Spring 2013 | Step Dad | 3
Cover:
Duane fucking Peters Smoking butts [P] CMART
Beer Drinker/Hellraiser/ Publisher: Mike Gustafson
Editorial Rourke John Bogle Born 030913
Congrats to Geoff & Siobhan Bogle!
Bruce King Estanbio Ghosto Jay Brown Michael Cirelli Nathan Keegan Nick Veilleux Taylor Garrett
Staff Photographers: CMART Sam McKenna Jimmy Collins Jon Wolf
Contributing Photographers: Rodent Gray Ricker Michael Cirelli Mike Greenwood Tony Le Tim Snyder Chris Degrace Jordan Walczak Billy Butcher Dennis Williford
Send photo’s, funny stories or general inquiries to: stepdadmag@gmail.com Step Dad Mag Business Suite Downtown Lounge, Portland, ME
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Marc Stevens BS Nosegrind [p] Jon Wolf
Fred Gall
Wallride [p] Chris Martin
Zach Lyons 5050 [p] Rodent
Spring 2013 | Step Dad | 5
UNCLE KEEGS By:
Nathan Keegan
Money can’t buy you happiness right? Physically, sure I get it. Neither can no money. I’m sitting at my job right now and brainstorming things that I could achieve with money. I’m relatively happy, I’m aware how bad some people have it and I consider myself lucky. Money is relative though. A poor person might be unhappy because they can’t feed their family. Money can buy food. Money can buy you an
“Money can buy you an African safari, a beer, a blowjob - shit, money can buy you a new face.” African safari, a beer, a blowjob - shit, money can buy you a new face. Personally, if I came up on a grip of money, I’d quit the shit out of my job, buy a nice little house up north and travel the world with my lady and go on safaris. Maybe open a little sandwich shop. The moral to my rant is, that, for me personally, the few things that bother me, money would take care of. Thus making me a happy camper. I need to win the lottery or pull some Bernie Madoff shit. Then buy a new face and runaway to a safari. Someday I’ll get mine...
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Jon Green
Kickflip [p] Mike Greenwood
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John Desimas Switch Ollie [p] Tony Le
Justin Reiff Crook PopOver [p] Tim Snyder
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Marco Depaolis Wallie [p] Sam McKenna
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Mike Gustafson Backtail [p] Sam McKenna
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Letters from the Inside Words: Bruce King
Entry #4 – Acceptance & Legalization It has occurred to me that in my entries thus far, I may have omitted a crucial point. I by no means see myself as an innocent victim in all of this. I am guilty of the crime of which I was charged. I am not claiming otherwise. I do feel that sentencing guidelines lead to Draconian bids for minor drug charges and first offences (as in my case). However, I do think that my having to do some time is my fault, if not justified. This sort of acceptance is crucial to me doing my time, as well as accurate.
jump to “legalization” is proposed. I myself have struggled with addiction to substances. I don’t necessarily believe that the government should be the ones responsible for regulation, but I do acknowledge the damage that drug abuse has on our communities. This is truly a complicated issue and not one that should be acted upon as hastily as it has been in this country since Nancy Reagan’s “Just Say No” campaign. Ideally, I should’ve been sent to rehab and then possibly placed under house arrest, as opposed to entering
“Kind of hard not to reconsider life after 7 agents and a drug dog bum rush your home and hold glocks to your head while cuffing you in your boxer shorts.” I realize that these sentiments may not have been evident thus far. In many of my entries, I am approaching incarceration from a deconstructionist perspective. My academic background is in Political Science, and I feel this journal may possibly be a useful tool in making people reconsider how we view “corrections” in this society. That doesn’t negate the fact that the intervention of law enforcement may have inadvertently saved my life. (Kind of hard not to reconsider life after 7 agents and a drug dog bum rush your home and hold glocks to your head while cuffing you in your boxer shorts.) Every day I see men around me tearing themselves apart due to their refusal to truly accept any responsibility for being here. For some, it is their coping mechanism, but to me, it seems to be an erroneous one. The way I see it, I’m here, I’m finally sober, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to possibly live a better life in the future. Honestly, I’d probably rather be here than some of the places I found myself on the outside, both physically and mentally. Personally, I do believe that drugs should be “decriminalized.” I’m torn though when that
this quagmire of a system. We often hold this discussion around these parts, yet in here it seems mostly moot and largely rhetorical. (I guess a lot of conversations do.) One interesting thing that I noticed on the road (when we were housed with inmates from all security levels) was that the inmates with the most serenity seemed to be those from High Security facilities. Perhaps it was their long sentences. Perhaps it was the strictly enforced boundaries. Perhaps it was the general oppression. When speaking to one of them, he seemed to be conveying the message that acceptance is vital to getting through one’s bid sanely. The advice he gave me was simple. He said, “Keep your head down, your temper under wraps, and never count the days. You did what you did, and this is how you wipe the slate clean.” It’s a delicate balance to strike, between figuring out what’s your responsibility and what’s theirs. Not only does displacing the blame make folks bitter, but more importantly, it hinders one’s potential to work on one’s defects and to grow. Without growth, these years are truly squandered, and wasted days is the greatest tragedy of them all.
