Doro pesch dating dave mustaine
“Aw, I don’t think you should count on that.” “Until when? I don’t have memories of him David Scott Mustaine, born September 13, 1961.
There are snapshots tucked away in the back of my mind, memories of sitting on Dad’s lap, watching TV, feeling the razor stubble on his cheeks, smelling booze on his breath.
Certainly the man who ruled the Mustaine household in 1961 was not the man who married my mother.
Whether this failure contributed to his escalating problems with alcohol, or whether alcohol provoked his professional failures, I can’t say.
I had a beautiful wife and two wonderful kids, a nice home, cars, more money than I ever dreamed of. You see, behind the façade, I was fucking miserable: tired of the road, the bickering between band members, the unreasonable demands of management and record company executives, the loneliness of the drug-addled life. He even became a weapon to be used against me, to keep me in line. My mother was a maid, and we lived off her salary along with a combination of food stamps and Medicare and other forms of public assistance. In some cases I could have done with a little less intervention.
Mind-fucking religious weirdness (in my case the extremes of the Jehovah’s Witnesses and Satanism)? By this time I was a world-famous rock star—founder, front man, singer, songwriter, and guitarist (and de facto CEO) for Megadeth, one of the most popular bands in heavy metal. And so I went off to Hunt, Texas, hoping this time the change would stick. Oh, not in the literal sense of the word, but in the sense that he was referred to by everyone in my family as someone to be feared and despised. A moving van would show up in the middle of the night, we’d pack our meager belongings, and like fugitives we were on the run.
I don’t know exactly what happened in the years between the two sets of children. Before long the packages were coming to my house and I’d fostered one hell of an addiction. Not knowing much of anything, really, except that I needed help getting off the pain meds. I keep shaking it out, rubbing it, whacking it against the chair. I blurt out something about falling asleep and not being able to feel my hand. She presumes, not unreasonably, that this is just part of the —anxiety and discomfort come with the territory in rehab. When circulation is cut off in this manner, he explains, the nerve is damaged; sometimes it simply withers and dies. A weak man, perhaps, and a man who did some bad things. Memories of a benign man smoking a pipe, reading the newspaper, and calling me over to kiss him good night. After the divorce, though, my father became a monster. We’d settle into a rented house or apartment, and the first thing we’d do is run down to Pier 1 and get a roll of crummy contact paper to turn the shithole of a kitchen into something usable. I’d join a Little League team, try to make some friends, and then all of a sudden Mom would tell us Dad had figured out where we were living. I didn’t have any particular need for pain meds at the time, but the woman telling the story made it sound like a great buzz. And then I realize what’s happened: my arm has fallen asleep and it’s still hooked over the back of the chair. But my hand remains dead, as if shot full of Novocain. I burst into the nurse’s office, cradling my left hand in my right hand. Within twenty-four hours I will be on hiatus from La Hacienda, sitting in the office of an orthopedic surgeon, who will run a hand along my biceps and down my forearm, carefully tracing the path of a nerve and explaining how the nerve has been freakishly compressed, like a drinking straw pinched against the side of a glass. “You should have about eighty percent within a few months . My father was an alcoholic; I choose to believe that this did not make him an evil man. Again, I don’t know if this was accurate, but it was the way things were portrayed to me when I was growing up.It’s hard enough to make friends as the new kid in school, but when you’re the JW freak as well . There was a little sand pit near the boat dock, and a group of boys was tossing around a football, playing a game that is sometimes referred to as Kill the Guy with the Ball, although in the politically incorrect world of adolescent boys in the early 1970s, it was more commonly known as Smear the Queer.These guys were all bigger than me, and they took great joy in kicking the shit out of me, but I didn’t care, and I had no fear. Because by this time I’d grown accustomed to getting knocked around in school, and disciplined by aunts and uncles, and harassed by a variety of cousins.