I'm fucking crazy, man. You don't wanna mess with me, man.

Pretty much anyone who ever tells you something that a normal person wouldn’t ever say out loud is full of shit. Think about it. You know when you hear someone go “I’m crazy, man. I just don’t give a fuck!” what they’re really saying is “I act out for attention because I’m an insecure pussy with a monstrous list of things to prove. Daddy was always working late and never wanted to play catch/house.” When someone says, for example, that they’re in the mafia, or they know some serious people; nope. No. Sorry. You aren’t and you don’t. People who are in the mafia (John Gotti excluded) go to GREAT lengths to keep that information secret.
This shit is true for the guy who brags about getting laid, this is true for the chick who has the famous friends and the open invitation to the modeling contract that she’s just never taken because she digs being a hairdresser. This is true for the person who goes to great lengths to tell you, unprovoked, that they aren’t a drunkard, don’t cheat on their boyfriend, work really, really hard, scored a genius level on an IQ test, whatever. This is the fucking hallmark of lying, although sometimes it’s a little more complex than just being a straight up falsehood. For example, “I’ve got an 8 inch dick, you know” means one of two things: 1. Person has small penis. 2. Person has 8 inch penis but never gets laid and he’s unsure of how to get the word out. Ah, well, I spoke too soon. I guess there’s: 3. Person is a disgusting guy who thinks that women react to dick size the way dogs react to bacon or 4. He’s a gay guy at a club making casual conversation. There’s always exceptions, people. See John Gotti for an example.
The crazy one though, that’s the real irritating one. “I don’t give a fuck man. I’m crazy.”
Look. I’m no psychiatrist but I’m pretty sure that the FIRST thing about being crazy is that you don’t think you are. If you’re having the thought “man, I’m going crazy!” you’re fine. It’s people who are just out in their bathrobes, pissing on a fire hydrant while holding a stack of pictures of David Schwimmer cut out of magazines that are looking at you like “hey asshole, what the fuck’s so interesting over here that you gotta stare?” or even better, maybe they say “excuse me. Which way to my aunt’s house? Do you know anything about the law?” Those motherfuckers don’t think they’re crazy. They know that what they’re doing is normal. Perhaps they think that everyone else is crazy or out to get them or something. But those fucking people, each and every crazy person on this planet is not only unaware that they’re crazy, they’re totally fucking positive that they aren’t.
Because, being crazy isn’t cool. It’s like being addicted to drugs. High school kids who smoke a ton of pot think it’s funny to call themselves drug addicts. Dudes that suck penises for hits of meth do NOT call themselves drug addicts. They call themselves The Alkaline Trio.
Heh. Couldn’t resist. Seriously though. Real addicts (unreformed) tend to try to stay as far away from clinical descriptions as possible, and real crazies, the same thing. Real addiction, like real crazy, isn’t cool, and only someone who had no fucking idea about being crazy would ever brag about it. Just throwing that out there as a primer to a very short story about addiction and craziness. Here goes:
Okay, someone asked me to write something funny in this space today, since I guess yesterday was kind of a downer (if you’re a TOTAL pussy, but that’s another topic). I immediately thought of this story, starring my friend who was also our tour manager on a bunch of European tours. He’s small and toothless and generally the coolest dude in the world, but on this tour, we kind of got the feeling that he was getting a little crazy with the speed. He’s an older dude, and he’s been a road dog for something like 25 years, and in general, when you deal with lifer crew guys, drug habits aren’t that odd, and usually don’t get in the way or even really talked about, but in this instance, it became pretty weird pretty quick. He of course denied that he was doing drugs (see the above paragraph about addiction) and honestly, I guess I don’t know if he was. I never saw him do anything, but this one night in spain, he exhibited some pretty questionable behavior.
We were all sitting around. He went to get some sleep because he hadn’t slept in about two days. Needless to say we were concerned. I told him “dude, we aren’t leaving here until you sleep. Go sleep. I’ll handle everything with the money and shit.” So he went down to the van to crash. About 20 minutes later he came back up grinning ear to ear and screaming that he had the best fucking idea ever. He had taken five pins (or badges if you’re british) from the opening band, and he’d taken the CD from the headlining band (we were second on a 3 band tour). He’d ripped up the cd from the headlining band and taken the heads of each dude from the band photo inside and taped each head to one of the pins from the opening band and was walking around with these pins that were not only homemade teenybopper style individual pins for each dude in the headlining band, but also a vulgar display of lack of respect for the merch of both bands we were out with.
Anyway, his idea was this: (and he said this with such enthusiasm that you’d think he just figured out cold fusion or something), he’d go to the headlining band and get them to buy us a transvestite hooker. The thinking here was that it would be worth their while to pay for the hooker for the sheer joy that would come from seeing us uncover its penis and the resulting disgust and backpedaling etc. HOWEVER!!!!!!! That was just what he was gonna tell them. What he REALLY wanted to do was fuck the tranny himself. We, he told us, could film it, and then we could make a DVD and sell it!!!!!! And all the while the headlining band pays for the hooker! It’s fucking GENIUS!!!!!!!
…
Dead silence.
…
I feel Chris and Neil’s eyes burning into me, screaming “dude, what the FUCK???!?!?!?!?”
No one is saying anything.
Tour manager says “well, isn’t that fucking brilliant? What do you think?”
Silence.
“What The Fuck” eyes are burning into me even more.
I clear my throat and try to sound very casual. I say “yeah, man…but uh, we don’t, uh…have a video camera.”
He says “That’s the least of our fucking worries!”
No shit dude. No fucking shit that’s the least of our worries. You’ve been up on speed for three days, we need to drive all night , you’ve alienated the two bands we’re on tour with and you’re trying to grift some very nice, generous people into buying you a prostitute/force me to film you having sex with a tranny. I’d say you’re right. The not having a camera IS, in fact the least of our worries.
So, in the end we did it, and he was right. It was a great plan. The sales went through the roof. Best selling disc I was ever a part of. This was before the internet came along and made tranny porn free. Those were the golden years, man. Fuuuuck.

I start shooting next week, so I don’t know how diligent I’ll be able to be with this, but know this, dogs of war…I love you all, and I’ll try to check in as much as possible.
Enjoy your weekends.