I want to sing you one song here, recognizing that there are goliaths now a-days, and uh, people dont realize just who the Goliaths are, but in olden days goliath was slayed and everybody nowadays looks back and sees how cruel Goliath was, nowadays there are crueler goliaths who do crueler things, but one day their gonna be slain too and people twothousand years from now can look back and say " remember when Goliath the second was slain?" -my main man bob.
Jul 26, 2008
Jul 23, 2008
What a day to be alive. There is something generally to be said when waking up, and usually this is all I can muster under the circumstance. Peeling my green plaid comforter from my body, I am blessed to see my scrawny hair infested legs are still appendages I can call my own. I give them a whirl, they are heavy and only vaguely responsive. My motor systems lack transcendence at this hour. Should I let them settle? A few minutes of will can unify the system.
I arise minutes later after integration. There is unfamiliar din echoing beneath my feet. Not strange enough to investigate at this hour. I approach the tiled sink, a selling point in the model, and peer across the basin. There I am, a hazy semblance. I paste the brush and open wide, my calcium is a fine bunch. Yadatahw.
I arise minutes later after integration. There is unfamiliar din echoing beneath my feet. Not strange enough to investigate at this hour. I approach the tiled sink, a selling point in the model, and peer across the basin. There I am, a hazy semblance. I paste the brush and open wide, my calcium is a fine bunch. Yadatahw.
Jul 22, 2008
"Madness is like gravity! All you need is a little bitty push.."
Turn your light down low, Im speaking to ya quiet to keep my words from sounding cold only to find my temptations on the verge of being lured out the door, so turn your light down low. Go out the front, its time we part for the night but our love is still soft enough to sink your teeth into and BITE but please be assured my love this night will not hurt you while you find some park bench built for the absentminded old and think about tying your hair in pigtail bows when you were still young enough to bundle and tumble in between your mothers bedsheet folds Whispering with cupped and folded little fingers touching your sisters ear and feeling the sense of kin so close and dear in the heavy summer night.. dry grass'll itch you into feeling so whole and awake now that you can talk and likewise hear whats said with a head ready to fill and a fellow heart to hold dear while leaning on the cold white windowsill waiting for the fear to realize you’ve escaped to have another dance with these bygone years.
Jul 20, 2008
I bet youve switched legs up there in the sky, over my head while i walk almost grown with my childhood still sitting in my mouth like a dead rat. And somewhere between here and my promised land looms the wilderness now and the seasons are changing and Im not ready. Can't I work for a handful of garbanzo beans, you can keep the electricity. Ill have a wooden table, grow my fruit and smoke my own meat! ill play fiddle on my porch with tired feet to lilt over the rail and drink whiskey free it will be too harsh but it will be mine. strong as boiling metal. wood fire will leak into the wood and smoke will ink my nights. I will come callused and lean with limbs of iron to country rambles and walk home whistling inside the winking dawn. With my skin dark, my eye furious, I shall be idle and brutal. The best thing of all is a very drunken sleep, in the grass outback. In the summer winds Ill bring my bed out on the porch and sleep deeply into Sunday to meet leaves in my sheets and boots strewn down the steps. ill be old and ride my bicycle everyday, get real redfaced drunk and fly down dirt hills and walk everywhere, trampling grasses and tapping sticks to fenceposts and slathered in the redleafed dusk, cobwebs will cling onto pines and old mules will clop plop in soft roads below my window and i'll feel better and at home i'll slowly gray and blindly amble down my own longroad of death and lie down slow and gladly between the hissing of silver lawns and ragged sycamores against the lambence of dreaming moonlight.
Jul 18, 2008
storioz
The whole of the next week was spent stumbling in my mind’s eye. Finally that following Friday I was overcome by an eclectic stew of supreme irrationality and reality. Friday night bore witness to what I call the last fresh dream I ever had.
As the curtain closed on my vision… I was borne suddenly and swiftly to a place unfamiliar to me, save in myths and novels. The sun was a wavering electric desiccant, emaciating the surrounding earth and depriving the living. I was standing upon the cusp; a sheer outcropping of resistant red rock, gazing over my dangling outstretched toes to the canyon floor seemingly jagged miles below. The wind was at my face and undecided, traversing the spectrum from tender lapping to treasonous gust. Much as angels have from above, I felt my equilibrium slipping and I feared plunging through unforgiving ledges to the ant people and their craggy rust.
She placed her giving palm on my shoulder and confidently removed me from the ledge’s suffocating embrace; guiding me to the place we were to begin our descent.
“Is this your first time to the valley of the lepers?”
“Yes.” I respond.
I put one unsure foot in front of the other and we slowly come to the trailhead marked by a tall wooden post and the falling away of the earth. Following the path with my eyes it cuts ominously down the canyon wall, it is well worn from the plodding of afflicted travelers whom retreat into the hostile canyon never to return. The passage leans profanely away from the jagged wall at an obtuse angle and is littered with course sand that slows and complicates navigation.
With a simple caress she assuages my doubt and starts me upon the trek… One hand upon the rising rugged canyon wall, the other outstretched pointing across the vast emptiness towards the singing carrion birds.
As the curtain closed on my vision… I was borne suddenly and swiftly to a place unfamiliar to me, save in myths and novels. The sun was a wavering electric desiccant, emaciating the surrounding earth and depriving the living. I was standing upon the cusp; a sheer outcropping of resistant red rock, gazing over my dangling outstretched toes to the canyon floor seemingly jagged miles below. The wind was at my face and undecided, traversing the spectrum from tender lapping to treasonous gust. Much as angels have from above, I felt my equilibrium slipping and I feared plunging through unforgiving ledges to the ant people and their craggy rust.
She placed her giving palm on my shoulder and confidently removed me from the ledge’s suffocating embrace; guiding me to the place we were to begin our descent.
“Is this your first time to the valley of the lepers?”
“Yes.” I respond.
I put one unsure foot in front of the other and we slowly come to the trailhead marked by a tall wooden post and the falling away of the earth. Following the path with my eyes it cuts ominously down the canyon wall, it is well worn from the plodding of afflicted travelers whom retreat into the hostile canyon never to return. The passage leans profanely away from the jagged wall at an obtuse angle and is littered with course sand that slows and complicates navigation.
With a simple caress she assuages my doubt and starts me upon the trek… One hand upon the rising rugged canyon wall, the other outstretched pointing across the vast emptiness towards the singing carrion birds.
