Friday, December 14, 2012

Massacre in Connecticut...Take that Mom!


                As usual, I am one of the last to be informed of breaking news.  I saw several esoteric posts on Facebook referring to a tragedy.  Since it is winter time, and so many random acts of violence are reported every year…and I don’t watch T.V….I assumed that these posts were referring to a memorial, similar to the Virginia Tech massacre in 2007, where 32 people were killed Virginia Tech.  For a brief moment, I entertained the memorial of Columbine, except I remember that happening while I was enrolled in a military school for the SPRING semester only, December being an inappropriate month to associate spring with.

                As I am walking around and checking social media, I am becoming aware of yet another tragedy as that is what the headlines are reading.  I learned of yet another school shooting, this time preteens were amongst those dead, as well a principal, and a school psychologist.  Little more was said other then it was happening in a rural part of Connecticut, where no one believed it could happen. 

                I am becoming frustrated at the lack of information I WANTED TO KNOW!!  Initially, my points on the subject were different, but the more I thought about Virginia Tech, where many of my friends have gone, or Columbine, I started thinking about the Dark Knight Rises movie theater shooting, then I went back to Columbine again.  I continued to reflect and asked myself, what was the moral of the story the first time around?
                Events like these have occurred since time it self, no doubt…but, with access to media; semi-automatic handguns with multiple magazines; video; and instant messaging; the information is still unfolding in chronological human time.  My brain, think much faster then this, began to think about what the solution was to the first major school shooting of this type. 

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Jesus Junkie Part Two

  After the service had concluded, all the members of the congregation flocked to the entrance of the church, where they  engaged each other in their novel, and noble Christian rhetoric, making plans about upcoming outreach projects, and exchange the latest gossip about who was sinning and who was just a plain old whore.

The sign posted on the entrance to the church read:

THE SANCUAREY OF THIS CHURCH WELCOMES ALL: STONERS; PROSITUTES; ADDICTS; RAPISTS; TWEAKERS; HOMOSEXUALLS; ALCOHOLICS; HORDERS; THIEFS; JUNKIES; WIFE-BEATERS; GANG MEMBERS; WORKAHOLICS; RACISTS; SKIN-HEADS; MURDERORS; HATERS; AND ALL OTHER LOST SHEEP

Timmy took notice to this sign, and felt it a little strange that a church need to advertise fundamental truths and core values that were taught by Jesus (love thy neighbor) in such a derogatory way...or perhaps the church had gone a little out of its way to prove that it was indeed a church, and no longer an amateur wrestling arena, as it had indeed been only 16 months prior.  It was right at this moment that Timmy was pondering the life style of Jesus Christ, who was never married, traveled around with 12 different men, and one of these men was referred to as “The man Jesus loved more then anyone else” when his attention was diverted back to the “flock”.

Michael and Chris were not just members of the congregation, but were also “Brothers in Christ” with Timmy, as that was the solemn oath taken every night before Michael’s bed time while they all joined hands in a circle, and ostentatiously prayed for just about everything and everyone conceivable, in just about every conceivable way and fashion.  The gang of apostles were currently living in a “Christian” house known as “The Manger of Christ”, a beautiful out reach Christian home that bordered the 5FWY and the 91FWY in the city of Anaheim, CA.  The Manger, or the “Mange” as Timmy thought about it, was shared with the landlord’s Sunni fundamentalist, Indonesian brother-Auk mod.  Auk mod lived in a separate room that touched the back patio, sharing only the backyard as true common ground with the tenaciously yet tentative tenants.  This provided quite a contrast from the over zealous pseudo-Pentecostal Christian atmosphere that was attempted by the brothers, lightly seasoned with a Taliban-esc décor, with hinted tastes of gamelan music and garnished with a hint of religiously intolerant resentment.  Michael beckoned Timmy over to the crowd to congregate with them.  Timmy reluctantly joined as his worst fear, misguided and meaningless prayer, was about to take place.

Monday, December 10, 2012

Tim's House Part 3 Version 2.0


...and the saga continues...

But now the meaning was clear, similar to Jaco Pastorius’s 6/4 Jam upon the 10th listen.  She looked like a 65 year-old Barbie doll that was left in the microwave on reheat for an hour.  Obviously an older woman, who was desperate to hang on to her youth at any cost, even if it drastically altered her appearance beyond God’s original conception, like that of Michael Jackson.

Her name was Karrie, her tits were enormous, her lips looked like firmica, she had long red hair, and a Brazilian butt lift she paid for on installment plans, one cheek at a time, and squandered the money for the second cheek elsewhere.


Butt lift paid for one check
at a time!!! 


“Hello” she said to me, trying to keep her ass out of my eye sight now.  “Which room are you staying in?”

“Um, Bruce’s Room.”

Her eyes rolled back into her skull like a pin ball being shot out the spring, and she replied “that sucks,” and at that moment, a loud crashing sound occurred, and almost like watching one of the twin towers crash down, the guy known as Ben came tumbling down the stairwell in some kind of drug induced blackout.  He was breathing, so it was clear he was alive.  Karrie just kept blinking, then retreated to the garage. Apparently, this was typical behavior in the house.

Months passed, and drama flew by.  While I sojourned here, a deal with ‘Ol Smoked Out (Bruce) was made.  For the price of a few methodone, I could have my girlfriend stay over on the weekends, and of course, this deal went all to hell when Smoked Out decided we were in cahoots and conspiring against him in nocturnal combat.  Since we both snored simultaneously we were put on trial as “sleep terrorists.”

Tim's House Part 2 version 2.0

...and the next installment


“Oh, I just want a room,” I replied...and with a look of defeat.  Ben staggered away. It is at this point I can imagine the way the conversation with my probation officer would go... “Your room wreaks heavily of marijuana, and furthermore, I didn’t appreciate the skinhead with the dilated eyes and the green teeth refer to me as ‘the biggest baddest tree in the forest.’  In addition, we found several unregistered firearms and a crossbow, I have no choice but to violate your probation, go straight to prison...look at this place...why on earth would you stay here???.”


Tim's House, the bedrock of recovery!!!

It’s 8:30 now and a giant black man who looks more like the Gorilla Amy, walks in the room accompanied by a tiny white woman who reminds me of a docile, subservient Japanese geisha.

“So Bryan tells me you just moved in, I’m Tim, and this is my wife Debbie, let me show you to your room.”

So Tim leads me down the hall and it becomes obvious that at least 20 people live here, it’s co-ed, no rules, and no real sobriety at all.

