Crazy Enough Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  CRAZY ENOUGH

  “Like some twisted love child of Mae West and Keith Richards, Storm Large is a force of nature. Her ballsy, heartbreaking, hysterical tour de force of a memoir is not to be missed. Crazy Enough is vulgar and fragile, tragic and empowering, and like Storm, it is always entertaining.”

  —Chelsea Cain, New York Times bestselling author of Heartsick and The Night Season

  “Storm Large has written a bodacious book. Buy it, now!”

  —GUS VAN SANT

  “Storm Large is an irresistibly rambunctious force of nature. Crazy Enough is shattering, gorgeous, and uproarious fun.”

  —KATHERINE DUNN, author of Geek Love

  “It’s too bad that readers can’t have her actually in their lives and feel the true force of Storm, but her book is so true to who she is that it is still a powerful, funny, and outrageous experience. Plus, you won’t have to deal with all of those strange sounds and dirty sheets.”

  —DAN STERN, actor, director, writer

  “Storm Large performs with world-class symphonies and hardcore rock bands, and she’s written a book worthy of both audiences. If good writing is about taking chances and pushing readers to the edge, then this is a chart buster, as she takes us on a wild and sometimes painful ride into her world of crazy.”

  —LARRY COLTON, author of Goat Brothers, Counting Coup, and No Ordinary Joes

  YES, STORM LARGE IS HER REAL NAME, though she’s been called many things. As a per former, the majority of descriptions have led with “Amazon,” “Powerhouse,” “a six-foot Vargas pinup come to life.” Playboy called her a “punk goddess.” You’d never know she used to be called “Little S”—the mini-me to her beautiful and troubled mother, Suzi.

  Storm spent most of her childhood visiting her mother in mental institutions and psych wards. Suzi’s diagnosis changed with almost every doctor visit, ranging from schizophrenia to bipolar disorder to multiple personality disorder to depression. As hard as it was not having her at home, Storm and her brothers knew that it was a lot safer to have their beautiful but unreliable mom in a facility somewhere. Then one day, nine-year-old Storm jokingly asked one of her mother’s doctors, “I’m not going to be crazy like that, right?” To which he replied, “Well, yes. It’s hereditary. You absolutely will end up like your mother. But not until your twenties.”

  That was the starting gun for a wild race to escape what Storm believed to be her future. Desperate to delay the lonely sickness and sadness that haunted her mother, Storm stomped her size-twelve boots straight toward as much sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll as she could find. Losing her virginity at thirteen, she sprinted through her young life, trying to smoke and fuck and wail away the madness that she feared would catch up to her at any moment. Instead, she found herself deep in a life of craziness of her own making.

  Then, in her twenties, with nothing to live for and a growing heroin addiction, Storm accepted a chance invitation to sing with a friend’s band. That night she reconnected with her long-term love of music, and it dragged her back from the edge. She has been singing and slinging inappropriate banter at audiences worldwide ever since.

  Storm’s story of growing up with a mental time bomb hanging around her neck veers from frightening to inspiring, sometimes all in one sentence. But her strength, charisma, and raw musical talent gave her the will to overcome it all. With tremendous honesty and tremendous dirty language, Crazy Enough is about an artist’s journey of realizing that the mistakes that make, break, and remake us are worth far more than our flailing attempts to live a life we think is “normal.” It is a love song to the twisted, flawed parts in all of us and a nod to the grace we find when things fall apart.

  Storm Large is a singer-songwriter best known as a contestant on the reality television show Rock Star: Supernova. Her acclaimed one-woman show, Crazy Enough, has appeared in the UK and Australia, and is heading to off-Broadway in New York City.

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  JACKET DESIGN BY ERIC FUENTECILLA

  FRONT JACKET PHOTOGRAPH BY LAVEA DOMELA

  BACK JACKET PHOTOGRAPHS COURTESY OF THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 SIMON & SCHUSTER

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  Copyright © 2012 by Storm Large

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Free Press Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Free Press hardcover edition January 2012

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  Designed by Ruth Lee-Mui

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Large, Storm.

