Roofies, Mohawks, Shotguns & Blood: A Love Story

Mohawky goodness.

This is a story. This is a true story. This is a story about a band called GWAR, my best friend and a drug called Flunitrazepam, better known as the date rape drug or roofies.

My best friend and I have known each other for nigh on twenty years in two different states. We met in Boston when I lived there and we moved to Los Angeles together. We survived the first year in Los Angeles on ramen noodles and government cheese that didn’t even come from the government. We had to buy it ourselves like chumps. “Cheese” may be a stretch since I’m pretty sure there was no dairy in it. It was labeled “cheese food product.” Never trust anything that has to be labeled “food” because you might confuse it with spackle or plastic explosives.

Real cheese does not look like this. Image from
Real cheese does not look like this.
Image from

In twenty years, my friend and I have had quite a few adventures, a lot of which I can’t remember clearly because I was crapulous, i.e. shit hammered, pickled, pissed, pants-on-head drunk. The particular night in question, I was not drunk, probably because we couldn’t afford to get drunk after blowing all our money on GWAR tickets. Priorities.

We went to see GWAR. Are you familiar with GWAR? They look like this:

Sup, ladies. Image from
Sup, ladies.
Image from

GWAR really dresses like that. They have performed live in those costumes since 1984. Hopefully, not those costumes since they’d be really funky by now. I assume they are costumes, but perhaps they just have very bad skin. I don’t want to judge.

GWAR sounds like this:

Incidentally, when I went to look up that video, I forgot that I had headphones in and I was already listening Johan Sebastian Bach’s Violin Concerto in A minor, BWV 1041: III. Allegro assai. I wouldn’t recommend doing that. It’s quite jarring. Although, it might make a cool mash-up by someone with more musical talent than me, which is everyone.

The particular night that I’m talking about, without having actually talked about it yet, my friend and I were at GWAR with two adorable punk boys with mohawks from Sacramento. We met these adorable punk boys with mohawks at an Exploited show two nights before. They were in town to see The Exploited and GWAR shows, one day apart. They had nowhere to stay and were planning to sleep on the streets of Los Angeles, the literal definition of gutter punks, so I let them stay with me. In retrospect, letting two homeless-in-LA strangers stay in my house probably wasn’t the wisest decision I could have made, but they really were adorable and I have a total weakness for mohawks.

This is a picture of Wattie Buchan from The Exploited, but my two adorable punk boys looked similar:

The Exploited Image from
The Exploited. Rar.
Image from

The Exploited sounds like this:

The Exploited have been together since 1980 and they were one of my first and favorite punk bands. They still are. I’ve met Wattie more than a few times and I’ve never been able to understand most of what he says. He has a very thick Edinburgh accent and I can only understand about every fifth word, so I just end up smiling and nodding my head at him like an idiot. Last time I ran into him, I just gave him a hug.

Wattie sounds like this (skip to 40 seconds in):

Now, if you are an astute observer of music, you might realize that those two bands, GWAR and The Exploited, sound not much at all alike. One is metal, the other is punk. Part of the reason why I trusted my adorable punk boys enough to stay at my house is because of that discrepancy. When I was an idiot punk teenager, I wouldn’t listen to anything but punk. I looked down on every other genre, especially metal. Metal was lame. I have since stopped being such an idiot and now I like both. I like people who like both. So, when my adorable punk boys said they had tickets for GWAR and The Exploited, my heart went all a pitter-pat, because I did, too.

Adorable punk boy 1, as it turned out, was gay and had a huge crush on adorable punk boy 2. Adorable punk boy 2 knew that adorable punk boy 1 was gay, but he was completely oblivious to the fact that adorable punk boy 1 was smitten with him. Boys are dumb. Meanwhile, adorable punk boy 2 was smitten with me, so an awkward three-way love triangle developed like some weird, other worldly romantic comedy.

I lived in a studio apartment at the time and the only sleeping surface I had was a queen size bed. I wish I had an aerial shot of the three of us spooning mohawk-style. When you have a mohawk up, you have to sleep on your side.

My adorable punk boys and I helped each other put our mohawks up with Knox gelatine, the best way to put up a mohawk. Yep, I had a mohawk, too. My mohawk was glorious. It was pink and so long that I had to put it into liberty spikes instead of the traditional fan shape like Wattie. It was really difficult to put it up myself because my arms weren’t long enough to reach the ends. When it was up, I couldn’t drive because my hair tried to impale the top of the car and the car always won.