Tim's House 2.0


Being a habitual fuck up is not as easy as it looks, it takes time, patience and dedication.  It also requires an avaricious sense of  reckless adventure, a disregard for other people’s safety, and blatant disrespect and loathing toward authority and due process.  But above all else, the spirit of chance must be your best friend.


Being a habitual fuck up is
 not as easy as it looks......
I spent three years vacillating on the great tight rope of stability and the open void of a modern vagabond.  The phrase “one day at a time” was all too applicable to me, and despite my lack of financial resources, and material ornaments, through my seemingly random adventures I had acquired, no, appropriated, a cosmic, karmic, spiritual wealth-beyond human understanding similar to that of “Dead  Head” on tour.

A combination of my 85 VW Vanagon Bus, and a few different “borrowed” sailboats in the Dana Point Harbor, was as good a place as any to rest my head in my early to mid 20’s (not to mention the various female beds < or female couch’s>, hey if they weren’t fuckable, I’d still be cute), but upon my 3rd DUI (which come to think of it originated out of the Dana Point Harbor) I had to sell my bus.  Why not? I had a large restitution to pay, and responsible behavior is like speaking Chinese to me, so for a period of time, sober living seemed like my best option.



No credit check, no deposit, shit half the time you could talk ‘em into a 3 to 4 week advance under a “solemn oath” that you’re trying to get you'r shit together while you sleep all day long, then play pool in the garage with smack heads at night time (was the 8 ball darker than the black tan?).
So, I’ve stayed at a myriad (well maybe a dozen) of these houses on the fly, but Tim’s house topped ‘em all off.

Sunday, December 9, 2012

Jesus Junkie



“And it was SIN-AH...that tempted young ADAM out of the GARDEN…OoooF EDEN, aaannnddd it was SIN-AH…that we live in today……DON’T YOU ALLLLL SEEE THAT?” 

                The converted structure where the congregation met, was once the Mecca of pseudo-showmanship in the form of an amateur wresting arena.  The arena was now used to cast out demons, say prayers for those who were suffering without the spirit, and a place to “tithe” your earnings in a revolving funnel that led to an unknown source with an inconclusive outcome.  Similar to an amateur wresting match, there was rock music, a 9 piece band in fact, with smoke, and lasers, and colored lights…there were random people walking into and out of the spotlight…begging, pronouncing, COMMANDING that we all rest our wills and desires, and put on the holy armor of God.  There was also...the “Main Event”-where the preacher took the spotlight and spoke about his view of the lord, and his view on what was an acceptable form of worship.

“Nooowwww…I remember, when the LOOOORRRRD called on me to be healed, at a MCDONALDS in Oils Dell, CA, MY HOME.  It was when I put that golden fry, that little bitty fry, in my mooo-th…and was thus visited by four brethren and THEY SAID “”LORD TAKE THESE DEMONS OUT OF THIS MANNN!!!”” and..I…ANNNDDDD I WAAASSSS SAAAAYYY-VD MY BROTHEAS AND MY SISTAS”

                Timmy O’Toole sat in shock as he watched the celebration of Jesus Christ in the form of what looked like a perverted version of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.  As the preacher continued his invective tirade, known as his sermon, Timmy’s eyes wondered in an attempt to scan the crowd, as if to get better insight into this phenomenon, of the effects of screaming faith at everyone.

A Short Anecdote about Jesus Junkie



                We here at Team Gonzo thoroughly believe in education, and stand behind it 100% of the time.  Religion and spirituality are always very personal and touchy in nature.  Team Gonzo also supports an individual’s right to make up his or her mind based on whatever it is that they choose to believe or not believe.  Not endorsing nor opposing atheism, agnosticism, or any theological religion in any form, Team Gonzo just believes in saying it like it is, and exploring the thoughts and feelings of the adventurer on their quest in life.

                This is a short story of Timmy O’Doul, a native Irishman from the County of Monahan, who immigrated when he was 7 to Washington D.C.  Timmy got too drunk at Patty’s Pub one night and lost his wallet which-had his rent money in it.  Already being several weeds late with rent, Timmy surrendered his apartment, guitar in hand, destination 711.  While strumming out Purple Haze, was approached by a non-denominational Christian and recruited into a church style living situation complete with prayer and charitable works of mercy.

                   Poor Timmy, coming from an Irish Catholic background, felt it was all to strange and just plain fucking weird to stop and hold hands for 15 minute long prayers, that occurred at least 7 times a day, and although were comforting in nature, were frequently said in “tongues” and felt less and less about the principles of prayer, and more and more about showing off to everyone that prayer was now a part of life.

                  Timmy was not asked many questions about his faith by the others, as when ever the topic of conversation would go in that direction, poor Timmy would experience a poignant truth in life that no one cares about his personal beliefs if they don’t match up with theirs.  Timmy remained misunderstood, alienated, and eventually accused of being the Devil himself, because of his preference to jazz music over “Christian Music” like Creed.

                Like Tina the Trollop (which is a much larger story) Jesus Junkie will be released in phases or chapters welcoming all comments and criticism along the way.  Please try your best not to feel offended, but if you do take comfort in knowing that I too feel offended. I present Jesus Junkie... Enjoy!!!

                Wylie O’ Rylie

Thursday, December 6, 2012

A Vision for Gonzo



I had an epiphany the other day.  Whilst I was blessed with tongue wrapped presents of pissed off, disgusted, and in some cases…erratically over embellished, emotionally exacerbating, egocentric-cry-baby’s. (Waaaaaaaa).  The confusion of the art form raises eyebrows form South Korea  (Hey guys, LOVE SEOUL and Lotto world!!) to Russia (drink up) to Costa Rica (thanks Dad) to other more unpronounceable 12th world countries (good luck with your 4th revolution…this month).  All of these readers worldwide are beckoned by the truth they seek, because it’s just to fucking weird. 

                Story telling is an ancient art.  At one point crude, distasteful, and bleak words were used, like “uuunga—nngg” and “oohohohhoh”, to describe the events of the past, or to foretell the future.  As civilizations evolved, so did the art form.  Dramas, the novel, poetry, short stories, are all under the literary umbrella.  Previous to the invention of the Gutenberg press, all transcriptions were done by hand, a very long and painful process.  With the invention of the printing press, literature, and thus news, was able to quickly spread. 

                The role of NEWS (stands for north, east, west, south…I know, really?)  in the U.S. was initially debated.  During the 1920’s, journalism was divided into two schools of thought.  One school stated that journalist’s were to act as middlemen between the public and the policy makers of the time.  I speculate if this had anything to do with the average literacy and education rate of the time.  Basically, it was argued that the general public possessed sample sized brains, and was too dumb to interpret or formulate their own opinions (not to dissimilar to the current era).  As a result of this, the common man was rarely interviewed, on the grounds that he was essentially retarded.

