Eyeball-Bacteria Eggs-Suction, Bombed Nicely

Super-lame Chinese summer camp talent show!

2010-08-31T13:17:00.000-07:00

Dear America vs. Asia

2010-08-31T12:29:00.000-07:00

And Dear Expat,

Why complain so much? Sure there are real issues wrong with one country or another, but instead of worrying about poverty and human rights violations and organ harvesting the biggest complaints are over being ripped off two bucks by a taxi driver. You who have a job only because of where you come from and make ten times more money than the locals; poor you who get the wrong food ordered at the restaurant and they don’t give free refills. Such a tragedy that it isn’t exactly like the country you left. How dare a nation of billions not accommodate you. Of course, we all have our own special and unique priorities.

There is something to be said of the foreigner’s objectivity. Fresh eyes can see flaws in the culture the programed masses perhaps cannot. You may make some good points when it comes to the hygiene, for example. Or then again you may just be perpetuating programming if you never admit the home country’s flaws either…

I mean, everyone in the world is crazy in one way or another. Nowhere is perfect, and for that matter some places are far more imperfect than others. But wouldn’t it be great if world-travel brought about the promise of being open-minded? If we could see the world and grow the better for it? Experience some other points of views and all come together as a human race.

Instead it often does the opposite. Retreat back into the old culture, complain, and reinforce the old stereotypes and programings all the more. Hang out with everyone who speaks your language and complain and complain and complain.

Still fun though.

If not unfortunate.

So let us be objective, if such a thing exists. Imagine if you will, being one of these expats. Perhaps, say, in China. And imagine not going back to the home country of… let’s say America and let’s say not being there for two years. What do you think?

My friends, forgive me for being so trite and pretentions and sixteen year-old melodramticy to say it, but am I tired of America? Has the opposing small-mindedness taken over me, am I over the American dream and content to never return?

When I came to LAX and my friends drove me down the 405 to Long Beach, it was as if I never left. No reverse-culture shock, not even nostalgia exactly. Just everything exactly as it was. To be sure, it was a wonderful gift of life to see my friends and family, from Long Beach to Echo Park to Hollywood to Indianapolis to Cincinnati to Berkeley to San Francisco… but the geography just doesn’t impress me anymore… the background noise is uninteresting… and I dare say I like Shenzhen better.

Over LA, over spending money, over California beaches. Sick of everyone around me having the same accent and lack of dynamic construction and clean streets. No language challenge, minimal street food, and having to drive a car to get anywhere. I will never be over my friends, but I can be over a lot of other things.

Next time, you visit me in China ok?

----------------------

Some fun facts juxtaposing China vs. America!

(and I do like the US of A, just look and see)

-What is similar about Hong Kong and the East LA Echo Park/Silverlake area:
Being in an English-speaking country and being the white minority, being able to get by but still most people around me speak another language… sometimes in the world its Spanish sometimes in the world its Cantonese…

-What I like about the states in general:
Vegetarian food! Respect of vegetarianism and no restaurant arguments over meat!

-What I like Southern California specifically:
Mexican food, the Mexican culture’s gift to the planet Earth and absolutely the greatest food in the history of the world.

-What I like about Northern California:
Pizza’s pretty good. And, it’s so easy to by entheogenic mushrooms at that Golden Gate park…

-What I don’t like about the states:
Being asked if I’m gay all the time.

-What I do like about the states:
Not having to see shitting babies everywhere.

-What is similar about Long Beach and Guangdong Province:
Ah, to live in the center of the world. Now, downtown Long Beach appears to me to be the central of Southern California. This metropolitan locale has a plethora of bus convergance like no other: Long Beach Transit, OCTA, LA Metro – busses and the LA subway system, and even Torrance.

And that’s nice, and I do indeed dig gay-bar hopping and taking public transit to all manner of Southern California delight. Thank you Long Beach, I can go from Compton to Huntington Beach.

But on the bigger macrocosmic scale, there’s Shenzhen and there’s Guangdong Province. The economic center of the biggest province of the most populated country in the world set to take over said world. All the crap in your house was probably made somewhere nearby. Shenzhen Special Economic Zone boasts convenient travel distance from ancient city Guangzhou to glorious Hong Kong, and Dong’guan where the factories that make all that crap are, and even another touristy economic zone next to a former colony ala Zhuhai and Macau.

There’s Cally surfer accent, and then there’s Cantonese dialect.

There’s Hollywood movies and there’s Hong Kong cult cinema.

I mean, sure, California is like Guangdong, and they’re both hot and they’re both great.

Each has a special place in my heart and I’m blessed to have lived in both, but I can’t live everywhere.

So, faced with opportunities galore, which one would you choose in the end…?

My brain

2010-08-28T14:22:00.001-07:00

My brain always seems to be getting better, as it should always be with these things, but its still *my brain* and all that has every entailed.

My brain wants to be a know-it-all, and yet has never been so good at that.

My brain, the one filled with hundreds of Chinese characters and minimal conversation skills. My brain, sorry, has no memories of that time in high school when that thing that is found to be so interesting happened; and yet my brain of lovely science fictional theories and trivialisties. Brain of neurological deconstructionism and rejection of perception, brain of stew and flavour.

My brain has always preferred the abstract to the pragmatic, and virtual reality to "so-called" reality.

Media files vs. experiential data vs. neither!

We like what we like. Don't judge. Read books and drunken conversations later, brain still works.

My brain, its alright—

Anyways, I think the central point is this: I find that my memory is quite good when it comes to virtual information that I read in a book. Then I find my memory is quite bad when it comes to personal experiences that happen to me in the 'real' world. What does that mean? Which is more real?

Many more Shenzhange video tubages

2010-08-28T14:17:00.000-07:00

Adventures in ordering food, and Chris Garneau show

'My Chinese Sucks' with ray

Chinese kids, my English class =)

TV Party!

Pushing 30 Birthday Bash!

2010-08-28T14:09:00.000-07:00

Nerdin it up in Hong Kong!

2009-11-18T18:00:00.001-08:00

Ray's China, Ray's Shenzhen

2009-11-18T17:55:00.000-08:00

vs. Sean Hannity

2009-11-18T17:54:00.000-08:00

Sino-American Relations, or How to break up with your Chinese girlfriend

2009-06-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

You’ve been dating for months, and you’re a bit worried about being a cliché. You see it everywhere, at the mall, on the street: sub-par average white guy holding hands with the cute young Chinese girl. Common enough these days, but here it brings an entirely different connotation than it did back home. It’s not really cool or progressive, its more … “loser Western guy can’t get girl in home country so he comes to Asia.”

Still, you’re happy enough, but not without a certain distance that comes with such an intimate cross-cultural exchange. Oh, she speaks well enough English, and you can talk about movies and pop music and hang out at the bar. But she’s not big on conversation. She doesn’t like hanging out with your friends, and she prefers to sing those Taiwanese songs at the KTV and you’re just not good enough at Chinese to join in.

At first, the lack of introspective conversations is a relief. You never have to feel guilty for forgetting and anniversary, and that “where is our relationship going?” speech never comes. She doesn’t introduce you to her parents, even when they’re visiting. And yet somehow, there’s an anxiety. It’s not that you particularly want to go through the awkwardness of having dinner with her parents and practicing your broken Chinese as they practice their broken English. But … you’d like to asked. You’d make up an excuse not to go, of course, but you’d just like to be asked.

And there was just one fight, and all of a sudden she stops returning your calls. Not even a text message. Maybe you saw this coming for a long time, but you’re surprised at how very depressed you get. It’s not a good feeling to be disliked.

You finally confront her, and tell her she can’t ignore you like this. You go to her apartment, and you have that uncomfortable conversation. She’d rather you just leave, but you need this. Because back where you’re from, they call this closure.

And you see her from time to time, and you’re civil, and you smile, and you miss her, but you know it’s over. You hate to bitch and moan, but you’re from a therapy-ridden culture, and so your friends console you. Your hip Westernized Chinese friend tells you, “Chinese girls just want to try the foreigner guy, and when they’re finished they want to go back simple Chinese life.” Your cynical American friend who’s been through it before tells you, “Chinese girls aren’t as sentimental. They’ll just forget about you one day.”

You go to the bar, and you look at girls, maybe aim higher for a fellow foreigner girl you can get along better with, and you chalk it up to experience, and you get over it. It’s a cycle that you go through in life from time to time, but now you’ve done it in China.

You wonder if we’ll ever reconcile these subtle differences between China and the West. You wonder if we can ever truly understand each other. Will we always be destined to meet halfway, have fun, but only glaze the surface? We can get along just great, but will we ever truly connect? Well, one supposes this question can go for the whole mixed up world, but today you’re asking it in China …

Education is truly its own reward

2009-05-03T00:09:00.000-07:00

I try not to be one of those people who have nothing to talk about except their work, because these people tend to have boring conversations. But the truth is, I don’t really have much else to talk about except work. Sadly, the time to grow up and be one of those who are defined by their job.

And what a rewarding job that is. Teaching kids day in day out, with no idea how much they’ll retain and how much they care. With few exceptions (the ones that do care, and make it all worth it) these private school one-child policy products don’t really care. Foreign teacher English class is just a recess time for them to yell “Waijiao!” and “Hello!” and not pay attention. They’ll forget what little I’ve taught them the month after I’ve gone. But whatever, a job’s a job. At least I bring some entertainment value in the grueling Chinese kindergarten education system.

The last week-and-a-half has been focused on the simple English sentence “I like to eat _____!” and then pointing at the subsequent sandwich or fish picture, and magically the kids can construct a complete sentence.

And after days and days of conditioning them to say “I like to eat” without processing what that means, I have moved on to drinks. “I like to drink ____!” and then they are to say “water” or “orange juice” or whatnot.

But it can’t be that easy, because then they can’t help but saying “I like to eat-drink tea!” “I like to eat-drink soda!” I can’t get through . . . argh . . . “Bu shuo eat-drink,” I say. “Shuo I like to DRINK!” “I like to eat-drink,” they answer. “EAT-DRINK, EAT DRINK, EAT DRINK.” It’s so frustrating. I am driven crazy. Of course, it’s easiest to just do the job and go through the motions, not give a damn and teach a few nouns to show off to their parents and get a paycheck. But it’d really be nice to know that being a teacher involves true teaching.

In other news, the even smaller preschool kids are learning to say “Please” and “Thank you,” followed by “Xie xie!” And it’s so damn cute I just want to hop up and down. It’s not all bad.

Then the weekend, and I get thoroughly socialized at any number of Shenzhen bars, and then back to the cycle on Monday. But my camera is at the factory to be repaired (another frustrating story), and with my memory so hazy by dawn, hence there’s no record.

Its all quite fun, it really is. Ah, the minor adventures of everyday life. Then I wait on the bus and practice text-messaging in pinyin.

Soon it will be summer, and I’ll have to be all responsible with money and stop wasting it on taxi rides and impulse dvd purchases. I’ll have to fend for myself in the uncertain Shenzhen future. Then I’ll get a new job, and talk about that.

A fine fine day in Hong Kong

2009-03-05T07:08:00.000-08:00

Much of my time in Shenzhen is uneventful, a routine of work and minor pleasures rushed through until the relief of a wasted weekend, which comes with the familiar territory of Monday thru Friday jobs, dating back at least to Hong Kong. Still, I try to make the time for novelty, and often enough a change in the formulae comes with my monthly sojourns out to Hong Kong.

Again with the visa bureaucracy, but at least I got Monday and Tuesday off work. But first, let us begin with my Sunday night. I read in the Shenzhen Daily that a Beijing pop punk band, Recycle, would be playing a show here at the Base Bar, and even though it was a school night I’d been looking forward all week. It didn’t prove disappointing, the best rock show I’d seen yet in the fourth-and-one-half months outside of the West. Lots of friends were there, sweaty pogo-dancing and bruised moshing, expensive drinks compared to 7-11 prices but relatively cheap when I do the math and convert to US dollars. Like, thirty kuai to get in, which my first instinct is to complain but then I realize that equals less than five dollars.

Being a Sunday night, it cleared out quick. Midnight and empty, and I played pool with Olivia – two bad pool players makes for a game that takes forever, but I won for once, by virtue of the preemptive eight ball shot – and then hanging out outside smoking with Chris and talking about youtube movie ideas.

Unfortunately I got home late, and had to wake up very early the next day. It takes about two hours to get from Louhu to Tsim Sha Tsui in Hong Kong, waiting in line for customs and that nervousness when they stamp the last entry of the visa because there’s a chance they won’t let me in the country again. At least I gave my girl the spare key in case of emergency.

Tired and hungry, I went to the Sikh travel agent and paid 2000 Hong Kong dollars. Something I’ve done every two months since I’ve been here, but this time I was promised a six-month multiple entry for my troubles. No more L’s, I was to get an M! And be free! Now I had nothing left to do but wait until noon the next day to get my passport back.

Time and time to kill. By virtue of google, I’d finally learned of some American comic stores in Hong Kong, and took the train to Causeway Bay. Now, there is of course an abundance of Japanese nerd culture in Hong Kong, but most of this is translated into a language I am only in the marginal beginner stages of. Occasionally I’m lucky enough to get DVDs with poor English subtitles. But this time, I might actually catch up on Green Lantern, finish up Final Crisis, and fill the gaps in Justice Society.

It was heaven, but I spent all my money. All in all, plus buying the English editions of Naruto manga and the fascinating McMafia nonfiction real book, I spent about a thousand Hong Kong dollars (maybe 150 US), and this ever reminds me of the immense difference between my mainland Chinese salary where everything is cheap and how much things cost in a fully developed rich country. But I do what I must, and always spend too much money on books when I go to Hong Kong. Its worth it, and I make up for it in cheap bootleg DVDs back in Shenzhen.

Still, no matter how busy and cool a city, it can get quite boring in Hong Kong when I wander the same touristy Kowloon and HK Island locales every damn trip. I rarely have time to wander to the beach and surrounding islands and the more authentic Cantonese experience. I went wandering at Golden Fish Market looking for souvenirs, and window shopped all the cool anime toys in Mongkok. Eventually I met up with the couchsurfing.com people.

I was hoping for a free place to stay that night, but it was too last minute and I ended up only making it for drinks. I had sushi with Laetiticia and met up with some guys from the Netherlands and Thailand, and it was too much fun going out late at the wine bar and talking about US and Chinese politics. Well after 1:00 AM I was stranded, but I’ve been in cities before with no place to stay at this time of night and it always seems to work out. I found a cheap guest house, inbetween a hostel and motel, and it was only 150 (about twenty bucks US). With African guys drinking beers outside and call girls holding hands with Indians, it was not a good place to stay for a long time but the mattress in the small room was just right for my needs. I even got to watch some Hong Kong television.

Late at night is the only time to call overseas, and I used my HK phone to call back home. Mom wasn’t home, and I woke up Dad and talked for a while. I don’t even know how to call the US from the mainland, but I assume it’s more expensive and honestly I’m fine not talking to my family for month-long durations. It’s a nice buffer. I talked to Dad for a few minutes to catch up and say “hi I love you,” but I have the great excuse that it’s a pricey call and can’t talk long. Then I decided to call Raven, and talked for an hour. It was great; the only time I’ve called someone who wasn’t a family member, and well worth the keeping up with her. There are many friends I miss, and I try to email everyone on occasion, and Facebook is good for minor stupid comments just to remind you all that I still exist, but sometimes I require a long gossipy conversation like the old days. Raven was always my favorite to chat with.

The next day I checked out and went to get my visa. There were no complications, and I finally had it. My six-month pass, level M, with only thirty-day durations of stay but infinite multiple entries. For the next six months, I don’t have to worry. After all the troubles with the two-entries that I have to update every two months, and having to get my new passport in Guangzhou when the old one expired, and when they almost didn’t let me into Thailand, and finally I am free! No more bureaucracy until September! And we’ll just have to see where my life is at by then, and where I want to live...

I went shopping, I mailed some stupid Bruce Lee shirts back home, ate the last chance of delicious Western food before back in greasy mainland, and took the train ride back to Shenzhen thru the Louhu border. I had plenty of reading material along the way, so it wasn’t boring. With minimal problems with the new visa, though they did doublecheck to make sure it was real, and I went home. Another errand, I had to get a bank account – which the didn’t let me do because of the expired visa but this time it worked out – and then finally I was done slugging the super-heavy backpack and I was back at my apartment. It was only the morning before when I left, but it felt like I was gone for weeks. I proceeded to be completely lazy for the rest of the day, and I read some comics.

Now it’s back to the dull routines. I go to work at the different schools, I teach simple English to uncaring Chinese kids, I study Mandarin, I read on the bus, and I watch DVDs at home. And I beat myself up for not being more productive in the meantime. Really, I should work out more, meditate, do some writing. Sometimes I go to my girl Dawn’s house, sometimes she comes here, but mostly the weekdays are just a wait-out period until I can do something for myself by Saturday. This weekend perhaps ye olde expat pub, or a show, or simply catching up on my to-do list. I’ll fulfill all the social obligations, and I will checkmark the days on my calendar until the next vacation, and hope for the new, the novelty, the something interesting.

Ray has been to

2009-02-25T05:45:00.000-08:00

Thailand

McDonalds, in Shenzhen

Thrashin in Shenzhen

2009-02-24T08:37:00.000-08:00

Thrashin’ in Shenzhen
by Ray H

Among the shops of Shenzhen’s electronics district of HuaQiangBei, one can find more than just discount iPods and pirated Windows XP software. A short walk down the street will lead to Fat Tongues, the city’s sole skateboarding specialty store. Full of shoes and boards and hip hop themed t-shirts, it’s easy to forget that this is China, and an expat might mistake themselves as back in their hometown’s suburban mall.

The owner of the shop goes by Xiao Feng – meaning Little Wind – but like most Chinese he also has a Western name that’s easier to pronounce. His expat friends call him “Thrasher,” he’s twenty-five, in debt, and determined to give his scene a voice in Shenzhen.

Running his own business since he was nineteen, he found local investors and started his own place. “When I started I had no information. Just for three years, push, push, and push more.” Thrasher, who taught himself English from watching American movies, pessimistically describes his industry with a sense of humor. “Business is so bad. (I had) no experience.” And he’s not optimistic about the future. “(Most) only come to my shop to buy shoes.”

Shenzhen had no specialty shops of the kind when he began skating at twelve, and he had to buy his wooded skateboards at the sporting goods market. “Shitty boards,” he says. Even just a decade ago China was decidedly less open, and his parents were not supportive. “I have to hide my skateboard, (when I lived) at home. The culture here . . . the parents stop you. ‘You can’t.’ ‘It’s dangerous.’” Cynical of China’s government and culture, he’s not shy to criticize. “Education sucks. Everyone (is) brainwashed.”

But Thrasher also makes money as a professional skater, sponsored by Gift Skateboards and Shanghai-based Quicksilver. Hopeful to get an Adidas contract soon, he periodically films his own videos for the sponsors. And while there may be no official skate-park in the city, that’s never stopped kids from skating where they want anywhere else. “At the park, Book City . . . not one spot.” Shenzhen, full of young buildings and marble parking lots, even boasting a naive police force that has yet to give out tickets for loitering, has quickly become a haven for skaters across the country. “Every pro-skater comes to Shenzhen,” Thrasher smirks the Shenzhen local.

But when it comes to getting shredded on the street – injuries being a source of price to skaters the world over – Thrasher isn’t a fan of the average Chinese citizen’s attitude. “Chinese people have no respect. If you do something different, they just watching. When I fall, 80% people laugh at me. They don’t fucking respect. ‘You try,’ I tell to them. ‘Motherfucker,’” he laughs.

Still, his shop has survived for the last six years, and is even expanding with plans to build a mini-ramp on the property. While it isn’t easy to set up plans with China’s notoriously bureaucratic local government, it’s obvious that Thrasher isn’t in it for the business glory. China’s economic future may depend on businessmen and entrepreneurs raising the national GDP, but the culture on a whole may be better served by values deeper than high profit margins. Some are in because they love what they do, and that can be enough. “I don’t give a shit,” Thrasher proudly rips. “I just skate.”

Bureaucracy Part II

2009-01-24T07:57:00.000-08:00

It’s a nerve-wracking feeling to know, that if you don’t do the paperwork just right, you may be kicked out of a country.

But I’m alright now. I know you worry though, so here’s the ever-progressing story:

After my near-bust Hong Kong trip last month, where the countdown timer on my exploding passport began to tick away, I had only three months left. I proceeded to book an appointment online with the American consulate in nearby Guangzhou. Because there is no American embassy in Shenzhen, I had a choice between familiar HK, costing me one duration-of-stay stamp, or go to the new city and stay in the proper mainland People’s Republic.

Guangzhou. The third-largest city in China. For some reason it used to be called “Canton” by the old British Imperialists, though I don’t see the phonetic similarity. Or maybe that goes for the province of Guangdong, but it still doesn’t sound right. Of course, this is where “Cantonese” comes from, the English butchering of Guangdong hua. Anyways, they speak Mandarin, or rather Pudong hua, in Shenzhen. I don’t know the etymology of “Mandarin” either.

Time to explore Canton. I woke up at 6:00 AM on January 22nd hoping to make it to a 2:00 appointment in the neighboring town. Half-asleep, I took the 83 bus down to the Louhu border train station, anxious to could figure out all this travel in time. It turned out to be simple enough; the trains come every fifteen minutes and 80 kuai later I took the 45-minute above-ground railway passage. The only word I needed to know to buy the ticket: “Guangzhou.” Smoother than waiting in line in customs to get to Hong Kong.

The security guy woke me up and I found myself in a new Chinese city. East Guangzhou Station. 9:00 AM. Hours and hours to kill. Wasn’t difficult to get around. More people speak English, good English, even the cashier at McDonalds. I could get by on my Mandarin too. And a much cleaner city than Shenzhen. The taxis have rules posted on the back. Not so much litter. I guess this is an average Middle Chinese city (like Middle American), but I prefer SZ’s zaniness.

After my Egg McMuffin breakfast, I bought a tourist map and just walked about. Shopping centers are boring in the morning, until I found a big bookstore. It’s no Hong Kong here, so the best I could hope for were English-language classics for Chinese students. I bought Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities.

For lunch I met my workmate friend, who’s back in her hometown for the Spring Festival. Went to a mall. Ate Italian food. I don’t like Chinese malls, for the same reason I don’t like American malls, and here they’re even worse. Bigger, shinier, plasticyer. Why go to a mall in China, when there are so many dirty open-air market to haggle for knock-offs in?

My workmate buddy helped me get to the American Embassy, and it turned out to be right back next to the train station. Good to know for the next time. I made sure to be there an hour early, and wandered around some more, and got lost in Ikea. Finally, I filled out the paperwork fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment. I’d been putting it off for a week, but like a college paper due in the morning, the last-minute always seems to bring a motivation I can never find anywhen else.

The fifth floor of the office building, filled with travel agencies and currency exchanges, led me to the American Consulate. Filled with white Americans, even a few black people, and Chinese-speakers with American passports, I went through the metal detector and took a number and waited in line. After all that nervousness and they rushed through my paperwork and 2 x 2 photos like a toll road booth taking your three bucks during rush hour. They were in such a hurry they barely looked at my form. Unlike waiting in line with the Chinese bureaucrats, they could have cared less what I was doing in the country. My whole rehearsed “I’m not working, just staying with a friend . . .” line was an unnecessary memorization. The Americans just want you to pay the fees and get through to the next guy, and apparently they don’t care if I’m paying my taxes or not. Hell, I’m not sneaking into their country am I? The only rule was to turn off your cell phone.

I was directed to wait in the other line at the cashier station, where they take RMB, and then waited back in line # 35 again, and then I was told to come back in a week to get my sparkling new passport. I do get to keep the battered old one in the meantime. I’ll have to somehow make the time to return soon, possibly miss work for it after holiday ends. Well, no problems, otherwise done and done, so I thought about more time to kill.

The day was still on, and I looked at the tourist map and thought about my workmate’s suggestions, and decided to do a bit more sightseeing while somewhere new. Took a metro to the Chen Ancestry Temple, and watched some of the inauguration news on the subway TVs. My only chance to see Obama on a TV screen these days. Then it was time to absorb some traditional Chinese culture. It’s so rare to see pointy buildings in modern China, always an exciting observation. The folk museum was alright, amazing art, and English translations of ancient Cantonese history. I took pictures. Bought postcards. Then it was dark, then I took the train back, went to a shitty vegetarian restaurant, read my Gibson paperback, and nodded off on the return train ride to SZ.

Back home, there was dog drama to deal with. My neighbor couldn’t take care of my girlfriend’s dog after all, something about fighting with cats and lots of pee on the floor you see, so now I get to have a dog for a week. XiaoYu (Small Rain), a cute pup, albeit very needy, and now I am to be a responsible dog owner for a week, while Mommy is off to Changshu for the Spring Fest. Such a good boyfriend, eh? I’d like to think.

So now I wait for the last few steps in my visa-bureaucracy adventures. As noted: it’s back to Guangzhou in the coming weeks for a passport that doesn’t expire this year, and then finally to Hong Kong for that treasure-at-the-end-of-the-rainbow (or light-at-the-end-of-tunnel, just pick your clichés) . . . to my promised six-month multiple-entry visa.

I’ll actually be able to relax for the next half-year, and know assuredly that I get to stay here. And meanwhile, I’m also going to Thailand next week, because I have to leave the country once a month anyways, and it only right there. Tickets are cheap and work is off and the sirens of travel sing to me. It’s the last chance of a new stamp in a proud old passport, you do see, soon to be put to the rest, but deserving of one more foreign ink blot. Like the New Year’s killing of the Mouse and coming of the Cow, all things must end, and there comes the time to build on the new. I’ll miss the old girl, but such is this life game, and I’m ever-anxious for the new.

the album should have been called “Chinese Bureaucracy"

2009-01-03T20:32:00.000-08:00

Do the Chinese visa hustle. It's the latest craze. And when you live in the nightclub that is Shenzhen, you got to learn the steps quick. Lately I've become an expert in this dance . . .

First you go to Hong Kong to get a Category L permission slip, then you stand in line at the LouHu port and fill out arrival/departure cards, and it helps if you memorize your passport number.

When I first arrived here in the People's Republic I mailed my passport to the travel agency in San Francisco via my company sponsorship, and they did all the work. But thirty days later I was unfortunately informed that my time was already up. So I had to start shuffling my feet. My Canadian neighbor hooked me up with the agency she prefers, down in nearby pseudo-sovereign Hong Kong, and since then I've done it all myself. The school didn't do a thing but reimburse me the 1500 HK Dollars weeks later on payday. Such are the hazards unlicensed English teaching.

I got a six month, two entry, thirty day duration of stay. With the bureaucratic ripples of the Beijing Olympics still trickling, it's hard to stay in the country indefinitely. Though the rules change every few months, unpredictably but hopefully more lax each time. But for me and my lack of a work visa - being paid under the table without declaration to the mainland Chinese government - the overnight visas us Americans can get wasn't the best of deals. It says six months, but if I wish to stay in the mainland the entire time it's really only two, because a six-month pass only works in thirty day durations, and two entries was the maximum at the time.

I must stay overnight, take the train back, wait in customs lines, and two months later do it all over again. Cut to last week, my sixty days up: I learned the rules had been slightly changed. Americans can now get six months with multiple entries, meaning that although I have entertain the hassle of bouncing from the mainland to pseudo-abroad Hong Kong every thirty days, I can purchase just this one visa for the whole six months.

But there was another option, a new dance riff to jump to. One can also go to the local immigration office to apply for an extension on one's duration of stay. Best to stretch this out, and apply for another twenty days. And this too first requires registration at the DongXiao police station as a foreign resident before applying elsewhere. Armed with paperwork procured by a kind Chinese friend, I took off work on Monday the 29th to hitch a taxi up to my district's police station. Filled out more paperwork, mercifully the forms in English, lied about my employment, and they stamped my 2 X 2 photo. I was now officially in the system.

Step eighteen: at the government office near the iconic Di Wang Da Sha building - Shenzhen's tallest structure - I took a number and waited. And waited. And when they finally called up "F08" the English-speaking office worker told me . . . presently they will not do extensions for Americans. The rules might change in the future, but they just don't do that right now. You'll have to go to Hong Kong tomorrow and get a new visa.

At least I planned for this contingency. Pushing this to the ultimate last minute, the HK travel agency would be open on the 30th and 31st but closed on New Years day. So I called off work once again and made the old tourist trek to busy Nathan Road in touristy Kowloon. With little sleep and lots of waiting, RNB Travels took my money for the urgent one-day clearance, and all that was left was to wait for the next afternoon. I made sure to take a receipt.

New Year's Eve, the day representing the closing of the year of 2008 by way of Gregorian A.D., not the Chinese New Year yet though. And in what I hope is not prescient of next year's patterns, this day was defined by further bureaucratic fumbling. It turned out that my passport expires in five-and-one-half months. Therefore I couldn't get the six month multiple-entry. I could only get a three month two-entry.

I recall ten years back when I was sixteen, and I ordered this passport from the Post Office in the suburbs of Cincinnati. In the years since I've earned stamps from Ben Gurion, Kansai, London Gatwick, and Hong Kong International. These decorated pages will be gone soon. A more sentimental man might be nostalgic. But I have more cynical things to worry about, because just my luck, the passport had to expire while I was already living abroad.

So while I'm safely in my SZ apartment today, having arrived just in time to party at midnight last Wednesday, I know I have to get this taken care of in the next few weeks. The American consulate was closed in Hong Kong that New Year's Eve, and while there isn't one in Shenzhen the next town over of Guangzhou has an American flag raised somewhere high. The sixty day counter is ticking.

I can only hope the school will reimburse me this many times over. While other foreigners with teaching degrees get to relax comfortably, as their schools take care of the work visas - Category Fs I believe - I'll still have to do this all myself. It's not very professional. But it's all worth it to continue the experience life here in China; and the bureaucratic dance is just another part of the culture to study. Hope I can keep up the pace.

China Cultural Review: How do you say "Bah Humbug" in Chinese?

2008-12-22T02:56:00.000-08:00

Here in this land of minimal Christian influence . . . with few white Europeans, a Christian migrant population is almost nil, a and government interference heeds religious expression in the public sphere.

And yet, in the spirit of neo-capitalist progressiveness, never is there a shortage of Santa Claus-esque marketing. Global Economic Crisis or not, the spirit of Christian Consumerism fills the shopping malls and department stores - with sales, gimmicks, and children begging for toys. Completely void of respect for Jesus’ birth, the bright red colors of the Coca Cola approved Saint Nick abounds the freeways and shop walls, with holiday muzak tunes classy restaurants, fake Christmas trees where palm trees grow, and even cardboard cut-outs of snowmen in a city that has never seen snow.

I could be speaking of Southern California in the above, but this is Christmas time in Shenzhen, China. The Spring Festival and Chinese New Year approach, but in an attempt to modernize, and, of course, get people to buy shit, here I witness some strange facsimile of a Western Christmas celebration, in the very city that all those ‘Made in China’ toys are made in.

It all seems so unnecessary. An expat American foreigner in China might have expected to be spared of this annual ritual, but that would have been naïve. It doesn’t matter if anybody goes to church, just like the States, it only matters that we buy presents. While more about souvenirs and cheap DVDs than a big turkey dinner with your family, the unnecessary caroling by primary school children rings somehow hollow. “We wis yoo a mewwy Kissmass!” in broken English accent. The missionaries here must wonder: how saved are these souls?

But its not all homesick Holiday cheer here; there are still at least two clear differences remaining between a Christmas in Los Angeles and Shen Dan in Shenzhen. One: without a politically correct media and substantial Jewish population, we are spared the required “Happy Holidays” over “Merry Christmas.” There is no knowledge of Hanukkah in this town. No Menorah next to the reindeer ads. No scrounging for Hanukkah symbols in the name of equal time. Difference Number Two: Most regrettable of all, I still have to work on Christmas day. Yet, for a Jew familiar with the old-time tradition of eating Chinese food on December 25th when everything else is closed, it’s not so bad.

Ah well, the Chinese love to buy and receive gifts, and yet another cultural export amongst the hip hop videos and Hollywood movies is as good an opportunity as any. It always comes down to globalization in Shenzhen, and this bootlegged holiday is only one of many Western infiltrations into ancient Middle Kingdom culture. As long as it doesn’t detract too much from the domestic flavor of local flair, there are worse fates than Cathay. So off I go, to search the malls of Mixx City, bargain for knockoff namebrands in Dongman, dig for electronics in HuaQiangBei, and haggle down the yuan for that scarf on sale at the streetcorner on Buxin Road, and if anyone asks what Santa Claus has to do with Jesus, well, you should’ve known better than to not have expected that question. It’s not just that secular American holiday anymore, it’s a global shop day. Mewwy Kissmass.

China Cultural Review: the Cathays, Pornography, and Bootleg DVDs

2008-12-15T20:55:00.000-08:00

China, like any land worth being written about, is a land of contradiction. Simultaneously utterly conservative and yet rushing into modernization, the dinosauric Communist authority waddles far behind the rapid economic development. Somewhere in-between lies the social evolution of the average Middle Kingdom citizen.

