This column is dedicated to Chad from the Tucson band THE BLACKS and his friends and family. I met you once buddy—wish we could’ve done it again. And just the same, I’d like to also take a second to dedicate a moment or two to my friend Jason Alexander. I’m still waiting on your phone call to tell me that your death on that cold Ohio road last year, on that cold Midwest night, was a sick, elaborate joke. Real fucking funny dickhead.

Life is a very fatal thing to get involved with. I won’t sit here and say I know that better than anyone else. The fact is, you must watch the people you care about die. That or you die yourself. No, I am not saying that I’ve been hit harder than anyone else has, because everyone’s been hit in the face with that fact. I’m a bit of a fatalist though, I thought to myself. That was until last year when one of my friends checked out. In a way, it was his fault—got into a car too fucked up with people who were too fucked up. If that was an automatic prescription for the slab though, there’s no way I’d be writing this right now, and I imagine most of you reading this wouldn’t be here to be reading this right now either. Death is something that seems to happen arbitrarily. There is no real pattern. I know people that have gone that have made all the right moves. Sometimes I think about my life though, the cars I’ve flipped, the shit I’ve done, the freeway crash ups, the chemical nightcaps; I wonder why this one person and not me. My only answer is to try to live like I think they would’ve wanted me to live, whether it’s to hang out with my brother and get wasted, start a new band, or simply live by my Grandpa’s example of hard work, and be nice to people no matter what unless they give you a reason not to. I think that the grandiose explanations that people are looking for are still grand, but pretty simple. Not a Buddhist though, and ain’t all that bright, so let’s get to something flaccid and moronic enough that I may be able to shed some light on the matter—our particular branch of popular culture.

Here’s to the 7 night a week assholes. Assholes rule! Tonight as usual, punk rock bands made you motherfuckers the jokers cause, as usual, you were out catching the winners as opposed to the losers—but punk rock is about the losers. Punk rock serious, not Alternative Tentacles getting back in the game business. KILL THE HIPPIES and PCP ROADBLOCK (From Virginia) tore up this SF. This PCP ROADBLOCK, holy shit! I paid for one of their records and it was a California joke, drums and yelling 7". Thank you for making a fool out of this farce out here, and me at the same time. I’m tired of it, and I like to see others who get the Cal joke. I’m loving jokes these days chief. I’m loving this band. A rubber mask, running, violence, and a YARDBIRDS/ IRON MAIDEN style drummer who hurt his poor drum set for 20 minutes. Thanks to all the fuckers in the Bay area who didn’t condescend to show up for KTH—you missed extra magic.

But Big City, it’s just not your fault. The same night PHANTOM LIMBS, FLESHIES, and SUBTONIX also played. Sure, KILL THE HIPPIES were upset that they only received $10 for the show. I would be too in a way, but from my standpoint, it really makes sense to me. In smaller towns, when your band rolls through, you are the only thing happening typically. Well, in bigger places, even on a Tuesday night, you can’t expect to be the only game in town. This leads to my point, and this is a point to be taken by any and all bands—work harder! That’s the end of the story. Work harder at your crappy jobs, make more money, practice more, put out more records, tour more often, figure out ways to get in the mags more, self promote, and just basically, work harder. Work harder at shows too, make every fucking show an event, don’t take things for granted, and generally attack this game of rock and roll like a cranked out street gang. Or quit!

Number One Stunner.

Number One Asshole.

Fuck Kenny.

Who wants to pull the rake motherfuckers? What you say, just a Midwest loudmouth that’ll go away sooner or later due to chemical and girl problems—but what about that ride? This ain’t about the gun to me. This isn’t about running big ego hot time. When I make a fool out of myself in the name of the South Side of Youngstown it doesn’t bother me at all. Top it off with all of you and supermarket takeaway beers—just get quicker. The 45-year-old jazz scene is chasing up the rear on hip. But for me, this ain’t about rotting, or plain reveling. "Same motherfucker got us living in his hell… Got gusto, but only some I can trust." Midwest on the job… "Words of strength… A cell is hell, I’m a rebel so I rebel—between bars got me thinking like an animal."(PUBLIC ENEMY- Strong Island, New York)Politics And Treats To Regular White Fucks And Other Converted Dicks.

Wild style like demon style people for you I do it- I write music and columns for the drunks and with drunks, White motherfuckers, Blacks, Orientals, Mexicans, Marine Corps brothers and Jews, and people in the Navy with the Anchor tattoos. I love my Mom. But my Mom would hate this shit cause she wants me regular and I don’t do that. Nights of noise in the light fantastic… 11 person keggers where you run out of beer at two in the morning, but you have the crank and the reserves. Poison yourself and then scream out the poison. SCREAM OUT THE POISON! I was just back in Ohio for a week regressing and loving it, loving and loving it, then running back here away from the pressure that I’ve created for myself there. I missed SF the whole time I was there, but I now miss home—I’m a fucking mess. As Frankie said in Back To The Beach, "Why-o why-o why-o did I ever leave Ohio?" That answer is simple—don’t care to work shitty jobs and don’t care to become a teacher. Love the self-abuse though, love my friends, and love the cheap rent. But I can slowly commit suicide anywhere.

A wise friend of mine recently inquired as to what I felt all of these actions were a threat to. What he didn’t understand though, is that I’m bred from a small town punk rock set of self-absorption and chemical abuse. The only thing I’m trying to change is the consciousness of people who I feel are smart enough to get with it and my own, so I can get with it and live by my own life and death rules on the live wire of life plan. I feel alone very much of the time, but I’m not a loner. In California I actually am alone most of the time, but still feel crowded—boxed in. When I used to live in a farm town just south of Youngstown, Ohio though, I felt exactly the same. I just want to win the lotto and move all my friends into a giant spread and get drunk and make up a band a week forever. I guess it’s still weird to me that people actually still order COCKSPANIELS and CHEATIN HUSSIES stuff from me. Really, I never thought anyone would care, nor did I care if anyone did care about listening to music made strictly to document the lives of my friends; and essentially me, I guess. At most I just hoped someone would listen and get the aforementioned thing, and also just maybe inspire some dudes from the shit hole towns all over the world to realize they could attempt to artistically paint a picture of life below the surface of the water. I just want to flap and inspire people to flap hard enough as to not drown in the drink. Fucking death though—every so often a shipmate still gets a big lungful of water, and sinks out of sight into the unknown depths of despair and death, or just plain despair, or just death plain. And it fucking sucks.

"But that’s the way I like it baby I don’t wanna’ live forever."
Don’t Forget The Joker,
Kenny
detoxpolice@hotmail.com