Hearts, Moons, Stars, Bird Shit ("Today, I Am The Luckiest Boy In The World.")

*This was a piece I wrote from a few years ago which never made it into my first zine, which I just stumbled across and still enjoy. It certainly is that time of year too:



Luck is something that perhaps many people take for granted and can find in the most serendipitous places while actively seeking it out. I would believe that there were at least a few people who made it off of the bridge in Minneapolis alive with at least a few losing lottery tickets in their glove compartment. I would also be willing to wager similar odds (Feeling lucky?) on victims of shark attacks, as I am now gearing up for the real world after being lost in " Shark Week."

And who would know better than me? I am the luckiest person in the world.

You see, I have been shit on by birds 3 times within the last year. 3 times. How many people even have the great fortune of having even ONE bird shit on them? ( I'm not sure if it counts if you work on coprophiliac films in England, where you can have "byrds" shit on you all the live long day. But I will look into it. ) Most recently I was on the phone outside of work in Downtown Boston. I have a habit of lightly pacing back and forth while on the phone. As I had subconsciously shifted over a couple steps, I heard a very loud, almost cartoonish, fartish splatter. (As I was retelling this story earlier, I was asked if the bird or birds had actually been farting while relieving themselves. Truth of the matter is, if that were the case I wouldn't even be writing this, as I would still be rolling around the floor laughing until my lungs were filled with merriment and tuberculosis. Its a much better way of getting a highly infectious death sentence, than by some dreary, glum, stuffy, boring coughing Atlanta lawyer on an airplane. ) I quickly glanced over next to me and saw two huge fresh splatters of bird dung inches away from me. I laughed up at the heavens. "Finally", I thought, "the good luck that I have been waiting for from the last time I landed an unwitting cameo role in an Avian shit porn film. has come to me......in the form of more bird shit."

But still I couldn't help but feel mildly relieved. That was after I had paraded myself back into the office proclaiming my good luck. I was ready to go outside and outline the scene in chalk to preserve it as some sort of dullard life lesson; a reminder that no matter where you go, you were never safe. But I didn't think outlining white globs in white was necessary, so I trudged back onto my route.

"Those stupid birds. Thought they were really going to roll up on me and just shit all over me. Puh-leeeeze" I almost felt like I should have had a Tupac Shakur like swagger at this point, a survivor from previous attempts. I could see myself being overly cocky, strutting, swaggering and flipping off and spitting at every bird I saw, with my arms stretched out saying "What?! What?!" In a threatening manner followed by mocking bird calls. "Stupid dumb birds trying to ruin my day." As I was going to grab a pen from my pocket, that's when..actually, I don't know if this is really where my luck begins or ends anymore. I should maybe end up getting "Live By The Dung. Die By The Dung" tattooed across my belly because that was when I saw I had in fact been hit near the side of my gut with an unforseen glob of bird shit. I was now too far away from the office to change my shirt and had no lighter to immolate myself with on Atlantic Ave. Remembering how massive the splatters were that hit the street, I did an ok job of consoling myself that I had only been hit with remnants of ass shrapnel, and was lucky (I think) that it wasn't worse. This also just had my brain wandering more (I think its called" thrice hit- bird shit- induced psychosis") to unlucky times, and it brought me back to the darkest dredge of human existence.

Little League.

Awkward and active are just two words that don't fit in for me. There were and are alot of activities I just didn't fit into, and Little League was no exception. I landed on The White Sox, the team that were undisputed champions a solid 8 years in a row. It was like FDR coaching the Boston Celtics of The 1960's out of a pot of gold under a rainbow. I was like the bastard son of Ray Finkle and Billy Buckner with a little league contract on the back of Babe Ruth's papers trading him from Boston to New York and by the end of my first season we were dead dead last place. I can recall many a time being the last batter up with the hope of a win for the team resting on my shaky little shoulders bearing the dead weight of a timid 80 lb frame. I can also recall striking out each and every time. That is if I wasn't purposely struck in the back, head, arms or legs by a fast ball thrown by older bullies from the neighborhood, or hulking 14 year old Dominican phenoms, who lied about their ages and said they were 10-12 years old. I am hoping that when you die you do get to see your life in an instant replay, because I would really like to see both benches laughing mercilessly at me, as I would wince in pain and hobble by limp body to first base. But at least one aspect always stayed the same. No matter if I struck out swinging at something 50 feet away from the plate out of fear, or if I had been knocked to the ground by a fast ball to the kidneys, I was always guaranteed to hear my nickname "John Poli-strike out" echoing from behind me, and I was always guaranteed to be held down and beaten by my own team for losing the game. All while my alcoholic coach, clad in what would today be an ironic Will Ferrell get up of thick moustache, aviator glasses with mesh cap, sleeveless tight black shirt and cut off too too short shorts looked the other way,or was just drinking?

