Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 4)

THE SOPHISTICATE

Seven faces.

Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.

The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The man in the middle is the brother of the woman to the left. He is also the husband to the woman on the right. He loves them both but he has always loved his sister. He doesn’t care that she is a Satanist or what crimes she commits. His only care is that she is happy. Staring deep into the camera with those pale blue eyes, he touches both of the women he loves. However, you can easily tell which one he is closer to.

Yes, one time he had intercourse with his sister next to his mother's corpse. It's not that he is a disturbed individual. It's just that he really loves his sister and nothing could stop him from seizing the opportunity given him by his disturbed sibling. But she never allowed him to love her that way again. He prayed -- to God, to Satan, to whomever -- that he and his sister would once again be one. His prayers were not answered. After a few months, he moved away and tried to refocus his life.

With the money left from his mother, he bought a horse stable with a dozen thoroughbreds. He bred them, raced them, and made a fine living. There's good money in horse breeding. Before he knew it, he was one of the wealthiest men in town and everyone knew it. In fact, too many people knew. Practically over night he had turned into this sophisticated businessman making honest money. When it seemed as if things were at their peak, something happened. Some of his prized horses that were scheduled to race went missing one morning. Someone had stolen them. He knew. He knew damn well who took those horses. Those well-nurtured beasts were lying dead somewhere in the forest -- full of stab wounds and probably burnt to a crisp. This was bad for business. You fail to deliver a horse for a race, you change the odds. A lot of people bet the ponies and they all knew the man with the best breed in town. All bets were off.

The man needed to quickly think of a way to maintain his wealthy status and win back his reputation. He had decided that hard work and an honest living weren't viable options so he improvised.

With some of the money he had left, he was able to purchase a handful of common whores for nighttime events seven days a week. Late in the evenings, men would come from all around to this man's horse stable. They'd sit in a closed off barn while low lights flickered and rich orchestral music played. In the blips of light, men would spend well-earned money to watch these women engage in unspeakable acts with the man's remaining thoroughbreds. For just a little extra, they could make requests. For a little more, they could have one of the whores next. The man was back on top, pulling in more whip than before. It wasn’t honest but it was good. Life was perfect.

He met a nice girl at the bank one day when he was making one of his large deposits. The stolen horses taught him an important lesson: save money. She was a university girl and she was beautiful. They went out for drinks after her shift. He insisted. The next day they went on a picnic. The day after that, they went riding on some of his horses. They fell in love. She loved his wit. He loved her innocence and morals. Never would he have guessed that a year later he would be married to a Christian girl.

He loved her so much that after the honeymoon, he stopped his business -- sold the stable altogether. They had enough money to enjoy a sophisticated manner of living while she continued working at the bank and he traded stocks.

She is everything to him, especially everything that his sister is not. He tells himself he loves his wife. He looks in the mirror and says that he no longer has any feelings for his sister. The way he sits at the table tells the truth. The way he looks into the camera makes him transparent. After all, there's a reason he's not dressed as sophisticated as he usually is.

Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 3)

THE SATANIST

Seven faces.

Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.

The trio in the middle is the most corrupt. They get strange looks from people who don't even know them because they put off a sour aroma that the soul can sense. The blonde on the left with the big ruby lips, she looks at the camera but isn't focused on it. Her mind is somewhere much different. She is debating in her head the best sacrifice to make during the upcoming full moon.

She grew up with only a mother and her brother. He's the man to the right of her. Their mother worked three jobs: a waitress, a homemaker, and a whore. Her house was her office for two of the three jobs. It was not uncommon for her daughter and her son to see her with strange men, who would leave late in the evening or early in the morning. The daughter didn't mind.

When this girl was all but thirteen, she made some special friends. They were older and more knowledgeable of the world. They showed her that there was a spirit realm that could give her life meaning. She had nothing else of substance in her life so she engaged. It all started with a harmless sacrifice.

One night the group had gathered somewhere in the hills, dressed in black. After a few traditional prayers, one of the members pulled a live cat from a bag. A short rope was attached to its collar and hooked to a stake. Then the group of five all drew knives. That was the first of many sacrifices that this particular girl would make.

As she grew older, some would call her a serial killer if they knew what she did on the weekends. Others would say she was just cutting down the excess population. And still, others would say that she was just a confused Satanist with a troubled past. She wasn't troubled though. Her head was clear and she knew exactly what she was doing. She sacrificed her mother on her twenty-first birthday. Her brother and her made love next to the corpse. She loved him as only a brother but he had always wanted her. She wanted to share the moment with someone close to her. That was the only time their souls would ever truly connect and neither of them would ever regret it.

