Hollywood Meanderings

Moderately interesting weekend indeed.

So: I woke up super-early on Friday, as usual with my bloody job. I went to work and typed mindlessly and snuck in personal online time when nobody looked, watched some Richard Dawkins clips on atheism, and then I went home. I was lucky enough to have a car and so that gave me an extra hour of life. Eight-and-one-half hours later at home and I didn't have a car anymore.

I sorted through my stuff and attempted to dandy myself up. I thought about dressing in drag for the gay art gala event, but that's a bit much. I mean, I haven't shaved my legs in weeks. And makeup? Please. But I parted my hair in the middle and wore the emo girl-jeans ensemble and that would do.

I took the train up North, and meanwhile read some JSA comics, and Robin, and Nelson Algren's Man With the Golden Arm, and Stephen Hawking's Brief History of the Universe. JSA is always good (and as part of my weekend itinerary, by the way, I was to meet Geoff Johns, but that is to be told later . . .) Robin is okay. Usually I expect better of Chuck Dixon. Come now, Batman & the Outsiders is just not up to par. Though I do admit to excitement now that **SPOILER ALERT** (literally) Spoiler has been brought back to life! "Now you know why there's no memorial in the cave." Nice. Man With the Golden Arm I've been reading slowly. Its good stuff, harsh underbelly of 40s America and all that, but its quite wordy and taking me a while to sort through. Brief History of Time is nicely readable, poppy theoretical physics for me to philisophically mull over. Does time have a specific starting point or not?

The time came and I walked out to the Hollywood & Highland exit, full of energy. Usually I'm rather depressed when I find myself in Hollywood yet again, but today I was all positive energy. I went to meet with a guy from couchsurfing.com who expressed interest in the event, and I had a drink of vodka and cranberry juice in his swanky apartment, I shared some absinthe I brought, and we talked about 2012 and psychedelics and aliens and that kind of fun McKenna-esque conversation. EveryoneI've met on couchsurfing has been quite damn cool, I am glad I've been utilizing the site lately. We walked nearby to the art gallery for the M For Madonna show, all Madonna themed art and subsequent Andy Warhol ripoffs. Full of D-list celebrities! The best!

This is me and RuPaul. He was rather all-over me...


This is me and famous gossip columnist Perez Hilton, someone I honestly do not care about whatsoever, but what the hell, here's a pic.


But mainly I was interested of James St. James.


I have been researching club kid history lately, and before I even knew about this show I watched the Shockumentary ordered his book. Unfortunately Amazon didn't send me my Disco Bloodbath yet, I would have loved to get it signed, but from what I've read of it James St. James is a junkie literature writer par excellence. Synchronously, just as I get interested the opportunity of this show presents itself.

He was nice to me, though very busy. "I'm always at the gallery, come down in the day sometime." If possible I'd love to talk to him about literature, how to improve in this sort of thing, keep in touch . . .

And various others I knew came down. Some acquaintances, some gays, some CSers, and various others. My one friend in particular was mad at me. She works at the gallery as a matter of fact, and this insider connection didn't help me whatsoever. I wasn't even on the list (though I still didn't pay for the show). We've been in email bout as I've been trying to communicate this sense of vague betrayal. I want to be let in on her world, but she keeps me at a distance, and lately I'd rather just not even be friends anymore. But all the vicious things I typed were nothing compared to the knowledge that I deleted her from my MySpace friend's list. Apparently this is the absolute worst thing you can do to a person. She was pissed. Oh what a culture we live in.

So it goes. Afterwards, some keen gay guys from the band Shitting Glitter invited me to a poshy secret dance club in downtown LA. One fellow really wanted me to spend the night at his house, but I don't know about all that. Still, a musician acquaintance already told me I could crash at his apartment, and even though he was hanging out with a girl he let me tag along. We drove around for a while, the girl talked and talked and talked, and they smoked pot from s bubbly bong, I nodded off, and an hour later I did indeed find myself at the gay club. Shits and Giggles on 8th and Broadway is an odd place; the entrance in an alleyway, and the inside with a huge dancefloor, with projected gay porn on the walls. Some even dressed in insane club kid attire - a polite refference to the past. This club has only been open for a few months, and I'll have to make sure to come again before it is inevitably shut down. I woke up, and I danced, and gay guys are just so lovingly pervertedly came on to me - "Hey want to stick your dick in my mouth and cum?" I must admit to being a tad uncomfortable. I tend to edge the borders of the gay/bi-curious identity, as it is fun, but these propositions are just too gross. No I don't want to look at your erection man. Sheesh.