Nowhere is this more apparent than the "Special Economic Zone" that began this headlong rush into neo-capitalist moderndom: Hong Kong's experimental sister-city Shenzhen. Founded by the great reformer Deng Xiaoping less than thirty years ago, the Southernmost city boasts a highest per-capita income than Beijing. A city where everyone is from somewhere else, here to make money, and quite a younger demographic. And they like to get off.

As any media analyst of the internet will tell you, as good a benchmark as any of a culture's shifts in attitudes is pornography.

How is media-sexuality represented in Shenzhen? Unlike nearby Hong Kong, with its still British western attitude and laws, there are no Penthouses for sale in the liquor stores of Shenzhen. There are few sex shops, admittedly, but they require immense digging to uncover. No "classy" Hustler Store. No hipster porn scene to shop at with your girlfriend. No erotica section of the bookstore, no backroom of the family video store.

Still, the oldest profession is barely obfuscated beneath the shadiest of massage parlors. Though most of them quite legitimate - the Chinese do like their spas - there is an obvious subtext to the ones with skimpy outfitted girls in shoddy neighborhoods. But prostitution and hand-jobs are not the subject of this writing.

A culture is as defined by its media as it is by its call girls. Yet China has some ways to go before they have a homegrown media of their own to be proud of. Hong Kong cinema aside, and the occasional internationally renowned mainland film by Zhang Yimou or Chen Kaige, the bloody history of this post-Communist nation has stilted the growth of an adequate film/tv/pornography industry.

Hence bootleg DVDs' immense popularity. On every street corner you will find openly sold in flat paper cases: Hollywood blockbusters still in theaters, American B-movies never released in the States, every season of your favorite show, Hong Kong action stars on display, and Japanese anime for the kids; all burnt at home, the studios not making a dime in residuals, and purchase at your own risk because it might not even play when you get home. But this is no problem when several movies over costs ten to thirty yuan, amounting to only a handful of dollars.

This neo-Capitalist attitude of movies on demand, legality be damned, certainly extends to porno as well as the mainstream. Purely for research purposes, this writer felt it necessary to purchase these street-corner illicets. The stack of boxes might innocent at first, but give the seller a second look and he may show you the secret stash underneath.

A random set of discs was purchased, the title in unreadable Chinese. Cute cartoon girls on the cover. Upon going home and inserting into the laptop, it was discovered that for only ten yuan - one dollar something - two discs were in possession a total of eight hours of hardcore animated pornography. Each film with completely random language selections; some with homemade Chinese subtitles, some even English dubbed and bootlegged from the American exports, and most only in untranslated Japanese. This other Asian culture, homegrown and unique, is known for their strange fetishes, and violent sexual images of school girls and dungeons and fantasy and tentacles and animated penises were all presented before the modest 14 inch laptop. Suffice to say, while perhaps not turned on, one can be very morbidly fascinated by these things.

And here in Shenzhen it is against the law to sell such. But, in the spirit of capitalism and modernism, the Chinese do not care. Powered by the dynamic spirit of human freedom, and the still-evolving media technologies of cheap DVD burning, the modern Chinese youth have broken free of past conditionings by society and state, and have joined the global culture. The globalist dream, extending to America's famous export of Hollywood, and Japanese porn as well.

God and HK

2008-11-07T02:54:00.000-08:00

God really wants me to hate Hong Kong.

God doesn't care if I like mainland China or not. There have been no direct affairs into my life. Sometimes I have minor good luck, sometimes bad, but little happens that is interesting.

As the mainstream Christian/Western theology of Augustine states, God created this world and then let us alone. He doesn't care. He lets it be.

And this is why I don't care to write about Shenzhen. There is no divinity, good or bad. It just is.

Occasionally though, forces in the universe intervene, and you fall in love or have a rotten day or win money or get your shit stolen. Good or bad, you sense the supernatural.

That's why I like to travel. That's when I sense something. At home, wherever I happen to call "home" at the time" nothing ever happens.

So: fuck Shenzhen. Damn my life of walking to work and entertaining small children and minor drama. Oh, I could write about the mainland. I could write and write. About the slightly interesting people around me, the white and Asian alike. The Chinese work ethic than I can't live up to (the teachers here work far more hours for far less money and I don't know how they do it). The babies peeing in the streets like dogs. The beautiful smog. The lack of ADD diagnosis - a good thing - as all these loud brats here would be surely hooked on ritalin back in the dreary States. The vagueness of my curriculum. The mustering of energy.

And the evolution of the world, as predicted by Neal Stephenson (but sadly without the romantic flairs of an anarchic post-governmental structure, most likely) - our future as "Hi-Tech Third World." You know that's how it will be in America, and I assure its closer than ever here.

To those in the know: I swear I live in a bloody burbclave!

And yet there's a freedom here in not carrying my ID, my papers, never ever been carded by bars or by authorities; as opposed to communist America.

The lack of free media. The lack of porn. (As thoroughly documented and proven by the internet, all subsequent information technologies from Gutenberg up are to come with an exponential increase in pornographics. Yet the statist government blocks this natural progression) No porn here, and yet still those seedy massage parlors...

I need to get my own computer already, and do that proxy server thing I've heard about.

Anyways

God really wants me to hate Hong Kong.

But, I flatly refuse.

I came off the train way too early in the morning, after waiting in line at customs and buying expensive train ticket-cards. Hong Kong is basically its own country you see, with money to exchange and declaration lines to wade through. Its pricey there, in Hong Kong dollars.

So then I stepped out into the East Tsim Sha Tsui station, armed with tourist map and printed directions to the underground visa shop where I was to pay the Indian guy and get to stay in the country longer, and it was raining so bad.

Terrible downpour. The worst I'd experienced in years. This is tsunami land, and I'll probably experience worse yet soon, but dammit I was spoiled by California weather all those years.

I was drenched immediately. Rain like this is worse than being submerged fully clothed. Its sticky. It won't end. I'm fragile, I don't like.

So I had to buy an umbrella. Then I went to the Chungking Mansions and went to the travel company where you get to buy visas. There's something strange about it, but that's how it works if you live in Cathay and you're not from there.

Its Hong Kong, such diverse and international flair, and I waited in line behind the Africans and Hindis and Canadians. I like international towns. Again, Hong Kong is so different than the mainland.

And then it turned out that I didn't bring enough money. I was several hundred Hong Kong dollars short. And this was after exchanging every cent (yuan) I own. Apparently American passports are the priciest of all. I don't think being born in Israel helps either. And though its a six month visa, its only two months entry and I have to leave at least once a month, and that means every two months I have to do this all over again.

I had to go to a payphone, in the rain, and call my "boss" person. I didn't even know how to call long distance, I had to figure this all out asking random people. People speak English there though. So different. And, armed with no working cell phone here, I had to call a friend of a friend to borrow five hundred HK dollars from. Meet at a trainstop at 5:00 - hours and hours later - with no phone and hope it works out.

To do this visa thing you have to stay overnight. You pay extra just to get in processed in one day. I mean, I couldn't even go back and forth if I wanted to but I had to get in by the next day. Thankfully, Indian dude was nice and let me pay partial. They say because of the Beijing Olympics it was even worse a few months ago, but I hope they make the rules easier soon. What's the harm in just letting me stay in your damn country?

Soaking wet and stressed from the bureaucracy, I now had six hours to kill. Fun times. I know no one in this city. I'm almost totally broke. Ah yes, and I mean that with no sarcasm, its a good feeling and it was the time to explore.

Fed by cheap Indian food, with the rain mercifully having let up, I wandered. I took out my tourist map and train cartograph and scribbled places of recommended spots. I epically window shopped at Nathan Road. I looked outside the museums, and found a public library (a public library! They don't have those in the communist mainland), and I peed and read magazines and checked my email.

I found Avenue of the Stars. Its a bootleg Hollywood starwalk, but actually nice. With a statue glorious of Bruce Lee; and starprints of such Hong Kong cinema stars as Wong Kar-Wai, Jet Li, and Jackie Chan. I think I may have recognized more names than the outdated 1940s stars on the LA Boulevard.

Kowloon park where the junkies bug you and the birds are beautiful. Harbor City mall where everything is far too expensive for me to have a chance of buying anything. Took the train to the other side, Central HK island, found North Point. And many other places that I can neither pronounce nor recall how to spell.

I love Asian cities. They're so ridiculously huge. While the biggest thing in America is probably Times Square, compact crowds to drive you mad, a proper Asian city seems to have dozens of Times Squares. I can only speak for Shenzhen, Hong Kong, and Osaka, but none of those are even the biggest cities of their respective countries. Everywhere is a downtown, multistory, gleaming lights, rotting future. I like this cyberpunk science fiction landscape.

Hong Kong is an amazing country. As said, its basically its own country. Sorta China, not Britain anymore, its own thing with its own money and travel rules. Ethnically diverse, helpful to English speakers, but still weird and Asian. I can eat food. I'm not stared at as the only white guy (or at least, less so). And a diversity of landscapes: mountains and beaches and inlands.

I say this everytime I visit a new city, and I always mean it, but I really want to move here. Its so expensive though. But how did all these other people make it? Like, how does that guy from New Jersey working at the fast food place afford rent and travel? I need sponsorship, or something. I need an in.

And so at 5:00 I went to the last stop of that line at Chai Wan or somesuch, and met this lady and borrowed money. I get paid on Monday and have much to de-lend. Then I went all the way north to Tai Po market to meet at the couchsurfing.com pad I was to stay at. I played some video games up there, searched the new area, met some Austrian chicks that were also staying, ate junk food and so on.

Next day was shorter. I had a good couchsurf, wrote a review, and parted ways with the other travellers, and made my way back to East Tsim Sha Tsui. I paid and I made it. Another near miss for Ray. But it always works out. Who knows how close to deportation I was. It would have sucked, because all my stuff is back at the apartment. Ahhh... these minor adventures... like that time waiting in line in Israel to make sure I wouldn't be drafted just for being there, and when I forgot my passport but they still let me out of Mexico, and when that British guy yelled at me at Heathrow for having a ripped up passport and said he didn't have to let me in (I still have that same passport, but I've glued it since then).

The bureaucracy isn't over yet. I didn't get a receipt. I am a special kind of idiot, although this, unlike the weather and the economy, can only be blamed on me and not God. So I've emailed and called back and forth to get a scanned jpg version of receipt, and I might get reimbursed, but I still have much stuff to work out.

And then I caught a cold. No doubt from the rain I wasn't used to. Last night I had the worst sleep ever. I couldn't breathe. All night in a cold sweat half-awake with interrupted fever dreams. I felt like that scene in Trainspotting. Should be a fun weekend now.

Oh yes. And the voting. I must say there is a part of me that's glad I'm not in America and not forced to be a news junkie. Doesn't seem real. Well, good for Obama. There's not much I feel inclined to say. He's a lesser evil but he's no Messiah. I'm not comfortable with it. But whatever, much has been written already.

I wish my land the best, but I just hope America can stay cynical. Its our greatest cultural strength.

I mean, if we can't hate the President, than just what's the point?

So... America and all that... but I'm not there...

what matters is all and naught and inbetween

2008-10-01T17:21:00.000-07:00

I am sitting uncomfortabely at the Madiera branch library, wondering what to do next. I took one little hit of acid and walked to the woods and finished - just in time - my Illuminatus! book. I like that the last page I read (in a slightly different order) mentioned the city of Cincinnati, but these minor synchronicities haven't given me much enlightenment as yet. While my pupils are opened and the world is just a little bit more colorful, it isn't really such a big deal. I'd like an experience for once that is a big deal.

There appears to be a microcosm of everyone's life sucking - at least in my family - and a "as above, so below" thing of the world sucking. And while my brother is a drug addict and my sister is crazy - and while the world's economy goes asunder and everyone's worried about the End of America - - - who bloody cares?? Its alright. Because its not that big a deal.

So I shall go dancing tonight in western downtown. I am lucky enough to have friends to drive me around. I shall fly to China on Friday and then perhaps life will be totally different. Meanwhile in time's other linear direction, yesterday I checked out Indianapolis and hung out with my Indiana family. Eh, not much to report. They are happy, they are sad, they are distant, and I argued a whole lot with my father. I love him so. Happy Rosh Hashana!

Yet, it is good to get these social obligations out of the way. No man may escape his genetic heritage. Though I think I get along best with the in-laws I'm not technically related to. And, as said, my brother is the biggest stoner in the world. He's not unique in that regard. He's just another kid in a world filled with loser bored kids who fuck and get high and do the bare minimum in slacker jobs and community college. Can't blame him. Only a product of his environment. Just do not be surprised. Eh, he'll be alright.

And I am no better, though THC is not preference, I was digging the midwest area for some psilocybin mushroom experience. I may not get another chance over in that communist country you understand (and they better not read this). But he sold me some acid, for a fair familial price, and just don't tell my dad.

I went to the woods and I await a night of dancing, one more hit hidden in my cigerette packet, and I guess I should draw something brilliant or write something obscene (does this count?), but instead I think I'll read some comics or something. Then go home and watch sitcoms. Contemplate the universe inbetween. The one-ness of the mundane.

Surely, if the mundane is divine than nothing is divine. Whether or not divinity is an abritrary linguistic emptiness of my own subjective judgment, or just maybe on the chance that divinity is objective reality. Lysergic acid diethylamide, show me the way!

And I wonder why I don't get anywhere? So so so, I'll read American Born Chinese and Hagbard Celine and stare at these library people. The adolescent black girls doing homework. The dumb teenage kid on Facebook next to me on the left. To my right, an old man looking at gay craigslist ads. I am nosy. Be careful when you sit next to me. I shall post it to all.

"What to do with oneself," I ponder . . .

No depression, but I will admit to a little bit of anxiety. Sexually, politically, socially, artistically, creatively, aesthetically; it is all the same:

LUV LUV LUV

like that song

I want to fall in love with everybody and I want the truth to be infinite and I want everybody to understand and then only then everybody would fall in love with me and if everbody shifted their reality tunnels with highway byway connections maybe we'd get along, but if we got along all those politicians would be out of the job, and my dad wouldn't get to hate those other people on that other side of the war, and we'd have nothing to talk about, and talking about shit when you disagree is kinda fun

ANYWAYS,
there is some kind of unspeakable truth under the surface. Can you not feel it. Do linguistics not fail us?

How can we connect?

Ignore me, I rant

///ray

Riding the Synchronicity Wave

2008-09-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

My last days in Long Beach weren't stressful, but they should have been. I didn't care, and took my time packing. When you pack to move, its not worth doing so unless you do it at the last minute. I mean, you need your computer. You need to wear your best clothes. Listen to music. Keep all your stuff for as long as you can hold on.

I was told we'd be leaving on the 12th, a Friday, but then J.D. turned it into the 10th, a Wednesday. Finally we left on the 11th, a Thursday. (There would be much obstacles to scheduling on this trip, and all I can ever to is to happily flow with it.) Fine compromise. Ominous day . . . 9/11.

My hair, unwashed. I rushed to finish my comics from the library - Y The Last Man and Alan Moore's Wildcats. I packed my books except for a pile to take on the road, and began my re-read Illuminatus (which I last re-read on the train to California three years ago). First I packed my media mail, two days before leaving. Tons of books and a few movies and cds; and also art and printed writings that I could fake as media mails. Heavy trip to the post office later, and I'm 150.00 poorer. Then at the last minute - before learning the last minute would be delayed a day - I shipped my clothes and computer and UPS wasn't the cheapest after all so it was another 200.00 post office to mail that shite. It all only just arrived at my mother's house recently.

I would have liked to have a party, but nobody wanted to come. Raven called me on the phone, and Jenn came down to Long Beach to visit. I said bye to Alex and Alan and Ramsey multiple times before leaving for real, and then one Thursday afternoon J.D. called me on my phone as he lay at my doorstep in a ridiculously tightly packed little Volvo.

And there was a cat! I didn't realize we'd be traveling with a cat the whole time. My allergies. Actually, Mia was a good cat and I got along well. Often times I find myself crashing at a friend's house with cats and I sneeze and such at first, horridly uncomfortable, but by the time I wake up I'm relatively cured. Some cats I can get used to, and Mia was indeed one of them. Even though she had to stay within the front seats the entire week-long trek, standing on my lap, meowing nicely, but few sicknesses.

We drove and drove and drove. 22 to 605 through Orange County (no LA-Hollywood pit stops unfortunately, no more goodbyes) to 10 through Riverside. Somewhere outside of Indio I had to use my food stamp EBT card to buy a hundred bucks worth of dry junk food, as it was my last chance within the state of California. And we switched off driving, and had to dig for local radio music and AM talk shows to sustain us. Funny story: first we had the portable CD player but we couldn't find batteries. Then when we found batteries we bloody couldn't find that CD player at all. J.D. is a DJ and had a million CDs and tons of music files on his computers/external hard drives, but no iPod/mp3 player. Although we could play from his laptop, and lovingly did (although it was burdensome on the passenger rider's lap), but then the plug-cigarette lighter didn't work and the laptop ran out of power too. Finally bought one at a Wal Mart in a small town in Texas (one of those super centers that take over the whole town, which I'd hate to shop at but its J.D.'s bag). Late into the trip, finally a music choice. J.D. played his four-hour mix, and I also enjoyed Infected Mushroom.

First state: Arizona. This route would introduce me to many new states. We went to J.D.'s dad and stepmom's beautiful home outside of Phoenix. It was cumfy at night, but in the day quite hot. An elegant house in the desert. Lots of lizards. Super-kind family who really wanted to feed the hell out of me.

Sometimes I'm uncomfortable around rich people. These people weren't that rich I suppose, but way more middle class than I'm used to and it really was a beautiful house. But lately I wasn't so uncomfortable around such people. In fact, the whole universe seemed on my side of late. Its hard to contextualize, but in certain regards there was no more anxiety, just a smooth riding of the synchronicity wave that brought me to Arizona in the first place. I had nice conversations with everyone, except maybe the bratty little sister, and they seemed to like me, and they even had cable TV which is a luxury I've missed for years now. Watched cartoons and the news mostly.

But the biggest obstacle of all: Hurricane Ike. Why must the very first time I ever stay in Texas I have to worry about hurricanes? Well these things always take longer than planned, though we planned as safely as possible, and decided to not even leave until late so we could specifically get there on Sunday when the storm might pass. Later we went to J.D.'s friend's place nearby, as I learned that almost all his friends are cat-people. Mia, who had a big problem not peeing on the road, got to use a litter box. It was cool to hang out for a bit around Phoenix but we didn't crash, and we checked the weather carefully, and then we began the long drawn-out drive to Texas.

Fourteen hours of endlessness. You hallucinate on the road. You truly do. J.D. dozed off next to me and I counted away the hours, one cigarette every :30, and begged for something decent to come on the radio. I became very grateful for decent reception of the plainest oldies station. Perspectives flattened, lights on billboards turned into cars. Clouds turned into trees. Sizes didn't make any sense. Four hours in and I had to wake my buddy up, tell him to drive.

In the morning we pulled into Fredericksburg, where cell phone reception was minimal, and drove through the small town desperate to communicate with Sarah to figure out how to get to her ranch. Somehow we made a connection, and she'd meet us in a corner, and then we waited a while and the cat walked around outside and then I met Sarah.

I don't really like nature. Its dull. Its a nice scenery to be sure, and then you're over it quick, and then I'm just bored. But I should embrace what I can, wherever I am, especially when letting go of control and going wherever I am taken. So the flow took me to a ranch in Fredericksburg and that's where I hung out the next two days. Sarah's parents were ridiculously nice, like many Middle America people on this trip (I'm so very not used to it), and fed the hell out of me. We all went hiking, and smoked cigarettes and other things, and observed the unique plants and animals and there was giant piles of cow shit everywhere. Sarah was nice, and I guess she used to be a raver chick back in her and J.D.'s college heyday but nowadays she seemed more nerdy and shy. Kind of an anime geek, and I can totally relate.

We shot guns while drunk, my very virgin first, a .22 caliber rifle. We drove around the acrage in a beaten-up ol pickup truck which had a broken right door. I checked my email on their old computer, a priority. Observed the old Texan architecture. Ate fresh tomatoes. We watched Independence Day the first night while I was a bit altered-stated and I wouldn't shut up, deconstructing the hell out of it. J.D. went to his Grandma's the next day, and I switched up my luggage and stuff to her car.

I was kind of confused. Did Sarah live here? I wanted to go to Austin too. Turned out that Sarah was only here for the weekend and indeed lived in North Austin. After being fed homecooked meals yet again, we went down there. She drives really fast. Manual, something I still have yet to learn how to do.

J.D. had a ton of music stuff to do with his college buddies in Texas, and I was to crash at Sarah's place for the following two weeks. I depend so much on the kindness of acquaintances lately. To give me a floor and a roof, to buy me beers, to drive me around. Right now at this juncture in my life, though I very much make sure I make it up to people in gas money, I am quite a freeloader. But Karmic balance isn't about paying back the exact amount you were given to that particular individual, its about knowing that someday you'll do the same for someone else. That's why Raven lived with me for two months and didn't pay rent. That's why CouchSurfing is so great, to host and to surf (of which I've done exactly one time of both). That's why we all mooch off our parents and know that one day the next generation will do the same to us.

Anyways, the first night into a real city Sarah knew some friends going to a little redneck bar in North Austin, and I was invited along to play pool or whatever. Her friends were cool I suppose. One thing to note: while overall everywhere in America is pretty much the same there is one inherent difference between people in Austin and people in Hollywood. Sarah has a friend who's a professional drummer and toured with Poison recently. She was the one who mentioned it, and I hung out with the guy and he didn't name-drop at all. There is no question that if I was hanging out with musicians in Los Angeles they would casually bring up their amazing contacts within the first minute of conversation. There was definitely a different mindset here, though subtle, but to be appreciated.

Played pool, and I lost, as usual. Drank beers. Sarah got consecutively drunker. I met a black comedian there, and I got to talking to him, and he told me his dream to perform at the redneck bar: "I know its an all-white redneck bar, but I want all you guys to give me your best nigger jokes." Yeah, sometimes I love not being in the West Coast.

This guy really wanted to smoke out with us, and afterparty at Sarah's house, and after a few detours of waiting around in front of some ghetto house we all went to Sarah's and played guitars and chilled. I observed that bud in Texas is much crappier than in California. Dark and twiggy and rough, not the bright green smelly shit the Pacific Ocean accustoms one to. And that is 100% fine by me, because strong pot always freaks me out. It got later and later, and wasn't Sarah supposed to work in the morning? About 4:00 or 5:00 she kicked everyone out (except for me), and had to go to bed. "Isn't this a great introduction to Texas?" she boasted. To some degree, I suppose, but actually my whole life these last few years has nights like these in all sorts of cities, and honestly I wasn't that terribly impressed just yet.

I set up my stuff in guest room. Slightly awkward - Sarah sleeps naked and you have to go through her room to get to the bathroom at night. (Interjection: J.D. joked about me hooking up with her, and possibly staying in Texas indefinitely, and I sort of gave it serious thought. But, sleeping in the nude or not, she wasn't my type that way and we were just to be friends.) The next morning, hungover, Sarah called off work. She's a librarian by the way. It worked out for me at least, and now I got to have a guide for daytime Austin.

Woke up at noon and helped wash her car and went on some errands at the post office. She took me to a super-cool comic store. We went to a toy store near UT. Lots of cool stuff on Guadalupe near UT. Ate healthy Italian food. Neal Stephenson would be doing a book signing at a Book People the following week. Listened to Kimya Dawson and Connor Oberst and Tom Waits at the record store. The next day I discovered a truly amazing pad: Brave New Books; a conspiracy/9/11 Truther/Alex Jones/Ron Paul/Libertarian stronghold, and there was conversation there.And, oddly, there was no sign of Hurricane Ike damage. There would be all the way in Cincinnati, but nothing here. Just a cumfy breeze was commented upon. I rather dug Texas.

Then we went to famous 6th St where it was really hard to park. Right near the Congressional building (is it correct to label as 'Congressional building'?). I wonder how it is that this hipster Texan oasis just happened upon the Is there a link? So we hung around differing bars, watching blues music, and there were Miller Lite girls to give us more free booze. Truly, it was too much.

But I left too early. I didn't get to find MySpace friends. I didn't get to stalk Alex Jones. I didn't get to network with CouchSurfers. I did however, get to have my picture taken at the amazing Daniel Johnston mural of Jeremiah the theological frog, at the very last minute as J.D. whisked me off away. There was some drama between J.D. and Jessica, and he felt he had to go soon and whisk her off away.

It was unfortunate. Just as I was let loose on my own to wander the town by myself, taking the bus and reading Jodorowsky graphic novels, it wasn't meant to be. Expecting to stay for two weeks - and broke - I even applied online emailing my resume to a few places, just to work for a week, and one called me back! But I couldn't do it! So we repacked and said bye and had to go. I know I shall return one day. Austin is too cool not to.

We went all the way to the next town over (Belton or something it was called?), and then stayed the night there. Another of J.D.'s college friends, another cat-person, but it was great in that there was a quite a high novelty of intelligent conversation. His buddy Andrew had a lot to say on the subject of personal research into atheist philosophy and Judaism (even tried to bring me back into the fold), and his own direct experience of learning that secret society's invent their own history. I recommended he read Foucault's Pendulum. And, of course, all conspiracy theory researchers - and true philosophers - need to read Robert Anton Wilson.

There was much drinking and staying up late and even talk of suicide (why must the most intelligent people in the world be both depressed, and also college dropouts?). And I crashed early and J.D. crashed after me, and there was free food again, and then the real driving was to take place.He seemed impressed by me, a mere film school dropout, with my self-taught well-readness. People seem to think I'm smart for some reason. I don't know why.

J.D. was pulled over three times. He laughed it off, good for him, even as there was pot in the car and one time an open container (but a car that packed, nobody would search it and nobody did). I didn't get pulled over, just drove at cruise control 70mph. We ran out of gas at in the morning at a nowhere Arkansas hotel (hate to say I told you so but I told him to get gas the night before). I spent about 180.00 on gas, every other fillup. Drove through Bill Clinton's birthplace. Fretted over his cat not peeing. Went to Memphis' Beal street for waffles and such. J.D. went through Kentucky for the first time. Finally, my territory.

And then, after showing off the coolness of Louisville by highway, slowly but surely due North, 80 turns into 71, only a few more hours left, I thought it was early at midnight but actually I lost an hour in the timechange, and 1:00 AM there was the Cincinnati downtown beautiful cityscape. Home? I suppose I can call it that. And what did we find there?

Also, I learned that I am going to move to China soon.

I still haven't washed my hair.

----------------

August 29th, a Friday, Black Rock City:

I was having a mystical experience in the desert and I met a guy at a firepit. He told me he lived in China for a while. I asked him how he went about that . . . and if I could ever do the same. Needed contact information.

"Can we get this man a pen, so I can ship him to China? Seriously!"

September 19th, a Thursday, on the road in some godforsaken state that I don't recall:

Still haven't washed my hair since the mystical experience, but the playa dust now long dried out, and I'd been emailing some Chinese people about the possibility of teaching English in Shenzhen. Emailed my resume, sent my number, answered questions. And then I got an overseas phone call.

"Hello is this Ray He-ch-t?"

Talked for about a half-hour about the program. To teach small children. Don't need to know Mandarin or Cantonese. Not a lot of pay, but lower price of living. Room and board payed. The economy is doomed here and you know it; move to Asia.

Okay!

And the following week was a week of bureaucracy, of mailing my passport to a travel agency in San Francisco, getting visas, figuring out flight times, reimbursements and such, and finally its all confirmed.

Perhaps I shall live in Asia not just for the four-month semester but indefinitely, and nomadically travel and work where I can. Put the novelist thing on hold. Lean a bunch of languages. Pretend I'm Christopher Doyle (look him up), cuz it seemed to work for him finely.

So far this works out very well, because honestly I cannot bloody stand being at my Mom's house.

You ever get in that ambitious conversation while drunk/fucked up. "Yeah, let's do this!" And then you inevitably never get around to doing it. Well this time I got around to doing it . . .

And this is Riding the Synchronicity Wave, for I have let go of control in my life. I must allow whatever will be to just occur, and enjoy the ride. No expectations. No structure. No plans. Unless the universe wants to figure it out for me.

And if J.D. didn't cut our trip short I would still be in Texas and this may not have worked out.

See. The cosmos knows what its doing. The Buddha always provides.

----------------

Anyways, the first night in I tried to show J.D. that Cincinnati could be a cool city. The downtown lights were good for my argument. And then we went to Hamilton to go to Jessica's. Butler County, I assure you, is no kind of example for anything. Poor Jessica.

It was good to see her though. There was minimal drama, and lots of love. But they had a lot to talk about and it wasn't for me to listen in too closely . . .

The next morning we stuffed into the Volvo, me driving and her on his lap. Went to Frisch's for breakfast. I inadvertently put my foot in my mouth when I told Jessica that she better treat J.D. right. I only wanted to be a friend, but this caused much doubt. Whateva

I got to my Mom's house, they had to go sign for a one-month apartment, and I was officially here!

Mom's house still had no power from the hurricane! Everywhere the streets are filled with rubble and tree branches. Who knew this city was so disastrous?

And its nice to visit Mom and my little little sister every once in a while, but its a bit hellish to be here indefinitely. Hugs around, then the novelty ends, and its constant bickering. Every morning I sleep at 4:00 and am waken up by arguing at 8:00. Nowhere to go but to walk to the library to read and to use the internet. When Mom works I can't use her car. Nobody wants to come here. Kenwood/Madeira drains my soul. Fuck it though, I won't let it succeed, and this is my philosophy right now.

But I don't care. I refuse to be depressed. Even among all the mosquitoes, I refuse to let it get me down. Its interesting, after the mystical experience described above I haven't felt that hollowness the way I used to everyday. The 3D world is screaming at me to fall into despair, because I am a loser and everything sucks, and I just cannot muster the reaction to take it seriously anymore. I may be surrounded by crazy immigrants I am related to, old friends are recovering junkies, I have no money, and yet the universe remains such a joke I find it so obvious that it will work out just fine.

Well, the first few nights out and everybody bought me beer. Hung out with my cousin, saw old friends (some recovering junkies), and had conversations at bars. Jeremy and Randolf's mansion. Randolf's music show. The beautiful Jen drove me around. I talked to her about children. Chloe doesn't want to communicate with me. Talked to Zac on the phone. Seeing Trevor was trippy. Seeing Joel is cool but sad. J.D. had a dj gig already and Jen took me to a little rave in downtown. Cousin Leah drove me around and wasn't feeling the party scene at all. I got a girl's phone number at the hipster bar in Northside (and what am I to do with it?). And so on and so forth. Guess I could write a more detailed play-by-play schedule of each little subadventure but I don't really feel like it.

Overall, Cincinnati is on the up-and-up. Just a microcosm of LA, and everybody hates it here just like there. But all cities in America are pretty much the same, I can assure you, and I've checked this very thoroughly. This is just as good a place as any. Just not for me, right now.

Many people I know are doing great. Some aren't. They are evolving. They are paranoid. The world seems to be coming under (must I repeat the news?), but that's no excuse to not do well.

Currently I am doing very little. I argue with my sister to use the computer. I ignore the chaos field of my family. And my credit score is very terrible, and I refuse to give a fuck.

I am re-reading Illuminatus! and the Invisibles concurrently and this no doubt contributes to my naive assurance of the world as illusion.

Do not worry that I am lost. I prefer being lost.

Feminist critique of his-story states that the male experience of orgasm has led us into this lifestyle of preparation-to-goal-to-resolution-to death, and then repeat the Jesus process all over again. But Alan Watts has a Zen perspective that maybe life is more like a dance, with no particular goal in mind but a flow all the way . . .

Do you see what I'm getting at?

Everything is pretty cool in the universe. There is nothing worth taking seriously.

It is all arbitrary. It is all fun.

We must all move to China every once in a while, and disconnect. And reconnect. And we'll all make it big if only we'd allow ourselves to. Its difficult, but its also easier than you may think.

Just smile, you're in hell, and you've finally figured out how to work it.

Does information lead to wisdom? Maybe. Or maybe I'm just stupid.

;)

)'(

2008-09-04T00:40:00.000-07:00

BURNING MAN

Year 23

(Yeah, I didn't even realize it until I got there, but this was the twenty-third year ...)

"The American Dream." What's the point? I guess that's what we set to find out.

Cliché'd philosophical ramblings aside, the journey was a lot of fun. As we know, the journey is usually the point, and the destination is moot. So, let us try to figure out this point, and along the way, learn the game ...

I'd planned all year. Time was crunching. I shopped at the last minute at Target. I packed up with Jessica and Ryan and Max, the latter two I had only just met. Jessica, an intelligent neuroscientist at UC Irvine and a true entheogen researcher. We met on MySpace. Her husband Ryan, who was more straightedge and didn't even particularly like this hippie culture. Max, a younger fun metalhead guy, cool, chill, and quite happy to get fucked up at any point. I partied with them in OC the night before and helped them pack their stuff into the Uhaul. The next day they picked me and my stuff up, and off we went. Hopefully they'd enjoy my presence for this fourteen-hour roadtrip. Up the California coast, the 5, east of San Francisco, into Nevada, with a stop in dead Reno - and I never liked casinos anyways - and I spent so much money on gas that I don't really have. And then finally the sluggish ride through the tiny city of Gerlach behind a line of spraypainted glittery trailers ... until of course Black Rock Desert approacheth.

