By Alycia Taylor Copyright 2014. All rights reserved.
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CHAPTER ONE TRISTAN I alternated between loving and hating L.A. Today, I fucking hated it. I was stripped down to nothing but my jeans and I was still sweating like a fucking pig on a spigot. Supposedly you didn’t need air-conditioners in the City of Angels. Apparently the guy who came up with that idea was from out of town. It was hard to think when it was this damned hot. I had to be back on stage for the next “elimination round” for Fresh Voices in a couple of days and I wanted to knock their socks off. I had kind of thought I didn’t really care about that shit anymore. As long as I had a place to play my music a couple times a week and they paid me enough to pay my bills and have a little left over for recreation purposes, I was good. Then all of a sudden I was back on a real stage with the hot lights in my face and real equipment that didn’t fucking screech in the middle of your set….it was like I was suddenly back home. I ate up the applause, and knowing people were sitting at home watching me on television was addictive. I reached for my blunt…this was the fantastic thing about living here in Southern Cali. Being so close to the border meant that I didn’t have to buy shit that some crack head grew in his kitchen or in his granny’s garden out back. This stuff was grown and cut by professionals in Mexico where it should be. They know what they’re doing over there. I didn’t smoke anything but Acapulco Red and it was some good shit. Sprinkle it with some high-grade coke and wrap it in a cigar and you got yourself one mother-fucking good blunt. Damn! I really need to stop getting distracted with the heat and my smoke and write this damned song. I want to win this shit. I want a million fucking dollars. I’d never even seen that kind of money. I was sixteen when I started playing music so of course my parents decided to become “managers” like every other fucking child star’s parents in this shitty town. They did okay…for a while. Somewhere along the way the old man got me to agree to sign some paperwork that said he’d be my manager and the trustee for my assets and income until I was twenty-one. I was probably high at the time…and it was probably from something that mother fucker had given me. I did my first stint in rehab at seventeen…before Uptown Boyz had even gotten famous. The record producer said if I didn’t clean up my act he would take steps to terminate the contract. The old man panicked at the thought of losing all that cash and he took me to some hide-away cult in the Santa Ana hills that called themselves a rehabilitation facility. I stayed there for a month with a few other “child stars” and I learned a lot. Most of it had nothing to do with staying clean, but when I got out, I kept that part to myself. For a while, I kept it together and acted like a good boy…I loved performing and losing that option was the only threat that worked on me. I didn’t have any real friends, what I had were followers…audiences…fans…I was lost without them. Those other shitheads in the band were straight-arrows. They all had mommies that followed them around and made sure they weren’t letting the over-night fame go to their heads. My mommy was busy doing other things….like the record producer and a couple of the daddies and God only knows who else. While she was doing them and I was touring and earning fucking millions of dollars, the old man was “investing” my money. By the time I was twenty-one and the band broke up and I went to him and told him I wanted control back of my