SCARY COOL SAD GOODBYE 15
By popular demand... Tony returns for Part 2.
Substack is telling me I’m nearing my word limit, so I’ll keep it brief. I received many a response to my recent interview with Tony, who I should note is not only my craziest ex-fiance but my best friend for life, inquiring as to a follow-up. So here it is, which Tony would like you to know took place over several FaceTime calls over the past few weeks because I have the audacity to “have a job.” The last one was real, but this one, I would say, is realer.
Editor’s note: Tony also has a Bandcamp and sells vintage Polo on Instagram, if you would like to hit that up so that he can stop asking me for money to occasionally eat food.
TONY: Okay, science experiment. Tin foil. Here we go. What are you opening, a Sephora box? Wow, we’re in whole different worlds right now, that’s for sure. Okay, other part of science experiment...
MG: Wait, should I include this?
No. Okay, so, tin foil… baking soda… Okay, you can include the science experiment. I have this blank DVD box because someone delivered me coke through an Uber driver, like hey, bring my friend this disc. I was like, what the fuck? Oh, sorry, it’s a Blu-ray. I was so confused, and then I tried to give the Uber driver money and he was like no, no. I didn’t get it, but then I opened it and there was cocaine. So: tin foil? Shiny side down. Very important. This is something you can’t google. This is just some shit that gets passed down from person with drug problems to person with drug problems. You can’t fucking watch a Youtube video. So then we’re gonna take some [redacted] and we’re gonna put it on the foil. Ahhhh, maybe a little more [redacted]. They say the rule is to normally do half baking soda to half [redacted], but that’s bullshit. If you put too much soda, it tastes bad. If you put the right amount, your face goes numb. Oh, water. Then you just want to put a few drops, not too much. Mix it all together into a paste. Science. Now, we wait two minutes. I’ll take a shot while we wait. Okay, so now, science.
[smokes science experiment]
I was very impressed when my dad was like, good interview. And I know my dad, he was not hyped to read some of that shit, for sure. But he didn’t get mad. He didn’t block me on his phone. [Tony’s mom has blocked him for saying her house is like Grey Gardens.] I mean, if I could have explained my mom’s thing any other way, I would have, but Grey Gardens is the only fucking thing that works. It is what it is, man. It’s odd and probably shouldn’t be happening, but I really didn’t mean it in a negative way. So happy mother’s day, Mom, if you read this. I’d call you, but I’m blocked. My aunt said I could send an email. Okay, dude. Who gets blocked by their fucking mom? I’m blocking her back on Instagram. Maybe she already blocked me, holy shit. I’m about to check it out. Oh my god, she unfollowed me! You can put all of this shit in there. My mother unfollowed me on Instagram. Like, she follows all my friends! She follows fucking Crimekillz! Like, you follow my band?! It’s so hardcore you can’t even look at my Instagram? I post some cool shit! She told me I need to find my own way.
I feel like that’s actually your biggest problem. Finding your own way a little too much.
All I do is find my own way somewhere else, all the time. And she’s like, you need to find a new phone provider. And it’s like, it’s a family plan, but I started it. I gave you free Netflix for life. Like, come on now. Alright, so, you have a question?
Well, before I started recording you mentioned something about Korea that was potentially related to your science experiment.
Okay, it was about my charges, I wish I had the papers. The charges are just really funny. I had two charges for smoking weed, only because I told them — I did a hair test, I obviously smoke weed. So when I saw the official paperwork it was like, “Twelve midnight on the 24th of fucking April, the defendent put an unknown amount of marijuana into a pipe and ignited the marijiuana with the flame.” I’m like, holy shit, are you guys for real? The other one, same thing: “Sometime around the 26th of April, sometime between two and five am…” I’m like, this is why I’m in prison. Cool. So I thought maybe there’s a way to relate that to the science experiment. Like, “He put an unknown amount of white powder in the tin foil.” If it makes sense.
There’s one thing I have to say. There’s a thing about the Pitchfork writers wanting to start a union, whatever, I don’t care. Hold on, let me check the Twitter so I get this right. “Pitchfork, the most trusted voice in music.” Who the fuck are you, bro? You can’t just write that about yourself.
Who do you trust more than Pitchfork?
