Justin Pearson - From the Graveyard of the Arousal Industry

Table of Contents

August 20, 1975, Chicago, Illinois: The city where I was born is too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter compared to many places on this planet. In the hospital where I was born, the woman who shared my mothers room tried to trade babies with her. As my mom tells it, this womans baby, Frank, was ugly, and she wanted to trade him for me. Arent all babies ugly when theyre born? In photos as a newborn, I looked pretty damn ugly. I remember sitting on the floor as a child, looking through photo albums trying to figure out what the hell my mom was talking about. I often wonder how Frank turned out. To be honest, I dont believe the story, but its funny to think someone would try to trade babies just after delivering one. If its not true, its pretty impressive that my mother came up with it.

Im not sure Ill ever have a child. I keep hearing that were approaching the end of the world. Something like the alignment of the planets in our solar system will expose Earth to a black hole. I cant comprehend what that would be like and Im not sure a child should be part of something of that magnitude. We might experience great pain and suffering, but then again, it could blow our minds and be some sort of awesome event. If its not a black hole screwing with Earth, itll be an ass-backwards political administration ripping off humanity, a water shortage, an asteroid, or the Anti-Christ that will, at some point, end life on this rock.

I have no idea why my parents wanted to move us from Chicago to one of the worst cities in America. I was eight months old when we left for Shit-Creek Phoenix, Arizona. I often wonder how I wouldve turned out if I had been raised in Chicago. All Phoenix had to offer were cacti, an abundance of institutional racism, and news programs saying you could cook eggs on the blistering sidewalk. First my crayons melted, then my records melted. Warped Alice Cooper records didnt matter over time now that hes become a born-again-Christian golfer who makes employees at the sports bar he owns wear the face makeup he used to perform in. In the past, there were some okay bands from Phoenix, and some awesome skate areas if you could survive the heat, but you had to avoid being cooked like an egg on the miles and miles of sidewalk.

One-hundred-and-twenty-something-degree weather was hell. At least it felt like hell when I watched the heat rise from Phoenixs giant asphalt grid. Im surprised that Brandy, my dog, or Bologna, my cat, didnt die of heat exhaustion. We had a slew of bunnies over the years and some of them did die from it. Wed put ice packs out for them to lie on, but even that wouldnt save them. Occasionally, the females had babies and the father would kill them, leaving a bloody mess of bunny babies for us to deal with. They were cute, but none of them lived long, even if they managed to beat the heat.

My earliest childhood memories are of being dropped off at the air-conditioned indoor mall, trying to stay cool. I could not avoid the Vans skate shop placed among the garbage of consumerism. It was there that skateboarding became a prominent part of my early childhood. Back then skateboarding embodied the nasty punk ethics that would essentially raise me. This was before the Nike-bastardization jock-commercialization of the sport. In the mid-eighties, skateboarding culture included companies like Alva and Skull Skates, and freaks like Pushead, Neil Blender, Natas Kaupas, and Mark Gonzales. Most importantly, the Thrasher Skate Rock compilations were surfacing. I remember when I walked into the Vans store and this older punk from a local band called Rabid Rabbit insisted that I buy the new Thrasher Skate Rock cassette. There was no way around it; he knew what I needed. I purchased it and when I put the tape in my boom box, my life instantly changed. I was ten or eleven years old, and I needed to hear bands like Septic Death, JFA, and The Accused. It was the Thrasher compilations that drove me down and dropped me off in the cultural alley of punk.

It was in the same alley that I met an angel (of death): on my way to middle school, I would see these metal-looking dudes cruising around in a car covered with punk stickers. As music blared from the car, they gave me the guy nod and took off, leaving my mom and me at the green light. One night, I was with this metal kid from school. He was on a mission to find his older brother, who had stolen his allowance. We eventually tracked his brother down at a party a few blocks from my house. Not a place where twelve-year-old kids belonged. Everyone there was older than me, and, well, very metal. I stood still in the corner until my friends brother noticed us. He refused to give up the allowance, called us faggots, and instructed us to shut up. While the brother lectured, my friend leaned over and whispered, This is the house where Slayer lives. Just as we were getting the boot from his brother, the feathered-haired, roach-clip-earring-acid-washed-jeans-wearing girls who were sitting on the couch across the room decided that my friend and I were cute little punks, and told us to stay. So, we got to hang out for a bit. It was sort of like we were puppies. While I stood there, listening to the cool music that was playing, some super metal guy said, Little dude, and handed me a joint. I hesitated, then grabbed it and took a huge gulp. As I tried to smoke it, I choked and made everyone laugh, including my friend. I shrugged and handed the joint over to some hot girl on the couch. Our time was up; the brother pushed us out the door and we skated off.

But none of that holds water. Literally, Phoenix is a desert. Even getting to be on the famous Wallace and Ladmo Show was a let-down. When I was younger, I watched that show every morning for years, wishing I could be on it. Theyd pick names out of a container and call those people to be on the show. I must have submitted my name once a week. Of course, luck wasnt going to land me on the program. When we were camping, my mom met a guy who worked at the TV station. She worked that magic of hers and somehow managed to get my friend and me on the show. See, this was a second-rate kids television program with an odd mix of subtle pedophilia, shitty cartoons, a crappy Slush Puppie machine, and random, who-gives-a-shit guests. When I went to the show, I got to sit in the very corner of the TV audience. I showed up on camera a couple of times because of the bright yellow IZOD shirt my mom made me wear.

But even though the show was just like all the other low-budget crap that kids eat up, I still have to give it to my mom. She has an amazing ability to scam things and hook up cool stuff. From getting to meet David Prowse (the actor who played Darth Vader), to getting tickets to see the Thriller tour (even though Michael Jackson canceled the Phoenix date because the show didnt sell out), to having her friend sell me a kick-ass van with hidden compartments and Star Wars curtains to take on tour with my first band, my mom always did cool stuff. Plus she created a real Arizona paint job: me.