Tag: existentialism

Has Anyone Seen My Tab Of LSD? Dad? OMFG!!

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A Trip Around The Yard

Alan was feeling a little bit guilty about violating his son‘s trust. He respected Ian’s right to privacy but his suspicions were so deep he felt he had to infringe. He didn’t want his son smoking that evil devils weed or worse. As a devout Jesuit he was responsible to raise his son to be a follower of The Society of Christ and if he found Ian straying he could use that to send his son into a Jesuit school, maybe even go to Loyola someday. His wife Sadie was catholic and had opted not to upset the forbidden apple cart by converting and as long as Ian was swathed in the blanket of Jesus they could compromise. The compromise was a typical agreement between husband and wife in the 50‘s, Sadie agreed not to cut Alan off forcing Alan to agree to just about anything. In truth that was the single bone of contention between them, Sadie insisted on Ian remaining a “Good catholic” and not a Jesuit so Alan gave in “for now“. That was the one and only time she aired dissidence.
All Alan needed to convince her being a Jesuit would be in Ian’s best interests was to catch him in a sin. He was relatively certain his son was smoking pot and he wanted to find some evidence of wrongdoing that would give him the upper hand and release the vaginal wrench Sadie clenched on his desires. Alan was the man of the house and as such he should in theory have final say in major decisions, but in practice he opted for bedroom bliss over being boss on this one. He looked over his shoulder nervously and began opening the desk drawer as silently as possible. After rifling through the entire desk he was disappointed to not find any evidence but relieved his son seemed to be keeping his head on his shoulders. He wasn’t thinking about anything in particular when he placed the life saver in his mouth, it was more of a reflex. He had no way of knowing he had just unwittingly ingested a tasty tab of Orange Sunshine LSD. In fact it would be almost an hour until he even began to feel any effect, much too long of a time lapse to connect the two together even if he had suspected something. The rest of the covert search also turned up nothing so he left his son’s room and went to his secret haven, his escape room to relax before mowing the lawn. He locked the door behind him and sat down in his lounge chair at his sacred sanctuary.
It had always seemed funny to Ian that his Dad spent so much money on a Cadillac but turned the room meant to keep that expensive car into a fortress of escape with no room for the car. A small fridge filled with beers, a lounger, a small TV and radio all surrounded by his tools. But that’s where you could find Alan whenever the stresses of suburban life got to him. He called it his palace. Alan needed to relax because he always stressed out at the thought of performing his most despised suburban chore. Lawn maintenance. People here in Hamilton New Jersey were judged harshly by the state of their lawns. A well kept lawn was the ultimate status in town and would make the homeowner a well respected man about town, but an unkempt lawn was a ticket to the lowest rung of suburban development and a surefire way to have yourself snubbed and ostracized.
But the yard had to be manicured and Alan dutifully mowed and trimmed his sacred acre of green pride with an unusual joviality which at times made him actually laugh to no one in particular. When Alan finished his dreaded chore he smiled having found it mildly amusing and uncharacteristically pleasant. When he performed the finishing touch of edging it was oddly funny for some reason. He had also done some very deep thinking while tackling this normally mundane chore and surprised himself having come up with some new concepts and theories about life. His life to be exact. He put away his lawnmower and edger and then sat back in his recliner to close his eyes and consider the implications of his newly gained perspective. Besides it was a hot one out there today and he was tired so a cold beer and a short nap would fit his bill. As he laid back and relaxed a sense of serenity settled across his body and mind. Alan was meditating without even realizing. After fifteen minutes his cheek muscles began to move involuntarily forcing a rather large smile onto his face. His eyes were closed yet bustling with activity as they entered the rapid eye movement state even though he was far away from sleeping. He found himself inexplicably listening closely to all the sounds around him, the leaves gently tickling the ground a they danced acros the cement floor, the wings of some kind of bug flapping melodically, a cricket scratching a tune on its hind legs. Sounds that were always around but never noticed, at least not is such a grand way. Alan was smiling and humming and the visions in his minds eye were churning up childhood memories. Cartoon characters. He saw Popeye and Olive Oyl, Mighty Mouse, Huckleberry Hound, Top Cat, and many more cherished cartoon characters all involved in some bizarre collective cartoon specifically portrayed for his entertainment. As if he had taken hallucinogens before he rolled with it not for a second letting the images upset or confuse him. He was smiling a huge involuntary smile and he knew it. He felt it! He felt the muscles of his cheeks pulling upwards pressing up against his eye sockets, the corners of his mouth contract inwardly, and his jaw line stretch halfway around his head. He chuckled to himself understanding he was rising to a new conscientiousness.
For quite a while Alan merely sat back and enjoyed his trip as he contemplated his life and what it was all about. His smile began to desert him as he realized what a rut he’d found himself in. “What the hell am I doing? The same thing day in and day out, go to work, come home, have dinner, watch TV, and go to bed. What am I doing this all for?” He continued feeling morose and sorry for himself for living what others had convinced themselves was “The American Dream”. But what the hell kind of dream is this drudgery of existence? Why was he just going through the motions, why wasn’t he an international spy, or an astronaut or something exciting? Anything more exciting than a carbon copy of every other shit middle class robot in town. His mood was taking a dangerous turn from comedy to tragedy in mere seconds.
Alan clasped his head between his hands attempting to squeeze the bad thoughts from his mind. Bugs seemed to be buzzing around e3verywhere but one bug in particular was just outside his ear and singing a song to him. Not a song he recognized, more nonsense singing in a weird bug voice like “eyy ya ya dadada dadeedadee, dadada…..get outta my ear!” Wait, was the bug trying to tell him some profound truth? Could this be where he finds true meaning? Alan contemplated intensely what message this omen bug was showing him when he laughed out loud, “Get out of my ear? Hahaha, did some bug just fly in my ear and say get out of my ear?” He laughed some more, not startled or confused but back in a state of control, of understanding, as though tripping on LSD was his true calling and not some foreign experience impossible to understand. He opened his eyes and continued talking to himself, “Holy shit, I feel so strange. I’m not sure what in the Hell is going on but I think I like it. I feel like I‘m in some bizarre 3D movie or one of those optical illusion pictures” The bug continued to sing the same song over and over in his ear and much to his delight he was neither concerned nor puzzled, he was comfortable with it. Suddenly startled Alan thought he saw movement from the corner of his eye as he jumped up from his chair.
“Is someone here? Come on now I know someone else is here, I can hear you and I know you’re in here. Who is it?” Alan was still chuckling lightly but beginning to feel uneasy. The bug stopped singing and in a much deeper and human voice it said to him, “Its me Alan, Franco. You remember me don‘t you? Saint Francis from the days back at the room. I sure as hell remember you, all of you. You guys all laughed and called me Franco. Then you did those things to me, those horrible things. I can still feel the pain.” Alan sat back down now suddenly frightened and uncertain of what was happening. An old buried memory he was unaware of was being stirred up and settling in his head. He was remembering, the room, the lights, the loud noises, and….and “Franco? This can’t be, it wasn’t real. But maybe it was. Oh my God, I remember now Franco. They told us no one would get hurt, we never meant to”….. A knock on the door sent a shiver of paranoia erasing the memory and replacing it with profound worry. “Dad? Its me, Ian. Can I come in? I think we nee to talk.”

