Roxanne

Well, I grew up in Salt Lake City in the early 70’s. First off, I’ll say I know what a Jew felt like in Nazi Germany, before the ‘Night of the Broken Glass’. If you are not Mormon, people hate you, they’ll try to run you outta town. You look like everyone else, but there is no way any of them will ever accept you. So, you are always considered an outsider, and you were not allowed to do anything that has anything to do with Mormonism. You were not allowed in any of the religious buildings, and every building was a religious building, everything weaved in and around the church. The whole society was like an old buddy system of, ‘my family knows your family’, a Mormonism club. And, if you’re not a Mormon then you can’t get in. Most of the kids were big bullies and they were always teasing me. They would always mess with my personal belongings and ridicule me, humiliate me, and set me up so that people would laugh at me in public, basically.

    It was getting close to Valentines Day one year, we were all making Valentines and I wanted to really make sure that these kids liked me.  I wanted at least someone to like me. So, I brought Donnie Osmond posters and expensive candy to make them like me. At the end of the day after everyone exchanged Valentines, there was none for me. God, I started crying, I was really sad. I couldn’t understand why no one gave me a Valentine, so I asked the teacher. She said ‘what makes you think you deserve our love, gentile?’ She told me that they did not love me, that God didn’t love me, and that I didn’t deserve Valentines. I cried, and went home and told my mom and dad. They told me to buck up and not show them I was weak. I was supposed to continue on and just take it, and act like it didn’t affect me, I guess? 

    My mom and dad came from Ohio. My dad came from Toledo, and my mom came from some rich place. She grew up next to the infamous Dr. Sam Sheppard, who everyone thought killed his wife, which was the claim to fame of her house. My dad was a third generation German, the type who knew how to do all sorts of things. During the depression, all the people of the town relied on his people for food and resources and clothes. They fixed cars, they were real into doing things with their hands.  They knew all types of things about tools and how to fix anything.

    My mom’s family was snootier, like ‘Ick! We don’t eat ice cream out of mixing bowls!’ One time my uncle came down for dinner, and he told us we weren’t dressed properly, and that we were all going to grow up and go to jail.  My mom and dad both fit the mold for what was handsome. They got together and were like the big hot couple of Toledo. Then, the war came and dad went off, mom stayed behind and entertained the soldiers, ha, ha, seriously. It was the big band era, and it was the biggest time of their life. They never got over that era, everything paled by comparison. Then, they started doing the downward spiral into the drain pipe.

     I went to high school in Louisville, ‘Ken-tuck-ee’, for all four years. It was a miracle, since we moved a lot because of my dad’s job as a traveling salesman, he sold heating and air conditioning shit. We were asked to leave places often because of my brother, Rob. He was sort of a juvenile delinquent. My dad dreamed of having a boy, and when Rob was born it went all wrong. My dad was disappointed that he didn’t get the son that he wanted, he got my brother instead. When Rob was a little kid he was always very super duper hyperactive, and they thought he had Turrets Syndrome for awhile. He was banging on the walls, and ripping shit up, and making these sounds all the time. My mom was all frazzled, trying to figure out what in the hell was wrong with this kid. She was always trying to help him and it never worked out. 

    More and more, my dad just didn’t want anything to do with him or me. So, Rob would do bad boy things. At first it was controllable through drugs and therapy, but as he got older his impulses grew stronger, and we were always being asked to leave places. He would destroy stuff or break in somewhere, he had no common sense. One time he broke into the laundry room of an apartment complex we lived in, and stole all the quarters out of the machines, and took them to my dad’s bank in coffee cans. There was like five hundred dollars in quarters, so they called my dad. 

   One time, I found all our family silver under Rob’s mattress. He just needed to get away with it, he didn’t need the money. I didn’t want anyone at school to know we were brother and sister, and eventually I wanted nothing to do with him, he embarrassed me. And besides, he was always tormenting me anyway, marching after me, chanting weird ‘satanic-like’ verses, aiming a large kitchen knife or a pretend spear at me. Acting real strange and hollow, he would try to corner me with the point of his weapon, it would scare the hell out of me, but he didn’t seem to mind.