This rookie took all the could take and though I didn't give a Lou Gehrig "I am the luckiest boy in the world" speech at Killelea Field on Parker Hill Ave, I quietly retired at the end of the season. Or so I thought. As next spring would roll around and baseball fever again gripped the lives of Mission Hills youth, I would duck out of sign ups until Mrs. Curran who held the trifecta of being mother to my best All Star Best friends growing up, in charge of Little League sign ups and secretary at Mission Grammar School on St Alphonsus would find me in the hallways and say "Hey John, I didn't see your name on the Little League Registration yet, did you miss the sign ups?" I was too timid, shy and afraid to say I just wanted to live, and would find myself hesitantly signing on the dotted line like I had a young hand full of Lou Gehrig's Disease. This went on for 2 more years. Many strikeouts followed, many more fastballs peppered my body and my self esteem. Even more cries of "Policastro you suck!" and "You're dead if you lose the game again." Too many times I was trying to bury myself in deep right field praying the ball would never come to me, only to have it come to me right in time for me to hide my face under the glove and drop the ball, or humorously enough, bean me on the head. Another quiet retirement followed by reluctant sign ups.

My luck finally changed for me in my last year in one of the final games. Still dead last with no chance of advancing I took to the batters box to face off with a 13 year old pitching phenom, which I was excited about because it just meant I was going to be able to strike out quicker than usual and go back to sulking on the bench. But then the most unexpected thing happened. As the opposing teams coach, who sounded like he had gotten his tongue stuck in a paper shredded full of rum and bumble bees was cryin out "Go on Thluggah thee what you can do....nevamind, hes jutht lookin for the walk......jutht lookin for the walk" I took a swing and I hit the ball! I had connected! Roughly three years without a hit and I had finally done it! I saw it headed towards short stop and felt it was going to be caught quick for an out, but I excitedly ran for first base for the first time ever. As I watched, I noticed the shortstop hadn't really been paying attention, as it was John Poli-Strike out at bat anyway. The ball reached him but he hadn't been ready, fumbled it in between his hand and glove, and then lost it into the dirt. I had just gotten some sort of good luck bestowed on me and received my first hit in Little League. To make it an even sweeter moment for me, he was frustrated for bobbling it and hurriedly threw to first base, but it went soaring over the first baseman's head and I had such adrenaline surging through me that I didn't even stop and went running for second, where I safely landed. I remember one of the assistant coaches cheering me on and giving me a thumbs up screaming from across the field: "You did it! And you flew too! " It made me feel really good, so good that I wasn't too bothered when my usual hecklers found a new outlet to mock me in the way I ran like a girl and would be almost kicking my own ass as I frantically hustled along.

Later on in the game, I was sitting on the benches, replaying that moment over and over again, yet somewhat bummed that my parents weren't there to have seen it or document it. But my little league career wasn't really one to brag about. The boasting of your children's successes to others via home movies wouldn't have sounded as gleeful if it was "Oh, and here's our John striking out again, but almost hitting the ball...oh, oh and wait here, here you can see his teammate trip him when he comes back into the dugout! See how he learned to fall into the fence instead of on his face?! That's our lil' All Star!"