Still, it was entertaining enough. I didn't even have to pay to get in by the way. And then the girl said that she heard about a hot tub roof party going on at a nearby apartment. We walked around the empty downtown streets and went to this loft building, just walked right in and the security didn't say shit, and went up to the roof. No one was there, they never showed up. There was a gate, but fuck it, I jumped over easily. There was a pool and a heated jacuzzi. We were here, and so what the hell we went through with it and stripped naked and hung out. A unique atmosphere in the windy cold and LA skylight (what there is of that), underneath your head in heated water. And, I got to hang out with a naked girl. These kind of things are always outnumbered by guys - why just the weekend before as a matter of fact I coldly (shrinkagely) skinny-dipped after a bonfire party in Huntington Beach - but as long as there is at least one girl getting naked its worth it. Although I must disclose, this girl would not stop talking about nothing and it was a bit irritating. Who knew a girl, moderately attractive and a pretty enough face, with her breasts hanging out and relaxingly sitting next to me as I am equally nude, could be so annoying?

I felt bad that I may have been cramping my acquittance's style. He probably would have preferred to be alone with her, duh, but I had to go and tag along. Still, he was very cool about it. Drying off was cold and kind of sucked, and then drove home at about 4:00 and went to his dirty apartment and I comfortabely slept on the floor. Next day we had a lunchtime/breakfast in Echo Park, fine conversation (he didn't really like that girl so much either apparently), and I was to be dropped off at the Vermont station. From there I went up to Universal City. Normally I despise this horrid touristy area, but I had to go the Thing From Another World comic store because of the Geoff Johns signing I'd heard about. Brilliant writer of about half of all decent comics coming out of DC, from JSA to Booster Gold to Action Comics, and I cannot wait for Rogue's Revenge and Legion of Three Worlds. Johns is living the dream, and oh how I'd like to pick his brain . . .

And there he is! Normally I'd only see him from far away at a con, but there he was right up close:


What a weekend. RuPaul and Geoff Johns, both on my phone. I wish I brought better comics to get signed though, the Justice Society's were actually what I happened to already have. He drew a Dr. Midnite on the cover for me. Didn't know he could draw, he's not bad.

I'd love to talk about literature with him. Where does he get all his energy? How does he go about doing research? How many hours a day does he sleep? What's it like being you? Without being to fanboyish, I'd like to really learn something and see how he got where he is. While through the signing process I attempted conversation, "How do you like Southern California? You're from Michigan right? Can I talk to you sometime about writing?" "Sure man." I tried to hang out at the comic store, waiting until the line got slow so I could talk to him more one-on-one. And while he was cool about it, the owner of the store was am asshole and said I had to go. What, am I like a stalker fan or something? I shook hands, "Sorry I have to go Mr. Johns, but can I email you?" and I left. I did give him my minicomic.

Well, I had to try. Don't know if its realistic to expect to be his best friend, and what I am but a lowly fan, but I have to give it an honest try. I can be smart about these things, and as long as I don't thoroughly emberass myself every little bit helps. Perhaps I'll email him here on the MySpace, see if he has the time and charity to keep in touch . . .

I had a lot of time to kill till my next even, and went back down to Hollywood for a bit. It struck me how bombarded by mind control it all is. On one side of the Boulevard was a crazy Christian yelling at people "If you died today would you go to Heaven or Hell?!" and with a coffin prop and everything. Across the street was a Scientology center with groups of people taking stress tests. And of course, the center of American consumerism with a sensory overload of adverts coming at us from every angle. I believe I made it through unscathed, but what a test. Most don't tread these waters without some kind of mental bruising. And hence, they go to church and watch bad movies . . .

I had a burrito, and I made a call. My former buddy as mad at me as ever (fuck her anyways). She was rather upset. I don't know if this situation will ever be resolved. If anything, I think I deserve an apology, but I am biased.

"I'm not on trial!" she yelled on the phone. "Ray, you go be postmodern, go be postpunk, but you're a horrible friend and you're so negative and leave me alone!"

Well, I do appreciate being referred to as 'postpunk.' Though perhaps we're throwing around the 'post' labels too freely?

Essentially, this conflict, like all conflicts, stems from ape hierarchy politics. For example, in the macro scale throughout history people get along when every ethnic group knows their place, but when someone tries to rise up they are violently opposed for it. When this friend of mine was content to let me be that nerdy interesting guy in the background, whom she could leech off of when necessary and I would not argue, all was well. But when I expect to be equivalent to her poshy art galleria scene then suddenly I am stepping out of my place, and hence I am pushed aside. But I will not be condescended to, only I get to be condescending to others by God . . . and then conflict ensues.

Basically, all human conflict-behavior just amounts to dogs barking at each other for pack animal position. She won't help me rise up, and doesn't even think I deserve to rise up, so I bark at her.

I don't know. Or maybe I'm just an asshole sometimes. Or maybe she is. Who cares anyways? Life is too short to be polite all the time. None of it is a big deal. People take life too personally.

