Graphic Novel Sample. Book 2-Chapter 1

THIS IS A ROUGH VERSION OF A CHAPTER JUST TO GET SOME THOUGHTS.

LEGEND ON HOW TO READ

NUMBERED SENTENCES ARE PANELS.

ALL CAPS ARE CAPTIONS.

SENTENCES PROCEEDED BY A NAME: IS DIALOGUE.

BOOK II CHAPTER I

PAGE 1

HEADING - 1986

1. Mark’s bedroom covered in heavy metal posters ranging from Quiet Riot to Def Leppard to Motley Crue. On the desk are notebooks with all the same names scribbled on the covers. All over the floor the cassette tapes of these same bands. The place is a mess as well. Food wrappers etc…

WHEN I DECIDED TO MOVE BACK WITH MY DAD I HAD MY OWN ROOM. I WAS WAY INTO METAL. HAIR METAL. I HAD YET TO KNOW ABOUT REAL METAL LIKE SABBATH, ZEPPELIN AND THAT STUFF, BUT I WOULD SOON FIND OUT. I ALWAYS FELT SAFE WITH ALL THE POSTERS SURROUNDING ME. CUT OUTS. MAGAZINES. THEY WERE MY FRIENDS LIKE MY TV SHOWS WHEN I WAS A KID.

2. Mark is hanging in front of a convenient store. The sign reads Cumberland Farms. Him and two other teenagers named JOHN who we will know as BIRDY and TERRENCE who will be called TR. They are doing…nothing but smoking cigarettes, and up to no good.

I IMMEDIATELY FELL IN WITH SOME PALS. BIRDY AND TR WOULD BECOME MY NEIGHBORHOOD BOYS. MY PARTNERS IN CRIME. WE’D LISTEN TO THE BOOMBOX ALL DAY, DRINK DURING THE DAY AND WAIT FOR OLDER KIDS TO BUY US BEER.

3. An OLDER KID named SKIDDER hands the guys a case of Bush beer.

4. Mark, Birdy, TR and Skidder drink behind the store listening to the boombox. Out of the boombox comes “Bad Company.” (Lyrics)

YEP. THIS WAS PRETTY MUCH MY DAY TO DAY, EVEN SCHOOL DAYS.

PAGE 2

1. The boys walking into the high school.

2. The boys walking right out of the backdoor.

WE LIVED ON A LAKE AND WE’D WALK HOME RIGHT ACROSS IT IN THE WINTER

3. The guys walking across the lake, passing some other KIDS playing hockey on it.

OUR NEIGHBORHOOD WAS KIND OF SPLIT INTO TWO FACTIONS. JOCKS AND BURNERS. I SEEM TO BE A BURNER, BUT A LIGHT BURN, AS YOU’LL SEE.

4. A burnout KID. He stands in frame with leather jacket, long hair, earring and a cigarette in hand. His jacket has band patches like The Who and OZZY.

BURNERS WERE KIND OF THROWBACKS. THEY LEARNT ABOUT MUSIC THROUGH THEIR OLDER BROTHERS AND GOT STONES AND USUALLY GOT ARRESTED EVERY WEEKEND. COPS HATED THEM AND WOULD STEAL ALL THEIR…WELL OUR BEER WHEN THEY BUSTED US.

5. COPS putting cases of beer in their trunks while TR, Birdy and Mark standby, pissed off.

PAGE 3

BUT THAT DIDN’T STOP US. WE’D GET INTO SOMETHING ELSE BY THE END OF THE NIGHT. ALL SORTS OF THINGS. THIS IS WHERE THE REAL FUN STARTED.

1. The guys in TR’s room rolling a joint. His room is covered in Who, BOC and LedZep posters. There’s a weight set in the corner

WE’D GET STONED AFTER SCHOOL, IF WE WENT TO SCHOOL. I WASN’T REALLY GOOD ON POT.

MARK: I THINK I’M REALLY FUCKED UP GUYS. I FEEL WEIRD.

BIRDY :YOU’RE FINE. SMOKE SOME MORE

The guys laugh at Mark.

BUT IT DIDN’T STOP WITH POT. THEY SAY IT’S A GATEWAY DRUG AND IT WAS FOR US. WE STARTED IN ON EVERYTHING WE COULD FIND, ESPECIALLY ACID. LCD.

2. The guys in TR’s room taking a hit of acid at the same time.

TR: Here we go.

Birdy: One…

TR: Two

Mark: Three?

3. In the bedroom that is now spinning wit colors and moving posters while Pink Floyd lyrics float through the room – “The lunatic is on the grass…”

WE WERE FUCKED UP. IT WAS AT ONCE THE SCARIEST AND MOST BEAUTIFUL EXPERIENCE I HAD EVER HAD. I NEVER WANTED IT TO END AND AT TIMES IT SEEMED LIKE IT WOULDN’T.

4. Mark crying.

5. Mark and the guys laughing waving their own hands in front of their faces.

Mark: Holy shit. I’m seeing so many thing. I feel like I’m on a Tug Boat. You guys hear the bells?

Behind Mark is a multi colored Tugboat ala Yellow Submarine.

PAGE 4.

1. Mark, alone in TR’s house, on acid. He sees Lennon again.

Lennon: It’s a trip eh?

Mark: Am I ok?

Lennon: I told you I’d always take care of you. It’s not a freak out. Ride the ship.

2. The guys walking through the neighborhood streets. They are whacked on acid. The streets are lined with colors and characters. Bands and TV people. All the cool, pop culture items they live for. The boom box cranks LedZep now.

WE’D SPEND ENTIRE NIGHTS JUST WALKING AROUND THE NEIGHBORHOOD ALL FUCKED UP ON ACID, BUT IT WAS AMAZING. THIS WAS SOMETHING THE JOCK KIDS DIDN’T APPROVE OF.