I Really Dig The Big Wheels Can I Take It Out For A Testosterone Drive?

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monster-truck

An Average Joe May Be Above Average
“Check out how much power this bad boy has.” I think that’s what the truck salesman was screaming over the obnoxious babbling engine but it may have been distorted. When the roar took short break I queried, “Do you have anything a little less phallic and a bit more practical?” I was looking to buy a small truck, not make a statement of overcompensation but this salesman was bent on selling this huge truck with huge wheel and a huge roar that screamed ’don’t look at my small bulge but check out this monster extension of my inadequacy.”
OK really, what’s up with that? Are women in general turned on by loud greasy engines? I mean I’m not a ten inch stud or the owner of a powerful crank case of grinding gears but I have sufficient equipment and what’s more important I know how to use that equipment to get the most out of it. I think back on how idiotic our high school days were, and how we believed we could compensate for our awkwardness of dating by playing a guitar, or driving a muscle car, or something else that formulated a false sense of manhood. But I couldn’t carry a note, couldn’t play an instrument, was uninterested in sports, and lacked self confidence. But I did have a job in a restaurant so at least I had some money, plus I was learning to cook.
My ever helpful Mom suggested I take Home Economics where I could hone my culinary attributes. But back then a class in Home Ec only assured a male of a daily ass kicking and constant public humiliation. I gave it two seconds of thought after Mom assured me I would be in a class full of females. But I had done that by taking typing last year without achieving any carnally enhancing benefits. I made many suggestions to the young maidens but the girls were only interested in my carriage release or ribbon spool, not my nimble typing technique. I didn’t become adept at typing or even get a phone number from that class. Although I admit it was my favorite class and being one of only three guys it was uplifting to garner the attention I so craved.
So I didn’t go to Home Ec, but I did continue to learn to cook at the restaurant while the chicks were all dating the guys in rock bands, the guys with GTO’s, or the football team (No, not the whole team pervert). So those artificially enhanced materialistic dudes all fought over the plastic popular chicks while us average Joes dated the average Jill’s, which in the long run was better anyway.
The funny thing about the football stars, muscle heads, hot car owners, and wannabe rock stars is when they got into the thirty something’s that’s all they really had. I on the other hand could cook and when I reached my thirties that was what the ladies found sexy. Keep your monster truck dude, I am serving sautéed Chilean Sea Bass with a Beaujolais saffron sauce, asparagus macadamia, and Pomes Anna with a perfectly chilled Gewürztraminer wine and the ladies who enjoyed that were intelligent, sophisticated, and beautiful with very little interest in the size of my pick up or biceps. So who’s chuckling now?
I had a small studio apartment in New York City near Madison Square Garden and one of the intricacies of my crib, I mean aside from having my bed right there in my kitchen/dining room, was a nice view for people watching. On one particular evening as I was entertaining, my date and I watched as people who had parked their car near by headed out to The Garden to attend a Monster Truck Rally. We watched and it took all my self control not to point at some overweight, sloppy looking thirty something’s on a mission to get inside, and I can’t be 100% sure but I think one dude with a bad haircut and beer belly that would make Buddha cringe was the star quarterback of my high school. Walking alongside him no longer cheering, was his high school sweetheart. I couldn’t help thinking how much they deserved each other both now and back in the day.
I asked the salesman to shut off the engine so he could hear me good when I said no thanks. I decided I didn’t even want the stupid truck at all because it just isn’t me, and being myself was better revenge than I could possibly have planned even if I had wanted to. Now every time I see someone in a pick up with wheels better off on a tractor with spikes on the rims, or a ridiculously oversize Hummer style vehicle, or any other car designed to take attention away from the owners “short comings” and place the focus on their ride I smile and give them the thumbs up, because they need more reassuring than an average Joe like me.

Wipe That Swag Off Your Face

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Yo, don’t fuck with me bro, I got swag

