The Seven Deadly Sins (15 page)

I am sitting here with my coffee, looking at the valley that my house in L.A. sits above, watching workmen build three different homes for people who, more than likely, are not even around. These men have been doing these jobs for months: waking us up in the morning, keeping us awake around noon, interrupting conversations in the afternoon, startling us when they come back from their lunch break, and immediately using a jackhammer. If anything, these men are very committed. And that is an apt metaphor for this whole chapter. These people show up day in, day out and set themselves to a backbreaking task, surrounded by houses full of people who probably make copious amounts of money for doing a lot of nothing. These men are on display in an open-air menagerie, adding a little
more to the landscape and paying close attention to their architecture. They do not give a shit if they wake us lazy shits up or make us have to talk a little louder to hear each other. They take pride in their work even though they do it all the time, rain or shine.

There are men and women just like them all over this country, in every county, every city, and every township just outside the capital. They do the things they do because they are carrying on a fundamental tradition and a way of thought that many are convinced has been gone from America for a very long time. Trust me—I have been to every state in the Union and I see my fellow Americans hanging on. No recession can bring us down. No depression can break our resolve. There may be a percentage that throws off the bell curve, but the pros far outnumber the cons: The pros are doing more for a better world and the cons are doing time for a life spent wasted. Sloth can lead a man to crime, but it does not mean he will steal. Sloth can slow a man's progress, but it will not make him fall. If life and history have proven anything, it is that men do what they want. Some men choose to fail. Thankfully, most men choose to win.

In a place that needs constant care and takes so much energy to strengthen, sloth is left to its own devices because it cannot get a hold in this new world. We move forward on our own, treating each step not with the mentality of a triage but as a chess game. We live better by thinking ten steps ahead, anticipating every counter-move and celebrating each gain. So I say we send sloth out on the water and give it the Viking funeral it so richly deserves. It is a human trait that holds no sway over this mess of memories any longer. Our white cells have been fighting this so-called pestilence since before we were born. Just because the fight is getting easier, that does not mean we have
won the title. None of us are immune to the allure of aloofness. We do not know where we are going, but we are pointed in the right direction. The challenges are where we find ourselves. The obstacles are now scenery for the long walk home. We can overcome anything we want because our greatest advantage is that we are all alive, and as long as we are alive, we have everything. So pick up a stick, smack at the grass, and whistle a while. There is no sin in that.

I
t is funny how things work out sometimes.

There are proponents who maintain that we are all products of two different variables: genetics and environment. This is saying we are one part who we are born to be and one part what we are turned into through relationships, family, childhood, and the rest. I happen to agree; the things we go through make us who we are. Our yins and yangs are usually nothing to boast about, but in this life, being extraordinary has to take a collision of talent, drive, and passion mixed with a certain amount of dysfunction and insanity, an almost-perfect storm that makes one person a star and another just a plain old fuck up. In other words, it takes a lot to be a lot.

But I want to take it a step farther. In addition to genes and surroundings, I believe everyone in the world has two places in their hearts: the city you are born in and the city that defines you. For most people, it could be the city their parents raised
them in and the city where they went to college. For me, both were in the same state. I was born in Des Moines, Iowa, on December 8, 1973. However, starting in 1984, my soul was formed in a darker place.

Come off Highway 29 before you hit the tiny little mix-master over by the Crossroads Mall and you will see Greenwood Park at the horn of River Forest Road. The dike by the river almost runs parallel, mirroring the curve like a geographical pair of quotation marks. River Forest takes you to Lafayette Road, a gray blacktop vein that stretches through almost four towns, combining them into a straight line of morose loneliness, despair, and intolerance. You follow Lafayette till you hit downtown—gutted, rusty, and closed in on all sides by broken cement and tragedy. Along the way you are assaulted by the remnants of a city that used to have a purpose until the businesses moved away, leaving economic devastation in its wake. High schools, railroad tracks, and dead eyes—welcome to Waterloo.

Waterloo, Iowa, and its sister towns of Evansdale, Elk Run Heights, and Cedar Falls were the backdrop of the worst moments of my life. From Jewett Elementary all the way until my final days at East High School, it was a cornucopia of racism, malicious intent, and ignorant torrents of pain. I can still feel the evil in the marrow of my spine, my bones, and my soul. I was beaten in this town. I was raped in this town. I was destroyed in this town. I almost died in this town. I was hated in this town.

So I learned to hate it right back.

Before I go any further, let me make myself very clear: This is not a reflection of the people who live there now. I have not been back in years and I am fairly out of touch with the current population. I am quite certain the folks who make up the old “319”
these days are very lovely. No, my seething hate comes from the time I spent there, and my deep-seated need to escape. There is a little bitterness connected to my five years there in every line I have ever written. It stripped me of my innocence. It was where I first learned that no one is safe, not even a starving, eleven-year-old kid who only wanted to fit in, laugh, and be loved. But when you are left to the whim of the selfishness of adults, your safety and your heart go up in flames like a funeral pyre.