Monday, December 3, 2012

A Stream of Consciousness Pt.5


                Hours after feeling satisfied of the quality of my work, I received an email, stating that my project was filled with errors.  I had not even thought to research how Fox spells Brittney’s name, let alone remember to italicize the title Glee (see I did it this time ).  Emails went back and forth for almost a week.  My computer, being the promiscuous whore that it is, became infected with a virus.  Hours were spent in the local library where is smells like curry flavored farts and you will be kicked out for letting your cell phone ring on vibrate.  More edits, more emails, more aspirin.  I was getting worried now.  Would my benefactor think I’m in competent?  Would my literary referral turn into a text message saying “This guy spells worse then a 3rd grader, has the attention span of a gnat, and keeps asking me about money.  He's either retarded or high on drugs.” 

                I was told that the dead line was approaching.  I received four emails in one night; all of them were PDF copies of my four page interview.  The scarlet color of red ink was tagged all over the pages along with little suggestions and pictures of "frowny" faces.  I was suddenly experiencing poignant flashbacks of my 4th grade teacher Mrs. Cosby (who here from A.Scott Elementary School still hates the rotten bitch?).  God make this insanity stop.  I slapped myself in the face and took a few drags from my American Spirit.  I can do this, I can do this.  I very carefully and monotonously made all the corrections on the paper, and sent it back as promised.  If you have ADHD you know that completing (key word) a task like this is more painful then having a pap-smear with a rusty garden rake.  Every time I sat down I wanted to do something else.  I visualized myself completing the task.  I visualized myself being rewarded.  I visualized myself and my writing partner (Hey Nick what's up?!) on The Daily Show.  That night as I slept I had no dreams.

                Within a few days I received some emails commending me for my work.  Is this a joke?  No...It was real.  In addition to doing a great job, my work was to be published in a two magazine, and a few newspapers.  

Friday, November 30, 2012

Tina the Trollop

Chapter 1



I believe that sex is one of the most beautiful, natural, wholesome things that money can buy.” 
 Steve Martin


 “Hahahaahha, ok sugar buns, what’s a cutie like you doing HERE right naw, what are you into?”
                I quickly replied, “Mostly bag ladies I meet at truck stops or state parks.”

               I arrived home at my house in Capo Beach; it had been a long hard day at work.  Two grueling and miserable hours of bong-toking in the middle of suburbia, teaching kids rock and roll.  An additional eleven minutes of questions from parent’s I did not know, and answers I knew less about.  The time moved at glacial speed and I was in no mood for anything other than strong smoke or pale ale.  I had received a text message, in typical bad Mexican spelling and even “worser” Mexican grammar.  It was a warning from Juan, my roommate:

“Wiley, I’m gonna make a party 2 night, it will be more later, the new heina will be there…her name is Jenny.”

                I always hating being called Wiley, Rylie, Wolly, or Dick Face; but having an Irish name is often confusing to the delicate tongue of the foreigner.  That means that he saved it in his phone book as Wiley, thus further reinforcing his ignorance.  What’s this about a Jenny?

A quick word about "Tina the Trollop"


Hello everyone, Wylie O'Rylie here.  This story is based off a transitional time in my life when I lived in Capistrano Beach.  All characters are based on real people (if you think its you just ask). All names have been changed to protect their identities.  People like Bob, John, Mark etc are just used as common names, so all the real Bob's, John's and Mark's can relax (sorry Christa and Danuta, your both shit out of luck and I could care less about your reputations, your names shall remain as is)...No I'm just kidding, I would never waste my time writing about my psychotic ex-girlfriends (or would I?....MWAAAA HAHAHAAHA....no really)

So, in addition to this Gonzo tale being "truthy" I'd like to ask YOU MY READERS to help me.  Post your thoughts and feelings about this piece.  I promise that I will at the very least, take a concept of yours, and write it into the story.  This tale shall unfold, but it does already have a written ending, so lets create some art..I will either post 5 pages every week or every other week.  So, in much anticipated joy, I present to you..............

A Stream of Consciousness Part 4


Similar to my life in the music business, I had an inkling that my vocational forte, being of the “Gonzo” variety would attract more of a novelty crowd, who would naturally pay me in novelty wages, which consist of pocket change; a promising dead-end referral to a fictitious partner, and a half smoked joint and a few xanex on the side.  I knew I wanted to avoid this vocational pitfall, so in order to make some progress and some money, I would have to find that delicate balance between “underground credibility”, and “selling out like Metallica”…to this day I agree with Beavis, James Hetfield looks like the cowardly lion.

One day I called in sick from work.  The word sick is subjective in nature, and on this day I felt sick in the head.  This is not an uncommon (or invalid for that matter) reason for me to fuck off work for a day or two at a time.  Don’t get me wrong, I have a strong, great, and noble work ethics, I just feel about half the work in life is meaningless, redundant, and stupid, and taking care of thy health is more important.

I ran across Craig’s List, and found a posting that read something along the lines of “Writer wanted, will pay”.  Sounds great, what do I write about?  I emailed the link, and was called back within the hour.  The lady (not disclosing names here) asked me a few questions.

Mysterious Benefactor:  “Hello, I have a few questions to ask you to make sure you will be the right guy for the project”

Me: “o.k.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Do you like cats?”

Me: “I love pussy and pussy loves me!!”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Are you familiar with the T.V. show Glee?”

Me: “My estranged fiancé’s mom forced me, through guilt and manipulation, to watch that show a few times.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Are you familiar with non-profit organizations like the Sierra Club?”

Me: “Oh man, I blazed so many trees while working for Green Peace I smoked the Sierra’s up, I even forgot my job description.”

Mysterious Benefactor: “Great.  I need you to write an interview for my cat, Aragon, who plays Lord Tubbington on Glee.”

Me with a furrow brow: “Saaaaayyyy what?”

Monday, November 26, 2012

A Stream of Consciousness Part 3


We live in a paradoxical world, where all the truths are sugar coated, and all lies are rationalized.  If you’re not good at something that appeals to you, it’s not your fault at all, your just fine and that activity is really just stupid and waste of your time OR if you’re really good at something, it’s because your “talented” and has nothing to do with dedication, disciple, or blood sweat and mother fucking tears…need I say more? (Don’t test me, I will).

It was best said by the great H.S.T. “Often in life, the truth is the funniest thing.”  As this esoteric quote echoed in the crispy re-fried cavities, of my THC saturated brain, I had my 3rd epiphany in life (my 1st  epiphany was that I’d get more action if I could unto a bra one handed.  My 2nd epiphany was that people would pay attention to me if I pissed on them).  And that epiphany was…I’m not going to see any money for at least a month from this place if I see it at all.  Fuck this job!