My mohawk looked like this:

Mohawky goodness.
Mohawky goodness.

That’s a self-portrait I drew based on a picture taken of me with my mohawk up on the night in question. The original picture is gone now, but the drawing remains. I was so damn hardcore it hurt. OORAH.

When all of our hair was blatantly disregarding the laws of gravity by accusingly pointing at the sky and was not likely to move without serious infrastructure damage, we four–two adorable punk boys, my best friend and me–trotted off to the GWAR show in Hollywood. Weeee!

One thing I always seem to forget about GWAR shows beforehand is that they shoot fake blood and green slime at their audience. It’s a gesture of love. They have a blood cannon and a slime cannon. It’s fake blood since it isn’t salty and it dries to a nice bright red. Real blood is salty and dries to a brownish color. I’ve been covered with real blood before, so I know the difference. Although perhaps GWAR are really aliens and their blood is bright red and bland.

This is what happens at GWAR shows:

You can’t make out much in that video, but you can clearly see and hear a “SPLOOGE” sound as this dude’s camera takes a direct hit. Then he pans the camera to show the blood soaked audience. Look how soaked they are! That was me. Not literally, mind you; I’m not in that video, but all GWAR shows are pretty much the same.

We were stuck in the pit within range of the blood cannons, pretty close to where the guy who filmed that video was standing. My friend, being the innately sly type, ducked out of the pit to get a drink from the bar before the cannons started. She somehow subconsciously knew. While I, like a goddamn moran, stood there and took a huge load in the face. A load of blood, I mean. Fake blood.

My friend stayed at the bar, all dry and smug, sipping her cocktail for the rest of the show. However, her craftiness in escaping the blood torrent would eventually work against her. During some split second that she turned away, some unmitigated bastard slipped roofies in her drink.

Near the end of the show, adorable punk boys and I escaped the pit and went to the bar. My friend was nowhere to be found. We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find her. I tried calling her phone, but there was no answer. We went outside. There she was leaning against the venue wall by the car, almost passed out and covered in her own vomit. Well, fuck.

She was delirious and completely out of it. I was worried. We couldn’t get her in the car because she could not stop throwing up. What to do? I spied a convenience store kitty-corner across the street. I told adorable punk boys to stay with my friend while I ran over there. I thought maybe some water would help her. It probably couldn’t hurt. Besides, I was thirsty.

I walked in, went to the coolers, picked up four bottles of ice-cold water and walked to the counter. The man behind the counter pulled out a shotgun and told me not to move. I instinctively put my hands up. He was calling the police. What’s wrong? I wasn’t planning to steal anything! Put the phone down! He wouldn’t listen.

After a few minutes, the police showed up. They took me outside. It was only then, when I saw my reflection in the glass of the store, that I realized the problem. With the panic of my sick friend, I had completely forgotten that I was drenched in blood. Oopsies. I looked like this, but with more green slime and a pinkish-red mohawk:

Somebody call the amberlamps! Carrie, 1976.
Carrie, MGM, 1976.

I calmly explained the situation to the police officers: GWAR show, blood cannons, roofied friend, buying water. I pointed across the street to the parking lot where two adorable mohawked boys were waving at me. Unlike the bodega man, apparently, the officers were familiar with what real blood looks like and that this was not it. They mostly believed my story.

The Hollywood police officers put me in the back of their squad car, which gave me a bit of a fright, and we drove over to the venue parking lot. Three of us had mohawks and were covered in blood. The other was on the ground throwing up and looked like death. The cops sighed. They asked if we wanted to call an ambulance. My friend, who was coming around, but still throwing up, said no. She’d be alright. We didn’t believe her, but it was her decision. One of the police officers went to the squad car and came back with a bottle of water. He handed it to my friend. Here, drink this when you’re able. Those cops were so understanding that I actually bowed to them as if I was Japanese as they drove away. I am not Japanese.

Nice people. Who knew?
Nice people. Who knew?

We stayed there holding her hair and patting her back for a good long while. The parking lot was empty and everybody was gone. When the sun was coming up, my friend said that she might be able to attempt something like getting in the car as long as she had the safety of an emergency barf bag. The problem was that she had driven since none of the rest of us, in our vain, peacocky state, could drive. I said, fuck it, threw the rest of the water in the bottle over the top of my head to loosen up the Knox gelatine and got in the driver’s seat. Even the blood had done nothing to make my mohawk fall.

