Boobie Tassels For Buddha

I can't say for certain exactly what thought processes led to me deciding to move back in with my father after my parents divorced, but that's the way the story goes. Thinking back on it, maybe it was just too much change after my mom moved in with my soon to be stepdad. We'd gone from home, to a rental house, to his house in a pretty short amount of time. Or maybe I was pining away for my things, my bed, the home I grew up in. Or perhaps I was just being a little bit rebellious? Most likely it was a combination of change, missing home and rebellion with the gutteral fuck noises of my Ron Jeremy look alike stepdad and my mom's ooohing and aahing being the straw that broke the camel's back.

I sometimes went out to see my dad on weekends. I had friends out that way I'd hang out with and my dad had girlfriends who were pretty cool to me with kids who were the bee's knees from a barely-growing-hair-down-there girl's perspective. It wasn't really a stretch to see why I thought moving back would be a good bit of fun. But, my dad was also a drug dealer and his girlfriends' kids and their friends and his "clients'" kids were all getting drugs from him and were definitely into sharing. In pretty short order, I introduced myself to booze. He introduced me to the customers. They introduced me to pot. It would be a long term love affair...

Several of my new pothead friends were in a band. A BAND. *girl scream* They had long hair...ratty, frizzy, Cobain style grunge hair. Well, except for B on bass. I think he drank enough PBR to forever prevent himself from growing any at all. These guys were all considerably older than me. I was only in 8th grade and some of them were actually already out of school. They played alternative/grunge rock when that was the absolute shit. They gave me drugs. They didn't really mind me tagging along (the guitarist's girlfriend and i had become pretty close after her mom started banging my dad). The world was a grand place from my glassy eyed view even though I spent a good bit of my time just trying to find my place.

Eventually, to seal my worth in this little group, I helped myself to dad's stash and sold it for less than he did. Considerably less. It's a cutthroat business. But, that's another story.

The band, let's call them the Dirty Pussy Magnets, played house parties, in fields, for birthdays, for the fuck of it, took part in locals shows and practiced once or twice a week. They had a uhaul type trailer for hauling equipment on out of town shows with their name spray painted on and such. They really weren't bad. They weren't great either but maybe they could have been. Instead, they lived a rock n roll life before they were even rocknrollas. Everything involved pot and booze and partying. Even in between the shows and crowded practices, we hung out and listened to music and ate candy and stayed stoned. Sliced turkey and skittles makes a fine meal, by the way. I think once we spent half a night laying on someone's floor listening to Janis Joplin looking at glow in the dark stars....that says it all.

We were out back counting stars with hum, destroying sweaters with weezer, and strutting our stuff with the violent femmes.

My life, quite honestly, resembled a combination of dazed and confused and almost famous except these guys were 'won't ever come close to famous' unless being arrested for drug possession counts. Which a couple of them were... oh and the singer also had part of his pinky bitten off by a monkey.

Here's a soundtrack from the times...hope it brings back some memories.