We waited in line until dawn and watched the South Park episode about the hippie festival. It was ironically appropriate. I walked to the porto-potty, the first of many treks, and then paid my 95.00 low-income ticket in cash. We made it past the barrier, "Welcome home!" said the dude, and made Ryan - the virgin - ring the bell and roll around in the dirt. The first of many playa dust messes.

We met with our theme camp at 7:00 and Allante, who I'd only known online from the Yahoo group and already mailed my eighty bucks. Black Rock Bureau of Hospitality! In retrospect, the theme camp thing might not have been worth the trouble and money but at least I got to stay at a good location near the middle. We built our tents and Jessica and Ryan had a hexiurt structure thing; a big dome of aluminum foil-ish material. Then the Monday nine-hour whiteout started. It was the stuff of legends, worst dust storm in ten years from what I understand.

Mercifully, I finished my tent before the dust-storm got too bad. It was far worse than any I experienced last year. Still, I was set to experience this Burning Man thing for the second year and make a lot more of it than the previous more observational year. Done being a tourist, I demanded to be a citizen. I rode my bike to Center Camp, with goggles and bandana, and hung around. Mostly, I wanted to talk to girls. All this PUA research was finally to pay off ...

It seems that life, or at least my life, requires a choice of either sex or drugs. You can't have both indulgences. I'm just not that kind of rock star. While my friends really wanted to get mushrooms, and I unfortunately wasn't able to secure a deal from my guy in time, I didn't care for it. Last year I had a bad trip on mushrooms; it was just too confusing. My trips are usually a bit horrifying and very introspective, and I cannot relate to these people who find entheogens a partying experience. Plus, in order to talk to girls and be impressive, I must be in control of my faculties. I didn't even get that drunk, even amongst the endless parades of free alcohol. I paced myself carefully, only got smashed like once.

Must be in control of my faculties! As my training goes, I have learned that seduction is all about placing yourself higher on the social ladder than the girl, no matter how hot and amazing she might be. While there are an infinite amount of subtle methods: to be likable and witty and funny and touchy and attractive and confident - in the end it's simply all about maintaining an aura of higher social positioning. DHV: demonstrate higher value. And in order to strategize this sort of social intelligence - especially if you aren't one who does this naturally (i.e., me) - it's very necessary to be sober.

At Center Camp I met an Asian girl (actually half-Okinawan) named Kiku, and her white friend Jeanie. Struck up a conversation concerning her see-through dress, and got the address to her camp. Later it was nightfall, and I wandered over to the 7:00 and Hummer - not too far from me in a nice synchronicity - and I also met some cool Australians cats. There was another girl I talked to, and she mentioned she had a boyfriend, but invited me to hang out at her camp. I climbed up to their flagpole for a nice view with these guys, and talked about America. Later, it even turned out that Kiku was to hang out with them too, and Max - who was tripping on mushrooms already - joined me to shoot the shit at their camp and have a few beers. Then we all rode bikes out to the desert.

It wasn't long until we got separated. One by one, we danced here and danced there. After the grueling dust-storm I was happy to see that people were ready to go out on Monday night, and already the art cars were bumping and the glow-stick outfits were bouncing. We drank at the tiki bar, and I played with a flame thrower, and we parked our bikes and walked to the Man in the middle. I was competing with Dave, last Ozzie left, for Kiku's attention, and felt a bit low self-esteemed for it. More alpha male than me, but I persevered and eventually he got too drunk and shifted his attention to Jeanie. Then they got lost and it was just me and Kiku. I put my arm around her and walked through the cold, and danced to 80s music, and late into the morning we went back to her camp. We talked for awhile. She confessed she was 38 and had an ex-husband. She certainly had a young soul though. Her tent was knocked over from the storm, but we sat in the sand and I leaned in and kissed her for a moment. She pulled me away and it turned out she had a boyfriend. Which she never mentioned before. But then she said we could kiss anyways. She said I was a good kisser.

It escalated and escalated. As often happens with me, girls don't want to have sex right away but they're willing to do everything up to that point. Kissing deeply, she led my hand into her breasts and I licked her nipples and I got so fucking hard and then she put her hands down my pants and I reciprocated and she had to keep assuring me that there would be no sex but she played with my balls and I stuck my two fingers deep in and searched for the clitoris with my thumb and there was moaning and eventually I stained her see-through dress. What a successful night. I couldn't believe this already occurred on my first day. It was exactly what I needed. I felt like a real human being. She invited me to her tent, and said again, "no sex," but I was already gotten off and just wanted to sleep alone in my own tent. It's difficult for me to sleep with someone else next to me, especially someone I don't know well, so I went back alone. I didn't even deal with my dusty sleeping bag, instead I slept in the desert cold at our camp's chill space on a couch.

The week continued with many more experiences. I shot my load the first day, figuratively and literally, but the there were still many sexual and spiritual and drug-induced experiences to make for a highly noveltous week. With my campmates I mostly turned away from getting smoked up, but there was so much pot and I do admit to several occasions of wandering confused. (But, as said, when high it's impossible to talk to girls and this was my central goal all along; so I didn't really enjoy all the free weed.) When I'm high I basically just feel stupid, and its kind of cool in that everything is extra weird, but overall this experience is not my preference. An interesting observation in sobriety experiments: I find that when I am the only sober one among stoners I am naturally drifted into the alpha male position of the group. Everyone suddenly is willing to listen to me and let me take charge. Not a bad ability. Lesson: just say no.

Art and art and art, wandering and wandering and wandering. So much to see and so much to neural-network. I saw giant robot hands. An art car dragon that really did breathe fire. I missed out on the Babylon truck thing that everyone liked so much. The toilet voting machine - 'New World Puppet 1 & 2 brought to you by Bold Lie' - was hilariously poignant. I had a conversation to a brilliant military guy who held a sign that said 'talk to me about being a conscientious objector.' I went to the Costco Soulmate Trading Outlet with a slightly annoying campmate, and filled out a form to meet my soulmate, and while the girl they connected me with I didn't hit it off with I had a great conversation there with a beautiful black girl Joyce who was a genetic computer modeler. I made out with a random girl at the Smoochdome. I went to a costume exchange and was given a free plaid dress that just happened to go with my plaid hat. I brought other dresses, but that one was my only drag day for the week. I lost my cool sunglasses. I was repeatedly complimented on my Willy Wonka goggles. I saw a tent with a Fnord license plate and talked to those guys about "Hail Eris" and such. The giant Hummer in the middle of the desert was amazing. Naked hugs on occasion. Fuzzy-legged girls. And I had quite the beard by the end of the week.

The best time was discovering the refreshing punk rock bar, shoddily built like a punk house squat and it felt just like home. I met a comic nerd there dressed like Captain America and talked to him for hours about the Bruedabaker run. Gave him my ol' minicomic - because punk and comics is what it's all about ultimately. Dancing all night long at the loudest raves you'll ever hear. The big Root Society dome at 10:00 - where I saw some live pornography in an out-of-control fuck scene right in the middle of it. And the outdoor Opulent Temple on the opposite side at 2:00 was an even better rave. Asking people for mushrooms every night, to no avail, and not for me but for my friend. Still guilty for my lack of hookup, but she did eventually get her own. Constantly riding around, committing to experiencing everything I could. Hippie scene in the daytime at spiritual classes, and luckily I brought a watch this year and circled events from the booklet. And at night Burning Man is for the dance party ravers. I did all I could. I went everywhere I could. I helped whoever I could. I exchanged memes. I was intent on experiencing everything at once.

I barely ate, and barely slept, and woke up strangely forgetting where I was. Powered only by alcohol and an empty stomach, coupled by riding my bike constantly, I think I lost a bit of weight.

And I didn't write at all. I didn't take any pictures. (Friends didn't bring a camera either.) I lived in the moment the entire time, like I never had before, and it turned out to be sufficient to make a narrative art out of it after the fact.

Still, in many ways this Burn wasn't as good as last year's. It seemed more watered down. There were far more Rangers and cops - being that last year Paul Addis famously burnt down the man prematurely. Less sexually charged: there were no kissing booths this year. I missed that. I didn't stumble upon any orgy scenes. At least, I didn't stumble upon any straight orgies that is, but back at Comfort & Joy in the fairyland village area there was quite a surreal show to peak in. There seemed to be less art cars to hitchhike on this year, less fun to walk around alone at night on the playa.

But all in all, this was a better Burn because of me and my attitude. I allowed myself to fall in. I embraced the culture around me, to the fullest degree I could, and did my best to let go of the nonsense illusion of the "real world." Fuck the real world. This is more interesting. Novelty is all that matters. I don't think there's anywhere else I could experience more Tao. I fell in love a dozen times. I became part of something bigger. For a short while, I felt like I existed.

---------------------------

Tuesday through Friday gave us four days in a row of beautiful perfect weather. Hot and heavy and cloudless in the sky, and cool midnights, and shivering cold by dawn.

So, after getting the inevitable dust storm out of the way on the first day, I was ready to explore. First I had to sweat the dust from me at the Project Steambath I discovered last year. Nudity on the playa betrays an interesting double-standard. There are plenty of creepy middle-aged guys who you don't really want to see naked, and I didn't want to be the nudist exhibitionist sort among them. But there are certain socially acceptable times, and I thought nothing of waiting in line outdoors in front of the sauna and getting a nice tan on my ass. Even tans are nice.

Many girls are topless (and rarely there are full nude girls, and it's a special treat when you can see ass; forgive my shallowness, but it's the truth), and you get numb to that pretty soon. Breasts don't have to be overtly sexual, it's just a relaxed state. I'm all for topless equality, it shouldn't be such a big deal. Its not like I went out of my way to see the Critical Tits parade (or the Critical Dicks one).

The steambath feels great once you sweat out all the toxins and step out into the cold, and finally feel clean. It doesn't take long to get dirty again though. And there's the Human Carcass wash, in which you wash others and others wash you, but state your "boundaries" first though.

Mandatory nakedness out of the way, by Tuesday night I was to hang out with the Australians again, at the Duck Bar at 9:00 and E where their DJ friend was playing awesome cuts. Kiku didn't come, but the hot Ozzie tall girl told me to make out with her male friend while drunkenly dancing, and I did and they took a picture. "But balance it out with a girl makeout," I said, and she made out with me quite a bit while drunkenly dancing and there's pictures of that too. (I counted afterwards, and I kissed four girls and one guy for the week. 80% straight ratio I can deal with.) There was a dirty slip n slide inwhich I dared another girl to jump on nude with me, and it was a bad idea as I was thoroughly muddied up afterwards in the dry night. Ha, fun times.

There was one day at the steambath where I got to talking to a tattooed girl named Rachel. It turned out she was an erotic masseuse, studying Tantra and "genital/anal manipulation massage." She told me to meet her at her camp later for a gift. And to bring plastic gloves for a prostate massage. I indeed met her there, and sat on the yoga mat and listened to her instructions. "It's not about judgment, it's not about whether you get hard or not. It's just about enjoying the moment." She hugged me and touched me all over until the nervousness went down. I closed my eyes and she directed my breathing. "Breathe slowly. In through your nose. Vibrate your vocal chords and breathe out through your mouth. Repeat four times." Then, "now breathe fast four times!" This pattern, as the oils rubbed all over my body, and fingers danced around my groin. My heartbeat slowed as I grew comfortable, and then my heartbeat went fast as my muscles clenched and Kundalini energy shot out, and I made a mess. It wasn't just another orgasm though, it was a Tantric meditation that buzzed through my whole body. For hours afterwards I felt like I was high, with a big smile on my face and unable to process conversation. I floated across the desert, in a fuzzy landscape, vaguely evolved for it. Again, this was no mere handjob prostitutional massage, this was somehow an important neurological exercise. I still feel grateful for it. What a gift I was given. And all free. I wonder how much she charges on her day job?

Ultimately, I was to experience no intercourse at Burning Man. That's okay, I'm totally grateful, and it's probably not the best avenue for girls. Example: Ryan cut his arm and went to the medical tent, and later told me that half the people there were girls with dusty vag problems. So the two hand jobs in the week and lots of making out, I'll happily take it! Sexuality is a very important part of the human experience. I've been away from touch sensations long enough. Shame and nervousness need to be de-conditioned, and we all deserve as many pleasurable experiences as possible. The weird awkwardness the world pushes on us isn't right. The more fun the better. I deserve it. You deserve it. Let's live life already.

That same day I saw Daniel Pinchbeck at the Entheon site. He cut his hair short. It was a decent alarmist-type speech, though I am not without my disagreements. We all know that the world is going to hell in a handbasket, but in particular his McKenna-esque Singularity timewave acceleration theory had a tinge of optimism to it: that apparently the way that the Agricultural Revolution to the Industrial Revolution to the Information Revolution (that we are in now) is all speeding up. And perhaps the coming Wisdom Revolution will occur so quickly that we might even make it to the 2012 due date. Still, I don't believe the present is all doom and gloom. It's just my personal intuition, but I happen to believe that the challenges modern times bring to us - environmentally and politically and everything else - it's all part of what is supposed to occur and ultimately for our own good. It is both unnatural and natural at once. While you don't necessarily need psychedelics to see this, but psychedelics can certainly bring about a deeper understanding. At least with me. Certainly in Pinchbeck's experience. Anyways, I'm just uncomfortable with the whole 'humans are a virus' meme that is so prevalent in this culture. We are part of nature, we're doing everything right, we just don't know it yet.

In an amazing synchronicity I just happened upon Entheon while exploring, and didn't even know Pinchbeck was there. They did have an ayahuasca keg event listed, but that was just a joke. And on the way I bumped into this girl Schlig who I met her two other times before - and I assure you it is extremely rare to bump into anyone by accident at Burning Man. Like, there were many people I knew from LA at the Burn and I didn't bump into any one of them. It was so great to see Schlig, this a cute girl who was willing to talk to me and then gave me her camp address. I didn't realize she was so concerned with the psychonaut scene until I saw here there. This is a girl I must keep in touch with, I thought, and further exchanged contact information. And I was to see her again later, on the last day, as we finally had time to get to know each other and talk about movies and Oklahoma and drugs and aliens and all those cool topics. I'm rather fond of her, and I suspect she enjoyed my company as well. Yet another girl to fall in love with. We walked the playa on the last day, and we hugged, and I only pecked her on the lips. I regret not going in further for making out, thinking back I'm sure she would have been into it, but it was the last day and I was so distracted with campmates pushing me to help pack. Ah well, perhaps another time with this girl ...

The middle of the week was beautiful, but another record-breaking dust-storm was destined for Saturday. The day of the Man to be burnt. Another eight hours of whiteout, right after I was bathed and got all dirty again. I got lost at center camp, and couldn't see five feet in front of me. There was nothing to do but sleep in my uncomfortable tent, or find a chill space somewhere else to take advantage of. I looked for friend's camps and was stuck with Jeanie waiting it out for a bit, and then I watched a fashion show (one that stood out: a girl in a burqa stepped on stage and then revealed her tits and a dildo underneath to the audience's surprise), and then took a nap on the couch at Space Virgins. For the most part, the day sucked. That night, although, was probably the most amazing night of my life.

The sandstorms have a tendency to go away once it gets dark. It can be windy, but without the heat the dust won't rise to overwhelm the air. The Man was to burn late, but finally it was time to go out and see something! I lost track of my campmates but I wanted to have a companion to hang out with. So I went to Kiku and Jeanie's tent again to see if they were there. Honestly, Kiku didn't seem to want to hang out with me lately but whatever. I joined Jeanie, platonically, and we rode out to the deep playa. An army of art cars and overlapping musics joined us. I parked my bike in front of the Joyism car as a landmark, and this proved to be a bad idea as six hours later I ended up losing my bike. I found it the next day, in the light, in a particularly special Burning Man miracle, but it was a long walk home in the meantime.

While at a bar on an art car I got to talking to a guy, and I spontaneously asked him if he could get me any acid. "Yeah, just ask my friend there!" he said. I got to talking to his friend, and he wanted to trade, and all I had was my minicomic and a promise that if he travels to Orange County I could get him a killer mushroom source. That was worth one hit apparently. It was the first time I'd ever done acid. (I don't think the time I tried it when I was 16 was the real thing. This was entirely something else.)

He ripped a little square from a brown and yellow blot thing, and I put it on my tongue. I lost Jeanie in the crowd, and 45 minutes late the fireworks started. I heard the firedancers were pissed off though; they didn't get to do their act because of the storm-induced scheduling complicatons. And slowly, the world started getting weird. The Man burnt up and I stepped into the giant crowds for a closer look. When the structure fell down the crowds started running closer, past the firefighters, and circled the scene. Slowly the char got smaller and smaller and only the committed stayed around, dancing naked in tribal fashion. It was the culmination of the week, and in the microcosm of my existence while the brain danced to lysergic acids, it seemed the culmination of my entire life.

Is Burning Man the best place to trip out on drugs? Most people seem to agree. All day long I overhear people talking about mushrooms and acid and Ecstasy. I guess E makes sense, but I had an uncomfortable time last year on psilocybin. And as said, I don't even like pot. Yet the majority of the population seems to adore being drugged out in the sensory overload of glowstick nightlife, and good for them, but I can't really relate.

I almost always have bad trips. It comes so naturally to me. Perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to do drugs, I don't have the psychological capabilities to deal with what goes on in my mind. It's too much a barrage of self-conscious self-loathing. I feel like an awkward child, and want to die. There are no regrets, mind you, and I always learn something important about myself. But the honest fact remains: it's very difficult for me. It's educational, but it's not fun. Luckily though, I couldn't have asked for a more supportive environment.

I talked to a girl tripping on mushrooms, a McKenna researcher named "Particle," and we smiled and hugged. She told me to do what I want to do and it's always the right thing. There was lots of nudity about, but I stayed in my shorts, afraid of being too weird. The night was cold but the fire warmed me. I fell in love with one beautiful girl in particular, a blonde Cali named Kayla with Sanskrit tattoos, someone I saw at the human carcass wash, someone so gorgeously out of my league, and yet she remembered me. I was worried about coming across as a leering creep, but this amazing Goddess hugged me tight. I was surrounded by love. I was so lucky. If a loser like me can be loved, then anything is possible.

And gay guys hit on me, and I appreciated the attention but didn't follow them to their camp. I stayed alone in front of the burning pile for hours and hours. I closed my eyes and watched the music dance to RGB pixels behind my eyes. I stared at the sand and watched the shadows bend. I contemplated metaprogramming, and the wires in my brain criss-crossing into more productive routes, and realized that I can do anything if only I'd allow myself to. It was only one hit of LSD, and if I took two or more perhaps I wouldn't be able to converse be cognitive. It was surely confusing, and surely a major introspective trip, and I'm glad I wasn't too far out there. The fire charred me and I couldn't feel it, but I lost one of my socks, which was worse than losing both socks. I was destined to walk the 4 miles home, cold and shivering. Surrounded by love and beauty and confusion and hallucinogenic scenery, I finally been through a minor religious experience.

But the most amazing thing I saw was the stars. All this crazy overwhelming shit surrounding me at every angle, yet I only needed to look up to see the brilliant artwork of God. I've done so much entheogen research in this past year, ayahuasca and DMT and Salvia Divinorum and a fourth of psyilocybin mushrooms, and yet still I must say that the most vivid hallucinations I've ever experienced were looking up at the stars at Burning Man. It's the desert, middle of nowhere, and you can see the Milky Way details that are usually obfuscated by uncaring citylights. Oh, how the stars danced. I saw infinite UFOs. I saw the constellations connect the dots (just like I'd only read about before). I could stare all night with my back to the sand and my naked toes shivering, even as passers-by asked me if I was all right, and there was nothing more fascinating then the bubble of starlight up in the sky.

It was the culmination of so much. How perfect to have this experience right as the Man went down. Still, the question always remains after a psychedelic trip: what do I do now? Should I "tune in and drop out?" (Currently reading Leary's book by the way, Chaos and Cyberculture.) Should I incorporate the experience into art? Is it possible that my brain will evolve for it? Or is it just good clean fun and nothing else? More questions: is spirituality objectively real, or is it just bullshit? I have certainly met my fair share of spiritual poseurs, but a few here and there seem to know what they're talking about. Obviously, I need to stock up some more acid experiences and figure this out, obviously I'm nowhere near any kind of truth, but I suspect that I'm going in the right general direction ...

And on the way back, stopping from fire to fire to fire on the cold walk to my tent, I talked to a guy who said he could get me a job in China. Fuck, I have nothing else going on, perhaps I should move there. I listened to the Hare Krishnas sing at Entheon - a place specifically set up to help people on bad trips. I half-slept at Center Camp watching a folk musician. Finally at home camp and tired as hell, I laid down at my tent on the sand and looked at the stars for hours more before falling asleep by dawn. The next day it was time to pack up. I thought we were going to leave after the Temple burning, but everyone was so tired and ready to go. I wasn't ready to go, I wanted to stay here forever. But sadly, all things must end. I wandered a bit more, found Schlig and hung out with her and grew a bit closer. With her help, I found my lost bike. I kissed her gently. We parted ways. I helped pack with the others. I broke down my tent last - which was broken after its second year and was ready to be thrown away. We said goodbyes and hugged our new friends. We existed at one mile-per-hour, and drove the slow drive back.

On the way out, I saw some hitchhikers and felt an enormous sense of jealousy. To be able to live life by your wits, and just mooch off the people around you, and separate yourself from the nonsense of the real world. Man, that's living. Most people at Burning Man aren't really purist hippies though, most of them are thirty-something professionals with the money to afford the trip and the art. Which is fine, and those that work hard deserve to play hard, but still I find myself so envious of those that can completely separate themselves from the illusionary world and just live life for the moment. I wish I was deeper in this culture. I was far more 'in there' than the previous year, but I wish I was a veteran counter-culturalist who has nothing to do with paychecks and rent. Why can't I just be a poet philosopher, and have friends that agree, and have never known anything else?

I can't complain though. I got to experience an alien culture. I've been all over the world, from Asia to Europe to the Middle East, and Burning Man is the most alien culture I've ever been to. (Although, Tijuana - also nearby - is a close second to Black Rock City.) I hope I can take D.I.Y. art ethos back with me. I hope I can take the social deconditioning, and the feelings of connectivity and community, and the knowledge that I can easily be loved if only I allow others in ... I hope I can take all this and incorporate it in my life back home. So what is the point of Burning Man? Is it about art? Is it about partying? Is it just sold-out nonsense? Or is it the most important thing going on in the world?

Fourteen hours later, back home, I slept uncomfortably and I've become completely lethargic. All I want to do is eat and lie down. But I have to get ready to move. I have to get ready to change my life. There are casualties to deal with. It turned out my iPod broke. I have bruises all over. All my shit is covered with dust, even after I did my laundry. I really really need to clean my room. Still in MOOP mode, I feel guilty for flicking cigarette butts. I decided not to wash my hair since I've gotten back, let myself grow into dyed red dreadlocks. I love the cartoony-anime look of malleable playa hair, and I might as well keep it for my future America travels. Fuck, I still have to plan this month-long trek. I'm still far from a productive member of society, and can only look forward to my travels through Texas and New Orleans, until I get to Cincinnati with no money and only my unique brain to keep me going. I trust it shall be noveltous. I trust I'll get by. And I'll have to incorporate yon Burner ethos all the while ...

travels

2008-08-21T01:20:00.000-07:00

On Friday I had to wake up early to drive Alan to the bus stop in Downtown LA so he could go visit his family for the week. His car now drivable, for me, with him out of town, I thought of the places I could go ... I danced around the possibility of seeking about the East LA for chemical experience purchases. Opiates for happiness, or amphetamines for productivity. I suppose it’s an easy conclusion to draw that this is not good idea, but why do I not deserve a few hours of happiness every once in a while? And, more importantly, I need the energy to stay up for a few days and catch up on my self-imposed writing projects. My self-imposed deadline is coming up, and I’m self-imposed stressed.

I don’t really know what I’m doing with this sort of thing, so after driving around aimlessly and failing to eye a drug dealer I soon gave up, and drove to Echo Park for coffee. I called Raven, and met her in Hollywood for an empty breakfast. I wasn’t going to buy anything at a restaurant when I had an EBT card offering free food. Hung out with her and boyfriend Brian for a while. He’s cool enough. Talked about conspiracy theories and psychedelics. Evidently, they can’t get me any acid and Brian doesn’t believe in David Icke.

The day before I met up with Raven briefly at the WOW art gallery show. It was a loud video game-themed show show, bizarre and 8-bit and somewhat fun, even though there was a long line for my friends. I got in a bit early though, when James St. James noticed me. But it was too crowded and partying for meeting anyone and having a conversation, not even worth the time for gay minor celebrities. Outside in the front with the smokers was nice, but it was one-way in or out, so to meet the interesting cats it wasn’t worth the finalized risk until late at night.

It was far nicer to hang out with Raven in the daytime. I love driving her around Hollywood and talking about nothing. That’s friendship. I gave her a ride back to the art gallery, and I talked to James St. James about New York for a bit. I took Raven to Staples on an errand. I talked about old video games with some guy. But I had to go eventually, and I gave Raven my heart-wrenching goodbyes. I’m going to move soon and probably won’t see her for many months, if not years, and it might be an end. But then again, I know we have a deep connection and I have the strong impression that we will keep in touch forever. I’ve made very few real friends during my time in California, but this girl is one of the best.

While in the city trying to figure out what to do, I suddenly got a spontaneous text from Nancy. She asked me to go to San Diego with her. I was thrown off. I hadn’t seen her in a long time, but it was somewhat good timing because I’m leaving soon and won’t get another chance to see her. I thought about going to the gym this weekend, and catch up on reading and do some damn writing, But fuck all that productive nonsense. When life offers you minor adventures, I concluded, you should do it.

I went back to Long Beach and showered and watched cartoons, and then Nancy called me and picked me up. It had been a while, and she was as cute as ever. We drove a few hours through Orange County into San Diego County and eventually in La Jolla we met up with her boyfriend Chris at California Pizza Kitchen. And I spent money I shouldn’t have. I happen to think Chris is a complete douche and very much wrong for her, but I try to be hospitable and not mention it. He’s the enemy of my Indigo people, a law student who only plays video games and has no creative taste in anything. I hate when girls date lower than them. She could do so much better. And also, it’s extremely awkward with our history. I mean, I’ve seen her naked. Does he know this? I ain’t telling him, and I’ll be Platonic friends with her, but I do find it weird when Nancy wants me to hang out with him. Well, we bought hair dye spontaneously and she wanted me to dye her hair (why wouldn’t her boyfriend help?). But I wanted to do other things while in San Diego. I promised we’d do it early tomorrow. Chris’s small apartment was in downtown SD small, and his roommate had the cutest Welsh Corgi. And, douche that Chris is, he hates the dog and doesn’t feel close to it all. I liked the dog a lot. And I had to go.

I called Jessica, Ohio friend that lives here, and she was happy to pick me up. Her crowd is far more interesting than the horde of rich Asian UCSD students Nancy hangs out with. Jessica was late, and San Diego has far too many highways, but when she finally found the place and picked me up we had a lot of good conversation. She’s going through a lot of spiritual experiences lately, and while I’m skeptical I am very curious to know more. Mostly her one-ness of the universe has revolved around the smokable nibbana of Salvia Divinorum. Jessica, and her very cool boyfriend J.D., are always happy to smoke me up. I really looked forward to the new experience. At their apartment in North Park there were a few people over, drinking and playing J.D.’s mixes, and it was quite fun. I don’t like pot so much, but J.D. gave me some crystallized hash and it was a good high. An interesting body buzz, and for the most part my mind was still sharp. I can’t stand being confused and stupid, but I’m open trying everything and its rude not to accept when offered, and this one wasn’t bad.

Later that night arrived a girl named Joy. She was also from Cincinnati but I never knew her before. Moderately cute, but a bit heavier than I’d prefer, but definitely much the hottest girl at the party who wasn’t taken. The night carried on with conversation and further synchronicities. Highly amazing perfection: I knew that Jessica was moving back to Ohio but I didn’t realize J.D. was going on a roadtrip next month to follow suit. And he mentioned going to Austin. “Really?” I was planning on hitchhiking to Texas on the way to Cincinnati as well. “New Orleans next,” I said. “Really?!” He was going the same route too, and a week after me in mid-September! J.D. he invited me to join him on the road. I was overwhelmed. Sometimes in the lowest point in your life it can be so perfect the way the Buddha provides. I’ve only known J.D. a short time, and I’m very fond of him, and this kindness is completely overwhelming. And he appreciates simply having a companion on this long American trek. Couldn’t be more perfect.

So, me and Joy grew closer as the night progressed. As suggested to me by my recent attraction research - I teased her, I acted cool, I was touchy against her skin, I played up my social status, and late into the night we found ourselves sitting on the stairs outside smoking cigarettes when I put my hand around her shoulder and made a move. I wasn’t so cool though, I was horridly nervous and shakey. She told me to relax. Our mouths melted together. I’ve been on a terribly lonely spell, and admit to not having actually kissed a girl in six months time (and it’s been longer since sex). I needed this so bad. We went inside and laid on the too-small couch and made out for hours. I love the taste of cigarette ash on lips. I got very hard, and she could feel it through my tight pants. “I’m so turned on by you,” she whispered. There were others in the room, so things could only progress so much, but without undressing and as subtle as possible she put her hand down my pants. Amazing, amazing night. I put my hands under her clothes and felt the crack of her ass and nipples under her bra and then all the way to down her scratchy wet slit. I bit her neck and left a mark, and she did the same to me. She nobly tried to pump me to orgasm. I love the feeling of fingernails all over my bare crotch. I love nudging my teeth against lip. The feel of skin against skin is the essential human connectivity and it’s a shame it doesn’t occur more often. But, all too often it can be so weird and uncomfortable if the conditions aren’t perfect. Hard as stone as I was, I just couldn’t get off with other people in the room. I was way too nervous.

Around 6:00 AM she had to leave with her friends. I regret so much. I could have very easily gotten laid, but I didn’t even ask to go to her place. I just assumed I should stay at Jessica’s. Plus, and this was a valid point, I very much wanted to smoke Salvia the next day. But dammit, I should have just lived in the moment and not thought about the future. It was already obvious that I would be very late to meet with Nancy the next day. Time didn’t matter. I should have pushed harder to somehow find some privacy with Joy. Well, I did get her phone number, and I did call the next day, but to no avail. Ah well, I am grateful for all the love I have been given, and have no right to ask for any more.

The next afternoon I awoke on the couch, alone, gross, and uncomfortable. I hadn’t been sleeping good lately. We hung around, and they made breakfast, and flies buzzed, but I skipped eating. If I was to trip out, best to do so on an empty stomach. It was time to sit comfortably, focus, and J.D. prepared me a rather intense hit, and I smoked two stinky puffs on the bong, and the world went inward.

Salvia is like an evil ego version of DMT. You trip very hard and very fast, but unfortunately you are still in your body. For me at least, it wasn’t like dimetheltrytamine when I was flying somewhere else disconnected from this reality. I was still inside myself, and it felt so disgusting. My tight pants were dirty and sticky and rotten, and I wanted to throw them off (luckily I didn’t; I wasn’t wearing underwear). I immediately started seeing things reproducing into a kind of scales. The whole universe flipped into geometricities. I saw McDonalds logos. Red and scaley. I could open my eyes and see these strange humans staring at me (it was only them), and I forgot where I was. Salvia is weird in that you forget you did it, and I assumed that I was freaking out on simple pot high and felt very stupid for it. I was struck with an immediate horror of self-consciousness, as I struggled not to embarrass myself. I was terrified that everyone would laugh at me. I was terrified that I couldn’t control myself. I couldn’t handle it. I mean, nobody cares and this was indeed a totally nurturing environment, but I have this problem with letting go. I didn’t fall in enough. I wished so much that I prepared better. When I realized what was happening, I hid under the covers. I sat in the lotus position. I thought maybe I was supposed to have some kind of Zen enlightenment, and prayed for it, but I didn’t come close. I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the pixel-digital pattern forming before me, but it was so intense and horrifying that I could only find myself counting down until it was over with. I told myself to count to a hundred and just wait it out. I only counted to fifteen. Jessica came and held my hand as my skull fell down and I breathed heavily. It’s very important to have someone hold your hand and tell you its going to be okay in these situations. I appreciate it so much. Eventually I found the courage to open my eyes and my heartbeat finally slowed down, and I at last was back in some semblance of normal reality.

So what do I do with this knowledge? The world is made out of geometric patterns. I kind of already knew it, but now I have experienced it. So now what? I desperately need to do this again under more ideal conditions. Do an hour of yoga firsthand. Shower first. Be in a nature environment, even nude if necessary, and connect to the trees as opposed a connection with computers. My mind was buzzing quick, and my knees were jumping, and I struggled to verbalize these feelings. I thought I’d simply go on a trip for fifteen minutes and be on my way somewhere else by mid-afternoon, but instead it was necessary to follow up with at least an hour of conversation. I was very late in meeting up with Nancy. There was much philosophy to go over. And meanwhile, the illusionary real world beckoned.