Twelve year old nephew tells me he’s got swag. Now I’m concerned, because as far as I’m concerned saying you have swag is the same as saying “I’m a douche and everyone knows it but me.” Having a family tradition of being “In with the In crowd” meaning hanging with the cool kids it gave me pause. Okay maybe I wasn’t the coolest of cool, but cool enough to know never use a word like swag unless it’s to ridicule someone who claims to have it. I looked at my young Neff and thought fuck man, I got some real schooling to do here. Let the first semester commence.
“Jackie my fine young nephew I got something to tell you. Don’t be a dickslap boy, and don’t be telling anyone you got swag.” Having smoked many blunts I decided blunt was the best way to go. He looked up at me with defiance in his eyes and said, “Yea? Let me tell you something Unk, I got swag coming out my eyes ears nose and ass and you don’t have a clue about life old man.” I was shocked. Old man? My glasses nearly fell off my head. (which was actually helpful because I forgot where I put them) “Old Man??? I’m sorry little dude, maybe I didn’t hear you right.” Still defiant and full of what he perceived to be swag he forged on, “No you heard fine, but just in case Ima turn up yo hearing aid. Now get your wrinkly ass face outta my grill” Not 100% sure but I think he crossed the line there!
Beginning to feel a tad perturbed I needed to respond to his misguided attempt at insulting a relatively intelligent man with experience. “Okay you douche-aholic you bess think about who the fuck you be chirpin’ at like that. I may be a wrinkly ass old man but I could kick your ass in HD, 3D, or goddamn Blu-Ray so how bout you show a little respect now.” For effect I grabbed his groin and gave a not so gentle squeeze in the sack area. He winced slightly but pretended to be unaffected which gave me hope. “I’m gonna tell you this for your own good because I don’t want no relative of mine walking round town letting everybody know what an ass clown he is. It hurts my reputation too. So get this and get this fast. You ain’t got SWAG son. Our name isn’t Massengill so don’t be acting like a douche. You got style, not pretty fly for a white guy bullshit but plain old cool style and if you keep yapping about swag your gonna put a world of shame on our family name.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a big blunt and fired it up. After filling my lungs to capacity I passed it to Jack. He stared at me all wide eyed wondering if this way some kind of trap or something. “Go on ahead son, I know you puff. Shit I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. Nothing gets rid of dumb shit attitude like some old fashioned weed toking. We got a lot to go over, but lesson one, never say swag again.” He took a hit, smiled up at me and with a new found feeling of pride and respect we began sharing stories, asking questions, listening, and that rebuilt our relationship. Before I left he thanked me then said, “You know Unk, I get what your saying, and I guess I got some growing to do. I appreciate the weed and the wisdom but one thing I ask. If you don’t tell my Dad that we smoked weed, I won’t tell him how you tickled my balls.” Youth!!

You Say You Want A Revelation, Well Ya Know (another sick bastard bible selection)

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part one

The last one picked is the one no one really wants on the team and Revelations was the last one picked for the Bible. Coincidence? Maybe, or maybe Revelations was too fat, too slow, or too uncoordinated or no one liked it. Maybe it jut flat out sucked! Of course there’s only one way to find out. Investigation. So here it comes the Christian Scripture Investigators. The CSI team is here to find the DNA and other forensic tidbits hidden in the scriptures. Maybe even trace elements like epithelia’s, fingerprints, or secret documents to uncover the truth behind the book of all things. This episode we will investigate the truth behind the final frontier of the bible, revelations.
The main players in this tale of apocalyptic reckoning are somewhat questionable. Written by John of Pathos where he was known as the pathological prophet of Pathos. The story as he tells it includes the four headless horsemen of Sleepy Hollow, the Liar of Judah, angels, trumpeters, the beast, a dragon, a false prophet, an arched angel, and of course no bible story would be complete without a whore, this one straight outta Babylon.
The book of revelations is somewhat difficult to tell because its told in some unusual circumstances. The story was revealed to this tripped out dude John, who was locked up in prison in Pathos on a drug related beef. He was a prolific writer who had already had a number of stories published in the New Testament. A few under the epistle category, and a gospel song called Psalm 43 (The P has the right to remain silent). Many religious scholars say it was actually 3 different Johns but if I get into bible discrepancies I’ll never get to this investigation. The truth as he told it to me goes like this. One evening while studying in the prison library John had a visitor. A woman who looked alarming similar to Mary Magdalene though she denies it three times. This visitor had placed a very powerful tab or two of LSD (legal at that time) in her mouth and transferred it to Johns mouth in a disgusting public display of spit swapping French kisses. A face sucking tongue tangoing, snog toggle, The ultimate French kiss whose true purpose was to exchange the hallucinogenic treat. When John got back to his cell, and after his bulge subsided (Really don’t drop the soap now!!) he was visited and told a story by god. I had a similar reverse episode once, after ingesting a chemical mind tickler I learned that god took some acid and saw me! Another day.
So during his intense peeking (I think that’s what people on acid trips call it when the trip hit’s a crescendo), that was when god suddenly said to John, “Dude, you wanna hear about the future of mankind?” Stupid question, of course he did. He was tripping after all. So this story was how John best remembered the telling some 18 hours after the acid wore off. That’s some powerful shit there! This is the book of Reservations. Reverberation. Revolution. ….Sorry, The Book of Revelations!
Here it is in his very own paraphrased words as he told it to me one day back in the late 60’s:
“So Mary and I kissed and I could feel two tabs of something on her tongue. Yea I know she said it wasn’t her but she just didn’t want to end up on the front page of the Abraham Inquirer. An let me tell you the J-man was one lucky Jew she was one helluva kisser. Anyway She tells me to swallow, something you don’t normally wanna hear in prison, so I swallows the tab. Then she tells me I just took two tabs of Blue Cheer acid. Man I was stoked. I smiled all the way back to my cell knowing what was coming. I got to my cell and laid down on my stone cot. After about a half hour I hear this voice. I sit up an look around but there ain’t no one there. So I lays back down when the voice comes back, this time calling me by name. So I shout who’s that, who’s there? And the voice says ‘Its me John, God.’ Now I’m thinking it must be the acid kickin’ in right? I mean the voice was like soft and almost girly. Not the powerful deep voice you’d think God would have but he insists. ‘Really John, its me God’ Then he steps out from the shadows and sure enough it is God. Amazing how much Jesus looked like him. Spittin’ image. What else could I do? I sez, whats up God?”
“He walks through the bars, I mean right through, like they wasn’t even there. Then he sez, ‘John, I want to tell you a story. I want you to write it down and make sure everyone reads it.’ I sez to him, you mean like a bestseller or something? To which he replies, ‘yea, something like that. But first try and get the story into the bible, because this is the story of the beginning and the end.’ Now I’m really thinking the acid is slamming the insides of my brain but I figger I should like play along and sez yea yea sure Mr. Almighty, whatever you sez.”
“When I first created everything I had seven arch angels to watch over heaven and protect it. Six of these arches were cool, but one arch angel was just a real pain in the ba-donk-a-donk. Has to do everything his way and refused to follow my directions. Finally one day I caught him in bed with Gabriel’s teenage daughter and that was the last straw. I tossed his ass out and straight down to earth along with one third of the questionable residents of heaven. He went down to earth with them and they formed a gang calling themselves the Crypts. He goes to the garden of Eden and begins recruiting humans for his gang. So I had Gabriel, a very trusted angel form a gang up here because I knew there would someday be a major showdown. He formed the Bloods of my blood, after my sons prophecy. We call them the Bloods for short, and it created a rivalry that would be the mother of all rivalries. Positive vs. Negative, Life vs. Death, Good vs. Evil, Bloods vs. Crypts. One day we would have our gang lords get together for an epic showdown. This showdown will be called The Rapture.”
“Now I’m still tripping but I’m starting to think maybe this shit is real so I keep scraping away on my stones getting down his words so I could one day write the book for him. Being an ancient journalist of course I had questions, so I asks him to explain to me how this Rapture thing is gonna go down. Then something happens that may sound like a fairy tale or a hallucination. He floats up to the ceiling an sez come on up John it will be easier if I show you”
Now I’m flipping ya know? I’m like how the fuck am I supposed to get up there, but before I even thought about a strategy I was lifted off my feet and floating right next to him. Honest to god, from Gods mouth to my ear he whispers, ‘Watch this. These guys can really stir it up’ A light went on and I swear to you it looked like a giant flat screen TV in HD. The images seemed so real. There was a stage with seven musicians. Al Hirt,Loius Armstrong,Wynton Marsalas, Miles Davis,Chuck Mangione,Maynard Fererson, and Dizzy Gillespie. Not just ordinary musicians each stood with a trumpet in their hands. The seven Trumpeters. They jammed for about an hour and that’s when the real show started!”

