We’re on the verge of the 2020’s and that got me thinking back to 1999, when everyone was talking about the millenium and being on the verge of something totally new, something out of a science fiction story or a danceable Prince song. It was a cool year in the American cultural landscape. Movies that came out that year included American Beauty, Fight Club, Being John Malkovich, The Blair Witch Project, The Matrix, The Sixth Sense, and Eyes Wide Shut. Other cultural phenomena included Y2K, Pokemon, The Harry Potter Series, boy bands, and rap/metal pop, including new artists like Kid Rock and Eminem.
Aaaaaand it was within this American culture that my childhood
pal Chris Micha and I decided to move into a small, two-bedroom apartment on
Staten Island. The place smelled of ashy plaster, rust, and cigarette smoke,
and was within walking distance to the pigeon-shit-stained Ferry into
Manhattan. I was two years out of the Army and working sixty hours a week at
Morrell Fine Wine Auctions, while sending out short stories to magazines for
rejection. Chris was hustling graphic design jobs and gigging at night with his
band, Das Phrogge. I was 27 and Chris was 23.
We were artistic brothers, with our world view
shaped by Bill Hicks, Charles Bukowski, Bob Dylan, the Beatles, and Nirvana.
That meant, basically, that our drinking and pot-smoking would be heavy, with
periods where other kinds of drug use would be called into the service of
artistic warfare. The Hicks monologue: “Drugs have done good things for us. If
you think they haven’t, go home and take all your albums and burn ‘em. Cuz all
the artists that made all the music that’s been a soundtrack to your life? They
were reaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal fuckin’ high on drugs” – was our artistic call to
arms. The Bukowski quote: “Find what you love and let it kill you” was written
on my bedroom door. There was a kind of fervent belief in the altered mind that
was impressive in its depth, if only that. In the end, that belief cost Chris
his life.
I’ve often felt I escaped the same fate only because of fear.
Specifically, the fear of needles. My completely irrational fear of
needles—stemming from my childhood, when I had to get shot up a bunch of times
because of a variety of ailments—kept me off the hard stuff that eventually
took Chris’s life. And that was truly the only Rubicon I would not cross.
Everything else was fine, especially oceans of ale, but needles were an
automatic no-go.
Back to ’99, though. As Chris and the band were getting ready
to go into the studio to record what they envisioned as the first of many successful
indie-rock albums, Chris mentioned to me that Tower Records sold zines. I had
been talking about starting a literary magazine of some kind because I was
tired of getting rejected all the time, and Chris thought zines could serve as
a model for how to do a new kind of literary magazine. I didn’t know what a
zine was, though, so I went to the Tower in Greenwich Village one night and
bought a bunch.
So, Das Phrogge went into the studio with Ron Thal and
recorded “Body and Mind,” and I had myself an underground literary magazine. But
there is no Hollywood ending to this story. Neither Chris nor I went on to
reach the heights of artistic fame and fortune we had so colorfully dreamed of
in that creaky apartment on the Isle of Staten. And I know Chris held onto some
level of resentment about that, while I—on the other hand—had been conditioned
through the thousands of rejections I got from every magazine in America to
know better than to truly, 100% believe in my dreams.