, they released Tender Prey, featuring Cave’s magnum opus, “The Mercy Seat,” Johnny Cash would go on to cover this song, and upped the chill factor by 10, as he had a tendency to do.  As dark and moody as the Bad Seeds were to that point, this was probably their darkest album to date, and would be until Murder Ballads came out eight years later.  This is my favorite album as Cave paints such vast tales of death and violence that he almost takes you to the point of no return.  Not that I’m saying this album will make you go out and kill someone, but it gets you thinking.

Since then, they’ve put out several more albums.  In 2001, No More Shall We Part was released, and it was a different take on similar subject matter, reminiscent of Let Love In. but not as darkly ironic and violent.  It’s actually a very beautiful record, which may or may not be a compliment.  In recent years several of The Bad Seeds, Cave included have formed the side project Grinderman, in which the musical stylings have almost come full circle back to the days of The Birthday Party.  There exists much more of a noisier garage feel, with more of an artistic approach, though, perhaps, less spiritual.

There you have it.  Though I did not list everything that The Bad Seeds are involved with (i.e. Einsturzende Neubauten, but that would have taken way more than 2 pages by itself), and I left out probably some crucial albums, but it is what it is…shitty.

I hope that this meets your expectations, Davey.

Here’s to life.  Fuck It!

You either are or ya aren’t by Steven Purkey

So ya wanna be a writer, huh?  Hahahaha.  Good one.  Ya wanna be anything that’s all ya gonna be is a wanna-be.  You either are or you aren’t.  All other efforts are simply forced, never work, don’t make any sense, and are downright pointless.  You create anything ya do it out of necessity, not cuz ya “wanna-be” anything.  You either are or you aren’t.  And if you are then ya can’t help it and it will flow from you effortlessly.  You wanna be a writer?  Don’t.  Give up.  Try something else.  Quit now while yer still young enough to do something different.  Ya don’t do it cuz ya wanna, ya do it cuz ya hafta.  If the muse doesn’t speak to you then ya got nothin’.  Don’t even try.  But if that bitch won’t leave ya alone then ya have no choice.  Ya hafta.  No choice.  You either are or ya aren’t.

The Natural Beauty of the Oregon Coast by Steven Purkey

The Natural Beauty of the Oregon Coast

by Steven Purkey

It rains.

The wind blows rain in yr face.

Downed pelicans get fucked with by rednecks.

The storm on the coast is a natural beauty.

Rap Battle! Ray Succre vs. Frankie Metro

Ray Succre vs Franklin Metropolis

Ray Succre

You called me out, Metro. Time for your comeuppance.

If you’re comin’ do it runnin’, ain’t nothin’ but another
Fool with a mouth I’ll smack shut like I’m your mother.
I’ll break your spine in, read your life, and toss you back on the shelf,
Just remember one thing, son: You brought this on yourself.

I’m the leper motherfucker with the doom-spray flow.
You’re just a walk-on. Oh, this is MY show.
So, what are we learnin’? How to make you pout.
Stick around punk, cuz I’m about to whip this out.

Your rhymes are flaccid, passive with no grip.
On page you’re standin’ slack-jawed. Bitch, I’m doin’ backflips.
Strippin’ your lines for the noun, verb, and predicate,
A delicate ettiquette; I meddle for the hell of it.
Clever? Whatever, I’ll sever your trip with my wit;
you can never endeavor to fight this mad shit I spit,
lines so hot you’re gonna need an oven mitt,
gaspin’ with an O-face: “Oh Ray… teach me some of it!”

§ 

Franklin Metropolis

ray, it’s like this.
like a leper with a lisp
if youre really wanting the reverb
i can put it to you with a fist

tha same one i pulled from yr momma’s house
and i aint talkin cribs
the brown cul de sac beneath her blouse
that’s where the monster once lived

now it’s walking on two feet
it’s got arms, hands and fervor
it may smell like a piece of shit
but what’d you expect, it’s ray succre

§

Ray Succre

Two feet? Man, I be walkin’ on three.
I’ll put you in a prison cell and coat the walls with pee.
I’ll club you like a seal, bust spokes from your meat-wheel,
and throw you a quarter so your ass can have a meal.

I’m a verbal aorta, you’re just sorta, you’re a capillary;
those novitiate ears can’t receive this vocabulary,
unless I crawl in your head and clean out the inside,
and straight coat my rhymes with a bucket of Astroglide.

I hit the ground runnin’. You hit the ground cryin’.
Put your helmet on, son, I don’t know why you’re still tryin’.
There’s drool on your chin and feces on your hands.
You think you’re gettin’ shafted, slick, but that was just the glans.

§

Ray Succre ‎[Folds arms across chest and stares with menace]

§ 

Franklin Metropolis

at least yr vernacular is bigger than yr dick
yr mom said so once, when she was swallowing my prick
a verbal aorta? more like a clogged artery
make childish limericks with jails cells and flaccid pee

pee-see you made me soil my words
ended up with ray juice on my hands instead of nouns and verbs
but when you sleep with dogs they say you come out like fleas & shit
and when you rap with mediocre verse, best to hold onto it. SUCCA

the only club you’ve seen
is the third foot yr tryin to carry round
it’s hard fitting a 7 ft clit
into a “menacing” prom gown

and succre rhymes with pucker
like you put yr lips to the limp dick you call rap
pick up a pencil trying to fuck
and end up with just a long winded CLAP!