My co-worker sitting to my left, the fat chick who was just crying, who appeared happy and confident only an hour ago…started melting.  Her face oozed all over the floor and desk.  The anxiety and stress drooled out her pock marked face, which was now riddled with fear, loathing, paranoia, pressure, and Clearasil residue.  Fuck-Face was now undergoing some kind of malicious metamorphosis as he turned from Mickey Mouse, to Adolf Hitler.  The headsets became chained collars, while the monitor on the computer started growing sharp pointy teach, and the words flashing on the screen said “Stick your head in a little closer!”  Sensing I was next to be sucked into the vortex of corporate meaninglessness and mangled manipulation, I made a jump for it.  If I timed it right, I could avoid being sent to the corporate Auschwitz if Fuck-Face didn’t see me leave.  I needed a distraction, so I picked up the wireless mouse and threw it at the window behind Fuck-Face, bouncing it off so it hit him in the back of the head.  NOOOOOWWWW!!!

While I was catching my breath and talking to a bunch of paroles at the bus stop on my way home, it dawned on me that this “Gonzo” mode of expression was my vehicle to command, and that very day I wrote “The truths and lies of telemarketing”.

Continue Reading: A Stream of Consciousness Part 4

Thursday, November 22, 2012

Thanksgiving Words from Wylie



          Happy Thanksgiving everyone.  Tonight, i am grateful for this laptop i am writing you from, I am grateful for family, friends, food, and fun.  I am grateful for the Holy Spirit that runs in us all, I am grateful for God and his mysterious works of mercy.  I am grateful of good times, i am grateful of bad times.  I am grateful that i may stand through hell and be able to look back and laugh, and if not able to learn a lesson the first time, upon the umpteenth billionth time I may figure it out. I'm grateful for joy, I'm grateful for sorrow, I'm grateful for the way Dexter Gordon plays his horn on "I'll Guess I'll Hang My Tears Out to Dry".  I'm grateful for my life, for my experiences, travels, and education, both book and street. I'm grateful for those who love me, and for those who have had patience and understanding with me.

        So......I found a few gems in my laptop and said "Gee self, I bet realistically dem things is gonna sit around and collect dust.  You ain't gonna finish that."  Shut up self...gosh your such an idiot sometime, I can do it with the help of others. "Your high again arn't ya?!" Nope, clean as a whistle, check it out, if i publish a little bit of this story (a short story) and ask my fans to help me write it, we will get it done in no time.

      Did you follow that?  I'm going to post a little bit of this story, it's titled, "Tina the Trollop", an epic tale of a young mans 25 birthday, when he befriends the company of a call girl, or "professional lady" named Tina, who is twice his age, twice as fucked up, and twice as loud and obnoxious as our hero.  Although embarrassing and recklessly jeopardising our hero's safety and health, our hero is enticed by lavish gifts from the whore, and her seemingly endless harem of harlots.  Our hero finds him self simultaneously in the hands of the law and has a draconian probation officer with a mark for him.  Follow us on a quest for adventure, starting sometime next week, at a blogspot near you, well, mine specifically

   So i want you all to post your comments here and let me know how you want this story to develop.  For those of you who were actually there or actually know, FUCK OFF!!! No just kidding, tell me what ever you feel like, how else can we grow?  So to everyone I love you, goodnight!


A Stream of Consciousness Part 2


Knowing these truths to be self-evident, I decided to take it upon myself to revise…I mean “document” history, and tell it like it is.  I started this project like I would start any other, compulsively and randomly.  I figured the easiest topics to explore, were the crazy, random, and unreal events and circumstances I found myself going through day in and day out.  Being free of bitterness made life an easy and fun topic, but would it be enough to write about?  I mulled the idea around for about 3/10ths of a second, and then concluded the following:
      
A)     Getting to write about history according to the way I WISHED it happened is fun and easy, and only my ex-girlfriends, bosses, teachers, and about 64,438 other people will suffer.  Sounds manageable.
B)      Kissing the Blarney Stone at 14 blessed me with the ole Irish “Gift of Gab” or the gift of “bull-shitting)” which is, after all, the universal language in life that everyone can understand.
C)      I would burn in hell if I continued to squander my talents on pot smoking and playing video games.

                My first attempt of conceiving a literary opus of genius was down right retarded.  Unlike oral communication, which can be blurted out yet remain corrected through other sound mechanisms, written communication requires a bit of forethought.  One day, while I was at a generic office sweatshop just testing the waters on my “Stay or Bail” day, it became clear to me, that not enough people understand the true nasty boiler room politics of these call centers, because if they did, someone might just intervene.

Employed as a 1099 (thus making me my own employer, and my boss my client) I noticed right away that the title, “independent contractor” was just a fictitious office moniker, as I could sense that just leaving your seat could be the spark to ignite a demeaning and dramatic dialog about call statistics, kick backs, and dialer efficacy that you are now not a part of because you stood up.  My manager (lets call him Fuck Face) was tearing into this poor little (I really mean big and fat) sales girl.  Calling her stupid and making fun of the way she smelled, like hamster feed.  Tearing into her self image; like vultures tearing into carrion; marines tearing into Asian chicks; or homeless tweakers tearing in the garbage on pickup day, he tore her, a new asshole. 

I didn’t recall the job description mentioning anything about emotional abuse, public belittlement, or defamation of character…In fact; I think the job description said something like “Great team environment.  Free drinks in the break room, team players make money hand over fist, best management in Orange County, fun work environment.

When Fuck Face interviewed me hours ago, he seemed liked a cool guy.  He went over the rules, the pay, and the procedure.  It seemed like any typical office scenario, so bland to the core I believe I started to nod out.  I went to the dialer, but within the hour, it was very clear to me that only 8.838% of my co-workers were pretending to be marginally happy, management offered no coaching, no solutions, no mediation, and no one cared.  Commission only and you’ll figure it out.

It was crystal clear to me that I was to remain tethered to my computer at all times. The chain gang of marketing; 25 to life of hard labor here.  Stay seated, look busy no matter what.  If I had to take a shit, my options were to poop in the waste basket OR drag the computer and the entire fucking sales team down the hall with me, so we can all cold call from the shitter in the handicap person’s living room.  It might have been appropriate now that I think about it.  It seemed odd to me, why would my pursuit of aimless wondering conflict with a cheap office’s “no payment policy”.  I suddenly felt woozy and short of breath, as this rotten paradox became too obvious to ignore.  Pondering the Irony of the Universe, and one of life’s cruel twisted clichés presented to me, I suddenly felt like I was in some kind of LSD inspired carton, and the truth set in…and I could smell the fear!!!