Like, a cop? Dude, the balls on these guys with their antiquated elitist number systems that are also total bullshit. Whoever actually still reads that shit should understand that the writers could give the shit an 8 and then the editor, who couldn’t write it themselves, gives it a 6! I know this! Pitchfork, suck a dick bro. The most trusted voice in music? You’re fucking snitches. It’s a pandemic, the world’s ending, nobody cares about a fucking 8. They’re giving the worst rap records fucking 8’s. The only cool part about Pitchfork Fest was meeting the guys from The Bachelor. [Editor’s note: at Pitchfork Festival 2017, we met two former contestants from The Bachelor in VIP and he fanned out.] I just really needed to get that out. The most trusted voice. That’s like me saying my new record’s just amazing. You don’t get to review yourself, assholes. Please quote all of this. I will fight Pitchfork right now. All of them. Music cops, that’s all they are.
Anything else you need to get off your chest about music writers?
Let me think carefully. The most trusted voice in music is Jeff Weiss and Meaghan Garvey. Everybody else can suck it. Now that I’m back on Twitter, it’s horrible. At least Instagram is just pictures. I mean, I had to argue with a nihilist. A nihilist from Germany who I got in this whole thing with.
What?
Some nihilist from Germany had problems with my God remarks.
How do you know he’s a nihilist?
His name on Instagram was “I Am A Nihilist.” So he started saying shit on my Instagram, he was telling me how my music was gonna sound in the future and how I was gonna try to convert people with my Christian music. He read the article. He started with, your music’s pretty good. Then he went off into how I’m going to become a youth pastor and convert people with my music and all my music’s gonna be shit. But, “I Am A Nihilist” said, and I quote, I will buy everything on your Bandcamp on Bandcamp Friday. Do you think he bought it? First off, he believes in nothing, so what can you do? I didn’t see the problem. I believe in something, he believes in nothing, let’s split the fucking difference.
Actually, no, I’m sure there’s other good music writers, I just don’t read about music. I just listen to it, cause that seems to make more sense to me. Sorry, that’s probably why I didn’t read any of your stuff; I do now. But like, I don’t need it broken down and analyzed for me by someone I don’t know. Critics are just haters.
I mean, I think criticism is like, an ancient art form.
Yeah, people have been hating for a long time. Dude, read the Bible. Lot of haters in that shit. Cain and Abel? Hated on his own brother, bro.
So do you believe in evolution? Do you believe in the Big Bang Theory?
I mean, obviously it’s a little hard for me to accept Adam and Eve. But at the same time, is that any weirder than the Big Bang Theory? Like, yeah, “science, science, science” — that’s just all shit we created. God could be up there fucking laughing, like, “Cool, molecules. Spaceships. Good job, Elon, you fucking killed it. Send some shit to Mars.” I only know dope math. I know how many quarter pounds are in a key. Only necessary math. It’s also easy, cause it’s usually 7s. I’m good with the 7 times table.
What’s 7 times 8?
Oh fuck, what, 56? And I haven’t slept in a long time, so yeah, there you go. Anyway, I don’t know why people keep trying to say I’m like a youth pastor. Can you see me being a youth pastor? I need to post some more pictures of myself so they get the fucking clue. Like dude, I’ve got two teeth and I’m crazy as fuck. Everyone that thinks I’m going to become a youth pastor, I think they should all book a flight to Mexico with Pitchfork and Nihilist from Germany; all come see me, I will fight all of you at once. I will fight your whole fucking staff and if I win, I get your Twitter.
How many Pitchfork staffers do you think it would take to take you down? All at once, they don’t wait turns.
I mean, I think they’d get me on the ground, but I’ve been on the ground with a lot of dudes before. They all seem very malnourished so I don’t know, maybe 25? The first dude who comes at me, I’m kicking him straight in the nuts, I don’t give a fuck. I’m fighting dirty. Pitchfork, I will beat the shit out of you. And when I make an album that’s really good, don’t fucking say anything about it or I will sue you.
Some people who read the last interview were inquiring about you falling through things.
Okay, so I don’t know if I can remember when I started falling. But when I was younger I wasn’t really good at walking. I had to train myself to chill out and walk right, the same way I had to train myself to say “bagel” because for years, I said “bag-gull.” Like, so many people made fun of me for so many years, I had to just figure it out: “Bagel. Bagel. Bagel.” For the most part, I don’t fall through things anymore. The last one I was completely blacked out, so I feel like that wasn’t my fault. A better example, I must have been like 32, 35? I was hanging out with my ex’s family, it’s some holiday, I’m all coked out and drunk, whatever. They’re like, let’s play hide and seek, and I’m like fucking yeah, I’m gonna beat all of you little fuckers, let’s go. There’s this huge tall tree in the backyard and I scale really high up this tree, just posted. These kids are like, fucking eight. Finally they’re like okay, you win, come out, and I’m like haha you stupid little kids, I’m fucking right here in the tree. The second I say that I fall face first out of the tree and break my arm.
