Where do rock stars go when they lose their popularity? Free book promo coming May 23-May 27

excerpt from 

My Megalomania At Midnight (A Mississippi Tall Tell of Rock N Roll Fantasies, Heart Breaks, and Disasters During Hurricane Katrina) link to 

INSIDE:

It’s like a hall of fame, of “has been’s” and “never was’s.” From the looks of this place; it looks like it used to be classy. Like, one of those grand pent house types of class; with fake plants that look real and inside water fountains. Even has numerous upright grand pianos along with other musical equipment.

             

But now, it smelled of pop icon pestilence: week old pepperoni, hot beer, smell of ass and stale weed. Jeeze, I could go on and on.

These “has beens” and “never was’s” are living like wild animals. Activities engaged for them are orgies, rap freestyle contests, and acoustic live sets. Indeed, this is where we go when the cliché goes hack. Yep, all of their lives seem to be summed up by the phrases of songs ripping off of nursery rhyme type of bubble gum stuck to a shoe content clumped by a sample of Richard Pryor, James Brown, Curtis Mayfield, or Parliament. I think you get the picture.

What was I to do in this modern day Dante’s Inferno, but write. I wrote it all on the back of a pizza box; until I was interrupted by a cat that looks like the comedian Carrot Top in another twenty years and over the hill. His hair appears to be at least a foot off of his scalp. Didn’t know white folk could have afros like this. He has on stars and stripes bicycle pants and a skeleton glow in the dark t-shirt.

           

“C-mon, I know a way.”

“What?”

“As sure as you look like the Lizard King, I know a way.”

Didn’t know what he was talking about. But what adventure could be worse then the one I was already on, Right? I follow the afroed whitey into a small dimension music room. Church house pews were being used as seats. There were two very large white sheets on the back wall and on it play pornographic head scenes in sinister harmony with death metal music.

“She’s on her way here!”

“What?!”

           

With that he takes a remote control out from underneath his bicycle shorts, points it at the screen and the scene shifts to the local news in my home town of the Mississippi

Gulf Coast.

The news caster: “FBI investigators of the infamous Harvest Moon Cult suicides

are being deterred of their efforts as Hurricane Katrina approaches. She is on straight track to hit the coast between 5 and 8 am.”  From 2to1 Link to book https://www.amazon.com/2-1-honea-byrne-ebook/dp/B009PYTAOO

 He mutes the TV. “yep she’s on her way.”

 “Who?”

 “My love, Katrina.”

 “What?”

                                                                        he disappears for a brief moment. Leaving me all alone as the news now shows the destruction Katrina caused in Florida.

He returns with a full fifth of Black Velvet rock gut whiskey. For if you ain’t got a rock hard gut it will corrode your insides. He also has a grocery bag filled with something I couldn’t see. His eyes get big with shock. Yea, like he’s never seen me before and I’ve trespassed in his domain. Or could it be because he is shocked that I am still here.

           

“I know a way. I know a way.”

“Right.” I let out a sigh as I sit down in the pew closest to the screen.

“What’s your story?” I ask him.

“My name is John and I used to be such a great fictionalist.” He shakes loose a non filtered camel cigarette.

“John, you mind if I have one.”

“Naw.” He generously hands me one and sits down. There’s about a foot between us. He sets the cigs down. Breaks the seal of the Black Velvet and gulps down some huge gulps.

“Agh. Want any?” he asks very reluctantly.

 “Nah.”

“Good, more for me. Burp!” immediately I smell the alcoholic fumes with sour undigested food. Like a turkey sandwich or some shit.

John glances at the screen. Starts sobbing at the site of the hurricane coming. Can you at least change the screen? Geeze, what a fucking loser. Finally he slows down on his sobbing to a comprehensible whine.

“Sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”

“Honea. Hone rhymes with phone and nee like knee cap. Together it’s Honea.”

“Used to be such a good life. Ran away from my parents. But they always gave me what I wanted. They’d send me money whenever I called. Enabled me so so well. Thought I’d be a famous rapper. So I went out into the ‘HOOD’ searching for some ghetto warriors that could grant me fame. Wanted to be the part of something so much. Ran into the dealers and pushers. Damn good time.” He takes a slow sip from his Black Velvet. He continues. “While I was on this hash high trip I ran into this chick named Katrina.” Geezus’ Chrise’ blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…Love Stinks. Yea. Loves a bitch and all other relevant pop clichés that would concur. All along the while, John’s chain smoking and guzzling down the fifth. Is this what happens to bright eyed delusional artist?

“Katrina told me that everything I did was so great. She was my muse.” He follows with slyly juggling the remote around his right hand, like he was Jesse James or some shit. Presses the button like he’s squeezing the trigger. And with that the head shot porno scenes return with heavy metal and banshee’ like vocals. John’s getting very excitable, raising his voice.

“YEA ME AND HER WERE LIKE BONNY AND CLYDE. FOUND ME SOME HARD CORE HOOD RATS. FORMED MY OWN RAP GROUP…

WE COME, WE GUN REAL WITH THIS BETTER DEAL WITH THIS YOU ON THE HITLIST BITCH. Yea, we were all groovy until one day they stole all the SHIT IN OUR HOUSE. THEN WE, WELL, I DECIDED TO GO DOWN TO VOODOO LAND-NEW ORLEANS-and I just knew, just knew I could be a star down there.” His story went on and on. Fifteen cigarettes later, and five heavy metal songs in harmony with countless head shots, John has finished most of his rock gut whiskey while going on his emotional roller coaster.  It was a roller coaster that would frighten me most of the time under normal circumstances. You’ve probly’ seen this type, he’s the guy who likes to physically demonstrate how he took out an adversary during a scuffle. For example, he’ll put you in a headlock, picks you up by a bear hug. A couple times this fool appeared to be humping the pew while he was demonstrating. He didn’t even get the slightest bit of inspiration from me either. Every few seconds, I’m able to muster an “Uh huh.”

He and some psycho drug hippy chick mad some type of pact on the river banks of New Orleans. It was something to the effect that if he ever left or was unfaithful, she would really get his ass. He really got strung out on heroin. and got cut off from Mom and Dad. He was then homeless until Veronica came around and saved him. She made him into her personal assistant. An one day after begging and begging her to give him a break, she did and he flopped miserably. But in waiting for the success, in a week’s time, he ran her twenty grand in dept. So she brought him here.

Now he’s swearing that if he could just see his ex-Katrina, he could stop the hurricane and regain some of his fictional aspirations again.

           

“My brother, my brothu’. BURP! I’se luvz’ ya’ mane.” He reaches over to hug me but falls on the dusty floor.

I’m beginning to feel like the strewn butts of cigs on the floor: Dried up and burnt out when V-Chip enters the room.