Out Of The Cellar

Stephen Pearcy followed me home from the bar the other night. Don’t ask me why. I never got a chance to find out. All I know is that I was loitering in the Rainbow Room parking lot, pounding tall boys with Reb Beach and C.J. Snare when Jizzy Pearl and Joe LeSté come running over and say that Pearcy’s on his way, and he’s on the rampage. Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean. Next thing I know, Jizzy’s laid out on the asphalt and Pearcy’s standing over him all, “Fuck you, you fuckin’ cock knocker. That’s for 2000 to 2006.” His eyeliner’s all smudged and shit like he’s been crying. Then he swills the ass end off of C.J.’s tall boy and storms off in a huff.

Like I said, don’t ask me. Makes no sense. But if you did ask me, I’d say it had to be something personal. I mean, these guys don’t really hate each other ’cause they’ve all played in each other’s bands, right? Like, “I’m jealous ’cause Warren DeMartini did your dishes for six years instead of mine?” Can’t be. But no big deal, you know, ’cause C.J.’s totally a lawyer or a yoga instructor or whatever now and Reb is in Whitesnake so we’ve absolutely got it covered.

Long story short, I see Pearcy again about an hour later in the upstairs bar and he’s giving me the hairy eyeball like I just shot his dog or something. He’s got some fruity fuckin’ pink cocktail in one hand and half a mozzarella stick in the other, and he’s just sitting there with some skank who probably has like three grandkids at home. Just mad-doggin’ me hardcore, dude. I’m about to roll over there all, “Look, bro—I’m tryin’ really hard not to make a gay AIDS joke here, but when I get through with you, you’re gonna be thinkin’ your boy Robbin took the easy way out.” I mean, the nerve of this fuckin’ mope, am I right?

But then, and I swear to Christ this actually happened, he jams the half a mozzarella stick down the front of his pants, pulls his dick out, and pisses neon green all over the floor. Then he skulls his drink and cruises downstairs so fast that the security dudes don’t even know what to do with themselves.

Here’s the clincher, though: As I’m hoofing it back to the whip with whatsherface from Ass Invaders 9, I catch a glimpse of him peeking out from behind a Dumpster. So I immediately start yelling at him, right? “I see you, you motherfucker! I see you!” At this point he’s not budging, I mean like not even fuckin’ flinching, so I move on him, just howling my fuckin’ face off. By now I’m making a total fuckin’ scene, and whatsherface just hubcabs without a word. I’m within like six feet of the Dumpster now, and then poof—gone. Pearcy is nowhere to be found.

So now I’m totally freaked out, right? I get in the whip and my head is just spinning. I peel off down the Strip, hit the 101 and all I can think about is this motherfucker, just looking at me like … and here’s where I kinda realize why I’m so fuckin’ upset, but it was like he was looking into my soul. And that’s a weird feeling, dude. Trust me.

Anyway, I get back to the pad, and you’re not gonna fuckin’ believe this shit, but Pearcy is there. Sitting on my front steps in Canoga fuckin’ Park. Don’t ask me how he got there—I don’t even have a fuckin’ fraction of a guess on that one. But I do know that the only other car on the street is Old Man MacAvoy’s crusty brown beater. By now, you know, I’m not even aggro about it anymore. I just wanna know what’s up, ’cause the shit is just too weird, right? And look, I’ll admit it, dude. I’m a little nervous. I mean, how the shit did he beat me home? So he stands up, he’s looking straight at me, and he goes, “What would you know about it anyway, asshole?” And then he was gone, dude. Thin air, just like that.

So, I guess what I’m asking you is: Should I be worried?

This bullshit originally appeared in the April 2010 issue of Decibel magazine.