Hugs and rides and hash brown breakfast later, I got a ride back to downtown SD. It was so boring at Chris’s. I was required to stay with them for the duration, but I wish that I got my own ride and could have spent the majority of the time with more like-minded people. It was fun to dye Nancy’s hair though, a dark red that barely came out over her jet black Asian hair. There was half a bottle left, so we went ahead decided to dye my hair too. At least now my grey hairs are gone (of which I probably gained many during the Salvia experience). I showered, and Chris wouldn’t lend me any clean jeans, and then we went to the most boring mall in the world. We ate at Cheesecake factory to meet with her UCSD friends. I didn’t fit in, but I tried to be hospitable. I certainly need to be less judgmental, and patronizing with the occasional bourgeoisie straights couldn’t hurt. Again, I spent money that I shouldn’t have.

Afterwards we all went to a Korean karaoke club, which was a bit more fun. It was an authentic karaoke bar, like the one I went to in Japan years ago, where you rent out a room with your friends and the television screen plays discorporate footage from Asian TV dramas. Really, I prefer karaoke when its about pretending you’re a star with strangers at a bar. Though they didn’t have a good selection, I looked up a few and sang Let it Be, and Anarchy in the UK, and some others. I flirted with Nancy, my only friend there, and she made fun of my singing, and meanwhile Chris’s eyes burned me with resentment ...

Raven called me halfway through. She was freaking out while high and needed me to assure her that she wasn’t being mind-controlled by the government. Social control is much more prevalent and dangerous, I told her, and the primate political patterns that filter our worldview are far more deep than any technologies the Cryptocratic authority structure could ever muster. Social deconditioning is the only solution, I argued. But even still, never ever let them get to you. Never let fear take you over. And I talked some more, about my own Salvia experience, and Andy Warhol, and art, and love, and why we’re so weird, and it was a great conversation. I was saved from these other people for a whole half-hour. Please, call me any time when you’re in a schizophrenic nightmare and I’m happy to listen.

On the late drive back Nancy and Chris were arguing. It was all over petty nothingness, but the obvious subtext is that they were fighting over me and my presence. Awkwardness took a new level while I hid in the back seat. I hated being there. I wished Nancy would ditch him and we could go somewhere else. I still don’t understand what mindgames Nancy was playing by inviting me to hang out with her boyfriend in the first place. If only I could be anywhere else. Back at their place I heard mutterings of hatred in the night emanating from their room, and I couldn’t hear the details and didn’t want to know. I played video games, played with the dog, and had another uncomfortable night’s sleep.

Woke up early. I offered to drive. Nancy was supposed to drop me off Long Beach first, but the timing was off. She was to have lunch with her family far away, near West Covina or somewhere. So instead it was worked out that we should go all the way out there and I’d wait around while she ate and just go to Long Beach later. (If you knew Southern California, you’d realize how ridiculous all this driving is.) Made it just in time, and I hung out at an Asian neighborhood for a few hours. I had some coffee at Burger King. I read some Sartre. I listened to my iPod. Raven called me again. I was bored, and sat next to a tree to read, and eventually I fell asleep. Foreshadowing my inevitable future, I slept outside for an hour until I was kicked out by a security guard. I was so tired.

Finally we went back to Long Beach. Nancy was open to hanging out for a while, and we watched Youtube movies on my computer. I introduced her to Ramsey and then Jenn came over. It was the first time I saw Jenn since I wrote her a very nasty suicide email, but anyways she seemed cool. Writing mean letters is my literary specialty. Nancy was tired, and asked to take a twenty minute nap in my room. When I went to wake her up, all confident from my making out night on Friday, I sat next to her and put my arm on her and lied there and felt her beautiful breath. It was so perfect. She awoke. I went in for a kiss. And she turned away and softly said, “no.” I shouldn’t have done that. I tried again. Still no. I truly shouldn’t have done that.

She should be mad at me. I don’t get it. I don’t understand anything. I wish she would either love me or hate me, but I don’t know how to handle a perpetual lukewarm friendship. Still she wanted to hang out. All four of us walked to a coffee shop and had tea and talked about such subjects as urine-powered automobiles. Eventually Nancy left, on the long drive alone back to the Valley. We hugged. I probably won’t see her again for a very long time, if ever.

I relaxed for awhile, and promised to hang out with Edward later this Sunday, so we drove Alan’s car to Cypress. Ramsey and Jenn came. I had to give Edward notes on his novel-in-process that I’d been hoarding for a while, and met up with him at his grandma’s place, and I bought a pint of cheap whiskey. The best kind to buy. I was sick of hanging out the coffee shop in Cypress all the time, so we parked at Home Depot and walked around dreary Orange County. We were lit up by moonlight. Talked about literature, and the future, and theology, and argued over whether Vonnegut or P.K. Dick is better. Edward is the only other real friend I’ve made in California. Just like Raven, he’s from somewhere else. I got really drunk. I probably won’t see him for a long time either. I have absolute assurance that we will keep in touch forever.

Ramsey drove on the way back, as I was fucking plastered. I was supposed to write that night. I have so much to do, but I was all fucked and just went to sleep. Had to wake up early for a three-day office gig from this temp agency the next day. I slept little, another sweaty night, and powered by coffee I commenced to drive to Torrance. This job sucked so much. Quite a hellish experience, it turned out to be nothing but stuffing envelopes for nine hours straight. But I listened to my iPod, and read magazines, and read the new Wonder Woman too. Perhaps that’s why I was the slowest one there. The two other kids there were the perfect envelope-stuffing trained monkeys. I went to Wal Mart on break to buy Burning Man supplies, which turned out to be a terrible idea and didn’t buy anything. How I despise Wal Mart. I also learned that Weinerschnitzel is a bad place for vegetarians to eat. The next few work days at home were spent forsaking the productive to watch Netflix movies: I watched Juno and Persopolis, of which I liked the latter a lot more.

The next day they took me aside and asked my why I was going so slow. 16,000 envelopes to stuff over three days and I did far less than my third. The other two kids there were such perfect worker bees. Sit still and stuff stuff stuff and they don’t seem to have brains at all. The next day I was told not even to come in. At least I get paid for two days, but I could have used that other third day of pay. I do not understand the world. I do not understand how to be a productive member of this shit. I seem not to have a survival instinct. I try so hard, but not hard enough evidently, and it never works. If only I could fully disconnect from this game. There’s a whole psychedelic creative universe out there, I’ve seen it, and yet we are told to go to school and go to work and that’s all there is.

Now I have to organize what to do with my life. I have to pack up my room. I have to mail everything I own. I have to prepare for Burning Man. I have to get camping supplies. I have to finish my novel, and some other scripts, and to draw as well. I have to bloody get ready to move to the other side of the country in two weeks. I’ve done none of this. Nothing. I have so much to do, and most of the time I do nothing. The story of my life.

I suppose it’s been interesting times lately, but I cannot help but feel hollow on occasion. I like to travel, but rarely do I seem to ever make it to any destination. Hence I wander. And still I travel.

JOHNNY'S LAMENT

2008-07-15T00:05:00.000-07:00

Johnny wants to shoot himself
But Mommy doesn't want to
Johnny wants to watch television
But Mommy said to not to
Johnny's got a brain
He does
But it doesn't really work too good

So Mommy got a job for him
Now there's shit to do
Johnny slit his wrists last night
Rusty razorblades and teeth and shampoo
Johnny fell asleep, in peace
But he didn't wake up in the bathroom
Still one piece, and Mommy hovers
And Mommy cries
And Johnny wishes she'd leave soon

Now Johnny gets to watch TV
And everyday he wants to
Mommy's sad and Mommy's mad
But Johnny doesn't have to
Cause John's on pills
And Mom's no thrill
She's plenty medicated too

So now the state will pay
Happily, for you
To not worry for a moment
Johny's fine and Mommy's kind
And it seems there's just not much left to do
And Mom's no thrill
She's plenty medicated too

TIME FOR PRESENTS!

2008-07-14T21:08:00.000-07:00

Its time for presents
Not time for violence
Plan on plenty
No time for silence
Bug your parents
Spend repentance
Buy me love
Spread connections
I want it now
There is no patience
I want it fresh
Not to wait for inheritance
Shiny trinkets
Cost imperative
Blind light-rays
I swear it is is
Cuz I deserve it
Mommy knows this
So throw away the old
Make room for new shit
Pay your bills
With indebted interest
They say its worthless
But don't believe it
Its very important
That I collect each-every bits
Junk-religion
Junkie sit-ins
God gets angry
If I don't get me presents

Sobriety

2008-06-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

Sobriety is a distant lover's claw-scratches, long since healed, mostly forgotten, and unnecessarily mystified

I find myself in some kind of lost pet situation. I'm looking damn hard, under every corner, obsessively compiling clues, traveling to the ends of the earth, and in the end I still have no goddamn idea what it is I am looking for. I am looking very hard for something. I don't know what this something is. The only sensible solution is to search harder.

Why am I so masochistic? I hate these human people that surround me, and I keep going in further. Keep stretching it out, wondering how everyone else experiences happiness so easily, seeking to fit my puzzle piece in, and as consistent as broken clockwork it never does.

And what of these altered states of consciousness I keep traveling into? I wonder what the point is. Like a cheat code to enlightenment? Philosophical confirmation of the nonsense of perception? Or just a way for dumb kids to get fucked up? I sometimes compare it to a sort of literary poseur lifestyle, gateway to copying one's idols without understanding any inherent tragedy of their art, me a wannabe fuckup pretending I was in a book.

There's a dark side to it. There is a risk involved. Perhaps the greater the payoff, the greater the death trap. Or perhaps I'm simply an idiot and I never learn.

Meanwhile, after being ripped off last week (3 more tabs of Ex and they did nothing?! I can't be that medically deficient in serotonin, can I?), and a backup of funds so I am applying at jobs incessantly with at least a dozen restaurant applications fulfilled. But Ramsey is here and every single night we got to go somewhere new. Poetry readings in Long Beach, garage rock in LA, clubbers in Hollywood, and on Friday we settled for fire-spinners in Laguna, OC. Friday night I heard about it and we went down Pacific Coast Highway, a longer drive than I thought, to check out a little beach I've never been to.

I don't know Laguna that terribly well, but I took the directions as given and we found our way down the stepping stones into a rocky beach. It was foggy, and dark, and it was like a dream. A beautiful landscape I'd never seen before, giant rocks and big waves. Not like the flat scapes of Huntington, or Venice, and surely nothing like Long Beach. "This is what I've been looking for," Ramsey excitedly said. "Something you can't see anywhere else!"

I concurred, it was a beautiful sight. We walked around and found another path to the fire-dancer scene. A little mini-Burn, and I coincidentally bumped into a Burner I already knew by the by, and it was rather chill. So I decided to eat the eighth of psilocybin fungus I'd been saving, as this seemed as delicious an opportunity as any. Takes an hour or so to kick in hard, but I watched with intent eyes and heavy breathing, as hula-hoops attached to burning coal and spun, like glow-sticks of the ancients, lighting the sand as a microcosm reflection of the stars above.

It was cool for a while, and I had no right to any complaints. Then the tide came in deeper, and my shoes got wet, and technically the beach was closed off this time of night anyways. So we walked upstairs, climbed over a fence to exit (there would be many fences to climb over this night), and talked and met with some people, and then went to a girl's house to drown our sandy shoes in sweet hose-water. And being cotton-mouthed as chemicals tuned in pictures wavy in front me, I proceeded to drink of the hose-water and look around.

So, with these new people I was meeting, we decided to hit up the nearby bar district. I wish I brought my iPod and sunglasses, detach myself into my own world, but the car was the other direction and I was full-in to experience the loudness and the brightness. And we walked down the sidewalk, past the Orange County art galleries and guitarists and drunk college kids sneaking behind the PCH off-streets, arriving somewhere or other, always going never getting there.

I tried to keep up a good conversation while on my personal trip. Drugs, I find, must be taken again and again, more and more, if you are to re-learn how to walk and talk and connect (and then, hopefully, be even better at it while sober). It takes a lot of experience to get used to the new set of controls, like playing on familiar video game but on new system's controller. I thought that I'd been getting better at it lately. Get fucked up again and again and again, like any other practice in life, and eventually it becomes easy. Evidently I was wrong, and later on I did indeed freak out a little bit.

Frat bars, it turns out, are a goddamn terrible place to typtamine trip. We walked to Hennessy's and I sat next to a Finnish neuroscientist-doctor girl, but really I was all alone, and watched them eat while the paintings on the wall vibrated to interesting colors as liquid patterns emerged. Also, hanging out with academic types tends to make me feel stupid. I, but a humble novelist, am completely unable to thrive in a schooling environment. Either I'm not smart enough or I'm too smart, and I have no idea which, but I'm no good at it. I was in no condition for philosophical conversation anyways. I didn't eat, just sat around, wandered up the stairs on occasion to see the shitty band, and periodically stepped out to bum cigarettes, and make awkward phone calls, with my weird cell phone device that all of sudden was much brighter and 3D-ish than usual. Most of all, I enjoyed sitting on the floor and looking at the hieroglyphics of the sidewalk pavement.

One time I stepped out and asked a group of college assholes for a cigarette, and then this slutty blonde drunk girl stepped up to me. "Can I ask you a question," she asked, "but don't be offended." "I'll probably be offended," I joked. "Are you gay?" she said. "No." Fucking dammit. Well, I get that from time to time. She was very touchy, caressing my chest, and I touched her soft arm in return, and she recommended that I meet her at the other bar Ocean's later on. "Come down, it'll be hot." And then I noticed her pulling up her skirt and showing off her crotch and beautiful bubbly ass, to an audience of onlookers, feeding from the attention. "Whoa," I reacted. "I'm an amateur stripper!" she yelled. "Hell yeah," I said, "everyone should do whatever they want all the time." This girl was fucking crazy and I thought it great.

So Roxanne met up with her friend and called me and soon arrived, and then the Laguna fire people left, and then me and Ramsey looked for other shit to do. I demanded we go to Ocean's next door, and then I immediately regretted it when we got there. The blonde girl, flirting with a million other guys and now done with toying with me, told me some random fellow was "my boyfriend" - obviously lying just to fuck with me. Whatever. The good lord would not see to grace me with a sex scene to write about on this night. Fuck Him. Fuck her. Fuck everyone.

This club, blasting shitty hip hop music, filled with trendy well-dressers who can't dance, and among them I felt so ugly. So unconfident. So terrible at the simplest human maneuvering. Louder and louder, glass breaking, near-fights, aggression mounting, I panicked, surrounded by freaks with giant heads and shark-faces and Amazonian Asians. I could taste the hatred. It was a complete nightmare of narcissistic hollow nothingness, of which normally I should fit right in as such, but with such exaggerated lighting-bolts of perception so clearly digging into my soul I was ready to bleed protoplasm out my ears. O my God, fuck all these people.

I hate you I hate you I hate you you hate me we hate all God get it over with and kill this sinful blight of pathetic animal fake phonies of lies lies lies lies no truth lies lies and I am no better, death kill hatred fuck fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK liar killer get it over with lonely lonely lonely NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU NOBODY WILL EVER LOVE YOU goddammit this fucking sucks

This was an absolute nightmare. A panic I've never dealt with before. And all you can do to cope is fake that you're fine. But I'm no good at it. Simply put, I didn't like being stuck inside me. It didn't make any sense. Why must I be stuck inside this thing?

Last call and then we left. Thank fucking God. At this point I was sobering down anyways, but the lingering experience still resonated. "Fuck!" I said, "I hate all these people so much." "How are you doing?" Roxanne asked. "I am an embarrassment, a void, a lifeless fuck deserving to be taken out and shot." "Um," she reacted, "sometimes I feel like that." "Good," I said, "fuck everyone."

The others were peppy and ready to continue the night about town. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be asleep. But it was still a walk to get to the car nonetheless, still time for quietness and a transition to relax, and I did feel better by the time we got back to starting point. "Let's go to the beach!" they said. Okay. I split up and wandered alone; and I turned off my phone, daring myself to throw it in the ocean but I don't have the guts evidently, and went off to my own thing. Ah . . . now that I was back at the car I could get out my lovely iPod, my only friend that hasn't betrayed me, and so I jumped over the gate on top of the cliff, sat on the sand, listened to some music, and looked at some waves.

Ramsey and Roxanne and friend were off by the rocks, sitting around having conversation. Ramsey, by the time I joined them, looked great as he sat cross-legged on a science fiction scenery, no doubt contemplating all the mysteries of Creation. "You know," I was saying, "I don't think it's fair that we don't get to hang out with Trent Reznor (music: I wanna be everything...I wanna fuck everyone...I wanna do something that matters). Or Connor Oberst, or Neal Stephenson, or Grant Morrison, or whoever. It's not enough that I listen to the music, and read their books. I want in! I feel entitled to be their equals, and discover the secret society of fame." "I know," he agreed. "When is it my turn?" I said, "I keep digging so deep, searching so hard, and I don't have any goddamn idea what I'm looking for." While Roxanne tried to say wise things about "detaching yourself from the lust for results," I just didn't agree. Not really. Deep inside I goddamn want results and I admit it. "You should leave me alone," I told Ramsey. "I need everyone to avoid me if I'm ever going to write anything that matters." "Okay man," he said, "it's cool." "HA!" I laughed. "I just can't offend you no matter how hard I try."

"Let's go skinny-dipping," I suggested. No disagreements; we walked over the rocks to the other side of the beach, alone in the darkness, and I took off my clothes and ran into the bitter cold water and jumped inside. The others took off their clothes too, Ramsey and Roxanne and her monkey friend. But they wouldn't graze the seasalt past their toes. "Get out of there," Ramsey yelled to me, "you'll get hypothermia." "I won't!" I screamed. "I'm going to live in the water from now on!" I told Roxanne, breasts bouncing, to jump inside. "It's cold," she said. "Life is suffering!" I retorted. "Life isn't suffering!" she said, "don't say that." "No, I said, "life is suffering and that's okay. Just jump inside the cold, and sure it hurts, but then you get used to it and it's not such a big deal anymore. That's what life is about." "You're crazy," she said, perhaps not entirely inaccurately. "Well," I accepted, "if anything my philosophical fallacy is a common one; to expect that what works for me should work for others. I have no right to tell anyone else what to do." I still think life is suffering though, and I still recommend that everyone jump in the cold, because the only non-naive optimistic viewpoint worth a damn is that: life is suffering and it's not that big a deal. At least that's my conclusion lately.

I've never hung out with Roxanne and Ramsey naked before. Really, like everything in life, as I've been saying, it's not that big a deal when you go through with it. Nudist lifestyle, who cares, I'm down, because where all animals underneath. Perhaps I should be ashamed of my shriveled cold manhood, shrinkage in bloom, but I didn't care. And I screamed and I sang and the ocean sang back, and for a brief unrelenting moment I think I kind of felt alive.

"I'm going to be sober from now on man," I promised (I lied.) "This is just such bullshit. I can't handle it." Sand in my nether-regions, skinny-dipping dared and done, I put on my shorts and so did the others. I listened to my iPod, but still waded in the cold (Placebo said it all: Since I was born I started to decay ... Now nothing ever ever goes my way!). By all rights my iPod and my cell phone too, thoroughly wet in this instance, should be completely broke by now. But they still work even today, and hence I have nothing to regret.

I did wish I had a girl of my own to hang out with, to be naked with and all. Sometimes I want to fall in love and believe in something pure, and sometimes I want meaningless sex with every slut in the world and a right to brag about nothing. Then again, I talk a good nihilist game, but what am I really doing about it? I'm not so good at either path. At least I had acquaintances to accompany me, and I least I could fake a little bit of connection that night.

So we eventually dressed and walked back, and I was totally good to drive by now - neurologically sober but stomach in whirls - and they decided to extend the night by finding a Jacuzzi to steal. Dropped them off at Roxanne's car, and followed them down to a gated community somewhere in Orange County. Luckily, synchronicity with us, a car left and it opened the gate and we sped inside right after. I suspect though that these gated communities have "white beam" technology, and will let us in as long as we're all white. Or, if not, I think that's a good idea for an invention down the line. Patent-pending, don't steal the idea from me.

We went to the closed pool area and jumped over the fence, and disrobed once again. This time there was far better lighting than the dark beach, more to be ashamed over, and even more symbolic to just not give a fuck and hang out as the vulgar animals we all are. No doubt insomniac apartment residents stared from their windows, but we didn't care. It was a memory to cherish, fighting the dawn, hot bubbles soaking into the skin, penises floating, soul siblings together.

Selfish asshole that I surely am, I've been a bit mean to Roxanne of late, secretly behind the scenes. Disconnected, and resentfully so. But in actuality she was a good friend, and know now that I should be grateful. Ramsey, and that other guy too, cool people to share the night with and pretend it will last forever. I have no right to this hidden anger, these people are just trying to do good and I am lucky I have them.

But all things must end, and we jumped the fence out the other side, and I drove with no shoes to the toll road to the 405, and made it home to sleep before any birds chirped and the sunlight got the chance to interrupt my perfect nighttime bliss.

I'm fine now. A bad trip can be the ultimate therapy. It's an accelerated perception, as in the course of several hours years of reality rush through your brain. In one moment the whole world is darkness and it hates you deeply (and you know you deserve it). Soon after, its back to a yin-yang equilibrium, with positive interpretation if you like that outlook, and you wonder what the big deal was you were freaking out over. I am recharged and upbeat after a terrifying experience, and I would never take it back.

Still, maybe I should learn something by now and maybe shouldn't rush to the next experience. During my previous declarations of sobriety, I told myself I wouldn't smoke for the next 24-hours. I stuck to it the next day, and actually it was rather easy. I don't think anyone is really addicted to nicotine, I think we just all like the habit of it. I gave an honest try to get addicted this past year, and I suppose I'll keep on trying until my specified quite-due date of next year. I want to experience that suffering of addiction-and-quitting, if only the universe would let me. I haven't suffered nearly enough to deserve to be alive, you see, and I'll take whatever little attempts I can scheme in.

I don't know. I don't fucking know anything, truth be told. Have I gotten this ridiculousness out of my system yet? There's still so much more. I'm still promised to a host of future neuron re-wiring experiences with various other degenerates, its still on the schedule. It would be rude to choose straightedgism at this point. Heroin, acid, DMT, ayahuasca, dilaudid, tweak, Ecstasy, coffee, cigarettes even, and booze booze booze (I do know I'm done with pot though). Hell, maybe I'll add cocaine to the list too while I'm at it.

Do we ever grow out of this? Is it always to be necessary? That's what I'd like to figure it out, and I'd definitely like to learn it the hard way. I know I haven't learned all I can learn just yet. I certainly know of more than a few drug addicts, or at least mind-explorers, who I thoroughly respect as brilliant people who've greatly added to our pool of culture. And likewise, I know certain other respectable humans who went through it and now since despise drugs, and lead a far more disciplined lifestyle than I seem to have the innate willpower to muster.

I think I'm almost ready to get it all out of the way and try the sobriety thing. I gave myself a date, but now I want to push that date sooner ahead because I'm getting a bit sick of it all. Conversations about scoring, on and on and, "so let's meet this guy this time, and that other gut that time, and I heard someone can get this, and did that other shit arrive yet, let's see if I can buy some at this place, or some more at that place." And then you wait, sweat it out, and waste your money on poison. And honestly it's a dull lifestyle. There is nothing worse than being bored. Can I do better? Or am I destined for dull burnouthood?

So, no job yet confirmed on the horizon of my timewave ... and I just decided to spend a mere $140.00 on a ticket to San Francisco. Leaving in a few days. I figure I should go somewhere new, the stir-craziness has risen to the surface and every once in a while I have to get the hell out. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I arrive to SF. Something interesting should happen. Can't bring drugs on a plane though, and I really should be on a budget and not spend any when on that when I get there either.

I guess I'll do shit, and observe it, and meet some humans, attempt a communications, and come home to write about. Please wait patiently.

Well, my gentle readers, do tell me, was this all self-indulgent enough? Or, dare I claim, is this thing I live interesting?

Encourage me to keep going. We need all the help we can get.

Topsy-Turvy-Nothingness

2008-06-18T04:40:00.000-07:00

June started out stressful with roommate drama right off the bat. I thought it was going to be cool that a couple was going to move in, _____ and _________, and that makes two roommates so therefore rent would have been that much cheaper. But then they broke up and it was drama ever since. Probably all my fault, all the pressure I gave them by presenting the opportunity to move in together. They went back and forth forever, first _____ backed out and it would have been only _________, and then the opposite - therefore I needed to find a third roommate quick if I was going to continue to pay cheap rent. Just tricky to find someone cool with a living room situation.

____ was lingering for a week, and that was fine, but his situation with his friends finding a place in LA near the studios didn't work out and he was going back to his folks soon. But in a monumental luckery that I don't deserve, he left his car here and said I could use it for the rest of the month. Helped out with getting to work for sure. I called this other guy - ____, a Russian - who was next on my list and at the last minute it worked out and he moved in. But then _________, who already paid, said that her ex would be the one to move in instead. He had no job and she already paid; and sadly I had to be an asshole and stick up for my own financial stability, and I made an ultimatum that neither would move in and I'd have to find someone else

Then suddenly ______ decided to move in! My world has been topsy-turvy ever since. He texted me mysteriously one day in the early dates of July - "Hey you still need a roommate?" "Like next month?" I responded. "In two days," he answered. Hmmm . . . I thought. Maybe just maybe this would work out. He met me after work one day in the horrible heat of dead Cypress, Orange County. How surreal. There was ______, my boy since high school, except with his head shaved, and he had a big clunky van leaking transmission fluid but my bike fit inside it nicely.

We checked out the beach in Huntington, and came back to my place where he got along with ____ and ____, and then he showered, and then immediately the first night we checked out Hollywood. _______ told me about a bar, but by the time we got there she was leaving, and we went to another bar for karaoke. I did White Stripes and then Bob Dylan, it was pretty great. And ______ walked around Hollywood and realized that it's just the same as any other hip urban scene in America. "Everywhere is everywhere," he said, and I do concur. And we put two more things of transmission fluid in his big clunky van, and drove back to Long Beach, and slept on my floor.

The next day was Saturday and we decided to go to San Diego. ______'s friend _______ just moved there a few days ago and we figured we'd visit. I only donated twenty bucks to gas, but still I joined him. And as ______ has now discovered, everywhere in Southern California is much farther than you'd think. San Diego wasn't a bad two-hour drive, and we did get to use the carpool lane, except when got lost in downtown San Diego for a bit. That's really the only part of SD that I know, via Comic Con, but soon we got to _______'s boyfriend's apartment and I learned of new parts. Firstly though, we got really really high. I hate that I keep doing this. They had some good weed, and I hate how I am always offered good pot and I can't handle it. I'd rather get shitty pot. THC just doesn't work with me; other drugs certainly do, but not this one. I am curious as to why everyone else seems to love pot so much, but I always have bad experiences again and again. Next time I am offered I will experiment with sobriety, and see how I act around a bunch of high folks. ______ though, who I've never seen high before, was at the pinnacle of comedic sponteneousness. Good for him I guess. To me he turned into a surreal cartoon character, betwixt the fake TV landscapes of the city, and again I reiterate that I just didn't like it. I embarrassed myself while we were driving, my perspective all off, and I yelled "NO OH GOD YOU'RE GOING TO HIT THAT CAR!" at a simple parking backing up. I felt pretty stupid. I'm just too self-conscious for downers.

So we went with _______'s boyfriend, who seems a cool guy, to Normal Park or somewhere, and I was unable to communicate. Everyone was talking about smart shit and I had no idea what. It was like being a stupid little kid. I danced at the bar for a bit, it was a daze, and thoughts went swam thru my head too fast to catch. While they ate a restaurant I ended up passed out in the car vibrating at too high a frequency for any kind of fun. Then I slept on their couch, ______ on the floor, and so on.

Next day we decided to go to Mexico. I kind of wanted to go to a Erik Davis event in LA, kind of in a hurry to get back, but oh well this was presented and I went with it. Last time I was in Tijuana was with ______ a year back, and it was rather awesome then, and here I was again. I didn't bring my passport though, and ______ didn't even have one, but we were assured it was no big deal. Later on when walked thru gates I was asked "Are you American?" "Yeah," I said, and was let in. It was pretty easy. As long as you're white, transport is simple.

We went to some bars, cheap booze, I got absinthe too, rode on an electric bull, and walked the perverted alleyways of Revolucian. I really dig Tijuana. It's like, reality. America is the fake version of the world, this is the real undiluted anarchic madness that the rest of the planet has to deal with. Everyone yelling at you to buy shit, sex for sale on the street with no hidden qualms, everybody sincerely wants to sell you drugs (I didn't buy anything though), pharmacias at every streetcorner, and fake jewelry to buy for your loved ones. I love it.

I felt bad that we were hanging out with girls, but still we went to the strip clubs. Such vulgarity. "No cover charge!" we were assured, "and free margaritas for the ladies!" Ugly Mexican chicas displaying it all, guts and tits and pussy, and for barely no money! It's disgusting. It's real. It's humanity. Let us be honest about. So we drifted to a few more places, usually at my insistence but nobody else argued. No guilt. I cut myself off from the direct obvious sort of whoredom though, and I never did get a massage. Next time I go, I promise to myself, I shall not leave without an orgasm. Somehow or another . . .

Meanwhile, the weekday comes and I have to work. On Monday there was a meeting about how nobody is allowed to screw around on the internet anymore. I didn't really listen, but I cut back a little bit. Tried to minimize windows, keep my youtube bullshit to myself, not get in trouble. But mostly I just did whatever I want. My philosophy on rules and authority is to politely nod and say you'll behave from now on, and then when the boss isn't looking go do whatever you want. I mean, shit, I still got my work done. I simply googled superhero trivia and political columns inbetween. Data entry is soul-crushing anyways, I can't handle taking it too seriously. Glad to be a productive member of society.

When I returned the money to my estranged non-roommate _________, wrote a 300 dollar check, I then needed ______ to pay me for the room and board. We went to the US Bank across the street and then it turned out he had like a hundred bucks in the bank. Shit. Lesson kids: don't drive cross-country in a big van and expect to have money when you get there. So I guess he'll owe me 270 eventually, and its cool, but I really do need the money eventually. He's getting a job, so I've heard, and I'm sure it'll all work out, but it's still a bit worrisome.

On Thursday we took the bus to downtown LBC to meet at a couchsurfing.com party I heard about online. ____ joined us. I thought it was somehow related to the art walk thing they do here from time to time, and we walked around for a bit. I was wrong, thinking of the downtown LA art walk that was on Thursday, while Long Beach's is on Saturday. Nonetheless, I already committed to a psychedelic adventure. I'd been sitting on this eighth of mushrooms for a week or so, waiting for a fun opportunity to look at pictures and interact with people. For the first hour nothing happened and I was disappointed. But while sitting around at the wine bar I started acting stupid. It got wavy, but it in a fun way. Unlike pot I was able to keep my composure, and though the world got really fucking weird, I could still mumble something equivalent to intelligent conversation. I walked about Pine street on my own, bought cigarettes from 7-11 and forgot how the credit card machine worked, and giggled at the absurdities around me. Downtown at Pine street is really fucking strange at night. Flashing lights like a video game, go-go girls in the windows at the clubs dressed like furie sexy space creatures, and the sidewalk pavement revealed secret hieroglyphics to me. I even crossed the street all on my own.

We all walked about for a while, had some conversation, and though I didn't reveal what I was on I felt like I was exposing my new roommate ____ to a bad influence. He's such a good 19-year old kid, not into this shit, and he even confessed that he actually enjoyed high school. It's okay though, I'm trying to learn how to not to judge people around me. They're just different. Not better or worse, just a different species with other concerns. I was okay by the time we took the last bus home, babbling and singing all the way as the psilocybin died down and I had to get to sleep if I was going to wake up at 6 to get to work at 8 in the morning.

Friday I went to work like any other day. Woke up all damn early and typed away, while sneaking in a MySpace check or two, and listened to Democracy Now, and read from my Stephen Hawking book on break - on the hunt for trippy science fiction ideas, and it seemed an okay average day. Then a few hours in my boss tapped me on the back. I went to the office. "Ray," she said, "we told you that you cannot be surfing on the internet. It isn't respectful to not listen to your managers when you're clearly told what to do. We're going to have to let you go."

Fuck a job. Fuck them all. How are they going to condition me for two months in a lenient cool atmosphere - in which I do indeed get quite a bit of work done by the way - and then all of a sudden expect me to be a good soul-less worker bee in the span of this particular week? Just like that?

"I apologize," I said. Well, to be fair I was hired as a temp technically, and thus I will interpret this as a lay-off, not a termination. I packed my shit and headed out, the daylight up in the noon hours and the whole day ahead of me. I went down to the coffee shop across from Cypress College where I usually hang out after work (though I don't expect to hang out in dead Orange County much anymore), but it was too early for any of my friends to be there. I called up my shroom source though, and waited a while and then he came down with a half-ounce. I spent 85 dollars, which was highly irresponsible considering my inevitable future financial woes, and then ______ came down and we talked awhile too. We'd meet up at the bookstore poetry reading in Long Beach later on.

I did have an obligation to buy this, I must add, because another guy at the bookstore said he'd buy a fourth from me. I divied up my portions, and later on when at the bookstore I sold it for fifty-five. That adds up to me buying the other half of the pile - my own fourth - for only thirty bucks, and that's not a bad deal. Somehow or another on the same day I got fired I sold drugs for the first time in my life. What am I to interpret of this? So I read a poem I had just wrote, ______ seemed to enjoy the scene, hung out for a bit, and ______ was there too, and then he joined us on the ride back to crash at my place for the next inane day.