Spring 2013 | Step Dad | 11
DANIEL KIM Words by Jay Brown Front Feeble Photo by Rodent Jay Brown: I know you are currently living in DC right now. Can you talk about what a day of skating is like there? Daniel Kim: It used to be meeting up at Freedom Plaza and we’d skate there, but lately because of the cops in the area they’ve been more strict, putting skaters in jail for just skating. I get tired of running from the cops, so we found this place called Shaw skatepark. It’s a dope new park a couple blocks away from Freedom Plaza. We meet up there, warm up a little bit and then we head out, skating wherever throughout DC. JB: What’s the most random, fucked up incident you’ve run into while skating? DK: Definitely skating at Freedom Plaza. There is always something crazy going on there but, this one particular time, the park police came and we all dipped out. I was hiding behind this marble pillar at a hotel. The park police spotted me. He pulls up in his car and says through his megaphone, “Don’t Run.” The moment I heard that I picked my board up and dipped backwards down a one way street. So the park police put his car in reverse and drove down the one way street, in reverse trying to chase after me. I felt like I was in a game of “Frogger”, running around the traffic. Finally I got away form him, hiding behind these stairs where the cops couldn’t see me from their car. I looked out, and this little kid pops out of nowhere and says, “Hey, the cops aren’t here right now, you can run the other way.” So I ran down this other street and hid behind the tire of a truck. They rolled right by the truck I was hiding behind super slow and then drove off. I ran to my car, switched my whole outfit, and walked back to Freedom Plaza. Later the park police drove by, stared at me, and stared at everyone else and just drove off. He didn’t recognize me. JB: Any run ins with the “12 O’Clock Boys”? DK: Ohh shit! Dude yeah, I’ve never seen them in DC, but we go out to Baltimore every once in a while and we definitely have seen them riding around the hood. We’d be skating around and we’d see them come by with those huge ass dirt bikes doin wheelies and shit. JB: What kind of bearings do you ride? DK: I ride Bones Reds. JB: Do you like them?
DK: Do I like them? JB: Yeah. DK: Yeah, I love them. JB: Are you down with food in the bedroom? DK: Yes. JB: So I saw a photo of you online wearing a leopard print jacket. It’s much different then the threads I usually see you in. You switching up your look? DK: That’s just my alter ego. JB: Is 10 Deep cool with that? DK: Haha! Yeah, 10 Deep’s cool with it, they don’t give a fuck. JB: I know you just finished your part from “Belly of the Beast”, but is there any new video parts in the works? DK: Right now I’m working on another part that’s going to be all HD because the industry is hating on VX. Also, working on another New York video. My friend Jeremy Elkin he put out a video called “Poisonous Products”. He’s making another one and that should be out around fall. JB: Thanks for taking the time to do this Daniel. Any shout outs? DK: Shout out to my sponsors. The people who have helped me and supported me get out here and film and skate. Shout out to Official, shout out to DGK, shout out to 10 Deep, Nike, shout out to Scuba Steve, shout out to Brad Rosado, shout out to DC.