     My dad was a person who had a larger-than-life personality. He was really just some guy working a mundane job after the war. He was kind of like a war hero in Patton’s army, and then had to come back to heating and air conditioning. He embellished things about himself that probably were lies. He was a liar. He would say he was a hit man for the mafia, and he would kill people for money. He would get off on people really wondering if it was true. I always thought it was a bunch of bullshit, he was actually just a sucker punching bully, ha, ha, ha, I hated him. 

   I never really did like my dad. When I was little he was the big hero figure, six foot something. Then I got older and realized he was just some abusive drunk. I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him, he was such an ass. He’d always be slurring and weaving around knocking into things, saying with his bourbon in his hand, “let me tell you something…let me tell you something”. He would always try to insinuate that there was something wrong with you, and you’d always have to try and validate your existence. Some people play that game, but I don’t get off on sadistic mind games. I find it hard to respect a grown man who pisses his pants and sucker punches people in front of his daughter.

     I was the baby of the family, I came at the very end when they were just totally over   having kids, and not wanting to do that shit anymore. They weren’t even willing to put up a pretense that they were my parents, or cared about me, ha, ha, ha, it’s hysterical, I felt so rejected. My mom was very meek and quiet, pretty passive. She mostly just lived for my father. She would be waiting at the door when he came in to ask how his day went. Then, they would sit there and drink and drink and drink until they passed out. She never really had a job her whole life, her family was wealthy. So, she had this privileged, like ‘I’m better than you’ air, like ‘huh’, a disdainful approach to things. 

   My mom wasn’t real warm and motherly. She never went to any of the teacher’s meetings or basketball games, or any of that crap. My house was like a boarding house, and my room was at the top of the stairs. I lived alone in my little room, I had no friends. I just did my little thing, I was sort of a recluse from the age of fourteen until my twenties. I just zoomed in close on my art and tried to ignore my family and the outside world. It was fairly easy to do, being that I was always very isolated from my parents and I readily avoided my brother. My mom died when I was still in high school. She died in our house of an aneurism, at the age of fifty four. My dad asked me accusingly ‘what did you do to her?’ when he saw her lying dead on our bathroom floor.  

    The first family that I ever felt a part of was when I was taking drama classes at the Louisville Community College. I moved in with Ben and Bobby, a gay couple. Bobby was a boy toy transvestite, and Ben was a straight looking, bi-polar genius, who would lovingly chase our quilted family through his manic states of creativity, and then despairingly drop us into the destruction and hollowness, which always came next. They were crazy, constantly getting into arguments and horrible fights with each other. And then there was me, who was all repressed, all weird because my parents never taught me how to be a human being. 

   There was also Diana, the blind science fiction writer. She wrote volumes and volumes of science fiction novels, and would give them to Ben and Bobby to send off to publishers. But, they would never send them off, they would just throw them in the car. She would get in the car and step on them without a clue they were there, it was horrible. She was really into Dungeons and Dragons and fantasy. She would take her glass eye out and leave it on her bible at night. And, I had to share a room with her. She was gross. I had to, because I was female. 

  In the mornings, Diana would ask ‘how do you want your eggs?’, and Bobby the flaming queen would answer ‘how about with a little less hair in them this time?’ She would put her face right down into the skillet so she could hear the eggs cooking. She had huge thighs and an ass, she would knock into you all the time. I didn’t like her at all, and I was stuck with her, because I couldn’t go back to my father’s house. And, besides, I was finally relived of my desperate need to isolate myself, I now had a family I actually didn’t mind spending time around. Dealing with Diana was easy enough, unlike my father and his demented drunken side show antics. 

    I had moved out in the middle of the night, while my dad was in a drunken Lazy Boy stupor. I lived with my dad for one year after he tried to commit suicide, and ended up shooting a big hole in his television, because that was all I could take. So, I snuck out while he was passed out in the flickering machine gun blasts of his favorite old autobiographical war movie. I moved in with my new surrogate gay bipolar family, and blind Diana with her big ass. We were all very close and always together, very codependent, sort of like a little Manson family.

Larry

That was the beginning of my obsession with the Hopi, those Kachinas. I started reading John Water’s book on the Hopi, and I started learning about Kachinas. I would go to flea markets in the bay area and I started seeing these objects all around me, like the ones I was reading about. Nobody was concerned or effected by these pots and rugs created by native people. As I was reading more and more of Frank Waters the more and more I became obsessed with Native America. And here I was raised in northern California, where there are reservations I wasn’t even aware of. We were taught that the Indian was gone, finished, ya’ know? Not like here in the south west, where native people are so alive. As a child, I would go into peoples houses and see these beautiful Navajo rugs on there floors. They didn’t realize that these throw rugs were beautiful pieces of artwork. Every time I would go to the flea market I would find one Kachina. It was always the very last stall to look in and I would find one like fate. And so, I started collecting them, I wound up with about fifty of them I guess.

