The Litter Box

THE EVIDENCE WAS all in, and the wheels of justice turned without so much as a squeak. The judge – a balding, angry individual who looked as if he might leap from his seat to apply his own brand of comeuppance on the noggin of the guilty – cleared his throat and delivered the news.

I was to be let go on my own recognizance, as, up till the previous evening, I would have been viewed as nothing short of a model citizen. The only negatives on my permanent record, assuming there is one: a brief dustup with Norman Heusser in sixth-grade gym class and a speeding ticket awarded by a New Hampshire state police officer who, to be honest, was completely overzealous and lacked any trace of compassion. At the time I was driving a van full of developmentally disabled adults, at least three of whom had recently emptied their bowels into their Attends. But I digress.

I was about to be released, with a big hooray for the District Attorney's Office for being able to settle things so reasonably and justly, when the judge suddenly turned his eyes to my cohort Foley and proceeded to shoot him one of the dirtiest looks ever seen in the history of the Middlesex County court system. Before you could say "Perry Mason," old Foley was on his way back to the clink. Five years' worth of ignored and unpaid parking violations and a previous DUI apparently torpedoed any chance of freedom for him. It was the beginning of the end.

The whole affair was most unfortunate, and in retrospect, I freely admit that our plan might have been doomed from the start. To begin with, no one really needs to have a life-size plastic cow. Exactly how we came to believe we could actually get one from the Hilltop Steak House into the back of a '90 Honda CRX and then transport it 53 miles down a major artery at three in the morning without being noticed by someone, I'm not certain. It most likely had something to do with the reality-altering effects of eating acid.

Now let me clarify that I am neither a habitual LSD user (though I can understand why one might want to be) nor the type of person who generally loses touch with reality while under the influence. Oh sure, I'll watch my face melt in the mirror or maybe reflect on the sorry state of Mother Earth, or some similar dopey-type activity, but these pursuits are always short-lived and harmless. I've never mistaken myself for an orange and begun peeling or decided the feds were living in my kitchen radiator and insisting I go on a shooting rampage. I just liked sitting around on my ass, enjoying an occasional mental weeding with Drakes Devil Dogs, Russ Meyer films, and music. Mostly music.

And so it was on what is now referred to back east as either "The Night of the Cow" or "The Time before the Time Foley Went up the River for a Stretch." We sat around listening to the usual things: mix tapes of stuff like the Three O'Clock and Dukes of Stratosphear, the entire Hopelessly Obscure EP with the groove cut in the end of it so it would never stop playing, and a beat copy of the Chocolate Watchband's greatest "hits." This time out, however, Foley bought along a new disc by an L.A. band called the Warlocks.

We'd been hearing the rumblings from the underground on these guys for some time. Things like onstage O.D.s, the singer signing his name in blood on the contract with Bomp! Records, shows that ranged from sublime to horrific, and a steady succession of band members. With song titles like "Jam of the Zombies" and "Angry Demons," we were naturally intrigued, so we played the self-titled 2000 EP never realizing the disaster we were about to invite into our lives.

You see, at the time we didn't understand that the Warlocks' brand of psychedelia was born of rampant heroin use and not fit for the likes of part-time brain flushers like ourselves. I believe it was the neurochemical equivalent of mixing bleach and ammonia, locking all the windows, and scrubbing the floor. It's only a matter of time before really bad things begin to happen. One minute you're chatting about how stale Devil Dogs are actually tastier than fresh ones, and the next you're bent over a squad car with your wrists shackled, giggling and humming the theme to Dragnet.

These days I'm pretty much sticking to drinking beer and trying to get myself into other things, like indie rock, which is pretty challenging in itself. Foley is out on work release and from all reports is doing much better, though I think he has trouble keeping focus mentally for anything longer than, like, 30 seconds. He also burned that Warlocks disc in a desperate attempt to lift the black cloud that's enveloped his life. What can I say? The disc and the damage done, I guess.

As for me, all I know is I'm never going within five blocks of a Warlocks gig, ever. Some things are just too powerful to fuck with.

Warlocks play with the Raveonettes and Singapore Sling Mon/21, 8 p.m., Slim's, 333 11th St., S.F. $14. (415) 255-0333.

John O'Neill works at Thee Parkside when he isn't avoiding certain psychedelic bands; e-mail him at: