Highway 1

I spent the second half of my 5th manic episode at Andrew and Wills’ house in Santa Rosa, CA. Their living/working quarters were part home, part recording studio. The place was always a mess, and my bed was a couch in the dingy garage.

I’ll never forget the state of the room that Andrew slept in. There were random art projects scattered about, some on the walls, some on the floor. His bed was a small futon. A flashing yellow road sign intermittently lit the room, and the room was partially flooded. However, he managed an event center, and I don’t recall him ever missing work. Sometimes he would share his Red Dog beer with me when he returned home from work.

People would come and go, some for business, some for pleasure. Several nights a week we would stay up late drinking, smoking, and playing music. I was manic and liked the setup. Andrew would get a little annoyed with Jesus related talk. One day I tried to make him loosen up by playing guitar and freestyling homosexual related lyrics to him. It didn’t help the matter. He was an extreme atheist, and I was a manic street preacher. Nevertheless, we managed to get along.

One night Andrew and I got the impulse to drive out to the beach. We wanted to play guitars around a fire. On the way out of the house Andrew grabbed some old acid that he had in the freezer. We made a pit stop on the way to the coast and acquired some free news papers to get the fire started with. At this point we dropped some acid, as well and a mixture of psych pills I happened to have on me.

By the time we got to the coast I was starting to feel the effects, and Andrew was passed out. The anti-psychotic that I still take to this day was strong enough to knock out a person on LSD. Impulsively I headed south on highway 1 for San Francisco. At that time in my life I was driving a nice mazda RX-7, and the cliffs and curvy roads sounded like a good time. It seemed like I was peeling out for an hour and a half straight.

Once in the city I gravitated to the Mission Dist. Andrew was still asleep. I woke him up and we headed for the BART station. By this time it was light out. We then hopped the toll gates and got onto the train to Oakland. Under the bay I used the BART like a surf board, standing in the door wells, crouched, and with my arms out. Andy sat and was drawing the scene in his sketch book. We took a short walk around Oakland and returned to SF. Somehow we make it back to Santa Rosa later that day.

Wrong Number

I believe It was the fall of 99 when my friend Henan moved into my parents’ basement with me. The basement was acting as a temporary retreat for me after having another semester of school destroyed by another manic episode. It didn’t seem like Henan was living with me very long before a young woman called the house and had the “wrong number.’

I was in the basement totally zoned into a documentary on the history of the church when Henan came running down the stairs eager to tell me some news. It turned out that some young woman called my parents house and had the wrong number. Henan went on to tell me about how he gave her “the run around,” acting like he knew her, etc. She played into it, suggesting that they meet at a bar in Belltown.

I was somewhat entertained by his excitement, but when he asked me to accompany him to Belltown I declined. I was really into the documentary. After being begged for a while I put a tape into the VCR, pressed record, and we were off.

We ended up at some “yuppie” style bar that was new to us. We ordered a couple drinks and waited with anticipation. Sure enough, about 15min later a young woman walked in by herself. At first she walked by and said nothing. Then she walked back and asked, “are one of you guys Henan?” Henan replied yes and she requested that he come to her. She then asked him if he’s good in bed and he said yes. She replied, “let’s go.” He then informed her that I was with him. She told him to bring me along and that she had a friend at her place.

We entered the apartment and began to talk. It turned out that the host was training to be a tattoo artist, and was also a pot dealer. Her guest seemed kinda like a punker, and I don’t really remember her story. After mingling for a little while the host suggested that her friend and i go out and grab some beer.

During our “beer run,” the punker chick and I talked, and stopped at a bar before heading back to the apartment. At the bar we sipped on a couple drinks and did a little making out. I remember crawling across the pool table, kissing her, and spewing some sort of sexual “smack” talk. She basically told me she was down to fuck. Then she got a page from the tattoo chick.