Saturday was the topsy-turviest of all. I hung out with ______ and ______ and drove all about Los Angeles County, and if I may be permitted this corny statement I must say that it felt great to have real friends. I'm glad they get along, because this is the first time in years that I've had real friends to hang out with. Not acquaintances to party next to and then not care about, but real deep people with some kind of sincere human interaction between the subtext of conversation. Really, it was a cool day.

First we went to eat at my old restaurant job, where I pathetically asked my old manager if they needed any busboys, and to no avail (fuck that place too). There was a lot of shit going on in the city to sort, a bonfire beach party in South Bay, a show in downtown, but I needed to get to Hollywood first. It wasn't timed very well, and Hollywood was the opposite direction from South Bay - especially since the itinerary involved being in downtown LA later in the evening, and in the end we didn't even go down there. But in Hollywood I met up with _____ who I hadn't seen since we viciously fought over hierarchy positions. Well, we're MySpace friends again and it's all in the past. I fear she didn't get along with ______ though, even though they're both from New Orleans. ______ is guttural downtown literature, and _____ is all Hollywood popism, and I love them both but they're pretty different vibes. Still, ______ gets along with everybody and he was humorous as usual. I picked her up and drove around Hollywood Blvd for a while, killing time, and I wanted to go that art gallery and see if I could talk to James St. James. Lo and behold he was there, and I got him to sign my book, and I talked to him about writing for a bit. It was highly productive, and I got his email address and everything. I'm glad to know a semi-famous author, hope it works out in the future. He's quite swell.

Deciding not to go to the beach, we went down to the strangest-emptiest warehouse section of downtown for the Rock n Roll BBQ show, ate at Jack in the Box, I wandered into a porno store, and then we went to see the show. I hadn't seen ____, or rather '______ ______' in ages and ages. Not since ________ broke up with me! The Spanks were all totally nice. They put on a nice show too. But the venue was totally dead at this point, so early at only 7:00, and as people trickled in me and ______ scoured into the corner to pop some X.

He bought it from somebody at the coffee shop, and I paid him back the day before, and I was ready to see what this shit is like. I missed the mark back in the 90s when I was a kid, back when Ecstasy was far more fashionable, but we came upon it and I figured why the hell not. I took some two tabs of white 'Man on the Moon' and he took some orangy 'Buddha', and it took an hour to kick in. I worried that it wouldn't do anything. But then an hour later I slowly found my pupils dilating and my veins hyperactive. They mix that shit with different chemicals, and while I hear that the source of MDMA is dwindling nowadays - which I suspect might not work on me anyways due to my medical diagnosis of serotonin imb____ce. But my theory is that it was laced with amphetamine, white means "ice" I guess, and it was the speed portion that made it so much fun. I was shivering and talking a mile a minute of nonsense to every model girl about in the vicinity, teeth chattering, hopping all up and down, neck barely attached. Perhaps rolling isn't my thing, but then again perhaps tweaking is. Of course, this is a fucked thing to get too into, and don't let me end up like those anorexic crazy people on the corner that we all ignore, but every once in a while may I be permitted for a hyper sped-up nighttime experiential energy?

In my excited state, I decided to give ___ a call. I left her a message, "blah blah blah! And destiny is just around the corner!" Funny, no matter where I go and who I meet, it always comes back to Cincinnati girls. I mentioned that while tripping on a fourth of psilocybin recently I had visions of her. Later she called me back, and synchronously she had recently also gotten fired. She laughed about it, a great attitude to have for sure, and mentioned that she's thinking about going to Burning Man. "Yeah," I said, "and we'll hang out naked in the desert!" ______ came over and I let him talk to her. I overheard them talking about her kid, and his needing a father figure, and I said to him: "I'll be a father figure." He nodded and smirked. "Tell her I said that," I said to him. He covered up the phone and said, "I'm not saying that." Well, probably smart in retrospect.

I also called ________ and left a silly message. "We should all do drugs and love everybody." ____ left a message too. Then later while I was in the car he called me back: "Don't call me! You're a nihilist! You'll never understand!" "Man," I said, "whatever I'll respect your wishes and I'm hanging up now." I erased his number from my phone. It was unnerving, but a cruel side of me also found it entertaining how easy it was to rile him up. Ah well, whatever with that guy. Fuckemall.

____ said that we should go to Hollywood for this other show, and he said that he'd even pay for us, and so we headed there. ______, only slightly drunk (tho I was not allowed any alcohol while rolling), drove the car and followed along. We went to Safari Sams, and missed that band, though I realized that _____ was the one playing there! How synchronous. It didn't go over well actually. I said to her: "So how's your immigration going? I was thinking, like, you should marry an American and that would be easier." "Like marry you?" she said. "I do!" I declared. It wasn't actually so witty at the time.

Later I talked to _______ on the phone, and it turned out she was at the other venue back in downtown. "Let's go there!" said ______. He drove, and then he ended up driving backward on a one-way in downtown as we realized to honks, and then I suggested we pull over and I drive the rest of the way. I had since popped a third tab, but it didn't work as well, and I was good to drive. When we got there it was fairly dead, and _______ asked for a ride to Pasadena to get her van. "I don't know," I said. "Okay!" ______ answered for me. So I agreed, but first we went to eat. I didn't particularly want to get finagled into a ride, but it wasn't the end of the world or nothin. We ate at 101 Café on Fountain, the night tying together as that was where I picked up _____ earlier. _____ briefly dropped by. I was thoroughly burnt out by then and only ordered soup, and ate two spoonfuls, and couldn't eat anymore.

______ drove to Pasadena to an auto shop. I'd never been to Pasadena before actually. Dropped her off and _______ gave me the worst directions of my life, to take the 210 to the 605 to get to Orange County. I should have gone down the 5. I drove thru an hour of emptiness to get to Cypress to drop off ______, who'd long been passed out in the backseat. Boring drive, but I was awake and sober and it wasn't too challenging. Me and ______ got home past 5 AM. And then I went to sleep.

Sunday I was completely burnt out. I woke up at noon, watched television, and then took a nap. I was supposed to catch up on reading and go to the gym and do all this productive shit, though I did read one comic and did go jogging, but most of the day I was fairly braindead and only watched cartoons. Hazards of pills I suppose.

The last few days I have been applying at tons of restaurants. Domenico's surely sucks, but I think I'd rather work part-time and get tips versus a soul-crushing office gig. I need time to write, you see. Of course, that would be the long term financial plan. I must be pragmatic you know. Lately I am proofreading Rob Woodard's new novel, and he's proofreading mine, and once it's as polished as its going to get I will send The Parade out to a new round of queries. Feeling rather uncreative lately, spent and used up and out of words; and I think all my destiny lies in this one novel. Its either this or I will never accomplish anything in life. Better make it happen.

And now I'm sitting on days and days worth of drugs, and I got to find some interesting events to get fucked up at in the coming weeks. I bought more Ecstasy from a local drug dealer I accidentally met, and I have plenty of mushrooms, some people I know are supposed to get some acid pretty soon (haven't done acid since I was sixteen!), and then there's the complex mail-order scheme I'm in on with ______ to get some dope down from his hometown.

Thus continues my quest to become a pathetic drug addict. It's a literary cliché, and who am I to argue with tradition? I used to avoid it when I was a kid, didn't want to become the stoner loser that is my father. But now I think that I shall instead avoid becoming my father by simply outdoing him. Sadly, ______ seems to hate me for it, and sent me an email declaring that we can never be friends as long as he is in law enforcement. But then again, we've been continuously emailing back and forth several times since he said it would be the last time; and I think he's not rid of me yet. We'll hang out soon again I suspect.

The true fact is, everything and everyone is a void. The truth is . . . that there is no truth. There is no morality, there are no honor codes to stand by. Let us get along and not kill each other, and let us be disciplined in whatever it is we do; and that's plenty for the world to go by. Don't be fooled into believing there is some inherent meaning in any of it. These silly human animals strut around pretending to do what they do, tricked into cosmic circumstance, but the best we can hope for is to reprogram the underlying absurdities of our brain's neurochemistry and make up a fun Reality Tunnel. Otherwise, God doesn't care and the primates are full of shit if they think otherwise. I intend to be an artist, and scam my way through life, and contribute nothing because there is nothing to contribute. It's all empty and dark and the whole wide world is a fraud. That's the good news. That's the trick that should make us happier if we understand it. And that's what I'm attempting to fool myself into believing, anyhow, and that's what I'll pretend to live by.

LOVE IS JUST AROUND THE CORNER

2008-06-06T13:57:00.000-07:00

Can anyone else feel it in the air? It seems so glaringly obvious.

For many years it seemed to be a reasonable conclusion that outlook of life was based upon to main cause-and-effect factors, two choices:

1.) Naivette, stupidity, happiness, fakeness, Holden's "phoney", ignorance is bliss

OR

2.) sincerity and intelligence equals . . . curiousity and honesty equals . . .

And the world is a horrible dark place of suffering. Overwhelming horror under every rock. Dark overlords want to kill and control YOU.
Peel away the Disneyworld and there goes Amida under the Bodhi tree wondering "why msut we suffer"

A world filled with fear of information. (o I could recommend some databases for YOU)
Get over it.
Delve in deep, get depressed, and swim through the muck shinier than ever.

Anyways, I hope we can be over that soon. Research and research and reseach (o I could recommend some books and sites), and its all swell, or rather its not;
and yet the eternal MYSTERY underlies the nonsense, for who knows shit anyways??

Everyone is so bloody depressed. I am hardly one to talk, but it gets tiring and cliched after a while.

(Anything to be a cliche--)

Can we be happy without being stupid? This is the test we are given.

"YAY", cuz the world ain't all bad and destiny is just around the corner, love wants to burst through, so don't give up.

-------------------

WHERE IS THE LOVE??

WHERE IS THE CHOICE

HOW GOES THE INFORMATION STREAM-->

(come on over, and help us articulate this vagueness . . .

)

------------------

Posted by Dave:

And here I thought it was just because mercury was in retrograde. Silly human.

Seriously though, maybe there is such a thing as being TOO "informed". We get bombarded by information from all over the world, 24/7, coming at us from different vectors, a great deal of it trivial (not to mention all manner of propaganda, disinfo, advertising and infotainment) but a lot of the important stuff gets lost in the noise. Linear thinking gets rendered obsolete pretty damn fast in the wake of such a flood. Non-linear thinking (ie. pattern recognition) is NOT encouraged, either by our education system or our top-down corporate media. I tend to think of it as a new form of control, and it seems to work better than old fashioned censorship.

Is pattern recognition the same now as fear of information?

---------------------

posted by ME:

An astrological rationalle always makes the most sense...

Is there such a thing as too much information? We are certainly suffering from information overload. (which is perhaps an argument for Extropian cybernetic evolution in order to process higher data ranges, but a discussion for another occasion...) The problem, at times, seems to be pattern recognition-as-propaghanda itself. When the stream of info is controlled as it is, then we start getting paranoid and forming outlandish theories which distract from whatever the hell is really going on out there

Multimedia disinfo bombs, more dangerous then lies these days . . . .

ANYWAYS I'm trying to be hopeful starting now

Hollywood Meanderings

2008-05-24T19:50:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-01T16:50:00.001-07:00

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.

No I don't respect your religious beliefs =)

2008-04-27T20:07:00.000-07:00

With all due respect (and we tend to get away with offensive statements when preluded with "with all due respect") I don't respect your religious beliefs at all. Why should I?

Don't you respect my beliefs either, and that's the point.

Firstly, this cartoon is pretty great:

And no doubt you are already tired of those nightly news segments with father-less children taken away by government authorities to the sad pleas of colonial women with weird haircuts. We get it: Fundamentalist polygamous Mormon cults are weird.

Yet we don't get it, because the truth is far worse and nobody is sharing it: Pentagon funds aid polygamous sect.

Are we paying attention, or are we falling back asleep while TMZ gives us the more important news? 1.5 million dollars, a drop in the bucket to the M-I-Complex to be sure, but nontheless I hope this disturbs. And this is only what's so far been revealed now that the FLDS has been in the spotlight; so how many other unknown cults are being presently funded by the Pentagon, and nobody knows, and nobody cares?

(While the global-corporatist methodology of infinite tax funds for war and no funds for the poor is a deep and sad story, and thoroughly documented, it is not to be the subject of this particular post, and I appologize but space is limited)

This is essentially obvious. Regardless of whether mainstream Mormons are nice to you or not, all religions (all belief systems period) inevitably evolve a harsh extremist side. This is not the occasional fluke, the bad seed ruining the bathwater or whatever metaphor you choose - this is the logical evolution of belief structures systematics.

-Make up a system.

-Think in a vacuum.

-And fall down the spiral of human irrationality.

How have I come into this fractal nonsense?

I live in a world where I am invited to a party see this Tilak asshole charge new agers hundreds of dollars a pop for a two-minute session.

By the way, go Mike Myers! I intend to see this movie.

Cute girls, otherwise educated and respectable, are excited when our Hitler Youth-volunteering Pope comes to town.

Muslims give at the book fair give me a free Koran, which is cool, balancing out my free Bibles.

Everyday my Mother tells me I should move to Israel.

And my sister (who lives in Israel) tells me not to vote for Obama because he's secretly a Muslim.

Scientologists abound in Hollywood, personally friends with "Ron" apparently, and beg for my personality test results.

Free Republic gives us a choice of either being racist assholes by liberating a country via using the Koran as target practice and , while on the other hand blasphemy can indeed be a noble crime. But let them evolve to the point of blaspheming themselves, no help from the invaders please.

Commies too. All belief systems are plagued by primate behavior and near-sightedness, political just as much as the religious. Bob Avakian's supporters in particular seem to be goddamn too in my face at the protests and book conventions.

Or LaRouche. Or, dare I say it, even some Ron Paul and 9/11 Truther types that get a bit too pushy...

All around me nonsense is pushed as truth. People, otherwise reasonable, believe such inanities as that Hillary Clinton will save America, or that you should hate Saddam Hussein, or that if only the government would redistribute all wealth the poor would be free, and that we must pray for Bush

Bottom-line. Some belief-systems seem weirder than others, but let's be honest. They are all stupid. Billions of human beings believe that Jesus Christ died and was resurrected, or that angels talked to Mohammad, or that God promised Abraham the land of Israel, or if you get bad karma you'll come back as an Untouchable, or whatever.

These are mainstream fucking religious philosophies, and the are completely nonsensical.

This is mass mental illness that's been going on for thousands of years.

But then again who am I to judge?

Don't get me wrong, mythologies (otherwise known as religions) have much to teach us. Even Orthodox political theories have a few good ideas peppered in.

Its only the part where people believe in them that's the problem.

Can we evolve to the point were we believe in nothing?

Part 2: Drugs Are Bad For You

Believe in shit. March for shit. Vote for shit. Spend money for shit. Kill for shit.

And yet most scared are still scared of the psychedelic experience.

If you really want to talk to Jesus, and test your brain and see what you really think deep inside; its not that hard. No therapist bills or priests required.

A fourth of an ounce of psilocybin might run for 40 bucks, and then see what you believe in...

"At one point consciousness-altering devices like the microscope and telescope were criminalized for exactly the same reasons that psychedelic plants were banned in later years. They allow us to peer into bits and zones of Chaos."
Timothy Leary

"Psychedelic experience is only a glimpse of genuine mystical insight, but a glimpse which can be matured and deepened by the various ways of meditation in which drugs are no longer necessary or useful. If you get the message, hang up the phone. For psychedelic drugs are simply instruments, like microscopes, telescopes, and telephones. The biologist does not sit with eye permanently glued to the microscope, he goes away and works on what he has seen..."
Alan Watts

"Let us declare nature to be legitimate. All plants should be declared legal, and all animals for that matter. The notion of illegal plants and animals is obnoxious and ridiculous."
Terence McKenna

Illegallities - picked and chosen by the authority structure because those alpha male primates know what's best for you, and you love to listen - yet another nonsense irrationality in our sea of memetic ideaspace.

But that's just my subjective belief.

//ray

i wanna be extinct

2008-04-01T22:31:00.000-07:00

So me and William-Billy LEE are hangin out in the Triassic and he's holding my hand and the sights are cool but I'm a bit uncomfortable--"What, Allerton and little Mexican boys aren't enough for you these days and nights and times?"--Time-travel is inconvenient--you get what you pay for---the X-Acto knife will cut into the inner thigh with minimal pain, and perhaps a aesthetic scratch or two for the sake of design-optional-the irony is rather hilarious in that when you rip off the bandaid the next day you find that's the part that really hurts!--All that gushing, from hunting dinosaurs y'know, they're an endangered species--3-horned beauty on the wall, raped it myself.

The Dead Insect Society has rules and regulations for these things--Please fill out the proper formage young man--I hate waiting in line--I hate doing forms on the internet--I love spellcheck

I bought a girl a sandwhich and she doesn't really care--Axis Mundi of Jew York City where all roads intertwine--Odin's tree--but no pork or sausage or shrimp--It is an abomination you Godless queens--They will never love you--I hope this cell phone gives you cancer--Cancer of the crotch--AIDS of the astral sort--Swadhistana infected with microscopic toxins--burn the leeches with Platonic archetypal cigarettes--mmmm that's a good smoke.

All of my dreams are of television--while all of your dreams are boring--the old Japanese phrase--Don't worry honey, it'll all be all right from now on--I promise--I'm lying--Hide out!--Go away--"In the correct zazen posture the right leg and left leg must intersect the left thigh and the right thigh--no bandaids please--for all is one and one is not and duality is the lie"--you liar--if you see the Buddha on the road than call this (800) number and put out a gang hit on him and roll up real slow at his pad at 2:00 AM and make sure you pop that muthafucka between the eyes cuz round here we don/t appreciate that kinda Middle Path shit--its kill or be killed in this Shangra-La hood--and the mystery is that there is no mystery.

In front of the keyboard all tired we find that parties are the hardest scenes to write-but then again parties are the only places where folks intersect--Axis Mundi--you Jews--and the drunken sex shame that follows may be no fun at the time but its all good masturbation fodder for later--he can't get it up and all the girls are staring and laughing--the standup artist is the highest form of artistry while the artist who sit down are the lowest for of wretch in a poetry starved nation of genius television critics.

Kill the Buddha--Kill the insects--kill the rapist--hunt them--bury them--Sauropods make good meat--but its not Kosher--and I'm a vegetarian--and its a sin--the first commandment says to kill the Buddha the second commandment says to not kill the Buddha.

My morality code is based off an invisible sky-God who doesn't approve of homosexuality or heterosexuality for that matter either--what about asexuality--The Dead Insect Society teaches that you only learn from mistakes, you don/t learn from doing the right thing--Why are we on this planet again--and by this method of spiritual journey as lists of mistakes well then I am very wise indeed.

late Easter post

2008-03-24T21:58:00.000-07:00

My 26th birthday fell on Easter Sunday this year. In some circles this might have great numerological significance. I don't know about all that, but nevertheless I decided to check out an Easter ritual event at the local mail-order Golden Dawn-esque occult organization.

Not to be confused with a Xian church...

Easter, or rather Spring Equinox, of course is the universal mythology of solar resurrection and rebirth. The Jesus version happens to popular lately in the last few thousand years--although maybe declining in this last century--but its only a reflection of every other universal consciousness.

Nothin wrong with gleaming knowledge from corporate holidays.

And then there's the Easter Bunny paganism... transfered via modern mythology into: buy shit.

And hell, even Passover has eggs.

Even consumerism has its use.

Hence, I like eating those Cadbury eggs.

Are you aware of the latest Cadbury eggs conspiracy?

So, one early Sunday morning, I went to Highland Park to our supreme headquarters. First time there.

These occult rituals I will attend every so often... how can I put this? A nice try. I don't feel like I was connected to anything cosmic, watching the chants and the walking in circles and Freemasonry symbolism of Joachim & Boaz pillars and chessboard floors and colored robes that each represent element; and it was interesting, and it wasn't enlightening per se, and I feel that it was a very noble try.

The best part of hanging out with Qabbalists is the party afterwards, and the nice conversations. Plus, free food.

I appreciate all the generosity, on this, my first Easter ritual.

Afterwards I went to Hollywood. I swear, every damn time I step out to the depressing Hollywood & Vine stop--in front of the Pantages advertising Wicked that's been playing in LA forever--I vow this will be the last time. I went to Borders and read some William Burroughs Queer, and read some Neil Gaiman Signal to Noise, and I went to Amoeba and listened to some music and flipped through some DVDs. I called some people in the area, but everyone seems boring, and then I gave up on Hollywood.

Then I did something I never do. In attempt to expand my worldview, shamanically widening my sensory perceptions, I had a chat with a homeless girl.

These crust-kid gutter punks that line the streets of Hollywood Blvd, they're so fascinating. Usually we ignore them. Sometimes, if feeling very gracious, we give them change. But we don't talk to them.

I noticed this girl reading a comic on the sidewalk while panhandling--Alan Moore Top Ten--and I attempted communication.

I sat down, talked about comics, and her lot in life, and LA, and so on.

Funny fake names. Traveling by freight train across America. Dreadlocks. Hairy legs. Skateboards.

Heroin. Speed. Whatever these kids to do keep themselves entertained.

Bruised arms with razor slices. Complaining about sell-out music, and glamorizing black metal.

She's a lesbian, and her fiance passed away last year. Surrounded by death.

Motel vouchers. 47 states. Stealing books from the library. Crashing in Skid Row.

More grateful for cigarettes than food.

And LA, as I suspected, is apparently the most uncharitable city in America. The only city where nobody gives money on a bloody holiday. Brooklyn, New Orleans, even Cincinnati are better towns.

She must have been underage, and she said she's been traveling for nine years.

I'm envious. I wish I could live for the moment like that. I wish I could cut myself off from the system. Off the map. Instead, I have credit card bills and rent and a bank account and its all so hollow.

We are such a pussy culture. We are afraid of life. Of suffering, of embarrassment, worried that losers won't like me. Be polite. Be cold. Be dead.

My interview over, I left, and I don't think I'll ever see her again.

But then again, drug addicts are usually pretty boring. I could only handle so much research, and I don't think I'll be visiting that squat anytime soon.

There are so many different worlds surrounding us, overlapping geographically, and we never pay attention. Gutter crustkids in their own hidden community, ignored by wannabe actors, a separate frequency from art fags, and nothing to do with office workers. From whatever person's point-of-view, they're perception is the whole world.

My little shamanistic experiments, I tried to open my eyes to these many ignored worlds.

And it was my birthday, and I didn't tell anyone.

And then a bird shat on me.

Go "home", whatever that means.

* * *

According to Robert McKee, the essence of drama in a mythological narrative is for a scene to either begin positive and end negative, or begin negative and end positive. Yesterday was the latter.

I had a bloody 8:00 AM appointment in Inglewood at the unemployment appeals office. I despise these bureaucratic nonsenses, but, as said, I'm in the system and I can't get out.

Without divulging too much personal information and boring details, suffice to say that in a few weeks I might owe the state of California a lot of money that I have no way of paying. That's what I get for being a bum, time to pay for it.

It was rather embarrassing; I had to see my old boss and go before a judge. I left a bit upset. Luckily, the results won't kick in for a few weeks and I'll just not think about it until then.

I decided to go to West Hollywood and visit my friend at her bf's house.

Surprisingly I had a good time. My friend's latest boyfriend is very cool; we talked about comic books and famous people known, while waiting for the electrician. , an artist who self-publishes and actually makes a living. He can afford a WeHo apartment on his art. He reads a bunch of books.

Its the magic trick I'm trying to figure out, how to get away with doing whatever you want.

I'm taking notes.

Sometimes I want to burn all my bridges and start anew somewhere else. Other times, I'm inspired and dammit I deserve to make it here!

We shall see.

This will be my last post for a while, need to focus and this blog is a distraction. If I am to succeed in the American Dream of doing whatever you want and still making $ on one's art, I need to goddamn focus.

There are better things to type than this.

Happy Sun God rebirth day, now go get resurrected.

Part II: Wars & Comicbooks

2008-03-18T00:02:00.000-07:00

Always and always, for some reason, I inadvertently find myself in goddamn Hollywood. I don't like it, but the reasons never end, and here I was. Why, this Sunday I am to meet someone in North Hollywood for yet another LA adventure . . .

It was Saturday March 15, fifth year anniversary of the horrors of the Iraq War (always haunting my birthday since I turned twenty-one--on the 23rd by the way), and I'd been seeing all these stickers telling me to go this protest on Hollywood and Vine. So I sacrificed my cartoon time and checked it out.

Not part of any group, I did my best as an individual warm body amongst the crowds, and show my support. They needed masses to make a statement and I guess I helped. I don't really know if I did. The constant struggle for morality. Right and wrong means . . . what? I realize America is in a very trying time and I hope my little bit of standing up makes any tiny difference. But who knows if anyone cares. Well, it was the least I could do and worth a try.

It was certainly the biggest protest I've ever seen up close. Hundreds of people in the streets. Still, this being Los Angeles, like meeting a celebrity (see below) it seemed shorter in real life. 1960s footage of real marches are far more impressive.

Overall, of course, there was a high concentration of leftists. Now, I can dig that now and then, but when you go all out Marxist and Communist its hard for me to take you seriously anymore. Particularly, I've had bad experiences with these communists who won't shut up about Bob Avakian or whatever his name is, this latest revolutionary guy who is apparently going to save the world.

And there were Code Pinkers who handed me a sticker declaring "Make Out Not War", and others dressed like clowns, and then they play hip hop, draw chalk in the streets, strangest of all were the Zen dancers, and do drag the rights of Palestinians and immigrants into it, and mock coffins to be carried, and a few 9/11 Truthers, and some Ron Paul people too. All stepping on the dirty stars on the sidewalk, all Hollywood, all here.

There were a few Christian nutcases in the peripheral, the counter-counter protests. Not very many, but a few. I tried speaking logic to a guy I recognized from the old Martial Law documentary--I guess he was in New York in 04--and there was no reasoning with him. "Have you read the Constitution?" I asked. "I bet you're the kind of guy who hates the Constitution." He kept telling me he bets I'm 'the kind of guy who...' and it was completely ceaseless to speak to him. "Don't you think Saddam had time to hide the weapons of mass destructions. America needs the power to destroy our enemies!" Later he would yell to the crowds: "this is God's war! If you hate this war and you hate this country, THEN YOU HATE GOD!"

If his God tells me that I have to support the war, then yes, I'll hate that God.

But enough of soapboxes. Sadly, humans are not a rational species and some people, be they extremist Christians or radical Communists, are just so misguided and nothing you can tell them will ever change their mind. Some people think the government needs to redistribute all wealth, and some people think Jesus wants wars, and its not my job to convince anybody of anything.

They marched and marched, down to the CNN building, and then I abruptly left. So much to do at once here in LA land, and just a few train exits away downtown the Wizard World comic convention was on.

My buddy, with his insider contacts, was lucky enough to let me in on a free pass. I wouldn't have gone otherwise. Nothing too interesting happens at Wizard World LA, and I'd rather save up my money and my anticipations for San Diego Comic Con in the summer.

It was a slow con. I hung around the floor room, talked to some artists, looked at expensive old Silver Age stuff and action figures that I had no hope of buying. I didn't come with a fun group or anything. I mean, my buddy was real nice to get me a ticket, but I fear that he doesn't share my passion for these mythological narratives. He was in full producer mode, and it was taxing. Networking with everyone and talking about bad movies, while I was excited about buying the Essential Silver Surfer--reprints of the entire 60s run--for only five dollars, but he really just wasn't into these comicbooky things.

Watched some anime. Not very many big names to talk to. The only panel that was interesting was Dan Didio's DCU stuff, so I went to it and asked some questions and even bugged Dan Didio personally(editor-in-chief of DC Comics), in the hopes that he'll remember who I am. I've seen him at least four previous times in these conventions! I should have brought my sample scripts to share, it woulda been worth a try, but I was shortsighted when I packed that morning.

Kinda cool, I later looked up the Newsarama article on the panel:
WWLA '08: DC's COUNTDOWN TO FINAL CRISIS PANEL

A fan asked about the Legion, and DiDio reminded that it's the 50th anniversary of the characters, and they have significant plans for them. "I really liked the 'Legion Lost' era," commented the fan. "Come back and see me in a month," DiDio said.

That was me!

Then I saw Seth Green in the hall, and bugged him for a cellphone picture.

"I loved you in Party Monster," I say.

"Thanks man, that means a lot to me."

He wasn't a snob at all. I think its nice to plug celebrity's indie movies, to get on their good side, as opposed to everyone else here who wants to hear him talk about Robot Chicken. And, as a matter of fact, I rather do like Party Monster.

Later that night I was supposed to go to a music show in Long Beach, but I was so damn exhausted. I gave up and went to sleep early. On the bus ride home I got a phone number from a girl who also treked from LBC to H-wood for the protest. A minor miracle.

Sunday was supposed to be miraculous too. It sort of was. Mixed results.

I went to the beach to get fucked up again, new experiments, but it ended up being a highly depressing experience. It was a beautiful windy day and everyone was out and I couldn't stand it. Dark as it gets, utter meaninglessness, the empty void in my head confirmed by the lonely sights before me; all the scene a cliche. The screeching birds, the noises, the wind, the cold ugliness of everything. It turned to night and I sobered up and wandered the streets and occasionally glanced at my stupid Palahniuk book. I missed the bus while it was raining and I was so hungry and weak and tired and at the height of my frustration with the world.

"FUCK!"

Suddenly I bumped into someone I knew at this bar. Oh yeah, its the weekend before St. Patrick's and everyone was having fun but me. In my post-brain fry eloquence, I surprised myself with witty conversation and hung out there for a while. I wiped the tears from my eyes and had a Corona and smoked a cigarette and it was cool. I even met someone into Neal Stephenson and had an epic conversation. I ate some nachos.

Discourse. Communicate. Connect. Vishuddha chackra exercise.

Funny how big a deal an emotion is at the time, and then you get over it and you forget about it.

So, I survived.

And my twenty dollars disappeared.

And I write things down.

And I get by.

NAMASTE MUTHAFUCKA

2008-03-17T20:01:00.000-07:00

Events, culminating.

High-and-low contrasts bend more extreme.

And its slightly fun.

On Wednesday I went to yoga class. Trying to be healthy. And a lady's cell phone kept ringing again and again from her bag. I wanted so bad to scream at her. Yoga was not successfully relaxing. Why didn't she turn it off after the third bloody ring?! And who are these people that call again and again, instead of simply leaving a message and waiting an hour?? I fantasized about starting a fight in yoga class, and that would have been funny ironic.

I was not very relaxed in th end, but I stretched, and I balanced, and at the end I harmoniously repeated "namaste" because the teacher told me to.

Lately on Thursdays my ritual has been to go to the comic store--one day late, I know. I bought Wonder Woman, Suicide Squad, Booster Gold, and Superman. Followed by the library where I returned some CDs and ordered some Irvine Welsh; and I picked up volume 6 of Akira and volume 9 of Sandman. Just for the hell of it I grabbed Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk. I don't like this novel very much. I support Palahniuk's try, and he's kind of gruesomely funny I suppose, but I don't think he's such a great storyteller. Then I went to Borders and read MW by Osamu Tezuka--which is the darkest Tezuka comic I've ever come across. As usual, I'm in awe of Tezuaka's narrative skills. Then I read The Yage Letters, William Burroughs writing to Ginsburg about his adventures searching for that elusive yage (otherwise known as ayahuasca). So refreshing after reading McKenna's glamorization of South American culture. Burroughs, one of the first white people to trip out on DMT chemicals, has a completely negative and vicious point of view, and seems to hate everything about Bogota and Columbia. That's an honest writer. That's literature.

Friday was a busy day. Firstly, for lunch, I met some new acquaintances at a restaurant in Cerritos. I guess I'm joining a literary art movement or somethin. I've joined some burgeoning movements before in the past, with mixed results, always lookin for the next big thing... the art gallery thing and the psychic astronaut thing... Honestly, I mostly went to this because of a girl. But we shall see where it goes.

Afterwards I hung out in dead Orange County at a coffee shop with my new 'literary' friends. Then I bought some mushrooms. Somehow, after all this longterm fretting and planning over my proper ayahuasca ritual last week--filled with potential and disappointment--an entirely spontaneous outing unfolded into my newest neurological breakthrough. Sadly, I had to go to a money machine to take out 40 bucks, and there weren't any US Banks so it cost me a 3 dollar fee, and I hate that. So I waited for the Asian guy to get the paper bag out of his car I and bought these things, and proceeded to ingest. McKenna says to take "heroic" doses, so I did.

The plan for the night was to go to a poetry reading. By the time I got there I was rather out of it. Everything turned into a cartoon of itself. Synchronicities piled up, and every character put on a show just for my enjoyment. I just hope I didn't embarrass myself too much.

Self-consciousness turns off. Everything is deja vu. Language fails.

I sat with the audience and there were familiar readings in the background, but I sat backwards and couldn't stop staring at art on the wall. I found it more interesting to lock myself in the bathroom and look at the sparkling water.

Bright lights- I put on sunglasses, loud noises- I wore earplugs. Heads turning into skulls. Colors shifted. The floor revealed mesoamerican hieroglyphics. People pop in and out of existence and ask me stupid questions like, "are you okay?"