We stayed at my friend’s house just in case she needed to run to the hospital. She crawled into the bathroom and spent the night there, alternating between throwing up and sleeping. The next morning, she felt like her head was crushed in a vice, but she was okay. I went into the bathroom and finally got a good look at myself. Crooked mohawk, smeared makeup and drenched in blood. No wonder that man had called the police.

The adorable mohawk boys went back up north. I was right to trust them since they were complete gentlemen, cordial and did nothing untoward at all. We talked for a while afterwards, but then I moved and we lost touch. We’ll always have GWAR.

Written for the Weekly Writing Challenge.

5 Things I'm Looking Forward to This Week

Boooo. Another list prompt. Besides the fact that they inspire little actual writing, this prompt in and of itself is teh suck since I’m unemployed and have little to look forward to at all, let alone this week. So, per usual, I’ll just make some shit up.

Conversations with Doppelgangers
There’s nothing quite like traveling through spacetime and running into a doppelganger from another dimension. Shit is freaky. I wouldn’t recommend getting too close though, since it could warp the spacetime fabric. You can carry on a conversation from afar, but they will probably be very confused to see you since, unlike you, they’re just trying to carry out the business of their day, and instead, they run into you.

Astral Projection
Astral projection has all the fun of spacetime travel without all that pesky leaving your house bit. You can fly about the universe peeping in on the happenings without even leaving the comfort of your sofa. You are safe from boreworms or parasitic viruses since you’re not actually there. It does have some drawbacks though. You can’t actually eat anything or give a high five should the need arise.

Surfing Black Holes
If you’ve never surfed a black hole, you are seriously missing out. Imagine the biggest, finest tunnel waves you’ve ever seen and then take away gravity. There’s nothing else like it. Although, you may want to astral project your first time since, if you go too far into the wave, you’ll end up on the other side. You don’t want to end up on the other side.

Exploring Dark Matter
Ah, dark matter. Is there anything more interesting in the universe? We haven’t even really figured out what it is yet. It’s dark and transparent at the same time! How about them apples? 80% of the universe doesn’t even exist in a traditional, matter-having sense. Be careful of the radiation though. if you get a hole in your suit, you’re done for.

Traversable Wormholes
Go on. Take a shortcut through spacetime. I dare you. Who knows where you’ll end up. It’s the crap shoot of cosmology. Well, that is, unless you take a safe and boring Krasnikov tube. You might even run into a planet of your very own doppelgangers.

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Hello, Boredom, My Old Friend



Boredom and I have a long history together. As a child, my family would drag me and my sister up to a picturesque cottage on a lake that has been in our family since the dawn of time. My great-grandfather built it as a hunting cabin. For a long time, there wasn’t even a proper door on it, just a heavy canvas curtain, until one night, as my ancestor and his fellows were playing cards and drinking, a bear just walked in like he owned the place. After the bear came calling, they installed a door right quick.

From Memorial Day to Labor Day, my mom, grandmother and sister were at the cabin on the lake, now with a properly closing door, and dad would come up on weekends. Once a summer, the family would take off in the RV and go gallivanting around the country. In either case, my only company was my sister who was four years older than me and rarely wanted to participate in my reindeer games. I had to learn from an early age to entertain myself.

The little burg in which the cabin was situated had greatly increased its population density from my great-grandfather’s time. It went from the occasional population of half a dozen bear-fearing, card-playing hunters to several hundred people. It became virtually a miniature megalopolis complete with a general store, fire department, its own post office branch and even a library in an old garage containing just barely more books than the population. Still, there was nobody my age with whom to play.

While all of my little school friends were together downstate having group adventures, I was stuck in the north woods on my own. I was envious of the fact that they didn’t have to leave for the summer. I didn’t really appreciate those summers until I got much older. To me, it meant lonely days in idyllic scenery.

From the time I was a tiny tyke, I had to learn to curtail boredom. My theory has always been that, if you’re bored, you’re just not using your imagination. I climbed trees, I built forts, I had adventures in the woods with my trusty sidekicks, which were mostly stuffed animals, and most importantly, I developed a life-long love of books. By the time I was in double digits, I had read almost all of the books the garage/library had to offer. Whenever I was bored, I’d ride my bike up to the library and pick up another adventure.