She is to herself. If looks could kill, she'd love to watch people die. She hasn't sacrificed in over a month and now her thirst to please her god is poking her heart. She wants to burn her brother's wife at the stake. That's the woman to her right. It's partly because she loves her brother, and since the night that they shared their mother's death there has been a deep connection, but mostly, it's because the woman is a God fearing, too good to be true charming person. Her brother has changed since he married her. She wants things back to the way they were.

She knows the pure couple because she was a friend of the soldier's lover. She absolutely adores his wife but she doesn't know why. The other couple is mediocre in her eyes. She could live with them or she could sacrifice them. Either way.

The full moon is coming. She knows this as she looks into the camera. And she knows that when the full moon is gone, her brother will once again be independent. It is decided.

Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 2)

THE SOCIALITE

Seven faces.

Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.

The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. She looks right into the heart of the camera lens. She always does. Sure, she dresses nice to impress her peers and random passersby, but really, she does it for the photographs.

Her eyes truly are the window to her soul -- so transparent and open. It's those eyes that tell her story: where she's been, whom she's been with, what she's seen. Her eyes weave the tale of how she was born into wealth with everything in abundance. However, all these things she later grew to appreciate, and even love, were mere ways to coat her early years with as much gold and fine jewelry as possible in order to blind the poor girl.

From the minute she came into this world, her father had a strong affection for her. He loved her -- in every sense of the word. Although he was a very busy businessman with a small empire in the palm of his hand, he took the time to be the one there for his daughter. He would insist on changing her, bathing her, and putting her to sleep. But he did not do these things out of love as much as he did them out of desire. Before the girl had even developed a substantial memory, she had already endured things she would want to forget. Her father's hands were tools of disgust that would forever frame her as someone always drawing attention. He loved her red hair and those big, beautiful, deep green eyes. They saw everything he ever did. Sometimes they were glazed over with tears but they could always make out the blurred vision of subtle force joined with a smile.

As she grew older, her father showered her with gifts -- any and everything she wanted. At first, it was simply because he was in love with her. But as he continued this behavior, he realized that it seemed to make his daughter forget whatever unbearable things he would do to her in the night or when his wife was away. The girl never brought up the sexual encounters. She acted as if they had never happened. All she cared about was the attention. She got it at home. She got it at school. She even got it on the street. If she wasn't getting attention, something was wrong and she would run home to Daddy, who was always there to give her what she needed. The girl's mother was unaware of the two's relationship in the beginning. But one night, her building suspicions came to fruition.

It was Christmas Eve and the teenage girl was opening the presents designated for that night. Her father was drinking. He had just lost a dynamic piece of his empire. His wife was in the kitchen baking desserts and preparing for the following day. Wandering over to his daughter, he sat behind her on the ground. She was full of smiles and she revealed expensive gifts. After opening a diamond-encrusted necklace, she hugged her father. He squeezed her tight and kissed her ear. She went to pull away but the scotch-induced strength was overpowering. He kissed, and licked, and groped, and smiled. She stared at the necklace to take her mind off of it. Then the girl's mother entered and screamed. She was holding a knife. She dropped it and stood against the wall as her husband turned to see her. She questioned his actions through tears and he slowly approached. His secret was out. He picked up the knife and stood in front of his wife. The girl sat on the floor, watching it all. Her father told his wife that she would never be able to let his secret out. She promised to keep her mouth closed but this was not enough. He slit her throat and she fell to the ground. He turned around slowly and saw his daughter silently crying. Dropping the knife, he walked upstairs. A few minutes later, a gun blast echoed through the house.

Years went by and the girl came to be nothing less than a local sensation. She used her mass inherited wealth and status to demand attention from everyone around her. When she met her husband, it changed everything. He didn't pay as much attention to her as everyone else. She decided this is what she needed -- someone completely opposite her father. That way, there was a lesser chance of her past and volatile instability coming out. After all, she didn't want someone close to her to die because of overaffection. Everyone who knew her secrets was dead and she yearned for the companionship of someone normal. The veteran she married after knowing him two months was perfect. He had a simple life and an uncomplicated past. She had found someone who wouldn't read the fine print written on her cavernous eyes.

