I can chart my life as a series of fiery disasters. But above all the grease fires and sunburns I've somehow lived through, are five big'uns.
Burn, Baby, Burn!—Toddler age, I would sing into anything microphone shaped. So, on a family trip to LA, I unplugged the car cigarette lighter, pushed it to my lips and fried the PISS out of myself. Lips fused. Car filled with the stink of burning baby flesh. To this day, if you run your finger along my bottom lip slow enough, you'll hit a savage tickle spot—and I'll kick you in the face.
Firewalker (The Drunk Version)—1999. On tour. I "impressed" the crowd at an outdoor show by standing in the middle of a blazing fire ring, sipping my 40 like I could care less. Halfway through the bottle, I blacked out, and awoke 20 hours later on a couch, in singed clothing, with six tiny Mexican kids poking me with sticks.
Casa de Stupid—Couple years ago, I went to Casa de Fruta in Hollister, CA, home of endless, free, sample food. Seeing my life as a Homeric Odyssey, I hit the olives first, ignoring a sign that read "Giant Habañero-Stuffed Olives." I swallowed a couple and the world became a searing kaleidoscope of heat and pain. Free food, sure. But no free drinks. I ran to my car, weeping like a child, and chugged the first thing I found: a carton of curdled milk.
Apocalypse Food, Redux—2003. Pickled on vodka, I decided to roast poblano chilis over my stove. So, I roasted away, never thinking twice about rubbing the sweat from my eyes. ZAP! DEATH! That night I dreamt of napalming Vietnamese kids.
King of Pain—Last year I "wooed" a girl by tattooing her name into my forearm with a cigarette. Despite cheering partygoers, I made it as far as the head of the "J" before falling back on a couch, catatonic with pain. (It scabbed up heart shaped.)
Epilogue: As I'm typing this, the fire department comes beating on my door. (I swear to god.) Seems that having a roaring fireplace (and smoke gushing from your chimney) on a 90-degree day is "suspicious." I calmly inform them that, with air conditioning, my house is in fact "a chilly 55 degrees." They look baffled, shake their heads, and walk away.