by Corey Taylor
Anyway, it was a long time ago, but not so long, you know what I am saying? The rust does not buff out. Use all the Armor All you would like—you are who you are. Growing up in garbage is a lot like being a wise guy; you are in until the day you die. It will be with you for the rest of your life and the people you try to escape from will haunt you like Ebenezer Scrooge’s ghosts on Christmas Eve. It is just like family: You choose your friends, but not your family. If they are south of outstanding, they will circle you like dead moons and pull you down into terminal gravity and tribulation. I do not say this with any malice. It is a fucking fact and it sucks, but survivors survive. You will always have one eye on the road and one on the rearview mirror.
As I am writing this, I am remembering more than I would like. My life has not been pretty. But I have not had it as bad as a lot of people have. And I am who I am today because of the positions I have been put in and the decisions I have made. If that means I am guilty forever, then so be it. But I am made to make: do not expect me to give a shit if it means I go against somebody else’s book. Life is not that simple. That is why it is called life. That word includes both lie and if. Time to figure out which side of the “half” fence you are on: Does your life include a lie or just one big if? There is nothing wrong with either to be honest, but it will make your Sundays longer.
Here is a hot little piece of irrelevance that might interest you. Heat up some Pepsi and pull up a pillow, kids, Uncle Corey is going to scare the fuck out of you.
I was born December 8, 1973. At first glance, that does not seem all that interesting. But factor this in: Jim Morrison was born December 8, 1943, and died young. Sam Kinison was born December 8, 1953, and died young. Frank Sinatra Jr. was kidnapped on December 8, 1963. John Lennon was shot and killed on December 8, 1980. The night of December 8, 1984, was the night of the infamous Vince Neil car crash, in which Razzle, the drummer for Hanoi Rocks, was killed. I thought I was cursed.
So for the longest time, I was convinced I would be dead by the age of twenty-one. I had dreams about it all the time. I could never see a future past the flames of youth. Yeah, it sounds like bullshit, but at the time it was just what I knew. Now I am wondering if it was just the effects of too many years living in fuckland. I had to escape the pain of living to see what actual living was all about. So maybe I just thought I only had so much time to live and enjoy it. Man, was I stupid. You can only blame the ignorance of youth on being young because anyone old enough would know better, or at least have a fucking clue that something did not make sense.
My friend “Dimebag” Darrell Abbot was murdered on my birthday: December 8, 2004. I miss him a lot, especially with all the crap in music today. But I do not blame his death on some curse. I blame his death on the insane violence of a deranged human being. I blame his death on a random act, a selfish act that unfortunately left us with one less icon in a world short on originals. I remember that night, but most importantly, I remember the times I got to spend with my friend Dime.
So I learned to let go of youthful superstition and take life as it comes.
I am thirty-seven years old now and I am not so sure I know anything more than I knew yesterday, but I do know this: Life is better lived when you do not buy into what you think you know. It is better to know your way downhill than to try rolling up a mountain you have never seen before. Too many times I have dealt with mysteries beyond my control, and I have watched “geniuses” take a shot at figuring it out. Sometimes it is better to learn right along with everyone else than to assume you know shit about shit. A novice can rule the world; experts will get you killed every time. So what do I know? Not much, but more than most maybe. But at least I admit it. I have my share of answers, but I am still willing to learn. You can take a shower and still leave stains in your drawers. You can know a lot and still not know shit.
Why the fuck did I put this chapter in this book? Is it because of my sins, or other people’s sins? Is it because of the monsters in my closet or the ones people have left in my house? I guess I want to tell everyone out there, all over the world, that no matter where you come from, it does not have to be who you are. It does not have to rule you. Your problems do not have to be someone else’s problems. Humans are going to be who they are going to be and there is nothing you can do about it at the end of the day, but you can rise above all of it. You do not have to be a prisoner. You can be your own fucking hero. Am I ashamed of what I have done? Sometimes. Do I regret any of it? Depends. Would I do it all over again? Yes. I am not in Star Trek: I do not fuck with the space-time continuum, and I would not change who I am.
I think my trip down Nightmare Lane is just about over. Good riddance to mental clutter. I have talked about family and all the hell that follows with them. I have talked about life and all the hail and bullets that it brings to the poker table. I have talked about the consequence of regret and the little pings and pangs of glee that come from watching your enemies squirm around in their later, disposable lives. And I have not even come close to scratching the surface. There are still things I intend to keep a little closer to the chest because as bad as it is, I still feel the need to protect my family. There were laws broken. There was evidence burned, and there are nightmares, always the damn nightmares. But I wrote this chapter to prove a point, not to twist the rest of the book into some kind of ostentatious “check me out” autobiography. I am not writing my douche diary; I am expounding about sin and the shit it rode in on.