Jul 17, 2008
A Nice Coat of Blubber Would Be Nice When Winter Comes.
a strange man simply wakes up to find "what" scribbled in his garden. he washes himself with scrambled egg, puts his glasses in his pants & pulls up his trousers. there's a census taker knocking on his door & his orders for the day are nailed up on his mailbox reading that the route on junky monday is therefore as follows: two pints of jumpstart. a book of zulu sayings. citizen kane translated into dirty french. an orange television studio. three bibles each autographed by the hillbilly singer who can sing salty dog the fastest. the back page of a 1941 daily worker [for posterity]. a salty dog. any daughter of any district judge. a tablespoon of coke & sugar heated to 300 degrees. left ears. lots of left ears. seven pieces of some deadly passport. a corn on the cob. five wooden pillows. one boy scout resembling ted haggard & a stolen tightrope walker. "What" is in my garden, he says over the phone to his friend, wally the fireman. Wally replies "i dont know. i really couldn't say. i'm not there." The man says "what do you mean, you dont know! what is written in my garden" wally says "what?" the man says "that's right" . . . wally replies that he is on his way down a pole & asks the man if he sees any relationship between Katie couric & Tarzan? the man says "no, but i have some james baldwin & hemingway books" "not good enough" says wally, who again asks "what about a shrimp & an american flag? do you see any relationship between those two things?" the man says, "no, but I see Tarentino movies & i like Stravinsky quite a lot" wally tries again & says "could you tell me in a million words what the bill of rights has to do with a feather? " the man thinks for a minute & says "no i cant do that but i'm a great fan of henry miller" wally slams the phone & the man he gets back into bed & begins reading "The Meaning of an Orange" in german ... but by nightfall, he is bored. puts the book down & goes to shave while looking into a picture of thomas Edison. He decided over a bowl of milk to go out & have a good time & he opens the door & who's standing there but the census taker "i'm just a friend of the person who lives here" he says & goes back in the house & out the back door & down the street & into a bar with a moose head . . . the bartender gives him a double brandy, punches him in the groin & pushes him into a phone booth - obviously the man's crime is that he sees nothing resembling anything - he wipes the blood away from his groin with a hanky & decides to wait for a call. "What" is still written in his garden. the sun is still yellow. some people would say it's chicken ... wally's going down a pole, the census taker arrives to make a phone call & phone booths dont have back doors! junky monday driving, going down a one way street & turning into a friday the 13th ... Ah Wilderness! darkness! & he went five hours without a drink of water. “figure i'm ready for the desert. wanna come? I'll take along my dog.” he's always good for a laugh.
pick yuh up at seven
faithfully, piglet
pick yuh up at seven
faithfully, piglet
Jul 16, 2008
It wasn’t long after the vegetable dream that things got odd. You might call it a morbid fascination or a macabre preoccupation I guess, but for me it’s much simpler. I like to think of it as an ebbing in the tide of purgatorial monotony, my long cooped whirling-dervish imagination carbureted. They were funny experiences and maybe Freud would’ve had some valuable insight, but it might not have even been his jurisdiction.
The brevity of those moments made ascertaining their occurrences all the more difficult; thank god for their lucidity. It’s the lucidity that really gave them away. A snap of the fingers that portraits.
On the verge of a stairwell was a common place for things to get treacherous. I could only conjure slapstick disaster, images of calamity projected insubstantially by a roguish optic nerve and conspiring sub-conscious. A ghost rendering of myself sent tumbling over the brink by misguided gait, a pebble down a well. Down I went and continually go, head following hands following ass, unraveling the red carpet with my person. Maybe a pop here; a crack there. Eventually friction wins and a quiet halt prevails, normally it’s a muffled affair. I find myself staring at myself from the vantage at the stair summit to base camp down below. The version at low altitude rocked back onto his calves, knees on the floor; if he was discontented I’d never know it, a toothless red sauce smile pasted on his giddy face acknowledges mine.
The brevity of those moments made ascertaining their occurrences all the more difficult; thank god for their lucidity. It’s the lucidity that really gave them away. A snap of the fingers that portraits.
On the verge of a stairwell was a common place for things to get treacherous. I could only conjure slapstick disaster, images of calamity projected insubstantially by a roguish optic nerve and conspiring sub-conscious. A ghost rendering of myself sent tumbling over the brink by misguided gait, a pebble down a well. Down I went and continually go, head following hands following ass, unraveling the red carpet with my person. Maybe a pop here; a crack there. Eventually friction wins and a quiet halt prevails, normally it’s a muffled affair. I find myself staring at myself from the vantage at the stair summit to base camp down below. The version at low altitude rocked back onto his calves, knees on the floor; if he was discontented I’d never know it, a toothless red sauce smile pasted on his giddy face acknowledges mine.
Bring what you got on to the man down there with his hand out the bars with a tin cup, he’s real scared. kept in the hole for many months for something like refusing to speak up, and while I cant sit still to save his soul, my pensions ringing jumps to remind me its not in my hand to play corrupt—by the way I don’t believe in bad luck. So I show you to him and don’t ask me to help, Ive made peace with it all now that I can play with my baby boys in the beach kelp, But inside I’ll always skitter some when I hear the pitter patter come down the hall from that poor boy leaning against the stone wall, but when it does, Ill hear my boys laugh and giggle some and sadly throw the man from my mind and let him slide out my ear terribly quietlike. There comes a time when calluses harden your insides, and when the day breaks you can turn your head and decide whether your insides will forgive your wretched kind. Either way Ill grow old and blind and without given the choice, except to open my eyes during this cold-shouldered piece of time, Ill find my self sulking through all the world’s unforgettable/ topfloor forgivable slime.
Jun 11, 2008
Journey North
After much anxiety and a whole lot of hassle I eventually gathered my necessities and began my journey north. My first stop was to be Newport Beach where I met Ryan and the usual crew hanging out. Ryan’s place is like a Mecca for stoners and anybody who has no home, me being one of those homeless people as of the beginning of this journey.
The typical plans were discussed for Thursday night; take it easy in order to endure the long weekend ahead of us. Naturally these plans were drowned away by the end of the night. Ryan, Lee, Bobby and myself headed out for the bars in what is considered downtown Newport. We started the night at Sharkeez, a chain bar and restaurant located at most California college type towns. It was packed, so naturally we were drawn to join the consciousness of the crowd. A few drinks in Lee began a militant attack on the women trying to drag us into his barrage. None of us were having it, as the attack style was overwhelming and just out of hand. After awhile of loading around through the crowd we decide to leave and go to the bar across the street. The place was called “The District“ and it was a little bit more sophisticated than Sharkeez and had just the right amount of people strewn about the place. We stayed here only long enough to down one drink, as our “military man” wasn’t having the female situation there. After our “downfall” according to military standards, we went home.
The next day began slowly with a bit of a hangover and eventually with our delayed collision into the traffic on the 405 freeway. We left a bit after 3pm and it wasn’t looking good for our desired arrival in San Francisco by 10pm or earlier. The whole point in our drive up to SF on Friday was to party in the city since Saturday night was going to be spent partying at Stanford University. After several hours and good conversations that usually manifest themselves on road trips of decent size we had barely made it to Los Angeles. We were fighting the realization of our unsuccessful mission to SF but eventually succumbed to the bumper-to-bumper traffic. After a few phone calls and some navigation maneuvers we were making our way to the 101 freeway via the 126.
We stopped at a gas station in order for Ryan to relieve his urgent bladder situation, picked up some snacks and continued on our way. As we made our way into Santa Barbara I reminisced of all the good times I had there over my three years living there. It almost made me sad, as I could barely remember why I had abruptly left this beautiful outcrop of California. Through some more phone calls we coordinated with Julius my old roommate and longtime friend to meet at his place. Once there I showed Ryan around the place that I once lived and chatted it up with Jay for a while. Jay was having a traditional barbeque at our old home with all the employees/riders from Hazards Cyclery. Ryan’s girlfriend Leslie and some of her friends also happened to be in Santa Barbara for the weekend and they were going to a local place called Chad’s to have some drinks. I decided that the best thing to do would be to experience a little bit of everything that this situation had to offer us. So we hopped on our skateboards and skated into the heart of downtown SB just a few blocks from my old house.
