I’m feeling very pissed off today, partially because of the recent demise of Tomatoes – I never knew his “real” name – a rather interesting fellow with the most completely brilliant and random collection of tattoos I have ever seen in the United States. I can’t claim to have known him very well, but he definitely stood out, even in a crowd like the Midnight Ridazz, even in a place like Slab City, and even in the mind of a professional deviant such as myself.

Tomatoes was a prankster, but you never felt badly if you were on the ass end of his prank. He believed in nothing, and thought death was “cool,” but embraced life like few ever do. He was a kinder, gentler sort of revolutionary; a nihilist with a heart; an ethical jackass. Throughout my adult life, I have only been involved in two violent confrontations, and Tomatoes – virtually a stranger – played a decisive role in bringing both to a close. That’s pretty weird.

I wish I could say more. I wish I had known him better. I wish I were really sad. But I’m just pissed off that someone like Tomatoes died of a fucking heroin overdose. A FUCKING HEROIN OVERDOSE. Jesus Christ, couldn’t he have at least set himself on fire or fallen out of a window or overdosed on something stupid like Magic Markers? Couldn’t he have been run over on his bicycle by a garbage truck with particularly interesting graffiti? Couldn’t he have died of some obscure, vanishingly rare disease like smallpox? An HIV-infected tattoo needle from a back alley inking of the likeness of Sarah Palin on his scrotum? And why do I even give a shit?

An excerpt from his blog:

Friday, October 09, 2009


I remain optomystical. These things, they make me remember the joys in life: not sleeping for four days, the warm feel of a five dollar machete handle as I lie in wake waiting for that oportune moment when they barge through the door and I decapitate them, thus proving to my ex-girlfriend that I’m not really scared, I’m just looking out for our safety.

Waking up in the kitchen, fully clothed clutching the machete wondering what day of the week it is and whether or not I’ve depleted the liquor store’s supply of 211.

She won’t share her drugs with me, her family hates me, and I don’t really understand how much money they invest in helicopters in Hollywood. Supposedly, they’re not really helicopters. It’s “auditory” hallucinations due to no sleep and lots of drugs.

I eat stuff though, . . . sometimes. Snickers bars, and the rolls of mini donuts coated in chocolate.

I’m scared to go outside. I go to Rite Aid a lot. Just to look at girls. and buy Natural Ice and Halloween candy that I just eat myself.