I've never been so happy in my life. I've found myself thinking: Why the hell was I so depressed yesterday? Everything is so simple. It made sense at the time.

I met up with my other friend who lives downtown, and he walked me to the beach. He opened up his heart to me, his lovelife off and on, and since I could barely control what I was saying I opened up my heart by accident. Again, I hope I didn't embarass myself too harshly. It was very difficult to get cohesive words out. "Um . . ." I whispered.

Everything was a CGI exaggeration, and so many cops out on the street, and the strange tunnels inbetween the alleys, and strange hippies made love on the nighttime sand (the strange things you'd never notice sober), and I laughed at the absurdity of buildings we build and nonsense we crush, and I peed in the ocean.

This was by far the most detailed visions I have ever encountered. Usually drugs are disappointingly interesting for me, but this exceeded expectations. Did I finally encounter anything "cosmic?"

And still I wonder, where do these images come from? Is there an other side I vibrate in frequency with; or is it purely imaginative? Is it spiritual or sensatory?

Probably completely within my head. Probably nothing more than that. But that's okay.

All perception is virtual reality already, nothing wrong with shaking up the antenna-signal every once in a while.

(I'll try again with the "heroic" doses.)

Just don't let me turn into another stupid drug addict, another weird crazy muthafucka on the bus.

I must be careful.

Hopefully, after the languageless brain-fraying, I can be eloquent about it after the fact!

Strange Weekend, to be continued . . .

In which I go to the Hollywood antiwar protest, directly followed by Wizard World Comic Con an hour later, and then I'm depressed and then its St. Patrick's and I'm drunk . . .

Ayahuasca Tourist

2008-03-10T20:37:00.000-07:00

“Ayahuasca is a traditional indigenous sacramental tea primarily made of two plants, Ayahuasca (B. Caapi) - the “vine of the Soul/Dead” - which contains the Monoamine oxydase inhibitors (MAOIs) Harmine & Harmaline, and the admixture Chacruna (P. Viridis) which contains Dimethyltriptamine (DMT) - the first recognized endogenic (meaning naturally produced within the human body) psychoactive substance. MAOIs prevent the digestion of DMT by enzymes in the human body, thereby allowing it to become orally active. The sacrament served in ceremonies with the _______ is prepared according to traditional Amazonian methods.”

Literature is such a bad influence. I used to be a good clean kid. Then I read books.

Then I read Grant Morrison interviews. Then Robert Anton Wilson, and then RAW on Tim Leary. As discussed, I recently read on Dan Pinchbeck’s adventures in shamanism-- 2012 the Return of Quetzalcoatl. And Disinfo Press books on magic-- Generation Hex and the Book of Lies. Lately I’ve been deep in the Archaic Revival by Terence McKenna. P. K. Dick’s VALIS experience. Crowley. Icke. Countless junkie memoirs and esoteric texts through the ages.

So where is the shamanic drug scene inwhich I get to apply this knowledge? How am I to be enlightened already?

Baring occasional and infrequent psilocybin experimentation, I haven’t gone all out. Not yet.

And then I did, and it’s about time.

A few months back H_____ recommended to me a group that performs native South American ceremonies, engaging the powerful ayahuasca psychedelic. I put the information on the back burner and it took a long time to get around to it, and then I read more books and was further inspired; and so I emailed the A_____ B___ group and I committed to a ritual.

Timewave-crunching and I eagerly awaited; I followed the preparatory instructions and spent all week on a healthy lifestyle. I didn’t smoke cigarettes. I already don’t eat meat so the no pork part was easy. I even fasted the day before. I avoided coffee, which was difficult. No sex they said (simple enough for me and my track record lately!), though I also forced myself not to masturbate for five whole days and this was an exceedingly horrendous challenge, but I made it with my balls intact and a surprising amount of free time at my disposal. (All those lonely 3:00 AM’s away from internet porn . . .)

(Yet, as for the alcohol restriction . . . well the night before I found myself at a poetry reading and free wine was available, and I got a tad drunk, and I really was not supposed to do this. It completely escaped my mind. In retrospect, this explains a few things about my reaction. Well, such are life’s challenges and I dealt with it.)

I got a ride all the way to the city of T_____, CA. Through winding dangerous mountainy roads into unincorporated hippie town, and I was worried because I showed up a half-hour late, but once again I shouldn’t have worried about being late because it was still to be many hours before we began.

I made it to the strange address and walked into the house. My ride drove away. Kind smiling faces greeted me; they all wore white, as instructed. (but I don’t own white pants. I wore grey jeans. Jeans are comfortable to me anyways; I sleep in my jeans, and some find that strange). I found a spot on the floor and set up my meager sheets and pillow. Unprepared, I was given another blanket and a sweatshirt for warmth. “Here, take this shirt. It’s made out of bamboo!” “Thank you, what a selling point.”

Such nice happy white folks. With names like Elijah, Satchi, Touch-Eyes, and John. 18 in all to sit around in a circle, 10 guys and 8 girls. And a funny dog wandered about. I had no plans for a ride back home, but I figured I could ask someone later, and sure enough I met C________ and she said she’d drive me to an LA train stop the next day. I sat next to a fellow Israeli M____. D___ was there, glad I recognized a familiar face in, and I talked to her about journalism and Tarot and the coming experience.

A lesson in extreme patience. We waited for hours, in meditation and yoga stretches and taking naps on the floor to the sounds of an Australian dijiridoo. I kept my phone in my backpack in the other room, which was good or otherwise I would check the time incessantly. Here was timelessness.

F______ finally arrived and we were set to begin. Boys and girls were separated. Followed by more patience as he set up the altar and slowly explained the rules for another hour. “Be quiet. No talking. Go to the bathroom slowly and quietly. Make sure you bring a Tupperware container with a lid for your purging.” (I never did throw up, though my stomach would boil over painfully and I wished I did.) “No drinking water for the first hour. Keep your eyes shut. Sit up straight.”

I brought my stack of twenties and paid. I paid a lot more than I reasonably should have, but I paid for the ritual as well as the chemicals. “Any student discount?” I asked. “Starving artist fund scholarship?” “No,” they answered. “Your personal sacrifice is a necessary and important aspect.” Fine, I was willing to part, but it was worth asking.

“There is a good energy here today,” he said. “This is an ancient ritual, passed down through the millennia. Keep your intentions clear.” (I intend to be a good human being),
“and one at a time I will call you up and ask you your tolerance level, and anoint you with oil, and your journey will begin.”

The lights were turned off and in the darkness, led by a candle, I sat before F______. I asked for a medium dosage of medicine as he analyzed my aura and mixed together a concoction, and I drank from the little ceramic cup. Ayahuasca is thick and bittery tea and kind of sweet. My throat burned. I chewed on ginger. My mouth grew dry but I wasn’t allowed to drink water.

I crawled back to my space and sat in a meditation posture and I awaited an effect. I had my little mantra and sat still and breathed in pranayama breath and visualized the Anahata hexagram and attempted to open my heart chakra and all that usual daily junk.

But when it kicked in, I realized, this has nothing to do with Eastern meditation. This is quite something else.

This is not about being still, finding your center, transcendental, nothink, Zazen, or any kind of chackra workout. This is shamanism, and this is a dance.

I rocked back and forth and my neck was wobbly and I opened my eyes and I looked around at all the strange black-and-white heads, and my stomach bubbled, and I listened to the annoying Spanish singing, and I started seeing things.

Everything in extreme contrasts of black and white, my neighbors in charcoal skin. And then the colors, the little Red-Green-Blue pixels like when you look at a TV screen too close, because I’m looking at the universe too close and perceiving something inbetween. Unable to look straight, no focal points, pupils flowing and my vision dripping like water, and everything was fuzzy.

I closed my eyes, and the pictures came.

I grabbed my notebook and I scribbled notes so that I would not forget.

I was confronted with my own superficiality.

The machine-elves that McKenna spoke of, the weavers of reality, they came to me as silly little 80s pop culture references.

Characters flashing before me

Because this is the mythology of my youth.

I weep for this fact.

(On some level I found a new level of letting go; never having cried openly since childhood.)

I saw Ninja Turtles toys and cutesy monsters and video game characters.

I saw the mysterious pyramids of Mario 3 and there was a secret underneath.

I realized that I am a deeply superficial person and this is all nonsense.

These are no more mysteries. I’m too well-read. I know too much. Passion escapes me, reality is intellectualized and questioned and I could interpret this a thousand ways and all that work would be missing the point.

Even if aliens came through the door I wouldn’t care; I would question it, and it would never be real.

The aliens came, and they agreed with me.

I demanded an apology from God, for giving up all the mysteries too easily.

I weeped and weeped. Then I laughed.

I wanted to sleep but F______ made me sit up, which was probably for the best.

I realized that I don’t believe in anything and I will never be passionate, because I just want to think about what I’ll write about later and never live in the moment of the experience.

I wrote this down.

I tried to throw up but I couldn’t.

Ten thousand colors and words banged through my head at once and I couldn’t keep up.

I walked to the pink bathroom and looked at myself naked before the mirror.

I cried and cried.

It was terrifying.

I don’t know why everyone says this is about peace and love and light. It’s not. It’s a horror.

I realized that my path, my contribution to the Great Work, my True Will, will never be about peace and love. I’m not like these Jesus-lookin guys and these smiling white girls. I am here to experience suffering and darkness. I’m here to be scared and confront the bullshit.

“FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

I don’t believe in fear, I am not into that. But I do believe in terror and sometimes you got to embrace your own inner darkness in the process of getting over fear.

You can learn more from a bad trip than a pleasant one.

I listened to the sounds of breathing and gagging as they threw up around me. My stomach was in so much pain and yet I wouldn’t purge.

F______’s singing went from Spanish to English. “We are all children of light, its okay it’s all right.” In Spanish, for me, it was in the background and not entirely unpleasant. His English singing was far too distracting. Luckily, I use earplugs in my own meditations and brought some with me, and that helped.

And the buzz went down, and I had an experience and I’m still here and life goes one. I wanted a second dose. But I was too eager, the second batch was too small, and I didn’t go deep enough.

I was on the threshold of experiencing something real, but I limited myself and couldn’t make it far enough. It was too physically painful. It was easier to think about cartoons and the sad loss of Western intellectualizations. Perhaps the remnants of alcohol in my system ruined it. My heart was never opened, just my head.

I napped until sunrise, as they sang and danced and sat. I don’t know what’s so special about ayahuasca. It was extreme, but it wasn’t that terribly different than my marginal experiences with mushrooms or even just getting real real high via pot. Drugs never seem to work on me correctly.

I think the ritual was more important than the actual chemicals. And this is what makes me uncomfortable.

Afterwards he ended the ritual with conspiracy theory talk, “sovereigns don’t have to pay taxes or follow laws according to the Constitution” (so I’ve heard but never seen proved) “America is dangerous and the dark powers taking over is just around the corner.” Again with NWO/Illuminati meme.

Apparently F______ is moving to South America tomorrow to start his own temple. Honestly, I worry that he has the makings of a cult leader. He has much wisdom, to be sure, much to be learned from and very trained in these arts. But all idealistic movements present extreme dangers when too organized.

Many a legitimate religious experience has devolved into just another control mechanism, and I do not wish to be a part of it.

Spiritualists who demand that everything be cosmic light goodness, “we are all beings of light,” and tell us to follow their rules and eat right and be good people and avoid suffering . . . they are too positive and ignore the nature of immune systematics. Bad things are good for you too. Bad things tear you down so you can be rebuilt stronger.

I must reject all idealism. Nobody should tell you how it should be. Because it already is what it is. The universe is already perfect, only our attitudes need to change.

Yet I still try, ceaselessly, to be a good person. I think I do. I usually fail. I self-sabotage. But I believe I try. Just let it be a personal quest, please, let me go up and down and figure it out for myself. Don’t make me join your movement.

And the ritual ended with the morning’s beautiful bright down. I awoke recharged, as I always do after terrifying trips. But I wish I went deeper. Perhaps another time.

They all spoke of lightness and happiness, and I kept my darkness to myself.

I exchanged a few emails and perhaps made friends, at some fruit and homemade chocolate, goodbyes, and I left with C_______. She was very nice and we had a good conversation sharing our experiences. We all have our own issues to deal with, but she seemed to be more optimistic than me. Hungry and weak I was dropped off at the Temple/2nd stop in downtown. I walked the two stops over to the 7th/Metro Center train stop, so I wouldn’t have to pay for the transfer, and I absorbed the energies of the weekend Broadway Mexican markets of the city. I walked with my pillow and sheets in hand, as if I was homeless. I forgot my sunglasses and had to bare the sun with no shielding. Perhaps this is a metaphor.

I have had time to reflect, and I am left with no proof. Aside from the occasional synchronicity, I have experienced little evidence that a spirit world exists. I am left with an atheist attitude and I only have other people’s that assures them of an other side. How do I find this for myself? How do I know anything exists outside of our own heads?

I mean, I paid all this money for an extreme traditional psychedelic trip and I still haven’t seen God. What more can I do?

That’s fine, mystical atheism can work too.

Skeptical psychedelia has its benefits.

Anyways, I prefer Discordia and Chaoism to your pseudo-religious rules.

Westerners experimenting with other cultures. So condescending. Always worth a try.

And still I weep, for there is no more mystery worth finding.

I’ll continue my journey another time.

-------------------------------

I’d like to share what I’ve been able to gather from my notebook, my scribbles in the darkness:

ALL these
sounds of breathing

Average

sit up straight

site: sharp black on whites

Don’t like eyes closed

I have drunken the bitter
and it
by ginger

thick tasty ayahuasca
burns my throat. followed

I sit. One hour as yet.

no drink. No effect

And Inner Child anointment

Be the best human you can be.

toilet rules:

sit rules : :

I weep for the
mythology of my people

NINJA TURTLES
and thats what it be

I started crying
is superficial and
I
WRITE!!!!

boo hooo you faggot whine

Anyways, Its strange

the Mario 3
pyramids.

Some enemy of my childhood!
Don’t let me forget!

Inbetween all these
sorta video game lil memories....
and Zigzagging !!!..

I want the
box on my head
like a good jew

I cry I wish
I was loved.

I’m not
I’m not very

good at being a

I’m sorry.. I wanna be a boy

I want you
to apologize God!

Because there’s no
more mystery and I’ve
overthought it.

2012: Future or Present?

2008-03-03T18:31:00.000-08:00

The 2012 meme--epitomized by Hollywood’s 2012 Conference on Saturday March 1st--holds a mixed bag. Like all forms of spiritualism, it pools of murky waters with which challenges you to judge “truth” from “goddamn nonsense.” It might be as valid a form of knowledge-seeking as any other path, or it can turn into one more damn movement-religion to tell people how to think.

If this is a ‘movement’, it’s not exactly an organized one. But the 2012 meme has certainly a new focal point for New Agey scenesters to gobble up the next batch of promises.

I hate to be so cynical. I’m desperately looking for that SOMETHING myself, and it’s this endless quest that brought me to this Hollywood event four years, nine months, and twenty days before Singularity point. But, as Jordan Maxwell told us: “Don’t ever trust anyone who knows the truth. Trust those that are looking for the truth.” Sage advice. Yet, that goes for him too.

It was quite the immersion of ideas, and I’m glad I attended. And hell, for me, it was free. Amongst these wayward souls, brought up on apocalyptic memeagry, waiting for that crisis to bring us together (and if there is environmental catastrophe any time soon, y’know, the West Coast is probably the absolute worst place to be). Here in Hollywood, the very substance of holly-wood representing the wand of the magician you see . . .

I woke up with little sleep at 6:00 AM (on most nights this would be my bedtime), with a plan to begin my two-hour public trans early and make it there by 9 AM. My LA route: Long Beach bus to Blue line South Central train to Red line Hollywood train. It’s a ridiculous lifestyle in LA County with no car, but I make do. Except when I don’t; I’m lazy in the mornings and I ran late, missing every damn bus and train connection and didn’t arrive until 10:00. I cursed myself in the 7^th Street/Downtown Metro connecting station as I read my Pinchbeck book and wished time wasn’t against me. But I needn’t have worried, after I got off the train at Hollywood and Vine I was greeted at the Ricardo Montalban Theatre with long lines and total chaos. They started over an hour late. I’m glad I didn’t go early; Eastern Spiritualist or not I am easily bored, impatient, and hate arriving anywhere too early.

After a complex web of figuring out who it is I talk to for the volunteering gig, I snuck inside and talked to an organizer Karin--who I’d only corresponded with via email so far, and then I got a free tshirt. I still get to keep the shirt to this day. Time to kill until my shift, and I wandered. Surrounding the indoor theatre-area were New Agey types with everything for sale. Mediums and healers, teas, expensive chocolate, and various figures peddling their books. Republic magazine was for sale, plastered with images of Ron Paul. Very interesting how these circles overlap, when New Age extreme leftists join hands with paleo-conservative-libertarians-conspiracists. (Later at the end of the night a speaker would mention Ron Paul and the crowd clapped in an uproar, this writer included.)

My usher shift didn’t start until 1:00 and so I grabbed the first downstairs orchestra empty seat I found and watched this Timewave 2013 documentary film, an apparent sequel to 2012: the Odyssey (which I haven’t seen). Personally presented by the filmmaker Sharon Rose, it detailed her experiences in Peru with Native shamans, interpolated interviews with Daniel Pinchbeck and others, and of course recordings of Terence McKenna. (“Scientists can’t even explain the birth of the universe. The Big Bang theory is preposterous. It’s as if they are saying ‘just give us this one free miracle’ and we’ll explain the rest. But why must a miracle Singularity happen at the beginning of time, why not the end?”) Then, as if by synchronous providence, at the very line: “I learned to enjoy the moment,” the film cut off! Computer error, or too much energy to short-circuit the fusage, or somesuch, and the projector turned black. Sharon Rose was a pro of a presenter and came on stage ready for filler-speech. “AHHHH,” all hundreds of us sang during the meditation exercises. They never got the movie to work.

Next was anthropologist Dr. Alberto Villoldo who brought with him a native shaman of Peru. They prayed for us, and extolled the virtues of shamanism, and why everyone is going to love each other, and Western materialism’s “cult of death” is going to go away, and all that nice positive futurism that’s been going around. Just wait a few years for the Galactic Alignment and all will be well! A constant theme . . .

Meanwhile I noticed Daniel Pinchbeck sitting nearby me from across the aisle, recognizing the writer from online footage and photographs. I took out the library book from my bag and wondered a good time to approach. The keynote speaker I was on the lookout for, the very name that caught my eye when I first saw the advertising poster walking past the Montalban Theatre a month back and vowed to attend this conference. Daniel Pinchbeck is the esteemed author of 2012: the Return of Quatzelcoatl. I’ve been eagerly reading it lately, though I must confess I’m only halfway through, and it details Daniel’s quest as a New York journalist researching shamanistic traditions and experimenting with all manners of psychedelics. The book delves into a thousand subjects, jumping from African tribes to crop circles to new age healing seminars to Burning Man, overall a mix of memoir with extended quotations/summaries from Daniel’s eclectic reading mix. A bit unfocused, but a fascinating journey.

He stepped out and I rushed to follow. “Daniel Pinchbeck! Would you sign my book?” “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s not my book, it’s a library book. How cool would it be to sign it to your future anonymous readers?” He autographed away, and drew a cute snake (Quetzelcoatl as Saturday morning cartoon). Then he hurried away, eager to see Dr. Villoldo’s presentation and get away from me.

I find myself kind of annoying when I approach my favorite minor celebrities in real-life. (It’s usually authors who are my greatest idols--I have yet to care about meeting some movie star. But writers aren’t usually too famous in the grand scheme and have no need to be snobby.) Be it at a book signing, comic convention, or comedy club (not including rock stars--I might see the occasional famous musician in real-life but they’re usually vastly separated by stage), when I meet someone whose work I respect I can’t help but take the opportunity to ask them as many questions as I can fit. At a convention or wherever, they’re usually busy and there are many others demanding attention. yet I pester and pester; asking what they’re interested in, the backstory on their art, and most of all what advice they’d offer me as a writer. Hit or miss, I always try, and every so often perceived as annoying.

Daniel Pinchbeck, according to his wikipedia birthdate, is in his early forties. He comes across as if in his twenties, and doesn’t act as a scholar but another hip young soul with long hair. A quiet sort of voice, articulate and intelligent, but not overly confident. He’s tall, he slouches--according to his book he suffers from moderate scoliosis. Bad teeth.

A perfect vision of what I imagine all the new intellectuals need to be. A philosophical countercultural writer, knee-deep in the quest for knowledge as it takes him to all the weird places in the world, but very much at home in the big-city’s depravity. To write thick well-bibliographed academic tomes about taking drugs, and getting away with it.

Listening to his speeches about these shamanic subjects and how they relate to the future of human evolution via 2012, I get the sense Daniel takes it with a grain of salt. Sure he spoke with passion about crop circles, but as audience members asked him questions about aliens and Infinite One-ness he tended to shrug them off as irrelevant. “I don’t know,” he admitted. Just trying to figure it out. On the subject of conspiriology, he described the NOW/Illuminati theories as interesting but “off-putting”, and endorses Obama so he can’t that distraught with the System; and when Jordan Maxwell in the ending group panel session stated that the world and government is controlled by “very dark forces which have been controlling this world for six thousand years,” Daniel coldly retorted with: “You can live in that movie if you want to, but I don’t want to live in that movie. That’s a terrible movie.” I appreciate his skepticism, his ill-at-ease (at least, his relative skepticism when compared to this lot), his perspective.

I asked a question during the back-and-forth audience session, about the subject of currencies. He mentioned the nature of currencies as part of the problems of the world, local currencies might be coming to play and in medieval times negative-interest currencies had an impact as unhoardable. “Are you familiar with Neal Stephenson?” I asked. Only one person clapped. “I don’t have time to read fiction anymore,” Daniel answered. “Well,” I said, “Neal Stephenson’s brand of futurist science fiction, Snow Crash and Cryptonomicon, has a pervading theme that the internet can change society and collapse government by bringing about multiple competing currencies that exist online. Maybe that’s how we’ll escape from the hold of the Federal Reserve.” “I don’t know about that,” he said, “why do they have to the competing, why not collaborative currencies? Next question.” I was cut off. Not his subject of expertise.

Well, I tried. If the central banks are the problem, if that’s your cause, if that’s your revolution, might I suggest Kongbucks and New Yen and Metaversal capitalism to replace the hollow Federal Reserve notes we now use? Neal’s meme I wanted to spread to these people, but I don’t know if they cared. Anyways, what fascinates me about Neal Stephenson’s work is not that he wants a cause to change the world, no marches holding up signs that demand global anarcho-capitalism; but that the patterns of the world do what they do on their own. Meme infestation or not, if it occurs it will occur naturally.

I certainly sensed an impatience on the part of Pinchbeck during mine and others’ questions. I don’t blame him. Hundreds of people throwing out ideas, many of them quite crazy, and he’s only one man to keep up. When I last saw him smoking outdoors, I apologized, “I know you’re busy Mr. Pinchbeck, but one last thing. I’m an aspiring writer. I wonder if you would read this short story I wrote, it’s about occult themes, a 411 operator out to destroy the world with Burroughs technology.” (411, an old story of mine I recently rewrote for a new round of submissions) “No,” he said, “I don’t have time. Email me.” I held out the printout and pleaded, “But wouldn’t you prefer a hard copy if you’re really going to read it? Just take it, humor me, and if you throw it away I won’t even know.” “Fine.” Yay, I won, and he took my story. Though annoying as I might be, I’m glad I didn’t accept no, at least this leaves a chance for correspondence. I’d be grateful for input, though I’m realistic and the guy is fairly overwhelmingly busy (and did I make a good impression?), but it’s always worth it try.

And other speakers: John Major Jenkins’ Power Point presentation was most factual in decoding the Mayan pyramids and expressing the numerology thereof, though honestly his speech was one I saw the least of, and then I went out to eat for lunch Baja Fresh on Sunset.

Jay Weidner, husband to Sharon Rose, runs Sacred Mysteries DVDs and gave an interesting take about his personal journey from atheist to seeker. I respected that he pleaded ignorance on just what specifically will occur in 2012. Audience members wanted to ask about terrorism and global government and Illuministic anxiety, but he wasn’t interested in spreading fear because “nobody knows what’s going to happen.” Let’s just do our best to evolve, and interpret that 2012 as an empowering event. And I learned, according to him at least, that 26 is an important number--Sun takes 26,000 year rotation. Here comes Chapel Perilous and these silly thoughts: Hmm, I turn 26 this month, and on Easter Sunday . . .

Yogi Harijiwan Khalsa impressed me greatly. An LA local, I wasn’t aware of his work until the event. White guy in a turban and robe, with a Brooklyn-ish sort of big city accent. “Kundalini Yoga is my business,” he told me. He started out with gong music and mantra, “OM,” and told of another ancient mantra invented in this region: “whatever.” What a sense of humor, a hilarious guy. Though certainly a spiritualist, a different mindset than the New Agey othersa as he mocked global warming and Al Gore and even referenced David Icke’s work. Aware of the Illuminati, and happy to mock them. “A guy told me to get a bunker and hoard food and gold for 2012. He said to me a very wise thing: save the ketchup.” You can’t worry about these things, you just have to do your best to expand your consciousness and individually evolve. When he spoke of the coming consciousness shift as expressed through generation gaps through recent cultural history, he cited the Sex Pistols. Quite impressed, I talked to him afterwards in the halls, and got a card, and I will have to make the time to attend one of his yoga classes when I get the chance.

I worked as usher through the mid-day presentations. Very simple work; given a seating chart and flashlight keychain and standing next to the door and telling people (some of them speakers themselves) not to block the doorway. No flash photography.

The cheaper seats were the upstairs mezzanine, and many tried to steal downstairs orchestra seats. I didn’t care, as long as they didn’t sit where someone else’s seat was. (And earlier I met with some friends--Herwig actually knows Daniel Pinchbeck and took the backcover photo in the book. He got in free through contacts and I looked the other way as he stole orchestra seats!) There were other rules that I wasn’t interested in enforcing, such as not to bring drinks into the theatre. Overall I did a decent job of it I suppose, but I’m not getting paid here and I wasn’t trying to let any petty power go to my head.

The sun set and it grew dark outdoors, and then came the ending group panel questionnaire. Pinchbeck and Jay Weidner and Sharon Rose and others were joined by a late Jordan Maxwell--the arch conspiriologist recently made more famous by the viral Zeitgeist film so popular online nowadays. Many of the questions delved into NWO/Illuminati theories, “I know Secret Service agents and they tell me World War II is scheduled soon!” quite pessimistic (maybe true, maybe not. Who knows anymore?), and the speakers struggled to combine optimism with environmental catastrophe and/or Illuminati takeover. One very poignant statement by Pinchbeck: “The military have families too, and they don’t want this future,” which very much deserved a clap.

One point of interest to me: West-bashing. I’m tired of it. One kid asked why “people of color vibrate at a higher frequency, and why the European male is so devolved.” Come on, is that a necessary question? Most of the panelists were ‘European males’ anyways. Firstly, what does “vibrating at higher frequency” specifically mean? What constitutes low frequencies to be bad? Or is this yet another meaningless New Agey term tirelessly thrown out? “The West is inherently materialist,” they said, “and the East has had more practice, but we’re catching up.”

All cultures of the Earth are yin and yang and contain positive and negative within the whole. ALL. African slavers that sold their people to European slavers are not spiritual. Mayans are hip now, but the Aztecs that sacrificed 250,000 people a year were not spiritual. Communist Chinese who are the greatest human rights abusers in the history of the world don’t display very Taoist tendencies in my opinion. Zen or not, Samurai feudalism or WWII Imperialist or modern poppy, Japanese culture seems to be fairly good at materialism from what I can tell.

The crimes of Western Civilization and the Christian religion have been very well-documented, and is not up for debate. But our own traditions of the Bible and Hermeticism and such still contain much philosophical truth. Cross-refference Qabbalah with yogic chackras, or go to a Wiccan meeting, or whatever your interest is. But to disregard all of the West as decedent is juvenile and unnecessary. The world is what it is, history already happened, and let us make the most of today without wallowing in lost idealistic nostalgias. In this writer’s opinion, at least, cross-cultural pollination is the key to memetic evolution and to dwell in anti-West sentiments is not going to be helpful. Sorry. We are individuals who have a grand palette of mystical traditions to grow upon. We are not bound by racial Karma. We are all flawed humans. Let’s move on.

Most of these questions were terribly long and drawn-out, the stoner kids droning on and on and on until they got to the point: “What do you want me to do in 2012?” These Indigo kids want so much to believe in something. And therein lies the danger. It’s much harder to figure out for yourself how you’re going to make the world a better place; it’s much easier to find a guru to tell you what to do. And this is what makes me pessimistic, not because of the speakers, but because of the New Agey audience who are trying so hard to find a religion to believe in. Maybe that’s not the point. Maybe this so-called “movement” should stay unorganized. This emerging subculture . . . Burners and techno-hippies and cyber-spiritualists . . . kids that smoke pot right on Hollywood Blvd beneath the forgotten sidewalk stars and hook themselves up to Tesla machines and can’t wait to camp out in the Black Rock desert for the summer. On the one hand it’s a beautiful group, on the other hand it can be so naïve. Mysticism as I understand it, by way of RA Wilson and Crowley, should contain a healthy dose of skepticism.

Years and years of esoteric research and I still don’t know what to believe. I don’t even feel like I’m close to any subjective or objective “Truths.” Like Mr. Wilson says, through Chapel Perilous you emerge with a choice of paranoia or extreme agnosticism. The Chaoist approach to playing with beliefs appeals to me. The pseudo-religious approach of believing everything channeled through this psychic, or whatever, does not.

Immersed in ideaspace, burnt out on conjecture, and what the hell am I to do with it all? I am interested in metaprogramming. I am interested in DNA shamanism. I am interested in interpreting the universe with new states of consciousness, in archetypes and gnosis and psychedelia and magic and new philosophies that come with any and every path. I’m very open to learning something new. But until I’m proven wrong with direct experience, I don’t think I believe in any of this shit.

So what will happen on December 21st? Biosphere damaged beyond repair? Galactic equatorial alignment causing pole shift and an end of civilization? UFOs come crashing down and only the Reptilian Illuminati can save us? Singularity and then a complete end of time? Well, I guess my point is: I don’t bloody know. Repeating one speaker, “Hopefully it’ll be a nice day.”

And so, without securing a floor to crash on in the city, I took back the long train ride alone late into midnight, read my books, didn’t pay for the transfer and got away with it, and went home, went to sleep. Long day.

Singularity or Bust

2008-03-01T06:49:00.000-08:00

". . . the development of technology does seem to be approaching a concrescence point--what some futurist thinkers call the 'Singularity.' The Stone Age lasted many thousands of years, the Bronze Age lasted a few thousand years, the Industrial Age took three hundred years, the Chemical Age or Plastic Age began a little more than a century ago, the Information Age began thirty years ago, the Biotechnology Age geared up in the last decade. By this calculus, it is conceivable that the Nanotechnology Age could last all of eight minutes.

"At that point, human intelligence might have complete control of the planetary environment, on a cellular and molecular level. This could lead to utopian creativity or dystopian insanity--perhaps both would arrive at the same moment."

- Daniel Pinchbeck, 2012 The Return of Quetzalcoatl p. 101-102

* * *

"It may be a more critical level of juncture, in other words an elbow in the continuum, I'm also really conscious about too literally overlaying a time template over linear time. I had a great talk with Dennis McKenna, after Terence . . . and when I was talking with Dennis I was like, 'well why did you pick 2012, why did you overlay the fractal in this way?'

"And he said 'well actually originally we overlayed it in 1973 on Terrance's birthday and then that came and it didn't happen so we put it on 2012; we figured we'd both be in our 60s by then and if it doesn't happen it won't matter. Plus, it was sort of where the bumps and valleys seemed to match some kind of historical bumps and valleys.' So he was the guy who was buzzing for three weeks while Terence was writing everything down. So Dennis who was the guy in the focus of the maelstrom kind of had a light-hearted view about just how lockstep we get with this is the view that this is the moment where events are going to happen.

"I get scared of moments like that. I get scared of anything future oriented rather than moment oriented. That's the way really nasty movements get started too.

"So I'm thinking its a lot safer to say right now is when it has to happen. In other words its not a matter of having some revolution or some big shift thats going to come. Its happening now. This is all we've got is the moment that we're in rather than this sort of delayed gratification of the great flip."

- Douglas Rushkoff in debate with Daniel Pinchbeck, New York 2007

----------------------

While I juggle my present shamanic quest of faith with skeptical Maybe Logic during my present research, I'm torn between the possibilities. While the 2012 meme leads to fascinating roads - I love expressing it to others in the hopes that they'll further reserach; I wonder if there is an inherent danger in apocalysm and such future worship. Are we neglecting the now?

Timewave accelerations seems to make sense in the present world stage. But how shall this be kept up indefinitely?

To make sense of the future we may require a rapid evolutionary shift. There has never been so many dangers to the Planet Earth, and there has never been so much information overload to distract ourselves. How shall we cope? Transhumanism may make us uncomfortable, but without DNA shamanism taking a cybernetic sort of 'sci-fi' approach its difficult to see how we can ever keep up. Neurological development of a Nietzschean sort seems impossible unless we ALL transform into the superheroes very soon.