3. In frame a JOCK. He has a high school hockey jacket on and a mullet. He’s kind of mean looking.

IT’S NOT THAT WE WERE ENEMIES WITH THE JOCKS. WE JUST DID DIFFERENT THINGS. WE WERE ACTUALLY ALLIES IN A LOT OF WAYS. WE’D EVEN HANG OUT AND PLAY STREET HOCKEY SOMETIMES, BUT WE WERE USUALLY STONED.

4. The Jocks playing with the Burners who can barely get a hold of the hockey ball while the Jocks take mean slap shots, scoring many times over.

PAGE 5

1.Mark coming home to his dad who has a letter in his hand a and a pissed of look on his face.

MY DAD WAS STILL A PRICK. HE WASN’T VERY COOL ABOUT ME HANGING WITH TR AND BIRDY AND HE DEFINITELY WASN’T COOL WHEN THE LETTERS CAME IN FROM ME SKIPPING SCHOOL.

2. Jim slapping Mark around.

I STILL HAD TO TAKE HIS BEATINGS, BUT I WAS ABLE TO SHAKE THEM OFF EASIER THAN I DID WHEN I WAS A KID.

3. Mark sneaking out his window.

DIDN’T STOP ME FROM GOING OUT THOUGH. I HAD DRUGS TO DO.

4. Mark and his boys getting stoned in the park on the jungle gym.

Mark: I think I could hang in this park all night, or forever. I hope we’re friends forever.

TR: Shut up. You’re trippin’.

Birdy: We will be.

Mark: I’m peaking.

TR: We all are.

PAGE 6

1. The guys gathered around a stove. They are heating up butter knives on the stove.

OF COURSE ONE DRUG LED INTO ANOTHER. POT TO ACID. ACID TO THIS. HOT KNIVES.

2. The guys smush hash in-between their knives and inhale the smoke in a crack fashion.

3. TR’s MOTHER standing in the kitchen looking at the burnt tips of her knives.

TR’S Mother: What the hell is happening to all my knives.

4. The guys doing cocaine.

FINALLY THE BIG ONE. BLOW. COCAINE. SKIING. THIS WAS THE ONE THAT REALLY KILLED THINGS FOR US.

PAGE 7

1. The guys are sitting around TR’s high on cocaine watching TV.

SO AT THIS POINT I’M SKIPPING SCHOOL, DOING BLOW AND BASICALLY WASTING MY YOUTH…BUT I LOVED IT.

2. Mark sleeping in the library in school.

WHEN I WAS IN SCHOOL I WAS EITHER SLEEPING OR CHECKING OUT CHICKS AND THAT WAS WHEN I SAW HER.

3. MARLO – the hottest girl in school walks into the library in her cheerleader outfit. Mark is all eyes.

THIS GIRL WAS THE HOTTEST GIRL IN SCHOOL. SHE WAS CAPTAIN OF THE CHEERLEADERS AND AND I WAS A BURNER. NO WAY THIS WAS EVER GOING TO HAPPEN.

4. Mark and Birdy are roaming the mall.

5. Mark sees Marlo working at a cookie shop – COOKIES COOKIN’.

THEN THERE SHE WAS AND THIS WAS MY CHANCE.

BIRDY: Dude go talk to her.

MARK: What? She’s from another planet.

BIRDY: Fuck those jocks. Use your charm. Ya gotta try

PAGE 8

1. Mark at the Cookies Cookin’ counter. Marlo sees him.

Mark: You guys hiring?

Marlo: I know you. You sleep in the library.

Mark: It’s the best place for a nap.

I HAD HER.

2. Mark working at Cookies Cookin’

SO I DID WHAT I HAD TO DO. I GOT A JOB THERE. I OF COURSE WAS THE WORST EMPLOYEE.

3. Mark throwing away the pans and dishes he’s supposed to be cleaning. Marlo sees this.

Marlo: Hey. You’re supposed to wash those.

Mark: Really? I thought this stuff got thrown out.

Marlo laughs.

4. Mark and Marlo making out in the kitchen.

I WON HER OVER WITH MY CHARM LIKE BIRDY SAID. I FOUND THIS WOULD HELP ME MORE THAN ONCE WITH WOMAN.

PAGE 9

1. Mark and Marlo walking down the hall together. Mark, punked out and Marlo in her cheerleader outfit.

NOW WE WERE AN ITEM. A STRANGE ONE AT THAT. HERE I WAS BUDDING PUNKER AND HER THE MOST POPULAR GIRL IN SCHOOL. THE JOCKS HATED THIS. SEE I WAS DISCOVERING ALL SORTS OF NEW THINGS, ASIDE FROM DRUGS.

2. Mark looking through CD racks at the record shop. He sees bands like R.E.M and The Smiths.

ALL THESE NEW BANDS WERE AROUND. THEY CALLED IT COLLEGE RADIO AND I FELL RIGHT IN LINE WITH IT.

3. Mark putting up posters of U2, Depeche Mode and The Violent Femmes, in his room.

I WAS NO LONGER A METAL HEAD OR CLASSIC ROCK KID, THOUGH I STILL HAD AN ALLEGIANCE TO BOSTON AND THE WHO, I WAS ALL ABOUT ALTERNATIVE MUSIC NOW. BUYING IT, SEEING IT.

4. Mark at a concert. On stage The Cure plays.

I LOVED THE CURE. MARLO NOR MY PALS REALLY GOT IT BUT I DIDN’T CARE. THAT’S WHEN I STATED TO SEEK OUT FRIENDS THAT DID. THAT’S WHEN I MET MATTY D.

PAGE 10

1. MATTY D. in a framed panel. A raw looking kid with a Mohawk and tattoos.

MATTY AND I BECAME PARTNERS IN CRIME. HE WAS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN BURNER AND PUNK, BUT MOSTLY JUST TROUBLE.

2. Matty and Mark at a punk club. The sign reads The Rat. On stage a punk band does their thing.

WE STARTED DOING EVERYTHING TOGETHER. GOING TO PUNK CLUB

3. Matty and Mark drinking in the park.

4. Matty and Mark doing blow.

5. Matty and Mark in the principals office

INCLUDING GETTING IN TROUBLE AT SCHOOL TOGETHER.