Soon after a batter for the opposing team popped up a foul ball headed our way in the dugout. "Heads up everyone! Heads up comin' our way!' as was the norm to say. I got off of the bench and moved down a few feet to the left, foolishly eyeing the motion of the coaches hand from across the dugout. As soon as I saw his face light up towards me, I'm sure I was thinking "Yeah.....looking for the walk, huh, asshole? Did you see that double?! Did you!?" but he was actually saying "Watch out!" and before I knew it, I got cracked in the head with the baseball and it sent me crashing back down to the bench. It also sent up uproarious laughter among both sides of the field. Who else would move out of the way of a ball only to get hit by it? I suppose the same kid who a few years later would catch footballs and basketballs off the back of my head in freshman gym, and most certainly the same kid who would manage to even later get shit on by birds three years in a row.

I thankfully was able to leave Little League behind after that season, as I was too old, and became more attuned to writing , listening to music and learning the guitar, essentially just being a hermit. But to prove that I still held that shred of luck, the first year without me my team was back at the Number 1 spot.

What luck.

Mind Eraser Article Featured in Maximumrocknroll 03/09

This is an article I wrote for a local rock outfit named Mind Eraser which was published in the  March 2009 issue of Maximumrocknroll. Included below is a .pdf file of the actual article.

http://www.painkillerrecords.com/cc/bidhc2/20 09/LAYOUT.pdf.

I'm running late. I am always running late it seems. But in this instant, I expect Justin DeTorre to be even later, and he doesn't deceive me. I'm standing outside a thin, haggard door hanging ajar. Well worn and rusted yellow paint chips to the floor with each knock upon it with the back of my knuckles, leaving a lead laden pile, resembling old rotted fruit around a weeping tree. Freshly scrawled in black paint across the door, like a sash around a grotesque contestant: "MUTE NOSTRIL AGONY."

After a half dozen knocks, the door to Detore's Boston area dwelling has slowly swung open into an eerie welcoming position, where I am greeted by a haphazard smattering of Starbucks latte cups dryly laying idle. "On the road," guitarist Christopher Corry has warned me before "if you ignore the words 'Can you pull over at that Star-bo's?' you can pretty much guarantee yourself to be without a vocalist that night." I have prepared myself with two Venti's for Justin that will surely tally to the towering pillar-esque pile of ivory white and forest green he has erected in only a matter of days.

After 15 minutes, I am still waiting on Justin, scrambling to find any other notes I may have jotted down on the way over. With Mind Eraser ready to unleash two beastly releases since their sophomore effort "Glacial Reign", there are many questions posed, yet far fewer answered. One release is a 2 song 12 inch on Clean Plate entitled "Conscious Unconscious", another a 10 song 7 inch on Youngblood Records called "The Prodigal Son Brings Death", a record Corry has publicly professed to being heavily influenced by Vangelis score to Blade Runner. "I just call them 'Use Your Illusion 3' and 'Use Your Illusion 4'", longtime friend and collaborator Derek Scace says to me with a sly smirk, as he sits on a beaten and frayed loveseat next to the ominous jaundiced door. I hadn't even noticed him in the room the entire time I was there. However, I also have no time to wonder why he didn't bother answering the door in the first place, because Justin has just arrived behind me, draining a latte' and holding the days fan mail snugly nestled between his bicep and ribs.

He tears at the sides of a few envelopes, cooly blows the fresh tears wide open and extracts the letters mechanically with his forefinger and middlefinger. He then unfolds them with a snap of his wrist (as if they are scrolls) with one hand, soy latte in the other, as his eyes swiftly pierce the heavy handed bic scribbled words. "Looks like they're still 'backing us' with slack-jawed hyperbole and cumbersome salutations." Detore whispers listlessly to me. We haven't even made eye contact yet.