On the way back to the apartment the punk chick informed me that her friend had to do a drug deal, and that I should wait across the street where Henan and I met the friend. She told me that Henan was there and that she and her friend would come and get us after they were done. She then asked me to give her my beer so she could put it in the fridge to keep it cool. Big mistake.

Henan and I waited and waited. As much as an hour passed. We’d been ditched. We were both pissed, but i had a very specific sort of anger welling up inside me. I thought to myself, “that little cunt stole my beer.”

We walked back across the street to get the beer back, but the gate was locked. We decided to wait for someone else to enter, and follow them in. Sure enough some people entered the building and we sneaked in behind them.

When we got to her door we the first thing we did is gave a simple knock. No Answer. So we knocked again, and again. Finally, she replied, “whose there?” When we told her it was us she yelled at us and said, “face it, you’ve been had!” I yelled back, “I just want my beer!” She yelled back, “I don’t have your beer!” After some more yelling back and forth and banging on the door she let us in.

Inside the entry way the yelling continued. She seemed to be alone. I told her again, “I just want my beer.” She told me again that she didn’t have it, but I could clearly see one of my beers on her kitchen counter. I then told her, “bullshit. that’s one of my beers right there.” I then took a step forward. I was going to walk into her kitchen and look in the fridge.

She then grabbed the beer bottle from off counter, and lifted it up above her head like she was going to strike me. Reflexively, i punched her in the face. She dropped to a squatting position, leaning against the kitchen cabinets. I then gave her a couple light kicks to the body. At this point she was screaming for help.  I gave a quick look for the beer, then bolted. We stormed out her door.  We were disoriented and had forgotten where we had entered the building. We ran out the first pair of doors we saw, which happened to be a fire exit. The building lit up with lights and loud sounds as we ran to the car.

I don’t think I ever finished watching that documentary.

baptism at the mall

I had been manic for a couple months and was staying at a friends house in Santa Rosa, CA. One morning he got up to go to work and I decided to go with him. My friend worked at the Mall. We got off the bus and he walked into Sears, where he worked, and I walked into Macy’s. i was sporting large, black, “jive turkey” style shades, and a stalking hat.

I walked by the make-up islands and noticed two, young make up artists. They had no clients so I took a seat in the empty chair. I said, “I would like to have my make-up done.” They replied, “You have to pay to have your make-up done.” I went on to tell them that they have the power to give me a free make-up job, and that I need It done because I’m an entertainer.

About 15 minutes later I had a nice, even amount of make-up on my face, and one of the young ladies’ phone number. I asked her if could add some extra eye liner and she handed me some. I then began to draw on my face. I remember drawing a big tear just below the corner of my eye.

Now I was all geared up. With my new look, including lipstick, “jive turkey” shades, and a stalking hat I felt unstoppable. I would flash my crazy make up from behind my shades while spinning around and slapping people five. Young kids were the most intrigued, and a small pack of them began to follow me. The kids weren’t the only followers. I looked up to the second level of the mall to find that security guards were keeping a close eye.

Eventually I ended up in the center of the mall where there was a large fountain. A Hispanic couple sat on the side of it with their new born baby. After sitting next to them and adoring their child I decided that It was time for a baptism. I gave the parents a questioning look, and the father nodded. I then reached into the fountain, wet my fingers, and touched the forehead of the baby. I believe I said some sort of blessing or prayer to myself. The baptism was complete.

I then got up and left the mall. The security guards followed me all the way out to the sidewalk. As I walked down the street towards the town square two teenage girls said, “there’s that crazy guy.” I smiled and continued on my way. There was another large fountain in the town square. I walked up on the side of it and stepped in. I found myself up to my waist. One fountain was squirting up a thick stream right up to microphone height. I stepped up to it and began to sing. I remember belting out some Bob Marley. I sung the lyrics, “because I feel like bombing a church; now that you know the preacher is lying.”

Later that night my friends and I met up at a local dive bar. We sipped on whiskey and reminisced. I told them about my day, they appreciated my make-up, and we laughed.