SoCal Soliloquy

Pretty much the last thing I remember was turning that last curve. I guess it was Avenue A at Esplanade. That’s what the papers said, anyway. Vince was driving his Pantera. I was pretty far gone, I know that much. Not only that, Vince, who still managed convincing me he was good to drive (not only that, but, to the liquor store of all places), was way beyond my state of inebriation. And to think that it all happened because we had a few days off thanks to Michael and his fucked ankle. “Fucking bring the party to my place,” I believe were Vince’s exact words. And really, who turns down the opportunity to party at the singer of Motley Crue’s house? Not me, anyway.

I mean, my chances at birth were pretty limited. If I hadn’t been adopted, God knows what might have happened to me. Let’s just say there aren’t too many tickets out of Royal Leamington Spa, if you catch my drift.

Fuck it all. We were right there, man, right on the fucking beach. Making a turn and the bastard loses his handle. He was turning to me and punctuating a particularly, uh, let’s say ribald little joke. I remember turning to catch the punchline, seeing Vince looking at me, grinning like a right fuck, and then he just let it go. The damn thing slipped right out and we went over the median and . . .

I was pronounced dead at hospital, and that was that.

I was gonna leave a mark on the world in a fucking Finnish glam band. Not an easy task. We were on a major, on our first tour of the U.S. Things were fucking peaches and cream. All this, and then some, and it all crashes to a stop on the beach.

So yeah, now my name is immortalized, but it doesn’t really matter a whit; I mean, I don’t get to enjoy the fruits of Vince’s labors.

Am I bitter? Fuck, who knows, I’m dead. It doesn’t even matter at this point. Watching the chaps as they moved on, I can’t say their future would have been even half as bright as it has been were it not for my spectacular checking out. Fuck, those blokes owe me, big time. Shit, we would almost certainly have gone the way of countless other marginally successful glam/hair bands of my time.

Seriously, who really gives a shite about guys like Danger Danger? Jetboy? Tora Tora? That’s what I thought. No one. That could have been our fate had Vince been able to handle a punchline and a wheel at the same time.

Things change so fucking fast in real life. You can try your hardest to stay for the ride, but that’s maybe when your grip is the weakest. Maybe you just have to let go and hope for the best. Maybe when you finally learn to let go, maybe only then can you finally get what you previously worked so hard to grab. Stupid, right? Listen to me, all high and mighty, like death has brought with it a sense of wisdom. Really, it’s nonsense. It’s more a perspective from an insulated distance. Eternity will do that to you. Sorry to crash the party — so to speak. But look at it this way — if anyone personifies this theory, it’s Vince fucking Neil.

Who is still moving forward, despite epic setbacks? Despite scandal after scandal. Despite breakups, and repeated visits to rehab. Despite endless fucking chances, this guy still breathes like Juggernaut. He’s unstoppable. And it’s got fuck all to do with some sort of nefarious nether dealings. No, the chap is just plugged in. He’s living it, out on a fucking rock, in the sunset, shirt off, and making it fucking happen. It’s a thing of beauty, really. At least I can say I got to die at his pudgy little crotch-scented hands.

Me? I didn’t get to live the life, no, I had to die for it, and that’s a major fucking difference. And that is where I found meaning. On a lush California beach, at night, on top of the world. Until, that is, I wasn’t.