40 Oz of Hell: My Mom, A Hooker And How to Get Out Of Fucking C.C. Deville
Friday, November 30, 2001 @ 2:30 PM
||The Rock n' Roll Ranting Of A |
Welcome to the dump where Jeff Kerby lives in his Pinto and swills mind numbing alcohol case after battered case. I have been assured that every couple of weeks I will receive a column from him undoubtedly written on one of the torn up bags which he uses to house his malt liquor. It seems this poor guy lives with all that society throws away only to find solace in a bottle of fire. Here it is, Kerby’s 40 Oz. Of Hell. Be glad you only get to visit -- he has to live there. – Ed.
Today’s Episode: My Mom, A Hooker and How to Get Out Of Fucking C.C. Deville
“Kerby, I’m afraid you’re a fag.”
“What?” I don’t even think my tone fluctuated when I responded to the comment directed at me through the bars. The thing is, during the last month I’ve been housed in the Bernalillo County Jail, I’ve gotten to know Lt. Dennis Major pretty well. He’s lent me some cd’s during my stay here and been at least adequate company, so it really didn’t bother me too much when he came to my cell last week and told me about his little homo theory. It isn’t that Dennis is a bad guy or anything -- actually, he kinda reminds me of about a billion other guys submerged in their late thirties. See, he’s got the requisite basketball sized beer belly, cheesy porn star mustache and basically works at the prison solely because it pays the bills -- kinda why I used to work at the dump too, I guess. Given that, if Dennis didn’t like metal, I doubt if we’d have a whole helluva lot to talk about -- see, he has a double wide, and I have a Pinto. The lieutenant also has a wife and a dog -- I just have my right hand and a dead rat carcass that I could never quite exhume from underneath the upholstery of my backseat. Despite his lack of wealth, fame or verbal profundity, I’m still quite certain that he sure as hell more closely resembles the paradigm my mother had set forth for me and my life than I do.
Check that, after the letter I just received from Mommy Dearest the other day, I’m POSITIVE she’d rather have him as a son. Actually, I’m convinced that right now she’d rather have anyone -- including Fred Durst or Wes Scantlin -- as her boy instead of me. That hurts. Here’s her damn letter. Fuck, I have no secrets anyway.
You know, the maternal instinct that our Good Lord Jesus instilled in the female form is strong. Extremely strong, Jeff. Did you also know that I used to read you stories when you were small? They were Bible stories, son -- they weren’t Devil stories. They were tales about real men and real women who had internal struggles and harrowing issues that could only be persevered through the diligence of hard work and the wonderful grace of God. They were just chock full of people who strove to do well -- they wanted to improve themselves. The characters just wanted to be better people -- I wanted that for you.
There was a lot of positivity in what I read to you, but do you know what wasn’t in these stories, son? Well dear, I never once remember reading anything about Moses coming down off a mountain carrying a blow up doll and some sinful lubrication designed to make fornication easier. Do you? Did I ever ONCE read you a story about having intercourse with a dwarf? For that matter, did I EVER lead you to believe that it would be a good idea to engage in this type of activity? Where did I go wrong? At what point did I fail to teach you the importance of knowing the difference between right and wrong?
The answer is simple. I didn’t fail. You son -- you are just an idiot. That’s it. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but the people at church just laugh now and refer to you as Damian. All of the shorter female members of the congregation have expressed to me that they feel safer without you on the street. I agree—what you did to that poor little midget girl is disgraceful. You are an abomination to all the rules and codes that I try to live by. Understand Jeff, someday there will be an atonement for all your sin. Understand that you truly will rot in eternal hell after you rot in your earthly jail cell, and the only thing that could ever save you at this point is an exorcism, and you’ll just never be smart enough to realize that, so basically there is no hope. No hope for you, heathen boy -- no hope for you whatsoever.
Given that, there is only one thing left for me to do -- as the Bible states that Pontius Pilot did just before they crucified the one and only Son of God -- I am washing my hands of you, Jeff -- you iniquity filled demon. You, my son, are just an Evil Bastard.
Idiot? Evil Bastard? My mom hardly ever says stuff like that -- unless she’s talking to my father. I guess you could say that he was the original idiot/evil bastard -- especially after he ran off with that ripe little seventeen year old who worked at Dunkin Donuts. Mom’s been a little hostile and frustrated ever since. Even at that though, this correspondence is pretty harsh. My concern over my mother’s hatred of me is probably why I wasn’t all that offended when Dennis started talking about what he suspected regarding my sexual preferences. As a result, I just kinda did what I conditioned myself to do whenever he started talking: just look vaguely in his direction and try to look as interested and engaged as I possibly could. Sometimes it would be an hour or even a day later before I’d finally process the statements he’d make. For some reason, probably boredom, this time it didn’t take that long.