But okay, the most insane is when I was living with my friend in the arts district in LA, cool warehouse but no one’s supposed to live there. My friend called me and was like, is it cool if I come over with some friends, they’re really chill, they’re from up north and have a bunch of liquid LSD. So they come over. Remember the dude with the red hair from Trailer Park Boys? Like that, but more hippie, with a snapback. Everyone took acid except me; for some reason I turned down drugs, which is rare. I start to realize that these people are crazy because he’s with his “Family,” first of all. Very Manson. And every time he wanted more acid he was like, pass me the water. I’m like, that’s a water bottle full of liquid LSD, you call that water? Fuck. They were just going at it. I think I have a deviated septum, by the way, but I don’t want to talk about that, in case it’s real.
So everybody’s gone off fucking acid except me. There’s a ladder in the middle of the apartment and you walk up and you’re on the rooftop, so we’re all up there, neighbors, the “Family,” and I decide to go look over the edge. There’s this big tarp on the roof and I can see my neighbor in slo-mo all like, “Noooo! It’s glassss!” and then just BANG, fall right through that motherfucker. It’s like a 25 foot drop so I’m like, oh my god, I’m dead. But amazingly, this was the only apartment that had two-by-fours like seven feet down, so I fucking grab the thing. Everyone thinks I’m fucking dead. I climb up and I’m like, everything’s cool! Then I see the glass has completely opened up my fucking leg and blood is pouring everywhere. Everyone’s on acid and the one dude’s like, “You’re gonna fucking diiieee, mannn!” I’m like, can you shut the fuck up?
So the whole rooftop’s covered in blood and my roommate’s putting these tourniquets on me. We hear this noise, like whooosh! and we turn around and the fucking rooftop’s in flames, and the fucking “Family” member — the shaman, as he referred to himself — has somehow lit all of my blood on fire. Like, for real. All the blood on the ground, just ignited in flames. Did he carry lighter fluid in his fucking pocket? I don’t know how he did it. My roommate’s like, what the fuck dude, the whole roof’s on fire? And he’s like, but I had to — I had to burn that blood before the evil spirits got in there. I’m really not processing shit, because I’m bleeding everywhere and the roof’s on fucking fire. They’re like, do you need to go to the hospital? I’m like, I’ll just give it a day, see what happens. Then we go downstairs and start doing a bunch of coke. I guess I thought maybe that would help?
And then the shaman’s like, well, you know, I can’t be beat at rock paper scissors, I’m psychic, it’s impossible. Say what you will about my religious beliefs, but I’m a logical person, and that’s just not fucking possible. There’s only three things to pick. So I’m like alright, let’s fucking go. I start to get a little tripped out, cause he beat me like 20 times in a row. I’m like, fuck. He fucking lit my blood on fire. I don’t believe he had lighter fluid. Maybe he poured acid all over it, is acid flammable? I don’t know, but he did some shit. So I’m like wow, who knows, maybe this dude really is some kind of shaman. He’d also mentioned to me earlier that I need to come to his house and his daughter will serve me tea in his garden. So eventually, you know, it’s rock paper scissors, he loses. He looked me dead in the eye and I feel like he wanted to murder me. I beat him more times. I don’t think he said anything about it, he just let that one go. But he was not psychic.
The next morning I start to unwrap one of the bandages to see what the deal is, and blood squirts everywhere. So okay, I need to go to the hospital. I get to the fucking urgent care and the nurse gives me one piece of gauze and was like, when I unwrap this, you put this on the wound. I’m like, I just want to tell you, I think this is a really bad idea. She’s like no, I’m a nurse, we got this. So I’m holding this one piece of gauze and I’m like ah, fuck, and when she unwraps it, blood fucking flies everywhere, all over her scrubs, on her face, I’m wearing fucking slides and they’re full of blood. And she runs out of the room! I’m like, am I dying?! Fucking five doctors rush in and throw me on the thing and I’m like, can someone tell me if I’m dying? They won’t say anything. I ended up getting like 300 stitches. So that was my worst fall. I feel like I’ve gotten better at it. I mean, I hope so, I’m fucking 40, man — if I don’t know how to walk?