    Finally, when I was a layout designer, I was able to take a vacation to Hopi Land. They had a camp ground there that you’d never know was a campground. They also had a motel there on the second mesa. And so I went to Hopi Land for three or four days and camped. I was learning to play the flute, and so I would go sit on the mesa in the evening and practice. It felt so familiar and peaceful. Later, I went to the restaurant and ate Hopi food, everything Hopi. I was completely obsessed with their culture. I walked through the third mesa one morning really early when everyone was still asleep. Later I found out that it was against their rules. Third mesa is where massu lives, he’s their ferocious protector of the earth. He can be really cool but some times you don’t want to mess around. He lives on the rocks around the third mesa. I figured I could meet the terrible first and get it out of the way.

   One day I was driving to the second mesa when I saw an old Hopi man, probably in his eighties, who could hardly walk. There he was trying to walk for miles, so I took him all the way to his son’s place. His name was Warren and his son turned out to live about forty miles away. I was wondering where in the hell does this guy live, ya’ know? So we get there and his son and I both have an RX7, a little Mazda. It was like a mirror trip. Here in this ancient culture his son, who wasn’t home, also owns a Mazda. On the way back we picked up his wife, her name was Zella. She was a wonderful woman, she worked as a cook at the jail, and also at a home for disabled people. So, they invited me up to their house for dinner, I went and became involved in their whole family. It turned out that there son, whom owned the RX7, had just died. They kind of adopted me and we became really close. I would sleep in front of their house in my pick up truck. I even got to go to a few private dances, and old man Warren showed me around. “If anyone asks” he said, “you are my nephew.” I bought a few bowls from some of the people. You hold one and you can just feel the vibration, some really heavy energy.

  By the time I got back to work I was totally hypnotized by the Hopi. I was suppose to just go back to the normal grind, back to knock’ in out layouts. All I could say was Hopi, all I could hear was Hopi, and everybody started teasing the hell out of me, making “Hopi Jokes”. Give me a break, you know. I decided to take another trip to Hopi Land with a friend of mine whom was also a Hopi enthusiast, only this time we got a hotel room. About four o’clock in the morning, I was awoken by this whistle. Someone outside was blowing the hell out of this whistle. I go outside and there is this mock kiva there for the tourists, there’s a little kid up there blowing the hell out of a whistle. Then the woman who runs the place comes running over to me and gives me a phone message, it was like a dream. The message was that I was supposed to come back to Oakland immediately, my father had just passed away. That was a weird one, I had just let him go that night in a dream. To make things worse I was with a friend of mine, not even in my own car. So, I’m going a hundred miles an hour back to Oakland, this guy’s like “I know he’s going to fuck up my car, I know it.” Twelve hours later, holy shit, I get back there, and that was my second Hopi experience. How they even knew I was in Hopi Land is beyond me. My brother called, who is now dead. I guess they just wondered “hmm… where he could be”, they always thought I was a total nut-case. His latest obsession was “hmm… let me think, ha."

   Moving to Taos was as close as I could get to Hopi Land without being a “wanna-be”, and to be able to still live within my own consciousness. Moving here, I didn’t know that Taos would be more Spanish than Native American. The Spanish influence is so prevalent. I was quickly interested in the folk art, Native American and Spanish. I thought it was pretty amazing, it was naive art. I really discovered this whole place through art, it was the art I was always obsessed about. The Hopi art led me to Spanish culture, which then took me to Mexican folk art, and then to Portuguese folk art, which is where my family comes from. Art just weaved it all together for me, it brought it all back to me. 