Continue Reading : A Stream of Consciousness (Part 3)

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

A Stream of Consciousness Part 1


                I first encountered the concept of writing as a young lad.  My opinion today is antipodal to that of yester-yore, but so is my understanding of my body’s mechanics.   I loathed writing until about a year ago, when on a midsummer's day, a thought occurred to me while I was sitting in the gutter, somewhere in Anaheim, CA, picking my nose, and wondering what the fuck happened to my previous career.

The clouds opened up over head, and a beam of light shined down on my scruffy Irish face.  Since it was high noon with a mild overcast, I knew this mysterious luminescence was not the trademark work of the all too ominous “Ghetto Bird”, or police helicopters as it is commonly referred to in the “civilized mans” vernacular, and at that moment, I was bestowed with divine knowledge…and God spoke directly to me. 

“Wylie O’Rylie, this is the voice of God.  You’re a total fuck up, and now you’re going to pay for it…take thy laptop your step father gave to you, and play World of Warcraft no longer.  Your new means of entertainment will be scribing about your hedonistic adventures, and you will include a sound wholesome moral twist at the end of each tale.

You will also include such personally embarrassing stories like the time you were arrested in Rosa Redo, Mexico, for climbing up a set of bleachers at a crowded club, whipping out thy jimmy, and pissing all over the dancers on the floor below.  It did not matter that they were from Ft. Lauderdel or that you felt the white shirts they were wearing should be a different color, and neither did your intoxicated acumen.  NOT BEING THE CENTER OF ATTENTION IS NEVER A GOOD REASON TO PISS ON THY BRETHREN, UNTIL OF COURSE, YOU PROCEED TO PISS ON THY BRETHREN...THAN OF COURSE YOU ARE THE CENTER OF ATTENTION AS YOU HAD WISHED, ENJOY MEXICAN  JAIL.

Now, put down thy beer, finish thy booger, and write, write, write you God damn scribe…or would that be my damn it, or however the fuck that should be grammatically phrased.  Now go, before I decide to miracle your ass to state prison, or cancel It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.”

Now every one of us has said it before (and some more then others)...“THEY (don’t be proactive in your life or anything) should write a book about my life because its SO unique and SO interesting (maybe to the one who makes this kind of comment that is) and eventually they would make a movie about it.  Yeah, that would be rad, because every thought, feeling, and experience I’ve ever had is 100% original and by tale will be held as a legend.  Shit, I bet they’d even teach it in high school.”

No dumb ass.  No journalist in his right mind would take on an assignment like that.  Even if you were to pay the journalist upfront in both cash and crystal methamphetamine, he’d still think you’re an idiot and better suited as a donor in a testicular vaporizer beta test.  A beautiful science project where they actually get to poor bleach in your gene pool.

Continue Reading : A Stream of Consciousness Part 2

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Celestial Trinity

A full moon in the sky,
and a child was born,
then a goddess gave me life,
to a world rife with scorn
she raised me with nurture, she held me in her arms,
bestowed me with her knowledge of the evils was alarmed,
like a well running deep
taught me passion I should reap, if I know it, show it, hold it, touch it, drink it, feel lit, love it, know it
Goddess of my world, she's my holy mother pearl
In lunar blankets praises, in solar showers raised, from birth I felt the sickness, with your aegis won the fight, you did your best to raise me, the word was in your voice,
mother you're my Goddess, my Goddes, gave me life
a boy must start his journey, I left the light by choice

Holy Trinity of Females, the apples of my eye
in tender teaching I found life
your loves so deep it makes me cry
these tears are not of sorrow, they are vessels full of joy
I cherish every one of you, and in your prayers I will not die

The daughter fell before me,
By chance one night we met
She mused me with her teachings
The word of love is what she said
her voice was like a swansong,
the sound was of a flute


Thursday, September 13, 2012

Tim's House (Part 3)


But now the meaning was clear, similar to Jaco’Pastoria’s 6/8 jam upon the 10th listen.  She looked like a 65 year-old Barbie doll that was left in the microwave on reheat for an hour.  Obviously an older woman, who was desperate to hang on to her youth at any cost, even if it drastically altered her appearance beyond God’s original conception, like that of Michael Jackson.

Her name was Karrie, her tits were enormous, her lips looked like firmica, she had long red hair, and a Brazilian butt lift she paid for on installment plans, one cheek at a time, and squandered the money for the second cheek elsewhere.


Butt lift paid for one check
at a time!!! 


“Hello” she said to me, trying to keep her ass out of my eye sight now.  “Which room are you staying in?”

“Um, Bruce’s Room.”

Her eyes rolled back into her skull like a pin ball being shot out the spring, and she replied “that sucks,” and at that moment, a loud crashing sound occurred, and almost like watching one of the twin towers crash down, the guy known as Ben came tumbling down the stairwell in some kind of drug induced blackout.  He was breathing, so it was clear he was alive.  Karrie just kept blinking, then retreated to the garage. Apparently, this was typical behavior in the house.

Months passed, and drama flew by.  While I sojourned here, a deal with ‘Ol Smoked Out (Bruce) was made.  For the price of a few methodone, I could have my girlfriend stay over on the weekends, and of course, this deal went all to hell when Smoked Out decided we were in cahoots and conspiring against him in nocturnal combat.  Since we both snored simultaneously we were put on trial as “sleep terrorists.”

Monday, September 10, 2012

Tim's House (Part 2)

...and the next installment


“Oh, I just want a room,” I replied with a look of defeat.  Ben staggers away. It is at this point I can imagine the way the conversation with my P.O. would go “Your room wreaks heavily of marijuana, and furthermore, I didn’t appreciate the skinhead with the dialated eyes and the green teeth refer to me as ‘the biggest baddest tree in the forest.’  In addition, we found several unregistered firearms and a crossbow, I have no choice but to violate your probation, go straight to prison...look at this place...why on earth would you stay here???.”


Tim's House, the bedrock of recovery!!!

It’s 8:30 now and a giant black man who looks more like the Gorilla Amy, walks in the room accompanied by a tiny white woman who reminds me of a docile, subservient Japanese geisha.

“So Bryan tells me you just moved in, I’m Tim, and this is my wife Debbie, let me show you to your room.”

So Tim leads me down the hall and it becomes obvious that at least 20 people live here, it’s co-ed, no rules, and no real sobriety at all.

“If you need to smoke, smoke in your room or outside.” He then paused with an awkward grin “This is Bruce, your roommate, enjoy.”