“Kerby, I’m afraid you’re a fag.”
“A fag? What the hell are you saying?” I stated with a lot more feeling. This time I think I even managed to sound like a concerned listener that was paying attention to what he had to say.
“That Incubus review is what I’m talking about. Shit. Everyone is talking about it -- all the inmates are talking about it. I can’t believe you actually gave that crap a ‘thumbs up.’ To make matters worse you went and wrote about how “emotional” it was and how the band was secure in the knowledge that they aren’t exactly the most masculine bunch around…”
“What the fuck? I got that CD from you!!!”
“Yeah, but I had only listened to it once or twice before I let you check it out. Since then I’ve decided that I really hate it. I would have just given it to you, but I was afraid that it would’ve spun you into full-on fruit mode for sure.”
“Gee, thanks for saving me from my cock gobbling self.”
“No problem. Actually I’m going to help you even more.”
“How the hell are you gonna do that? Unlock the fuckin’ door?”
“No, I’m gonna do even better. I’m gonna save you from that great Satan known as potential fagness.”
“No really, I…”
“That’s it. I don’t want to hear it. Tomorrow is visitation, and dammit Kerby, you’re gonna have a visitor. It’s gonna be a girl too.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about? My mom won’t even come over here.”
“Jeff, there’s a fine woman from town that I want you to meet. She goes by the name of Sweet Annie. She’s got quite…”
“You’re a guard. What the hell are you doing? You can’t bring a woman in here!”
“Why not? There are rooms all over this place. I’m trying to do you a favor here.”
“A favor? You’re trying to hook me up with a prostitute!” Little did he know that my only problem with this whole exchange concerned the fact that I like to arrange such debauchery myself. Otherwise, of course I would’ve had no objection to an iniquity filled act or two doled out in secret by a broken angel of the night.
“Don’t you go getting indignant on me pal,” he continued after sensing my opposition. “You’re the one who screwed a dwarf. Christ, I figured this would be an improvement for you.”
“Urrggh. Not this again.”
“No, we aren’t going to go there again, but what you need to understand is that pussy fairyness is a disease. It this needs to be treated in stages -- keep an open mind here. Just meet her first before making a decision. Ok, big guy? Maybe you could at least talk to her for a while -- she’s got some good stories. Hell, she’s seen a lot of shit. Then, if your testosterone calls, maybe we can hook something up for later…maybe next week. Damn. Any other guy in here would be jizzing himself all over the place at the prospect of this -- temperamental internet writers, Jesus.”
Saturday came around, and sure enough, my name was called over the loud speaker. I was led into the conversation room by some officer that I didn’t know. I had never seen one of these areas in person before, but actually, it looked a helluva lot like the ones they show on TV. There was this clear Plexiglas which separated the inmates from the visitors—side partitions extended on both sides, which were intended to provide a modicum of privacy for those in attendance. Of course, all communication was done via phone. The guard led me to the third cubicle in a line of about twelve. When I looked down, I saw that the aforementioned Sweet Annie was already seated. At first glance she looked to me like she was in her late thirties, but she may have been younger. You just got the feeling even looking at her that the deepening crows feet around her eyes may have had just as much to do with her environment and lifestyle as it did with her age or genetics. The long dirty-blonde hair she possessed hung down carelessly over her exposed shoulders not quite covering the logo of some motorcycle shop in South Dakota that was emblazoned on her tank top. As I went to grab the phone, I thought I saw something green etched on her shoulder. I moved the receiver closer to my ear while I cricked my neck just enough to see that the word tattooed on her was “Poison” and a black top hat was drawn underneath it.
The answer is simple. I didn’t fail. You son -- you are just an idiot. That’s it. I don’t know if you’re aware of this or not, but the people at church just laugh now and refer to you as Damian.