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Jay Brown
BS Nosegrind [p] Sam McKenna
Ben Cironi
Backside Flip [p] Sam McKenna
Drew McKenzie Ollie [p] Jordan Walczak
Spring 2013 | Step Dad | 13
5 Things To Avoid While Doing a Bid by Bruce King As much as I would love to believe that these words will prove superfluous, the Criminal Justice machine, broken as it is, isn’t going anywhere. Additionally we will never cease to do stupid things that will land them in the sites of those who stand to pro?t from our mistakes. Thus I have compiled a short list of things to avoid should you find yourself serving time in a correctional facility. 1) Gambling It’s hard for many people to believe this but I never once played a game of cards during the time that I was locked down. I have an uncomfortably competitive nature which I try not to feed. This decision ended up serving me well, as I saw many a knucklehead get severe beatdowns over gambling debts left unpaid. Never bet more tuna than you have, no matter how sure a thing it seems. (Note: Tuna, yes the fish, are used as currency. They are high protein so bodybuilders, which make up half the population, will eat them. Also a pouch is about a dollar in the commissary so it’s a good stand in. 1 tuna= 1 dollar. Makes more sense than a piece of paper when you think about it.) 2) Drugs This should serve as common sense, but the amount of people who maintain habits inside is high. Drugs always find a way in, no matter how hard the warden comes down. Demand enables supply. The drier a place becomes the higher the price and the more likely that connections are going to be able to name a price that makes it worth a guard’s while to assist or at least look the other way. However a junkie’s desperation will often lead them to place themselves into debt far greater than they can fulfill. Hence the same beatdown that was mentioned before becomes warranted. If the guards have a hand in the action they are less likely to intervene during said beatdowns. Use your head, and get clean while on pretrial. 3) Cop-Outs A “cop-out” is a form that you have to fill out if you want anything done by the administration. While something like prescription glasses or orthopedic shoes require a cop-out, most inmates associate the complaints that sheepish inmates file when someone is doing something that they don’t approve of. Filling these out will make other inmates see you as rat, or at best a weak person who can’t handle their own problems. Consequence can vary from being ostracized to physical violence. Unless you’re life is truly in danger, avoid the forms. 4) Cell Phones These find their way in somehow and are currently public enemy number 1 in the eyes of administrators. There are few things that they hate more than being unable to monitor communications. Being caught with one can mean a month long stint in “The Hole” (aka solitary confinement), or worse “Diesel Therapy” where you are in transit for months at a time with no home base or real designation. Furthermore there is a business that many inmates run, renting their phone to others. They will defend their territory, same as those distributing drugs. The worst beatdown I saw was over one such transaction. A kid had his jaw dangling and was within an inch of his life, all because he allowed someone to use his phone without charging them. 5) Cliqueing Up This one is tricky. You’re going to have groups whom you run with. These will be determined by where you’re from, what your socio-economic background is, and most visibly race. All that I can say is choose your friends wisely. If there is a problem between people it’s not unlikely that you will be called upon as backup. Make sure that you’re friends are calm and capable, rather than pugnatious and boisterous. It’ll save you endless headaches in the end. There are a few other things that are semi-noteworthy, don’t butt in line, don’t workout if it’s not the time that you’ve established on the equipment. Food can be an issue as it gets smuggled out of the kitchen and is once again a business. Don’t mess with someone else’s business is a good rule. In general just don’t be a dick, assess situations before you enter them. New inmates are given a month before you’re held to the same standard as everyone else, so you have time to learn the ropes. You’ve made the mistake that got you in there, but you can stop the bleeding if you’re smart. Do what you’re told by those who’ve been bidding longer and you’ll be just fine.
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Clement Oladipo Pole Jam [p] Dennis Williford
Spring Fall 2012 2013 | Step Dad | 21 15
Alex Duke
Frontside Fence Ride [p] Sam McKenna
Alex Winslow Crook [p] Sam McKenna
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MIKE
Rheault
Words and photographs by Michael Cirelli
Michael Cirelli: Where are you from? Mike Rheault: Dirty, dirty, Manchester, NH. It’s dirtier than you think! MC: How old are you? MR: Old enough to lay down your moms and be your fucking daddy.