  Crazy enough : a memoir / by Storm Large.—1st Free Press hardcover ed.

  cm.

  1. Large, Storm. 2. Singers—United States—Biography. I. Title.

  ML420.L2437A3 2012

  782.42166092—dc23

  [B]

  2011024124

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9240-5 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-4391-9242-9 (ebook)

  DISCLAIMER

  All of these stories are true and as accurate as I could get them, with the help of friends and family who were party or privy to the events described. Several names and identifying characteristics of people and places have been blurred or outright changed to protect the innocent and the dead. Some have been changed to protect myself from the drug addled and psychotic, along with the general douche baggery that is so prevalent in these litigious times. Many of these memories are from more than thirty years ago, so keep in mind there have been a few tankers of alcohol and trash bags full of drugs, not to mention acres of weenie, that have been tossed through my body and brain since then, so I could have gotten a few things twisted around. But I do know for sure that I live at the end.

  CONTENTS

  Prologue: “THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL!”

  Chapter 1: CHILD MANIA, SHICKEN MUSH, FOREVER AND A DAY. . . .

  Chapter 2: MANIC DEPRESSION, SADVILLE, HELGA THE WHORE, C-R-A-Z. . . .

  Chapter 3: JUST LIKE YOUR MOM DR. LOVEY, THE HEAD BOX. . . .

  Chapter 4: YAY PORN! PUTTING IT IN.

  Chapter 5: HARVARD SQUARE AND SHIT.

  Chapter 6: MEET THE BANKS. A SILK UPHOLSTERED HELL HECK.

  Chapter 7: BORN TO LOSE. BONE CANCER BLUES.

  Chapter 8: “CLOTHES ARE A LIE!” MY OFFICIAL INSANE DAY.

  Chapter 9: 43 IS A MAGIC NUMBER, MOOSE AND MULTIPLE MOM.

  Chapter 10: ANOREXIA FABULOSA, OR, “DOES THIS OPEN SORE ON MY FACE MAKE ME LOOK FAT?”

  Chapter 11: ST. MARK’S SCHOOL TO ST. MARK’S PLACE.

  Chapter 12: S.F., HEROIN, AND THE MOST TERRIBLEST JUNKIE EVER!

  Chapter 13: LOUDER THAN GOD.

  Chapter 14: THE “GOTCHA”

  Chapter 15: PENULTIMATE G
OTCHA, GOOD-BYE TO THE QUEEN OF PARAPLEGIA.

  Chapter 16: LOVE, LOSS THE DOT & SEPT. 12

  Chapter 17: PORTLAND EFFING OREGON!

  Chapter 18: THE LAST GOTCHA.

  Chapter 19: LOVE YOU, BYE. . . .

  Chapter 20: BIRTH FAMILY, RET, HEART-BURST.

  Chapter 21: ROCK STAR, WHAT THE FUCK IS LADYLIKE?

  Chapter 22: LOVE YOU ENOUGH.

  Chapter 23: CALL ME CRAZY.

  THANK YOU

  Tuesday, December 14, 2004

  People think I’m nuts. They think that I am a killer, a badass, and a dangerous woman. They think that I am a boot-stomping, man-chomping rock ’n’ roll sex thug with heavy leather straps on my well-notched bedposts and a line around the block of challengers vying for a ride between my crushing thighs, many of whom won’t survive the encounter.

  That’s what I like people to think, anyway. Some actually buy it. My manufactured mythology had begun on stage in San Francisco, and was full-on folklore here in Portland. My band, The Balls, had become a wild success over the past three years, and we packed a downtown club called Dante’s once a week, as well as clubs throughout the west coast from Seattle to San Diego. My sex thuggery is reserved for only one man, however. And though we fuck like we just got out of prison, home life is domestic. I help with the care and feeding of my boyfriend’s young son, cutting off crusts, giving back tickles. I even own an apron.