You want to know who you are? Figure it out for yourself. Do not let your surroundings dictate your identity. Do not let your parents or your families rule your sense of self. Do not let your past control your future. These things are entirely up to you and you alone. You make your own decisions. Strength will guide you. Weakness will allow you to hide behind shallow excuses. Sure, having a terrible childhood can be an easy way out of having to make good decisions. But there are also people in this world who grew up with so-called “normal” lives, and there are quite a few of them who are total dick stains. If you take shelter behind examples of why you do not have to assume responsibility for your actions, you will build a house in the darkness: alone, afraid, and prone to terrific flares of violent selfishness. That neighborhood will always be the backdrop for a myriad of terribly fantastic tragedies. Do yourself a favor and move out of your head.
In other words, if you want to be a son of a bitch, do not punk out and hide behind hang-ups. Just be a son of a bitch. In fact be the best son of a bitch you can be. Why not? At least you can be content and happy being shitty and miserable. Is that not what being human is all about? Is that not what living is all about? It must be, because apparently living outside the lines in contentment and fulfillment is a fucking sin. How fucking dare they? How dare they take a handful of completely natural impulses and make them fucking sins? Why? Are they themselves guilty of the sin of envy because we are guilty of being alive?
I will tell you one thing, if being a slave that haunted the city of Waterloo has taught me anything, it is this: The life you save may be your own, but the lives you fight for may save you in return. I would rather “waste” my time pointing out hypocrisies than give up on making people think. Sure, it looks easy and I look really good doing it, but it is tiring work that can only be achieved by imbibing gallons of black coffee, hundreds of cigarettes end over end, sugar, fat, and hours of terrible television. I do this for you—so suck it.
In the end I was an orphan with a huge family. I have been to war with myself and destroyed the other side, which leaves me wondering who really won those battles. I am a little bit of both and none of the above, an enigma who grew a mohawk into a mullet and back again, living to brag about both. The days and nights of posing caught a taxi with capricious youth but left their wallet at the club. I was one of many poster children who never cared less...until we realized they were our lives, too. Moonshine, smugness, and durability—this is the generation that that was angry enough to make a scene in the parking lot as w
ell as the food court, but acerbic enough to smirk for their mug shots.
To romanticize my time in Waterloo would be to cheapen the shit I went through, but I am only who I am because of those experiences. The dichotomy of this really fucks with my head. I never want to go back there, but I remember every place I ever hung out there, every friend I ever had there, every trail, every house I ever lived in, every school I went to, every bus route, every girlfriend, every weekend blasted, every grade wasted, and every single minute I was there because at least I was alive. I may have been ravaged and I may still be fucked up about it, but I was alive. And when you can still recall every heartbeat, there has to be some good in that time—there has to be.
Where the wheels break spokes, the road is always a little ragged. That road only leads to heartache. Take an exit before you hit rock bottom. Find a nice place to pull off and get your shit together. Then, once you are back in the car, put on some music and keep driving. If you are lucky, you will leave that repressive place in your rearview mirror.
So my “sins” were born in a town with no more people than the biggest city in Rhode Island, and my soul saw the repercussions. But my iron remains forged in stronger stuff evidently, with a little ore here and there still unrefined. That is okay by me; the wonder is the wandering. I just wish my world were not so sad sometimes. But as sad as I get, as bundled into madness as I find myself at times, all I have to do is take a deep breath and remember that I am miles away from certain places. My depressing geographical map is still miles off, my GPS shows no blind spots, and I am still not back in Waterloo, Iowa, in 1984. My place is here, with my family, with my dreams, and with my sanity. Let the rest of the world go for all I care. I am going to be okay.
Sounds good. In fact, it sounds great.
Now, where was I?
chapter 7
I’m with Envy
“What the hell does that guy have? I have to have it!!”
“Ooh!! What the fuck is that? I have to have that!!!”
Envy: How much easier does it get, man?
Next to vanity, envy is probably the most basic sin on Mr. Blackwell’s list. It is the critter in the crevices, the one just out of reach. It is the itch that scratches back. Come on, hands up, you know who you are—we are all envious. It is just really fucking easy to be envious of anything and anyone. It makes us angry, covetous, it can even turn us on, for what is lust but being envious and wanting someone’s sex all over us. So if greed is the main ingredient in our sinful pie, envy is the secret spice that really pulls it all together. Along with the rest of our Deadly Seven, it has been around for a really long time. One of the Ten Commandments says “thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife.” Apparently Ezekiel’s wife was looking more like Rachel Hunter than Estelle Getty. So envy is nothing new. It is also nothing deadly.
Wanting something better—well, hell, that is the American Way, right? Envy puts hollow points in raw pulpy hope and leaves you armed with a life gun you can use to blow big holes in listlessness. And why not? If dreams are to be believed in this country, they are community property, a visceral birthright they hand out in the hospital with red, white, and blue pacifiers. All we need is a little raising so we know what to do with all that shiny freedom! Part of that rearing process is a healthy dose of envy. I do not know about you, but there’s so much stuff I want and most of it resembles shit that someone already has. So why should I not want what someone else has? Just because it belongs to them, it does not mean more aren’t being made in various sizes. Even if it is one of a kind, there is always some shithouse shack somewhere selling losers like me knockoff replicas that smell like cornmeal and melt in the rain.