“Old enough to lay down your moms and be your fucking daddy.” MC: Who have you skated for over the years. I remember you telling me about how you skated with Dog Town back in the day when you were a kid. Who else did you ride for? MR: Rhino, Consolidated and now Creepshow. MC: You ever find any skate spots when you are running around as a Fireman? MR: Always find spots when I’m rolling in the fire truck. MC: Have you ever busted up a door like in the movie, “The Shining” trying to save someone? MR: If I’m coming to your house with the big red truck, I’m knocking your fucking door down regardless. MC: I skate with Erik Munday of Skate Lair all the time...I refer to you as the
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“Erik Munday of NH�, because you can smash skulls, are an old school skate rat and are down with skating 1000%... got any all time fight stories? MR: Everyday is a fight story with myself.
Five-0 [p] Michael Cirelli
MC: Tell the world about your DIY basement project!!! That place is so sick! MR: I got a couple kids an we like to play with them skateboards. We get snow all winter and I have a basement. So I made a half bowl and mini half PIKE out of crete, haha!! MC: Any shout outs? MR: Manch crew, Mesa, AZ crew, New Park crew, Eastern Boarder, Creepshow, Rice, Cirelli, Bones and MFD.
Noseslide [p] Michael Cirelli
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Paul de Olivera Switch Nosegrind [p] CMART
Boner
Melon [p] CMART
Spring 2013 | Step Dad | 19
CMART
Ollie [p] Sam McKenna
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Kiss the Countertop by Taylor Garrett
I used to have a dope dealer that lived in the Drum Hill area of Lowell. This strange creature’s name was Kevin and conveniently he kept strange hours and was fairly reliable with answering his phone so I began buying from him frequently. All of my other connections had either been arrested or sought treatment so Kevin was my last resort. His dope was fairly awful but if you shot enough - you’d get high, or at the very least, not be sick, which was perhaps the most important thing.
off and I made my withdrawal from his bag. I’d purchased a forty bag from him earlier so I could make the argument that I’d paid for the dope I had just in case. I took probably three grams and left the house. It was snowing out and I got in a fender bender, after dealing with police with heroin on me, I was stressed out and returned back to Kev’s to do more shots. I arrived to he and his girlfriend looking skeptically at me, I went to the counter to prep my works and pulled out the bag with three grams in it, not really realiz-
“It was snowing out and I got in a fender bender, after dealing with police with heroin on me.” The best thing about Kevin was that he’d given up on life entirely. Already incarcerated multiple times by the age of thirty-three and diagnosed with rare inoperable brain cancer, he didn’t give a fuck about much other than his next shot and the money in his pocket. Because of his ambivalence towards everything, Kevin shot dope from sun up to sun down. This was great because for customers like me, Kevin left his unguarded stash bag from which he’d been taking his own shots on the countertop behind his couch. I’d ascertain that Kevin had peacefully drifted off into a nice heroin sleep and raid his stash, usually spooning out a gram or two for myself. This went on for months and he’d never noticed until one night, in true junkie form, I got a little greedy. Passed out in front of his television while watching, “The Town” (this movie or any other heavily Boston-themed crime movies are all you will ever see on the TV at any Massachusetts dope dealer’s house), Kevin drifted
ing what I was doing. “Where did you get all that?” Kevin asked, as I gleefully mixed my dope, his girl (who was a stripper and a junkie, obviously) looked at me incredulously as I attempted to string together an excuse. I had gotten about three syllables into a lie when Kevin grabbed me by the back of the head and slammed my face onto the laminate countertop. I fell to the ground bleeding from my eye and nose only to be kicked in the ribs repeatedly as Kevin read me the riot act, calling me everything in the book, “scumbag, thief, junkie piece of shit!” I plead with him to stop this whole time until I saw my window as his girl said “Okay, that’s enough.” and I sprinted for the door and to the safety of my car. I couldn’t stop bleeding on the hour drive back home. As I pulled into the driveway of my shitty, disgusting little apartment, I reached in my pocket and realized that through the course of this whole ordeal, I still had most of the three grams bagged up in my pocket, it was like Christmas.
