One Halloween in Orlando, a friend of Dr. Nasty, named Sabrina, showed the band the best trick or treat possible.

She rented a limo for the entire night, stocked with all the booze we could consume. She and her friend, Josette, both dressed like playboy bunnies, provided much entertainment throughout the evening, and well into the morning.

There were only two of them, however, and three of us. Somebody, unless they were very resourceful, would have to do without. When faced with situations such as this, being the lead singer was the bomb. Josette would be mine tonight. I knew it. I smiled.

Concerning the other guys, Phil was a good-looking guy who could have his way with most women. He had a girlfriend at this time (later to become his wife, then ex-wife), but it didn’t matter. If he so chose, he would call the shots with Sabrina.

Mick, on the other hand, was one of the coolest guys I’d ever met. He wasn’t pretty, he knew it, and he played on it. Even when he was being obnoxious and bloviating (which was quite often), chicks dug him. He had a reputation for being rude and mean. I can vouch that he was both of those. He was also quite fun to be around.

Alcohol distorted my judgment when a certain other female was allowed to join our party. I don’t believe she was quite sixteen. If memory serves me, her friends called her Constance. She had snuck out of her mother’s house to join our mischief. Her grandmother worked at the department store with the three of us. Constance was Mick’s companionship throughout the night.

Not that Mick did anything, but drink and laugh all night. After everyone was wasted (Constance included), Constance started to get sick. We stopped at the nearest 7/11 to let her do her thing.

At the 7/11, we took some pictures. Me with the bunnies. Phil with the bunnies. Then Mick started screaming, “She’s farting! God help me, she’s farting!” Constance never made it outside the limo. She was leaned over Mick, on her belly, puking in the parking lot.

Mick’s tone of voice and facial expression caused me to laugh until I fell to the ground. We took some pictures of Constance emptying her stomach, and of Mick’s reaction to her sometimes loud releases of intestinal gases, and invaded the 7/11 for some munchies.

Inside the 7/11, the clerk, an older black lady, told me I looked like Bon Jovi. I just smiled. Then she said, “You ARE Bon Jovi!” I didn’t deny it. She probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I gave her my autograph, and we took a picture with her. To this day, she probably believes she met Bon Jovi.

The days that followed threatened to bring a lot of trouble. Somehow, Constance’s mother was more angry at Mick than anybody. Maybe his was the only name she knew. Anyway, reason soon prevailed and things cooled. Nobody went to jail or got beat up. Best Halloween ever. Thanks, Sabrina.

STEREO

The stereo in my parent’s bedroom gave me my first experience with music. It was big and bulky, like a piece of furniture. On top were two slats of wood which slid open and closed. On these slats were two finger holes, just big enough for a penny to fit through. I put many pennies in those holes.

I remember the 45’s and the 78’s my mom used to play. Mostly Loretta Lynn and George Jones, although there were many more that I do not recognize. I do remember Johnny Cash, though.

When you changed speeds, the music would either speed up or slow down. My first experience with the chipmunk sound was through that stereo.

A little plastic thing which slid over the shaft that the record fit on stands out in my mind. I think this was called a magazine. It allowed 45’s to be played, because the holes in the center of 45’s were much bigger than 78’s.

Lots of little gadgets, switches, and buttons on the inside. It also contained a radio. It was varnished brown, had legs on the bottom, and built in speakers. My mom used it a lot.

Pain. Most avoid it, if possible. In this world where everybody’s trying to sell me something, however, I find that pain is all that can be trusted. All that is real.

Pain doesn’t lie. It does motivate, however. Human behavior is such that we strive to avoid pain, and move toward pleasure. If the pain isn’t real enough, though, motivation doesn’t occur. What we get is stagnation.

Pain, then, can be thought of as a kind of cleanser. For instance, if the fear of being a loser is strong enough, you’ll get what education you need to succeed. Then, despite how uncomfortable you may be, you’ll work hard at what you do, even if it’s something you hate. In this case, the pain of being a loser is greater than the pain of hard work.

Most advertisers sell their crap under the guise of less pain. “You can lose 20 pounds in just one week by taking our pill twice a day!” Please don’t be stupid enough to fall for this shit. Anything worth having is going to cause you some pain. Period.

Compare it to a thunderstorm, or even a volcano. Yes, there’s much destruction. Death, even. But did you ever smell the air after a thunderstorm? As for the volcano, lava spewed therefrom cools to become the richest soil on the planet, providing a lush home for both plant and animal life. This cannot occur without pain.


Pain lurks in a relationship that has run its course. You stay there because you’re afraid of the pain of breaking up. After you find the guts, however, you find a whole new world opens up to you. Not without pain.

Pain doesn’t kill. Pain teaches, if you only listen.

Mike Skaggs was a fat, red-haired kid. I didn’t have a lot of problems with him until seventh grade. We were playing at school one morning, the way twelve year old boys play, and our play got rough. Instead of fighting right then and there, however, we made an appointment to fight after school, the following Friday. It didn’t really affect me one way or the other, as I’d made such appointments before, but they never came to pass.

This was different, however. He wouldn’t let it go. By Friday, most of the school was talking about our fight. Pressure began to mount. Still, I thought it would drop.

After school that day, Mike, along with about twenty others were waiting outside the school. Our pact was to fight on school property. Mike, however, had a change of heart. His friends convinced him not to fight on school grounds. Instead, he wanted to fight on a small lot down an alley across from the school.