This is why she looks straight into the camera lens. This is why her eyes seem vast and endless. She still wears the pearls, still dresses up, still makes people turn their heads. She loves her husband. His normalcy is the perfect compliment to her disturbing past. She can't risk anyone learning of her secrets. If someone did, she would have to do exactly what she had seen her father do all those years ago.

Mammoth Christmas Party 1956: From Left to Right (Part 1)

THE SOLDIER

Seven faces.

Well, six and a half faces. Four women -- three men. A couple partially empty bottles of champagne, pearl necklaces, and an empty chair in the foreground.

The couple on the left is the purest. They are truly in love and produce envy from onlookers because of their natural displays of affection. He looks off into the distance. He's the only one looking somewhere else. Ignoring the photograph being taken, he stares at a memory -- a memory of a past lover. Her face appears on another woman's body. The intriguing host of the past lover's ghost moves her hips in the same way. Her lips are soft and without lipstick. He likes that -- always has. He believes in a woman's true natural beauty.

He's been married five years and never once has been unfaithful. But he remembers. It's not uncommon for him to take mental voyages to the past. Back when he would dance and drink and watch the sunrise while holding his lover doused in sweat and champagne. Those days are now gone for him. He loves his wife but his heart is segmented. The smell of the expensive perfume on his wife's neck is not enough to make him return. The beat of her heart through her back is not enough. The sparkle of her pearl earring makes him think about the soft white flesh on his lover's hips. Her body may be dead but she lives on in the eyes of this distracted man.

Before he met his wife and even before he met his lover, he was in The War. He was a man hunter and one of the best. Upon capturing one of his enemies, his eyes would burn red as foreign blood spilled to the ground and stained his uniform that was already covered in dark brown splatters. With those piercing blue eyes, he'd slice a man's throat with a steady hand. That was his favorite method of killing. He even had his own special ritual. When the enemy was most vulnerable and looking certain death in the eye, their pleas would be silenced. The man would tell a dark secret to the enemy and then slice their throat. That way, someone would know what needed to come from his lips but they would never be able to repeat it. His secrets were varied and raw. He would tell crying soldiers that he had lusted for his mother, that he used to slowly torture and kill birds, that he had once been with a man, and that he raped a girl when he was only thirteen so that he could lose his virginity. Then he would smoothly drag his sharpened blade across the dirt-smeared skin on their neck, sending blood to the ground along with their last words and his secrets.

After the war, he came to know many women. No one, however, could compare with his lover. He was able to tell her all his secrets -- the same secrets he told dead men. She loved his clandestine past; loved that he had killed so many and made sure that his deeply guarded sins were the last thoughts in his enemy's mind. Although it pleased him to have this companion, he knew she was disturbed. She hated finer things and refused to bring herself past mediocrity. She had secrets of her own but never shared them. He would beg her and she would concoct an imaginative tale to satisfy his heart but he knew. It didn't pain her to lie and that hurt him the most.

One day, the man came home to an empty house. He called for his lover. She walked in from the kitchen, wielding a butcher's knife. He asked what she was doing. She looked him straight in the eyes and said, "I never loved you." Then she cut her own throat and fell to the ground.

He met his wife years later after a long stretch of solitary. After two months, they were married. He loved that she had an affinity for the finer things in life. She had no dirty secrets to tell. She was everything his lover was not. The past five years have been the best of his life but he is still haunted by the ghost of his lover. Even his wife's soft red hair rubbing ever so gently against his forehead is not enough to break his lover's stranglehold. For she was the last one to ever hear his secrets.

Ramble

This little, well, whatever you want to call it, was written on the back of an order ticket at a restaurant. As you'll see, I made use of the "ThankYou!" at the bottom.


Ramble

Ramblings of an old man well versed in senility and social rebellion are a slice of brilliance served best in a warm bowl.
Most see them as some sort of pointless exercises in morosity but genius is also not enjoyed by most.
That's okay.
Old men die quicker and are sooner remembered.
Most live on and are easily forgotten.
Wrinkles tell time as does the perfectly round pot belly of the old woman in the window.
She's mute.
But she still rambles -- with her hands, with her eyes, with her presence.
She tells the same story as the old man.
She is the old man.
They are the same ramble -- the same damn ramble that will never be silenced no matter how many times it's dismissed.

Thank You!
For Reading

Green Sweatshirt

Perhaps it's because I have a strong affinity for Rod Serling or because I'm intensely odd but for whatever reason, my life consistently delivers bizarre instances that keep me guessing even as I grow older.