But anyways, yes, happy mother’s day, my mom has unfollowed me on Instagram. You don’t do that shit to your family, but I guess I was never really part of that family. I mean, I moved out when I was 13. Should I talk about all that shit?
I don’t know. Do you want to?
I mean, it’s just facts. I’m not blaming anyone for anything. If you take away my addiction and all my shit, who would I be? I would have never met you, never seen the world, I would have never put out a record. So yeah, they were mad at me about something. It was my stepdad and my mom, and they were yelling at me about what a horrible fucking kid I was or whatever. I was like, I’m going to go to my room and calm down because I don’t think this conversation is going anywhere, which I feel like is pretty mature for a 13 year old. Before I leave, I smack an empty plastic cup off the table. Out of nowhere my 6’4” stepdad slams me from behind into a wall, gets on top of me and just starts choking the shit out of me. Like, murder choke. I’m like fuck, man, it seems like you’re about to kill me. My mom’s holding my little brother in her arms like please stop, stop, stop. I’m like yo, you need to call the police right now, this is not fucking okay. She wouldn’t do it. So I’m like you know what, I’m running away, I’m leaving this house right now. And then she called the cops — on me, as a runaway. The cop comes, and he asks my mom about my stepdad: “Did he do that?” My mom looked at him in the eye and said no, that didn’t happen. So right there, I think, broke my heart.
So the cop was like, I don’t think there’s enough marks on your neck to believe that you were strangled. So your options are, you can stay, or I can take you to jail for trying to run away. Okay, whatever, I’ll stay. I had a homie from school and I told him about it and his dad was like, fuck it, move in with me. Didn’t know at the time that he was one of the largest crystal meth dealers in Arizona. Like, first time I saw meth it was in a full fucking garbage bag. That first night I did meth for the first time, and we’d bounce around from hotel to hotel, me and my friend and someone that watched us. But from the minute I did that first bump, I never slept, for like a week and a half. I just kept doing it, and people’d just keep giving it to me. Someone gave me a fucking gun. I’m doing speed and coke with 40 year olds and they have no issue with this.
Finally I’m up so long I completely freak out. How can I explain this? I went outside, barefoot, to go get cigarettes out of my friend’s car, which I could not find, but what I did find in that process was two elves who were running around underneath the cars and fucking with the cars. And I was like hey, that’s not cool, don’t fuck with the cars. So I decide that, you know, I gotta track down these fucking elves. So I’m running around this parking lot, trying to find the elves and capture them. I see them going fucking everywhere. And I’m out there for hours, just running around chasing these fucking elves. And I’m always so close! So there’s the apartment, then a wall, then there’s a Dunkin Donuts. I hop up on the wall like a frog. I’m up on the wall and I see this dude at the Dunkin Donuts on his break, trying to light a cigarette but his lighter’s not working, and I think that he’s sending codes with the lighter to the elves. So I run up to him like, “You’re sending them codes right now, right?” I’m a little kid. I have no shoes on. This guy’s just like, what the fuck.
So, I keep just kind of doing shit like that til the sun comes up. I had just left the house to go get some cigarettes and I’m gone like 9, 10 hours at this point. I walk back in and they’re like dude, where’d you go? They called my mom like, your son needs to go to rehab. Do you know what it must take for a bunch of hardcore drug dealers to call your mom like, this kid needs to go to rehab, now? That’s also how I passed 7th grade. I was in rehab, it was a nice rehab. They got cheaper the more I had to go, but this one was very fancy. Axl Rose’s twin brother was there at the time, I believe, but I was in the kid’s unit. That’s where I started listening to Tool every night, and I fell in love with this girl from California. We’d make out and this one night guard would bring us cigarettes, it was cool. Everyone else would do their homework, but I’d already been suspended multiple, multiple times. So the school was like look, we’ll make you a deal: if you promise he won’t come back, we’ll just pass him right now. That’s how I got through 7th grade.
By the way, when I was 8, for Halloween I was a drug dealer. I had an overcoat and I took all my mom’s empty pill bottles, which was like a thousand, and I had all these pill bottles in a briefcase. So I think I was always fucked.
What’d you do when you got out of rehab?
