Duck Dynesty and Hells Angels

Dear Mary,

I discovered email today, which works great when life is in a rush. I had time to sit down and watch the fruhaha over that wild haired bearded Man Phil something from a reality show. I may be an addict and have a serious shit load of problems, but damn.

First off, I must say the dude needs a hair cut and a shave. The old Hells Angels look just does not work for that man. Does he ride a motorcycle? It is rather difficult to fathom his interesting choice of style when all they do is make duck whistles? Seriously I would be worried about what could be living in his beard and hair. He looks kinda like that motorcycle gang we came across in Nevada. Remember? That beat up old hotel, the roads so cracked and broken it felt as though we were on a movie set. They came roaring down the highway, a massive oiled, roaring and dust producing behemoth of men in leather, long hair and bad attitudes. We were young then, did not know any better, or that the bar owner we were to play was part of a sting operation. We were so young, and naive. They didn't like our music, but they sure did like you. I still have the crooked nose to remember that event, and the scar on my left shoulder from some guys knife.

What wild days. I know we sported the complete rock air, wild hair, tight pants and bigger attitudes. I  believe Jerry got tossed out on his ass, followed by our one and only drum set. You were screaming and hollering at them and wielding that mike stand like a weapon. You were a tough cookie, boy your mamma would have been proud of you, how you kicked some serious ass. I couldn't let you do all the hard work though, and I ended up with a broken nose, and a night in jail for our efforts. You were so sweet, mopping up the blood that completely ruined my leather jacket and cursing like a banshee.

His attitude about gay people and vagina's, that sort of blew me away. I know I have spouted off in a drunken mess and called people some serious piss off names, but this guy did it in a pansy mans magazine... I am beginning to wonder if his particular political/religious leanings are just a tool to earn him more money. You know we did the same thing, wrecked a few things, tore up hotel rooms, flipped the police off etc. just to get more attention. We were such attention whores! It worked though, it always worked.

I find it interesting how the public gets so caught up in it, spout off stuff on that Social media and blogs. Blogs, we never had blogs or FB or Twitter! Seriously what happened to the experience of living life on the edge, meeting your favorite rock star in person instead of them Twittering like a bird about their last bowl movement or the vagina's?

The "stars" are becoming slaves to the general populace, vs the other way around. Back then we didn't care if they loved us or hated us, all we cared about was producing music and having a crowd to perform to. We most certainly did not have to post up about stuff.

I don't get it Mary. We were so free back then. Young kids going after a dream, singing our hearts out and dancing on stage every night.  Now we watch reality TV shows, men like this duck guy, and his terrible sense of taste and personally bad attitude about everything pretty much. And people drink it up like they are dying of thirst. As if their very life depended upon whether or not he violated his rights, some one elses rights, made too much money or not enough. Yeah I love money. Money makes the world go around. It certainly gives me more opportunities, but people bashing?It seems there is no freedom in that.

Well I have said more than enough, I guess I just had to get that off my chest. Say hello to the family, I am off to Taiwan for a show. I never thought that Japanese people would love old burnt out rock stars.

Take care

Cry for Help

Dear Mary, 

I'll make it short. Tonight is tough. I always seem to fall apart, just before the finish. I've always failed in that way. Pisses me off, I can barely type this. But I have too, my last shred, hanging by a chain. One I loop for myself. It seems I'm an expert hangman, of my own neck! 

It started out, a ghost swinging from that noose. Woke me straight up, a cold sweat. Crawling like insects, their tiny claws pulling my skin apart. 

I haven't slept really, what's new about that. I know same old story. 

I'm sitting here, a bottle of pills and old scotch. It's screaming my name. I want to take it, feel it penetrate my system, an instant shock, like I slammed my foot down on the Noss! Yeah it's insane it's familiar, how do I say no? Everything becomes so sharp. Hyper aware, screaming senses over loaded. It's like fucking without ever stopping. Pure adrenaline... 

Please tell me something...I can't stop Mary...

Letter 3

Fred  Cook

The Mandarin Hotel

222 Sansome St  

San Francisco, CA 94104

October 31, 2013

Mary Baker

4321 First Street

NY City, New York 10153

Dear Mary,

Happy Halloween. By the time you receive this letter, the day will be long gone. The story of my life. I decided to splurge. A guilty pleasure.

I remember when we were twelve years old. It was Halloween in the Bronx. I am struggling to recall what we dressed up as. I believe you were a fairy princess. Your aunt had sent you a beautiful dress. I think you cut the skirt, and wore combat boots. I joked that princess's did not wear combat boots and you kicked me. Joe was a ninja, all dressed in black. We even painted his face. I think it took days for that to come off. Such crazy kids. I went as a rock star. Hair band and all. Remember that guitar we picked up from the pawn shop? It was my ultimate dream. It even sounded half decent.

My Hero

You fixed my hair. I remember the smell of your skin and the feel of your hands in my hair. By the time we were done the room stank of hairspray. But oh I loved my hair. It was wild, like Bon Jovi; complete with fluorescent tight pants, torn up tank top and my brothers beat up leather jacket.Black converse completed the outfit. What a hoot we were. We had no clue.

I remember we kissed that night. Under the street lamps. The L train went roaring by just as our lips touched. I won't ever forget that night. We were so innocent and young. I look back and wish we could stop that moment. A picture captured on film. You know they don't have film camera's any more. It seems that moments are now just dots on a flash drive. That moment was more than dots. The light played along your face. Such beautiful lips. You tasted as I had dreamt about for so long. Your tiara falling to the side in your golden hair. Torn tights peeking under your cut off ballerina skirt.

