Tuesday, June 09, 2015

"There are sins that men commit for which they cannot receive forgiveness, and if they had their eyes open to see their true condition, they would be perfectly willing to have their blood spilled upon the ground, that the smoke thereof might ascend to heaven as an offering for their sins; and the smoking incense would atone, for their sins, whereas, if such is not the case, they will stick to them and remain upon them in the spirit world. Let these principles be known by an individual, and he will be glad to have his blood shed. That would be loving themselves, even unto an eternal exaltation. Will you love your brothers or sisters likewise, when they have committed a sin that cannot be atoned for without the shedding of their blood? Will you love that man or woman well enough to shed their blood?

Suppose you found your brother in bed with your wife, and put a javelin through both of them. You would be justified, and they would atone for their sins and be received into the kingdom of God. I would at once do so in such a case; and under such circumstances, I have no wife whom I love so well that I would not put a javelin through her heart, and I would do it with clean hands. There is not a man or woman, who violates the covenants made with their God, that will not be required to pay the debt. That is the way to love mankind."

-Brigham Young

"Shall I tell you the law of God in regard to the African race? If the white man who belongs to the chosen seed mixes his blood with the seed of Cain, the penalty under the law of God is death on the spot. This will always be so. Any man having one drop of the seed of Cain in him cannot hold the priesthood. I will say it now in the name of Jesus Christ. I know it is true and they know it. The Negro cannot hold one particle of government. If any man mingles his seed with the seed of Cain the only way he could get rid of it or have salvation would be to come forward and have his head cut off and spill his blood upon the ground. It would also take the life of his children."

–Wilford Woodruff

Altar of Sacrifice

Kosis: I come from a Mormon family and had to endure all the typical bullshit, but had some interesting experiences as well, like when I witnessed the baptism of Bob Marley. Around 1989-90 we went to the Oakland Temple to perform baptisms for the dead. One guy in our group was a huge Marley fan so he put in a request to baptize him. We didn't expect it to actually happen, but during the baptism the name came up "Robert Nesta Marley". We were like "holy smokes!"

Vic D: Wow. I guess you don't even have to believe, you just have to join. Well, you just have to have someone join you up...

Brian M: So wait...the Mormons just kind of decide who they want to be baptized Mormon and take it upon themselves to do so?

Vincent Van Gough: Yeah there have been lawsuits and shit because they were trying to get lists of names from Spielberg (or his researchers) of Jews that had died in the holocaust to have them "baptized" into their church!!!! That's the most insulting shit I'd ever heard. After DYING for their religion, having that laughed at.

I reckon Mormons are actually controlled by a reptilian race of overlords, David Icke style.

Kosis: They claim to receive revelations telling them which dead people are worthy of baptism. They communicate with unseen forces, just like the Freemasons, Great White Brotherhood, New Age cults, etc. It's in the tradition of ancient Egypt, where the Pharaoh would receive messages from a spirit through a deity (i.e. stone statue) in a private room: "The Holy of Holies". The Mormon's Holy of Holies is in the Salt Lake City Temple.

A few years ago a mischievous temple worker submitted the names of Adolf Hitler, Hienrick Himler, and other nazi leaders to be baptized. After the baptisms took place they found out it was a prank, so they went back and "un-did" the ritual. This happened at the LA Temple (you can search the net for details). So much for the temple being "sacred" and impenetrable by trouble makers.

The Mormons want absolute power (a "United Order") so it's all very David Icke-ish indeed. Icke's thoughts on Mormonism are pretty far out (see his book "Children of the Matrix"), but I don't doubt them, especially after hearing what my brother said upon returning from EFY. He said in the last days a race of super beings would appear on earth to serve the righteous (i.e. Mormons), protecting them from harm during the apocalypse. And I heard other extraterrestrial / Jinn related stories when I was younger. My brother’s seminary teacher claimed she was approached by a white light while reading the Book of Mormon alone in her room. A small white light, like they see around crop circles. And one of my old Mormon neighbors claimed he was assisted by a non-human entity when his car broke down in the middle of nowhere. This Jinni-like man drove up out of nowhere and fixed his car for him. "The spirit" told him this guy was a messenger of sorts, like one of the three Nephites.

Three Nephites info: http://www.nowscape.com/mormon/3nephites.htm

Vincent Van Gough: Mormon conspiracy theory is one of my favorite pastimes. When I get bored at work it’s time to read up on the white salamander conspiracy or any number of articles about ritual satanic abuse etc. (I really think that’s a bad name for it btw as I actually think satanism has nothing to do with what’s going on in their reverse rituals). My personal favorite theories/issues I want to learn more about are:

Buying/selling uranium to the Middle East (and storing it in Australia?)

Owning the worlds largest cattle farm (despite the Doctrine & Covenants talking about eating meat in times of hardship and even then sparingly!) Under said cattle farm having a huge bunker... I remember in priesthood classes being told about the last days and a mass exodus "somewhere" to the east. I believe the cattle farm/bunker is near St Louis, MO?