Weiner Lets It All Hang Out

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Weiner Takes Da Bait
No the real headline is not Weiner takes debate, but he was feisty as hell so if you missed it on TV I have my own re-cap here. The front runner is Christine Quinn and Weiner was in Christine’s face throughout the debate. Bill Thompson stood tall and was inching closer but Weiner measured up. Public Advocate Bill de Blasio hammered away at Weiner’s ability to represent the people of New York but he assured everyone that Weiner will stand up for all New Yorkers. Comptroller John Liu expressed concern over Anthony’s transparency to which Tony replied “I have always been transparent. Anyone can see where Weiner stands.” The stage set, on to the debate.
First Weiner’s opening statement. “My name is Anthony Weiner, no relation to Oscar Meyer Weiner, and I am running for mayor because I have swag, and as recent tweeted evidence has shown I have the balls needed to run this city. True my pole has been sagging, um, I mean I have been sagging in the poll numbers but with a little help from my constituents it’ll get it back up again. I know my past indiscretions keep popping up but just to be clear no matter how hard it gets I will not pull out. I’ll stick it out as long as I can. I intend to show New Yorkers everything I’ve got. New York City is a hard town and they need a hard mayor which is what I‘ll be when erected. Oops, I mean elected, a slight boner in my choice of words. Anyway, New York is full of danger and trust me I know danger. In fact my middle name is Danger, so vote for me, Anthony “Carlos Danger” Weiner. Thank you.
The greeting was met with a splattering. That is a splattering of applause and a few Bronx cheers. Now on to a condensed re-cap of the issues. The first subject was the stop and frisk law.
Quinn : “ I’m okay with the frisking but not the stopping, if I’m elected they will have to frisk while the random pedestrian is still moving. New York is a busy town.”
De Blasio : “My wife is black and my son is half black with a big ass afro to prove it, so it could be my son with a cops hand down his pants. No to frisking”
Thompson : “What the hell, are we truly going to allow our police officers to act like TSA agents? This is America where no one is randomly searched unless they are in a busy airport. Just like the large soda and the poop pick up law Mayor Bloomberg saw the poop on the sidewalk and overstepped again.”
Liu :“I’ve seen this epic fail in Chinatown. If they continue to act on this dumb law everybody will be Kung Fu fighting, which is a little bit frightening.
Weiner :“From the beginning I stated cops should wear cameras and I stand by that. I say frisk like nobody’s watching, but take a selfie to send to that special someone.”
On to the next issue, a viewer question, a matter of trust. directed to Weiner. “How can we trust you when we find out you continued your activity even after you were busted?”
Weiner : “I have been up front from the beginning about my personal life. I did a bad thing and I was sick. Now I keep my hand on the problem everyday and have kept it down. It has been a long time since I sent any dick picks to anyone, almost an entire month now of not sexting. You can trust me to have matters in hand and keep it in constant motion. I have been endorsed by Woody Allen, Roman Pole-ansky, Marcia Gay Hard-on, and A-Rod to name a few and I am a member of members only so I will keep my finger on the pulse. Forget my past, look at my future.
Quinn :“You can tell he’s lying by the vein bulging, and not in his neck. He can hide behind the podium but fro here I see his problem growing. Its not just about trusting Weiner to keep it in his pants though, its about lying. I have it on good source that Weiner is at least two inches smaller than his claims. If he’s gonna lie about his dick size he can’t be trusted.”
De Blasio : “Look size doesn’t matter, just ask my son. He’s a half black man with a cool afro to prove it yet he has a portion of him that is half white, mainly his power drill, and he still gets down wit da bitches.”
Thompson :“Hey look, I can drop trow with the best of them but you need to know when to hold it and when to fold it, and Weiner just don’t fold his.”
Liu :“If Weiner is erected everybody will be Kung Fu fighting, which is a little bit frightening.”

Wow they all brought their big guns to that topic, lotta hostility here, now on to the final topic, the economy, and how will they create jobs.

Thompson :“What we need in New York is to have all taxi drivers self deport, so we can hire real New Yorkers in their place. That will be a huge boost to the economy.
De Blasio: “To create jobs in the city I propose making tax laws 50% more complicated especially for the rich who will be forced to hire our creative New York accountants to better hide their money. Companies like H&R Block will thrive and hire. Also I‘m gonna ask every fast food worker to chip in one dollar each to add to the city surplus. My wife is black and my son is half black with a killer afro and he works at Mickey Dee’s. He said one dollar would not be a strain on him, especially if he can take it out of the allowance we give him.”
Weiner :“Elect me and I promise more construction of clubs like Hooters, Scores, and my new company, ’Sexts and the City’, a self text club that guarantees anonymity. There are so many young co-eds in the city that need those jobs to work their way through college. By the way, if any of you young co-eds need part time work send me a text and I’ll hook you up.”
Liu : “I propose to bring the club scene of the eighties back which stimulates the economy by creating a tourist trap of dance clubs. Once finished, much like the eighties, everybody will be Kung Fu fighting.”