Through other people’s words on paper, my imagination bloomed. Sometimes, I would get so wrapped up in a story that I would stop reading and act out my own ending to whatever adventure was playing out in the book. Then, I’d compare and contrast. My version was usually better.

I developed a love of words. I relished reading a word that I didn’t know. I’d run into the cabin and look it up in the dictionary. Some of those strange and random words are still stored in my brain. Those childhood remedies for boredom are still with me. Although, nowadays, I don’t generally act out live-action renditions of a story, but my imagination still works on alternate versions nonetheless.

Today, as an unemployed, non-contributing member of society, I have plenty of time to be bored and I have few playmates since they’re all busy working, just like when I was a kid. I don’t despair though. Whenever I get to feeling antsy and restless, I just pick up a book and take my imagination for a drive. Books and imagination usually cure all manners of boredom without fail. Sometimes, they even give me a kick in the butt to write my own stories instead.

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Road Trip!!

I’ve taken a lot of road trips over the course of my life. Some of them turned out to be disastrous, some were amazing, others were hardly noteworthy, but there’s one thing you of which can be assured with a road trip – at the very least, it will be interesting.

Road trips get you out of your routine. They pry you loose from your daily life to experience new things, new people and a tired butt. You have no choice but to try places you’ve never been. You are a pioneer, discovering the best places to run in just to pee and where not to eat. I adore road trips.

When I was a kid, my family had an RV in which we’d take off for weeks at a time. I’d been to every single state in the continental United States before I even hit double digits. I lost my favorite doll at one of the campsites and cried for days. I drove over mountain passes and vast plains. I still have some souvenirs from those childhood jaunts along with precious few memories.

Towards the end of my last year of high school, my two best friends and I ditched school, got in the car to go to my friend’s house and just kept going. Our impromptu road trip lasted for five days. We drove all the way up to Copper Harbor, the very northernmost tip of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, jutting out into Lake Superior. I had lived in Michigan my whole life and had never been the Upper Peninsula before. We came down around Lake Michigan through Wisconsin into Illinois and spent a few days in Chicago. It was our final fling as high school friends. After we graduated, we hardly saw each other again.

Once, I was driving through eastern Canada late at night. I turned to my friend and said, when are going to stop going uphill? He panicked and told me to pull over right then since that section of eastern Canada is as flat as a board. I had been driving so long that I thought we were scaling the imaginary hills of Canada. I spent the night sleeping in the car along the freeway, nestled between miles (or kilometers) of semi trucks who had the same idea. It’s a strange, but common practice there.

Another time near Toronto, I had to take a detour of many miles because the friend I was with was scared of going over open bridges. That was our last road trip together, not because I was annoyed by the bridge phobia, but because that friend, my oldest, died this year.

I called in sick to work and drove from Boston to Pennsylvania with my best friend to go to some crazy event in the woods of western Pennsylvania where we stayed drunk for days and lived in a tent. A few months later, we took another road trip from Boston to Los Angeles in my little car with a huge trailer loaded with all of our belongings where a new life awaited.

I flew from Los Angeles to Boston only to drive to Detroit, and eventually, to New York City touring with my boyfriend’s band. I spent the night in a love motel in Detroit with mirrors on the ceilings and shower nozzles at waist height. I had lived in Detroit most of my life and never knew such a place existed until I moved away. I watched as he ran laps around a public rest stop off of the highway in nowhere America because he had been in the car too long and was slaphappy. I fell in love with him as he scaled a rock at that rest area, raising his arms victoriously like Rocky and singing Eye of the Tiger badly at the top of his lungs, immune to the askance scowls of normal travelers. I peed in a cup (a difficult task for a girl) while stuck in Manhattan traffic. I watched the sun rise in Brooklyn. I drove by ground zero a week after September 11th happened.

Those are just a few of my many automotive adventures, but probably the best road trip I’ve ever taken was all by myself. I bought a brand new car, took a month off of work and just drove. Wherever I felt like going that day was where I went. I ate in a restaurant by myself for the first time. I saw sunrises and sunsets all over the country. I went everywhere from the Atlantic Ocean through the Blue Ridge Mountains over to the Mississippi River and down to the Gulf of Mexico. After three weeks on the road, I decided that I wanted to sleep in my own bed that night. I drove from Atlanta, Georgia to Detroit, Michigan without stopping. Less than ten hours later, I saw the sun come up over downtown Detroit as I pulled up in front of my building. I’ve never slept so well.

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