PAGE 11

1. Mark in bed with Marlo. They are half dressed and getting it on. They are in Marlo’s girly bedroom.

Mark: You sure you’re ready?

Marlo: Mark, this isn’t my first time.

Mark.: Oh. Me neither.

TECHNICALLY IT WAS. SEE I HAD TRIED BEFORE.

2. (FLASHBACK) Mark in a car with a bigger GIRL

TR AND BIRDY TRIED TO GET ME LAID, BUT IT DIDN’T TAKE.

3. Mark comes out of the car with the girl who’s laughing shaking her head “nope.” The guys laugh.

Mark: Fuck off.

4. Back with Marlo. They are doing it.

1 MINUTE LATER.

5. Mark and Marlo lay in the bed. It’s awkward.

PAGE 11

1. Mark in a gym with the wrestling team.

I FIGURED SINCE I WAS DATING MARLO I’D TRY TO FIT INTO HER WORLD A BIT. THE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM WAS THIS REAL PRICK, JENNINGS.

2. Mark trying out for the team. He’s on the floor with another WRESTLER, locked in a move he can’t get out of.

Mark: I give. I give.

Jennings: Come on Phinney, you fat fuck.

Mark: Let me out. I give.

3. Mark is in the locker room with his radio. From the radio comes “The Boy With Thorn In His Side” by The Smiths. The other wrestlers stare at him.

Mark: hey dudes.

LEAST TO SAY I WASN’T MAKING THE CUT. I TRIED THOUGH. I EVEN GOT THE TEAM HAIRCUT.

4. Mark in a barbers chair with a mohawk.

THE ONLY ONE WHO DUG IT WAS MATTY

5. Mark, TR and John in the caf. The wrestlers walk by.

TR: When you going to quit that fag team?

Mark: I can’t quit. They’ll hate me even more.

Birdy: I don’t think that’s possible.

PAGE 12

1. Mark and Matty at a party that is wall to wall jocks. They are with Marlo.

Matty: What the fuck are we doing here?

Marlo: Come on Matty. It’ll be fun. Just don’t start any trouble.

2. Jennings and another WRESTLER walks up, beers in hand.

Jennings: Phinney, who invited you and psycho here.

Matty: What’d you say to me faggot.

Jennings: I said get the fuck out of this house before I put you out

Mark: Guys…

3. Matty and Jennings brawl.

4. Jennings has Matty in a move. Mark doesn’t know what to do.

Marlo: You guys!

5. Mark jumps on Jennings.

Mark: You motherfucker.

PAGE 13

1. Mark and Matty running down the street from the party and wrestlers.

Matty: I guess you’re off the team.

Mark: I think you’re right.

Matty: Go get fucked up?

Mark: Fuck yea. Let’s grab TR and Birdy.

ONCE I QUIT THE TEAM, I LOST ANY SEMBLANCE OF TRYING TO FIT IN OR BEHAVE. AS A MATTER OF FACT I WENT ON A STRING OF BAD DECISIONS THAT WOULD ALL COME TO ONE EVENTUAL ENDING.

1. Mark smoking pot.

2. Mark doing cocaine.

3. Mark skipping school

4 Mark being arrested for drinking.

PAGE 14

1. Mark in his room. His dad shuts the bedroom door, leaving alone.

NONE OF THIS SAT WELL WITH MY DAD.

2. Mark listening to his bands.

FUNNY THING WAS SOME ALONE TIME DID ME SOME GOOD. I STARTED ACTUALLY FINDING OUT ABOUT OTHER THINGS IN THE WORLD AND ABOUT MYSELF, THROUGH THESE BANDS OF COURSE.

3. Mark at the library reading different books. On the desk are Rimbaud, Wilde, Joyce and Bukowski.

FIRST IT WAS THE BOOKS.

4. Mark at The Brattle rep theater. The marquee reads: La Dolce Vida.

THEN IT WAS THE FILMS.

5. Mark at The Smiths concert with Matty.

AND OF COURSE ALWAYS THE SMITHS. THE SMITHS WERE THE CONSTANT. MORRISSEY ALWAYS BEING AT THE CRUX OF IT ALL. MY EVERYTHING.

PAGE 15

1. Mark’s room is now covered in Morrissey and Smiths posters, cut outs and album covers.

I WAS TRANSFORMED AT THIS POINT. I STILL HUNG WITH BIRDY AND TR AND MATTY BUT EVEN MARLO COULDN’T DO IT ANYMORE.

2. Marlo and Mark sit in the high school, gym. Behind them the cheerleaders practice. Mark is dressed exactly like Morrissey to a T.

Marlo: I just don’t think we fit anymore.

Mark: What do you mean?

Marlo: Well, I mean, look at you and look at me. We’re just different Mark. You’re different.

Mark: Different how?

3. Mark in his room listening to Morrissey

AND AGAIN IT GOES BACK TO NOT NEEDING ANTHING BECAUSE MORRISSEY WOULD ALWAYS BE THERE FOR ME.

4. Mark laying on the floor amongst all his records, books and magazines. He is in heaven.

PAGE 16

1. Mark completely decked out in alternative wear now. Black t shirts. Done up hair. Combat boots. The whole bit. He’s at the mall with Matty.

NOW I PRETTY MUCH LEADING THE ALTERNATIVE/PUNK LIFESTYLE. GOING TO SHOWS. LISTENING TO THE MUSIC AND MOST PUNK OF ALL…HANGING AT THE MALL.

2. Matty and Mark in the record shop looking through albums. We see all the usual suspects. Robyn Hitchcock. Morrissey. The Fall.

WE CAM TO BUY RECORDS, BUT MOSTLY TO MEET GIRLS AND THAT WE DID.

3. Mark is talking to another alterna-chick, JEN. They are getting cosy. Next to them is her friend ROSE, who MATTY tries to hit on her. Her looks is of utter disgust.

Mark talk to Jen.

Jen: You like Michael Hutchence?

Mark: The fag from INXS?

