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The Days of Guns, & Raz's

Raz Cue

"Gimp-Gun" Cover Art Concept & Design by Raz Cue

Illustration by Doug Millhoff

ISBN-10 0-9827103-1-3

ISBN-13 978-0-9827103-1-9

FIRST EDITION 2017

The Days of Guns, & Raz's Copyright 2015-17 by Raz Cue. All Designs, Drawings and Photographs are Copyright 2015-17 by Raz Cue. The Days of Guns, & Raz's is published by Luck University Press Inc. with permission from the copyright owner. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form, for any reason or by any means, whether re-drawn, enlarged or otherwise altered including mechanical, photocopy, digital storage & retrieval or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher. The text, layout and designs presented in this book, as well as the book in its entirety, are protected by the copyright laws of the United States (17 U.S.C. 101 et seq.) and similar laws in other countries.

©2015-17 Luck University Press

Las Vegas, NV

Many thanks and never-ending gratitude to my Las Vegas family, Judy K. and Charles W. Plus much admiration and respect for the ultra-talented, Chelsea who encouraged me to seek traditional publishing.

I'm kind of biased, but all my love for Feeeeeeeeee 

Follow Raz at WWW.RAZCUE.COM

Mucho Swag Available at WWW.BUDSLOVEBUS.COM

The following is a true story. It was not necessary to change even a single name. I tried my damndest to keep this shit interesting and avoid clichés, like the plague. Included within these pages are scores of quotes retrieved directly from my curse of a steel-trap memory. I guarantee that, if not one-hundred-percent word for word of what was spoken at the time, the thought and sentiment are fairly and accurately represented. That being said, I've found that quite a few of my tales were remembered differently by others involved. With that in mind, if someone flat out contradicts anything reported herein, either their brains are mush or they're lying. Or I'm wrong. But I'm not wrong. For, you see, except for my own, I have no agenda!

For those of you that don't give a damn about my life prior to 1983, JUMP TO G N' R-ish stuff

1

February 1965 – a baby boy they called Rached entered this world ass-first, screaming like thunder. Not from the smack on my bottom, but because the doctor yanked me from a warm, moist environment I had grown quite fond of. My resistance to the world broke my fucking arm and I spent the first five weeks of life in a hospital, rocking a full body cast. Trust me, that ain't living. But who needs mom-bonding when you got fine-ass nurses? I rested up, learned not to cry, plastered a smile across my face, got stronger, and made it home in time to watch the Selma March's bloody aftermath on the nightly news.

I arrived to discover an older kid living with us, product of a previous coupling by Ma and some Marine. Joe was his name. Not the Marine, the kid who made life miserable. Upon our introduction, Joe reportedly said, "Baby, baby, my baby."

I had yet to acquire the gift-o-gab, so I settled for a menacing stare-down to let him know, "You don't own me, fucker. Nobody owns me."

We were born nine months and ten days apart, with different fathers. Though Pops adopted him, I'd tell folks Pops was the doctor that delivered Joe. Having a doctor for a father might have worked out better for me; probably wouldn't have waited till thirty-seven to seek my first college degree.

My oldest memory is from early in age four. On a quest to score some sugary cereal from a high shelf, Joe and I scaled the washing machine's summit. We were almost to the puffed corn, then out of nowhere Pops laid into my ass with one hand, while swatting Joe with the other. He followed up with a few more swats to emphasize that he don't mess around.

Besides being quite the disciplinarian, Pops was a ho-banging, rum-drinking, pork-loving, Lebanese Muslim who happened upon the Newport Bay about five years before shagging Ma, the secular-progressive Marine brat, half Irish, a quarter English, and a quarter whoever bought her grandmothers a drink. Joe was a dick. By mid-1969, my parents accepted that they were polar opposites who despised one another, and they went their separate ways. I never once thought it was my fault they split.

Soon after the breakup, Ma relocated us from Costa Mesa to Los Angeles. Luckily, there wasn't much to move, because the repo-men hauled away all our heavy shit. After all was said and done, Pops got to live single, fully enjoying the 1970s' sexual revolution while drinking an ocean of booze. Ma got two obnoxious man-children who constantly beat and strangled one another. Being a politically left O.G. feminist, Ma insisted, "I don't need a man to raise kids." Wrong! We pretty much did whatever we wanted, mostly because we were both little assholes.

Over the next five years, we rarely saw Pops. His excuse, "Whatever parent has the kids is fully responsible for every aspect of those children's existence." So we suffered financially, never hungry, but just barely scraping by. In extra-lean times, Ma would threaten to sick the authorities on Pops' no-child-support-paying ass. Soon after the warning, he'd roll up in a long, cool, V-8 luxury car to pay Ma a fraction of what he owed and then hang out for an hour; sometimes even two.

Our first stop in L.A. was an ethnically diverse apartment complex on San Vicente, near La Brea. We were the diversity. Having just seen my first black person at the beach the prior week, the new neighbors were excitingly exotic to my four-year-old brain. In 1960s Orange County, California, soul brothers and sisters were rarer than an honest politician, but there were loads of them in my new world. As another sign of the times, I was the only Rached around. Once I learned that bad meant good, I fit right in.

We only stayed at the apartment for six months, but I loved living there. There were lots of kids to play with and some beautiful black ladies that I became quite fond of. We had cool neighbors like Tommy Chong and his lovely wife, Maxine, with her cool, gigantic afro. At one point, I believe she jammed with Sly and the Family Stone. Ma and friends would sometimes party with Chong and Cheech, who'd on occasion do comedy bits, to the living room crowd's delight. A few apartments over lived Maxine's brother, Floyd Sneed, who gave me my first motorcycle ride. He played drums in a band called Three Dog Night. Not sure what became of the group.

There was a girl band, Sunday's Child, that put out an LP record. Despite everyone being super excited for them, it pretty much flopped. The lead singer, Ilene, was close friends with Ma for many years. She was tall, talented, super pretty, and maximum drama. I was too young to realize there are thousands like her. But my idea of drama has an extremely low threshold.

Some of the older neighbor girls – seven or eight – taught me a game called "doing the pussy." It consisted of pants dropping, then the boy got on top and we'd both grunt and groan while repeating, "slee-haw, slee-haw." Twenty-five years shy of getting internet access meant we didn't know nothin' bout nothin'. So that was pretty much it. I'm happier than a pig in shit there weren't any older boys around wanting to teach me the intricacies of "doing the booty."

A month before I turned five, Santa brought me a red bike with a white seat and training wheels. Training wheels and helmets are for pussies, so two weeks in, those training wheels had to go. I headed for the maintenance guy's shack in pursuit of pliers, only to receive the stern rebuke, "Pliers fuck shit up." At his urging, I rolled my bike back there, and that's the first time I ever wrenched on something. For as long as I can remember, I have needed to know how and why things work. I also notice lots of shit others remain oblivious too. In the military, they refer to that trait as situational awareness.

I loved McDonald's. Still do! They weren't on every other major street like today, but we were blessed to have one right around the corner. Ma despised soda, so I felt lucky whenever she'd relent and allow me a small, 7oz Coca-Cola. The "Quarter Pounder" had yet to be created, and Mickey D's was still half a decade away from offering breakfast. In those days, plastic numbers just below huge golden arches bragged on how many burgers they had sold. Ours said "6 Billion Served." I told Ma, "I can't wait till I catch up to the Mc Number."

Ma laughed. "That number will catch up to my age before you'll ever catch it." I didn't believe her.

*

Next stop was an old house on 30th Street, near Crenshaw and Adams, with cut-glass doorknobs and skeleton keyholes to peek through. That location put us much deeper in the "Hood," but not in "the Jungle." However, if you stood on the roof, you could see it from there. Ma and her friends frequently smoked large quantities of lousy pot they scored by the "lid," while I'd pretend-smoke candy cigarettes. Ma displayed her "Free Angela Davis" pin alongside JFK campaign pins and a hand-painted napkin holder that read "If you want some flotsam, we got some. If you want some jetsam, we can get some." There were always lots of books in our house, including her mother Josephine's old leather-bound Bible. I never met her, because my grandma passed away when Ma was sixteen. In fact, I only ever met one of my grandparents, once.

Our babysitter lived directly across the street. Mrs. Fuller was a kind, older, heavyset black woman who couldn't keep a very good eye on us because she was bedridden. If we weren't in her direct line of sight, we did whatever seemed like a fun idea at the time. She had twin sons in their twenties, Rodney and Randy. One time, when I tried to rat on Joe for something, one of her boys sternly rebuked me, "Don't be a fink." It stuck, and took me several decades to realize in some instances it's best to reject that premise. But it's still my default.

Joe and I fought a lot more than constantly. Not the typical, mellow, five-and-six-year-old brother squabbles, either. We'd draw blood. All I have ever wanted was just to be left alone, while Joe dug fucking with me nonstop. To get free of him, I'd often head out on my own to spend my day roaming the neighborhood and nearby business district. I planned my first free roam adventure minutes after Ma mentioned there would be haircuts the next morning. She always fucked my hair up, plus I wanted to grow it out into an afro, so I got up early and left a note that I'd be home for dinner.

Not long into my travels, I ran into some older kids, and we hung out and malicious mischiefed. At some point, we ended up in a field behind a gas station playing with matches, when the overgrown grass somehow caught fire. Might have been the matches? We bailed, but half a block away I looked back and my heart skipped a beat when I saw wisps of black smoke rising above the rear of the gas station.

While the other kids continued their getaway, I ran back and told the mechanic, "Hey mister, there's a fire in the field behind here."

I bolted toward the problem and he followed with a large, silver fire extinguisher. Less than two minutes from ignition, what started as the size of a matchbook had grown larger than a kitchen table and was sending thick, black smoke billowing toward blue sky. The man flipped that extinguisher upside down, flame retardant shot out, and he skillfully knocked down the flames in no time flat. I turned to skedaddle, but he hollered, "Hey, kid, stop! Who started this fire?"

I shrugged and put on my best innocent-kid expression. "I was just walking by and saw it."

Some neighborhood kids showed me how to build a crappy lil' racer out of scrap wood and shopping carts' caster wheels. We would lie down on our backs and steer with our feet while someone pushed. I got the awesome idea to go to the top of a hill instead of pushing, because it was faster that way. At the perfect spot a few blocks over, I got to be the first to set sail. It was exhilarating, supine fun maneuvering the 2x4 guiding my absolutely safe downhill journey. I gathered a nifty head of steam, then near the bottom of the hill began wishing my sled had brakes. No biggie, I merely steered toward an uphill portion of road, a freeway onramp where I bashed into the side of a car. The guy screeched to a stop, hopped out, and hollered, "You stupid little asshole, you fucked up my car."

When the pissed-off driver went to survey the damage, I heard the siren groove of James Brown's "Super Bad" blaring from his radio – the very first song to give me ants in my pants, thus requiring me to dance, motherfuckers – and the music moved me, mesmerized, into the driver's seat. I soaked up the soul-stirring sounds until a stern voice ripped me from my funk-inspired hypno-groove. "Get the fuck out my car." So marks the first song making up my life's soundtrack and time machine. When I hear certain songs, in my mind's eye, I'm right back there, engulfed by the surroundings, feelings, and emotions from the moment when I first heard the tune, or when some chick dumped me.

I fell in love with the TV show Soul Train, and couldn't for the life of me understand why Ma refused to get me any Afro Sheen. Another commercial explained that an operator was no longer needed to make long distance calls. All one need do, dial 1 + area code + number. A big Friday night meant watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on the boob tube. I set out to pattern myself after Danny Partridge, hairstyle and wisecracks, but got over that phase pretty quickly; around age thirty-five.

Shortly after we moved in, I saw a group of kids on the front lawn next door, facing off then charging forward at full speed to knock one another over. The choreographed brutality intrigued me, but my initial attempts to join their football game were rebuked. "You're just a baby."

I pestered until they let me play center. As I readied to snap the ball, someone yelled, "Can the center!" Then I heard "HUT-HUT-HIKE!" The ensuing pileup is where I lost my first baby tooth. After that, I hit them first and much harder than they dare hit me.

We lived across the street from Virginia Road Elementary School. One day, Ma, Joe, and me walked over there and filled out tons of paperwork. Early one morning, we went there again, but Joe stayed behind while I got herded back to Mrs. Fuller's house bitching and moaning, "Why don't I get to go to school?" I could not understand why he got to go and I didn't. I spent months repeatedly asking, "When do I get to go to school?"

On that long-anticipated first day of school, it only took me a few minutes to realize I preferred being at Mrs. Fuller's house far more than that fucking classroom. After a couple of eternities, they sprang us outside for milk and graham crackers. It was one of those perfectly warm and sunny late summer California mornings, and instead of roaming around the neighborhood seeking adventure, I was stuck behind a chain-link fence with a bunch of idiots who didn't even know their ABCs. I washed down the last bite of graham cracker with a gulp of milk then hung my head over my arm and grumbled, "I hate school."

Back inside, I informed Teach of my desire to go home, but that fucking bitch wouldn't let me leave. I whined, "But I'm only here because I want to be." No point, I was locked into that bullshit for another decade.

For the first half of the year, we still had school prayer, but corporal punishment followed me until junior high. We'd start every morning with heads bowed and eyes closed while Teach did a "Dear Lord, something-something-something or another... Amen." Then we'd get to work. Teach would try to teach, while I'd create assorted nuisance-distractions until she got fed up enough to ship me off to see the principal. If my violation was particularly egregious, I'd get a paddling.

While the other kids were struggling with ABCs, I could already read, thanks to my goal of learning to spell cuss words a year earlier. The learning process began with "bitch," from Ma's Miles Davis album Bitches Brew. Then I backward engineered duck, ship, and so on.

One day, Teach wrote September 29, 1970 at the top right hand corner of the chalkboard. With no idea what it meant, that night I hit up my go-to source, Ma. She told me, "It's today's date," and that I should have asked my teacher. Ma was not yet aware that Teach and I weren't on the best of terms.

Ma had a FWB, Larry, a cool brother with a neat Afro. He hung out a lot, drinking beer, smoking grass, and having breakfast. That Christmas, Larry gave me the Jackson 5's Third Album. I listened to "Going Back to Indiana" on my all-in-one turntable until the record grooves wore out; but the groove remains. Owning an LP record made me realize that the bands weren't locked within my radio, waiting patiently for me to flick a switch so they could play tunes. I began trekking to a record shop on Jefferson Boulevard to buy singles, which we called 45s because those little two-song vinyl records, with a half-dollar-sized hole in the middle, spun at 45 rpm.

One day while seeking funding for yet another 45, Ma pointed out that 1580 KDAY was free, and she was broke. I loved that station, but needed my hot wax fix. Being five, I was cash poor, so I thought to myself, "Time to get financially independent." I was one of those kids who'd run an errand for a quarter, plus Ma gave me a buck a week as walking-around money. So after several weeks of cutting back on my Chic-O-Stick habit, running to the market for neighbors, and hoarding part of my allowance, I eventually gathered up five bucks. All my change and ones went down to the corner market, where I converted those holdings into a crisp five-dollar bill. When I proudly snapped that fiver in Joe's face, he was momentarily speechless. But then he accused me of taking it from Ma's purse. For comparison, in those days, a gallon of gasoline was less than forty cents. So my bankroll was fat for a wee lad. From that day forward, there was rarely a time when I didn't have at least a couple of bucks in my pocket, and I could always buy any new single that caught my ear.

When I saw a magazine ad for an amazing new contraption, a pocket calculator for only eighty-five dollars, I became determined to get one of those cutting-edge devices and went on a mission to grow my bankroll. Upon hearing my goal, Ma smiled and said, "By the time you save that much, those things will be ten dollars." Wonder if Ma ever got tired of being right.

In my youth, they didn't pump boys full of speed to calm them down, so eventually ol' Teach grew tired of my shit. Her only recourse was to kick me out of her class and into a combination kindergarten/first grade class. The first couple of weeks, I kept myself busy learning multiplication tables up to 12x12. It all got started with my fascination of 9x9 = 81 – not ninety-nine like made sense – and then 8+1 = 9 and other weird 9-sums. After I nailed the number stuff, there was nothing left to do in class except crack jokes, interrupt, and show off for girls. Instead of dealing with my bull, the teacher would send me to the library, where I'd read bios of U.S. presidents and mystery novels. They'd even let me take them home, so I tore through tons of books.

Getting kicked out of kindergarten meant recess on the big kids' playground. A five-year-old can learn a lot from a third grader, some of it quite disturbing. Like right before the holidays, when I was mocked after telling older kids all the stuff I wished Santa would bring. The tone and phrasing of the question "You still believe in Santa Claus, little baby?" made me realize that once again I had been duped by grownups.

One of the most fun and frequent afterschool activities was "FIGHT, FIGHT!" A second grader, Leroy, occasionally kicked my ass, but always took my milk money. After I gave his little brother a smack down, the next time we crossed paths, I told him, "Look, Leroy, every time you hit me or take my milk money, I'm going to beat up your little brother." Leroy liked his brother more than hitting me, so he reluctantly agreed. A kid of his word, we never had beef after that. They used to tell us kids, "Sticks and stones may break bones, but names never hurt." Great advice – a stick is the way to go.

About a month after Christmas vacation, I awoke in the middle of the night, puzzled and terrified. Then, while stumbling groggily toward the safety of Ma's room, the walls in the hallway began crashing into me. In reality, it was the Sylmar earthquake tossing me left and right. The newspaper accounts of the widespread devastation were reinforced by horrific images of fallen freeways and a collapsed retirement home in Sylmar where a few geezers didn't grow even a day older. Closer to our house, some red brick buildings at my school received enough damage that they were condemned. My classroom got moved into a bungalow, and our library was put out of commission, which sucked. My first earthquake down, bring on the next.

Right next door lived teenaged thug, Drew. Not too long after his family moved in, for some unknown reason, his mother kicked the living shit out of Ma. Joe and I sat out front of our house, powerless and terrified, watching that jumbo woman grabbing our mother by the hair to repeatedly bash her head into the blood-splattered curb.

As time passed, it was forgotten by them. When they went away for a summer vacation, one of the daughters asked me to call the police if I saw anything suspicious. They weren't even gone an hour when Joe and I were inside their house, knocking holes in walls, smashing anything made of glass, and destroying scores of their prized possessions. Before leaving, we completed our un-handiwork by stopping up the drains and turning some faucets on full force.

For several days, as we played in our front yard, we'd chuckle while watching water stream from under their front door down toward the gutter. Then, in the dark of night, Ma woke us and spirited us away to her friend's house. We returned home a day later with the well-rehearsed story about being at camp for more than a week. It is entirely possible to piss a mother off and make her happy at the same time.

*

It wasn't long before we moved away to a house two blocks from the apartment we lived in upon landing in La La Land. Just in time to start first grade at Wilshire Crest Elementary. Joe was kind enough to let my newest schoolmates know to call me Rat-Shit or Ratchet-Wrench, as my old mates had. Plus, he came up with a new one: "Rancid-Russian-Ratchet-Wrench." A bit wordy and made no sense, so I laughed along with the kids trying to hurl it as an insult.

To start the school day, our teacher would have us each read aloud a paragraph at a time. A few of the kid's agonizingly slow pace motivated zero-patience me to try speeding things up by volunteering to finish their passage. In those days, knowing nothing had not yet become cool, so while the kids made an attempt to learn and get better at reading, I kept stepping on their process. It wasn't too long before my teacher implemented a plan so we wouldn't butt heads as much. She'd let me sit in the back and read to myself, and I let her teach. This was a great strategy, and I didn't hate school as much during first grade.

I had a habit, throughout my illustrious school career; when the year began, I would immediately read all my new books. After a few weeks, there was nothing left for me to do except crack jokes, butt in, or talk to girls. I did well on tests and answered stuff in class, but because I was unwilling to be controlled and learned shit way faster than they could deal with, my grades suffered.

Ma usually headed off to work about an hour before we left for school, leaving Joe and me to make our own breakfast. One day, after shaking out a little bit from every little bottle by the stove, I learned that bacon doesn't need any extra spices. And if you're going to reach into the pan to get a piece, better do it quick. But I mostly stuck to toast with tons of butter. One night, after much whining and begging from me, Ma finally let me wash dishes. I did such an outstanding job that I got to wash dishes every other day, but got over the excitement pretty quickly.

When the great Louis Armstrong passed away, there were several days of tribute and biographical stories aired on radio and television. I became fascinated with the man and his music, and decided that I was to be a trumpet player. That Christmas, Santa-Ma bought me a trumpet from The Akron, a discount store that went belly-up many years ago. I was overjoyed to be on the road to making sweet jazz music, just like Satchmo. Right out of the gate, I made such the sweet racket with my shiny brass horn that everyone encouraged me to play "Somewhere far from here."

Sadly, after learning only a few loud and obnoxious trumpet licks, my low-budget instrument fell to pieces. Over the next few years, it made repeated repair shop trips to fix bad solders or whatever, where it remained for months on end. I'd get it back and spend about a week blowing my own horn, but it stubbornly refused to stay in one piece. Wait, I think I just realized something.

I loved that funkin' song "Troglodyte," but nowadays I hardly ever hear it, unlike that bouncy tune "Little Willy," which I still rock out to all the time and think of my dog Willy, who died young. We went to all the cool music-movies, like that bad motherfucker, Shaft. My favorite was Super Fly, but the sequel, Super Fly T.N.T., sucked. "Tain't nuthin' to it." Weak! Over the years, the lyrics to Jesus Christ Superstar taught me most of what I know about the New Testament. That shit helps a lot on Jeopardy. Even though sequels are seldom equal, I wish they'd make Jesus Christ Superstar II: Resurrection. "Jesus is back, and he's got a gun!"

*

For second grade, we moved away from ghetto-adjacent to live amongst the chosen people of the Fairfax District. Our house sat a block away from Fairfax High School, and right around the corner from one of my all-time favorite restaurants – and cookie-filled bakery – Canter's Delicatessen. With its old-world charm, the Fairfax District was a fun and interesting neighborhood to explore. Once I found the closest record store, amongst the meat markets, fruit stands, and newsstands, I ventured a little bit farther to a toy store at the "Farmer's Market," right next to what is now "The Grove," in search of a steady View-Master Disc supply.

I attended Laurel Elementary and actually liked my teacher, Mrs. Butwinick. So much so, I rarely made fun of her name. I disliked my classmate, Mike, because he interrupted while I was trying to interrupt. But after Joe became friends with his brother, Rob, Mike and me also became best friends. If we weren't out wreaking havoc at neighborhood shops, the four of us would go roof jumping across garages all the way up the block. Some of the gaps were pretty gnarly, but we weren't pussies yet. Next to one garage was a plum tree, and when the fruit ripened, we spent pleasant hours basking in the sun, getting our fill of sweet, delicious, free plums.

One day, while at a store, cashless and jonesing for chocolate, Mike taught me a trick I had never thought of. If you put an item you want in your pocket, or wherever it fit, and walked out of the store, you didn't have to pay. Oh yeah, got to make sure no one was looking. I took that five-finger-discount strategy to heart. For the next twenty years, I not only got free candy, but anything else I wanted, even if it was nailed down.

At an arcade located on the grounds of a flea market next to CBS Television City, I became obsessed with pinball when it was still three games for a quarter and five balls per game. One day, while passing though the bazaar on a quest to rid myself of quarters, I happened upon a guy selling electronics and scored the coolest thing ever, a tiny AM radio just tall enough to fit two AA batteries, no speaker, and it switched on automatically when an earphone plugged into the jack. I set it to 1580 and killed hundreds of free batteries listening to Stevie, Gladys, Marvin, and Diana while my crazy flipper fingers played some of the meanest pinball ever.

I spent hours reading magazines at a nearby newsstand and soon discovered Mad Magazine was worth paying for. In one memorable issue, there was a magic trick that I wanted to learn: turning one nickel into two. I dutifully followed the instructions by placing a nickel in a piece of paper and then folding it several times. The instructions said, "On the last fold of paper, fold the nickel in half and present it between your thumb and forefinger. It will appear to be two nickels." I must've tried to fold that fucking nickel twenty or more times. Damn you, Mad Magazine!

Ma had supported McGovern for president. She'd gather with friends and, while smoking many joints, they'd talk shit about Nixon, Vietnam, and how different it would be when they ran the show. On election night, 1972, they all sat bleary-eyed-astonished that McGovern had lost by a landslide. They didn't know a soul who voted for Nixon. So when the Watergate scandal broke, it made Ma and her friends very happy. I watched some of the hearings on TV, but mostly followed in newspapers and magazines. It wasn't until years later, after reading All the President's Men, that I understood all the shit Tricky Dick pulled.

For me, the coolest thing that happened in second grade – Ma bought a 1966 Plymouth Barracuda Formula S, a badass four-on-the-floor big-American V8. She added a racing stripe that made "Maude" stand out from all the other cars. After gasoline shot above fifty cents a gallon, Ma was bummed because she could no longer fill up for five bucks. I never got a chance to drive Maude, because after she broke down, Ma started riding a motorcycle. Maude got junked in 1978, a time when soaring gas prices meant lots of nine-mile-a-gallon muscle cars were crushed.

*

Summer's arrival meant moving time. We ended up in Gardena, a mixed neighborhood with lots of brothers and sisters, but the remaining third of the population was a melting pot. After the Fairfax District, it felt right to be back with my people. I rocked long hair, but had yet to Afro my coif. It was a bitchin' house on a tree-lined street that ended in a cul-de-sac alongside the very busy El Segundo Boulevard. The place had a huge backyard, plus I got my own bedroom, and there was a two-car garage in the backyard with a basketball hoop above the door. Nearby, I saw my first convenience store, a Circle K. To the south was a casino that I found intriguing, but rarely ventured that far. We'd sometimes drive past Ascot Park on the 110 Freeway, but I didn't get to see a live demolition derby there for another decade.

For third grade, 135th Street Elementary was the place to be. It was quite a ways away, so I had to hurry home if I wanted to catch Speed Racer and Kimba the White Lion on UHF channel 52. Ma and Joe liked a show I called "Star Track," but I'd find something else to do while they hogged the TV for that dribble. On weekends, we'd often hit the drive-in movies and one of us would hide under a blanket to get in free. At the drive-in for Alice in Wonderland, Ma gave us a few hits of pot. I can't remember if that was the first time I smoked weed.

Ma bought herself an awesome Harman Kardon quadraphonic hi-fi system, plus the quadraphonic-mix LP of Jesus Christ Superstar, and would sing along about not knowing how to love Him. I wasn't allowed to touch her toy, but on my AM radio I'd jam out, "Papa Was a Rollin' Stone," "Float On," "Be Thankful for What You Got," "Cowboys to Girls," and "My Eyes Adored You." The Jackson 5 were still my favorite, and when "Dancing Machine" came on, I'd bust moves that so impressed my grade school homies they'd request for me to "dance like M.J."

When we first arrived, the kids next door spoke in hushed tones of the older ladies across the street being "lesbians." I had no idea what that meant, or the sheer loveliness of the lifestyle, and thought they were called lesbians because they drank beer through a straw. We were pretty good play friends with those kids, until we started getting them into trouble. They were Catholics, with strong family values, and their folks didn't cotton to this little eight-year-old white boy running naked past their cute 'n' sweet ten-year-old daughter, Rose. It wasn't anything perverted. Being the 70s, streaking was all the rage, plus I always chose dare over truth. So around the block nude it was. When I got back home, the other kids thought it was hilarious having Rose waiting in our driveway. You should have seen the look on her face when she got a gander at my wang.

Ma's friend gave me a broken-down mono-shock bike. I don't know if it was someone's tweak project or a factory-made deal that didn't sell because it weighed more than a battleship. I dug its uniqueness and set forth procuring parts, then wrenched away until it ran like a top. My third-grade reasoning convinced me the shock absorber begged to go big, well before that was a saying. Luckily, I was already at home. I built a ramp on the sidewalk out front, its launch point mere inches from our neighbor's Ford LTD. At least a dozen kids watched as I took the required Evel Knievel, pump-up-the-crowd warmup laps, doing wheelies and various stunts. Then clueless-fearless me started from a good distance to build up a head of steam and barreled toward the ramp. Up, up and nope, that heavy-ass steel bike refused to get any lift and I sunk off the end like a bowling ball in a swimming pool. But God's grace allowed the car trunk to break my fall. Lesson learned: Don't block the sidewalk with your car, because some kid's head might dent your trunk-lid.

Ma's pot-smoking buddy ran a group home in Compton. Apparently we weren't enough of a challenge, because she decided to foster one of those kids. Bo was fifteen, and a good-looking brother that all the young ladies at Gardena High School dug. He was like the big brother I always wanted, tough and fair. We became fast friends and would hang out for hours in his room, talking about stuff and airing grievances of the cruel, unfair world while he smoked five joints at a time through a gas mask repurposed and tinkered to accommodate efficient THC gassing. I tried it a few times, but he mostly did the pot smoking.

Bo toughened me up in a lot of ways, like the day we played catch in the backyard and he hollered, "No matter what, always catch the ball," then fired the football as hard as he could toward my head. It bounced off my face into my waiting hands. I smiled and ignored the pain, and felt proud whenever Bo bragged to his friends about me making that catch.

Summer came and we didn't move. Wow, weird, right? What do kids do when not packing up the house after school lets out? Go to the public pool, where for a quarter we could cool off for hours. On the way home from swimming, we'd raid a little market owned by Koreans, so wary of the swarms of kids invading their store that they built a barricade and a maze. We had to navigate a narrow passage past watchful eyes to get to the candy, chips, and sodas, but defeated the system pretty quickly. While they kept a watchful eye on the kids with much deeper tans, I'd be inside tossing treats over the barricade to my friends waiting in a blind spot by the front door.

With our huge garage and unfettered access to all the free bike parts a pint-sized klepto could ever need, I had become quite the skilled bike mechanic. So when Bo decided to trick out his ten-speed by hooking up an 8-track tape player with speakers, I provided many needed parts to make his bike rock while he rolled. It took loads of power to rock an Ohio Players' Honey tape on the eight-mile ride to his old neighborhood in search of babes ready to "Fopp." After a few weeks, there were bunches of those blinking-light, folding road signs – sans six-volt batteries – piled up behind our garage.

Bo got kicked to the curb when Ma found out, from Joe, about me stealing six-volt batteries from street signs. Ma claimed, "I hate to give up on Bo, but I can't have him making my son steal stuff."

Losing a close friend and trusted confidant can get a kid down in the dumps. I missed Bo a lot and thought it so unfair of Ma to send my best friend away. The time Bo and I spent together was short, yet full of life lessons and happy memories. To this day, I still occasionally wonder how his journey unfolded, and hope it was all for the best. After Bo moved on, I became a model citizen, a straight A student, and ended up attending an Ivy League...psych. The truth is, with Bo around I mostly stayed out of trouble, or just didn't get caught. But afterward, Joe and I got into tons of trouble doing completely idiotic stuff.

Fourth grade was the first time I started at the same school two years in a row. A few months after school began, instead of going to class, Joe and me snuck onto the school's roof. Because it fit our criteria of seeming like a fun thing to do, we began hurling stuff at passing cars: rocks, pieces of the aerial antennae, or whatever was at hand. After half an hour of chucking debris at motorists, we saw Ma's Barracuda, Maude, turning the corner and concluded that it was time to head to the principal's office. I remain baffled to this day that the school let us toss stuff at cars whilst they waited for Ma to arrive, and that we were only suspended two days for that shit.

The next day, Pops drove up to deliver a stern talk about the importance of behaving. Before leaving, he made us promise to be good. My word wasn't my bond yet, so right after Pops hit the road, Joe and I decided that we should run away. There was a huge box truck parked a block away from our house. All the local kids knew about them leaving the keys in it, making it the product of unfulfilled dares and grade-school joyride fantasies. The time had come to act on impulse and free ourselves from oppressive parents' silly rules.

Joe sat in the driver's seat, with me at his side working the gears. We lurched forward and then ignored a stop sign to make a left. After tooling along for two blocks, while making a right, Joe turned a wee bit early and jumped the curb to send the truck rumbling across a front lawn with each of us frantically using both feet trying to halt that lumbering house crusher. We managed to stop about five feet short of a horrified lady watching through her window. I wrestled the shifter into reverse and we began inching backward. But panicky me mashed Joe's foot into the accelerator to hurry us up, and the truck plowed over the stop sign on the opposite corner.

The lady from the window stepped outside and yelled repeatedly, "I know you kids! I know you..." So I just sat on the curb and waited for the cops. After the fuzz arrived, he seemed more amused than angry as he drove us to the station for a catch and release to Ma.

The very next day, after burglarizing loads of toys from the house across our back fence, the same cop pulled up as we played in our front yard with a stolen giant-eagle-shaped foam glider. He rolled down his window and with a friendly smile said, "I knew it was you two." There were no cuffs or nothing, we just hopped into the back of the patrol car and set off toward the Gardena Police Station.

We took the next day off, but got back at our spaz-spree on the fourth day. Joe and me were headed toward school, but became sidetracked by the siren song of the ice cream man's garage. In a back alley behind an apartment building, I spent several minutes trying to jimmy the door with a Popsicle stick. Because I was nine and didn't yet carry a credit card, it was taking forever. Before the desired ice cream mother lode, we got swarmed by L.A.P.D. officers with guns drawn. A trip across Vermont Boulevard had put us in the hands of the far less accommodating Los Angeles fuzz.

I cried out, "We live here!"

The cop with a shotgun trained on me bellowed, "What's the address?"

Oops. I changed my tune to another lie, "We were trying to get away from a stray dog."

After being arrested three times in four days, it was decided that Joe and I would move in with Pops when school let out for summer. Not wanting to lose the freedom of Ma's, and in hopes of a reprieve, we both went on good behavior.

But we boys were still at each other's throats most of the time. One day, mid-squabble, Joe ran into his room and I threw a rock at his backside, then fled the scene. I returned home hours later to find out that a thrown rock can cut a twelve inch gash in a waterbed. Seeing as the improbable was entirely my fault, Ma called Pops and demanded that he come fetch me. Early the next morning, Pops and me rode smoothly south on the 405 Freeway in a 1973 Oldsmobile Delta 88 Royale, listening to Gary Owens on AM radio. Destination: Costa Mesa.

2

We rented a place at "Our Town Apartments." The mega complex, billed as "A Place for Kids and Their Families," sat right across the street from Orange Coast College. It sported a community center with pool tables, swimming pool, BBQs, and a "Teen Center." Pops had Mondays off, and we'd play pool or go see movies like Blazing Saddles, The Prisoner of Second Avenue, or The Man with the Golden Gun. Even though Jaws played for more than two years at the nearest cinema, we never saw it.

Pops was the assistant manager at a spectacular Italian restaurant, Matteo's, in Corona Del Mar. He got his start in the food service game fresh off the boat, and was a world-class cook who made me anything to order. Say I wanted pork chops, with eggs over medium, and sourdough toast for breakfast, or veal piccata and handmade ravioli for dinner, I asked and received. And it was perfect. I especially dug Lebanese food. Whenever I put in a request, he'd hit the Middle Eastern market and make a heap of that stuff so I could chow down on piles of crispy falafel and the hidden healthiness of hummus, then wash it all back with eight pieces of baklava.

When it came to politics and lifestyle, Pops was the opposite of Ma. He hated weed as much as she hated alcohol, and would give me an occasional sip of beer to counter the occasional hits-o-weed Ma had shared. Pops loved America as it was, and often said, "There are some screwed up things in this country, but it's far better than anywhere else in the world." Ma and her friends would never admit they disliked the U.S.A., they'd just cite so many flaws in need of addressing that it seemed to be an endless list of grievances. Through their own worldviews, Ma and Pops could agree the Vietnam War was a complete fiasco, but the fall of Saigon made me realize that there is something far worse than war; losing a war.

Pops never displayed a Lebanese flag. Though at times he'd sit around with his Lebanese buddies, speaking a language that sounded like they were getting ready to hock loogies on each other, and every so often one of his towel-head buddies would suggest, "Let's start a Little Lebanon." He'd summarily dismiss the suggestion and remind them there was a big Lebanon they could go to.

The closest school was Kellybrook Elementary. But it was far enough away that I rode a big yellow bus – in reality, a rolling can full of loud and obnoxious brats. After school, we'd get dropped off in front of the apartments and settle scores. Within days of moving there, I had lost fights on consecutive days to a kid named Chris. So I became friends with him and his buddy Mark. Except for those few rounds with Chris, I didn't box much, unlike in L.A., where fights occurred several times a week.

I was still in fourth grade, and back on my school-a-year pace. Mrs. Fleisher had to be my all-time prettiest teacher. Me likey a lot, especially when my off-colored innuendos made her blush. I had a mad crush on a lil' cutie pie classmate, Tina. Her long, jet black hair, mocha skin, and dark, almond-shaped eyes drove me wild. So I desperately tried to make her like me by being a constant pest. I excelled at pestering, and that's probably why it took a month to realize she lived right downstairs from us. But her dad's evil eye told me that I should not come knocking.

A few months passed with me staying out of trouble, until the day I got busted liberating a few bucks' worth of change from Pops' five-gallon water bottle. During my punishment, he realized the spanking of my butt wasn't fazing me. He then regained my undivided attention with a discipline technique his dear old dad had employed, spanking the bottom of my bare feet with a leather belt. It hurt like a motherfucker, Pops. That whoopin' spoke loud and clear. "I'll hurt you if you keep fucking around!" My big takeaway was to make every effort to avoid getting caught during future misdeeds.

Pops wanted me under constant supervision, so he hired a sweet and pretty babysitter, Pam, who lived across the complex. Having to keep everyone informed of my comings and goings, and the confinement within our complex's geographical boundaries, took getting used to. At least the place was huge and swarming with kids. It seemed as though there was always some sort of adventure to enjoy. We'd have the occasional BB gun fights, or "borrow" little kids' Big Wheels for demolition chariot races. I loved shredding the street course that was our complex, and acquired a lifelong love of sidewalk surfing.

Even though it was far outside my boundary, a few of us went to the flat track – "brakes make mistakes" – motorcycle races at the Orange County Fairgrounds. That speedway shit was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I loved it from the moment they burst from the starting gates, all through them sliding sideways, kicking up dirt chunks while drifting inches apart through the corners. The occasional stacking into the wall feet from us was merely icing on the cake. Those sights, sounds, and the smell of burning race fuel drew me to the speedway whenever I could sneak away.

I had yet to realize that not smoking was far cooler, so I'd hang out with the older kids at the Teen Center, playing pool and smoking cigarettes. One day, I volunteered to get smokes from a gas station vending machine, outside Pops' stated boundary, and figured it'd be a quick shot over there on my bike. Who'd know? After trying to beat a yellow light, where a hurried driver's rabbit-start knocked me off my bike, I slid across the asphalt into the intersection and said, "Shit," and thought, "I'm going to be in so much trouble."

I sprang to my feet, grabbed my bike, and assured the concerned driver that I was fine. Despite the road rash and blood trickles, he seemed more than willing to take my word for it. I got them smokes and headed back to my teen friends, and told Pops I wiped out on my skateboard.

My buddy Chris pinched some weed from his dad, but we didn't know how to roll a joint. After settling on empting out a cigarette and stuffing the herb into the hollow paper, we got a slight buzz then went to Mark's apartment and listened to the Doobie Brothers' "Black Water." One of us had heard about a certain girl who gave some boy a "blow job." It's nothing like the word combination suggests, so no one could figure out what the fuck it meant. When we asked Mark's brother, he seemed shocked by our inquiry and declined explaining. If we would have had internet and saw pictures, we might have climbed over one another to buy that girl an ice cream cone.

During Christmas vacation, Pam invited me along to Big Bear for some snow skiing. I had never skied, but her son Mike was great and gave me several helpful pointers. It required recklessness and speed, so I picked it up quickly. I got so good that on the third day I was able to break my leg into a spiral fracture starting about an inch above my left ankle. I spent eight hours – leg splinted and stretched out behind the backseat of a 1970 Ford Bronco – stuck in New Year's Day traffic, descending the mountain.

After arriving at Children's Hospital of Orange County, the doctor wanted to give me a shot at the site of the fracture. I refused and requested that he get on with it. He probably thought he was calling my bluff, and seemed quite surprised when I didn't make a peep as the bone-crunching realignment was underway. When Pops learned they set the bone without a pain shot, he bragged to his friends about my toughness. The truth is, I was too pussy to get that shot. The whole broken-leg thing ruined a lot of shit for me. Afterward, Pops became determined – through sheer will and denying me anything he perceived as a dangerous activity – to prevent me from further harm.

One spring morning, Pops sat me down to tell of the vasectomy he would soon receive. After explaining what the fuck a vasectomy was, he said, "When you already have the perfect son, you don't need to have any more children." I would have called bullshit, but they didn't have that phrase way back then. Plus, there was a strong possibility that he was being truthful.

Living with Pops, just him and me, was the best half year of my childhood. But Pops often claimed, "Brothers should be together," so it all went to shit that summer when Joe moved in with us. Not that I didn't love and miss my brother; I'd love to have missed him way more – unless I was target shooting. Joe and I picked up right where we left off in the dysfunctional department, and there was blood to prove it.

*

We moved across town, into a house two miles from the Newport Pier. The new digs were as cool as the Pacific breezes that kept our summer perfect. Next door, the Montessori school's rooster would piss Pops off every morning, about three hours after he went to sleep. Across the street, the empty lot had a big palm tree that birds would scatter from when hit by a pellet. Or so I've been told. Across our back fence lived an old guy, and when vandals egged his sweet 66 Chevelle, Grandpa Frank came over and bitched at Pops about his two little delinquents. After our fervent denials were believed, Pops and Frank became lifelong drinking and fishing buddies.

Another grade, another school, and for fifth grade I attended Newport Heights. My teacher, Mrs. Kroeger, was a no-nonsense woman, yet I offered nonsense daily. Unwilling to change her ways, she stuck to teaching those wanting to learn, and often sent me to hang out with the principal. She never held a grudge, and remained pleasant upon my return. I was shipped to the principal so often, the powers that be eventually decided to try a new approach. We held a big pow-wow, Pops, Mrs. Kroeger, Principal, and me, where they came up with a brilliant plan, dubbed, "systematic exclusion." If I got sent to the principal, I would be suspended immediately. No ifs, ands, or buts.

A few days later, I got exiled to the principal's office for some minor shit – petty arson as I recall (kidding). Next thing I knew, they were typing up suspension papers and calling on Pops to come fetch me. Getting suspended from school whilst living with Pops wasn't the kickback, cartoon-watching, "day off from school" scenario it represented while living with Ma. It was so harsh that I only got suspended two more times during the school year's remaining months.

It wasn't all bad; I actually dug the school. There was a brilliant kid, Alexander, who became my best friend. He loved The Beatles, and we'd spend endless hours playing tennis-racket air guitar while singing with Fab Four attitudes, "Yeah yeah yeah." I was surprised to learn that The Beatles broke up about five years earlier. Before that tidbit, all I knew was they were one of the bands Ma listened to when not listening to the ultra-boring Peter, Paul and Mary. For a while I listened to a lot of Beatles, but now I think they're overrated.

Pops quit the sweet gig at Matteo's Restaurant, with its rich and famous clientele, to strike out on his own at the Marquis Restaurant, on Newport Boulevard about three blocks from our house. Just about every day, Joe and I rode our bikes over there to grab a bite, drink all the free soda we wanted, and play the genesis of video games, Pong, on one of those tabletop models.

In search of equal pay for equal work, Ma quit the insurance business to be a night-shift hack at Red and White Taxi. She took a walk on the wild side and began dating a cool, Harley-riding fellow cabbie, Harold. No more Gardena, she relocated to a bachelor apartment right next to the Hollywood Bowl, one of those old-school courtyard apartment complexes that at one time littered Hollywood. Not wanting to blow it with Harold by having Joe and me visit together, separate visits were also part of the new plan.

The restaurant business provides a steady stream of liquored-up ladies for the non-discerning dick. Pops had so many notches on his headboard that he was well on his way to whittling it down to a toothpick. One Saturday morning, while Joe was away, I went into Pops' room and discovered him snuggled up with the latest of his thousand conquests. Big-tittied, blond Jonelle, fresh off the boat from Seattle, was the singer-keyboard player for the lounge act "Full Sail." The band was huge on the Red Onion circuit, or at least the one by the airport. She had dropped by the Marquis to visit a friend, leader of the restaurant's house band, sat in, did a couple of top-forty tunes, and then later did Pops. That particular morning, he was in a great mood and asked, "You ready for Knott's Berry Farm?"

That was Pops' default – meet my kids – destination to hang with babes who had passed the first audition. We had a fun day of fried chicken, Independence Hall, rides, and pennies flattened on railroad tracks. Jonelle was full of positive energy, sweet, fun, and pretty. We got along great, and her and Pops couldn't keep their hands off of each other, or tongues in their own mouths. Within two months, Pops and Jonelle took a quickie trip to Fabulous Las Vegas and returned as man and wife.

For Christmas, Ma bought me and Joe Britannia jean jackets. They had flamboyant flair with awesome, wide 70s lapels, and across the back shoulders she decorated them with rhinestones. JOE fit neatly on his, but RACHED was too much, so we went with my initials. It wasn't my plan to get a nickname, but when you're rocking a sweet jean jacket with a glittering R.A.Z. emblazoned across the back, folks automatically start calling out, "Hey, Raz."

*

Soon after 1976 began, Joe moved back with Ma, which made Ma and Jonelle almost as happy as me. Because Jonelle dug King Tut and pyramids, she and Pops baked me an eleven-layer pyramid cake for my eleventh birthday. Pops also gave me a sweet Remington .22 rifle, and every few weeks we'd hit an outdoor target range or the Salton Sea to shoot up the nearby desert. I had gun safety ingrained in my brain, and knew right away not to fuck around with weapons. It was made crystal clear to me that if I ever went into Pops' closet and even looked at the guns, he would knock me around. Plus, I'd never get to go to the range again.

Despite being a hundred-eighty degrees oppressive from the freedom at Ma's, Pops was cool in many ways, especially after Jonelle loosened him up. She was a musician and a music lover, and we'd tool around in her Opel GT, a sporty little two-seater that looked like a shrunken Corvette, and sing along with "At the Copa," "Philadelphia Freedom," "Junk Food Junkie," or a hundred other tunes squawking out of the AM speaker.

Shortly after hearing Benny and the Jets on the radio, I hurried out to purchase my first rock record, Elton John's Greatest Hits. I immediately realized that piano was the instrument for me, so I had Jonelle convince Pops to rent one from Coast Music, and my old, shoddy trumpet got exiled to its case in the back of the garage. But it sucked ass big time getting lessons. I needed to "Crocodile Rock," but was stuck with a never-ending repetition of scales. After a few dozen lessons, I could barely plink out a shaky, passionless version of something closely resembling "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head." Plus, if I didn't practice every frickin' day for at least an hour, Pops busted my balls about me being "unserious." To get him off my back, I told him, "I hate playing piano... send it back."

In 1976, a first-class postage stamp cost thirteen cents and had the Liberty Bell on it, along with "Proclaim Liberty Throughout All the Land." More importantly, being two hundred years since declaring independence from Britain, Americans celebrated our nation's bicentennial. Everyone felt very proud of our country and we all went apeshit with patriotism. At school, we studied the Revolutionary War and our Founding Fathers. Disneyland, still a patriotic American company, even let Orange County students into the "Happiest Place on Earth" for free, which led to some of the happiest parents on earth. In those days, them idiotic mouse-ear hats didn't cost eighty bucks, either. While super cute when worn by Japanese chicks in schoolgirl outfits, I still don't get it.

Later in the year, we studied slavery and the American Civil War – which wasn't very. I even memorized the Gettysburg Address. After a lesson on slavery, our teacher had me debate with another student, Brett. I argued the anti-slavery position. Figuring that with slavery's inherent evil and a few basic facts, my case was the most compelling and would sell itself, I didn't prepare even a lick. After I laid out my case, Brett presented a bunch of hooey about how slaves had it made, with no worries about rent, food, or unemployment. They got a sweet retirement, too. My rebuttal was weak, a scoff and snicker, while basically mocking his argument as bullshit. But Brett's careful preparation, structured argument, and personal popularity all combined with mid-70s, white-bread Costa Mesa to deliver a pro-slavery vote from my classmates.

The last Friday before summer vacation was "Crazy Day," when nearly everyone dressed up in costume. My friends, Alexander, Brett, Brian, and me went as The Beatles. Artsy-fartsy Jonelle helped us make cardboard cut-out guitars, with wooden supports for the necks and painted fronts. No need for wigs, because we were already rocking the shaggy locks. I made a cassette for my little red Panasonic portable, and we lip-synced and sang along with "Drive My Car," "Love Me Do," "Day Tripper," and "I Want To Hold Your Hand." We shook our heads "Woooooo" just like Paul and John did in the concert films Alexander had dragged me to. The schoolgirls played along by chasing us around campus while tearing at our clothes. God bless schoolgirls!

Once school let out, Joe came down for an extended stay. After a ten scuffles in four days, Pops devised a plan to solve our issues once and for all. He handcuffed us together. Believe it or not, handcuffing two people together does not create stronger bonds of lasting friendship. All I ever wanted was just to be left alone, but I was stuck and couldn't get away. Worst of all, my right hand was cuffed to his left. Advantage, Joe. He'd just yank me close then clock me. The whole handcuff thing, and ensuing hilarity, was the last straw. Soon after the shackling, Ma and Pops settled custody, with each getting their favorite.

The newlyweds were living a blissful existence and decided they must breed, so Pops got his vasectomy reversed and walked around bowlegged with a pained expression for a week. Life was good and I was happy. School was out, Joe was out of my hair, Pops was in love, and me and Jonelle got along great. I got me some roller skates and did tons of skating at Harbor Roller Rink, and spent lots of time at the beach. Happiness is overrated.

*

Two steps, a skip, and a jump into summer vacation, Pops' restaurateur dreams evaporated in a puff of overdue invoices. Before he mustered the will for a job hunt, Jonelle convinced workaholic Pops he needed a vacation. Not aware of the just-a-little-bit concept, they scored a brand-spanking-new Chevy Blazer, sold everything that wouldn't fit inside, and we headed north to Alaska. Besides, doesn't the end of a school year mean it's time to relocate?

That kick-ass truck got packed to the gills, with me crammed sideways behind the front seats. We didn't rock out much, because Pops was anti; mostly we just talked or listened to AM radio whilst motoring northward. We spent a few days with friends in Grants Pass, Oregon, then about a week in Seattle, Washington with Jonelle's folks. Thank goodness we left tons of stuff in Seattle, because it gave me room to stretch out. It took us a little longer than normal to cross into Canada, because Pops was still a Lebanese national and told the border guard about the semi-auto rifle onboard. The Mountie got a bit of giggle at the Marlin .22, and then we were on our way.

We camped, hiked, and fished, with the whole plan being there was no plan. If we liked a particular spot, we'd layover for a couple of days. British Columbia was beyond beautiful, plus, halfway up a mountain trail, I found forty bucks Canadian; lovely-ay. After an unreasonably cold night in the Yukon Territory, a fellow camper told us the night before had reached thirty below zero. Pops believed him, but I think he saw the Cali license plates and was fucking with us. On the way to Fairbanks, I tagged the Alaskan Pipeline "RAZ." But, as an ongoing construction project, it was painted over by the next day. We went to Denali State Park and scaled Mt McKinley. Actually, we just drove near it and camped out after the sun went down, around midnight. We followed the road to Anchorage, and then on to the astonishing Glacier Bay.

The O.G. plan was to round-trip the Alcan Highway, but we dilly-dallied so much that it was already going on September, a month and a half getting there and only ten days in Alaska. To save time and get me back for schoolin', we hopped aboard the ferry to Seattle. Then it was back to Grants Pass, where I enrolled in sixth grade. But the night before school began, plans changed and Lake Tahoe became the place to settle down. I had wanted to be a downhill racer since watching it on TV during the Winter Olympics in Innsbruck, Austria, so the moment I heard they taught skiing at school, I was sold on Tahoe.

One thing amazes me to this day. We managed to drive all the way to Alaska, fishing nearly every day, but never caught a single supper. By the time we got done traveling to the arctic and back, we all hated one other. I couldn't wait to enroll in school and take a break from the constant adult scrutiny and lack of music.

*

Sixth grade at Meyers Elementary began two weeks late for me, and about fifteen years before Jaycee Dugard attended. The school had an unusual layout and different vibe from any school I ever saw. Classrooms were wide open spaces. Mine was one where fourth, fifth, and sixth grade students learned together at one of six round tables. Up to eight of us sat together, making it far easier to clown around, built-in audience and all. I was the "new kid" for what seemed like forever. From day one, a big, mean girl on the school bus picked on me relentlessly. One day, as I stepped down from the bus near home, she yelled, "Tomorrow, I'm going to kick the new kid's ass!" As the bus pulled away, everyone hung out the windows to laugh and jeer.

I figured the next day would be the end of it, because after I beat her silly she'd leave me the fuck alone. When Jonelle asked me about my day, I told of the bully bitch and my plan to put her down.

A clearly disappointed Jonelle said to me, "A real man never hits a girl." Something about it not being a fair fight and a no-win situation.

Seemed reasonable, so the next day I informed my tormentor that "I don't fight girls."

Then she tried egging me on, but I Ghandied that lil' babe until I had her carrying my books. And even though I felt like it at times, I have never slapped a bitch up.

It was an election year, and that fall's race between President Gerald Ford and challenger Jimmy Carter was winding down. Ma had trained me to hate Ford, the evil, Republican, unelected crony of Nixon, so I was fervently pro Jimmy Carter. I even made some handwritten "Vote for Jimmy Carter" posters to paste up around school on Election Day. Our school was a polling place, and I believe I broke some electioneering laws. But no biggie, I was supporting a Democrat.

I managed to gain a little respect playing wide receiver/unstoppable pass-rusher for my lunchtime football league team. Between my catching every deep ball sent in my direction, barreling through the opponents' O-line, and sacking – well, two-hand touching – the QB, we muscled our way into the championship game. Down by five points when the lunch bell rang, and one play toward glory, our QB hurled a bomb toward me as I streaked from right to left across the back of the end zone. The perfectly thrown ball hit my outstretched palms but passed through my fingers and bounced away. Arrrrgggggg. That loss still bothers me far more than it should.

Our house was on Lake Tahoe Boulevard in California, about ten miles from Nevada, where Pops worked as a swing-shift bartender at Harrah's. It may sound like a major throughway, but it was a two-lane mountain road that saw little traffic. There was no fence around the property, just wide open space littered with tall pines, absolutely beautiful scenery with blue skies, and fresh air. Not old enough to smoke, drink, or gamble (around adults), there wasn't much for me to do except cause mayhem in the woods. I didn't have a bike, and they hadn't invented the "mountain bike" yet, or I would have scored one by hook or by crook and tore up those hills.

Compared to southern California, Tahoe was unbearably cold. So, at times, I'd open the fridge for warmth. By December, I had chopped enough firewood to stack seven feet high along the whole side of our house. Then we moved right next door, and I got to move all those fucking logs to the side of that house. At some point during our adventure to America's final frontier, Pops realized he wasn't as fond of Jonelle as he originally believed. A grand opportunity presented itself when she went home for the holidays, and at the boarding gate, she got presented with a one-way ticket.

The next week, I flew straight out of Tahoe aboard a big PSA Airlines L-188 Electra turboprop to visit Ma for Christmas. She had come up in life by scoring a bitchin' apartment, at a third of market rent, a block from Century City. After Ma left for work, Joe and me burned a fat joint and cranked Tommy on that beautiful Harman Kardon hi-fi.

When the New Year began, Ma enrolled me at Fairburn Elementary, which kind of gave away that Pops had found a brilliant way to simplify his life: one-way plane tickets. Despite all that fucking wood I had chopped, and not getting a chance to ski, I was happy to get away from the manipulative, power-hungry asshole that never missed an opportunity to demonstrate he wielded all power over my life. Plus, I would get to grow my hair out again.

The night after my first day of school, Pops showed up to Ma's. Jonelle threw a wrench in his freedom plan when she called and said, "I'm pregnant." Early the next morning, we drove south to pick her up from John Wayne Airport. At the time, it was named Orange County Airport because The Duke was still on the right side of the grass. We were once again a hapless family.

*

We stayed with friends, John and his sexy wife, Pam. John was the guitar player, singer, and leader of the cover band Full Sail, of which Jonelle had been a member for about a week. The group practiced at the house, in a room just off a kitchen overrun with mice. They had a midget drummer, Andy, who left his kit set up at all times. He agreed to give me drum lessons, but it never worked out due to me being a dick. Around that time, Randy Newman had a song, "Short People." Full Sail didn't do that song, mostly soft rock, Eagles, Boz Skaggs, George Benson. They were decent players, and John would ham it up and crack funny one-liners between songs.

Even though we were staying clear across Costa Mesa, I enrolled back at Newport Heights – my third school in one year and the start of a new trend. Because I didn't need to make new friends, it was like coming home. The Eagles released "New Kid in Town," which made me think about Tahoe and I felt like it fit my life. I quickly realized returning to Costa Mesa wasn't a passage back to the place I was before.

My newest teacher, Mr. Kelly, was ultra cool. Students had semi-private cubicles and no cookie-cutter, one-size-fits-all lesson plans. We studied at our own pace, without distraction. On Fridays, Mr. Kelly would let us bring records to play in class. Stuff like Steve Miller Band, Frampton, Boston, Kansas, and Styx seemed quite popular amongst my classmates. When a kid brought Led Zeppelin's Presence, "Achilles Last Stand" soured me on Zep for years.

Whenever we weren't being closely supervised on the playground, we played a game called "smear the queer." The object was whoever had the football would get tackled and then dog-piled upon. The school staff repeatedly ordered us to stop smearing queers, preferring we played touch football or dodgeball. Dodgeball was the most fun, because you could nail an opponent in the face with the volleyball, right in front of a teacher, and not get in a lick of trouble.

Pops wasn't digging his shitty life shacked up in a band house with a bunch of pot-smoking hippies. When he began lashing out at me, I decided to get the fuck out of there. One morning, I woke before dawn, snuck into the band room to help myself to a couple of twenties from their payroll cash, and then set out for Ma's. I wasn't even in L.A. an hour when Pops was on the phone threatening Ma that he'd alert the authorities if she kept me. By nightfall, I was aboard a southbound bus. On the ride back from the station, Pops told me that legally I couldn't choose parents until I was thirteen. I knew right then that in a year, it would be adios, Pops.

They missed Pops so much at Matteo's Restaurant that they begged him back, with a promotion to manager. Barely a month passed before he had enough to rent and furnish the back house of a duplex, a block over from the house we lived in before heading north to Alaska. We shared a garage with the cool carpenter dude living in the front house. Tom was twenty-two-ish, a skilled woodworker and generally handy-man. I spent lots of time in the garage, wrenching on stuff alongside Tom, and learned a great deal from him. There's no doubt that I'm a much wiser person for being around him during that period of my life. He taught me tons of stuff, while encouraging me to follow my mechanical instincts. More than once, he gave me the verbal pat on the back – "You're pretty smart to have figured that out."

Quite the opposite of Pops, who'd often belittle, saying stuff like, "If you told me everything you know, you'd run out of things to say in less than five minutes."

I became fond of treasure-hunt-trash-digging in the alleys behind our neighborhood's houses. One day, I recovered a broken-down lawnmower and rolled it back to our garage. With Tom's help, I was able to get it running and didn't have to use a damn push mower anymore to do our landscaping. When I noticed a neighbor who couldn't get his lawnmower started, I told him, "I'll mow your lawn for five bucks." He jumped on it, and gave me another five to mow the backyard. The next Saturday, I set out early with my mower and a can of gas to knock on any door whose lawn needed a cut. Easy money.

By the time school let out, Jonelle's belly was huge, and I was stoked to be getting a little sister or brother. I had become quite attached to her, even willingly calling her Mom. We'd sit around watching TV and cracking up at Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman and Fernwood Tonight. I felt that I could confide in Jonelle, until one day, Pops used something against me that I had shared with her in confidence. After that, she got absolutely no information from me, ever.

The seminal moment of my young life came soon after I received my very first slap-mag. Ma had gotten Joe a prescription to Playboy for his thirteenth birthday, and during a visit he gave me one to take home. A few nights later, while up in an article eyeballs deep, the first of my million DNA samples was produced. I had quite the jerk ethic, and after that night all I wanted to do was girls, or women. I often wondered if female teachers, girl classmates, friends' mothers, or mothers' friends realized how many loads were lost on their account. Without a girlfriend, it was like before the washing machine was invented: when all loads were done by hand.

*

Summer came and we didn't move. I took swimming lessons, with the long-term goal of becoming a lifeguard. I had watched Endless Summer at the Costa Mesa Theater so many times that I was gnarly stoked when Pops finally agreed to let me get surf lessons. I then began waking at the crack of dawn to ride my bike two miles to my surf spot and catch a few waves before the ocean closed to surfers.

I played baseball in a city league, and our coach, Mr. J, was super cool. I had diamond dreams of becoming a pro baseball player, and figured I was at least third best on the team. But probably not, because even if I was a far better hitter, fielder, or could throw harder, it would not have made up for my being slower than paint drying in the arctic. Still, I believed a World Series MVP beckoned, so mimicked Pete Rose's batting stance and had a bunch of Johnny Bench training merchandise. In the playoffs, during our first single elimination game, down by one in the final inning, I led off with a double. A ground out to the right side got me to third. Our next batter blistered a ball over the shortstop's head and I bolted toward home. Only problem, shortstop caught it and doubled me off of third. Game over!

Pops was making some decent coin, so he scored a 1957 Chevy hobby project. We'd wrench on that beautiful beast and it was cool hanging out. It had a cassette player, so I'd always have Jonelle drive in that car so we could rock out. There were times when Jonelle offered sage advice, like "The way a person behaves when no one is watching is who they really are." But another one that she stuck inside my brain was pure fiction: "Sleep doesn't accumulate," which meant if a person only slept one hour a night for five weeks, then got a full eight hours sleep, they're all caught up. Wrong – that's the kind of misinformation that leads to one nodding off behind the wheel and barreling into a bus full of blind-disabled-economically-disadvantaged-transgendered-minority youths.

I began believing that Jonelle was dumber than a box of remedial rocks, because some of the things she did, or ways she acted, made no sense. I figured that I just hadn't noticed before. In reality, being almost full term, hormones were fucking with her. By the 4th of July, she was a week past her due date and had attempted to induce a few times using various home remedies. A few nights later, we went to a Mexican restaurant, where Jonelle smoked some Marlboros, had a few margaritas, and ate loads of spicy food. The next morning, she complained of gnarly indigestion, but assured Pops that it wasn't time. Twenty minutes after he left for work, a waterfall cascaded forth from Jonelle's nether regions and she said, "My water just broke."

Three hours later, my little brother, Hassan, was born at Hoag Hospital. He was a cool kid, and we instantly got along. I dug hanging out with him, and babysat whenever Jonelle needed a break. I was like a twelve-year-old uncle, changing diapers, tossing him high into the air, and learning the stages of child development. Who knew those little fuckers couldn't even hold up their tiny heads for the first couple of months, or how much they loved beer and weed? It was a good summer, Pops was stoked about his baby boy, and Jonelle was an ecstatic mother.

My buddy Dan would lean over the crib to baby-talk quote Bugs Bunny, "Hassan chop." In his late teens, with a pained grimace, Hassan told me how much he hated hearing that shit throughout his school years. I laughed and told him he was only two days old the first time it was uttered in his direction. We both agreed that it beat the hell out of Rat-Shit.

I'd liberate two bucks in quarters from Pops' change jar a few times a week, then buy a six-pack of Miller High Life to wash down the roaches I stole from Jonelle. Back then, a kid need only stand in front of a convenience store for a few minutes to get someone to buy beer. I was beginning to rethink bolting to L.A. the day after I turned thirteen. School wasn't that bad, plus I was going to be in junior high with people I knew. I had also gotten kind of attached to the friends on my block. With the combination of getting older, keeping busy with parentally approved activity, and figuring out how to work Pops' system – wait till he went to work to seek adventure, don't tell Jonelle a thing – it allowed me far more freedom. For sure the biggest reason of all for my new attitude – it was really cool to have a baby brother.

I got a paper route, but it sucked. I had to collect my own accounts, and between getting stiffed and daily triple scoops of Thrifty's ice cream, I barely had twenty dollars in my pocket at the end of the month. I could have pulled in far more than that in a few hours cutting lawns. But I soldiered on as to not be a quitter. Then, on August sixteenth, as I sat in my front yard read-folding newspapers, near the bottom of the front page I saw an "Extra" with a Memphis Tennessee byline: "Elvis Presley Dead." To me, it was a sign. Within a minute, my stack of Daily Pilots was in the trashcan and I was inside listening to rock 'n' roll. A few hours later, my prick-hustler route manager came knocking on the door to scream about missing deliveries, so I pointed him toward the trash and said, "'The King' died," then slammed the door in his face.

*

After a fun, eventful summer, I was okay with school starting. It wasn't my first time attending class at Ensign Junior High, but academic seventh grade wasn't anything like summer school home economics, and far more challenging than expected. But I was down for the struggle presented by the new school structure, as well as thrilled by a vastly expanded girl pool to swim in. Probably the most unexpected change – never gave it a prior thought – was having to figure out the likes and dislikes of several different teachers, or basically what I could get away with. Plus, I never before had the displeasure of being under command of a gym teacher. In many instances, when the powerless are given even a hint of power, they will abuse it. Another big change was community showers, when suddenly the world could see what I was working with. Respect!

At some point during the prior summer, my bigmouthed friend Dan told Jonelle about the "Loadie-Circle" at Ensign, which he claimed was a group of kids who went out onto the field and sat in a circle to smoke pot. That way they could see teachers coming and stash incriminating evidence if authority approached. I figured it was bullshit, but he insisted. A few weeks after the school year began, she told Pops about it and he began researching private schools.

One morning, while the folks were away, I foolishly showed a friend how sweetly a 57 Chevy motor hummed. That night, one of our asshole neighbors dropped by to bitch at Pops about some unrelated bullshit, but as an added bonus he threw in being woken from his nap by me revving the car engine. Next thing I knew, my lip was spontaneously bleeding, right after Pops fucking hit me. I had provided the needed excuse for him to pull me out of that evil school with its phantom "Loadie-Circle."

I took my swollen lip and transferred to Newport Christian, a Christian school, because it was cheapest. The school taught seventh through twelfth grades, and its campus was a work in progress, with half the property a taped-off construction zone. There was a chapel for my twice-a-week bible study and mass on Wednesdays. For the son of a Muslim immigrant, who'd only been to church three times he could remember, it was quite a change to be memorizing "New Testament" verses as homework. One night, as I sat on my bed reading the Bible and making my cheat sheet, Pops walked in and looked a bit shocked. "What are you doing?" he asked.

I looked up from the scripture. "I'm doing my Bible lessons."

He scoffed, "Of all people, you're the last one I expected..."

I just stared ahead and kept my thoughts to myself: "Dude, you fucking sent me to a Christian school, and now I'm getting mocked for doing Bible lessons."

The school sat two miles away, across Newport Boulevard, with students from far and wide. Not even in middle school for a month, still adjusting, and then poof I've left my friends behind to tackle a far more challenging curriculum. The teachers and administrators there cut me absolutely no slack. If I missed turning in an assignment, they'd give me detention and mail a slip to the house. Pops went ballistic after receiving the first one. For the rest of the year, I was the good son who brought the mail in daily, and only two more of those notices made it past my screening. I shudder to think what would've transpired had Pops received the other twenty or more discipline notices.

Newport Christian schoolgirls were not allowed to wear pants, only dresses and skirts that fell below the knee. Which was a plus, because I found dresses far more visually appealing. One morning, my attention was drawn like metal to a magnet on a fine young lady ascending the stairs. I tried not to gawk, but I was getting a great up-skirt view and allowed myself an extended peek. Some kid ratted me out and I ended up in the principal's office, where he instituted a new no-standing-under-the-stairs policy. The principal also took notice of my Levi 501s, which were against the school's dress code. No one had said anything about my jeans for a month, but next thing I knew, I was corduroy boy. Which I later learned was Helen Keller's favorite color. The worst part of the school's dress code? It gave Pops an excuse to buzz-cut me every two weeks.

Despite all the outside bullshit, I had lots of neighborhood friends, and a baby in the house was super fun. My brother and me got along so well that Jonelle would leave him with me for a few hours at a time to go do what she do. It seemed like Hassan had just been born when I got more great news: Jonelle was pregnant again. I didn't have to feed or house them babies, only play with them, and they're better than even the cutest cuddly puppy, so I would have been cool with ten more.

My folks might have been competing for my affection, because that Christmas, Pops bought me the exact bike I wanted, instead of the usual second-hand junker from the friend of a friend. And for my birthday a month later, Ma came through big time and got me a hi-fi record player system from "Cal Stereo." Joe told me, "Now that you're thirteen, you can do whatever you want." Even though Pops didn't buy into that plan, it didn't matter, because I was officially a teenager.