I am looking out my window over the skyline of San Francisco. The sounds of traffic is a strange comfort for me. Portland was too quiet. The quiet haunts me. New York was never quiet. Even in those moments of pure bliss, the sounds of life. White noise on the canvas of existence. You felt amazing in my arms. I still remember your lithe and boyish body against mine.

I wonder what my daughter is doing for Halloween. Her mother is the opposite of you. Some day I will tell you how we met. The ultimate party girl. She loved me. I loved the attention. Yes I am admitting things. It actually feels ok for now. So far I have been sober. The pain in my head is insane. I shake terrible and its hard to think. I promised my manager I would straighten up. We will see.

Once again, Happy Halloween.

Always Fred

Letter 2

Fred  Cook

 Hotel Rose

50 SW Morrison St, 

Portland, OR 97204 

October 27, 2013

Mary Baker

4321 First Street

NY City, New York 10153

Dear Mary,

Two days and I am already in another town and state. Not sure about this life in the road. A two-bit ancient Rock star. I am old, the band is old and my audience is old too. I remember the days,  those totally awesome days when we brought down the house. How we played it up for the paparazi. Do you remember that, MTV and Saturday Night Live? We were on such a high back then.

It is raining today. We flew in, took the tram. They have a really nice train. It is clean, I think the first one in a long time that did not reek of urine and two day old vomit. I often wonder how you can stand the subway. The last time we rode that train we were high. High as a kite and laughing the whole way to Central. I think we jumped the turnstile.  It was such an adrenaline rush. Do you remember Robert and Kate? Total drummer/rock couple. Banging out the beat in your dads upstairs apartment. The neighbors hated us, but we didn't care.

I still have not found what I misplaced. I looked in all my luggage. Even tore through my drummers bags. Did you know that suitcases have hidden zipper pockets on the inside? I had not idea. I just throw shit in and call it good. I screamed a lot, my band members avoided me the last day or so. Yelling and cursing used to get people jumping, getting me shit. Now they just walk off. I feel ancient today.

Memory is failing me. I hate that I cannot find that valuable piece. It was, how shall we say beyond price? I wonder if housekeeping took it. I know I laid it down on the dresser and then everything is a real blur.

Today I am sober. Made myself promise after I mailed my last letter. I would stop. You know the hard shit. Cut back on the cigarettes maybe to half a pack a day. They don't let you smoke indoors any more. Completely sucks. I got my ass chewed for lighting up. Some young punk threatened to throw me out.I could be his father.

Remember, we used to light up in the bathroom. You, me, Kate, Robert. Sister Margarete tried to catch us. Ha she never did. Those were the days. So free and young. I look in the mirror and feel sick. My back up singers are my daughters age. I bet Sister Margarete and the other nuns are dead and gone. If they had only seen what we became. Such a brief moment of fame and fortune.

And you. Married and kids. Stable life. I had always imagined you, free and painting some where. It seems strange that everything is so different. My manager calls me nuts behind my back. I can hardly afford to pay him. The club we are performing in tonight, kind of small from what I understand.

I am struggling. I want to get high. Thank you for letting me write to you. My therapist says this will help me. Get my head on straight.

Always Fred.

Letter 1

Fred  Cook

Ritz Carlton

55 Strada Nathan

Henderson, NV 89011

October 25, 2013

Mary Baker

4321 First Street

NY City, New York 10153

Dear Mary,

Not sure but it seems I have lost a most profound piece. I have no idea where I would have laid it. I do remember stumbling back to my room around 2am. A cute or at least she appeared to be cute girl got me back to my room. Can't be sure. You know how I get fucked up. Can't help it. Maybe it's in my genes? Damn curses or my drink was spiked, yeah that's it. A hot bitch wanted my ass. Who am I kidding, lol, my fucking self.

I know I spent the morning over the toilet. Did you know that toilet paper at the Ritze rolls off the from the front? I bet you didn't, I had ample time studying that 2 ply, extra wide, wipe your ass paper for several hours. She hung around, kept wiping my mouth.

I can hear you now, did she steal shit. I haven't bothered to look yet. I honestly don't care, I'm sure my handler compensated her well.

Her eyes. I remember they were so brown. Remember the mud puddles we played in as kids? They were that brown with hits of green and gold. Her arms were so strong. I know I am a guy. What do I know about feminine strength? God my head hurts. I should be embarrassed, that seems to have disappeared as my brain cells.

The concert went great as far as I know. We rocked it, took the ceiling down. It's sort of a blur. I know I sang, as my throat hurts. That could be the hangover though. It hurts worse today though. Not sure why, I have to check with my doc later. Polyps are the death of a great voice. I can't afford it, surgery that is. My money is gone and people keep hanging around hoping I will magically make green shit appear, like I can make a rabbit hop from my baseball cap. Remember when, you were so young and alive. That mitt was ancient, and we laughed at you. Dumb ass kids. I can see your hair, falling out, a river of gold from your dad's hat. You were vicious over it. You punched me and kicked me in the balls when I knocked it off your head, lol I was such a dumb ass! You kicked my ass that day. I was such a sore loser. So full of shit. I can't forget you Mary I really can’t

Sincerely yours,

Fred