Tell me more about this "Holy of Holies". I haven’t heard about that before. i.e. they have a specific object/statue/deity in a room in the SLC Temple that they get "revelation" from? I've toured a few temples and seen the golden calves etc. (so much for no idols before me hahahah).

Actually from what I've read in church history there IS a room with an altar for "sacrifice" in the SLC Temple. (not sure if this was carried on to the other temples) Is this related to the room with the "Holy of Holies" in it?

I read an "account" where an heiress of Brigham Young (hah how many of these must there be hahahaha) was allowed to see the "urim & thummim" and she described it as a rock with a clear part or something like that. I always thought Mormons just made that shit up til I was reading "The Alchemist" by Paulo Coehlo and he mentions a urim & thummim in there.

I think Joseph Smith just read a bit of eastern philosophy, was into Masonry, and made a hybrid Judeo-Christian-Bhramanic-Masonic order. Hahaha

Kosis: I think the LDS Holy of Holies is just an empty room without a deity, but only the inner circle knows for sure.

Yeah, conspiracy stuff is fun, especially when it's destroying your family. It's too bad most Mormons don't know anything about this stuff. Like so many other religious types, they BELIEVE everything and KNOW nothing. So much for taking your life seriously...

Did you ever go to EFY, Mr. Van Gough?

Vincent Van Gough: EFY was the "Especially for Youth" program in Provo right? BYU campus and shit? I got into punk which in turn helped me drop out of church/school etc. hahah before I was old enough to go actually! But since I grew up in Utah I did go to sundance retreats with the "young men and young women" which were pretty weird. Stayed in cabins, went to talks and activities all day. Weird shit.

The schools I went to were run by all Mormon teachers so needless to say the science classes were interesting. The sex ed program was funny as well.

It’s all about the "Adam-God" doctrine that the church has tried to cover up bit by bit! I grew up with the understanding that we all had the potential to become gods and have our own planets and demi gods etc. hmmmm

PS- You from Utah?

Kosis: Punk helped lead me to the light as well.

Yeah, EFY was trippy because they would teach you things that are normally not discussed in Sunday school. I first learned about the Holy of Holies there. It was also the only time I heard the term "Knights Templar" mentioned by a church member. My church group went in 1991. Upon arriving we were separated into groups with random kids we didn’t know. We stayed in dorm rooms with assigned roommates and went to classes every day. My roommate was a dick. He had an attitude like he was better than the other kids, but he was ok with me. We would usually stay up and talk before retiring for the night. There were a few interesting moments during the week, but it was mostly tame overall. Just go to classes all day then come back to the dorm where our group leader would teach a lesson in one of our rooms. No big deal. But on the last night, things took a turn for the strange. He made us sit in a circle on the floor then turned off the lights and asked each of us "why do you deserve to live?" We answered the question one at a time. The answers were mainly things like "because I want to teach Sunday school someday" and "I plan to go on a mission next year", etc. Then he said "One of you was lying. One of you is not a good Mormon and doesn’t deserve to live. Which one of you is it?" No one responded. Then he said “If you’re the one who lied, get up now and sit in the middle of the circle.” Still, no one responded. Then he said to my roommate "It was you. Now get up and sit in the circle." Without saying a word, he got up and sat inside the circle. Then the leader went out to the hall and left us alone in the room. Dead silence. Creepy vibes.

A minute later he came back and told us he was visited by an angel in the hallway. He said the angel spoke to him, and he repeated it verbatim. It was some unearthly language. Really strange. He then translated it into English, saying the angel said my roommate would someday go on a mission in South America where he would be kidnapped by drug dealers and nailed to a cross, with a crown of thorns and everything. This would be his punishment for being a bad Mormon. He was then ordered to do ten push-ups for each of us in the group. "Do ten for James. Now do ten for Chris." etc. When it came time to do them for me, I felt like saying "Dude, you don't have to do that." but I didn't say anything. None of us did. After doing them all, the leader said "Are you tired?" He said "yes", then the leader said "Ok, now do 10 more".

Eventually we all went back to our rooms to sleep. My roommate didn't say a word to me that night. He was obviously freaked out, as were the rest of us. I mean, what the fuck!

The next morning I saw some friends from another group and they mentioned their arms were sore from doing push-ups the night before. I was afraid to ask for details, but apparently my group wasn't the only one who did this.

Yeah, these guys are kooky as shit. I'm not from Utah but I have lots of family there and visited a few times. An odd place for sure.