A couple of life's most prominent memories occurred that spring. One morning, I was in my backyard blowing up plastic army men with firecrackers when I heard the most deliciously nasty song ever. A neighbor kid was washing his car while cranking out Queen's "Get Down, Make Love." It blew my head. Around the same time, I was at my cute neighbor Jill's house, and she pointed – "Hey, Raz, look at the clock." It was 12:34 on 5/6/78. Do you remember where you were?

A month later, just in time for summer vacation, I got me another little brother, Omar. He had some lungs on him, but I wasn't yet aware that wailing non-stop was a sign of intelligence. Lots of energy that kid, and the little fucker would let you know if he wasn't digging his current situation. But I'd quiet him down by singing or giving him twelve shots of tequila. Just kidding; three shots did the trick. But I love him, and was totally stoked to have another brother. He also got the coolest name of all of us boys.

We moved clear across Costa Mesa into a two-story house at the end of a cul-de-sac, on the bluff about a quarter mile from the Huntington Beach border. There were no kids my age living on our street, and I didn't attend the nearby public school, so that summer's entertainment was hanging out at the nearby liquor store, thumbing through hardcore slap-mags when no one was around. The mustached dude who worked the counter was quite friendly, even inviting me to his apartment to check out his porn mags and watch a few Super 8 films. I never took him up on it. Looking back, I'm guessing that he was gay.

Jonelle would often head off and leave me with the babies. I enjoyed it, except those times when she disappeared all day and I had something else planned. Babysitting paid a dollar an hour, theoretically, and in less than two months, she owed me more than a hundred-fifty bucks. When I wanted to buy a radio-controlled car and she blew me off, my plan to verbally invoice her in front of Pops backfired when he told me, "We shouldn't have to pay you to take care of your brothers."

Within weeks of starting eighth grade at Newport Christian, my Grandma and Aunt, who I had never met, came to visit. A few days after they arrived, Jonelle got the wild idea that it would be a great experience to travel back to Lebanon with them to meet Pops' whole family, while seeing the Lebanese Civil War from the front row. Pops agreed that sending us away was a grand idea, and when Grandma headed home, we were to ride along while he stayed in America.

Ma was pretty irritated about it when she found out, which I made sure she found out about immediately. Even though I felt immense guilt for abandoning my little brothers, I wasn't into heading to the Middle East. It was time to get out of Dodge. A few days before my scheduled departure to Beirut, with nothing but fifty dollars and the clothes on my back, I went to the liquor store to catch a cab to the airport, and then took the shuttle to LAX.

As Ma rode me home, Los Angeles' northern horizon was choked with smoke, glowing with orange-tinged blackness by an inferno torching the hills of Agoura and Malibu. There are no signs.

3

A day later, I sprang from Ma's Kawasaki KZ 750 twin, semi-eager to enroll at my newest school. Ralph Waldo Emerson Junior High boasts several illustrious alumni, but a girl named Norma Jeane Baker attended decades before me and tops the list. South of the campus, a golden trumpeter sat atop the Mormon Temple, and to the north, St Paul Catholic School. I'd often shortcut across that campus, at times loitering to chat up girls in those cute little Catholic-school getups until the nuns shooed me away.

Emerson had expelled my brother Joe, so his friend Bill showed me around and made introductions. I had received a buzz cut the week before, and without Bill's vouching, it would have been tough blending in with the stoner crowd. No more haircuts for me; I became determined to never get sheared again.

I found it refreshing to once again attend a public school, where the system was super easy to game and nothing was expected from me. I'd ditch whenever I felt like it, and never got caught. But I'd always show to metal shop, even if I skipped other classes, and within weeks became a teacher's aide. Every morning, a group of fellow stoners would meet up to smoke out before school, or we'd ditch and hit Yen's Arcade on Westwood Boulevard. For me, arcades were all about pinball, but soon the cutting-edge video game Space Invaders also began robbing me of quarters.

Ma drove graveyard shift for Celebrity Cab, meaning between five at night and six the next morning, Joe and me had the apartment all to ourselves. She'd occasionally drop by to find us hanging out with friends and smoking pot. But if we weren't, she'd say, "Spark it up."

I eagerly embraced my new freedom, and soon was an everyday pot and cigarette smoker, as well as a beer enthusiast. Instead of battling for control of the TV, I'd spend hours listening to Ted Nugent and Aerosmith through headphones in my room, or reading Playboys in the bathroom for fifteen minutes at a time. In my youth, I could easily enjoy four or five articles a day, and every so often a handful more.

Those were days of "the Cold War," when rational folks lived under constant fear that nuclear Armageddon lay a diplomatic misstep away. One morning, after a hard night of smoke and Schlitz Malt Liquor, I awoke to the ear-piercing wail of a civil defense siren. When I began freaking out, Joe laughed. I calmed down as soon as he explained that they gave them sirens a monthly test run, so when the time came, all us capitalists would be aware that we were minutes away from annihilation via incineration.

A few days after ditching Pops' place, Joe ordered me to stop wearing his clothes. I pointed out that I only had one set of clothes. Figuring that he was being a complete asshole, I continued donning his spare attire. Next thing I knew, we were throwing blows, chokeholds, bellowing, and bouncing off walls, till the noise woke Ma. To my amazement and utter dismay, she said, "Those are Joe's clothes, and if he tells you that you can't wear them, get your own." Before I stormed out, I yelled full-throated about what a bitch she was, and suggested a refresher course on parenting skills.

I still had a few bucks leftover after my escape from the O.C., and I bought a few things, while shoplifting the vast majority of my new wardrobe. To replenish my funds, I started working part time at Ma's cab company, a forty-minute bus ride away. Joe was already working there a couple of days a week, pumping gas and servicing cars at the end of the day shift. It was tips only, but he made at least thirty bucks in just a few hours. I scooped up the leftover days, and every once in a while got a side job working on people's personal cars. Thanks to "midnight auto parts," those gigs were 100 percent profit.

Most of the drivers weren't really "cab drivers," but actors, writers, or musicians. A cool older guy, Ray Collins, told of hiring Frank Zappa into his band, The Mothers of Invention. Ray left the group about ten years before I met him. He wanted more input about the band's new direction and, when he protested, the rest of the group chose Zappa's vision over his. Ray was friendly and not bitter at all, or at least he never showed any to me while reminiscing and telling glory-days stories.

A young, rockabilly-looking driver really loved the band Levi and the Rockats, and insisted that I go check them out at The Starwood. I thought the band was just alright, but fell in love with that club. It was all ages, sported a disco, and down a long, blacked-out, tunnel-like passageway was a live music area with an elevated stage and mind-blowingly loud PA with its speakers stacked to the ceiling. They could fit more than five hundred humans in that room, and a few aliens. After bands went silent for the night and discs stopped spinning, even more excitement happened in the club's parking lot, spilling out onto Santa Monica Boulevard. Drunks and druggies, rocker sluts and disco queens all making plans for after-parties while bands mingled, passing out flyers to let folks know when they'd be in the showroom or hosting a backyard kegger jam.

Someone who was actually just a cab driver, Ma's degen cokehead friend, Tim, occasionally wound up camping out on our couch. One morning, I wandered into the kitchen as he chopped lines of cocaine on a mirror atop our dining table. Two minutes later, I had my first line of blow. First one actually was free. I liked it. I liked it a lot and set out on my merry way with an extra pep in my step. 70s coke was far superior, but far more expensive. I'd gladly pay that $120 per gram, even adjusted for inflation, if the "good shit" still existed. Actually, I'd probably chicken out, because it's been over a decade since I had a bump. Okay, wait, maybe just one line?

My favorite weekend pastime was pinball at Westworld Arcade, next to the Bruin Theater, just south of the UCLA campus. I spent hours slapping that little silver ball around my favorite Bally machines, Playboy, Mata Hari, and Kiss, as the latest disco hits like "I Will Survive" blared from overhead. It wasn't long before I began hanging out with a group of older dudes, fond of tagging "WW 714" on things. Not really a gang, just a bunch of Sharpie-owning heads who hung out in Westwood Village and dug an occasional Quaalude. Straight outta Westwood, yo. Ultra-sexy tobacco shills occasionally roamed the Westwood Village sidewalks amongst the swell of weekend crowds handing out free Camel filters; whole packs along with a coupon for a free carton. After a strategic stroll, I'd score two or three packs, and with the coupons I'd have a month of smokes.

When spring semester began, Joe reenrolled at Emerson. Within days, he complained to Ma, "He stole all my friends." I am not making this shit up, but Ma actually told me, "You need to find your own friends." Seeing as "Joe's friends" were the whole rocker/stoner crowd, I was exiled by Ma's fiat and separated myself from everyone that I had hung out with since my first day.

From sheer spiteful boredom, I started raising hell around campus while continually upstaging my own stupidity. Soon I was getting sent to the counselor's office several times a week. After a few weeks of that, Ma and me were summoned to meet with an assistant principal, who seemed perplexed when he told us, "Before this month, I had never heard the name 'Rached.' Now you're in my office almost every day."

Ma told of Joe returning to Emerson right about the same time I began acting up. I admitted that it was my wish to get away from Joe, and suggested I go to another school. The principal was reluctant, and told me I had not done anything worthy of expulsion. With no idea of what an absolutely terrible plan it was, I eventually persuaded him it'd be better, and easier, for everyone if he expelled me.

*

My third school of the year, Paul Revere Junior High, in Pacific Palisades, sat a few miles from the ocean. It was an hour bus ride from home, and it was the school OJ's kids were attending when their mom was murdered. My friend Bill was already there, due to getting busted with weed at Emerson. Just like the semester before, Bill introduced me around to the stoner kids.

Not satisfied with having Emerson all to himself, Joe then complained about my working at the cab company. Ma agreed, so I was only allowed to work at "Joe's job" during the night shift, at three in the morning. I needed more money than a couple weekend early-morning shifts provided, so I got me a part-time gig grabbing old rich guys' balls – from the driving range of the Los Angeles Country Club. There were lots of famous members, but the only autograph I ever remember asking for in my life was from the very cordial Fred MacMurray, who hit a bucket of balls almost every day.

It was a pretty cake job. My favorite task was driving the tractor. I'd listen to AM/FM headphones while golfers took aim at my moving target. When a golf ball hit the top of a sheet-metal cage, it went BOOM, and the thunder made the lil' delinquent boy jump and curse golfers up range. If the range was slow, and all the balls were clean and loaded in buckets, I was free to work on my golf game; driving, pitching, sand removal, and putting. A club pro even gave me a bunch of free lessons. Before then, whenever I'd hit a ball from the sand trap and it didn't go in the hole, I thought I failed when it stopped a few feet from the cup. The pro told me getting so close was great. After that, I couldn't get it so close.

I used to drive golf carts all over the property like I stole 'em, and was quickly informed that it was taboo to drive a cart onto a green. I couldn't for the life of me understand why the best burnout spots were off limits. I discovered an employee dining room with loads of free food and beverages, and began eating there several times a day until they changed the rules to one visit per day.

On the property's northern border sat the fabled Playboy mansion, with tales of bunnies, monkeys, and exotic birds. I had to see the magical place with my own two eyes. It took several minutes for my slow-assed golf cart to get to Hefner's wall, but only about two seconds to get over it. There I was, standing in the Promised Land, unsure of which direction to head to find naked women. The fully dressed security guard's rapid approach helped me decide to hastily retreat back over the fence.

A few hundred yards into my flight, I happened upon a pile of rabbit turds – had to be seven feet high – and felt compelled to power over it. Halfway up, and stuck in shit, I switched to reverse. But the wheels just spun till the motors overheated. I abandoned the vehicle. Not far into my hike back to the range, I commandeered an unattended golf cart. As I pulled away, someone yelled, "Stop!" and then a caddie stepped out from behind the trees and jogged my way. Caddies weren't allowed to drive carts unless a member was with them, but reportedly he had snuck off to smoke some pot. So we partied while I regaled him with tales of the Playboy Mansion and rabbit turds.

I began hanging out with that caddie dude, and even fronted him some weed. A week later, he still hadn't paid, but I fronted him more because I'm an idiot. Later that day, when he got busted stealing a Rolex from a golf bag, they found that weed on him. It was subsequently discovered that the man had a fugitive murder warrant out of Texas, so it never made sense to me why he told them he got the weed from some white boy at the driving range. Even though I denied it, the next week the rules changed; no one under sixteen was allowed to work at the Los Angeles Country Club.

After picking up my final paycheck, I went to the bus stop and stuck my thumb out. Within minutes, a couple of babes in a 1965 Ford Falcon stopped to offer me a ride. I only planned to travel a few miles to the bank, but when they invited me along to the beach, I eagerly accepted. They were fun chicks who lived in the San Fernando Valley, where they worked as porno "actresses." On the way home from the beach, I lost my cherry in the backseat of a car tooling along Wilshire Boulevard. That Bryan Adams' song, "The First Cut Is the Deepest," is an 'n' away from being super nasty.

A week before finals at Paul Revere, Bill and I had a little scuffle during lunchtime – nothing huge, just a disagreement amongst friends over a girl who was out of our league. When he shoved me to the ground, I landed right beside a trashcan. Seeming like a good idea at the time, I sprang up, grabbed the trashcan, and swung it hard. Bill turned away and I slammed him across the back, pro-wrestling style. The school didn't dig our conflict-resolution methods, so we got booted. Bill and I literally made up by that night, but summer vacation started a wee bit early for us. They actually issued me a report card with straight Fs.

*

A week into summer vacation, early one morning before we woke, Ma stocked the kitchen with food, left a note – with no information about where she went or when she'd return – and rode off into the sunrise. After a week of us being home alone, her friend Rock showed up to see if we needed more food or medical attention, and brought reports of Ma being alive and well. Apparently Joe and me were driving her crazier than her normal state, so she had made like the wind and split.

One hot and smoggy afternoon, my buddy Max showed up and excitedly announced, "I got Van Halen II." I had never heard of the band, but after three hundred and twenty-nine consecutive listens, we decided to have a party. Hell, we already had the soundtrack. After acquiring a new bong and an ounce of Columbian, we scored ten cases of Michelob, then loaded them brews into a bathtub full of ice. Back then, parties were driven by word of mouth. Seeing as it was summer vacation, and absent of social media, only about twenty dudes showed up. The sausage fest was on.

A dude told us about a nearby automotive shop that stashed car keys under the driver's seats, so the next night, Joe and me hiked up there to test drive a Mazda RX3. A few blocks into our joyride, waiting in the left turn lane at Santa Monica and Veteran, a black-and-white police cruiser pulled up to our rear bumper. Then that lil' Mazda decided it wanted to fuck with us and went completely dark and silent. While mumbling obscenities, Joe franticly turned the key. When he reached for the door to bail out, I calmly begged, "Wait, I got this." A half second after the light turned green, I stepped out and strolled to the back of the Mazda as I yelled toward the cops, "Our car broke down! Can you help us push it around the corner?" I pointed to a spot.

The helpful officer riding shotgun popped his head out the window to shout, "Push your own damn car!" With that, they pulled around us and made a left.

I didn't steal any other cars from that mechanic, and not just because they quit leaving the keys under the seat. I just figured it was stupid to steal cars that were in a repair shop, plus I knew a way to get an old Ford running with a short piece of wire. So I drove lots of other peoples' 60s Mustangs or Falcons, but usually parked them near where I found them. I'd also regularly "borrow" a moped from my friend Wilmer's driveway. Wilmer was a solid drummer alongside a pretty decent guitar player, Andy, for a garage band whose Jimi, Sabbath, and Zep covers I'd sometimes rock out to.

I met a very cool girl, Ilene, and for a few months, we shared many adventures. She lived above Westwood Village and we'd hang out there for hours. Despite the huge Robert Plant and Jimi Hendrix posters in her room, we mostly sang along to "Get the Knack" or "Candy-O." I offered her the Lebanese sausage a few times, but we weren't banging. We just had a lot in common – including our love of the vagina – and went on beaver hunts at the Starwood every chance we got. My childhood hero, no longer a Partridge, Danny Bonaduce, was there many nights, hanging out in front, probably as fucked up as I was. Even though he treated me like the little punk that I was, preferring to focus his attention on female club goers, I'm happy that he's still cool, funny, and living a healthy life.

If there wasn't a band that I cared about jamming in the showroom, I'd dance the night away in the disco with foxy ladies until "Last Dance" played. As the song faded out, the D.J. would say, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here." Being only fourteen, way too drunk, and not wearing appropriate disco attire, I only got laid twice out of that dance hall.

This was the era of a rock vs. punk battle for hearts and minds. According to several loudmouths with shit hanging out their face, punk rock had taken over after rock 'n' roll died. Rock can never die, so because of those lies, I hated punk and punk-rockers. I do love me some pop and ballads, but there's no reason to actually see a band perform that gay-ass shit live, so I avoided the showroom except when a heavy rock band played. In 1979, the club's most popular heavy metal bands were Snow, Pegasus, and Quiet Riot. Even though Randy Rhodes was in the band, I have no distinct remembrance of him playing. Must've, though, because I saw Quiet Riot perform several times.

Before heading into the club, Ilene and I would consume mass quantities of Jose Cuervo, straight from the bottle, chased with orange juice. And to this day I cannot even swallow a sip of Cuervo, but give me some Patron Silver and it's on. One night, I staggered slur-my-words drunk out from the bathroom, and was mistook for a vandal by some old guy. He started pushing me and yelled, "Why you fuck up my club, you little punk?" I had no idea what he was talking about, but did know I didn't like people pushing me. So I swung at Eddie Nash, the infamous club owner. I was too smashed to swing accurately, and we got saved by the arrival of the club's behemoth security guards. Luckily, the bouncer that escorted me outside took pity on my drunk ass and didn't beat the crap out of me. Fucking Cuervo!

I really dug hanging out with Ilene, but our friendship was short lived. Like me, she'd grab anything that wasn't nailed down. The last time I saw that girl, she was in the back of police car on Westwood Boulevard, looking sad after a failed attempt at procuring an unattended moped. It wasn't her first run-in with the law, and she knew she'd be going away for a while. I missed her friendship more than the refuge I felt within the confines of her apartment.

Sometimes I wonder how I could have been so blind to my dishonorableness. Though I felt it absolutely wrong to steal from friends, everyone else was fair game. Plus, it didn't count if someone merely believed we were friends, if I was only acting friendly to eventually rob them blind. Just around the corner from us was a big garage, with three padlocks to alert my value sensor. After months of intrigue, I walked by one afternoon while the door was raised and was awed by all of the toys within. The mother lode included a 1968 Plymouth Barracuda 340 Formula S, a couple of old-school Harleys, and tools galore. The klepto gears in my head started whirling and grinding. I had to drive that car.

All that great stuff belonged to a guy in his twenties, Henry, and to say that he was nothing but nice to me would be a gross understatement. I was welcome, and dare I say happily received, to hang out whenever he worked in the garage. On Wednesday nights, he'd head over the hill to cruise Van Nuys Boulevard. I tagged along a few times, and we cruised that badass Barracuda up and down the Boulevard a few circuits and then parked at the Bank of America parking lot to hang with his buddies.

One evening, as I passed by on my way to Westworld, I stopped for a brief chat, while out of the corner of my eye, I spied a rectangular Tupperware container nearly full of quarters. On my way home, sometime after midnight, the locks on his garage were hanging unlocked. I looked around to make sure that the coast was clear, jimmied the key plate with my pocket knife, touched the two electrical contacts, and the opener started with a hum. I rolled under and, disappointed the Barracuda was gone, departed with my second option in hand, the bucket-o-change. I limboed back out and had that door closing before it even made it halfway up. He pretty much knew I did it, so I wasn't allowed over there anymore. If I could turn back the hands of crime. Sorry, man.

*

With summer past, the principal agreed that my original expulsion was not fully merited, plus Joe had graduated, so for ninth grade I was allowed to reenroll at Emerson. I assured everyone I'd be on my best behavior, and the first few weeks I flew low and avoided the radar. I raised my hand and, except for those situations that begged for humorous reflection, kept my class-clowning to a minimum. I wasn't hanging out with the stoner crowd or meeting up to smoke out before school, and never ditched a class more than three times in a week.

I fell in with a kid, Perry, and we'd occasionally ditch school to play pinball at UCLA's "The Coop." One day, we stole a bitchin' Honda SL 350 from campus, and then rode it all day before abandoning it near my apartment. When Perry showed my brother where it was, Joe rode that motorcycle around like he owned it, until getting busted for GTA several weeks later. My family loyalty blinded me to who was truly at fault, while giving me the perfect excuse to burglarize Perry's apartment a few times.

My newest friend became the loser named Larry, a senior at continuation school, who loved to smoke PCP. One day, he spent hours trying to persuade me into snatching a purse, but I didn't think it was a good idea. I kept picturing back to when I was four, how traumatized Ma was while holding the strap from her recently snatched purse. As I stalled, Larry kept coming up with several things we could buy with the money. Mostly Super Kools, or various other Angel Dust products. I never straight out told him no, and as we walked down Westwood Boulevard on our way back to Yen's Arcade, he pointed to a lady across the street and said, "I bet she's got a couple hundred dollars in her purse."

I figured it was a great opportunity to get it over with, so told him, "Okay." A rally point was set and then I was on my way. I crept up swiftly behind the little old lady, and then tapped her on the shoulder, smiled nicely, and said, "I'm sorry. I thought you were my Na Na's friend," then took off like a jackrabbit, bolted around the corner, and headed toward home. That night, I decided to avoid that guy, because I didn't enjoy smoking Angel Dust – though I still did – and he seemed obsessed with stealing purses.

The next morning, Ma had a bug up her butt about some dress shoes she bought me for Christmas but I had never even tried on. I liked wearing Vans, and felt it'd look funny wearing dress shoes with Levi 501s and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. But to get out of the house, and not have to listen to anymore bitching, I gave in. Halfway to school, those dress shoes had me feeling like a circus clown at a formal dinner, so I decided to skip class for pinball.

There was only one other kid at Yen's, Larry, and he picked up right where he left off with the purse-snatch scenarios. For some dumb reason, I cared if he thought I was a pussy. We ended up at the Westward Ho Market's parking lot, ready to set his foolproof plan in action. I was to grab and then toss the goods over the railing to him waiting out of sight in the alley. The theory being that if I got caught, he'd be gone with the evidence. And they couldn't do a thing to me without proof. Damn, we were brilliant!

I stalled for about an hour before telling him, "There're too many people around. Let's get out of here."

He peeked over the railing and pointed. "Get that one. There's no one around."

Sure enough, there was an older woman – and not another soul in sight – loading grocery bags into her trunk. An unattended purse in the seat of a shopping cart beckoned me to crime. No more excuses or stalling, I went for the score. The woman facing her trunk would have never seen me, except for the ex-Marine watching, due to my suspicious loitering. About ten steps from that car, as I flung the purse toward Larry's location, I was tackled and held till cops arrived. Oo-Rah! Larry bailed before anyone saw him, but the purse rested right where it landed. Instead of shutting up, I used an ultra-lame story about an older kid holding a knife on me and forcing me to steal the purse.

After the usual pretrial stuff, I found myself in court, charged with robbery. I explained to my public defender exactly how it went down: me just grabbing the unattended purse from the shopping cart, with absolutely no "force or fear." Unfortunately, the purse's owner told a completely different story on the witness stand. She swore that I had pushed and knocked her sideways, resulting in a large purple bruise all along her ribcage. I have no idea why she made up that crap, maybe to make it sound more exciting to her friends? The Marine who took me down backed up my side of the story, but couldn't swear that I didn't make contact with her. The verdict came back "guilty" of robbery.

Even though I felt guilty of nothing more than petty theft, I was fully aware I had put myself in that situation. If I would have stood up to Larry, the moment where I was grabbing a lady's purse from her cart could never have occurred. The judge was actually quite lenient, considering I was convicted of a serious felony, and my sentence was a mere one year probation. Ma seemed convinced I wanted to get caught, to get some attention, and asked the judge to add some counseling to my sentence. Ma was right. I actually could have used more parental attention. But in the act of committing crime(s), I always hoped for the least amount of attention possible.

I visited a head-shrink weekly at the L.A. Free Clinic. I truly wanted to make therapy work and iron out some of my life's issues, so made a conscious decision to be completely honest and open. After a few weeks of describing family interactions, the therapist suggested a group session. A week later, Ma, Joe, and me put on a grand old display of what a dysfunctional meltdown should look like. I started out by spilling some guts and making truthful accusations, and then Joe sat there denying while lying through his teeth as Ma remained doe-faced with nothing to add to or back up my accurate reports. It got me steaming mad, but I remained calm and rational.

Actually, I ranted and raved like a liquored-up lunatic with blood shooting from the eyeballs while screaming something about counseling wouldn't work if everyone was going to fucking lie. The icing on the cake – before storming out, I flipped over a desk. I had given honesty a shot, but my family really wasn't interested in actually working out our issues. For some strange reason, I was no longer welcome at the Free Clinic. But at my next mental health location, I just bullshitted my way through sessions and kept everything to myself while running out the clock on the court-ordered counseling.

The school year had barely begun, and there I was, in trouble with the law. Next thing I knew, some school adventures complicated my life even further. There was a social experiment called "bussing," where they brought kids from different socio-economic backgrounds and enrolled them in schools offering greater educational opportunity. I think they might have shipped some white kids to the ghetto as well, but not sure. Transportation was provided, hence the term "bussing." I was cool with all the black kids attending Emerson. I had actually made repeated attempts to make friends, but they pretty much hung out with each other and never really seemed to care either way for my friendship.

One day, I saw a kid in my history class had an autographed Dodgers' baseball on his desk, so I smiled a friendly fellow-Dodgers-fan smile and said, "Cool, can I check it out?" I was met with negativity. Unfazed, I asked again, "C'mon, I just want to check it out."

He was a prick and told me, "Fuck you, whiteboy."

So I told him, "Fuck you," and tossed in an N-bomb before heading for my desk. That kid told one brother, then another, and then another about my improper adjective selection. Then the foursome made it crystal clear that I would be receiving a beat down after class. When I lived in the hood, if a black kid called me honky or whiteboy, I'd occasionally drop the N-bomb. It was never that big of a deal. Things had changed drastically in five years. It had become a fighting word, and so when the bell rang and those guys blocked the exits, I took it like a man and jumped out the window.

Two days later, during lunchtime, I saw that young buck from history class walking straight toward me. He was a slightly built dude, no worries. The biggest concern was the two much stouter bros accompanying him. I decided that fleeing was prudent, so I turned to bail in the opposite direction, only to discover two other brothers closing in. I attempted to take flight over the table, but lo and behold, my escape was foiled by a brother at the back door. The pummeling began, and even though my "friends" outnumbered those guys at a three-to-one clip, none of those pussies jumped in to help. I don't like double standards, but I like being beaten silly far less, so a lifelong lesson was learned on what not to say. Sticks and stones my ass. Words justify violence in some asinine scenarios, or make it understandable to many. Only I know what's truly in my heart. But if you care – I hate no one who hasn't given me reason. But I love you!

Within a week of that encounter, I found myself back-talking my fine-ass math teacher, a sister about twenty-five, built like a brick shit house, and quite popular with the male students. After I gave her a particularly harsh rebuttal, a young man got up in my face demanding I be respectful. I flipped him off and then decided it was time to get out of there due to the mood getting real tense real fast. When I headed for the door, she acted reasonably and professionally by ordering other students to stop me. A few kids eagerly obliged and blocked my departure. I don't like being held prisoner, so it got a little physical. I took a few lumps before they could hold me down for security.

The vice principal came to the conclusion that I had a "race problem," because all involved in the incident, except me, were black. He also referenced the other recent beat down, also delivered unto me by darker-complexioned schoolmates, to further prove his theory. It might seem unbelievable, but I was then expelled for being on the receiving end of two racially motivated beat downs, and for being a complete asshole.

*

The first Monday of December was the first day at my newest school. Daniel Webster Junior High sat only twenty minutes by bus ride away. The student body was ethnically diverse, and seeing as I love all the women of the world, it was great there. The whites, blacks, and Mexicans all pretty much coexisted peacefully, and intermingled without thought of identity politics. Actually, the Mexicans ran that joint. Hola, chicas. Te quiero. Ma reminded me of her utter hatred for the hassle of jumping through the bureaucratic hoops required for school enrollment, especially because it was the fourth time in just under a year. I understood, and felt slightly embarrassed myself, so I decided to be on my best behavior.

I soon learned it was impossible avoiding extra-close scrutiny when enrolled through what they called an "opportunity transfer," especially for rejects like me totally unwilling to accept responsibility for their actions. The Friday of my second week, running a wee bit late for first-period gym class, I rushed in to get changed and make it to roll call before getting a tardy. As I entered the locker room, some kid on the way out jumped up and slapped the alarm bell. The gym teacher heard the ping, spun around, looked at me, pointed, and bellowed, "Drop and do ten." Looking back, I realize that even though I was totally in the right, things would have gone far smoother had I just done the ten pushups instead of arguing and refusing, which got me sent to the principal's office.

I encountered a diminutive lad on my way to the office – who felt powerful because he wore a hall-monitor's badge – demanding that I produce a hall pass. Another twenty-twenty hindsight would have stopped me from throwing his credentials onto the roof. Fucking around with that runt was like assaulting a teacher. At least that's what they told me when they kicked me out. Half of me was bummed about getting booted after only two weeks, but the real me was thrilled about an extra-long Christmas Vacation of sleeping in and long hours of pot smoking while watching Hogan's Heroes, Gomer Pyle, Andy Griffith, Gilligan's Island, and I Love Lucy (I really do) on the boob tube.

Our downstairs neighbor scored an awesome, near-mint 1968 Chrysler 300. Beauty car, which I worked on, tuned up, and did the brakes, belts, or whatever I told him it needed. Instead of getting paid, I got his 1964 Chevy wagon. I gave it to Ma for Christmas, but often snuck joyrides. On a cruise up Beverly Glen, at the top of the hill where Mulholland slices the city in two, a Mercedes cut me off nasty. While contemplating what form my road rage should take, I mumbled, "Fucking assholes in Mercedes think they own the fucking road." Then I thought, "That's it. In this town, if you want something, you got to take it." Right then and there, I vowed to take what I deserved, and never let anyone punk me.

If I had been convicted of a felony, or got booted from even one school while living with Pops, I would have likely required intensive care. Ma had a slightly different approach, and for Christmas she got us an Atari 2600, exactly what Joe and I had lobbied for. Her theory being, if we vegged out at home, there was less chance of arrest(s). It went together well with her often-stated reason for letting us smoke pot: "They're going to do it anyway. I'd prefer they were at home."

*

When the New Year began, it was time to find another school willing to accept my trouble-making ass. John Burroughs Junior High, a few blocks from the intersection of Wilshire and La Brea, became my next forty-five-minute bus ride. The student body's diverse mix had no dominant group or ethnicity. Seeing as most of the black kids weren't prejudiced, I hung out with a group of brothers. During lunch, we'd rock "Rapper's Delight" on a boombox, while spittin' the rhyme toward passing females. Soon I had the lyrics down pat, so I unlocked my inner popper by adding a few funky dance moves so I be hippin' to hip the hop while hibbying to the something or another; chicken tastin' like wood. On weekends, my buddy Max and me would hang at my house, drink beer, smoke out, and listen to Pink Floyd's The Wall over and over.

Everything went fine for about a month, but, being a fun-loving thrill seeker, I ended up in a minor scuffle. When a skinny little kid with longish blond hair showed up to electronics class with a fresh buzz cut, I busted his chops relentlessly. I desperately needed to know if he had gone to the dark side, punk rock. A few days of endless ridicule later, he began wearing a baseball cap. One afternoon, as I passed by, I flipped his hat to the ground while he stood in the lunch line. Thoroughly fed up with my shit, he charged at me. That kid was considerably smaller than my five-foot-ten, hundred-seventy pounds, and because I had zero desire to hurt him, I merely placed two hands on his chest and pushed him away. He landed on his ass, and I chuckled.

A few more charges were followed by his butt planted to the asphalt. My snide commentary and laughing only added to his rage. While he worked himself into full psycho mode, a nearby lunch-line lady feebly yelled, "Stop... stop... stop, you two."

I noticed a few exceptionally cute girls taking in the action, and couldn't look like a pussy. Could I? Figuring I had the moral right to defend myself, and an immensely credible lunch-lady witness, I gave that kid the ol one-two: left to the stomach and, when he jackknifed forward, a devastating right uppercut to his jaw. There had been many huge gang fights at the school, thus a zero-tolerance policy for fighting. I was in the market for another school, and actually felt terrible the other kid also got kicked out for "fighting."

I turned fifteen, and my future plan was to breeze through the year while saving up to score a car and hit the freedom road ten seconds after I turned sixteen. If you got a car, you ain't homeless. The year started out awesome when, for my birthday, Ma got me a ticket to see Pink Floyd perform The Wall at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. Max worked some kind of deal for Joe's ticket and went with us. Max, Ma, her friend Steve, and I got to the venue about a half hour before the show to drop some acid, then washed it down with five joints before heading inside. That shit was strong, and right after the wall was completed, "Goodbye Cruel World" – I was pretty obliterated. The second half of that concert was a spectacular prop and light show that I tripped on way more than listening to the music.

*

Not long after the wall came a-tumbling down, I enrolled at the continuation school, West Hollywood Opportunity Center. It sat on a tiny, three-bungalow campus near Fairfax and Santa Monica Boulevard, where I was surrounded by like-minded boys. But the few girls who attended only dated twenty-five-year-olds. With only half-days, I took the afternoon shift and showed up after lunch to put in my three hours of "work." Class was easy as pie. I spent many days reassembling scavenged pieces of The Wall posters that were glued up around the city to promote the concert, hoping to end up with one complete poster and an A in school.

All the while, things at home were getting tenser by the day, with Ma and Joe in full agreement that the entire shit storm was my fault. I was of the mind that we all shared in the drama-creating department, and would holler that sentiment in their direction. Ma never missed an opportunity to tell me how grand her life had been before I came along, and would always make sure I knew her parental responsibilities ended at the stroke of midnight on my eighteenth birthday. Every once in a while, she'd throw in, "You're just lucky that abortions weren't legal in 1964."

I'd scream back, "It's not my fault you spread for Pops," plus lots of other mean, evil shit a boy should never yell at his mother. I did try a little, and sometimes when I fucked up I would say, "Sorry, mom."

Her standard reply to that was, "Don't be sorry. There are too many sorry motherfuckers out there already." I believe she was quoting Dr. Spock.

One evening, I rolled up about twenty crappy, homegrown joints, stuffed them into a Marlboro box, and headed to the Starwood to see if I could get two bucks each. I eventually wound up at the Tiffany Theater's midnight screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, where I met a girl in full Rocky Horror garb. When she invited me back to her house in Simi Valley, I went without hesitation. To my dick's dismay, her only interest in me was as a present for her gay roommate. He was a cool dude, but we both agreed that there would be no rimming, kissing, or ass-fucking.

The next morning, they left for work and me on a corner near their house. I was stranded in Simi Valley, which might as well have been a 1950s Texas time warp, that I don't want to do again. In search of a bus stop, I wandered east on Los Angeles Street, not aware that buses must be flagged down if one needed to ride. A few miles into my stroll, I happened upon a motorcycle dealership and formed a brilliant plan. Steal one of the cycles and ride it back to the future – Hollywood.

The dudes at the cycle shop were cool, and even let me take a wimpy little scooter on a solo test drive. As I puttered along, I just couldn't envision it even remotely possible to get away on that bike, so I returned to the lot and hit the restroom before starting on my trek. Whilst draining the ol' lizard, hanging on a hook to my right was a pair of pants with the distinctive bulge of a wallet in the back pocket. With almost three hundred bucks available, in the blink of an eye, my transportation plans changed. I procured forty bucks and set off to hike a few blocks till a bus happened along. At the end of the line, I would catch a taxicab back to civilization.

I didn't even make it two blocks before them dudes came at me from all directions, apparently unimpressed that I didn't take all the cash. They even retrieved the pack of joints I had tossed and turned them over to the arresting officer.

Fifteen minutes later, a cop slid the Marlboros pack into my shirt pocket and then loaded me into the backseat of a police car. At the station, after my handcuffs were removed and pockets emptied, the officer picked up the cigarette box from the car hood and said, "Since you're a juvenile, I can't let you keep these."

I nodded and offered a friendly smile. "There yours, if you want 'em,"

He flipped open the top, looked inside, and then grinned. "My brand, too."

Not even fifteen minutes after getting caged, I was escorted to a room full of desks. No one could get ahold of Ma, and they wanted me to give it a shot. She had changed jobs to graveyard shift dispatcher, and routinely unplugged her phone from noon till ten. I was keenly aware that I needed to somehow get free before anyone spoke with her, or she'd have insisted they keep me.

The cops never put me back in a cell, and they let me keep trying to call. Around dinnertime, I called United Taxi and got Ma's friend Rock on the phone. He was on it, and arranged with the Simi Valley Police Department to send a taxi to pick me up. My cab arrived about half an hour before Ma found out what was going on. Too late, I was already free and halfway home.

Just past midnight, we arrived at the Max Factor building on Hollywood Boulevard, directly across the street from Mann's Chinese Theater, where United Taxi's dispatch office was located. I told the driver, "Thanks for getting me. I'll just head up to the office."

He didn't fall for my bullshit, and barked, "Not a chance. I signed for you and I'm not going to let you out of my sight until I deliver you to your mother."

Upstairs, Ma looked ready to destroy every fragile object in that office, but kept her cool and thanked the cabbie for the favor. Her only words to me were "Your father is on his way."

4

A midnight drive south in Pops' Lincoln Mark V delivered a far scruffier Raz back behind the Orange Curtain. We hadn't spoken the entire – year and a half, six schools, and felony conviction – time I lived with Ma, so we spent three minutes catching up before the stern talk about his rules: "Right way, wrong way, and my way."

Pops took it personal that I ran away while his mother and sister were visiting, and I held a grudge for another ten years because he had discarded all my belongings. I explained my fear of going to Beirut, so I'd figured I should get while the getting was good. Pops scoffed and told me, "Every year, more people get murdered in L.A. than a year of civil war in Lebanon."

We arrived to the same house in Costa Mesa that we had lived in prior to our Alaskan adventure. My little brothers, Hassan and Omar, were almost two and three. I was super happy to see them, and Jonelle seemed thrilled I was back.

For those of you who lost count, Newport Harbor High became the fifth school during my ninth-grade school year, and I still believed it was someone else's fault. Because I hadn't been kicked out, just changed guardians, it was a simple transfer. For the last two months of school, teachers and administrators didn't keep an extra watchful eye on me, and summer arrived before my "permanent record" caught up. In that era, during the infancy of computers, bureaucracy was much easier to circumvent.

Even though there were several students I knew since grade school, Newport High was a culture shock. A few days in, I mentioned to a classmate something that really stood out. "It's weird going to a school with no black kids."

"We got a black student," they replied, more than a bit defensively.

No one had heard, let alone wanted to do, "Rapper's Delight" with me. Worst of all, it seemed like everyone was a punker with a crew cut. Even though I refused to listen to the music, I was aware of its genesis rooted in rebellion and class struggles. I did know the O.G. Brit punkers would cringe in their jackboots at all the well-to-do, silver-spoon brats with buzz cuts, wearing Dockers, IZOD, and top-siders thinking themselves "punks." Two short years earlier, the Orange County coast was loaded with long-haired surfers, but by 1980, it felt like I was the only remaining "hippie."

Pops bought me a bunch of new clothes, and Ma delivered my stuff once she cooled down. When Grandpa Frank gave me a 1963 Schwinn Corvette, I removed the trim and fenders, painted it flat black, and added knobbies to turn it into a beach-cruiser. I had no sense of style back then, and should have rocked it just the way it was. Pops wouldn't let me get a job, and partying ain't cheap, so for income I stole several bicycles a week from Newport Harbor High and sold them to a dude at the park near my house.

After I mentioned my goal of learning to play The Wall in its entirety, John, of Full Sail fame, lent me a Fender Telecaster and a practice amp. His recommended teacher owned a blond Les Paul Standard, with musical tastes that leaned toward country. But my guitar teacher promised when I was ready, he'd learn me the Floyd stuff. The guitar lesson experience was far removed from my piano fiasco. No reading music or forced practice, we just got to it the first week with some finger exercises. And the following week, I began practicing chords. After three weeks, I was having a blast with the fun, easy, and cool riffs and rhythms I learned. I'd play several hours daily, and eagerly anticipated each lesson.

By the second month, I started thinking about getting a non-punk rock band together. I put a few feelers out around school, but no long-haired rock 'n' rollers remained at Newport Harbor. The weekend before the last week of school, a friend's little brother introduced me to a drummer, Charlie. He was a cool, shaggy-headed junior-high kid. We met up in his garage, where he kept his "Tequila Sunrise" colored Ludwig Vistalite kit set up and ready to rock. We smoked some pot, listened to The Who, and had his maid bring us chocolate milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so we wouldn't have to think up band names on empty stomachs.

After hanging out for several hours, and hearing the kid's semi-impressive pounding upon skins, I suggested the weekend after finals I drag my gear over to his house so we could commence to jam. But he threw a wrench in my plans by heading to Europe for most of the summer; fucking Newport Beach rich kids. I was disappointed, but also happy to have a few more months to learn enough to back up the bullshit I fed Charlie about my musical abilities. So there it was, I had the summer to learn some complete songs, and the "Prodigal Bums" would start jamming in Charlie's garage once school began.

I told my guitar teacher my plan, and he agreed a band would be a fun way to get better. I went on a mission to learn a few complete songs. I presented a long list of material I wanted to learn, but one after another, my teacher told me the tunes were way over my head. We finally settled on "Smoke on the Water," "Heart of Gold," and "Sweet Pandora."

Right around the same time, Pops got called away on business to Hawaii. Killer buds, perfect waves, and lovely cinnamon girls in grass skirts gave me a bad case of island fever. But when I begged him to let me go hang out with him for a few weeks after school let out, he said, "We'll see," which meant "no" in Pop-speak.

Instead of a pleasant island getaway, I spent the first week of my summer vacation at Ma's. She liked me far better from a distance, and I was happy to get a week of free ranging, joy riding, and pot smoking. When Ma left for work, I was eager to show Joe my newly acquired musical skills, so I sent him to retrieve Ma's Yamaha acoustic guitar. About twelve seconds after I began boogieing a bouncy little pull-off jam, Joe's face dropped faster than the IQ of a toddler eating lead paint chips. He snatched the axe from my hands and whined, "Mom doesn't want anybody but me touching her guitar."

*

Upon my return to Costa Mesa, I got the spectacular news of Pops having to remain in Hawaii for the summer. The best part was that his boss encouraged him to gather the whole family in paradise along with him. I was super stoked, even though Pops wouldn't let me bring a surfboard. He said, "I don't want you getting hurt. Surfing's too dangerous." Well, at least I'd still have pot smoking and guitar playing in Hawaii. The last two lessons before my flight, my guitar teacher and I went over the songs, and I sort of got them sounding like they should. He also suggested I buy the LPs in Hawaii so I could practice along with the studio tracks.

The day before departure to the islands, I was blindsided when Jonelle told me John wanted his guitar back. It bummed me out big time. During the drive over to drop off the guitar stuff, I thought about begging him to sell it to me on payments. But I knew there was a strong possibility that Pops had some sort of manipulation going on, so I didn't put John on the spot. I let him know how much I appreciated the loaner, and hoped I could borrow the gear again when I returned. I'd just have to wrangle something up on Oahu so I could keep practicing until then.

I expected to get lei'd upon arrival at Honolulu Airport, but television had lied to me once again. As we drove to Hawaii Kai, Pops told me, "I don't want you dealing with pot." How the fuck did he expect me to have any fun? For the sake of plausible deniability, I did not seek clarification, just took the "dealing" word literally and told myself it was okay if I only smoked the stuff.

It seemed like everyone on that island smoked pot, or couldn't have cared less if someone did, which I found out the very next day when Pops sent me along with a couple of his workers to cater a polo match on the North Shore. On the drive along the Likelike Highway, we burned a homegrown joint, but in Hawaii, "homegrown" is Hawaiian. And it totally kicked ass.

When bored, I was a total fuck-up. But when I worked, I worked hard while trying to do a better job than anyone else. Life's a competition. The guys gave a good report of my work, and Pops quickly realized the best way to keep an eye on me was to give me a job at the downtown Matteo's. It was hard work, in a hot place, inside a hot 'n' muggy world, and I loved it. Pops would leave after dropping me off, and three seconds after he was out the door, a bunch of us would head to the alley for "motivation," which was pot smoking and bullshitting a bit before finishing up our prep.

Pops was in Hawaii to right the ship. He took no bull, while expecting competence and hard work from all. Most of the employees were great, but some couldn't take the new high expectations and quit if they hadn't already been fired. When they needed a dishwasher at the Waikiki location, I begged him for more work. At my second job, I washed a ton of dishes and peeled pounds of shrimp and calamari daily – yuck – but never worked enough hours to make any real scratch. With a bad Asteroids habit, amongst other vices, I supplemented my income by selling hash. I knew an old haolie hippie that sold me ounces at far less than market value. That blond Lebanese was like gold on the island, and I built up a hefty bankroll fairly quick.

Hawaii felt like an entirely different country, with its own TV shows, popular music, and local bands playing on the radio. Having a fairly deep tan, long, dark hair, and a knack for picking up the local lingo meant I received far less harassment from locals than other haolie. We lived across the street from Koko Head, at the swanky Esplanade Apartments. Below our balcony was a glimmering, boat-filled marina, and a short walk from our front door were tennis courts next to a pool/Jacuzzi area with cabanas and BBQs. I loved the pool and would swim at least once a day. Sometimes, after relaxing in the Jacuzzi, which sat a few feet above pool level, I'd get a jolt by diving from the spa's ledge into the cold pool below.

The other kids at the complex called me "Pervy," because no matter the conversation's context, I always went there. Hawaii's drinking age was eighteen and, looking older than my age, Pervy was the go-to guy when the kids wanted beer. While on a beer run, a haolie kid around my age pulled up in 67 VW Bug, with a couple sweet surfboards strapped on top. So I hit him up: "Where's the spot around here?"

He gave me a smug, dismissive "Locals only, bra," then went on his way. I stood in line right behind him with my two six packs of Lowenbrau, and chuckled when he got carded. Outside, after sweating him a bit, I went back inside to buy his beer. Dick lived in the apartment complex right next door to the Esplanade. A few days after we met, I owned one of his surfboards, and we were heading to a spot not far away, "China Walls," where we'd carve up almost-killer waves that the locals had passed on. I kept my surf stuff at his house, and paid rent with gas money and hash.

Despite the fact they were both married, it was an open secret that Pops was shagging a cocktail waitresses, Barbara. So at the end of July, Pops sent Jonelle, me, and my lil' bros to Kauai for a week of freedom. We stayed with his friend Raja, whose cottage sat alongside a Princeville fairway. Spending time with Raja's family, playing golf, and feasting nightly on delicious Pakistani food was good times defined. Kauai was awesome in the truest sense of that overused word, one of the most spectacularly beautiful places that I ever visited. The time flew by much too fast, and before I knew it, we were on the plane headed back to Oahu.

On the way home from the airport, Pops informed us that in a few days he would be leaving town for business, but gave no further details. After getting dropped off at the condo, and Jonelle hitting the hay around eight, my fun-time window opened. I called my buddy Dick to see if he wanted to cruise around, but he said, "No gas."

I solved that minor issue by taking Jonelle's car to his place and siphoning a few gallons into his Bug. He led the way back to drop off the donor car, and I followed his Bug as it cut in between two poles. But a 1973 Pontiac Grand Ville convertible won't fit through such tight spaces. Crunch, oooops, and fuck! I pulled the car into its spot, took the keys upstairs, and then went drinking with my buddy.

I had hoped that Pops would believe Jonelle did it, which he didn't. Luckily for me, Pops leaving town meant he wasn't very eager to begin disciplinary strategies that might derail his upcoming week of uninterrupted waitress banging, so he didn't let on right away that he knew it was I who crashed the land yacht.

Since my first day at the restaurant, Pops had tried to get me to be his spy. But he didn't need my help, because he possessed a talent for finding out shit on his own that would leave folks wondering how the fuck he had found out. While I was on Kauai, shit went down and dudes got fired. The kitchen guys seemed to think I was the rat, and upon my return, it felt as if no one knew me. Plus, a permanent pantry chef had been hired, so it was my last day.

Right after Pops split, I took a trip to the alley for "motivation." And for the first time I smoked alone. It was super windy, so I struggled keeping the shit lit while ignoring the sound of the slamming screen door. Success was manifested in a huge puff of smoke. Failure came in the form of Pops standing before me. But he merely scowled, then turned and walked inside without a peep.

I took the bus home, and managed to avoid him all throughout the next day. The following morning, before leaving on his "business trip," he came into my room and told me, "When I get back, we're going to have a talk on whether you want to live under my rules." He added, "Be nice to your mother while I'm gone."

The car-denting and pot-smoking punishment was officially on hold. I didn't really care what he would say or do, because I had other plans. Once Pops hit the road, I located my airline ticket and booked an L.A.-bound flight for the day before he was set to return. I actually would have split Hawaii much sooner, but was waiting on a friend's pot plants to dry fully. Once I picked up my last paycheck on the Monday before the flight, my cash-stash would be enough to score a pound of killer pot. I would smuggle them herbs to Cali, where I'd rake in a couple grand profit providing primo pakalolo to mainland haolie.

5

Monday afternoon, I caught a downtown bus to grab my final paycheck. It was far less tense with Pops away, so I hung out long enough to burn a few bowls and shoot the shit with the kitchen guys. In case he had a spy, I didn't mention to anyone that I was cutting out of town at the end of the week.

It was a good day. The jock itch that plagued me for five uncomfortable, bow-legged-when-no-one-was-looking days had cleared up, allowing me to once again walk without fiery discomfort. Jonelle would never notice what time I got in, so I planned on staying out all night long. I hit Waikiki to play some pool, drink lots of beer, and whoop it up. As I racked up the billiard balls, "Dance the Night Away" blasted from the jukebox. Right about then, I actually felt a twinge of guilt, because I had told Pops I'd be nice to Jonelle while he out of town. Besides, that pool hall was a total sausage fest, so I split after a few games.

I got home just past seven to find Jonelle passed out exhausted on her bed. You ladies with toddlers know the feeling. After a bowl of hash on the balcony, I went inside to watch Rat Patrol. But for some reason, it wasn't on TV. My guitar was across the ocean, so I couldn't blast away my clouds of boredom. I grabbed a Playboy to catch up on some bathroom reading, and enjoyed some interesting articles, twice. But it was still far too early to crash out, and I regretted leaving the pool hall. I called my buddy Dick, grabbed a six-pack, and headed to his apartment.

When I got there, all he really wanted was a gram of hash fronted before he went to meet a chick. I was pissed he didn't mention on the phone that he would be leaving, so I lied, "Sorry, bra. I left it at home."

I took my six-pack (and hash) to a table poolside at our condo, cracked open a brew, and downed it in three gulps, then started on a second. About half an hour later, I felt like a swim and hung my shirt on a chair before diving in. I counted out twenty laps, then hit the hot tub to relax.

After stewing to almost overheated, a gentle rain began and I decided to have another beer. Shortest route is a straight line, so I went to the edge of the Jacuzzi to swim across and grab one. While I stood on the ledge three feet above the pool's surface, an extremely fit, French-bikini-wearing blond caught my eye. I paused, hoping she'd turn my way so I could check her rack. Somebody's boombox began blasting "Eruption," and I launched head first toward my beer. From hot to cold, what a rush.

My forehead slammed onto the pool's hard concrete floor, which set off a brilliant flash of light behind my eyeballs. From surfers' stories, often repeated on the beach, I figured I was about to knock out and drown. "This must be that split-second right before lights out," I thought.

It didn't even take a moment for me to realize I wasn't going to lose consciousness. Relieved, I tried to swim, but couldn't move my arms. "Fuck, shit, fuck," I thought to myself, "I broke my fucking neck." In an instant, the control freak was rendered helpless. Talk about some fucked-up shit.

After a nanosecond of initial panic, I had no fear whatsoever, just waiting, waiting – holding my breath – staying calm while thinking about stuff. There were plenty of people around. Surely someone would notice a motionless kid face down in the water. After a few minutes alone with my thousand scattered thoughts, I faced the obvious. No one was coming to my rescue.

Time was up. Unable to hold my breath any longer, and not wanting to prolong the agony, I decided to draw in the biggest, deepest, lungs-full-of-water breath physically possible. I held on a moment longer to wonder what my friends would think when they heard I died. Would anyone really care? Billy Joel's "Only the Good Die Young" played in my head, and I went for it. I didn't fuck around either, and after forcefully expelling all the air from my lungs I sucked in deep and fast.

At that very moment, somebody rolled me face up. I could not feel their touch, and thought I must have somehow righted myself, so began gasping repeatedly, "Help, help, help."

I heard a voice say, "Don't worry, I've got you."

Even though there are no signs, across the way I heard "You Really Got Me" finishing up on the boombox. Thankfully, Van Halen songs are very short. If I was under for two Allman Brothers songs, I would have been a goner.

Spoiler alert – I didn't die. No idea why. Guess I'm no good.

A little preoccupied at the time, I don't believe I ever thanked the dude who saved me. Thanks!!!

My rescuer wanted to lift me from the pool, but my pre-lifeguard training kicked in and I took control: "Wait, I broke my neck," and "less movement is the best thing for my type of injury."

I asked for a deck chair to be brought into the pool, laid in the flat position, slid underneath me, and four guys to lift me smooth and level from the pool. I stressed the utter importance of keeping me flat, while avoiding exaggerated or jerky movements.

Before I knew it, the guys had done as requested. I lay poolside on a lawn chair, shivering, teeth chattering, with a broken fucking neck.

A fair-sized crowd gathered round, some gawking, others interested in finding out if there was anything they could do for me. Someone went to tell Jonelle that I had stubbed my toe, quite badly. I told a man about my beers sitting on the picnic table, and asked him to "Go grab one for me, crack it open, and pour it down my throat."

He said, "You don't need one of those right now."

"That's exactly what I need right now," I disagreed.

But he wouldn't budge.

Some old guy worked his way to me and started doing chest compressions. I told him, "I didn't drown. I broke my fucking neck."

"It's all right, I'm a doctor," he said.

I let him know that he needed to get the fuck away from me. It turned out that he was a dentist, and against my clear instructions had rolled up a towel, lifted my head, and placed it underneath as a pillow. I sometimes wonder if his well-meaning stupidity caused more paralysis than was necessary. Whatever, it's not his fault that I broke my fucking neck.

After paramedics arrived, they threw on one of those cervical collars, slid a backboard underneath, and then strapped me down. They were lifting me onto a gurney just as Jonelle arrived.

To the ambulance, and soon enough onto the highway to set sail at freeway speed toward Straub Hospital. I requested lights and sirens, but was told, "Your injury isn't life threatening, so we can't."

I bitched slightly, "But I broke my fucking neck, how about just the lights?"

It was not my first, or last, trip to an emergency room. But that night I was the center of attention. As the doctors, nurses, and the rest of the care-crew swarmed me, I thought that they would have run the lights and sirens; just saying.

My Quicksilver board shorts got cut off, which bummed me out because I paid twenty-five bucks for them. Someone asked me to move my toes, then on the other foot. I tried, but couldn't. The only limb that I could move was my left arm, ever so slightly, but couldn't move my hand or fingers.

After some small talk, I felt like getting high, so complained of pain. A nurse placed a couple pills on my tongue, and some water to wash them down. Kind of like junkie communion, followed by a lovely kick-to-the-head pain shot that had me buzzing sweetly by the time the X-rays were developed.

The doctor informed me that I had suffered a compression fracture to the fifth and sixth vertebrae of my cervical spine: a broken fucking neck. Gee, who knew? Even though I couldn't move, and my body felt pins-and-needles tingly-numb all over, laying there higher than a kite while looking up at blurry lights, I was positive I'd be on my feet again in no time flat.

As an orderly wheeled me out of E.R., Jonelle walked beside the gurney and discovered the hash inside my shirt pocket. I meant to leave that shirt behind, but she had retrieved it from poolside. I told her to throw the hash in the trash, just in case the authorities started nosing around. I have no recollection of what happened next, because about that time, the pills kicked in and KO'd me.

*

I awoke the next morning in a private room, with a super-fine nurse bent over, emptying the pee bag hanging from my bedside. A doctor dropped by to explain that my neck vertebrae were not actually broken, just compressed and way out of normal alignment. He sought to remedy my neck bones' sketchy situation with a traction device consisting of weights, a pulley, and a cable attached to a horseshoe-shaped piece of metal with spike-point bolts at the open end. A technician set up the apparatus while the doctor wrenched the horseshoe onto my head. As the bolts tightened, I heard bone crunching from the spikes sinking even deeper into my skull, all the while twisting and yanking my hair. I always hated my hair getting pulled, but couldn't move so didn't punch that doctor in the face. When all mechanical tasks were complete, the weight on the other end of the cable began slowly stretching my cervical spine back into proper alignment.

I needed help with everything: eating, drinking from a straw, talking on the phone. Believe me, when you can't move your hands, the nose never stops itching. Because I could barely move just one arm, the same tech rigged up a nurse-summoning device. All I need do was bat a little ball hanging from the bed's handrail, and one of them honey-skinned island girls came a-running. I seriously don't remember even a slightly ugly nurse at Straub.

Hawaii gets its share of spinal injuries, and Straub was the place to go with that particular malady. With an experienced staff and excellent neurologists, they knew their shit. For patients lacking sensation, a major concern – overlooked often by many care facilities – are bedsores. Every few hours, they rolled me – from one side to either my back or my other side – to relive pressure. A few days in, they removed my Foley catheter and began intermittent catheterization. That's when they insert a catheter, every four hours, into your bladder via the pee-hole, empty you out, then remove the cath. It's far worse than it sounds, especially if you can feel it even a little bit.

Pops showed up to my room two days after my accident, saying he "had a bad feeling," so called home. I believed him, until about five minutes ago when I started thinking that he probably never actually left Oahu. He was beyond heartbroken, and likely feeling totally fucking powerless because he couldn't keep me safe. Control freak runs in the family. On the bright side, I never had to have "the talk" about crashing the car, and/or smoking pot. Though, given the circumstances, I would have preferred a stern lecture, followed by physical abuse and a swift kick to the nuts.

A few days later, some lawyer for the condo complex came by to ask a few questions about my accident. We weren't the "I'll sue you" type, so Pops okayed the interview. Everything started friendly, and lawyer-man seemed sympathetic. After a few fact-check-the-circumstances questions, he asked, "Do you believe that breaking your neck was your fault?"

Pops stopped me before I could answer. But when the lawyer tried to proceed, Pops got up in his face and barked, "Get the fuck out of my son's room."

We decided to get our own lawyer. As it turned out, we were the "I'll sue you" type.

My neurologist needed to check the integrity of my c-spine, in search of bone chips or fragments floating around that might be irritating my spinal cord, and ordered a test called a something-o-gram. It's a technical term. The procedure was relatively simple and straightforward. They punched a needle through my neck bone to inject dye into my spinal column to get a clear picture. It took the doc five tries to get the nineteen-inch needle inserted into the precise spot. Actually, I never saw the needle, just a guess, and gotcha! After each attempt – I could hear the needle crunch-piercing neck bone – he'd take an X-ray. Definitely an ouchie, but I think it was more mental.

I rarely complain about pain, because I don't want to sound like a whiney fuck. Plus, it is what it is, so I just tell myself, "Tough it out, pussy." I only mention it here because I'm telling a story, and I'm a bit curious about how it feels to be a whiney fucker. I have an extremely high threshold for pain, but neck-break pain can get pretty gnarly. My upper arms, shoulders, and back were "hypersensitive," meaning even something as innocuous as the breeze from kitten farts, or the slight touch of a cashmere-wrapped cotton ball felt like a blow torch burning my skin. That hypersensitivity shit only lasted a few months, but every week or so, I still get a bolt of beautiful pain, reminding me that I'm alive.

With a choice of two different downers, prescribed for once every four hours, I could've had hard drugs delivered every two hours if I so desired. Not wanting to get strung out, I dealt with the pain and only partied every couple of days. My favorite was popping a happy pill twenty minutes before dinner, and then slamming the glass of wine delivered with my chow. If Ma would have found out I was enjoying myself like that, I would've heard the Judy Garland speech for the hundredth time. But I was trying to get back over the damn rainbow, and escape to Kansas was impossible due to my inability to click my heels together.

My first day in the hospital, Jonelle brought me an AM/FM cassette player, but no cassettes. There were a few new songs on the radio, "Boulevard" and "Late in the Evening." Even though the music takes me back to my hospital room, I still love those tunes. Jonelle visited just about every day, but seemed frazzled from raising two babies, her man abandoning her, and me crippling myself. Barbara the cocktail waitress visited every single day, often with pizza, and spent hours at my side. I wasn't really into The Police, but she brought me the Zenyatta Mondatta cassette, which I wore out until Jonelle bought me The Wall.

Pops sported a Hawaiian holiday for Ma and Joe, who seemed very, very bummed about my throwing away that hash. A few days after arrival, Joe told me that he dove into the pool from the same spot where I failed to stick the landing, and reportedly it went quite well. They visited for a few hours daily, but it didn't stop them from enjoying their island getaway. It was annoying listening to all the fun they were having, but I'm kind of glad they didn't camp out in my room for the entire daily visitation hours.

A sweet waitress from work came to see me several times, but what really stood out were those who didn't visit. My hospital was fairly close to Matteo's downtown, and not even one of the dudes from the kitchen ever stopped by or called. That really bummed me out, and is why I'm one of those who tend to visit hospitalized friends. The worst offender was my surf buddy, Dick, who only called once. He never even asked me how I was, only caring about where my hash was.

When a muscle that was once paralyzed becomes controllable again, they call it "return." Though I remained almost totally paralyzed, about three weeks in, I was starting to move some paralyzed stuff again. They were minor improvements. Nevertheless, I figured I'd be fully recovered by year's end. I dig a challenge, so I looked forward to working myself back into fighting shape, and then once again strapping on my dancing shoes.

After a month in traction, they unbolted that horseshoe thingy from my skull. Like before, it twisted and pulled my hair. By then I was used to pain, during even the simplest procedure, so didn't get mad or even think about punching the dude. My vertebrae hadn't fully mended. So they strapped me into a Philadelphia collar, requiring me to keep my chin up at all times. With neck bones back in their original alignment, acute care was complete.

*

My next layover along recovery road was spinal injury rehabilitation at Rancho Los Amigos Hospital, in Downey, California. Before we departed Straub Hospital, a shitload of drugs happened into my bloodstream via syringe. I then caught an ambulance to the airport, while seemingly floating atop a special gurney. The medical transport off the island required my very own flight nurse and six first-class seats on a jumbo jet. I'm a baller. I had foolishly believed I'd be able to have at least a couple of first-class meals on my long flight. But it wasn't to be, because next thing I knew, I was at Rancho meeting the very nice Dr. Gilghoff.

After a month in a private room in Hawaii, with pills on command, wine with dinner, and super-hot nurses that arrived immediately once summoned, Rancho was beyond disappointing. It was a vast, cold, creepy institution, originally built at the beginning of the twentieth century to corral TB victims until dirt nap time. They switched to polio when it was big. But even though Dr. Jonas Salk solved that issue, there will always be a need for creepy facilities. I ended up on ward 903, in a room with six beds. There were four rooms like it on my ward, and four wards per building. Multiply that by several exact buildings, sprawled across so much land that it spread out across Imperial Highway, and that's lots of sickness.

The joint was run by L.A. County and the State of California. Civil service employees are the best. If I was lucky, a nurse responded to my call-light within the hour. Plus, I had five fucking roommates, and only one black-and-white TV mounted high up on the other side of the room. But it didn't matter, because I had no say. Unhappy with my new living arrangements, I immediately called Pops to beg-whine, "You got to get me out of here." I told of my two gangbanger, gunshot-victim roommates, hoping he'd be shocked enough to get me out of that shithole and back to privacy and room service.

A Foley catheter was inserted prior to my departure from Hawaii, and it remained up inside me for more than two days. By the time they got around to yanking that tube out, all the lubricant used to ease insertion had long since dried up. I still remember there being a shocking amount of pain, best described as what a garden hose wrapped with sandpaper getting ripped out my pee-hole might feel like.  I went back to intermittent catheterization, but soon my bladder started emptying on its own; it's called "kicking off." I then got a condom catheter, "gizmo," glued onto my pecker to catch pee in a leg bag. It got a bit messy, but a few pubes getting ripped out is way better than a tube up your dick! Plus, I could pee on an occasional asshole's foot without them noticing.

During my months at Rancho, I was blessed to have many lovely, caring, and companionate nurses – strong, noble women who do a selfless job. I can't even imagine what it would be like if the world was full of me's. No doubt there'd be loads of suffering people waiting for someone to clean poop from between their buttocks. After a month of being a total bitchy, whiney, uncompromising, demanding brat, I learned to appreciate them. Not just because they spent so much time with their hands on my dick, because they undoubtedly made my situation as comfortable as possible. I killed them bitches with kindness, and meant it. I said please and thank you without fail, as well as overlooking stuff like getting pizza shoved in my nose during feeding. If my girls needed to catch up on soap opera watching, who was I to bitch if they multi-tasked? I even laughed off the time – midway through getting my temperature taken – when I discovered a rectal thermometer hanging out of my mouth – yuck!

I still got it bad for nurses, and there were several memorable RNs, LVNs and nurse's aides that I have nothing but the kindest thoughts, best wishes, and loads of love for. But none will ever hold a candle to the most spectacular nurse that ever graced my world, Anita, a smoking-hot redhead that a flower would be wise to seek beauty tips from. Her toned, shapely legs rose from earth to form the pedestal for a round 'n' tight booty that could make a dead man salivate. She was a total flirt, possessing sparkling eyes that lit up a goddess' face, which became even lovelier while laughing at my corny, off-color jokes. I will always love her.

I could write several chapters about those helpful ladies from Rancho, other caregivers I've known over the years, or even the nurses that I've watched performing on the internet who only wear their cute nurse's outfits long enough to set the scene. But I shall leave it at my all-time favorite.

I was at Rancho for rehabilitation, which meant learning how to function as independently as possible. There were medical, therapeutic, and mental health services. A few times a week, and far too early in the morning, the doctors would gang up and make their rounds to scribble notes while discussing treatments amongst themselves. As for the mental health services, I avoided the shrink on our ward. He was an alright dude, but I saw spilling my guts as a sign of weakness. I'm old school – weakness will not be tolerated.

Therapy was divided into occupational and physical therapy. My OT (occupational therapist) taught me how to perform daily tasks despite my limitations, and knew which adaptive equipment or device would make certain tasks possible. For example, it's hard to button a button with just one hand, but there's a device for it. My PT (physical therapist) doled out most of the work out to her assistant, Christine, a no-nonsense taskmaster who refused to let me get away with being lazy. We worked on bigger-picture stuff, like overall strength and independent mobility. My cell roommates and me gave Christine way too much shit, but the truth is, we needed more like her. Thank goodness she was extremely patient, and shrugged off our meanness while keeping the program moving forward.

Doctors and therapists are a curious lot. In order to design my rehab plan, they continuously questioned, poked, and prodded. Some probing, too, but mostly late at night and afterward I was instructed to "Never tell a soul." At least once a month they'd run a variety of sensory and motor skills tests, one of which I called, "Fuck, not that shit again." That little mind-fuck required me to look away while someone used an open safety pin to either prick or trick me. Every couple of inches, I'd say if I felt sharp or smooth. Other times, they used a pinwheel, so I could report where I felt the pin pricks. Roger Waters lied – after the pinpricks, there were plenty more "Aaaaaaahs." Another hoot of a test, I'd close my eyes so they could reposition one of my limbs then ask which direction – up/down, left/right – it had traveled? I had no idea.

One morning, to my utter delight, I discovered that I could twitch the knee muscles of my left leg. It became big news around my ward, and everyone seemed quite excited for me. The very next day, Christine began EMS (electrical muscle stimulation) to exercise the leg muscles via jolts delivered though strategically placed electrodes. My injury was so high up it severely affected my breathing, leaving me with about 60% normal vital capacity. So while the electrodes were passively exercising my legs, I did diaphragm exercises, using a contraption called RIPP (routine intermittent positive pressure), to expand my lungs. The RIPP machine was just a vacuum cleaner with a mouth piece that blew instead of sucking.

A human spinal cord transmits its motor and sensory signals through opposite sides from one another. Because I was fifteen and did everything half-assed, I got myself an incomplete spinal injury – technical term: "Brown-Sequard Syndrome." My paralyzed right side can feel temperature and pain near normal-ish. My left side has movement, but I could burn spots with a blow torch and not know. Then there are the involuntary movements. Even though I wouldn't feel it, if I were to pound my toes with a framing hammer, my leg would spasm like an epileptic having a seizure on a trampoline. I get a kick out of spasms.

By the second month post-fuck-up, my right arm had gotten a fair amount of return, but remained mostly paralyzed. I was able to move my left arm pretty good, even the fingers. One of the first things I did after regaining control of my fingers was flip off my shit-talking roommate. Fredo was a quick-witted, cocky dude with an easy smile and – when he wanted – very likeable. One summer night, he was in the "wrong place at the wrong time" and got shot several times, leaving him paralyzed from the knees down.