Ray Succre

Danger, Metropolis! This anger I savor
is a never-ending feed of fresh rounds in the chamber.
My diction and friction imitate fate at a measured rate;
my genius is the needle that’ll make you deflate.

Let’s hope you’re the wiser and not just the wearier.
That’s what you get when you challenge your superior.
With rhyme, I’m the riser; you’re a monosyllabic miser.
Watch me go off super-heated with this lyrical geyser:

What’s stankin’, lady Franklin? I think somebody’s makin’
some green bacon- them shake n’ bake no-rhymes are just fakin’.
You’ve been castled and rooked, look, straight captured and booked.
The timer went off, honey; I think the turkey’s cooked.

You’ve been washed and rinsed. I’ll sort you after I unload.
I can smell your words from here; it’s like a toilet overflowed.
Watch me easily dodge all your menstruating rhymes;
I’ll chase you back into your cave like Metroid Prime.

I’ve been in the south, and I’ve seen where you lurk;
when you walk the docks, crabbers think they’re still at work.
You’ll learn to stay down when you face this retribution:
This ain’t a rap battle; it’s a rap execution.

You write in first person but I write with the N-tense,
I can bust this shit while I sing a song of sixpence.
Welcome to my slaughterhouse; this joint is my downtown.
You want some advice, girl? Exit with your head down.

Franklin Metropolis weak

§ 

Franklin Metropolis so weak maybe itll take me a week to reply

 

This just in! Frankie Metro responds!!!

“i don’t wear tightie whities like you ray sucker…lol..so mine don’t climb..ask yr mother..waiit..lemme pull out my [expletive] ..okay now ask her”
–frankie metro

Ray Succre responds in rap battle!

“She agreed; the underwear was no longer white, and they were not tight, and in fact, there seemed to be a substantial amount of vacant space in the front while you were wearing them.”
–Ray Succre

Frankie Metro responds!!!

“HAHAHA! even space looks big to the cosmological eye, which has the same origin date as that thing between yr thighs. ancient, rigid and black; like an aids infested bubble..you fuck with FM and yr fuckd like you got AIDS trouble.”
–Frankie Metro

Ray Succre So… so I have a timeless, black penis infested with the AIDS virus because you had sex with me and infected me with it? Dude, that doesn’t make either one of us sound cool at all.

Don’t try to fuck girls in New Orleans up the ass with sunscreen (even the kind w/ moisturizer) by Newamba Flamingo

Don’t try to fuck girls in New Orleans up the ass with sunscreen (even the kind w/moisturizer)

“So I’m in New Orleans, at a bar in the French Quarter, and I meet this chick, a hot one too. We kicked back a few shots of tequila and next thing I know, only 20 minutes after meeting her, she invites me back to her hotel room.”

“So we get back there, and the second we step inside, she jumps on me and is kissing me, grabbing my dick, tearing off her clothes. It’s almost as if her clothes were attached by velcro, how fast she got them off.”

“So now we’re totally naked and on the bed. I’m about to roll on a condom and impale her with my helmeted soldier, but she stops me and asks if I want to fuck her up the ass. Of course, I oblige, as it isn’t too easy to find chicks who’ll let you walk on the brown side, especially only an hour after you’ve just met them.”

“So she tells me to go into the bathroom and find lube. I hustle in there, thinking her bathroom was like the anal sex palace or something, like there’d be 50 types of lube, anal beads, electronic dildos, all that shit. But there’s nothing of the sort. I couldn’t find any lube, whatsoever, not even hand lotion. I think of maybe using shampoo, but then I see some sunscreen, the kind with moisturizer, and figure that’ll do.”

“So I lather up my dick with the sunscreen and march back in there, ready to get down to business. I leap into the bed, grab her by the hips, about to flip her over and stick it in her ass, but she glances down at my dick with a puzzled expression on her face. She asks me what I put on my dick, and I tell her that it’s sunscreen. Then all of a sudden she totally loses it, screaming about how could I possibly be trying to fuck her up the ass with sunscreen, what the fuck is wrong with me, etc.”

“So then she starts flailing kicks and punches at me and does that thing where she twirls both arms around like windmills, slapping at me, forcing me towards the door. In between slaps I manage to pry open the door and retreat to the hallway. I plead to her that it was the type of sunscreen with moisturizer, but she slams the door on me and I’m now standing out there, buck-naked, sunscreen on my semi-hard dick, hair all messed up from her windmill slap attack.”

“So I bang on the door and beg her to please give me my clothes, but she won’t answer. My hotel was a couple streets away, and so I walked down the stairs, through the lobby, right into Bourbon Street. Funny enough, not a single person gave me a strange look. I even walked by a couple other naked men, but I couldn’t tell whether or not they had sunscreen on their dicks, though it wouldn’t surprise me if they did.”