Vincent Van Gough: That story is heavy dude! hahah. I am from Utah, Provo/Orem. So I basically grew up in the heart of the beast. Most of the punk kids I knew were ex or jack Mormons as well. My mom always told me stories about how her patriarchal blessing said that I was supposed to be a great leader. The only way that’s come true is I've led my friends and siblings away from "the church" hahah. She also told me a story about hearing the voice of "the devil" calling her when my parents were first married. It was when I was old enough to start reading shit like To Kill a Mockingbird that I realized how inherently racist Mormonism was. I started asking questions in Sunday school and was eventually asked to just stop going. hahahah

The saddest thing is to see Mormon kids claim they are straight edge, then fall out of "the church" and start smoking etc. to distance themselves from the standards of Mormonism. From sucking Brigham Young's cock to Joe Camel's in one move.

Kosis: What did the devil say to her?

My dad heard a voice as well. My parents met at BYU. Four weeks later they were at a fireside where Thomas S. Monson was speaking when he heard a voice say "Ask her to marry you", so he did later that night. The stupid part is he was homosexual to begin with and didn’t even like her. He never had a girlfriend before and was taught to feel guilty about his sexuality, so never had a real boyfriend either. But when he heard the voice he assumed it was a message from God, i.e. the “still small voice” he heard about so many times in Sunday school. He thought God was offering him a place at the celestial table, a chance to be married and live a “normal” life. A chance to procreate and be saved from "gay hell", as if being with her would alleviate his natural inclination towards men.

He had a bad feeling about the engagement. His friends told him he was making a mistake, as did his psychiatrist, but he went through with it anyway. They got sealed in the temple and it was the beginning of the end for them both. They had children for the wrong reasons (so they could become Gods) and went off the deep end. Mom lost her mind and dad committed suicide, all in the name of Mormon glory. He told me about the voice shortly before killing himself. It was a heavy conversation where he revealed his actual thoughts, feelings and experiences with me (something he never did before). Little did I know we would never speak again.

My mom later informed me that he never told her about the voice. I suppose it was too heavy to talk about, and all the better, as sharing it with his wife would be like giving her a bargaining chip to use against him as he battled with his sexuality / Mormon guilt. A guilt so strong it eventually lead to his demise.

And there's more: My mom's patriarchal blessing said that through her "faithfulness" she would be given the opportunity to be joined "for Time and All Eternity" to one of God’s "very choicest sons". It continued on saying "Do not be concerned about this now, but think about it and look forward to it as a choice and wonderful blessing." So she looked forward to it, just as any pubescent girl who never had a boyfriend would. And when he proposed, she figured this must be the guy. Their whole marriage was based on faith instead of love and friendship, which is a common phenomenon in Mormonism. Might explain why the average Mormon household is a literal warzone.

Patriarchal blessings are far out. A cosmic message beamed down from the heavens. It’s no wonder Mormons are so enchanted by them. I was certainly enchanted by mine. When I got my blessing, the patriarch was "prompted" to tell me a few things before doing the blessing. He told me the "power" he channeled scared him. I’m not surprised. Serving as a human Ouija board for a luciferian fertility cult would scare me too.

My blessing said some interesting things, much of which related to my personal traits and how I’m supposed to use them in a religious (i.e. Mormon) capacity. It said I would do work in Zion someday. I guess that means I’d be pouring the Kool-Aid for everyone in Jackson County. I wonder what it's like over there. I'm sure they all know the Mormons plan on taking over someday, and judging by what happened at Waco, I bet the military / ATF is ready for action.

The racism thing is ugly. I didn't really notice it in my family until my brother married a Viet Namese girl and our mom flipped out. Before the wedding I heard her on the phone warning people that there would be Asians at the wedding, like it’s a big fucking deal. The girl was a "non-member" but later got baptized just to save the marriage. She then expressed her concerns about Mormonism to me in private. She tried asking me questions about the church. I could give her an earful but I have to avoid the subject, for obvious reasons. I said "check the library, bookstores, Internet, etc." and left it at that. Unfortunately, she's too busy raising her children to study anything.

Hex and Scandal

Mormons are special people. Typically repressed and horny as hell, their sexual escapades can be amusing. An LDS family used to live down the street from me. Husband, wife, three sons and one daughter. Their oldest son was in my Sunday school class, and his dad was our Boy Scout leader, so I knew the family well. They were straight laced Mormons who towed the line to a point of excess, even by Mormon standards. I remember they had a storage room in their house containing a year’s worth of food, water, and even tents and backpacks in case of a sudden industrial collapse. Of course, all members are instructed to store such things in case of an emergency, but not many will go to such lengths as to dedicate an entire room to the cause. They were indeed a portrait of Mormon perfection.

All was well in their little world until suddenly, out of the blue, mom was diagnosed with a brain tumor and died shortly thereafter. It was shocking and traumatic for the kids, but dad didn’t seem to mind as he quickly remarried with no mourning period. The youngest of the sons found console in the lady next door, a fellow Mormon who was married with children. He would visit her frequently, enjoying a level of compassion and understanding that only a middle-aged soccer mom can provide. Then one day while crying on her shoulder, they realized their bond was more than casual. Embracing the moment, they promptly removed their clothing and proceeded to touch, stroke, poke and moan. The exact details of their nearly-statutory consummation are unknown, but it certainly conjures up some amusing visuals. Did they do it on the dining room table? Doggy style over the couch? Or did she take his hand and walk him to the master bedroom for a proper deflowering? Did he pull out? Did she swallow? The possibilities are endless, and endlessly entertaining, but I digress.