Another roommate, his homeboy Michael, was also shot in the spine and left partially paralyzed. Although they were gunned down in separate encounters with rival gangs, those two had grown up across the street from each other and were jumped into 18th Street, Bonnie Brae Locos, a few years before their severe lead poisoning. Both he and Michael loved the old black-and-white, noir gangster flicks, and after lights out, we often watched classic movies like (the original) Scarface, Menace to Society, or Little Caesar; pretty much anything with Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, or Edward G. Robinson.

In a time when phone conversations were private and music was public, Fredo rolled around our ward with a boombox resting in his lap, endlessly pumping out Queen's "Another One Bites the Dust," obtained using the old school "file sharing" method of waiting for the desired song to come on the radio and then pushing the record button quick enough as to not cut off too much of the intro. But he also cranked Motown and rock oldies playing on K-EARTH 101 FM. I fell in love with songs like "Eighteen with a Bullet," "My Guy," and "I'm Your Puppet." But after I hipped him to hard-rock bands, Aerosmith, Floyd, The Who, Stones, and Sabbath, Fredo became quite the rocker.

A little more than two months after my accident, I sat my ass in a wheelchair for the first time. It required a sling underneath, and a hydraulic lift to transfer me from bed to chair. Even though my hospital bed was adjustable and I sat up all the time, sitting upright with feet on a footrest was completely draining. I barely tolerated the scheduled fifteen minutes, getting lightheaded while holding back a hurl. But within a few weeks, I got used to sitting in a wheelchair, and then was out of bed for most of my days. The neck brace and weak arms hampered my mobility, so PT hooked me up with an old, rickety, slow electric wheelchair.

I was on the road again, and began attending school. About a hundred yards from my bed was Rancho Los Amigos High School, a one-room schoolhouse with a midget teacher and, literally, a classroom full of drooling retards. Just your typical L.A. public school. In those days, the term "retard" was not offensive – to retards. I didn't dig doing 2 + 2 math problems or reading assignments from Fun with Dick and Jane, and without the internet, I had not yet developed my little-person fetish. Believing myself above that crap, I ditched school to smoke pot with the janitor. No one really seemed to care, so after two days, I never went again. That was a total fuck-up, because if I had done the "school work" at Rancho, I would have received credit and not had to redo tenth grade the following year.

In the room right next to mine lived Mark, who was rendered completely paralyzed from a skiing accident, such a devastating injury that he required a ventilator to breathe. Mark was a brilliant and fun-loving guy with a positive outlook, plus he had a VCR, color TV, and a massive bootlegged VHS movie collection. We'd gather round his bed to watch the very latest movies: Raging Bull, Caddyshack, The Empire Strikes Back, Used Cars, Penitentiary, Up in Smoke, and pretty much anything worth a view. The movie stars back then were all manly men: The Duke, McQueen, Eastwood, Bronson, Caan, De Niro, Pacino, etc, but it seems like nowadays all we got is a bunch of man-bitches. When even James Bond is a pussy-whipped metro, it's hard for me to enjoy twenty-first-century cinema.

The food at Rancho was atrocious, the same fowl gruel served to inmates locked up at Los Angeles County Jail. I only ate about part of a meal per day, if that, and lost more than thirty pounds during my stay. Pops didn't think it necessary to leave me pizza money, but Mark got food delivery several times a week and always shared. I thank God for him and his cool, generous dad, Vic, funding those treats. I often wished Pops would back me up like Vic did for his son. If he felt like any Rancho staff had crossed a line, Vic would rage furiously till shit got straight. Right on, Vic.

One of the toughest things about institutional existence was being surrounded by misery. In my room lived a kid named Mike, who suffered from a rare form of muscular dystrophy. Ten years earlier, at the age of five, his parents had abandoned him to live out his years at Rancho. In Mark's room, there was a sweet teenage girl with a beautiful, rosy-cheeked smile. Olivia had been run down by a drunk driver, leaving her paralyzed with a traumatic brain injury. A cute little Asian girl, around eight or nine, stayed in our room for a few days. She had been rendered a vegetable after some drunken anesthesiologist fucked up the oxygen supply during a routine dental procedure. Those sad stories could be repeated tenfold. The sorrow evident in parents' eyes was heartbreaking, and far too common around that place.

My actual physician, Dr. Barros, was a cold-hearted clinician who I never really liked. She ran the pediatric department, and gave the impression that us older, delinquent spinal injury kids were not worth her time. Three months in, after my left leg had gotten stronger, I asked about updating my physical therapy. "When are they going to start teaching me to walk again?"

Dr. Barros remained expressionless and, while barely looking up from her clipboard, spoke in a matter of fact tone. "No one told you? You're never going to walk again."

Nope, no one had mentioned that.

1980 was an election year, with everyone in my world sure that Jimmy Carter would win handily. But that was only because Ronald Reagan was just a B movie actor, and crazy old heartless warmonger to boot. I remember a comedian saying, "Ronald Reagan is sixty-nine years old, and if he becomes president, he'll have his finger on the button. My grandfather's sixty-nine and we won't even let him have the TV remote."

By late on election night, it became clear that Reagan would be our 40th president. The following day's L.A. Times' vote recap showed that Reagan received 489 of the 538 available electoral votes, kicking Carter's peanut-faming ass quite handily. Ma and her friends seemed to believe Reagan's election meant a nuclear conflict was imminent, but I remained agnostic toward our next president. I had liked Carter in sixth grade, but he lost me with the whole Iranian hostage wimp out.

After almost four months of my neck being braced, I underwent a series of "flexion and extension" X-rays to determine if my neck bones were stable enough to lose my itchy, stinky Philadelphia collar. Days later, I received the bad news: a spinal fusion surgery would be necessary. The procedure required removing a slice off of my rib and then fusing it to my c-spine to stabilize the area. It promised to be an extremely painful procedure, with plenty of room for error and a whole slew of possible side-effects. One of the guaranteed outcomes would be loss of much range of motion in my neck, leaving me barely able to twist my head from side to side or tilt it up and down. I lobbied everyone – Pops, doctors, God – for a second opinion, arguing that at one time or another, I had broken several different bones and they all had healed up on their own. My pleas fell on deaf ears. Surgery was scheduled for early in the New Year.

One of Ma's fellow cabbies, Tip, had sent over a Heaven and Hell LP autographed by Tony Iommi and Geezer Butler. Ma also made a cassette so I could listen to it. Actually, lots of cassettes, but I mistakenly never put Electric Ladyland into the deck. In early December, I was stunned upon hearing radio reports that John Lennon had been shot. He was in surgery, but no other details were given. I dug through my cassettes and popped the first Beatles tape I happened upon into my deck, and then was shocked and saddened by the first lyric prophetically emanating from that tiny speaker: "Nothing to do to save his life, call his wife in." I knew right then that John Lennon had died, and within the hour, news reports confirmed his passing. It's weird how shit happens.

Many kind, caring community volunteers donated their time and love to the patients. I don't believe a week passed without someone going out of their way to do something nice for us. Disabled comic Gene Michener put on a free show for our building, and a local TV show, Eye on L.A., videotaped it. I even made it onto TV, cracking up at his hilarious handicap jokes. Lions and Kiwanis would often visit to do magic, or dress like clowns and make balloon animals. Once every month, a church group brought a wonderful treat of cake and ice cream. But my absolute favorite delicacy was candy stripe nurses. Every once in a blue-ball moon, a few sixteen- and seventeen-year-old babes would arrive wearing the cutest little outfits you'd ever want to see fall to the floor. One of them candy babes was even sweet enough to adjourn with me to a secluded spot to make out. She could have given me a lot more sugar, but it was fun and memorable.

Christmas at Rancho Los Amigos was kick-ass, and surprisingly festive. A gaggle of movie stars made the rounds from ward to ward to hand out autographed 8x10s and make us feel special. I was beyond thrilled to meet The Fonz and Joni. Mork didn't show up, but Mindy gave me a peck on the cheek under some mistletoe. I got stacks of presents from family, friends, and complete strangers. My godparents, "Uncle Eddie" and "Aunt Barbara," gave me a kick-ass nineteen-inch color TV so the nurses and I could watch General Hospital in living color and keep up with the goings on of Luke and Laura. No longer stuck with the room's channel consensus, at night I'd watch Happy Days, Chips, Mork & Mindy, and That's Incredible. During the midnight hours, it was Marx Brothers, W.C. Fields, Mae West, or Bing and Bob in those "road movies." It's not like I had school the next day.

The best gift of all was a little cassette player made by Sony, called a Walkman, which one listened to through headphones. The quality of the sound was like nothing I had ever heard, as if God was creating the music right inside my very head. I wanted everyone to experience its cutting-edge, otherworldly sound, insisting anyone around give it a listen. Someone loved it so much that my Walkman got gone. I took it hard, and not because it reportedly cost two hundred bucks. You see, even though I was a thieving piece of shit, I felt like Rancho patients were part of my extended family of misery, so during my entire stay I never even considered lifting anyone's stuff.

Since first visiting my hospital bedside in Hawaii, Ma preached of visualization and positive thinking as my best path to recovery. When I became able to hold a book, she overloaded me with visualization and self-hypnosis manuals. I skipped most of them, except for Silva Mind Control, hoping that I might discover a way to mind-meld nurses into sex slaves. I do not doubt the power of positivity, and often utilize visualization to complete tasks quickly and efficiently. But those techniques did not prove useful for healing my spinal issues. One book she brought did pique more than my passing interest. No One Here Gets Out Alive got read several times and made me a huge Doors fan.

All the activity going on in my room regularly woke me hours before I wanted to face the day. Sometimes I'd keep my eyes shut, wishing and hoping that the whole thing was a very bad dream, and that when I opened them I'd be back in my bed at the condo in Hawaii, with my little brothers in their bed right next to mine. Then we could all jump up and down, roughhousing on the mattresses, and I'd destroy them little fuckers.

*

When the New Year began, one morning while I was still in bed, Christine came by to start me on a series of neck exercises. My rehab team had reevaluated the earlier X-rays and determined that a spinal fusion procedure would not be needed, which thrills me to this day. Quadriplegics never dance a jig, so I just happy-danced in my head.

Ten days of isometric exercise – to the left, right, forward, and back, pushing and holding my head tight against the brace for a five count – and then they freed my sticky, stinky head. Picturing the grunge clinging to that plastic neck brace where my greasy scalp had lived for months literally makes me scratch the back of my head every time.

In the meantime, there were bigger things going on in the world. It is often said that "weakness is provocative," which proved true the very day Ronald Reagan was inaugurated. After 444 days in captivity, the U.S. hostages were released from Iran within hours of his swearing in. I was no longer agnostic about our new leader, and liked Ronald Regan from the get-go. I pretty much kept that to myself, so my circle of Democrat friends wouldn't think me stupid and heartless, like half of you reading this.

As a resident of a hospital overpopulated with paraplegics, I saw my share of wheelies popped. It looked fun, so once I lost the neck brace, it was past time to go for it. In just under half a second, I got from sitting upright to head-slamming hard onto vinyl tiled concrete floor. After enough nurses arrived to get me back into my chair – and stopped busting my chops – I gave wheelies a second shot. Same result. I've flipped over backward since then, some of those spills quite spectacular, but haven't willingly tried a wheelie in thirty-five years.

With my neck officially healed, I began getting weekend passes. On my first trip home, Pops informed me I needed a haircut. And even though I refused, the next thing I knew I was in the kitchen with that motherfucker chopping off a year's worth of frizzy hair. Between the forced shearing and a minor case of Arby's food poisoning, it was a completely shitty weekend. Years later, Pops claimed the haircut was an attempt to motivate me to fight harder for recovery. It's true, I do excel when challenged or belittled. And during the following months I made some impressive gains, but I chock it all up to the brace coming off expanding my therapy options.

Indeed, the physical therapy ramped up over the next couple of months. The biggie was learning to transfer in and out of bed, amongst other daily destinations, with the help of a sliding board. That was a piece of wood with an ultra-smooth finish, placed under my leg/buttocks on one end. The other end rested on my objective to bridge over the gap from chair to there. I also had to acquire an ultra-important habit, for every hour sitting in my wheelchair, I must relieve pressure from my ass for at least a couple of minutes. Probably the biggest mental challenge of all was learning how to do everything left-handed, because I never got return to my right side.

Often, while the nurses were doing stuff to me that I preferred to ignore, I'd close my eyes and sing along to whatever was playing in my head or on the boombox. There were a few nurses who seemed to genuinely enjoy my voice. They'd even encourage me to sing for them, and I'd gladly croon a panty-dropping serenade or two while they did what they do. A fruitless serenade of nurses was all fine and dandy, but I still wanted to be a cock-rocking guitar hero.

From the moment I arrived to Rancho, occupational therapy had regularly pushed devices or suggested some kind of arm bracing for this or that mundane, everyday task. So when I was able to move the fingers of my left hand pretty well, I told OT Susan of my desire to play guitar again, but could not hold a pick. She thought playing guitar would be great therapy, so she sent me to orthotics – the brace-making department – where they measured me for a right-arm brace configured to hold a guitar pick.

Nothing got done fast at that shop. Months later, when the time came for my final fitting, I had come to terms with reality. I would not be able to play guitar unless my left hand got far more return of strength and dexterity. So I never took delivery of my custom-made, guitar-pick-holding right-arm brace. I'd wager that brace is likely still sitting upon a shelf of the Rancho Los Amigos orthotics shop with four decades' worth of gathered dust.

At some point, Fredo and me caused a bit more turmoil than usual, and it was decided a few nights of getting to bed at six was an appropriate punishment. The first night, minutes after our wheelchairs were rolled away, Fredo scooted on a desk chair all the way across our room and on outside the backdoor to smoke a cig. I demanded the nurses bring my chair, arguing that because Fredo did not need a wheelchair to get around, I was the only one being punished. But no one cared.

The next night, come punishment hour, I loudly refused to get in bed. I was spitting mad as I hollered about how evil and inhumane it was to remove my legs (wheelchair) as a punishment. When they began forcibly pushing me toward my bed, I started breaking whatever was in reach. Attempts to restrain me were met with the swinging of a stethoscope toward anyone that got close. Hospital security arrived in the form of a tall-and-wide-as-a-mountain L.A. County Deputy Sheriff. I got a mouth on me, and energetically cussed him with a stream of expletive-laced expletives peppered with attacks on his size and strength compared to mine. At some point, his sexuality was strongly questioned. He looked about ready to blow his top, but resisted the beat down being begged for. Instead, the deputy remained calm while he held my arms, tossed me onto the bed, and then strapped me down. Totally unnecessary, because once they rolled my chair away, I was fully secured to that bed.

A major component of rehabilitation is teaching new gimps how to function and integrate into society. To that end, PT took a field trip to a local supermarket. Even though it was only a block away, I rode a special bus with about ten other movers, shakers, and droolers. When there's a cripple around, folks do everything in their power not to stare. That was the day I first realized what a brilliant opportunity for thievery my wheelchair provided. Before my injury, I'd have to wait till no one was looking to boost something. But suddenly, all I need do was give someone a "Why are you staring at me?" look and folks looked away, leaving me free to stash whatever my heart desired. For the next ten years, I utilized that technique to help myself to thousands of dollars' worth of merchandise. Thanks, rehab.

My ward focused on pediatrics, and spinal injury expertise was secondary. The opposite was true across the parking lot in the 700 building, home to the adult spinal rehab program. The place was packed, sixteen rooms with six beds each, and a waiting list for any available bed. They didn't take no shit over there. If a patient missed three therapy classes, they were discharged. The average time from admission to completing rehabilitation was about two months.

I had already been at Rancho for five months when I began attending the quad mat class on the adult ward, taught by an amazingly hot, but all-business PT, Jan. With her guidance and knowledge, I made far more progress during my first week in her class than my entire time at Rancho. I loved it so much that I requested a transfer to the adult program. Even though I told Pops about my rapid progress and the new skills I'd picked up, Dr. Barros was against my transferring. She sealed my fate by telling Pops, "They all smoke pot over there."

It pissed me off that I couldn't go to a place a thousand times more beneficial to my recovery. Even worse, I couldn't rub their noses in the fact that I already smoked pot most days. My rehab team decided that I needed more incentive to be actively involved in my therapy. So they made a rule that if I missed three therapy sessions in a week, I wouldn't get a weekend pass. I hated going to Pops' so much, I began skipping my OT and PT appointments on purpose. But for those weeks leading up to going on pass at Ma's, I'd have a perfect attendance record. Then Joe and friends would lug me up three flights of stairs for a weekend of pot, beer, pizza, and cable TV.

A few months passed with me missing most of my therapy, not going to school, and basically just hanging out in the front lobby, smoking cigarettes and offering dog-eat-dog smiles with accompanying sincere compliments to female passersby. From on high, it was decided that my rehab was complete. When the release date got set, I gave another shot at a transfer to the "Adult Program," but no one but me and Jan saw any benefit from that. I knew I was capable of so much more, but the bridge had been burnt.

To this day, Ma remains convinced that I had my accident on purpose. Several times I've heard her say, "There's no such thing as an accident." She calls them "on purposes." For years, I have been told laziness keeps me in the wheelchair. Ma thinks very highly of me. I'm her favorite unwanted child. "Life ain't easy for a boy named" Cue.

I'll be the first to admit that life at fifteen wasn't anywhere near the breeze I thought it was going to be. It was downright shitty. But what kind of weak fuck breaks their neck on purpose? I really don't understand how Ma could even remotely believe that I'm lazy. If that was true, I'd spend all day in bed, having my needs attended to by a cute Filipino nursing staff, watching soap operas and begging for another sponge bath. "Now the front, honey."

It's hard not getting at least a bit philosophical rethinking the events of this period. I lived my life expecting the shittiest possible outcomes, and then when things go great, it's always a pleasant surprise. That's why the whole neck-breaking shit didn't catch me totally unawares. Once one realizes that the light at the end of the tunnel is an oncoming train, they can plan accordingly. I did learn to trust my instincts more. Had I followed my gut the night I broke my fucking neck, I would've stayed out all night instead of returning home as Pops had requested. On the bright side, now whenever I fuck life-shit up, I can confidently say, "Not the biggest mistake I ever made!"

In mid-April, my Stainless brand wheelchair was delivered to Rancho. With semi-pneumatic tires and backrest rising to the top of my shoulders, it wasn't very easy to push. But it rolled far smoother than the ancient hunk loaner I had before it. A few days later, after an eight-month hospitalization, I was discharged. Instead of being able to walk, Rancho Los Amigos Hospital rehabilitated me to "independent with assist." That term made absolutely no sense to me. When assistance is needed, it is not independence!

6

And so, back to the real world to witness years fly by from a seated position. Pops' newest house had a pool in the backyard, which my therapists thought was great. By simultaneously providing buoyancy and resistance, pool therapy is the best exercise for gimp fucks like me. In theory, one could float, swim, goof around, and pee while gaining strength, flexibility, and balance. I bugged and begged daily to go swimming. But Pops' fear of water kept me out of that beckoning, beautiful blue kidney-shaped body of water. I could never conjure words to convey what a bummer that shit was.

My "independent with assist" meant Pops helped me to transfer, and clearly did not pay attention when we worked on the correct technique during my rehab. Instead, I was grabbed around the rib cage and then yank-lift-twisted to be hurled toward the target, leaving ribs and/or shoulders aching. Within days, I quit requesting assistance whenever I needed in/out or on/off. I got myself in a bind a few times, and had to summon help, but my stubbornness allowed me to gain more strength and functionality during the first few weeks at home than I made the entire seven months at Rancho. I became fully independent within three weeks of my hospital discharge. Suck it.

It takes a quadriplegic way longer to perform even the simplest of tasks. If I'm out of bed within fifteen minutes after my eyes open, that is lightning quick. Then a shit, shower, and shave takes at least an hour. Sometimes, when it looks like I'm struggling, it is only because I am. But stubborn me's default is to deny needing help. At times, I've found myself in frustrating situations, unable to complete the relatively simple task at hand. When a perceptive passerby notices my dilemma and asks, "Do you need help?" reflexively I will answer, "No thank you." Then, as they continue on their way, I beat myself up a little – "Yes, Raz, you really do need help." Most of the time, the mere thought that someone is going to insist on lending a hand will give me that psycho-boost needed to get it done on my own.

I had the option of waiting until after summer vacation to begin school at Estancia High, but chose to get out of that fucking jail of a house for at least part of the day. It was too late in the semester to receive credit, so my attendance was for socialization, integration, and a few other pedagogic buzzwords. I was so eager for school that I'd be early and waiting at the end of our driveway for the bus. I had the bus all to myself, and my regular driver was pretty cool. We'd smoke Marlboros and bullshit on the way, and one day he asked how I ended up in the chair. When I told him that I broke my fucking neck, he said, "But you can still move your leg. You're lucky."

I said, "I don't feel lucky. I'm just not as unlucky as I might have been." But the more I thought about it, I came to realize that bad luck is luck, too.

I wasn't able to push my wheelchair very far, or fast, but there was a very sweet, Hawaiian-looking cutie pie that would chauffer me around campus. At lunch, she'd roll me out behind the gym, to where the stoner kids hung out smoking cigarettes while boomboxes cranked out KMET, KLOS, or cassettes of AC/DC, Van Halen, Skynyrd, ZZ Top, plus, of course, Sabbath and Zeppelin. The going-to-a-new-school experience was far different than any I had before crippling myself. The stoners at Estancia were super cool, and immediately took me in like a long-lost friend. Whenever they went out onto the field, they'd pop a wheelie and push me along to join the crowd. That was a big help, because a wheelchair's tiny front casters get stuck in grass, ruts, or whatever lay ahead, making lawns nearly impossible to navigate solo.

No more shop class for me, but I'd bet nowadays disabled kids get accommodated in shop with a student helper to construct the project for them. Can the "special needs" student then point at their wooden lamp and say, "Look what I built"? I still had PE, and for the first time, I liked it. Coach and me were on the same page, gung ho and raring to get me in better shape. A few years earlier, one of his football players had broken their neck in a car wreck, motivating Coach to study up on adapted exercise. Even though the equipment was lacking and time was short, the man was always available to help make sure I got a decent workout.

About a month after leaving Rancho, I rolled up to the passenger-side door of the 57 Chevy, removed my footrests, grabbed the top of the window frame, and pulled. There I stood, holding onto the Chevy's door, while Pops stared like he had seen a ghost. I was pretty excited myself, and twisted my hips to direct my butt toward the car seat and then landed with a bounce. I smiled while pointing toward the sliding board Pops held. "Guess we won't be needing that."

"How long have you been able to do that?" he asked.

I had never even tried to stand up before that day. Apparently, using my left leg to push myself backward – an integral part of how I propelled my wheelchair – strengthened my quad muscle. The stronger left leg, combined with my right leg spasm locking that leg straight whenever I put weight on it, and shazam – me stand. First time was the charm.

Folks love devices that I most often view as cumbersome and useless, so I rejected most of them the Rancho therapists tried to saddle me with. Pops was the tinkerer, wannabe-inventor type, and at times came up with some handy stuff. But mostly it was a bunch of rough outcomes. He'd see me struggling and, wanting to invent a better mousetrap, ask, "What if I rigged a _______?"

I'd usually tell him something like, "I wouldn't use it, too much trouble for both of us."

I tried shooting down his plan of getting a handicap van, but that did not deter him from scoring a 1976 Dodge van. Never mind that there was no lift, or that I needed to duck my head due to the low ceiling, Pops merely removed the rooftop with a grinder wheel attached to his drill. Over the cutout opening, he installed a junkyard-find fiberglass bubbletop shell that wasn't quite long enough, and then painted it with some house paint from the shed. It looked funky, and was just tall enough to catch overhangs at fast-food drive-thrus. He built two narrow ramps, so short that the unreasonable incline delivered quite a thrill, and took much effort while entering and exiting the vehicle. With his jerry-rigged chair anchor system, it took a good twenty minutes to hit the road, and another twenty at the destination.

My step mom Jonelle had been kicked to the curb so that Barbara, the cocktail waitress from Hawaii, could shack up with Pops. Within hours of coming home from Rancho, I realized Barbara was a psychotic bitch. Like a light switch flipping, she went from sweet friend at my hospital bedside to beyond-unreasonable, power-mad wannabe authority figure. She might have stood a better chance of receiving even an ounce of respect had she not previously regaled me with stories of her pot smoking, drinking, snorting coke, and all the cocks she and her sorority sisters had eagerly feasted upon during her wild Chico State days. To put it mildly, we started off on the wrong paralyzed foot. I was so puzzled by her new persona that I eventually became fed up enough to ask, "Why do you got to be such a bitch?"

The next morning, she casually said to Pops, "You know what Raz called me last night?"

I hoped that honesty might lessen the severity of Pops' wrath, so I blurted out, "I called her a bitch." Even though his bitch was a bitch, Pops became enraged and delivered a whap-didley backhand right to my kisser.

Three months after being discharged from Rancho, I returned for "Spinal Injury Clinic." My team checked to see if I was in good health, adapting to the world, and what kind of supplies were needed. I excitedly reported my achieving full independence and, the best news of all, being able to stand up. I fully believed, with all my improvements, that they'd readmit me, get me some leg braces, teach me to walk, and, most importantly of all, get me the fuck out of Pops' place. My history of missing therapy and disregarding doctors' orders were still fresh in their minds, so no one gave a rat's ass about me rehabbing even a minute more.

Disheartened, I said goodbye and rolled my ass to the canteen and scored a pack of Marlboros, a hot dog, and a bag of cheese popcorn. While enjoying my comfort food, I met a mid-twenties paraplegic, who told me he'd been in a wheelchair for five years. It seemed like an eternity, and I told him as much. He agreed, but became quite animated, explaining the most current research as he dug a folded Xeroxed article from his pocket to show me the study results. Apparently, a cure for spinal injury was just around the corner. If the "promising trials" moved forward at their current pace, a cure was "possible" in the next couple of years.

I was happier than a pig dancing in sweet, savory shit that I wouldn't be spending five years paralyzed!

When school let out on the last day, I dreaded going home to spend a long, dreary summer with no escape. By then, my cute Hawaiian friend frequently sat side-saddle on my lap whenever we hung out behind the gym. She only lived about a block and a half from me, and even though I liked her a lot, I never tried to contact her outside school. I had no idea what to do, because before Viagra, sex was hit or miss for me. Prior to my injury, if I had a sweetie who dug me like her, I would have tried spending as much alone time with her as the father would tolerate. I dreaded the thought of Pops or Barbara getting anywhere near her, and I didn't have a car or any prospect of independent travel, so all I got was a pleasant memory of her sweetness, helpfulness, and cute smile.

Boredom led to me running up a long-distance phone bill. Pops was so pissed at me for talking forty-two bucks' worth, that I was no longer allowed to call Ma. Being stuck around the house all day drove me bonkers. I was a kid who loved to roam, but instead spent long hours sitting at the end of our driveway, soaking up sun or chatting with random passersby. When everyone was gone, I'd still call Ma to bitch and moan about Pops and Barbara. I'd also call my Rancho friends. Mark's dad Vic had taken Fredo in, and they lived in Oregon. Imagine Pops' surprise when he received a $175 long-distance bill. Imagine my surprise when Ma agreed to let me move in with her.

During the ride to Ma's, Pops said, "You can change your name if you want." He had named me after his father, so I understood it to mean he was choosing his bitch over blood, and inviting me to leave the family. Once he drove off, I figured I'd never see him again until right before the pine box slammed shut.

Even though Ma's place sat atop a massive amount of stairs, friends with cars would often lug me down and ride me around. I actually got out far more often than at Pops' place. But I mostly sat up there playing Atari games or looking out the bay window at traffic passing along Beverly Glen below. At least we had cable TV and killer tunes, and pot smoking wasn't banned.

Ma's little Kodak 110 camera got overworked whenever there was a special occasion or the cats did something particularly cute. The exposed film cartridges would then pile up until all the rolls went to Thrifty's at the same time to be developed. It became a fun family event whenever we got our snapshots back. With no "photo-tagging" or other embedded data, we'd sit around the living room trying to recall the when or where to write info on the back of the picture. One evening, while sorting through twenty rolls' worth, Joe smirked while holding a photo up for me to see. "Look, this one's way old."

It was a few days after the one-year anniversary of my accident. Yet there I stood, frozen in time alongside Joe in the same living room wearing our finest polyester dress-up clothes. I wasn't bummed. Well, maybe slightly. Occasionally I'm asked if I ever dream of myself walking. I do, but remain aware that my wheelchair exists. It's hard to explain, so I'll spare you the five hundred words. I will say that some of my favorite dreams are those where I am skateboarding, because the two things that I miss most are skateboarding, and doggystyle. But not in that order!

*

When I checked in with my spinal-brothers up in Oregon and Mark found out that I lived in an architecturally undesirable location, he invited me to move in with his family. A few weeks later, we met up at Rancho Hospital and I hitched a ride north with him. We made pretty good time, arriving about twelve hours after leaving Downey, CA. I looked out the van's window in complete awe at Oregon's spectacular towering pines painting the landscape shades of green and brown, their aroma filling the nostrils with the forest's siren song to seek out a trail and explore the wild. Or was that some killer pot we were toking?

Mark's house was a two-story on a wooded lot in the Gresham section of Portland, with a ramp that rose from a spot beside the garage and wrapped around the house to a second-story deck. The upstairs dining room's bay window showcased a spectacular panoramic view of Mount St. Helens, about eighty miles away. A year and a half earlier, they sat in that very dining room, watching a mountain blow its top while fiery ash and smoke rapidly turned day to night. The living areas were like a duplex connected by a stairwell. Vic had the upstairs portion, where Fredo and I shared a room. But most of our waking hours were spent downstairs, hanging with the guys in Mark's domain, or in the two-car garage converted into living quarters for Steve and Keith, Mark's attendants.

Portland's local AOR (album-oriented rock) station, KGON, was lightyears better than any L.A. station, and played tons of great metal in between the overplaying of "Back in Black" and "Fair Warning." Steve and Mark owned powerful stereos, and had a friendly rivalry as to who could amass the largest LP collection. They ended up with multiple AC/DC, Van Halen, Ozzy, Priest, Scorps, Maiden, April Wine, and so much more to choose from. Once, while listening to Judas Priest, Steve became enraged when I mentioned Rob Halford's alternative lifestyle. Steve just could not comprehend how such a macho dude – the epitome of toughness and manliness – could be gay.

When I told him, "That's all true, but it doesn't mean Halford ain't into ass-fucking dudes," Steve became even more hostile, while insisting I quit lying. I laughed and said, "Gay ain't a character flaw, buddy."

I was at the bottom of a five-person pecking order, which felt strange for me. Fredo and I were outsiders, but he got there first. Plus, Mark already liked him way more than me. Steve and Keith grew up with Mark and also worked for him, making fifteen bucks an hour with free room and board. Steve was a big, strong, corn-fed hick that acted alpha. Keith, not so much. Truth is, Mark was in charge. Even though I felt at times he was a bit bossy, it was nothing compared to how I would treat a bunch of freeloaders I held all the cards over. But all in all, Mark was one of the most generous and supportive people I ever had as a friend.

Seeing as Steve and Keith were flush with cash, and Mark was also beyond generous, there were always huge piles of top-notch buds available for all to enjoy. Though Vic imposed a "one joint a day" rule, he worked twelve-hour days and always seemed to walk in just as we were enjoying our daily joint, one bong hit at a time.

Soon after moving in, I smoked hydroponically grown marijuana for the first time. After five hits of some fifty shades of green, intensely dense bud from an ice-filled glass bong, I proceeded to freak out. When the guys realized that I was having a bad trip, they were very calming and supportive. Actually, they constantly fucked with my head, trying to freak me out. Ninety-two hours later, I came down enough to laugh at those fuckers and then snapped a few more hits of that tasty shit.

I would have skipped it altogether, but Vic insisted that Fredo and I attend school. Gresham High became my third school, and second year, of tenth grade. Classrooms were housed in a two-story building, and either there was no elevator, or coincidently all my classes were downstairs. That campus was packed with deliciously beautiful white girls, redheaded, blond, and brunette beauties as far as the mind could see. I began to sense a pattern – being in a wheelchair made transitioning easy. Everyone was friendly, supportive, and welcoming. The teachers also cut us tons of slack, and all the while Fredo and me worked every conceivable angle to extract maximum benefit from all the gimpathy folks had for us. It seemed like we often escaped any scrutiny of misdeeds in the planning stage or during implementation.

Our PE teacher was an ex-Marine Vietnam vet. Even though Coach meant well, me and Fredo cruelly and relentlessly dissed him. He laughed it off and claimed that we belittled others because we had "low self-esteem." That was the first time I ever heard that catch-all term. Either way – sorry, Sergeant, a belated thanks for your service. You are an American hero and patriot!

Coach went out of his way arranging a twice-weekly swim in the heated, covered pool at nearby Mount Hood Community College. It was my first time in a pool since I broke my fucking neck, and when Coach offered to help me into the water I declined. Instead, I rolled my chair to the edge, swung the footrests out of the way and yelled "Banzai!" When I hit the water, my paralyzed right leg flew up and bashed my knee to nose. Despite folks freaking out, the bleeding stopped pretty quickly and I finally got the message to enter bodies of water with a bit more caution.

Just for shits and giggles, I owned a couple Oregon State Beavers' jerseys. Because no matter how lewdly it was said, in Oregon no one gets the innuendo of the word "beaver." Fredo and I worked beaver into seemingly unrelated conversation, while folks wore puzzled expressions as to why we chuckled so. He and I were regionalists, at times smugly laughing about our belief that Portlanders were ten years behind us superior L.A. folk. Fredo often regaled me with his smooth version of a Schoolhouse Rock song: "I'm just a bill. I'm only a bill. I'm just a hill-hill-billy."

Every morning, we'd sit out under the eaves in front of the garage, waiting for the "special bus" to whisk us off to school. By mid-October, the mornings were becoming quite chilly, and within a few weeks it got downright cold. Low thirties doesn't feel right to kids who grew up in Southern California. One thing about my arms being so weak, and my inability to move the fingers on my right hand, is less clothing makes mobility far easier. So no matter the temp, I go with T-shirts over bundling up. One day, I woke up to rain, but outside it was ten degrees warmer than the clear morning before. That was awesome, but wet wheels' slipperiness makes them hard to push. When I woke up wishing for rain, it only increased my longing for Southern California.

Steve had himself a little fourteen-year-old girlfriend who thought herself queen bee whenever she visited. One morning, I was taking my time in the bathroom, and she began harshly ragging me. I yelled through the door, "Quit bitching, I'll be out in a minute."

Later that day, at the bottom of the ramp, Steve started pushing me. "I got ya," he said, sounding all buddy and pal like. But halfway up, we stopped in a blind spot so he could threaten, "I don't care if you're in a wheelchair, if you ever call my girlfriend a bitch again, I'll break your fucking arm."

In a tough spot and boiling over inside, I kept my cool and apologized, all the while assuring him it would never happen again. He seemed satisfied with my response, but felt it necessary to emphasize his point by letting go of my chair and stepping out of the way. Terrified, I rolled backward ten feet until the side rail stopped me with a thud that almost bounced me from my chair and over the railing.

Fredo was the only one I told about it, and I seriously considered causing grave bodily harm to that punk motherfucker, Steve. Fredo suggested using the old soap-bars-in-a-pillowcase jail trick to get his attention, but I figured that'd just make Steve so angry that he'd beat me to within inches of my life. It was fun to laugh about, but talk was all it was. I was coming to terms with the fact that I could no longer beat downs those who truly deserved tooth realignment.

I'm a straight shooter. Ask me a question and I'll give an honest answer or opinion, unless of course it could put me in jail. I won't even lie then, because I have the right to remain silent. With five pothead teenagers living under one roof, there was no way to avoid frequently occurring household havoc. As an entrepreneur, Vic worked long hours, and once home, he'd have preferred to kick back in his recliner, sip a single-malt, and smoke a Cohiba while listening to jazz on his state-of-the-art Bose system. But some days, it was impossible to miss that at least one of us had violated house rules. One morning, Vic came into the garage and yelled, "Who ate my fucking pie? I told you fucking kids not to touch it."

I had no idea that the pie was off limits, and when I saw the other dudes feasting upon wonderful, fresh strawberry pie, my stoned, sugar-fiend ass helped myself to a gigantic slice. So I told him, "I had a piece, Vic."

I was the only one that copped to touching his treat, and was the only one to get in trouble. He kicked me out. Vic was a good man who took me into his home and picked up the tab. At the same time, I was a sixteen-year-old prick trying to out-prick the world. He rightly had issues with much of the constant crap I pulled, and at times would energetically let me know of his displeasure. I'd backtalk, and a few times he told me to move out. But a short while later, he'd tell me I was still welcome to live there.

Shortly after he told me to scram due to my pie pilfering, I left a message on Ma's answering machine. "I got kicked out of here, be there soon." As I packed my bag, Vic came in and apologized for blowing his stack, telling me that I was still welcome to stay. I'm not a rat, so I didn't tell him about my real reason: getting away from that prick Steve who needed to die. Plus, I missed L.A., and couldn't handle Oregon's cold weather, or having to leave a nickel deposit on a soda can. Vic bought me a ticket, and by late afternoon, I was at the airport awaiting my southbound plane.

*

So we don't have to cage-match scramble for a seat, wheelchair passengers are the first to board airplanes. I loaded onto a refrigerator dolly with a seat, footrest, and straps so a couple beefy dudes could lug my dead weight to a seat near the door. A very attractive stewardess stayed to chat while waiting for the others to begin boarding. Back then, many stewardesses were flirty and hot party girls, not the bitter old "flight attendant" hags and queens that make today's air travel beyond miserable. Being the Saturday before Thanksgiving, she assumed that I was traveling to L.A. to spend time with family. I told her I was fleeing a bad living situation, and hopped the first flight without knowing where I would stay. It bummed her out, but I was being a little over-dramatic in search of sympathy. I also might have forgotten to mention that there were lots of my people in Los Angeles.

Not long after wheels up, I took a drag off my Marlboro and sipped a cocktail, totally mesmerized by the spectacular purplish-red-orange fall sunset glimmering off the Pacific Ocean below. Amongst that hypnotic visual, I pondered, "What next?" I had no money and no clue.

When my new stewardess friend brought me another free drink, she said, "I was thinking, I have a place in the Marina, and if you don't have anywhere to go, you can stay with me for a few days."

I kept my cool, smiled, and said, "That's very nice of you, thanks." My day started out ultra shitty, but in the blink of an eye, I became a very happy sixteen-year-old boy looking forward to getting to know a smoking-hot stewardess in ways worthy of Penthouse Forum.

Once off the plane, bags were piled onto my lap as she pushed my shit-eating-grin through the terminal toward the taxi stand. We were about two thirds of our way to the front when I saw my friend Robbie step through the automatic doors and scan the terminal. I hid my head behind the stack of luggage, praying he hadn't seen me. I had plans.

No use – he walked right up and said, "Hey, Raz, Joe sent me to get you."

I was bummed, but happy that someone actually cared enough to come get me. We rode to Ma's in Robbie's 1970 Subaru van. Picture a double-wide sardine can with wheels, just big enough to throw a baby crib mattress in the back, in case you got a hankering to bang a barely legal midget. The diminutive vehicle was powered by a 360 cc Suzuki motor, and once on the 405, with a tail wind, Robbie pushed that hot-rod past the posted 55 MPH. I looked down to realize that only a thin layer of metal separated me from anything we crashed into.

Even though Ma had often claimed, "bisexuality is the natural state," I always assumed she was referring to one of her gay male friends who'd occasionally slip her the salami. But within days of returning from Oregon, I realized that she and her "friend," Robin, were a couple. Mostly because Robin was clearly a carpet-muncher and Ma spent 99 percent of her time at Robin's place.

Because she was seldom home, the apartment had become a hangout. From noon to well past midnight, there were always several dudes in our living room rocking out, smoking out, and drinking rivers of beer. Enough folks had called our cable company, demanding, "I want my MTV," that we no longer had to wait up until the wee weekend hours to watch bands on Don Kirshner's Rock Concert or Midnight Special. The M used to stand for music, and our TV was pretty much stuck on the brand-spanking-new channel. Though we mostly kept the sound down, listening to rock cassettes until a video we liked came on, and then we'd crank the TV's volume. Nowadays, I rarely listen to any of the bands that were music television staples during that period.

When everyone was out and about, I'd watch movies. The Other Side of the Mountain, a true story of skier Jill Kinmont who broke her neck and ended up a quad, left quite an impression on me. One scene in particular – while in rehab, she teases her boyfriend about some exciting news she wants to share. He got all happy, as if expecting Ms. Kinmont to spring from the wheelchair to dance a jig. Instead, she placed her hand over a bowl of potato chips. Then, after a few agonizing seconds of positioning her quad claw to get it just right, she managed to extract a single chip. The boyfriend appeared less than impressed. Big whoop. Wait, I got a bag of Lay's chips in the kitchen – break time.

While we're reminiscing about munchies, I'm reminded of a little trick we'd use to score some free grub when short on funds. I'd call Pizza Man to place an order for our place, and then someone else called right back to make another order – enough food for six – for an address about two miles further up the hill. When the delivery guy got to the top of our stairs, I'd take forever to get to the door, and then stall as if maybe someone else there had ordered. While that was going on, a partner in crime was downstairs, liberating all other orders from the delivery vehicle. Feast time.

There was a Navy boy, Tony, who would drop by our party pad whenever he got liberty. He'd usually bring along a bunch of beer, weed money, and cool military stuff that we could make go boom. One night, a bunch were looking out the bay window, waiting for the coming fireball on the street below. And, as usual, I was talking major shit to Tony – might have included commentary on his mother and/or sister's appetites or aesthetic shortcomings – when he decided a roundhouse kick to the quadriplegic kid's head was an appropriate response. Joe didn't do a fucking thing, except tell me, "He warned you to shut up."

I guarantee you, if the roles were reversed and Joe was my brother sitting in the wheelchair, Tony would have been sent crashing through the bay window so gravity's magnet could pull his flailing body onto hard concrete below, leaving him in a broken, bloody heap. And I'd be out by now.

By the time Christmas rolled around, I was pestering Ma just about every day to move to a new, street-level place so I could go to school. Or perhaps even flee quickly from a fire. I missed girls, plus really wanted to get my driver's license, which wasn't possible without driver's education or waiting until I turned eighteen. But Ma wouldn't even consider giving up her fabulously cheap apartment at the top of the stairs.

7

Shortly after 1982's first hangover subsided, Ma's kind friend, Robin, let me have her super-cheap, street-level, one-bedroom apartment. Three days before my seventeenth birthday, I got my own pad to come and go as I pleased. The place was a block from Los Angeles City College, in a predominantly Hispanic neighborhood littered with small, independently owned businesses, such as tortillerias, panaderias, and carnicerias. I have no clue what the vegetable shops were called, because I don't eat 'em. That would be cannibalism. I enjoyed the neighborhood's culture far more than the corporate chain bullshit we got littering the cityscape nowadays. But I do love me them Walmarts. They got everything, so I don't have to drive around searching for shit. The ultra-low prices are just an awesome bonus, and the money saved is spent on learning to speak Chinese.

I registered at Marshall High School, housed in a seventy-five-year-old building. In the early twentieth century, no thought was ever given to wheelchair accessibility during construction, so I only attended for a day before transferring to the nearest wheelchair-friendly school. My fifth school for tenth grade was Fairfax High, located on the corner of Melrose and Fairfax. That school boasted an impressive who's who of celebrity alumni. Besides every imaginable music genre clique representing loud 'n' proud, there were stacks of authentic punk rockers that stood out from the crowds. I'm not talking preppy wannabes like Newport Harbor High. Those Fairfax High punks had Mohawks, safety pins through whatever, and they donned punker threads imported straight from London. My favorite visuals at Fairfax were the hundreds of hot chicks of every size, shape, and color.

Every morning, a bus rolled up to my house, tooted its horn, and waited till I made it out. At school, I had an elevator key for classes on the second floor, and a few hot 'n' sweet young ladies were kind enough to smooch in there with me. It never evolved to love in the elevator stage, but was far more entertaining than going to class.

The Friday of my first week, a long-haired dude wandered into English class late and sat directly behind me. Moments later, a vice principal walked in and barked, "Michael Jagosz!"

As the administrator began scanning the room, from behind I heard a gym bag slide my way. He then looked right past me and pointed to the late-arriving hippie. "Mr. Jagosz, come with me. Bring your bag."

I knew the sound of free drugs sliding my way, so I said, "That's my bag."

Mike returned shortly after the bell rang and immediately retrieved the gym bag from my lap. He smiled. "Thanks, I got a half ounce of shrooms in here."

Although I was disappointed about missing out on a free stuff opportunity, I smiled and shrugged. "No problem, dude."

After that day, whenever he showed up, he'd sit next to me and we'd talk throughout class. Except for him disliking AC/DC, we dug the same heavy metal bands. When he told me Ronnie James Dio was his favorite singer, I bragged about having Sabbath's Heaven and Hell LP autographed by Tony and Geezer.

A smoking-hot chick who usually sat two rows away often had us speculating about how magnificent a sight her nude body must be, and that she probably tasted sweeter than Marry Ann's legendary coconut cream pie. One day, Mike told me, "I got tickets to Mob Rules," and then pointed to the babe. "I'm going to take that chick."

I was fully impressed that Mike had scored a date with such a fine honey, and pointed her way just to make sure. "That chick's going to Sabbath with you?"

He had yet to invite her, but seemed to believe any babe in her right mind would sell a kidney to be with him. Right before class ended, Mike said, "Watch this," then went to her desk, tapped her shoulder, and nonchalantly said, "I got tickets for Black Sabbath, you wanna go?"

She looked quite annoyed, while offering a snarky, "I don't like Sabbath," before turning away.

I chuckled and busted Mike's chops a bit, but he shrugged it off. During the times we hung out, I can't recall many chicks rebuffing his affections. He was a six-foot-tall, light-mocha-complexioned, green-eyed hunk with shoulder-length brown hair. Add a charming smile, pleasant laugh, quick-witted intelligence with supreme confidence, and the girls swooned. To me, it seemed like Mike could have had anything in this world he set his mind on and worked for.

Not long after we met, Mike invited me to see his band rehearse. At first, I thought he said their name was Pie-Crust, but it turned out they were called Pyrrhus. After school, the band's guitarist, Tracii Guns, picked me up in his dad's plumbing truck. I sat in the back and held on tight all the way to Mike's Hollywood Hills house, a bitchin' old Victorian in the shadow of the Hollywood sign that must've been majestic in its day. In the backyard was an out-building shaded by a towering, generous avocado tree. Inside, the band's gear was set up ready to rock.

As Tracii warmed up, I was immediately impressed by his mad skills riffing of the Van Halen licks "Mean Streets" and "Eruption." He established the band's volume by cranking his Marshall 200-watt combo three notches past ear-bleed level as drummer Robbie Gardner pounded his Ludwig oyster pearl maple drum kit vigorously, trying to keep up with Tracii as well as Dani Tull's bottom-slapping Ampeg bass gear. The crappy Peavey powered mixer with matching dilapidated speaker towers were no match, so Mike turned his lungs to full hurricane force aggression to be barely heard.

Pyrrhus opened their set with the intro riff to "Heaven on Their Minds" from Jesus Christ Superstar, then proceeded to burn through several Zeppelin covers, Sabbath's "Children of the Grave," Ozzy's "I Don't Know," and a few originals. Along with his blazing guitar, Tracii was quite the showman, bobbing his head, shimmying, shuffling, and stomping around like he owned rock 'n' roll. Dani moved and swayed to the music in a hypnotic, mellow, laid-back groove while Robbie kept a solid energetic backbeat.

My first impression of Mike was that he was only in the band because he owned a PA and studio. Not that he was a bad singer. That boy possessed great power and range. I was just thoroughly bored by his uninspiring – 100 percent lack of – stage presence. If the singer doesn't love his band enough to rock out, why should anyone else? It was easy to see that Pyrrhus was something special, and I went to their rehearsals to party, sing along, and headbang every chance I got.

Mike's brother, Dave Anthony, was also a great singer. His band, gayly named Shire – "It's all over, Frodo" – would soon head into the studio to record a demo produced by Don Dokken. But one particular late-spring afternoon in 1983, Mike warmed up the band for Shire's show at Providence High School later that evening. They ran through several original songs, as well as covering Def Leppard's "It Don't Matter" and UFO's "Rock Bottom." Their bass player, an older dude named Izzy Stradlin, was by far the coolest member of Shire. He grooved, rocked out, and shuffled around the entire space in time with the solid drumming monster on double bass, Johnny Kreis. Alan Santalesa, on guitar, got a decent tone and could shred quite tastily, but stood boringly in one spot. I can never sit still while good music plays, so I chair-danced, grooved, and goofed with Izzy as the others impersonated solid-rock statues.

After Mike finished, the band played on while he and I beer-bonged a gallon-ish of deliciously cheap beer. Wasted drunk from nine beers in an hour, I went to drain my piss bag on the side of the building, then stayed there for some fresh air and a nod. Time passed, I sobered up a bit, and went bleary-eyed to find Mike. But the fucker had left me behind, so I rolled a mile to the bus stop on Hollywood and Bronson, luckily all downhill. I just realized something – getting to Heaven requires a stairway, but there's a "Highway to Hell," with on-ramps everywhere. Plus, the added convenience of a downhill journey makes it the obvious choice for gimps. But either way, few buses had wheelchair lifts back then, so sometimes I'd wait several hours until an accessible bus showed up. That day was one of those, and I eventually made it home around midnight. I hated the bus.

Even though I often ditched classes, I never missed PE. That was where I took Drivers' Ed. It seemed unfathomable to me that I was seventeen and still had no car or license. Shit, I'd been driving since I was ten. But GTA is tough for a quadriplegic. About a week before summer vacation, our driving instructor took the class to the DMV, where I passed my driver's tests with flying colors.

*

Four weeks later, I received my license in the mail, but couldn't afford a car. Luckily, Rancho Hospital had hooked me up with a power wheelchair, just in time for summer freedom. Dani quit Pyrrhus, so the band went on hiatus and into search mode. I still dropped by Mike's a few times a month to score killer bud for old friends who'd drop my pad to buy my marked-up herb and drink till dawn. I never got carded, so we always had plenty of buds, beer, and booze, in a space with no nagging, buzzkill adults. We enjoyed a variety of suds, but tight times sometimes required the blue-striped plain-wrap "BEER," for a delicious $1.49 a sixer.

We'd rock out to the Police's Ghost in the Machine or Black Sabbath's Paranoid recorded from the "Seventh Day" program on KLOS. That was a Sunday night program, when the station played seven albums in their entirety. My favorite tape became the Stones' Beggar's Banquet. I just couldn't get enough of the slide guitar on "Jigsaw Puzzle," or its brilliantly crafted lyrics about strung-out tramps, outcasts, and outlaws.

I began roaming far and wide in my new cruiser. Due to looking older than my seventeen years, people often asked if I was injured in Vietnam. I'd smartass, "Broke my neck diving from a two-hundred-foot platform into a glass of water, but I missed the damn glass."

When I finally got around to explaining the true circumstances, some would ask, "Was there water in the pool?"

Apparently I look like a total fucking moron!

The power wheelchair allowed me to wash my clothes at the laundromat and sing along with the top-forty station's "Jack and Dianne" or "I Love Rock 'n' Roll," without my friends knowing. The other direction on Vermont was a kick-ass urban record store, when it was still okay to say "black music." I'd head over there several times a week and listen to new and old stuff alike. One day, I rolled in as the owner hung promotional posters for Prince's 1999. I studied them momentarily before inquiring, "Who's that Morris-Day-looking motherfucker?" Little did I know that Prince would be the biggest thing out of Minnesota since the Mississippi River.

Until taking delivery of the power chair, I only ventured as far as the arcade at the end of my block. It seemed like Bataan-Death-March distance to this one-armed quad, but compelling enough to occasionally take the solo journey for pinball, Ms. Pac Man, Galaxian, Kangaroo, or Dig Dug in climate-controlled comfort. I stuck to the simpler controlled stuff, because complexly controlled arcade games require dexterous finger control of both hands. While folks video vegged, the arcade's sound system blasted out KROQ FM's cool new music: Stray Cats, Madness, Romeo Void, The Clash, Billy Idol, Devo, Lords of the New Church, and occasionally a loud 'n' obnoxious heavy metal band, Mötley Crüe, who I dug from the very first note of Mick Mars' awesomely gross guitar tone. When Crüe plastered posters around town to promote the release of their first album, I was shocked upon discovering what a bunch of freaks they were.

Those were the days when rebel me got my ear pierced, just like them dudes on MTV. It was utterly important that straight males only got their left lobe done, because a right ear piercing might subject one to random offers of BJs from dandies. Then curiosity might have one getting sucked into a whole different lifestyle. Once the starter stud came out, I became fond of dangling crosses or little beaded chains to compliment my semi-mullet. I counted the months until eighteen, when I would get tattooed to show the world what a true outlaw I was.

I had applied for SSI shortly after moving into my place, and three months later, Social Security sent me retroactive money from the day I applied. If I wouldn't have been stupid enough to let Ma cash it, I would have had enough money to buy a car. Along with SSI came Medi-Cal healthcare, which was sorely needed due to my supposed Cadillac health insurance plan getting cancelled when the asshole insurers claimed going to school meant a person was not totally disabled.

Even with insurance, Rancho still would not entertain my notion of walking. So Ma arranged some charity physical therapy at White Memorial Hospital. My therapist was an open-minded, positive woman, and on the same page as Ma and me. If a person could stand, walking was entirely possible. We were all correct. After two months of therapy and diligently exercising at home, I was able to take a step while holding onto parallel bars. But to travel further required a leg brace, which ain't cheap. Without Rancho writing me a prescription, Medi-Cal would not pay. Undeterred, I continued working out and going to therapy, all the while strategizing a way to score a leg-brace on the cheap.

Fredo moved back from Oregon and in with me. I hipped him to SSI and, a few months later, instead of paying his back rent with the retro check, he bought a sweet 1972 Camaro. I started out angry, but got over it right quick because my roommate owned a car. We'd drive all over the place, rocking AC/DC, oldies, or new stuff like Grand Master Flash, Rick James, Kool and the Gang, Gap Band, Dazz Band, Mary Jane Girls, Prince, and Morris Day.

Late nights often had me and Fredo cruising Sunset Boulevard. Back in the day, along a three-mile stretch from Western to Crescent Heights, there were prostitutes thicker than raw honey on a queen bee's cooter. For us, it was mostly voyeuristic stuff, but once a nice lady of the night made an offer, it was hard to refuse. When you're seventeen and a slightly haggard harlot says, "I'll fuck you both for thirty bucks," I say, "Fredo, find an ATM." Even though hookers had been around forever, ATMs were a new-ish phenomenon that in a blink of an eye became an integral element in providing last-minute party funding to a new generation.

After seeing a TV show showcasing desperate teenage runaways who had hopped buses for Hollywood, we sometimes drove downtown to the Greyhound station at 6th and L.A. in search of stray girls fresh into their search for fame and fortune. The television told us that many arrived penniless, homeless, and hungry, causing some to offer short-term rental of their privates while waiting to make it big in pictures. We hoped we might-could do some compassionate outreach and save ourselves thirty bucks, but the bus station was overloaded with pimps who swooped in well before we could even say hello to those future-former sex workers. On one of those midnight trips downtown, I met a redheaded dude fresh off a Greyhound out of India-no-place as he politely declined an offer from a black gentleman selling gold chains. Nah, psych.

Fredo's 18th Street homeboys were so cool to hang with, I began ironing creases in my 501s and saying stuff like, "Hijo de La Chingada" and "Odelay, Holmes," amongst other assorted slangs. They'd drop by the pad to kick it and drink forties, or party down on a double-dip Super Kool. The fact that I really didn't dig the "I-can't-feel-my-arms-wait-do-I-even-have-arms" PCP buzz seldom stopped me from taking at least a hit or seven.

On the two-year anniversary of breaking my fucking neck, I celebrated by dropping acid and was tripping pretty hard by the time the gang arrived. We pounded some Olde English forties and someone lit up a celebratory Super Kool. Later, one of my coke-wielding buddies gave me a quarter-g as a gift. I did that blow in about three lines. I know I was tripping, but I swear I moved the fingers on my paralyzed right hand at will. By the next day – could have been two – nothing but a hangover and paralysis.

We'd get our checks on the first of the month, but by mid-month, we'd be broke. Fredo and I developed a little routine for conjuring up funds whenever we felt like eating. With both of us in wheelchairs, on opposite corners of Santa Monica and Vermont, we'd ask almost every passerby for a quarter for the bus. It was extremely rare to receive just a quarter, many times folks generously gifted us some folding money. So much so, twenty bucks could be scrounged up in less than twenty minutes. Then it was off to the store to utilize the "don't stare at me" technique, perfected in rehab, to load up our backpacks with all the expensive grub. Think cheese, butter, steak, etc., and pay cash for stuff like plain-wrap white bread, ramen, and beer.

Once, with at least a hundred bucks' worth of grub stashed away, and moments after checking out for less than fifteen bucks, Fredo rolled away and I noticed a loaf of French bread sticking halfway out his overstuffed backpack. Then my worst fears – the security guard yelled, "You two, hold on!"

Have you ever had that oh-shit, sinking, knot-in-the-pit-of-your-worried-stomach feeling? I'm thinking to myself, "Fucking Fredo, just had to have French bread."

The guard jogged toward us, then moved around front and smiled. "Let me hold the door for you guys."

Fredo kept on rolling while I chatted with the friendly guard. From the corner of my eye, I watched as the loaf of bread shrunk smaller and smaller, till it was safe to catch up. Fredo learned a valuable lesson that day – a bag of French rolls will not stick out of a backpack.

Down on the corner by the arcade, a couple of guys occasionally sold tiny dimes of mediocre weed, which I'd sometimes buy out of sheer desperation. With a car in the immediate family, we were able to shop the "dime store" at Pico and Hoover to receive twice as much weed for five bucks as the itty-bitty dimes at my corner. One Friday night, we scored a couple of those nickels, rolled a few joints, then made four dimes with the leftovers and sold them on our corner in a very short time. The easy money inspired us to do it all again the next day, and so on and so on. After other young entrepreneurs followed our lead and seized the opportunity, in less than a month, the corner of Burns and Vermont was a full-time "dime store."

With all the competition undercutting me, it soon took hours to sell out. Plus, my margins went to shit, so I changed my business model to only selling premium weed during set business hours. I preferred Thai, and so did my customers. I began making some decent money, and never worried at all about legal issues. As a minor, if I were to get busted, the cops would just call Ma to pick me up. My plan was to make as much money as possible, buy a car, and then shut it all down upon turning eighteen. Another thing that put me at ease: whenever LAPD raided our spot, everyone except me got lined up against the wall. I would then roll home with my weed, only to return a short while later to enjoy far less competition.

*

When school began again in the fall, my new bus driver would leave immediately if I wasn't outside waiting. Non-morning-person me only made it to class twice the first week. Then, the first weekend, I came down with a flu that rapidly developed into some serious bronchitis. I'm pretty sure weed and Marlboros had nothing to do with the prolonged lung issues. Either way, it took almost two weeks to get better. On Monday of the fourth week, Fairfax High School informed me I had too few credits, thus I was still in tenth grade. At four months shy of my eighteenth birthday, I found that shit totally unacceptable and dropped the fuck out. Even though not a military brat, I ended up attending twenty-one different schools and never went to prom. All in all, it was a fairly normal and highly recommended educational experience.

As a pot dealer and dropout, I had zero motivation to work or learn a marketable skill, especially due to the expected large stacks of cash to soon be sent my way. My lawsuit against the place where I broke my fucking neck was at the stage where they needed to depose me. So, six lawyerly types and a semi-cute stenographer set up in my living room to grill me about the events of a fucked-up 1980 summer night. My shysters and their opposing chasers of ambulances interacted like old pals, laughing, joking, and carrying on. I remained serious, as to not be taken out of context and have my satirical words used against me at trial. When they came to the sexual function question, up or down, I answered, "No can do." It's more complicated than yes or no, but I figured a jury would give me far more money if I had lost my baby-making magic. Is that perjury?

Seeing pictures of the swimming pool where I broke my fucking neck sticks out the most in my mind. Right up until that very moment, I felt completely responsible for my injury. I dive, my neck go crunch, me float. But the photos took me back to shortly after arrival in Hawaii, the first time seeing the pool and thinking, "Nice diving platform." They repeatedly claimed it wasn't intended to be one, but it slanted toward the shallow water and jutted out over it. In tort terms, that spa's ledge was a textbook example of "design flaw." Other pool-goers thought the same, because lots of folks dove from the hot tub's textured, sloped protrusion toward the cool blue water below. The summer before I broke my fucking neck, someone severely fractured their leg merely jumping from that same ledge. And then another dude broke his neck a few months after my accident. Soon after producing its second gimp, someone finally took a sledge hammer and removed the "diving platform."

Even though my weed business was semi successful, I hadn't managed to build a bankroll larger than what it took to score another ounce. After expenses, pinching bud, a little blow, and occasional downers, it was not uncommon to be cash-poor by the end of the month. One of the biggest reasons for the lack of cash was my love of barter. Weed enthusiasts would bring a car stereo, gold jewelry, or other valuables that they "found," and I'd give them pennies on the dollar amount of bud.

One night, regulars Pepe and George dropped by seeking to trade an extremely valuable car stereo for two dimes. I was expecting an ounce in the morning, but had no weed on hand. I wanted that deck something fierce, so hit up Fredo for a ride to Pico and Hoover to grab some bud as a down payment. He already had plans for my last eight dollars. Gas money to cruise Sunset Boulevard and pester prostitutes until they flashed us boob or a quick peek at a well-used vagina. We compromised on scoring a nickel and using the remaining dollars for gas.

Along the way, Fredo tried to convince me that all we need do was ask to see the weed, then speed off without paying. I was against it, telling him, "Dude, we're in the same business. Remember when those Gypsies ran over my feet doing that same shit to me?"

Fredo kept trying the whole way, but finally relented about a half block from the dime store. Up ahead, along the sidewalk, for at least two city blocks were mas hombres con mucho marijuana. When we pulled up to homeboy primero, he asked, "Quanto?"

From the front passenger seat, I said, "Un nickel, Holmes."

In order to discourage Fredo from attempting any bullshit, I offered the five dollars first. Homeboy weed slinger began dumping out a generous quantity of some decent-looking weed, on top of the five-dollar bill that lay across my outstretched palm. What happened next is difficult to think about. To this day, I occasionally get flashbacks, picturing it all unfolding. I see Fredo slapping his car into drive. I hear the Camaro peeling out and feel getting slammed back into my seat. We fishtail away and there's a quick, dull thump from homeboy punching me in the shoulder. Weed flies everywhere as homeboy shouts toward the amassing bad dudes up the street, "He's the guy!"

A sea of angry hombres hurled shit as we sped past, and a stream of blood squirted from me onto the windshield. Prick puto stabbed me over the five bucks that I still clutched in my hand. He couldn't grab the money, due to the other hand hidden behind his back holding a long, sharp dagger. Fucking Fredo had done that shit to them already, and when they saw his car, they laid in wait. As we sped through the gauntlet of flying bricks and bottles, I ducked an incoming bottle that sailed past me to smash onto the side of George's head. A brick caught Pepe pretty good, but Fredo came out of it unscathed.

Clear of the immediate danger, Fredo's head was bouncing left, right, up, and down, frantically searching every direction while squeakily repeating, "Where do we go, where do we go...?"

"The closest hospital," I said.

From the backseat, I heard, "Go to County."

With blood pouring out of me, I had no idea how long I would remain conscious. So, worried but calm, I took control. "Fuck County, I'll die there. Go to Hollywood Presbyterian."

With its 350 cubic inch V8 and four-barrel carburetor, that Chevrolet Camaro made one fine emergency response vehicle. We were at 101 and Vermont within minutes. Approaching the off ramp, I began seeing double. By the time we screeched up to the ER, I struggled to stay alert. A minute later, they were loading me on a gurney to rush inside so doctors could hook me up with drugs and blood. Getting stabbed in my lung required another cut, this time by a skilled professional using his knife to cut an opening between my ribs, insert a drainage tube, and remove the blood pooling up in my collapsed lung.

That knife-wielding pot dealer missed my carotid artery by millimeters, or this book would end right about here. Luckily, I don't believe in death. They call a collapsed lung a pneumothorax, and they called the cops, too.

Ma got there right after the officer began interviewing me. The cop refused to believe that I had no idea who stabbed me. So I repeated the whole truth, causing the officer to stop scribbling into his little notepad. He peered at me for a few seconds, then said, "You can't tell me you just drove up to a guy on the street, that you don't even know, and purchased marijuana."

Right about then, I realized the cop was a moron. After I offered my assessment, he threatened, "If you keep lying to a police officer, you will be arrested."

I gave him a smirk. "As soon as someone brings my wheelchair to the hospital, you can roll me off to jail, buddy."

He looked puzzled, until Ma told him, "My son is a quadriplegic."

The cop's demeanor changed to semi sad and, in a kinder tone, he proceeded to deliver my all-time favorite line from my life's movie. "You mean you're in a wheelchair – why are you doing drugs? You should do art or something."

Right about then, Ma called him a "blithering idiot" and he went away.

An hour later, I was stable and aboard an ambulance headed for the L.A. County Hospital ER. Another Friday night in the city of angels meant waiting eighth in line for a doctor, right behind a guy who had been shot multiple times. And apparently in a slight bit of discomfort, or he just liked to moan and sob nonstop.

By the next morning, I was in a room with five other dudes, all in various stages of recovery from lung stabbings. After several days of recovery, the tube that drained my lung was removed. But my doctor expressed concern about my slight ongoing fever. I explained a fever was normal for me when stuck in bed for long periods, which I had experienced several months of just two years earlier. Nevertheless, he insisted on ordering an angiogram to make sure an artery was not nicked during the knifing. I wasn't cool with that type of dye and argued a bit, but never said the magic word, "allergic." He seemed to get his panties in a bunch and stormed off after I refused the test, suggesting he might find the required info by doing a blood-gas.

The next morning, before the crack of dawn, two orderlies began wheeling my bed toward the elevators. When I found out where we were headed, I spoke like a boss, angry, loud, and clear. "I refused that test."

They kept me rolling, like the powerless underling I was, while the doctor whose intelligence was insulted by a seventeen-year-old pothead seemed to derive some smug pleasure as he told me, "You're mother gave consent."

I yelled, "I'm an emancipated minor. I refuse this test." After fifty yards of a rolling temper tantrum, I realized it was no use, so resigned myself to tough it out, figuring it would be over soon enough.

In the surgical X-ray room, a different doctor explained the procedure as he prepped me: a little slice to insert a catheter near my hip, then feed it all the way up the artery to my shoulder, release dye, take pictures. Simple as pie.

Milliseconds after a shitload of dye got unleashed, my entire right side felt like it had been dowsed in napalm and set afire by an H-bomb. The excruciating pain made me bellow, "Aaaahhh – I fucking told you motherfuckers I didn't want this fucking test!"

As the medical crew began calmly freaking out, I glanced to the heart monitor to discover my heart fibrillating. The hospital's PA blared, "Code Blue, surgical X-ray room #..." echoed throughout the corridors as the doctor barked out, "... cc's lidocaine, stat."

Half a second after that wicked shit got pumped into the piggyback on my IV, my head was pounding harder than a bass drum being angrily kicked by Keith Moon. As the frenzy continued, I screamed out, "Just let me die, motherfuckers! Let me die. Let me die..."

With defibrillator paddles charged, hovering inches away, ready to shock my heart back to its normal, boring rhythm, the anti-allergen drug they sent along with the lidocaine resolved my issues. But, just to make sure everything was cool, I spent a night in a cardiac ICU before getting back to my room full of lung-stabbed comrades.

After being hospitalized for eleven days, I arrived home to discover everything I owned of value – weed, gold jewelry, silver coins, electronics – was all gone. Fredo denied knowledge of the missing items. Wanting to believe him, and needing his help, I allowed myself to overlook him ripping me off. The stabbing left me weak, barely able to get out of bed, let alone leave the house to sell weed on a corner. To add to that, I was dead broke. So when dudes showed up trying to trade stuff for weed, I did the next best thing and became a middle man. Seller and buyer would meet in my living room, and then they'd both give me a little juice from the deal. It was quite lucrative for little effort, and over the course of a month, I regained strength while building a bankroll.

Two of the most prolific providers of previously owned car electronics were Jorge and Steve. A few years earlier, Jorge fled Cuba during the Mariel Boat Lift, with dreams of becoming a pro baseball player. But he settled on being a felon. His partner in crimes was Steve, a tall, light-skinned brother who I'd never met before he showed up with Jorge and five high-quality car cassette decks. I made the call, and by nightfall, they were a couple hundred dollars richer.

That scenario replayed itself a few days in a row, and then, one night, they had a big pile of blow delivered to my place. Instead of snorting the cocaine, they prepared it in a way called "freebase." Those two were semi-generous, and each one would give me a hit after taking two or three for themselves. It didn't take me long to realize the first hit was always the best, with diminishing returns thereafter. Either way, I liked it a lot, and told them dudes, "If they ever start selling coke already cooked up, it'd be popular."

