Flies
A friend of mine was murdered recently. Well, I say recently, it was some time ago actually. He was a big, stupid man who went by the name Brian Turd. The news reports even called him Brian Turd. He would have gotten the biggest fucking kick out of that. He was walking his dog early in the evening and someone put two in his chest. No one knows what someone. Nobody knows why. Sycophants and name droppers are crawling out of the woodwork to mourn him. His picture is plastered in dive bars and music halls all across New Orleans, Biloxi and Mobile. People who may have gotten drunk or high with him or seen his band play are now wearing their grief for him on their sleeve like some sort of shitty tribal tattoo. A couple dozen cretins searching for identity and desperate to prove something, anything, to someone, anyone, preferably in the loudest, most violent and uncouthe manor possible, threaten violence at even the slightest utterance that might sully his reputation.
His reputation. What the fuck do they know? They must not have known him. I did. I wasn't the closest with him. But, we came up playing music in punk bands together. I knew him for 16 years. I was in a band with him. I witnessed him get a handjob back stage. That's just downright intimate. He lived at the house we all basically lived at.
He didn't deserve to get shot, but he was by any standard an acquired taste, to put it nicely. Everyone wants to act like he was a complete innocent. He wasn't. He was an abuser of multiple intoxicants. He was violent and quick tempered. He had horrible hygiene. Christ, that man smelled. But, there was something undeniably beautiful about him. You knew, no matter what, that there was only one goddamned man on the planet like this. You knew, you hoped, there was only one goddamned man like this on the planet, ever, since the dawn of goddamned men. And you felt a little lucky, even if begrudgingly, to have witnessed his existence.
This is the man who went up to a guy in a wheelchair and told him, "Hey man, nobody pushes me around."
When he died, I hadn't talked to him in months. The last words I said to him were, "Get the fuck out of my face." I meant it. We didn't always get along. Which is why others were closer to him. But, he was a part of my life. He tried to make out with my wife at a show. It was hard to even be mad at him it was so fucking lame. The man had green teeth.
I was at the benefit of another friend who died in a car accident the night he was shot. I don't think I'm ready for all my friends to start dying. I say that, but I suppose it's a little too late. All those guys who said in high school, "I won't make it 30, I'm too hard core." Some of them didn't. It's not so hardcore when you're thirty. It's just retarded. Some kid with no dad because you couldn't stop shooting up. Good job, dipshit. The world goes on and never even gives the slightest little bit of a fuck that you were so fucking real.
So, yeah, they're all dropping like flies. But, this one, it stuck with me. I couldn't figure out why. Like I said, we weren't teribly close. Part of the same circle of friends that grew up playing loud music in shitholes and basically making asses of ourselves in clubs acrosst the Gulf Coast. But, not close. Still, it stuck with me and I couldn't stop thinking about him. Maybe it was because he was the first person I know that was murdered. It could be that simple.
Recently,I was in New Orleans, at a bar he used to work the door at. It was loaded full of hipsters dancing to some crap I didn't recognize. He would have mocked them mercilessly. He would have groped their women. He would have groped their men. He would have pissed on the dance floor. And perhaps that's it. He's gone, violently so, and my life, for good or bad, will be noticeably less funny and interesting. This is how we grow old. This is how we get boring.
His reputation. What the fuck do they know? They must not have known him. I did. I wasn't the closest with him. But, we came up playing music in punk bands together. I knew him for 16 years. I was in a band with him. I witnessed him get a handjob back stage. That's just downright intimate. He lived at the house we all basically lived at.
He didn't deserve to get shot, but he was by any standard an acquired taste, to put it nicely. Everyone wants to act like he was a complete innocent. He wasn't. He was an abuser of multiple intoxicants. He was violent and quick tempered. He had horrible hygiene. Christ, that man smelled. But, there was something undeniably beautiful about him. You knew, no matter what, that there was only one goddamned man on the planet like this. You knew, you hoped, there was only one goddamned man like this on the planet, ever, since the dawn of goddamned men. And you felt a little lucky, even if begrudgingly, to have witnessed his existence.
This is the man who went up to a guy in a wheelchair and told him, "Hey man, nobody pushes me around."
When he died, I hadn't talked to him in months. The last words I said to him were, "Get the fuck out of my face." I meant it. We didn't always get along. Which is why others were closer to him. But, he was a part of my life. He tried to make out with my wife at a show. It was hard to even be mad at him it was so fucking lame. The man had green teeth.
I was at the benefit of another friend who died in a car accident the night he was shot. I don't think I'm ready for all my friends to start dying. I say that, but I suppose it's a little too late. All those guys who said in high school, "I won't make it 30, I'm too hard core." Some of them didn't. It's not so hardcore when you're thirty. It's just retarded. Some kid with no dad because you couldn't stop shooting up. Good job, dipshit. The world goes on and never even gives the slightest little bit of a fuck that you were so fucking real.
So, yeah, they're all dropping like flies. But, this one, it stuck with me. I couldn't figure out why. Like I said, we weren't teribly close. Part of the same circle of friends that grew up playing loud music in shitholes and basically making asses of ourselves in clubs acrosst the Gulf Coast. But, not close. Still, it stuck with me and I couldn't stop thinking about him. Maybe it was because he was the first person I know that was murdered. It could be that simple.
Recently,I was in New Orleans, at a bar he used to work the door at. It was loaded full of hipsters dancing to some crap I didn't recognize. He would have mocked them mercilessly. He would have groped their women. He would have groped their men. He would have pissed on the dance floor. And perhaps that's it. He's gone, violently so, and my life, for good or bad, will be noticeably less funny and interesting. This is how we grow old. This is how we get boring.