Although Mormons are known for their sexual antics (polygamy, inbreeding, etc.), such relations between a married woman and teenage boy are seriously frowned upon by the church. On the other hand, men having extra-marital relations with little girls are more likely to be forgiven. The state of Utah in particular is known for being lenient in rape cases involving male assailants who are Mormon. These cases are sometimes ignored and swept aside so as not to bring negative attention to the church (ask Martha Beck and numerous others for details).

Of course the boy wanted to get laid. That's normal. But why he chose the lady next door is beyond me. Funnier still is the fledgling logic of Mrs. Soccer Mom. She’s married. She has children. The kid is half her age and lives right next door. She’s friends with his whole family. How did she feel knowing his mom was up in Mormon heaven watching her pant and squeal? Perhaps she had this planned from the get-go after hearing the news of her diagnosis, secretly thinking "Once you're gone I'm gonna touch your baby boy". Yeah right, children in mourning make the best lovers don't they. There's absolutely no way she can live this down, especially in the eyes of her family.

Luckily, she had enough sense to feel guilty. So guilty, in fact, that she promptly confessed to church authorities. This led to them both being excommunicated and shunned in the local Mormon community, where gossip reigns supreme and spreads like wildfire. Both families had to leave California to start new lives elsewhere.

Reign In Blood

The following song is not in the standard Mormon hymn book. It appears on a CD about the Mormon Temple called "As Temples Fill the Earth". The song has a dark / foreboding feel to it. Notice the Luciferian / Masonic overtones. A few of the "symbols" from the Mormon Temple are the inverted pentagram, Baphomet (goat head), the eye of Horus, the beehive and other items of Masonic / Merovingian origin.

Sacraments & Symbols

Lamb of God, Morning Star
Cornerstone and Rock
Brazen Serpent and True Vine
Shepard of the flock

Sacraments and symbols open up my mind-
Pointing to a world waiting behind them
Simple bread and water represent the Christ
Even daily bread serves to remind!

Symbols of his life, of his sacrifice
Till the symbols are not needed to see

Lead: King

Lead: Hanneman

Wheat and tares, scattered seeds
Bridegroom at the feast
Buried in a watery grave
Then from death released

Sacraments and symbols open up my mind-
Pointing to a world waiting behind them
Concealing and revealing truth in every line
Gifts that those who seek surely may find

Symbols of His life, of His sacrifice
Till the symbols are not needed to see

Every world, every life
Testifies of Christ!
Lamb of God, Morning Star
Give me eyes to see

"No man or woman can come out of the temple endowed as he should be, unless he has seen, beyond the symbol, the mighty realities for which the symbol stands" -Elder John A. Widtsoe

Mormon temple pentagrams:


Mormon pentagram jewelry:


Eulogy for Apartment #3

Today, as I was leaving for work, a funny smell hit me as I walked out the door. A rot of some sort. I pinched my face and went about my morning.

They moved in down the hall about two months ago. Like a summer storm, their fights were shrouded shouts that exploded and then went away.

What I like about living here is that people don’t get in your business. We coexist. Don’t get me wrong, the people who live here will say Hi to each other once in a while but the language and skin barriers keep any real connection from occurring. Let me see, there are some white punks on dope who live downstairs, right across from the Mexican family whose dad is always hanging out fixing cars and drinking beer on the weekends. He is friendly enough to me, and that is good because he is the kind of guy who knows everyone on the street and watches who comes and goes. The woman who lives across from me is five months pregnant, a single black mom to be. She works at a bank and is pleasant enough. The guys on the other side are workers. They get drunk on Fridays, blare their mariachi music and howl songs of sorrow into the night. We get on just fine. I have only seen the tenants at the end of the hall once or twice. I said Hi and it wasn’t returned. I didn’t feel slighted or anything. You can’t make people be friendly if they don’t want to be.

A couple weeks ago, on the eve of a work night, the shouts down the hall erupted into screams and shrieks. They were stomping on the floor and pounding on the walls. The fight spilled down the stairs into the foyer. Soft solid thuds of flesh being impacted by fists echoed upwards. I pretended to sleep.

For a while I thought about calling 911 but I didn’t want to take responsibility. Who really wants to get involved in a complete stranger’s business? I wasn’t the only person in the building. I knew everyone else who lives here had to be listening.

