Story by Marco Collins, Storytelling by Rob Knop Debauchery is a test. Sex beats, alcohol, fast climbs, high dives. Ears ache. Teeth buzz. You slip on sidewalks, you pick up stick figures, tattoos are injected skin deep. It’s like a chorus girl has dared you to make use of all of Paris; so you rip through its layers; its streets, alleys and clubs, greeting any gaze that shows promise with a smile. A flinch. Always knowing the morning will be your afternoon, because you’re still in Seattle, where “clocking in” by sunlight is a comic pursuit. We started the party.
The party was at Patty’s. She and I were just running around Capitol Hill, hanging out, trying to find drugs, getting booze, just doing what we do. Patty’s pad was called the Horse Shack. A not so obvious nod to the various drugs consumed there. Outside was the nerve of street geeks, runaways, secondhand shoppers, rebels and dealers. Boredom and danger. The raunchy and absurd. Restlessness. — inevitably something happens because everyone else is doing the same thing, hoping to collide, combust, into shared excited states. It came as no surprise to be shocked by the picture-perfect appearance of Mark Lanegan. There he was, an image come to life, lurking down the street a few blocks from Broadway. At 6’4”, Lanegan carried himself like a Frankenstein monster wandering through the desert of his own shadow, in the fashionable black of a latter-day Johnny Cash. A real missionary. The vibe connected. “What’s going on? What are you doing out here?” He wasn’t supposed to be out here; this was the land of nomads and throwbacks not a domain for the famous singers of the Seattle grunge scene. He flashed a knowing smile, paused and replied. On a whim Patty and I invited him over. — We hinted we were trying to score some coke. Anything to make an impression. Cocaine. Crazy drug, it’s in fashion, then it’s out, then it’s in. The kids are doing it, the parents are doing it; politicians, waitresses, ballerinas, telemarketers, it’s so fucking nuts, it will never go away. Like… Twitter. “Hey man, we’re having a get together, all sorts of people are coming over, do you want to come over? Lanegan smiled and turned toward Broadway. We let him go. He was up and off to do his thing, I have no idea what… but the invitation was heard. Our “score mission” continued, not thinking too much about the exchange. We made our way to the pay phone at the Jack in the Box on Broadway and Denny. I had a coke connection who loved delivering to rock stars. That was his thrill, he wanted to be part of the “scene” but his day job was driving a cab. For him it was just driving, delivering, and basking. The usual amount; the usual address. The order was made, and Patty and I headed back to the Horse Shack. Patty slips in the key in and we’re greeted by muttonchops, gasoline jackets, the sisterhood of Betty Page and a four-hour supply of Rainier beer. Via the cheap stereo, heavy hi-fi drones provided by Buzz Osborne and the Melvins completes the mood. Conversations run the gamut, piercings, comics, lyrics, the Sonics An unexpected knock at the door. Patty opens the door. It’s Lanegan. Pick your cliché : The record scratches, the wine glass is dropped, the power goes out, (you get the point dear reader) = Everyone is stunned. The party takes a turn. People become a little more attentive, a little more animated, a little more excited. Everyone wants to hear what Lanegan is going to say. And of course, Lanegan does not disappoint. A few drinks in, he bellows: “So you’re the bastard who rags on Michael Jackson music?!” At first, I thought he was kidding, he’s just fucking with me, right? Grunge doesn’t give a shit about Michael Jackson. But the rant progresses, the voice of the Screaming Trees itself rising in the air with the penetrating stare of judgement and reckoning. Frankenstein and the King of Pop have cornered me at the Horse Shack. How the hell did this happen? What do I do? “Ah… Do you remember specifically what I said?” A foul grunt is delivered. Thinking to myself in a mild panic… “Logic Marco, really?! Think fast man, What can you say to pacify the bear?! The bear! Play dead, play dead!” The mouth responds quickly: “Look I promise you if I said anything about Michael Jackson music it had to have been off the cuff and I probably didn’t mean it but I, I don’t recall any of this-” Lanegan is not having it, the interrogation continues… now more intense with me looping and ducking around my answers until a protective Patty Schemel comes in and says… “Mark! He doesn’t play Michael Jackson! There’s reason for Marco to talk about Michael Jackson.” Lanegan pauses. An expected knock at the door. The drugs have arrived. I smile widely. I make my way to the door executing flawless “head-nod” contact gestures to the “appointments” I had set up earlier in the evening. I didn’t want to share the coke with the whole party, just my pals, and, I wanted to be considerate. Some people weren’t down with coke. I had to be secretive. Even though everyone knows what’s going on. Going off to the bathroom kept our consumption out of the public eye. I stepped out of the living room into the tight confines of a typical Capitol Hill apartment bathroom. The kind where it’s easy to knock your head or knee into some porcelain fixture. At least there’s a window with a small view. With my back to the door I sense the remaining space suddenly filled by an anxious feeling. Over my shoulder Lanegan has entered and closed the door behind him. I’m trying not to breathe too heavily. Or make sudden moves. Two tense lightbulbs flicker overhead. Clearly, we don’t have a lot in common but the task at hand is of mutual interest. The only catch… navigating the tight space. Lanegan barely fits in the room. He takes a seat on the edge of the bathtub assuming I’ll pour a line on the edge of the sink, close to eye level. To do this I have to stand with one leg on the floor and the other propped up on the toilet, leaning in gingerly to not spill any coke into the sink. Once the lines are laid out, I have to step back to allow Lanegan’s head to lean forward. To do this I take a seat on the toilet itself. This orchestration of movement occurs without a word, we’re pretty good at playing this weird version of Twister. And you know…, as soon as we both do a line, we become cartoon characters. The tension breaks, and Lanegan extends his hand offering a mild apology. I’m more than accepting. When the coke hits you, your outlook changes. Total mutants can become perfectly acceptable friends. Now Lanegan and I are chatting each other up. Movies, music, artwork, boots, belts, shoes; super-villains, the pop-culture flows. I manage to figure out a maneuver where I can pace in the bathtub while laying down a diatribe on the finer points of Joey Ramones belt buckle. We do even more lines and I soon forget my other “appointments” outside in the living room. Then in a sudden shift, Lanegan grunts “Hey! Let’s just stay in here for a while and freak ’em out!” Okay?! Who am I to say no to Lanegan’s unfolding prank, so yeah, let’s do it. Five minutes pass, no big deal, but I notice I’ve become self-conscious… what if someone has to pee? Fifteen minutes, this seems like forever, but it’s not even side one of Led Zeppelin II. We do another line. Twenty-Five minutes, okay this is a bit much, we could have finished an episode of Friends by now. Thirty minutes, Okay, now were just being rude. I crack. I mean obviously no one can relieve themselves cause we’re in here, but also, we’re just basically doing all the drugs. “Hey, we should go out there.” Lanegan nods, and replies… “Yep. Follow my lead” We exit the bathroom. Buzz Osborne strums in the background and Lanegan leads me toward the middle of the living room. He places one arm around my back, and the other grabs my right hand raising it shoulder level as we turn to face each other. In this strange embrace, Lanegan leads me into an eighth-grade slow dance. The entire party falls silent. They’re just watching, And I’m thinking, “This is fucking surreal.” I’m high out of my mind, with a dancing bear, at the Horse Shack. The muttonchops and Betty Page sisterhood sit quietly on shitty thrift store couches, sipping their drinks with jaws dropped, gesturing at me like.. what the?! A poignant moment, a change in tempo, a spin move. And then the room breaks up in tears and laughter. Everyone wanted to see what Lanegan would do. And of course, Lanegan does not disappoint. My faith remains, and shall always remain, intact.
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