Crazy Enough (2 page)

Free Press
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Copyright © 2012 by Storm Large

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Free Press Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Free Press hardcover edition January 2012

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Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Large, Storm.
Crazy enough : a memoir / by Storm Large.—1st Free Press hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Large, Storm. 2. Singers—United States—Biography. I. Title.
ML420.L2437A3 2012
782.42166092—dc23
[B]
2011024124

ISBN 978-1-4391-9240-5 (print)
ISBN 978-1-4391-9242-9 (ebook)

A
ll of these stories are true and as accurate as I could get them, with the help of friends and family who were party or privy to the events described. Several names and identifying characteristics of people and places have been blurred or outright changed to protect the innocent and the dead. Some have been changed to protect myself from the drug addled and psychotic, along with the general douche baggery that is so prevalent in these litigious times. Many of these memories are from more than thirty years ago, so keep in mind there have been a few tankers of alcohol and trash bags full of drugs, not to mention acres of weenie, that have been tossed through my body and brain since then, so I could have gotten a few things twisted around. But I do know for sure that I live at the end.

Prologue:         “THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL!”

Chapter 1:        CHILD MANIA, SHICKEN MUSH, FOREVER AND A DAY. . . .

Chapter 2:        MANIC DEPRESSION, SADVILLE, HELGA THE WHORE, C-R-A-Z. . . .

Chapter 3:        JUST LIKE YOUR MOM DR. LOVEY, THE HEAD BOX. . . .

Chapter 4:        YAY PORN! PUTTING IT IN.

Chapter 5:        HARVARD SQUARE AND SHIT.

Chapter 6:        MEET THE BANKS. A SILK UPHOLSTERED
HELL
HECK.

Chapter 7:        BORN TO LOSE. BONE CANCER BLUES.

Chapter 8:        “CLOTHES ARE A LIE!” MY OFFICIAL INSANE DAY.

Chapter 9:        43 IS A MAGIC NUMBER, MOOSE AND MULTIPLE MOM.

Chapter 10:      ANOREXIA FABULOSA, OR, “DOES THIS OPEN SORE ON MY FACE MAKE ME LOOK FAT?”

Chapter 11:      ST. MARK'S SCHOOL TO ST. MARK'S PLACE.

Chapter 12:      S.F., HEROIN, AND THE MOST TERRIBLEST JUNKIE EVER!

Chapter 13:      LOUDER THAN GOD.

Chapter 14:      THE “GOTCHA”

Chapter 15:      PENULTIMATE GOTCHA, GOOD-BYE TO THE QUEEN OF PARAPLEGIA.

Chapter 16:      LOVE, LOSS THE DOT & SEPT. 12

Chapter 17:      PORTLAND EFFING OREGON!

Chapter 18:      THE LAST GOTCHA.

Chapter 19:      LOVE YOU, BYE. . . .

Chapter 20:      BIRTH FAMILY, RET, HEART-BURST.

Chapter 21:      ROCK STAR, WHAT THE FUCK IS LADYLIKE?

Chapter 22:      LOVE YOU ENOUGH.

Chapter 23:      CALL ME CRAZY.

THANK YOU

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

P
eople think I'm nuts. They think that I am a killer, a badass, and a dangerous woman. They think that I am a boot-stomping, man-chomping rock 'n' roll sex thug with heavy leather straps on my well-notched bedposts and a line around the block of challengers vying for a ride between my crushing thighs, many of whom won't survive the encounter.

That's what I
like
people to think, anyway. Some actually buy it. My manufactured mythology had begun on stage in San Francisco, and was full-on folklore here in Portland. My band, The Balls, had become a wild success over the past three years, and we packed a downtown club called Dante's once a week, as well as clubs throughout the west coast from Seattle to San Diego. My sex thuggery is reserved for only one man, however. And though we fuck like we
just got out of prison, home life is domestic. I help with the care and feeding of my boyfriend's young son, cutting off crusts, giving back tickles. I even own an apron.

Despite my disenchanting normality, however, I get to sing for a living, drink free most places, and I get laid regularly. Life is good.

And now it's Christmas time, so I'm all extra everything with good cheer. December in Portland can be a dreary spectacle. Right around Halloween, a big chilly sog plops its fat ass over the Pacific Northwest and stays parked there until Independence Day. Even in the gray, spitting rain, however, I'm all atwinkle, heading to Hawthorne Boulevard to skip through herds of wet hippies to Christmas shop. And even though I find those pube farmers highly irritating, I am humming “In Excelsis Deo” and in love with the world, so fuck 'em.

Hawthorne is a main thoroughfare in southeast Portland where, on one block, you can buy a latte, Indonesian end tables, pants for your cat, a vinyl corset, or a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt. It's a great place to find perfect gifts for the loved ones in your life, and I am going to buy the greatest Christmas gift ever.

“The Greatest Gift of All”: I hear my little fourth-grade voice trilling in my memory bank. It was in a school Christmas play and was the first solo I ever took on stage. It was also one of the few times my mom saw me sing in front of a real audience.

“The greatest giiift of aaall . . . it can come from aaany wheeere!” I sang the heck out of it, if memory serves.

My mom had started beading and was taking it very seriously. She was selling pieces on eBay—seriously—so I'm headed to a store called Beads Forever to get her some killer imported beads, maybe some semiprecious stones. I have a vision of getting her a badass assortment and putting them in a cool, funky box. It's the first Christmas gift I will buy for her in maybe ten years, and it will be perfect.

“Per-fect!” I sing in a fake opera voice.

I see the store ahead through my swishing windshield wipers and, “Fuckyouuu!!” I sing in triumph, to no one, as there is a perfect parking space directly in front of the store. “ Rock-star fucking parking!” I pull up, swoosh my wet car into the spot, throw it into park and my phone rings. The little lit-up window reads “BDLarge.”

“Dad? Hey, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetie.” His voice sounds heavy.

“What's wrong?”

He sighed.
Someone must've died. My grandmother. Neeny. God, at Christmas we lose Neeny Cat?

“Dad?”

“Your mom died last night.”