August 12, 2005


Cosmopolitan twinsicle, Julianne Escobedo Shepherd and I were talking about parties at silos and COVAD dumping in the meadows of her town growing up, and we got onto the topic of the unofficial rule that when you are a 15 year old punk girl, the guy who sells you your first hit of acid, or buys beer for you is always some much older anti-racist skinhead dude who is effed up but schools you hard on the dictum of punkess . The skin she hung with was some Cheyenne S.H.A.R.P. (Who knew there were SHARPS in Wyoming?) The skin I hung with was dating my 9th grade best friend, he was 17 and he was an "ex skin", his favorite band was (duh, it was 89-90) a punk funk band that repped hard for racial unity 24-7 Spyz . He had a million warstories on repeat: some guy from St. Paul selling him bunk acid at Sunday Night Dance Party and how he was going to give him a curbie when he saw him. Or the time he got high with Darryl from Bad Brains. Or about getting scabies from the couches at First Ave. About why I should never wear blue laces in my docs. The time he was on house arrest. The story behind "JOPY". He knew about everything and nothing. He was macho and dumb and loaded every day by 3, but he was the only dude who would explain punk's secret code to us, and so he was our friend. He would wait for us afterschool (he'd dropped out years before), hang out in the parking lot, burnt from having been up for 3 days on trucker speed, ollieing over the cement burm, wearing a Corona drug rug hoodie .

He was the dude that, the last time I took acid and had the worst drug experience of my 9th grade summer, prescribed the sure fire way to fix a bad trip -- 1. lock me in a room so my bad trip would not "contaminate" the group and 2. make me watch Def Comedy Jam. He was right, and it totally worked, and I was totally a-ok until his best friend stuck pistol to my temple and told me he would shoot me and my friend if I did not stop talking. I stopped talking. Though if I had known it wasn't actually loaded, I wouldn't have started crying. That was the last time I did acid. The first time I took acid, I was at the Chi-Chi's in City Center. That is a better story, but it will be saved for another time.

Meanwhile, my story about Chicago Tapes Project is up and readable in this week's Reader - click on the Our Town section . Ilana and Aay totally just made like, 10 or 12 new tape stations in anticipation of the publicity. Please spread the word because Tape Stations could stand to go national.

Gosh, gosh gosh. I leave for tour in like 40 hours. Holy amazing.

Posted by Jessica at August 12, 2005 12:27 AM | TrackBack