Or will we cope just fine? Will tomorrow just be another anxious day of the planet Earth's drag? Genocidal consumerism might just be one more little virus to immunize ourselves against and be the better for it. Spiritual-optimism or Materialistic-pessimism; I could go either way.

The essence of occult knowledge is said to be summed up by the doctrine "KNOW THYSELF", and I look at my own past. For a very long time I have sensed my development to be unbearably slow, and have been awaiting an epiphany . . . idealizing a future inwhich I am an evolved perfect human and capable of dealing with every physical, emotional, and mental challenge that so far escapes me.

I don't feel like I am at where I need to be. Yet when I look back through my journals and my writings and I find myself quite surprised at my progress over the past few years. I am not the man I was at 21, or 18, or whenever. And the only measuring tape that matters: I seem to be a better writer nowadays. There never was an epiphany, it was a slow and subtle race to turn into me (still very far from ideal). And I suspect it will continue be a slow and gradual process to turn into whoever I end up to be next. I, and the world, still have a long way to go.

Perhaps assuming there's an endpoint is the mistake.

2012's 13th b'ak'tun cycle will come and go, and I do not believe the world will "end" or even be "rebirthed" in any dramatic way. We will still be here and we will still have much to deal with.

(Or am I mistaken? A pole shift, Illuminati takeover, flying saucer, mass simultaneous Christ Consciousness in each and every one of us )

Do things really begin and end? Or is it the same old infinite sludge its always been?

I appologize for my semantic limitations in contextualizing all these vague worries. Its difficult to express this anxiety for the macrocosm of the overwhelming world, while it overlaps with the microcosm of my own unpredictable and overwhelming life-journey.

On Saturday I am volunteering at the 2012 Conference in Hollwyood and perhaps meet with Mr. Pinchbeck.

In the coming weeks I plan on accelerating the shamanic trials board flight on an ayahuasca trip . . . and pray for that epiphany I've been seeking.

Whatever happens, I hope I can still maintain a skeptical Maybe Logic perspective to whatever model invades my reality tunnel.

I wish to see God, and still remain skeptical.

Posing more questions than answers, I blabber on in my thoughts . . .

mushroom journals

2007-05-22T21:49:00.000-07:00

Tel-Love-Vision

2007-05-11T02:12:00.000-07:00

My latest movie. (7th really?)

I don't wanna do any movies for a while.

But I think this turned out all right.

What do you think??

and special thanks to Roxanne and Ramsey for the help!

One and One story

2007-05-08T12:54:00.000-07:00

Inhaling, and, “Aum…”

Exhaling, and, “Shi-va-ya Va-shi…”

Inhaling, and, “Aum…”

Eugene was sitting still on his bed, lets wrapped up in the traditional lotus position. I was waiting around at his apartment for him to finish, he said he had to meditate before we could start brainstorming on the story. It was twenty minutes later and he was still going. Very bored, wishing he did this before I came over, I wandered to his living room where the computer was. As I transferred from the incense scent of his bedroom to the foul odor of the further outward living quarters, I couldn’t help but note how fucking gross the place was.

The apartment was filthy, I had to tip toe around to not step on all the books and clothes piled on the floor. All sorts of comicbooks and dvds and underground press occult texts. Every table and shelf was picked with empty glass beer bottles or zines, and the smell of rotting food from the sink was horrible. Poor Eugene, he really needed a woman to take care of him.

I sat in front of the computer and logged on to MeSpace. I had been spending an inordinate amount of time building up my page. Eugene, so helpful and encouraging, took dozens of digital pictures of me to upload. We even went to Kinko’s and scanned my last remaining headshot.

The site was more addicting than I thought it would be, I could spend quite a few hours wasting time on the message forums typing about nonsense and commenting on people’s blogs, and before I would know it hours would pass.

I was still building up my page. Under ‘networking’, I typed ‘actor-producer-director.’ And getting quick lessons in html code, I brightened up the background and added music. I listed all the music I could think of, and under ‘movies’ I had about fifty, as with books and television and general interest. Just so Eugene, or rather ‘--**Gene-pool 2012!**--’, wasn’t my only friend, I was adding as many rock band pages and meaningless acquaintances as I could find.

When my page was near-complete I found Lena’s on there and added her as a ‘friend.’ It was such an incredible and creepy process at once, this MeSpace phenomenon. Lena gave out so many details about herself for total public consumption. I understood why people wanted to get a girls’ webpage these days before going out. I could learn all about her music and film tastes, her height, her single status. She even wrote a few blogs, complaining about high school and arguments with her parents. It was great to be able to read all this, so surprising, such a plethora of free information. Guess I was getting used to the times after all.

Lena’s page said she was 18, but I suspected it was a lie. I didn’t really want to know for sure, I had a vague idea she was in high school but I wasn’t going to specifically ask what grade. I preferred ignorance. One my own page I lied and said I was two years younger, at 27.

I felt a bit lame for doing all this work for the sake of online networking. But I did it anyways.

Typed up my email and password to find a bright red ‘New Messages’, the homepage declared. I read.

SUBJECT: RE: whats up?

FROM: LENA-CHAN

I clicked.

Fenton,

so how’s the production going? Any genius works of theater in action? Stop keeping it such a topsecret! I’m so curious, you have to let me in on this when you’re done. We're reading the Crucible in english class right now, its kind of boring, but I decided to go see it on thursday night at school. you know how it is, i always mean to see more plays but i never get around to it. I’ve decided to be more sophisticatedd! Hehe, your a good influence

seen any good movies lately? I really want to see the new Miles Samson one, where hes a oceanographer. Dat shit looks funny. What are your days off?

later

-Lena

Very nice. I replied.

SUBJECT: RE: RE: whats up?

FROM: FENTON

Ha, glad to be a good influence. You’re wrong though kid, I’m a horrible influence. But everybody should see more live theater I’d encourage that.

Me and Eugene have been getting a ton of work done. I’d estimate that in just a few months preproduction will be finished and we’ll be up and running. But showbizness always takes longer than planned, so you never know. I’m actually at Eugene’s right now and we’re writing so much. Its very exciting, I’m loving the creative energy over here.

I’ve decided to stay in Cincinnati for a few more months longer than planned. LA can wait, it’ll still be there whenever I return. I’ll definitely keep you updated on the as-yet-unnamed-show. Pretty soon we’re going to be casting ya know...

We should see that movie sometime.

-Fenton

I hoped I was saying the right things. It’s hard to interpret subtleties of conversation with just typing online, a new tricky communication I was not used to. Clicked on the send button, too late to worry about it now, the message sent off into the ether. Logged off and turned off the computer, and checked back with Eugene, back to the incense clouded domain.

“Aum…”

Jesus. “Come on man!” I interrupted, “we need to get some work done!”

He breathed in slowly and exhaled slower. “Please don’t interrupt. I am almost completed.”

I sighed and relegated back to the living room. Eugene soon came out. Finally. “I wish you would show some respect my ways.”

“I wish you would do that faster. I’ve been here 45 minutes and we haven’t done anything. You’re the one who wants me to write this damn play for you so much.”

“And you’re the one who’s too lazy to write it yourself. If I’m going to co-write this bitch I need to be in top creative form. Don’t you understand that the Vishuddha chackra must be aligned? It’s the chackra of communication and expression, and of the god Hermes. This is important work, I need to be in top astral form.”

“Whatever man.”

“And of the sacred mantra Aum! Every vowel contained herein, all language, ah-uh-mmm, the curvature of the mouth. Consonants are only the interruptions of that perfect form. It is of the utmost importance to the art of speech that I perform this feat.”

“Couldn’t you do this meditation shit before I got here?”

“Yeah, that’s my bad. I shouldn’t have slept in so late. Thanks for waking me.” When I got to Eugene’s place he was asleep. At 3 in the afternoon. And I was the one working nights.

Eugene yawned and started making himself coffee. The coffee machine and counter was stained with so many different shades of brown it was rather expressionistic. “Want some coffee?” he asked.

“No thanks.”

We edged towards the Mac and Eugene opened a Word file. Titled it Super Genius Play 1, typed up ‘brainstorming’, and bit his lower lip.

“Well? Let’s go.”

We stared at the blank Word document.

“Any ideas?” I asked.

“I thought you had the ideas,” he answered.

“Not really.” Stared at the screen for a time. I thought and thought, and stared and stared, but the blank screen didn’t help. My eyes drifted to the ceiling and I thought about character. They say write what you know. “Um… who is the main protagonist going to be? The star, the star… I was thinking maybe a struggling writer?”

“A struggling writer? That’s the lamest idea for a protagonist ever. Writers always write about writers, how many times has that been done before?”

“Yeah I guess you’re right.”

“Maybe the star should be in some kind of show business. Hmmm,” Eugene thought.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s make, like a comment about the media.”

“Sure.”
We sat in silence for ten more minutes as the coffee smell enveloped the room, rather pleasantly replacing the rotting wet food smell. The silence grew louder.

“Maybe he can be a struggling writer after all,” Eugene finally said.

“Okay,” I agreed. Fine, let’s just get this over with. At least have something to work with.

Eugene typed up Protagonist: struggling writer. Commentary on media culture.

“This has to take place in Los Angeles, right?” I added.
“Sure. You’re the expert on continuity though, I’ve never been there.”

“Yeah, let’s say this takes place in Silverlake or something.”

‘Setting: Silverlake in LA’ he typed.

“Yep…” We stared at the computer screen for a few more minutes. “Okay,” I said, “a character needs a motivation. He needs motivation, a goal. And the antagonist needs to be an obstacle to that goal. That equals plot. It’s pretty simple when you break it down.”

“Wait,” Eugene confused, “we need a plot?”
“Duh.”
“Oh. I thought this might be more artsy experimental.”

“Everything needs a plot. Some kind of foundation structure, and you can get experimental later. But let’s focus: so what’s this guy’s motivation?”

“Uh… he’s trying to write a play?”

“We’re just getting more and more original as we move on. Why not just make this an all-out autobiographical piece, a one-man show starring me?”

“Yeah?!” Eugene excited, not aware of the sarcasm.

“Eugene, one-man shows are the most terrible things in the world to watch. Even my ego isn’t so bad that I would make the audience suffer through one of those. If we’re going to do this let’s do this right. A real cast, real characters, real plot. Motivation plus obstacle, characters change in the end, a climax, a resolution, and goddamn entertain people.”
“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm,” I replied.

“What if this was a structured story and everything, but what if it was self-referential. Like Robert Anton Wilson meta-fiction, and Kaufman, and Morrison?”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s writing a play, he’s a struggling writer, but we make a big joke out of that cliché. Do you know what I mean? We acknowledge and mock the cliché of writers writing about writers. So we write about the process, we have a character who is writing a play about being a struggling writer and dealing with the inner conflict of being clichéd. That makes it interesting, a new take.”

“I think I might see what you’re getting at.”

“He writes about us.”

“Us? Huh?” I was thrown off. “Now I’m lost.”
“This guy is writing a story about two characters named Fenton and Eugene, and they’re writing about him. An infinite feedback loop of self-referentiallism. Meta-fiction.”

“So we are going to write about a character who is a writer. And he is going to write about us writing about him. This seems kind of confusing to the audience. It’s confusing to me.”

“It’s simple. It’s brilliant.” Eugene typed self-referential meta-fiction. Protagonist dude writes about us. “Ah-ha! We’re channeling Artaud you see, a new virtual reality experience of this age.” He saved the file. “What a productive day.”

“Yeah. I need time to think about this, sort it all out. Want to call it a night?” I said.

“We’ve barely started!” Eugene yelled. “There’s a lot more we could do. What’s this guy’s name anyways?”

“I don’t know. What sounds like a writer’s name?”

“Should he be half-Asian or something?”

“No, that’s too obvious referencing to me,” I said. “I guess he could be some kind of ethnic.”

“But not too ethnic.”

“Ethnic enough. Like, I guess I could write about people having inner conflict issues with assimilation and whatnot. Being white but not quite totally white. Having a foreign Mom. European last name.”

“All white people have European last names. You’d know that if you were white. Asshole.”

“Well, like a Germanic last name. And a nerdy first name. We can all relate to that.”

“Fuck you Fenton.”

“Fuck you Eugene. See?”

“Fine, nerdy first name. What sounds like a dork’s name? Ronald, Robert, Raymond, Reginald, Regis.”

“Why beginning with R?” I asked.

“Why not? Howsabout Roy? I like that.” Eugene typed in ‘Roy.’
“Roy with an ethnic last name. Hmm.”

“Yeah! Let’s make him a Jew.”

“A Jew? In the entertainment industry, in Hollywood. That’s so cliché.”

“So. Its cliché because its true isn’t it? That’s the whole point of this work. Let’s make this dude Jewish.”

“Okay, a Jew with a foreign Mom. Eastern European or something. But he has to have inner conflict issues with being a Jew. It’s more interesting that way. He should be ashamed of how Jewish Hollywood is, or something like that.”

“Sure, sure. And we can use this as a pull to quote Qabbalah.” Eugene typed in Star is a Jew. Immigrant Mom. Quotes Qabbalah.

“Right on. Whatever you want, that’s your expertise. Say, we need a title too.”

“A title. But what the hell is this about?”

“It’s about Hollywood and the art process and, uh, ‘meta-fiction’ or whatever you called it.”

“Title, title, title. What’s he writing? What should the title of his work be? His work that is about us…”

“Is he writing a play?” I wondered.

“Nah. Maybe he’s writing a novel.”

“He’s in Hollywood though. Shouldn’t he be writing movie screenplays?”
“Whatever. He wants to be different that all the Hollywood assholes around him right? So Roy here with the ethnic Mom is trying to be unique by writing a novel. So what’s the title of it?”

“Something funny,” I thought out loud, “something mocking, something self-deprecating. Something about… losers.”

“Losers…” Eugene pondered. “Loser boy, loserdom, loser fun, loserville, L for losers, hmm…” He typed writing novel: Loser Parade.

“That works,” I said.

“It does work. Man, this is turning out all right.” Eugene stretched out his arms and leaned back on the metal folding chair. “I’m exhausted. This writing shit is hard. Want to wrap it up?”

I looked at the computer screen. There were about three lines worth of notes. “Yeah, we got a lot done today. Awesome start.”

I is star

2007-04-24T23:17:00.002-07:00

student film by Cheryl Beddoes.... and co-starring me.

also with Chad and Scott

So the other day I was helping a fellow student do a last-minute silly little film. Fun times. Here it is, behold my brilliant acting ability. Now you know.

Loser Parade chapter 1

2007-04-24T02:03:00.000-07:00

Would you read a novel that began like this?

The rest of it doesn't have much to do with this scene.

Loser Parade Chapter 1

I wasn’t in the best of spirits. To say the least.

Sick of life, sick of trying, sick of inevitable failure.

Underground, hidden away, head weighed down by gravity and staring into Hell. My ass was sore from sitting on the uncomfortable metal chairs. Every ponient little ridge against my soft bottom a mark, a permanent memory. Why can’t they put plush seats up in the subway? Bastards. They know people wait here all day, would it be so hard to invest a bit of money into soft seating?

I waited for a thousand years. Not waiting for any specific train, just patiently hanging around until the world to change into something else. If enough time passed than an escape plan might present itself. In a matter of time, no doubt, a solution would exist. So I told myself.

Maybe it wasn’t a thousand years, maybe it was more like a thousand minutes. However many hours that added up to. Down here beat the outdoors. One floor up, a thousand years ago, a California sun pushed heavy light through an ozone hole down my backside until it burned, a force of light weighing a hundred pounds ever present.

So I ran away, down the escalator. With little to speak of, with pockets full of the richness of nothing. The clothes on my back and some crap I could fit in a high-schooler’s stolen bookbag.

Was it supposed to be this hard? I know, I know, life is supposed to be a struggle, For a long time I thought I was okay with that. But at what point does one declare enough is enough?

I lived in the city for five years dragging my boulder up the mountain. I came so close to the peak, but I was too lazy to reach. So many challenges, none of them ever felt so insurmountable. Yet here I was, wretched and finished.

Cars, jobs, shelter, all that drag. Surviving without a car in the city was tricky enough for the last few months, but I made do. Busses and rides and even subways, I was getting along. And then my job evaporated. Kindness and credit made it seem survivable. But yesterday the final pillar of my crumbling foundation went under. She changed the locks. I was kicked out into the world, no more pity and no more excuses. All my bag of illusions ran out and I couldn’t fake it anymore. Nowhere to sleep tonight. With no shelter to call my own, no roof, everyone around me was sick of my freeloading and I was sick of asking. They were sick of giving and I was sick of taking, in that regard we were in harmonious agreement.

Janie kicked me out. We were done. She hated me, she wouldn’t talk. And she was right to hate me, she was right to cut me off. We were done for weeks, if not months. We hadn’t slept together since ancient memory, she was constantly upset with me, we could never stand to be in the same room. Who could blame her? I was a complete failure, nothing to offer but my obsolete state. A novelty worn off very quickly.

Constantly bickering, and I was only further defensive the more she told the truth. As if to rebel against this sorry life that had done me wrong, I refused to accommodate Janie. I wasn’t a very good stay-at-home-spouse. Why should I be her housewife and clean up, why should I pay my own cheap way in chores and sweeping, vacuums and dishwasher soap, trash bags and laundry? Why should I be fair to her when the world wasn’t fair to me? At least I deserve to relish my suffering in dignity. No cleaning up after myself necessary, no cooking, no shopping errands, cleaning appliances, no picking up my straps and starting over. Only the endless hum of a television in the background as I stared at the ceiling. This lasted months.

In that last month it came to Janie’s complete avoidance. She came home only to sleep, and of course never with me. My space was the living room couch, her bedroom off limits. I missed it, the soft matters against her soft form. I missed the scent of her hair, the taste of her face, the feel of her skin up and down her slender stretched body.

Why did I mess it all up? Because I knew I deserved it.

First the car, then the job, than the apartment. The girl was last. My final thread to hold on to life. I was a fool, I brought this upon my self. I was not suited for the reality of the situation once it manifested. Homelessness and self-punishment was not as romantic as the flagellation cults of old had me convinced. One night earlier I slept in the pavement in an alley for some four hours. Besides the scratches on my arms and the throbbing of my skull on concrete, far from a comfortable setting, I was too frightened that I would wake up stabbed and the twenty-dollar bill in my pocket vanished. Today, I thought, I’ll wait at the subway station and figure something out. I stole some food from the convenience store and wandered down. That was at dawn. I left a few times to pee in an alley and by the last route it was getting dark. How many trains passed me by? How many gusts of cold wind as my thoughts descended into formlessness?

So there I was, alone in a train stop, waiting for nothing. The hours sank away into the void like a toy boat with a sinking hole that won’t get it over with and drop into the bottom of the bathtub, but ever so slowly graduates towards the drain.

One seductive option intrigued me. Just before each train arrived the wind would warn me. I could time it so perfectly.

How easy it would be, time it just right, peek over the edge and see the lights coming past the tunnel.

And jump. Wouldn’t feel a thing.

Like I have the guts to go through with that.

Sometimes it’s fun to fantasize.

Every so often I would stand up and walk in a circle. Debate in my head to take a train to another stop to repeat the process, or go back up to the surface world and readjust. After a few short minutes I sat back down, my feet tired from the work. What would be different anywhere else?

My bookbag sat on the floor, my loyal companion. Containing three t-shirts and one pair of jeans, a paperback mystery novel that I couldn’t begin past the first three pages before my mind slipped away, and laughably one dozen copies of my headshots with sleek resume printed on the back. And my SAG card.

How did I get here? Two years at the Flighty Theater on Santa Monica blvd. Down in dirty grimy Hollywood edging towards the Eastern end, the real thick of it all. Miles and miles away from the posh gay scene in the West, the hard end of Hollywood. The times that were had. I was acting. It was real. While few in the world cared to notice me, I knew was moving forward and unbridled optimism filled my soul. The energy, it was true and it was for real.

Shitty art plays with no structure, room to rehearse smaller than my apartment (back when I had an apartment), audiences that you could count with one hand and far outnumbered by the cast, but performances well worth the ten bucks fee. We were all going to take over the world, Janie and me and all the rest.

The dream and to be alive. For all the hardships of life it wasn’t so bad as long as the faith was there. I didn’t care when they shut off my electricity and I couldn’t afford Ramen noodles. It was part of paying dues, I had ultimate faith that I would be rewarded in the end. Eventually, I would be disappointed.

None of us wanted to be Broadway stars and we knew it. We were about three thousand miles away from that dream. We were going to be movie stars. In all the filth, in all the cracked buildings and dirty smells and soggy dreams, we were in Hollywood and there was something magical about it.

Was this so bad? Was this worth the punishment? All I wanted was a better world for me. A world where I was famous and everyone loved me.

It didn’t work out. The Flighty lost its celebrity sponsorship, Miles Samson decided to fund someplace bigger, and nobody else wanted to hire me. My B.A. degree useless, I refused a 9 to 5 that would cut into auditioning, my landlord hardly empathize with my plight, my friends gave up on me, and now Janie was sick of my mooching. What to do?

Losing my composure, I started staring at the passing commuters. My solid sense of self, my inflated ego from so many years back, my core big-star identity, all chipped away these past months like marble rock at a waterfall. I didn’t notice the returning stares. I was invisible, I was disappearing, and that gave me the freedom to look.

Awkward, nobody likes being stared at by strangers. Was I so haggard looking? I hadn’t shaved in days but my half-Asian facial hair has never particularly apparent. My clothes were a little bit dirty since I hadn’t washed them in weeks, but at least it was a fashionable polo shirt atop clean slacks, if you ignored the rips and dirt.

The plump round Mexican mothers with their four children following behind the baby carts, they looked away. White people in suits stared back, as if to challenge, sneered, struggled, and then looked away in defeat. All sorts of people take subways, punk rock squatters with tattoos on their faces, naïve fat tourists who never predicted how disgusting Hollywood could be, small ethnic children left on their own to navigate the city, older kids on skateboards, gang-bangers who tagged the walls with thick Sharpie markers and made no attempt to hide it. A beautiful melting pot of a city.

One particular Mexican kid didn’t appreciate my audience into his affairs. I watched his silly graffiti, impressing his stupid friends with his brazen-ness. Four Mexican teenagers with gelled hair slicked back and baggie jeans and obnoxious attitudes. They were laughing about something, I don’t know what. The tags were those pointy geometric angles with abbreviated wordage, the Jewish star-looking ones that have the letters. You can tell the gang graffiti by how terrible it is, the artistic colorful fonts underneath the highway overpass was done by the good kids.

“What you looking at? You got a problem man?”

Ah, this is what I needed. A challenge, a goal. A motivation for my character to further the plot.

I thought of the worst things to say. You asshole, you street trash, you primitive son of a bitch. Let’s go.

I thought of the worst things to say. I thought of describing his mother’s cunt, poetic verse of such fat lips upon my pale smooth cock. Fuck you and all your world. I allow myself this anger, I allow myself these feelings. What’s to lose?

“Wha--, what the fuck?” was all that came out. I stood up, I walked.

He laughed at me, ready to perform for his friends. “Damn!” one of the yelled.

“What you think you doing? You better back up fucker.”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” I continued to walk towards, and stopped up close to his face, backing him against the grey wall. “What’s up?”

“Chinese faggot, you better get the fuck away.”

“What the hell you gonna do?”

His hands thrusted against my shoulders, strong fingers squeezing, and shifting me around until it was my back was against the wall and he pushed it into me. Fast and hard my back against the cold wall, I was out of breath for a brief moment. It took me a moment to process, and at the absurdity of it all I laughed.

“Ha! You guys are fun.”

They laughed in return. The three others at least. The fellow I’d become so physically acquainted wouldn’t budge his stilled expression. The others taunted.

“Man, he wants to start some shit.”
“Don’t let him get away with that.”

“Crazy-ass fool, you better wise him up.”

I smiled and spread my arms open. “You guys can all fuck off, you know that?”

They stopped talking. I noticed in the foreground the whites and the family Mexicans were staring at the scene, perplexed by me and perhaps even compassionate, but completely unwilling to intervene. The first Mexican kid grabbed me again.

“What’s your problem huh?”

I lifted my arms to twist myself out from his hold. With the force of my body I scraped his should against the grey wall, and for a moment I escaped. I hopped back and balled my fists. My heart was racing, it was incredible, I should have done this more often. When I had things to lose life was scary. Fuck it all, tomorrow no longer exists so why not take it out on the worst of the urban trash I could find? Made sense to me, at the time.

My heart thumping blood and adrenaline through my veins. My breath like the music at a 90s rave, drums pacing faster and faster. Fighting was a bit like sex, that nervousness and excitement and confusion all at once.

The kid’s fist was headed to my face and I ducked away. Wow, like a movie! With his torso open I pushed him by his shoulders into the wall.

The buoyant energy didn’t last. Faster than I could react a quicker punch connected. Bang! Flash of feeling into the middle of my face. I could feel his brown ashy knuckle against my cartiledge, a split-second of lightening over black, and enormous pressure in my skull.

“Ow! Fuck!”

I grabbed my face and fell back. In what was no doubt a comical addition, I fell down on my ass, which was already a sore area. “Ow ow ow ow!” I yelled as the blood escaped.

“Fucking asshole!” I heard, and felt a kick in my ribs interrupt the darkness. I couldn’t breath.

But they were merciful enough not to add anything. And their train was coming anyhow, we could all feel the wind.

“Fuck this guy. I’m getting out of here.” I heard. I opened my eyes and watched them walk dragging their drooping hands with one arm while carrying markers with their other. The staring whites and Mexican moms backed out of the way as they headed south, to a destination unknown to me and really I could have cared less.

The hot iron red fell through my finger tips down to my face. It had that metallic taste reminding me of a child chewing on aluminum.

Wash everything away, blood of my blood. Wash away this past and future and most importantly the present. I didn’t want to exist in this, it wasn’t doing me any good. I closed my eyes and pretended I left the planet Earth, to a better place of colors and light and no rules.

When I opened my eyelids back to this stupid world of vision I was still here. I looked at the familiar seat. Surrounded by a new round of patrons, the next batch of people waiting for the Red line going North sitting to the left and Southbound to the right, and at their dirty shoes my backpack was still there. Nobody wanted a rugged bag, there was no fear of theft at all. My clothes and headshots were safe. One last thing buried in the bag, my cell phone with two days left until they shut it off.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I guess I have to give in, I thought. I have to call my mother.

new video by me: Book Report

2007-04-22T10:34:00.001-07:00

"Book Report." Enjoy people, number six in my epic filmographies. Somehow inbetween all else I finished another little movie assignment.

Let's constructively criticize shall we? There is good and bad in here, I need to learn, hopefully I can be objective in evaluating myself.

First I'd like to note that I rushed through this ridiculously. I shot it in three hours and edited it in four hours. Perhaps I'd be good at doing 24-hour film projects eh?

I hate DPing. I really hate it. I did not worry about lighting at all, which accounts for speed of the shoot. Usually that's forgivable for something with crappy online resolution. But there are a few cuts that have very terrible lighting continuity errors. No excuses, that was bad.
But the composition is pretty nice, overall. Headroom and leadroom and rule-of-thirds and stuff. I dare say that most it is plenty visual appealing.

I definitely think the editing is great, if I can self-congratulate. You know, usually student films are way too slow-paced and just boring. I don't like that, I want to give in to the ADD MTV generation and cut as quickly as possible. Everything needs to be fast-paced or its not interesting. When I shoot I make specific story boards and always consider the edit. Perhaps its the comic panel similarity, but cutting up a visual story is so much fun to me.

And my actors did a good job, I'd like to thank them for working hard with only a Chipotle meal as compensation. Percy is a pro with lots of experience. His cousin Russell helped out who didn't have experience but did good work. I appreciate their timeliness and listening to instruction and everything. Finding good actors is hard.

Unfortunately, what I didn't take seriously enough in making this movie, was the story. This is what makes it all suffer. Sure its clear and decently structured, this protagonist with a motivation and then conflict via antagonist providing obstacles with a resolution at the end. The initial premise of doing a book report is just not very interesting. There's no way to fix that after the fact, I should have written something better in the first place.

Also, the music. I just used more of Ramsey's music he sent me a while ago. Thanks Ramsey. Thing is, this music is way too good for this little film! I don't know if it fits. At least I didn't steal anything and learned more about original scoring.

Like most of my other stuff, I predict that people involved in film will appreciate what works, but people who don't understand what goes on behind the scenes will not analyze it and go with an immediate first impression. Which is perfectly fair, thats what regular audiences do and thats what we got to learn to deal with. Sadly, that immediate first impression is probably not going to be too kind. Let's see.

At least I finished the assignment and I'm getting through the class. I did my job and everything worked out, and I can complete a task I set out to do. Hopefully for all the flaws I'm getting a little bit better every time.

Bloody hell, I don't even want to be a director. I just want to write. I do write, but somehow my real scripts and my student shorts don't ever overlap.

Enjoy nonetheless.

(by the way, for anyone new, do check out my Youtube for more)

New York Zoning Appropriations (part II)

2007-04-21T14:26:00.000-07:00

(Concerning the New York trip of 4/10-4/16)

DAY FOUR

It’s Friday, it’s the weekend, let’s see what the city has to offer. I woke up! Then I went back to sleep. Slept in, a bit ashamed at the night before. Later wandered down and while eating lunch/breakfast I overheard a Jewish guy having political discourse with some European girls.

Ah, my topic of choice. My ears twitched. Zionism, the Jewish question, and the supposed anti-Semitism of Old Europe. These girls were basically saying that its hard to feel sorry for Israel because of how they treat the Palestinians and the Jewish guy was saying that the real reason people criticize Israel is because everyone is secretly racist. I had to chime in. I butted into the conversation and got my kicks criticizing my home country; about the immense foreign aid Israel gets, about the historical rationale for Zionism, poor Israel with their small amount of land, the treatment of Palestinians, about what is really good for Israel, blah blah. And I didn’t play the Sabra card once, nobody’s business, for all they knew I’m just another liberal anti war young college student with no personal stake.

Really, politics is such ridiculous subject matter when one takes it too seriously. The world is screwed up and there’s always going to be suffering as long as humanity exists as territorial primates with hierarchal alpha male political structures. That’s just the way it is and its probably going to be that way forever. All utopian ideologies are terribly naïve. Either humanity completely evolves into something else or it’s never going to end.

But while I choose to toy with a Zionist-type debate, here’s the bottom line point: it just didn’t work. The purported goal of Zionism was to end anti-Semitism by giving the Jews a homeland. Did that succeed? Nope, that went horribly wrong. I cannot say that Jews are safer and racism has ended because they have Israel, I cannot say that at all. And it’s a shame because regardless of history the country is there today now and people should get along. I wish it could be a bi-national state and nobody had to fight over the semantics. But people are stupid and want to kill over pride, over who gets this stupid parch of land. The Arabs are fucking stupid for making such a big deal of it too. I don’t get what hooplah is over, it’s not that great a country. It’s just another dessert where they built some cities and for some reason religious nuts think its special. Get over it.

(And also, some say the goal of Zionism in actuality to about the ‘Jewish Communist Conspiracy’ taking over American and then the world. Even if this was the case, that goal didn’t work out either. Another simplification by the conspiracy theorists. Israel has power but it obviously does not ‘run the world.’ As much influence as the Israeli lobby has over America the Saudi lobby has power too. OPEC and oil play a role on every side of the conflict, for example Greg Palast has written about infighting between the Neo-cons and Big Oil. The System is not as in control of everything as the paranoids think…

Then again, what if the goal of Zionism all along was neverending unresolved conflict? What if the goal was just for the arms industry to sell their crap forever by dragging out the conflict perpetually? Nobody ever really wins, but the F-16s and bombs and Uzis charged to American taxpayers, the terrorist threat looming in the backdrop a constant motivation. That’s probably how it works, sides are taken, but nobody wants to ultimately finish the job, they just want money.)

Anyways, this conversation dragged on for a while. It was rather fun, I love a healthy debate. But everybody had to get going. Funnily enough, I ran into the Swedish girls again, and they were leaving the States soon so they gave me an extra ticket they had to a show at the Natural History museum. How nice. I went to the museum, which I think was mostly free, and this ticket being specifically for a planetarium show. I remember planetariums being pretty lame when I was a kid but this one was very interesting. About interstellar collisions, hosted by Robert Redford. Afterwards I still had plenty of time and I looked into what else was available. Dinosaur exhibits!

Nothing cooler than dinosaurs. Upstairs to the Tyrannosaurus and Triceratops skeletons, charts of Sauropod evolution, eggs, and all that. O to be a kid again and be in love with dinosaurs. There was plenty of other stuff at the museum; I wandered for a few hours, and then it closed. I need to go to museums more, I’m such a philistine. I never did end up going to the Guggenheim. Well, I did end up going to a novelty sex museum, but that was later.

Inbetween I looked for a movie theater to kill some time at. I wanted to watch the Aqua Teen Hunger Force movie, I think the movie poster is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. I miss cable, I want my Aqua Teen fix. I never did see that film yet but I did see this Japanese movie called ‘The Glamorous Life of Sachiko Hanai.’ It was an… interesting movie. There were funny bits, and plenty weird, about a call girl who is shot in the head and becomes a genius. The villain was a terrorist who cloned George Bush’s finger to press a button for doomsday weapon. Mostly the movie was about , uh, intellectual dirty talk fetish. Like, there were all these sex scenes were the characters discussed existentialist philosophy and rationalism and Noam Chomsky. But it was a pretty shitty produced movie, outside of the novelty of the bizarre it wasn’t very good.