As most people do, I often rehash memories at random times. There is one that has seemed to find its way back in my life by unexpected osmosis. It comes from the time of which Daze of Yor began. It was before I was overly into drugs but still heavily drinking. And now for the setup.

I was a junior in high school. It was in either 2001 or 2002. Pretty sure it was 2002. Actually, yeah because I think it was when my dad was on his honeymoon. Hmmm. I'm not totally sure. I was pretty drunk. Don't know why I couldn't just edit that up and save your retinas but oh well. So either my dad was on his honeymoon or I had a single papa. Now, while my old man was single, he went out all the time so the Carlson home was also known in the seedy underground of Southern Orange County as THE PARTY MACHINE. It was not uncommon for me to have weekend long parties complete with full bars, a cover charge, excessive immature fornication, light drug use, and smiles across the board.

One particular party was so rocking that there wasn’t even a chain to be off of. What? I had a buddy of mine bartending. We setup a couch blocking off the kitchen. We bought three hundred dollars worth of alcohol. As most dumb teens do, we decided that some good old-fashioned irresponsibility would be best to indulge in before the party started. We had a shot contest. Don't remember how many I took but I do know that we tallied them up on a posted piece of computer paper. To be brief, I was passed out in my bedroom -- fully dressed, wearing sunglasses, and cradling a vomit filled Scooby-Doo trash can. My house could have caught fire or been destroyed by time traveling dinosaurs and I would have never known.

I finally came to and my how things had changed. The house was filled with young men and women, the music was bouncing like fat not sexy boobs, and the night had descended upon THE PARTY MACHINE. I got up and had a drink. I talked to some girls and some boys. I squeezed buns. Something had brought me back into my room and I was shortly followed by a person who, for the life of me, I cannot remember -- not their face, not their sex, nothing. So Androgynous Hermaphrodite Person told me that the cops were in my living room. No problem. I was Superman.

Literally falling down the stairs, I crashed into the living room and introduced myself to the police officers as the owner of the fine establishment that they were not welcome at. They had no invitations and were just plain rude. They made two of my friends empty the keg and made hot men and women leave. Somehow I slurred a story to keep my one friend from going to jail and I promised that things were under control. They left and the party went on, only now it was a little less crowded.

Later on, a few friends and I sat in my room drinking beers and enjoying a nice late night low-key time. To my surprise, I saw some all too familiar coppers walk into my room with an unidentified white male most likely in his forties. My local law enforcement was very polite and ignored all of the underage drinking and the fact that I was shirtless. They just said that this mystery man needed to ask me something. I sat back, swigged some brew, and opened my ears. This cat asked if I knew his daughter and whether or not she had frequented THE PARTY MACHINE at any point in the evening. She was missing. I didn't know the name or the description. But honestly, would I really remember a young girl in a green sweatshirt? I wished the man good luck on his venture and told him and the officers that I would keep an eye out. Then they blew that joint. Cops are the biggest party hoppers in the world. And it's always funny when the cops know you by name and have no reservations about just walking into your room and not taking you in for a nice little corn holing.

The night rolled on and everyone passed out. Morning came-a-knocking and the remaining true believers reminisced about the night previous. However, something was wrong. I was wearing a green sweatshirt. I didn't own a green sweatshirt. No one still there owned a green sweatshirt. No one remembered ever seeing a green sweatshirt. What in sweet Pete's name was going on? Someone had even slept with me that night (not in the Biblical sense) and said that I didn't go to bed with it on. Also, they said they didn't hear me get up at any point in the night. So either I killed some girl, and did such a good job that even I couldn't solve the mystery, or I had visited the Twilight Zone. I'm cool with either.

Moral of the story: missing persons earn you a new sweatshirt.

Sorry, Fella

A public restroom is a hell of an awkward place.

For women, it's not too bad. You urinate, you sing, you dance, you smile, you hangout on the couch, you primp in the mirror, you engage in some casual ass cheek cusps, and you bolt. Men don't have an equally as comfortable situation. We have sanitation hockey pucks to try and melt, uncontrollable flatulence, wrinkled newspapers, grunts, and the dreaded occasional salami sighting. And that's not even counting the awkward interactions with the fellows next to you holding their Rolo packs.

I've commented on the essence of public bathroom etiquette before but tonight I endured an entertaining situation that begs exploitation. It was classic.