We exchanged hellos, and her voice seemed to reach from ears to my….uh, heart. It definitely had an effect. That’s what kills me though. I eventually end up falling in love with everything I screw whether it costs me $20 or a Big Mac. I must be getting even worse now because I hadn’t even messed with Annie yet, and I was already running scenarios of potential happiness through my mind. Images made resplendent by visions of her standing all decked out in Daisy Dukes smiling in front of my new double wide trailer while cavorting playfully with a couple of chickens who roamed freely about the yard. I have to admit -- I was massively attracted to her. I wanted her -- right then too as a matter of fact. I knew we couldn’t though, so I’d just have to settle for small talk. She asked me about prison life, and I tried to make myself sound as brave and tough as I possibly could. I even thought she was buying it too -- my lilly white thug life persona was sounding more menacing by the minute. It was so good, in fact, that I figured she was probably getting wet as a result. I was about to bust into a story about how I whooped up on some inmate named “The Impaler” when she interjected -- -
“Uh, these stories are nice and all, but…. you liked…uh, you liked Incubus, so….you’re gonna have to excuse me if I find there rest of your little anecdotes highly unlikely.”
Oh, shit. That inbred Dennis actually told her that? He probably told her I was gay too. Let me tell you -- there’s nothing worse than looking pathetic to a prostitute. My fantasies were fading quickly.
“I can explain…”
“Really, you don’t need to.”
“No, wait. I do. I mean, don’t we all like some groups for awhile and get ashamed of later?” I was grasping -- “You liked Poison, right?”
“I was in love. I was young and stupid and didn’t know any better.”
Huh? I had to hear more about this. It only took a few seconds of coaxing and cajoling followed by a subtle reminder of the fact that she was getting monetarily compensated for her time here before Sweet Annie finally relented. I could tell instantly by her eyes when she started talking that this memory was transporting her to a place and time in her mind that had been visited many times before.
“Around ‘87 or so, I heard ‘Talk Dirty to Me,’ and I nearly lost my mind. I liked the music, the beat. I liked the partying style of the band. That’s all it was about back then. You know -- it was the fucking ‘80s for Chrissakes. “Had a few beers, getting’ high” that kinda thing. I think I used to think of myself as kind of a poor man’s Lita Ford back in the day. As I recall, I was about 20 then, and all my days just consisted of drinking and fucking.”
My mind was instantly rife with erotic mental images. How come I never knew any chicks like this back then? My most erotic moment of the late ‘80s involved the cover of the first Cinderella album, skin friction and one hell of a lot of shame later on. I think I still carry many of those psychic scars to this day. Really, it explains a lot.
I tried to shake myself back to reality when I realized that she was still talking. “It was because I liked them so much that I got this tattoo when I heard that they were coming to town with Ratt and Cheap Trick,” she related. “Obviously I wanted to see Poison the most though. Y’know -- just rock out. In the back of my mind, I wanted to meet Brett, and then? Who knows? Maybe go on the road with the band or become Mrs. Brett Michaels. I know -- it’s fucking stupid, but shit, like I said, I was 20 and high. I didn’t know any better. A friend of mine at the time even went with me to the show. Shit, we must have got there at about 5:30 or so. I wanted to make sure that we had a direct shot to the front barricades on the floor so that Brett could see my tattoo and know just how devoted I was. As it turned out, we didn’t really need to be there all that early because there weren’t too many people at the concert even when it started. When they started jamming I thought at first that maybe the group was all fucked up or something because they didn’t sound all that great -- that’s how screwed up I was. I didn’t even know at that time that Poison could never play all that well.”
My most erotic moment of the late ‘80s involved the cover of the first Cinderella album, skin friction and one hell of a lot of shame later on. I think I still carry many of those psychic scars to this day.
“Yeah, ‘no shit, no shit.’ Don’t act like you weren’t running around in a T-shirt with ‘Talk Dirty To Me’ printed on the back.” She had me there. I admit it. Shit. I was an adolescent though!!! Some chick had probably just dumped me or something, which I’m sure threw me into a hellacious bout of teenage depression centered primarily around the idea of self-importance and the concept of self above all else. In other words I’m telling you that nothings really changed about me other than my clothes.
My look must have betrayed me, and she went on with her tale. “During their set, I looked around and people weren’t exactly getting into it too much. When Brett Michaels started humping the stage, the crowd must have thought these guys were a little fruity. They played most of the songs from Look What the Cat Dragged In and left. My friend and I were left staring at the empty stage, and I was disappointed. I felt rejected and saddled with this ridiculous looking tattoo. I wanted to leave right then. That’s when this really fat roadie guy came out and handed my friend and I passes for the “meet and greet” backstage. I was so excited -- this is so stupid. Anyway, there were other girls back there, and all I got was one glimpse of Brett before he was off with some Barbie look alike girl with gravity defying breasts and helium in her skull. He left to go off somewhere with her. It was sad. I wanted to cry.”