  Despite my disenchanting normality, however, I get to sing for a living, drink free most places, and I get laid regularly. Life is good.

  And now it’s Christmas time, so I’m all extra everything with good cheer. December in Portland can be a dreary spectacle. Right around Halloween, a big chilly sog plops its fat ass over the Pacific Northwest and stays parked there until Independence Day. Even in the gray, spitting rain, however, I’m all atwinkle, heading to Hawthorne Boulevard to skip through herds of wet hippies to Christmas shop. And even though I find those pube farmers highly irritating, I am humming “In Excelsis Deo” and in love with the world, so fuck ’em.

  Hawthorne is a main thoroughfare in southeast Portland where, on one block, you can buy a latte, Indonesian end tables, pants for your cat, a vinyl corset, or a two-hundred-dollar T-shirt. It’s a great place to find perfect gifts for the loved ones in your life, and I am going to buy the greatest Christmas gift ever.

  “The Greatest Gift of All”: I hear my little fourth-grade voice trilling in my memory bank. It was in a school Christmas play and was the first solo I ever took on stage. It was also one of the few times my mom saw me sing in front of a real audience.

  “The greatest giiift of aaall . . . it can come from aaany wheeere!” I sang the heck out of it, if memory serves.

  My mom had started beading and was taking it very seriously. She was selling pieces on eBay—seriously—so I’m headed to a store called Beads Forever to get her some killer imported beads, maybe some semiprecious stones. I have a vision of getting her a badass assortment and putting them in a cool, funky box. It’s the first Christmas gift I will buy for her in maybe ten years, and it will be perfect.

  “Per-fect!” I sing in a fake opera voice.

  I see the store ahead through my swishing windshield wipers and, “Fuckyouuu!!” I sing in triumph, to no one, as there is a perfect parking space directly in front of the store. “ Rock-star fucking parking!” I pull up, swoosh my wet car into the spot, throw it into park and my phone rings. The little lit-up window reads “BDLarge.”

  “Dad? Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi, sweetie.” His voice sounds heavy.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He sighed. Someone must’ve died. My grandmother. Neeny. God, at Christmas we lose Neeny Cat?

  “Dad?”

  “Your mom died last night.”

  What?

  “Who?” His mom. Neeny. Ninety-four, lost her mind when her husband of sixty-odd years passed.

  “Your ma.”

  “Who?” More sighing. Why the fuck is he sighing so much? Should I get out of the car?

  “Your ma. Your mom died last night. They don’t know what happened yet sweetie, but . . .”

  I’m literally looking into the store where I’m going to get her Christmas gift. Should I still? My hand is on the door, my car is parked . . . rock-star parking and the best gift ever. No. I say no to this. My dad says something about having to call my brothers and will I be okay? He’ll call me back right away. Love you. Bye.

  Love you. Bye.

  It’s dark and raining but people can still see into the car, and I must look crazy. I grab the steering wheel with both hands and suddenly I’m sobbing, screaming at the gauges. What the fuck to do? Where do I go, home? I can’t see. I can’t drive. I call my boyfriend at work.

  “Hi. Can you come get me? My mom is dead and I’m on Hawthorne.”

  She’s gone.

  My first thought. She is gone. Not my first thought. No. Fucking no.

  I’m thrashing around inside my body. What the fuck do I do?

  What am I thinking? No. I peel my mind away like a child turning its face from a tablespoon of cough syrup. No. My first thought. My first?

  Thank God. Thank God she’s gone.

  “Thank God she’s gone.”

  1975.

  When I was five years old, I had my first orgasm.

  I had played with myself for as long as I could remember, but the gold at the end of that rainbow came courtesy of my first ever boyfriend, Mr. Pool Jet. He was so much fun and such a consistent partner, never asking a thing of me but always eager to give. With my arms folded under my chin at the pool’s edge, my body was just the right length to get that warm blast of water right on the money. Tucking my hips up into the stream I remember distinctly hissing under my breath, “Oh my . . . oh my . . . OHMYOHMYOHMY!” Then, kicking away from the wall I sucked in a good lungful of air, dove, and hid at the bottom of the pool to collect myself for a few seconds.

