I cut my hair on October fifth, nineteen ninety-nine.
This is what the hair-metal guys felt like when we came along, I thought to myself at the time. When we invaded and pushed those assholes to the side, it was like slaying an army of spandex-clad men with colorful makeup and helmets made of Aqua-Net infused bleached blonde hair. Cobain led the charge and we defeated them with our cheap guitars, armored in threadbare flannel and ernest artistry.
We thought we had changed everything. Of course plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. Before long, models were sashaying down runways in Doc Martens and furry hats. We weren't slain by discontent youths who couldn't stomach the stale taste of our distorted riffs, we were swallowed by them whole. Absorbed and transformed by their vapid consumerism until alternative rock metamorphisized into modern rock then, finally, just pop rock.
As my long locks fell around me like ashes of a burning dream I didn't mourn the death of our art, I just knew I had to get the fuck out of Seattle. We'd had one hit which, in my opinion, was better than no hits, but those royalty checks weren't enough to pay off those Yakuza butchers. My band, Suicide Hotline, had attained some degree of fame and acclaim during our fifteen minutes, but the only thing I had left of those days was the hair and a heroin habit- and the hair had to go if I didn't want to be recognized by those Japanese mobsters.
When it was done, I looked like one of those zombie-models that worked at Abercormbie and Finch. With a sigh I grabbed my duffel bag, my nine millimeter, and the last bag of junk I had and slipped out the backdoor of the dingy motel. After a quick look around for any suspicious-looking asian killers, I jumped the fence into the Wendy's parking lot and walked over to my Chevelle. I loved that car more than I had loved any human I'd ever known. Every time I looked at it, it made me proud- it was the only thing I hadn't sold in order to get a fix. It was like hope on wheels. I hopped in, threw my shit in the back and started her up with the intention of hauling ass south nonstop until I got to San Pero where an old roadie buddy of mine lived. I'd crash with him, play some bars, and keep a low profile until this Yakuza shit blew over. However, the red needle on the gas gauge was lingering on E and I had a buck fifty and some lint in my jeans. So much for hope.
That was the first time I robbed a store.
I wrapped an old t-shirt around my head and waltzed in to the Stop n' Shop with my nine in my hand like I was Ice Cube or something. I even held my gun sideways for extra effect. I didn't intend to hurt anyone, but something in me snapped when someone pulled into the gas pump with a Korn song blasting. Fucking Korn. Those assholes were flying high with seventh-grade lyrics and scat solos and here I was holding Apu at gunpoint for gas-money. It was the last straw. After getting the cash from the clerk, I stormed outside and shot up the Korn fan's brand new Mustang like it was Octavio from Scarface. When the owner had the audacity to curse me out, I put a hole in him as well. My first murder was some fratboy douchenozzle with terrible taste in music. I can't say the sensation was disagreeable, but the feeling of satisfaction faded when I heard sirens behind me ten miles down the road. Luckily, I knew my way around the mountain roads. Unluckily, I had to part ways with my beloved Chevelle.
It took a while, but I eventually stole and thumbed my way down to San Pero. My roadie buddy didn't care for me selling his TV for smack, so our living arrangement came to an end. Playing in smokey bars earned me the occasional cheeseburger, but it wasn't enough to pay the bills. It's never enough. So I fell back on the only thing other than music I could do to earn some cash...
Standing in the rain outside a dingy diner, I hear someone drive by with our song "Ravaged" playing on their radio. I hate it. It reminds me of everything I lost. It's like running into an old girlfriend that you cheated on and she's happy and doing well, but you're a miserable failure. I consider robbing the place in a storm of bullets and regret, like some sort of ultra-violent pity party, but the desire for a warm, dry place to sit and a hot cup of coffee vetos the motion.
I turn my collar to the cold and damp and walk inside. . .
This is what the hair-metal guys felt like when we came along, I thought to myself at the time. When we invaded and pushed those assholes to the side, it was like slaying an army of spandex-clad men with colorful makeup and helmets made of Aqua-Net infused bleached blonde hair. Cobain led the charge and we defeated them with our cheap guitars, armored in threadbare flannel and ernest artistry.
We thought we had changed everything. Of course plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose. Before long, models were sashaying down runways in Doc Martens and furry hats. We weren't slain by discontent youths who couldn't stomach the stale taste of our distorted riffs, we were swallowed by them whole. Absorbed and transformed by their vapid consumerism until alternative rock metamorphisized into modern rock then, finally, just pop rock.
As my long locks fell around me like ashes of a burning dream I didn't mourn the death of our art, I just knew I had to get the fuck out of Seattle. We'd had one hit which, in my opinion, was better than no hits, but those royalty checks weren't enough to pay off those Yakuza butchers. My band, Suicide Hotline, had attained some degree of fame and acclaim during our fifteen minutes, but the only thing I had left of those days was the hair and a heroin habit- and the hair had to go if I didn't want to be recognized by those Japanese mobsters.
When it was done, I looked like one of those zombie-models that worked at Abercormbie and Finch. With a sigh I grabbed my duffel bag, my nine millimeter, and the last bag of junk I had and slipped out the backdoor of the dingy motel. After a quick look around for any suspicious-looking asian killers, I jumped the fence into the Wendy's parking lot and walked over to my Chevelle. I loved that car more than I had loved any human I'd ever known. Every time I looked at it, it made me proud- it was the only thing I hadn't sold in order to get a fix. It was like hope on wheels. I hopped in, threw my shit in the back and started her up with the intention of hauling ass south nonstop until I got to San Pero where an old roadie buddy of mine lived. I'd crash with him, play some bars, and keep a low profile until this Yakuza shit blew over. However, the red needle on the gas gauge was lingering on E and I had a buck fifty and some lint in my jeans. So much for hope.
That was the first time I robbed a store.
I wrapped an old t-shirt around my head and waltzed in to the Stop n' Shop with my nine in my hand like I was Ice Cube or something. I even held my gun sideways for extra effect. I didn't intend to hurt anyone, but something in me snapped when someone pulled into the gas pump with a Korn song blasting. Fucking Korn. Those assholes were flying high with seventh-grade lyrics and scat solos and here I was holding Apu at gunpoint for gas-money. It was the last straw. After getting the cash from the clerk, I stormed outside and shot up the Korn fan's brand new Mustang like it was Octavio from Scarface. When the owner had the audacity to curse me out, I put a hole in him as well. My first murder was some fratboy douchenozzle with terrible taste in music. I can't say the sensation was disagreeable, but the feeling of satisfaction faded when I heard sirens behind me ten miles down the road. Luckily, I knew my way around the mountain roads. Unluckily, I had to part ways with my beloved Chevelle.
It took a while, but I eventually stole and thumbed my way down to San Pero. My roadie buddy didn't care for me selling his TV for smack, so our living arrangement came to an end. Playing in smokey bars earned me the occasional cheeseburger, but it wasn't enough to pay the bills. It's never enough. So I fell back on the only thing other than music I could do to earn some cash...
Standing in the rain outside a dingy diner, I hear someone drive by with our song "Ravaged" playing on their radio. I hate it. It reminds me of everything I lost. It's like running into an old girlfriend that you cheated on and she's happy and doing well, but you're a miserable failure. I consider robbing the place in a storm of bullets and regret, like some sort of ultra-violent pity party, but the desire for a warm, dry place to sit and a hot cup of coffee vetos the motion.
I turn my collar to the cold and damp and walk inside. . .
Last edited by Vaughan on Sun Jul 18, 2010 7:00 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Edited for Stupidity.)