“So you left then?”
“I should have. The whole thing was sordid as hell. Not only were the rest of the Poison guys around, but some of the members of Ratt were there too. Let me tell you, Jeff. You don’t know the true meaning of horror until you’ve been on the receiving end of one of Bobby Blotzer’s sad, hillbilly-twang pick up lines. If that wasn’t bad enough, Steven Pearcy was cavorting around all the women looking like a queer pirate with his obviously sock enhanced organ impairing his ability to walk normally. I just wanted to leave or die and most of me wanted to kill myself for being such a fool. I imagine it was my emotional state that led me getting hooked up with that Ritalin deprived vaudevillian clown C.C. Deville.”
I almost choked -- I’m not naive. I knew she was a hooker. I also knew she may have been sexually abused as a child. Yeah, I imagined all of that and even suspected that she may have also been a drug addict of the highest order -- but that didn’t mean -- dammit, that didn’t mean that I had ever considered the possibility of her consummating some grotesque physical action with stubby fingered C.C. Deville. This was just too much. Lord, she should have been commended for just being able to get up in the morning without the help of large syringes of heroin or copious amounts of Prozac. I wasn’t sure I could handle what might follow. My love could be shattered.
“Well, he came up to me, and he was fucked up. I am certain of that, but I’ve since come to believe that it may just be his permanent state. He came on real strong at first and asked me some lame questions in that Muppet meets tracheotomy voice of his, and I knew what it was leading to. I wasn’t that stupid. Initially I wasn’t sure whether to go with him to this little room down the hallway or not, and when I looked at my friend for guidance, she just shrugged. I knew it was dumb, but I just figured, “what the hell? I already had the tattoo and everything.”
The poor girl. My eyes had to be screaming “what next? what next?” I can say one thing though -- if she fucked C.C. it meant automatic disqualification. No double wide. No chickens. No life of peaceful bliss. I’d rather chop my nads off with a meat cleaver than touch anything that’s been near his genetically impaired body. I don’t care how hard up I may be.
“As soon as we got into this room, I was sorry I came. It was dark. Cold. His skin is so light that he practically glowed in the dark. I expected him to just be all over me real quick but for some reason, he wanted to serenade me with this stupid acoustic guitar he probably had a roadie place in there beforehand. I think he only tried this back then because most people hadn’t figured out yet that he plays the axe with about as much proficiency as I’ve heard he fucks.”
“No, that’s just it. See, he started playing, but I noticed in a heartbeat that he wasn’t playing those ridiculously simple chords from their debut album. No, no I am sure that he was trying to impress me with his befuddled attempts at Van Halen or Hendrix. From the way he was playin’ it, I really couldn’t tell which one it was though. I’m not shittin’ you about this either -- I think he was trying to play ‘Eruption.’”
“No fucking way!?”
“Yeah, on an acoustic guitar too. I got tired of that shit in a hurry, so I kinda just pushed him away and started playing some tunes. I think I strummed the intros to ‘Alone Again’ by Dokken and Priest’s ‘Breakin’ the Law.’ You know. Not the most technical stuff, but it was enough to intimidate him. He heard me play for about two minutes, and he got all pissed off. He threw the guitar and told me to get the hell out. I did. Gladly. That was the end of my little Poison infatuation. I’d get this tattoo taken off my arm, but we’ll just say that I haven’t exactly had the easiest life since then or even enough money to get it removed.”
“So you didn’t….”
“Fuck him? Blow him? Hell, no. He got nothing from me but a guitar lesson. The funny thing though is that I’ve heard since then that he’s done it with all kinds of porn stars and shit. Not exactly your dog type material either. I guess all I have to say about that is that I know I may be a whore and everything, but I’m not that big of a whore if you know what I mean.”
Amen to that. Visions of that trailer and my slutty denim clad Goddess pranced merrily amidst the cold sterile surroundings I’ve been surrounded by for far too long. Sweet Annie left when visitation was over that day, and I wrote her a letter soon afterward. I hope Dennis will deliver it soon because I’m quite certain I’m in love again. Shit, I might as well be. Especially since good old mom says I’m going to hell anyway -- I don’t figure it’ll make much difference if I fall in love with a hooker or two along the way…thank God C.C. can’t play the guitar.
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