"Bunch-a dim reapers they are." Brendan Radigan smugly spits out as he enters through the threshold without even touching the door. A native and nonchalant Englishman from a small fishing town called  Hawk-Shire, a town that has long been (and bizarrely so) a Pro- American region in England. Radigan spent the majority of his boyhood and early teenage years casting off of rickety docks and rowdy rum-filled boats out in charming but choppy ocean for days at a time. Soon after, he found himself and his fishing rod under grey skies on the other side of the Atlantic in New Bedford, Massachusetts. "Guess I found out there really are more fish in the sea, didn't I ?" Radigan quips. Behind him, bassist Craig Arms crisply spits out  "Where the fuck is Corry, man?" and enters the room in a white-knuckled fury. Born and bred to be a farmer on farmland in rural Massachusetts, Arms carries himself more with of a sadistic swagger typically instilled in a lumberjack. "Looks like he's mailing this one in again," Justin answers back as he continues scouring through the days mail, which still has his undivided attention. Corry has a legendary and infamous habit of cancelling on practices via snail mail weeks in advance, without telling anyone. Yet he is always careful to ensure every envelope he sends to his band contains a video introduction to practice explicitly  detailing what is expected as well.  Audio cassettes, containing  his parts for practice as well as the skeletons of future Mind Eraser songs are also included along with a practice setlist, picked by Corry himself.

"Mentally I sometimes feel that my being doesn't carry a physical importance at practice," Corry has written to me in a letter I too received dated weeks in advance. "But if I can include  tangible tapes, that can also physically stand in for me, so what I mentally have prepared to physically play is still able to reach out to the rest of the guys mentally in a form they can physically play on the recorder as well as the instruments. Then I can physically take care of other mental matters that need me physically down the road. Mentally I find it a better way to physically rest at night."

He doesn't really believe in e-mail, which I think is fucking stupid." Arms says. (EDITOR'S NOTE:

*** When questioned on the touchy subject Corry leans back on the

futon in the corner of his cramped Brighton bedroom. "Listen, the

title of the new 12" is 'Conscious Unconscious', that's not just a

clever name that I thought of. Carl Jung referred to a theory of an

Objective Psyche in some of his writings, that there was like a common

unconscious mind connecting all of us. Like if 'I' cancel practice to

go on a mission with Cooch, we're all the ones who've cancelled it, not

just me. I'm just doing what we've all decided as a part of the whole

cosmic beyond that nets us together you know? We all cancelled

practice, and we only cancelled it because that Objective Pscyche that

we are a part of already knew it would be cancelled, because we were

gonna cancel it... The other guys, sometimes they have trouble with

stuff like this you know? Not everyone is born to think outside the

box, some people have to work for it and that can be tough; for them

and me. It can be a curse sometimes, when you've just seen too much of

the big picture it's like -- what can I do with this knowledge? How

can I live like I'm one of them when I see so much more? It's those

times I have to remember that a lot of people are counting on me, and

that I've got to do it for them as much as myself. Those are the times

when I really realize how lucky I am.")

"Through rain, sleet, or snow we can depend on him to cancel, can't we?" Radigan shrugs.

Detore who had fostered a continued, yet heavy silence through polite slurps of the soy lattes I had bought for him, mentions how important Corry is, even down to his lyrics, whom Justin said they are also dedicated to, because he was his "editor". "He goes through it and takes out all the 'fucks' and 'shits' Justin said, grinning.

Radigan looked at him and said, "Mark Twain's wife did that, too."

Like most bands, Mind Eraser isn't too quick to go into details about their last tour. (I'm finding they aren't too quick to talk about anything regarding their work.) There were the stories that slowly seeped out, primarily surrounding Justin's unpredictable, erratic behavior.

Detore had fought hard (and lost) to include an eternal flame to be placed in front of him on stage for Mind Eraser's last US tour. It became a reality only until it was about to be placed into the van. "He kept telling me how 'heavy' and 'eternal' it was going to be and it would be like a pagan ritual, placing our work on a pyre to 'The Blessing'." Arms recalls, "But then I had to point out to him that we'd have an exposed fucking flame sitting in the van, which could have blown us all the fuck up!"  It was left on the side of a road off I-93. "Where it burns," Detore whispers, "eternally."

"We really snuffed out that plan, didn't we?" Radigan hisses.

Detore's actual performances were captivating, and terrifyingly unpredictable all at the same time. He created a furor in Toronto when he stopped the band in the middle of their set and shouted to a rather stunned crowd: "YOU'RE ALL A BUNCH OF FUCKING GRAVES!" Occult rumors swirled in the cauldrons of gossip circles over a show in Bredberg, Tennessee where Detorre, writhed and contorted like a one man exorcism until he was swaddled in his own sweat. He then stood motionless, as a damp, dense circle of bodies stomped around the room. "He just fuckin stood there man, watching this scene he had just created and then calmly pointed his index finger outwards towards the crowd." Arms recalls.