Jen: he's not a fag. he's hot.

Mark: I'm not into INXS.

Jen: You like Depeche Mode?

4. Matty still tries to work Rose.

Matty: You like Black Flag?

Rose: No.

Matty: 7 Seconds?

4. Mark, Rose, Jen and Matty at an outdoor concert. People all around them look like they are big Depeche Mode fans.

Jen: I've seen Depeche Mode 5 times.

Matty: Too many fags here.

5. Depeche Mode is on stage singing "Precious."

PAGE 17

1. Mark at a series of concerts seen over the next panels.

U2. Robyn Hitchcock/REM/The Pogues/Violent Femmes.

I WAS GOING TO SHOWS LEFT AND RIGHT. BE IT CONCERTS OR AFTERNOON ALL AGES PUNK SHOWS WITH MATTY.

2. Mark and Matty at The Rat seeing Gang Green (Boston punk band) The mosh with other all ager punks.

3. Mark having sex with Jen.

MY LIFE HAD BECOME PRETTY COOL SINCE BECOMING A PUNK OF SORTS. I WAS BANGING JEN. GOING TO SHOWS AND...GETTING INT TROUBLE AS USUAL.

4. Mark at a payphone at the mall.

Mark: (into phone) I said there's a bomb.

SPLIT PANEL: MARLO ON THE OTHER END AT COOKIES COOKIN'.

Marlo: Who is this? is this real? I'm going to call the mall security.

I DIDN'T THINK SHE ACTUALLY WOULD.

PAGE 18

1. Mark standing in the middle of the mall mall SECURITY evacuates the place. The loudspeaker steams "Please evacuate the mall due to a bomb threat."

Mark: What the fuck.

2. Mark standing outside the mall as Bomb squad trucks and fire engines roll in. People wait outside for the chaos to be answered. Mark sees Marlo.

3. Mark talk to Marlo.

Mark: That was me. Why did you calls security?

Marlo: Well I didn't know it was you. Why would you do something so stupid? Is it because I broke up with you?

Mark: What? No.

I HAD TO MYSELF-WAS IT? EITHER WAY I GOT FUCKED FOR THAT. I GOT SCARED AND ADMITTED IT WHEN I GOT QUESTIONED. MARLO TOLD HER BOSS AND HER BOSS RATTED ME OUT.

4. Mark cleaning the side of the freeway.

I GOT 4 MONTHS COMMUNITY SERVICE. I WAS LUCKY I DIDN'T GET 10 YEARS THE JUDGE SAID CAUSE I WAS 16 AND STILL A MINOR. MY DAD WAS VERY VERY PLEASED.

PAGE 19

1. Mark in a dressing booth in the mall. He's stuffing a shirt in his art bag.

I STARTED IN ON THIS CRIME SPREE AFTER THAT. I GUESS THE BOMB THREAT WASN'T ENOUGH.

2. Mark, TR and Birdy walking the streets at night. They peer into cars.

TR: Here. This one.

WE STARTED TESTING CAR DOORS AND THE ONES THAT WERE OPEN WE'D TAKE THE CHANGE OR WHATEVER WE COULD FIND.

3. In TR's bedroom, his bed is filled with stuff they found in cars. Radios. Change. Clothes.

4. The guys running. A police car is behind them.

IT CAUGHT UP WITH US EVENTUALLY. I WAS NO RENT BOY. OR WAS I?

PAGE 20

1. Mark and the guys behind bars.

GETTING ARRESTED IS WHAT FLIPPED THE SWITCH ON MY GOOD TIME.

2. Mark getting slapped around by his dad.

Jim: You wanna be a fucking punk with those assholes? You wanna be a fuck up? Not in my house.

THAT MOTHERFUCKER STARTED TAKING LIBERTIES AGAIN WITH HIS FISTS. I MEAN SOMETIMES I DESERVED IT FOR THE SHIT I PULLED AT THAT AGE, BUT HE WAS A SON OF A BITCH.

3. Mark working at McDonalds. A shot of him in his uniform.

Mark: Would you like fries with that?

I HAD TO GET A JOB. THIS WOULD START A WHOLE STRING OF HIRINGS AND FIRINGS.

4. Mark's BOSS questioning him in the back room.

Boss: You just left in the middle of your shift.

Mark: I know, but I had to get B-52's tickets. I knew they'd sell out before tomorrow. I came back.

PAGE 21

1. A series of jobs Mark worked. Mark in a pizza apron./Mark in some GIRL'S face yelling at her. Matty is in the back round laughing.

PIZZA SHOP. FIRED FOR CALLING A GIRL A CUNT.

2. Mark behind the counter of a drug store./Mark ripping the store off.

PHARMACY. FIRED FOR STEALING CHIPS AND CANDY AND SMOKES AND SODA AND...

3. Mark at a diner.

DINER. FIRED FOR COMING IN TO WORK STONED.

4. Mark in the back of the diner eating everything in site.

PAGE 22

1. Mark and Matty, punked out and looking high, at school. They see the principal MR. GRANT down the hall.

AT THIS POINT ME AND MATTY WERE HIGH EVERYDAY. I WAS EVEN OUT DOING BIRDY AND TR. THEY WE'RE ACTUALLY TRYING TO SLOW DOWN. NOT ME AND MATTY THOUGH.

Mark: Oh, there's Grant.

Matty: Fuck him.

2. Grant walks by Matty and Mark.

Grant: What are you two doing? Don't you have a class to be in?

THIS WOULD BE THE DAY THAT EVERYTHING CAME TO HEAD. I TOLD YOU EARLIER IT WAS HEADING TOWARD THIS.

3. Matty gets in Grant's face.

Matty: Fuck you Grant.

Mark: Matty. What the fuck man?

Grant: What did you say to me?

Matty: You heard me. Fuck you.

4. Grant grabs Matty by the shirt. Mark is nervous now.

Matty: Get the fuck off me man.

Grant: You're out of here Dolan.

Matty: So are you.

THIS IS WHERE IT GOT BAD.