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Ralph Murphy Indy [p] Chris Degrace
Josh Arnold Hahhhdflip [p] Michael Cirelli
Ben Cironi
Backside Flip [p] Sam McKenna
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T. Ruz
Back 5-0 [p] Billy Butcher
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Angel Fonseca Crook [p] Sam McKenna
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Arkansas with Addy Words by:
Nick Veilleux
At first I wanted to laugh, but then I realized the knife sticking out of his head was not going to remove itself. The funny part was: he was still asleep. During our brief stint as roommates, Josh introduced me to half gallons of Jim Beam and Johnny Cash. I’d like to think I’m not easily influenced by others but, the nightly regimens of boozing with a madman tuned me into a frequency somewhere between lunacy and derangement. Josh was helping me unpack after I’d moved into his apartment in Sacramento, when he noticed my assortment of cooking utensils. “I have a knife drawer”, he blurted out. He went
being played. Josh didn’t seem affected by the maniacal Dylan worship; he focused on chugging his bourbon as his eyes developed a crazed look I would learn to associate with his lapses in sanity. Josh stood up abruptly and bellowed, “I’m going to a bar to sing ‘Ring of Fire’!” Curious, and not wanting to be left behind with his weirdo friends, I rushed out the door after him. I joined him on the sidewalk and saw his vacant eyes framed by a face fixed in a confused, savage expression. He began muttering to himself and then charged across someone’s lawn like a linebacker, headed straight for an eight foot high wooden fence.
“At first I wanted to laugh, but then I realized the knife sticking out of his head was not going to remove itself.” to the kitchen and opened a drawer half filled with mismatched knives. After adding my collection, accumulated over years of communal cooking, the drawer was a formidable array of cutlery. At the time, I thought it’d be ironically funny for guests to stumble upon, I didn’t see the potential for the mayhem soon to follow. I began to see trouble on the horizon after accompanying Josh to a party at his friend’s displaced beatnik pad. At the gathering we were immediately encouraged to help ourselves to the cocktail of drugs being smoked out of a giant hookah permanently fused to the melted linoleum floor. The medley was potent and soon I was struggling for words when asked if I was into Bob Dylan. Not waiting for a response, they proceeded play “Highway 61”, and as if on cue everyone began strumming guitars and singing along. The only music played the entire night was that of Bob Dylan. When conversation took place, it was always someone giving a dissertation of their take on the Bob Dylan song
He ran right through the fence, knocking down five of its rectangular sections, and kept going without breaking stride. I’d never witnessed a human being perform such a feat, and I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. He was a big guy and seemed powerful for his size but, that fence folded like paper when he plowed over it. And he didn’t stop or turn back; he kept going and disappeared into the night. I headed back to our place and picked up his trail again once I reached our block. I could distinctly hear Johnny Cash’s muffled baritone voice coming from our apartment building. I entered the courtyard to find our landlady staring up at the large bay window of our living room. It was dark outside and the lights inside our place provided a clear view through the open blinds. Josh was twirling around to the blaring music, wildly dancing while swinging arms wielding large butcher knives. “You need to shut the music down immediately and close your blinds”, she barked
ARKANSAS
Continued on 26
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Alex Ullman BS Noseblunt [p] Jon Wolf
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ARKANSAS
from page 24
at me, “And they need to remain shut at all times, we’ve had too many complaints about the activity other tenants have witnessed coming from your unit.” I nodded hesitantly, still fixed on my roommate’s absurd performance, then headed upstairs into the madness. I opened the door to find Josh launching knives into the living room wall while singing along to “A Boy Named Sue”. “Hi Josh, the landlady’s pissed off because our music’s too loud”, I said as I walked in. “Fuck her”, he replied, “That tyrant can’t tell us what to do in our own apartment! Here, drink some whiskey.” I took the bottle from him and stared
disposal, piled next to us so we could swap them out as they became dull. I was out of breath and sweating alcohol, dust and fibers filled the air, coating my drenched body. We toiled incessantly, only stopping to take slugs of whiskey. The room was rife with chaos, fueled by our frenzy. I lost the ability to speak words. I was reduced to snarls and barks. My mind was slipping and I could do nothing to stop it. I could tell Josh was already gone; the expression he now wore could only be described as horror. We reduced the monstrous mass of fabric into mangled carcasses small enough to drag through the doorway. It was near daybreak, our sanity had run off with the night. I crept like a fiend to the window in the hallway and