Laying there huddled in a ball, a flickering flame sputtered in my stomach. I tried to put it out but couldn’t so I let it burn away. Pain is a funny thing, it never lets you forget. I remembered where this particular brand and flavor came from. When I was a boy my parents would go after each other on Sunday nights. They would start up after dinner, generally critiquing the performance of the Saturday team they coached. A mistake would be rubbed into the wounds of defeat and success would be savored like a full swig from the victory cup. They would siege into hotter points of contention, be it religion or in-laws, then culminate the confrontation by arguing about money.

As brothers, we subconsciously learned our cue when to clear the table and make ourselves scarce before the sparks could ignite. When the civility ceased and the fists would fly, we would be huddled together in someone’s room pretending to be reading a book or playing a game. In reality all we were trying to do was block out the tempest raging out of control.

I moved here for a reason. This spot is the symbiosis of my self-imposed exile. Bruised and battered by rejection, I have pushed away almost everyone and everything. My little day-to-day problems are projected so large that I never have to acknowledge the monster who lurks behind the screen. My schedule is so full of tasks and activities I never have time to be contemplative, let alone self-critical. When I do manage to ensnare a captive into my corral, I can’t help but to bind them with my failed expectations to a personalized whipping post. Once immobilized, I unleash upon them such a consuming flame of blame there is no fuel left over to light a fire under my own butt. Late at night, in bed, alone, wanting from the depth of my soul for something to hold and love, I retract and recoil saying a mantra “I am not avoiding the problem, I am not denying the problem, I am not the problem…”

So she is locked out, screaming at the top of her lungs for help. There is nothing more profound or disturbing to me than the song of sorrow in a woman’s voice. She is buzzing all the apartments to get back inside. He is standing behind the door shouting some incoherent command.

I am torn. Do I get involved or do I pretend it is not there. If I let her in I am involved in this mess. If I do not I am an accomplice to this crime. Deep down I hope that like most other storms this one will rage, then blow away. If I hold tight and shut my eyes, maybe just maybe this whole scene will pass.

She eventually ran off down the street yowling into the night. He followed her a minute or two later. The ensuing silence gently covered the building and lulled me to sleep. When I woke up that morning I realized that nobody had bothered to call the police. I guess we were all waiting for someone else to.

The next day I saw one of the punks on dope. With knowing glances we nodded then both looked away. As I fiddled with the front lock I said “So, did you want to let her in?” He replied “It isn’t my business and I’m not about to get involved.” There was an uncomfortable hesitation before we entered the foyer. He looked at me and said “That’s really a chicken shit copout, ain’t it?” I smiled and replied “At least you aren’t alone.”

That night I wrote a letter to the property management company hoping they could do something, but knowing deep down they were powerless in the situation at hand. The most I could do from that point was to live my life accordingly.

Oh yeah, I was telling you about today. When I came home from work there was an ambulance and a couple police cars in front of the building. Lights flashed, gawkers gawked and the yellow tape defined boundaries. I walked up the stairs and saw a host of health officials going about the task of hauling a zipped black bag onto a gurney.

I locked my bike a little closer to my apartment so I would be out of their way. A police officer came over to question me. It turns out that she had been there for at least four days. The circumstances of her departure were cloudy. The television was the only one who bore witness yet could not reflect upon the crime. I was rendered useless in elaborating upon the sublime. He let me go and I went inside to eat. My apathy overcame appetite, so I just sat in the dark to think.

-Justin 10/11/96
Oakland, CA


California’s Central Valley was once considered the methamphetamine capitol of the world. This made growing up in Modesto interesting as cookers and users were everywhere. Your boss, co-workers, landlord, next door neighbor, etc. were all equally likely to be involved with the substance in one way or another. Although I'm not sure of our current status in the drug monopoly, in the 1990's Modesto, Sacramento and San Diego all shared the "Meth Capitol" moniker. It's uncertain which city was the worst, but Modesto was probably #1 in media whitewash. For several years, the meth problem was ignored by our local media. Of course overlooking such subjects is good for business, as no one wants to move to a city known for serious drug issues, but you can’t remedy a problem unless you address it and get the community behind you. (1) It wasn't until California officials like Dianne Feinstein came to town to discuss the meth problem that the local newspaper finally came clean. After years of silence, it was suddenly front page news. Considering I had been surrounded by the drug since high school, I found this rather amusing.

My freshman English teacher was a cooker. His partner in crime was also a teacher, who happened to live two houses down from me. I was friends with his step son. We were in the back yard once when he showed me a spot in the corner where his dad would spend time by himself. The ground was littered with cigarette butts, all concentrated within one small area. Little did we know this was daddy’s tweak zone, where he would hide from the family and tweak for hours on end. But we figured it out soon enough when he and his partner (my aforementioned English teacher) got busted. Both went to prison.

Another guy in my neighborhood (a certain noisecore icon) was also heavily into meth. His addiction was so bad that even his dealer worried about him. So he showed him the bathtub where he made the stuff. There was no linoleum. The chemicals ate it away. After seeing that, he quit using speed, but marijuana, booze and pornography remained central to his daily routine.

