JOHNNY'S LAMENT

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!

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

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

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

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

Moderately interesting weekend indeed.

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

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

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

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

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


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


But mainly I was interested of James St. James.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like A Bird


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

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

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

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

baby's first DMT hit

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

Dimetheltryptamine--look it up

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

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

Terence McKenna comes highly recommended.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meanwhile I have decided to become a mutant supremacist.

Gotta get that "Magneto was right" tshirt.

And type a Magneto story.

And fly inside my brain.

And figure out how it works.

And get better at using it.

And neurologically leave all this shit behind.