What happened next, even Joey Silvia a quiet, plump Communist/ Portugese immigrant Mind Eraser took out on the road, could never have dreamed he'd ever see. "Sweat just begin dripping off Justin finger, like a dropper dispensing medicine to children. The kids keep running in circles and looking at Justin the whole time and stick their tounges out to catch the drops of sweat from Justin finger." Silvia's head drops like his chin is chained to an anvil and he begins scratching at the portrait of Hugo Chavez he has tattooed on the side of his neck. "It was fucking rock and roll!," he exclaims.

Arms remembers the event a bit less fondly. "Yeah, that was only the second song and then Corry  had us just keep on playing the same note for another 15 minutes, and then the show got shut down." Arms carries such anger in his anecdote its almost as if the event is happening again in front of him, before growling at me with firey eyes, "That's why Waste Management is my real racket." Detore, doesn't wax poetic about this event either, treating the past like its one grand ghost story about a kindred soul he doesn't know or have any emotion towards.

"I've always been attracted to ideas that were about revolt against authority. I like ideas about the breaking away or overthrowing of established order. I am in interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos-especially activity that seems to have no meaning."

It was, however, the biggest debacle of the tour, when Detore himself, disappeared from tour for almost 3 months, 2 months after their final date. "A lost weekend to find myself, really," Justin explains.  "A weekend to lose his mind, wasn't it?" Radigan interjects. "Shut the fuck up Brendan, its getting old," Arms screams.

We do know that he boarded a flight to Boston with Jason Clegg, owner of the flourishing record imprint Eating Rats and former singer of Think I Care. Clegg has also been dogged by persistant rumors that he is actually the gorilla-masked frontman of DFJ's side project, Dead Black, namely because he has conspicuosly been absent from the crowd at every show so far. (This interviewer, on assignment, asked him that very question blankly at Sound And Fury 08 in Santa Barbara, California. "Oh no! I missed that band with the guy who has a gorilla mask and throws dollar bills and permanent marker scribbled plain t-shirts into the crowd?! I may as well turn around and fly all the way back home!" He responded to be with sincerity as he held a trash bag stuffed with currency and jogged for a cab waiting to take him to the airport.)

They were first spotted in Boston moments after the Boston Celtics won their first NBA Championship since 1986, wearing subtle disguises; gigantic foam 10 gallon cowboy hats, oversized green plastic sunglasses in the shape of shamrocks and matching green foam fingers fashioned into a "#1" position.  Cops and paparazzi alike chased after them when Clegg, allegedly on a dare by DeTorre, had scaled a downtown Dunkin Donuts with a can of orange spraypaint and crudely changed the sign to say "Funkin GoNuts" before disappearing into the night. Not much more is known except for the paper trail left behind. We know now they boarded a first class flight to Paris, France early the next dawn where they check into a $60 dollar-a-day room at the fashionable Georges V Hotel and began to explore the city- visiting the haunts of Left Bank existentialists, mingling with gypsies, performing on the streets of Montmartre, making pilgrimages to Balzac's home, Napoleans tomb and the catacombs. After being spotted drinking soy lattes at numerous sidewalk cafe's and bistros, DeTorre decided he needed a steady place to grab a latte ("I need my starbo-hydrates, he chuckles.) The bistro, which was named "Beastro", garnered a heavy buzz among the hip Parisian jet setters. Unfortunately, mere hours after they closed for the night after their grand opening, "Beastro" was engulfed in flames and burned beyond repair. The culprit? A dastardly gust of wind, and an eternal flame that Detore insisted on having placed on the outdoor patio.  Finally, a somber and despondent Detore made front page news when a hotel maid performing daily house cleaning discovered a motionless and unresponsive Detore in a tepid tub of water in the bathroom. In a desperate panic she called for an ambulance. Later it was discovered Justin had simply fallen asleep in the tub.

He was asked to leave the hotel and soon after caught a plane back to Boston, where we find ourselves right now.