“So I get to my hotel and run into these cops outside and I tell them about what happened and ask them if they can help me get my clothes back from this chick. At first they just laughed at me, especially when I told them about the sunscreen thing. One of them asks me why I didn’t just spit in my hand or something, but then they agree to help me retrieve my clothes, especially since my wallet was in them, with my driver’s license and everything, and the cops were sympathetic to me about how much of a pain in the ass it’d be to go to the DMV and have it replaced, particularly if I had to explain to the people at the DMV how I’d lost it in the first place.”

“So I’m walking with the cops back to her hotel, still naked, mind you; surprisingly the cops didn’t ask me to put on clothes, but like a hundred people had thrown me beads, so like my neck and chest were covered with them, kinda like I was one of those 1980s rappers who covered themselves with gold chains, well, not exactly like that, but sort of. Anyway, and then some short bald guy on a Segway, who said he was a mortician, rode by and gave me a pink ski-mask, which I put on, and it helped me feel a little less embarrassed.”

“So we’re about to step into her hotel when the cops say they want to grab a quick cup of coffee at McDonald’s. We walk in there and there’s this group of like 50 Chinese tourists, who are looking like they’re about to fight each other. But instead of fighting, they start break-dancing at each other, all aggressively, kinda like Michael Jackson’s ‘Beat It’ video, and then the cops and some guy who was dressed up like Ronald McDonald or who just looked like Ronald McDonald joined in, and so did I, break-dancing all over the place, jumping up on tables, all that shit.”

“So after break-dancing, we went up to her hotel, but I couldn’t remember which room she was in. The receptionist refused to call around or help me bang on doors, looking for her, and instead gave me a shower curtain to wrap myself in, and I said bye to the cops and walked back to my hotel. The staff at my hotel didn’t act surprised at all by me coming in there wrapped up in only a shower curtain, draped in tons of beads, wearing a pink ski-mask. I guess they see shit like that all the time.”

“So I guess the moral of the story is that if you meet a chick at a bar in New Orleans and you go back to her hotel room and she asks you to fuck her in the ass, don’t use sunscreen, even the kind with moisturizer, or else you might get into a break-dancing battle with Chinese people, and worse yet, have to go to the DMV to get your driver’s license replaced.”

Trainwreck and Hollywood part 4 by Steven Purkey

Trainwreck and Hollywood part 4

by Steven Purkey

Hollywood and I had a strange relationship.  We got along so well, we just didn’t give a fuck about our differences.  It was a matter of survival, as well.  We shared everything: food, beer, drugs, cigs, blankets; shared experience to better survive on the streets, in the cold, the rain.

He’s the one who taught me to just crawl up on some porch instead of sleeping in the more dangerous recycling dumpsters.  I used to sleep in there sandwiched between cardboard for warmth, and close the dumpster lid to protect from rain.  But the danger was that the garbage trucks that came to empty the cardboard wouldn’t check the dumpster before lifting it with the powerful, long, mechanical arms to empty it into the truck, so you ran the risk of being crushed once you were dumped into the truck.

I didn’t care if I died though, welcomed death even, as life was so miserable: strung out on heroin, homeless, broke, spangin’ for my next fix….

It was a hellacious existence, comforted only by the drugs and booze I consumed on an absolutely daily basis.  Without them I would’ve walked out in front of a semi-truck on Interstate 5 and called it good.

But that didn’t happen.  Instead, I was rescued my Grandmother when she came to visit my then-ill Aunt.

I went to see my Grandmother at my Aunt’s house, taking the bus from Thurston to the other side of town, and telling Hollywood I would be back in a couple of days.  I never saw him again.  But we’ll get to that later.  First I want to tell you, must explain, that when my family saw the shape I was in they all wanted to help me.  My cousin got me to take a shower and washed my clothes a few times.  6 months on the street and I was filthy.  I was also strung out on alcohol would wake up sick and shaking without it, puking in a garbage can out in the garage.  They felt bad for me, bought me beers, and fed me.  I spent 3 nights there, sleeping out on the back porch in a sleeping bag, because I felt more comfortable outdoors.

Eventually it came time for Grandma to leave, head back down the coast, and she invited me to go with her, bless her heart.  I took her up on the offer without even thinking about it.  I wanted to get off the streets, to get clean, and off the booze.  6 months on the street and I was whupped.  I was ready to rejoin the living.  Her presenting me with the opportunity is ultimately what saved my life.  It’s been a long struggle getting off and staying off the booze and drugs.  Which brings me back to Hollywood.

I searched for him around our old stomping grounds several times over the years, asking around about him and turning up nothing.  And then 7 years later I hear from him.  He made contact with me over the computer and is still drunk and homeless.  Wants to get clean, but don’t we all?  I was trying to maintain contact and possibly try to help him, but last I heard he was in jail.

Hollywood, if yr reading this, don’t give up.  Do whatever it takes to get clean.  The rest will follow.  And for God’s sake call me, ya bastard!