That wrapped up the questions, to save time I will just recap Weiner’s final statement.
“I want to thank Eyewitness News for such penetrating questions. I have never been afraid of penetration and I am happy to wrap my head around them every chance I get. So here’s me promise in a nutsack. Oops, I mean nutshell. The people of New York deserve a mayor who is in touch with the youth, and no one had touched more youth’s than me. The economy need stimulating and no one knows stimulation better than I do. The city needs someone who isn’t afraid to show everyone they are willing to stand up and I have proof of standing up in front of anyone. New York was at one time the fornication capital of the world, and if I’m elected I promise you New York will get fucked royally. Please vote for me, Anthony “Carlos Danger” Weiner. I’ll always be just a phone number away.

Lovers gonna love & Haters gonna hate–Savers gonna Save but Liberals liberate

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Those goddamn liberals are gonna ruin our country. What? Wait, let think this through a minute in terms I hope even the oldest whitest 50’s value clinging paranoid can understand. Words. Terrorist, one who inflicts terror, as a means to control. Terrorist would like to ruin the country, that’s clear enough. But how could a liberal ruin a country. Liberals seek to liberate, to create a power balance in which all share equal value and opportunity in a society. Kinda like Jesus did. Jesus was a liberal, at least according to the lame-stream media of his time, The daily scriptures. Was he trying to ruin the Fertile Crescent? In the dictionary liberal is defined as favorable to progress or reform. Favorable, not destructive. Terrorist-terror, Liberal-liberate. Women’s lib didn’t ruin the country it made it better, with many powerful women adding greatly to our society. Liberate the oppressed, that’s basic. Liberals believe in freedom and not just to other liberals but to all. Even conservatives.
Ah yes, conservatives. The very ones who use the word liberal to project an image of peace loving, tree hugging, environment caring, do nothings who would ruin the country by striving for racial equality, gender equality, a clean global eco-system and worst of all, world peace. What does the dictionary say about this odd group of take it or leave it change resisting conservatives? Conservative, disposed to preserving existing conditions or institutions, to limit change. Who would want to limit change? Obviously if one likes the way things are they wouldn’t want anything to change, wouldn’t want to liberate anyone. Not like that long haired liberal from Nazareth, someone different. Oh yea, King Herod. Lets face it, Herry had his choice of women, lived in a huge palace and was surrounded by wealth and power. Who wouldn’t want things to remain the same if that’s how life is for you? Conservatives conserve and that’s what they do. What they are best at conserving is money and power, and they prefer to conserve it all for themselves. They resist change because that would mean others may have equal value or opportunity and well, they want to conserve it all for themselves.
Not too long ago liberal was a derogatory term spat out with distain. Stinking liberals, bleeding heart liberals. In ’73 I had to choose which party to register as in order to vote, which made no sense to me at all. Why does everyone else have to know what party I believe in. But I dutifully followed the rules and marked my self down as a member of the liberal party partially out of spite to my staunch republican Dad and partially out of my own pure rebellious nature. When my conservative father found out we elevated our “disagreements” from my hair length to my disgracing of the family by becoming a liberal. I was warned it would follow me around like bad body odor. I wore that stench proudly in 1973, and I wear it proudly today. Politically I am liberal but I don’t define myself or others through a religious or political microscope because that’s what we believe not what we are. If you’re and atheist or a bible waving Christian that’s fine, but if you’re an asshole its not because of what you believe, but HOW you believe. Don’t force your beliefs on anyone else, enjoy them for yourself, allow other to enjoy their. The same in politics, if you’re a tea bagging homophobe its not because you’re a republican, you’re just an asshole. You can believe in the republican party without discriminating or fearing people unlike yourself. My Dad was staunch republican as I said, but I will credit him with having the sense to breakdown the stereo-types without sacrificing his core beliefs. It took time and a lot of nudging from me but in the end he understood we are not defined by our unconventional appearance, lifestyle, or religious practice. In name we are all human, and if you feel you must judge, judge not by political or religious beliefs, but by deeds and actions. I believe mine are worthy of any religious or political movement, but more importantly could be accepted as beneficial to humanity.

Salvation On A Stick

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escher

A candle glowed I saw the light
Was blinded by the glare
Looked inside the painted glass
Not a single soul was there

imagery hangs up on the wall
with beads of whispered hope
Empty promise from within
Behind the velvet rope

You can build life brick by brick. Trust me trust me that’s the trick
What you find out there can make you sick. Glory Praise Him Halleluiah .. Salvation on a stick

Come inside confess your sins
We love it when you give detail
Trade your switchblade for a cross
And shout his name with zeal

It’s why you’re here its why you came
To wash away the sick
Come inside and you will find
Salvation on a stick

You can build it brick by brick. Trust me trust me that’s the trick
What’s really there can make you sick. Glory Praise Him Halleluiah .. Salvation on a stick