Commercials are romantic comedies designed to make the consumer envious of the people and the product—the prettier the person, the more you really need those pants. Billboards look like subliminal messages, your own personal covetous strobe light if you drive fast like me, and their sole purpose is to dose you with fleeting glimpses of shit you do not have or have not seen. So you find yourself wanting shit you never knew you wanted. You become a Manchurian Candidate at Macy’s, ready to walk away with the hand soap and the lotion. We are bombarded with things to covet at morning, noon, and midnight madness sales until it becomes commonplace. But that is my point: I do not believe envy is all that bad, and in this country or any other, how can you not feel envious? We are all made to feel inadequate and wanton from invisible promises in dark shadows; back-alley bliss can be yours if the avarice is right. We are outsmarted and outflanked by thoughts that are not even ours, and these motherfuckers expect us to be virtuous? Holy hog fucker, how do you say “eat my creamy asshole” in Latin?
Envy has its ugly mornings, but it can lead to ridiculous quirks as well. For instance, I have a weird fascination about what people keep in their refrigerators, especially in California. I do not know why. I will be at someone’s house and I will find myself in the kitchen. Next thing you know the fridge door is wide open and I am bent over with my face buried deep inside its contents. Get your head out of the gutter—we already covered lust, you perverts. I have no clue what it is, but I am just curious to see what is in there. What is it about the way people group their produce or stack their lunchmeat or organize their beverages? I touch stuff, pick something up and put it back. I also smell everything. To me, a loaded fridge in the eight-one-eight is like a video game: I will jump right in and play whether I know what the plot is or not.
Then there are the people with lavish homes and expensive cars who like nothing in their iceboxes. These people are so wealthy that they eat out exclusively. So they deck out their rig with a few key items: mustard, half-jar of pickles, empty paper wrapper, stick of butter, and a box of Arm & Hammer baking soda in case both things go bad. What the hell? You almost have to try to be this eclectic. Poor people and college kids have this kind of shit in their fridges, not rich folk. I think it is a subliminal tactic to make people think they are less well off than they really are. By keeping a broke-ass refrigerator, you are hoping people will feel sorry for you. That is all well and good, but you cannot pull it off in Beverly Hills.
I am quite frankly one of the most envious people on the grounds right now. If envy really makes you green, I would be the Incredible Hulk ripping through Manhattan. I am competitive, brazen, pissed off, and scrambling for all I can get. So in my eyes, envy is not a sin because it is the gust of wind in my sails. I get three times as much done because I want to have everything available. Greed and envy are doing a little hoedown in my shit shack, and I am the auctioneer calling out moves and getting it done. But even I have limits when it comes to checking things off of the Craig’s List in my soul. These days, people treat kudos and appreciation like fact and recitation. In a world so two-faced that it talks out of both sides of its mouth, awards and accolades have become a queer sort of compensation, and I for one am here to say it is bullshit.
Grammies, Emmys, Oscars, AMAs, Tonys, ESPYs—you know, people used to be able to feel good about stuff like this. But in the last few years, corruption has eroded the confidence of even the most ardent believers. People ask me all the time what it feels like to win a Grammy. I tell them I could not care less. Why should I give a shit about the Grammy awards? All you need to know about this farce you can find out by looking at the categories. There are shit tons of awards for pop, hip hop, country, and even Christian contemporary. Most times, some categories allow for genres to overlap. There are even several technical categories, and deservedly so. A lot of times the people in this industry forget who does the grunt work, so good for them. However. . .
There is one metal category. One. Metal. Category.
Winning the metal Grammy tends to make you feel like a healthy leper. Sure, you feel great for a second, but you are still fucked at the end of the day. One can make the argument that because there is only one metal award, by winning you are elite and even more special than all the rest. Then why even have as many categories as they do? The
whole point is to feel special, to feel like you have accomplished something no one could in that moment. These days, the latest flash-in-the-pan wannabe, untalented hack stain will walk away with an armful of these glorified doorstops to the tune of praises sung by fake flattery. In an era when the very words we use are accused of being lies, what does that say about an award show aligned against half the competition? Besides, I do not put a lot of stock in awards. I put my stock in the commodity that keeps you where you are and blesses you with opportunities to practice what you preach. I put my stock in the fans because they are putting their faith in me. No other reciprocation could sound or taste as sweet.
Like lust, envy can get on top of you quick. All it takes is a glimpse or a passing fancy and you will be gripped by it. It will spoil your milk and sour your grapes. It will keep you on your side of the bed. You will chew the insides of your mouth at dinner. You will be a walking distraction in your own life. But when you can turn that envy into attainment, what could be a better feeling? I am not writing a prescription for instant gratification. The doctor knows better. What I am saying is that every once in a while a dream should come true. I am saying that envy is an effect and you can fill in the blank on the cause. We all fight for our tiny bit of the Boston Cream every second of every day. Why should we be denied little things when they could get us a long way? I think the time of feeling bad about the things we want should have come to an end a long time ago. We are evolving into fortune cookies, twisted and sweet, but the only message inside is guilt. Why even crack the seal on the plastic, man? What is the point of eating when all you get is force-fed a betting line of heartburn and heartache?