Turn up the sound too late for the question.
He runs cigarette–stained fingers over the stubble on his chin and
leans on the arm of the leather couch. He crosses his legs, skinny
jeans worn and ragged. He’s still wearing old Chucks with the tread
half–gone, even though he could buy a thousand new pairs. He doesn’t wear the Mister Rogers sweaters anymore. Sometimes he still wears dresses for the fuck of it, but today he’s wearing a white t–shirt that looks like his kid doodled on it with four colors of Sharpie. A bloodied stick man holds a shotgun.
He licks his lips, and he doesn’t look at the camera, or at the floor,
or at the interviewer’s face. He’s focused on the space between, like
it’s a gulf or a fence or a wall. He says, “Yeah, it was pretty rough
for a while, you know. I kept saying things were getting better, but
really they weren’t. Eventually it was clean up or die, so…
“I started thinking about doing music for other shit, not because I
needed the money, but to fuck with people. Then I thought maybe I’d do a Disney soundtrack, but it’d probably end up like in Fight Club where the guy’s splicing porn into kid movies.”
Then the interviewer asks about _his_ kid, and he grins. “She’s
great,” he says. “I know that’s not very ‘punk rock’ of me, but
What are you looking at? This interview never fucking happened.
Rated R: Contains profanity, suicide, drug and sexual references, and rock n’ roll.