Ah well, I tend to burn bridges and I think I am preparing myself to move far away from this horrible polite city anyways. But before it comes to that I shall need to continue embrace this city, and so I went to Sunset and took a bus to Fairfax with plans to see another show, last stop on my itinerary . . .

Genghis Cohen is an aptly named Jewish Chinese food shop in West Hollywood, and I guess they have music performances on occasion. I arrived too early though; the show wasn't until 8:00 and I found myself with hours and hours to kill. Had a beer, watched basketball that I had little stake in, walked abound for miles, and still the time would not end. I was down to my last four dollars, and decided to spend it for an hour's entertainment at the internet cafe on Melrose. Four dollars an hour is a bit pricy, and I am nothing if I am not cheap, but what else was I to do?

Note: Earlier I found a dime on the floor at the gas station nearby. I decided to enact the RAW quarter trick, and will upon my reality quarters. Usually for me this amounts to dimes, but I was very intent upon expanding my perception to include higher-priced coins. This comes into play shortly . . .

Now cashless, and I still had to pay five bucks for the show (was I to be on the list? Apparently not), and for that matter I still had to get back to Long Beach mind you (the band, you see, is from San Diego and on the way down the 405 I thought I might get a ride, a possibilty we discussed via email, but this was not completely confirmed as yet). Oh how I despise ATM machines that are not affiliated with my bank, but I surrendered to the necessity and went back to the gas station where I found my dime, and paid my 2.25 charge. I took out a twenty dollar bill. Then a twenty dollar bill came out. Wait, what?

Oh my! Here I was upset about wasting money, and then a free twenty dollar bill is presented to me. The previous patron must have left their twenty bucks here.

Their loss sadly, but my apparent Will. Is money a zero sum game? Perhaps, but we don't feel bad about it when we are winning.

And then, by the way, I found another dime, and then another quarter at the restaurant later.

Something to be written of in my magical diary . . .

Like A Bird showed up, and we exchanged hugs. It was her first show, possibly a historic moment, and I was there. Pretty vocals, and science fictiony lyrics, a pure art, and catchy tunes,; my German/San Diegan friend is quite talented. I am very fond of the music, and recommend it to all; so please click on the link.

Like A Bird


Afterwards we hung out in the parking lot and I was invited to join them in the cramped van to a nearby party - and I was indeed confirmed to get a ride to Long Beach, how nice - and went to Fairfax and Foutain at some random guy's place who works at Pixar. We watched Youtube movies, I proceeded to get very very stoned. It was a terrible experience. And just on pot mind you. But I couldn't communicate, couldn't be witty and funny, everything was weird. I mean, what is the point of doing anything if I can't communicate it? It was a bad TV show, every cut disjointed, and I can make no sense of the flow of reality. Everyone around me is fake and weird. I sat down and stayed still, everything all vibraty and weighty, and I dropped the laptop by accident, and shut my eyes tight to wait for the buzz to pass and an hour or so later my motor skills returned.

I still do not understand why the majority of the population has apparently concluded that a cannabis high is the greatest thing there is. Everyone's neurology is unique I suppose, and mine just isn't a fitting metabolism. Still, I must experiment in many more uncomfortable highs, take notes, make a scientific conclusion or outlandish theory theory of some sort; and get to the bottom of this.

Finally, time to go. It was fun to hang out and party, enjoy company, and watch this pretty German girl on the guitar. I'll have to visit San Diego from time to time once I get some reliable transport. We were all stuffed in the van, four people in a three-seat setup, and I sat very tight next to her as she was falling asleep with my arm on her back . . . and I think I fell a little bit in love with this girl. It happens from time to time.

And the so weekend continues, but I must catch up on my reading, and go to the gym, watch Goddard movies - Alphaville is so-so but Breathless is amazing - and perhaps even write. I even have Memorial Day off, as per the corporate job deal, so now what? Stay home, write about times past, break relationships, forge new ones, and plan for weekends to come . . .

baby's first DMT hit

Without warning, and without the proper anxiety of planning such in advance, I found myself spontaneously invited to a DMT experience yesterday.

Dimetheltryptamine--look it up

Firstly, backstory: These past few weeks I have been in the unfortunate position of full-time employment. Data Entry, in Orange County, which of course has always been my dream. Yet, sans sarcasm, this job could be worse and one perk of the chill atmosphere at this particular office gig (and I don't even have to wear nice clothes) is that everyone gets to listen to iTunes all day. Earphones on, and ten-key away. It wouldn't be bearable otherwise.

And as of now this digitally tuned inclined work has come to the point in which every single day I spend look up audio online, and I primarily listen to Alex Jones and Terence McKenna. 8 hours of this trippy education, it makes for an odd corporate environment.

Terence McKenna comes highly recommended.

Don't even read his books I tell you, just listen to the spoken word.