I showed Ryan one of the Brooks Campuses that I used to go to, located right off state street. From there we skated nearly ten blocks up State Street to where I used to work at Stateside (restaurant bar and lounge). We were welcomed like royalty as I was one of the favorite employees of the place back in my day. Once again I took Ryan for another trip down “Cliffs Memory Lane” showing him the many lavish divisions of the place. We stayed for a while to catch up with old friends, then jumped back on our skateboards and cruised back down the ten or so blocks we had come up earlier. We arrived at Chad’s. A quaint little place with live music and the architecture from the 1920’s. We squeezed our way through the crowd and made our way to the bar inside where we met the girls we knew as well as one of their brothers who, to our benefit was the bartender. We stayed for about an hour chatting with friends we hadn’t seen in a long while, taking shots of all kinds on the house. Soon it was 8pm, time for us to head back to my old house and catch the end of the barbeque that now was in full swing back at the house. We said our goodbyes and with some squirreliness skated our way back to the house.
Loading up with the biker bros was the main course on the menu once we got back, but it was short and sweet. We had to get on our way in order to make it to San Luis Obispo in order to have ample time to party it up. Making sure to not miss In-N-Out Burger on the way up we made our way full and feeling fine. It was a fairly short and to the point drive, lasting less than an hour and a half.
First things first, Rounding up the bros. Triple-A was already in the full swing of the night at an Arabian nights frat party of some sorts, which we picked him up from. Once to the boys house in SLO we loaded up and debated for way to long on whether to go to the Cave Rave party or go to the bars downtown. One way or another we eventually made the decision to walk to the bars downtown. Not to be persuaded otherwise Triple led the charge to Bulls a local dive bar with a fairly young crowd. It was packed and quite uncomfortable. An interesting place, with somewhat of a local feel, as much as you can get in a town purely populated by college students. After waiting for what must have been 20 minutes we finally got our drinks. Ryan bought the first round; and he did so setting a heavy precedent of Jack and Cokes w/ shots of jager for everyone. Sitting up on the make shift table/bar on the back wall we had a good view of the scene. We quickly got over the it throughout the course of our drinks and decided to head elsewhere. Once outside we decided to go to the clubbiest place in SLO called “Native”.
Modern looking inside with a Spanish twist to it, people seemed to be enjoying themselves quite thoroughly. This spot was to be our demise as far as sobriety goes. I continued the charge by getting a round of jack and cokes and jager shots for everyone. Shortly after we got our drinks we were lighting up “beezies” and dancing in our own feeble ways. Ryan and myself got sucked into dancing with some lunkers, which was more comical than painful, and they sure enjoyed the hell out of it. All of a sudden Andrew Crane was up in our faces amped as can be to see a “brother from another mother.” We went back to the bar and continued the onslaught on the Jack Daniels; celebrating with much enthusiasm to our ridiculous toasts. By now we had made it to the point where another type of poison was desired by all, cigly wigs. Out we went to the courtyard area, which was nearly as crowded as the inside and a bit larger of an area. We split off on our grit-bumming missions meeting together once our mission was successful.
When we resumed our stance inside it was somebody else’s turn to continue the alcoholic lubrication on our minds. After a few more rounds and ridiculous antics of all sorts last call was announced. We rushed to the bar to get any of our usual liquids only to find that we had drank them dry. We ended up with some neon pink bullshit, designed to unlock the chastity belt of an unexpecting prude. Whatever it taste decent and we sure didn’t need anymore to drink anyways. In the process of leaving Andrew somehow managed to separate himself from us, later to be arrested and thrown in jail for being drunk in public. We made our way home stumbling about, pushing each other into cars and bushes, and other things of this nature. The night was not to be ended without a battle though, not with the amount of alcohol in our systems and testosterone that had been invigorated throughout the course of the night. Somehow Triple and I found ourselves in a battle, fork on knife. Though it was purely for amusement it was quite intense and it eventually ended with Triples’ hand bleeding, a small souvenir of our stop-by in SLO.
The next day began with the predictable aches and pains from last night’s glorious moments. To self medicate we went to the nearest sandwich shop, High Street Deli. We feasted on some much needed and very delicious sandwiches and were on our way.
We had decided the day before that because we couldn’t make the first night in SF we would make the most of our way up by taking the 1 freeway. I was really looking forward to finally making the journey north on the 1 Freeway all the way to San Francisco, as this stretch of freeway is some of the most famous in the whole country. This is primarily due to its positioning on the Cliffside of the Pacific Ocean, its rugged appearance and its many twists and turns. There is an entire History Channel documentary on the history of the 1 freeway, so feel free to educate yourself further if you’re interested. Needless to say, we intended on enjoying the experience as much as possible. As we came out of each turn with tires squealing we laid our eyes on a new potential surfing spot. We would get really excited
with hope that we might go out and explore some ridiculously wooly surf spot, but at the same time knew that we had to push on.
Despite having drove a portion of this road before the beauty of the surroundings were almost overwhelming and overpowered all my other thoughts. We stopped occasionally to take it all in and capture the moment. After about an hour or two of driving we got to the farthest north point I had previously been on the 1. There is a large turnout that usually has a few vacant cars parked in it. Beside the turnout lies a trail through a open field that leads into a forest. I guided us down the path while reminiscing about my first experience here about a year and a half ago. The trail is fairly long, maybe a mile in length and leads all the way to the ocean, which is hardly
visible from the turnout. We trekked through the poison oak jungle and waded through a small river which winds its way to the ocean. We made it to the beach to discover a fairly strong offshore breeze with waves just a couple feet high. We sat in the sand for a while hoping to see some waves big enough to make it worth going out, but it was happening. It was a great little break in our drive, and we were finally getting closer to our destination.
relationship for, the end and a new beginning. OurBack on the road, I gazed upon a part of the world I had never seen before. Alike much that came before, but different especially because it was a crucial linking point between where I have been along the coast, and where I was born (San Francisco). Like a kid in a candy store, my eyes were wide open soaking it all in. Eventually we got to the point of travel that I have both a love and hate travel along the California coast was over and our entrance into SF had begun.
We arrived at Paul’s place in Stanford where we met Drew, Richie, and their friend and band mate, Sam. We explored the scene where the party was to be that night. A lavish three-story frat house decked out according to the annual theme party “Cowabunga”. It was nearly the same as it was last year I attended this magnificent gathering of alcohol enthusiasts with enough initiative to make it into Stanford University. Ryan had never been here before so I took him on a skate mission exploring all the most popular sights on campus. We got pizza and beer at a on campus restaurant and skated back to the frat house.
Before we knew it the party was going off. Richie, Drew and Sam started the night off with a performance from the their band The Brothers Cooley which was epic to say the least. They were followed by a reggae band, which sparked a cloud of ganja smoke to erupt from the crowd in the front yard. Inside there was a DJ entertaining a huge room full of people dancing. In the backyard filled with sand there was a small bar where we were able to
relive our jager shots from the night before. We dabbled in all areas of the party including the upstairs “private” bar where I bar tended for a short while until I was removed from my “position” by a power hungry frat member. Eager to make the most of the night and catch up with the crowd I drank a concoction of jager and monster to the strength of 80/20 favoring the jager. This drink eventually lead to my demise and the end of the night.
