mmmmlxix

The Argyle Saga

My depression wore argyle,
which I thought was not very
representative of the times,
even though I was a child
of the 80’s, or as I say, a
child of the 90’s, by the
time of which I could
legally drink or go to
war, had received
an undergraduate
degree and soon after

had attended a
Motley Crue/
Whitesnake
concert and two
Depeche Mode
concerts, not to
mention others
(like, for example, a 

Huey Lewis & The News 

concert in Memphis, but my 

depression says that we dont have 

time for that).  I found that at these 

concerts my depression would dissipate 

if not disappear for the entirety of each 

and every show.  However, before and after 

them, depression would be present.  I never 

saw Nine Inch Nails in concert, and Trent Reznor, 

Goth’s anointed king.  He was a hero for me 

back then.  He recorded an album at 10050

Cielo Drive in the west-central part of
the Beverly Crest Neighborhood of Los
Angeles, where some members of the
Charles Manson family had committed
the Tate murders in 1969, when I was
two years old.  Reznor had purchased
the property in 1992 and immediately
built within it a recording studio, which
he dubbed “Le Pig.”  For years, Nine Inch
Nails would blare incessantly from what
ever headphones I would use at the time
into my ears at whatever the maximum
possible decibel level.  His anthems, filled
with complex riffs, punk remnants, heavy
driving beats, Reznor’s screamy voice and
ultra-depressing lyrics would uplift me any
time I was able to play them.  That is how

things were.  Anyway, a few years later,
an emergency room doctor would write
me a prescription for Prozac and proclaim
I suffered from depression (I had taken a 

three or four question “test” and it had been 

determined) and, moreover, that I’d probably 

need to take these pills for the rest of 

my life.  This was in Toledo, Ohio,

where anyone can get quite
depressed without the least
bit of encouragement.  Was there

any connection between my depression 

and listening to Nine Inch Nails incessantly?

Very unlikely. I had been crying for some time, 

previous to that prescription being written in a
very long hallway within a massive apartment 

where I lived alone in the Old West End, which 

was a somewhat newly gentrified area downtown,

which had know worse days, for sure, but me renting 

the most massive apartment within which I’ve ever lived 

probably played very little into this gentrification (I left without 

giving notice, owing months of back rent).  Anyway, the

fact is that I was quite simply depressed thanks to a

breakup.  And that was the brunt cause of my lifelong 

depression.  I picked up the prescription

and took the Prozac religiously through 

two or three refills, and then I stopped. 

And I’ve not taken Prozac since.  I began to
feel quite a bit better, thanks especially
to this medication, and soon, I piled
everything I owned into an Audi
Quattro and drove to Boston,
arriving there New Year’s eve,
the night before 1997 began.
And it was there that I would
live a mostly happy existence 

for three and a half 

years.  By the time 

I left Boston for San 

Francisco in the summer 

of 2000, I had thrown
away all of my by
then outdated
and really quite
holy argyle socks,
of which I had
previously worn
quite an extensive
collection.  These
are mere facts,

mixed with a bit

of my inwardly

slanted opinion.