Psychedelics, we find logically spelled out, happens to be the method of how extra-terrestrials communicate with us. 5 grams of psilocybin is all it takes to talk to aliens (and half a gram freaks me out so I wonder what indeed would happen if I were to take 5 of this??). Or perhaps not. Is it quantum nonlocality, or is it DNA shamanism? Or, then again, all head-trip bullshit?

Specticism or not, with so much subject matter to ponder over . . . Timewave crunch, 2012, I-Ching, DNA, and Dimetheltryptamine... I surround myself with these energies lately. And then, one evening yesterday, I randomly call up a girl on the way to Wednesday Tarot classes and then she invites me to her DMT get-together in Venice. "Wow," I say, "Thanks!"

This certain traveling fellow, now a new friend, came across a small bit of the powdery stuff in Topanga and some others there too; and the four of us meditated in a circle with the first user on the bed cross-legged. Dash of whitish-tannish powder in a little wooden cannabis pipe and take a hit and hold your breath and see what you see.

I only sat in the room at first, and I swear I felt his energy overlap into me. This was a far deeper trance-state than I can usually put myself in. Chackra geomatries came on strong. Tuned into his vibe. Have I experienced a hint of telepathy?

Only fifteen minutes or so, its a quick trip. Now, my turn was next. Earlier I wrote down my intentions. I wanted to see aliens. I wanted to meet Yoda. And Galactus. And the Green Lantern Corps. Dream of the Endless. Break the fourth wall and get in touch with the only reality that matters.

This is it, my first time. She, more experienced, guided me, and lighter to pipe, one hit, two hits, than BAM. I wanted to cough but I can't and she yells at me "hold it in!" and I breath inside-out and then GO GO GO

Immediately I buzz with high-speed vibrations and my eyes are closed tight, and I see vivid bluish-purplish clockwork mechanisms. The Indian music goes on repeat super-fast and the wheels behind my eyes spin faster and faster as I stare inwardly at the machinery that runs the world and everything is made out of these fucking gear turbine techos!

It turns into a tunnel and there's a light blue light above me and I try to fly into it. But I don't make it. It turns vague, and softer, and then it just like that brownish-blackish muddy color that we all usually see with our eyes closed.

I'm woozy but I'm not post-dimensional. I pranayama breathe as good I can and I'm not sure how long its been but it hasn't been that long. "What did you see?" she asks. "The clockwork mechanisms that form the world," and I explain as best I can of the machinery inside everything. Its difficult, but I ramble on and I must contextualize this.

'The Tao that cannot be named' notwithstanding, I find it important to articulate on this in human words. We may have to create a new vocabulary to describe these experiences, but so be it. I intend to make this real, and make this typable. If I have less of a trip because I can't help but think on how to write about it later, fine. If I'll never fall into a moment and ever be just out of Zen, then that is my price.

I don't want to be a burn-out, I want these experiences to mean something empirically. And I want to be the smarter for it. Not the wiser for it. Intelligence always, wishy-washy spirituality never.

Afterwards for the next few hours my language skills are failing me but I must force it out. I am in endless philosophical pseudo-babble conversation and it is great! This is the payoff, like all rituals, the ideas and networks that form after the fact are key and the experience is just a starting point.

And I watched the next girl have a turn, and she sang, and she described machine elves. And the next guy had a trip and he fell down and cried and it must have been a terror. He described the mask from the Scream Movie everywhere and falling into darkness. I think many have bad trips the first time, but I got all my terror out of the way back when I went on the ayahuasca journey.

No fear the next time, and I'd like to take a much stronger dosage. This was a beautiful taste, a movie trailor but I fell quite short of getting to the end of that transdimensional tunnel film and talking to Yoda.

The Dimethltryptamine trip goes fast, over before you know it, and though you're giddy and vibraty (though that might have been the pot too), you are pretty much sober enough to drive home afterwards.

And then, at the peak of responsibility, morning came and I barely slept and I called in sick to work. Only my second week. I should do better, but eh, nobody seems to care. I'm only a temp at this point, and its not like calling in sick at a restaurant where they suffer for it. At the office nobody misses you.

Fuckin fuck, I really need to go on a deeper DMT trip. I'm anxious. They say they'll keep in touch. I hope this develops soon. Then I'll type about it.

While I still claim to believe in nothing, I would like very much for my agnosticism to be thoroughly challenged, and I would like to meet some aliens.

Meanwhile, I grow ever tired of everyone around me and their nonsense primate behavior. Am I supposed to love everything in this Indigo quest? I try but its difficult.

I bear no ill will, but I just don't find this species interesting most of the time.

Meanwhile I have decided to become a mutant supremacist.

Gotta get that "Magneto was right" tshirt.

And type a Magneto story.

And fly inside my brain.

And figure out how it works.

And get better at using it.

And neurologically leave all this shit behind.