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realize that the only way to get better is by listening to other people. This problem was compounded by my stubbornness and volatility. If I was Rex or Blake, I would have thrown myself out of that band, too, along with all the little three-chord wonders I thought were such masterpieces.
    Days later, the police knocked on my door and threw me out in the street. After a year and a half of not paying rent, I had finally been evicted. I moved into a garage I found in the classifieds for a hundred dollars a month. I slept on the floor with no heater and no furniture. All I had was a stereo and a mirror.
    Every morning I’d swallow a handful of crosstops and drive to make the 6 A.M. to 6 P.M. shift at a factory in Woodland Hills, where we dipped computer circuit boards in some sort of chemical that could eat your arm off. After working there, playing Pong all day, and fighting with the Mexicans (not unlike the diversions I would later enjoy with my half-Mexican, half-blond lead singer), I’d drive straight to Magnolia Liquor on Burbank Boulevard and work from 7 P.M. to 2 A.M. Before leaving, I’d stuff as many bottles of booze as I could fit in my boots and drive an hour to my garage. I’d guzzle the stuff and stand in front of the mirror, fan out my thickening black hair, twist my mouth into a sneer, sling my guitar around my neck, and rock out, trying to look like Johnny Thunders from the New York Dolls until I passed out from exhaustion and alcohol. Then I’d wake up, pop more pills, and start all over again.
    It was all part of my plan: I was going to work my ass off until I had enough money to buy the equipment I needed to start a band that would either be insanely successful or attract tons of rich chicks. Either way, I’d be set up so that I’d never have to work again. For extra cash, whenever someone came in to buy liquor, I’d only ring up half the price I charged them. I’d write down the amount I didn’t ring up on a slip of paper and put it in my pants. Then, at the end of the night, I’d total up the money I’d fucked the store out of, pocket it, and close up, eighty bucks the richer. My accounting was never over or under by more than a dollar: I’d learned my lesson at Music Plus.
    One night, while I was strung out on speed and alcohol, a slouched-over rocker with black hair walked into Magnolia Liquor. He looked like a creepy version of Johnny Thunders, so I asked him if he played music. He nodded that he did.
    “What are you into?” I asked.
    “The Paul Butterfield Blues Band and Jeff Beck,” he answered. “What about you?”
    I was disappointed that this hunchback, who looked so demented, had such lame, predictable taste. I rattled off the list of the cool music I was into—“The Dolls, Aerosmith, MC5, Nugent, Kiss”—and he just looked at me contemptuously. “Oh,” he said dryly, “I’m into real players.”
    “Fuck you, man,” I shot back. Pompous little shit.
    “No, fuck you,” he said, not angrily but firmly and confidently, as if I would soon see the error of my ways.
    “Get out of my store, asshole.” I pretended like I was going to leap over the counter and kick his Jeff Beck–loving ass.
    “If you want to see a real guitar player, come see me tonight. I’m playing down the street.”
    “Get the fuck out of here. I’ve got better things to do.”
    But of course I went to see him. I may have hated his taste, but I liked his attitude.
    That night, I stole a pint of Jack Daniel’s, stuffed it into my sock, and got drunk outside the bar. Inside, I saw that gnarly little leather Quasimodo playing slide guitar with a microphone stand, running it up and down the neck as fast as he could. He was going crazy, beating the shit out of that guitar as if he had just caught it sleeping with his girlfriend. I’d never seen anyone play guitar like that in my life. And he was wasting his talent with a band that looked like abandoned Allman Brothers. After the show, we sat down and got