Shortly after I awoke, eyes still closed, wondering where I would be when I opened them. Slowly I opened them and I saw two guys spooning each other in the bed across from me. Simultaneously I realized that I had slept in a sitting position. I was in Paul’s room, how I made it there is probably an interesting story, however the details are lost in the bottom of a monster can rolling around campus somewhere. Rubbing my eyes and stretching I began to piece together the end of the night. Remembering eating a piece of pizza I had saved at the end of the night before falling asleep sitting up. I was surprisingly not to hung-over, which was a good thing because Ryan and I were going to bay to breakers as soon as we ate breakfast and said our goodbyes to the boys.
After an immense battle for parking we eventually met up with our crew at bay to breakers, consisting of: Sean, Aeneas, Corey, Andy B and his girlfriend, and two of your average SF crack head children. We made our way through a couple miles of the course seeing the usual sights that a free, 7 mile long party in San Francisco and no law enforcement might provide you with. After awhile everyone was pretty over the scene.
Mainly because we all got their late, some time around 11 and it starts at 7am so everything was winding down. The whole experience was quite intense because everyone we were with was on a different drug of some sort and in his own world. Ryan and myself were still recovering from the night before and managed to snag a beer or two from passers by, nothing compared to the average state of mind of the crowd. We strolled back to Aeneas’s house where Ryan and I decided we should get going since it seemed the party was over.
We continued on our way home discussing our weekend journey. I slept through a large portion of the drive in a recovery state. Once back to Ryan’s house in Newport we told our story briefly to Ryan’s roommates and the usual crowd that hangs out there. I eventually succumbed to sleeping on the spare mattress amongst the chaos in the house. I had to go to bed early enough to wake myself for my first day of work at Fox Racing the next morning at 7:30am.
Afterword:
The following two weeks were among the most stressful I have ever experienced. Being homeless with a brand new job reminded me of my first month of college. (I had decided to go to school in Santa Barbara with a friend at midnight the day before he had planned to leave. I woke my dad and told him I was leaving in 4 hours to go to school in Santa Barbara. The next day I found myself in Santa Barbara, homeless, with no car and supposedly starting school the next day.) Throughout these two weeks I had the most intense, vivid, and disturbing dreams I can ever remember. Despite the setback of my living situation I have been able to perform considerably well at work and still have some spunk in me for life after work.
The typical plans were discussed for Thursday night; take it easy in order to endure the long weekend ahead of us. Naturally these plans were drowned away by the end of the night. Ryan, Lee, Bobby and myself headed out for the bars in what is considered downtown Newport. We started the night at Sharkeez, a chain bar and restaurant located at most California college type towns. It was packed, so naturally we were drawn to join the consciousness of the crowd. A few drinks in Lee began a militant attack on the women trying to drag us into his barrage. None of us were having it, as the attack style was overwhelming and just out of hand. After awhile of loading around through the crowd we decide to leave and go to the bar across the street. The place was called “The District“ and it was a little bit more sophisticated than Sharkeez and had just the right amount of people strewn about the place. We stayed here only long enough to down one drink, as our “military man” wasn’t having the female situation there. After our “downfall” according to military standards, we went home.
The next day began slowly with a bit of a hangover and eventually with our delayed collision into the traffic on the 405 freeway. We left a bit after 3pm and it wasn’t looking good for our desired arrival in San Francisco by 10pm or earlier. The whole point in our drive up to SF on Friday was to party in the city since Saturday night was going to be spent partying at Stanford University. After several hours and good conversations that usually manifest themselves on road trips of decent size we had barely made it to Los Angeles. We were fighting the realization of our unsuccessful mission to SF but eventually succumbed to the bumper-to-bumper traffic. After a few phone calls and some navigation maneuvers we were making our way to the 101 freeway via the 126.
We stopped at a gas station in order for Ryan to relieve his urgent bladder situation, picked up some snacks and continued on our way. As we made our way into Santa Barbara I reminisced of all the good times I had there over my three years living there. It almost made me sad, as I could barely remember why I had abruptly left this beautiful outcrop of California. Through some more phone calls we coordinated with Julius my old roommate and longtime friend to meet at his place. Once there I showed Ryan around the place that I once lived and chatted it up with Jay for a while. Jay was having a traditional barbeque at our old home with all the employees/riders from Hazards Cyclery. Ryan’s girlfriend Leslie and some of her friends also happened to be in Santa Barbara for the weekend and they were going to a local place called Chad’s to have some drinks. I decided that the best thing to do would be to experience a little bit of everything that this situation had to offer us. So we hopped on our skateboards and skated into the heart of downtown SB just a few blocks from my old house.
I showed Ryan one of the Brooks Campuses that I used to go to, located right off state street. From there we skated nearly ten blocks up State Street to where I used to work at Stateside (restaurant bar and lounge). We were welcomed like royalty as I was one of the favorite employees of the place back in my day. Once again I took Ryan for another trip down “Cliffs Memory Lane” showing him the many lavish divisions of the place. We stayed for a while to catch up with old friends, then jumped back on our skateboards and cruised back down the ten or so blocks we had come up earlier. We arrived at Chad’s. A quaint little place with live music and the architecture from the 1920’s. We squeezed our way through the crowd and made our way to the bar inside where we met the girls we knew as well as one of their brothers who, to our benefit was the bartender. We stayed for about an hour chatting with friends we hadn’t seen in a long while, taking shots of all kinds on the house. Soon it was 8pm, time for us to head back to my old house and catch the end of the barbeque that now was in full swing back at the house. We said our goodbyes and with some squirreliness skated our way back to the house.
Loading up with the biker bros was the main course on the menu once we got back, but it was short and sweet. We had to get on our way in order to make it to San Luis Obispo in order to have ample time to party it up. Making sure to not miss In-N-Out Burger on the way up we made our way full and feeling fine. It was a fairly short and to the point drive, lasting less than an hour and a half.
First things first, Rounding up the bros. Triple-A was already in the full swing of the night at an Arabian nights frat party of some sorts, which we picked him up from. Once to the boys house in SLO we loaded up and debated for way to long on whether to go to the Cave Rave party or go to the bars downtown. One way or another we eventually made the decision to walk to the bars downtown. Not to be persuaded otherwise Triple led the charge to Bulls a local dive bar with a fairly young crowd. It was packed and quite uncomfortable. An interesting place, with somewhat of a local feel, as much as you can get in a town purely populated by college students. After waiting for what must have been 20 minutes we finally got our drinks. Ryan bought the first round; and he did so setting a heavy precedent of Jack and Cokes w/ shots of jager for everyone. Sitting up on the make shift table/bar on the back wall we had a good view of the scene. We quickly got over the it throughout the course of our drinks and decided to head elsewhere. Once outside we decided to go to the clubbiest place in SLO called “Native”.
Modern looking inside with a Spanish twist to it, people seemed to be enjoying themselves quite thoroughly. This spot was to be our demise as far as sobriety goes. I continued the charge by getting a round of jack and cokes and jager shots for everyone. Shortly after we got our drinks we were lighting up “beezies” and dancing in our own feeble ways. Ryan and myself got sucked into dancing with some lunkers, which was more comical than painful, and they sure enjoyed the hell out of it. All of a sudden Andrew Crane was up in our faces amped as can be to see a “brother from another mother.” We went back to the bar and continued the onslaught on the Jack Daniels; celebrating with much enthusiasm to our ridiculous toasts. By now we had made it to the point where another type of poison was desired by all, cigly wigs. Out we went to the courtyard area, which was nearly as crowded as the inside and a bit larger of an area. We split off on our grit-bumming missions meeting together once our mission was successful.