  I was raised in a culture where there were no minorities, because we were all minorities. Where I grew up is the same area my family settled in when they migrated here from Portugal and Spain. My family was a bunch of crazies from the fourteenth century. They lived in a place called “Jingle-town”. Portuguese people keep their coins hidden deep from the banks in their pockets and they jingled when they walked past their Victorian houses. They keep up their family traditions, and the church threw big festivals called “Holy Ghosts”. They carried the Virgin of Fatima through the streets. That was a major part of my childhood, we would pop beans at each other. I actually grew up on the outskirts of Jingle Town, in a suburb mixed with all minorities, everyone was a minority. I never thought about racism, I was care free. I spent a lot of my time just collecting polliwogs, and watching them turn into frogs. 

     I never had much of a desire to come to the southwest at first, because I thought it was really hot here. Living in the bay area, you don’t go places that are hot, or else you’ll die. On my trips to Hopi Land I discovered what incredible weather there was, the secret was out. When I went there I found out the people are just incredible too, but the biggest lesson was to find out they were just people. Some of the elders and younger people have a real problem with drinking. Warren really knew how to put’em away boy…I’ll tell ya. It was a real problem for his family, for a lot of families. Also, all the young girls have children because the government will give them more money. But the Hopi culture is so fascinating to me, it’s quite simple, their whole life is their religion. Everything is prayer and god.

     My Hopi obsession came after the hippie thing ruined my marriage. I started doing yoga, smoking pot and knew things suddenly I hadn’t known I knew, discoveries that woke me up quite a bit. My wife wasn’t really into me wanting to experience the world now that I was awake. I didn’t want to just sit there and decay, nobody in my family understood except me. It might have been selfish, but Janis Joplin was playing for free in the Pan Handle ya’ know? We wore towels as shirts to look like hippies, but we were still just artists. I had moved in with ten maniacs, not in the Height or the Castro, but the artist community known as North Beach. It was a nightmare because we all had different views of life. When I first went to the Height Ashbury I was pretty straight looking. My first reaction was that “you’d think they would at least take a bath or something.” Nobody had ever experienced anything like it, it changed the whole world. Then, it changed me, I jumped right into the party and became the type of guy that sent nuns grasping for their crucifixes. We were eating nasturtiums, drinking wine, popping grapes, everybody was sleeping with everybody. It was quite a period, it’ll probably never happen again. 

Ricky

Hmm…that’s a really funny question, how do I like LA?  Because…I am homeless, I am fucking homeless, I am homeless in LA.  Well, when I finally made it to We-Ho, I was like, “Okay, where is the gay area” and people pointed me in the right direction.  I walked over there with 5 dollars in my pocket, no I.D., and no idea what to expect.  It was Saturday night, there was lots of people…I was just walking back and forth, and I sat down at a couple places, somebody finally grabbed me and got me into a bar…they bought me drinks…and then somebody got me into another bar.  I walked right in and saw some little blonde guy…walked right up to him and started making out with him, practically fucked him in the bar.  

Then, two other guys were like “come home with us!”  I said, “Okay!”  They lived right there in West Hollywood.  I went and had sex with them, and then I got up and left and walked back up to the strip...another guy walked by, I grabbed him by the arm and I was like “who are you?” We started talking, and then I went back with him to his house, and got high with him on Meth and ended up having sex with him all day and night Sunday and left Monday morning.  That freaked me out a little, but no big deal…so there you go…I was like, damn.  

That night I went walking around in front of the bars again, and ended up getting in this place were I meet this kid from London, a real young guy who I thought was really cute.  I took him in the bathroom and I fucked him on the bathroom floor, and then he and I went walking around.  We went to his house and we started getting high and having sex again.  I had sex with his roommate that was staying there…we were getting high, getting high, getting high, having sex, having sex, watching porn, getting high…getting high.  

Later, I used their internet and I got on this website called “Adam4Adam”…its fucking crazy, its free, within 5 minutes people are saying, “Hey, Wanna Party? Wanna Party and Play?  Wanna P&P?”  “Yeah, sure!”  And, then they give you there address...go there, get high and have sex!  And, so after I got done at that guy’s house, I went and meet somebody at their place and got high and had sex for like 8 hours.  And when were done I ask, “Hey can I use your computer?”, and then I go on Adam4Adam again, find another one, and go straight to it, straight to it, straight to it, from one bed, to one bed, to one bed, from Tuesday evening until Monday morning, and I didn’t sleep and I didn’t eat for the whole period of time.  