“I opened the door to find Josh launching knives into the living room wall while singing along to “A Boy Named Sue”.” down at the courtyard in contemplation as I took big swigs off the large bottle. I thought to myself, “He’s got a point, it is our apartment and it’s only 9pm, it’s not like we’re forcing people to look into our windows.” At the end of the album Josh mentioned he had a great idea and adopted a serious tone, only slightly belied by his intoxicated state. He proposed we draw a dartboard on our wall so that we could hone our knife-throwing skills and entertain guests. I was beginning to catch on to where this was headed and saw a chance to include my own idea by compromising. I agreed as long as we could also remove the disgusting carpet which had been bothering me since I’d moved in. I explained to him that there was sure to be nice hardwood flooring underneath and we needn’t trouble the landlady when we could remove it ourselves. He accepted my offer and I noticed a delirious spark of madness leap back into his eyes. I found myself laughing maniacally as I hacked away at the carpet. I looked over at Josh and saw he was suffering from the same affliction. We had only kitchen knives at our
when no one was watching I began casting all evidence of our crime into the alley below. When I finished I went back inside and found Josh asleep on the floor. I didn’t know what’d become of him over the course of the night. I didn’t know who I was anymore. I stared at the barren wasteland that was once our living room, the wooden floor beneath the carpet was rough and stained. At what point did any of this make sense, I wondered? I picked some knives off the ground and took aim at the crudely drawn dartboard. I threw the knife hard at the center of the bull’s eye. It glanced off the wall moving too quickly for my eyes to follow. I didn’t hear it land either, it seemed as though it had vanished into thin air. I was starting to believe I’d dreamt it all up, and then a ray of sunlight creeping in reflected off the knife lodged in Josh’s head. My mind was completely unhinged, I no longer trusted my instincts, and I didn’t know if they were mine to trust- so I did nothing. Time slowed and sped up again, Josh stirred in his slumber; his hand reached up and pulled the blade out letting it slip to the floor. I stood there frozen, and watched the blood trickle down his face.
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Josh Arnold
BS Nosegrind [p] Michael Cirelli
Laura fong Kickflip [p] Sum Dood
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What it’s Like…Having a Roni… By: Estandbio Ghosto www.standbyghost.org
I am a really sincere and open-minded person… So, when I found myself standing at the edge of a cliff in the Los Padres National Forest of Santa Barbara, California, naked, staring over the edge onto the pathways that were etched on the valley below me, wondering if I could fly… I caught myself, thinking: “Maybe this isn’t what I’m here to do on this planet… at least for right now.” I have a mental illness. My official diagnosis is ‘Schizoaffective Bipolar Disorder’, which just means that I have delusions and disorganized thoughts much like a person with plain-old Schizophrenia, but that I also have the mood swings and manic episodes prevalent in Bipolar individuals.
road. Walking. I had an ongoing delusion that I could escape into the wilderness somewhere and generate an impenetrable fortress out of onyx, granite, and other precious stones with the force of my own mind. One time, I ran away and ended up walking from Freeport to Saco on the railroad tracks, non-stop… And then all the way back (realizing, as I often did, that what I was doing MADE NO SENSE). I stopped on the lawn of a furniture store or something and took a rest on the dew-laden grass around midnight… But, I pretty much did the whole thing, round trip, without stopping. A great deal of my delusional thinking was
“My full psychotic break came about one night while I was on the computer, trying to listen to uplifting trance music on iTunes radio.” I’ve seen this ridiculous poster with a picture of Jimi Hendrix on it and a quote (which I sometimes wonder if it is actually legitimate) that says, “Craziness is like Heaven.” Yeah, right. Craziness is just whatever it is. It doesn’t ‘take you places’… It doesn’t ‘move your spirit’… Craziness is just a word for a cognitive pattern that literally MAKES NO SENSE. I remember walking around my hometown of Freeport, Maine… alone at night, sometimes with headphones on… Sometimes just talking to myself (and very often making up characters to ‘be’ while ranting about metaphysical properties and politics or whatever I wanted to hear myself say)… I would walk for hours. I ran away from home a few times. I was living with my parents, having trouble holding onto jobs… I would get desperate, hearing voices (yes, literally) in my head that said, “Pack Up!” or something to that effect. It was a cue… Time for me to move on! I would put some clothes and some books and maybe a survival knife or some crystals into my backpack and hit the
exacerbated by the episode I had wherein I decided that I should fast (not eat) to promote World Peace. I drank a lot of water to get my digestive system going, pooped a bunch, and then didn’t eat or sleep for about 4 days. I started seeing things and believing that, because of my dedication to the salvation of the planet and the purpose of Global Peace, God had given me the ability to survive without food. The wages of sin. Eventually (after several years untreated), my mental illness became so acute that I was staying up at night watching George Lucas’ “THX 1138” over and over, with the volume of the movie turned down while iTunes played drum & bass or extreme hardcore music over the images. I would get frustrated by my place in the world and tell myself that I was uncovering secret information from the Internet, when in fact I was just entering random keywords into Google and then playing the text back via the Speech Synthesizer on my parents’ DV iMac with nothing to gain.