So, I enter the men's bathroom to take a squirt and nearly miss the urinals because they are so close to the door. I notice there's a huskier gentleman already occupying one of them so I do the courteous thing and set up shop two urinals away. For one thing, I couldn't wait to get my penis out of my pants so the relief brought joy to my heart. But the poor bloke on the other side of the open urinal seemed to have finally gotten started. He seemed flustered as he started to release. It was a dribbler. I felt incredibly bad. Had I just walked in and ruined this dude's long awaited urine operation?

If that wasn't bad enough, I started spraying like R. Kelly. I pee loudly -- it's a well-known fact. There I was, juicing out a nice one while this perfectly innocent wiener returned to its home after shedding just a few pathetic tears. He must have really been bummed after he finished washing his hands and realized I was still letting loose. It's not my fault that I take world famous never-ending urinations that Zeus could only dream of.

Karma made sure that I got mine though. I walked to the sink and looked directly at the closed bathroom door. I don't know why, I just did. After finishing up the OCD washing ritual, I made for the door with some gusto -- arm up and ready to fly out of that latrine a pound or two lighter and glowing like Rainbow Brite at Chippendale's. To my surprise, the door was not there. Some little tan skinned man was where I had looked just moments before. I either almost face-pushed the fella or kissed him. It was awkward and I started laughing. His expression was dull and ugly. He must have had to drop a deuce. Or maybe he just naturally looks like he has to crap.

And there it is. One of many awkward experiences that men have to deal with. Granted, we don't have tampons and pregnancy tests, but we got stage fright and random acts of almost love or violence. That's why the public restroom is, and always will be, a magical place filled with awe and wonder.

The Peanut Butter Jelly and the Boxer

Dogs.

They're great.

A few canines have been there for me at select times in my life and an entire host of others have wandered in here and there. Call me a dog lover, dog's best friend, or what have you. However you decide to dice it, I have a natural affection for the furry hunks of meat and they have an instinctual love for me. Could be my scent because I am rather musky,

There's a story I know of a dog -- a dog and a boy. This particular young male loved his family dog. It was a beautiful Boxer with floppy ears and a face that could melt Genghis Khan's cold heart. His majesty required a name of mammoth proportions. Hercules? Zeus? Big Sweet Dog? No. He was destined to be named Samson.

Samson and the boy got along like gambling and debt. Since the boy was too young to attend school, and his family had other things to attend to, he spent most of his time with that beloved dog. They would lie next to each other and talk for hours about sports, news, and other typical conversation topics inlcluding funny places to defecate. Before anyone knew it, Samson and the boy were best friends. They would take turns seeing who could scoot across the carpet the furthest on their anus, pee all over the place when they were excited, eat cats, clean themselves -- you name it. Gambling and debt, I tell you. Gambling and debt.

Of course, that's not to say that their relationship was never tested. I mean, come on. There's an unimaginable amount of problems with relationships between humans. Now imagine an inter-species relationship. Don't mess your pants trying to think about it but get a good mental picture.

One time, the boy was walking his four-legged friend around the block as per usual. However, on the home stretch back to base camp, Samson spotted a feline. Now the boy was smaller in stature than said boxer. So when Samson took off, the boy, who had the leash wrapped multiple times around his small wrist, had no choice but to follow. Bouncing outstretched on the asphalt like a skipping stone, the boy cried out as Samson picked up the pace. He finally gave up and stopped in front of their home. After slowly standing up with tears streaming, the boy solemnly walked the dog to the house. The boy's parents ran outside, for they had heard the cries. Father took the dog while Mother brought the boy inside. After finishing washing up the boy in a hot bath and plucking out bits of asphalt and gravel embedded in the boy's young skin, Father took the boy to the garage. He said that Samson had done something terrible and needed to learn a lesson; needed to be disciplined. The boy did not want to hit his friend or enforce any other kind of punishment because he knew it wasn't Samson's fault. With even more tears than before, the boy reluctantly spanked Samson with the lightest of taps. The boy felt terrible.

A time later, the boy sat in the backyard enjoying the summer's late morning sun and an ideal meal: one peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a serving of potato chips, and a cold glass of apple juice. Pure Heaven. While dawning a content smile and focusing his attention somewhere else, Samson silently approached. The boy was enjoying "the perfect bite" with eyes half closed and pointed in the opposite direction of the fulfilling sandwich. He went to take another bite but found his sandwich gone. What? The boy heard a munching behind him. There stood Samson, swallowing the remains of the peanut butter jelly. Had the boy sat the sandwich on the table? Had the dog been so sly as to snag the sandwich right out of the boy's hand? Either way, the delicious early lunch had perished. The boy was angry because he was a chubby boy and he found great joy in the art of consuming food -- particularly sandwiches. He yelled at Samson, saying dreadful things. But he couldn't control his fat rage. After the verbal abuse, he ventured inside and ordered a replacement entree from Mother. It was bigger, better, and unforgettable. The boy forced the dog to watch him enjoy every last bite. That would show the thief.