As far as drug repercussions go, this was the worst thing that has ever happened to me.  I remember taking off my shirt and looking down at my arms that are usually kind of nice, sort of full, a little worked out.  When I looked down they were like sticks, they were like fucking sticks…my arms were sticks!   And my hip bones were sticking out, my shoulder bones were sticking out, my meaty legs and thighs, they were gone, my face completely sunken in, my eyes, I looked like I was dead, I couldn’t talk…I kept doing this stuttering thing.  

I started having these horrible hallucinations.  I was walking around and everybody was saying my name “Ricky, Ricky, Ricky”.  Everybody was screaming at me, inside of buildings they were yelling at me, cars driving by were yelling at me, everything was moving around, I was jumping and dunking, even though there was nobody around…it was really fucked up. It’s…its really weird.  And so here I am all brain fried and freaked out.  And because of what happened to my arms I did something to my nervous system, and my hands, like I can’t even roll a cigarette because my hands shake so badly and violently when I try to use them...violently...horribly...the tobacco flies everywhere.   I can’t put my belt on, I can’t put my hands in my pockets, I can’t even put them around... change.

All I have is my intelligence and personality, and in this state I don’t have either of those things, if I don’t have those, I have no confidence…I have absolutely nothing, I don’t have anything!  All I have to rely on…gone…a week straight like this....and it was, like, coming out of my eyes, out of my nose, out of my face, out of my pores!  And I was getting these red sores all over me and shit.   Like, you couldn’t have talked to me…even this morning, especially not yesterday.  You wouldn’t have recognized me…you wouldn’t have wanted to see me, if anybody who knew me saw me they would not have recognized me!   I mean, it was really fucking scary.  And, I didn’t know if I was going to get better.  But now that I look at my arms, it looks like maybe…I might be coming back a little bit.  And, I am talking now. I wasn’t drinking anything either…Oh, I was also doing liquid G the whole time too, you know, the date rape drug, GHB.  

I don’t know, I kind of feel, like, I’m going to take it on, maybe…just, the challenge of not having anything, just having to fend for myself, NOT DO CRYSTAL METH!!  I mean, I had an option to do it tonight and I didn’t.  I always have the option to.  I mean that’s the thing about me, I don’t want to now because I feel like shit, but as soon as I feel better, that’s the problem.  That’s why this guy I was talking to last night was like “Go home, go home!” He was telling me I NEED to go home!  He was like, “Do NOT stay here!  This place is just going to eat you up!  There is nothing here for you!”  That’s the thing, that’s why I say it’s a weird question…a funny question, “Do I like it here?”  

Huh…I just, I…I don’t even know what is up from down right now.  I have some bus tokens and all of my shit in a bag, and my bag is full.  So, now the issue I have is my bag is so heavy, and because of what I have done to my arms, and my body, I can’t hardly carry my bag.  Oh, I’m ‘mister so strong…I can carry that thing for days’, I can’t fucking carry it now, my body hurts, my joints, my legs, my hips, and my knees are like old people hips and knees, and my arms, elbows and shoulders, are like…I mean, it hurts to walk.  But, I know I’m going to recover now.  Thank god, I thought I never would.  

I guess, I am either going to kill myself or not, I’m either going to kill myself or not kill myself.  Well, if I want to I can.  So, I am really trying to plan my move here. This is just a whole different ball game, West Hollywood. West Hollywood and the drug scene here, the gay scene, the drug side of that, like what goes on in houses outside of the bars…what’s going on in the houses and the bath houses, is the darkest of the dark, like the darkest shade of dark…on the planet…I’m sure of it…I’m sure of it.  And, I’ve barely peeked inside of the curtain.  I am just, like, in awe of it.  

I think about if I do want to stay here, I could see myself finding somewhere to stay if I need to, but also, through vouchers and programs…get my own place.  But, I’m going to be lugging it around on foot.  Yeah, it can start right now, today is like my first day of any sort of…ah…the availability of this…what this drug actually is…like I’ve done it before, I’ve done it plenty before, but what this drug actually is…is so, so fucking fucked up, like what it does to you actually, like where you go…these people are walking around in a totally different dimension, on a different planet.  And, I was too, for a week.  And, it’s weird because you’re functioning, not like a cocaine addict hiding behind a door, or under a bed.  You’re functioning, but on this Meth brain, which is so fucked up.  Like, you and another person standing over a garbage can talking to each other with your fingers up each others ass or your holding a knife to each others throat or lighting a pipe, and it doesn’t seem weird…it’s not funny, its normal, it’s just happening.

