Ted Nugent's Laundry
Shortly after I moved in with Joe, we went for a stroll to explore the shops, bars, and antique stores on nearby Ventura Boulevard. Joe loved antiquing, though I was more of a window shopper, myself (which is one reason his recently vacated penthouse resembled more of a hoarder’s paradise than my miniscule-yet-immaculate apartment back in Austin). While I perused one small store’s art deco figurines, ashtrays, and brooches, Joe discovered three lion skin rugs in a corner, piled on top of each other. They were dusty and neglected, yet he practically danced with excitement as I looked on with a twinge of sorrow and distinct wariness. I felt bad for the current state of those once magnificent beasts, as well as for myself, considering where they were surely headed.
I wasn’t too keen on decorating our new home with some misguided animal hunter’s morbid “trophy” remnants. Yet leaving them behind felt just plain wrong, so I gave Joe the go-ahead and he bought all three, then sent them out to be lovingly restored. Once finished—cleaned, brushed, and lined with felt—one went in our study, where my cat, Rocky, took to curling up against its head, for hours on end, every day. Another went to a children’s museum, and the third to Joe’s acquaintance Ted Nugent.
Why Ted? He’s into all that stuff, Joe explained…bowhunting and outdoor survivalist shit. “He’ll love it!” I had to agree the package seemed a good fit for its recipient (as much as I disagreed with what it represented). We sent the rug off and forgot all about it.
Months later, a huge box was delivered to our house. Joe inspected the return address and immediately bounced with excitement. “I wonder what Ted sent us!” he exclaimed, as I held my breath. Tearing the box open, he discovered an odd assortment of men’s clothing. T-shirts, undershorts, ratty pants, etc.—approximately two full loads of The Nuge’s unwashed laundry. No note was included, no explanation whatsoever.
“Maybe it’s in code,” I said with a shrug. “Like…store-bought pelts are totally uncool if we don’t kill the lion ourselves…or something.” I had no idea; I was grasping at straws. Joe’s sweet gesture had been reciprocated with rudeness. It made me want to shoot a flaming arrow at the guy who’d done it.
I can still recall Joe’s expression, bouncing ceased, grin slipping away. He studied the odd contents with a furrowed brow, swaying side to side, the way he did oftentimes. Eventually I closed the box up and shoved it into a corner of our increasingly cluttered house.