The boy felt terrible a few hours later and apologized to Samson, explaining how he had not meant the loud insults and that he would never consciously and maliciously titillate the dog again. Friends again. Best friends.

The dog got older and you can guess what happened. He got creamed by a speeding automobile. Utter macabre. The boy was devastated. He grieved for times, time, and a half a time. What? He reflected on the abundance of good times that the two had experienced. The world they shared, the one that no one else knew, was forever gone. It was a good run but the boy knew that nothing in this world is forever.

Making use of the untimely death, the boy learned a few things. He learned that the ones you love will hurt you. It could be unintentionally, physically, or in some other way. The boy learned that those you love may be responsible for taking things that belong to you: food, money, your heart. But most of all, the relationship with Samson taught the boy that true love means being able to forgive wrongs, apologize, reconcile, and make it work at any cost -- even if it means ditching one's pride and taking the blame. This boy went went on to experience a much fuller life while finding intense satisfaction in his truly meaningful relationships. And he owes it all to Samson -- the dog that was more than a pet and more than a friend.

Consumer Nation

As much as I'd love to comment more on the obesity of America and their fat, fat, fat belly folds, I've chosen to dwell on a finer sense of consumption. The kind that involves a purchase or in some cases, theft.

The holiday season is approaching quickly and despite whatever economic problems this country may be in, or headed towards, people are going to buy hams, yams, Christmas and Chanukah presents, and a whole host of other products that will serve as vessels for the spirit of giving. Or the spirit of greed. Or the spirit of mindless buying instigated by advertisers, marketeers, and corporate scum. That took a little turn, now didn't it?

It's not that I have anything against purchasing this or that but I can't help but feel like today's society is definitely in an unstoppable whirlwind of unnecessary spending. Granted, we need to buy certain items: food, shelter, toilet paper, concert tickets. But what about excessive clothes, rhinestone studded thong underwear, tattoos, belly dances, pleather, electronic doodads -- the list goes on. I know it's fun to buy things and all that jazz but why are countless people running up behemoth amounts of credit card debt, buying things they can't afford, taking loans they can't pay back, and allowing more and more houses to fall into foreclosure? Why can't people stop wasting money? What is this unstoppable urge to continuously spend beyond our means?

Before the monetary system, people still worked hard but they relied on barter between products and services. In my opinion, it was a more simplistic time where people were more involved with each other rather than this overly separated culture that we've fallen into. Now everyone has a "thing" to work for rather than someone to work for. With barter, there's more of a relationship and it feels more like you're working for a person. With the current system, you may work for someone but in reality, you're working for that paycheck. Why do we work so hard for that piece of paper? So we can spend it. Why do we care so much about this piece of paper? Because we're selfish.

In the eyes of this corporate society, we are nothing more than dancing lemmings trapped in a consumer nation. The focus of everything is to try and get us to buy this, or rent that, or lease this, or layaway that. I feel like a common whore except I'm not getting paid. Whatever happened to the true essence of living? How did it become this disarray of clustered buyers wandering around stores and online shops like mindless zombies? I like zombies but sooner or later, they have to get shot in the head.

The funny thing is that there's nothing we can really do about it. Sure, we can come to some conclusion and step outside the box but eventually, we'll be back in the store, buying chocolate covered banana chips and leg warmers. We don't need all that much but it takes serious dedication to revert to an older and simpler style of life and let's face it, we're lazy and comfortable. That's why today I'll buy something I think I need and tomorrow you'll convince yourself that that one thing you want more than anything else will complete you. Lie to yourself all you want. I don't mind. It's just nice to step outside the box every so often and see how manipulated we as humans can be.

Work, get paid, consume, repeat.

Daze of Yor (Part II)

...but that wasn't the end.

By the time Spring Break had come around, I had reached a crossroads in my life -- my second "trip out." During a trip to Santa Barbara, I had picked up some highly powerful mushrooms. Now, the only reason I considered mushrooms after my LSD experience was because I had eaten the hallucinogen before and it wasn't that intense of a high. These little power caps were a whole different story though. After about an hour or so, the high came on. It was unlike anything I had ever experienced. The air had texture, music was playing that wasn't on (sounded like Led Zeppelin), and complete euphoria surrounded my body. There was a rug that I thought was an animal. The bed was playing games with me. Then I needed to be alone and think about something really quick.