We held those cocaine cookouts a few nights a week. On off nights, they'd drive around nice neighborhoods, smashing luxury car windows and ripping apart interiors to remove stereos. A thousand dollars' damage to get seventy-five bucks for a deck with an amp. It seemed like such a waste, but it didn't stop me from smoking their drugs. Fredo also got in on the action and would drive them around to do their dastardly deeds. That is, until he figured out the real money could be made by selling Jorge and Steve far superior blow. Unfortunately, Fredo developed an unrequited love affair with rock cocaine. Within weeks, he was locking himself in the bedroom for extended periods to get high on his own supply, while hogging the cocaine all to himself. When he quit paying rent, I sent him packing.

When the phone rang on my eighteenth birthday, the first thing I heard was Pops saying, "Happy birthday, my son." Even though I was steamed at Ma for giving him my number, it felt sincere when he told me, "Now that you're eighteen, my job is done, so we can treat each other as friends." I did not entirely believe he meant it, but agreed to reconcile because I missed my little brothers a lot. Probably never would have spoken to Pops again if it wasn't for them. Turning eighteen meant I was an adult, and the stakes had changed, literally overnight. I followed through on my plan to quit doing things that might land me in jail, like being a fence, selling weed on the corner, or stealing puppies.

I tried to lay low, but the coke was compelling enough that I allowed Jorge and Steve to keep coming over. When not smoking coke, at times as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I pictured the preparation process, or heard the beckoning sizzle of coke rock melting in pipe. I tried avoiding the dudes by pretending I wasn't home when they knocked. Then I'd get weak and let them in when they came back around. It was worrying how much I liked smoking coke, so one morning I decided to end the cycle. When they showed up, I put on a brave face and told Jorge and Steve to quit coming over.

Jorge got angry and said, "You can't kick me out. I own you."

So despite my objections, he and Steve kept selling hot stuff and freebasing in my living room.

I went to work fortifying my doors and windows so I could lock them out. About a week later, when Jorge knocked, confident my place was impenetrable, I yelled through the door, "Go away!"

He beat and kicked on the door a couple of times before shouting, "Puto!" Jorge then tried opening windows one by one as he worked his way around the building. My wheelchair couldn't fit in the back bedroom, but I had someone check those windows before locking the door with a skeleton key. It's like the old saying, "If you want something done right, do it yourself." From the hallway right outside the bedroom door, I heard the window sliding open and figured it was time to call the police.

In a whisper, I told the dispatcher, "There's someone climbing through my window."

Moments later, a police chopper buzzed overhead, its spotlight turning my street from night to day as patrol cars screeched to a halt and policemen poured out. When I greeted the cop on the doorstep, he asked if I had a description of the burglar. I told him I knew exactly who it was and explained the situation, minus the fencing and cocaine.

The cop's attitude changed in an instant. He then turned and hollered at another officer standing six feet away, "He's just fighting with his friend."

A few minutes later, all the cops were gone, leaving me vulnerable to an enraged Jorge. I broke the code by calling the cops, a grievous crime in the hood, and was in double-deep doo-doo. I knew if I were to survive, I needed to arm myself posthaste.

A .357 for a hundred bucks was readily available from Fredo's hood in a same-day deal. Knowing a gangbanger was my background check. So, early the next morning, I left several messages, but worried Fredo wouldn't call back soon enough. Around lunchtime, I remembered my rifle at Pops, so I called, chatted a bit, and then asked, "Hey, dad, you still got my Remington .22?"

After a positive reply, I said, "Can I have it? I got a little situation over here." I left out lots of details, but gave Pops the gist of my dilemma, emphasizing that the cops left me to fend for myself. I told him my solution. "Next time that fucker climbs through my window, I'm going to shoot him in the face." Cuba libre, motherfucker!

I was pleasantly surprised when Pops said, "I'll bring it right now."

8

Pops must've climbed into his van right after hanging up, because he was at my door within the hour. He didn't bring the much-needed firearm, instead suggesting I flee and move in with him. It was obvious that getting the fuck away from that neighborhood, freebasing cocaine, and imminent threat was in my best interest. So after some cursory resistance, like forty seconds, I relented. He got busy loading and we were on the road by nightfall.

Even though Lebanon is the only Arab country without a desert, I often wonder if we got Bedouin in the family and was not surprised at all to find Pops lived in yet another location. The new pad, in Santa Ana near South Coast Plaza, was a newer single-story sitting on a corner lot. One thing made my new living arrangement quite enjoyable – Hassan and Omar were at the fun kindergarten-ish age. It was a blast playing with them, watching Dukes of Hazzard and reading nightly bedtime stories. Still not a fan of Barbara, I kept it to myself to maintain the peace. And as an unintended consequence, we actually got along great.

Being friendly with Barbara had a lot of benefits. Besides the complete lack of stress and tension between us, she'd often ride me around town in her kick-ass, red 1965 Mustang, windows down, enjoying top-forty hits as cool spring coastal air ruffled my mullet. During one afternoon cruise, I heard a very happy surprise: heavy metal on AM radio. It was Def Leppard's "Photograph." Sure, the song was commercial, but up until that day, I never would've believed Def Leppard would or could be played on a pop station. The music world had changed, and I just heard the proof. My initial excitement wore off once the song hit heavy rotation, but it didn't stop me from acquiring Pyromania. Then, when Quiet Riot became the next metal band getting heavy pop radio play, I obediently banged my head as my folks worried about my Metal Health.

With no rent, while also receiving monthly SSI checks, combined with proceeds from the sale of my E&J power wheelchair, I soon bankrolled enough to buy a car. The eleven-year-old cars of my youth were far sweeter than modern junk. I scored a 1972 Pontiac Grand Ville convertible, with a 454 big-block engine that produced tons of asphalt-searing torque, for only six hundred seventy-five bucks.

Burning my left knuckles raw while changing my new baby's spark plugs made me realize I could not feel hot or cold in my hand. With all the prodding, poking, and sharp pins at Rancho Hospital, you would think they'd have checked for something important like that. I never did get a left foot gas or steering knob as my license required, and I've always just driven a normal car with my left foot. Is that a movie about a handicap dude driving illegally? I don't understand why they even call us handicapped. We're not very handy, and I rarely wear a hat. POW! Don't forget to tip your servers.

After getting stabbed, I never went back to physical therapy at White Memorial, nor gathered up three grand to buy myself a leg brace. But after I told Pops of my physical progress, he built me some sweet parallel bars out of plywood and 2 x 2s. I'd stand or do knee bends, and got stronger by the week. At my next Rancho clinic, to my great delight, that awesomely perfect, pint-sized, perky, and pretty PT, Jan, had transferred over to pediatric spinal injury. I cannot convey to you how awesome this woman was! When I told her about taking a few steps at White Memorial and my new parallel bars, she suggested some exercises to do at home. And at my next clinic, she'd reevaluate. It was all on me, so I began living a semi-normal, focused life of daily exercise, hanging around the house, and fighting the urge to smoke coke.

One afternoon, Pops came in super pissed off about getting a handicap spot ticket at work, when his restaurant was closed and the lot empty. I suggested we go to court and commit perjury by claiming I was with him and the placard was in clear view on the dash. He declined, but won in court because the restaurant's lot was private property and not properly posted. Disabled spaces were a new thing in those days, meaning that there were far fewer of them, but they were almost always available for those folks who were actually disabled. Nowadays, there is an ocean of disabled spaces, and it takes forever to find one. I have a paraplegic buddy, Jim, and whenever he sees old folks, obese chain smokers, or anyone else who doesn't require an extra-wide parking spot to fully open their door for equipment removal, he yells, "There's a picture of a dude in a wheelchair on that sign!"

The Pontiac allowed me to hit L.A. a few days a week, to hang with Mike and show off mad driving skills learned from watching Jim Rockford while shredding the very same streets captured on the small-screen. At Pops' urging, I signed up for summer classes at Orange Coast College, but rarely made it to school. Instead, I stayed out late clubbing, drinking, smoking, snorting, and whoring in Hollywood.

After a few months of being mobile, one afternoon at breakfast, Pops inquired about my life's future plans. Early on after my accident, I had accepted that I would never be on stage as a performer, yet still felt an insatiable passion for music. I needed to be part of that world. Making music videos seemed like the most fun and creative outlet still available, with the highest number of dancing girls involved. When I told of my desire to make music videos, or any career in the music business, Pops said I needed a more "realistic goal."

Because he still held sway over my brainwaves, I went to Rancho and met with Susan, a very pretty vocational rehabilitation counselor. Upon hearing of my vocational goal, she said, "Music videos are a fad, just like video games." But to get a better understanding of my abilities, she suggested I undergo a two-week vocational evaluation at "The Workshop."

Coincidently, my lawyer was in the process of arranging vocational testing to determine my abilities and future earning potential. But at Rancho, it was free. So I signed up. The Workshop was where all of Rancho's wheelchairs were cleaned and repaired. First, I'd break them down into pieces, making it easier to scrub all the gimp crud from them. Once clean, I reassembled some, with new parts replacing old if need be, while the rest remained as parts in the boneyard.

As a hater of traffic and early-morning waking, I relocated to Downey, right across Imperial Highway from where I did my spinal injury stint. The vocational rehab housing was called Casa Consuelo, and I had a two-hundred-square-foot private room with a bed, tables, sink, and mirror. We had a community shower, as well as a cafeteria providing three free meals a day, plus a fridge stocked with plenty of snacks, milk, and juice. Theoretically, my living accommodations were a hundred bucks a month, but there was no collection mechanism. Meaning, if I didn't voluntarily go to cash services to pay my invoice, I merely owed a hundred bucks more the next month. I keep meaning to go over there and settle my account.

A fresh crop of PT/OT intern girls from all over America were delivered fresh to Casa's second floor every four weeks. Them lovely ladies were cute, sweet, smart, and not biased against a disability. Not all girls dig vegetables. I enjoyed several four-week romances. My go-to outing was the drive-in movie's cheap entertainment, where we could bring our own food, beer, and weed. I was often getting busy or trying to get something (nothing), so didn't see most of a lot of movies at the Lakewood Drive-In. One evening, after missing large swaths of the first two picture shows, a movie called Scarface played. Because I'm a Pacino fan and dug the original film, I zipped up and watched from the very beginning. I sat slack-jawed in awe of the bloodletting and mountainous piles of cocaine, as well as the inspiring rags-to-riches American Dream of Cuban drug lord, Tony. I told anyone that would listen, "You got to see Scarface," and, "Let's get some blow."

At The Workshop, my "two-week evaluation" morphed into six weeks of slave labor while I still awaited that fabled evaluation to begin. All us crippled comrades often bitched amongst ourselves as we slow-rolled our work. But back home at Casa, an unlikely buddy, Kurt, saw it differently. Even though we were into entirely different dance scenes, he was an avid reader and drinking buddy. We'd talk literature, get hammered, and I'd seek his wise counsel about shit. So when I bitched and moaned about the bullshit slave-driving Workshop, Kurt hit me with some of the best advice ever. "You're being evaluated every minute. Play their game and play to win."

It was like a nuclear fucking lightbulb blew up over my shaggy head. In a fit of drunken epiphany, I blurted out, "I'll show those motherfuckers."

The next morning, right from the get-go, I charged full speed ahead. Instead of the usual one chair, I completed five wheelchairs, then about the same the next day, but only three the day after. That was all they had. I went to the supervisor and requested more chairs, and he asked, "What happened to all those chairs that were in cue?"

Up until that moment, no one had noticed me busting ass. After I explained they were all done and gone, he went to check my truthfulness. He then stood on the empty floor space, where a dozen wheelchairs had been parked, double-checking my worksheet. After a moment of head scratching, he decided to let me go home early. I had worked myself out of a job.

The next day, they kept me busy heat stamping "Property of Los Angeles County Hospital" decals onto surgical scrubs. After trying a few different techniques, I got going at a pretty good clip, then flew through the huge stacks they left me with. I ran out of stuff to stamp an hour before quitting time. When I told my boss the work was completed, he said, "Impossible." Either way, it was Friday and I went home early.

On Monday, I arrived right on time, also a new habit of mine, and was told, "I don't know how you did it, but those scrubs should have taken you a week."

I had become the talk of the vocational rehab slave-drivers. A few overpaid, yet under-qualified civil servants wanted to see the heat stamp savant in action, all the while timing it. Ready, set, there I went. Stopwatch ticked away while notes were furiously scribbled. They put a halt to my exhibition after fifteen minutes – for an amazing completion rate of a hundred sixty units per hour. More than double the previous record. The best outcome was they couldn't let me do anymore heat stamping or wheelchairs, because they didn't want to run out of make-work for the other gimps.

Within days, they actually began evaluating my memory, motor skills, math, reading comprehension, cognitive skills, and critical thinking. When not blowing their minds, I got special treatment at The Workshop, to basically become my supervisor's personal assistant and joke teller. I did a bunch of cake jobs, like engraving signs for county buildings or wrenching on power chairs. Whenever they gave me a new task, I tackled it like it was a competition and set out to best my unworthy opponents. At first, I was just "playing their game," but I really dug kicking everyone's ass. Outworking fuckers be fun. That's my attitude to this day. If I decide to take on something, I'm going to kick all ya'll's motherfucking asses. Bitch!

When the results of my "two-week evaluation" came in, my vocational counselor, Susan, sounded quite stunned as she told me, "You did very well, Rached. Your scores indicate that you would probably be successful as an engineer."

I busted her chops. "Bu-bu-but, I don't really want to drive a train for the rest of my life." Once she realized I was joking, she quit explaining the different types of engineering degrees. To keep my bargain accommodations at Casa, I agreed to take classes at Cerritos Community College and let Voc Rehab pay for the whole shebang. Even though I firmly believe one should do their best when doing a job, if you can get out of imposed bullshit, go for it. So I quit going after two days of classes. With no one keeping a close eye on me, I rock 'n' rolled all night long and slept in till free lunchtime.

Every summer, downtown, an amazing food and music festival, the "L.A. Street Scene," showcased the diverse arts and culture of L.A.'s unique populace. The day before my three-year neck break anniversary, I went there solo and got my first ever taste of Thai food, beef satay, which was life-changing. I then bounced from stage to stage, watching bands while consuming mass quantities of buds, beer, and bourbon. Up until that hot summer day, all I thought I knew about the headliner, Three Dog Night, was their drummer, Floyd, lived next door when I was four, and his sister was beautiful. Shortly after Mayor Tom Bradley introduced the band, they proceeded to play hit after smash hit; and then a few more iconic hits. I don't know if I witnessed an above-average show or if they were a spectacular live band, but Three Dog Night set the stage on fire with an epic performance that easily makes it into my top ten shows.

A few weeks later, a friend and me sat in my car, burning a doobie while listening to the radio. When the DJ mentioned that evening's sold-out Police concert at Hollywood Park, I suggested we banzai the gig. My buddy was hesitant, disbelieving of our ability to get in. I'm not one of those "I wish I could see_______, fans." If you are not at the venue, you'll for sure not see the show. After my persuasive philosophy speech, a hell-ride to Inglewood, and forty bucks each to a scalper, we arrived to our seats just as The Police hit the stage. It sucked. The Police were so good and popular, fans remained standing the entire show. From my chair, I miss a lot of the best shows or exciting plays during sporting events, because people are compelled to their feet. I can't recall ever watching the Dodgers bat in the bottom of the ninth inning of a close game.

Pyrrhus hired a new bass player, Rick Mars, a cool, Hawaiian, Rudy-Sarzo-looking dude. They no longer jammed in Mike's backyard, due to a fed-up neighbor who filed suit to shut the noise down. The guys began rehearsing at an hourly space on Gower, right across the street from Paramount Pictures Studio, near Melrose and the most excellent Astro Burgers drive-thru. The studio was great, acoustically and aesthetically, with the very powerful PA allowing Mike to be heard above Tracii's 10 fixation. Even though Mike remained pretentiously stiff, I liked the power, range, and tone of his maturing voice. Robbie had scrimped and saved enough to score a new Tama double bass kit, which I never liked as much as his previously pounded-upon Ludwig kit.

With their slick jam space, a cool new bass player, and shows booked in local clubs, it felt like those guys had taken the leap from high school garage band to professionals. I happily helped them lug gear around to gigs at Gazzarri's, Cathay de Grande, or wherever there was a stage, in the back of my truck – cleverly disguised as a 1972 Pontiac convertible.

The never-ending tension between Mike and Tracii sometimes made me think that Mike was going to haul off and punch Tracii in the face. Many times, Mike was just being unreasonable, but there was one issue that I was 100 percent on Mike's side about. Tracii demanded Mike bleach his hair blond or be fired. Considering he was the best-looking dude in the band, it would have been a goofy move. When I first met Tracii, he was a dirty blond, pizza-faced, brace-wearing shredder – lover of Jimmy Page and Randy Rhoads – but by mid-1983, he wanted to do the Mötley Crüe thing and had dyed his hair black to prove it. Rick's hair was already black, so Tracii kept bugging Robbie to dye his hair and then make Mike be the blond singer.

None of that mattered, because by fall, Rick had quit Pyrrhus to join a band called Rose. During the hiatus, me, Tracii, Mike, and several friends went camping at Lake Hughes. The guys were excited about hiring a kick-ass Danish bass player, Ole Beich, who once played in Mercyful Fate. To celebrate, they built a way-too-big bonfire and then kept dousing it with some sort of accelerant while chanting mumbo jumbo about Pyrrhus at the head-high flames licking up at the darkness. We spent our night drinking, smoking, and singing along with Tracii's acoustic guitar stylings. "Happy trails to you. Until we meet again..."

By the fall, I was heading to Hollywood at least once a week. My Casa roommate, Tim, who had cracked his coconut on the grille of an oncoming van while riding his bicycle, woke from his coma ready to party. Every week, he received a decent-sized disability check and then sought to blow it on booze and buds, which the Pyrrhus boys and me were more than happy to help him with.

Ole and me had hit it off right away. Maybe it was the case of beer usually found on my lap, but he'd perk up whenever he saw me, shouting, "Raz, cool!" He was a great-looking, tall, thin, long-blond-haired Nordic god, almost a decade older than us. Most importantly, Ole was a monster bass player who steadily drove songs straight ahead as Robbie pounded away in lock step.

I bought a cassette deck and equalizer as a Christmas present for my true love, the Pontiac. I then went on a mission to get me a tattoo with the leftover cash, but had no idea where a tattoo parlor was. Back then, tattoo joints were few and far between. Mainly due to the fact that only badasses got inked, and there aren't that many badasses. I got soul, and believing myself super bad, I called Ma to ask if she knew the whereabouts of a tattoo parlor, and she said, "Aw, Rached, don't get a tattoo. You'll be scarred for life."

Once I assured her a friend of mine wanted to know, she told me about Sunset Tattoo, across the street from the "Riot House" on Sunset Boulevard. I liquored up and went to pick one off the wall, then proceeded to wince like a pussy as the electric needle inked a flaming skull beneath my thin skin. When it was all said and done, I had to start cutting the sleeves off all my T-shirts. Ma was extremely disappointed upon seeing my ink, and asked, "Why didn't you get one that said Mom?"

The night before New Year's Eve, Mike and me went to see Dio's Holy Diver tour at the Long Beach Arena. We even got there in time to catch the opening acts, Y&T and Dokken. During the mid-80s, those two bands opened up for many arena headliners in my town. I thought Y&T was great, but was always thoroughly bored by Dokken. But fuck the opening acts, because Dio absolutely blew my mind. Everything clicked – the music, the band, the theatrics, and stage set all combined with Ronnie James Dio's soulful foghorn and commanding stage presence made this one of my all-time favorite rock 'n' roll shows. I really dug Long Beach Arena, too. It had everything going for it – great acoustics and disabled seating semi-close to the stage. With the next row in front of us some twenty feet below, it meant if the rock was great enough to keep fans on their feet, they could not block my view.

9

The outstanding Ian Gillian, of Deep Purple fame, banded together with Black Sabbath to put out a kick-ass metal record, Born Again. A few weeks into 1984, Mike and me went to enjoy that evil shit live at the Long Beach Arena. While waiting at the elevator, we ran into Mike's buddy and fellow vocalist, Vinni Stiletto, owner of a louder-than-life New York rock 'n' roll attitude. He had a laminate or looked like he belonged, so instead of going up in that elevator, we got a security escort all the way down to the front row. My first arena show viewed from that vantage point.

Minutes after we arrived at the high-dollar seats, amidst eerie keyboard tones emanating from a stage engulfed in prop smoke and horror-movie lighting, Sabbath kicked me in the face with the booming thunder of "Neon Knights." While Tony Iommi shredded, Geezer Butler thumped in time with Bev Bevan slamming. Soon after the sonic onslaught began, Ian Gillan, hidden in hair, got to wailing like a magnificent metal siren. After my decade of frenzied and flamboyant air-guitar accompaniment to iconic metal tunes such as "Into the Void," I was almost dumbfounded by Iommi's feet welded to the stage behind his effect pedals. Despite that boringness, he rocked a great show, and I would gladly watch that dude play for hours on end. After four songs up front, I escaped to my usual seats upstairs to enjoy a better stage view and superior sound mix.

A month later, I went to see Shire at Troubadour. And because Stryper played right before them, the place was packed, with even more fans lined up outside. I went mainly to see Izzy, but Shire had a new bass player. Just like Izzy before him, the new bassist, Mick, was the only band member who wasn't affixed to a singular spot on the stage. Plus, he was a charismatic, solid player, and a blast-to-drink-with, boisterous, fun-loving dude. When I asked what happened to Izzy, Dave said, "He quit, told me he 'hates playing bass,'" and was "playing guitar in some punk rock band." It turned out Izzy's band, Rose, were sharing Shire's drummer, Johnny. Best news of all, those two bands had a gig together in the coming weeks.

That Shire and Rose gig happened on the downstairs stage at Madame Wong's West in Santa Monica, California. Upstairs, on the main stage, was the Sandy West band, featuring one of the best chic drummers of all time and former member of legendary band, The Runaways. I helped Shire truck some gear, so I could go to sound check and hopefully persuade Ms. West to fall deeply in love with me for a few hours. When I ran into Izzy, we chatted a bit, and then he introduced me to his singer, Axl. Izzy then departed for the stage, a small two-inch riser no more than twelve feet wide and eight feet deep.

As Axl thanked me for coming down, our small talk got interrupted when his band began the cacophony racket common to early stages of sound check. Axl then got busy breaking apart a microphone stand. Once done, all that remained was the upper portion's three-foot length of chrome pipe with a clip on the end, on which he secured microphone and cable with black duct tape. With the task complete, Axl nodded a ready-to-go. Izzy then waved an arm, signaling the boys to cease their din. But Johnny pounded away until Axl halted him with a yell through the PA. The band that night was just plain Rose, no Hollywood nothing. Axl Rose up front, Izzy Stradlin on guitar, Chris Webber second guitar, Johnny Kreis on drums, and the baby-faced, constantly smiling Andre Troxx on bass.

Axl took hold of the reconfigured microphone stand with clenched fists as Johnny clicked sticks to count them in. At four, a tidal wave of sound crashed off the walls, engulfing the empty showroom in a sonic sea. For a moment, I sat slack-jawed, mesmerized by the frenetic action occurring before my very eyes. Ten feet away from me, upon the stage, Axl crouch-leaned backward while drawing a deep breath, muscles tensed like a big cat readying to pounce, then began wailing lungs full of lyrics stacked together tighter than Mother Superior's bunghole. The power and soulful passion with which he spat out those lines was like nothing I had ever heard. Not even the spawn of Tina Turner, Dan McCafferty, and Satan's torrid three-way could have topped those pipes. Unable to remain still, I rocked out and headbanged along with Rose while trying to absorb every watt of energy the band sent crunching forth. A song and a half later, it was over, and the guys were headed off to get dressed, poof up their hair, and pre-buzz for the show.

When it was Shire's turn to sound check, Mike and me headed for the liquor store. I told the guy behind the counter, "Give me a fifth of Yukon, Jack," and then brought it back to the club. A perk of disability is the ability to bring bottles into secure areas. "Drinks for all my friends." Rose went on early, maybe even before nine, but I was buzzing real good when they hit the stage. Their energetic forcefulness picked up right where it abruptly ceased at sound check. Counting me and a few of their friends, there were maybe ten people in that room.

Drunken Raz lacked what little impulse control he normally had, so rocked out much more ferociously. While Rose hopped, bopped, and bounced around that diminutive stage like a bunch of Mexican jumping beans on crank, the sonic ass-kicking transformed me into an atomic drunk tearing up the dance floor at stage's edge. I spun in tight circles, banged my head, and rocked my chair side to side, lifting wheels off the ground in time with the music.

All the while, other club goers acted cool with some sporadic yet earnest toe-tapping.

Two tunes in, Axl seemed frustrated by the lack of love from the sparse crowd and gestured toward me while taunting spectators, "C'mon! Let's get into it; like this guy!"

When Rose was done, I was literally spent and don't think I could have taken a kilowatt more rock 'n' roll. Oh wait, always more.

The next day, I told Dave and Mike, "That dude, Axl, in Izzy's band is great."

They laughed at me and then took turns mocking Axl's vocals by shrieking, "Back off, back off, bitch."

I didn't argue with them, as to not bruise their singer's egos by pointing out that Axl clearly possessed more talent in his baby fingernail than both of them combined on their best days. During the previous few years, I saw nearly every big rock band playing L.A., as well as scores more club bands, and I knew that Axl was as good as or better than any singer rocking the mic. I remain puzzled how they missed that fact.

The tracks Shire recorded, with Don Dokken at the controls, turned out surprisingly good. Of the two brothers, Dave was leaps and bounds the better singer and also willing to put in the hard work necessary to achieve goals. His strong, Halford-esque vocals and talented band made some decent heavy metal. Respectable, but a little too polished and melodic for my tastes. Maybe if they dressed up like hobbits? Never mind. Nonetheless, Shire made a video for a tune off their demo-turned-EP that was eventually released on Enigma Records. All I remember from their video was some raw footage, shot high atop a Malibu hilltop on the grounds of a classically inspired estate. There they were, instruments in hand, lip-syncing while going through stiff rocker moves, when a swarm of angry bees broke up their pantomime jam. Without warning, spandex-clad pretty boys began frantically slapping at bees before fleeing from the lens' view. For some strange reason, that footage didn't make the final cut.

After a night of clubbing around Hollywood, several of my friends would end up at the Rainbow Bar and Grill's parking lot amongst the coke whores and hair farmers spilling out from the bar and looking for the next party. That place is so rock 'n' roll, Richie Blackmore named his band Rainbow after it. Weekend nights inside was usually packed booty to booty with scantily clad, super fine under-drinking-aged girls. Although they were pretty strict on checking dudes' IDs, which makes infinite sense to me. An eighteen-year-old girl with a fake ID gets drunk and then there's high probability of the lass heading out on an undercover dick mission. But dudes get drunk and want to fight. I wonder if it's opposite at gay bars. What is the first rule of fuck club?

A block from the Rainbow was an after-hours restaurant, Café L.A., that brought a complimentary plate of "garlic balls" to every table as soon as someone arrived. Those walnut-sized bread rolls, drenched in garlic and olive oil, were absolutely fucking delicious while taking the edge off a booze-filled stomach. The eatery was also kind enough to stack bottles of wine within plain reach of underage thieves. "Yes, I'll have the free food and a bottle of wine to go, please." One night, Mike and I went in there to meet up with friends and grab a few bottles of wine for an afterhours party. On the way in, Mike ran into a schoolmate and introduced us. Driving home, Mike told me the dude I just met, Slash, bested Tracii in a guitar-playing competition at Fairfax High School a few years earlier. The funny thing was they both lost to another guy that Mike described as "just an alright classical guitarist."

Hollywood was changing. The country's economy was booming, forcing old shit to make way for new crap. On a prime piece of real estate, in a beyond-cool Googie-style building on the corner of La Brea and Sunset, sat Tiny Naylor's restaurant. For decades, the place did a steady business, until the owners realized that multiples more money would be made by selling the land beneath the iconic eatery. So it was goodbye to Hollywood. That joint was packed 24/7 for its last few weeks in existence. Probably because the 1964 prices instituted to thank their loyals meant that a burger, fries, and a chocolate shake cost under a buck. On their final weekend, I rented a hotel room right across the street and partied in Hollywood while eating on the cheap. It almost made up for the strip mall with crappy parking they built on that site, but the Hoy's Wok in that mall was pretty kicks-ass.

When it came to hard-rock bands, there was no doubt that throughout the first half of the 1980s, Van Halen was "king of the hill, top of the heap." During those years, if you wanted to go see a popular band's concert, you had to line up and wait until tickets went on sale, all the while praying to the rock gods the show didn't sell out, thus leaving you at the mercy of scalpers. To be safe, I arrived four hours early to Music Plus' Ticketmaster counter to be tenth in line for Van Halen tickets. They hadn't figured out the wristband shit yet, and by the time tickets went on sale, I was at least forty people deep. But I still scored some nosebleed seats, only because a second show got added. I was outraged my tickets cost fourteen bucks after they tacked on the buck-fifty ass-rape service charge. So as reparations for skyrocketing concert costs, making me wait in line, and not protecting the integrity of my place, I helped myself to a 1980 Castle Donington Monsters of Rock cassette. Check out YouTube and listen to Riot's "Road Racin'" from that show. You're welcome.

I took my Casa buddy Joe along to the Van Halen 1984 concert. My actual seat location really didn't matter, because I always sat in the same spot at the Fabulous Forum, in my wheelchair far up and way back in a straight line to center stage. It was a horrible letdown of a concert, mostly because of an uninspiring performance by a beloved band merely going through the motions. For years, I had heard countless stories of colorful, dynamic frontman David Lee Roth's acrobatics, humor, unequaled presence, and legendary command of the audience. Maybe I expected too much? Then, when Eddie Van Halen set his axe aside for keyboards on "Jump," my boredom turned to disgust.

Driving away that night, I unspooled my 1984 cassette, and as the tape swirled in the wind trailing my car, I was heard bitching, "I didn't pay fifteen bucks to see the world's greatest guitarist play the fucking piano." Everyone's life experience is a different reality. Joe absolutely loved the show, y corriendo con el diablo. I swear he must have thanked me a thousand times for bringing him along and not ever trying to hump even one of his super-cute sisters.

A few days later, Mike and me went to the amusement park, Magic Mountain, to see Cheap Trick play. They let gimps in free, so Mike split off to sneak in and meet me at the venue. While he sat in the park's detention room, waiting for the L.A. County Sheriffs to come pick him up, I was in the front row (actually in front of front row) because the amphitheater was all stairs. I watched the show from stage right, mere feet from Rick Nielsen. Thinking Cheap Trick a bubblegum pop band, I wasn't expecting much that day. It turned out opposite of my Van Halen experience. Cheap Trick rocked so fucking hard, while putting on an incredible, incendiary performance of great songs, it left me beyond impressed and wanting more. I don't know about it being a top-ten favorite concert, because I never actually wrote up a list, but it's for sure teetering real close to the cutoff. I still listen to Live at Budokan quite often, and believe it is probably one of the best "live" albums out there. It's no Live at Folsom Prison, but what is?

It wasn't even two weeks later when Pyrrhus ceased being a band, right after Tracii fired Mike for refusing to bleach his hair, and he was an asshole. I was a Mötley Crüe fan, often getting some quality headbang-wail-along going when they were on the radio. Still, I couldn't understand why Tracii was patterning his every move after Crüe. I thought he smoked Mick Mars on guitar and needed to blaze his own trail. Undeterred by being kicked to the curb, Mike set out to audition for other bands and wrote a few songs with musician friends. It was all halfhearted, and nothing came of it. He was confident that Tracii would soon realize his error then come a-calling, and Pyrrhus would rock again. That band never did, because by springtime, Tracii had formed a new band called Guns.

I screeched up to Mike's house one late afternoon, and there, parked three houses up the street, was a red Mercedes 450 SL with plates reading "Dio 2." So Mike and me took our pot-smoking to the sidewalk and waited for our hero to show up. Not quite twenty minutes later, Mr. Ronnie James Dio himself, with Vivian Campbell at his side, came strolling down the sidewalk toward us. When he got to his car, I grinned and hit him with one of my favorite phrases: "What's the Dio, Ronnie James?" Those two mega rock stars couldn't have been nicer, answering questions and offering autographs, but Dio and Campbell thought I was kidding around when I said, "No thanks." So I ended up with a few autographs that I have no idea what happened to.

We chatted for at least ten minutes, and Dio encouraged Mike to pursue his dream of being a singer. When Mike told Dio about me expecting a substantial windfall in the near future, Dio looked at me and basically told me, "Don't live for pleasure. Make life your treasure." I was sorry that I ever mentioned my lawsuit to Mike, because he told everyone business I had hoped to keep mostly to myself. The only way for two people to keep a secret is for one of them to be dead.

10

Barely a month after my chat with a top-ten all-time-great rock god, Ronnie James Dio, my lawyer called to report two of five opposing parties were offering to settle my lawsuit. For two hundred and fifty grand, all I needed to do was sign on the dotted line. I had planned on taking my case all the way to court, but found it impossible saying no to stacks of cash. It took no more than seven seconds to devise a new and improved plan: get some party money, then take the remaining three defendants before a sympathetic jury to milk it for every dime. Ma, Pops, and me were all required to sign and notarize releases, then the same drill with the big check that ultimately got sent back to Hawaii for another hurry up and wait.

After three weeks of hoop-jumping, the lawyers took pounds of flesh and sent me the leftover ninety-seven thousand dollars. That's right, I broke my fucking neck and them motherfucking lawyers paid themselves one hundred and fifty-three grand, leaving me ninety-seven. Legal guardian, Pops, had hired the firm when I was a minor, and agreed – for me – to give "my" legal team 45 percent: plus fees and expenses! At the time, I was too giddy to even consider simple ratios or scrutinize expense reports, so had absolutely no clue of the absolute ass-rape being delivered.

Minutes after the check cleared, I rushed from my bank to a Pontiac dealer on a noble quest to score a Trans Am. But along the path toward the sales office, I fell in love with a sexy little Pontiac Sunbird turbo convertible. It was a blast to drive, but I probably overpaid by five hundred bucks. Having never purchased a brand-spanking-new car before, I forgot the best deals go to those willing to split. Nowadays, I leave the checkbook at home. So once terms are agreed upon, I must break free from the high-pressure sales environment to go fetch the down payment, allowing time to ponder the deal. Actually, in any business dealing – other than a beyond-stellar bargain – I never give a firm answer till at least a day passes.

One set of wheels down, one to go. In the few years since receiving mine from Rancho, wheelchair technology had undergone a sea change. I had to have me one of those newfangled aluminum alloy "sports chairs." I called around and found a demo model Quadra brand chair for about a third of retail, a mere five hundred bucks. When we arrived to the Abbey Medical store, while waiting for Mike to retrieve my soon-to-be-former chair from the trunk, I held onto the top of the car door and pulled myself up to standing, smiled devilishly, and said, "Now that I got my money."

Mike stopped cold in his tracks, as though he had seen a boyishly handsome quadriplegic ghost. Turns out, he never saw me on my feet before, and over time we got many laughs about those few seconds when he actually believed I faked a disability to get paid.

The very next day, we set off to the Colorado River for some Fourth of July festivities. After loading up on beer, I rocketed my new turbo southeast down Interstate 10 toward Blythe, making a pit stop at Sizzler to smoke fifteen bowls before consuming stoner quantities of all-you-can-eat shrimp. I hate open containers in my car, so, to quell my bitching, Mike chucked his empties out the window. A beer bottle traveling at ninety-two mph will repeatedly roll and bounce, but not shatter until almost at a complete stop. Mike was so amused by the phenomenon that he drank forty-two beers, leaving a trail of shattered glass along our path. Because the fourth fell on a Wednesday, and folks with jobs don't head to the river for just a day, Blythe was beyond dead, so we split for home early the next morning.

Downey sat too far away from the party fields, so I rented a room at the Holiday Inn, near Hollywood and Highland. The plan was to get a huge sack of blow, tons of booze, and party down with as many slutty coke whores looking to put out that we could hustle up. I was novice about coke-loving concubines, unaware of the prime directive: do not have a room full of drunken dudes. They'll only cock-block you, if their presence hasn't already scared the chicks away. But if there are any other dudes present, they better have their own drugs. If not, they should not be there. Basically, I stayed at the Holliday Inn for almost two weeks, burned a few lids of pot, did at least an ounce of blow, and drank gallons of beer, but did not even hold hands with a girl. All the willing women I knew lived many miles away, while I remained far too buzzed to go in search of talent. I never understood how folks leave the house after doing coke. Sure, if someone gives you a bump while you're out and about, you got to deal with it. But once I'm hunkered down in a private place, me no likey prying eyes.

I awoke one afternoon, after a night of hard partying, amongst a room full of dudes and could not find my car keys anywhere. Upon realization Mike had them last, I became super angry and bitchy. But Mike told me, "It's not my car. The keys are your responsibility."

I screamed, "It is my fault for giving my keys to a fucking idiot!" Upon hearing those words coming from my mouth, I realized he was right. Even though it was a beyond-asshole thing for him to say, I was the one stupid enough to give his worthless ass the keys. And the one who couldn't drive my brand-new car. It's a fact, if we choose to put our trust in others, we become responsible when shit gets fucked up. If it happens to me, it's my fault.

About two weeks after my check cleared, I rented a cool little apartment at Highland and Odin, right next to Hollywood Bowl. Sometimes, because of the Hollywood Bowl's gridlocked traffic, it took an hour to travel the last quarter mile to my driveway. Conveniently, starting a city block away, there was a curb cut – put there for handicap folks just like me – leading to extra-wide sidewalks that served as an exit ramp to my garage. Moving from a small room into an apartment meant I needed to buy absolutely everything. Furniture, towels, sheets, dishes, a vacuum, and so many dollars more stuff that normal houses require. I also bought a semi-cool stereo and stacks of records to drive my neighbors crazy.

Before 1984, all of L.A. was area code 213. At some point, they split the city in two and assigned the 818 area code to the San Fernando Valley, a region I generally avoided but playfully mocked friends residing there. Down the street from my apartment was a gas station that also sold car accessories, and I seriously considered forking over a grand to get one of those newfangled cellular car phones installed in my Sunbird. That is, until I found out that cell phone calls were fifty cents a minute, incoming or outgoing.

Within a month of owning that cash, it felt like everyone was in my pocket. My own dear Ma hit me up for a ten-thousand-dollar loan. I knew I'd never see it again, so instead arranged for her to get a bank loan by opening a collateral savings account. Mostly it was small loan requests, but one friend's mother actually had the nerve to seek a loan to pay a four-hundred-dollar electric bill. I told her to pay it the same way she usually paid and drove off. Then there was Mike acting like he owned the big bank account, regularly running up bar tabs, helping himself to drugs, and messing my place up like I had maid service. It was the first time having my own place, and even though I wanted a little alone-time solitude, I was too wimpy to tell him.

One night, we had a couple of girls over, drinking rum and Cokes in my complex's jacuzzi. The apartment manager – a super-duper fem-gay but alright dude – pointed out in a beyond friendly manner that glass containers were not allowed in the spa area. A far too drunken Mike started yelling, "faggot this, faggot that," and stormed off. That month was the longest period of time I had ever spent with Mike. By the next day, when I dropped him at home, I mustered the courage to let him know of my desire to enjoy my place solo by telling him something like, "Fuck off, Mike."

*

I doubt it was a coincidence, but the very next day, Tracii Guns called to invite me to see his new band rehearse. That evening, I drove recklessly to Riverside and Fletcher, near Silverlake, to grab a burger from Rick's before driving around the corner to "Nickey's Love Palace," the studio owned by Nickey Alexander. I halfway expected Mike to be there, due to him telling me he was considering joining Tracii's new group, but there was no Mike in sight. I was happy, and told Tracii that L.A. Guns was a far better band name than Pyrrhus. Tracii later admitted the inspiration came from sort of combining names, New York Dolls and Sex Pistols, to get to L.A. Guns. Besides Tracii and Ole, that day's version of the band featured an incredible skin-bashing monster, Dijon Carruthers, on drums. The trio proceeded to put on a beyond-impressive performance, and right afterward, Tracii pitched me for a small investment in L.A Guns.

Even though I found music's forbidden seduction and elusive promises of wealth and pleasure intriguing, I said, "I'm not really into working with Mike." After laughing and mocking Mike a bit, Tracii assured me that Mike was not even being considered. When Tracii walked me out so I could show off my new car, I asked if he knew of any upcoming Rose shows, but left out the part about them being the band I really wanted to work with. Apparently, Rose had broken up, and Izzy joined the popular local band London.

Finding out Axl Rose might be available was the first moment I considered investing in Tracii's project. I kept the excitement to myself, while thinking if Axl joined L.A. Guns, it'd be huge. And if I invested, I'd end up richer than Elmer J. Fudd. With images of mansions and yachts filled with porn sluts dancing in my head, I said, "You think Axl would be interested in jamming with L.A. Guns?" Tracii told me he had invited Axl to come to a rehearsal, but he wanted to start his own project. I told Tracii I'd think about putting some cash into his band but needed a written proposal before I could decide.

A few days later, I drove up to Big Sur to retrieve my brother Joe for Ma's birthday. On the drive back, I told him of my foolproof plan: "Heavy metal is going to make me a millionaire." Joe thought it a foolish idea. He was not the only one that I didn't listen to. Because soon after returning to L.A., Tracii and I had a sit-down where he offered me 5 percent of L.A. Guns for a ten-thousand-dollar investment. I counteroffered a five-grand investment and then see where we were, figuring if the band could not score a great singer, I'd be out.

Tracii, Ole, and me hired a lawyer to draw up a very minimal contract, promising me 2.5 percent of the band for every five thousand dollars invested, capped at 10 percent. Never in my wildest dreams did I envision investing twenty grand. It was merely put there as placeholder bullshit. My ace in the hole was to trademark L.A. Guns in my name, in case Tracii didn't come through on the promised cut or tried to fuck me in any way.

Bands need vans, so Tracii and I set off for Huntington Beach to buy that bubble-top, fast-food-drive-thru-overhang-catching Dodge off of Pops. Next, I made an offer the owner of an hourly rehearsal space could not refuse and rented L.A. Guns a twenty-four-hour lockout studio. The best part was that studio sat right smack dab in the middle of Hollywood, hidden away down an alley off Gardner at Sunset Boulevard, right around the corner from the mediocre Sunset Grill and the extremely shitty Guitar Center. The windowless, seven-hundred-square-foot room's back wall bordered the playground of Gardner Street Elementary, where a few years later, its auditorium got named in honor of their most famous alumni, Michael Jackson.

Within days of the band moving into the lockout, Dijon quit being a drummer, switched to speed-metal guitar, and quit the band. Former Pyrrhus drummer Robbie's girlfriend's uncle sold some excellent cocaine, so I was regularly in touch with them. When they ended up homeless, I let Robbie store his drums at the studio. As an added bonus, Ole loved having a jam buddy available 24/7.

Unrealized by me at the time, Tracii's "written proposal" was more of a wish list of totally unnecessary crap. Apparently, we were in the market for a drum riser, so Tracii found one in the Recycler, a newspaper version of Craigslist. The seller lived on an old school bus, about two miles from Dodger's Stadium. Because I excelled at deal-making, I preferred to do the haggling, but needed him to drive the van to the pickup location. I told him, "Park around the corner and wait for me. Don't do any negotiating until I get there."

When I drove up, Tracii was out in front of a nearby warehouse, laughing, clowning, and shooting the shit with the seller, Sam Mann.

Tracii told me, "This guy's the coolest guy ever."

I rolled my eyes and said, "Great, now how the fuck am I going to negotiate price?"

Sam told me in no uncertain terms, "One fifty each is the price, junior. Those Wenger risers go for five hundred a slice, and I'm throwing in the stairs."

After agreeing to terms, Sam took the opportunity to try selling us a drum kit by pounding away on it for several minutes. I took an instant liking to Sam, but only because he was a super-cool, sarcastic, funny, and pretty dude, as well an incredible drummer. When I offered him the L.A. Guns' drum gig, he said, "I'm not a drummer, I'm a singer."

I begged him to at least come down to try out, but he remained non-committal. It didn't bum me out too much, because Ole and me really wanted Robbie to replace Dijon. His drums were already at the studio, he knew the songs, and he clicked with Ole. To top it all off, Robbie had a great coke connection and was a cool bro wholeheartedly dedicated to the project. Plus, we couldn't hire a singer until getting a drummer. Even with all that, Tracii remained adamant that Robbie wasn't who he wanted in the group.

A few days later, Sam actually dropped by to try out. Robbie was cool enough to show him a few of the songs and allow use of his kit. Sam gave it a halfhearted, thoroughly lackluster attempt, then pointed to Robbie and said, "He's your drummer."

It was all settled – L.A. Guns was one singer short of becoming rock stars. We spent our days planning and scheming world dominance at the offices of Raz Productions, which was very close to my apartment's kitchen: the dining room. I had business cards and everything. My vision was to create a buzz for L.A. Guns by strategically plastering the bold and straightforward logo onto other people's shit.

Geographically, the Hollywood rock scene was a compact, interconnected area to promote. We focused on the Troubadour and its nearby parking lots, the Rainbow from 2-3 a.m., Café L.A., as well as Ben Frank's diner and the popular twenty-four-hour Mexican fast food joint, Naugles. Plus every music store we shopped, and just down the street from my place, Hollywood Boulevard with its cool record shops and various metal orientated businesses.

We kicked some major ass getting shirts, stickers, and posters out there for relatively cheap: the price of gasoline, burnt rubber, and booze. I also scored two cases of L.A. Guns logo matches, about a hillside's worth of free fire to pass along, and several Hollywood smoke shops, liquor stores, and the Troubadour gladly distributed the L.A. Guns' name to drunks and smokers. Almost a month passed, and even though the band remained singer-less, almost everyone visiting Hollywood received at least minimal exposure to the L.A. Guns brand. I was following a promotional strategy I witnessed The Police employ for their 1979 Roxy gig. A few weeks prior to that show, they began a massive blitz of "Support Your Local Police" stickers and posters around much the same area we canvassed.

The coolest, funnest, and most awesomey thing about promoting a band was the built-in excuse to flirt with absolutely every chick we stumbled upon. We also chatted up any and all rocker dudes crossing our path and, if in a band, they got hooked up with as much L.A. Guns merchandise as possible. We'd go to their shows and support their efforts, and they eventually ended up amongst our crowd.

One evening, while on a whiskey run to the Hughes Market at Highland and Franklin, Tracii and me met a very cool dude, Rikki Rockett, who was on a similar rock 'n' roll mission. After a lengthy talk, he left with a shirt and we had tickets to Poison's Thursday night Troubadour show. It had to have been among the first handful of Poison's L.A. performances, which made it even more stunning to discover a crowd of over a hundred, with 80 percent chicks. With a ratio like that, I never missed a Poison show, and got to know them fairly well. Those guys were always energetic, friendly, hard-working, as well as sincere, and I still dig that "Unskinny Bop."

The greater Los Angeles area is a mish-mash of districts, communities and stand-alone cities. In L.A. city proper, there were several different rock scenes, each with unique musical styles and popular genres. Plus, even around Hollywood, each club had its own flavor. Gazzarri's held on tightly to the last remnants of the Van Halen wannabes, bands who rarely played the Troub. The Troubadour was all about the Aqua Net Extra Super Hold hairspray, and where Mötley-Crüe-inspired, leather-bound glamsters rocked. To see a real heavy – or metal – band, one needed to travel deep into the valley to Reseda and catch a show at the Country Club. Outside of L.A., the club was the draw. At the popular clubs in the hinterlands, most weekends, no matter what, there was a good-sized crowd who trusted a place not to provide low shit through high wattage.

It's no secret there were scores of megastar L.A. rock bands in the 60s and early 70s, but after a brief lull, Van Halen got the club scene hopping again in the late 70s. And after Mötley Crüe broke big in 82, L.A. reaffirmed its title as the hard-rock capitol of the universe. By 84, MTV was saturated with heavy L.A. bands like Quiet Riot and Ratt, as well as the new kings, Crüe. Then, on a scale previously unimagined, great-looking dudes with varying degrees of talent flocked to the town in droves. And wherever there are hot dudes, chicks swarm about with an insatiable desire to drop down to their knees and eagerly earn the privilege of buying a bad boy some leather.

It wasn't only music turning the entire world's attention toward my city that summer. The Games of the XXIII Olympiad were in Los Angeles, drawing a few million eyeballs of their own. In the run-up to the games, the first order of civic business was clearing them sweet swarms of pesky prostitutes from Sunset Boulevard, as to not tarnish the city's sheen. The freeways were also empty, even during rush hour, because those who could had split town due to three years of our evening news' relentless horror stories predicting Olympian-scale gridlock traffic. My favorite Olympics tie-in was a McDonald's promotion: "If the U.S. Wins, You Win!" If the greatest country in the history of the planet won gold in a specific event, there was a free Big Mac, silver got you free fries, and bronze provided a coke to wash the winning down with.

Kaboom, the Soviet Union blew a hole in McDonald's marketing budget by boycotting the 1984 Los Angeles Games, in retaliation for the U.S. skipping the 1980 Moscow Games. Without the Eastern Bloc countries competing, the United States accumulated one hundred and seventy-four medals; eighty-three gold. When a car full of good-looking rocker dudes pulls up to the drive-thru window and asks the cutie-pie, "Can I have a bunch of those scratchers?" more times than not, she'll hand over the whole damn stack. We literally had a free meal a day for several weeks. By the time that free food was over, the guys were conditioned to me sporting Mickey D's, and it became lunch on me after I grudgingly added food to the investment list.

The coolest thing about having a rehearsal space in the middle of Hollywood was we had a great afterhours place to drink, party, rock out, party, and party. Ole's friend Paul was in town to see some Olympic futbol, and tagged along to the Rainbow the night we met a couple German dudes from the band Nena, owners of a pretty big MTV hit "99 Luftbaloons." Many Danes speak German, and vice versa, plus those Northern Europeans all stick together in their love for Jack Daniel's; so back to the jam space. Though they refused my repeated requests to invite Nena over, it was a fun late-night groove-jam party. I also found out my theory about those 99 red balloons was all wrong when in three different languages I received repeated assurance the song was not about heroin delivery.

Gear-wise, Tracii seemed content with his two Marshall 100 Watt Super Leads, modified with master volumes by Jabco, and four 4-12 Marshall Cabinets, of varying wattage. But when it came to getting a guitar sound, he was a schizophrenic who couldn't settle on one he loved longer than two days. Dude went through piles of pedals and rack-mounted signal processors, because he needed a _____, and couldn't be expected to play without whatever the fuck his current "I need" happened to be.

When it came to guitars, Tracii started out with what he claimed as a pre-Jackson, Randy Rhodes model Flying V. But he soon tired of it and dragged me to Guitar Guitar, where I drove a hard bargain to trade it and a hundred bucks for a black-on-black Ibanez Strat. When we left with his new nine-hundred-dollar guitar, Tracii laughed and told me the traded Flying V was a two-hundred-dollar knockoff of a knockoff, and it didn't look anything like the Rhodes model. After scoring a machine-gun-shaped guitar that sounded like crap and a blond 76 Gibson Les Paul Custom, I quit purchasing guitars.

Robbie already owned a complete drum kit, with hardware, so all he needed were a few cases, sticks, cymbals, heads, and other shit that regularly wore out. But Ole required all new gear to sonically compete with Robbie's hard pounding above Tracii's new stacks and lack of dynamics. Not yet aware of Ampeg SVT's superiority, I believed the Nadine's salesman's pitch. Meaning, unfortunately, Ole ended up with a Peavey MAX head, two 1-15 Gauss bass cabinets, and matching 2-10 cabinets. The Peavey head kicked ass, but those Gauss cabinets sucked and blew up soon after getting unpacked.

The same day we shopped for the bullshit Gauss gear, Ole passed his time plucking away on a blond Music Man bass. He became smitten, sheepishly asking if I'd loan him money to buy it. After selling his Fender P-bass, I paid the difference for the axe, and Ole became happier than anyone ever saw him. It truly was love, that bass always in his hands or very close by. Dude played almost every waking moment, and especially loved AC/DC, Manowar, Stevie Ray Vaughn, or adding bottom end to whatever was on the TV.

After Tracii swore up and down that most band managers bought stage clothes for the group, I flashed back to my gang-adjacent days and thought matching leathers would be pretty cool. Me and Tracii got black biker jackets, Robbie got his in white. But when Ole picked out a pink version of the same jacket, he said, "If we're going to look like a bunch of fags, might as well be the best fags we can." My leather was such a burden, hot and cumbersome, that it mostly rode in my lap. Happily, one night, someone was kind enough to steal it.

In just the first month, I dropped more than five grand, and the band had yet to hire their singer. So I succumbed to the "sunken cost fallacy" and threw more good money after bad. With growing concern about how fast my money bags were shrinking, I thought another revenue stream would be helpful. I knew that during California's nineteenth-century gold rush, the merchants were the most likely to end up rich. So one afternoon, whilst slaving away within the Raz Productions office, I put the bong down and suggested to Tracii we open a clothing shop on Hollywood Boulevard. Or maybe Melrose, which wasn't a big scene yet. We'd make money and get the newest, coolest clothes and shoes far cheaper than paying retail, all the while promoting the fuck out of L.A. Guns. Maybe even find a space to jam, too.

That's how I sold it, but Tracii summarily dismissed my idea, and in a mocking tone said, "Are you in the rock 'n' roll business, or are you a shopkeeper?" Still firmly convinced that Tracii knew what he was talking about, I let it pass.

Bank of America sucked giant donkey dicks, usually giving me an extreme hassle whenever I tried withdrawing more than a few hundred bucks in a single serving. I'd end up sitting around for half an hour waiting, while sporadically mumble-yelling, "Give me my fucking money." I didn't have credit, and there were no debit cards in those days, so to buy gear, it was cash or a check. Try going into a music store and buying a stack of gear with a check. To avoid the furious waiting at my bank and have cash on hand when a deal popped up, I came up with the solid plan of removing two hundred dollars per day from an ATM.

At some point, I gifted Joe my old Pontiac Grand Ville, so he'd have a car to drive back to Big Sur and get the fuck away from me. It wasn't constant bad times and violence between my brother and me; over the years, we got along minutes at a time, but forty-eight hours or more together ain't pretty. To my chagrin, instead of pointing that Pontiac north, Joe got himself a job at a catering company. We all loved the free gourmet leftovers, but his real gig was head of the stage crew for L.A. Guns.

I tried firing him several times, but my inability to physically remove his ability to continue breathing meant he ignored me and kept showing up. If a dude's going to break his back schlepping around a band's gear, the band will not side with the barely-able-to-lift-a-guitar gimp manager. Besides, as much as I hate him, others love Joe. Except for his penchant for sweating the small stuff and stressing like a maniac on moonshine, his above-average technical and critical-thinking skills combined with an ability to make snap decisions meant he was a great roadie/stage manager. And I hate to admit it.

For some reason, a singer-less band believed it time to book gigs, so Tracii and me went to the L.A. Street Scene's talent office to play the required demo. Up to that very wrinkle in time, I believed L.A. Guns had a demo tape. Because that was what dumbass me was led to believe. Instead, we got to hear a shitty boombox recording of a rehearsal from back in the Pyrrhus days, with Mike Jagosz's vocals barely heard amongst blaring overloaded guitar. We got rejected, dejected, and ejected. The agent told us we needed a studio demo before L.A. Guns could be booked. When Tracii protested and tried to get her to listen again, I shut him down. After he sulked away, I lagged behind and apologized for wasting her time, and then told of the demo the guys were just finishing up with. She had seen the logo around town, and told me to bring a professional demo within three weeks. And if it was to her liking, L.A. Guns could have a spot at the Street Scene.

So if she wanted a demo, I'd get her a demo. A block from Fairfax High School, the bargain-basement 24 track, Hitman Studios, became the band's destination. For twenty-nine bucks an hour, the place also provided an engineer, Chuck Rosa. The Guns were well rehearsed and tight, so I figured they'd lay down two songs in about ten hours. Then, upon landing a singer, pop back into Hitman and record some vocals with a four-hour session.

After Chuck spent an eternity getting drum sounds, when the band finally played, Tracii was unwilling or unable to lay down a simple rhythm track. After eight hundred and forty-two takes – maybe a few less – we gave up on our begging him, because the session was over. And L.A. Guns were not even close to having a demo. Chuck spoke glowingly about his love for the band, and how sweet a demo we could produce with another ten hours of studio time. Having never done recording studio business, I was unaware of a standard recording studio up-sell being personally delivered.

A few nights later, I ran into Axl in the Rainbow parking lot and smacked him on the ass, then let my hand linger momentarily while saying hello. Just kidding, he's more steer than queer. Axl seemed happy to see me and introduced me to his mate. "This is my drummer, Steven." Axl passed me a few tickets with "Hollywood" handwritten across a rubber-stamped red rose.

I'd been searching high and low for him, so I told of L.A. Guns recording a demo, auditioning singers, and how great it'd be were he to drop by the studio to give it a shot. Axl pulled Steven Adler in tight for a chokehold hug and said, "I love my band, and I love this guy."

Later, when I told Tracii of the conversation, he suggested offering Axl a pair of leather pants to join. I said, "I don't want him in the band if that's what I have to do."

About a week later, I ran into Axl and, to my surprise, learned that Hollywood Rose had broken up. I thought it was great, but didn't act overly happy. I pitched the gig again, but he still wasn't interested in joining L.A. Guns. Axl explained, "I don't think Tracii and me have the same vision."

I told him, "Tracii loves your voice, and I think he'd be willing to at least hear you out."

Axl merely shrugged, and we left it at that after I became distracted by the utterly sweet Monique gliding elegantly toward us. She hit me up for a ride to some after party, and because I never could say no to her, gladly obliged. Axl, always down for the party with utterly sweet treats, said he'd tag along and so I began rolling car-ward.

After getting a decent downhill clip going, just past The Roxy, I knocked over the metal valet parking sign, which slammed onto the sidewalk with a loud crash. A valet dude with limited English skills ran and grabbed my chair's handle so I couldn't get away. He got up in my face, yelling and screaming while I struggled to break free of his grip. I yelled back, "Fuck you, it was an accident!"

Axl ran up to let the dude know he needed to release me or end up in the hospital. Two other valet guys rushed over to back up their buddy, but Axl was clearly ready to throw with all three of them, and didn't flinch or back down as he bellowed warnings their way.

The valet guy had no end game, so he just let me go. I continued on downhill and yelled back, "Fuck you, motherfuckers!"

A few minutes later, the three of us were tooling along Sunset Boulevard, top down, with Axl and Monique sitting on the boot, singing along with a song on KMET. I veered off onto Holloway to avoid the 2 a.m. Strip logjam as the piano intro to Queen's "Spread Your Wings" began. Axl became happily animated and said, "I can't believe it. They never play this song on the radio." As we sailed up Holloway, Axl sang along full-throated, wailing, crooning, and impressing with his warm, signature rasp. It made me wish even more that he'd sing for L.A. Guns.

A few nights later, Ole, his friend Paul, and me were at the studio getting shitfaced on Jack, coke, and weed to celebrate Paul's heading back to Denmark the next day. Around two thirty, Tracii showed up with Axl, and, I think, Steve Darrow. We all partied for a while before the guys started to jam, with Steve on drums. They played some covers and a few of Axl's Hollywood Rose songs. And it was awesome! While they rocked out, Paul leaned over and yelled in my ear, "That's the best rock 'n' roll singer in Los Angeles!"

I looked toward Axl, nodded in agreement, and then took a chug. When the band drifted off into a prolonged blues jam, Axl put the microphone down and sat with us to pass the Jack to and fro. Good fun. That night, I didn't once bug him to join the band. Having asked so many times – and always been shot down – I concluded it was not to be.

11

About two weeks later, I got a call from Mr. Axl Rose himself. He didn't beat around the bush. Right after a hello, he straight-out asked, "Is L.A. Guns still looking for a singer?"

We met up to have a few drinks and talk about the what's-what. I pride myself on my negotiating skills, so, poker faced, not tipping my hand, I told Axl about what Tracii said about buying him leather pants. And if that's what he wanted, we'd keep looking.

Axl scoffed, "I wouldn't join a band that I wasn't into even if you bought me a house and car."

To say I was relieved would be an understatement. I wanted him in the band so bad my wheels ached. Even though Axl wasn't entirely convinced about Tracii's stuff being what he wanted to do, apparently Tracii had somehow managed to persuade Axl Rose to ignore his first several Tracii Guns impressions.

I didn't ask why Rose broke up, just assuming it was because Izzy joined another band. I was curious why he changed his mind about joining the project, and Axl said, "We talked a few times during the last couple of days, and Tracii said he wants L.A. Guns to be more blues-based hard rock, and not the metal crap he's been doing."

Axl went on to tell me about how, the night after the rehearsal studio jam while admittedly "wasted drunk," he left his day planner behind in a phone booth. He said, "My whole life was in that planner, so I quit drinking." Soon after swearing off drink, Axl went to Indiana to visit family, regroup, clear his head, and decide what his next life-move would be. While there, his folks tried persuading him to move back home by offering to pay for recording engineering school so he might pursue a less risky path of music employment than that of rock 'n' roll singer.

According to him, he gave some serious consideration on taking up the offer to stay in Indiana and enroll in a trade school. He then spoke of an older rocker dude he occasionally saw walking around his hometown, with head hung low and a sad, shuffling stride. Axl described the guy as stylish and charismatic, while possessing an undeniable air of coolness. But Axl saw him as a broken man who never realized his dreams and returned to Indiana with tortured soul to daily regret the decision to give up on his dreams. I have no idea if that person ever really existed, or if Axl imagined what his future would be if he abandoned his own dreams by fleeing back home to mommy and daddy. Either way, Axl decided to "give it one more shot with L.A. Guns."

I was a super happy gimp, with dollar signs in my eyes, when I said, "I'm glad you finally decided to join. With you, L.A. Guns will be huge."

Axl and I had always gotten along well, and that day was no exception. Axl was a straight shooter who never held back. It was refreshing to know exactly where I stood, when it wasn't infuriating. In that regard, Axl and Tracii were night and day. Axl never hid how he felt or what he wanted. Tracii frequently lied through his teeth, while employing manipulative manipulations, and then attempted even more conning just to get what he thought he wanted at any particular moment.

Personality-wise, I felt Axl and I were similar. We both held faith in danger, while encouraging others' reckless ways. I also lived my life following the template laid out in Van Halen and AC/DC tunes that kept me "Runnin' with the Devil" along the "Highway to Hell" and eagerly danced the "Sinner's Swing" while "Waiting Around to be a Millionaire." From the very first note I was blessed to hear from Axl's platinum pipes, I knew if I could front a band, he was the singer that I'd hope to be.

I've always got music playing in my head, and I broke my fucking neck mere months after learning to play guitar. Paralysis ended my teenaged dream of rocking the world's stages, all the while sampling a sweet girl in every town along that road. So there I sit, spaz-rocking out and singing full-throated in the car next to yours at red lights. Yes, I'm that guy. It might have you laughing at times. But remember, those who don't dance should never make fun of those on the dance floor. My whole involvement in the music business was obviously due to me not having what it took to be a performer, so I bought a big boat and tried to sail right up next to it.

The W.A.R. man was not only an outstanding singer and phenomenal frontman, he also possessed an extremely witty and quite a sarcastic sense of humor. A warped worldview, combined with superior intellect, allowed him to get even the obscurest referenced innuendo spit out by your humble gimpy historian. He laughed at my jokes. I'd bet the reason he mostly keeps that shit to himself nowadays is due to the small but loud group of malicious trolls, lurking ever ready to take things the wrong way to fit into their preconceived notions' narrative so they can bitch, bitch, bitch. You know, the boring, literal fucks of inferior intellect who wouldn't know a joke if it walked into a bar with a priest, a rabbi, and a satiated Tijuana donkey. But that's what she screamed! Sadly, for too many folks, the tiniest ripple of perceived hate is the first thing noticed within an ocean of love.

Axl brought several of his Hollywood Rose songs to L.A. Guns and also penned lyrics for a handful of songs that Tracii and Mike co-wrote during Pyrrhus days of yore. But when it came to collaborating on new material, Axl soon grew frustrated with Tracii's passive refusal to work on Axl's ideas. He'd sing, hum, and clap-stomp money-melodies with dangerous rhythms, trying to relay his superior ideas to Tracii, who'd then play a totally unrelated riff in a different key and tempo.

After several days' worth of ongoing collaboration frustration, Axl invited Izzy to the studio to hash it all out and show Tracii the song playing in his brain. About two and a half seconds after Izzy plugged in, their musical communication was clear and evident. Axl sang a melody, and then Izzy said, "Like this?" and got to strumming.

Axl perked up with a happy smile and said, "Yeah that's it. Now on that part..." It wasn't long before the two had the whole tune worked out. In about ten minutes Izzy brought to life a song Axl spent fruitless hours trying to communicate to Tracii.

Izzy was in Rose, with Chris Webber on second guitar. Hollywood Rose had Chris and Slash as axmen. When it came to showing Tracii a lick Slash added to the song "Anything Goes," Izzy hadn't heard the part, so couldn't. As he explained his love for the way Slash played it, Axl got chills, almost like he forgot to breathe. "There's just a certain way Slash plays that part. I don't know how to describe it, but it makes the song a million times better." So as he did with Izzy before, Axl invited Slash to the studio to show Tracii some parts, but Slash was not interested.

Axl is a music-first guy, and didn't like the band Poison. Not even a little bit. Style was also quite important to him. He'd tell of running into the Poison guys while out and about and seeing them in sweats with their hair down. Axl believed that rock 'n' rollers "should look the same on stage as in their normal life, or they're just a poseur."

One day, I told him, "I don't know why you hate Poison so much. They're nice guys."

Axl scoffed, then broke into song – "Nice boys don't play rock 'n' roll." That's the first time I heard of Rose Tattoo. Hollywood Rose had covered the song "Nice Boys," and so Axl sent me on a mission to find the album so L.A. Guns could also do the tune.

The Music Plus near Vine and Sunset had a decent import section, and I was stoked to find a few Rose Tattoo cassettes. On Ole's suggestion, I also bought a compilation tape. Though it wasn't the band he had recommended, on the same tape was a group called Girl. Tracii loved that song, "Hollywood Tease," and wanted to cover it, but Axl wasn't into it. To this day, I still love Rose Tattoo's first three records. "Astra Wally" is one of my all-time favorite, fun agro tunes to yell along with. And the line, "All I want from a living is just to be left alone" from "Rock 'n' Roll Outlaw" sums up my hopes, dreams and ultimate desires.

While all the gear, fashion, and promotional money destruction shit went on, we were lining everything up for live shows. For L.A. Guns' debut show, Izzy arranged for them to open for his band, London, at the Troubadour. We'd head over to the club three or four nights a week to pass out flyers and tickets. Promoting is all about the schmooze, so we'd pre-buzz at my place, then hit the Troub for more drinks and the hunting of beaver. After a night of hitting on chicks while passing out promo material, right before two, we'd grab a mess of beer, a 1.75 liter bottle of whiskey, and then head to the Rainbow for a quick canvas before the partying continued well into the morning back at the studio.

Quite often, guys in wheelchairs get special treatment; skipping lines and getting free drinks or drugs from people you just met is not entirely unheard of. But there are a few folks who seem to resent gimps receiving special treatment. Maybe it's because some crippled fucks are just assholes demanding perks without showing any appreciation for the world treating them slightly less cruel than it does others. When I first met Ron, the Troub's head of security, his vibe exuded, "you're not getting any special treatment, you handicapped bitch." So one night, while promoting the show, trying to "grease the wheels," I gave him a quarter g of blow. Instead of being satisfied with my "gift," the next time we crossed paths, he said, "That was good stuff. Bring me some more at sound check and you won't have any problems with your sound."

I agreed, but it ate at me until I was steamed. There was no way I was going to give him payola. I'm a generous guy, but if you try to take from me, I will rage with furious anger; an attitude that probably explains most of my alleged road rage incidents. I felt like I had boxed myself in, and spent many hours pondering bad options.

Even while promoting relentlessly, we were getting Axl geared up and outfitted for photos and shows. Wait, we never actually did a photo shoot, because Tracii reasoned that every band had crappy photos of pretty boys posing unnaturally, and he wanted to keep the band mysterious for the curiosity factor.

A few days into his tenure, Axl and I went to Guitar Center to buy a power amp and floor monitors to improve the studio's shitty PA. While waiting for a salesman to write a ticket for a QSC amp and wedge monitors, Axl wandered over to an electric piano and started attacking its ivories with Elton and Jerry Lee glee. It was so God damned cool that I wanted to get it in the show. But a salesman, in full asshole mode, rushed over and yelled at Axl to stop playing. I yelled back, "Fuck you, we want to buy it!" Before stomping away, he rolled his eyes as if I were lying to him like the first time he ended up with a buddy's cock crammed up his shithole. Fuck Guitar Center! It was Nadine's only after that.