There is this one house that I went to a couple times, because there is a dealer there that deals this shit, and oh my god…this friend, well this guy I met…an aspiring actor, 39, looks a lot younger, out of his fucking mind insane, told me about it.  He pretty much wanted to use me as an asset at the dealers house, because he knew they would be into me, ‘little mister fresh from wherever’, and they would all want to eat me up…and they would all be happy that he brought me over…and then he would be in like that.  So, he was trying to prepare me for this guys house, he told me, “Uh, it’s weird…” but I said, “Dude I’ve seen weird…I can handle weird people, don’t worry about me.”  He’s like, “Ah…okay…are you sure?  Do you trust my opinion?”  I told him, “Yeah, whatever”.  

Okay, so we go.  Hmm…so we walk up to this apartment building, West Hollywood, palm trees everywhere, Mercedes after Mercedes, whatever, just another blank apartment building.  We go up to the second floor, go to this door and knock on it, you hear like ten locks unlocking, click, click, click, click…we go inside, and close the door, and every window is completely covered up and there are red lights everywhere, everybody’s naked, everybody’s walking around with a fucking sex toy, or the glass pipe they are smoking out of, everybody is doing shit to each other.  People have been up for so long and are so fucking high, and the dealer of course is back in his bedroom like god…he’s back there holding a hammer, this huge fucking Cuban guy who looks totally fucking insane.  Nobody thinks they’re fucked up, nobody recognizes that they’re high, It’s not like “Oh, man, I’m so fucked up”, you don’t say that, it’s like…‘this is where we are at and this is what we are doing’. You don’t comment on it, that’s not how it is.  

When you are doing this fucking shit...this drug, it’s all in your system, so people do booty bumps, where you take a syringe and fill it with water and Meth and you shoot it into each others ass, and it gets you like super fucking high, and then you can take anything in your ass…so people are really big into that.  And then if you have to pee…your pee is full of Meth, so people like to piss in each others ass.  And people get off on weapons, like holding a knife to your throat or a hand around your neck, or a chain while you are bent over a garbage can in case you shit.  So, their fucking you in the ass with a knife to your throat, and, then they pee in your ass in order to get all the Meth piss in there, and your eyes are rolling back in your head your getting off on it so much.  

People stay in there for so long, and stay up for so long, like one guy I meet was starting to fall asleep, I asked him, “How long you been up?”  He said, “A month, I think.”  Then he told me about this other house where he was at a sex party.  So, the guy hosting the party, who’s got all of these young guys over, he’s getting them all high, great, everything is great.  Nobody ever tells you who has AIDS and who doesn’t, and NOBODY likes condoms…which I have been pretty good about, pretty good, not completely though.  Anyway, he was sitting there at this party and all of a sudden someone came up to him and said “you know who has a gun with them?”…and why do they think they need to have a gun?  But, it’s their brain from this shit.  All of a sudden you think someone’s trying to kill you or steal your shit, because that really happens, or you really think that it is happening and you think that you need to have a gun.  And so you have it, and sometimes people think they have to act preemptively, before it happens.  So someone might suddenly shot or stab you because they know you are going to kill them, 100% know that you are going to kill them.  That’s what is going on in their head, so that potential always exists.  

So, the person throwing the party is giving everyone drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, drugs, and everyone is like “wow, this guy is really nice…well as it turns out all of the drugs, drugs, drugswere fronted to him from some guy.  And the host, who started out with a nice job, a nice car, a nice house, he thinks he’ll make it work, he’ll make it pay…well, he’s not, he’s ‘not’ making it work and he is ‘not’ paying…he’s just not.  And so, eventually, two and three couple thousand fronts later, the dealer knows he’s not going to pay, so he shows up at this party you’re at with a fucking gun and says, “I don’t care who you are, nobody’s leaving until I get my money…who’s gonna pay?”  That’s it.  “What are you talking about I had nothing to do with this”, you ask…but he says, “Did you hear what I said?  You are not fucking leaving!”  So one person there…he hands over the keys to his $12,000 motorcycle, and he lets three people leave, and everyone else gets…gets killed, just like that.  

