Not
being a particularly sentimental guy, things like anniversaries
and reunions have never done much for me. So I'm not quite
sure how I feel about the fact that, as I was
sitting here preparing the Publicity Whore 1st
Anniversary Issue, I got a notice in the mail
for my 10 year high school reunion.
'And I Just
Need A Little Somethin',
You Know, To Take The Edge Off...'
I
mean - fuck. I can barely believe that Publicity
Whore has managed to last an entire year (now
be honest - how many of you really thought we'd stick
it out this long?), and NOW I have to accept the fact
that it's been 10 years since my dumb ass left that suburban
concentration camp? I wondered what the hell I've done,
anyway. Have I even accomplished anything?
'...And My
Locker Was Just Past
The Third Guard Tower On The Left'
I
figured the people who go to reunions are usually the
type that:
a.)
Have
jobs. (and at LT reunions, they're usually good jobs)
b.) Have husbands / wives / significant
others.
and
c.)
Have happy memories of those four magical years called
high school.
So
let's see: A job? Well - I got fired from my most recent
phone room gig just yesterday, for blowing off last Friday
to go to the beach in Malibu to pop Ecstasy. Does that
count? No? Oh well. Do I regret it? Hell no -
I have a hunch on my death bed I'll miss poppin' E a lot
more than selling fuckin' toner over the phone. Now -
what else? A wife? Next. Fond memories of high school?
Fuck - the only memories I have at all involve
bad grades, and buying acid in the locker room, so you
do the math.
'Say - Could I Interest You
In Buying Some Toner?'
See,
most of my friends were the 'Most Likely To Become Heroin
Addicts'-type. So after 10 years - I can't honestly say
how many are even around anymore. And if they
are alive, they sure as hell aren't going there. So if
(hypothetically - of course,) I were to attend said reunion
- who would even be there? I looked at the 'Reunion Committee'
names - Oh Jesus - her!?! And her?!? And she's
married, too? That bitch had a MUSTACHE, for
Christ's sake! How can her husband NOT have noticed THAT?!?
I cringed at the thought that this horrible yenta
squad was sitting somewhere in Chicago, right now,
organizing this little excuse to parade their new husbands
around.
Somewhere In This Wonderful
City, A Horrible Evil Lurks...
But
what I really couldn't figure out was why I even
invited in the first place? Doesn't this mustached bitch
know I'm not the kind of guy who goes to reunions? Didn't
I check that 'Don't Bother Contacting Me For Reunions'
box? I'm not an elitist, or anything, it's just that I
had nothing to say to any of these people when we had
that horrible cocksucker Dick Albright for an English
together. What would I say now? That these days my turn-ons
include pot, prescription painkillers, and stealing Hydroxy-Cut
from my weightlifting neighbor, so I can get all cracked
out and save money on grocery bills?
Hey Kids - It's Cheaper Than
Ramen Noodles!
That
I've lived in a crackhouse for the past five years with
32 different roommates - all of them drug addicts, most
of them drunks, a homeless guy, a pathological liar, an
entire holding cell's worth of coke heads, E freaks, Meth
fiends, a girl we're pretty sure was a hooker, my girlfriend's
boyfriend (it's a long story,) a guy on the run from the
cops, some dude's dad who slept on our dirty-ass couch
for a few weeks, a guy named 'Butt Dart', a girl named
'Screwy', and a big plump puppy named Kaji? Or maybe I
should tell 'em about the time I was put on double secret
probation at a telemarketing room for taking too much
Morphine and nodding out at the office?
'Take Two And Call Me When
You
Start Drooling On Yourself...'
But
as I sat there motherfucking myself for being such a loser,
I started to think about what I really do have
to talk about. Granted - it might not be the mainstream,
suburban Chicago shit I'm supposed to have done.
You know - the degree from University of Illinois, the
summer I spent clerking at my uncle's law firm downtown,
the girl from the respected old-money family I married,
our two perfect little brat kids...
Maybe In The 80's, But This
Place BLOWS Now!
But
I realized I've done some pretty cool shit. I started
Publicity Whore, after all. That's pretty
fuckin' cool. I mean, how many people in the class of
'92 will actually be able to say they started a magazine
in their crack house apartment, published 25 issues in
52 weeks, and got to meet and interview childhood heroes
like Dave Grohl, Henry Rollins, Ron Jeremy, and Jim Rose?
How many will be able to say their readership increased
over 4,500% in the last year? How many get into every
goddamn show in L.A. for free, get greeted at the door
with 'We love Publicity Whore!'
Maybe They Should Have
It Here...
How
many will be able to claim that seven Playmates
actually fought over who was gonna get one of the four
Publicity Whore babydolls you had to
offer? How many will be able to claim that Hugh fuckin'
Hefner himself burst out laughing when he held
up the Publicity Whore shirt you gave
him (when after all - you started Publicity Whore
in your bedroom with your brother?)
'The Markley
Brothers Are The Coolest
Motherfuckers To Come Out Of Chicago
Since, Well - ME!'
How
many people there regularly get fan hate mail from total
strangers in Europe, Asia, North America, South America,
and Australia, demanding to know why they haven't written
a Prick Of The Week in the last two issues?
(and to answer your question: as amazing as it sounds
- I'm not always pissed off. In fact, sometimes
I'm downright pleasant - during which times I refrain
from writing entirely, since our market research shows
that people like me far less when I'm happy.)
How Publicity Whore Spreads...
I
started to realize that chronic dissatisfaction with my
life or not, life has been good to me. I mean,
fuck - I get hate mail from people in fuckin' Germany,
telling me I'm a cock smoker for pickin' on Scott Stapp
'all the time' (and for those keeping score at home -
it was only twice, and that asshead deserved
it both times.) I might not have a Mercedes in the garage
(or a garage at all, for that matter), but so what? I
met Bruce Springsteen backstage at the L.A. Forum yesterday.
That's pretty cool.
Why Buy One...
When I Can Steal Yours???
Even
if no one reads it, I get to gather my thoughts and figure
out what the hell I think about this shitty, fucked-up
world we're living in. It doesn't cost me $150 an
hour, I can smoke pot while I write, and most importantly
- by doing this, I rarely need to burden my friends with
my personal life jibber-jabber (and for the record - most
of them have criticized me for not opening up enough &
being more vulnerable. I don't know - apparently they're
not reading my work...).
...George Bush Drops By
Publicity
Whore Headquarters
So
with all of this stated, why would I rather get the Botswanian
Anal Probe than go to my reunion? I could probably walk
in there and floor 'em with all my L.A. bullshit. So who,
exactly, am I afraid of? Some guy with a dull, soul-draining
job? A wife that's fucking his best friend, a mortgage
he can't afford on a house that's fallin' apart, 2.5 bratty
kids, and a white picket fence that his fat little fuckhead
neighbor keeps stealing Christmas lights off of?
It Still Beats An L.T.
Reunion
I'll
betcha he didn't score free passes to the Warped Tour.
I'll bet he never had the singer from Orgy run away from
his ass at a party, because he was afraid Publicity
Whore was gonna fuck with him. He
doesn't get to pop ecstasy, twirl glo sticks, write an
article about it, and wind up with fan mail telling him
his shit's the bomb. Not exactly God's work - but it's
not fuckin' bad, either.
It's Completely
Empty If You Ask Me
So
I guess I'll never know exactly why I'm in that percentage
of the population allergic to reunions. Maybe I'm just
a 'glass is empty' guy. But that's cool - a 'glass is
full' guy never woulda written this.
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