In which our hero, in the ultimate act of class treachery, gets black-out drunk with the rich and powerful, then tries (and fails) to redeem himself by striking a blow for the union movement.
So I did my radio show on Saturday night and it was not a complete failure. I was pretty happy about this. I recorded most of it about five weeks ago, but because the theme of all the songs was Workin' For The Man I mentioned the recession and some other current affairsy type issues, so I thought at the time I should leave some gaps so I could ask myself if the information I was sayin' on the air was still accurate. Even back then I thought this was a pretty bad idea, but since it turned out that we are not in recession it turned out it was a bitchin' idea.
The only real problem with the show was that I didn't make any note of when or how long the gaps were, so I had to stay in the studio the whole time and COULD NOT SMOKE. Imagine the displeasure of my poor put-upon lungs when my ears heard my mouth say, 'I guess the problem with doing this is that I won't remember when or how long the gaps are, so I can't duck out for a smoke - hey future cam, there will be no gaps for the next eight minutes'. But the noise wasn't coming from my mouth, it was coming from the speakers.
After the show I started to drive home to my cold, uncaring house when who should ring my phone but my ridiculously rich friend Andres. He was havin' a party (I can't remember what for, but probably to celebrate being outrageously rich) at his warm, party-having mansion and I should come along.
It was a pretty tough decision. On the one hand, it would be an act of class treachery to get my party on with his rich and powerful friends. On the other hand, maybe I would witness some debauchery and I could live off blackmail money for the rest of my life and never ever have to return to the hateful underclasses.
Actually, it was a pretty easy decision.
So anyway, I ended up getting really wasted with the VP of Something or Other at XXXXXXX & XXXXXXX and I don't remember a great deal, but I do remember being offered a lot of drugs. I probably got offered coke five times. Pot three or four times. Speed once.
Even though these were probably the best quality drugs I will ever be offered, I Just Said No. Nancy Reagan would be so proud.
I also remember that the speed was called Hazel. The guy said to me, 'hey, you wanna line of Hazel?' and I said, 'what on Earth is Hazel' and he said, 'that's what I call my speed' and I said, 'you call speed... Hazel?' and he said, 'no, not all speed. Just this rock.'
IT WAS NAMED AFTER HAZEL HAWKE. I can't remember if I asked him why that was.
I also remember necking wine out of some bottle and some guy from XXX XXXXX was like, 'Do you know how much that wine cost?' and I said, 'No' and the guy was like, 'It's very expensive' and I said, 'Oh great' and took another big swig and he had the most pained expression on his face.
Finally, I attempted to crash tackle a state MP (as part of the wider struggle for worker's rights) and I don't think it worked because I ended up on the ground and he was standing up and I'm not sure he even noticed. Andres noticed though, and he kicked me out, so I went and slept in the back of my car for a while.
I think I twisted my ankle. It really hurts.
I am so fired from punk - can you believe I actually asked permission before I wrote about this? Did G.G. Allin ever ask for permission before publishing HIS sordid tell-all screeds?
I don't think so.
Anyway, apparently it is okay as long as I leave out all the names and identifying things. I agreed to do this as long as Andres paid for my fancy breakfast (eggs and salmon - further class treachery) so future blackmail victims should probably take note of how easily I am bought.