B A N G !
BY WILSON AMON
I remember him way back like when he first came to college and was growing out his hair a little but had it all in that in-between phase. Maybe by October hooked his bangs behind his ear. Oh God. Bangs. Yeah, I remember he had that Steve Millerís ďGreatest HitsĒ CD in that huge rack of CDs. He brought all his music he hadnít listened to since he was thirteen. Should of sold it for the Pixies but how could he have known? I remember going to see the Blues Explosion with him and even then you could tell he was pissed he wasnít that little prick on stage going ďblues explosionĒ every thirty seconds to three-thousand cheers.
Man, whyíd you have to mention that? Of all the bands we ever saw with him whyíd you have to mention the Blues Explosion? I still canít believe he actually did it.
What do you mean you canít believe? He had it all set up. Like at first he was only into psychedelics then knew thereís no way a burnoutís going anywhere unless you gouge out your eyes, probably only if you gouge a modelís eyes or a Governorís childís eyes or some shit. Then on to music but got too frustrated playing his acoustic all the time by himself because he didnít have an amp or a car to transport the amp he didnít have or any like-minded musician friends to drive the amp he didnít have to go play with the like-minded musician friends he didnít have. So on to writing because he could sit by himself and not worry about the neighbors complaining that heís shouting his songs too loud and heís psyched heís not just another guitarist in a town crammed with guitarists.
Wait. But at this time when he started writing instead of music instead of drugs you canít say he knew what heíd do. That he had it all planned from the get-go. I donít think anybody ever starts doing anything thinking theyíll do what he did. I mean thatís a weird road to start down. But I think youíre right that he was psyched about writing rather than trying to get shit-ass gigs or wasting every night recording over the demos he did the night before, every night, the same songs he played all the time.
Yo, I think he was just trying to get laid and realized that unless he had a car and a band because he had such high standards when it came to ladies probably because he thought of himself as someone youíd eventually read a front page obituary ofóthat, that, yeah man, the girls. Because he didnít get any because he was too shy thatís what caused it. I hold the lack of female sexual aggression entirely at fault.
So what youíre saying is all that pent-up frustration needed a release and he doused it, lit it, and that shit released. But I think when you get to that late a stage youíve got to consider all the influences he was under. I mean the only thing heíd ever do was quote that line from the original ďBreathless.Ē Heíd always ask people heíd meet what their greatest ambition was and then wait around till they asked him the same question and if they didnít ask heíd say want to know mine: to become immortal then die. I mean thatís straight out of Goddard. Thatís like all heíd ever say when people got to talking about the future.
Man, youíve got it all mixed up. See: first it was drugs, then music, then before writing he thought, I mean, remember him saying all the time shit about how the only reason anyone created any sort of art or music was to reproduce yourself and art was shit, you had to actually reproduce, breed, knock boots, knock some lady up? Remember he left for about a month to go back home and breed or else throw himself into a gorge? Yeah, but he didnít get anyone pregnant because in that transitional phase between music and trying to mate heíd been doing all those steroids and it gave him serious acne and shriveled up his prick to like half-the-size of a raisin. You ever see that shitóit was small. So he couldnít breed because I donít think he could get it up and even if he could it didnít get all that up off of him, and in comparison I mean, he was getting pretty huge. Now imagine half a sliced-raisin member attached to the body he was getting. Man, proportionally, thatís clitoral.
So then you think the fact that all he wanted to do was mate but then he was too Ďroided-out and zit-faced combined with this fatal narcissistic shit, all that led him to finally do that? I canít believe it. Yo, thatís because he was going for it all. And you canít imagine even someone going for it halfway. He was going for the Canon. Oh God. The Cannon. He had all those stories stored away on his hardrive and didnít even try to send one out because he thought they were like Year-2099 shit and probably he couldnít face another rejection. I never read any of it but from what he told me all he did was write about commercialism and advertising and thatís why he spent all the money he made working shit jobs getting tattoos of corporate logos down at The Designerís on Sixth until his whole body was covered with every logo he could think of, well, not just logos, but icons like on the computer and every sort of stop sign, caution when wet sign, you know all the traffic signs, just about everything, all the professional basketball, baseball, hockey, and football logos, everything out there he had carved right on his skin, and maybe he thought someone in tight white plastic would come and click on him, or likeópresto!óone click on the Nike icon there on his tricep and heíd turn into Jordan. Thatís just conjecture.
I just canít believe he blew himself up.
I donít know, man, he just eventually blew himself up. And it would have been cool to read what he wrote but the idiot blew himself up in the same room as the computer where he stored all his manuscripts and his whole room was charred and waterlogged from the firemenís hoses.