I refused, and he started to leave. It was then that a large black kid named John Simpson literally grabbed me by the collar and dragged me to the lot. There must have been about thirty to fifty kids there, all to see me fight. Due to my size, most were sure I would lose.

It must be mentioned that I was no stranger to striking people with my fists. I was a boxer, and one of my favorite hobbies was to break out the boxing gloves and fight the neighborhood kids. I seldom lost. Later, I joined a boxing team at the YMCA.

Mike had no real intention to fight, however. When I walked into the center of the circle of kids, he wanted to talk. I allowed him one sentence: “I’ve waited a long time for this, McGuire.”

After this last word, my left fist flew into his face. Then my right. He looked like he was dog paddling. Slow, awkward, and now bleeding profusely from the nose, mouth, and one eye. His glasses broke on my second blow.

I showed no mercy. My punches continued until he started crying and ran away. I felt no guilt, remorse, or pity. He was twice my bodyweight. The shit had it coming to him. To this day, I have no regrets.

I sit alone. Same coffee house, same table. Instead of the usual herbal tea, however, I’m sipping an espresso. My head hurts from thinking so much.

The empty chatter of the mindless drones comforts me tonight, in a sickening kind of way. Being here relieves part of my isolation and, while I’ll never be a part of their world, tonight I find solace in their company.

A young lady behind me orders an ex-presso. I grin slightly, open my book. How I identify with Henry David Thoreau. Before I finish half a page, however, something changes.

A presence.

My eyes and ears detect nothing, but it’s here. I know.

The door to my left opens as a maroon turtleneck with faded Calvin Kleins and low pumps parts the crowd with a smile. At the bar she orders a mocha cappuccino, then changes that to an espresso.

I become aware of a feeling in my chest, just under my ribs. Not a heavy feeling, rather one of something trying to get out. Deep breath. Still there. Worse.

Love at first sight? Soul mate? No such thing.

Her ocean of auburn waves sparkles under the smoky light. She scans the room with deep, brown eyes and a stare that could melt steel. Her eyes meet mine.

I pull my eyes back to the page, but I can’t see the words. The pounding in my chest, now a battering ram, floods my ears.

I clear my throat and take a sip of espresso. Tasteless. Come on, Henry David, speak to me. Nothing. Nothing, that is, except the pounding in my head which prevents me from focusing on anything else.

I conclude the pounding will continue until I make a move.

I don’t see her until she’s halfway to my table, unlit cigarette in her left hand, seductively innocent smile. Impossible to breathe. To think. To stop my lips, hands, and knees from quivering like a schoolboy who’s been sent to the principal’s office for a thrashing on his very first day of school.

“Got a light?” she says, in typical movie star fashion. At this moment my X-ray vision kicks in, and millions of bits of information reveal themselves to me in half a second.

Beneath her sweater and black bra, I see a tiny dragon tattoo just above her left breast. Deeper, I see her internal organs and blood pumping through her body. Her lungs show only minor damage from cigarette smoking.

Still deeper, I see past the bones and muscles, and into that part of her that can only be termed as soul.

My X-ray vision, knowing no time or space, transports me one week into the future. To Milano’s, quite possibly the nicest Italian restaurant on the planet. Tony Bennett in the background, merlot in my glass, and her looking at me from across the table.

Six months later, I awaken to the scent of patchouli and jasmine. Her smile only inches from my eyes. Her lips fall softly to my shoulder. Much passion follows.

The next five years reveal themselves to me in a flash, and contain images of my proposal of marriage on a high cliff in the mountains, the building of our dream house, and the births of our two children.

Not long thereafter, my friends stop coming by. When I talk to them on the phone, they’re always in the middle of something and can’t talk. I tell myself that we’re all getting older, with more responsibilities like families and stuff. There’s something else, though.

My friend Jay enlightens me with some ugly words. I want to punch him in the mouth.

Words, however, lead to suspicion. Suspicion to observation, then to investigation. Investigation leads to truth, and with the beauty of an F5 tornado tearing through unsuspecting Suburbia, my eyes rip open. Burning.

Somewhere in my neighborhood, a woman walks into her bedroom. Her husband lies in their bed, but not alone. The woman is Jill, wife of my best friend, Kyle. You can guess who Kyle’s bedmate might be.

The next two years find me without wife, house, or kids. I try a new diet: Jim Beam, Coke, and Valium. My pain soon vanishes, along with everything else in my life.

A figure sits on a park bench. A smelly bum. Alone. Cold January morning. Last puff of cigarette. He looks at the empty whiskey bottle at his feet.

The cold steel of the barrel in his mouth tastes like relief. Peace. Sweeter than any sugar. A smile. Then . . .

With a slight jolt I find myself back in the coffee shop. Clarity. Pounding in my head and chest is gone. Hands, knees, and lips steady.

“Sorry, ma’am, I don’t smoke,” I say, as I return to the serenity of Walden Pond, vowing never again to order an espresso.

It’s been more than twenty years, and I still think about you sometimes. I can taste your strawberry lip gloss, see your smile, feel your hand.

Not that I have any desire to be with you now. Oh, God, no. But you gave me my first taste of what love could be, and how fragile and fickle such feelings truly are. The cold aloneness I felt never completely left me. Every time a woman looks into my eyes, I remember. I remember because I never want to feel that way again. Useless. Helpless. Weak.

Three kids and one failed marriage later, I imagine you look like an old lady. Your tits probably touch your knees. Still, in your youth you left an impression, and taught me something invaluable that probably can’t be learned any other way. I do hope I never see you again. I’d like to remember you as you were in fifth grade.