When we resumed our stance inside it was somebody else’s turn to continue the alcoholic lubrication on our minds. After a few more rounds and ridiculous antics of all sorts last call was announced. We rushed to the bar to get any of our usual liquids only to find that we had drank them dry. We ended up with some neon pink bullshit, designed to unlock the chastity belt of an unexpecting prude. Whatever it taste decent and we sure didn’t need anymore to drink anyways. In the process of leaving Andrew somehow managed to separate himself from us, later to be arrested and thrown in jail for being drunk in public. We made our way home stumbling about, pushing each other into cars and bushes, and other things of this nature. The night was not to be ended without a battle though, not with the amount of alcohol in our systems and testosterone that had been invigorated throughout the course of the night. Somehow Triple and I found ourselves in a battle, fork on knife. Though it was purely for amusement it was quite intense and it eventually ended with Triples’ hand bleeding, a small souvenir of our stop-by in SLO.
The next day began with the predictable aches and pains from last night’s glorious moments. To self medicate we went to the nearest sandwich shop, High Street Deli. We feasted on some much needed and very delicious sandwiches and were on our way.
We had decided the day before that because we couldn’t make the first night in SF we would make the most of our way up by taking the 1 freeway. I was really looking forward to finally making the journey north on the 1 Freeway all the way to San Francisco, as this stretch of freeway is some of the most famous in the whole country. This is primarily due to its positioning on the Cliffside of the Pacific Ocean, its rugged appearance and its many twists and turns. There is an entire History Channel documentary on the history of the 1 freeway, so feel free to educate yourself further if you’re interested. Needless to say, we intended on enjoying the experience as much as possible. As we came out of each turn with tires squealing we laid our eyes on a new potential surfing spot. We would get really excited
with hope that we might go out and explore some ridiculously wooly surf spot, but at the same time knew that we had to push on.Despite having drove a portion of this road before the beauty of the surroundings were almost overwhelming and overpowered all my other thoughts. We stopped occasionally to take it all in and capture the moment. After about an hour or two of driving we got to the farthest north point I had previously been on the 1. There is a large turnout that usually has a few vacant cars parked in it. Beside the turnout lies a trail through a open field that leads into a forest. I guided us down the path while reminiscing about my first experience here about a year and a half ago. The trail is fairly long, maybe a mile in length and leads all the way to the ocean, which is hardly
visible from the turnout. We trekked through the poison oak jungle and waded through a small river which winds its way to the ocean. We made it to the beach to discover a fairly strong offshore breeze with waves just a couple feet high. We sat in the sand for a while hoping to see some waves big enough to make it worth going out, but it was happening. It was a great little break in our drive, and we were finally getting closer to our destination.
relationship for, the end and a new beginning. OurBack on the road, I gazed upon a part of the world I had never seen before. Alike much that came before, but different especially because it was a crucial linking point between where I have been along the coast, and where I was born (San Francisco). Like a kid in a candy store, my eyes were wide open soaking it all in. Eventually we got to the point of travel that I have both a love and hate travel along the California coast was over and our entrance into SF had begun.
We arrived at Paul’s place in Stanford where we met Drew, Richie, and their friend and band mate, Sam. We explored the scene where the party was to be that night. A lavish three-story frat house decked out according to the annual theme party “Cowabunga”. It was nearly the same as it was last year I attended this magnificent gathering of alcohol enthusiasts with enough initiative to make it into Stanford University. Ryan had never been here before so I took him on a skate mission exploring all the most popular sights on campus. We got pizza and beer at a on campus restaurant and skated back to the frat house.
Before we knew it the party was going off. Richie, Drew and Sam started the night off with a performance from the their band The Brothers Cooley which was epic to say the least. They were followed by a reggae band, which sparked a cloud of ganja smoke to erupt from the crowd in the front yard. Inside there was a DJ entertaining a huge room full of people dancing. In the backyard filled with sand there was a small bar where we were able to
relive our jager shots from the night before. We dabbled in all areas of the party including the upstairs “private” bar where I bar tended for a short while until I was removed from my “position” by a power hungry frat member. Eager to make the most of the night and catch up with the crowd I drank a concoction of jager and monster to the strength of 80/20 favoring the jager. This drink eventually lead to my demise and the end of the night.
Shortly after I awoke, eyes still closed, wondering where I would be when I opened them. Slowly I opened them and I saw two guys spooning each other in the bed across from me. Simultaneously I realized that I had slept in a sitting position. I was in Paul’s room, how I made it there is probably an interesting story, however the details are lost in the bottom of a monster can rolling around campus somewhere. Rubbing my eyes and stretching I began to piece together the end of the night. Remembering eating a piece of pizza I had saved at the end of the night before falling asleep sitting up. I was surprisingly not to hung-over, which was a good thing because Ryan and I were going to bay to breakers as soon as we ate breakfast and said our goodbyes to the boys.
After an immense battle for parking we eventually met up with our crew at bay to breakers, consisting of: Sean, Aeneas, Corey, Andy B and his girlfriend, and two of your average SF crack head children. We made our way through a couple miles of the course seeing the usual sights that a free, 7 mile long party in San Francisco and no law enforcement might provide you with. After awhile everyone was pretty over the scene.
Mainly because we all got their late, some time around 11 and it starts at 7am so everything was winding down. The whole experience was quite intense because everyone we were with was on a different drug of some sort and in his own world. Ryan and myself were still recovering from the night before and managed to snag a beer or two from passers by, nothing compared to the average state of mind of the crowd. We strolled back to Aeneas’s house where Ryan and I decided we should get going since it seemed the party was over.We continued on our way home discussing our weekend journey. I slept through a large portion of the drive in a recovery state. Once back to Ryan’s house in Newport we told our story briefly to Ryan’s roommates and the usual crowd that hangs out there. I eventually succumbed to sleeping on the spare mattress amongst the chaos in the house. I had to go to bed early enough to wake myself for my first day of work at Fox Racing the next morning at 7:30am.
Afterword:
The following two weeks were among the most stressful I have ever experienced. Being homeless with a brand new job reminded me of my first month of college. (I had decided to go to school in Santa Barbara with a friend at midnight the day before he had planned to leave. I woke my dad and told him I was leaving in 4 hours to go to school in Santa Barbara. The next day I found myself in Santa Barbara, homeless, with no car and supposedly starting school the next day.) Throughout these two weeks I had the most intense, vivid, and disturbing dreams I can ever remember. Despite the setback of my living situation I have been able to perform considerably well at work and still have some spunk in me for life after work.
May 29, 2008
Dr. Zanzibar's Emergenze
Quietly he wickedly awaited, cruel in his intensely intricate intentions upon which he most certainly and without one slim salamander of a doubt would act upon. Given the correct circumstances, that was.
As (Head)master of his Domain, he was more a commander of the cowering souls rather an administrator of the highest realms of knowledge. A distinguished professor in his own right, as opposed to his left, the good Doctor of Phallusophy did nigh but to provoke his class full of pandering, pretentious, pinheaded, phlegm-inducing, pilfering, pillaged, putrid… students… and their wrath he quickly earn’t. Pure evil through and through, even through well down to the edges of the big and small toes which accumulate strange marks from God knows What… this much contained enough animosity and Eevuhl to crush all that is civilized claptrap.