The Needle And The Damage Done

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damage

I couldn’t help but fixate on my conversation, or maybe slurversation with Artie last night and the China white heroin. Horse, the big H, dope. Heroin took the starring role in most of the PSA movies we were force-fed in high school as the ultimate villain. The Damien of drugs that was where all roads end and would surely be the death of us all. What worried me mot was that it didn’t worry me at all. My life was slinking along the gutter and rapidly evolving into rotted sewage. Carrie cheated on me and my best Ken is gone giving credence to my “JT is a jinx” theory. Everyone I care about either moves, dies, or gets pushed away by me as I wallow in my self loathing. No doubt just more of my self full-filling prophecy of dying a lonely young man. Just everything in my life sucks right now so what do I have to lose? It was like the angel and devil on each shoulder, one whispering “fuck it JT, just go for it” while the other was telling me to stop and think. What do you have to lose? You can handle it, you can handle any drug. The devil was much more convincing and eventually even the angel agreed I should go for it. The downward spiral was set in motion.
I gave Art a call hoping he remembered me even being there last night. “Here there little man, what’s on yer mind?” I took a breath and proceeded cautiously because drug users have built in paranoia and are always worried about cops listening in on phone. “Ah, I was like thinking about what we talked about last night, ya know, that uh, Chinese thing ya know? Well I think I’d like to try it.” There was a short pause before he understood my idiotic cryptic message. “Oh yea, of course little man, I can hook it up, come over tonight and we can get high. I’m partying with Penny and Pam man that’ll be perfect.” I bubbled with an extra air of excitement.
Penny and Pam, the twins, partying with me and Artie? Jesus shit that was unbelievable. Penny and Pam were identical twins, both with long straight black hair and high cheekbones. Either on could pas for Cher with a body to match. Such long legs an such a high tiny waist. Definitely out of my league but drugs are a fantastic equalizer. It was amazing to see them together, they not only looked the same but sounded exactly alike too. They even finished each others sentences. They were two years older so I would need to put on some extra charm. There was a rumor that Pam had a birthmark just above the hair line of her groin and if I had the chance to find out for sure my life would be back on track. Or was it penny that had the mark? Either way, if I had a chance to be with either of them I would be all over it. I would just need to dance the fine line between experimenting with dope and being a full fledged junkie. This could make me a social outcast or an instant legend depending how it goes! I took extra care in blow drying my hair that evening as if it would matter.
When I finally got to Arties I was nervous. The twins were already there and one of them winked at me. They loved to play with peoples heads and pretend to be each other so I have no clue which one winked but it was exciting either way. Artie handed me a glass of vodka while I pulled out a joint, lit it and passed it around. “Hey little man, go put on a record.” I wish he hadn’t call me little man at that point but on the other hand it showed a special connection between me and Artie which enhanced my coolness status. But pressure was on, which album? I chose a Santana album, Abraxas which would set a great mood and took note that Artie had the “Eat A Peach” album by the Allman Brothers. With any luck that will come in handy later because it had a tune called “Mountain Jam” which was an entire side and was the best tune ever to make love too. Gotta remain optimistic, I need a good vibe.
We laughed and partied for forty five minutes during which it seemed like Artie was deciding which twin he wanted to be with, because it was almost a given he had his choice. He’s ultra cool and the man with drugs so he gets special considerations from most everyone, especially the ladies. “Well my little dumplings, I think the time has come. Lets get high.” They both visibly perked up and began getting prepared. Obviously they’d done this before. “ladies this is JT’s first flight so lets help him out here.” They both smiled huge smiles at me and I was ready. One of them grabbed my arm as Artie began pouring some powder into a spoon and lit a candle.” Roll up your sleeve JT honey an lets have a look at your veins.” She inspected my arm, “Cool Artie, he’s got some big veins here, this one should be easy. I’m gonna tie him off.” Artie acknowledged as Penny or Pam looked at me slyly, “You want me to hit you Hon? I never gave anyone their first before.” I gulped a bit harder than I wanted to hoping she didn’t sense my apprehension. “Sure, I’d really like that but which one are you? I mean like for my record.” They both laughed lightly, “Dose it matter? I’m Pam and that’s Penny but we both answer to either so you choose.” She tied an old necktie around my bicep and tightened it then looked at my forearm and slapped it. “Okay, Pam sounds good, their both sexy names.” I felt like an asshole as they both giggled but Pam looked me straight in the eye, “Listen JT, I’m getting your veins to come up and then I’ll choose one. I’m gonna put the spike in your arm and show you how its done. Next time your gonna want hit yourself.” She smiled and instead of thinking about what was happening I found myself thinking about how pretty she is. Artie had put the spoon with the powder and a little water over the candle flame until it boiled lightly, “I’m cooking it up now JT. Soon as it boils I’m gonna draw the liquid up into the syringe. The spike. Pam’s gonna stick you, then pull back to make sure she hit a vein. When you see a touch of red in the spike it means she’s in and then she’ll pull back slightly then push and pull back and forth slowly. Its called booting. Once you start hitting yourself you decide how much you like to boot but for now Pam will choose. In about ten seconds you’ll feel the most intense high you’ve ever fucking had man so just sit back and enjoy it. Don’t try to talk, just dig on it little Bro.” He ripped off a small piece of a unused cigarette filter, put it in the liquid and drew in the liquid, handing the spike to Pam.
“Ready babe?” Pam snapped a finger at the syringe an pushed up until a tiny spurt of water shot out. “I’m making sure there’s no air in the needle, you don’t want air shooting into your heart. As soon as I get a vein I’m gonna release the tie and start booting.” Pam grabbed my arm and studied it locating the perfect spot then she injected the needle. I did my best not to shake. I wasn’t actually scared but I was nervous not knowing what to expect. Pam smiled at me, “here we go baby, enjoy.” I saw her pull back on the plunger, a dab of red liquid mixed in with the dope infused water as she undid the tie around my bicep. She plunged about half of the liquid into my arm and that’s when I took off.
I watched the plunger as Pam went in and out with it about six times, the last time plunging it all the way and then removing the spike. Immediately a warm sensation traveled across my shoulders into my back. I smiled involuntarily and all I could manage to make come out of my mouth was a long airy “Whoooaaaa!” In an instant every ugly, sad, and shitty thing in the world disappeared. Not one thing mattered. Nothing! A faint buzz sound filled my ears blocking everything else out and making me want to just smile. I never felt so good in my entire life and it felt like minutes before I remembered where I was. The first thing I saw was Pam smiling warmly holding my hand. “How ya feeling JT? You okay?” It was spoken in an even easy tone and Jesus shit I was beyond okay. I looked back at her, smiled, and softly and slowly said, “Holy shit Pam, that, thats incredible. I think my head is numb.” Pam laughed then reached her face over and kissed me tenderly on the cheek, “Its my turn baby, you wanna watch? Watching is sexy as hell” I just shook my head unable to form any rational sentences and rocked slowly back and forth. I looked on as she prepared her own batch of China white. Penny and Artie were gone and I assumed shooting up somewhere else. Everything was beautiful, every minute negative anything from the world was gone entirely. Nothing existed but me, Pam, the highest feeling ever, and China white.
There’s something special about getting someone high for their first time JT. Now your gonna share my high with me.” She dumped a packet of heroin into the spoon and filled an eyedropper with water. Pam had a remarkable sparkle in her eye when she gazed at me and said, “I think this is sexy. Watch what I do and maybe next time you can hit me. Pam instructed me on the proper way to use heroin as she got her hit set up. “I’m ready. I have great veins so I don’t even tie off, I hit a vein every time” She smiled and I thought it was the most beautiful smile I had ever seen. It took everything I had not to blurt that thought out loud and look like a dork. I just smiled back as she rubbed her arm where she was gonna inject. I was still numb, and don’t know how else to describe the feeling. I have never felt so good. In mere seconds I had been transported from a loser seeking asylum in drugs to King of the world with a beautiful woman sharing my moment. I watched as Pam skillfully hit a vein and pulled back revealing the swish of blood, then began booting the dope into her arm smiling the whole time. She put down the spike and looked my way. Her eyes rolled back in her head and her lips parted sensuously allowing a long drawn out “ohhhh” to fill the air with an almost pornographic feel. We began making out and everything after that became somewhat foggy.
I woke up naked with my body wrapped around Pam’s. I didn’t even remember falling asleep but I do remember having the best sex of my life and how for one night every aspect of my life was beautiful. I didn’t want to go back to reality, I just wanted to stay high forever. It never dawned on me what a destructive omen that was because last night was the single most awesome night of my life. We had partied a few hours, smoked more weed and hit each other up one more time before we made it to the floor and made passionate love while listening to “Eat A Peach” I had an opportunity to inspect Pam’s naked body and no birthmark but I had no plan of sharing that bit of trivia with anyone. She began to stir and then woke up. “Hey babe, how was your first flight?” I wasn’t sure how to answer, everything happened so fast I was afraid I was falling in love again but this was much to soon. I was beginning to worry that I fell in love with any female that acknowledged my existence so I didn’t want to sound over enthusiastic “Holy Jesus shit Pam it was amazing.” I was about to blubber “And you were the most amazing chick I‘ve ever known” but Pam interjected, “Well its best we don’t mention this to anyone, I don’t want my boyfriend to find out.” Two shots of heroin followed by a shot of reality. A sure sign of danger ahead.