When it came to stage clothes, Axl had a completely different sense of style than Tracii and was not interested in a matching leather biker jacket. So we scored a cool, stylish, reasonably priced jacket from a shop on Santa Monica Boulevard, about two blocks from where the Starwood once stood. The next goal – at first I thought he was joking – was leather chaps to wear with a g-string in lieu of pants. Off to the adult store, Pleasure Chest, and its great leather selection. When Axl stepped out of the dressing room, sporting black leather chaps with only a g-string beneath, people noticed. A few, quite possibly gay, employees milled about the area while Axl tried on several different styles of chaps. Cowboy boots, one spur, two pairs of sunglasses, and a Rob Halford-ish leather biker hat completed the outfit.

*

The first Friday night of Rocktober 1984, L.A. Guns' debut went down. Even though Izzy got them on the bill, I also provided London's Lizzy Gray and Nadir D' Priest a little incentive by sporting a full-page ad in BAM Magazine. I have no idea what the fuck I was thinking when I let London design the ad, because when BAM hit the stands, it was utterly disheartening to see L.A. Guns' logo a mere 5 percent of the page. When he learned of the swindle, Axl, with Joe at his side, set off in search of Nadir in hopes of bashing his skull repeatedly upon the nearest hard surface until blood flowed from his ears. The ass whoopin' was averted when Izzy and Tracii managed to talk them out of it. But I was more pissed at myself for being foolish enough to drop off a nine-hundred-dollar check to the ad department without demanding any approval privileges. Truth be told, London did exactly what I would have done in the reverse situation.

The sound check was at three in the afternoon. We were all enjoying some Michelobs as the gear was being set up, but Ron noticed we brought our own suds and yelled, "You fucking idiots, you can't bring beer into my bar!" A pretty obvious mistake, because the Troub didn't sell Michelob. From that day on, we always respected their wishes, and only snuck in Budweiser or Heinekens.

A short while later, Ron pulled me aside and said, "You got that stuff?"

I looked him dead in the eye and spoke sternly. "I ain't going to give you shit, because then I'll have to hook you up every time." Ron just shook his head, grinned, and walked away. As I wondered what he had planned for me, the boys began making awful dyssynchronous amplified noises on stage.

London had a huge draw, and the buzz of once having Nikki Sixx in the act. Our people skills and promotional strategy also brought in a good number of curious rockers and barely legal babes, so at least three hundred people saw London get blown off the stage that night. L.A. Guns' set list included several original tunes: "Anything Goes," "Cold Hard Cash," "Back off, Bitch," "If You Love Me, Stick to Your Guns," "Comin' or Not," "Bloodshot Eyes," and "Shadow of Your Love." They also covered "Heartbreak Hotel" and "Jumpin' Jack Flash," with Axl's awesome versions still available on demand in my brain.

Rikki, Brett, Bobby, and Matt from Poison showed up to support as well as promote an upcoming show. A few songs in, Axl spoke clear and sincere into the microphone, "I'd like to dedicate this next song to the band Poison. They're the kind of nice boys a girl's mother wouldn't mind if she brought home to dinner." Then he growled, "Nice boys don't play rock 'n' roll." And it was on!

A puzzling phenomenon occurred quite often within Hollywood rock clubs. It seemed like no matter how hard a band rocked, while delivering an inspiring soul-searing show, there were always large numbers of dudes standing around with leather-clad arms crossed. Way too cool to even tap a toe, lest someone think they were enjoying the band. I tried to stay professional by acting ambivalent, but the combination of nine rum and Cokes, and the band kicking out some quality hard rock, commanded me to sporadically spaz out and headbang.

I believe the main reason L.A. Guns blew everyone away, unlike the majority of overhyped and heavily promoted bands, is that any band with a young, hungry Axl Rose is better than your band. Probably because your band sucks! Even Ron's attitude changed. After that night, instead of trying to extort payola, he actually began acting nice and treated us with the respect we always believed we deserved. When we'd go there to promote, he seemed happy to see us. Well, he just didn't seem unhappy or annoyed anymore. Every now and then, if I was holding, I'd give him a bump. But he never again demanded it.

Tracii's Fairfax High buddy, Danny, and Joe were the stage crew. While gear shopping, Robbie requested a massive Zildjian gong. He and Joe then went into full-on MacGyver mode to fashion a galvanized pipe contraption as a gong stand to mount at the rear of the drum riser. It took a monkey wrench and about ten minutes to set it all up. Robbie only banged a gong once during the set, but afterward, a frantic search for the misplaced pipe wrench added another fifteen minutes to break it all down. Even though it was super funny how long London waited to go on stage, everyone agreed it was silly the gong stand added so much time to a drum riser designed to be broken down in seconds. So the gong stayed at the studio after the first show.

For some reason, Tracii and Joe painted L.A. Guns in huge black letters on the side of my white van. They ran out of paint, so the rolling billboard was only on the driver's side. If you had to choose just one side as a billboard, that would be the incorrect marketing decision. When they hit me up for more paint money, I told them, "I don't want to alert thieves to a van loaded full of my expensive gear." After the show, Joe and I got in a bit of a kerfuffle about my insistence that he and Danny go offload the gear at the studio before coming to the party. But everyone else was actually on my side for once.

Axl was the one who suggested we throw a blockbuster after-show party. He told of seeing forgettable bands with such great after-parties that it had him looking forward to their next gig. I knew a great idea most times I heard one, so while passing out fliers, we let everyone know there'd be a party afterward with tons of free booze. Of course, they'd have to come to the show to find out where it would be. On the way to sound check, I booked a poolside suite at the infamous Tropicana Motel and stocked it with bourbon, beer, blow, and buds: the four fool groups. By paying cash and putting it on a gullible someone else's driver's license, it allowed us to party liability free until well into the morning, when the booze ran dry. With so many other motel guests joining in on the party, it was no surprise the cops were never called. Though the desk clerk came by several times to request we quiet down a bit and grab a beer.

The very next Saturday night, the boys were back at the Troub, opening for another big-drawing band, Ruby Slippers. It was extremely rare for a new band to get a weekend gig at the Troubadour, and entirely unheard of for the same unproven draw of a band to receive second billing two weekends in a row. But we were at the club so often promoting, that when a band flaked about a week before the London gig, the club's booker, Michael Fell, asked L.A. Guns to fill in. I felt like the best manager/promoter in the city. I had taken a group of guys who, a few months earlier, were playing weeknight gigs in front a handful of friends, got them together into a great band, and exposed them to hundreds of people. Then L.A. Guns set the bar so high, the headliners didn't stand a chance, because folks realized the band they came to see were also-rans. With a second great show and another all-nighter after-show rager at the Tropicana Motel, L.A. Guns was generating a strong buzz right out of the gate. And not just between my ears.

The Troubadour's PA was outstanding, powerful enough to keep up with even the loudest band. But a race car is just a fast car, and is wasted with an unskilled operator at the wheel. It seemed like whenever the Troub got a top-notch soundman, they'd get hired away within weeks by some national touring act. Then the club would bring in some schlep that talked a good game, could slide a fader or turn a knob, and worked cheap. Some nights, bands sounded godlike; other shows, all the audience heard were guitars, snares, and crash cymbals while feeling bass thumping their chests. The worst mistake some folks made, after a show mixed by an inferior soundman, was to tell Axl, "You guys were great, but I couldn't really hear your vocals." Understandably, Axl's reaction wasn't pleasant. I never understood why the fuck someone would say that to a singer who had just gifted a piece of their soul to the crowd.

L.A. Guns' third gig was down south, past the Orange Curtain at a cool little place in Anaheim, Radio City. The club's manager, Mars Black, and I had hit it off right quick when Tracii and me went there to see a band called Witch. Plus, Mars dug the name, logo, and our love of promotion. After I agreed to put a full-page ad in BAM Magazine and do a thousand flyers, Mars gave us a Saturday night opening up for a popular band that I really dug, Savage Grace. All in all, it was a great night. Mars sported us a case of beer at sound check and was very complimentary the whole time, while treating us with respect. Whenever there, Mars pretty much gave us the run of that place, so of course I always had tons of fun at the club.

After the Radio City gig, L.A. Guns played The Timbers in Glendora. Then they took a break from live shows to concentrate on recording, but mostly because I hadn't thought to book anything until after those first shows were done. Even though Mars gladly rebooked the band for a Saturday night a month down the road, the Hollywood club's booking criteria was an entirely different dynamic. There, a club owner or agent didn't care if a band was great or horse-shit horrible. Even if a band's image was dressing up like Ku Klux Nazis, lighting kittens on fire, then crushing their tiny, adorable skulls with jack-boots, if you brought people into their bar, you got a premium booking. Though I begged and pleaded, the Troub refused to give the band another weekend gig until they proved a draw, bringing in at least fifty fans to two separate weeknight shows.

According to the Troubadour's count, only about seventy people used L.A. Guns tickets during those first two shows. But the showroom was packed – several hundred – during the Guns set at both shows. The way the club kept track of one's draw was to provide blank, free, or discounted admission tickets and we'd stamp "L.A. Guns" on them to pass out as we flyered and schmoozed. Then, when the ticket was presented at the box office, the band got credit for drawing them into the club. The big mistake we made was starting to pass out those tickets far too early. The guys in London were club pros and began their ticket and flyer blitz one week out. Many people told some variation of, "I came to see you guys, but I used a London ticket because I couldn't find the ones you gave me." The Troub didn't give a rat's ass about any of that shit. Resigned to the fact that dues could not be paid by writing a check, I relented and settled on a Tuesday night a month and a half in the future.

*

My apartment building was overloaded with Musicians Institute students. One M.I. kid living upstairs had great buds for reasonable prices, so I'd head upstairs a few times a week to score some greens. Then a clown named Liberty began selling blow out of M.I. dude's apartment. That wouldn't have been a problem, except I was in the habit of getting two hundred bucks a day from the ATM. So I wouldn't have to share my blow with the five deadbeats living in my apartment, I'd usually party upstairs. Those two were into "real heavy metal" and speed metal, with their favorites being Raven and Metallica. One night, M.I. dude told me I should invest in a band like Metallica instead of L.A. Guns, and I said, "I like Metallica's 'Whiplash,' but that shit'll never sell."

Prior to Axl joining the band, L.A. Guns recorded tracks for a two-song demo. All they needed were vocals. Or so I believed. Chuck Rosa, the engineer, became the producer when a five-hundred-buck quickie two-song demo project evolved into a ten-grand four-song EP. Live, the band performed an outstanding version of Elvis Presley's hit "Heartbreak Hotel," so we added it to the recording session. For that to happen, another two-inch master tape was required. No biggie, we were all eager for Axl Rose to perform vocals on as many songs as I could afford to record. With room enough for two tracks on the tape, L.A. Guns eventually recorded four tracks. Despite them being highlights of the live show, the band didn't record any of Izzy and Axl's Hollywood Rose songs. The EP was set to include "Heartbreak Hotel," plus three of Tracii and Mike's Pyrrhus tunes with Axl-penned lyrics and melodies.

Chuck was a competent engineer, well versed in microphone placement, getting drum sounds, signal processors, and sliding faders. But I believe he lacked the big-picture musical vision that differentiates an engineer from a producer. The band had a twenty-four-hour lockout rehearsal space, but he never once suggested the very important practice of preproduction, a process where a band relentlessly fine-tunes all the arrangements, getting songs nailed down so tight that, upon arrival to a recording studio, shit gets knocked out of the park without burning through expensive hours. It averaged forty bucks an hour in the recording studio, but that Gardner studio was seven hundred bucks a month, about a buck an hour. When not at the recording studio, the guys merely rehearsed their entire set a few times, four or five days a week.

Preproduction might have solved a lot of Chuck's ongoing frustration with Tracii. When the band was laying down basic tracks, Tracii would shred and riff spasmodically during multiple takes upon multiple takes. Chuck repeatedly begged, "Just play me a straight rhythm track. We can overdub all the leads you want later."

I don't believe Tracii actually could have played a chord-only-faithfully-follow-the-song-structure rhythm track if his life depended on it. Tracii was trying to be the Jimmy Page from "The Song Remains the Same," or the Randy Rhodes recording myths in which he had immersed himself. Twenty-twenty money-saving hindsight, I would have had the Malcolm-Young-loving Ole Beich do rhythm guitar tracks while Chuck played bass, then had Ole overdub Chuck at some future point in time.

While recording vocal tracks, Chuck repeatedly barked at Axl to remain still while singing his parts, causing him to grumble some variation of, "I can't stand still when I sing."

For Axl to concentrate on remaining still required being in conscious control, which was the polar opposite of how his art was created. Chuck couldn't see that music transformed Axl; his wanton immersion into rhythm, melody, energy, and emotion of song summoned rock demons not so deep within his soul to channel up past the fire in his belly and enter the world as a roar. Chuck thought the gyrations and rhythmic sway with arms thrashing about made too much noise, thus causing the vocal track to suffer. Several times, Chuck applied the verbal brakes right smack-dab in the middle of a take, and as Axl peered angrily through the control room glass, Chuck would say something like, "Axl, please try to stand still. All I hear are your clothes rustling and bracelets clanking."

After making it through "Heartbreak Hotel," when Axl came to the control room, Chuck got on him again. I was actually stunned that Axl stuck around long enough to finish the song. But then he was gone. Chuck started bitching about how we were wasting his time, but I stopped him. "Dude, just let him sing the fucking songs."

The next time we spoke, I thanked Axl for putting up with the bullshit for as long as he did. We agreed it best he take a break from recording until the songs were done, ready for vocals. I promised to make it clear to Chuck that he should never tell him to hold still, nor stop him mid-song again. If he did, it was okay with me if Axl told him where to go; or even pop Chuck in the mouth if need be.

I'm not complaining about Chuck, only trying to explain the process. I have nothing but appreciation for the man. Chuck Rosa did far more for L.A. Guns than he was compensated for. He hooked us with "spec time" at a few far better studios – hundreds of dollars per hour – for about the same price we paid for Hitman Studios. Because the hourly rate was so good, we – Chuck, too – had to be ready on short notice to hit the studio any hour of the day. If it wasn't for his connections, and many hours of recording sessions for which he received below meager pay, that EP would have cost multiples more and not turned out anywhere near as good.

Axl remained focused and resolute as to what he envisioned L.A. Guns was all about. Believing I possessed at least a little power about how things were to be, I'd try to persuade outcomes. But eventually, my respect for artists and the artistic process made getting my way not so important. Plus, Axl don't lose arguments! Soon after Axl joined the band, I realized his vision was at odds with Tracii's. Before agreeing to sing for L.A. Guns, Axl had made it clear – with no gray area – what he wanted to do. So he would not budge an iota to Tracii's penchant for changing direction as the wind blew. I'd mostly side with Axl, for the sake of continuity and clarity. And his music was far and away better than Tracii's.

While Axl was straightforward, with an unflinching vision, Tracii worked every angle and employed every manipulation strategy short of sucking my dick. I often wondered if Tracii thought me a complete idiot. Tracii often tried to get me to agree to something polar opposite of things previously agreed to by telling me I had remembered wrong; and his new idea was what we previously settled upon. I had stumble-jumped into the music business. Little more than a recently bankrolled music fan with a good ear, some negotiation skill, and burgeoning business savvy. So for a time, Tracii received far too much credit for knowledge and experience. While I rapidly learned and adapted to the intricacies of the biz, I began to realize how to tell if Tracii was lying: his lips were moving.

Many band dudes relied heavily on girlfriend sugar mamas, leaving them subjected to some psychotic stripper's power-mad delusions and demands for treatment far above her station. Axl didn't play that game, and would bounce whenever the stress level at any given female's location rose above that dictated by current circumstance. If he hung out with a chick more than once or twice, she was generally pretty chill. As part of his couch tour, Axl crashed out few nights a week at the apartment offices of Raz Productions. He worked at Tower Video on Sunset Boulevard, right across from the Viper Room. In those days, it was still known as The Central, and River Phoenix was still alive. I'd bet Axl got that job for the access it granted him to a shitload of free movies more than for the meager pay. It's entirely possible cinema was his first love, or a very close second to rock 'n' roll. Which is why I'm amazed Axl never acted in or directed movies.

Whenever I picked him up from work, he'd bring along at least two VHS tapes. We watched Scarface, the Godfather saga, or Cool Hand Luke several times. Those were his top three, but Axl also really dug James Caan in Thief, and the movie Breathless, starring Richard Gere. At work, his growing frustration of not being able to locate movies led him to take it upon himself to inventory and arrange all the movies according to starlet, genre, title, and so on. With the task complete, if a movie showed up on the inventory as "in stock," he knew right where to find it. The Tower Video higher-ups liked his initiative and work ethic so much, Axl was soon promoted to assistant manager; and all because he couldn't find an Amber Lynn movie. Or was it Ginger?

For me, movies were just mindless entertainment. I rarely considered deeper meanings. But Axl would stay up all night watching the same movie over and over, analyzing every scene and word of dialogue. He saw way more in Purple Rain than I noticed. I was just happy to see Morris Day and Gerome get some screen time. After being up far too late and waiting until the last possible moment to hit the road, I'd give him a hell-ride so he'd get to work on time. No longer able to surf, skateboard, or other thrilling riding activities, driving recklessly was the only extreme sport available to me and the occasional unsuspecting pedestrian. I took chances so memorable that some who rode with me back in the day still refuse to get into a car I am piloting. Axl was always down for an adrenaline rush, and despite traffic, we'd make it clear across Hollywood in an unbelievably hair-raising elapsed time.

With our relentless effort of stickers stuck on every encountered smooth surface, plus posters, flyers, and T-shirts aplenty, it was near impossible for anyone in our target zone not to have been exposed to the name L.A. Guns. The highest visibility promotional item of all was an L.A. Guns billboard on Sunset Boulevard, high atop the Rainbow Bar and Grill. On the day I secured the location, restaurant manager Michael warned me not to expect special treatment just because I rented the billboard space.

We needed to install those signs ourselves, so Joe, Robbie, and Ole pulled them up one by one with ropes, to then be secured with ratcheting straps. Happy that no one tumbled from the Rainbow's steep slopping roof during the install, we headed inside so I could sport drinks and some of the best pizza available in L.A. As we sat inside the Rainbow, getting buzzed on those potent Long Islands, I offered up a complimentary critique on the aesthetic shortcomings of Joe's girlfriend. Joe then decided it was okay to grind a lemon into my eyes, and if I'd had a gun, I would have shot the son of a bitch. But all I could do was scream, yell, and throw silverware as he moved out of range from the drink glass I wanted to smash into his fucking face.

Michael dropped by to let me know I was starting out on the wrong foot, and that he didn't care that I had been assaulted. He repeated his warning from the week before, about not to expect special treatment because of the billboard. So I apologized and once again promised to be on my best behavior.

Fast forward a few months to Halloween night. After pre-buzzing at my place while watching half of Scarface, Axl, Ole, Joe, and me headed for the Rainbow. When we requested the big booth in the corner, Michael tried steering us toward a smaller table more suited to a party of four, but relented because more of our friends were expected. We ended up with the shittiest waitress possible, and even though our booth filled up within minutes, a half hour passed and she had yet to take our order. So when Michael came to force our relocation, Axl refused to budge and told him, "We've been trying to order for twenty fucking minutes."

Michael ignored him and waved Blackie Lawless and his party over. I was halfway to the smaller table when I heard a commotion behind. I turned back to see Axl pinning Michael backward over the table, fist cocked, ready to strike a devastating blow to Michael's left eye. Joe grabbed Axl's arm just in time to save Michael from some serious orbital damage. Axl didn't usually punch someone just once, preferring to load up on combos. In a flash, a massive bouncer intervened. Then after Michael moved behind his bodyguard, he bellowed, "Get that fucking punk out of my restaurant!"

After the murmuring faded away, across the room, I saw Ole settling into a booth full of girls. The coolest thing about Halloween in Hollywood was that many girls thought dressing up as a prostitute made a great costume; completely unlike the whores they usually dressed as. I'm reminded of a movie line, where the hooker says, "We're not whores. We're prostitutes." Cop: "What's the difference?" Hooker: "Whores give it away." Either way, Ole waved me over. And you don't have to ask me twice to venture toward a table full of prostitutes. Two tables away from the beaver den, Michael saw me and snapped, "I told you to get the fuck out of my restaurant."

Even though I pointed out I had already moved to the new table, and my brother saved him from getting decked, Michael didn't care and sent me packing. As it turned out, I was not allowed back inside the Rainbow for several years. A cool outcome of being kicked out of the Rainbow was that I felt no obligation to return their calls demanding I remove the L.A. Guns billboards from their roof. I only paid for two months, but they remained up there for almost four months before getting moved to the parking lot behind The Roxy. Hell, I paid good money for them signs, so Joe brought them to the studio parking lot, where they sat for several months – long after L.A. Guns were out of that space – until somebody dragged them next to the Sunset Grill, where they resided for several more months. Free advertising rules.

Back to Halloween night at the Rainbow Bar and Grill, I was beyond pissed and grumbling to myself as I rolled my chair out of the parking lot. When I took a right onto the sidewalk, there stood Axl with the body language of one contemplating handi-homicide. I peered angrily toward him and vented some steam of my own, hollering, "I can't believe you fucking got me kicked out!"

Axl reached for a pair of sunglasses atop his head and fired them past my ear to smash against the wall. Then he yelled, "I can't believe you're mad at me after they disrespected us like that."

I had a completely different perspective. I grew up in the restaurant business, and accepted that V.I.P.s get whatever they tip for. I f-bomb hollered back, prompting him to smash his second pair of sunglasses past the other side of my head, while bellowing even louder, "I quit! Fuck you, and fuck L.A. Guns!" He made it official by removing his leather jacket and tossing it to the sidewalk at my feet.

I was utterly dumbfounded and shocked. I thought we were buddies, and had mostly treated him with respect. I could not fathom him quitting over a total nonsense minor disagreement, while smack dab in the middle of recording an EP.

When Tracii heard the news, he told me to apologize to Axl and beg him back, threatening to quit the band if I didn't do it. Even though I knew my music business success was likely heavily dependent on Axl Rose, I reasoned that I had not even come close to doing anything wrong, so I refused.

So there it is. Axl Rose's L.A. Guns tenure amounted to less than three months, during which time he performed four shows and recorded vocals for one of the EP's four songs, a cover version of Elvis Presley's first number one hit, "Heartbreak Hotel." Did you know that song was written by Hoyt Axton's mother, Mae Axton?

12

Six days after Axl Rose departed L.A. Guns, Ronald Regan earned a second presidential term with the largest electoral vote landslide victory in United States history. Maybe it just seemed like it because I was nineteen, but times were good in a proud and strong America. Well, except for the day all four of my car's tires got flattened by a vandal's ice pick through the sidewalls. Meaning them fucking hundred-fifty-bucks-each Goodyear Eagles could not be patched. Some remained convinced that Axl did it, but not me. I pointed out, "Axl wouldn't slash my tires, smashing my car's windows is more his style." Plus, I really didn't believe he cared enough about being in L.A. Guns to make the trip all the way across Hollywood to flatten my (car's) tires.

Axl's departure meant the band did not own even one complete original song. Tracii made an attempt to pen some lyrics, but no one liked his ideas. My fondness for booze and cocaine translated into stacks of notebooks filled with scribbled poems and clever wordplay. After initially declining my offer to muse something up, Tracii relented and provided me a noisy, distorted, all-guitar boombox-recorded cassette. Try as I might, I could not make anything fit into the "song's" structure. So I offered a novice's advice, "Maybe if you were to repeat this part three times, lose that part, and tie it all together with a bridge, I'd give it another shot."

Tracii was unwilling to restructure his semi-cool riffs into a cohesive tune artfully crafted to make young girls shed knickers, and dismissed my suggestions outright. It made me think back to Axl's collaboration frustrations, and Mike Jagosz's complaints of Tracii's unwillingness to work on anything other than his own ideas. Unable to get Tracii to accept his lack of composing talent, I recommended that he seek pointers from Izzy. But Tracii knew better and dismissed yet another of my helpful suggestions.

In my youth, the passing of time felt ultra-compressed, with all matters urgent. It seemed like forever had passed since Axl resigned, but it took less than two weeks for me to accept the fact he would not return. The band had shows booked, as well as a half-finished record with an advertised release date; something needed to get done. Tracii wanted to put out the word that L.A. Guns was looking for a singer, but I put my foot down. "There's no time to audition singers and write songs." Then the pragmatic-spiteful-stubborn Raz reared his ugly head and told Tracii, "We're going to get Mike."

Axl liked Mike Jagosz far less than Al Capone liked the IRS, so I got that wonderful rush of spiteful satisfaction by replacing him with Mike. For the longest time, I couldn't understand the animosity between those two, but they both disliked each other equally and more than a lot. Eventually, I figured out why Mike didn't like Axl. It could all be summed up by a mutual girl liking Axl better, plus Tracii, me, and music lovers worldwide preferring Axl over him. Axl's problems with Mike were likely the result of always being called Bill, plus Mike would act smug, semi-friendly, and then talk mega shit behind Axl's back.

Hiring Mike was a no-brainer. He and Tracii already had seven songs written and another dozen covers to pull out of their asses once they removed their thumbs. Tracii initially refused, threatening to quit. I laughed in his face and pointed to the door. "Fuck off then, I'll find a guitar player, too." I meant it, too. Guitar players were not in short supply. So once he realized I was dead serious, and with Ole and Robbie on my side, Mike Jagosz became L.A. Guns' second singer. Yes, I said "second." You see, when L.A. Guns formed, and soon after I came onboard as manager/investor, the band never had a singer until Axl Rose agreed to join the group. Most likely the reason Mike is wrongly referred to as the "original singer" is that he's the voice on the EP.

You might remember a mention of Axl recording vocals for "Heartbreak Hotel," leading one to wonder, "Where is that song with him singing?" Well, you see, within days of Mike coming onboard, Chuck arranged time in a studio near Mulholland and Valley Circle; Preferred Sound, I believe. There, Mike recorded vocals for "Don't Love Me" and "When Dreams Don't Follow Through." Both tracks were previously recorded and waiting for Axl-penned lyrics, but Mike's versions contained entirely different melodies and lyrics.

Over the next week, Mike rested his voice and Tracii added more guitars before adding even more guitars to "Heartbreak Hotel." When Mike returned to the booth to perform the vocals, there were no available tracks, so I said, "Erase Axl's vocals."

Then Mike attempted a few takes, but couldn't pull off anything less than awful compared to Axl's version. When G N' R blew up, Tracii asked me about Axl's vocals on "Heartbreak Hotel." I reminded him, "There were nine guitar tracks, so we erased Axl for Mike's vocals." I have no regrets. The fact those vocal tracks no longer existed likely helped me avoid costly legal entanglements.

Chuck's love of Mike's voice and stationary inclination meant those two got along great. Chuck became reenergized with the project, and we soon bounced from Preferred Sound into a kick-ass high-dollar studio, Westwind, located in Thousand Oaks. Mike never could get into the groove of "Heartbreak Hotel," so Robbie moved Vinnie Appice's drums aside and set up his own kit and then the boys laid down basic tracks for "It's Not True" and "Something Heavy."

Over the next few weeks, at least fifty hours were spent completing all the tracks. All the while, I ran around town making an EP come to life. Los Angeles was the hub of the music industry, with plenty of support businesses to choose from when one decided to light stacks of money on fire. I've heard it said, "The fastest way to make a million dollars in the music business: start with ten million dollars." The shit I knock out nowadays with Photoshop in a few hours required a professional graphics person in 1984. Even the simplest artwork took thousands of dollars' worth of equipment and expensive collections of fonts. So I hired Tommy at Magnolia Press in Burbank, the same guy who did our T-shirts, flyers, posters, and stickers, to produce the EP's camera-ready artwork. The record sleeves were ordered before recording finished, so they mistakenly list "Heartbreak Hotel" and leave out "It's Not True" and "Something Heavy."

We did the mastering at Quadtech in Hollywood. Chuck took the lead, but Tracii had enough input to get the guitars pushed to the point of ruining a decent mix out of the studio. Next, stampers were made then sent off with the labels and jackets to Alberti Records in Monterey Park. Tracii was busy in the studio, or I neglected to show him the artwork until it was approved, but he didn't like that I had made Raz so prominent and oft repeated on the packaging and labels of Collector's Edition No. 1. Mike, Robbie, and Ole were cool with it, and one of them said, "He deserves to have his name as big as ours." After much legwork, with all the pieces ready for assembly, it was time to hurry up and wait for records to be pressed.

Recording was one thing, but the stage show needed lots of work. Though vocally talented, Mike lacked any semblance of charisma or emotion on stage. Though he could hold his own aesthetically with the prettiest of L.A.'s frontmen, his pretentious, lackluster persona screamed, "I'm way cooler than you'll ever be." When he did move, it was stiff and unrelated to the song's rhythm.

His was the polar opposite of Axl's connection to the band, audience, and "Let's burn this motherfucker down" attitude. Tracii, Ole, Robbie, and me, spoiled by Axl's otherworldly, aggressive, dynamic, and passionate stage persona, all relentlessly piled onto Mike to not be such a dead fish under the spotlight. Before hiring Mike into the group, I actually made him promise to work on stage presence. Despite the commitment, once he was in the band, he did as he pleased.

After several rehearsals, with him frozen to the floor behind the microphone stand, I reminded Mike of his agreement to rock out more and try to be a better frontman. He gave me a dismissive, "I'll do it at the show." Then we squabbled a bit about either someone's got it or they don't, and it's not a switch to be turned on or off.

At the next rehearsal, I began goading him the moment he walked through the studio door. "Show the world that you're a rock star, Mike." Up for the challenge, he then gave by far his best performance I ever saw. From the band's first note, he rocked out, shredded his air guitar, headbanged, and ran around like a wild man, delivering powerful, spot-on vocals until thoroughly drenched in sweat.

After the set, we all enthusiastically heaped deserved praise upon Mike. He looked up from the couch he had sprawled across, huffed and puffed and barely eked out, "See? I can rock out anytime I want."

Mike Jagosz never repeated anything near that evening's performance, or he quite possibly would have become the rock star he ogled so often in the mirror.

Unlike the borderline professionalism required of me on show night, promoting was ultra-fun. I loved hanging out at clubs and drinking far too many cocktails amongst the scantily clad girls swarming in from throughout the world on their quest for love, drugs, and knobbins for bobbin. My preferred haunt was the legendary Troubadour, where the decade before, one of my all-time favorite artists, Elton John, first wowed the American music press.

The pantheon of rock's royalty at one time or another performed on that fabled stage, or at the very least caught a friend's hot ticket show at the club. For a few years, I saw most of the worth-seeing groups, as well as far too many giant piles of steaming feces with expensive gear. Those mid-80s were glamorous nights at The Troub. But I'm a jeans-and-T-shirt, whiskey rock 'n' roller, so at first, I didn't get why dudes like Poison, Ruby Slippers, or Kerry Doll dressed up like girls. But it was what was going on all around, so it all soon became quite normal to me. Plus, them pretty-boys drew tons of toe and played some ear-pleasing, heavy rock 'n' roll.

The sign out front said, "Doug Weston's Troubadour." In reality, a Lebanese cat, co-owner Eddy, ran the place. When he found out I was a fellow Lebby, he treated me like a long-lost cousin. If I wanted to go into the showroom to see an act, he'd tell Mike at the door to let me pass. Once inside, the showroom spotters looked away as bartenders overpoured my cocktails. A cool dude, Dimo, ran the grill behind the bar and never charged me for a meal. We'd smoke a bowl or two and then shoot the shit while evaluating the talent milling about.

In the front bar was my all-time favorite bartender, Stuart, "The Captain." On any given night, I'd be drinking alongside some big-time artist or wasted has-been unaware of their lost stature. Top-of-the-rock-world David Lee Roth dropped in often to visit Stuart, have a few drinks, and then take some fine young filly into the toilet for an extended private party while a behemoth bodyguard blocked the door. It'd piss folks off, me included, when the only nearby bathroom became unavailable. But part of me had much respect for the rock star being a rock star.

*

A month after Axl Rose left the band, Mike's first live show as L.A. Guns' singer went down at the Troubadour at nine o'clock on a Tuesday. Flyers billed the event as a "RELEASE PARTY in Celebration of the Debut Release on Raz Records." But our discs were not yet in hand, so we passed out IOUs handwritten on the back of my business card. For a weeknight, at such an early timeslot, the club was packed. Well over a hundred and fifty folks, but not quite enough for the club to remove tables and chairs from the showroom. We got paid about a hundred bucks. About a hundred more than most local Tuesday-night bands made.

Ole had a cute 'n' thick blonde girlfriend, with tits so massive they resembled two bald guys sitting next to each other. On stage, she introduced the band, wearing only skin-tight pants and a strategically placed L.A. Guns bumper sticker binding them jumbo jiggling jugs together. The set included the EP's four songs, "Something Heavy," "Don't Love Me," "It All Comes Back," and "It's Not True," as well as "Make Your Stand," "Too Many Times," "Time Has Come Today," and Aerosmith's "Sweet Emotion." We switched the after-party location to the Holiday Inn near Highland and Hollywood, so folks had to attend the show to know where the party was. Unlike the Tropicana Motel ragers, LAPD broke up our party within an hour of kickoff, and officers kindly escorted us all out of the building.

Two weeks later, Razzle of Hanoi Rocks died doing what lots of us frequently enjoyed: riding along with a drunken buddy. And that weekend, L.A. Guns performed the same set list at the Timbers Ballroom in Glendora. The packed crowd also received IOUs for a free EP. With the venue's great PA, decent lights, and awesome acoustics, the band rocked the energetic crowd like FWB's.

The next performance of those same songs was at Radio City, three days before Christmas, so the flyer urged attendees to "Start Your Christmas Binge." The EP finally in hand, I was happy we sold more than we gave away. The club was only half full, but the band put on a great show. As usual, Mars treated us well enough for me to look forward to my next trip to Orange County. No small feat. Although he expressed props for Mike, after the show, Mars pulled me aside and said, "Your other singer was way better." I nodded the affirmative and shrugged.

L.A. Guns became far more metal with Mike singing, which was fine with me. He had gotten me into groups like Accept, Rainbow, and UFO, but also really dug local metal bands like Warrior, Steeler, and Armored Saint. We were friends, pot buddies, and partners in crime. Mike was a wild child, always down for some drunken brawling, felonious adventure, or a road race back to the arcade, where we'd gamble on pinball or video football. We hadn't really spoken since our falling-out months before, and once he joined the band, I was actually happy to repair our friendship. But hanging out with Mike was like having sex with four girls simultaneously. No matter how fun it sounds, sooner, rather than later, you will desperately need a break. As the weeks passed, unless absolutely necessary for band stuff, I began going out of my way to avoid him.

Tracii and I stopped by Sunset Tattoo to have ink maestro Robert Benedetti work on a design for Tracii. When I saw that Robert had tattooed and signed Ozzy's chest, I was star-struck. Tracii dared me to get the L.A. Guns logo tattooed on my arm and, having wanted to get my second tat for some time, I took the dare. Robert did me a solid by suggesting that instead of the block-letter L.A. Guns logo, a Japanese character would be the more stylistic choice. The character actually translates to "big gun." Japanese girls giggle when they see it. Robert hooked me up for forty bucks and, when done, told Tracii, "If you want one, too, it's on the house." So Tracii copied me. For several reasons – timing, money, and body art's mainstreaming – it was my last tattoo.

The EP needed promoting, so I shifted into full-on "let's sell product" mode, but immediately became sorely disappointed by the guys' laziness when it came to hyping their own damn record. Mike apparently felt his work complete once he stepped from the vocal booth. Strangely, Tracii also had no interest in going along with me to local record stores, DJs, or wherever a record could be played by scene-making movers and shakers. Robbie helped to actively promote the disc whenever he could, but lived a car-less existence out in the valley. So if there was no rehearsal or show, he remained camped out over the hill.

Ole was the exact opposite. He realized the EP was a first baby step toward achieving his bright-light dreams in the big city, so remained ever-ready and willing to do the hard work required. If I conjured a plan or angle to promote that wax, Ole never said no. He'd pop on his gay-ass pink leather biker jacket and off we'd speed in my turbo Pontiac.

When we dropped by an independent record distributor's house to deliver a few boxes of discs, I learned we got paid per song. So it sucked there were only three listed. Ole and me got on well with the dude and, during an informative multi-hour visit, he offered to put in a good word to national club promoters and hook me up with an independent promoter for airplay. Wish I remembered more about that dude, not to get those EPs back, but because he was a very cool and helpful music lover with a massive LP collection. Sometimes, when I see a sealed Collector's Edition No. 1 selling online for a ridiculously high price, I hope it's him moving them one at a time as to not crash the market.

One night, while hanging around the Raz Productions' office snapping bong hits, and with hopes of getting the EP radio airplay, I decided to banzai over to nearby KMET FM studios. Its rotation skewed far heavier than KLOS, so it sub-branded itself K-METAL. With plans to sneak back to the booth and hold a DJ hostage until he played the entire EP ten times, Ole and I entered the station's lobby in full stealth mode. Actually, we merely approached the guard in the lobby and said, "We're here to see Jack," the DJ currently on the air. The guard made a call, and a few minutes later, Jackson B. Snyder came out to chat. He was a friendly dude, and even invited us to visit the DJ booth. I gave him an EP, along with a request to play a song or two, and believed him when he said, "I would have in the old days, but everything is corporate now."

Until that night in the KMET studios, I imagined being a radio DJ as a cool, fun gig. But my opinion changed upon realizing the job required sitting all alone for four hours in a stuffy booth, playing someone else's shitty playlist. It surely was no WKRP, Dr. Johnny Fever fun-time-turkeys-dropping-from-helicopters stuff.

Ole's former band, Mercyful Fate, was in town opening for Motörhead at the Palladium. I had met Ole's Danish cohorts a few months earlier, when they headlined the Country Club. We never got into that show, because it was way oversold and the fire marshal put a halt to new arrivals. But a few of the band members came outside to hang with us. Even though they were super friendly, happy to see Ole, and promised to get us into the Palladium show when they returned, I felt we had been blown off and the next time it would happen again. I was wrong; when we got to the Palladium's will call, Ole was on the list with passes for two. Despite my inability to get into the King Diamond groove, ever, that was one awesome band and a great metal show. We ended up giving out several L.A. Guns discs backstage, while drinking lots of free Heinekens.

Even though L.A. Guns drew well to their previous Troubadour show, it only earned them a Sunday night booking, headlining New Year's Eve-Eve. The club was jam-packed full, up until Guns' fans cleared the joint after the announcement of a huge party at the Tropicana Motel. Shortly after midnight, a bassist named Don Costa showed up to the Tropicana looking for Tracii. Don was a great-looking wild man and extremely talented musician, somewhat of a local legend from bands such as Dante Fox, Great White, and ever so briefly a member of Ozzy Osbourne's band.

It wasn't said explicitly, but Don was there to recruit Tracii for his newest band. So when he told Tracii, "You're way better than Jake (E. Lee)," I didn't think anything of it. Lots of people wanted Tracii in their band, but I figured he would never leave a band named after him, that weeks earlier released an EP of his songs.

I soon realized that Tracii was no longer interested in L.A. Guns. The praise he received from other musicians, music biz folks, and fans only reinforced his belief that he was God's gift to God. But in reality, he was merely a baby rock star within a five-square-mile box. He wasn't alone in the arrogance department. With the release of the "Collector's Edition No. 1" and less than a handful of shows, Mike also strutted around Hollywood as if he were the biggest rock star ever to grace the world's stage.

About a week into 1985, I arrived to the studio to find Tracii and Mike yelling and screaming at one another. A piss-drunk Mike had pawned Tracii's bookshelf speakers to buy more cocktails. Tracii was in the process of firing him over it. But I managed to persuade Tracii to wait until after the next show, in hopes of cooler heads prevailing once Mike retrieved those crappy speakers from hock.

As Tracii stormed away, Mike yelled, "If you do that guns and roses thing, I'm going to quit."

Once everything calmed down, I asked, "What was that you said earlier, 'guns and roses'?"

Mike sneered, "Tracii wants to do a jam band with Bill and call it 'Guns and Roses.'"

Like thousands of millions of people to come, I said, "That's a great name!"

That next L.A. Guns gig was a weekend, co-headlining the Country Club. With its expansive stage, great acoustics, awesome PA, and fabulous lights, the club was far and away the best heavy metal venue in town. And it was well worth the drive to see great groups like Malice, Wrathchild America, Brooklyn Brats, Odin, and so many others. We weren't required to prove a draw. The promoter, Jenifer Perry, merely gave us a hundred tickets to sell. Though printed at eight bucks face value, she only wanted four bucks per ticket. In theory, we could make a tidy profit by selling all of them, or break even by selling half.

I thought it was a no-brainer, but Tracii refused to sell any. He scoffed, "You don't see Richie Blackmore outside the Forum saying, 'Yo, dude, wanna buy some Purple tickets?'" While Tracii Guns was busy believing himself on Blackmore's level, Mike, Ole, and Robbie were stoked to play the prestigious, go-to venue for local, national, and international heavy metal acts.

Despite their expressed gusto for the show, the guys put zero effort into selling tickets. At sound check, I gave Jennifer some money and returned the unsold tickets. She actually let it slide. So on with the show. Independent club promoters soon realized that if they wanted bands to sell their own tickets, get the money up front. That's where "Pay to Play" got its name.

I really liked Jenifer, a tough broad who was always beyond nice and ultra-helpful to friends as well as bands she dug. If there were more like her, I'd probably still be in the music business. In the following months, I'd often enjoy cocktails with Jenifer and her good friend, Vicky Hamilton, who at the time managed Poison. We'd sit in a corner of the Troubadour's front bar, engaged in useless chatter about the scene's goings on and bands we liked, or me talking shit and mocking the far too many shitty bands.

That Country Club show also featured another excellent band, Black Sheep. Willie Basse, the bass-playing vocalist and local metal legend, was ultra-talented, respected, and well-liked by most who met him. His rhythm partner, Todd, on drums, was a mind-blowing, skin-slamming metronome. Willie's stellar ear for talent gave start to many a legendary musician. That night, Paul Gilbert played guitar for Black Sheep, but departed soon after to form Racer X. While watching Black Sheep, Tracii actually said to me, "That dude's better than me." It shocked me he actually noticed, then said it out loud.

Willie threw a hell of an after-party at his Wilpower Studios, located in an industrial park on the border of North Hollywood and Sun Valley. With no neighbors to complain about noise or drunks, it raged until the kegs ran dry. Thanks to him, L.A. Guns didn't miss a beat when it came to great after-show celebrations. Robbie told me years later that at the party, Paul Gilbert asked him to be the drummer for a new band he was starting. Robbie shot him down with, "I'm in L.A. Guns."

Before that party, there was a show with an audience of around two hundred. Due to the Country Club's cavernous dimensions, the crowd appeared sparse. Plus, the band's Hollywood fans had remained on their side of the hill to avoid a long, drunken drive back from deep within the San Fernando Valley wastelands. Once the rocking commenced, all the cool kids sat at the back of class. Only a few people wandered down front to the stage while L.A. Guns played. Mike had twenty EPs to hand out, so the six or seven folks nearby all received one.

Toward the end of the set, Mike bellowed into the microphone, "Who wants an L.A. Guns record?" Some dude sitting at a table at least fifty feet away stuck his hand up and yelled. Like a Frisbee, an EP went hurling in the general direction of the request. Then Mike began sending flying EPs toward random people seated at far away tables; each with a little more zip than the prior disc. People quickly realized it was time to duck, dodge, or get whapped. Which I found hilarious, but Tracii not so much. Because within minutes of the curtain dropping, Tracii Guns said, "I'll never go on stage with Mike again."

L.A. Guns, in the market for a new singer, was forced to cancel upcoming gigs. But the Troubadour would not allow cancelations. If a band missed a show, they could never play there again. I tried convincing Tracii to change his mind for at least the one Troubadour show in March. I argued that L.A. Guns' name would be useless if they couldn't play the Troub, and any talented – or shitty – singer is going to be difficult most times.

All the while, I secretly lobbied Mike to play it cool for a few days till Tracii calmed down. But, as customary, Mike remained a complete asshole about the whole thing. The ingrate even demanded severance pay for all his hard work and effort. I switched to Tracii's side rather quickly and began pondering ways to do the Troubadour gig as to not devalue a band name I had spent at least ten grand promoting.

13

My freelance music-business school courses depleted my settlement funds at a pace comparable to lighting up blunts using hundred dollar bills. I invested in the wind and blew through eighty-five grand in six months. Plus, when there's a dude selling killer blow right upstairs, withdrawing two hundred bucks daily from an ATM is a recipe for financial ruin. By the start of 85, I had a little over ten grand remaining, the bulk of it securing a loan for Ma, of which I could only get a little bit at a time as she paid down her note.

If the six-month-older Raz possessed a time machine, he surely would have returned to the previous summer, smacked a gimp, and said, "Tell Tracii he doesn't actually have a band to invest in."

When I informed the guys of their benefactor being broke, at first everyone refused to believe it. They mostly shrugged it off whenever I said, "My money is all gone." But when the rehearsal space didn't get paid, and all the gear got relocated to my apartment, they began to think it might not be a bluff. Soon I was evicted from there, too. Likely the biggest shock to the boys in the band, we started driving by McDonald's instead of hitting the drive-thru. It was official – no free lunch.

I pooled funds with Liberty, the coke dealer from upstairs, and we rented a house near Laurel Canyon and Vanowen in North Hollywood. Before moving in, he and I agreed it would be just us and no roommates. So when Tracii asked if the third bedroom was for rent, I thought myself slick when I said, "If it's alright with Liberty." Upon Liberty's return, he agreed without hesitation when Tracii asked to rent a room. Besides being a coke dealer, Liberty was a guitar player in the beginning phase of an axe-to-axe man-crush on Tracii.

Cokeheads didn't feel like traveling ten miles away from Hollywood to score blow from Liberty, so he snorted more than he sold. He must have believed his rent would be funded by selling shit to me and the guys. I'm weird; if I don't have money, I don't party. And low-budget Raz could only spare funds for a quarter g once in a blow moon. Because I refuse to do shitty drugs, when Liberty began stepping hard on his shit, I scored elsewhere. He went broke so fast that the very first time rent was due, I ate the whole enchilada, minus the paltry hundred bucks Tracii coughed up.

As soon as Liberty's belongings were relocated to the curb, Tracii kind of sort of soundproofed the vacated room and set up L.A. Guns' gear. But he was the only one jamming in there, due to Ole and Robbie off attending to their girlfriends' needs while waiting for L.A. Guns to find its newest vocalist.

In retrospect, I firmly believe Tracii blew up L.A. Guns the second he got a chance to jam with someone he perceived as big time, in the form of bassist Don Costa. Early on, Don dropped by the house a few times so those two could discuss dream-plans. When there's a guy sitting there describing the sight of eighty thousand fans cheering for his band, it's tempting to take perceived shortcuts to experience. But it wasn't Ozzy schmoozing Tracii, plus more than a few folks warned us Don was a flake.

Tracii had it in his head he would persuade Axl to sing for a brand-new band, with Tracii, Don, and Tony Richards from W.A.S.P. on drums. I didn't have to worry about it very long, because after the first few weeks, I never saw Don again. Maybe he cut out upon realizing Tracii did not come in a package deal with a deep-pocketed gimp-manager. Once Don disappeared, I figured Tracii had gotten it out of his system, and we'd get Mike back so L.A. Guns could hit the road to sell records. Tracii remained a steadfast "No Mike."

I was dismayed and pissed. After months of devoting my every effort toward furthering Tracii Guns' career, and his band L.A. Guns, all the while sinking several grand into McDonald's and gear and promotion and studio and drinks and parties and an EP, the band disintegrated before ever hitting the road. I had foolishly believed it possible to secure a percentage of an entity that could be dissolved on the whim of a disloyal prick.

I now know the best way to guarantee promised compensation for one's effort, and recoup money invested, is to lock an artist into a personal services contract while simultaneously securing as much publishing as their desperate asses will surrender. Had I been willing to contractually ass-rape and manipulate the chemically impaired, ultra-talented musician types I encountered while in the biz, I surely could have made major bucks employing my platinum rule: "Fuck them before they fuck me."

Less than two months after being pressed, I sat wondering if those boxes of EPs stacked in the living room were relics, if an "L.A. Guns" would ever hit the road to help pay me back while they got famous. To figure out my "what's next," I took the Pontiac on a hell ride through the hills, carving up Mulholland, top down, howling along with Aerosmith. About to make a right turn onto Beverly Glen and head back to the valley, I had déjà vu. It was 1979 all over again, with me at that same crossroads behind the wheel of Ma's Chevy wagon, hearing the commitment I made to myself six years earlier: "In this town, if you want something, you got to take it."

I realized during the previous few months, I was the one who got taken. I didn't like it, so I decided right there and then I would try to make it in the music business by being open and honest. – Pause for laughter! – If I couldn't make it that way, I wasn't going to make it.

Part of the appeal was the challenge it presented. Lying and manipulating people was far too easy. My stack of cash made me so lazy I almost lost my hustle, but nearing bankruptcy reignited my fire and reawakened my wheeling and dealing chops. I've described the previous six months as "business school," and it truly was a crash course. With my lifelong curiosity of how things work, I had learned tons and made many helpful contacts, all the while building long-lasting relationships. One major insight, alluded to earlier, was that a new band of unknown talent/artists does not require management or investment. First, they must prove themselves as a stable entity with a marketable product; meaning songs people are willing to pay to hear.

It didn't take me long in the biz to realize songs are the absolute core of the music world. Everything else is just window dressing. Don't misunderstand. I am fully aware how utterly important artists are. Because without Lemmy's thumping or Moon kicking so hard it's felt in your heart, the beat and rhythm mean less than nothing. It's not hard to imagine the Devil willing to praise Jesus for one more earful of a Janis-wailed siren's song, or axmen like Jimi who make angels strip and dancers weep, but without a song, it's like da Vinci painting on air. When I began working with Tracii, even though he called the project "L.A. Guns," it was not a band. Merely three ultra-talented guys jamming weak "songs," presented to me as a band. And I was too green to understand the difference.

Even before my change of philosophy, I had always honored my word without fail. Unfortunately, for some, at times an impression was left that I had given my word when I didn't consider I did. If I thought of a person as my friend, I would be open, honest, and not try to deceive or swindle even in the slightest. But moving away from friend status, I often justified a sliding scale as to what constituted permissible behavior. Once I got to disliking someone, absolutely everything became fair game. My newfound integrity made me realize that if someone was led to believe my word had been given, I must be honorable. I wasn't a total moron about it; if a person willfully misunderstood my stated objective, then I wouldn't tax myself trying to staple Jell-O to a waterfall.

Even though I made the commitment to have business integrity, in my personal life, I still played all the angles. From feral to moral is a process. With my stack of cash, I saw no need to steal, but as a broke-ass bitch, I reverted back into a shoplifting fool. My reasoning was "it's a victimless crime" and "it's all insured." Plus, I was sticking it to evil corporate overlords.

Money was ultra-tight for the first six months at that house, but brokenness delivered an awesome side effect: an ability to effortlessly remain rail thin. With ongoing lawsuits in settlement negotiations, I knew the probability was high I'd receive more cashola in a not-so-distant future. I decided that if and when I got more money, I'd invest in me. Most of all, I desperately needed to know who my "real friends" were. After Ole Beich found out my settlement was a mere hundred grand, he was shocked. With sorrow in his voice, he said, "They told me you got ten million. I never would have taken a penny from you if I had known that's all you got." Seeing me scrambling to make rent, Ole sold his 74 Plymouth Duster, 318 C.I. V8. And even though he lived elsewhere, Ole gave me most of the cash, thus proving I had at least one true friend.

On any given night, there were at least four others crashing out at the house, yet I paid 90 percent of the rent and utilities. But we were substance communists. If someone had a twelve-pack, then "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs." I'd sling a bit-o-weed so we could all smoke free. And when completely cash poor, I'd unload some music gear or whatever unused clutter held value. If all else failed, I'd head to the supermarket to shoplift grub. Our roadie, Carlos, an awesome thief in his own right, also provided many meals courtesy of Hugh's Market.

There was also a super sweet night manager at Naugles Tacos on Laurel Canyon, Kim, who often gave us an overstuffed bag of leftover fries when they cleaned out the fryers after midnight. It became a staple meal, and we got creative reheating them. My favorite variation consisted of piling free fries onto a baking pan, laying five or six free cheese slices over them, and then dumping out a half bottle of free bacon bits before sending the concoction into the oven till bubbly golden brown. That shit was pretty good and filling. And, like most things, great with beer.

Joe still worked at the catering company, and also provided some high-quality grub a few days a week. He mostly crashed at the house, but bounced back and forth between my place and Ma's new place in nearby Pacoima. I was very happy she had moved away from three flights of stairs into a ground-floor place, and I could visit to get me some home cooking a few times a month. Her new crib was cramped, and I could only make it inside as far as the living room, but the fence was an awesome spot to take a leak. Why is it "take a leak?" Except for the few drops in your underwear, you leave everything behind.

It might have been coincidence, but as soon as Mike was out of the picture, Axl began coming around. Neither of us held a grudge about his L.A. Guns days, and most times we got along great. He was welcome to crash out at the house any time he wanted, which he did often. Joe and Axl were great friends, and the three of us would often go out drinking and partying. At times, we'd hit the Sunday $1 BBQ at the legendary Palomino Club, a mile up Vanowen from the house. Sunday mornings saw that honky-tonk sparsely populated with hungover urban cowboys who hadn't found love even in the wrong place, far too haggard to give a shit about the pretty boys and gimp invading their range. Two bucks for Budweiser, and another buck for as much BBQ one could pile onto a medium-sized paper plate, drew us there every so often. And now, whenever I watch Every Which Way But Loose, I jones for cheap bear and BBQ.

I invited Axl along to the Iron Maiden and Twisted Sister concert at Long Beach Arena. I really wanted him to see Dee Snyder, because a few months earlier, Twisted Sister absolutely blew up the Hollywood Palladium stage during a for-sure top five of my all-time favorite rock shows. Dee Snyder gave one of the most astounding frontman performances I ever witnessed, and owned the audience throughout the show. It felt as though the entire audience were all disciples from the Cult of Dee, and more than willing to riot on his command. The Long Beach show made me aware of the challenges of opening up versus headlining. Twisted Sister still rocked Long Beach quite impressively, but without full use of PA and lights – reserved for the headliner – the performance fell a few notches below their spectacular Palladium gig. I thought Iron Maiden was great. But on the ride home, Axl kept on about how goofy Bruce Dickenson looked with bulky sweat socks pulled up and over his pants cuffs.

14

Shortly after that Iron Maiden concert, Izzy and Axl regrouped Hollywood Rose for a one-off gig at Dancing Waters. The South Bay club featured an actual waterfall cascading down behind the stage, but I never actually saw it because the joint wasn't so wheelchair friendly. The flyer warned of "Hollywood Rose: The Band That Refuses to Die!!!" Axl seemed quite eager for the gig, not merely due to a chance to perform after a five-month hiatus, but also because of the huge stage featuring a catwalk jutting out into the crowd. Hollywood Rose needed a drummer, so Axl sought Tracii's blessing before asking Robbie to play the show, which he did. Good drummers were hard to come by, and I kind of hoped Izzy and Axl planned on stealing Robbie to get Hollywood Rose back together permanently.

Robbie stored his gear at my house, plus Hollywood Rose borrowed my van to cart everything to the venue. The L.A. Guns' crew of Joe, Danny, and Carlos worked the show, and afterward brought everything back to my house, where we all celebrated well into the a.m. By all accounts, the show was a roaring success and everyone had a blast.

Axl was in an outstanding mood the next afternoon, and Tracii chummed it up with him while breaking down the show song by song. Even though it was obvious to me Tracii was disheartened because, instead of him, Izzy and Axl used Chris Webber for the gig, Tracii didn't show it. So with all his supportive talk and congratulating, I sensed him working some sort of angle. Soon, my instincts proved correct when Tracii said, "Hey, Axl, L.A. Guns has a Troub show booked for the end of the month, and they won't let us cancel. Will you do one more show with us?"

Then, without hesitation, Axl said, "Sure."

And I was absolutely floored.

By the following afternoon, Tracii had put together an L.A. Guns flyer with pictures of him, Axl, Robbie, and Ole. When Axl dropped by to approve the artwork, I said, "If you two are going to jam together, why not bring Izzy in and do that Guns and Roses thing you two talked about?"

Axl did a double take, gave me one of his dog-eat-dog sly smiles, and then, after a slight pause, nodded and said, "That sounds cool. I'll see if Izzy'll do it."

I had good, selfish, reasons for my suggestion. From the first time I heard it, I knew Guns N' Roses was one of the greatest combination of words ever conjured, with broad brush-stroked images of contrasting emotions and multi-layered meanings leaping from the tongue headfirst into a pool of fiery desire. Don't even get me started on the whole penis 'n' vagina double entendres. If it sounds like I'm trying to claim credit for coming up with the name, I'm not. Axl Rose conjured up Guns N' Roses all by himself, combining surnames Tracii (Guns) and Axl (Rose). It's just until that very point in time, Axl had no idea I even knew he and Tracii had considered a side project. All I am laying claim to is this: Guns N' Roses formed in my living room after I suggested Izzy join in on a previously booked L.A. Guns show.

The reason I suggested Izzy join in on the gig is obvious. I was, and remain, a huge fan of Izzy as well as his brilliant songs. The best L.A. Guns tunes were written by Izzy and Axl, with some contributions from others. Also, I thought he might give Tracii some sorely needed help in the song-crafting department. Another important factor, both Axl and Tracii held immense respect for Izzy, and not just because he's almost as cool as Fonzi. Plus, ever since Axl escaped Indiana in search of Izzy in Hollywood, those two were destined to take their shot at the big time together. If Tracii wanted Axl to be his singer and put it all together in a show to last forever, eventually Izzy would join together in their band. It's Izzy's world. Axl and Tracii were just rocking in it.

But the thing absolutely foremost in my mind when suggesting the name change was that I wanted to save the name L.A. Guns from being blacklisted by the Troubadour. I figured once Tracii and/or Axl quit or fired me – which I was 100 percent positive was going to happen – I'd hire a few cats to reform a Mike-Jagosz-fronted L.A. Guns, load them into the van, and hit the road to hopefully sell some EPs. Right before Tracii fired Mike, I had already laid groundwork for a four-week spring and summer national club tour. So making a little bit of cash was only a few phone calls away.

The next night, a clearly thrilled Axl stopped by to report that Izzy was down for the show. He added, "Izzy's got some great new songs that we've been working on." With little more than two weeks to get ready, I was beyond stoked about those five guys – Izzy Stradlin, Axl Rose, Tracii Guns, Robbie Gardner, and Ole Beich – jamming together. Even though Tracii had converted a bedroom into a rehearsal space, everyone agreed the better option was Willie Basse's Wilpower Studios, with its nice stage and powerful PA. Plus, Willie was an awesome soundman, and after adding my QSC power amp and wedge monitors to his system, Axl probably had his best rehearsal PA ever.

I'm well aware it's a common phenomenon for folks to believe their friends' mediocre band is great. But that very first rehearsal was totally awesome, dude. It was immediately evident Guns N' Roses were beyond something special. Without a doubt, L.A. Guns had delivered some major ass-kicking with Axl Rose up front, but the addition of Izzy and the new songs "Don't Cry," "Move to the City," and "Think About You" blew my mind. After the second rehearsal, my brother Joe took a roll's worth of cheap-camera band photos at two different locations around Wilpower Studios; on the interior stairs and against the exterior wall of the warehouse.

I will remain a fan of Ole Beich till it's time for my dirt nap. Back in the day, he was one of my best and most loyal friends. I still miss that guy, and feel awful that he didn't seem to care enough at the time to make sure he stayed in Guns N' Roses. Unfortunately, at times the dude could be a real downer, sullen while keeping to himself as other folks around him boisterously celebrated youth, booze, and rock 'n' roll dancing upon Satan's sack. A few years earlier, also briefly in the iconic Danish black-metal band Mercyful Fate, Ole's history repeated when he played with Guns N' Roses for their first two rehearsals. And that was it.

After that second practice, another rehearsal was set for a tentative "in a few days." Ole neglected to tell anyone of his newest girlfriend, so when the next practice got scheduled, there was no way to get ahold of him. After three days of no one hearing from him, and rehearsal scheduled for the following evening, Izzy said, "If Ole doesn't want to be in the band, there's a guy who lives across the street from me who'll do the show."

I sometimes wonder if it was a political play by Izzy, so Tracii would not have two automatic band-votes on his side to vote-block against him and Axl. But I think it far more likely Izzy felt Ole wasn't into it, and his style made G N' R too metal. I don't know the answer, but the next night, Izzy showed up to Wilpower Studios to introduce Duff Rose. That was his name the first time I met him, and we all knew it was a sign. Ole was an old-school, brain-damage, hard-rock 'n' roller, devoid of even the slightest punk influence. But Duff was an O.G. Seattle punk, pre-grunge glamster with a far more upbeat personality, a cool bro to hang out with, a world class musician, and no doubt perfect for Guns N' Roses.

With only enough time for two rehearsals before the debut show, Izzy taught Duff most of the material at home, and everything got tightened up at high decibels inside Wilpower Studios. Ole was surprised when I broke the news to him, but didn't argue or even ask me why until years later.

To help promote the gig, Izzy arranged an interview on KPFK FM, and Willie recorded a few songs live right off the mixing board to be played on the air. A few nights before the Troubadour show, G N' R made their first-ever radio appearance during a half-hour long, live-in-studio interview by DJ Hope, along with the playing of "Don't Cry," "Think About You" and "Anything Goes." Tracii's mom, always so good to me, recorded the show on cassette and gave me a copy that I still have. Bet you'd love to hear it, but chances are you never will.

It seems one really can do anything they want to do, and it's a total coincidence that I'm listening to "Black Rose" while writing this paragraph thirty years to the day of Guns N' Roses debut show. March 26, 1985 was a Tuesday, the eighty-fifth day of the year. That don't mean shit, I just dig numbers. We all met up at the Troubadour around three in the afternoon for a first-ever Guns N' Roses' sound check, but the marquee out front said "L.A. Guns." A weeknight meant tables and chairs were set up in the showroom. Robbie and the crew had most of the gear set up by the time the rest of the band began straggling in, but I can't remember if I smoked pot with the crew.

One of the cool things about a band's debut show, whether they never play another gig or blow up hotter than Nagasaki, is that first crowd is loaded with friends there to support their friend(s). Before the show, Izzy, Axl, Duff, Tracii, and Robbie spent varying amounts of time in the showroom, having cocktails while chatting and personally thanking folks for coming. The guys were likely as excited to hit the stage, or possibly even more, than the crowd there was to discover what Guns N' Roses were all about. I for one was super excited, because I knew those folks were in for a treat. About an hour prior to their set, G N' R departed for the dressing room to read scripture while enjoying some tasty milk and cookies. Wait, that's Stryper. I have no idea what they did, because there were stairs between me and the Troub's dressing rooms.

Most weeknight local bands typically played to a few haggard chicks, their crew, and tables. But the show had a decent-sized crowd, not huge, but slightly larger than the L.A. Guns' gig a few months earlier. A hundred fifty fans, give or take. There were several folks who I recognized as L.A. Guns regulars, a bunch of teeny boppers whose two drink tickets were mostly used for soft drinks. But there were also scores of older folks, more punk-looking and often lined up three deep at the showroom bar. Then when their beloved liquor got served, they stuffed tip jars in hopes Ms. Barkeep would keep hooking them up.

Then it all began. The showroom lights dimmed. An array of colored lights cut through a nicotine haze to paint the stage in hot hues. From stage left, the guys descended the stairway onto the stage. Robbie got busy fine-tuning his drums' positions as Izzy, Duff, and Tracii plugged in, tuned up, switched their amps off of standby, twisted some knobs, and then gestured to one another. Good to go.

The house music faded away as the voice of God announced the band from on high. Izzy stuck his smoke near the head of his ax and motioned to count it out. Without a hint of hesitation, Robbie raised drum sticks high above his head and "Click-click-click-click." One, two, three, four, the band threw a sonic punch into the crowds' face as Axl, decked out in chaps and g-string, bounded down the stairs to burst onto that stage as if shot from a howitzer. Having only been unleashed before a crowd once in the previous five months, Axl set his pent-up dervish free with a spontaneous and fresh kinetic overload that saw him trying his damndest to stomp a hole through the Troubadour's stage straight to China.

The guys' image was more glam than later images, like the 70s glam of Aerosmith, T-Rex, Sweet, or Bowie. And not like their contemporary scene's spandex-clad trannys playing loosely inspired Van Halen or Crüe. Axl didn't offer much commentary between tunes. The band merely delivered a few blistering songs in a row, then, after a short pause to allow folks to wipe the blood from their ears, he'd let the audience know what was next. When G N' R were ready to play "Nice Boys," he dedicated it to Poison with the same mocking disdain as during L.A. Guns gigs. Although Poison was pulling huge crowds into the clubs, Axl routinely made it crystal clear he didn't like Poison or consider what they played rock 'n' roll.

Over the next five years, I saw G N' R perform or rehearse at least a hundred times, and probably far more than that. Combine all those gigs with my love of booze, pot, and various other mind-altering cash killers, and I would be guessing about what else was on that night's set list. It's safe to say "Jumping Jack Flash," "Heartbreak Hotel," "Shadow of Your Love," and for sure "Think About You," "Move to the City," "Don't Cry" and "Anything Goes."

The last time I had seen Izzy and Axl together on stage was in Rose, a super frenetic band that constantly hopped and bopped while bouncing off of one another. Axl was still the incredibly dynamic bundle of energy, drawing lots of attention up front, but Izzy settled into a far more laid-back groove, absorbed in song while seemingly as one with the timbre, rhythm, and melody. It was my first time watching Duff on stage, but I really dug his bass tone, smooth chops, and in-your-face energy. Tracii was Tracii, a very entertaining showman and talented shredder with a great guitar sound. Robbie remained solid and right on time, neither boring nor flashy. What can I say? Drummers are the most interesting guys sitting at the back of the room.

While Guns N' Roses' high-voltage rocking shocked the unsuspecting room, I camped out in back to split my time between people watching and rocking out, with an occasional yelled "Fuck yeah!" and "Don't play 'Freebird'!" When able to calm down, curiosity had me checking out people's reactions, as well as receiving much positive feedback hollered my way. Not many other audience members actively rocked out like spaz Raz, but a whole lot of those proto-hipsters got some vigorous toe tapping in.

There was only one bartender that evening, and she valiantly busted her tight ass keeping up with the seemingly never-ending thirsty patrons lined up for cocktails. When the houselights came back on, I was dumbfounded by the tip jar, a gallon-sized clear glass jug, stuffed to the top with bills. I had never seen so many tips in a single jar on that bar before. Another measure of success, Eddy the owner paid the band three hundred bucks. That blew me away, because a few months earlier, L.A. Guns drew approximately the same number and only made a hundred. That's the moment I realized raw audience numbers were less important to a business than how many flush lushes you drew into their bar.

There was no big party after the show. The gear, van, road crew, and a few of the guys ended up at my house, where we did some minor-scale partying that likely would have sent lower-tier degenerates crying for rehab the next day.

*

Because G N' R only formed two weeks prior to their first show, it was a few weeks before a second show went down. But even before the live debut, the guys decided Guns N' Roses should be more than a one-off fill-in for an L.A. Guns' Troub show. With all involved eager to see what could become of the group, more shows were booked before they ever hit the stage. Most everyone I told that Axl, or "L.A. Guns' old singer," was in Guns N' Roses were happy to hear the news. Very few people – like one or two – expressed sadness about Mike not singing for the band. But his brother and girlfriend don't count.

Not long after Guns N' Roses' first gig, given an option to pay rent or move out, Tracii reluctantly vacated the bedroom he was "renting." Still in the band, and living nearby, we remained on good terms despite me booting him. After Tracii moved out, Joe said, "You should rent me the room, I'm here all the time anyway." It made sense. He was there a lot, had a job, and I might as well get some cash from him. Plus, he was pretty handy to have around, whether it was building a wheelchair ramp or bouncing guests who had overstayed their welcome.

Within days, I realized what a horrendous error I had made. Joe was far less confrontational as a guest. As an entirely unreasonable renter, he felt it was his house to do with as he pleased. We fought constantly, about every little fucking thing, whether I wanted to or not. I hate losing control of situations, but felt boxed in because he routinely ignored the prime directive: "Get the fuck away from me." Plus, once Joe moved in, it seemed like Axl became a full-time housemate. I had just gotten Tracii out, because he had no rent money, and then Joe put me in a position to be the bad guy if I were to tell Axl to pay rent or hit the road. But for sure the situation added way too much stress to my existence.

At that point in time, the guys still referred to me as their manager. Many young bands believe having a manager makes them appear more professional. It also helped me feel more important to let them call me that. But in reality, all I did was let them use my place for band meetings. Or, if they were short, I'd chip in a few bucks – like five – for rehearsal. I'd share my reheated leftover Naugles' French fries, or let them borrow my van, amps, cabinets, wireless microphone, or whatever they needed. Joe, Guns N' Roses' stage manager, would cart all the gear to the show, and when my van came home, so did my gear. No charge. With a vast fecal sea of inferior bands drowning Hollywood, it was my pleasure to help out an obviously above-average group. Didn't cost me nothing, and that gear would have just sat in storage with my van stuck in the driveway. Plus, I got to see G N' R well over a hundred times and you didn't.