  Did anyone see that?

  I knew that what I had discovered was huge, but I also knew, instinctively, that it was not for public consumption. More urgently, pressing into my little brains was that once the prickling, throbbing exclamation point between my legs cooled and calmed, I would totally have to do that again.

  Like a gateway drug, it started with Mr. Pool Jet, then went on to harder stuff: bathtub faucets and, later, showerhead massagers. Thank you, Waterpik!

  I always knew something was wrong with me, and here was the proof. I was a five-year-old secret slut for any stream of water I could get alone. After a couple years of that, I got a real live boy to play with. I was seven and he was five, so, by the third grade, I was not only a water nymphomaniac, I was also a cougar.

  We’ll call him “ChapStick” as in, “’Zat a ChapStick in your pocket, or . . . ?” We both lived in the same little neighborhood, so he would come over to play. Around adults we would play the usual toddler games: shave Barbie’s head, give her a black eye with a magic marker, and feed her to the giant squid that came with my brother’s GI Joe undersea adventure series, or we would just space out and watch cartoons. When we could sneak away someplace alone, however, we would play a game called “I Am So Tired!” I would lie on my back in bed or on the floor, cover my head and arms with a blanket or a towel and pretend to fall asleep with my legs open. That was the cue for ChapStick to climb on top of me and ravage my sleeping torso with his fevered humping.

  We would be fully clothed during the exchange but still I would tilt my hips toward the onslaught and bite the inside of whatever was covering my face as waves of intense and desperate tickling pleasure would build up in the friction. My face and my breath would get hot and I would pant a little bit, but quietly. Sometimes I felt like my throat was bulging outwards like a water balloon, from hitching and holding my breath and my belly would suck all the way in pulling the tickles in deeper, up higher, then more then yes, and yes, and YES! Then a chickeny flutter and burn and drop, t
witch and melt, the weight on my back spread over my bones like hot honey.

  He would then get up and go somewhere else in the room and leave me floaty and pink under my covers. A minute or two later, I would get up stretch and make a big deal about how tired I was and how nothing could’ve woken me, and how was your nap, ChapStick?

  Usually we were both very satisfied with this game. Once in a while, though, he would be done before me and I would yell from under my covers, “Ummm, I’m still tired!”

  We had no idea what we were doing, yet, we somehow knew not to talk about it. Even to each other. We ignored our little trysts as though they were funny slivers of some wacky kid dream that nobody would understand.

  Hypersexuality in children is sometimes evidence of early onset bipolar disorder phenotype, and often is treated with medication, with some success. It’s also called child mania. I didn’t know any of that, but I knew to keep my passion secret, even though I saw nothing wrong with it. I was alone a lot and it was something that made being alone worth it. Suddenly everything turned me on and I would fantasize about, draw pictures of, and obsess over sex.

  One of my biggest turn-ons was watching nature shows, like Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. Animals ripping each other apart always made my bathing suit area sparkle. I’d go all hot and twitchy when big predators, like lions or cheetahs, would chase down and kill helpless little antelopes. “Why don’t those photographers help that baby deer? Someone has to have a gun out there!” I would lie, deflecting the true cause of my restlessness, counting the minutes until I could get myself alone.

  When I was older and in relationships lasting longer than a trip to the bathroom, more than one boyfriend would comment on how much I loved sex, as if it were evidence of something wrong with me. “Were you raped or something?” one even said out loud.

  Whatever the psychological hoo-ha was about my early onanistic habits, I called it: “This feels amazing. I’m totally going to do this again and again until I’m dead.”

  So many guys pray for a girl to want to do all the nasty things they think about. Until he gets one. Then there is a realization that she’s clearly practiced on a pile of other cocks, and that she can outfuck him.

  “You make me feel small” was another constant whine. But, even though my first human scratching post truly was much smaller than me, he never once complained.