Their, There, They’re, Just Right About You’re Write to Right

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better

Tears Of An Abstract Artist

“You have to suffer for your art” I’ve heard that so many times before so maybe its worth considering. But what kind of suffering? Public ridicule, self mutilation, a good old fashioned ass kicking, exactly how should I suffer for my art? Some artists cut off their ears although I‘ve grown attached to my attachments, others go mad listening to the passengers in their heads (was that me that aid that?), some turn to drugs, and many go the route of heavy alcohol abuse. Maybe I’ll start at the drugs and alcohol and work my way up. Okay, that bullshit, that brushstroke dried on the canvass a long time ago, so if abusing drugs and alcohol are all that’s needed to suffer I’ve already suffered for years. But those aren’t acts of suffering they’re consequences of attempting to avoid the suffering. The suffering we bring on ourselves by being our own worst critics. Why? I believe its rooted in the fact that we tend to live our lives in the abstract and not in the conventional world that most “normal” people live in.
Artists think see and feel in the abstract. Even “normal” people experience abstract thought everything they sleep because our dreams are the inherently abstract. The brain functions for us when we’re awake but once REM sets in it’s the brain has free reign and great god almighty can it do abstract. That’s why our dreams can be unreal, surreal, or too real. Its like the brain likes to fuck with us while we’re lying defenseless in bed. It needs to keep itself occupied while we’re snoozing and its like “what the hell, might as well throw some weird ass shit out there that makes no sense” just to amuse its superior self and to keep us wondering. Sometimes I wake up and my first thought is WTF was that all about? Sometimes I wake up and think holy crap that was awesome, Ima try to get back to sleep and see some more. Other times I don’t even remember my dreams at all. More than likely a defense mechanism using selective recollection so I don‘t actually blow my own mind. But while our bodies are at rest our brains goes into an abstract state. That’s why dreams can seem so strange yet so real. Abstract is the normal state for an artist. Not much of a reach to label us “dreamers!”
At any rate I’m awake now and debatably lucid so allow me to define my concept of what an artist is. An artist is one who uses any or all of their senses to express their abstract manifestations in some form of expressive medium. We are familiar with the painters and sculptors because we can see their works Rodin, Michelangelo, Picasso, Van Gough, all the great works of the world expressed through colors and shapes and textures and committing their visions or images to canvas or marble. The same is done with a musician who hears sounds and then recreates those sounds using instruments, or anything that makes the sound they hear. Jimi Hendrix is the best example, using his guitar to express sounds we would never have been able to experience had he not been able to summon the abstract. The writer who puts random thoughts into words forming a recognizable pattern that expresses emotions. All of those abstract thinkers are artists but an artist is not limited to those more familiar mediums. I first began to understand this when I became a chef and learned to cook in the abstract.
I have always had the soul of an artist and it made me feel like I was just a tad different from others when I was young. I wanted to be some sort of an artist but it was frustrating. My best drawing are my stick figures o that was out. I loved and still do love music but I could never read it. I could read the note on paper but my mind and my hands failed to form the synergy necessary. I erroneously assumed without being able to read music I would never learn to play. I would have loved to get into acting but I suffered from chronic stage fright and rejection anxiety. I always wrote but never learned how to structure properly so only wrote for my self and my friends and even that was done sparingly due to that rejection anxiety. To make matters even worse I wrote a love poem for my first girlfriend and she laughed, effectively destroying both my elf sesteem and my self confidence while smiling. I suffered!
But working in restaurants is where I learned about artistry. I began washing pot and pans and quickly learned how to make salads, then simple deserts. I learned about food prep and eventually worked my way up to lead cook. But it was just a J-O-B, a way to make money for weed. A I got older I discovered I could make a living cooking so I worked hard and got pretty good at it, ultimately went to school for it. Once while I was working in a restaurant in midtown Manhattan as a line cook the chef took an interest in me. He is a talented chef from France and he saw something in me so he began to instruct me on his style of cooking. As time went by I spent many of my days off and after work hours working with him and he taught me so much. I quickly became not just a line cook but the best line cook, then the sous chef. My benefactor began teaching me how to not only cook, but how to give my dishes personality. I began to form my own style and every dish I created had a bit of my culinary DNA in it. That’s when I put it together. I wasn’t merely a cook, I was a culinary poet.
Cooking creatively is art. Performance art using a biodegradable edible format that is in the moment. It’s a fierce and fast paced performance balancing the demands of a hungry public and their discriminating taste buds. But the chef is responsible to reach every one of the senses with his creation. First it has too be appealing to the eye, it has to have a fresh and enticing aroma, it needs to feel good in the mouth and be at the proper temperature, It needs to incite a number of sounds from the diner (MMM, ahhhh), and most importantly, all the flavors have to come together in a harmonious taste sensation. During many of the performances I either cut or burned myself. I suffered!
