By Amy Silverman
By Olivia LaVecchia
By Monica Alonzo and Stephen Lemons
By Chris Parker
By Michael Lacey
By Weston Phippen
1029 W. 17th Street
You know me, but you've smoked so much coke since we last talked I should probably reintroduce myself.
I'm the guy who will write your obituary, unless you stop this mad jig to death's fiddle. I imagine what's going on inside your hell portal of a home, and I see long, white finger bones, racing up and down the strings like spider legs, as you whirl ever faster.
So far, two of your dancing partners have dropped dead. That's two bodies pulled out of your house in eight months. First your wife, last August. Then a high school buddy, last week.
His name was Pete Sievert. He was 40. His friends, a few of whom are my friends, called him "Sito." He and your brother, Curt, were best friends when you all attended Brophy, back in the mid-Seventies, years before you and Curt started the Meat Puppets. Sito became a mortgage broker, a money man. You and Curt donned the tattered capes of indie-rock heroes throughout the Eighties, then scored a gold album in 1995 with Too High to Die, and made some real dough for the first time.
And then you just went all to hell. You and your groupie wife holed up in your place on West 17th in Tempe, smoking rock and shooting junk. Sid and Nancy of the Southwest. Your wife was 5-foot-9, and she weighed 88 pounds when she died. The cops found red spatter patterns on the walls and ceilings throughout the house, where you two had shot up, then squirted the blood to empty the syringe.
I know (from those who've seen it) of your ritual with the crack pipe. You lick a flame on the tip of the glass stem, melt the rock, suck in the venomous, heavenly mist, and then burn yourself twice with the hot glass. One circle of seared flesh for your mother, who died in late 1996, and one for your wife.
And now, I guess, one for Sito.
You tricked all your friends, Cris. When the word went around last Wednesday night that a covey of cop cars was outside your house again, they all thought the body coming out would be yours.
As I write this, I don't know with certainty how or why Sito died, or if you do either. The investigation of his death is still very much open. The coroner and the cops have no reports completed, and few details they're willing to release.
I know this much: I know the police suspect Sito died of an intravenous drug overdose. I know he lay dead in your house for more than 24 hours before the authorities were called, and I know it wasn't you who dialed 911. It was an anonymous female--probably one of the harem of leeches you've played host to in recent weeks--who called at 6:02 p.m. last Wednesday from a Circle K pay phone in Phoenix, not Tempe. I know the police found drugs and crack pipes and needles all over your house--again--and found you in the shed in your backyard which used to serve as the Meat Puppets' practice shack.
Finally, I know there was a suicide note at the scene, and that about 10 days before he died, Sito told one friend he had been talking to you a lot on the phone, and was going to your house to try to talk you off the ledge.
That was the last he was heard from.
Among those who knew you and Sito, there are two competing theories: One is that Sito had everyone fooled, and had joined you in junkieland months before he died. Sito's friends say he drank a lot, and snorted coke sometimes to keep the party going, but as far as they knew, he never played with needles.
Maybe you knew differently, Cris.
The second theory, and the more chilling one, is that Sito truly did go to try to talk you into rehab, and wound up drowning in the vortex of 1029 W. 17th.
Your house is evil, Cris.
I came by a few days ago, and I noticed on the center of your front door a silver hologram sticker. I changed my angle to bring the image into focus and saw a skull staring me in the face. I knocked and waited and looked. Your windows are all either boarded up or covered with tapestries. You might as well hang a sign: "Shooting Gallery." I knocked again and a German shepherd answered by thrusting its head through a shattered pane of glass in the front door and snarling at me.
That was the second time I've knocked on your front door. The first was October 1995. You were fresh off a stadium tour--the Meat Puppets' first--opening for the Stone Temple Pilots. The tour where your brother told me later you became addicted to cocaine.
Your wife, who'd invited me over, answered the door, and when I walked into your living room, people on fire were falling from high-rise windows on CNN.
Your wife sat cross-legged on the carpet and began to punch it with both fists like an impatient child. "Cris!" she yelled. She was looking rough by then, skinny with frantic eyes. "Criiiiiiis!" "Cris!" "Cris!" "Cris!"