As soon as I alienated myself from the others participating in this drug adventure, I freaked out. Hyper spiritual sensitivity took over again and euphoria quickly transformed into a nightmare. Dirt and darkness was crawling on the ground, working its way up my body. My friend's face had gone fat and pig-like. Everything everyone said had multiple layered meanings and the entire world seemed to be acting out the thoughts in my head. Long story short, I contemplated suicide as my only solution and by some miracle was able to call my dad and explain to him that I was strung out on hallucinogens and needed him to pick me up. He had to stay on the phone with me the entire way so that he could fill my ears with uplifting conversation so that I wouldn't kill myself. He finally got me and I was a mess. Besides hallucinating that the devil was talking to me through my father, I questioned jerking the wheel while on the freeway and vomited the most intense vomit I had ever been exposed to. My dad said it sounded like an exorcism. I made my dad drop me off right outside of my neighborhood so that I could puke more and walk the rest of the way. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't be comforted by any man, and at some point hours later, I was able to fall asleep on the couch.

Upon waking up, I was faced with a huge decision. I made the right one.

The dorms weren't the best environment for me. Besides having a nice little collection of paraphernalia pieces with humorous names like Rainbow Warrior and Bloody Mary, I was prone to getting caught for things. Thank the good Lord I wasn’t selling. I was on residence life probation before the semester had started. I got caught three times by public safety on St. Patrick's Day night. One of which, I was wearing a girl's bikini and holding a duffle bag full of beer. Needless to say, they sent me a notice, after I had talked my way out of things through meetings and letters, and said I needed to leave my Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd decorated room. What a bummer. Of course, me being as adamant as I often am, I scheduled a hearing with the residence life board and told them a tale and struck a deal. I was off campus every weekend and if I had one more violation, I was out for good. In addition, I was not allowed to consider living in the dorms for two years and was not allowed to even set foot on the dorms for a year after the completion of my freshman year. Luckily by this time, I had cooled off on the drugs. Although, I still drank. Mostly though, while all my friends were coming and going and getting wasted, I was sitting in my room reading the Good Book. It's pretty strange holding a Bible while druggies are popping their heads in and trying to persuade you to go on a journey.

Drugs were done and I turned a new leaf. Although I did mess up with partying and got in trouble at the dorms, I was doing better than before. I couldn't smoke pot for a long time because it tripped me out. Then I found a way to somewhat enjoy it. However, I've since stopped. I'll still have a couple drinks here and there but nothing like the days of yor. Although they were excessive, destructive, and painful times, it's what I needed to go through in order to get where I am today.

I hurt many people along the way and led many friends and strangers astray. It's over now. My hands are clean. What's done is done and there's no turning back. Yesterday is gone forever and we can't depend on tomorrow. Today, right now, this moment -- this is all we have and all we'll ever know.

Drugs. Huh. Good God, y’all. What are they good for? Absolutely nothing.

Daze of Yor

Drugs. Huh. Yeah. What are they good for? Eating Lays and Puffins.

Although glamorized by redundant portrayals of humorous and "cool" characters in cinema and other media formats, drugs are nothing more than a great way to waste time, alienate yourself, and steal your drive and ambition. That is, except for your ambition to consume more drugs.

I've had first hand experience with the dark side of the force and let me tell you, it was a party at first but in the end, it was no picnic.

Age was of no concern to me. I smoked grass for my first time when I was thirteen. Didn't get high the first time actually. But the second time, I thought I was literally flying. Phases were the name of the game for the next few years. I'd get as stoned as a Hebrew whore for months on end and then I'd write marijuana off and just stick to getting soused. Of course when I was in full "go get 'em" mode, I would drink while smoking and end up singing mysteriously intelligible made up song lyrics in Spanish. Also, I would cackle like a witch -- typical of any adolescent really.

It wasn't until my last year and a half of high school that I really began to hit my prime. By the end of my junior year, I was getting glassy eyed at least two or three times a week -- depending on the weather and my cash flow. Finally, in my senior year, I was wasting so much money on pot that I needed to come up with a plan. Bingo. Sell that junk. And sell that junk I did.