Mind Eraser can be a seen as a group of paradise-seekers who find that their paradise is merely an epic (and sometimes eternal)  journey of total liberation. "Mentally, I find the keys to my kingdom  quicker than the set I use in my physical world" Corry tells me.

When asked where he sees Mind Eraser in 5 years, Corry lets out a heavy sigh, looks to the ceiling and then directly back at me: "Wherever Dead Black is in 10."

Random Thoughts While Stuck In An Elevator (Circa 2006)

Upon getting stuck in an elevator, the first thing that usually comes to mind is similar to those old Elio's pizza commercials. Just imagine your brain going "blub- blub."

I believe that was literally happening to security when I rang them up. They asked what the emergency was. I felt "guy who really should have taken high school a bit more seriously and gone to college" may have been a bit too much, and besides my life free falling faster than the elevator I was on wasn't really the emergency anyway.

The only logical answer to "Which elevator are you on?" I could think of was "The one not moving." Besides, I haven't named elevators in years anyway. I was then told security was on the way.

The panel where the call button is does have a sign that says "When light is flashing, help is on the way" So to see it flashing almost immediately was a bit soothing.

I began to think about my commute to work that day. What the hell has happened to the Orange line? At one point an 8 foot man sat next to me, and smoothly pulled out a lap sized velvet board, 3 red bottle caps, and what I believe was a red cereal berry found in Capn' Crunch brand Crunch Berries. I believe it was much too big to be a fruity pebble. He began furiously shuffling the soda caps around and every time he asked someone to pick, they'd always get it right.

I almost felt ripped off at the fact nobody was getting ripped off. The only plausible scenario I could think of was the added bonus to beating this man was probably having one of those caps being good for a free soda. I even walked off the train with all of my belongings still in my pockets. I also walked into a scrappy looking Malden bound man with a pit bull wearing a big white muzzle. The man looked a little angry that I had gotten off the train before he was able to get on, and tugged on his leash to remind me he had a pit bull. I really wanted to tell him the thug card doesn't work, when your pit bull is muzzled. He just goes back to being cute again trying to fight it off his snout. I also wanted to tell him if he had any other thug cards kicking around, there was a man shuffling bottle caps inside the car in dire need of a new format for his game.

I just remember a time when you would walk out off of the orange line covered in your urine as well as whoever else's you had sat in, not just whoever's you had sat in. But there I go remembering the 90s. You know, that decade that snuck by when we were remembering the 80's?

I hummed a few bars of Aerosmith's "Love In An Elevator" but thought "Stuck in an elevator..... blah doo da blah blah get me the fuck out of here." were better lyrics.

5 minutes had gone by and I was beginning to get really hot in the elevator, as I had been bundled up for the day. I at least had the small TV screen in this elevator and enjoyed reading the news flash by as quick as the "Micro Machine" guys mouth.

There was more talk about banning gay marriage in the state. I gotta say though, I think the wave of conservative politicians and religious right who had recently been outed due to misconduct were probably being vilified for the wrong reasons. Sure they were snakes condemning people in a vile way and sure they were self loathing phony pieces of shit helping to set back like minded people who just want the right to divorce like everyone else. But I think I understand them now. They are only human. More importantly, they are men. They don't want to get married. They are conservatives and remember a time when marriage was between a man and a woman and when you were a permanent bachelor, it meant permanent. Who really wants the party to end? I can see the classic movie scenario of the girl with her arms crossed looking impatiently and sternly at her significant other; "Well are you gonna pop the question?" I cant even imagine being one of those poor bastards looking at a guy who could probably kick the shit out of them giving them a similar look.

Right around this time, I noticed the light had stopped flashing. Had they given up hope for me? Had they exhausted all their efforts into ever finding me alive? Had it really only been 7 minutes?

Like a modern baby Jessica in a well who refused to give in, I pressed that bell again, to assure them to not bother notifying my parents that I had died. I was going to make it! Someday at least. Only this time, I was again asked what the emergency was.

I figured "Human being trapped in a fucking elevator. "would have been good enough the first time.

Luckily seconds after this second attempt I felt the elevator finally moving towards the ground floor. I radioed into him that I was moving.

"Oh yeah, sorry about that. We had that elevator on hold for some reason."