5. The Misfits play "All Hell Breaks Loose" behind the scene.

PAGE 23

1.Mark sitting in the living room while his dad chews him out.

Jim: You think you're a real wise ass. Now you're kicked out of school.
Mark: It's not my fault.
Jim: never is, right? I don't know what to do with you.

2. Mark taking all his posters.

WELL JIM FIGURED OUT WHAT TO DO.

3. Mark saying goodbye to TR and Birdy.

Mark: I'm only going to be in Bridgewater. I'll hang on the weekends.
TR: Good weed out there.
Mark: Cool.
Birdy.It's the fucking sticks, but they have a good hockey team.
TR: Get laid there.

4. Mark and his dad driving in the station wagon.

SO ANOTHER CHAPTER HAD COME TO A CLOSE, BUT I HAD NO IDEA WHAT MORE LIFE HAD IN STORE FOR ME. BYE OLD FRIENDS.

5.As Mark drives off all his people from the chapter stand along the road saying goodbye to him. Marlo, TR, Matt, Birdy, Jen and Rose. Finally Morrissey.

The Artist In Me

I was perfectly fine being a slack ass loser in Boston. Running around with my useless ridiculite alterna-friends. My days would be filled selling and eating hot dogs at Fenway Park. I was like the character Ignatius J Reilly from A Confederacy of Dunces. But I wasn’t the fat, obese horror show that I am now. I was a chubby, lovable happy go lucky maniac. Not quite depressing yet. Not the desperate mess I am writing to you now.

That was my job though. I’d sell hot dogs on the streets at different events. Concerts, ball games, car and air shows. I knew the city and everyone in it. It was wired for me. Scalpers. Bums. The street prophets. I knew all the record shops and pizza places like the back of my sweaty hand.

I worked with my friends, and as greasy and hard work as it was, I look back on it now as a time of security and joy. I guess in retrospect I’d rather be doing that shit and feel some sort of joy and stability than what’s been going on for the past few years. I miss the innocence of going to this job that I loved and savoring all it had to offer me. It was strange and street but I excelled at it. I did it well.

By night I’d hang out all the alternative clubs dancing to The Smiths with my little to cool for school crew. One in particular was ManRay. I didn't even know who he was at the time. They were one of the first clubs to plug into the 80's New Wave revival. Playing bands like New Order, OMD and Yaz. We'd all put our costumes on and dance into the wee hours.

The place was inhabited by such creatures like Ashton. Ashton, or Lord Ashton, as he went by, was a dark lord vampire. He even had his teeth filed. He slapped on flour white makeup and sported long black locks. He spoke in an old English manner and insisted you treat him as a creature of the night.

By day Lord Ashton worked at Circuit City.

Afterwards we’d go hang out at someone’s place and have Morrissey dance offs. I know. Gay. So fucking gay. “Well I do him before he was solo.” I'd say.

We’d walk around trying to dress and wear our hair like Morrissey. This was the time that I was with Karen. Karen was and I guess will always be the love of my life. We met when she was a senior in high school and I was just a year out. 1992. I was a horrible student, graduating from Special Ed. Karen was a timid little creature who wore flower dresses and combat boots. Smart. Sensitive. She was innocent and harmless. I was a ragged, fucked up rebel wanna be. She thought I was the best thing since sliced bread. Go figure.She was really into Natalie Merchant and 10,000 Maniacs. I got her into Morrissey. We’d sit and talk about music all the time. We would have debates about who was the better and cooler band REM or The Maniacs. Natalie and Michael Stipe were close. We modeled ourselves after them. At the time I thought we were being silly, but now I wish we could act like that everyday still.

I was an ass in the beginning. She took me to her senior prom and I acted like it was this big chore. She had to buy my tux for me, which as usual she was more than happy to do. She was always more than happy to do anything for me. I think I abused that. At her prom I danced with just about every other girl there except for her. Again, I was clueless. Unaware. But she never lost faith in me. Through all my nonsense she stood by my side and after a short while we became inseparable. Eventually that would come to an end.

The whole time I was with Karen I was constantly living some half wit fantasy that I was an "artist." An artist? I didn’t even create anything. This was long before LA, and before I made my crazy move to NYC. I didn't execute any actual acting or writing, though I thought I was a combination of Morrissey, James Dean and Arthur Rimbaud. These were all just my delusional daydreams. I read too many book jackets and spent too much money on posters and CD’s. I never even stepped foot in a library. The only reading I did was liner notes and baseball stats.

I would dress like these people. I wanted to be them so badly. Like I said before I wasn’t that big at this point. Much thinner. I mean I still looked ridiculous, but not as bad.

One time I got my haircut real short and tight after seeing a book cover of Jean Genet's. Genet - the rebellious, vagabond French writer. I really thought that I resembled him. Karen and I would get into these balls out fights, usually brought on by me of course. They were over nothing. Just strange arguments I would start over nonsense. Like I said I was nuts. To this day I don’t know why she put up with my problems. No one in his or her right mind would ever stay with someone like me.

So I go to see her one afternoon all excited with my new hairdo. I ask her if she thinks I look like the man himself. She replies - “Well sort of." I was like what? I totally put her on the spot. “I mean you... well I guess you might a bit.”

“What do you mean a bit?” I was furious now. In my mind I was Jean Genet!

I would do that. I had anger problems. I would just lose it like that and go nuts on who ever was around and unfortunately it was usually Karen. Poor girl.

“I fucking look like Genet! I’m a fucking artist! I look like him and whoever thinks I don’t can fuck off. Fuck you all!! Fuck!!."

THIS IS ALL TRUE. I really did this and acted like this. I was fucking crazy. I thought I was an artist.

I'm A Boy

I sat in the backseat of a station wagon outside the Six Pence Motel in Orange County. I was wearing a pair of Ferrari sunglasses. The kind that fold in half and has it’s own case. They were a big deal to have for a little dude like myself. This was California 1979. The 70’s. Solid gold. Three's Company. That’s the kind of California I knew. Lived in and remember. Not the LA I know and live in now. Not the sunny TV LA. I was in Orange County. Not the OC. Not the beach or Laguna, but Tustin. It’s like the Reseda of Orange County. We were somewhat near Disneyland though. My mother had relocated us here. To this motel. It was like Alice (The TV show with Linda Lavin.)