But I had to man up because the show must go on and I was a culinary performer. An artist armed with an array of foods bearing different colors, shapes, textures, and tastes at my fingertips and they all required individual attention. Vegetables that need peeling or cutting, with different cooking times, meats and seafood’s that needed fabrication and storage, some in marinades, and also with varied cooking times. I also had to make decisions as to which methods of cooking would achieve the beat results. After that I take into consideration the variety of flavors of those components and arrange them using the various shapes, sizes, textures, and present them in a way that is appealing to the eye. And that’s done over and over with different dishes in rapid succession, each dish going out perfect. That’s Art!
I still think and breath in abstract and my life is one big improvisation which may be my strongest trait. I don’t have a structured life plan I approach just about everything in an abstract manner. If an inspiration hits me its only a seed, and what develops s from that seed is often totally different from what I originally had in mind. That’s how I roll. I’ve reached my pinnacle in restaurants and have refocused my creative efforts to baking and now that I’ve reached as far as I desire in the culinary world I continue to create desserts but I put more focus than ever on my first abstract love, writing. I’m not reaching for the stars with my words but there is much that I want to share to any open minds that enter the arena. I found my writing voice which not surprisingly sounds sarcastic, slightly cynical and its woven in a loom of dry humor that quite often no one gets but me. That’s okay, at least I’ll get the last laugh and besides I believe I have been steadily improving and I constantly pushing my boundaries to expand my parameters and write things I’m not comfortable with. Well not comfortable at first, but I adapt quickly. I’m happier with my words than ever before and it is incredibly self rewarding. I’ve even attempted to delve back into poetry a bit, still adding my trademark dry and sarcastic humor, and I’m digging the hell out of it. It has allowed to me further explore my philosophy of existentialism. Not suffering!
So my advice to any who have the fortune, or misfortune if you’re a sufferer, to read my ramblings, especially if you’re young, is never believe your thinking in the abstract makes you different in a bad way, but unique in a glorious way. If you need to make a living while honing your art do it, your family and personal life come before everything. Life spins by at lightning quick speed and while were are on this tiny twirling orb we need to take care of each other and save our abstract guilty pleasures for those moments when we need therapeutic assistance but can’t afford a shrink. Just never quit, and never give it up. You’ve got something to say and it should be heard….PEACE

It’s All right Ma, I’m Only Bleeding

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blind_justice

Like most every time one story out of millions captures the attention of the media and the masses. There was Casey Anthony, Scott Peterson, and who could forget the OJ trial? Now we’re at it again with the Trayvon Martin George Zimmerman case. There are so many elements we could focus on in this trial. The right to defend oneself, the right to walk freely in a neighborhood, the racial profile, or the fact that it seems acceptable for an untrained person on “Neighborhood Watch” to be carrying a loaded weapon. All of these things have been selected ,inspected, and dissected until they were infected and rejected and basically been talked about over and over so much that even the hardcore trial addicts are getting weary. That’s how we do it though, we pick out one story out of millions, the one that will spark the most polarizing effect and set people against each other and beat the shit out of the story.
There’s millions of other atrocities to choose from, pick a city and chances are good an innocent person has been killed within the last few days, but if it doesn’t capture the imagination of the argument hungry public it gets no airtime. The courts are full of rapists, murderers, and liars getting away with crimes but unless there are elements that can get us fighting no one gives a shit. Give us a story with teeth. WTF, that’s our nature I guess, the ancient Romans gathered in hordes to watch other people meet a violent end and we are doing the same thing only calling it civilized. We don’t actually watch the battle but our mouths froth for the aftermath so we can disagree with each other and add some real life drama to our lives, as if we don’t already have our fair share.
So all in all its really not a big surprise that we would focus on this case but this one has taken a disturbing and disconcerting turn. The case isn’t coming down to facts, not at all about right or wrong, or racism, or unnecessary use of a firearm, its come down to who’s Mom does the jury believe. A grieving Mom or a Mom fighting for her sons freedom. We‘ve heard from both. Mrs. Martin. Who doesn’t believe that she is sure in her heart that she heard the familiar cry of her son screaming for help? Mrs. Zimmerman, who doesn’t believe that she believes in her heart that she heard the scream of her son? If it was me I would be sure it was my son, because my love for him is so strong I would believe it no matter what. So is one mother lying? Putting the two mothers on the stand is an all time low as far as I’m concerned. Personally I believe them both. I believe them to be caring and loving mothers who would go to the mat, take a bullet, die for there children. Most of us would. But they are not on trial.
Why does it even matter who was creaming for help? What about the facts? A young boy was guilty of buying candy and being in a strange neighborhood. A young man is guilty of following this youth, with a firearm in a holster, and confronting him for whatever reason. This is the debate. Is Zimmerman a protector or a vigilante? Maybe they should leave the Moms out and stick to the facts. But then again, if they do that they may lose ratings, who wants to see reality on TV anyway?