As L.A. Guns' manager, I handled all business-related matters: promotional material, booking shows, getting a rehearsal space, and so much more I remain shocked that I never wiped anyone's ass. Except for the actual music stuff, those guys were more than happy to let me do all the work. They merely rehearsed, flyered, played shows, got high, and fucked chicks. Twenty-one seconds after Guns N' Roses formed, their hard work and dedication became evident. They hit the ground running and, unlike L.A Guns' paltry show a month, G N' R played four or five shows a month at any place with a stage and PA that'd have them.

Izzy, Axl, and Duff each had their own business instincts, ideas, and connections. But no one has ever cared what a drummer has to say. And Tracii was still in baby-rock-star mode, more than content to have others worry about band stuff. With no money for professional flyers, they drew their own. Magazine ads were way out of budget, so flyers were hand-delivered throughout the city and passed out at clubs. While Izzy and Duff saturated places around the city, Joe or I often rode Axl around to drop off flyers at several different spots. The scope of their promotion covered a much larger swath of the city than we canvassed for L.A. Guns. To give an idea, I found a list of places to flyer written by Axl during the early days: Guitar Center, Café L.A., Fairfax High, shops on Melrose, and the record stores – Music Plus, Warehouse, Tower, Auditory Odyssey, Moby Disc, and Musicland. And, of course, night clubs, Troubadour, Gazzari's, the Rainbow, Music Machine, Wong's West, Fetish, Anti Club, Palace, Glam Slam, Lingerie, and Country Club.

People often picture bandmates spending their offstage time hanging out with one another. But like any group of friends or business associates, those guys lived their own lives. Sure, they spent several hours a week with each other, partying, promoting, writing songs, rehearsing, and, of course, doing shows, but each had their own living situation and circle of friends. Although technically he didn't live there, Axl slept and partied quite often at my house. When it came to love, his music, or business interests, Axl Rose had a touch of Young Werther, some Michael Corleone, and a dash of Tony Montana in him. But during times of leisure, he was actually a very easy-to-get-along-with, laid-back dude with a fun sense of humor.

Mass quantities of pot got destroyed 24/7 at that place. Axl wasn't the biggest fan of the weed, but that rarely stopped him. Similar to my brother and me – with a tip of the hat to Alice in Chains – his drug of choice was whatever you got. The burgeoning praise his new band garnered had Axl in good spirits most of the time. When not prolifically penning lyrical musings upon any spare piece of paper, he often listened to music or watched movies. Despite my brother and me in constant conflict, the house was relatively low stress due to its seven rooms offering plenty of privacy to anyone who sought it out. The house's strategic location, with an alley on the living-room side and enough distance from other neighbors, gave a level of privacy where even gunshots weren't noticed. Though the gunplay was sporadic, the music got cranked day and night with never a noise complaint or life-threatening wound.

Axl and I shared a love for a lot of the same bands popular within our circle of friends: Aerosmith, Stones, New York Dolls, Alice, Hanoi Rocks, Black Sabbath, Sweet, and Bowie. Our mutual interests also included blues, oldies, R&B, soul, pop, and rock like Queen, Elton, Eagles, Nazareth, Rose Tattoo, and Billy Joel. His opinion was highly credible to me. If he told me I'd dig something, he was usually correct.

Besides it being the era of "New Coke," which I was the only one of our group to give a thumbs up to, 1985 was also a time of a cutting-edge music technology. Compact Disc players hit the consumer market the prior year, and I dove right in to spend two hundred bucks on a CD player. At first, the CD was billed as "indestructible." I found out the hard way it was an utterly bullshit claim, right after I hurled an AC/DC disc against the wall to show a friend how tough the discs were. One little scratch and that CD was toast. Despite that, I have never missed the hissing and popping of LPs as some pretentious audiophiles professed they did.

In their early days, selection was limited, and each CD cost fourteen bucks or more. Plus, you couldn't copy them unless you had a ten-thousand-dollar duplicator. I didn't care too much about how expensive they were, because I shoplifted about 75 percent of them. With my firmly held belief that music companies had ripped off artists for decades, rationalizing the theft was fairly easy. I do remember feeling semi-swindled upon seeing the digital readout showing my Van Halen CD was barely thirty minutes. But over time, my opinion changed after realizing the maximum time constraints dictated by physical grooves of a vinyl LP forced artists to edit out all but their strongest material. Think about it. How many complete albums, every song, released after 1990 do you have in your playlists?

I had never been much of Led Zeppelin fan. Didn't hate them, just could not understand why they were so huge. But when their albums were finally released on CD, I acquired a few Zeppelin discs solely to revel in digital-quality John Bonham drumming. Then the band grew on me to the point where I realized their greatness was there all along. I only mention it to tell of a conversation Axl and I had while watching MTV. A die-hard Zep fan was trashing the surviving members, claiming they were selfish to not reunite for their fans. Axl expressed his belief that the was guy a complete idiot. I agreed and said, "Why can't people just thank them for the great music they made and leave it at that?"

While I'm telling stories, with detached relevance to later events, there was a time when Axl's throat had become extremely sore, not quite laryngitis, but bad, and he said, "I couldn't do a show tonight for a million bucks." I chuckled and suggested for a million bucks it might be worth a shot. But Axl made it clear to me that I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about. It was not the first, or last, time I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about.

Izzy's birthday was a few nights before G N' R's second show. So Axl had me stop at a liquor store on the way to rehearsal to buy Izzy a celebratory chocolate donut and a pack of Marlboros to wash it down with. The show was at Radio City and fell on Joe's birthday. One of my favorite things about the club was the liquor store a half block away, where we scored a big bottle of whiskey then camped out in my van, and for the first time used it as dressing room/party spot before a show.

Near the end of April, G N' R played three shows in the same week. I only made it to the Troubadour show, which had at least fifty more people than their first show. The G N' R word was spreading like wildfire on a sea of gasoline. Some in attendance told me, "I heard Axl was back," or, "A friend told me these guys are great." The next night, I skipped the Waters Club, because it still wasn't wheelchair friendly. I had every intention of going to the Saturday night Timbers gig, but it was the first time in ages the house would be all mine. Thus, I decided to call the man to score some shit, made a booty call, and partied down with a rowdy rocker chick with loose morals and substance issues.

Initially, only three of Tracii's tunes even made it into rehearsal, and at shows he was lucky if the guys even played one of them. Five shows in, it was all Izzy and Axl's songs, plus some covers. Instead of taking it as a challenge, Tracii acted perpetually petulant. The morning after G N' R played the Timbers gig, Axl was in an extremely foul mood. More specifically, he was thoroughly pissed off at Tracii, who the night before reportedly remained out of sight behind his Marshall stacks the entire show, all the while playing way too loud and purposely fucking up songs.

Axl went on and on griping, and I began getting an impression he sought my okay to get rid of Tracii, so I said, "Fuck Tracii. Fire him if you want."

Clearly, Axl was happy to hear it. Upon the realization I wasn't as loyal to Tracii as he had believed, Axl spilled the beans about why he quit L.A. Guns. Within days of joining the group, he came to realize that, while he was being recruited, Tracii misrepresented the musical direction the group would take. Even worse, they could not write songs together. My yelling at him about getting kicked out of the Rainbow was merely the final straw. It answered a lot of questions swirling around in my head. So that afternoon, the two of us clarified everything. I neither cared nor wanted to have any say about his band or its personnel. But I would remain supportive of G N' R no matter what happened to Tracii. I could enjoy their shows while partying my brains out with no responsibility or stress. A fan and supportive friend was the way to be.

Izzy and Axl agreed Tracii would get the boot from Guns N' Roses after their next show, the second week of May, giving them a month to find a replacement. Rose, Hollywood Rose, and other bands those two were in meant there were at least seven hundred former guitarists to choose from. Tracii Guns' final performance as a member of Guns N' Roses occurred at Joshua's Parlor in Westminster. The guys could have fired him earlier, cancelled the show, and had more time to find a replacement, but we were all stoked for the gig. The headliner, Liquid Earth, was an above-average band with a massive draw. But add to that a wet T-shirt contest, plus fifty-cent Kamikazes, and it begged "On with the show." All in all, it was a fun, shoulder-to-shoulder packed show. I'd bet if Tracii realized it was to be his last, he'd have savored his evening a bit more.

The next afternoon, Tracii called to tell me about Axl firing him from G N' R. Tracii didn't seem at all upset, mostly just talked shit about the guys. But I do believe he was shocked when I told him he blew it, and I didn't give a shit. I had let Ole keep his Peavey Max bass head and some speaker cabinets after he was replaced. Fair's fair, so a week after Tracii Guns got canned, when he showed up to the house with plans to start a band with some has-beens who I can't recall, I gave him a Les Paul, Marshall 100-watt amp, and a 4-12 speaker cabinet as a parting gift.

A day after Tracii got ousted, Robbie quit the band. We were all floored. No one had even contemplated Robbie abandoning the project. Izzy and Axl tried to change his mind. When that didn't bear fruit, they asked me to have a talk with Robbie and let him know they really wanted him in the band. At the very least, see if he'd stay until they found another drummer. When I called Robbie to see where his head was at and tell him he was missing a great opportunity, before I even got my whole pitch, delivered he gave me a dismissive "I'm not going to play with those guys."

Part of me respected Robbie's loyalty to Tracii, but the other part wondered what the fuck he was thinking. I could not fathom him not understanding the greatness of the band he was in. Plus, Tracii never showed a loyal bone in his body, or ever really wanted Robbie as L.A. Guns' drummer. The guys were pissed at Robbie for leaving them hanging, so Izzy taught me an awesome trick, which I employed relentlessly over the next decade – a free ad got placed in the Recycler, something like: "Gay Drummer Available. Into Duran Duran, Flock of Seagulls, Pet Shop Boys, Haircut One Hundred... Call Robbie before 6 a.m.," and listed Robbie's number. Classic!

15

Axl only had one guitarist in mind. But Izzy expressed a desire to explore all options, in hopes of finding an older, more established musician. Axl remained steadfast and eventually convinced Izzy to at least invite Slash over to talk music, and perhaps those two might play some guitar together. The day after that get-together, Axl happily reported of his plan's rousing success. Izzy was floored by Slash's talent, and a quick meeting turned into those two jamming through practice amps in Izzy's living room for most of the day.

Slash played in Black Sheep at the time, so his gear was already at Wilpower Studios when he arrived for his first Guns N' Roses rehearsal. Steven Adler was at his side, eager to audition for the vacant drum position. By sheer luck, his drum kit was already there. I thought Steven was the obvious choice to replace Robbie. He knew most of the songs, looked great, and was lightyears more stoked about Guns N' Roses than anyone will ever be. Something Ole once told me remains stuck in my head after all these years. He said, "If the drummer has a boring personality, the band will be boring." Ole was making a case for having a charismatic wild man on the skins, and Steven was a wild motherfucker with loads of personality.

It wasn't an automatic deal that Steven Adler joined Guns N' Roses, merely an audition. When done, he packed his gear and split. After he hit the road, Joe set up Steven's kit again so the guys could audition a few other drummers. There was a dude, Chain, who Axl really dug and insisted on hiring. Izzy steadfastly refused to play with him, and almost quit G N' R over it. At some point, Chain told me, "I don't think Izzy likes me."

I said, "It's worse than that." To keep everyone calm, some diplomatic maneuvers were employed. All agreed that Steven would play the next show, but G N' R would keep searching for a drummer.

A week before the first performance of the most fondly remembered Guns N' Roses lineup, Axl and I went to the Country Club for Slash's final Black Sheep gig. Except for a few rehearsals, I had never before watched Slash play live. I knew he was good, but in front of an audience, he performed on an entirely different level – cool, aggressively loud, and in my heart I understood every sweet 'n' nasty note that sang out from his B.C. Rich Mockingbird with a hundred times the passion of anything I'd witnessed at rehearsals. When Poison's manager, Vicky Hamilton walked up to ask if I knew who Black Sheep's guitarist was, I said, "That's Slash, he's going to be in Guns N' Roses."

She smile-drooled. "I love Slash."

On D-Day 1985, a crowd just shy of two hundred witnessed the first Guns N' Roses show featuring Slash and Steven. Those two spent their youth mere miles from the club, so plenty of family and childhood friends attended the gig. It had only taken G N' R three shows to transform into a standing-room-only band, so the club hurriedly pulled tables and chairs from the showroom as more folks clamored in. Unlike their first few Troubadour shows, lots more folks actively rocked out, danced, and gave full-throated cheers.

The show was lightyears beyond any G N' R had played before, and it was extremely well-received by the amassed crowd. Tracii and Robbie who? There were a few songs added to the set list. I can't remember why, if Tracii never learned it or Axl didn't like the way he played it, but that night, they kicked my ass for the first of many times with a Hollywood Rose tune, "Reckless Life." I loved it when Axl sounded as though he was shredding his vocal cords on a rusty cheese grater, so that's one of my favorite G N' R songs. In another change, "Mama Kin" replaced Tracii's preferred "Sweet Emotion." The rest of the set was the usual stuff already in the set list.

If you see pictures of those early shows, Slash played through a Marshall half stack, which I had loaned him. At one point in time, I was Tracii's biggest supporter and fan. It wasn't hard to imagine him being pissed knowing that high-school-nemesis Slash was playing through gear he once enjoyed unlimited access to. Add to that, Tracii's former manager and entire road crew were in G N' R's camp. Destined to become a has-been after barely making it, Tracii Guns was technically quite the skilled guitarist, but Slash possessed more soul in his pinkie finger than Tracii could ever dream of imagining. Even if he were locked for a decade inside the Motown vaults with a record player, a thousand gallons of moonshine, and a guitar.

Axl was over-the-moon ecstatic about Izzy and Slash playing together in his band, but still wasn't sold on Steven. Not just because he was willfully outspoken, mostly a no-no for drummers. Or even his exuberance at times affecting his meter. He also lacked subtlety, much like the golfer who hits a three-hundred-yard tee shot that lands ten feet from the pin, then proceeds to hit a three-hundred-yard putt. Steven had one level: loud. Fortunately, the world loves drummers that pound the motherfucking shit out of their drums. Dynamics are for gay drummers. It was always a blast to watch Steven play, and abundantly obvious there was no other place in the world he'd rather be than behind his kit, jamming with those guys. His energy was contagious, and right from the very beginning, Steven often said, "Guns N' Roses isn't a band. It's a way of life."

After their first photo shoot, Jack Lue had them looking like rock stars right out the gate. I never doubted that G N' R would appeal visually to a diverse audience. Both bad and good girls are fascinated by bad boys, and looks-wise, there was something for everyone; Izzy was eye candy to the blue-black, Ronnie Wood, Crüe, Hanoi-type lovers; Slash was for those digging a more dark and exotic look; Steven was for lovers of the "dumb-blond" pretty boys; Duff was for Sheena, who is a punk rocker. And then there was Axl, the tattooed, glamorous, pretty young man willing to battle ten guys at the same time if they dared to challenge him.

Sidetrack: Just in case you wondered, as far as I know, none of those five dudes are gay. But then again, neither am I, though I'm pretty sure my boyfriend is.

I playfully dubbed the new lineup "Gash, Beev, Muff, Sleazy, and Asshole." Can't call him that no more, but there was a time, if I said –"hey, ashul" – quickly, yet quietly, and phrased it a certain way, a future golden god sometimes said, "What?" He'd even grin when you got him. Plus, we all often did the "Is he? No, Izzy," play on words. I knew for sure that if they didn't break up, they would get a record deal and probably sell a lot of records. Not just because of looks and attitude, but they also wrote great tunes played more aggressively than any of the pussy stuff littering the clubs and airwaves.

A few days before that first show with Slash and Steven, Axl happily reported of Duff arranging for G N' R to play a gig in Seattle. By the time they hit the road, it had become a handful of West Coast club gigs, ultimately dubbed the "Hell Tour." The band didn't even have a logo yet, so a friend of Duff's made a flyer for the Seattle gig, consisting of Xeroxed pistols and bullets with show info written in black marker. Still hoping another option might present itself, no one asked Steven to go along until the day before departure. But when they called him up to ask if he would play the shows – SPOILER ALERT – he didn't hesitate to say yes.

I was unable to attend the "Hell Tour," and firsthand accounts are readily available, so all I can report are the before and after. Roadie Carlos blew up my van's engine days before Slash and Steven joined, so it sat in the driveway needing so much work I probably should have just junked it. That meant the band was forced to rent a U-Haul trailer. I still planned on going, with a few of the guys riding along in the Pontiac, but awoke with the flu and burning temperature on an unreasonably hot day. I hoped I'd be well enough by go time, but it only got worse. I felt like shit and a total asshole when G N' R showed up to my house. I couldn't come through. Undeterred, band and crew crammed into roadie Danny's mom's not-so-new station wagon on a ninety-five-degree day, and seven guys set off hauling a trailer full of gear headed straight for the steep, miles-long grade of the infamous car-killing Grapevine.

Starting with Danny's car dying less than two hours into their voyage, almost everything that could go wrong did. But when they guys returned home, they spoke in glowing tones of the adventure. Getting ripped off by club owners, followed by swift payback to said club, the hitchhiking, and all the other bullshit could have made the guys feel their band was cursed. Instead, they learned to trust one another like family. Because Steven came through at the eleventh hour, Axl so respected the loyalty and eagerness to put everything aside, hop in a car, and hit the road on a minutes' notice, any talk of looking for another drummer was done. Five guys in a band departed North Hollywood, and days later, a band of five guys returned.

Overnight, the majority of the band lived in Hollywood. So it made far more sense to rehearse at Nickey's Love Palace instead of deep in the valley. Upon joining the band, Steven's kit consisted of double bass drums, two floor and four rack toms, plus far too many cymbals. If a man owns ten wives, eventually he must bang them all. His bandmate's frequent pleas for Steven to adopt a more minimalist style fell on deaf ears. So during the move to Nickey's, Joe picked up the kit from Wilpower Studios, but made a pit stop and left several pieces at my house. When Joe arrived to the Love Palace with just enough kit to keep a steady beat, he told Steven there wasn't enough room in his car. By the second rehearsal, Steven was digging the hell out of the smaller kit, and his other drums remained at my house for ages.

It took me a few weeks to get over the flu. After the first three days, it was primarily extremely painful, phlegmy bronchitis, so I decided to quit smoking (cigarettes). I had always planned on quitting when Marlboros went over a dollar a pack, and that threshold had passed a few years prior. I remained cigarette-free through the entire summer. When I began smoking again, my friends didn't really care about my health. All they wanted to know was, "Does that mean I can smoke in your car again?"

During one of those flu days, I loaned Axl my car to get to work. He left a Sex Pistols tape in the deck, and when I turned the ignition, my speakers blared, "Fuck this and fuck that. Fuck it all and fuck off, you fucking brat." I don't know if he did that shit on purpose – because I wouldn't allow the playing of punk rock in my car or house – or just a happy accident. But I was sold. I never realized I was a punk. Right up to that very moment, I hated punk rock because, in my mind, you were either a punk or a rock 'n' roller. Without a doubt, the whole "rock 'n' roll is dead" bullshit was probably the worst marketing strategy ever conceived.

Axl often told me that my wheelchair was "a license to be an asshole." It was all in good fun? But there's a lot of truth in that statement. I might have mentioned it already, but I got a mouth on me. Basically a shit-talker with anger-management issues who seldom fears verbally attacking even the most intimidating man. Even the ones I might have thought twice about before mouthing off to before my injury.

Whenever you get a bunch of dudes living in the same house, there will be tension. Especially with a power-mad asshole like me running the crib according to lessons learned from the Stalin school of conflict resolution. The most frequent tensions usually revolved around bathroom access. Although it was cool hearing Axl sing Nazareth at full volume while he showered, at times he'd wake before me then fucking camp out in the only bathroom while I repeatedly yelled through the door to let me piss.

There were instances when Axl Rose could be even more of a dick than Mike Jagosz, L.A. Guns' second singer. For example, Axl ruined Three's Company for me, for which I still hold a grudge. It all went down after I expressed my eagerness to change the channel, on account of Chrissie's pink, frilly nightgown. But Axl said, "That's the stupidest show ever. Every episode's plot is someone thinking they heard something and all the misunderstandings based on that."

Fucking asshole, it was true. Before he said that shit, I loved the show. And then couldn't stand it. I'm so glad we never watched The A-Team together.

Axl was a mellow manager, so most of his Tower Video coworkers loved him. Right before closing, he would start a booze fund and then send an underling across the street to Turner's Liquor for large quantities of hooch. Once the doors were locked, they'd all get hammered and count stock until the wee hours. Axl's team-building exercises led to his dismissal, after getting ratted out by some dick. Within a few weeks, he was so broke he needed to sell his LP collection. It was also a rough financial patch for me, and I didn't even have enough gas money to haul us to Auditory Odyssey. We piled a wooden crate with about fifty records onto my lap and Axl pushed my chair about a half mile to the shop.

Along the way, Axl told me about his folks not allowing him to listen to rock – only Elvis gospel records – so he'd keep his rock 'n' roll records hidden and sneak-listen when they were out. That's why it really ate at him having to sell such cherished items. After the long trek and hassle, the record store only wanted a few of his LPs, for a lowball price. We were both pissed at the rip-off offer, and also having to haul the ones they didn't want back home. A few years later, soon after its release, I shoplifted more than twenty AFD cassettes from that store. Doesn't matter if they're stolen, it goes down as a sale on the charts.

Within weeks, my lean days were over when the lawsuit for breaking my fucking neck reached a conclusion. Having proven myself not to be trusted with a lump sum, I informed my legal team to negotiate a structured settlement. I ended up getting an income of two grand a month for twenty years, plus a fat check every five years. But the first big check wasn't due until 1991. Twenty years out seemed like money forever. Until that cash was ten years in the rearview mirror.

Axl made a pitch for me to invest in G N' R, offering me a percentage of the band's future earnings. I explained that my settlement was structured as monthly payments, so I didn't have access to ten or twenty grand for investment. I don't think he really believed me, but did not appear too mad about it. I never invested a penny in G N' R, mostly because I was broke. But even if I had investment capital sitting around, I likely would not have allocated too much of it in their direction until I was absolutely sure they were a solid unit. In the first three months of being a band, they had replaced three members. By all outward appearances, the revolving door of band members did not appear it would stop spinning anytime soon.

I was 100 percent certain that if G N' R stayed together, they'd be huge. But also 98 percent positive they would not last six months. But my number-one reason for not being interested in the slightest to invest in any more bands was due to a regular course of business I witnessed firsthand during my year in the biz. Whenever a local band got signed to a major-label recording contract, at the record company's insistence, the band immediately cleaned house. Any and all business ties to the past were severed immediately, so powerful businessmen, connected managers, and professional crews could be hired as needed. From a business standpoint, it made infinite sense. There's far too much money and time invested to let an amateur manager hold a band back, or to allow a bunch of party-buddy, partners-in-crime roadies to remain as bad influences on already bad men.

Despite me not forking over any seed money, everything remained cool between us as Guns N' Roses gained popularity in leaps and bounds. They were playing everywhere, as well as getting booked onto bills with huge-drawing popular bands. Then, without exception, G N' R blew everyone off the stage. About a month after their most popular lineup formed, G N' R played the Stardust Ballroom, opening for London, the Joneses, and headliner The Unforgiven. The crowd was fairly large considering how early they went on – more than three hundred folks. The Joneses were one of my favorite acts, so I watched them and didn't go backstage to hang with G N' R until afterward. A few minutes after I arrived in the dressing room, David Lee Roth poked his head through the doorway and told Axl, "I liked the show, man."

A month later, at the Troubadour, I noticed my Marshall amp was not in attendance. I formed a fairly good theory about why. Izzy had recently figured out a way to monetize his hobby, and soon almost everyone in our circle was into tinkering with model trains. A few of them were making several trips daily to the hobby shack to pick up the stuff needed to keep trains on tracks. It's not a poor man's hobby. So when the band's roadies had to have a new caboose they had their eye on, at times they sold some equipment. One little snag though – it was my equipment.

At first, I didn't notice shit missing, because after my van broke down, my gear departed in vehicles that didn't automatically return to my house after a show. Once I realized something was not quite right, I asked Joe repeatedly where my stuff was, only to be stonewalled. After a few weeks of run-around, I demanded all of my property be returned home immediately, and only then did I get the word my shit was "missing." Train-train! Before we finally figured out roadie Carlos was the fiend stealing gear, I placed a free Recycler ad offering "Marshall 100-Watt Head Modified by Jabco. $100 or Trade for Lionel 408E Standard. Call before 7 a.m.," and left Izzy's number.

Once the whole missing gear and cover-up bullshit came to a head, I was super raging pissed off at Joe for being more loyal to other people than looking out for family. Never one to realize when he is absolutely wrong, he got up in my face to violently scream and yell. So I kicked him out of my house. And because he was months behind on rent, he went. Anyone who knew me back then will tell you I threw a better temper tantrum than a schizophrenic four-year-old with a blunderbuss. So after the shouting match, I remained in a superiorly shitty mood and yelled through the door at Axl, "Get the fuck out of my bathroom! I got to piss." He didn't dig my tone, so he split with Joe.

That same night, I rolled into the Troubadour bar, and at the table just inside the door sat Jennifer Perry and Vicky Hamilton. Before even saying hello, Vicky gleefully announced, "I no longer work for Poison."

I congratulated her and said, "You should manage Guns N' Roses, they're gonna be huge."

She scoffed. "No way."

I told of Slash joining the group and reminded her how much she liked him in Black Sheep. When Vicky asked why I wasn't managing them, I told her, "My brother's their stage manager, and working together might prove fatal."

Even after Joe and Axl moved out and I skipped G N' R's shows, I still occasionally hung out with Steven Adler. He was a fun fellow pot-head, got attention from lots of chicks, and I was more than happy with table scraps. About a week after Axl moved out, Slash called to find out what happened, and why I wasn't at their Troubadour show the night before. He seemed happy to hear that I still loved his band and was not at war with Axl.

Slash worked at a Centerfold Newsstand, right around the corner from Fairfax high, a good job for making business calls and perfectly located for people to drop stuff off or talk band business with him. Over the next few weeks, he called several times and we'd chat for a while, and then, before hanging up, he'd usually say something like, "Raz, c'mon, man. Why don't you manage us?"

I'd give a variation of my same answer. "It's not that I don't believe in you guys. I think if you keep the band together, you'll get signed. At this stage, you guys don't need a manager, but if you stay together for a year, I'll do it."

I kept to my usual routine of hearty partying, seeing bands, or networking at the Troub's front bar. One night, when Ratt's Stephen Pearcy entered, I noticed a joint behind his ear, causing me to jones. I rolled over to request the doobie be sparked, and he said that after checking out a friend's band, he'd smoke me out. About an hour later, I looked through the bay window to see Pearcy out front signing autographs. I turned away, but when I looked back, he was gone. I was a little annoyed, wishing he had just said no instead of giving the brush off. But next thing I knew, he was at the bar's doorway, calling out while waving an arm, "C'mon outside, we're going to spark it up." Cool dude, never even met him before and he did me a solid.

Ole Beich had gotten himself a job at an upholstery shop right next door to L.A. Guns' old lockout studio by Sunset and Gardner. One afternoon, I stopped by to smoke him out, and he introduced me to a cool guitarist, J.J. Bolt. His band, Johnny and the Jaguars, practiced, partied, and mostly lived in the former L.A. Guns studio. Johnny, Double-J, Bobby, Sid, and Dizzy were chick-magnet party animals, prowling the wilds of Tinseltown on a relentless hunt for prey. So the band eventually adopted a much more appropriate name, The Wild.

The Wild treated me like a brother, and some of the best nights of my youth were spent at their place trying to convince fat-bottomed girls they had always wanted to do a quad. So much harmless screwball criminality and debauchery went on in or near those studios that eventually the building got bulldozed to make way for Guitar Center's parking lot.

16

Whatever Tracii Guns believed he had going on right after getting the boot from G N' R never panned out. After a few months of sitting around twiddling his thumbs, one afternoon he dropped by my house to tell me he formed a new band with Nickey Alexander. Tracii asked if he could use the name L.A. Guns, and if I would manage the group. I told him it was fine with me, but was no longer interested in being anyone's manager. I always liked the affable, eccentric, funny, and talented drummer Nickey, as well as the hippie-punk vibe of his studio, so I swung by to check out their new band, enjoy the jam, and have a few brews. Shortly after arrival, I met bass-playing Brit Mick Cripps, a very friendly, hip-looking, and instantly likeable guy. That evening, they were auditioning vocalists, and in walked Paul Black, the cool-funky, skinny, knobbie-kneed, long haired punk who happened to be one of my favorite local drummers. His unique jazzy-grooving-punk style was a big reason for my love of The Joneses.

I don't know what Tracii told the guys, but everyone acted as if I were their manager. Yet I didn't correct anyone before, during, or after. Within a few days, I was able to convince myself that Tracii had learned a lesson about loyalty and how to treat friends. Add to that, Tracii was talented and could be almost as likeable as he was persuasive. Figuring everyone deserved a second chance, I told him, "I'll help you out however I can, but you don't need a manager yet."

Next thing I knew, we were having band meetings at my house, and I was booking some of their shows, as well as handling assorted band clerical tasks. I liked the guys but really didn't think much of the new band. I preferred Paul Black far more as a drummer, mostly because I didn't care for his voice. But with no skin in the game, all that mattered was his bandmates liked him.

About two weeks before the band's first show, Tracii sought my counsel about a gig offer in New York City recording with a Penthouse model bankrolled by her sugar daddy. I told him he should "Go to New York, make some money, have fun, and come back in time for the show." No need to break up his brand-new band.

He agreed to do just that, and set a return date for two days before the reformed L.A. Guns' very first show. While Tracii was on the East Coast, his gonorrhea-distributing girlfriend ended up staying at my place, and the night before Tracii's scheduled return, she told me, "Tracii said he's going to stay there, and he wants me to move to New York."

His flight was due in L.A. by early evening, and theoretically I would have picked him up in time for one more rehearsal before the debut show. Instead, I called the rest of the group over for a pizza-lunch band meeting at my place. Then I told them Tracii wasn't coming back. So when he called from New York about an hour after his plane's scheduled departure and said, "I missed my flight," he was undoubtedly shocked by his bandmates confronting his lies on speakerphone. We all took turns telling him how fucked he was, and that he could still make it back in time for the next night's show.

Instead, Tracii lashed out and yelled, "You guys are idiots wasting your time. The L.A. scene is dead." Not only did Tracii Guns form a band only to quit before even doing a show, he flaked hard and belittled his bandmates to boot.

I believe Mick was the one who suggested Robert Stoddard, cofounder of Dogs d'Amour, as a last-minute fill-in. Robert saved the band by learning the songs and playing the very next night, Halloween, opening for Detox at Trooper Hall on the east side of Hollywood. Something amazing happened – they were great. Robert's vocal harmonies complimented Paul's voice to the point of me changing my opinion of his talent one hundred eighty degrees. Another startling discovery, Paul Black was a God damn cool motherfucker on stage. I liked the show so much that afterward, I told them I'd be willing to help them any way I could. Suddenly, I cared about managing bands again, but only to ensure that Tracii never got his grubby hands on the name L.A. Guns.

Mick, a great and energetic networker, worked at "Let It Rock" on Melrose. The shop sold shit-loads of imported English clothes and shoes to people who didn't know the value of a dollar. Then there were, Nickey, Robert, and Paul, all well known, well liked, and respected around the scene. The heavily promoted name L.A. Guns was still fresh in local music fans' minds, and at the same wrinkle in time, Guns N' Roses was gaining popularity faster than Peruvian blow at a 70s disco. Plus, folks around town were well aware of G N' R having evolutionary ties to L.A. Guns. All those factors combined to help L.A. Guns build a large following pretty quickly, and right out of the gate, the new band was well compensated for shows.

Unlike the glorified high school garage-metal band that recorded the L.A. Guns' EP, the new members were driven professionals who actually benefited from having a part-time manager. I would handle business calls to pass messages along as needed, let them use gear, and float a couple of bucks for flyers or renting a U-Haul. After a show, they'd pay me back and give a cut of their take. They even paid to replace my van's blown-up engine.

Something entirely new to me – but as it should be – fresh material usually showed up to rehearsal as a complete song on demos that Robert and/or Paul created on a four-track recorder. Then, as Mick would say, "We messy them up a bit into an L.A. Guns' song." My favorites were "Roll the Dice," "One More Reason to Die," "Wired and Wide Awake," "L.A.P.D.," as well as some great cover versions of "Rather Go to Jail," "Adam's Apple," and "Fortunate Son." Besides the Axl-Rose-fronted lineup, of all the two hundred thirty-six subsequent iterations, this was my favorite version of L.A. Guns.

If they are even slightly worth a listen, up-and-coming bands attract a lot of people offering various forms of support. In this world, there are many talented and dedicated folks willing to donate time and creative energy solely for love of new music. Chris Amoroux was one of those, who right from the beginning helped immeasurably by snapping several excellent band photos and creating graphics for flyers, as well as tons of other supportive stuff.

About two months into the band's re-existence, the owner of Let It Rock, Alan Jones, came on as co-manager and financial backer. I actually tried diplomatically to explain to him L.A. Guns did not need capital at that point. But he was into the whole investing-in-a-band thing and began hooking them up with stage clothes, buying magazine ads, and other expenses requiring pocketfuls of dollars. I understood his desire to spend his way into the rock word, because I had paid the same tuition less than a year earlier. I recall thinking Alan lucky to have me around so he wouldn't bankrupt himself as I had.

Within a month of quitting L.A. Guns II, Tracii's New York gig fell through. Soon after returning to L.A., he and Robbie Gardner broke into my house and stole a portable filing box containing much of my financial records. I didn't get confirmation it was those two until much later, when Robbie's ex-girlfriend told me all the details of the heist. According to her version of events, Robbie just tagged along with Tracii, who wanted to pawn my guitar that he was in possession of, and was removing proof of ownership from my files. My theory was that Tracii sought the legal documents and contracts pertaining to L.A. Guns. Luckily, I had the foresight to store my legal paperwork off premises.

*

Two weeks before the Tracii-less L.A. Guns played their debut gig, by chance, Izzy and me were stuck door-to-door in gridlock traffic on the Highland off-ramp of the 101 Freeway. He was returning home from sound check at the Country Club, and over the course of fifteen minutes, we shouted car-to-car and got caught up on shit. Izzy told me about G N' R getting switched to the show's headliner instead of opening for Jetboy. I was stoked to hear about their move to top billing, and when he put me on the guest list, I attended my first Guns N' Roses show since early summer.

It was Glam Night at the ultimate San Fernando Valley metal club, and my first Jetboy show, where they lived up to the hype by delivering an awesome performance to an overflow crowd. Both G N' R and Jetboy practiced at Nickey's Love Palace and had become close, supportive friends. Jetboy even let G N' R send out flyers to everyone on their massive mailing list. During the four months since I last saw the guys, they wrote two great new songs, "Welcome to the Jungle," and "Paradise City." Upon hearing "Paradise City" for the first time, I distinctly recall it being so fucking good I thought it was a cover song.

Axl seemed happy to see me, and gave me a copy of their brand-new demo tape. At some point during the evening, one of the guys asked if they could give my copy to some record company exec. Unfortunately, I never got another one. Axl was in great spirits as he spoke about renting a rehearsal studio at Gardner and Sunset. It had gotten almost impossible to get in at Nickey's, because L.A. Guns got first dibs on the best times. With G N' R achieving local headliner status, while getting paid more and more, renting their own twenty-four-hour lockout was a no-brainer. They moved into studio B within days of that Country Club gig, right next door to The Wild. It then took several years for the corner of Sunset and Gardner to revert to its former boring glory.

At the Country Club gig, I made up with my brother Joe. He had a new girlfriend, Dinah Cancer, legendary and groundbreaking singer for 45 Grave. She was a cool chick, and probably my all-time favorite of his girlfriends. Not because she kept Joe in check, or that she was willing to take my side in arguments if I established the more reasonable position. It was because she was very smart, talented, and super fun to party with. With a name like Dinah Cancer, one could never be a buzz-kill.

That same Halloween night, when L.A. re-Guns played their first show, G N' R jammed at Radio City in Anaheim and were already moved into their studio at Sunset and Gardner. It was a small space, about twelve by twenty feet, barely enough room to pass out drunk. So Slash and Joe went shopping at "midnight lumber supply" to procure enough timber to build a scary-rickety loft, slightly bigger than a king-sized bed. Whenever there were three or four naked chicks up there rockin' 'n' rollin', doing things with not-so-nice boys they hope their grandkids never try, I'd make a hasty exit, lest love come tumbling down on me. Paradise by the tube-amp light; "It was long ago and far away."

Duff worked a day job and lived in an apartment not far from the studio. One day after work, Joe and I went over there to watch the World Series. When Duff's lady came home, we headed next door to West Arkeen's place to drink and watch the rest of the game. It was hard to not instantly like West, the ultimate wild 'n' crazy guy with an easy, bleary-eyed smile and super fun to get hammered with. I had only recently discovered the great Tommy Bolin, who, along with Jimi Hendrix, West would often cite as his favorite guitarists and songwriters. Many think of West as merely an outstanding songwriter, but oh boy could that boy play guitar. I loved his precise yet unruly style, creative tunings, and the dangerous, low-down, and dirty-mean tones he could force out of even the crappiest practice amp. "It's all in the fingers" really applied to him.

One of the coolest things about a twenty-four-hour lockout rehearsal studio was that it provided an ability to practice at the most convenient time for everyone's schedule. Then, if the spirit moves you, groove till the wee hours. The guys were freed from the constraints of a three-hour block a few times a week, plus gear remained set up, ready to be rocked. Lots of bands rented lockout studios, but most were located deep in the valley, downtown, or way the fuck further out in the hinterlands. That spot right off Sunset Boulevard sat stumbling distance from where most of the guys stayed. It was also ultra-convenient for friends, and zip codes' worth of young lustful ladies, whenever they got a hankering to party harder than my ancient self can imagine.

Certain life events had persuaded Izzy to keep mind, body, and soul pure-ish for a clearly defined period of time. During this stretch, aside from the occasional twenty beers, he mostly lived life on the straight and narrow. Izzy was one of those dudes who always had guitar in hand, and would hang out at the studio to play for hours on end. If one of the guys wanted the room, Izzy moved to a chair out front to continue his perpetual strumming. The great location meant when Duff got off work, he could tighten up with Steven, who would bang on his drums anytime the room was available. Slash could work on his guitar sound, wah-wah technique, practice voice box, or tweak other equipment whenever he got the urge. Most nights, around seven or eight, the band practiced as a complete unit. Well, except for Axl. The little studio didn't have a PA.

Bands typically won't acknowledge singers don't really need to practice once they have the song down, so it's often a source of conflict in the pursuit of fairness. I did wish the studio had a PA, but only because I wanted to hear Axl sing some of the new songs not yet in the set. I loved one unfinished tune in particular, which I referred to as "that AC/DC song." Axl said it was called "My Michelle," then passed me a notebook with the lyrics so I could give him props on his way with words. During rehearsal that night, when the band started working on the song, Axl stood at my side and belted "My Michelle" straight into my ear as Guns N' Roses played about two feet from us. See? No PA needed.

Being tight with The Wild and my buddies G N' R right next door, it became my favorite spot to pre-buzz before the clubs. And then re-buzz after. I'd drop by several times a week, often finding at least one person happy that I was there with a fat joint. Even though I had known Izzy for a few years and been a fan for as long, until the studio we hadn't really hung out much. I had recently really gotten into the Stones, and I'd go hang out with Izzy and we'd listen to Mick-Taylor-era Stones while he plunked away. I had all kinds of Stones questions, and when I asked Izzy which album "Angie" was on, he perked up like he remembered something of utter importance. "Goats Head Soup," he said as he sprang to his feet and then asked if I wanted any Thai food.

I told him to get me a beef satay. An hour later, he returned with Goats Head Soup, beef satay, and my first-ever Thai iced tea. If you have never tasted one, put this book down immediately and go get yourself a large Thai iced tea. Even better yet, feed your soul with some Goats Head Soup while enjoying your heavenly Thai beverage.

It seemed like a lifetime of change occurred during the few months I boycotted Guns N' Roses. Their very first weekend gig at the Troub, but not as headliner, went down just days after Axl and Joe moved from my house. In a blink of quickly past summer, they headlined and drew near-capacity crowds to that club. During the same period, "Jungle" and "Paradise" were added to their catalog. But for their next three months at the Gardner Studio, they seemingly wrote a new great song every few days, or reworked and transformed an older, good tune into a masterpiece.

I'm not sure why those months were so exceptionally creative; might be the interesting times of youthful freedom and being part of something they knew was special. Or maybe it was the unencumbered creative outlet a lockout studio provided, combined with meeting the great songwriter West Arkeen and hearing daily the skillful songcraft of Johnny X as he worked out his tunes right next door with The Wild. Influence is a two-way street, and The Wild and West became much more aggressive and musically streetwise after crossing paths with G N' R, thus making the whole rock exponentially greater than the sum of the parts.

Besides all those positive aspects provided by a lockout studio, there were two people who made a huge impact in spreading the G N' R gospel. DJ Joseph, a trendsetter with great taste in new and vintage music, rocked the turntables at some of Hollywood's best underground clubs. He played great stuff many people never heard before or had forgotten about when tastes changed. Once Joseph got his mitts on the G N' R demo, he played it as often as a club's theme permitted, and as many times as he wanted.

Another key rung added to Guns N' Roses' ladder of success was photographer Robert John, simply a great artist who couldn't take a bad picture even if he tried. Robert made the guys look like rock gods, while consistently capturing Axl Rose's inner sex symbol. Unlike DJ Joseph, Robert was part of G N' R's inner circle. He lived close by the studio and often pitched ideas for new photo shoots or just hung around with his buddies. He was a great resource and, like the band, just waiting to be discovered by the world.

Even though G N' R could pack the Troub, they accepted an opening slot for Kix on their Midnite Dynamite tour. With the "Cold Shower" video in near heavy rotation on MTV, it was smart strategy to branch out and get exposed to fans of a national touring act. Kix was a great band, and I was eager to see them. Right from the start, Brian Damage, the cool, grooving shredder, impressed everyone with his warm-smoky-noble guitar tone, setting the mood for Chris Whiteman, a powerful vocalist and entertaining frontman. Along with the rest of the band, they rocked a stellar show to a packed house. But the way-too-cool-for-Hollywood crowd, standing around motionless despite an outstanding high-energy performance, prompted Whiteman to sarcastically tell the audience, "Ya'll need to get your thumbs outta your asses and start clapping."

Even though I was in no way working with the band in a professional capacity, I still loaned them gear or helped out upon request. At times, I'd drive Axl around to run errands, and then get him to shows "on time." As we flew from place to place jamming tunes and running errands, Axl seemed to enjoy the combination of a thrilling chariot experience and my conscious effort to not create any unneeded stress while he got into character for the night's performance. If his band was due on stage in five minutes and he told me, "I need to go to my box to get some mail," I would speed off in the direction of the mail place. Not my show.

I don't know if it was part of a brilliant strategy, but Axl often arrived at the club far past his band's scheduled start, mere minutes before the following band's scheduled timeslot. Guns N' Roses would then only have the okay to play for ten minutes, so they'd rip through three or four "we're all super pissed off," powerful, in-your-face tunes to whip the amassed crowd into a frenzy. Then it was over. The fans needed more, much more. And they would get it if they went to the next show. What's more important, showing up on time or being in the proper state of mind that allows for the best possible performance? Don't think too long, just skip ahead for the answer.

Sometimes, after an above-average, beyond-exceptional show, Axl would storm off stage super pissed, apparently believing G N' R's performance had been sub-standard. After a show like that, I'd try convincing him how excellent the rock 'n' roll was on that particular late evening. But he'd never buy what I was selling. He must've thought I was lying just to calm him down. I told the truth. But in those extremely rare instances – three times tops – when G N' R whipped up a shit storm and sounded like a thousand Soviet-era car horns being smashed by a million jack-hammers on stage, I'd disappear instead of offering an answer to the inevitable "How was it?"

The band was knocking out great tunes so regularly that when inspiration hit, location didn't matter. G N' R did a gig at the Music Machine in West L.A., alongside local cow-punk favorites, Tex and the Horseheads. While Tex's band sound-checked, Axl, Joe, and I headed out to the back alley to do some drinking exercises. The guys had recently gotten into cheap wine, Night Train Express, and when Joe returned from a nearby liquor store with two bottles of that crap, Axl cracked open a bottle, took a big swig, smiled like a spectacular sunset over the glimmering ocean, and said, "This stuff is the best. We should do a song about it."

He whipped out his harmonica and tooted, "dant da na-na dant-dah," then proceeded to scribble into his notebook at warp speed. A few minutes later, he sang us his latest musing. I really thought he was kidding around, but no one should ever underestimate the power of cheap wine consumed in an alley. Within the hour, Guns N' Roses was working the song out during their sound check. "Night Train" made it into the set that very evening, and for a period of time seemed to be their unofficial theme song.

As 1985 neared its end, artist managers were in a constant swarm around the Gardner Studios, all seeking to ink G N' R to a management deal. They would schmooze, bring booze and grub, then pitch the band as to why they should sign with a particular company. Vicky Hamilton was one of many who wanted those guys bad. She promised to land them a record deal, all the while offering to promote G N' R shows with good guaranteed paydays, plus pay for full-page ads, posters, and flyers. The guys were into making more than twice as much as they had for playing the same local clubs, without the expense of promotional costs. When she left after making her pitch, I told them about how ironic it was that six months earlier, Vicky had laughed like it was a big fucking joke when I suggested she manage them, and there she was, almost begging.

The entertainment industry is notorious for shutting down for the holidays, and from Thanksgiving to January, nothing at all can get done. With Christmas coming up, the guys held a band meeting to decide on which manager to hire, so that everything would be in place once business got cranked back up in the coming year. Me, Joe, and Robert John crammed into studio B as the band discussed amongst themselves various pros and cons of each managerial candidate. When someone asked me who I liked, I said, "If you sign with a manager, you'll owe them part of your entire record deal."

Izzy perked up. "Say that again, Raz."

I said, "If you guys sign with a manager and get a record deal the very next day, you'll owe that manager their percentage of the entire deal, even if you fire them before the ink dries on your recording contract." I added, "If all these vultures are circling, it means that everyone knows you're going to get a deal soon, with or without their help."

The guys chewed on that info for a few minutes and ultimately decided their interests would be better served if they sought legal advice before signing any contracts.

17

Guns N' Roses pulled a capacity crowd into the Troubadour on the first Saturday night of 1986. Along with a first-ever opportunity for fans to purchase Guns N' Roses T-shirts, club goers also heard and felt the "My Michelle" debut. For months, Axl had wanted to use a particular segment from Scarface's score for the band's intro music, but he insisted it be high fidelity. The week before this show, he finally managed to get a Beta copy of Scarface and a hi-fi Betamax player at the same time, which he brought to my house so we could dub a cassette. Right before their set, when the Troubadour's soundman pushed play, that piece of music set an eerily perfect mood of tension and foreboding excitement. Well done, Mr. Axl Rose.

The New Year also brought our city a new "Pure Rock" radio station, 105.5 KNAC. The broadcast signal beamed out from Long Beach – over a hill and far away – so it was hard to lock it in out in the San Fernando Valley. Fortunately, the rest of Los Angeles, and large swaths of Orange County, got their metal loud and clear from the station. Not long after KNAC went live, they began playing the demo's version of "Welcome to the Jungle." The airplay positively affected their draw, and within a few months, G N' R packed two shows on a single night at The Roxy, and a week later turned people away from the Whiskey.

The number of contacts on G N' R's mailing list had blown up. With only snail mail back then, and stamps costing twenty-two cents each, it became cheaper, easier, and far more personal to send fans a newsletter with several shows listed. Some words to live by, written across the bottom of one newsletter, have stuck in my head all these years: "Take care, and steal beer!"

In mid-January, Vicky Hamilton promoted her first G N' R show. I was able to get L.A. Guns onto the Roxy Theatre bill that also included Plain Jane, featuring a pre-Warrant Jani Lane. I didn't realize it at the time, but Jani and I shared a birthday, and he didn't realize that he would be dying on the thirty-first anniversary of me breaking my fucking neck. The show was well promoted, with ads and cool pro-style posters plastered throughout Hollywood. Word had it several A & R reps would attend, so G N' R decided to play earlier than scheduled. It was their show, and so at sound check, when they told L.A. Guns to swap time slots, that's what happened. I had never seen G N' R play longer than forty minutes-ish, but the band rocked on for almost two hours, kicking ass and leaving the audience sweaty, drained, and semi-satiated.

L.A. Guns hit the stage in front of a hundred less people than the show's peak audience. Going on hours later than planned, while drinking the whole time, and then playing to a crowd who had spent their energy on the previous act meant L.A. Guns' set was laid-back, to say it nicely. But it soon devolved into downright goofy. On a recent Tijuana trip, Nickey returned with a whip and had taken to cracking it at random objects in a show of skill. Halfway through their set, Paul called upon an audience volunteer to participate in a "magic trick." Nickey then instructed the selected girl to hold out a lighted cigarette so he could whip it from her hand. And she screamed like a Banshee when the whip's popper struck the back of her hand with a crisp snap. That shit still cracks me up, and none of us could ever figure out why that pretty lil' blond with a spectacular bubble butt actually let it whip.

After the Roxy show, at least three hundred people partied down at the Gardner studios. From that night forward, the place saw an increasing level of party-fueled debauchery. No show required, another weekend meant another party. All one need do was go see some bands, or drop by the Rainbow and tell folks, "Party at the studio later." Dudes and dirty-dancing damsels would then come a-running for some drinking and drugging, before stumbling home sometime around sunrise on Sunset.

Before the studio's parking lot became a regular party scene, the nearby Denny's was completely dead in the middle of the night, with hardly a wait for our three a.m. low-budget biscuits and gravy fill-up. Those late-night, drunken crowds being drawn to the neighborhood eventually piled into that joint to make it a scene of their own. Thus, "Rock 'n' Roll Denny's" was born, with its long waits for crappy service.

"This man, El Guapo, he's not just famous, he's IN-famous." With the intrigue, excitement and sense of danger-mystery-fun engulfing the band, Guns N' Roses also achieved a measure of infamy amongst the areas LAPD officers and County Sheriff's Deputies. More than one rocker friend reported that, in their interaction with local law enforcement, an officer had asked what band they were in. Having a memorable name can cut both ways. Cops apparently heard Guns N' Roses were trouble, and wondered if they had one in their grasps. After three months at Gardner Studio, the place was getting hotter than a super model singing torch songs in a kiln. With rent due, a growing number of the humped-dumped begging for more, plus a few too many psycho stalkers, the time felt right to get the fuck out of studio B. The guys scattered about Hollywood, or, as a last resort, hid away at Vicky's apartment.

A week after they fled Sunset and Gardner, on my twenty-first birthday, G N' R played at the Timbers in Glendora. The club was nice enough to card me for the first time in years. As I thanked security for carding me, I saw Vicky Hamilton working the guest list and tabulating the head count to keep the club honest at pay time. As we chatted, I was very curious about her role and asked, "Are you managing G N' R now?"

She smiled, like one aware that her answer would get back to the guys, and said, "No, I'm still trying to convince them that they need me."

At the time, the way I understood their arrangement was that Vicky was only promoting shows and handling phone calls; so the band had a professional contact. A month and a half later, Guns N' Roses signed with Geffen Records – I believe – without ever officially hiring Vicky as their manager. I don't know if I can legally express my opinion that "Vicky is a liar." So I won't go there.

By the spring of 85, L.A. Guns were also drawing exceptional crowds. The word of mouth and great reviews of awesome performances, as well as the band members' reputations and connections, saw them opening several shows for Johnny Thunders and Lords of the New Church, plus they headlined the Whisky a Go Go and sold that bitch out. Even though the band was only together for six months, some in the group wondered why they had yet to receive even a single offer from a major label. After experiencing the higher-level excitement from watching Slash's incendiary shredding and passionate performances, Mick Cripps became convinced that L.A. Guns needed a "rock star" guitarist in the band. Even Robert Stoddard agreed the live show could use a boost of pizzazz.

I also thought a cool second guitarist would be a good addition, if they found the right guy. There were so many around town to choose from, but Mick's narrow focus was Tracii Guns. It was a beyond-terrible idea, so I remained adamant against letting Tracii back into the band. So after a few weeks of Tracii bending Mick's ear at Let It Rock and Mick continually sending feelers about the possibility, in hopes of settling the matter once and for all, I called a band meeting.

When Robert, Paul, Mick, Nickey, co-manager Alan Jones, and I huddled up at Mick's apartment, unbelievably, it was not all of us against Mick. After much deliberation, we ended up with a split vote. I restated my case several times, pointing out how Tracii trashed everyone, flaked before even playing a show, and actually abandoned two different versions of L.A. Guns. leaving everyone high and dry, with me broke. When Mick promised they would keep him in line, I said, "His name is Tracii Guns. If he's in the band, it automatically becomes his band. Then he'll kick you all out one by one."

Mick sought some wiggle room, allowing Tracii to play a song during the band's encore, "just so we can see the crowd's reaction." I held my position, and departed Mick's apartment believing everyone was in agreement that we would kill Tracii Guns and feed him to a pack of rabid jackals. Actually, when I left, it was a settled deal that Tracii was not welcome back in L.A. Guns. So imagine my surprise when a few nights later, during their encore, they called Tracii on stage as a "special guest." When L.A. Guns launched into "Adam's Apple," I exited the Troubadour showroom in disgust and disbelief.

The next day, I called Alan Jones to let him know of my retirement from the artist management game, telling him that LA-Goons were all his to have and to hold. My first impulse was to sign over the name L.A. Guns to Paul, Robert, and Nickey so they could wield some power over Tracii once he began fucking everything up. Thankfully, I held onto my ownership until right around the time their first shitty record hit the racks, when I sold them their name back. I firmly believe that I interrupted Tracii's future of playing in a first-rate Zeppelin or Crüe Las Vegas cover band. My tying him together with Axl Rose, through the associated act's credibility, put him far above his deserved spot in the music world. On the other hand, I have absolutely zero doubt, even if I was never born, or ever rolled wheel into a Hollywood club, Guns N' Roses would still be around with 99.9 percent of their current backstory.

The same week Tracii rejoined L.A. Guns, G N' R played a show at Fenders Ballroom. The next morning, Joe reported rumblings of the band apparently all set to sign a record deal within days. Joe and Dinah were staying at my house, and for almost a week, we didn't hear from any of the guys, all the while awaiting the good news. From the day they formed in my living room to the signing of a massive deal with a major label took a year, give or take a week. As soon as G N' R signed on the dotted line, one of their first acts was to fire Joe. Even though he stressed me out so much that I couldn't stand working with him, I was extremely pissed. But almost every band that gets signed immediately fires their crew. To be honest, I always expected it to play out the way it did.

The following weekend, I ran into Duff at the Troub, and he excitedly said, "Razzzzz! Let me buy you a beer."

I declined free beer, while angrily telling him, "You guys work Joe's ass off for a year, then fire him the minute you get signed."

Duff appeared genuinely surprised, and sounded kind of bummed as he asked, "They fired Joe Joe?"

A half hour later, I saw Duff and Joe in the front bar enjoying cocktails while chumming it up like old pals. I felt like an idiot. If Joe would have said the word, I would have never spoken to them again or gone to another show. Thankfully he didn't, or I would have missed out on Guns N' Roses' rocket ship to the big-time.

I ran into Axl the next night and didn't even bring up Joe's dismissal. You all know what it's like when something needing to be said isn't even mentioned? So there it hung in the air, almost stifling in its own absence. After me offering congratulations and getting brought up to speed on business dealings, Axl said, "About Joe Joe."

During the brief pause, while he considered his next words, I shrugged and said, "If he don't care, I don't care."

Axl then told me, "I'm going to make it up to him."

And I believe if you asked Joe, it's likely he'd say that over the next several years, Axl and the guys hooked him up real good. After splitting up their signing bonus, the formerly starving artists went on a spending spree. As part of making sure the money would not burn a hole in his pocket, when Axl got his "Victory or Death" tattoo, he also bought one for Joe.

The couch tours were forever over, so we went with Axl to see the band's new luxury apartment. Those sweet digs sat right on the corner of La Cienega and Fountain. It was a huge but sparsely furnished place, plus a couple of practice amps way off in the corner where Slash and Izzy remained in a world of their own, bouncing riffs off one another while barely acknowledging our arrival. After a quick tour, we camped out in Axl's four-hundred-square-foot bathroom to slam a few shots. He was quite proud of the space, and we joked about how we never would have argued if my house had that bathroom.

Axl became preoccupied when a smoking-hot Brazilian chick showed up, so we split. As we drove away, I said, "Looks like Slash picked up Izzy's model train hobby." Joe got very angry with me, telling me I was an asshole for talking shit. He swore Slash hated Lionel trains.

Right after G N' R moved out of studio B, Ole Beich's new band, Forgotten Child, moved into the room. The always-ready-to-make-it-go, party-loving guys of The Wild had not let the late-night celebrations fade away into the rose-colored past. So as usual, just after two, a few dozen folks showed up in search of the latest party. As they milled about, a couple of the dudes from Forgotten Child returned from their quarter-to-two beer run, clutching a twelve-pack they had no desire to share. Next thing I knew, people began outbidding each other for a beer. Five bucks was the sweet spot, and the owners of the twelve-pack realized a hefty profit by parting with six beers.

The entrepreneurial light bulb went on for me. The next weekend, I bought ten cases of beer, loaded the trunk of my 65 Mustang with ice and beer, and before my night's club hop, I parked it a few doors down from The Wild's studio. I also made flyers to hand out at the Troub and Rainbow. My after-hours club promotion got off to a shaky start, when shortly after midnight, a torrential downpour began and then lasted through Sunday afternoon. By the next weekend, more than half the beer was gone. After all of the hassle and investment, I barely broke even and decided to end my foray into the black-market booze biz.

Fast forward to the spring, Guns N' Roses had a record deal, but still played about a gig a month, with their after-parties at The Wild's studio. Their draw and reputation of an anything-goes group of loveable degenerates had only grown. Plus, with The Wild never turning away a party, it seemed like there was a crowd back there most weekends. At the same time, I was tired of Joe living at my house, so I suggested he do an after-hours beer business to make money for an apartment. The plan all came together once Joe and I came up with a bit of a scam, which eventually produced almost a thousand cases of free Budweiser. Free beer made selling them for two bucks a can all profit. The Troubadour's doormen, Mike and Rickie, watched Joe's back as he slung beer from the trunk of my Mustang. If shit went down – like cops or assholes with thieving on their minds – Joe slammed the trunk shut and blended in with the crowd.

At three in the morning, two bucks a beer is a spectacular bargain, so that shit got super humongous and then lasted for months. Every couple of weeks, we'd pester The Wild into playing a quick set. But hands down, the best show at "Joe Joe's Gardner After-Hours Club" was when semi-regular guest David Lee Roth sat on the hood of my Mustang, playing acoustic guitar while belting out a few tunes. It was pretty awesome seeing the world's biggest rock star perform "Ice Cream Man" from three feet away. That summer, Roth released his excellent solo debut Eat 'Em and Smile, and Dinah threw a BBQ at her family home so we could watch our buddy, who wouldn't recognize us on the street, premiere his album on MTV.

Even though Joe raked in several hundred bucks every weekend, he never managed to save enough money to rent an apartment. I finally got fed up having a house that no one but me paid for, so I began searching for an apartment of my own. Luckily, Joe had a very cool 1968 Plymouth Fury III convertible – that I had given him to job search – and sold it for enough money to get a place of his own. Had I've known that was what he'd do with it, I would have sold it myself, and then used the money to hire some goons to break his legs. I got over it pretty quickly, after he moved the fuck out of my house. Joe still had more than sixty cases of Budweiser remaining, so for a time, his new place had a couch made from stacked beer cases. With West Arkeen, as well as recent New York transplants Del James and Red Ed, living in the same building, Joe was soon forced to get a real couch. And clean his bathroom.

While many friends were digging new acts like Cinderella, Poison, Tesla, and Black 'N Blue, I wasn't feeling it. I remained mostly into older stuff, country-fried rock and manlier metal. So when a buddy invited along me to see The Cult at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium, in support of their Love album, I said, "I'm tired of seeing shitty, over-hyped Limey bands." Months later, upon seeing the band play on Saturday Night Live, I realized my mistake. From the first wobbly psychedelic chord, I loved Love and went on a mission to get as many of my friends into The Cult as possible. So when I ran into Axl in the Rainbow's parking lot, I was able to give him a dubbed Cult Love cassette, while guaranteeing it very cool. I even sang a few lines to prove my point. Next time our paths crossed, Axl told me he had listened to Love almost nonstop for a week. Do yourselves a favor and get Love. While you're at it, pick up Georgia Satellites. You're welcome!

At times, I get an urge to make mention of every early G N' R show, but all that historical stuff is well documented, mostly accurate, and redundancy bores the shit out of me. But a show a few months after they signed to Geffen, at Gazzarri's under the name Fargin Bastiges, is notable for a few tidbits. As I recall, some label honcho was afraid the band would lose their buzz about town and advised them to refrain from playing clubs until finishing an album. I believe that's why G N' R did the show under the pseudonym inspired by Johnny Dangerously. The show's rendition of "Move to the City" marked the debut of the "Suicide Horns": Duff's brother, Matt, along with Leif Cole and no fucking idea who the other horn blowers were. For a moment in time, Kiss frontman Paul Stanley appeared eager to work with Guns N' Roses, so they road-tested him by having Mr. Stanley do the Gazzarri's sound mix. And it was awful. Not one of my favorite shows. But from the feedback I heard, the powers that be at the label loved it.

Even though my music biz days were in the past, it didn't stop me from getting into all the huge shows around town. Plus, those after-hours parties my brother ran also kept me in the loop. So I thought it was awesome when I wrangled my way onto the guest list for Mötley Crüe at The Roxy. Instead, it made me realize how much I hated crowds. They hadn't gotten as huge as they were to get, but Crüe were definitely an arena headliner. Meaning, The Roxy packed in twice as many people as could comfortably fit. After getting stepped on far too many times, all the while sitting eyeball to leather-clad man-ass for an hour longer than I should have, I took my broken footrest and got the fuck out of that "for two bucks a head, the fire marshal will look the other way" sweatbox. If I listed for ya'll the star-studded shows I declined in later years, due to expected crowd density, you'd think me not much of a live music fan. Might be accurate?

Most bands' goal was merely getting a record deal, but scores who rang that bell had no clue how to take the next step. Many first-time contracted bands tended to just take others' word – record execs, managers, producers, and so on – about what they needed to do next. There were plenty of bands who scored a major-label deal, listened to powers that be, hurried a product to market, and then nothing really ever came of them after being branded as failures.

For several months after G N' R signed their contract, whenever I ran into one of them, I'd ask how their album was coming along. The answer was never definitive. I probably wasn't the only one beginning to wonder if they might not actually get 'er done. But hindsight is a twenty-twenty motherfucker, and it's now obvious there was some methodical madness going on. G N' R were aware enough to see the massive festering piles of failure littering their industry's landscape, and apparently realized the getting signed was the relatively easy part, akin to the long hike to the base of a mountain. So they followed their instincts and made their own plan for scaling Everest. If they were to crash and burn, it would not be due to seeking counsel from idiots or compromising principals.

By December 1986, G N' R had product: Live Like a Suicide. I remember when Axl first told me about how they made the obviously fake audience noise intentionally cheesy. I don't think I'm giving away any secrets, but I have seen it referred to as a "live record." Live, dead, it matters not, because they threw a record-release party and played an acoustic set at The Cathouse Club, along with Faster Pussycat and the shitty L.A. Guns. Even though I arrived early, there weren't any more EPs to be had, but people were walking around with them. So I kept my eyes peeled for an unattended disc. After the guys played, I saw an EP leaning against the stool Duff had sat upon while performing. Score! Later, I heard him telling a fan who was requesting an EP, "I don't even have one. Someone took it." I still got it, Duff. If you want it back, just say the word and it's yours.

18

By the start of 87, The Wild were also long gone from their Gardner Street studio. All the cool 24/7 parties moved to Orange Street, right around the corner from the iconic Chinese Theater. A recent building boom had produced several mostly-wheelchair-accessible, poorly built, half-occupied, future-overpriced-slum apartment complexes on the block. There they waited for rockers, strippers, and drug slingers to rent them. Ole and his generous girlfriend lived in a sparsely furnished place – futon, tables, record player, guitars, and bedroom set – serving as my rock 'n' roll home base and pre-buzz central.

There were scores of other neighbors from Hell on that block who took turns hosting parties for several night-day-nights. One night, I ran into Steven Adler at someone's party and invited him over to Ole's pad for a smoke-out. When I asked how his album was coming along, he left me with an impression he believed they might not ever get a record done. He told of his drum tracks long since completed, and with the advance money long gone, he was broke. Steven complained, "I should have bought a van with my advance money," adding something or another about a place to sleep and the ability to haul his drums around.

None of that shit mattered to me, because I got slap-happy when The Cult put out their new, beyond-kick-ass record. Rick Rubin can do no wrong, and it seemed like honest-to-goodness heavy rock 'n' roll came a-rumbling back with Electric. Ole's drummer, Mickey, and me saw The Cult open for Billy Idol at the Fabulous Forum. During the show, we became possessed, and then went on to speak in tongues for months – "Ya-yeah!"

I went to lots of great concerts that summer. One of the more memorable gigs was Whitesnake and Deep Purple at Irvine Meadows. On our drive home from a spectacular show, we made a pit-stop at Jack in the Box. As we groggily grubbed, I heard alarmed shouts from the backseat. Looking back, I saw an almost-chest-high flame shoot up through my buddy's crotch. As everyone bailed out, I yelled, "Get my chair from the trunk, fuckers." Lesson: Don't buy a car with the battery located under the back seat.

By the end of spring, G N' R members were a rare sight around Hollywood. I'd still talk to Axl on the phone every few weeks. He actually checked in a few days after the single "It's So Easy, Mr. Brownstone" was released. But I hadn't heard it yet, so couldn't offer an opinion. Axl promised he'd get me an album as soon as they were available. Within a week of that call, Guns N' Roses was featured on a couple of major rock magazine covers. I was quite stoked to see the promo machine crank up for my buddy's band.

Then, the week before Appetite for Destruction got released, Axl gave me an LP with the awesome, frowned-upon-by-the-PMRC Robert Williams cover. It was a hot day, so several neighbors and I were out by the pool sipping moonshine and Coke when Joe showed up with the record. He proceeded to drag my speakers outside, then plopped the disc on the turntable and cranked that shit to an appropriate volume. My seventy-year-old property manager understood an entirely different definition of appropriate, so we hauled those speakers back inside to finish our white-lightning LP-listening.

I must have played the fucker five times in a row, while making cassettes for friends, each time getting blown away discovering new things going on in the mix. The entire time, I remained awed by the tunes' evolution since the last time I heard them played live. Duff's smooth-pounding pace, married with Steven's solid raw drumming, surprised me with how much complexity fit into the straightforward driving, slamming of G N' R's thumping metal heart. I'm a big fan of Axl's Marlboro-and-bourbon-cured vocal-cord shredding style, but until that day was unaware of how brilliant his lower register sounded. Then there was Slash's amazing performance. I always knew he was great, but in the year-plus since the band was signed, his skills improved ten-fold to put him near top of the all-time heap. I did wish Izzy's parts were a little more prominent in the mix, but my only real complaint was "Why isn't 'Don't Cry' on there?"

Joe told me the label wanted a guaranteed radio-friendly power ballad for the next record, and "Sweet Child" was a better song. I thought it was a mistake, and said, "What do those fools know?" Well, obviously more than me.

Guns N' Roses threw a record release party at the Coconut Teaser. A few days before the event, we received some very sad news. A close friend, Todd Crew, who everyone loved, had passed away. What should have been a celebration turned somber when the party became a tribute performance for Todd's random act of mortality. G N' R added the heartfelt "Knocking on Heaven's Door" to their repertoire, delivered with such a staggering depth of raw passion that whenever I play it back in my mind's ear, it still elicits chills. The sheer emotion brought about by love for a fallen comrade produced one of the greatest Guns N' Roses shows ever witnessed. To me, the most astounding thing about their performance, with the Teaser's challenging acoustics and crappy PA, was that it was near impossible to sound good at that place.