I mean, I went to at least 10 more rehabs. I’d run away, get kicked out. I have some good running away from rehab stories, but we’ll talk about that later. I don’t know. It’s weird to think about that part of my life, because my parents literally left me stranded. It’s hard to put that feeling into words. They could have taken me back and they didn’t, so I ended up having to live on the streets of Portland, where I almost got murdered by skinheads. I was innocent. I lived on the streets, but I didn’t know what the fuck’s going on. I mean, I love my dad, and whatever happened between us is 100% forgiven. But the police told him, if you say you want him back, we’ll put him on a train from Portland to Seattle and he’ll be there in a few hours — or you can say no, and we’ll just drop him off in downtown Portland. And he said no. I had no money, they gave me my shoelaces back, and I was just there. I ended up running into some junkie lady who could tell I was lost, and she kept being like, are you sick? I didn’t know what that meant at the time but she was trying to see if I needed some H. It was 4th of July. She and her druggie boyfriend were having a picnic by the water. I was just chilling with them watching fireworks while I’m wondering, where do I go?
I was staying at this really cool shelter, Harry’s Mother, this old Victorian house, and I didn’t want to leave. I had this very important moment laying on the floor on this old, beautiful rug, looking up at the ceiling, and Nine Inch Nails “Hurt” is playing. I don’t know if I’ve ever been so affected by a song. I’m just here on the floor of this shelter and nobody wants me. Eventually I had to go. You could only stay there so long. Me and the other homie bounced and went to a park, met a bunch of other homeless kids. You’d meet somebody and you’re close and then they’re gone and you don’t know what happened. That was also when I lost my virginity, which was cool. Two girls. But it was a weird feeling to know that nobody wanted me. I almost died out there, horrible shit happened to me, and my parents weren’t there to help me, but people I barely knew were.
And there were skinheads everywhere. In Portland at that time, skinheads were really bad. Obviously I am not racist in any fucking way, but they were around, and my friend was like play it cool, don’t fucking stand out. But they knew who I was. And there was this really cute black girl. Where we were staying under this bridge there was this really nice, lit-up river, and people would come dive off the cliffs. But she was so beautiful. So we were making out, sitting on the rock, and these old skinheads come up, like straight out of American History X. They start talking mad shit to me for being near her, I’m obviously not going to repeat what they said. Then they jump into the water. So I’m like, I should go. I start walking back under the bridge. Tap on my shoulder, turn around, this 30-year old skinhead just fucking socks me five times til I hit the fucking ground. Luckily my older homie — Scarface, because he fell off his motorcycle and slid like 20 feet on the pavement — was like yo, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, it’s all good. But there was also a bunch of young skinheads, right? These dudes are old; if they kill me, it’s a fucking problem. But if someone my age kills me, it’s not really a problem, they’ll do some time in juvie and they’re out. So that’s when I call my aunt and I’m like, look, you have to come get me right now or I’m gonna fucking die. And that’s what it took for my mom to buy me a plane ticket back to Arizona. I still wasn’t allowed to stay at the house, though.
Yeah, so after that shit I was pretty fucked up, and I just didn’t really care. Just kept doing drugs — plus it’s Tucson, they’re everywhere. I was 17 when I bought my first ounce of coke. I was 15 when I bought two ounces of weed and the dude was like yo, do you want to buy this glock for $70? Cool, fuck it, I’ll take that. I never had a curfew or any kind of direction, which at the time sounds really cool; that’s what you want, right? Looking back, no. But that’s just how it works. I needed all those experiences. If my dad had taken me, I would probably be like, an accountant.
But after that, yeah, I didn’t give a fuck, man. There was nothing anyone could tell me. Why the fuck should I ever listen to these people who abandoned me? It wasn’t like I was out there having fun; I was begging for someone to help me. Lot of rehabs until I was 18, and then I just did my own thing. I guess it all stems from that — why my anxiety’s so bad, PTSD and all that. I’ve never felt safe. The one place I felt safe was in Korea, because there’s just no crime. There’s no guns. I’d walk down a dark alley at five in the morning with headphones on and I knew nothing was going to go wrong. I’d never felt that way before. Here I feel chill, all things considered. Although after the whole organ harvesting thing, I lost so much weight, I couldn’t eat for weeks. But now I really like it here. So. Question?
Do you still keep in touch with your friends from Korean prison?
