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.