Finally, during the third week of July, 1987, Appetite for Destruction was unleashed on the rock world like a rabid mutt cuckoo for Cujo-puffs. The sea change was not immediately clear to the old guard. A stuck-in-the-past L.A. Times music critic lumped G N' R together with Faster Pussycat into a combined review. Then, after trashing Faster Pussycat, the writer basically said G N' R wasn't as bad. I believe the reviewer's statement was, "Less flash, more panache." I almost wrote a letter to that Times jackass, to hip him to what an idiot he was. But that's not unusual. I've almost written hundreds of letters. Hell, it took me thirty years to write this shit. But if I would have written a cheesy review back in the day, it might have gone something like this:

And a one, and a two... It is universally accepted the rose represents true beauty, and to a patriot the individual liberty guaranteed by a gun is stunningly lovely in its own right. While the current crop of hard-rock bands sing of lipstick, liquor, and lap-dancing lovers, this Guns N' Roses lyrical portrait, Appetite for Destruction, is an all-American tale of lust-dreams, love-struggles, pain, conquest, and the ultimate triumph of resolve. A collection of fiercely elegant songs about how it is, not tunes of what should be. Appetite's overarching attitude offers a tantalizing cinematic glimpse from deep within the outsider, delivering a supersonic, hammering celebration from capitalisms' jack-bootstraps straight to the teeth of lesser-metal men who must then run to hide their unworthiness.

But I didn't write a cheesy review. Well, not until the paragraph right above this one. Though I likely realized most of that fluff back in the day, for sure there's some viewing through Guns N' Rose-colored hindsight glasses. Speaking of hindsight, there is a case to be made of AFD being the last great rock vinyl LP record. You see, at the time of its release, compact discs had not yet fully dominated the market. We also had cassette tapes, thus splitting format choices into three. But the 33 & 1/3 rpm long-playing vinyl record remained the nostalgic king of the heap. So artists entered the recording studio focused on producing an LP record, with its total time length limited by physical grooves. Therefore, unless it was a double album, at the absolute maximum fifty-ish minutes' worth of music was all a fan got. Bands were forced to self-edit their weaker material to fit those constraints. Unless their music was so outstanding it became impossible to decide what to dump, music lovers got truly great products such as Exile on Main St. and Goodbye Yellow Dicked Toad.

With an album in stores and a chip on their shoulders, the So-Cal menaces hit the road to terrorize stages across the globe. Almost overnight, Izzy, Axl, Slash, Duff, and Steven became every hungry stripper's pride and joy, and never was it more important for governors, mayors, and police chiefs to lock up their daughters. When I first heard they were going on the road with The Cult, I was ecstatic. Two of my favorite bands would be touring together, plus I'd be at that motherfucking show partying like a rock star's younger dumber brother. A few days before those acts were set to ignite the Long Beach Arena, Ole and me took a road trip to Sacramento to grab Mickey so he could see his new favorite band, and favorite new band.

Before hitting the highway, we made a quick stop to grab a case of Budweiser. Immediately after Ole slammed his door shut, he popped open a Bud and passed it to me. On a hundred-degree day, cold beer was never refused. But I've only got one good hand, so I clawed the wheel with my off hand, slammed down an ice-cold brew, then handed Ole my empty before we even made the top of the on-ramp across from 7-11. That's musician talk for pass me another. And though I'm not a musician, I do play one at AA. So I consumed eight beers in the same manner. After number eight, I held onto my empty so as not to be required to drink another.

I hated getting slowed down by the Grapevine's ultra-steep grade, so my approach usually included a 90 MPH running start. Next thing I knew, it was foot-to-floor climbing the treacherous slope, weaving in and out of traffic, passing cars like they were standing still as three hundred watts of G N' R blasted from my Chevelle's speakers. On the other side of the mountain, my Chevy gave out just south of Wasco. By the time we got it all sorted out, it was past midnight. All I wanted was to go home and sleep it off. And Mickey was shit out of luck.

About an hour before the Long Beach Arena show, I ran into Izzy in the pisser backstage and told him of me and Ole's adventure. I mentioned jokingly his band bore some responsibility – seeing as I was listening to AFD at the time – and inquired about reimbursement for the tow.

Izzy laughed and told me, "Were not responsible for blown engines, or ear drums."

I followed him back to where the free beer lived its brief existence, and hung backstage until showtime. When they were ready to rock, I rolled alongside the guys toward the stage until stairs requiring climbing skills halted my advance. There I was, at the very venue where I experienced some of the best rock shows of my life, waiting for my friends' band to kick it into high gear. I sat stage left and watched with much anticipation as Steven positioned his kit and the guys received their guitars from techs. In the blink of an eye, the boys went to work.

About two thirds into Guns N' Roses' set, the free Heinekens caught up with me. I stashed my current Heineken on top of a stack of Peavey power amps and headed for the pisser. Just as I exited the restroom, the music stopped on a dime. Except for the murmuring crowd, the house was silent. I hurried back to the stage and almost bashed into an ultra-pissed Axl as he hit the bottom step. After he stormed past me, the rest of the guys were not far behind. I asked someone, "What happened?" Apparently the PA had quit. Later, I heard someone from the crew guessing that a jealous Cult had ordered the sound guy to shut G N' R down.

Remember that Heineken I set on those power amps? Don't ever do that shit, because it might get knocked over. If beer spills into a power amplifier, not only must you procure more beer, a protect circuit will shut it down. From the stage monitor's failure onward, it was all a chain reaction toward a total PA failure. I almost fessed up later during a little after-show get-together inside an Embassy Suites room, but didn't want the party supplies cut off. Besides, G N' R were almost finished with their kick-ass set before... Oops! For those of you who attended the show, no worries. I managed to find another beer.

As G N' R's success grew, Ole became more and more downbeat. Up until that point in time, he never said a word to me about departing the band. But on the ride home from Long Beach, he was totally bummed when asking, "Why am I not in that band? I should be getting my dick sucked in twenty different languages right now."

I told him, "Dude, you made a decision you thought best at the time. It is what it is."

He strongly disagreed that he decided anything. Although tired of Tracii's shit, he wanted Axl as his singer enough to put up with him. Ole had no idea his tenure was even slightly in jeopardy. Then, within days of getting booted from G N' R, Ole went to Wilpower Studios to grab his gear and ran into Slash, who at the time played in Black Sheep. Soon, he, Slash, and Steven were jamming together semi-regularly. Right up until those two joined G N' R. So in Ole's mind, he had actually lost out twice.

Within a year of our ride home from the Cult show, G N' R was the biggest band in the world, and not too long after that, some piece of shit stole Ole's beloved Music Man bass. It was the absolute last straw for his mental state, and he returned to Denmark suffering from a deep depression. Through the miracles of ancient brew science and classic movie endings, Ole managed to fully cure his sadness with some late-night swim therapy.

Once the Cult tour was complete, the boy's hit Europe for a few headlining weeks. Then they swooped into New York City to tear up the MTV "Headbanger's Ball" set, right after some clueless doofus interviewer asked a bunch of lame questions. It was ultra-cheesy but funny and awesome seeing them on MTV. Soon after their MTV appearance, G N' R hit the road opening up for Mötley Crüe on a leg of their Girls, Girls, Girls tour.

The next time I heard from Axl was when he called and said, "If you don't come to my show, I'm going to put a stick in your spokes." The show(s) were at Perkin's Palace in Pasadena, about a week before an eventful year's end. Steven's arm in a cast meant Fred Curry of Cinderella sat in on drums. The band was still great, but lacked a bit of their incendiary magic. Backstage after the show, hometown hero David Lee Roth waited patiently in the hall until Axl was ready for company in his dressing room. Roth came in and congratulated Axl on a great show. Sitting there listening to them chat, I sensed the torch being passed.

When Axl couch-toured my house, or whenever we spoke, the discussion of lyrics was a frequent topic. At the time, a person couldn't just look shit up on the internet, mainly due to lack of computers and the World-Wide Spider barely beginning to spin its web. We were the last generation forced to figure out lyrics by crowd decipher. That's when a group of friends pieced together whatever they thought they heard in a song, and then it was gospel set in stone that Elton John longed for the safe embrace of Tony Danza.

Aerosmith lyrics were particularly difficult, owing to Steven Tyler's rapid flow of sweet nonsensical rhymes with blues-harp-riff pacing. Whenever we couldn't figure out what he be singing, we'd seek clarification from the Oracle of Aerosmith: Slash. Try as we might, none of us could ever figure out the high scream-wailing part in "Draw the Line," other than "Checkmate, don't be late..." So when label-mate Steven Tyler phoned Axl Rose to cuss him out for making such a great album, naturally Axl inquired about the lyrics to the high part of "Draw the Line." Tyler claimed to not recall the precise wording, due to improvisation and a tall glass of strong beer.

Backstage after one of those Perkin's Palace shows, Alice Cooper's manager played a cassette of Alice and Axl singing "Under my Wheels" live, which sounded brilliant. Then, Robert John took photos for Rip Magazine. The whole band posed for several shots before Robert informed them of Rip only wanting Axl and Slash for the cover. At first, there was a little push-back, but Steven eventually accepted the "two guys make a better composition for selling magazines" argument. Of all the magazines, Rip seemed to have the most integrity. But I soon became completely disillusioned by most rock magazines. I once believed stories about my favorite rock stars were the product of a journalist reporting things they actually witnessed, and contained quotes a reporter personally gathered during an interview. But I soon found out most articles merely rehashed, made-up, factually incorrect garbage pulled from other rag-azines or disgruntled cunts.

People around the Hollywood rock scene were aware I knew G N' R. I would get calls out of the blue from folks I hadn't seen or spoken to in months. They'd be like, "Hi, Raz. How have you been?" Then after an ever-so-brief amount of small talk, they'd ask, "Is it true that, Insert latest G N' R rumor?"

It got pretty pathetic. After the first few of those, I'd sense it coming and head those idiots off at the pass. It went like this: A minor acquaintance would ring me up and start into some bullshit chitchat, and I'd interject with something like, "Sorry, can't talk right now. The plane crash has me bummed out and I must go identify the charred remains," or, "I don't even think Duff likes eleven-year-old Asian boys dressed up as young Asian girls." It was fun fucking with people, but a new number was far easier.

19

After months of relentless touring, G N' R earned themselves a little time off. At the start of 1988, they returned to Hollywood as conquering heroes and were without a doubt the new band with the biggest buzz in the business. But in a flash, they were on the road again for most of February, headlining large theaters and earning far more money than opening for arena acts.

But in those days, a band's real goal was selling records, and so newer bands opened up for arena headliners. Sure, they got raped on cash, stage size, and PA usage, but they were exposed to maybe ten thousand people per show who otherwise might not have ever heard the band. To that end, in the spring, G N' R hit the road with Iron Maiden. I'm a huge Maiden fan, but they were old and tired by 1988, and I'd bet what remains of my left nut that Guns N' Roses blew Maiden off the stage four out of every five shows. The grueling pace caught up with Axl, and because of an injury to his vocal cords, he wisely shut it down before doing any further career-threatening damage. But there's an old saying about journalists: "They never report that a plane landed safely." The truth is, "If it bleeds, it leads," so those highly ethical rock "journalists" had a field day conjuring up several contradictory "real reasons" G N' R had departed the Iron Maiden tour early.

Each week, I'd free-read Billboard the moment it hit the newsstand, so I remained keenly aware of AFD's chart position. Over the course of a week or two, it slipped a few notches. I figured it had peaked and would creep its way back down the charts. Which led me to conclude that G N' R's support of their debut album was likely done. It just seemed the normal course of business for the guys to get back to writing tunes, then head into the motherfucking studio to record another motherfucking album and keep their motherfucking momentum mounting. That's how new bands did it; they opened for big acts, left a good impression, then hurried back into the studio to get a second record in stores before people forgot about them or the next big thing came along to squash yesterday's news. All the while getting schmoozed along the road by promoters who knew they needed to build a good relationship with the up-and-comers.

AFD's late-winter chart reversal was slight, and even shorter lived. Week after week, all through spring, it steadily climbed up the Billboard Charts. The release of their single "Sweet Child," days before their support of Iron Maiden abruptly ended, quickly accelerated that chart rise. For every schoolgirl, choirboy, outcast, reject, or delinquent, the siren's song of Appetite for Destruction was far too compelling to ignore. Until gangster rap arrived a few years later, G N' R was the only truly dangerous band accurately reporting from the streets. Grand Master Flash had told the world, "It's like a jungle," but G N' R rolled out the welcome mat. Unlike other bands posing as outlaws, Guns N' Roses were the real deal and proudly practiced without pretentious preaching. I do love me some alliterations.

One of the coolest things about gaining popularity and respect was the opportunity it provided to perform with one's heroes. Not long after Guns N' Roses inked the contract to join Aerosmith on tour, Axl called to let me know the long-hoped-for pairing would actually happen. Such a compelling bill was a dream tour for me, and most likely two or three other true rock fans. Sidetrack: I just thought of something. If I were Axl Rose, back in 83, I would have gone with "Compelling Bill" as my chosen stage name.

A few days later, I called W. Axl Rose – man, he's got the best initials, W.A.R. – to tell him I heard Deep Purple on "Rockline." During the interview, Purple mentioned a concert in New York, with Aerosmith and Guns N' Roses at Giants Stadium, sometime later that summer. I told Axl the only thing better would be having Ted Nugent's original band on the show. But more importantly, I hadn't caught the exact date. It was news to Axl, so he said he'd find out the details and let me know.

When I didn't hear back from Axl for a month, I figured he forgot and the show had passed. But within days of that thought, he rang me up. After chatting for a while, he told me that indeed they would play a show with Deep Purple at Giants Stadium a few weeks down the line. I told him I'd call him back after checking on hotels and flights, so he could put me on the guest list if need be. I hadn't realized he was calling me from Cincinnati. I was even more surprised when he gave me their travel agent's number so I could pick up my complimentary plane tickets. Five days, later Appetite for Destruction hit # 1 on the Billboard charts for the first time.

I was super stoked when I packed way too much shit for a three-day trip. Ma drove me to LAX and, as customary, we smoked pot along the way. She usually scored mediocre to low-grade Mexican, requiring hours of laborious deseeding just to cobble a joint's worth of headache, but that evening it was some bomb-shit. Me likey. So we burned a couple doobies along the way. There was only one problem – that dope got me way too fucking paranoid. Upon arrival to the terminal of impending doom, several emergency vehicles parked curbside with red lights flashing had me conjuring up worst-case scenarios. I mentally braced for the coming firestorm.

Rolling toward my gate, I couldn't have worried more. Even if I were about to hop the red eye aboard a solar-powered airplane overloaded with obese folks. But I'm a professional – worry and weed are kissin' cousins – so I motored ahead, confident my wholly justifiable paranoia would wear off shortly. Instead, it became five hours of terrifying terror while high in the sky. Seemingly every ten minutes, the plane's captain abruptly banked that fucking death-jet hard left. Which every damn time freaked me the fuck out, while I thought to myself "Oh fuck, this is it."

Because you're reading this, you might have figured out – and I'm happy to report – the plane landed safely in Newark, New Jersey. Just before seven in the morning, as we taxied to the terminal, our stunt-pilot came over the intercom and I heard the day's weather forecast for 85 degrees with 85 percent humidity. As soon as the muggy smacked me in the face while deplaning, I realized the pilot meant "right now." That shit just ain't right!

As mentioned above, I brought a stupid amount of luggage. It teetered high on my lap, requiring me to peek around it as I slow-rolled my way through the terminal in search of the rental car counter. I asked several passersby for directions, but was repeatedly ignored. After the fifth ignorant fuck gave me the brush off, I yelled, "Fuck you!"

He stopped abruptly, spun around to face me, and then very politely said, "Oh, I'm sorry. Did you need some help?"

I thought to myself, "Got to love New Jersey, fuck you is hello."

I headed out on the highway toward Teaneck and a room at the Lowes Glenpointe ready and waiting for me. The guys were still aboard a tour bus, with its busted air conditioner, motoring their sticky, sweaty way from Detroit. After a long nap, I drove my rental car to grab a bite and then took in the sites around Jersey, the whole time keeping my eyes peeled for a good place to catch some air in a car I'd never see again. After dinner, I checked my messages and found out the guys were in a downstairs conference room readying for a photo shoot. I hurried down, eager to find Steven because it'd been hours since I smoked pot.

Axl was there with road manager Doug, who eventually became their business manager. When we were introduced, he said to me, "Raz, good to finally meet you." He paused momentarily, seemingly pondering something, and then said, "You know who was asking about you the other day?" I perked up, feeling important about him knowing who I was, and that folks were talking about me. But he just chuckled and said, "No one." At some point during my trip, Doug pointed out something that ruined some of my most cherished private moments. He said, "You know what I hate most? Those phone sex ads in the back of Hustler – the little ones with thirty on the page – I hate that they always sneak in one or two gay phone sex ads."

I had never noticed that before. Now, I can't not notice.

The rest of the band began meandering into the conference room about a half an hour after I got there. I think their minds were blown, as was mine, upon hearing the photo shoot was for the "Cover of the Rolling Stone." The magazine was still relevant, and everyone was fully aware of how big a deal the cover was. Naturally, we were all thrilled, and goofed around while sporadically singing Dr. Hook. After me and Steven returned from upstairs, photographer Timothy White fine-tuned his lighting by having G N' R pose for a few Polaroid test shots. A little more than four years after seeing Izzy and Axl's band at Madame Wong's West, I sat in a conference room at the Lowes Glenpointe in Teaneck, New Jersey, sipping cocktails while my buddies posed for the cover of Rolling Stone.

After Timothy got his cover shot, he still needed a few more photos for the meat of the feature story. But the guys put him on hold so they could get something to eat. I hung around with Doug and some east-coast record-exec chick as Timothy tried selling his idea of taking some photos at a place he liked in Asbury Park, sixty-five miles away. The exec told him it was kind of far, but she'd see if Axl was willing. That's when Timothy said, "We'll just make Axl think it was his idea."

A short while later, when presented with the choice, we were all stunned when Axl instantly agreed to do it. He told me later it was a "damned if I do, damned if I don't" situation. Even by then, he had been smeared, exaggerated about, and painted in several unflattering lights by other music publications. Those factors combined with Axl's respect for the magazine's reach and credibility, as well as the honor of being featured on Rolling Stone's cover, had him agree to Timothy's suggested location without a second thought.

An hour or so later, we all piled into limo vans and high-tailed it along the Jersey Turnpike as the guys grumbled and bitched; something about giving Timothy "the corn." On the road with Aerosmith for a month, and after riding all day on a bus with no air conditioning, the following day's itinerary clearly promised a "Day Off." But NYC is the world's media hub, and their day off got filled with work as everyone tugged at them from all directions. Meaning they had to get up super early the next morning and head into NYC to shoot scenes for the "Paradise City" video, and then afterwards do countless interviews. Instead of chilling in the hotel bar after the cover shoot, and then resting up for an early morning, some punk motherfucker photographer took them on a trek to a faraway bar as a present for his friends to open.

The bar, Mrs. Jay's, sat right next door to the legendary Stone Pony club. Everyone was super cool to us, and without a doubt, a good time was had by all. The place was closed, but about fifty cool biker regulars remained within. Even though I repeatedly asked random strangers, "You got any hard drugs?" unfortunately no one had any blow to share. After all the travel, trouble, and Timothy touting the unique backgrounds that Mrs. Jay's provided, the Rolling Stone spread only used two close-up shots from the location: one of Axl, and another of Slash on a pool table. Who knew there were no pool tables in Teaneck, New Jersey?

It was four in the morning. We had just finished the photo shoot at Mrs. Jay's. There we were, sitting in a limo van out front, waiting to make sure we had everyone, when Axl saw a fresh young cutie in the gathered crowd, pointed her out, and said, "You think she's old enough?"

I said, "Probably."

Axl sent an assistant, Todd, to ask her if she wanted to ride back to the hotel and hang out. A half second after Todd got to talking with the babe, her face lit up brighter than a lighthouse getting hit with an H-bomb. And I read her lips – "Me?" – as she almost jumped out of her shoes and started toward the van. But the older woman at her side grabbed an arm, preventing launch. The cutie tugged and said, "But, Mom."

They argued back and forth, while Todd waited patiently with arms crossed. A few minutes later, he came to the window to report, "Her mom won't let her." I bet she's still pissed off at her mother.

The fame and millions I can live without, but I truly envy those guys' rock star problems of every schoolgirl and her twin being simultaneously sexually available. The girls they scored when playing Hollywood clubs were hot and tasty sluts, but the world-class whores ladies they frequently enjoyed since hitting the top of the charts were truly awe inspiring. Supermodels' cuter, younger sisters, and pampered daughters of the rich and powerful all clawed over one another just to be that special one in a million. When G N' R rocked the Hollywood clubs, at after-parties, chicks were fair game to all in attendance. If cards were played correctly – cocaine – most were readily available for fluid exchange. Unfortunately for me, hanging out backstage with mega rock stars, 99 percent of the talent was there for the band, or an occasional crewmember that might-could get sucked into introducing them to their favorite gun.

*

We didn't get back to the hotel until five in the morning, and even though I asked Steven to wake me before they went into NYC for the "Paradise City" video shoot, when he rang me up at whenever, it was way too fucking early and I slept in. Steven was returning to his room just as I headed out to explore a nearby mall and get some grub. We hung out for ten minutes in his room before he booted me to get some much-needed rest. Then I saw Duff, but he wasn't interested in exploring Jersey with me. In the elevator, I met an old dude who worked with Aerosmith, Tom. He rode along to the mall with me, and bought me lunch for the ride.

It was mid-afternoon when I got back. Axl was awake by then, and after he did a few phone interviews, we basically just hung out all day in his room with his brother, Stuart, who was taking a lifetime of semesters off from law school. Since injuring his voice earlier in the year, and his future's uncertainty while recuperating, Axl was all business. No "champagne and cocaine" rock star lifestyle, at least while I was around. Wahhhhhhh! Believe it or not, Aerosmith were a good influence on G N' R, who had agreed to substance-ly change their behavior when the Aero boys were present. Whatever the reason, Axl was attempting to live as healthy a lifestyle as the road would permit, all the while valiantly attempting to get adequate rest between performances.

It was cool to get caught up, talk music, and hear tales of rock 'n' road. A few years earlier, Axl had declined an offer to go see Queensrÿche with me. The band just wasn't his cup of tea. So that afternoon, when he recommended Operation Mindcrime, I knew it must be good. He also touted George Michael's Faith and insisted The Stones' It's Only Rock 'n Roll was mind-blowingly great on compact disc, as opposed to the LP I already owned. No matter what anyone ever says about Axl Rose, you can never take away his penchant for knowing what music lovers will like to hear. I still love and listen to all three of those albums quite often.

There was a lot going on in Axl Rose's life at the time. You might have heard, barely a week earlier, his band's record had climbed to number one on the Billboard charts. It was kind of a big deal. I wish I would have asked him, but I'd bet three bucks Axl called his mother to say, "Your son made it, Mama. He's a success."

I told him that when I first listened to AFD, I thought they "should have named it G N' R's Greatest Hits."

Axl gave me a sly grin and said, "We actually joked about that." He added, "Might have been more appropriate, huh?"

Axl expressed genuine surprise that an album with some twenty-seven "fucks" crammed tightly between its grooves could climb to number one. I think that was the fuck tally he got, but I'm not going to go count every fucking one. Some youngsters might not realize it, but in 1988, it was completely unheard of for a commercially successful record to overflow with fucking obscenities. Unlike nowadays, where more fucks can be found in some nursery rhymes. Probably because so many things rhyme with fuck, and I tend to write such dirty-kiddy limericks.

It's an absolute stone-cold-fact that I might be remembering this wrong, but originally, AFD was mastered as an LP, with the first CD mastering a mere afterthought. At some point, the record company agreed to re-master the CD. Axl had one of those newer, better-sounding CDs in his boombox. He reportedly listened to AFD almost daily and tripped out on "how great my band is." It was more than a passing comment, he actually went into great detail about his love and respect for his bandmates' talents and was amazed he actually sang for such a great group.

Axl almost hadn't hung around this planet long enough to witness his record top the charts. Not long before that muggy summer day in New Jersey, he had arrived in an emergency room on the verge of experiencing an untimely death by misadventure. As he lay atop the gurney, fearing the end was nigh while fighting loss of consciousness, he sang to himself, "Axl 'made a record, went straight up to' number four." He then thought, "Whoa... I can't die like this." So he gathered the will to fight on and finish what he'd begun. Plus, the E.R. folks probably gave him a shot of something to send him in a different direction, and he was not twenty-seven.

I told him, "You know how selfish that was? You just devalued all my memorabilia." I still think he owes me an apology for that shit.

Even though G N' R owned the number-one album in all the land, they remained cash poor. It took a lot of record company investment to get the band to that point. And even though G N' R were still technically in the red, the leech class knew that a quarterly pay period or two in the future, the guys would be ready for some financial bloodletting. I clearly remember Axl's lament: "You think that you had it rough when you got money; once you got a million, the professional vultures come out."

If music is the only freedom you've ever known, what happens when your freedom turns to gold? All of a sudden, every asshole and idiot was bringing lawsuits for even the most minor bullshit. Former "managers" claimed they were responsible for getting the guys their record deal, or a handful of cops will sue for the same incident while making an arrest – of you. The list went on. A person had two choices in those situations: proudly fight for what's right, or take the much cheaper option of a quickie negotiated settlement. A wise person will choose to rub their neck and write 'em a check so they go the fuck away. One then thinks twice before decking someone, because it'll cost twenty, thirty, or way more thousands of dollars to punch someone who righteously deserves some two-fisted feedback. As someone who lost the ability to bash idiots' teeth in years earlier, I understood all too well how sorely missed bloodying them there knuckles can be.

I have no idea how often Axl read reviews, or any of the things written about him. I imagine it could be infuriating at times. That kind of stress is not something I'd ever care to experience. There's also the relentless touring, where you're not permitted to have a bad night. If you do, you're just a fake or phony that relied on "studio tricks." One can be nice and appreciative to a hundred fans in a row encountered out in the world while traveling from point A to point B. Then, Mr. Hundred One gets pissed off because you really have somewhere else to be. So they tell everyone, including you, what an asshole you are.

A band goes into the studio to lay down parts over and over until it is close enough to the rock 'n' roll they heard in their head. And then, a very select few must back their shit up for decades. There's no doubt about it, G N' R was an incredible live band – most of the time. At their best, I doubt any gang of rock 'n' rollers could have blown them off the stage. In the real world, everyone has a bad night every now and then. But a year earlier, that one crappy show had at most only a few hundred witnesses. In the blink of an eye, the whole world watched.

I don't know how someone in that situation could get any sleep at all. But at nine in the morning, ten minutes after you've finally crashed out after trying to all night, asshole hotel maids ignore your "Do Not Disturb" sign and are then shocked by screamed obscenities and heavy objects hurling toward the door. Then you must pay someone to sit in a chair outside the room to shoo them away, simply because they're too fucking stupid to realize "Do Not Disturb" has no other definition.

After a day of catching up, I went to my room eager and excited for the next day's show. Sometime after two in the morning, I was awakened by a call from Axl, hitting me up for the sleeping aids I offered earlier. Once I'm asleep in bed, unless there's a fire, it's a slow process for me to get up and into my wheelchair. So even though the dude sported my trip, lazy me asked him to send someone down to the front desk for the key to my room.

Ten minutes later, I heard a key enter my door's lock, but I had engaged the security latch. So I yelled, "Here I come!"

About halfway to the door, I heard a bellowed "FUUUUUUUUCK!" followed by smashing glass, a slight delay, then a distant splash. Apparently, after Axl had returned to his room, someone hurled a table through the plate glass window to end up in a swimming pool twenty floors below.

Security arrived as I was surveying the damage. As a quadriplegic, I had a great fucking true-ish alibi. I had been in my buddies' room, and we ordered so much God damned Chinese food that we needed a table from my room to set it all out. Then afterward, someone left that same table by my door. "How was I to know that vandals would throw it through the window?"

*

By the time I awoke the next morning, there was a board on the window, and Todd was keeping watch by Axl's door. I gave a quick wave before entering Steven's room. We ordered room service breakfast and, before he kicked me out to spend time with his wife, we might have smoked an ever-so-small amount of high-grade marijuana. I saw Slash in the hall for the first time since the photo shoot. He was on his way to the bar, and I declined an invitation to join in on the daytime drinking. With hours till sound check, there was nothing to do. Thoroughly bored, I went and watched TV in my room till it was time to head to the stadium.

Duff rode along with me to the venue. In the elevator on the way down was the guy, Tom, who had tagged along with me to the mall the prior day. I offered him a ride to the stadium, but he already had a car coming. As we continued toward valet, Duff asked, "How do you know Tom?" I was kind of shocked when Duff pointed out that Tom Hamilton, bassist from one of my all-time favorite bands, bought me lunch the day before.

We got to Giants Stadium a few hours before sound check. I already had an all-access Guns N' Roses laminate pass that I made myself using the cover from an AFD cassette's artwork. But lots of people had realized that scam since I last went to a show, and so they designed new laminates consisting of Slash's Sharpie drawing of two retarded dogs fucking. Actually, I can't remember the image, because I never got one of those. Instead, I got one specific to that gig, with logos of Aerosmith, Deep Purple, and G N' R. We were the first ones there, so Duff took me for a golf-cart tour of the parking lot. We zoomed around for a while until someone recognized him. Then, everyone recognized him and we hightailed it back behind the safety of the storm fence. Duff rewarded those fans who ran all the way to the gate by chatting, thanking people for the love, and signing a bunch of autographs.

Backstage, Duff hipped me about my laminate meaning lunch was free in the cafeteria. Pay attention, this is very important information. If you are ever backstage, don't eat from the deli trays on tables in hallways unless you saw it arrive with the plastic wrap still protecting it. Then, before letting it out of your sight, get whatever you want the first time. But I was safe, because cafeteria meals get to your palate unmolested by pranksters and loogie-free. I took my free lunch and sat with Steven while, at another table, Duff talked things over with his tech. A few minutes later, Steven began chatting drum set-up with a guy that I pissed off by asking if he was Steven's roadie.

He snapped back, "I'm a tech."

I was surprised to learn the road crew stayed at a different hotel, miles away, and thought to myself, "Probably way more fun stuff going on over there." I acted as though I hadn't heard Steven's tech, and asked, "What hotel do you roadies stay at?" He glared angrily then left without answering.

When G N' R headed for the stage to sound check and shoot a few "Paradise City" scenes, I set off to explore Giants Stadium. I met a wild cutie-pie who worked in food services, and truly wish I would have had a few more days for deal-sealing. After some smooching, I found my way to the luxury boxes. I don't know if it would be considered a luxury box nowadays, but it was an air-conditioned room high above the stage with a bitchin' viewing angle. As I rolled along the corridor, I noticed several doors had signs with people's names written on them. A quick talk with the floor's security manager, and the slide of a twenty, got my name on a door. A couple people poked their heads into my suite, and the ones with pot were welcomed with open lungs. They'd even go grab cocktails if I requested. After sound check, I put in a drink order and went backstage.

A short while after catering delivered our meals, Slash advised me to grab any leftover rider items before they disappeared. The hours between sound check and rock 'n' roll show are generally pretty mellow. Most times, artists try to get a good, decent buzz, while avoiding the sloppy point. The overarching goal being to saddle up next to invincibility, while trying to forget about the thousands with performance expectations soaring higher than Icarus. Usually it's just a beer or four, some wine, a few puffs and/or sniffs, with the goal of destroying boredom and lessening the anticipation that might reveal one's anxiety. New York is a media super-hub, so there was also that to dwell on if you didn't feel like it. At some point, set lists got passed around, and there were no issues, so they were sent off to be duct taped onto the stage near expected locations.

Even though each guy had a private dressing room, most everyone hung out in a biggish room and we shot the shit while pre-buzzing. I went and popped my head into Axl's dressing room. Usually, it's quite obvious if he doesn't want company, but he waved me right in. He was in good spirits and stoked about the show as we chatted about topical subjects to avoid dwellable thoughts.

I didn't know how into Deep Purple Axl was, or if he was aware of how incredible a live act they were. I saw that Mark II lineup – Blackmore, Gillan, Lord, Glover, and Paice – several times and, without a doubt, they were probably the best group of all-around great musicians to jam their era's heavy metal. Add their catalog bristling with iconic tunes, and it meant if you only saw one band that year, you would never regret your Purple decision. When I spoke glowingly of my love for the band, and Ian Gillan's sarcastically wise lyrics, Axl told me he was well aware, and that sometimes before a show he warmed up to House of Blue Light. It must have reminded him of the need to warm up, shower, and get his stage duds on. So away I went.

I found Izzy hanging out right off the main room. He was sitting three-quarters facing the ceramic-tiled corner of a huge public shower, plucking away on his guitar while semi-chain smoking Marlboros. I asked him if it was alright to film him, and when he said okay, I grabbed my Super-8 camera and exposed a whole role. Unlike the film of the Rolling Stone photo shoot, I still have that Izzy footage. I wasn't alone in the motion-picture-capture department; besides the music video crew, Stuart Bailey and a few other friends and family members videotape-documented lots of Guns N' Roses' movements during the days I was there.

About half an hour before scheduled showtime, Axl returned fully decked out in the white leather outfit and kicks that were captured for all time in the "Paradise City" video. Upon seeing the custom clothing, plastered with G N' R logos and W. Axl Rose written across the breast on one side of his jacket, I joked, "If you forget your name, you can always look at your jacket." I do not believe he found it humorous, but right now, I just chuckled again. In any case, the last thing I wanted to do was cause Axl to change moods prior to a performance, so I wished everyone broken limbs and set out to mingle with the commoners.

Ever since they began playing large auditoriums and arenas, I usually spent all my time backstage and watched shows from side-stage. The Giants Stadium stage sat so high above ground level that I couldn't get a good vantage point. I decided to venture out past the barricades and tooled around the sparse crowd. For some reason, security had not begun letting in fans until about an hour before G N' R was due to hit the stage. Maybe it was to get the time-lapse scenes for the "Paradise City" video. But either way, at their scheduled time, the stadium was only half full. So to allow more fans time to get in, G N' R hit the stage almost an hour later than planned. A grass field, covered with tarps, made it tough travel for me, so after about fifty yards of on-field adventure, I headed back to the easy-rolling concrete of backstage tunnels and on up the elevator to the club level.

I arrived to my luxury box just as the boys kicked in with "It's So Easy." A oppressively hot and muggy day meant Axl must've been burning up in his leather outfit, but was forced to stick it out for at least a couple of tunes so they could capture enough live footage for the "Paradise City" video. Axl constantly wiped away sweat and picked hair from teeth after every headbang. It was after this show that a hat, bandana, or some sort of headband became a staple of his stage wear. It's something I realized when watching images shot three days later – the black-and-white footage of the sea of pulsating humanity during the song's double-time part – at Castle Donnington, England. I have no way of knowing for sure, but the Giants Stadium gig might have been the first time Guns N' Roses ever played a stadium. It was for sure the first time I heard "Used to Love Her." Either way, the band rocked a good set, but not even close to the best show I had seen from them.

After Guns N' Roses finished their rocking, I rolled backstage to hang with the guys for a bit and then scurried back to my box to catch Deep Purple's jam. When I opened the door, it was packed, so I told the security dude that, except for insanely hot chicks, we were at capacity. I tried making my way toward the front, but in my desired spot, some obnoxious bitch refused to move even an inch to the right and allow me to see. After a few polite requests, I ordered her to scoot over.

She came back at me with, "This isn't your suite. You can't tell me what to do."

A minute later, as security dragged her whining and bitching punk-ass from my box, I told her, "All you had to do was move to the right a little bit."

Of the three bands on the bill, Deep Purple was the group I most wanted to see. Richie Blackmore is one of my all-time favorite guitarists, and not just because he's fluid, tasty, and soulful. At times, he'll play the simplest lick that any kid with a beat-up six-string could easily imitate, but then will unleash a fiery torrent of shred, leaving even the most masterful player baffled by years of fruitless attempts at mimic. Up front was Ian Gillan, the ultimate long-haired, classic metal power vocalist, owner of an impressive vocal range that starts as low, warm tones before moving on up through full-throated, perfect-pitch, ultra-high screams. The best wicked laugh that rock 'n' roll has ever known is merely icing on the cake. John Lord was an incredible keyboardist with lightning-fast fingers, and undoubtedly deserves much credit for the band's unique sound and artistic vision. Bringing up the rear, pounding out the dirty bottom, Paice and Glover unquestionably belong right alongside the likes of Bonham/Jones, Moon/Entwistle, Watts/Wyman, Ward/Butler, and Beard/Hill amongst the pantheon of rhythm-section royalty.

Purple hit the Meadowlands stage more than ready to show their 70s classic hard-rock cohorts and those upstart L.A. punks how live music gets done. They immediately began hurling fistfuls of naked thunder to the hungry crowd, then rained down hit after hit for nearly two hours. On Rockline a few months earlier, Ian Gillan said they only performed "Child in Time" about half the time. Something about him needing to be in the right place physically, mentally, and emotionally to give the song its due. Of the several Purple shows I was fortunate enough to attend, I believe they played that brilliant song each time. Giants Stadium was no exception, and they blessed the audience with a chilling rendition lasting more than ten minutes. Time for a study break: Go to YouTube and watch Deep Purple's 1970 performance of "Child in Time."

I've seen Aerosmith countless times. And although I love their records, live shows were always hit or miss for me – great or God-awful. But that night was the only mediocre show I ever saw them do. Purple set the bar so high, and played so long, Aerosmith never had a chance. They are still one of my all-time favorite bands, and to this day, I frequently listen to the boys in Aerosmith. But with my long day of drinking, plus the heat and humidity, combined with my insatiable weediness, meant that, forty-five minutes into their set, I was haggard. For the next half hour, I wanted to leave, while fearing that if I did, I might miss a little Aero-magic. I finally threw in the towel and headed down to say goodbye to G N' R. When I got backstage, it was a ghost town, because the guys were aboard buses motoring toward the next city.

I arrived to my hotel room around one in the morning, only to discover that I was locked out. The guys had packed their shit and checked out before leaving for the stadium. My accommodations got lost in the shuffle. So even though I pulled the old "I'm with the band," they shit did give not. I think the hotel folks were being dicks due to my room's table taking a twenty-story, glass-shattering dive into their swimming pool the night before. I paid for a day – totally worth it – just to get my stuff and power nap. Two hours later, I headed to the airport and caught my flight home.

Less than a year before, whenever I'd hang out with any of the guys, we'd have a blast. Get two or more of them together, and it was legendary, good-time rock 'n' roll fun. When I headed out on the road with the second-most-dangerous band in the world, I fully expected to live it up like we used to do. But sadly, there were no big bags of blow or endless partying. The Rolling Stone photo session and late-night trip to Asbury Park were the most fun I had on the whole trip. Well, except for the concert, that is. And although I left out all the gossip-column-style tell-all dirt, you might have heard that, at times, the guys didn't get on well. So of course there were a few tense, stressful interactions amongst folks during my visit. Between the tension, boredom, deficit of fun, and my disdain for not being the center of attention, I sure was glad to get home.

20

I don't know if it was something I did or said, but Axl never again called or gave me his phone number. I wasn't officially blacklisted, and never had an issue getting show tickets and passes. Plus, whenever I ran into Axl, he never seemed unhappy to see me. We'd chat and get caught up small-talk style. But that was about it, kind of an arms-length operation. At first I thought about it a lot, and at times still wonder WTF. I never could actually pinpoint a reason. I'd think back to a conversation we had in New Jersey. Axl told of friends, not seen or spoken to in years, that would show up out of the blue and "act like everything is still the same."

I agreed by telling him, "Clearly everything is different nowadays." I wonder – in hindsight – if his was as an allegory directed my way as a cautionary tale to not read too much into our friendship.

Less than a year after my trip to New Jersey, there were Axl Rose and West Arkeen on MTV, sitting in a bar performing "Yesterdays." It hit me like a slap in the face. I felt like part of those meaningless yesterdays. So every time I hear Skynyrd's "Coming Home" or "Am I losin'," I can't help but contrast the sentiment.

A month after the Giants Stadium show, Aerosmith and G N' R rocked the Pacific Amphitheater in Costa Mesa, California. It was the first hint of my downgraded status. Unlike every previous show, I got no phone call or personal invite. I tried calling Axl, but his number had changed. Figuring it an oversight, I drove down to catch the tour's finale. To my surprise, I wasn't on the list. I knew enough folks to wrangle my way in, and then found Doug, who gave me a "backstage pass" that only granted access to an area adjacent to stage-right. Before that show, I had always enjoyed unlimited access, but there I was, relegated to second tier.

I did see the guys, and Steven and I smoked a joint that almost got me booted from the venue. It was strange not being able to party backstage at an Aerosmith show. I told Steven, "When I was thirteen, I'd wash down Tylenol fours with Coors while listening to Get Your Wings. Now I can't even smoke a little pot."

A few minutes after security put an end to our party, twenty feet from us, Steven Tyler and Joe Perry participated in a meet and greet. I decided to wait in line to score autographs for my little brothers. Not the star-struck type, I bailed from the line after a few minutes. About twenty seconds later, I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find Steven Tyler smiling my way. He asked, "What's the matter, you don't want my autograph?" I told him I had only wanted them for my little brothers, and he busted my chops. "Sure you do."

I laughed and shook his hand, then told him I was a huge fan, but didn't understand autographs unless someone was signing a check made out to me. Tyler laughed and then jogged to his table, and upon his return handed me a tour jersey. "Give this to your brother."

I thanked him and was so stoked that I didn't say "brothers," figuring those little fuckers could cage fight for it.

Guns N' Roses played an amazing set, as good as or better than I had seen in a very long time. During "Welcome to the Jungle," a couple of Aerosmith members – if I remember correctly – swung from ropes in gorilla costumes. There were swinging gorillas, but I might have the actors incorrect. During "Mama Kin," Tyler and Perry joined G N' R on stage, which was very cool to my inner fanboy. After the show, I found Axl sitting semi-tucked-away within the cubby space under the stage stairs. He seemed displeased about something, so I approached cautiously and asked, "Not a good time?" He nodded that he'd rather be alone.

Aerosmith followed with the greatest performance that I ever saw from them, and a set list jammed chock-full of songs from their iconic 1970s records. The only thing missing was Coors and codeine. Even though Aerosmith removed all drug references from their songs, when the band played "Mama Kin," Tyler changed the lyric to "Sleeping late and smokin' WEED!" It might be giving G N' R far too much credit, but I believe Aerosmith were re-energized by AFD, as well as playing scores of shows with those young bucks in Guns N' Fucking Roses. Aerosmith's next album, Get a Grip, was far more aggressive, as well as musically and lyrically superior.

Done touring, Guns N' Roses went back into the studio to put the finishing touches on what eventually became the EP Lies. One late night, I drove Vinni Stiletto out to Rumba Studios in Canoga Park. Axl had invited him to perform some backup vocals. Because I hadn't been invited, my plan was to drop off Vinni and then hit the road. But he convinced me to hang out; something about me being a baby. With most of the music already recorded, Axl was there laying down lead and backup vocals for two songs, plus some whistling as well as adding percussion. More cow bell?

So there I am, on other side of the control room glass, while Axl's laying down vocals for "One in a Million." I'd never heard it before and was really digging the tune. And there was Axl's looking right at me when he lets loose with, "Police and 'neighbors.'"

My expression turned to a "Dude, you can't say that shit!" beyond-shocked look.

Axl grinned, nodded, then sang, "That's right."

Now, whenever I hear the follow-up line, "That's right," I still think it was directed at my shock. Ego makes some believe wrong things.

Axl gave me umpteen chances to contribute percussion to a track, but my mental-block kept turning around his preferred beat sequence to click, click-click. Or was it click-click, click? Fuck, I'm useless. Vinni never did get his shot at rockin' the mic, but Axl added "Valet Parking, Raz Que [sic], Vinni Stiletto" to the album credits as a consolation prize.

The misspelling was due to the fact that I had only recently chosen Cue as my surname. It all began a month prior to that night at Rumba, on a fine Los Angeles fall afternoon. A buddy and me were zooming south along the 10 Freeway, near the big "Praise Jesus" sign downtown, when I spotted an older Volvo with license plate FAUX IQ. I pointed and laughed, "Look, that license plate says 'Fuck You.'"

My pretentious friend said, "It means 'False I.Q.'"

After a brief back-and-forth on double meanings, I told him, "Sound it out. It says 'Fuck you – you only think you're smart.'" Within days, I was at the DMV ordering FAUX CUE license plates. When that didn't work out, I went with the narcissistic plate; RAZ CUE. And so Faux Cue came to mean "not really Raz Cue."

For a time, it seemed like every car I passed was jamming "Sweet Child." The first time I heard it blaring overhead at my gym, I realized it had become a staple of top-forty radio. I never in a million years would have guessed that Guns N' Roses would become a pop band. Probably the most mind-blowing thing was that first Sunday when I heard "Welcome to the Jungle" on my TV, firing up the Riverfront Stadium crowd prior to a Cincinnati Bengals game.

Unlike being in the red for album sales, once a single tops the charts, big stacks of publishing money begin rolling in the very next pay period. When that day arrived, the guys were swimming in cash, with enough money and free time to undertake their philanthropic goals of good works and altruistic positive contributions to mankind. With all his well-deserved success and realization of lifelong dreams – "The world and everything in it, Chico"– Axl Rose became joyous and content like some boy in a Norman Rockwell illustration cuddling with his puppy.

A few months after returning from New Jersey, I ran into a guitarist, Robbie, who said to me, "I asked Bill when he was going to pay you the money he owes you." I was puzzled, so I asked who he was talking about. He repeated, with emphasis, "Bill!"

Robbie was one of those idiots who thought by referring to Axl as Bill, he'd prove to everyone how well he knew him. Once I realized who he meant, I said, "Axl don't owe me shit!"

Robbie argued, "But those guys ripped you off."

I snapped at him, "What the fuck, dude? Why you stirring up shit? Mind your own fucking business!"

Except for a sheepish nod, Robbie had no reply.

I have never for a second believed that G N' R owes me a thing, mostly because they don't. I actually got the better end of the bargain. Do the math – for the occasional use of my van or equipment, and five or ten bucks here and there, I got a fly-on-the-wall view of the greatest rock band of my generation. It was hands down the most awesome rock 'n' roll fantasy-camp experience ever. But to be honest, I did briefly wonder if Axl believed I was running my mouth off around town, claiming Guns N' Roses had fucked me over. But I pretty quickly dismissed the notion once I remembered that Axl did not think very highly of Robbie.

If we're being honest, I do feel once Axl built his wall, I was relegated to the outskirts. But at least I sit far out of range of the boiling oil and catapulted festering, plague-riddled corpses of former sound men. I chock it all up to me being locally interesting, but a far cry from the intriguing characters encountered while traveling the world stage. Knowing those guys and witnessing their story confirmed to me that everything is possible. And they were kind enough to produce an awesome soundtrack CD to play along with the vivid memories flickering in my head.

In October 1989, Guns N' Roses played a few small-venue warm-up shows. It was great to see them on stage again as they sonically assaulted the jam-packed-full Cathouse sweatbox. Then, a few nights later, the guys kicked some ass at Park View Plaza for Rip Magazine's 3rd anniversary party. The shows were designed to shake the rust off and ready themselves for another dream concert pairing: opening for The Rolling Stones at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. I got four tickets for each show, but never did request a backstage pass. By then I had concluded the best part of a rock 'n' roll show was sitting in the audience, drinking booze, smoking pot, and dancing in the aisles with pretty young ladies who were there for the music and not for the band.

The Stones' concerts at the Coliseum were the last time I ever saw Guns N' Roses perform live. It had nothing to do with any conflicts or loyalties. I never chose sides, nor do I actually care to get involved in others' wars. It just so happened that, by the time they went out on the road again, I owned a business and worked way too many hours to even contemplate a social life. Then they took a few decades off.

I still listen to G N' R fairly often. And for New Year's Eve 2011/12, I actually bought a ticket to go see Guns N' Roses at the Hard Rock Hotel in fabulous Las Vegas. I was eager to see Axl Rose perform for the first time in over twenty years – he's very talented – but I ended up splitting before he even stepped foot on the stage. Nothing personal, it's just that it was eleven thirty. And as I listened to a bouncer telling someone about how great the previous night's two-hour show was, I sat there running shit through my head. More so than usual because of the New Year's component, and concluded I preferred to leave my last time seeing Guns N' Roses as the prominent memory. The capper: I had gotten to the stage in life where I really hated staying up late. Oh, what a pussy I turned out to be!

So I headed for the exit, scanned out my ticket just in case I changed my mind, and went to take a piss. After re-holstering my cock, I decided that indeed it was bedtime. As I wheeled toward valet parking, a tall blond dude with a thick German accent was asking passerby if they had a ticket for sale. I thought he sort of sounded but looked a lot like Ole Beich. And German Dude appeared approximately the same age as the last time I saw Ole. I applied the hand brakes, then turned back to ask, "You want a ticket?"

As he approached, German Dude appeared hesitant, "How much?"

I passed him my ticket while delivering some devastating news, "You missed Sebastian Bach."

I continued on valet-ward, but it took German Dude a moment to realize what had just happened. Because about six seconds later, he ran over to hug me and then repeated, "Sank you, sank you, sank you. Axl Rose is my idol."

I set off homeward. "Happy New Year, bro." Please quit touching me.

21

Theoretically, this book is about me, so let's jump back to 1986 and right after Guns N' Roses signed with Geffen Records. While they were busy conquering the universe, I was living my version of a normal life. I turned twenty-one, so Pops took me on a long-anticipated trip to Fabulous Las Vegas. It was an agonizingly slow drive, because he tried setting a good example for his reckless son by strictly adhering to the unreasonable 55 mph speed limit of the era. But no worries, I intended to drive home at 100 mph in a brand-new Corvette purchased with my winnings. We hit a gas station immediately upon arrival in Vegas, where Pops gave me some of his best advice ever: "Fill up when you get here, so you can for sure make it home."

After forty-eight hours in Sin City, wrestling with one-armed bandits in between bouts with various games of chance, an ocean of booze, some titty-watching, and five total hours of sleep, amazingly, my wallet was only twenty dollars lighter. Well, until on the way home, a quick stop at Whiskey Pete's on the NV/CA border cost me a few hundred trying to get even. It was my last chance, don't you know.

That fall, I bought my all-time favorite car, a 1964 Cadillac convertible. A few weeks before painting her pink, I had me some spray-paint fun, consisting of circled-A anarchy symbols scrawled on the doors. Joe chipped in with skull and crossbones on the hood, and then headed back to jazz up the trunk deck with a huge "Kill Pig," which I immediately blacked out. But the shit was still readable to the cop that pulled me over a few days later, and one hand remained resting upon his gun while the other wrote me a well-deserved speeding ticket. I ended up in traffic school. It was extra cool back then, because you only had to pay the fifty bucks for traffic school. Not the actual ticket cost.

Early 87, right after a Super Bowl party, my buddy and me went to see Sam Kinison at the Comedy Store. Before Kinison went on, a guy who looked like an old friend walked past. I said, "Hey, Chris, how you doin', bro?" Dude said his name was Mike, before continuing on to sit at a table with a girl who looked a lot like Justine Bateman. I had often told my buddy Chris he could pass for Michael J. Fox, and when that light bulb went on, I waved and smile-nodded in recognition. A few minutes later, he came back over and sat with us. We chatted about his cool nephew or cousin with cerebral palsy. Michael J. Fox was very supportive of disabled causes, by sporting several rounds of drinks for this particular gimp. After Sam Kinison's loud and hilarious set, Michael J. Fox brought the lovely and talented Justine Bateman over to introduce her, but I couldn't handle the pressure and mumbled shyly while barely making eye contact. Dang, one paragraph, three name droppings – whew.

But wait for the shake. After the show, I went next door to the Hyatt House valet and ran into two of the dudes from Run-D.M.C. waiting for a cab. They were friendly and gregarious as we chatted, talking Aerosmith and my plan to hit the Rainbow parking lot. They liked my description of "a sea of drunk chicks looking for a place to continue partying." But they declined my offer of a ride; that is, until valet dropped off my 64 pink Cadi convertible. I pulled the boom-box out the trunk, cranked Aerosmith's Rocks, and crawled with the top down through Sunset Strip traffic all the way to the Rainbow with two-thirds of Run-D.M.C. sitting on the boot.

I love the quirky detective genre, and because of Bruce Willis on the TV show Moonlighting, I felt compelled to learn to play harmonica. I picked it up rather quickly, with the help of Harmonica for the Musically Hopeless. It's a relatively cheap, handy instrument with no cords, meaning if I know a song's key, I can wail along soulfully with Mick, Magic Dick, Little Walter, or a thousand other greats whenever the music commands. Probably the best part is, there are times when I whip it out and then work it just right with my mouth, and it makes the ladies go, "Ooh," and, "Ahhhhh."

In the spring, a brand-new broadcast network, FOX, was born. It had taken over independent local L.A. station KTTV, channel 11, and most experts agreed FOX didn't stand a chance against the big three, ABC, CBS, and NBC. Soon after hitting the airwaves, FOX debuted a P.O.S. show that was so absolutely wrong we all couldn't wait for the next episode of Married with Children to drop. I'm always amazed when I see best-of lists of groundbreaking television where "Married" did not make the cut. There's no doubt the show changed television for the better-worse. But due to the limited numbers of FOX affiliates throughout the land, the show's ratings suffered accordingly. But it played mega in Hollywood and, without a doubt, heavily influenced the modern comedy television template amongst the "creative" hack-class. Hell, they got Frank Sinatra singing the fucking theme song. That shit alone should put the show into the top one hundred of all time.

I do dig me some soft rock, but believe concerts should be ear-shattering, loud aggressiveness. So the only reason I took Ma to see Paul Simon perform Graceland live was to get good seats. It's a gimp thing. We buy the cheapest seats available, but then can't climb steps to nosebleed-land. Even though the show was super mellow, it was definitely in the top five best concerts I ever saw. The back stories, musicianship, harmonies, and wonderfully powerful songs were moving, sad, and uplifting all at the same time. Ma held the doobies and, because we sat out in the open, exposed to prying eyes, she refused to give me one to light up. I kept bugging, "Ma, this is a concert. I think it's illegal to not smoke pot." I eventually gave up and rolled over to some nearby heads and swapped swigs of smuggled Jim Beam for hits of herb. Nowadays, you can't smoke anything indoors, so smoking a J makes you a sitting duck. And concerts aren't the same.

Hardly anyone owned a cellular phone in the late 80s, because phones and airtime weren't even close to being cheap. We mostly used pagers and called people back from a payphone or landline. I just realized something. Before pagers, you needed to locate someone before you could call them. But with cell phones, you call to locate them. We mainly received our calls at home. So if you knew a dude was at work, you could call and enjoy an extended chat with his beautiful, underappreciated girlfriend; with all the best intentions, of course. I liked pagers. Say you wanted to tell someone "Go to Hell." You'd page: "1134 5 06." A weed dealer I knew saw his business skyrocket shortly after my pointing out his pager number spelled AXL-ROSE.

Back in the day, payphones were everywhere. But not every payphone received incoming calls. Plus, it was a hassle to unload my wheelchair just to use a phone. I found a few phones that were the beautiful combination of allowing incoming calls from a nearby drug dealer and strategically located to facilitate driving up right alongside to make calls from the driver's seat. Never have I gotten the "evil eye" from more little old ladies than when I was parked on the sidewalk using my "car phone" hack.

The summer of 87 was extremely dry – as in, absolutely no weed to be found anywhere. Up until then, an eighth of killer bud ran in the neighborhood of twenty-five bucks. But during that dark and dreary summer, if there was any bud to be found, the heads outbid each other to forever drive up prices. A month into weed-sanity, I got a line on a good supply and hopped into my pink Cadillac and took a hasty drive out to Marina Del Ray to score a pound of Chocolate Thai. While waiting to make a left onto Admiralty Way, I noticed two Sheriff's Deputies, traveling in the opposite direction in an unmarked car, express an interest as they passed me by. I checked my mirror and saw them cut people off nasty to flip an illegal U-turn to head back my way.

Figuring there was no point in leading them straight to my dealer, I pulled into the Marina Info Center to wait for them to say hi. When they arrived to my rear bumper, my wallet was already on the dash and my hands rested in plain sight on the steering wheel.

As the deputies approached, one barked, "What are you doing here?"

I grinned and kept it casual. "Waiting for you. I thought I'd save you the trouble of trying to find me."

After a few more minutes of small talk, the cop said, "Where's your gun?" When I denied possessing a firearm, he glanced to my wheelchair, then looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I'd have a gun if I was you."

I pondered momentarily before asking, "So you're saying, if I had a gun, I should tell you where it was?"

He shook his head ever so slightly and smirked. "I wouldn't do that."

I wonder if those deputies knew that us disabled generally fall into two groups. There are the ones who regularly participate in athletics or other adapted activities. Then there are the druggies. So if I were a cop and saw a wheelchair in the backseat, I'd ask, "Do you do wheelchair sports?" If that crippled son of a bitch answered, "No," I'd search the gimp.

Way too many folks have told me a "I almost broke my neck" sob story. I have no idea why someone would tell a dude who more than almost broke his fucking neck about a comparatively minor boo-boo. If they're trying to make me feel better, they need to go back to the drawing board. Others will start conversations with, "You inspire me. I don't know how I could cope..." I don't want pity. Wait, let me clarify. Unless I will receive monetary benefit, or pussy, I can live without anyone's pity. We all have our challenges, and I believe we are all here for a reason. So sometimes I ask myself, "What is my reason to suffer?" Wow, in one sentence I say I don't want pity, but then right after it surely sounds like I'm begging sympathy for the cripple. It's either schizoid fingers, or words stubbornly refusing to properly relay my "it is what it is" attitude.

At times, it might appear that I am struggling, probably because I am. Generally, people are quick to offer aid. Even when I smile and say, "No thank you," there are some who stubbornly refuse to accept that their immediate assistance isn't wanted or needed. Occasionally, they'll ignore my wishes, swoop in, and grab the chair as I have it passing swiftly over my face into my car, thus altering its path to send it knocking upside my head. I learned to not attempt loading a wheelchair car-ward with one of those overly concerned individuals standing too close. But some of those types will remain nearby, hovering, eyeballing, and waiting for me to relent. Occasionally, that will break my routine, causing me to whap myself without them actually touching the wheelchair. The "I knew you needed help" look on their face is priceless.

There have been instances when folks will just pretend they're helping to avoid scrutiny of their own. Like the day I went shopping at a JCPenny's buy-one-get-one-free Levi's event. That's when I'd put two pairs of jeans under my chair's cushion and purchase two others. After I finished up with the cashier, a chatty brother about my age began walking beside me. He tagged along all the way to the exit, and then insisted on holding the door for me. I noticed security watching and stopped a few feet shy of the door. Technically, it's not theft until merchandise leaves the store. I wondered if they were just watching my new "helper/buddy" because he was black, and if I would end up getting busted by accident. After a prolonged pause, I headed to my car with brother-man still at my side. As I slow-rolled it next to my car, dude kept insisting on helping, so I straight-out told him, "Look, man, I can't load my chair until security goes away."

He took a quick look back to the store, then wished me well before hurrying to a car parked three spots over. Security then rushed him and his girlfriend. It turned out those two stole far more shit than me. Not too long after that incident, I began getting credit cards, so I mostly quit shoplifting.

My yearning to attend film school, since discovering the concept almost a decade before in The Doors' bio, led me to Los Angeles Valley College for the start of Fall Semester 1987. Thus, I embarked on a star-studded journey which eventually led to my three academy awards, supermodel girlfriends, and a spectacular mansion high in the hills above Los Angeles. If you care to look it up on IMDB.com, you'll discover that it's all bullshit. You see, even though I was two years in and three quarters of my way through the last class required for my certificate, I dropped out due to a crazy, slave-driving, verbally abusive professor. Plus, I learned that if you want to make films, the best way is to make films. That is exactly what I planned on doing the night I told Professor Asshole to "Fuck off!"

Ma's birthday was early August. As customary, we went to Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus at the Los Angeles Sports Arena. There we were enjoying the lions, tigers, and bearded clams when some clown started talking with me. He wasn't a full-fledged clown, just face paint. We chatted for a while, and I heard tons of intriguing backstage cheese about circus life. It just so happened we were almost exactly the same age, and when I asked how he got into the circus business, he said, "When I was fifteen, I ran away from home to join the circus." I had heard the saying many times, but didn't know someone could actually do it. It made me wish I did that shit at age fifteen, instead of breaking my fucking neck.

Pops lived an hour away in Huntington Beach. I'd drive down a few times a month to hang out with my brothers and feast upon gourmet eats. One night, while returning home from a visit, I realized I was the same age as Pops when he had me. I knew I was not even close to being ready, willing, or able to raise miscreants of my own. That realization had me unconditionally forgive Pops, as well as Ma, for all the bullshit – real and imagined – they had put me through during my youth. They were learning as they went, while keeping me fed and sheltered. So it was all good.

Not long after Slash joined G N' R, when Axl and Joe moved out of my house, I had begun hanging out with Mike Jagosz again. Our friendship dated back to high school, so after his L.A. Guns' tumultuous tenure and the dismissal tension dissipated, we became close friends again. Seeing as he had steady unemployment, Mike was always down for whatever wacky adventure I dreamt up. Plus, his excellent bud connections and insanely hot bartender girlfriend – who regularly bought us pizza, beer, and blow – added to his charm.

One night, Mike and I were enjoying cocktails at the Troub, when I noticed an oh-so-familiar switch flip behind his eyeballs. And a millisecond later, he got his non-reasonable-wasted-drunk look on. I'd seen it often enough to know it best to steer clear. A few minutes later, he was gone. I eventually located him at Cedars-Sinai emergency room. He had been slightly tapped by a valet driven car at the Rainbow, and gravity-enhancing rum pulled him to the ground. The X-ray revealed a slight crack in his pelvis. But in my non-expert medical opinion, he was far more drunk than injured. Yet, my diagnosis did not stop him from hiring a lawyer to sue the Rainbow.

I rented a house, planning on growing huge piles of hydroponic buds in a spare bedroom. While doing my research and gathering supplies, my original business partner flaked. I quickly cobbled together a backup plan involving Mike. Most times, he was a drain on my wallet, and even if we were out all night drinking on my tab, or he spent days on end at my house – smoking, drinking, and eating – he'd want to be paid for helping me out in the slightest way. I'm talking even taking out the trash. So I tricked Mike by hiring him as a semi-handy man to finish building my grow room and ultimately help with the grow. I'd have him bust out about forty bucks' worth of work three or four days a week. Then, at night, we'd hit the clubs, where he'd spend his own money on food and drinks.

After a month of him working, we had a dispute over forty bucks. When I held my ground, wickedly and sarcastically taunting while steadfastly refusing to agree that I owed him a damn thing, supreme cocksucker Michael T. Jagosz called the cops and reported me for growing pot. Even though I was almost positive he was bluffing, I jettisoned thirty seedlings. Boy, was I glad that I followed my instincts, because days later, I arrived home to discover my house tossed and an L.A.P.D. detective's business card atop my dresser. I only rented that house to grow pot and, with cops watching, I thought it wise to immediately relocate in the dark of night. Retrospect told me I should have just paid Mike the forty bucks to save myself thousands that ignorant motherfucker caused me to eat due to a hurried move and abandonment of my weed-making scheme.

Even though my high hopes of hemp horticulture fell through, I did have a decent revenue stream to supplement my settlement income: selling "quality" used cars. I excelled at finding low-mileage, cool, older cars and often scored them for a lowball price. I'd then drive a stylish, big American V-8 or three around town until someone overpaid for it. Back then, you didn't have to have insurance, and the DMV didn't check ID when registering a vehicle, meaning I could make up a name and register my fleet to Ma's address, so the city knew where to send the parking tickets. Right after bailing out on my weed scheme, while trying to scrape up twenty grand to buy a house, I liquidated almost all of my cars, including my sweet, pink pussy-magnet 1964 Cadillac convertible, a 1969 Firebird, 1975 Datsun, 710 wagon, the L.A. Guns' van, as well as few other not-so-cool cars.

One afternoon, I got a bite on the L.A. Guns' van, in the person of talented nature photographer Jeff. He was in the market for a larger van to travel the art-show circuit with his growing family, and I was happy to oblige. The more I got to know him, my whole preprogrammed worldview began unraveling under logic's light. Up until that point in time, most Vietnam veterans I had met either didn't talk about their experience or were fervently anti as they passed the joint. So I was well versed in the anti-war rhetoric. Because of Jeff's three purple hearts, and total run-around from the V.A., I assumed he fell into the anti-Vietnam-War camp. But hearing an opposing point of view made me understand that Jeff and hundreds of thousands of his fellow soldiers are American heroes and politicians' scapegoats. If I can ever become close to as honorable a person as he is, it will mean I've evolved tremendously from the urchin that once owned my brain.

Over the coming years, Jeff and I spent countless hours discussing varying subjects: history, politics, culture, religion, or the news of the day. And like me, even if he disagreed with a person's point of view, he didn't think it a character defect. However, he would vigorously make a case and defend his position with facts and historical perspective in an attempt to have one rethink their position. A conversation we had early on made me start to question things I believed. It was the whole boys-and-girls, nature-versus-nurture argument. Specifically, girls play with dolls and boys play with trucks because they are conditioned to do so. I had heard that falsehood recited so frequently, and with such sincere certainty, I had never doubted its truthiness. Even though male and female – of every damn species in the entire animal kingdom – are obviously different in several significant ways. But up until he said it out loud, I never gave it a critical second thought.

That was the seed leading to me wondering which other of my firmly held beliefs were based on repeated claims created from thin air and easily contradicted by opening my fucking eyes. It took me another decade to get to the point of realizing that being politically "Liberal" is vastly different than being a liberal thinker. And that I am actually a "don't tread on me and I won't even think about treading on you," gun-loving capitalist liberty-arian. I steadfastly refuse to treat politics as a team sport. I merely root for my country – the greatest nation in history – and its brilliant constitution. Far too many folks, whether D or R, will root for their side, all the while turning a blind eye to the endless shenanigans, lies, and misdeeds by their team as they get fat at the government trough. But then they'll hypocritically call foul on the other side for even the most ticky-tack shit. It never ceases to amaze me all the illogical and unbelievable caricatures of their political opponents fans willingly treat as gospel.

A year after we met, Jeff and I worked out a trade, with me getting a 1964 Mercedes and him a jacuzzi. To say that Mercedes needed work would be a gross understatement. It's three-on-the-tree manual transmission lacked the ability to reverse, floorboards were rusted through enough to get a clear view of the road below, plus she had several other major issues. Of course, the beyond-honorable Jeff told me of all her flaws and assigned a fair trade value. I, on the other hand, was in full buyer-beware, used-car-salesman mode and bought low with the plan of selling way too high. I rigged some plywood over the rusted-out floor pans and covered them up with mats, poured a bunch of those liquid repair products in every Mercedes orifice, cleaned her up, and then parked at the curb so reverse gear wouldn't be necessary. I unloaded that Mercedes on the sweetest older woman for five hundred dollars more than it was worth, and actually felt a slight twinge of guilt as she tooled away.

That sweet little old lady called me a few days later, not even slightly angry, to tell of the car breaking down on her way home. After her mechanic went to look at it, he reported it was a "junker." But she actually seemed to believe that I knew nothing about the car's mechanical shortcomings. I felt pretty shitty, but kept telling myself I had done nothing wrong. Aren't car dealers supposed to separate people from their money? About a week later, on my first visit to a new girlfriend's apartment, there was that 64 Mercedes sitting right across the street to remind me of my wickedness. It remained in the same spot for weeks, dirty, collecting tickets, and my guilt only grew. So marks the last car I ever sold as a profit-seeking endeavor. Conscience had done killed a beautiful revenue stream.

As 1988 came to a close, I listened to KNAC a lot more. I don't know why; could have just been more memorable bands getting airplay. I particularly dug Danzig from the very first crunch. So when they played the Country Club in early 89, I had to see them. It was an outstanding show, with an audience full of a who's who of industry types and celebrities alike. With Glenn Danzig's commanding presence and solid, street-tough power growling, you can't go wrong. John Christ could coax some of the tastiest and meaty-aggressive tones possible from a guitar – except for that show, when I thought he sounded much more talented on the radio. Over the years, I heard him play live several times, and he's actually quite an excellent shredder. I once got the chance to ask him about that Country Club show, and he laughed because he actually remembered being a little off that night. I really believed Danzig was going to be huge, but they'll just have to settle for legendary.

That February, the Grammy Awards "jumped the shark" after adding a Hard Rock/Metal performance award. I knew those Grammy folks had no clue the moment I read the L.A. Times' list of nominees, because the best metal album of the year, Operation Mindcrime, wasn't even nominated. On second glance, I was shocked to see Jethro Tull's ultra-mellow Crest of a Knave nominated in the metal category. Though rooting for a Jane's Addiction win, I predicted to Ma that Tull would receive the award because they didn't even belong in the category.

Pops had moved away to Carmel, California. Whenever visiting, without fail, I'd bring my lil' bros stacks of rock 'n' roll cassettes to broaden their musical horizons and keep them from listening to gay-ass shit like L.A. Guns. I hipped them to The Who, Zep, Jane's Addiction, Stones, Aerosmith, Elton, Sabbath, and so on. One day, my little brother Hassan was strutting about Pops' living room, wearing headphones and rocking out, when he shouted out, "Suck it! Fuck it! Liiiiiiiick it!" It was obvious I had made a major mistake by giving Nothing's Shocking to an eleven-year-old. I needed to make it right, so I took him aside to explain right from wrong.