When you live in the middle of nowhere, and TV and drugs are your only options in life, you must get creative in order to keep sane. How about some late night vandalism? The streets are devoid of pedestrians at night, so once the sun goes down you and your comrades can paint the town with high-grade devilry, with no regard for public safety or legal ramifications. We used to light the public swimming pool on fire. Just pour in some gasoline, throw in a match and run like hell. Flames 7 feet high lit up the neighborhood. We called it “shredding”, and during my freshman year it was a nightly ritual. Mailbox baseball anyone? (2) It was around this time that several of my friends took a sharp turn for the worst, becoming gun-toting speed-dealing maniacs no one could fuck with. Rather unprecedented considering what geeks they were just a year or two before.

In the late 90’s there was a meth house just around the corner from me, a small apartment actually. You could tell they were cooking just by the people hanging out front. The windows being covered with Glad bags was a hint as well. It didn’t last long though, only a few months before they were busted. The entire complex had to be condemned while they cleaned up the chemical fallout.

I played in a band with tweakers. Our bass player would do strange things like Turtle Wax our equipment, mow the lawn at 2am with flashlights taped to the lawnmower, etc. I knew another guy who mowed his entire lawn with a weedeater. But the real story is about our guitarist, DeeDee. I knew him since my mid-teens. If he needed a drummer or bass player he’d call me up and we’d play. Although the music lacked proper arrangement, and he was too egotistical to let me remedy the problem, I enjoyed hanging out with him and his circle of friends. They were older than me, so the conversation was usually a few degrees higher on the maturity scale than what I was used to. It was the escape from high-school-hell that I had been yearning for, but.....they all used speed. Some used it more than others, namely DeeDee. His dad turned him onto it when he was a kid, and he then shared it with his friends as the years rolled on. One of them was Al, who we will get to later.

When I first met DeeDee, he used speed a couple times a week. But as semantics would dictate, several years of weekly use led to several years of daily use. He handled it ok at first. He kept a job, a marriage, a place of residence, etc.

After finishing high school, I played with DeeDee on a steady basis. We practiced several times a week. He let me arrange songs this time, which was nice, but he didn’t have much choice anyway due to the toll his drug habit had taken on his musical skills. We rented a rehearsal space in a nearby town. The owner of said space was (you guessed it) a meth user. A very nice, professional, clean-cut gentleman with pupils the size of pin heads. This amused DeeDee to no end. That's how he was. He could always find humor in the calamities going on around him, but pointing the finger back at himself and seeing how his vices were slowly destroying him seemed nearly impossible. Everything was a head trip, an abstraction. In turn, he viewed everything as a witness, not a victim. He could transcend the worst circumstances this way, even downplaying his own risky behavior. He once told me how speed eats holes in the user’s brain, like Swiss cheese. He talked about it like it was a fun fact, not a scary consequence. When someone tried to blow up the bridge next to his house it was pure entertainment. Barely avoiding accidents while driving drunk: more entertainment. Like a typical thrill-seeker, he couldn’t get enough of it. Disturbing as it may be, this adventurous spirit made him a fun guy to hang with. And since he was always high, he had no “off” switch and exuded an energy that charmed all who knew him, especially the ladies.

Since I was older and more mature at this point, we connected better and became close friends. We hung out all the time. Since he was able to act normal no matter how high he was, his drug use rarely got in the way of our friendship. It wasn’t a dirty little secret either. To him, it was a matter-of-fact part of life. He would say “Everyone does something”, but that’s not really true.

After about 9 years of this behavior, he started losing control. He cheated on his wife and told me about it the next day. This put me in an awkward position because I was also friends with her. Should I tell her what he's doing behind her back? He then regressed even further when he traded snorting for smoking, which greatly excelled the rate of his deterioration. His wife then threatened to leave him if he didn’t get clean. This led to a stint in AA which didn’t take, resulting in a full scale drug frenzy. After several months of unemployment and freebasing daily, his wife finally kicked him to the curb. He then moved in with his dad out of state. Al came along as well.

It sucks watching a friend fall apart like this. Someone you've known for years and feel close to. Someone known for his wit and personality, and now he's barely able to function. Luckily, he eventually kicked his habits. He got a new wife, a son, a job, etc. Our friend Al, on the other hand, spun completely out of control after the move. We’ll get to him momentarily.