Now had I known who my new “roomie” was, I would have elected to sleep in a dumpster behind Jack N the Box because this was going to be a nightmare.  I felt like I had walked into a Geico commercial, only ater the caveman had consumed 3 bottles of robotussin and an entire bottle of nutmeg, and in an enraged state of Alpha dominance, smashed everything in sight in a primordial showdown to win breeding rights and affection of an invisible cave girl. So either Bruce the neanderthal was talking to his bong or his fantasy cave love, and when I looked over my shoulder, the gorilla was long gone. Was this a set up? Where were the hidden cameras? Was Ashton Kutcher going to jump out and “punk me?”

Bruce continued his tirade of profanity and seemed either uninterested, unaware, or highly under the influence, but right as I was contemplating an Exodus to the streets, he made contact and said “Fucking pigs…can’t ABC with no 123.  Piece of shit, talking waking me up at 2 pm when I was trying to sleep, my lawyers got my back bro.” The twisted grin on his sun-burnt face suggested an amphetamine induced psychosis, or worse, the real deal.  I introduced myself and timidly extended my hand, half expecting him to bite it off like an emaciated one-eyed pittbull.  He didn’t reciprocate, but he passed me a bong instead. I had to act coy, cold sore chronic had an irreversible effect.  He checked out, so I ripped it and checked out too.  His long black hair rolled down his face but his crown reminded me of a slice of baloney, or even the cul-de-sac we lived on.

“I hate that stupid loud monkey fuck, wakes me up all the time. One day I am going to beat his ass!”

“Who Tim?” I asked.  But I knew already this is Orange County with 16.5 black residents growing .008% annually.

Bruce slumped his head down and moaned “yeah.” It was clear that his zyprexa or Trazadone psych meds were taking effect.  I put my bags down and slowly retreated to the kitchen.  Was he going to flip out or be mellow? Was the weed enough to put this paranoid schizophrenic at ease or was I done for? Would he be hiding in the closet late at night, wearing a ski mask, chain smoking and talking to the stuffed animals with a machete in one hand and 4 lbs of cantaloupe in the other chanting “redrum, redrum?”

Maybe I should hit Ben up for a narcotic peace offering.  I can already hear what type of conversations we would have.

 Vacillating on the great tight rope of
stability and the open void of a modern vagabond
“Yes Bruce, you’re right.  The fruitcakes of today are the leaders of tomorrow. Here, eat some methadone, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to share a room with such an insightful and well informed neanderthal such as yourself…What’s that? Yes the government is experimenting with a metrosexual army of robotic aliens for the city of Costa Mesa, you’re right Bruce, they are infiltrating the homeless in an attempt to brainwash them with ecstasy and canabinal to reprogram them and serve the clerks at the DMV, what’s that you say? Nancy Clarke is Hulk Hogan, couldn’t agree more.”

The house was quiet y now, and upon entering the kitchen is when I saw her. I remember the black Mercedez parked in the driveway.  The license plate said “Double GG’s” I pondered the meaning of it. Two gangsters, two great grams of dope? Two gay graffiti artists?”

The saga continues : Tim's House part 3

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Tim's House (Part 1)

Being a habitual fuck up is not as easy as it looks, it takes time, patience and dedication.  It also requires an avaricious sense of  reckless adventure, a disregard for other people’s safety, and blatant disrespect and loathing toward authority and due process.  But above all else, the spirit of chance must be your best friend.


Being a habitual fuck up is
 not as easy as it looks......
I spent 3 years vacillating on the great tight rope of stability and the open void of a modern vagabond.  The phrase “one day at a time” was all too applicable to me, and despite my lack of financial resources, and material ornaments, through my seemingly random adventures I had acquired, no, appropriated, a cosmic, karmic, spiritual wealth beyond human understanding similar to that of “Dead  Head” on tour.

A combination of my 8b VW Vanagon Bus, and a few different “borrowed” sailboats in the Dana Point Harbor, was as good a place as any to rest my head in my early to mid 20’s (not to mention the various female beds < or female couch’s, hey if they weren’t fuckable, I’d still be cute), but upon my 3rd DUI (which come to think of it originated out of D.P. Harbor) I had to sell my bus.  Why not? I was had a large restitution to pay, and responsible behavior is like speaking a dead ancient language to me, so, for a period of time, sober living seemed like my best option.


No credit check, no deposit, shit half the time you could talk ‘em into a 3 to 4 week advance under a “solemn oath” that you’re trying to get you'r shit together while you sleep all day long, them play pool in the garage with smack heads at night (was the 8 ball darker than the black tan?).
So, I’ve stayed at a myriad (well maybe a dozen) of these houses on the fly, but Tim’s house topped ‘em all off.

A quintessential flop house, Tim’s House (at ### Jo-Ann St, in the illustrious and nostalgic city of Costa Mesa) was actually called some backward Jesus Junkie hybrid transitional living/sober living all inclusive non-denominational Christian fellowship place like “New Direction” or “Able to Change” or some such shit. Who fucking knows? It was advertised on Craig’s list for “ $100 move-in special” and $135 per week. A cookie cutter house at the end of a cul-de-sac, it’s sky blue image projects a state of tranquility that is diametric in nature.

You are greeted by a foreigner whom you assume is middle eastern (based on appearance and esoteric accent) but turns out, and much later too, that he’s an Italian plumber (spun-na-na-na-na).  You pay him $100, he shakes your hand, and says “Ok, just wait for Time” and leaves you feeling awkward and anxious in a fully furnished two-story middle American house, which you are about to discover is like being on an episode of Jersey Shore meets Dr. Drew’s Rehab.

A few stragglers waver in an out of to eye-fuck the shit out of you, but none of the typical “Hi my name is Who-Gives-A-Fuck, and I’ve been clean for 3 Easters, 2 football seasons, 7 months 6 days and 26.7 hours now and I am so grateful to bring coffee to Charley in St Detox and lick the bunions off of all the fellaz detoxing there.”

No this offers no such thing. The first who greets you looks and sounds like a burnt out caricature  of Roger the Alien from American Dad.

“Welcome home.  I’m Ben.” The Alien says as you take note that both eyes are wandering in different directions, making it hard to focus on his conversation now.
"So what'cha want?"


“I’ve got Methadone, Percocet, Flexoril and Fentanyl patches, so watch ya want?” It is now very clear what kind of house this is.

Continue Reading Tim's House Part 2

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Guest Post: Mike Triforce of Debtor's Prison

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Mike Triforce here. I'm  a friend of Wylie's here to drop some knowledge on you about life and other random shit. My blog is linked to this mofo, but I'll post it here anyway.

www.mydebtorsprison.com.