No, because they’re all still in prison. And you know what’s crazy is two months after I left, there was a huge covid outbreak there. Thousands of prisoners got sick because of a guard. And my Mongolian roommate should’ve been out by now, so I’m worried that something bad happened. Type in Seoul Dongbu Detention Center. You see the picture? It’s a huge building, it fits like 7,000 people. I didn’t know the rules at first obviously, I’m not fucking Korean. I have no contact with anybody. Since I’m in there for drugs, I can’t use the phone, and even if you do, it’s five minutes once a month. I didn’t know at that time if my girlfriend was in jail, I didn’t know what was going on. I had nothing to read, I didn’t understand the TV, I had no clock, I didn’t know how to order anything. You kind of just learn how things work, but at first it was really hard, those first two weeks. Guards would be screaming at me because I was like, sitting on the ground. Luckily there was this kid who went to school in America; big up Chris, you really helped me out. Only kid on the whole unit that spoke English. Dude brought me a list so I could order tuna and bread and milk and notebooks. People felt bad for me. I looked crazy, though, because I hadn’t had a haircut or shaved in a really long time. I looked like someone out of fucking Lord of the Rings.
Then I got moved to the cell with the three Chinese guys, and they’re like, is this cool? I’m like, do I have a choice? It’s prison. When we would work out, some songs made me really emotional. They were always playing Oasis in the afternoon when I was working out, “Don’t Look Back In Anger.” And then they’d play that Weeknd song that’s not so bad, “Blinded by the Lights” or whatever. I’d never heard it, but that song always fucks me up now. I remember always wishing they’d play it again. And then they played a new Drake song and I couldn’t even work out. I remember just looking through the bars, hearing something that was so familiar to me like Drake, and now I’m who the fuck knows where in a cell with these fucking Chinese guys.
So, my roommates were very interesting. They were all there for the same thing, scamming old ladies — like oh, your daughter’s in the hospital, send me some money. But they were all pawns, they’re not running shit. There’s some dude in Europe cashing out and they get nothing and go to prison for three years. One of the dudes was a nerdy rich dude who was always reading Korean manga. Then there was this short little kid, oh fuck, Yae Chi Ma? He was the homie. There was also an older Chinese guy, which we’ll get into. And everyone called me Nicole, cause they couldn’t figure out the last part [Editor’s note: Tony’s last name is Nicoletta]. I’d walk down the hall and everyone’s like, “Nicole! Nicole!” But let’s cover the roommates first.
Yae Chi Ma was dope but he’d fucking snore, and he’d sleep next to me, and his leg would come over. Then this Mongolian guy showed up; he turned out to be my best friend in the whole thing. I taught him the word “fuck” and every time the guards would walk away he’d be whispering “Fuck you! Fuck you!” all the time. The way we’d communicate was by drawing pictures, and he drew some fucked up pictures. I still have some. He drew a lot of big girls. He liked big girls. And he was always drawing trucks, I think trying to explain something about semi trucks? He had a wife and kids and he couldn’t sleep at night. It was really sad. He’d be like, “I miss my babies.” That he would say in English. The best picture he drew was of why he was in prison. He decided to break into a house with a huge electric saw, but in his drawing, he also drew all the security cameras that were around this shit. So he saws the shit open and goes in and takes the money, but in the drawing it’s like, camera, camera, camera. Like yeah, that was not very smart, bro. On the weekends, we’d party. We’d put like five instant coffees in one. I fucking have one, I have one left. This was my shit in prison.
So the other roommate was this old Chinese guy, and he was fucked, he knew it. He was like, this is my third time doing this. There were a couple times I didn’t like him; like one time he grabbed my homie’s noodles that I gave him, and I was like yo, do we have a problem? After the second time they got in a fight, the homie was like dude, he’s a fucking masturbator, bro, watch what happens at night. I’m up late reading the Bible, and I decide to roll the other way a few nights later and this dude’s just banging it out. I’m like, yo! So we would have talks about it, like, this shit’s not okay. We went and got the boss and we’re like yo, he keeps masturbating every night, all the time. He apologized, like, I won’t do it again. He kept doing it. For the last two weeks before my sentencing I was so nervous I didn’t really sleep, so I made it a point that I would not sleep until he went to sleep, and I told him that I was doing it. I would stay up til five in the morning just sitting there, just so he wouldn’t masturbate. He’d be reading something and look over, and I’d be like, I’m still here, bro. I’m gonna fucking be here. I understand it’s prison, masturbation’s a good way to pass the time, but that’s why you get a private cell. That’s the only reason why you get a private cell: masturbation, I assume. Well, and you get to pick the TV channel, but there’s only three channels and they’re all the same bullshit. Korea only has shows about people in the countryside growing vegetables and people that are fishermen on boats. And then dramas on the weekend, which the Chinese homie loved. It’d be like part eight of a show he’d never seen and he’d be like, “Shhh! Drama, drama!”
