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My friend Bob Bonehead showed up to school wearing his pants inside out and his hair chopped into a Mohawk.
The closest I came to getting laid on that trip was before our show in Portland, Oregon, when the guy who sang for the opening band threatened to rape me.
Melvin was sitting off to the side with his legs crossed and his mouth hanging slightly open. I looked at him, and then back at the TV . . . and then back at him . . . and then back at the TV . . . and the acid made it all clear to me: “Melvin is a fucking ape!”
If I wanted to wear a leather hood made out of Hillel Slovak’s pants while my girlfriend shoved a beer-bong butt plug up my ass in front of our landlord: so be it!
I remember one night we were supposed to stay at some place called the Vomit House. I had been in the band long enough to know that it probably wasn’t called the Vomit House because it was full of flowers and feather beds. In fact, right as we pulled up, someone was vomiting off the balcony.
Every time an agent asked me something, I’d just stare at the guy in the corner and think to myself, deliberately and distinctly, “Donald Duck. Quack quack. Donald Duck. Quack quack.”