So first let me start out by saying I sold out. My goal from junior high on was to cynically manipulate the system in order to get paid for doing next to nothing to support a life of hedonism.  I do not contribute to society, I do not care about a cause, I am not about independence or fairness and most of all I am not an artist.

Of course I say I am an artist, I have a band and I act.  These endeavors are about two things: 1) winning the life lottery (see getting paid for doing next to nothing to support a life of hedonism) and 2) getting laid.  Money gets laid and art get's laid.  I like getting laid so I cover my bases.  I can't combine the two so I need a day job.

So what do I do for money? I am a lawyer. I hopped on the bandwagon before the bubble burst and I lied and cheated my way the bloodbath and remained one of the six-figure associates left standing. 

I take a lot of drugs. I take drugs because I enjoy being high, but mostly because women enjoy being high. I have been caught with drugs by police and nothing has come of it. The reason of course is that I have money and drug laws are for people that society has deemed undesirable. For people like me there is no prison, there is something called rehab.

My job consists of thinking of plausible tasks to bill large corporations for, corporations foolish enough to retain my firm as counsel when they get caught breaking laws they deem have a greater potential to inhibit profit than they do to incur monetary consequences in the form of fines and civil liability.  Sometimes I have to actually complete these tasks but usually they are fictions that rarely find themselves the subject of audit.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

The Truth and Lies of Telemarketers Act 4: The Hipster Cool Center


Call Center Legends

                A call center is by far, THE WORST environment on the face of this rotten earth.   Everything down to the core of it is a total perversion of anything that God created.  Its make up is so unnatural, and perhaps it’s the only place in the world where you are honored for telling a more outlandish lie than your neighbor.  There are 3 basic types of call centers, lets have a look.

The Hipster Cool center (The party call center)

Description: Perhaps the evilest of them all, the looks here are deceiving.  Its not even fair.  When you walk in, the first thing you see is an air hockey table.  You pause, and for a second, you ask your self if you accidentally walked into one of the local marijuana dispensaries.  After noticing that the air doesn’t reek of baked pot, your greeted by an incredibly young, bubbly, curvy and personable hot chick who’s name you never catch cause your to busy starting at her tits.  You notice that the employs are walking around freely, and acting and expressing themselves as if they were at school or home.  The computers are all brand new, the head sets are wireless, the secretary is hot, the schedule is flexible, your co workers are friendly and intact, and you could even call them “peers” for once since they are within 10 years of your age.  The products sold in these centers only marginally suck to talk about, and can  range from A) Dish network, local cable, or direct T.V. B)  You could be marketing  business to business  customized web sites or C) Such technology driven industry’s like customized push button applications for cell phones

Victims: This kind of call center seems to attract “normal” people.  An eclectic variety of college students, semi professional business people, divorcees, pot heads, etc.  The women that work here are relativelyattractive, and the guys don’t look like freaks.  If anything, the real victims are all the customers you call day in day out.  Since you work for a 3rd party marketing service, neither Jason cares what you say to the customers, which can be really fun at times.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Truth and Lies of Telemarketers Act 3: Telemarketing for Life


A call center is by far, THE WORST environment on the face of this rotten earth.   Everything down to the core of it is a total perversion of anything that God created.  Its make up is so unnatural, and perhaps it’s the only place in the world where you are honored for telling a more outlandish lie than your neighbor.  There are 3 basic types of call centers, lets have a look.

Telemarketing for Life (The Center for small time squaresuckers)
Description:  These call centers are typically run out of decrepit, decaying, decomposed buildings.  Their anomalous locations usually discourage people from applying in the first place, or, returning after the first day of work.  The equipment is outdated, rotary phones are still used, and the lead sources often come out of a phone book.  The products offered are usually a business to business referral platform and are either A) offering an SEO or Facebook business fan page optimization B) Some very crude and archaic (and pointless for that matter) form of advertising like having your business name mentioned on the radio(AM of course) or a commercial featuring your business (ON PUBLIC ACCESS of all places) or C) having your business mentioned in small print in the local penny saver or recycler, both of which are free magazines, and it goes without saying, that give a ways are throw aways, so get ready to throw away your hard earned cash for nothing, because the only practical function these types of magazines have are clothing the homeless in the wintertime.

 Victims:  Middle aged, mid life crises, 3rd month into his trial separation right before the divorce men with an over appreciation for football, immigrants from the middle east or India, old divorced women that have been smoking so long they sound like Darth Vader and look like a wrinkly foot.

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Truth and Lies of Telemarketers Act 2: The Boiler Room Operation


A call center is by far, THE WORST environment on the face of this rotten earth.   Everything down to the core of it is a total perversion of anything that God created.  Its make up is so unnatural, and perhaps it’s the only place in the world where you are honored for telling a more outlandish lie than your neighbor.  There are 3 basic types of call centers, lets have a look.

The Revolving door center aka (boiler room operation)

Description:  These types of call centers are notorious for either A) offering an overpriced service that is now obsolete B) Collecting money through endless 3rd party services, on the promise that your money is going to a good non tangible cause, or C) Providing you with a state of the art service, that is marked up 600%, and one that you could clearly die with out ever needing.

Victims:  The bulk of the population here is comprised of parolees and other convicted felons, single divorced moms, drug addled teenagers (and adults), social rejects with the gift of gab and the curse of body odor,  and random naivesuckers that are easily manipulated, believe everything they are told, have little imagination and even less common sense.
The dreaded supervisor

Supervisors: The supervisors here are usually hand picked from the original group hired on.  You don’t have to worry too much; part of the requirements to being a floor supervisor is to possess the i.q. of room temperature.  Over time, these supervisors become more and more malicious, until they have gone through a state of alien metamorphosis, and no longer resemble the co worker that once sat next to you.   Fear is the name of the game in this environment.  Nothing like having an angry little floor goblin marching around the room while randomly swinging a 9 iron at invisible enemies to promote a feeling of unity and peace amongst you and your fellow coworkers.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Truth and Lies of Telemarketers Act 1: In the Beginning...(2.0)


The Graduate Actor
In today’s economic rat race, work is scarce...and that which is available is either excessively competitive or excessively boring.  Flip on the T.V. between 10am-2pm...it’s the same thing on every channel.  T.V. shows featuring live law-suits, talk shows featuring trashy trailer trollops, and the 14 ½ different men that could be the baby’s daddy.  The commercials that run during this time, are aimed to inspire today’s youth to pursue a higher degree of education at such academic bedrocks as Everest College...or other such prestigious institutions as DeVry.  All these commercials feature a paid actor claiming to be a graduate.