In West Hollywood, because people out here die so much, and overdose, because a lot of people shot up the Meth…and that makes them crazier than you could ever even imagine…everybody is so sick of dealing with it, these gay people with AIDS…because they are all so irresponsible, they don’t stop getting high…you know, they don’t stop having unprotected sex…so, you know…they just don’t care.  They don’t feel sorry for them…they DON’T care!  So, they don’t even report it in the news how many people die every night.  They are just like “let AIDS kill them all!  Let them kill each other!  Let them overdose…who cares?  Fucking, get rid of them!” And that is exactly what is happening.  

Where does life take you, to where we are all in a room doing this to each other, what is up?  What is going on?  Is this really real?  I can’t believe this is actually happening...I can’t believe these people are here, that this is real.  I can’t comprehend it, I can’t…get it.  I don’t understand, it’s too much…it’s too much for me to understand.  Where I came from I was the bad guy, I was the one that was crazy.  All of my friends thought I was nuts, and I’m not trying to compete with anybody, I’m not.  But all these people thought I was crazy.  I was the only one that would stay up for a couple days…went to the bathhouse and had lots of sex with multiple people, only one that did that.  I am not even a ripple in the pond here.  I cannot even begin to try, nor do I want to try to be on the same level as these people.  I don’t fucking get it.  I’m still standing here stuttering, rubbing my eyes, like, “is this really happening?” 

Well, I am homeless...but I’m at least good enough to…I’m not going to kill myself, I promise.  I’ll…I’ll do what I have to do to survive.  But, some really young hot blonde guy with a six pack and all of his friends want to have sex with me, and get me high…you know, and probably half of them have AIDS.  I don’t know, and they wouldn’t tell you if they did either, and you wouldn’t know because they all look so good.  The sex I’ve had, I’ve been on the bottom, because after a couple days on Meth, I can’t get my dick hard anymore, so now all can do is get fucked…but, um…nobody’s came in me...so, I think I’m good.    

    One of my nights…let’s see…one of the people who got a hold of me and invited me over, what was his name…?  Joe, his name was Joe.  I went to his apartment in West Hollywood…he had a penthouse, the nicest apartment I have ever seen in my fucking life, like something out of a magazine…amazing artwork, all city and cool and new and Zen and huge…huge balcony looking out over the city…”HOLLYWOOD” sign right there.  His room had all of these mirrors in it.  I had sex with this guy, no kidding, for eight or nine hours straight of him fucking the shit out of me all over, in every position., on his bed, in the bathroom…we pissed on each other, watched porn…and he’s fucking me in front of the mirror from behind, on my back, everything, for hours, and hours, and hours, until like eleven o’clock in the morning, and then he had to go and I went somewhere else.      He’s a producer, he’s super wealthy.  I didn’t ask until later, “what do you do?”  I was looking around all of a sudden and I was like, “fuck dude, what do you do for a living?”  He’s said “oh…I’m in TV”.   But the whole time we were smoking Meth and doing liquid G, which makes you swirl, and really horny…and not care.  He said he wants to take me to Palm Springs really soon.  There is this gay hotel there where you can walk around naked…and because of my behavior and everything, he is really excited to take me there and show me off.  He also wants to take me a few other places, out of the country, to some weird places to do some weird things, I won’t say what , but I’m sure you can imagine.  

    But everyone keeps warning me, “that’s the thing about the illusion of all this…there is always someone that’s in better shape than you, they look better, their getting higher than you, their maintaining it better than you, they can hold it down better than you, their doing it more often than you, and you are always aspiring towards that…it’s all a trick, it’s all a trick, it’s not real…it’s just not real.  You think it is, but it’s not…it’s not real.  Don’t be fooled.”  The thing about this drug is, you can do like a few puffs and put it down, and you’ll be high for two or three days.  You don’t have to keep doing it.  I just kept doing it, and doing it, while I was high.  So, I totally O.D.’d on it, I completely fried my system beyond anything.