Blub blub blub........

Don't Drop The Hemp Soap

"Dude, there is nothing better than just getting stoned and taking a long fucking shower."

This was one of the more disturbing things I heard over the weekend. I mean, I'm all for a well deserved, warm shower to kick start a cold morning. Hell, I am for cold showers to kick start overdose victims too. Showers are great. You'll hear no argument against them from me. But smoking weed before hand?

My argument against that is quite simple.

1.Doing weed can make me paranoid.
2. When I am naked and in enclosed spaces, I don't want to be paranoid. Naked in an open or public space? I think that's probably a lot better, but if I'm stoned, I'm going to be paranoid. I'd probably end up with people were looking at me, and/or thinking the police were out to get me.
3. That's that.


I also don't want to be thinking, "Shit did I lather and rise already? I really don't want to repeat." Cause I mean, I'd be too stoned, man! Then I'd probably peak out and watch the tv I put on the sink next to my Mountain Dew and rib sandwich. But that's just me.

I didn't want to just shoot down my friend for being a drug addled soap head. That would have been too easy anyway.

I was 20 years old and had what I could best describe as a dilapidated a"party"ment in Mission Hill.It was the year I was living the Mikey Seaver life and lived all of a 5 minute walk away from my parents house, where I'd drop by for free laundry and real life situational comedy (sans Stabone). I had the day off from work and was sitting on beer cans and boxes in my living room with my roommate, who I think was sitting on trash and mice. I had mentioned off hand to him a short time before that if I had decided to smoke weed I'd do it with him. It wasn't really my thing and it made me too paranoid. But it was the beginning of spring and we were going to walk to the Otherside Cafe, so I figured I'd take marijuana and take IN nature. But honestly I think its because we were listening to Black Sabbath and are typical white dorks.

It had probably been a few months since I had last puffed tasty nugs ,bruh, so needless to say I was a bit disoriented but not uncomfortable.

I did have to use the bathroom before we left though.

Our door was hanging on half of a hinge due to the hands and/or feet of some real patient and intelligent person, so you had to kind of lift it back onto its hinge to get it to open and close.

I was sitting and just became deep in thought. My mind was racing because I wasn't used to smoking and preparing myself to answer such questions to myself such as

"Why is a muscle on the side of my neck twitching?"
"Are people going to know I'm high?"
"Do they already know?"

And that's when it hit me.

What it was, took a few seconds to register because I was, all of a sudden, on the ground.

It was the fucking bathroom door.

As I was off in la la land, the door finally decided that it was the best time to finally fall off that half a hinge. It came down and smashed into the crown of my head and brought me tumbling down.

My roommate must have thought Jamie Lee Curtis was in the bathroom because he answered those screams for help mighty fast.

But not before laughing hysterically at me with my pants down trapped underneath a door. The only consolation I have is that the nails we had on the door to hang our towels didn't impale my skull. But looking back on it now, maybe that's the kind of fate I deserved.

"Folks, I'm sorry. Your son didn't make it. But we need you to I.D. the body at the morgue. Hes on the last slab. Yeah, the one with his hemp pants down wearing a tie dye shirt, beads, rasta hat and big white bathroom door with nails hat.Yup, the one with the dopey grin and half shut eyes. Stinkin' of patchouli. What a dope. We even pronounced him a Dope On Arrival."

So with that cautionary tale, I implore you. Be careful in there. Elvis didn't listen to me either.

DFJ Takes The Cake

Interview I did with DFJ, one of my all time favorites.


Exclusive WMF DFJ Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.

Brass City Trash Chat

Interview I did @ As One Fest in CT towards the end of night 2 with Craig Mack of Living Hell and most important , the man behind As One and CT's mosh stimulus plan. Jay Reason of The Distance, Ivan from Unforgiven/Dead Wrong, and the great Big E From Interviews.

Connecticut Legends Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.

Interview with Cold World

Here I interview Alex and Dan from Cold World on day 3 of As One Fest behind a dumpster @ Bobby Allen's in Waterbury Connecticut (During the 3rd quarter of The Celts/Cavs Game 7)


Cold World Interview from WorldMovesFast on Vimeo.