Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter One: The Journey Home

May, 1996.

It had been a long several months out on the road with Snakepit, but now I was headed home. Finally, finally headed home on a beautiful, scorching, California mid-May day.

The past months had been lengthy and hot, full of screaming audiences, buses, and new and old friends and venues. There was always something going on, always something to do, always something memorable happening. And come to think of it, it had been an eventful past two years, too.

I wandered through LAX, signing autographs and schmoozing with fans, scribbling my name on any and all objects people could get their hands on: ticket stubs, pamphlets, flyers, even napkins, tits, and dollar bills, answering the same questions I'd answered around the world a million times before, smiling as people snapped photos, and attempting to be the best people-person I could be, though there was only one person on my mind as a group of very attractive chicks invited me for an extremely open invitation to the airport bar and bathroom.

I turned them down, as I did with everyone who wanted to sycophantically bask in my company, mooch off me, or fuck me. Tenderly talking my way out of unwanted situations was a survival skill I'd had to learn many years ago, now merely second nature.

Once free of the rabid throng of giggling giddies, both men and women alike, so starstruck though they had no need to be, it was through the massive glass doors to a line of taxis where I threw my luggage in the trunk of the nearest one, slid in the backseat and told the driver where I needed to go: Home, goddamn it! I had some love to make!

It's amazing how much can change in two years, and the biggest change in my life was the one constant, the one who was always there: Duff.

I'll never forget coming downstairs one morning the sound of Duff's amused, puzzled voice chatting with Matt Sorum on the phone, "They said what? I did what to my face? Uh, no, I did not! That's just my face, man. That's fucked up!"

Duff hadn't made many public appearances at that point, but the opening of the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino in Vegas certainly made an impression on a lot of folks. 

The booze weight was long since gone, leaving in its place a physique longer and leaner than it had been in its twenties. Duff's face was thinner, more angular now, and to those who didn't know him well his gaze seemed to be more steely, grim and serious, but that wasn't the truth. Duff was still pretty much the same guy, goofy, humorous, and lighthearted--he just didn't have the cushioned delirium of alcohol to soften him all around. Plus his new, toned, muscular body tended to intimidate people more than his previous openly-cuddly teddy bear persona.

"That doesn't look like him... He was all bloated and fucked up. Must've had plastic surgery!" I'd heard whispered during one of his first appearances with The Neurotic Outsiders, a gig from which I'd watched on the sidelines, staying nearby for reassurance as he was still fighting very real, very overwhelming stage fright without the handy tool of cranvodka to aid him.

I hated to burst this dude's bubble (or loved it in this case, actually), but no. I had the distinct pleasure of telling a few select people that day that that was indeed Duff's normal, natural face and there was absolutely nothing done to it.