When no one cares, you learn to follow suit to survive.

It was in this town that all of these “sins” really hit home for me. Every one of them was an escape or an assault. It seemed I was a wanton lust monger, a glutton for punishment, a jealous, envious dick pining for recognition on any level, and a raging knot of fury all buried under blond hair and blue eyes. But I do not want to get ahead of myself. Let me set the scene for you.

My mother, my sister, and I moved to Waterloo when I was eleven years old. We had been moving around from state to state for about six months. I did not even get to finish fourth grade. After a brief and shitty stint in Florida, I was told we were going back to Iowa. I was led to believe we were going back to Des Moines, a city I was very fond of and where I still had many friends. Instead, we landed in Waterloo with my mother's thenboyfriend. We moved into a trailer court on River Forest Road, surrounded by mud and dog shit, promptly taking up residence in Lot #20. In this morose little ecosystem, #20 was the trailer in the middle of everything, five lots down from the city street and caddy corner to the big white building that apparently housed all the washing machines, a construct that was conspicuously always locked up. That building scared the hell out of my sister. For some reason, though, one time she ran away and we
found her in that building. We never knew why—hell, I did not even ask. I understood the urge to run.

After a few months, my mother broke up with her boyfriend and we moved in with her brand-spanking new best friend. I will not say her name out loud because every time I do, I curse and spit, but her nickname was Corky. She was a disgusting forty-year-old power alcoholic who was balancing three men, slightly raising a daughter, and hell-bent on sucking the very light from the sun if it meant people would look to her for warmth. I know the golden rule is if you have nothing good to say about someone, say nothing at all. Well, if I had no choice but to talk about Corky for the rest of my life, I would have to take a vow of silence. Corky died of cancer about fifteen years ago, and it is the best example I have in the world to believe in karma. I have never told anyone this, but I used to make a trip every year just so I could piss on her grave. The only good thing that came out of her was her daughter Missy, who I affectionately call my other sister to this day.

I was a child confronted with addictions and domestic violence. It was Jerry Springer every night at our house. You ever want to feel powerless? Watch people you care about being hurt and know there is nothing you can do about it. The only good thing about that time in my life was I swore I would never let it happen again. The degree of ignorance and filth I was bombarded with had absolutely no right to exist in a world that was fair, but obviously I learned the hard way that when shit hits the fan, it flies in every direction, and by the time I was fifteen, I was covered in it. There was no peace, nor was there ever any sense of security. We were just fodder at the red ends of a few rotten whims. The tables had turned in my life and not at all for the best.

I watched one of Corky's boyfriends break an entire plate of food on my mother's face. The cops showed up every other night for a domestic dispute. My sister watched Corky steal money from my mother's purse and Mom didn't believe her. We moved around constantly because of this. They told us it was just time for a change, but I knew better. You cannot have that many complaints and be allowed to stay in one place. All the while, we were beaten regularly with belts, paddles, and fists covered in low-rent turquoise rings. I still have scars on my eyelids from those rings. I got to know all four townships very well because they were my only escape, and when all you want to do is disappear, how far enough is away?

But there were other dangers besides the war at home. It sucks being the poor kid, the weak kid, the new kid, or the weird kid. I was always all four. I did not make real friends till I was in high school, and even then, they were usually kids who used to beat me up, jumping me on my way home from school. I had no one to teach me how to fight, no one to teach me to stand up for myself. My soul was a fucking bomb and my temper became the mercury switch. I wanted the fucking world to burn.

Just when I thought I was doomed to suffer forever, music saved my life.

You can say whatever you want about metal or rock or punk or old school hip hop, but at the time, the Beatles did not say a fucking thing to me. They sure as fuck were not speaking
for
me either. And Debbie Gibson was plastered all over the radio as well; plastic music was finding its legs in the '80s. Between burgeoning boy bands and meek pop rock, I needed something with a little more than bark. I needed teeth and venom. My generation was raised on Marlboro cigarettes, Metallica, and any drugs we could get our hands on. Black Flag, Slayer, Mötley
Crüe, and Public Enemy gave me the answers to all my questions. When I was ready to quit fighting, they held my fists in place.

Do not get me wrong—I am not bragging. This was survival, pure and simple.

Maybe that is at the heart of this book. What you call sins were my escape. Music and writing allowed me to unleash the wrath building up in my heart, and the speed I was taking ensured I did not have to go to sleep too long to endure the nightmares. Puberty and good cheekbones made sure I could indulge my lust. Envy and greed pushed me to look past the borders of that godforsaken hole called home, even before I realized I had some kind of talent. Gluttony showed me that I wanted it all
right fucking now
, no matter what the risks. Vanity just meant not wearing the same ripped up clothes too many days in a row. The only thing I never subscribed to was sloth. For me, sloth was the day spent sleeping off a hangover.