So there’s no raping, there’s no stabbing, but there’s 23 ½ hours of just thinking. That’s where praying… and you can call it whatever the fuck you want. You can manifest, you can meditate, it’s all the same shit; the point is I needed something to keep me from fucking losing my mind. When there’s nothing to fear, how can you not spend the whole day in this room thinking about all your mistakes, just everything you should have done differently? And my girlfriend, is she fucking all types of dudes? You try to not think about shit like that. It’s almost making me want to cry, but not in a sad way. You become so used to it. I guess that was something I didn’t understand. I get the concept now of being institutionalized. It goes from scary and weird and foreign to just completely normal. This is just what you do every day. It was really hard for me to say goodbye to everyone. Those were my brothers.
Did I talk about the pigeons? Where my belief in God really solidified? No? Wow, let me smoke these drugs and explain this pigeon thing. There’s a window, but you can’t see shit. Once a week all the trash gets taken out, 5,000 people’s worth of empty ramen things, and it would happen right in front of our building. So they’d bring it all out and the Mongolian guy, Urgy, just loved watching it. I told you he had something with trucks. We would watch trash time and Urgy would be very impressed with how the guy was doing it. I taught him a few words that he would apply to everything, like “short” and “tall.” I was like, I’m tall. You’re short. He was a very short man. So he understood the concept. But then it became this way of like… if you’re a bitch, you’re short. If you lose at a game, you’re short. If you’re cool, you’re tall. He’d be like, “Am I tall? Am I tall?” I’d be like, you’re still fucking short, bro. I don’t care if you beat me at chess 20 times, you’re still fucking short, fuck off. I hope you’re not in a hurry. I’m extremely lonely, so I think I’m going to drag this out for a while. I would also like to acknowledge that I sent you some really cool songs and you never responded at all. I would like you to put that in there, please.
Sorry about that. I’m not good at texting. But what were we talking about?
You want to keep putting me in a box, bro? I’m fucking starting to get claustrophobic in here, there’s boxes all over the place. Fuck! The room’s a fucking box. Holy shit. Everything in here’s a fucking box! The only thing that makes me comfortable is this fan over here, cause it’s round! Ugh. I mean the bed’s not a box, it’s like a rectangle. These sombreros on the wall aren’t boxes. Okay, it’s okay, I’m seeing a lot of things that aren’t boxes. What’s the definition of a box? Alright, maybe this coke’s not so bad.
I don’t know why, but I just don’t ever want to sleep. Like, at all. I really don’t. Hopefully that will result in some decent fucking music at least. I don’t know why. Maybe I do and I just don’t want to talk about it, but for some reason, I don’t want to sleep. Yeah, sorry this is not all “Hahaha, Tony does bumps of cocaine!” Alright New York Times, you want fucking part two? I’m smoking fucking drugs out of tin foil. Is this what you’ve been waiting for? Is this that scene from Gladiator? Are you not entertained? What’s up, people with blue check marks, you think this is the best journalism ever? I’ll fucking spiral out of control in front of your eyes. Pitchfork, come fight me.
Anyways, in prison there’s two breaks where you get your exercise. It’s just a cement room, and you walk in circles. I remember getting really depressed whenever it was sunny, because you can’t see out the windows, they’re so high up, but the old guys would stand with their eyes closed, feeling the sun on them. I just remember looking at them and feeling really sad. My first day on the yard I walk out there and everyone’s like what the fuck, who is this hobbit-ass white guy? There was a sit-up bench, and I was like cool, I can do sit-ups, but not really, because it was run by two dudes. This one dude was a fucking boss, I guess he was a pro boxer, and he was one of the only people that did not seem to like me, until the very end. The other guy didn’t speak English but he called me “Made In USA.” He pointed at me, “Made In USA,” pointed at himself, “Made In Korea.” Made In Korea wanted to talk to me but I was distracting him from his workouts. And the boss just called me “Marijuana.” And this [“come here” gesture] is opposite there. It means go away. I’m like oh, what’s up! He’s like no, stop bothering my friend, he needs to do his fucking sit-ups. Well he didn’t say that, but I got the vibe. When I got cool was like… so Made In Korea was the tallest til I got there, so he was upset when I showed up. He told me. So he and a bunch of dudes would run and then jump and see how high they could hit the wall. So I don’t even run, I just walk up and jump way higher than he did. Then the boss was like, “Oh ho ho!” Then we were cool.