Shortly before DeeDee’s breakdown, I got a janitorial job. Most of my co-workers were tweakers. It’s a perfect job for them. They get to stay up all night cleaning stuff, which is what they would do anyway regardless of financial incentive. I had the pleasure of cleaning a bail bonds office downtown. The place was owned and operated by a meth dealer. He was in his 50's. He had a party room in the back fashioned with a mirrored wall, an entertainment system, a collection of cheap porn videos, and a black leather couch with an industrial-sized blowtorch next to it; perfect for lighting the pipe while getting a blowjob. He had late night crank sessions here with various groups of women. They'd smoke speed, watch porno and go wild. His wife didn't seem to mind either. I suppose the mirrored wall came in handy during an orgy, helping him to see exactly who is doing what. Sometimes when I cleaned the party room I could smell the chemicals from his pipe lingering in the air. It smelled like burning plastic. I would hold my breath, clean as fast as possible and get the fuck out. (3) This guy was a lunatic. He would leave crazy stuff sitting around the office: porno mags on the front desk, porno mags in the break room, furry handcuffs on the shelf, speed and marijuana all over the floor, etc. One of my co-workers once spent a good hour combing through the party room carpet looking for pot. She came out with an eighth bag of marijuana mixed with human hair, lint, etc. She also stole a “P” block that was left sitting out. That’s a solid block of pure meth, something only a dealer/cooker would have. She snorted it over the course of four weeks, which might explain why half her brain didn’t work. (4) He didn’t notice the missing block since it was sitting amongst 100 others. He was indeed a shady character. Although he seemed rather unassuming at first glance, his loopy behavior betrayed him. He was either edgy as hell or high out of his mind, no inbetween. I remember the local newspaper doing a story on him, portraying him as a swell guy, a seasoned old man well versed in bonding bails for Modesto’s most distinguished criminals. Like there’s some kind of dignified charm in this line of work. When I read that, I suspected something was up. That bullshit article, and the fact that his office was located across the street from the county jail, leads me to believe not only were the city and the cops aware of his illegal activities, but they probably encouraged it as it meant job security and probably pay-offs. More meth = more law enforcement jobs. More meth = more people behind bars. More meth = more dead poor people. Being a bail bondsman gave him an inroad to the drug market, making him an ideal cog in their death machine. (5)

And now we get to Al. He was always a crazy guy. A nice friend, but had a bad temper and extremely poor impulse control. He would fight anyone anytime no matter how minuscule the reason or how many people he was up against. Anything could set him off, which made him notorious amongst those who knew him. He was obsessed with comic books and horror movies, his favorite movie being A Nightmare on Elm Street. To commemorate his love for the movie, he made an exact replica of the Freddy glove. He was good with metal work. There was a shed behind his house where he hammered out all kinds of stuff, mainly weapons from comic books like Wolverine blades, etc. I got a call from him one night saying “Hey, I’m making a new Freddy glove. Wanna come over?” His house was easy to find, located next to a Mormon church. I found him in the shed blasting an Exploited tape and feeding slabs of metal into a grinder. The so-called “Freddy glove” was actually a metal fist enclosure with three triangular blades ready to be welded to the knuckle area. It weighed maybe 3 lbs. We eventually went inside and spent the evening talking about punk rock, comic books, etc. He showed me his Dr Know LPs. He had pretty much all of them. He told me about an art project he was working on involving skulls from roadkill. He kept a machete in his car so when he came across a dead animal he could pull over, chop off it's head, throw it in a ziplock bag and take it home. He would then boil the meat off and add it to the collection. He planned to attach the skulls to a large piece of plywood (painted black) then weave tubing through the eye holes. The tubing would be filled with different colored liquids, and the skulls and liquid would glow in the dark. Eventually the conversation turned to meth. He said he only used it occasionally but I suspected otherwise. We watched Gwar videos until his wife got home. I noticed a black leather whip in a drawer next to their bed.

The next time I saw Al was at a party. He was so wired he couldn’t stop talking. I moved to the Bay Area shortly thereafter. I got a call from him one morning. He was high as hell, talking like a machine gun saying his friends The Insaints needed a new drummer and would I like to join. I said no. I don’t need to get fist-fucked on stage while trying to play “Pipeline”.

One thing leads to another and he eventually moves out of state with DeeDee, as mentioned before. He was divorced by this time and found a new girlfriend shortly thereafter. They had a son who he named Freddy (as in “Krueger”). The months go by and his meth use escalates, taking a toll only this drug can. He begins to tweak on things that some might find unsavory: gay porn, cutting his girlfriend during sex, etc. He ended up trying to rape his girlfriend’s little sister and her friend (at the same time). This led to a 10 year prison sentence. I saw most of his CD collection at a local record store shortly after his release, so I guess he’s back in town. I hope he’s doing okay.

It’s all so strange in hindsight. These were my friends. I knew they were wild or whatever, but I never thought I’d see them end up where they did. Drugs are a problem I'm glad I don't have.


