The Cheesy Fuckin' Obit (Better Late than Never)

(Composed while listening to Neil Young's "Needle & the Damage Done" on endless repeat.)

So, tonight, by accident, (more or less) it was revealed to me that my old pal Alex Magosci died in April. I guess that shows you how out of the loop I can be.

How fucking hard is it NOT to try heroin? I'm 36 and I've pulled it off, and I've done pretty much *EVERYTHING* else. Alcohol. Pot. Cocaine. Acid. Mescaline. Mushroooms. Crystal Meth. (snorted and smoked, like the wreckless high shithead that I can be.) Crack. (Yes, I did crack, read my fucking book.) I've even huffed Endust with a bunch of rednecks in the middle of Black Rock City. Warning. Do Not Do This. It is Stupid and Destructive. But somehow, I managed to keep from sticking a needle in my arm.

Ah, Dr. Dis - you needed this. You needed a kick in your dumbass about what a stupid waste of time - and life - heroin would be. And since you're fucking dead, you fucking loser, maybe someone else will read this and manage to Not Try Heroin.

I met Alex Magosci, aka Dr. Dis. (the name of a light-hearted yet mean-spirited music column Alex wrote for the New Mexican) in 199...shit, I *think* it was 1992. I had dropped out of college and I was writing for Pasa Tiempo, and so was he. I had written maybe three pieces for them, met Alex, and got him to write a piece about a rave I was producing. The rest was history...

Alex knew a LOT about music - so much so, that when he asked me to write about his band, I begged off for months because I hated his stupid band, and I thought it was because I didn't get it and I didn't want to reveal my musical ignorance. The name offended me - it was called "Junk," though at the time, GenX-nihilist stupid fuck Alex said he'd never done Junk, he thought of it as a metaphor for our time, since everyone with talent was doing Junk. Motherfucker...

I did, eventually, write about Junk. I probably lied about how great they were because Alex was my friend. I still couldn't get over the name, such a prim little shit I was about heroin, but you know what? I'm STILL a prim little shit about heroin, and for good fucking reason:

No good comes from it. If someone would tell me a story about heroin and enlightenment, I probably would've done it years ago, but every fucking story about heroin has a BAD FUCKING ENDING, and I've read all of them. Alex - WHY DIDN'T YOU?

Here's a list, for those of you unclear: Junky. Naked Lunch. Trainspotting. The Basketball Diaries. Hey - how much more fucking proof do you people NEED?????

I used to date an ex-junkie. She was clean before I met her, but I broke up with her twelve times over the issue before I finally did my namaste/compassion rituals enough to say, "Okay. She's clean. I accept that. I can love her and believe." We eventually broke up for other reasons, (she had the *worst* taste in jewelry) but the point is this: Speed kills. Smack destroys. And I don't want anywhere near it.

Alex...fucker. You were so smart and talented and pure, in your own stupid way. And yet...

In the middle '90s, I was living (oh-so-briefly) in a funeral home (I kid you not) in Austin, Texas. Alex found me and begged for a report from South by Southwest for Reverb, his short-lived online 'zine. I turned in a brilliant (maybe it sucked, but he ran it) report about Dutch pop bands, a wack-job act called Rope, and staying up for three fucking days snorting cocaine off the naked back of some cheerleader from Waco who glommed onto me for my press pass - wild sex, loud music, too many drugs, and total craziness at SXSW - that piece is lost from my archives, and the only person who might've had a copy was Alex...another piece of self-indulgent screed lost to herion. Thanks Alex, thanks a lot.

The last time I saw Alex Magosci was in the basement of the old mental hospital in downtown Santa Fe (a sanitarium, when it was active) in the Community Guidance Center waiting room. I was waiting to see my therapist and get a med check - Alex was there too, in some sweater vest, clean for eight months or something, talking twelve-step in the biggest way, I was so happy for him, but I couldn't help thinking - if you never loaded the needle, you fuck, you wouldn't be so shit scared that you couldn't ever drink a beer again, you fucking fool.

So - Rest in Peace, Alex - and for everyone else - DON'T TRY HEROIN. There are so many other stupid things to do, I promise.