We arrived around three a.m. and banged on the door, which swung open. The tiny white apartment was filled with pasty-faced, sweating people, hopping and hollering to a harrowing type of Dutch hardcore techno that thumped angrily through the speakers . . .
I was awakened at six a.m. after a long night of serious drink chasing down seven days of too much speed. Anvil head, brain ready to splatter, body wrought with ache and despair. Wanting nothing more than some shut-eye, against the ghost-white face of an unforgiving, barbaric narco-crash, I was brought back to the shock of life by a telephone call from an LAPD detective looking for my best friend . . .
If he is wearing knives for eyes, if he has dressed for a Day of the Dead parade—three-piece skeleton suit, cummerbund of ribs—his pelvic girdle will look like a Halloween mask.
“The bones,” he’ll complain, make him itch. “Each ulna a tickle.” His mandible might tingle.
He cannot stop scratching, so suggest that he change, but not because he itches—do it for the scratching. Do it for the bones . . .
Featured: Music/Popular Culture/Art
- Jonah Sees Ghosts
- We Owe You Nothing, Punk Planet: The Collected Interviews Expanded Edition
- Simon’s Cat Off to the Vet . . . and Other Cat-astrophes
- Sale Amiri Baraka 3-for-1 Sale!
- Sale Drug Chronicles (Complete Set)
- Just Call Me Mike: A Journey to Actor and Activist
- The Half That’s Never Been Told: The Real-Life Reggae Adventures of Doctor Dread
- Will Work for Drugs
- Hello Sunshine
- Dance of Days: Updated Edition
- A Secret History of Coffee, Coca & Cola