"Dude, don't sing those parts out loud, or they won't let me give you anymore tapes." Glad I caught him before he got to the "Sex is violent" part. So when Pops and Barbara bought the kids Appetite for Destruction for Christmas, I was off the hook when Omar crooned, "You get nothing for nothing, that's what you do. Turn around, bitch, I got a use for you." That shit was even more precious coming from a ten-year-old.

From the moment Guns N' Roses first played the Cathouse in 86, well through the 90s, Rikki Rachtman's club was the only place to be on a Tuesday night. Rikki possessed the lucrative combination of a great ear for talent with connections to get huge bands, the "next big thing," or the coolest groups from the local scene to rock his clubs. The acts only got bigger and bigger as Rikki became a star in his own right. As part of a winning marketing strategy, Cathouse probably comped as many folks as they had paying customers. If you were on the guest list, you and a reasonable amount of friends could bypass a plethora of premium pole queens who stood looking sultrily delicious, lined up sixty-nine deep outside, waiting to pay for the privilege of partying alongside all the cool kids and rock royalty who got in free.

Rikki remained ultra-cool and always let me into Cathouse for free. His right-hand man, Keith Cooper, also treated me like a bro, and whenever he saw me rolling up the block, he'd come help me bypass the line via a side door. Over the club's lifespan, Kyuss delivered hands down my absolute favorite, most intense powerhouse jam and left me slack-jawed, gasping for beer. Next best show had to be Soul. Though usually quite entertaining, one extraordinary night, they hit the Cathouse stage and rose to another level as guitar player Rudy White delivered one of the most amazing combinations of talent, tone, and attitude wrapped up in a magical performance rivaling the best I ever saw. I could drone on, but instead I'll just say that G N' R, Alice Cooper, STP, The Mimes, The Wild and – probably the coolest unknown foxy harries of the hair-era – Brunette all deserve a mention and much respect for their Cathouse rock shows.

If there wasn't a live act, and I wasn't drunken-chair-dancing to "Wig Wam Bam," I camped out in the WABAC room, smoking and shooting pool. One of the regulars at the billiard tables, Frank Starr, a great singer and frontman – owner of a solid New York "Fuck you, Raz" attitude – always seemed to be teetering right on the edge of stardom. Until something shitty happened to jam up the works. One night, Rick Rubin came back there looking for him. And soon after, Frank's band, The Four Horsemen, had a record deal. When he first told me the group's name, I said, "But, Frank, there's five of you. Someone's going to have to take an alternative form of transportation." A few months after the band's debut album was released, Haggis, the band's founder, foolishly let Frank get away. Frank Starr then went on to record an amazing CD with his next band, Mad Reign, but a fatal motorcycle wreck tragically ended his dreams within weeks of the album's release.

For a minute, there was another very cool club, held on Sunday nights at a gay ice factory, X-Poseur 54. Unlike the Cathouse, the guest list was a total nightmare. It'd take forever and a grovel just to get me + 0 in. At least five bands performed every week, which at times included a national act. But most times, the club showcased shitty local bands interspersed with outstanding world-class acts such as The Wild, Sam Mann and Thee Apes, Back Alley Sally, Love Hate, Black Cherry, Imagine World Peace, Saigon Saloon, and Feast of Joy. That joint had a huge stage, great lights, and a powerhouse of a PA. There was also a "Video Pirate" broadcasting live videos – of the stage as well as the coke whores and hair farmers stumbling about the venue, longing for lust – to monitors scattered throughout the club. It was awesome while it lasted. But all good things must come.

22

So there I was, dicking along in life, figuring my embarrassing juvenile criminal record automatically sealed upon the day I turned eighteen. Wrong! One needed to apply and then have a hearing before a judge. A year after beginning the process, I received a letter informing me that my juvenile idiocy no longer existed. From that day forward, I could legally answer "no" to the question, "Have you ever been arrested or convicted?" About a month after learning I was never arrested or convicted, the Berlin Wall came a-tumbling down to signal the West's Cold War triumph over them commie bastards; thanks in large part to the leadership and resolve of Margaret Thatcher, Ronald Regan, and Pope John Paul II. But probably the most important world event to occur during the last quarter of 1989, after almost ten years of fruitless struggle, was that I learned to roll a joint with one hand. It's all in the preparation.

Truth be told, I had cut way back on pot and drinking, and hardly ever did any blow. I did have my moments, but I worked out incessantly, ate right, and around the same time of becoming Mr. Cue, I began walking with the assistance of a leg brace and walker. The happy trails back and forth within my apartment were set in motion during clinic at Rancho Hospital, when the beyond-beautiful physical therapist, Jan, prescribed me a leg brace intended solely for standing exercise. I would meet with Jan a few times a month, where she'd assess my improvement then add some new goals and exercises to the routine. She was a positive and eager taskmaster, who I always wanted to make proud.

Because my leg brace was intended for standing, it was lightweight and flimsy. It broke regularly, and set me back weeks while it sat at Rancho's orthotics department waiting for repairs. When my leg brace broke for the umpteenth time, just days after getting it back from the shop, I became fed up and found a much closer repair place, North Hollywood Orthotics. The owner, Emery, said my brace was too flimsy for a burly manly-man such as me. A very generous and caring person, he built me a super-heavy-duty, nearly indestructible brace for about a quarter of the going price; fucking Jews compassionately undercharging me for stuff. I liked him and dropped by the shop every so often to visit and share a sandwich from the kick-ass deli next door. Three decades later, I still got a soft spot in my heart for Emery, and that masterpiece of a leg brace still holds me up whenever I let it.

After five years of being exiled from the Rainbow, I finally made it back inside. On my very first visit, a smoking-hot blond waitress, Bella, asked me if I was an actor. I looked her right in the eye as my inner-actor proclaimed, "Yes, I am." Unfortunately she wasn't hitting on me, merely inviting me to an acting workshop loaded with kooky cripples. If she was going to be there, I wanted to give it a shot; acting, too. The workshop was the lovechild of serious actor Otto Felix. But at times, he played goofy rolls, like the mellow motorcycle cop requesting a hotdog from Cheech or Chong in the classic film Up in Smoke.

The workshop was newly formed, and during my first few weeks, we brainstormed for a group name. Otto liked the acronym H.A.P.P.I. (Handicap Artists, Performers, and Partners Incorporated). I hated that fucking rainbows-and-lollipops name, so I lobbied strongly for G.I.M.P. (Great in Motion Pictures), or D.R.O.O.L. (Dudes Rolling Onscreen or Location). Strangely, they settled on H.A.P.P.I., which I wasn't about. Otto was a passionate and focused man who busted his ass, schmoozed, and charmed endlessly to get us seemingly never-ending auditions for commercials, films, and television. The very first month at H.A.P.P.I., I got a part as an extra: "guy in wheelchair playing basketball."

My next big break came in the form of a callback from the TV show China Beach. I think Ma was far more excited than me about the Vietnam-War-set medical drama, with ultra-lame dialogue that I could never quite envision myself reciting with a straight face. As a shitty actor, I'm fairly sure I bombed the audition. But Otto was convinced the part would have been mine if I had not told the producers I wasn't willing to cut my hair. Even more so after I said to him, "I'm just doing this acting shit for fun." Otto then gave me a high-energy, heartfelt lecture about how acting needed to be a burning passion. It all worked out. Because if I had landed the part, I would have missed getting the regional commercial, "Hey, take a look, 'mon." I played a gimp DJ drumming on the Yellow Pages of a now-defunct Baby Bell, and made 10k for four hours' work. And I kept my hair.

Early on at H.A.P.P.I., disabled comic Gene Michner wheeled up to introduce himself. I had fond memories of his performance at Rancho Hospital during my rehab stay, so I told him how funny he was. We soon became pretty good friends, and I'd drive him around whenever he wanted. Along our travels, I'd often tell him jokes I had made up. Without fail, he'd claim it to be an old one. And I'd get bummed. One day, I borrowed a show video, and eight years after seeing him at Rancho, it was virtually the same act. Gene wasn't home when I returned his VHS, but his roommate loaned me a video of a more recent show. I was shocked when I saw that Gene Michener had worked at least five of my – previously pooh-poohed – jokes into his set. And they got huge laughs. I never told him I knew, but persuaded him to get me on stage so I might give standup comedy a try.

Wheelchair-bound Gene had a bit: "I'm not a standup comic..." Whenever I mention to someone my comedic past, almost to a person, I get, "Yeah, but you weren't a stand-up comedian." Too easy, but I actually stood – using my leg brace with a walker – while doing comedy. After purchasing a 1989 Isuzu pickup truck, and storing my wheelchair in the bed, requiring a short – clinging to the vehicle – walk to the cab, I began walking longer and longer distances with my walker. It got to the point where I would often just leave my wheelchair in the carport. That pickup and a clunky Brother word processor were essential elements to my getting into the comedy game. I never would have driven bug-eyed Michener around Southern California in a car, and the cutting-edge word processor was a writing godsend for a quadriplegic.

Gene hooked me up with my first-ever gig, at the Comedy and Magic club in Hermosa Beach. I got a five-minute slot, and after the MC's introduction, I did an exaggerated Frankenstein-foot-slide to make my way ever so slowly to the microphone, where I spent a moment getting situated, then looked at my watch and said, "Well, I guess that's all my time." The generous laughter directed my way reeled me in. I actually got a decent amount of love for the first three minutes, but then smashed into a wall after a joke bombed and engulfed the room in silence. Despite the last two minutes feeling like forever and a day, I got hooked on the conditional love pouring forth from a room full of drunks.

Something unbelievable happened. I was paid fifty bucks for my fourth comedy gig. My third show was an open mic at the Long Beach Comedy club, where I always seemed to do very well. The club's bartender also promoted shows far and wide in bars looking to offer live entertainment. After my decent set, she offered me a paying gig for the next night. A week into the comedy game, I stood on the stage of a hinterlands' Red Onion, believing myself the funniest guy who ever broke his fucking neck. She'd call two or three times a month to offer ten minutes on a stage fifty miles away, and I'd make enough dough for gas and drinks.

Besides the occasional audition, and infrequent paid gig, I'd perform at up to five open mics per week. I must say, the worst thing about doing comedy was the hanging out with comedians. The funny, happy-go-lucky ones were few and far between, while the rest were the mentally defective types who took everything from this perpetual class clown far too seriously. I never did figure out why someone with no sense of humor chose comedy as a goal.

For a few years, I spent a lot of time at clubs watching other "up and comers" die slow, pathetic deaths on stage. And for some reason, along the way I made a few comedian sworn enemies. It might have been due to my heckling them. I never set out to heckle; I considered it interaction. I actually enjoyed it when people responded to something I was talking about on stage. Even if they were giving me shit, at least they were paying attention. But some "comics" seemed genuinely surprised – straight into anger – when their joke's set-up question got answered differently than they had scripted it. Until another funnyman made their hatred of Raz known, I rarely talked shit or said a peep whilst they bombed on stage. But once we went to war, it was on and I was merciless.

There was an extra-shitty comedy club, the L.A. Cabaret in Encino, which became my home base. The cheap-ass owner, Ray, barely opened his wallet for talent, so he preferred comics like me who worked for free. A Ventura Boulevard location and gimmick promotions kept patrons trickling in. One of those promotions was "The Funniest Person in the Valley" contest. Ten weekly preliminary contests drew large numbers of friends to vote for a favorite "comic." After making the finals of the illustrious competition, I started getting booked into that shithole pretty regularly. But there was no rhyme or reason to what time slot a comic got booked into. Once a month, I'd call in and then, after a prolonged period on hold, would receive whatever spot was open at that particular moment on Ray's calendar page. The weird thing was, with the talent available, he could have put some funny shows together. Instead, there'd be a funny one, followed by four idiots in a row, another talented person, two room-clearers, and so forth.

Soon after becoming a regular at the Cabaret, I pitched Ray for a show during "National Disability Month" and got a Wednesday night for me and some gimp comic friends to do as we wished. The best part of the deal – we got to keep all the ticket money. Our flyer promised, "All proceeds go directly to the disabled," which we gladly pocketed. The show, billed as "Comics on Wheels; and Other Modern Appliances," featured some truly funny folks. Headliner Gene Michner, along with Danny Woodburn, Nancy Kennedy, Henry Holden, Slick Trenier, Paul Ryan, Christopher "Stick" Sylbert, Frankie C., and yours truly put on a well-received show to a packed house. Ray was so pleased with the turnout, "Comics on Wheels" rolled on semi-regularly until we hit an uphill stretch.

When my newest business venture began greedily consuming most of my time, I quit doing open mics and driving fifty miles to do ten minutes for gas-ish money. But I still performed an L.A. Cabaret set every week. One morning, I was super busy, and after waiting on hold for more than an hour to book shows, Ray's secretary came on the phone to blow me off with a "You'll have to try back next week."

Angry, I slammed the phone down, took a breath, and then called right back to leave Ray a message. Later that day, by sheer coincidence, while at a print shop owned by one of the Cabaret's bartender, Ray called in and my print dude told him, "I'm just sitting here with Raz Cue."

A few seconds later, I'm on the phone hearing Ray ask, "Raz, did you tell my secretary I'm a moron?"

I told Ray, "No, I said you're a fucking moron," which left me lots of time to concentrate on other interests.

I've got less forgive and forget in me than an East Coast mob boss has for rats. Even though he called the cops on me over a measly forty bucks and cost me thousands, believe it or not, for a time I actually hung out with Mike Jagosz again. I know, right? A year after Mike totally fucked me over, I received a letter from his lawyer requesting my witness testimony regarding his drunken valet encounter at the Rainbow. Mike's phone number was on the letter, so I called to say, "Dude, you fucking called the cops on me. You need to die." I wasn't buying his feeble excuses. But when he mentioned having some killer buds, I drove over for a smoke. But more importantly, to act like I could be persuaded to forgive while doing payback reconnaissance. I even surprised myself when I convinced dumbass Mike to start a grow room at his new house, using equipment left over from my abandoned grow.

Unlike the anonymous pussy way he did it, I would wait until a few days before harvest to personally walk the cops to Mike's grow, laugh in his face, then tell him "Fuck you, motherfucker!" With my plan in motion, and everything going great, I laughed a little bit inside each time I saw his pot plants' progress.

One day, Ma said to me, "I can't believe you're hanging out with Mike again." I grinned and told her my dastardly plan. She got one of her disappointed mother scowls, and gave an inaccurate assessment of my character: "I can't believe you're that mean and spiteful." It truly made me feel like shit, so even though there were only a few short months until Mike would taste the pungent asshole of payback's bitch, I immediately quit hanging out with him.

A few months later, I received a phone call from Mike's sobbing girlfriend, begging to know, "Why'd you do it?" After calming her down long enough to find out that Mike was in jail for growing pot, I convinced her I didn't do it. I needed to talk to him before one of us ended up dead, so I made her promise to call me when he bailed out. It really looked like I was the informant, because it was the end result of how I planned it out. And exactly what he did to me. Fortunately, there was lots of circumstantial evidence pointing to my innocence. And because I really hadn't called the cops, Mike mostly believed I had no part in it.

I kept Mike in my sights until 99 percent certain he wouldn't come a-gunning for me. I never did forgive him for calling the cops on me. So after shit settled down, I once again quit hanging out with him. But the whole situation made me absolutely believe in karma, and I changed my behavior accordingly. All I needed to complete my ethical evolution was learning to truly distinguish right from wrong while it hid away within the morally convenient gray area where justification is easily found. I'm just trying to be a better person. My name is Raz.

23

While I was still in the music business, I attempted to purchase a music rehearsal studio. I couldn't secure financing, but remained confident the bank got it wrong. Then, during my open-mic career, while still believing I was to be the next Raz Cue, Pops suggested I find something to fall back on; just in case the comedy career didn't pan out. I joked that there was always my ass to fall on. But the seed done been planted. So when I got my fat thirty-grand structured-settlement check on New Year's Day 1991, I didn't buy the 1973 Corvette Stingray just itching for my lead left foot to increase its already stellar occupants' death rate. Instead, I invested in opening a rehearsal studio. I reasoned that, with all the bands I knew, my place would be packed within seconds of grand opening and I could then score a far more badass 60s Corvette.

Being of superior intelligence, and chock full of early-twenties exuberance, I wisely projected income by computing the maximum possible room occupancy, multiplied by a great hourly rate. According to those sound calculations, I'd soon be swimming in cash, and thus have plenty of time to hit the national comedy club circuit, as well as the hefty bankroll needed to make indie films at my studio. When I first contemplated the project, my unemployed electrician pot-smoking buddy, an ornery Guy from Houston, encouraged and challenged me to follow through. And once I made up my mind to go for it, that same ornery Guy dared me to brand my business Faux Cue Studios: "It's French."

The only thing I needed to do was everything. I began with a quest for the perfect location by driving the east side – odelay – of North Hollywood. In no time flat, I located several two-thousand-square-foot concrete block buildings perfect for the three-roomed studio already existing in my brain. Heading home, I turned west onto Magnolia and noticed a for-lease sign atop a large concrete block building, which I believed to be way bigger than I could afford. It turned out that even though the place was almost four thousand square feet and fronted a main street, the monthly rent was an incredible fifty cents per square foot. I could not sign the lease fast enough, and received the keys just in time to celebrate turning twenty-six.

That's how Faux Cue Studios ended up near the corner of Magnolia and Cahuenga, a half block from the newly opened restaurante delicioso, Poquito Mas, in an area freshly dubbed the "Noho Arts District." Directly across the street from my joint sat Solbrook, a business that painted six-foot-tall album covers for display above records stores. Most days, at least ten of those paintings leaned against the wall out front and, unless you were up close, the artwork looked pretty good. But the landmark most folks recognized was an office furniture store two buildings over. To me, their merchandise seemed a tad overpriced for a place billing itself as a "liquidator." But what did I know? Jerry, the guy who ran the business, expanded his operation lightning-quick, and within ten years owned three of the four buildings on the property.

Before I could draw up plans to pull permits, I first needed to learn how to draw plans. I bought a drafting table and a giant T-square, then got busy doing preliminary, rough drawings. After a few days of drawing, I headed to Van Nuys to wait an hour in line at the building department, only to have the clerk barely glance at my work before smugly telling me to hire an architect. I told him, "No money for that. I just have a few questions." When Jack-Ass repeated himself, I told him, "Look, I waited in line for an hour. Just answer two questions, please." But he turned me away, and we were both lucky I couldn't smack that bitch. Undeterred by that pointy-headed bureaucrat, I merely went to another window. There, a very sweet and helpful lady answered tons of questions, and even offered a few brilliant suggestions. By my third trip, a half-gallon of white out, and seven hundred trips to Kinko's Copy Center, my plans for six 300-square-foot rooms – plus the leftover thousand-square-foot blank canvas in the back of the building – were approved.

I ordered several thousands of dollars' worth of construction shit, foolishly believing it was most of the required materials. As it turned out, on its rise from nothingness, my project burned through at least an additional hundred bucks daily, plus a few other unexpected major expenditures. A building twice as big as my original plan required double the materials, which added up far too quickly. I had also projected costs wrong by half. So if you're counting on your fingers, you might realize it cost four times more than my original assumptions; if I would have had that much capital.

Faux Cue's construction crew was comprised of my brother Joe, who kept the project running smoothly by pausing several times a day to strongly, and wrongly, disagree with a direct order. Another major contributor was that ornery Guy from Texas, who designed and completed 90 percent of my electrical needs. I paid him almost well, let him live at the studio during construction, and threw in free rehearsal for life. Even though he did a good job, the life of our agreement ended about a year post opening after I buried him in a shallow grave by the light of a half moon over the Mojave Desert. But without a doubt, the hardest worker who never stole, argued, threatened, or falsely accused me of a damn thing was our "forty-dollar specialist," Louie. I had found him wandering Home Depot's parking lot in search of a better life and white women, and hired him on the spot. We affectionately called him Gilligan, because he was our little buddy.

Besides those three, the project's success was due in large part to countless free consultations provided by contractor buddy and Patrick Swayze doppelganger, Dave. He'd drop by the jobsite a few times a week to answer a slew of questions and offer ultra-valuable advice for the price of a beer and doobie.

The build began about four weeks after I signed the lease, when a lumber truck backed into my loading dock and tilted its bed up until my large stack of wood products slid off as far as it could go. With one edge on the ground, and the remainder slanting up toward the truck, the driver inched forward until that shit dropped to earth to rock the concrete and shake my building like a mini earthquake.

About five minutes later, my crew, the truck driver, and I were in the office smoking some dirt weed while listening to "Tighten Up" – "But don't you get too tight" – when a chick from the neighboring office dropped by to do some recon. While making some third-degree small talk, she noticed the clothes hanging in the office and asked, "Is someone living here?"

I told her, "Nope, chicks come by and we fuck 'em."

Joe added, "Then we give 'em a shirt."

I shrugged and offered a flirty smile, "You want a shirt?"

She scanned the room, quite possibly pondering whether she needed a shirt from one of us, but declined before hurrying from the hairies. We put on "God is a Bullet," finished smoking, and then started building walls.

I firmly believe, in all aspects of life, someone needs to be in charge. So I eagerly switched into full boss-man mode. After all, I was paying the fucking bills. Not being able to put my own "Manuel labor" into a project has always frustrated the fuck out of me. Plus, there was the dreaded sitting there seeing how to best do a job, getting totally ignored while offering sage advice, and then footing the bill to repair shit after it's all fucked up. I'm a "do it right or don't do it at all" type guy. So unless I fully trust a worker will do the task correctly, I lay out every little step, then hover, eagle-eyed-know-it-all ready to yell, "Stop!"

Time and again, that'd piss off dummies, even if they were fucking shit up when I applied the verbal brakes. I regularly heard stuff like, "You're too anal," or, "Quit micro-managing every fucking thing I do." At times, those correct observations persuaded me to leave a worker on their own to complete a relatively straightforward task, containing huge margins for error, only to return and discover morons fucked everything up. Instead of an apology for wasting my time and money, I usually got, "You didn't say that's how you wanted it." Make up your mind, people!

By mid-April, the studios were near operable, but I was even nearer broke. But at twenty-six, I could still easily fit my fears and doubts into a matchbox, so I thought nothing of spending every last penny I owned, even after failure smiled seductively and offered an easy out. There is not a soul on this planet who likes a quitter less than I do, so I cut the spending spigot way back to a trickle and begged my crew, "All I want to do is get the doors on the rooms," knowing full well that, once I owned a functioning studio, I'd have a valuable commodity for barter. Not to mention the huge stacks of cash brought in by all those bands clamoring to practice at my place. And all my dreams would come true.

The weekend before my final inspection, I threw a humongous grand-opening Bar-B-Faux Cue, with kegs, buds, burgers, dogs, and mega munchies. I printed up stacks of flyers with the first of many cheesy slogans: "If they ask you where you rehearse, say Faux Cue." The flyer also pointed out that the studio sat "5 minutes from Hollywood (at 3am doin' 90 MPH)," which I had clocked in my Isuzu. Because the place was not complete, the timing of my grand opening celebration was a huge tactical error. I had reasoned it would be better to paint, install carpet, and hang the doors after a hundred drunken motherfuckers partied hard there. But during the wing-ding, I constantly corrected folks who thought the place was still months from completion. By my count, only three or four future customers attended my promo event.

Like I repeatedly promised party guests, I opened the very next weekend. With the doors hung, the last order of business was final inspection. To my horror, the city inspector told me the ceiling's drywall was running in the wrong direction. I didn't have two grand to redo the ceilings, so I excused myself and sent Joe to the ATM to get five hundred bucks. But good fortune smiled, and as it turned out, my misreading of the building code had provided far more ceiling joist capacity than code required. So no bribe was necessary.

In another weird code misadventure, one of the bathrooms was built accessible for the needs of the gimp who would use it 99 percent of the time – me. But it wasn't up to ADA code, and to pass inspection, I was required to meet an arbitrary standard etched in stone. Thanks to the city of Los Angeles, I spent an extra three hundred bucks redoing, then undoing the redo. So I did not feel any guilt about never getting a business license. I also passed on acquiring fire insurance. Because, as I told several insurance salesmen, "If my place burns down, it's just God's way of telling me I need to get into another line of work."

*

So there I sat, the penniless owner of six 300-square-foot rehearsal rooms; just rooms with no carpet, equipment, or air conditioning. It took a year and a half to get the place air conditioned, which forced me to slash my imagined hourly rate just to get customers through the door more than once. In the meantime, I went to Carpeteria and, for three rooms' worth of carpet, signed on the dotted line allowing them merciless financial butt-rape. As an attempt to make singers happy, I financed one crappy PA from Carvin, and for the second PA, I went to Nadine's Music to Amex around two grand worth of gear. My buddy Sam hooked me up with several milk crates full of cords, a power amp, and a half dozen microphones. Just because he was a pretty, sweet bitch. Cords constantly failed, but it was a great start. Plus, I learned that milk crates make stylish racks for mounting gear. Last but not least, I furnished the rooms with crusty, found-on-the-side-of-the-road couches that grew far crustier over time.

To get some cash flow going, I raided bands away from nearby studio L.P. Sound by letting a few old friends rehearse for free. One reason – I'm the coolest unreasonable cunt ever. But more believably, I realized rather quickly it was good optics if my place appeared popular. Plus, those bands enjoyed varying degrees of success, and accompanying respect from fellow musicians, thus providing my newly established joint's credibility. Right around the same time my doors opened for business, The Wild broke up after keyboardist Dizzy Reed joined another semi-popular rock 'n' roll band. But each one his former bandmates brought their new projects over to my place from L.P. Sound. Then, when Dizzy finished touring the globe, his side projects jammed at Faux Cue.

I had never met the owner of L.P. Sound. But when the band Mondo Kane migrated to Faux Cue, Gary had enough and dropped by to scout out my place. To the benefit of his customers, he began seeing me as some kind of major competition. Thus, the service at his place improved greatly. But in reality, he had no need to even have bands at L.P. Sound. We were two wholly different business models. I made my money running a legitimate-ish business that opened promptly according to a set schedule, while Gary sold two pounds of killer weed per day, an eighth at a time. But I was glad he did what he do, because for almost two years, I was a regular green customer at L.P., until Kenny the Gardener wandered into Faux Cue to save the hip a half-mile hemp trip.

Right from the get-go, I began receiving payback for the dirty deeds I'd been dealing out since I first learned to work every angle. On the recommendation of a friend, I rented my entire studio out for a small private birthday party. Unfortunately, the renter passed out flyers around Hollywood. More than three hundred animals, with little or no respect for my property, descended on my studio to party until dawn. Even though it was something I had done more than once to others' property, I hated it happening to poor little ol' me. Then, during my regular business hours, it only took a few assholes spitting on the walls, pissing all over the bathroom, or any other variety of theft and vandalism to totally get me down. I wondered why someone would do that kind of shit, when I tried my damndest to treat people with respect and provide a nice place at a decent price.

I once believed in honor amongst thieves, but a thief has no honor. If it wasn't under lock and key, carefully watched, or accounted for, tons of expensive shit got gone. The most often recurring thefts for dollar amount – about a hundred bucks a pop – were several microphones missing every month. Plus, bad employees stole more of my CDs than I ever shoplifted, which was quite a feat. As soon as I got a heavy dose of how shitty the loser's end tasted, it got me to stop stealing altogether. But for another few years, I still bought stolen shit if a wandering salesman happened by. Music gear, food stamps, batteries, or whatever else the local street scum pedaled. I eventually became "holier than thou" against facilitating theft by purchasing stolen items after deciding to live life as if God was watching, even before I was convinced of His existence. Nowadays, I have faith. But remain leery of religion.

The very first week after I opened Faux Cue Studios, a singer friend sent his latest band over for some preproduction. They would have been an excellent group, had they existed for longer than their three weeks at my place. The bass player, Ron Cordi, formerly of an almost-made-it-big band, Bitch, became a Faux Cue alumnus. But his other jam-mates, recently departed from Megadeath, Jay Reynolds and Chuck Behler, only stopped in once or twice after that first month. I bring them up not just for the name drop, but because their buddy Epi dropped by one night and was soon offering me a bunch of "like new" carpet. All I need do was drive a mile to his place so he could toss it in my truck. I thought he was totally full of shit, but the next afternoon, I received over a thousand square feet of barely-used-during-TV-show-filming, free carpet. Epi's black-on-black, dark black , double-flat black drums moved in soon after. And because he was a super funny, helpful, multi-talented, wheeling, dealing, bartering, all-around good dude to have as a friend, there they stayed for almost a decade.

As promotion went, letting friends jam for free, or at steeply discounted rates, couldn't possibly have paid my weed bills. Flyers worked well, but were labor intensive. My go-to strategy became bimonthly local trade rag Music Connection Magazine. It didn't take long for me to feel like all my work went to simply buying ads from them, because twice a month, I'd write 'em a decent-sized check so I could draw in the occasional cool group. And handfuls of shitty little bands. I learned some important things about print advertising. One was, don't wait until grand opening to start ads. In case you care, start at least a month early and get that motherfucking phone ringing! And another pearl – don't stop buying ads when business starts swinging. Bands regularly broke up or got their own lockout studio, and it was a constant struggle keeping my rooms full. And when business dropped off, if ads weren't running, I'd wait even longer for shit to pick up again. So, except for a three-month period, I bought them fucking ads religiously till the day I died. Give an example of hyperbole.

For a while, I dug answering the phone with an exuberant "Faux Cue," but eventually went to the quick ease of "Studio." I realized one thing pretty quickly: I had never kissed as much ass in my entire life until opening a business called Faux Cue. It was simple math. If I told a band to "Fuck off," and they did, I just sent maybe ninety bucks a week packing. And because of my fondness for eating, I routinely ignored the sound of pride fucking with me. Being financially forced to remain nice, while holding my tongue to people that were clueless and annoying, was the most aggravating thing about running a business. I simply could never blow my stack to the anal, uptight worry-monger who called twenty different times to book, then rebook over and over, for a spot two months down the road. Even after repeatedly assuring them daytime was never full, and they without doubt could get a room by calling to schedule ten days before. And all that for twenty bucks. So not only was I a whore, I was a cheap whore.

You must've heard the saying, "Find something you love and make it your work... blah, blah, blah." It's bullshit. I love music – shows and produced recordings – but I quickly realized my burning hate for rehearsals. I'd bet that over my years at Faux Cue Studios, I didn't venture into them rooms more than twenty times whilst music was practiced. When people asked, "Any good bands come in here?" I'd tell 'em, "You could get the Stones, Zeppelin, Sabbath, Deep Purple, and Hendrix in here, and if they all played at once, it'd sound like crap."

There were tons of cool, talented bands that jammed at Faux Cue. But I still chuckle-cringe remembering the personification of those lesser bands who paid my bills, all the while making life miserable for people with ears. That would be Bang Betty, who practiced regularly four times a week, every week, for my first few years.

Before they decided on their cheesiest of cheesy names, I suggested Bang Betty brand themselves "The Worst Band in the World" or "Rehearsal Doesn't Help." I liked Johnny, the bass player, as well as Razzie on guitar. But their "drummer," looking and talking like a rock star, was the personification of a poseur and an annoying fuck. That poor sap never learned to count to four and back. Not a small issue for a "drummer." Being of the counter-gifted genre meant that, over the years, the band went through a slew of shitty singers to round out their din, and I was trapped having to hear it all. That shit was more painful than chewing on an aluminum foil ball while someone hammered your nuts with a mallet. But despite the major shade I'm throwing on Bang Betty, we actually got along great and often partied together.

One night, I noticed, high above Sunset Strip atop the recently shuttered Gazzari's, "Bang Betty" in big red block letters on the club's marquee. Reportedly, those letters were left piled up on the roof, and for a few free rehearsals, Faux Cue Studios and its phone number were added to the marquee just below the club's "C-Ya, Pal" farewell salute to Bill Gazzari. Then, for a few more free rehearsals, Bang Betty glued up five hundred Faux Cue flyers on the side of Guitar Center. When the store's manager called to bitch, I told him, "Guitar Center sucks. I wouldn't disgrace my studio by associating it with you."

The ultra-crap acts presented themselves about as often as the supremely talented, and both were extremely limited in number. Most bands fell into rock's great wide mediocrity, but likely would have knocked your daughters' socks off if they performed at her high school dance or the local bar. After my ornery electrician and I parted ways, I got his G-Teaze band mates and a cute puppy, Angelo, in the separation agreement. Soni, an Indian (red dot) who, against stereotypes, worked at his father's 7-11, was a solid drummer and fellow herb lover. His jam buddy, Bruce, played bass pretty good; not great, but not terrible either. When I found out his father owned a GMC/Oldsmobile dealership, I often told him, "C'mon, Bruce, all you got to do is work your ass off for your Pops, and one day that dealership will be yours." I wish I could have traded my studio for his dad, and then worked my way to the top while driving a different Vette or bad-ass truck every few months. But they were good, solid, long-term regular customers. And Angelo was already house trained.

I had more than a few great bands jam at my place, but without a doubt, the best of best was Wool. Within a month of opening Faux Cue Studios, brothers Pete and Franz Stahl dropped by to check out the facilities. When I saw Franz's Nirvana shirt, I asked, "Is that for the Cult song?"

Franz said, "No, it's a band. Our old drummer plays with them."

That former band he spoke of was O.G. DC punk rock's Scream. And the drummer was future rock royalty. Besides the Stahl boys, Wool featured onetime Concrete Blond bassist Al Bloch, and ex-Government-Issue drummer Peter Moffett. It was quite a talented lineup, and the sonically gifted group was quite adept at blowing up PA speakers; costing me in repairs I couldn't afford. I got to brainstorming and designed a "Wool-proof" PA, thus cutting way back on blown voice coils. If they couldn't blow that shit up, no one could. And I ended up saving lots of long-run time and money.

Up front, Pete Stahl was, without a doubt, the best frontman I had seen since Axl Rose in his hungry days. Pete frighteningly surrendered consciousness to music's soul, writhing, grooving, and owning every inch of the stage while delivering passionate, powerful, high-energy, in-your-face vocals. I really dug Franz's voice, too, but he preferred the aggressive crunching away of high-quality, power-punk chords while bobbing and stomping. Then there were Al Block and Pete Moffet, making up the incredible, dynamic thundering rhythm section that at times digressed into progressive metal. When Pete told me he considered Wool a hardcore punk band, I said, "Nah, you guys are too good." A few years after we met, they scored a well-deserved major-label record deal. I really dug their album Box Set, and still can't fathom why it didn't sell well.

While Nirvana put the finishing touches on a little album they called Nevermind, Dave Grohl would occasionally drop by Faux Cue to hang with old friends. I was so busy running my place that, despite being on the list, I couldn't go see Wool open for Nirvana at The Roxy a few weeks before Nevermind nuked glam. Then, the next weekend, when they shot the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video, I of course ended up working instead of costarring in the iconic video. Even when his band hit the big time, Dave kept a spare drum kit at my place. And whenever in L.A., he would drop in to pound on them. For a minute, Dave had a little side-project jam band he called Foo Fighters. They practiced at Faux Cue, and even opened a club show for Wool. It was a completely different line-up from those Foo Fighters the world came to know, love, and respect. All I recall is Dave up front, and on drums, a cat named Brian Brown from a very cool group, Bluebird. Upon hearing the name of Dave's side project, I asked him, "Who are these Foos? And why is everybody fighting them?"

Around the time Kurt got ka-banged, Wool coincidently was in need of a drummer. One night, while sharing a bottle of cheap whiskey, I asked Franz if they would hit up Dave Grohl to join Wool. Franz told me probably not, and added, "Dave's a great songwriter, so he'll probably start his own band." Guess so. If Wool had never wandered into my place, I would have missed out on seeing great acts, such as Foo Fighters and Queens of the Stone Age, early and often during their rise. No matter how successful he got, Dave always seemed to be the same down-to-earth, good-natured bloke that first dropped by Faux Cue to visit his mates. The kind of bandmate anyone who ever hit the road wished their main man was more like.

I must give an honorable mention to the owner of the most impressive recording résumé to grace my place, the one and only Louis Johnson of The Brothers Johnson. For several years, he ran the "Louis Johnson Bass Academy" from within Faux Cue Studios. Before Louis set up his academy, he had dropped by several times to quiz me about my place. I had him pegged as some old wannabe musician, wasting my time with endless questions and tales of his imagined accountant. Once a quite real accountant started cutting me checks, and one of my workers flipped out upon seeing Louis on the schedule, and then that same employee busted out with "Get the Funk Out Ma Face," I began giving Louis his well-deserved respect. One afternoon, he tossed his bio on my desk, requesting me to proof it for typos. As I looked over page after page of outstanding performances, on legendary works, I was amazed I had never known of "Thunder Thumbs" Louis Johnson, even though the man played on Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson albums as well as scores of scores of other highly acclaimed shit.

*

I am well aware my tales of opening a studio sound more than a tad whiney poor-me-ish, but business actually started out decent. Most of my early consternation could be traced to – after a year – the place not producing anywhere near the forecasted income. And the studios still needed at least fifty grand worth of equipment, soundproofing, furnishing, and various structural improvements. All the while, more needs constantly jumped to the top of the ol' to-do list. The self-imposed financial downgrade meant that, by the first summer post-grand-opening, instead of tearing up the highways in a 60s Corvette, I moved into the studio due to unpaid apartment rent.

For three years prior to opening my studio, I had made steady progress in the walking department, getting stronger while achieving even greater stamina and distance. But I never got past the slow, plodding, Frankenstein-foot-dragging stage. That pace was totally unacceptable to customers unwilling to wait ten minutes for something that could get done in a twenty-second wheelchair trip. Because most of my time was spent in the "right now" mode of satisfying customers, I cut way back on walking and eventually turned into a massive bowl of jiggly Jell-O.

It didn't help my physical abilities that beer flowed in rivers, while frequently smoked mass quantities of weed's delicious fragrance permeated the building's air. If someone had good bud, I'd more often than not accept a tasty toke. But I soon gave up on the free beer opportunities. Just like fishing, band rehearsal is a beer-drinking activity, so several twelve packs per hour wandered through my lobby, usually accompanied by a "You want a beer, Raz?" For the first few months, I hardly ever declined the tasty beverage. But it soon became quite clear that, with a few beers in me, I'd let a bunch of people slide; two bucks here and four bucks there. Being a happy drunk was costing me up to twenty bucks a night, so I quit drinking at work. But I'd steal a beer from an unattended twelve pack whenever I got the chance, and then redistribute it to the beer poor.

The biggest surprise of all was how many hours a day were required of me. Between answering the phone, starting at eleven in the morning, until the last band split after one the next morning, it was a long slog of daily ass-kissing with no reciprocation. For the first few months, I had two employees, each working about ten hours a week. It was a money thing, combined with a Raz-doesn't-trust-anyone issue, that kept them from getting more hours. The very likeable karate kid, Robin, had only worked a few months before I fired him. Because whenever he worked, shit went missing. But it wasn't him taking stuff. It's just that he was such a nice, honest kid, the rock vultures would swoop in and pick all the benefit-of-the-doubt meat from his gullible carcass. Once I let Robin go, I got a taste for firing folks. I then canned my other employee within the hour, mostly because he was a dick. Don't call them "piss boys," but over the years, my non-dick employees were Trick, Riff, Mark, Marc, and Andy.

Right before Thanksgiving of my first year, the place really got running smooth after my buddy Vinni moved back from New York. I put him up, and he'd work the studio at least half the time. What a relief. I had worked without a day off for months, because I was a dick who fired his employees. Vinni was rock 'n' roll to the core, friendly, louder than the stereo, opinionated, and loved by all. As an added benefit, he would hit the Hollywood clubs several nights a week to support customers' bands while spreading the Gospel of Faux Cue. With no money to go out, I'd let him do all the work while I hung around the studio to collect cash, smoke out, and crush all takers at Madden football. I soon realized that having a job where I got paid to smoke pot and play video games wasn't all I had imagined.

On Wednesday nights, the rooms were usually all booked up, plus my lobby was crammed full of dudes escaping girlfriends watching Beverly Hills 90210. I had a cool set-up in the lobby: TV, 2 VCRs, a Sega with stacks of games, and controllers to smash when things did not go my way. My buddy and talented drummer, Scotty Slam, was the 90s version of YouTube. Dude owned hundreds of video tapes, of almost every cool band from the previous thirty years, and he'd bring requested videos over for viewing/dubbing parties in the lobby. Despite being a San Francisco Giants fan, Slam was a cool dude who once posited a theory which proved correct time and again: "All you need do for music at a party is to set War's Greatest Hits on repeat."

Biz usually fell off by up to 25 percent during the dog days of summer. But even at the height of income, during the busiest part of the year, money never reached even half of the pipe dream figures projected prior to tackling the studio project. After subtracting my lowering of the hourly rate from the constant flakes, over the course of my busiest month, I was lucky to average seven or eight full-paying bands per day. Except for Monday through Thursday, it was a bitch to keep my rooms fully booked. On just one of those weekdays, I'd usually get more bands than all of Friday through Sunday combined. But of course, even if there were only two bands over a nine-hour stretch on a Saturday night, I needed to be there. But mostly, weekend work amounted to waiting around for bands with shows to pick up or drop off their stored gear.

By the end of my first year, four rooms with varying levels of PAs were up and running. My last two rooms were to be geared up as soon as I paid off the previous months' Amex. During Thanksgiving week, as expected, business slowed to a drunken crawl. But I was completely blindsided by an ultra-slowness of two bands per day, lasting well into January. Unfortunately, I had already spent money that never arrived, so I borrowed even more money to pay back other creditors. One thing that always bugged the fuck out of me was the certain customers who gave endless grief and argued prices whenever I tried collecting the more-than-fair monies owed. Some would allude to or straight out accuse me of chiseling them. They were of the opinion I was raking in fat stacks, but never saw the money actually flowed outward like the mighty Mississippi. I'd often argue back, "You think I'd be living in this fucking studio if I was making good money?"

It wasn't all misery, and there were plenty of good times. One of the coolest things about my studio's location was that it sat directly across the street from the lesbian bar "Rumors." Now, they didn't get an abundance of the highly coveted lipstick variety of lesbian, but for most of us, it was better than having a male gay bar across the street. Every few months, they'd have strippers, and if you ever get a chance to see strippers at a lesbo bar, do whatever it takes to get there! The ladies that ran Rumors, Trish and Toni, were super nice to me. We had so much in common – including our love of the vagina – but they never answered an all-important question: "If women can have multiple orgasms, how do lesbians know when to stop?"

Until my time spent Rumors-adjacent, I had absolutely no idea that watching ladies brawl turned me on. Which was quite a surprise discovered innocently enough after one of my customers yelled from out front, "Girl fight!"

After watching intently for a few minutes, as the chicks across the street engaged in fisticuffs, I realized I was getting a chubby. So I told my fellow fight fans, "Damn, I'm getting a chubby." To my great delight, there were girl fights on that sidewalk across the street every so often, because when lesbians start arguing, the de-escalation strategy of a sincere "Yes, dear" is clearly off the table.

Almost a year to the day of opening Faux Cue Studios, L.A. threw a riot to celebrate. A few of us sat in the lobby, partying throughout the night, locked and loaded, ready to defend property in a patriotic muzzle flash. The looting hordes never made it to my street, and we didn't get firebombed or nothing. But the curfew shut me down for a few nights, and business slowed up for several weeks.

For several reasons, 93 was the highest-income year of my Faux Cue adventure. But when 1994 got going, I expected big things would be built upon the prior year's success. In January, I cleared out the huge back room and rented it as a lockout. I had been living on one side of the room, and junk was pile-stored on the other side. After a long day of moving my stuff around, the guys wanted to call it a night. But I insisted a huge stack of heavy boxes, piled six feet high on the nightstand right next to my bed, get moved first. When one of the guys promised to move it the next day, I said, "Nothing around here ever gets done 'tomorrow.' If there's an earthquake, that shit'll fall on my head." There was some bitching and moaning, but ultimately the shit got relocated. A few days later, the Northridge earthquake hit. Upon seeing the swinging fluorescent fixture jump straight up and bash the ceiling, just before the ground got real shaky, I once again knew my bitchy-bitching had been vindicated.

Even though I was only twelve miles from the epicenter, my studio received only the slightest of damage. Because, as a California native, everything was overkill secured, allowing me to enjoy some gnarly bed surfing without too much stress. After the Christmas slowdown, I had looked forward to business getting back to full steam come mid-January. Then there was the earthquake, causing it to remain ultra-slow until March when business returned to near normal. So with a stellar year behind, five rooms going, and that lockout paying half my lease, I moved into an apartment two days before Nirvana broke up with a bang.

It took less than three months till the double rents were killing me. So I moved back into the studio. Sadly, after March's brief gasp of rekindled business income, Faux Cue never regained the band volume it enjoyed before the ground shook. Business remained terrible for the next few years. The biggest factor contributing to my studio's massive and extended slowdown was that the Sunset Strip rock scene finally imploded under the weight of a thousand shitty poseurs. Part of it was due to the Northridge quake leaving at least one guy or his beloved girlfriend, from almost every band, scared and traumatized. So by the summer, several rock 'n' quitters had given up, packed up, and moved back home to play in cover bands and wait for Facebook to come along to relieve a glorious, hedonistic youth. Looking back, it's clear to me the Northridge Earthquake drove the final stake through the Sunset Strip's hairy heart.

24

The best part of living at Faux Cue Studios was that no neighbors meant freedom to make excessive noise well into the night and on through the next several days. But having no shower there sucked, forcing a drive to the gym to bathe alongside seasoned citizens and fags. I could give a shit about the homos, who mostly kept the BJs and butt-fucking out of sight, but the old guys depressed me. In my youth, I felt as though I had gotten old, and one introspective day, I looked down to my massive cluster of keys and sighed, "Man, I've become the janitor from elementary school." I had bought myself a job with way too many work hours. I felt like nothing more than a money redistribution center. Because every damn time I got a decent-sized pile of cash, some immediate expense reared its ugly head to snatch it from my grasp. On the upside, as sole proprietor, any scraps left behind in the cash drawer were most definitely party funds.

Owning a studio didn't start me hard-drug partying. But living there changed everything for the better of my closest fiends, and a few lucky drug dealers. Up until that time in my life, whenever my mental state was even slightly off, I routinely avoided hard liquor and harder drugs. Booze and pills and powders were for good-time fun. Plus, if no hard drugs were around, I rarely set out on a jonesing mission. But when the heavy shit was offered, my impulse control was considerably lacking. After the Guns' house was history, I seldom invited drug-involved male friends over to my place. I'd head out to party all night, then roll crookedly home to rest, recuperate, and hide away until it was time to go-go-go again. But there were tons of drug opportunities at Faux Cue studios, and nowhere to hide.

I always preferred cocaine over speed. After a night of blow partying, I could slam five shots of whiskey and then it was good night, Charlie. By the early 90s, much of the available coke had gotten ultra shitty. But the speed was real good, abundant, and comparatively cheap. Even a tiny amount of speed kept me wide awake for a couple days, and far hornier than a one-armed gimp could stand. So much so, a few times, the speed managed to convince me I had always wanted to bang a three-hundred-pound chick. If that really was a chick!

My buddy Pear loved the gak, and would provide me the occasional bump while his band was setting up. Then, after closing, we'd keep the party going. While he and a couple inner-circle folks stayed awake for days, into weeks, I'd only tweak for a night or two and then rest a few days before dabbling again. But before long, I began doing more speed than ever before in my life, solely for the chicks. Because when one has speed-loving rocker dudes as your closest fiends, with a safe place to party, you get loads of tweaked-out strippers, whores, and groupies coming around in desperate need of hours' worth of lovin.

It seemed like during the times when all the lower-tier groupies were doing too much coke, it would take them months, or years, to slither on down to Hell's rock bottom. Meth was an entirely different animal, and the crank-ho frequently morphed from sweet, fresh-faced beauty into an emaciated, scar-faced, raving lunatic inside four weeks. But they were far hornier, for longer periods of time, than the coke whores from daze of yore. So of course they were welcome to Faux Cue for those four good tweaks. I'll hip you all to a little secret: In my experience, the innocent victim of a sex trafficker excuse many offer when prostitution's salad days are well past is total bullshit. The people I knew, who started out with normal sexual appetites and morals, did not gravitate toward renting out their genitals as a fun way to make extra cash. But once a certain personality profile got her first taste of pole work, many a stripper were just a shot, pimp, and a bump away from being a hooker.

I'm a beyond-suspicious person and, until proven otherwise, always assume everyone has a moral defect, fiendish agenda, or both. At first, my party buddies were folks I had known for several years and, more importantly, where they lived. Unfortunately, speed enthusiasts often hung out with tweakers, meaning more and more scumbags were thrust into my life. There's a huge difference between those who enjoy speed and a tweaker whose brain has rotted from pounds of nasal caffeine and months of sleeping only five hours a week. Even if the tweaker had not been disrespected or slighted in any way, they would work scenarios in their sizzled gray matter until they justified robbing, stealing, or worse. Other junkies steal shit because they need drugs. But that don't mean they no longer like you. It took a few years of semi-frequent meth use to accept the fact that sleep and food were my friends. The summer after the Northridge earthquake, I cut way back on the gak and purged most of the speed-partying from my place.

I started "righting" a book about my life. If I would have followed though to the finish, this would have been the last sentence. But I can only do two things at a time, and both of them were drugs. It's funny what I thought were the highlights some twenty years back. The mantra of my youth, "Don't trust anyone over thirty," left me fretting about turning thirty. I actually began dreading that particular milestone birthday the night before my twenty-eighth. So by the time it arrived, thirty was more of a bummer than need be. My whole existence had revolved around youthful rebellion and questioning authority. "Hey, Raz, don't jump balls first into that fire." "Fuck you! Don't tell me what to do."

Through a series of unexpected events, by the end of that year, my life resembled a hypodermic in a haystack. Unfortunately, my studio was the haystack. My buddy Jimbo, a recent paraplegic and a very likeable, energetic hardcore motherfucker with a tattoo across his back – "Still Alive but Not Kicking" – often dropped by to use my accessible bathroom. He'd then disappear for a while, only to return in full nod. To save him the trouble, I began letting him smoke his dope in my office. Every once in a black moon, I'd hit him up for a few hits of tar heroin off the foil. For a few years, that was it – two or three hits max, about once a month.

One of my very first paying bands, Rozy Coyote, were a great group, with a huge draw that packed Gazzari's every other week. Shout out to Tim, Johnny, and Jay. At some point, they hired a new drummer, Rick. He was a major pothead, so we got along great and he hung out all the time. The fall after banishing speed from my place, Rick, to whom I had mistakenly mentioned my occasional tar heroin forays, began relentlessly bugging, "Have your buddy get us a couple of dimes of dope."

Solely to shut up his pestering ass, I put in an order. We then chased the dragon in my office, and after it flew away, I spent five hours sprawled on the lobby couch, scratching my nose and nodding. Of all the junkies I had been around, until that afternoon, I never took more than three hits. Those several more than plenty of hits confirmed to me ten-fold my hate for heroin. I actually told anyone who cared to listen how much heroin sucked. So imagine my surprise when, by the end of the year, I had morphed into a stinky, junkie, scumbag gimp.

I accept full responsibility, and am not trying to assign blame when I say, fucking Rick. As a big-time music mogul, junkies were part of my landscape. And because I had no desire for and a strong dislike of heroin, I had felt safe letting a few select friends score their dope and get high at my facility. Those drugs, stored inside tiny balloons tied in a knot, got delivered by non-English-speaking dudes with pagers, packed that way so they could be swallowed if law enforcement closed in. But it was a bitch getting at those urgently needed drugs. First rip the knot from the balloon, remove it, and then unwrap some aluminum foil to access the tar's last barrier, a cut-up piece of grocery bag plastic the shit was ultimately wrapped in. To release it from the plastic, the sticky-tar-dope was pressed hard onto the foil and then the plastic quickly ripped away. Position one end of a straw over the lump, light 'er up from underneath, and chase that sizzling, smoking tar ball running down an aluminum valley while suppressing a gag. I am absolutely not jonesing right now.

During cold weather, it seemed like I was always chilled to the bone and could never get warm. But a few hits of tar heroin warmed me to my core. Sometimes I'd even get a little sweat going, even if it was forty degrees out. For all you non-Southern-California folks, forty is like arctic to us. So with an extra-chilly December, and a few dopers coming and going most days, I'd take a few hits to warm up. Soon, I began accepting a dime of tar as repayment for money loaned. The chill was gone. Next thing I knew, I had done a dime of heroin thirteen days straight, but couldn't hide away for the three or four days needed to clean up. There was a business to run into the ground. So I began smoking Marlboros again and upped my dose to twenty bucks a day.

Tolerance built up quickly, and sense of time got so distorted that several months felt like a few weeks. By then, forty bucks' worth of dope would barely get me "well." I faced a choice. Start shooting up or quit. My fear of needles, and a lifelong desire to never become a junkie, made my decision easy. I begged a friend to watch my studio for a week and ran off to cold turkey at a cheap motel. I never understood the concept of drug rehabilitation. Why pay someone for something that you must ultimately accomplish on your own? It's like those diet programs, where you pay someone twice as much for half the fucking food. Just put down the pipe, or fork, asshole. I have always felt drugs are the choice between fuck it or fuck that. Meaning, when you surrender to an urge with a "fuck it," your next action is calling the dope man. And then there's no turning back. Or you can choose to say, "Fuck that," and not be a weak bitch.

I returned to work confident the accidental heroin addiction was behind me. There was also a big change I believed was going to help my mental state. I found a way to skip showering at the gym. Jimbo had introduced me to couple of gimps living nearby, Ray and Bob, and for a few bucks, I could shower at their place. When I exited the bathroom, after my very first pay shower, I found Ray and Bob chasing the dragon in the dining room. Because I didn't like dope, even a little, and I'm a social guy, I took the offered hits.

A few minutes later, Bob loaded a hit of crack into a little glass pipe. Even though I had snorted a few metric tons' worth of coke, I hadn't smoked any in over a decade. So when the crack pipe got passed my way, I knew I could take it or leave it. Wrong! That sweet-smelling sizzle-smoke of rock cocaine mixed wonderfully with my heroin buzz. That shit was Mmm, Mmm good and evilly bad at the same time. While cocaine seduced, heroin bullied, and twenty thousand dollars later, I realized the shit wasn't actually that good. But I smoked another 20k worth just to be sure. I am absolutely not jonesing right now.

After my first hit in a decade, whenever party time arrived, I always sang to my cocaine, "We will, we will rock you." Once the prep was done, as my co-smokers sat around waiting for big daddy Raz to take the first hit, I'd sometimes fuck with them by flicking little pieces of crack-rock off of my knee while saying, "Ping, ping, ping," figuring it'd be fun watching them carpet crawl after we ran out of shit. Unable to fathom that anyone would actually waste crack, those folks rarely carpet crawled. But one night, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a decent-sized sliver of rock cocaine on my office floor. I hastily retrieved it to load into my pipe, only to realize it was a piece of fried rice. But I got two hits off that shit.

I came up with a brilliant strategy to avoid getting strung out again: party for three days, then skip two days. If being dead is like sleeping, I'm going to love being dead. My love of slumber drove my junkie buddies crazy. While I slept off my come-down in fourteen-hour clips, they were cramped-up insomniacs for three or more days. I'd only get out of bed long enough to empty my pee jug, take a couple Advil, down a quart of water, and then back to bed for another clip. Helping me out around the studio were a few junkie/party buddies who worked for drugs. Those shady characters, combined with my newfound lack of interest in personal hygiene, caused business to suffer for some reason.

Almost five Faux-King years had passed, so it was about time for another fat settlement check. Them hard drugs had got me broke. In desperate need of getting my head straight, I got one of those settlement advances and received some capital a few months early. The three-month financial time shift ended up costing about 60 percent interest, but money allowed me to send the junkies packing. Then I shut down the studio to hide away from all the drugs that daily walked through my door.

My heaviest drug use was over by the fall of 95. But no one likes a quitter. So I chipped away chasing the dragon two or three times a month, mostly to take the edge of the crack, for another year or so. Then, beginning the day of the North Hollywood shootout, I stayed hard-drug clean for three years. I have only fucked around again a few times since, but those excursions were more than fifteen years ago. With the keys to vending machines, as well as a cup full of quarters, I turned to sugar as my drug of choice and super-sized myself.

*

Besides driving druggies from my wasted world, the second phase of my plan was to convert the entire facility into monthly lockouts. Not a huge moneymaker, but it meant a positive cash flow for a fraction of the work hours. And the best part was not having to daily deal with a thousand asses desiring a kiss. But when the studio was empty, I fell in love with the place all over again. As 96 began, I was sober-ish and possessed tons of cash. But instead of cutting and running, I remodeled and spruced the joint up real nice. Faux Cue Studios received new carpets, couches, a multi-colorful paint job, plus all the PAs, mics, and stands were upgraded or returned to tip-top condition. I also began preliminary steps toward converting the seldom-used backroom into a recording studio. And the biggest new moneymaker: three rooms' worth of guitar amps, drums, and such to rent out fully equipped studios, which became instantly popular.

During the remodel, I went "full retard" and accepted that I should just live there. So in one of the rooms, I built a bachelor apartment with kitchen, shower, and washer/dryer. All the comforts of home on a railroad track. Altogether with my hide-a-rehab and remodeling work, the studio remained closed at least four months. The time off and return to my core group of supportive friends put me in the proper state of mind. But my extended period of hard-drug use, with its accompanying studio-full of junkie worker bees and the closing down for several months, killed lots of business. My refreshed attitude and lack of odor, all combined with environmental, equipment, and service upgrades, meant that, by summer, I returned to positive cash flow. I then set out in earnest to finish the recording studio.

Then life got even better. My brother Omar turned eighteen, and days later moved down from Carmel to beautiful Noho by the fleas. All of a sudden, I had someone I completely trusted to watch the place and willing to work for beer. Omar did great work; the customers loved him and I enjoyed having him around. I began getting out more often and seeing bands. When they sought my opinion, I'd often say, "I really liked that one song. But why'd you guys play it seven times in a row?"

At the clubs, to my dismay, all I knew were the dudes. When I did the artist management thing, I knew scores of fuckable honeys at every club or bar. But not fond of sucking dick, knowing almost every long-haired, drug-addict, rocker dude in a club did nothing for me. I quickly tired of the club scene, and on my off nights, I mostly hid out in my bachelor pad, smoking pot and watching movies while my little brother ran the place.

There was a neighborhood crackhead, Weasel, who would occasionally wander into the studio trying to sell stuff he "found," all the while looking to find stuff sitting around my place. I'd keep a watchful eye, playing it cool, and after a little small talk would diplomatically send him away. One night, after seeing him for the third time in a day, too busy for diplomacy and tired of dealing with bullshit, I bellowed, "Dude, how many times I got to tell you to stay the fuck out of here?"

The look in his eye let me know I had just made my newest enemy. Sure enough, that piece of shit came back the very next night and robbed me at knifepoint, making off with more than seven hundred dollars. A half hour later, two cops showed up to take a report. But no detective ever called to follow up. Over the next few months, there was an occasional Weasel sighting around the neighborhood. But I had no one at the LAPD to contact. Then, Weasel seemingly dropped off the face of the earth, and I figured he was locked up for some other crack-headed-crime.

During summer of 97, my buddy Rob hooked me up with a lightning-quick 333 MHz, Pentium II PC, running Windows 95. I was skeptical at first, having lost all interest in personal computers during the late 80s. But that new rig was lightyears better than the floppy disc, DOS, Tandy 1000SX with its monochrome monitor that left me doubting the home computer's future. Though the web browsers of 1997 were quite rudimentary – I believe I started with Netscape – still, the internet was super fun and informative. So with millions of gigabytes' worth of free smut available over my 28.8k modem, and the ability to create graphics as well as powerful word-processing functions, I was hooked and dove right in to spend hours learning all the little tricks and tools of my new PC.

I was quite fortunate to have several computer geeks around the studio, who regularly steered me out of digital jams. The biggest obstacle was changing the way my brain thought about fixing stuff. Before the digital portion of my existence, if something wouldn't work, it was always a mechanical issue requiring tearing shit open to fix the works. But with computers, most malfunctions are software-related and rarely a hardware issue. I fucked up a few printers and a scanner before I finally got that through my extra-thick skull.

Fairfax High buddy and solid bass player Marcelle Sirkus informed me, "Faux Cue Studios needs a web presence." She then offered me a good deal for a "web page" on her "Worldwide Shopping and Information Network." But I took an entirely different promotional route than that there world-wide webnet and threw down with an old-school fanzine, Faux Cue Hollywood. The plan was to write a bunch of funny stuff, throw in several studio ads, print it up, and then distribute that fucker to places where new customers were known to congregate. To that end, I got me a laser printer. And when I wasn't printing booklets full of naked chicks, I wrote daily.

I set up the Faux Cue Hollywood production office in the last room on the left. As a bonus, reducing capacity to four rooms made my studio far easier to keep full. So my hourly rates would be raised once the holiday lull subsided. The creative process and positive encouragement had put me in the best state of mind since opening the joint. I was having tons of fun. When the first issue of Faux Cue Hollywood hit the streets a few weeks before Christmas to generally positive feedback, all I cared about was getting to work on the next edition. And when the New Year began, I hit the ground writing, with the intent of getting the next issue out by early March.

Shortly after Groundhog Day 98, I saw the guy who robbed me the year before walking down my street. It was mid-afternoon, and Weasel was holding a forty of Mickey's camouflaged by a paper bag. He crossed to my side of the street and told me, "Sorry about that stuff that night, I'm sober now."

I told him, "I think it's best if you don't come around here anymore. I got a couple of friends that want to kill you."

He apologized again and went away. There's a common behavior after a drug-loving dude gets out of jail. Many feel in complete control and confident, due to their extended drug-free period. So they have a freedom celebration. The forty-ouncer represented a kick start, ultimately leading to Weasel smoking crack. I knew he'd then seek additional funding to extend his celebration.

To remain alert and ready, I went the whole day without smoking pot. My loaded gun remained close at hand. Around ten, when my buddy Ken called, I told him, "I saw the guy who robbed me, and he's going to rob me again tonight."

Ken said, "If I see him, I'll kick his ass."

Only one band was still jamming when Ken showed up shortly after midnight. We headed to the back to work on Faux Cue Hollywood's second issue. I felt safe because he had my back and, figuring all was cool, smoked pot for first time all day. At five to one, the intercom rang, signaling someone was at the front door. On the phone, a voice said, "I'm here to pick up the band."

I rolled backward to look down the hall, and on the other side of the front door was a mid-thirties dude with a beard. Timing made sense, so I went to the keypad and buzzed the guy in. By the time I rolled back to the doorway, I was shocked to see Weasel more than halfway down the hall. As he advanced swiftly toward me, I'm thinking, "Sucks that I'm going to have to shoot this dude."

By the time I retrieved my snub nose .38 from under my leg, Weasel stood right behind me and was just beginning to headlock me. I wasn't into taking a shot so close to my head/ear, so I tossed the gun across the room to Ken and yelled, "That's the dude!"

And if he hadn't folded his arms and turned away, that fucking pistol would have hit Ken right in his hand. And Weasel would have run for the hills.

While I struggled and fought to block the doorway, Weasel was yelling, "I got a gun! I'll blow his head off."

While fending Weasel off, I kept pulling his hand away from my head to show it was bullshit, all the while repeatedly yelling to Ken, "It's his finger! Get the gun!"

Ken did the brave thing by lifting his shirt, twirling around, and whimpering, "I ain't got nothing."

Then, on command, Ken backed away from the gun.

Weasel scrambled over the top of me, dove for the gun, then sprang to his feet, waved the muzzle back and forth, and yelled, "I got the gun now, motherfuckers!"

I had well over six hundred bucks in my pocket, but always kept sixty bucks in ones and fives in my desk just for that kind of situation. When I told Weasel the cash was in the office, we got gunpoint-ordered to head in that direction.

While making our way toward the front, Ken's bravery continued when he ducked into a studio and locked the door. Weasel then proceeded to beat and kick the door while yelling threats and waving the pistol my way.

I remained calm while pointing to a phone on the wall near the lobby door. "There's no phone in there (where Ken was). Look, the phone's not lighting up."

I kept rolling toward my office, the entire time repeating, "See. It's not lighting up."

In my office, I forked over the fat stack of ones and fives, while reminding Weasel the gun also held significant value. I threw in a "I didn't call the cops the first time."

And he split without killing me.

When you say the magic word "gun" to a 911 operator, cops swarm. It seemed like less than a minute passed before a helicopter's searchlight lit up my street. Soon afterward, the first of a dozen squad cars began screeching to a halt out front.

With the pungent smell of pot permeating the studio, and having reported my robber got sixty bucks, the cop interviewing me didn't seem to be buying my story.

Then they switched up, with the officer who interviewed me questioning Ken and vice-versa. A few minutes later, the first officer I spoke with walked over and shook his head. "I thought you were lying. But your buddy told me the same story. What a pussy."

Whenever I told people about the robbery, many asked if the perp was a Mexican or black guy. I would say, "No, it was a white dude. Now I hate white people and love cops."

I went from feeling safe and comfortable at my studio to knowing I was a sitting duck. I never did reopen, and by spring, I had sold the business. Over the course of seven years, several world-class acts, recording legends, or celebrity attempts at something closely resembling music congregated at my establishment. I wrote a few funny stories or anecdotes about the following, but decided to drastically de-bulk this once-rambling section. So without further ado: Hey, Slam, hold the door so the names I drop can get out. Dave Grohl, Steven Adler, Duff McKagan, Chris Holmes, Leif Cole, Wool, Nigel Moog, John 5, Randy Castillo, Gilby Clarke, Phil Lewis, Frank Starr, Mick Fleetwood (I thought he'd be impressed with my ten-foot ceilings, but he thought I was busting his chops). Did you know that Joey Buttafuoco plays drums? Corey Feldman, Theo from The Cosby Show, Rik Fox, Solomon Burke, Jimmy Bain, Dizzy Reed, Robin Crosby, Jane Wiedlin, Louis Johnson, Patrick Muzingo, Soul, Brian Damage, John Christ, NOFX, Screaming Jets, BB Chung King & the Buddaheads, The Obsessed, and Bang Tango.

I'd like to take this opportunity to offer a sloppy-wet Faux Cue salute to those who made my trip smooth. Of course some worthy of mention were left out, but it's not my fault your band wasn't memorable. In no particular order, these were some cool bitches, a great group, or both: Francine Parker, Wheel, Bad Acid Trip, Butt Full of Corn, School Boys, Killing Culture, Mustard, Das Klown, My Favorite Martian, Junk Drawer, Texas Teri, Immortal Gonzo Roasties, Petersen Press Jay, Piss Ant, Memphis Black, Kicking Harold, Custom Made Scare, Vagabonds, Ovalteen, Knuckle Rub, Maniga, Chop Shop, Sumthin Nuthin, Lisafer, Slack Babbath, One Inch Punch, Johnny X, J.J. Bolt, Lectrozone, Cunt Say Can't, The Hookers, Dakota Wildflowers, Big Johnson, Gravelbath, Even More Than Feared, Crow King, Friar Fuck, Gang of Noise, Ragamuffin, Root Doctors, Joker's Wild, Chrystal Sphere, Dr. Strange, Bad Love, Dr. Jack, Dark Sky, Max Welton, Little Generals, Big Privates, Fat Elvis, Bluebird, Catfish, Mad Reign, Keef Flat, Officer Ron's Missing Strat, Chewey Pawned It, Drive By, Texercist, Juke Joint, Zen's Revenge, DFR Experience, Hollywood Joneses, Rhythm Slaves, Makin a Salad, Sam Mann and Thee Apes, Fetch Daddy's Vaseline, B.O.O.F., and The Chuy Castro Band.

At times, folks will ask if I miss owning a studio. "No!" That motherfucker drove me to the point of hating music, and it took years to once again fully surrender to the unconditional joy it delivers. Overall, my place had a good vibe. And I meandered to the conclusion that by naming it Faux Cue, most uptight pricks self-excluded. More than 90 percent of those who regularly staggered through my door were a pleasure to be around. But that math leaves at least seven total assholes, dicks, or bitches invading my space on any given night. By any measure, Faux Cue Studios was a successful financial endeavor that I hated with every fiber of my being. At times, I wish I never opened a studio, but something really great came from it. My brother met a super cool, smart, hard-bodied, and rowdy chick that became the love of his life.

Nowadays, Erika and Omar are husband and wife, a great, fun couple. I dig her and my brilliant-as-she-is-beautiful niece Eva far beyond words. Crazy loves me. And because I love my kids so much, I didn't have them. After my music business career ended, severe normalcy set in, and life got real boring real fast. Upon turning forty, I realized failure was actually an option. Because I never thought I'd make forty, so didn't actually have a "what's next" plan. Ten more years flew past. I then realized there was something worse than being disabled: being old and disabled. I'm here to testify, many old men wish for younger days, no brick house needed. Them fine-ass bitches only make the yearning stronger. So even though a song warned me not to let it happen, at times the sound of my own wheels drives me crazy. But whatcha gonna do? Shit is as it is!

25

I've said what I had to say.

