Bad Kid

For Teri, Leonard, Greg, Sylvia & Max

You know who you are. I'm glad I do too.

I
want to start by telling you that this is a work of nonfiction. I've written about these kids, clubs, fights and parties the way I've remembered them, to the best of my ability. But I also need to apologize for something.

I'm sorry I did so many drugs. And when I say “drugs” I don't mean little puffs of weed in college dormitories or occasional bumps of coke off a key in a nightclub bathroom. I mean huge, mind-altering, gobs of XTC. I'm talking about sheets . . . no, reams of acid.

As a broke teenager I often had to work with a limited budget. I huffed gasoline, snorted poppers, inhaled Liquid Paper fumes, and ate heaps of over-the-counter speed sold to sleepy, long-haul truckers at gas stations. Sometimes I wonder if I didn't do less drugs than I think I did. Then I realize that not remembering probably means I did a lot, which is part of the reason that some of the names, identities, hair colors, concert t-shirts, and piercing-types in this book
have been changed. I've also done this in order to protect the anonymity of the bad kids I've known, most of whom have grown up to raise families, have successful careers, and join PTA groups, which is probably as shocking to them as is it to me.

In some cases, composite characters have been created to further preserve privacy and decrease the number of black-clad kids in combat boots roaming the pages before you. I hope that if you crack the code and recognize yourself in this book, you feel that I've appropriately documented your bad behavior. I would hate to shame people for the
wrong
awful things. You shouldn't have to feel embarrassed for running around a cemetery naked in a pig mask on uppers when you were actually the one on mushrooms who ate a bar of soap during a seance.

Though the conversations in this book come from my keen recollection of them, I am not a robot. There is not a black box recorder installed in my belly. And if there were, the amount of LSD I ingested between the ages of sixteen and eighteen would probably have fried it. These exchanges in nightclubs, locker rooms, and tiny Texas apartments are not written as word-for-word documentation. But I hope I've retold them in a way that evokes the sidesplitting, crush-inducing, heartbreaking essence of the wonderfully colorful people I have known.

Also, several time lines have been altered, mostly to protect privacy and maintain narrative flow. And also because I might not remember how we got from point A to point B, but I remember how we got from point C to point D and made a switch. Maybe we were friends in high school and you're thinking, “Hey! I didn't ride with you to Amarillo in the back of a taco truck with a drag queen. I drove you in my Miata to Waco on LSD! You got it mixed up.”

I'm sorry for that, but I also want to congratulate you on your superior memory.

I also need to apologize to my poor, belabored parents.

I'm not sure how far you'll make it through this book before chucking it in the garbage and joining a support group. Well,
another
support group. But as the substance abuse, occult activity, and raw sexual obsession detailed in these pages gets to be too much for you, it might help to tell yourselves that I wrote this simply for the money.

In truth, I wrote
Bad Kid
because I'm a storyteller, and I want to touch people and make them feel understood. I hope this book can be entertaining as a personal narrative but also be universal enough to make readers feel connected to something larger than themselves, regardless of their background and upbringing.

But if you're a member of my family and find these tales psychologically distressing, just go with the “he did it for the money” angle. Remind yourselves that I have an absurd amount of student loans, and although Sallie Mae might sound like an innocent farm girl with pigtails, she's actually a heartless bitch in shoulder-pads who's been trying to ruin my life ever since I graduated. If it were up to her, I'd be rich and dead.

So as you read these harrowing tales, rejoice in knowing that I'll probably be able to buy my own plane ticket home for Christmas this year!

I'm sorry about the wigs. Or lack thereof.

This book is based on my solo show “Bad Kid.” We got one negative review from an older, gay writer who was perturbed with the lack of videos, costume changes, and . . . wigs.

Yes. Seriously.

Wigs.

He was also upset that my experience of coming out was so “easy.” I found the wig comment so hilarious that I initially glossed over this statement. But then I thought more about it.

As a thirty-nine-year-old man, shouldn't my experience of coming out be different than that of a fifty-five-to-sixty-year-old person? That's around a twenty-year gap. I can't imagine the struggles of gay men in the sixties who had no one to talk to, men who were forced into heterosexual marriages by their terrified mothers and fathers, men with children whose lives were torn apart as their fathers drank, disappeared, or came out of the closet and were forced from their lives.

The only experience I can truly know is my own. And that's what I've written about. I will not justify it or defend its worth based on some generational scale of comparative sadness. It was hard for me and the people I called friends. Just as it was hard for kids forty years ago. And by no means is it over.

It's hard for teenagers now. But I'm happy that many of them live in a world where they can be out, find LGBT resources in their schools, and see gay and lesbian role models in their media. I'm happy that they can fall in love with someone they care about right out in the open and consider a legally recognized marriage. Thinking about all of this in relation to my own teen experience takes my breath away. I can't believe I'm seeing this come to pass in my lifetime.

Of course, there are people who would argue vehemently against this rosy-colored view of things. I can't know what the life of a fifteen-year-old closeted lesbian in the heart of the Bible Belt is like, because that's not part of my experience. And for her, at least for now, it's still a difficult struggle.

All I can know is my own story. And this is it.

Sans wigs.

The pickles.

I'm so very sorry for the pickles. It's too much to get into here. But believe me, when you hit that part of the book, you'll certainly know you're there. Mom. Dad. If you even make it to this part of the book, please remember that whole money-thing I mentioned earlier.

See you at Christmas!

I'm sorry to my friends who are gone. I'm sorry if I wasn't there when you needed me. I'm sorry that we lost touch. I'm sorry if the world hurt you. I'm sorry if the people you loved abandoned you. I'm sorry if the drugs we took together in a spirit of youthful fun became something that damaged your life. I'm sorry for all the pain you never let me know about. But I'm not sorry about forgetting you. Because that will never happen.

I miss you every day.

And to all my dear friends who are still here, thanks for the amazing time. Hating the world would've been a lot less fun without you in it. Thanks for reminding me that shame is bad, fun is good, and that if we believe enough, every day can be like Halloween.