Zanzibar was not a tall man, but he held a lumberjack’s presence – mostly due to his spectacular odor glands, which he prided himself on. His lumpy gait, slowly smearing the grime across the less-than-sterile linoleum flooring, made his worn lab rubbers squawk like rodents being forced down the in-sink-erator. Relatedly, the sound was due to the audio chip he had installed in the faded black shoes, which replayed that very scenario – grinding bones, torn fur and skin, an evil cackle, and Fox News’ War on Terror coverage faintly in the background.
Dr. Zanzibar taught phallusophy at the university level, but college studentz were unpalatable to th1s man. His pupilz were of the more radikal type, but they were intelligent nonetheless, despite their fanciful intricaciez. You see, they were writerz of the highest order – creative sons-of-bitchez, cutting and harpooning the tapestry of literature past with their scalpel of new-age linguistikz and tonguez of beyond. These budding authorz insisted on using their own language to express their thoughtz, and it simply drove Zanzibar mad, mad beyond all comprehension or reason. So mad, in fact, that he had threatened to fail all of the students – but what would that do, anyhow? They held the upper hand, so to sp3ak. They had control of the collective opinion, which is supposed to count for something, but perhaps there are those who are out there to alter the power dynamic such that language is no longer an anodyne for those needing outlet or a place to place their past present and future polemikz. You see what I’m saying?
Dr. Z was a crook. A rotten thief because he intended to strip his studentz of the salaciousness of their sacred sputterancez. They grouped together to reZist the onslaught of Zanzibar’s oppressive lightsaber pen of death. They would make a stand for the l33tz.
May 28, 2008
Rant
I'm tired right now, very tired. Even worse I'm bored. My brain is clouded with the sound of a man's voice a thousand miles away but it rings with unambiguous clarity.
NICE.
He needs to shut the hell up. Stop polluting my airspace. Take your odious crap elsewhere. Everywhere I am surrounded with cutting words and scathing indictments. Philosophical charity is one and a half fathoms deep. Redeeming social value of speech is amputated, replaced with parody, satire and most prolifically Ad Hominem prosthetics. Television is rife with example. Even academia is riddled with the slugs of ideological warfare. Competition is innately human, Hobbes agreed, but ours is enduring and fruitless. These confrontations serve no purpose, have no tangible end and agitate the masses. Debate is inexorably fallacious, look at Hilldawg and BO. The people could use some substance.
Rather than focus on merit, pundits only look to discredit their adversaries. Warrant is hardly a requirement if opportunity for asserting character superiority over another exists. The information age has birthed a society engrossed in cheap tricks and instantaneous thrills. The thrill is gone-from articulate critical thinking, if there ever was such a thing. Society is now blessed with fanatical coverage of political soap opera, with all factions claiming deceit. Claims founded only in ego and socio-centric primacy; to disparage and castigate is apparently the ultimate buzz. Slander, evidently, is intoxicating and poignantly popular. Gossip. Arena patronage ensures abrasive conflict only.
Instead of building for a common good, we are busy dynamiting the base. This speaks to the inefficacy of philosophy in practice and the staunch primeval instinct of humanity. We will never, "all get along," ambition renders amicability unrealistic. Without the ability to alter this manifestation, the disillusioned can only beg refuge from the oppressive onslaught of opinion from the commentators of all niches. Keep it to yourself, let us think.
NICE.
He needs to shut the hell up. Stop polluting my airspace. Take your odious crap elsewhere. Everywhere I am surrounded with cutting words and scathing indictments. Philosophical charity is one and a half fathoms deep. Redeeming social value of speech is amputated, replaced with parody, satire and most prolifically Ad Hominem prosthetics. Television is rife with example. Even academia is riddled with the slugs of ideological warfare. Competition is innately human, Hobbes agreed, but ours is enduring and fruitless. These confrontations serve no purpose, have no tangible end and agitate the masses. Debate is inexorably fallacious, look at Hilldawg and BO. The people could use some substance.
Rather than focus on merit, pundits only look to discredit their adversaries. Warrant is hardly a requirement if opportunity for asserting character superiority over another exists. The information age has birthed a society engrossed in cheap tricks and instantaneous thrills. The thrill is gone-from articulate critical thinking, if there ever was such a thing. Society is now blessed with fanatical coverage of political soap opera, with all factions claiming deceit. Claims founded only in ego and socio-centric primacy; to disparage and castigate is apparently the ultimate buzz. Slander, evidently, is intoxicating and poignantly popular. Gossip. Arena patronage ensures abrasive conflict only.
Instead of building for a common good, we are busy dynamiting the base. This speaks to the inefficacy of philosophy in practice and the staunch primeval instinct of humanity. We will never, "all get along," ambition renders amicability unrealistic. Without the ability to alter this manifestation, the disillusioned can only beg refuge from the oppressive onslaught of opinion from the commentators of all niches. Keep it to yourself, let us think.
May 20, 2008
Chapter 3 - Death of a Salesman
CHAPTER 3
To this day the sight of a freshly polished tile floor leaves an abominable lump in my throat. At this point in the recurrent reverie, like in the original, it becomes irrevocably twisted in the moments to come, traversing the chasm separating irrational delectability to sober nightmare.
The intensity of the light we were experiencing suffered a great reduction, eventually giving way to fluorescent streaks on the floor before me. The light within us however failed to ebb. We were cast as apparitions among the surrounding artifice.
Gentle jazz music wafted from a grand piano, manipulated by an elegant formally attired man. The notes gently lapped our ears and immersed us in surreality. Zucchini was still there. Still radiantly gorgeous in her phantom form.
The jazz snobbery became more definite and all around it large bins of super-market goods appeared concentrically around the musical epicenter. Imagine the opposite of spontaneous combustion, instead of bursting into marvelous flaming spheres and falling into conical piles of dust, the objects were spontaneously manifesting into solid matter of the bin genus.
She tugged and I followed. We floated in and among the people until we were within paces of the circle’s musical origin orifice. In front of me was a great holster of agriculture, a container cordoning an assortment of multi-colored produce. The bin was ornately simple, paradoxical in essence. It was an indoor upper-caste monument to lower-caste open-air markets.
“Ha! Ten dollars a pound for fucking zucchini? What comedian is responsible for this slur?”
A tall dark-skinned man was fondling the vegetable in disbelief, while an American flag pin reflected the fluorescence proudly from his lapel.
An entrepreneurial, emasculating woman with a curious figure hidden beneath her power-suit and apron diced him maliciously with wild eyes. She was the vendor and was not about to be insulted over her organically labeled goods.
“Is there a problem sir?
“These vegetables must be tagged incorrectly, where else in the world do people pay degenerate prices such as these?”
His remark was earnest, quizzical and direct, not malicious but candid. I shiver now thinking about it. I could see her eyes marked with rage and primal glow burning with ferocity of California wildfire.
“Arrogance!”
She drew a pistol from her apron pocket and unleashed, a hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn, barrage of lead into his chest. He crumbled like a sack of potatoes, disjointed and grotesque.
“They’re trying to kill me!” Screamed another man with hilarious passion.
Later his face became clear to me, it was Yossarian. It’s worth noting that he vacated the premises immediately, likely to a safe house… A hospital perhaps.
The woman chuckled good-naturedly and snatched the floundering, stagflated zucchini from the air, breathed upon it and replaced it among corresponding greens. A prisoner of war began clapping, reveling in the imbecility of it all. It was moronic and sadistic like water-board torture.