But I didn’t tell you about the pigeons. So I’m reading the Bible nonstop; that’s all I do in this tiny little cell in quarantine, night and day. People can say whatever about this — everything I prayed for, it happened. I prayed that when I got out, my ex would come to America and we would figure something out, and that all happened. But it didn’t work. It all fell apart. Maybe you pray for the wrong shit and God’s like cool, here you go. And now I’m here, and now everyone’s going to call me a fucking youth pastor. So the pigeons, though, was what kind of changed shit for me. I get moved to the cell with the Chinese guys and there’s pigeons — I think we’re on the ninth floor? You’d see them fly past windows and go back down. And I was like, God, it would make me really happy if a pigeon would land in this window right now and just be right here. I stood there for five minutes and no pigeon came. I go to the bathroom and pee and when I come out, there’s a pigeon sitting right there. I walk up and stare at it and it’s looking me in my eyes. That happened for like 10 minutes and then it flew away. Say it’s a coincidence if you want, but I don’t believe in coincidence, first of all. There’s over 5,000 windows in that prison. Why did that pigeon land there at that time? And why wasn’t it scared of me?
I don’t know, it’s important to me. Right now I feel like I’m fucking up, but I don’t feel like I’m fucking up in God’s eyes. I don’t know where I’m going with this, to be honest. I just want my drug dealer to show up so I can stop having anxiety.
Hey, I did an interview one time.
Yeah I know, you did a few.
No, I interviewed someone. Beatking. It was for Passion of the Weiss. They picked me up and we went to some party where I didn’t like anyone and one of them was like, you want to interview Beatking? I was like, really? Okay, dope. Then I sent him a bunch of cracked software afterwards. You were not really interested in talking to me at that time.
Well, you were kind of just some weirdo off Twitter.
I was weird? How was I weird? And then you went to your dad’s house and ate a bunch of painkillers and listened to my album and you tweeted at me about it.
Yeah. Then you sent me these crazy DMs, like, “I’m going to go to Joshua Tree and shoot rattlesnakes on my moped with my cat in the basket.” I was like, okay? You were like, you can come visit me. I’m like, I don’t know…
Then what happened?
I guess we just kept talking. But I remember when you got my phone number. It was my birthday of that particular year. You were like, “I’m on molly and my thumbs are fat so I can’t type, can I call you?” Then you called me and you were like, we should do a podcast. And I was like, I think there’s enough of those.
Wow, I can’t believe you kept talking to me. I don’t know, man. The first interview kinda fucked me up. It brought back a lot of memories. And it’s weird because we talked before that, you know, so I don’t know why that specifically... When we were watching the Bieber video... that was very deep. I need you to understand that all these years, there were so many times I’ve wanted to call you, you don’t even know. Something on TV or whatever, and you were the only person that would understand. I don’t feel bad for breaking up with anybody else. Like, shit happens. But the pain felt wrong. Like, I shouldn’t be feeling pain. I mean, I didn’t pay for shit, I had no money, things weren’t good between us. I felt like I had to do something, just do fucking something.
And I guess I did. I mean, I did. But I see it perfectly — opening up the door to our apartment and walking out. I don’t know how to put it into words. I don’t know. You know, my ex just figured out I had your name tattooed on me, like, a month ago, I don’t know how. I could have just made up some bullshit, but I didn’t lie. She was like, you have to get that covered up, and I was like, no problem.
No problem!?
I was fucking stalling. I would cover that tattoo up for nothing. If I had told her that, she probably would have stabbed me. But no. I mean, I did think about putting “I’m Sorry” underneath it, on some super Drake shit. I just feel like you think I dipped and you just left my mind.
I did think that. Because I would look at your Instagram and it’d be the most annoying fucking DJ shit. “WHOLE SQUAD IN THE BUILDING BANGERS ALL NIGHT” with gun emojis.
I know I never tried to fix our problems. I never tried. That’s what I learned from this past relationship, because I tried. These problems were unfixable, though. But with you I didn’t try. Why? I don’t fucking know. I was a mess.
You know what, put in whatever you want. Yeah, Korea shit, funny shit, but it’s not all like that. It’s fucking real. Should we listen to more songs? I’ve got a bunch of Ritalin. Oh, you’re gonna hate me for this one. Let’s play a song. You’ll hate it.