As said, it was Friday night; and I was headed to this rock show I had gotten an email about, ‘Rock and Hard Place’ show at the Crash Mansion on Bowery. I rsvp’d and everything. Friday night this place was really packed. Some good bands played. One band, the Press, made a particular impact as they all played in their underwears. And their music was great too, I’ll have to look up their web page or something.

New York has the most beautiful girls in the world. Much better than L.A. And obviously preferable to the overweight Midwest. The ‘hipster scene’ there or whatever, is filled with so many amazing girls. And they seem real, they seem less pretentious than over here. Deep L.A. has plenty of ugly people (if I can be so judgmental) but even at some nicer O.C. beach in the summer the skinny hot girls don’t seem very interesting. Empty bodies, no brains. New York girls seem so cute and intelligent all at once. Of all the places I’ve traveled to in my times I say that New York has the best people in the world. Not just beautiful ladies but sincere nice people who will tell you to fuck off with honesty as well as sincere moments of kindness (NOT like fake L.A.), intelligent humans with something to add to the world. But maybe I just idealize because I’m not there.

So I tried to talk to a few girls at the show, but not to much avail. After the last band performed the DJ played some shitty music, and nobody was dancing anyhow. So I left.

DAY FIVE

Saturday, what a day. My time was up at the hostel and when I went down to rebook they were filled up. Dammit, frustrating. I called the Chelsea hostel and they seemed helpful. But when I went down there they said I had to wait until 2 to get a room. I did some laundry there, very necessary, and that quite lessened the weight in my bookbag. What to do to kill time?

Marguerite told me about an anarchist convention thing at a church in Washington Park. So I went over there. Interesting stuff, all these little publishers selling books and talking about upping the system. As stated, I’m a bit over upping the system. But its nice to see these people mustering up energy I don’t have (assuming it makes any bit of difference at all, assuming their point of view has any objective reality, assuming I’m not an apathetic waste, assumptions awry). Although, there were quite a bit of Marxists there, rather disturbing. How can communists who believe in strong central government be anarchists anyways, that never made sense to me? I’ve still got that Libertarian memetic indoctrination in me.

My big prediction is that global anarcho-capitalism is the future. But it’s not something I necessarily believe in, not something I want. Its going to suck and a lot of people are going to suffer. But it’s the lesser evil against all tyrannical government systems, that being no government at all, and we seem to be at a crossroads of one or the other. Global anarcho-capitalism will at least force us to evolve. Hopefully we don’t destroy the environment in the meantime and the planet survives, which all I can do about that is have blind faith that it will. This isn’t really something to fight for, something to revolution over. Just a prediction and a hint of cynical optimism. Fighting for revolution is stupid. I hate to say but that’s what history has taught me. All revolutions throughout history have failed and either compromised to a slightly better but still plenty fucked (mainly America) or having the post-feudal system becoming far worse than the one before (first French then Russian and all subsequent communist overthrows…)

Nevertheless, fun to see all these wacky anarchists. I talked to one publisher, networking la la, and gave him my comic. Need to email that guy with some of my prose and see what happens. (I brought a few copies of my comic but didn’t find as many people to give them to as I’d like. All that work for what? Well, once I get a cover and find the motivation to do some more. I’ll start a minicomic series of my own. Skylight books over in Los Feliz even said they’d consign, and that’s a great start. But a topic for another day…) One booth apparent was for the Freegans. Freegans, I hear, are vegan squatters who are against food waste so they dumpster dive for food. They claim its healthy and were giving out free samples but I declined. Some of these really hardcore activists didn’t smell so good by the way. Nice up the system technique, but I’m too judgmental and stuck in my patterns to be so hard up as to eat trashed food. I’m sure one day it will come to that but not right now. And there were some Brazilian performance artists in bloody pornographic outfits, among some panels, but I didn’t stay long. The whole ordeal reminded me of a small comic convention. It would be nice to fit in with some of these hardcore outcasts, but I guess I’m outcast enough I don’t like mainstream society but see so much of the counter-culture as full of it too. Either they’re poser phonies or naïve true believers, either way it’s not for me. They just seem to try too hard for no change, posturing about how much integrity they have but nothing matters. You can’t win in my cynical system huh? I’m upset with society for accepting so much stupidity, and I’m against the phoniness of working towards change. I’m against compromise and I’m against apathy, I’m suspicious of passion and weary of acceptance. All I can do at this point is observe for observation’s sake and believe in nothing. That can be fun. In fact, that should be the true artist’s way.

I went back gay scene Chelsea at the hostel and put my clothes in the dryer, and it seemed I was rather lucky to get a room. The girl working there was from Long Beach and she was saw my license and was like “now I have to give you a room.” Lucky me. 34 dollars plus ten deposit, I had a bed. Only one more night to book and I would finally be done worrying about finding a place to sleep. If all else failed I knew I could go back to the Brooklyn hostel which would never fill up. But that would be a bad idea on the day of my flight because if my stuff got locked out again I could miss my plane. But the next day I did fine, so no worries.

I went back to the anarchist show for a bit but it was played out and I looked for other activities. Noticing an interesting flyer I looked into this Kink sex museum. Only ten dollars with student ID, I checked it out. It was interesting but kind of stupid. More or less it was a pornography museum. They had a gallery on fetishism and a gallery on the history of porn. A lot of people just went there for the joke novelty, I could tell. Porn-wise, some nice education on the history and genres, most of it gross, but some of it rather hot. There were plenty of girls there, one particular girl I remember sitting down watching an explicit educational film on erotic massage, and I never did talk to her or anyone else there. At that kind of place, a bit creepy.

But still, filled with the emerging lifeforce of a perverted depraved energy, I scoured the city for something else to do. Flipping through the back pages of the Village Voice

[censored]

Feeling weird but still journeying ahead I walked about. Went to the Manhattan Mall for a bit, then Time’s Square again, Rockefeller center area (where Fox News is), ate, thought about seeing a comedy show but never did, looked into seeing that Aqua Teen movie around Time’s Square but the theaters there were too crowded and it sold out too early. It was all too crowded over there on the weekend, and I was so sick of that place by then. I checked out the Village again looking at some clubs but they all had twenty dollar cover charges and seemed to high-class for me. Getting late, I took the train to Brooklyn and wanted to go back to that bar from my first day and see if there was any fun to be had. Well, I tried but Brooklyn trains are trickier. It’s not as congested so when I tried to transfer to the next train I couldn’t find the other station and went the opposite direction. I gave up and just went back to my room, called it a night.

DAY SIX

This day sucked! I woke up and it was raining so damn harsh outside. I tried to persevere and went out. This was probably the worst weather I’ve been in my entire life. Karma punishing me? It was ice cold and my shoes weren’t too good. I thought maybe the rain would let up like on Thursday but it didn’t. The endless downpour of cold water everywhere. My shoes weren’t too good (I need to buy new shoes so desperately) and my socks were soaked. I went to Washington Park again because I thought the anarchist thing was continuing but apparently I was wrong and nothing was going on there. It was so utterly ridiculous outside (I ain’t used to this! I was made for tropical regions, I though I moved away from the cold dammit), I was in such horrible pain from the cold all I could do was laugh. I was even scared that my cell phone and electronic stuff in my pocket, iPod & camera etc., would break from the water but luckily they didn’t. Which is a miracle, I totally felt like the equivalent of just jumping into a pool and stepping out. Eventually had to go back and stay indoors. I took a hot shower and hung my clothes to dry. I just washed them and now they were so messed up.

There was nothing to do but read and play Game Boy. I talked to these mook British guys I was staying in a room with, they were okay guys but not terribly interesting. Later I went to the halls at the hostel, paid to get online for a little while. Just drinking some coffee in the kitchen and hanging out, and there was a British girl named Nicci there I got to talking to. British accents are so cute! Not that I have such intentions, or do I. There wasn’t much to do so we just talked for a time. She was visiting from a small town in England with a friend (I always assume all British people are crazy Londoners cause that’s my experience, but it really isn’t the case). One funny thing is they were going to rent a car and drive all the way to Los Angeles for their trip. Nicci, and her friend Claire, seemed very cool. Perhaps we’ll stay in touch and I’ll show her around this half of American in the months to come. We exchanged phone numbers and email and all that. I even gave them a copy of my comic. They seemed a bit impressed that I’m a writer, or at least profess to be (I still feel a bit embarrassed to label myself ‘a writer’). Maybe I should play the ‘I wrote a novel’ card more often to impress girls eh. Yeah right.

Later on when the rain was just a little bit better I walked to a nearby theater and saw Year of the Dog, the one with Molly Shannon in it, directed by the writer of the Good Girl. It was okay but sometimes indie movies are not very well made. A lot of it could have been shot way better, like way too many symmetrical conversations far too dull. Hell, over-the-shoulder shots anyone? For me it’s difficult to get lost in the story because I think too much about beat shifts and composition and lighting consistency editing pace and all that. Seriously, taking film classes and then even seeing real sets totally destroys the illusion of enjoying film. You can’t just turn off your brain to watch and enjoy, you’re too aware of the hundred people standing behind the camera. Oh well. I still enjoyed it for all its flaws. At least the movie, while cynically self-mocking, overall had a nice pro-vegetarian message.

I texted that girl (her phone was Americanized for her stay or something) but we never did meet up for drinks and I had to get to sleep early anyways. My last night in New York and tomorrow morning I had to get to the airport on time.

DAY SEVEN

Not much to tell. Only woke up checked out commuted to LaGuardia. Goodbye New York. My flight was delayed a little bit cause of the weather but I survived. Read more of Neuromancer, glad Wintermute and the Neuromancer A.I. got a happy ending but I wish Molly didn’t disappear and I hope Case will be alright though I didn’t understand the whole 3Jane thing very well. The Zelda game I got stuck on and didn’t continue it until I could get to the internet to cheat with a walkthrough guide. So I read and listened to my music and ate overpriced airport food. Southwest sucks by the way for not giving you any food, not even snacks. My ear-popping wasn’t so bad this go around, perhaps I’m getting more used to it. Transferred in Chicago, I guess O’Hare change their name to Midway or something, and back to LA. California, my adopted home country. And it was kind of cold but nowhere near New England. (I have never been to New York in a warmer time of year, perhaps next time.) At night the green line to blue line took so freakin long and I didn’t get home until pretty late. I’m getting sick of public transportation here, especially after comparing it to New York’s, I need to get a car. But I can’t now, I already spent all my money.

CONCLUSION

So now I’m back home. What to do. Had to go to school immediately the day after and start editing my movie that I’m turning in late, had to half-ass study for some tests, had to go back to the grime of work. Same old same old.

So what was ultimately the point? Just to go somewhere for the sake of going somewhere and experiencing some things just for the sake of experience? I guess that’s a worthy endeavor.

I do love New York. This was the longest I’ve ever been there; a whole week, and I witnessed a lot of the city. (I do regret I didn’t see any comedy or theatre or whatnot, but then again if I really want to there’s plenty of that in LA) Perhaps one day when I make more money and times are a bit more stable (or then again perhaps another day when I still make no money and life still makes no sense) I will ultimately move there. Yet what’s the big deal, geography doesn’t matter so much anymore. New York isn’t what it once was. You know, people write that the art scene might be moving out of New York and it’ll never be the clubbin 90s or the Warholian 70s ever again. The thing is, geography isn’t so important any more, not just in New York (or LA) but everywhere and nowhere. Mass media tech is making it rather irrelevant. You don’t have to live in New York to be on the cusp of cultural evolution or even live in LA to make movies; the internet is putting all of us on a more leveled playing field. It’s getting more and more virtual, you can do anything anywhere, and community sure isn’t so important. For now New York definitely still has the best creative energy, but who knows how relevant that will be in the future.

New York is as good a place as anywhere else, I would prefer it, but why do I want to keep moving? I don’t even know why I spent all this money on this trip, really and honestly what the specific point was. What am I searching for? I’m lost people, I’m very lost. Searching for some kind of meaning in existence that I’m not finding here, and I tried my hand somewhere else. It’ll probably never manifest, meaning is just a phantom. It’s not like I had any romantic adventure, just wandering about observing what I could find, but even if I did make some kind of real human connection what would it ultimately mean? Whatever, no sense overthinking the process. All is done, continue forth. And once again, the time comes for reinvention and a focus of will. I’ve got a lot to do, I’ve got to catch up, the future waits for no one but me, maybe you, slugging along, a gravity to escape, a shooting on the news, reality so real, perception so important, goodnight and carry on.

New York timez pt. 1

2007-04-19T03:52:00.000-07:00

I have survived my travels back and forth between the coasts of this so-called great land. (Oh it’s plenty great all right, but we must all question clichés now and again.) What do I really have to show for it? Not much. Just a bundle of neurological memories which may or may not exist, giving me the hallucination of a journey. Little evidence outside my skull. But there is also the matter of money disappearance from the bank, however virtual all moneys are, my unestablished locale from the Long Beach area in those six days, an email printout of a ticket, and those pictures on my camera.

The supposed story of my recent New York travels:

PRELUDE
I’ve been going stir crazy. Matter of fact, I can’t really recall a time when I wasn’t stir crazy. But for six months straight I have not traveled more North than Van Nuys, more South than Mission Viejo, more East than East L.A., or more West than the edge of the Pacific Ocean. I am trapped by gravity, ready to escape to distant lands but only able to drag across short distances. The last time I went anywhere far was a drive to San Francesco and even that isn’t so far.

School was bugging me. I just let myself get overwhelmed too easily, and for what? It’s all meaningless in the end. Don’t let me sound so morbid, it’s a fun ride and I suggest everyone to make the most of their short lives via any and all education. But nothing is worth stressing out over, it’s just a silly human experience. Would that I would follow my own advice. School and work are easy, even with the handicap of no car, but it’s mainly just the issue of film class. This is a tired subject I’ve gone over, but for the benefit of any new readers, suffice it to say that everytime I have taken a film class for the past two years I have gone through a period of immense self-doubt and am constantly on the verge of dropping the class though sheer overwhelmingness. And in the end I make a few short crappy yet moderately hopeful movies, and life goes on. Well, there I was again. Questioning why I do what I do, what is the point, I’m no good, I’m trash, you’re better, no scratch that you suck, everything is rot, nevermind it’s all okay. Along the lines. Actually, in the end, I got a camera and I got actors and I even got ideas, and the shooting commenced in one short half-day. Matter of fact, earlier I was at the school editing lab finishing it up my little piece, albeit late, but better than never, so they say.

And Spring Break approacheth. This must be seized! I had to get out of Long Beach, by any means. Luckily I got a few hundred dollars from tax season, but more importantly I got a few very nice checks from the state’s financial aid department. Oh to finally be an official resident of California, making it all worthwhile. I researched places to go. Tokyo. Amsterdam. Hawaii. London. I wanted to go somewhere very far away and somewhere I’ve never been. But in the end I only had so much money and so many international contacts, so instead I *settled* for New York. Not that one settles for New York, that is the town of towns. The archetypal American city that defines all else. If I must stay within the continental U.S., that’s the place worth going. Revisit old haunts and discover some new ones. 314 dollars spent on Expedia.com and thusly decided; no turning back. I organized the days off work, caught up on what I could: (Sunday was Easter and no work for once, helped me to catch up) watched my Netflix, wrote my story until I reached ten thousand words, read my comics, showered, shaved, laundered, packed, mailed some letters, workout one more time (argh I’ve been so bloaty lately, not right), cashiered a relaxed Monday shift, and forced myself to fall asleep at early early early by midnight that hazy Monday.

DAY ONE

My spiritual journey of running away in search of here begins. I woke up at 6 and actually didn’t fall back asleep. Really, it’s not so hard to wake up early when there is something important to be done. It’s that tricky self-motivation, when nothing is scheduled but I want to be productive, that usually amounts to me sleeping until noon. But not today. I caught the bus down PCH and went to the train stop, up North on the Blue Line then West on the Green Line. Made fairly good time; only took abouts an hour to get to LAX. I am not a fan of airports. Waiting in line is the pits. At least I have my iPod. Hate to be bored. Had my novel too.

The book I brought with me was Neuromancer by William Gibson. I read it when I was 18 or so years back, and to be honest I barely understood it. The first cyberpunk book y’know, but written in such intense technical language besides the stylistic approach. This go-around I followed the plot better but it was still tricky. All the week on airplanes in mid-air and subways underground I picked at the book until I was done, but it was not easy. Other entertainment that helped: my new Gameboy Advance that Adrian bought me was put to great use. I beat the Naruto game, though it wasn’t so hard, and started my adventures in Zelda: the Minish Cap. Also brought my sketchpad that I only used on three occasions. And I brought a notebook in case any bits of creative inspiration lightninged into my skull while I was in the creative center of the universe; and I sadly didn’t get any writing done. My new story comes slowly. Mostly though, the iPod was best for alleviating boredom. I refuse to be bored you see, I require constant media bombardment at all times, otherwise the thoughts become unbearable. ADD is a wonder.

So now I learn they take away your waterbottles and toothpaste in airports these days. I had my special Tom of Maine toothpaste no fluoride poison, now I had to but evil Aquafresh. It wasn’t even whitening. Still, I’m sure I’ll survive. Overpriced waterbottles also a factor. I had to buy quite a few waterbottles this trip because orangey New York tap water does not need to be in my system.

Waiting around in the airport. I hope that the future of our society is not being foreshadowed in the form of airports. The constant loudspeakers of “report anyone suspicious, do not leave bags unattended”, must have your tickets available, hyperintense security, take off your shoes, workers have photo I.D. at all times. Imagine if a mall was the same experience as an airport. That might be the fascistic future we face. I hope not.

As for the plane ride, once the lines and security waiting commenced, I don’t like flying either. I’m rather sensitive, and not just emotionally so, but my skull is sensitive to air pressure. My ears pop and then next day I can’t hear anything and its just no fun at all. Oh well, the price we pay for convenient cross-country transportation. When we layed over in Chicago, and there appeared to be an overbooking. They asked for volunteers to give up their seats for later flights and get 400 dollar vouchers. I thought about it and concluded it might be fun to stay the night in Chicago. Hell, I had no specific appointments it wouldn’t matter where I was as long as not home. I volunteered and had to wait until we boarded to know for sure. While waiting around I called my ailing great Aunt Gloria who recently moved to Chicago, but it was probably too last minute to organize a dinner or anything. And when the flight was boarded they didn’t ask for me so I guess the overbooking wasn’t an issue after all.

Finally, landing in LaGuardia! I lost three hours going East, it was now nighttime. Yet another thing that sucks about flying is that it takes all damn day, and you pretty much have to minus that day from doing anything other than traveling. From LaGuardia I caught the bus to the train taking it down to Brooklyn. 24 dollars for a Metro Card unlimited for a week (and that’s what you pay for gasoline per week at the least). 24-hour trains, I love New York.

There was a hostel I found out about online and I rather like Brooklyn so I checked it out. The day before I called and they said reservations wouldn’t be necessary. When I got to the address circa 11:20 it was a bar. Huh? Only a Tuesday night and they were totally crowded. I talked to them and sure enough they had a hostel upstairs. So I paid and got a key and went up. They didn’t seem to take the hostel aspect of their establishment very seriously, it wasn’t that nice a place, but the bar part seemed fun. The Cherry Tree, for future reference. I went upstairs to the third floor and caught my bearings for a moment, letting my stuffed bookbag drop to the ground, away from my tired back. I only brought what I could fit in one reasonably sized bag, I needed to travel light and most of all I hate waiting at the baggage claim. I was tired but then again it was thee hours earlier in my time, so I contemplated what to do. Should I take a shower and get the airline grime of me? Or should I go down and drink the night away while the moment was sill opportune? I put off cleanliness and went downstairs.

A cute bartender called me by my name, apparently noting me when they took my ID for the hostel stuff. Well that seemed a good sign. I talked to her, Annie (and half-Asian!) and she introduced me to a friend of hers (less cute) who was moving to California. An agent girl who works in comedy moving to Malibu, and there was nice conversation. Actually, I spent a lot of time in New York talking to people about LA. It was a bit disconcerting, the whole point is to get away from all this, but the topic of LA kept coming up. Like I’m such an expert, like this is my true home. But everybody used to live here or is interested or whatever. And constantly talking about the film industry too, another of my moderate expertise but I thought I was running away from it. Talking and talking, LA and what is God and some stream-of-consciousness writing with another fellow, and buying alcohol and buying alcohol, it was rather fun. New York bars, you do know, are open (legally) until 4! Eventually I checked out a bar across the street, a bit more chill there. Had more conversation with another LA-related girl named Annie. Of course cards were exchanged. This was a nice pep talk, drunken inspirationalisms on how easy it is to just move to New York and this is where you need to be. I must agree, it is easier than we think. I know its expensive there, but I talked to one musician fellow about 500 dollar rents in Hollywood and he said he paid less than that in Brooklyn (albeit probably sharing it with ten roommates), but is fucking doable. Perhaps if I want to be such an inspired artist I do need to move there already. Give me time.

I ended up staying at the other bar until 5 and I was damn drunkenly exhausted. I’m not very good at drinking, I must admit. Then when I went back I was locked out, though knocking at the bar did let me in. But then I found out that I was locked out of my room too! What a rip, some crazy woman locked herself in there. I slept somewhere else but I was scared for my bag and mostly scared for my charging iPod.

DAY TWO

Wednesday morning, lovely comicbook day, and I woke up after six hours. Much of this trip was a good training exercise, I drank way too much, I didn’t sleep enough, and I didn’t eat too good either. So I went up to go to my room and I was still locked out. What the fuck?! This lady that locked herself in there was some kind of bitch. I waited so long knocking while she was in there talking on the phone and ignoring me. This whole setup of the hostel was weird; the keys worked on some rooms but the main entrance was locked and I couldn’t do anything about it. Eventually she left and I got my stuff. I tried to shower but there was no hot water, further frustrations. I was not going to stay at this hostel any longer. I checked out and went to another reserve place I’d heard about in Chelsea.

Took the train there, finally in Manhattan. This other hostel cost four dollars more but it was nicer, and I finally got to shower. I wandered about Chelsea and Union Square and East Village, going to an occult bookstore recommended (but it was more of a New Age bookstore but that’s okay). Eventually I called Marguerite and asked what there was to do. Marguerite was my only contact in the city. Jeremy didn’t end up meeting with me, lazy-ass stuck in the Midwest. Rushkoff and no other famous writers wanted to hang out, and thus I was mostly alone. I knew Marguerite from Myspace and the last time I was in the city we met. And she’s a bit political into the 9-11 activism scene.

Being the 11th, the New York 9-11 Truthers had a tiny rally to organize. I met with Marguerite and followed these guys through the city into Time’s Square. Time’s Square, by the way, I’m so tired of and don’t want to see again. Tourist BS that I saw too much of (just like Hollywood blvd but bigger and shinier and emptier. At least Hollywood blvd has dancing and ghetto). As for the 9-11 Truth movement… I don’t know. What’s really the point. I think most Americans these days really do accept that the 9-11 attacks where an inside job and our government covered something up and they lie to us everyday to get us into wars. Everybody knows but we’re still apathetic. But what does non-apathy bring? I don’t know. A doze guys in Time’s Square yelling “9-11 was an inside job!” and passing out flyers and Infowars.com links, well it’s nice but what does it really do? I tried to be nice and hand out flyers, but it felt so insincere. I didn’t fit in with these people. And I really have come to the conclusion recently that while that the NWO obviously exists and the world is manipulated differently from behind the scenes via intelligence agencies and occult secret societies and international banking and what have you, I just don’t think they’re as omnipotent as they are portrayed to be. I think they are having lots of internal problems and always have. They fuck up the world domination plans all the time and that’s just the only conclusion I can make if I’m going to be optimistic about the future of this planet. Anyways, I’m happy to talk about the issues if someone approaches me, and that’s the only way anyone learns anything is if they want to learn it, but I can’t be part of shoving a point of view down people’s throats. Ultimately activism is a one-way statement directed inwards, its all about ‘look at me, look what I stand for.’ But most people ignore it and it doesn’t do much to change minds. It’s interesting though that these conspiracy theories are now a permanent fixture on the city, all over the place you see stickers and flyers.

Perhaps I’m just a lazy American and I’m responsible for the blood on my government’s hands. Maybe. But I can’t help being tired of fighting the invisible. It’s not a denial of information, I fully support everyone being made as aware as possible. But to let the horrible suffering reality of the world drive up your being… it’s just not something I want to do. I’d rather be a little bit stupid and focus more on my own nonsense than worry so much about the problems of the world. I’m sorry.

Anyways, I’ve been growing more skeptical lately. The more one researches this New World Order/Illuminati stuff one has the choice of being a hardcore paranoid or a hardcore agnostic (to paraphrase Robert Anton Wilson). I’ve been getting more and more agnostic. The memetics behind our thinking, the psychologies and the immense selectivity of our perceptions, it’s so much more subjective than we think it is. People believe anything and they just don’t respond to logic. Sure it’s obvious to say about the brainwashed masses. But this too includes the ‘truth-seekers’ and you and ME. It does. How do I know anything is real, any information source not suspect, anything in this universe as an objective reality? Some lies are obvious, but the subtle ones are all-pervading too. Bottom line: light is both a particle and a wave and I’m not fit to explain that, so why should I believe in anything to the point of letting it stress me out? Really.

One cool thing about the little rally was meeting Marguerite’s friend Marshall, this lawyer guy, very intelligent. It’s rare to meet challenging minds. We all went out for pizza and drinks through the night, and had the best conversation. Not just on no-plane theories and Bohemian Grove population control, but all about the nature of selective reality and RAW shit and cyberpunk literature as a model for new post-government society. (and I really do believe in the coming global anarcho-capitolist future. Fuck governments, it was a stupid idea whose time has come. Let’s privatize everything and learn to be adult human beings who take responsibilities for ourselves. Remember, mass media tech is human evolution, the military industrial complex is burning itself out and farewell to good riddance. I could be wrong though.)

Afterwards I went back to the bar in Brooklyn. It was emptier. I talked to Annie and I don’t think that was going anywhere. Another lovely strikeout for Ray! I guess part of her bartending flirty tip-getting talents is being really good with names. Still, I gave her a card.

DAY THREE

I had to wake up at the early hour of 10:30 to make it to an appointment with a psychic healer. Yeah, that’s right. My Dad is all excited about this healer character Zeev Coleman, an Israeli guy that supposedly went to the mountains where Moses was or something. Nevermind that Moses didn’t literally exist, he’s just a character. My Dad went to him before for healing and said it worked, that he got a weird mystical ‘tingly’ feeling.

First of all, when I woke up I wanted to rebook another night but they said I couldn’t. That sucked, I had to take my bag with all my stuff before finding another place. So I went uptown near where Central Park starts and all the tall buildings are, and I went to Coleman’s office. It was raining, cold horrible painful rain, and I bought an umbrella from a street vendor that soon turned inside out permanently broke the cheap piece of crap. But I made it to the office building and met this Coleman guy. They put on a stupid dvd and then Coleman took me to his room. He and his assistant seemed like nice enough people, an older Israeli guy. Maybe I’m prejudiced against Israelis (especially myself), but I usually get a bad vibe from all of them. He interviewed me first and I was kind of giving the whole situation a chance, opening up to him a bit. Talking about problems with women and being stressed and money and how I want to have more energy if I’m going to become a motivated writer. He said that he would help me with confidence. He gave me some obvious advice on jobs and goals, nothing too profound. At this point in the interview it seemed like he was squirming, like he wasn’t sure what to make of me. Coleman remembered my Dad who is a believer, but I was more skeptical. I talked about meditation but I didn’t care what he saw of my aura. One thing he said was that 2012 will be a good year for me. Oh, I replied, like the Mayan calendar end of the world thing? And he had no idea what I was talking about. Yep, at this point I concluded this guy does not have mystical ability and did not have occult education. He even name-dropped Barbara Streisand as a client of his like I’m supposed to be impressed, which is just hideously lame.

I laid down on and he did a simple hypnosis technique. You’re relaxing, you’re going down the elevator, everything is happy. It was so stupid. ‘You’re good with the girls, you are confidence’ he said in his Ivrit accent. It was all just so silly. I think he used a feather or something to generate a tingly sensation (the one my Dad thought was so amazing). Basically what this ordeal amounted to was the equivalent of taking yoga classes at Cincinnati State community college. After class we’d lie down and the teacher would narrate relaxation exercises. It’s the same thing, its very simple guided meditation. Some psychics believe their psychics and some are knowingly devious. I hate to be such a pessimistic skeptic, but I think Zeev Coleman is knowingly a bullshit artist ripping people off. I think he knows he’s full of it and just does anything to take people’s money. Them Israelis, and I hate to stereotype, but I keep coming across this. I just don’t want to know how much my Dad paid for this thing.

My father has always had no idea on how to help me in anything. He has always been completely clueless. Problems could always be solved with drugs, be it Ritalin or Prozac (with his fucking junkie background, he has no right to be a parent), or hospital lockup for head problems, and the bare minimum was all required through high school and early twenties, and it was all just a waste. Did he really think seeing this psychic was going to help me in anything? I’m sorry Dad, I know you mean well, but you just have no idea what’s going on sometimes. I mean, my father always loved me and worked hard and meant to do the best, but he just did it all so badly most of the time. Although when I was broke and he paid my rent that time… that was really cool. But as an adult that era needs to be over, I do not need my parents for anything. In my more cynical days sometimes I think that people like my parents should be sterilized by the government, they just shouldn’t be allowed to breed and project all their problems onto the next generation. But that’s just a defeatist attitude in blaming my faults on my Dad, I need to force myself to stop thinking that way. No more whining about my childhood. The only thing I have a right to be resentful for is that I wasn’t raised multi-lingual, everything else I can deal with grownup.

Anyways, I ate lunch/breakfast and proceeded to call some other hostels. I ended up going to one way Uptown on 103rd, and when I got there they let me pay for two nights. At least for one day I wouldn’t have to worry. This was a big hostel more like a hotel but dorm beds and I hung out for a while. I bought an international phone card and called Adrian, always good to hear from that cat. Ilana called me too, apparently she needs some money, and I happily have to give it to her. Such is family. I met some guy at my room, a bit creepy, who wanted to impart all his wisdom of New York to me. He was going to show me around East Village and Greenwich Village but I got tired of waiting for him and left, which was a relief because I did not really want to hang out with him.

Ah the Village, the great counter-cultural nexus from which all others spawned. I went back to familiar St. Mark’s Street and walked back and forth. Walked up to where the Korova Milk Bar was but it wasn’t any more. Then headed west and checked Greenwich Village and that NYU area and new fun clubs to scope. One interesting tidbit, I stopped at a comic store to see what was new this week and Optic Nerve finally came out this year. It really is a beautiful comic. I wrote Adrian Tomine a letter and just out of curiosity I checked the back page… lo and behold he printed an excerpt from my letter. I told the teller at the comic store but they didn’t seem to care much (and I think the girl that worked there didn’t like me because maybe I creepily stayed in the pornography section for too long, but dangit only in New York does every comic store have a porn section to browse through) It’s only an indie comic and Tomine isn’t so famous, but it is always pretty cool to see you’re name in print. Go buy Optic Nerve 11 and see. Although, it’s a pretty dumb letter, now that I mention it I’m embarrassed. I didn’t expect him to print it!

I continued around this new Greenwich Village area. One time I pronounced it “Greeen-wich” but that just shows my bumpkinness, its ‘grehn-ich’. Hung around Washington Park and wandered into an NYU building. That campus is really interesting in that its so urban in the middle of the city; most schools are too open-spaced. There were some girls selling pizza raising charity money and I bought some pizza. I wanted to make some New York friends and talked to them for a while, and one girl was a film major too. But I sensed I was being annoying and eventually gave up. Next it was time for dancing. I killed some time hopping in from bar to bar on MacDougal street; I was waiting until it was late. I had read about some nightclubs in New York and I wanted to check one out in the area. Once it was dark and I was tipsy enough I went there and danced for a few hours. Only five bucks cover charge though it was mostly empty. I drank way too many appletinis and White Russians, and while the blazing techno music was nice while I moved, as soon as I sat down for a moment I felt so sick. I felt awful and called it a night at only 1.

Here’s where it gets a bit gross. Inside a subway station I vomited on myself a little bit. Later on I tried to wash my jacket but most of the time it didn’t smell too good. While traveling North from the village I had to transfer around Time’s Square to get back uptown. So I decided to appropriate a pornography store while I was good and inebriated.

[censored]

I wish I hadn’t vomited on myself.

to be continued...

Myspace is dead and this time I mean it

2007-04-18T22:55:00.000-07:00

So I finally got a blogger. You win.

In due time, perhaps I'll finally have a resource to phase out my stupid myspace and just write for writing's sake. For now I'll post blogs on both, but let's build me up an audience far far away from the evil Myspaced media consolidated brainwashing temptress. And so like an addict hoping to replace one substance of choice with another, I'll try this new pill. Wish me luck.

Everybody subscribe to this and get to read my witty witticisms, irreverent irreverncies, and political politicos. See you in the Metaverse (and a cookie for you if you get the reference)