It was me and my older brother Jim. I didn’t know it at that moment sitting in the hot car looking all around at my bricked up surrounding of a wall, a supermarket and a school, but this was to be home. We weren’t getting a room for the night but for the next year or so. We were going to be living here, in this motel. The Six Pence Inn was to become my stomping grounds for the next year. I would eat, sleep and play here. I would go to school down the street. I’d make friends and possibly get molested here. I think.

Now think for a minute. I lived in a motel. A fucking motel. Not a hotel. This wasn’t even the Ramada Inn. I wasn’t Dylan from 90210 living in a nice skyscraper penthouse on Sunset. This was a dreary ass little motel south of the 5 freeway in smoggy California. There was a pool though and that was about it.

By day my mother was a maid at the motel and by night a waitress at the local IHOP. She did what she had to do. What the woman lacked in emotion she made up for in responsibility for her own. She made sure we ate, went to school and had some amount of fun. She really did try. She took us on trips via the bus to Disneyland and Magic Mountain. She tried to make the whole experience somewhat normal, not that there was much normality there. She didn’t have a chance to do much though due to her day and night work schedule. To make sure we made it to school and had dinner she had befriended some of the other maids and transients that inhabited the place.

Yeah, that was the strangest thing and the most comforting at the same time. We weren’t the only one that had this lot in life, that took this route. There were other families there. I made some good pals there that were in the same predicament as we were. This one kid, his name was Jimity. That was his name. Jimity. He was this little redheade. I met him one day when I was packing my stuff and "running away." I literally packed a little red suitcase I had and made my way out the door and headed towards the motel exit. My mother let me, knowing I wouldn’t really get that far. Jimity was sitting on the motel steps as if waiting for me. Waiting to befriend me and get me to stay. It was as if he was planted there. He became a good pal to me in those days. He would help me with a lot of things. Getting to school. Collecting cans and stealing change from the soda machine. I mean is it just a coincidence that I was a lying, almost wooden boy who felt like he had no parents and then I become friends with a Jimity?

This became my life. This motel. Hanging out here by day and night. I went to a little elementary school around the corner from the motel. It was probably the only normal part of my world at this point. I didn’t get in much trouble and was an ok student. It was at home where my trouble came. I had by now accumulated a little crew that I hung out with. Some were motel “guests” while some from school. Now Jim, my older brother wasn’t around. So with free time and no one really keeping an eye on me I became a little arsonist. It runs in the family. I wanted to be like my dad.

One afternoon my pals and myself were sitting behind a wall that led to the carpet factory near the motel. It was a big, bland factory warehouse where there was just rolls and rolls of carpet and pitchforks to move them with and a bunch of Spanish workers. I would just think how boring it must have been to work there. Now I know how fucking shitty and boring work, any work can be.

That fateful day out in back of that carpet company where we were looking for Playboys in the dumpster. Man did we ever. There were a fucking ton of them too. Hustlers and Playboys. Tits and ass and pussy. I don’t think I had ever seen it before except for on my mom, when she got out of the shower of course. These girls were so hot. I think I got my first hard on. I didn’t know what to do with it but it was there. It’s funny that porn surrounds my life now. Then, when I was just discovering it I had no idea that it would become one of the major time takers in my daily existence.

Porn and thoughts of sex live in my head at least 75 % of a day. Whether it’s watching, reading or dreaming about it. The filthier the better. I don’t like that nice, model or Skinemax bullshit. I need Barely Legal. Anal teenagers. Filthy sluts that get paid $100.00 that day to take a load of cum in the face. I sometimes think about starting a website or getting cards made up saying I am a photographer or mogul of porn or some shit like that and luring young girls into a motel room and fucking them in the most disgusting way ever. I like young girls. I go on those pre teen Lolita websites. I would never fuck them but I think about it often. Usually when I jerk off it’s to me going to Tijuana or Brazil and hooking up with young hooker for a week a fucking her like e little pig everyday. I think the dirtiest thing I ever did was one night was coming out of a movie theater and there was some baggish type of lady sitting at a bus top. She didn’t look too bad so I circled and asked her if she needed a ride. I was in my friend’s car but I was being inconsiderate and picking up a street person with it. I mean, that is a bit harsh. She wasn’t a bum or anything. She had bummish qualities, like carrying around bags and looking a bit dirty and haggard, but ya know what, I been a bit dirty and haggard on many a night. So after circling I asked her if she needed a ride. She looked like she needed a one and no one should have to talk the bus in LA so I asked, she accepted and the rest is history.

She got in and we glided through the Pasadena streets. Her name was Vicki D. Yep VD. She seemed pretty normal. She told me she was looking for a place to crash because her 0ld man gave her the boot the night before for spending the rent money on speed. Normal. We all been there, right? So I listened. That’s what I do. Listen to woman when they speak. I am the sensitive type. I think I really was smitten once she told me she was 54 and her grandkids called her rock ‘n roll grandma.

Now at this point I got the idea to take her to a motel and either one-kill her or two fuck her. I did the latter. I convinced her we should get a room and “party”. She knew what I was talking about. She didn’t want to at first but I offered to buy her a pack of smokes and she was in. So I bought the smokes, a 40 oz. and a pack of rubbers and we were off to the prom. When we got into the motel room she emptied out all her bags for some reason. I watched her do it and started to get a little nervous like her “old man” was going burst in any moment and I was going to be a part of some homeless lover’s quarrel that ended in me murdering the both of them or being the one killed. The door didn’t even have a lock on it so I was watching the door the whole time. She took out of her bag candles, and an answering machine. An answering machine? I don’t know why. She told me she found it dumpster diving. The funny thing is that none of this bothered me. I didn’t think any less of her for putting out candles that she found in the trash. She was trying to make things more romantic and who am I to put down any candle?