1) Modesto is a small city with little culture and no stimulation. Located next to Modesto is an even smaller town called Riverbank (i.e. “Crankbank”), where public dancing was outlawed up until 1990. Even after the law was lifted, spending a few minutes here would be enough to break anyone’s heart. This is a town where literally nothing happens. A place so desolate, if you shit your pants you’d have to drive out of town to buy new ones. And the town slogan is “Riverbank: City of Action!” This is funny considering it’s not a city and has no action besides a movie theater. They air football games on the big screen. Admission is free, but they cash in on beer sales. Get drunk. Stare at the screen. Go fuckin' wild. One of my bands got hooked up with a rehearsal space here, but after learning the owner was manufacturing LSD on the premises, we said no thanks. Legendary Chicano activist Oscar Acosta grew up here. Although his accomplishments in the Brown Power movement are notable, he’s best known for his association with Hunter S. Thompson. In 1971 he accompanied Hunter on his famous trip to Las Vegas, and is referred to as “Dr. Gonzo” in the book which details their drug-fueled adventure: Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. He loved psychedelics, and was addicted to amphetamines. In 1973, he sailed alone to Mexico looking for an escape from the American nightmare. Although the facts are unknown, many believe he was killed by drug dealers shortly thereafter.

2) I once had a crazy roommate, a repressed Mormon who loved dabbling in the dark side. Anything involving drugs and violence was fair game. He used to hang out with a group of skinheads. They’d do speed on the weekends and raise hell. One Saturday night, he was driving around picking up the boys for a night of fun when one of them got into the car wielding a double-edged axe. He noticed the axe but thought nothing of it, and off they went looking for action. They headed out to the country roads on the edge of town, where you could literally get away with anything, and came across a house with a slew of cars parked out front. There was obviously a party going on, so they decided to crash. They walked right in heading straight for the keg. Someone starts giving them shit, so Mr. Skinhead runs out to the car and fetches the axe. He proceeds to chop up the dining room chairs, reducing them to kindling. All party goers quickly fled the scene. He then goes to work on the dining room table. Full swings were executed downwards, gradually chipping away this once beautiful piece of furniture. Then suddenly the axe got stuck in the ceiling on the back swing. He couldn’t pull it out, so they left it there and took off. As they were making their way through the country roads they pass another house and recognize a car parked out front. It’s someone from the party. So they pull over and smash the car to bits. No repercussions, no consequences. Another Saturday night in the middle of nowhere.

3) The person who cleaned the bail bonds office before me was an older guy in his 50’s. There was so much speed on the floor the vacuum would kick it up into the air and get him high. It was making his body twitch, so he complained about this to our boss and was told “Oh, come on. You can handle it.” A few months later, I was asked to take his place. He told me about Mr. Bail Bonds beforehand so I wouldn’t be shocked. Early one morning while vacuuming the break room, I looked up and saw a woman standing in the main office area. Apparently I failed to lock the front door. It’s one of the guy’s crack whores. She’s wearing a nurse’s uniform so I assume she just got off work and is looking for a fix. I tell her the guy isn’t there. She asks if she can change her clothes in the bathroom, and against my better judgment I say yes. Moments later she comes out wearing a hooker outfit: miniskirt, pink polka-dot leggings, etc. She stands there looking at me a certain way (i.e. THAT way) and I glare back with a look that says “get the fuck out of here”. She walks out in a haste, gets in her car and speeds off. What a bummer for her, no crank from her dealer and no dick from the janitor. And lets face it ladies, there’s nothing better than janitor dick.

4) She lived in a neighborhood full of labs, where you could literally smell chemicals in the air. For her, this was a special treat. The lovely aroma of bathtub crank. “Someone’s cookin!” she said.

5) While working this job I lived in a nearby town with roommates, an insufferable married couple. They were Mormons. Although they weren’t the most obedient cult members, they were certainly believers, brainwashed in ways most people can hardly imagine. The guy closely resembled an ape and was training to become a cop. He's the same guy I mentioned earlier who used to hang with skinheads. He loved to fight and owned several firearms. His wife was a bundle of seething hormones, a maternal lunatic who hated her job. She desperately wanted to get pregnant, but he failed to share her enthusiasm. Since he was too horny for abstinence, and too manly to wear a condom, he made her take the pill. They boned once a week. No more, no less. It was like clockwork. Every Friday night I would hear his ape noises emanate from the bedroom whilst she made no noise whatsoever. That’s what you call “Mormon sex” (in Mormonism the female orgasm is, shall we say, not encouraged). She eventually opted for the #1 female career choice by “forgetting” to take the pill, and voila, she was pregnant and finally had a legitimate excuse to quit her job. They lost their house as a result, but not before I moved the fuck out of there. I rented an apartment around the corner. Getting the place was easy. No credit check or anything. I was told they needed more white tenants and I fit the bill perfectly. The place was huge and rent was cheap. There was a taco truck across the street. Completely oblivious to the lard factor, I ate there almost daily. Burritos were usually $2, but sometimes $1 or even free, depending on the guy’s mood. I was happy there and planned to stay indefinitely, but was chased out three weeks later by the meth dealer who lived next door. I was then forced to move in with another group of Mormon heathens (my family) and began listening to Poison Idea exclusively.