The dark skinned scholarly man lay inconsequentially in his pool of wisdom. It’s almost too brutal to recall. I turned horrified to my hostess, and she pulled me into her bosom. Us being ghosts, the embrace was airy but I managed to displace myself in to the entirety of her greenness. Noting in my sorrowed and confused sight but glorious green. Without interrupting the tenderness, my vegetable guide alluded:
“Her facebook said she was ambitious.”
It was a rare scene in that segment, a wholly terrible observation. An exhibition and affirmation of esoteric screwyness and conditioned madness. A death of a salesman of sorts.
To this day the sight of a freshly polished tile floor leaves an abominable lump in my throat. At this point in the recurrent reverie, like in the original, it becomes irrevocably twisted in the moments to come, traversing the chasm separating irrational delectability to sober nightmare.
The intensity of the light we were experiencing suffered a great reduction, eventually giving way to fluorescent streaks on the floor before me. The light within us however failed to ebb. We were cast as apparitions among the surrounding artifice.
Gentle jazz music wafted from a grand piano, manipulated by an elegant formally attired man. The notes gently lapped our ears and immersed us in surreality. Zucchini was still there. Still radiantly gorgeous in her phantom form.
The jazz snobbery became more definite and all around it large bins of super-market goods appeared concentrically around the musical epicenter. Imagine the opposite of spontaneous combustion, instead of bursting into marvelous flaming spheres and falling into conical piles of dust, the objects were spontaneously manifesting into solid matter of the bin genus.
She tugged and I followed. We floated in and among the people until we were within paces of the circle’s musical origin orifice. In front of me was a great holster of agriculture, a container cordoning an assortment of multi-colored produce. The bin was ornately simple, paradoxical in essence. It was an indoor upper-caste monument to lower-caste open-air markets.
“Ha! Ten dollars a pound for fucking zucchini? What comedian is responsible for this slur?”
A tall dark-skinned man was fondling the vegetable in disbelief, while an American flag pin reflected the fluorescence proudly from his lapel.
An entrepreneurial, emasculating woman with a curious figure hidden beneath her power-suit and apron diced him maliciously with wild eyes. She was the vendor and was not about to be insulted over her organically labeled goods.
“Is there a problem sir?
“These vegetables must be tagged incorrectly, where else in the world do people pay degenerate prices such as these?”
His remark was earnest, quizzical and direct, not malicious but candid. I shiver now thinking about it. I could see her eyes marked with rage and primal glow burning with ferocity of California wildfire.
“Arrogance!”
She drew a pistol from her apron pocket and unleashed, a hell hath no fury like a woman’s scorn, barrage of lead into his chest. He crumbled like a sack of potatoes, disjointed and grotesque.
“They’re trying to kill me!” Screamed another man with hilarious passion.
Later his face became clear to me, it was Yossarian. It’s worth noting that he vacated the premises immediately, likely to a safe house… A hospital perhaps.
The woman chuckled good-naturedly and snatched the floundering, stagflated zucchini from the air, breathed upon it and replaced it among corresponding greens. A prisoner of war began clapping, reveling in the imbecility of it all. It was moronic and sadistic like water-board torture.
The dark skinned scholarly man lay inconsequentially in his pool of wisdom. It’s almost too brutal to recall. I turned horrified to my hostess, and she pulled me into her bosom. Us being ghosts, the embrace was airy but I managed to displace myself in to the entirety of her greenness. Noting in my sorrowed and confused sight but glorious green. Without interrupting the tenderness, my vegetable guide alluded:
“Her facebook said she was ambitious.”
It was a rare scene in that segment, a wholly terrible observation. An exhibition and affirmation of esoteric screwyness and conditioned madness. A death of a salesman of sorts.
May 18, 2008
2 Cont'd
The siren Zucchini was genuine to the point of being bawdy. The words she spoke were earnestly philanthropic in intent and consequently made those common knowledge quotations all the more spectacularly prurient.
Now remember people, that this was a dream. She really was a darling of a vegetable and in the context of the lucid reverie the scenario was not the least bit odd or peculiar. Those of you familiar with these sorts of commandeering hallucinations understand that my-fantastical-self was prisoner of biochemistry. Any attempts to control or pilot the imagination would’ve precariously compromised the pleasantries I was vividly enjoying; experience told me so. The flickering of my erudite consciousness waned smartly, acquiesced, and enabled me to become captivated in my sub-conscious confines. In this manner I became a willing inmate to my dominatrix zucchini siren.
Anyway, sorry for the tangential detour. Back to the story. Ahem. Dream. She wheeled around regally to face me, her imaginary invisible robes and pneumatics breezed my face. Again, immediately, I became intoxicated with her flavor. She gazed at me with benevolent smiling eyes, extended her fertile hand and dotingly said:
“Come!”
Leaning forward I began to rise, my shirtless perspiring back slowly liberating itself from the pleather La-Z-Boy trap. THHHHHHHHHHIP. I touched the vegetable goddess’ tender fresh palm smirkingly,
“Gladly.”
Ecstasy collided with revulsion, a techni-color embrace of night and day in the afternoon twilight. I was blissfully being stretched in all directions simultaneously enamored and disgusted with pleasure and pain. I could see nothing and feel everything. Her gentled hand still held mine in meaningful assurance.
At first the noise was faint, but gradually it climbed the rungs of the decibel ladder eventually attaining zenith. It was a symbiotic chorus of chloroplastic voices, an abhorrently heinous orchestral multitude vehemently chanting their quasi-song in Shakespearian meter:
"It is all said and done,
Loyal phalanges uncomfortably numb.
Grateful farewell cellular collective,
Rendered coursing iron ineffective.
Dull eyes for this journey,
Throw me on the cold steel gurney."
…Sketch…
"Loving scalpels and sterile pliers,
Unleash the hounds upon that liar.
Find in me that fateful slug,
In that wound attempt a plug.
Promiscuous pundit hampering my head,
These moments are inexplicably dead."
…Base odious bilge…
"From this blow I’m still reeling,
Doctors and Nurses further the healing.
They say back to the beginning time to restart,
Approach bountiful sea with guarded heart."
I convulsed in manic horror spasms, the rubbish plant orchestra continued the defecating sonic insolence. Obscenity cascaded voluminously from my lips like Niagara but left no mark. Darkness followed, the hand remained. The darkness was pervasive but I drew perseverance from her steadfast presence amidst the sonic bedlam. The words were ugly, course as sea salt. The choir became lethargic, the active contribution to the atrocity halted, reverberations from the shadow beyond me were all that remained.
The death of the iniquitous chant coincided proportionally with the growing luminosity of the area. By the time the last sound waves broke upon the grains of time, the whole space was ablaze in dairy white light that reflected exponentially off of the polished tile floor.
Now remember people, that this was a dream. She really was a darling of a vegetable and in the context of the lucid reverie the scenario was not the least bit odd or peculiar. Those of you familiar with these sorts of commandeering hallucinations understand that my-fantastical-self was prisoner of biochemistry. Any attempts to control or pilot the imagination would’ve precariously compromised the pleasantries I was vividly enjoying; experience told me so. The flickering of my erudite consciousness waned smartly, acquiesced, and enabled me to become captivated in my sub-conscious confines. In this manner I became a willing inmate to my dominatrix zucchini siren.