Next she took a shower. Said she hadn’t taken one in days. Again, was I looking at her strangely? No. I have gone days, even weeks without water touching any part of my skin. I watched her shower. She had the body of a female junky in her 50’s. It was beautiful. She had a hawk tattooed on her right tit. Her flat tit. Tits. Sorry. She did have two ya know. I got naked, flipped on the tube and waited for my princess. She came out. The Spanish channel was on and I asked her to blow me. She asked me if I wanted her to take out her falsies (teeth that is). I said it wasn’t necessary. So she proceeded to give me a horrible BJ. Then I fucked her. I think my condom came off. I did make her cum. I thought about fucking her in the ass but I wanted to get out of there after I came. I left her the room for the night and drove home ashamed. What had I done? But grotesque as it was there was still something exciting about in a sense. Alas I did worry all night that she would OD and be found dead and the room traced back to me. So after my humble beginnings with these Playboys from the dumpster I end up back at the dumpster.

Now on this day we were looking at these magazines we were in the mood for damage as well. Pussy and fire. A great combo. That would make a great drink. The Flaming Pussy, or a great bar. For some reason we started lighting these things on fire. T he mags. I don’t know why we did but we did. What started out as a small flame grew to become this big little fire in the alley behind the carpet factory. Next thing we knew it was out of control and getting nearer to the carpets. We booked it, leaving the flames behind. As we hid in the motel nooks and crannies we watched on as the fire department put out the blaze. It was a close call. We never got caught and no serious damage came of it.

Life at the motel was quite normal most days. I’d go to school, come home afterward and play. Then we’d have dinner – on a hotplate, and then watch TV and go to bed. At the motel my love affair with television grew more and more. I would fall asleep watching shows like All In The Family and Happy Days – which of course I had always loved.

Around this time Rocky II came out. Now I had not seen Rocky I. Didn’t even know what it was. I was far too young but when I saw the ad on TV - my world lit up. Finally something new. KISS was the quencher for me years prior and aside form TV I had gone lifeless since Gene and the gang. Rocky was big, and triumphant. The music. The fighting. The man. Rock. It was a perfectly painted scenario for a kid my age in my position. I hadn’t seen the film yet but knew the story already and the music and I would hum it in my head as I did pull up on the motel banisters. I didn’t even know what Philly was. All I wanted to do was see this movie but my mother was too busy and we were too broke so my life went on and on picturing what this thing looked like. It existed in my head only. My own version.

Weekends consisted of my brother and I looking for cans to recycle for cash. Every once in a while we’d find something cool to play with but for the most part we’d come across rotting meat in the alleyways behind the supermarket. We also would come across homes or even condos and I would look at them from the alley or sneak onto the premises and imagine if I had lived there how great it’d be. It’s like I was an orphan looking for parents. In a way my life was very Dickensian. I was sort of like an Oliver Twist. Running the streets all day with my weirdo pals looking for scraps and then by night huddling to sleep in my little corner patch in the motel room.

Even Christmas was an event here. We celebrated it best we could.

By this time we had made friends with some of the other gypsies and opened the connecting rooms doors for one big happy merry motel Christmas. We had a tree and made ham on the hotplates. The kids ran around with 99 cent Store gifts. I laugh at it, but it was Christmas no matter where or how it was. People find ways to seek out joy. We are resilient in times of weariness. This is something I value most about myself and family, even if we are all on the outs and have been for years. That’s the thing, we were a family more in the hard times than the good. Not that there have been many good times. I can almost remember no joy as a kid, unless I made it on my own. I have never really felt a family unit. Closeness, security, protection.

Eventually we did get out of the motel and moved into a crappy little duplex neighborhood. It was a bit rundown to me and my brothers and sisters it was Bel Air. It went under the name Fairview Duplexes and it too was in the OC. In this house I would become the most badass lip sinker in 5 states. I went off yo. I learnt the words to every song on the radio, but my favorite was Mr. Robot by STYX in ’82. that’s where we are at by the 1982. Just to keep some kind of timeline for ya’s. But, yeah STYX. I was a Mr. Roboto fanatic. I would tape it from the radio and perform my cat for my mother and Marge. Marge. I’ll get to that in a minute.

I’d turn out all the lights in the living room, bring the music up and then hits the lights and bring the audience to their knees with my lip syncing techniques. I was a pro. I had all the beats and lyrics down and even choreography. After a while I was teaching me moves to my little brother and sister for their post – supper shows. Supper is what we called it. You sophisticated folk know it as dinner, but we say supper and tonic. That’s soda or pop. Tonic. “Are we having tonic with supper mom?” Now as far as this name that I just brought up, Marge. Margie as we knew her as kids. Margaret being her proper name. Margaret Wilson form North Carolina. She was moms “friend.” Know what I mean. We knew her as that. Mom’s friend. The friend who also disciplined us and yelled at us and talked to us like she was our mother too. She was the dad? I guess you can say that. I didn’t know that my mother was “that way” until kids in the neighborhood pointed it out to me. In a nice civil way. By calling my mom a filthy lesbian. Lesbian? What the fuck was that?! I just learnt about pussies and tits and now I find out that girls like to also look at other tits and pussies. I guess the more I put it together it was true. They lived together and slept in the same bed. Marge was a butch for sure. She was big. Had had a tattoo and wore sunglasses a lot. She was a hardass with us kids, showing patches of affection at times. Her and my mother did argue a lot but in the end were inseparable. It just became life. The life we knew and lived. There was nothing strange about it after awhile. It was around this time that I started to tape my TV shows. I would tape them right from the television and into a tape recorder that I got for Christmas. My brother got a 10 speed and I got a tape recorder. I also got some Star Wars toys. I was so into Star Wars too. I had all the figures. I would live in these things like I would later with records. But when I was a kid it was all about Star wars toys and baseball cards. I knew this kid next door to me that hid his baseball cards and I set up a scheme to steal them. He had an awesome collection and I stole them. Fuck him, he had cable. I was poor. My brother and I were in competition for who had the better set. He had older and better Red Sox cards. After awhile the pressure got to me and I started to steal his cards too. It made me happy to have these things.

