Flea

But if punk rock means never having to say you’re sorry, in the long run that makes me no punk rocker.

The greatest fault of humankind belongs to those who think their view of what’s real is the only truth.

racism is better in the open, preferable to hiding poison in the sugar, my Funkadelic friend Michael CLIP Payne once told me, his wisdom penetrating my bubble of white privilege), you feel it all there, all born of the stunningly hypnotic land itself, which pulls no punches.

Deliriously past my bedtime, this monstrous never-ending arena full of besuited voyagers clinking their cocktail glasses to the sound of Stan Getz blowing “The Girl from Ipanema” stunned me, stopping me in my tracks. Standing there with my broken arm like I was floating away into space.

Scared the holy fuck outta me. I was sitting next to an elderly and portly woman who wore a crazy curly wig and a big fur coat. At a certain point, during a peak moment of terror, the woman took her coat and placed it over my head, shielding me from the film. I was happy to hide under the coat for a minute, until I squirmed free and she gave me a matronly smile. Years later when I told this story to my best friend Anthony Kiedis, he said the exact same thing happened to him at the same theater! This woman on a mission went and sat next to kids to save their souls from the horrors of Satan.

When the Stones’ “Sympathy for the Devil” came on the radio, Walter asked if I could guess who they were singing about. I couldn’t figure it out, then he told me “The Devil HAHAHAHA!”

Our lives were flipped upside down and we were expected to carry on like nothing had happened. Jesus, we’d just gone from living with a conservative Australian father in a big nice house full of rules, regulations, and schedules, to living with a beatnik tripper in his parents’ basement! No talk of our fears or feelings.

I’d soon learn he was a drug addict and a drunk who’d never have it together enough to live his dreams, build his bridges, or connect his dots. He was not steady enough to be there for himself or anyone else in a consistent way, and he was violently unpredictable. But he showed me what it was to turn pain into beauty.

When I spoke to him it felt like my words had a home.

I still felt love and empathy for him, but the love took a different shape and I began developing deep mistrust and resentment for both him and Mom.