There was a commotion at the front door. “Hey, what’s up?” said our friendly host as he ushered in a pair of new arrivals. I barely glanced up from the glass straight shooter I held to my lips and lit another rock pushed into the opposite end. I held the medicinal-tasting smoke in my lungs and blew out a huge billow of it that expanded to the low ceiling. I felt the rush hit me, a sensation of a sudden drop in pressure while the hum of a ghost train ran through my ears. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered at the intensity of it. I stared blankly at the glowing TV in front of me, unable to comprehend what this strange electronic object was for a moment. I eventually focused enough to recognize it again as this thing called “television” and see that MTV was showing the latest video from the Seattle-based band Alice in Chains. As I looked past the set, I watched as the two arrivals were ushered toward the back of the house to do a little business. I recognized them as Alice in Chains singer Layne Staley and the band’s bass player Mike Starr. I looked at them and then looked at the TV. Weird. Here they were copping drugs, and on-screen, they were miming their latest hit single. It was an odd thing to see and it struck me as somehow unfair. Everyone’s passing me by, I thought bitterly. I shoved another rock into the pipe and took another hit. Fuck it, man.
This was the same old resentment that I had felt after Thelonious Monster recorded Beautiful Mess and we went out on the road. The constant tours and endless one-night shows took a heavy toll on me, and the band was tired. We played badly, I thought, but we were still a vital live act. We were better than Candlebox or some of our Capitol Records label mates that we would tour with. I thought their shows were the equivalent of watching water freeze. They weren’t very fond of us, either. The bands with whom we were billed generally resented us for the chaos we brought as part of our package. We were a hard act to follow. Most of them were scared to have us open for them. It got to the point where we’d just tour with bands that were friends of ours, like Soul Asylum and Hüsker Dü. Beautiful Mess didn’t spawn any American singles, but one of the songs, “Body and Soul?” caught on with European audiences and was a hit over there. While the song was in rotation on European MTV, we made a lot of appearances on the music network in Europe and here in America. But we couldn’t deliver the goods in any sort of sustainable way and we fell apart.
Deep down in my core, I felt like Thelonious Monster had more talent and charisma than most of the bands on the scene, but either we’d blow it at crucial moments or people just didn’t get us. It was frustrating to me. I hung on to those feelings for many years. It made my relationship with Anthony Kiedis difficult at times. We were friends, for sure, but I also harbored a lot of latent resentment toward him. How dare he get so much more successful than I did? We had shared that goddamn apartment at La Leyenda. It was hard for me to understand what it all meant and where it went wrong. It took me years of therapy to get over all that. I was damaged.
In 1994, I was broke and a lot of my friends weren’t. I got a publishing check for $3,500, and I went straight to a place called Bar DeLuxe to start some serious drinking. I got drunk quick and kept the bartender busy. I was with some friends and they couldn’t keep up with my pace. Fuck ’em, I thought. Doesn’t anybody know how to party anymore? I felt the hot, sharp need to use the restroom. I slid off my stool and pushed my way in its direction. I was unsteady and I bumped into a ponytailed waitress. She spilled the drinks on her tray. I stood there and swayed like a weed in a summer breeze. She wasn’t happy. “What the fuck’s the matter with you, asshole?” she spat out. I tried to throw the old Bob Forrest charm. The waitress was immune. “Who’s going to pay for these drinks?” she demanded.
It made me angry that she talked to me like that. Didn’t she know who I was? “Fuck you. I have to use the toilet,” I said, and brusquely pushed past her. I could hear her behind me: “You’re going to take care of this, jerk.”
Inside the restroom, I was alone. I locked the door and took care of business. The incident with the waitress preyed on my mind. I felt ready to explode. I looked at my reflection in the mirror and didn’t