My Best Enemy

Sitting in front of me was a blond haired curious young fellow. His hair resembled that of my hero Morrissey. Then I saw this kid in front of me was wearing a trench coat as if he was a 60 year old man. I kept peeking over his shoulder to see what he was doing, because whatever it was, it wasn’t school work. He had a journal and his walk man and a mix tape. The title said Elvis Costello. Elvis? This guy stole his name from the King of Rock?! I think I had heard the name but it was all fuzzy. It must have been somewhere between my Motley Crue to Morrissey switchover. It wasn’t the smoothest transition. I kept peeking over enough for the kid to finally stop what he was doing. He turned back to me and - wow was he a special looking guy. His golden hair flamed up and out the sides much like the actor I had just discovered. Christopher Walken. His eyebrows were blond too. He had the face of a literary figure. Soft and pale. Almost out of a painting. A romantic, golden tone surrounded him. His collared shirt was decorated with purple flowers and covered by his green trench. What the fuck was this kid doing here? What was he hiding? It was like he had secrets for me. Magic tricks to show. He clearly belonged in a think tank on Venus. He was like a little prince amongst peasants. I just felt from the first moment I met him that there was something special there. Something alien, new and exciting and I would not be disappointed.

His name was Mason. Mason Lucia. Lucia. Even that sounded royal or saintly or poetic. He was a young man with a flowing mane of energy both polished and raw at the same time, that I was attracted to right away. At the risk of sounding gay, like I have many times in this memoir, I could have fallen in love with him at that moment and I may have. I wanted to take all my lessons from him and blast The Smiths floodlights down on the two of us. The two of us, hatching schemes and dreams and plans. I was at least smitten. A crush. A non sexual man crush. I could see at that moment why so many would come to love him and why I would someday hate him.

But for now, for purpose of story, if that’s what this is - I will stay the course. Steady. Strong. Weary. Alone.

I wanted to be friends with him or something. Anything. I wanted to follow him around with a tape recorder and magnifying glass and soak all that he exuded. Carry behind with a bucket. Everything that his mind and energy possessed. I wanted it to transfer from him to me. To let it all in and roll all over me. I wanted to be him and this was something that, as much as I hid it and denied it, knew it the very moment I laid eyes on him.

Not all friendships or relationships are the same. Not all are normal or dull or boring. Some are adventerous and made of the caliber that only applies to the great works of art. Some carry great drama and tragedies are reached. This was and would become one of those. Mason and I would become like comic book heroes and villains. Our stage was Medford and we would battle and also support one another for the entirety of high school.

Together we would lay about in the flourescent Smiths album sleeves and pour over comics and old volumes of books that I never read. We wore sweaters on warm afternoons and listened to AM radio with the shades down.

Mason and I started hanging out together on an everyday basis. This was due in part to me not leaving him alone. Believe me, he would have rathered have not met me. I was so fucking intrigued by him. He was everything I always wanted to be and he was good at it too. He was good at looking cool. Sounding smart and sexy. He was confident. He knew he was smart. He knew he had a different look. He was so far ahead of me, the school and anyone I had ever met. Any adult or kid older than me that I once thought was cool, that all went down the shitter when I met Mason Lucia. He was my Tyler Durdin. He read what I wanted to read. He listened to the music I wanted to listen to. Saw the films I wanted to see and wrote like I could never - and still haven’t been able to write. He was the mad man in the woods. He roamed the streets salivating for anything he write about. He was a literary warrior, stripping down and breaking apart everything I thought I knew was right and cool. He was the neighborhood beat. The suburban Burroughs. He broke it down and reshaped it right in front of my eyes. He taught me about Elvis Costello, Tom Waits and opera. He told me to accept avant garde films and that GoodFellas was as much an art film as Cocteau was. He taught me about Oscar Wilde and Jean Genet and the excitement of books. I found out who Duchamp and Manray were from him. How they felt, smelt and made you powerful.
Mason took me into his world and walked me through his process one step at a time. He cloaked me under a dark cape that I refuged in like a wet dog.

The first day I went to his house we yelled and screamed and sang at the top of our lungs to music and then ate like pigs and then passed out. It was primal. A change from the usual Friday night drinking marathons I shared with other classmates and pals.

Together we were a tender force to be reckoned with. I became un afraid of being sensitive and lathered myself in a whole new form of rebellion. The intelligent kind.

Late at night we walked through the town cemetery. He did this often. It would creep me out at times but there was a real peace to it as well. He showed me that it wasn’t so much scary as it was tranquil and quiet. I had never seen anything like him. Nor did the city we lived in. He was a strange little bird amongst vultures and pigeons.

We lived in a hockey jock town of Italians and cops and snow plows. This was your typical New England city scape. Keggers. Girls with rake hair styles that all sounded like Fran Drescher.

Thing about Mason though - he knew how to deal with them. He made them like him and respect him somehow. I think anywhere or anyone else they would have strung him up on the flag pole but Mason went the opposite route. They feared him in a sense, like he was the kid from Powder or something but they loved him like Rocky Denis.

See it was a known fact that he was a genius. He had a high IQ than most of faculty so it was ignored when he would not show up to class or retreat to his study room. He and some of the other more intelligent kids, not being me, would hang in this room called the "writers room." They would actually write too, not just talk about it like I did.

The class was run by a haggard old English teacher who was on the fringe of the staff himself. You could tell he was a former nerd or misunderstood poet/student himself back in his day. The kids in the writers room were protected by him. The had their own little world in there that the rest of the school was not allowed to see or be a part of. I'd get an occasional pass in because of my friendship with Mason. They even had their own literary magazine called Shakespeare and Co. It was a monthly compilation of work done by them and their fellow outsiders. How I longed to be a part of it, alas I had nothing to contribute but I was excited nonetheless every time an issue came out.