RONI
Continued on 30
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Andria Gemma-Rossi [p] Gray Ricker
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“The Time is Now” by The Last Stand By: Bruce King
The gentrification of the city has changed the face of New York Hardcore. CBGBs is now a fashion boutique and fewer and fewer bands seem to be emerging from a shrinking demographic of urban youth. Many that claim New York today are transplants rather than individuals who grew up in the scene that birthed the hardcore movement. For this reason it’s good that the original remaining alumni continue to form new bands to keep the sound alive. Shutdown were relative newcomers in the 90s, but as is the way with all things the students become the teachers if they stick around for long enough. Former SD members, now joined by Mike Scondotto the frontman of Inhuman, reincarnate as The Last Stand. Their Eulogy Recordings debut “The Time Is Now” plays more like a tribute to the bands that influenced TLS rather than their former proj-
RONI
ects, and the album has an eclectic element. The songs themselves don’t sound like a mishmash of all things at once, but the band’s sound changes slightly from song to song. Where one track may sound like a Sick of it All, the next will recall Madball. All the bases are covered, from Agnostic Front and even a little H20/ GB. Guest vocalists include Lou Koller (SOIA), Joseph James (AF), and Dave Franklin (Vision). With solid breakdowns, and heavy emphasis on sing alongs “The Time Is Now” will make for memorable stage dives and gang vocals. There’s not a lot of new ground broken here, but in some ways that may be the strength of the band. It’s an all in one project that preserves that which is holy and pure about the music. The Last Stand squarely finds a place within hardcore as a convergence point for the Lower East Side sound that defined NYHC.
from page 28
My full psychotic break came about one night while I was on the computer, trying to listen to uplifting trance music on iTunes radio. The connection was failing and I was getting angry (anger was always boiling in my mind at any given moment). My mother (the only family member in the house at the time) came into the room to ask me something. I saw her approach and could see that she was talking to me, but I couldn’t understand the words that were coming out of her mouth. A sneaky voice popped into my head and said, “This is it! The war against the disbelievers starts now!” With that, I yelled, “I can’t understand what you’re SAYING!!” and jumped up from the computer chair, grabbed my mother’s arms and started shaking her. She tried to yell out to me to stop and reason with what was happening, but I don’t think either one of us could control what was going on at that point. My memory fails at this moment… My mother tells me she was afraid for her life. She yelled at me to stop, and I guess I pushed her onto the floor (she tells me now that I did not injure her) and said, “Get the fuck out of here!”
My mom ran out of the house and went to the neighbors’ to call the police. They came, and the first thing I asked them when I went outside to see them (having realized somewhat that I had just put myself into this situation), “Is my mom okay?” I spent 60 days at Riverview Psychiatric Center in Augusta. I was on different meds. Some huge girl… I forget her name… got pissed off and was restrained… Ken was always talking about how he had been experimented on by Bell Laboratories for time travel… On my last night in the hospital, Ken tried to commit suicide. I woke up to the sound of an alarm going off – I opened the door of my ‘unit’ and saw blood flowing out of Ken’s room onto the carpet. The floor staff made everybody sleep in the recreation room on pads with blankets. I kept seeing little abstracted men running around the place. One of them came out of nowhere and seemed to somehow jump into the top of my head. I could feel it go in. It felt wrong.