Anyway, sorry for the tangential detour. Back to the story. Ahem. Dream. She wheeled around regally to face me, her imaginary invisible robes and pneumatics breezed my face. Again, immediately, I became intoxicated with her flavor. She gazed at me with benevolent smiling eyes, extended her fertile hand and dotingly said:
“Come!”
Leaning forward I began to rise, my shirtless perspiring back slowly liberating itself from the pleather La-Z-Boy trap. THHHHHHHHHHIP. I touched the vegetable goddess’ tender fresh palm smirkingly,
“Gladly.”
Ecstasy collided with revulsion, a techni-color embrace of night and day in the afternoon twilight. I was blissfully being stretched in all directions simultaneously enamored and disgusted with pleasure and pain. I could see nothing and feel everything. Her gentled hand still held mine in meaningful assurance.
At first the noise was faint, but gradually it climbed the rungs of the decibel ladder eventually attaining zenith. It was a symbiotic chorus of chloroplastic voices, an abhorrently heinous orchestral multitude vehemently chanting their quasi-song in Shakespearian meter:
"It is all said and done,
Loyal phalanges uncomfortably numb.
Grateful farewell cellular collective,
Rendered coursing iron ineffective.
Dull eyes for this journey,
Throw me on the cold steel gurney."
…Sketch…
"Loving scalpels and sterile pliers,
Unleash the hounds upon that liar.
Find in me that fateful slug,
In that wound attempt a plug.
Promiscuous pundit hampering my head,
These moments are inexplicably dead."
…Base odious bilge…
"From this blow I’m still reeling,
Doctors and Nurses further the healing.
They say back to the beginning time to restart,
Approach bountiful sea with guarded heart."
I convulsed in manic horror spasms, the rubbish plant orchestra continued the defecating sonic insolence. Obscenity cascaded voluminously from my lips like Niagara but left no mark. Darkness followed, the hand remained. The darkness was pervasive but I drew perseverance from her steadfast presence amidst the sonic bedlam. The words were ugly, course as sea salt. The choir became lethargic, the active contribution to the atrocity halted, reverberations from the shadow beyond me were all that remained.
The death of the iniquitous chant coincided proportionally with the growing luminosity of the area. By the time the last sound waves broke upon the grains of time, the whole space was ablaze in dairy white light that reflected exponentially off of the polished tile floor.
May 13, 2008
Chapter 2?
CHAPTER 2
Now as I said before my conscious couldn’t bear the quasi-psuedo-epiphany. It was a contemptible balance of immense gravity and penetrating hilarity, which lead to my collapse and rebirth. I remember waking from my from my coma covered in Orange rinds with the dog drooling on my lap, apparently unsatisfied with citrus peel mastication. My eyes were dilating wildly, engaging in tug-of-war with the spectrum of visible light. My roommates were in a substance induced incapacitation, the remnants from the festive hours oddly strewn about. The squalor was deplorable. I remember running my hands through my unkempt hair, it had a honey wheat beer residue and pleasant odor. Chiseling the crust from my eyes, I began to recount the fugitive hours of my consciousness.
I had been having a lucid dream of sorts. The reverie had been odd and lengthy, a journey reminiscent of Mr. Dickens’ Scrooge. I saw familiar places and faces, contorted into countenances unbeknownst to me. It was poignant and irrational, fantastically applicable. Segments of the dream recur often, altered with current sub-conscious happenings, but largely intact enough to recount.
It began where my previous consciousness had lapsed, on the long green couch facing the picture window that looked out upon the various colored automobiles on the empty street. KNOCK. The door echoed with a classical beat. I stood up slowly, stretched and loped towards the door that stood adjacent to the picture window. I reached for the worn bronze knob and twisted. The door slid open towards me ominously. Outside light poured in, my eyes struggled to acclimate, an indistinct shadowy form stood before me. A sirens voice massaged my eardrums from the murk.
“I can show you the world.”
“Excuse me?” I croaked, puzzled.
My eyes began their instinctual adjustments; the voice’s indefinite form slowly and steadily became svelte and impeccably feminine.
“I can show you the world.”
The delicate voice tantalized my nape and encumbered my thinking.
“Uh..Please come in?” Stutter.
Taking a few steps back, I felt my way into the large black La-Z-Boy recliner that stood proximately to the window, and parked. Enveloped in plush pleather, I watched as the exceedingly feminine guest elegantly slid across the threshold. The figure turned and addressed me, and I began blinking in earnest awe at the manifestation before me.
She was the most astonishingly radiant Zucchini I’d ever laid eyes upon, a stunning luscious vegetable ripe with svelte delicate curves. The siren noticed my eyes teeming with longing; they roved her glorious green lined being. She turned away from my from my gaze hoping the spell would wane. I marveled at her nutritious buttocks and found the small of her back tattooed with a calligraphic barcode that read, 10.99 per pound. Her voice was markedly magnanimous, innocent and magnificent.
“Come with me if you want to live.”
Now as I said before my conscious couldn’t bear the quasi-psuedo-epiphany. It was a contemptible balance of immense gravity and penetrating hilarity, which lead to my collapse and rebirth. I remember waking from my from my coma covered in Orange rinds with the dog drooling on my lap, apparently unsatisfied with citrus peel mastication. My eyes were dilating wildly, engaging in tug-of-war with the spectrum of visible light. My roommates were in a substance induced incapacitation, the remnants from the festive hours oddly strewn about. The squalor was deplorable. I remember running my hands through my unkempt hair, it had a honey wheat beer residue and pleasant odor. Chiseling the crust from my eyes, I began to recount the fugitive hours of my consciousness.
I had been having a lucid dream of sorts. The reverie had been odd and lengthy, a journey reminiscent of Mr. Dickens’ Scrooge. I saw familiar places and faces, contorted into countenances unbeknownst to me. It was poignant and irrational, fantastically applicable. Segments of the dream recur often, altered with current sub-conscious happenings, but largely intact enough to recount.
It began where my previous consciousness had lapsed, on the long green couch facing the picture window that looked out upon the various colored automobiles on the empty street. KNOCK. The door echoed with a classical beat. I stood up slowly, stretched and loped towards the door that stood adjacent to the picture window. I reached for the worn bronze knob and twisted. The door slid open towards me ominously. Outside light poured in, my eyes struggled to acclimate, an indistinct shadowy form stood before me. A sirens voice massaged my eardrums from the murk.
“I can show you the world.”
“Excuse me?” I croaked, puzzled.
My eyes began their instinctual adjustments; the voice’s indefinite form slowly and steadily became svelte and impeccably feminine.
“I can show you the world.”
The delicate voice tantalized my nape and encumbered my thinking.
“Uh..Please come in?” Stutter.
Taking a few steps back, I felt my way into the large black La-Z-Boy recliner that stood proximately to the window, and parked. Enveloped in plush pleather, I watched as the exceedingly feminine guest elegantly slid across the threshold. The figure turned and addressed me, and I began blinking in earnest awe at the manifestation before me.
She was the most astonishingly radiant Zucchini I’d ever laid eyes upon, a stunning luscious vegetable ripe with svelte delicate curves. The siren noticed my eyes teeming with longing; they roved her glorious green lined being. She turned away from my from my gaze hoping the spell would wane. I marveled at her nutritious buttocks and found the small of her back tattooed with a calligraphic barcode that read, 10.99 per pound. Her voice was markedly magnanimous, innocent and magnificent.
“Come with me if you want to live.”
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