A couple of things strike me about this piece and may also bear some explanation, particularly for blog readers who are not familiar with the last 20 years of Boston rock history. I wrote this in October of 1992 (at least I think it was ’92). And one of my escapades described below is an evening at an open bar shmoozefest celebrating the opening of the new Middle East Downstairs club. Not only was this a nostalgic moment, to reread about the opening, but it also answered a burning question I’ve had for years. I’ve always known that I have only vomited as a result of excessive drinking on three occasions in my life. Problem is, I cold never remember the three occasions. I know that I puked on my 21st birthday. I know I puked on my wedding day (and what a day that was). But I have not been able to remember what the third occasion was, only that I have always been quite sure there were three times when drinking led me to pray to the porcelain altar. Well, after re-reading this piece, the question has been finally answered. I puked at the open bar, and, if I am to believe what friends told me that night, I was the first person to ever puke in the Middle East Downstairs. Now there’s something that deserves a gold star.
Most important though is the very last line of the piece. It still resonates with me today, particularly as I wrestle with the sadness of losing what I’ve had with Ash, but truth be told, I don’t have as much fun as I use to. I’m not suggesting I need to drink like a fish again, but with the move to Chicago, I feel the need to make a serious effort to live, and enjoy life more than I have the last few years. While grad school will no doubt be as demanding as pursuing my undergrad was, I won’t be overloading courses every semester, and perhaps I can allow myself to get an A- in trade for a night out now and then. I use to have so little free time, and what little I had, I tried to always offer to Ash. Not a bad thing mind you, but a limiting thing, and I think she too was suffocated as a result.
In addition to retyping this piece (I only fixed minor typos and punctuation and did not change a word otherwise - there are a few notes in carats "<>" to explain some obscure shit), I also finished a draft of a short story that I might post here soon enough (I also still need to upload photos – yikes). A buddy of mine wrote to me a few days ago and suggested that I immerse myself in projects to keep the sadness at bay. I’ve always written and it’s often been cathartic. I think I found my project – make words…
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Mindfuck (written October 28, 1992)
Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls welcome to the latest installment of the workings of my mind. I sit here today on October 28th at 6am – sunrise. I have not slept tonight but this is nothing new for me; sleep is for the weak I say and perhaps it is the lack of dreams that I suffer that keeps me on a fine line between sanity and insanity. Today is the rapture, have you seen the flyers allover town proclaiming October 28th to be the rapture, the second coming of Christ? How about the ads in the papers? Even more bizarre was a conversation I overheard at the Middle East earlier tonight, where someone tried to explain – seriously – that it would probably be aliens beaming us up and not holy intervention. And I wonder, if I slept more and drank less, would I still over hear these conversations? Not to worry, neither habit will be altered in the near future.
I want to make love to you dear readers. To all of you. I want to share myself with each and every one of you but time will not allow it and some of you have better taste anyway. However, I’ve always felt the pen to be an instrument of foreplay and a damn obvious phallic symbol as well. So instead I shall take you to all the beautiful places I’ve been to in the last couple of weeks and hopefully you will share in the goodtime and mutual enjoyment and fulfillment will be had by reader and writer alike.
It all began two weeks ago when I was mindfucked in the front seat of a friend’s car. Some people have purely physical relationships, I have a purely cerebral one and this particular mindfuck was so intense that I woke to finally realize that the chains of obsession were holding me down and only when I found love of myself would I find the key to release this trap. So to Bunratty’s I flew to witness a stunning, breathtaking band from Chicago called Big Hat. Words and music swoop and dive and spun me in a surreal world of chimes and windy notes and a beautiful violin player with golden hair and a smile that would light the darkest pits of hell came to me and thanked me for dancing and told me stories of sea creatures and their teeth that she had in her possession. She flew away to Maine, angel that she was, and I partook of more ale and Orangutang'smusic and danced with Mikey Dee
I received a letter a day or two following; a man told me he may vote for my dad after last month’s column. I smile and while driving home from FNX after spending a few pleasant moments with Duane and Juanita, I watch the clouds blanket the moon and for some reason feel a little more secure than usual that the sun will rise again in the morning.
I meet Jeff, my bass player, after he finishes work and we grab a few beers and play pinball at the Bow and Arrow pub in Harvard Square. Two girls approach us, Heather and Michelle - I remember their name because their faces were so alive. They wore “Seattle” shirts and baseball caps backwards and boots from LL Bean. They are from the University of new Hampshire here in town for the weekend. They play Jane’s Addiction on the Jukebox and dance. Jeff and I fail at pinball. It is not the beer breaking our concentration. Their ride is about to leave. They ask us if we are going to the “Head of the Charles” the next day. Jeff works - I won’t get up til at least four that afternoon. I watch faces clean with country air, not weathered by 2am closings like Jeff and myself, walk out through the door. An hour later I am at the Rat
The Middle East now, back to back, upstairs one night, downstairs the next. Gothic hell with Shadow Project from somewhere west and Holy Cow from Providence – scene gossip – who did what to whom – don’t tell him but so and so is here with so and so – hey wait, this ain’t Man Ray
Next night Middle East underground – open bar sort of. Schmoozin’ with Mikey Dee and T-Maxx himself. Kay from Letters to Cleo in a translucent shirt talks about various pop-grunge-industrial cliques with me. It’s all music to me but she’s right, the cliques exist and they sick. I meet a guy from Tribe and we talk about growing up in the suburbs. He leaves and Kay and her beautiful shirt are also gone. All alone now – time to vomit – I throw up free beer, first puke in the new Middle East Club, a dubious honor. Stumble around the corner to Brookline Ave, fall down. Kris, my savior. Kris, she gives me gum and a cigarette and a ride home. I want to fall alseep in her hair, I owe her multiple orgasms. Best part – no hangover.
I’m in drag at a Halloween party and I like it and Garry my drummer spends most of the night puking out a window. I walk him around the block in the rain. His speech becomes coherent again and I take hi home and get angry at a friend whom I care about greatly. I’m an egotistical bastard and no one will ever be good enough for her in my eyes, which makes me, admittedly, an asshole in this friendship. I have spoke barely a word to her in five days since.
A Bentman bought me a shot of Jack last night at Bill’s bar and I heard a chain snap somewhere and I wondered if handcuffs should be sued instead of wedding rings.
Life offers so much that I will not duck out of the way of pain because I might miss catching something beautiful as well.
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