Selling drugs is pretty easy if you're in the right circles. I never could understand how people could fail at it but then I found that most low level drug dealers are not only stupid, but they're more focused on intoxication rather than business. It came naturally to me. I found a guy through a friend. He'd front me some pot and I would pay him back in no later than two days. I didn't have to but that's good business. Who cares if I put some of my own money in initially, I could make it back easy. Before long, he couldn't keep up with my pick ups so I got in contact with another guy, who happened to be a buddy of mine that I had no idea sold the sweet leaf. He was my bread and butter. Not only did he have great stuff, he introduced me to some more people and filled me in on the local scene. I put my same business ethic to work and he really appreciated that. I was getting quarter pounds of high-end bud for between fifty and two hundred dollars cheaper than the average retail price. Being quick was my secret and it paid off -- I was a mover and a shaker. I even ended up selling to my original supplier up until my disbandment.

Never getting caught was the most important thing I ever did. I've now come to find out that after I quit the game, my supplier did some hard time after a raid. The closest I ever came was unforgettable. I was at a party that I didn't drive to and I was smoking, drinking, selling, and doing what dumb little late teens do. My friend came and picked me and a buddy up and we were on our way to a KFC so that I could make an exchange. Of course, the driver was hammered and we were taking hits from the bong on the open road. Long story short, after an illegal turn, we got pulled over. I was sitting shotgun with about an ounce under my thigh (enough to go to jail) and a six pack behind my feet, wedged up against my seat. My buddy in the back had the bong in between his legs. After this cop walked the perimeter of the car, noted a busted head light, ran the driver's I.D., and shined a Maglite in my face, he let us go. We drove away and the car was silent for twenty seconds. Then unstoppable deep laughter ensued. Retarded.

Yes, I made the transaction but the twenty dollars from someone I didn't really care for that much wasn't at all worth it. Through that wild and crazy senior year where the calls came in like wildfire, I got into mushrooms. Sold some because I could and tried it out. It was pretty fun. I'm not going to lie. It was a strong body high that was the next level from pot. In this stage of my life, I did some strange things. I smoked some kind of leaf bug out of a gravity bong. Didn't do anything for me. A couple of girls with a Dustbuster noses started hanging out because they were all about getting high as well. They were trying to kick the dandruff and had the remainder of an eight ball left. They didn't want to snort it so we made a deal where we would use it solely for smoking with marijuana and doing "gummies," which if you're unfamiliar, is when you rub some blow on your gums until they go numb. So basically, I was a bona fide crack head for a week or so. Never snorted cocaine though. Glad I didn't. I don't like things up my nose so it would have been a bad relationship from the get go. I freak out if I get sand in there.

As college approached, I had to make a decision. Keep selling or quit. I had elaborate plans to start selling in my new college town while keeping someone back home to handle business and working out a deal with a friend going up to Santa Barbara. After a bunch of useless stony planning. I decided I was out. I still got calls from dealers and users, which was hard because it made me feel like I was missing out on business but I got over it and focused on just being a stoner. The night before my first day of college, I did mushrooms with my roommate and was up until the sun doth shine. The first day I moved in, my roommate and I smoked a Bob Marley sized joint on a bus stop bench. Real smart. We were something else. We found all of the druggies on campus and made friends so that we had people to smoke, pop pills, or whatever with and so that we had a place to go if our resources were dry.

We had an awesome Asian drug dealer in the dorms that would always smoke with us free of charge as long as we either bought something or played some video games with him. He had these mushrooms candies that didn't make you want to throw up like normal shrooms and they were concise and potent. I did those everyday for a week at one point. Did a ton of strange thinking and though I came to some revelations. Turns out, I was just high.

After getting my hands on some LSD, my roommate and I walked what seemed to be the entire town at night, finding all kinds of weird things going on. My second experience with acid was on Halloween of my freshman year. It was wild. Everything was moving and had personality and it was a whole different world. When I was walking in, I didn't know if I was coming back out. I sat on a log with two buddies and we smoked some pot. We got up and looked at this heap of cut grass or something like that. However, we had no idea whether we had really gotten up or just hallucinated the entire endeavor. To this day, it's a mystery.

This particular event also marked the date that I had my first official "trip out." I didn't know if I was ever going to be the same, felt like I was slipping toward the dark side, and had all kinds of intense spiritual feelings I could not control. It was pretty bad. I sat on a log for God knows how long and had a good cry while engaging in what passersby would consider "talking to myself." The rest of the weekend was strange and tainted by that experience and I then decided that LSD was something that would never enter my system again...