I have to say though, downtown, Venice beach…nobody, no scene takes the cake, as far as total debauchery and intensity, like the fucking gays in West Hollywood.  There is nothing like that that I’ve ever seen.  Always thinking that it’s happening somewhere, in some city, like ‘oh it’s out there somewhere, this is happening somewhere’…no, this is it, this is where it is happening…at all times.  And it’s cranked up to 100, all the fucking time.  Nobody ever turns the volume down.  They say “You are in LA…remember that!  This is not a nice city...this is not an easy city.”  That is what everybody says.  “LA is hard, LA is really fucking hard” everybody tells me that, I even heard about the places like Gay Center in West Hollywood, places with resources and good things for the community, It’s so fucked up, all these organizations for AIDS, everyone working there are all high on Meth and there all hooking up with each other and with people who come there, you know they are more fucked up that the people they are suppose to be helping. It’s just so fucked up, it’s so fucked up, it’s beyond…beyond.  It’s all truly that…I mean it is what it is, but you’ll see this young beautiful person show up walking around and everybody likes this person, but after a while you just don’t see them anymore…people even stop asking what happened to them…they just disappear.  Or, you see them a few months later, only now they are walking around dying of fucking AIDS, so strung out, they don’t even know who they are anymore…it’s so common here.

I don’t know what to do…I really don’t. I can’t handle full blast.  I can NOT handle full blast.  And, I can’t take just a little drink at a time either.  I got to fucking dive in, so, it looks like what would happen…I mean in all objectivity and being honest…is that I am going to bust my fucking ass just so I can barely survive, just to get into the position where it is good enough to fuck it all up again.  That’s probably what would really happen.  I could pull it all together, but I don’t think I could keep it all together.  I’d throw it all away as soon as I got it, you know?  I don’t know what to do.  Meth is just too perfect of a gay drug.  

Usually, I would just go on Craigslist and find some odd jobs, but I couldn’t do anything for anybody right now.  I couldn’t shovel, I couldn’t carry stuff, I couldn’t perform two hours of fucking work, let alone a full day.  I couldn’t do what I normally do right now, there is no fucking way.  I don’t have the body or the strength to do it.  Not to mention if you start talking to me, if I even get slightly nervous or uncomfortable, I will lose my ability to speak.  I mean that fucking put my ass in check hard, I promise. I mean, I can usually go on the longest fucking binge I want…and at the end I feel spent and I feel burnt, and I feel ashamed, but I just go to bed and I wake up and I’m fine.  I don’t look in the mirror and see that I am fifteen pounds less with chemicals coming out of every pore…and my teeth are gray, and my fucking eyes look dead…and I feel dead, and I look dead…or like a strung out retarded person.  That’s never happened to me before…ever, ever, ever.  That takes everything from me.  

You know why not just live with the consequences of my own stupidity for a change.  Well…there is nowhere to run.  I can’t depend upon my looks, because they are going to run out really fast, and if I don’t look good people are not going to let me come over and do it for free with them anymore.  No…because they want my muscular body to come over to have sex with, they don’t want my strung out fucking glazed over fucking eyes and my fucking stick arms, fucking asking for another hit over there.  I can’t, I can’t, I can’t…you know, I can’t handle it.  I cannot, I don’t have the resources…I don’t have the cushion to fall back on.  I don’t have a support group out here.  I can’t fuck up.  You know, hanging out…hanging out with my sister sounds really nice right now...  

And I’ve decided that thinking about the future, that may or may not be there, is a lot more fun than actually living in the one that I thought I wanted and created.  I hate being a failure, but also its like…I don’t feel like I can scratch the…you know, scratch the…well, ‘go to LA and see if you like it’… and if you don’t you can at least say, “hey, I went”, but I don’t feel like I did…I feel like…ah…I guess I did, what am I talking about?  But, even now I find myself thinking ‘all by your own will power, NOT do drugs, and go through what it takes and fucking pull your shit together’, this is what my stupid self is telling myself, “Ricky, you owe it to yourself to fucking not fall flat on your face and just run home, you owe it to yourself to...you know, to survive on your own, completely on your own, on your own resources, by what you can come up with.  Not by someone else wiping your ass for you because you party too much.”

I found this card from my mom while I was going through my shit…I was looking at it, it said “smile” on it, I opened it and it said, “That’s what I do when I think of you!”  I’m reading this...I can barely hold the card because my hand is shaking so bad. Then it said, “I hope everything is going good for you, I am so proud of you, please keep playing your music, smiley face,  call me when you can!  Ricky, you will always be right here in my heart every day, all day!  I love you and take care, hugs & kisses, MOM.”  He, he, he…well, I guess I’m at the end of the rainbow…yep…it is the epitome, and the end, and the bottom without a bottom…the bottomless bottom, of just falling, falling, falling...