               The “graduate” actor is often portrayed as a hip cool guy who just wasn’t sure what he wanted to do after high school (as opposed to a hip cool guy who wasn’t sure WHO he wanted to get HIGH with after school).  The schools they promote often are skilled labor schools like for welding or masonry.  This cool guy is going on about college, broad casted from his driver’s seat in his beat up Chevy Nova in a dark ally way at night time.  If you squint your eyes, you can see 4 guys mugging a baby in the background.

                The actor never talks about how awesome his experience was at school.  He doesn’t mention what he’s doing now with his degree, or even mention what he studied.  All (he) they say is “PICK UP THE GOD DAMN PHONE AND CALL YOU LAZY ASSHOLE!! YOU AIN'T DOING SHIT WITH YOUR LIFE CEP COLLECTIN G.R. OR SSI, SO SPEND YOUR MONEY ON ME INSTEAD...SO WHAT CHA WAITN FOR?  PICK UP THE PHONE!!!”.  During the closing scene, the actor pulls out a grip of one dollar bills and flashes them on the screen.



                If this commercial features a woman, she is typically fat and ugly, portrayed as a single mom (well probably just single), and is usually advertising for a nursing school.  She is usually walking alone on a bridge somewhere in slow motion, the camera fades out and fades back in, this time showing her stressed out and yelling at her 12 kids and-or siblings (If you squint your eyes during the scene where she is walking on the bridge, you can see one of her fellow class mates attempting suicide by hanging herself, that is until the bridge collapses underneath the combined weight of the two fat women, and the weight of all the bullshit that they are trying to feed us).

Sunday, July 15, 2012

The Lost Art of Swearing


The Paradox of Persuasive Profanity;theLost Art of Swearing

"When angry, count to four; when very angry, swear."

(Mark Twain, Pudd'nhead Wilson's Calender, 1894)



                The English language is by far the most fun and versatile language that is used today. English encompasses high levels of description, as well as emotion, and is spoken around the globe in both native and non-native dialects.  It’s said (by whom I’ve often wondered) that the roots of English are about 60% Germanic, and 40% Romantic.  What is not clear to me, is the remaining percentage (and yes I can do basic mathematics and realize that 60% + 40% = 100%, so suspend your belief on the infallibility of mathematics for a moment please) that is borrowed via sounds, words, and concepts from the rest of the world.  This percentage is also harvested from American sub-culture (or “Urban Culture” as the Fox network and the rest of the right wing media avidly refer to it). 

Ssssssooooooo…….consider this; the English that we read, write, and speak(unless you prefer  the swansong of languages, Klingon) in this country HAS AND DOES melt with modern slang, blend with old school jive, and twist with international and cultural vernacular.  E-Ebonics, Spanish/Spanglish, and Vietnamese, (just to name a few that is) have a tendency to be substituted and sprinkled within the body of a totally different language, this is done for the sake of convenience for the native tongue.  So before I continue, I would like to take a moment to thank our founding fathers, for not being douche bags, and NOT voting German as our official/unofficial language (officially, we don’t have an official language).Despite the evolution of the English language (oh yes it DOES evolve), some words retain their meaning, value, and effectiveness as effortlessly as many of my former employers lied to me. “

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

On the Subject of Roommates



As far back as I can remember I have always had roommates.  Not necessarily other people living inside my room, but that’s happened too.  Weather it was my family as a kid, students in college or military school (another subject in and of itself), fellow felons during that year I spent in county jail (Orange County CA can still blow me over that one) or my lovely fiancé (by far the best roommate ever)I’ve always had company.  Roommates are becoming more popular as our economy dwindles toward the seemly endless downward spiral, of the economic toil bowl.  I for one, never enjoyed living alone anyway, and feel karma owes me a great deal of good brownie points for paying someone else’s mortgage.  On the most fundamental level, let’s take a look at a scenario involving me with the pad to myself for a weekend.

At first I rejoice.  “At last, those bastards have left for the weekend”.  I then proceed to reward myself.  After all, I did go through all the trouble of being a senseless asshole day in day out, for weeks on end.  So I grab a 12 pack of Sierra Nevada, or some other such fine ale from the local liquor store.  Of coursewhat’s’ a little pale ale without 1/8 onceof some chronic (my mother stillaffectionately calls it grass.  The only things worse to call it would be dope, because real dope is an ENTIRELY DIFFERENT SUBSTANCE AND BALL GAME).  Between my first 6 beers and my first gram, a feeling of peace settles in.  A sense of pride and hopefulness.  “I choose my own destiny, I choose my own life, I am a man, and I choose hamburger helper again for lunch.”  Silence fills the room, it’s just me and the hamburger mitten guy on the box, and I can feel him eyefucking me.  This has gone far enough I think to myself.  I weight my options.  On one hand, hamburger man is feeding me, on the other, he’s hurting my feelings.

“You sure you know how to cook that?” Thehamburger man mocks me in tone of arrogance and disgust.

“Silence you hamburger fucker” I snap out of it, only to find myself alone with a tennis racket, a head full of alcohol, and smeared casserole from wall to wall.  This is when the depressionstarts; Ineglect chores, continue to drink irresponsibly,smoke cigarettesin thehouse, get stuck on Law and Order SVU marathons, proceed to curse Ice–T for being a sell out cop killa gone, what the fuck, COP?  I then become inspired by Law and Order SVU, “Mariskha Haggerty must be the anti Christ who covets the secret to immortality and eternal youth, because she is the only bone able198 year old who still walks this wretched foul earth.  At this point I abandon beer for Tequila, and marijuana for methamphetamine.  I proceed to break into my elderly neighbor’s house in the hopes that a spontaneous  consummation of love can lead me to the elusive and esoteric non-haggard Haggerty secret. I hide in her closet, wearing a diaper, a flannel, and a ski mask, chain smoking and talking to the stuffed animals, only to discover that at the height of my altered state of extreme paranoia, loneliness and drug frenzy, I had broke into the wrong house, and had but a horrified and baffled Asian family staring at me in horror, complete confusion, and dare I say it, SHAME (the hallmark of traditional Asian negativity) as a reward for my endeavors.  After calling a bail bondsman, I filled out the paperwork for the restraining order, and had no choice but to take a look at this anti-social behavior.  Is this a far fetched story, your humble narrator thinks not.  Personally, I like being around people (even if they are big fucking shitheads) for the sake of my mental health.  So let’s take a look at a few times when being surrounded by people was still bad for my mental health.

                The K.B. house, Dana Point, CA- I responded to an add in the local penny saver.  I was previously living with my father and his newly wed Pilipino mail-order bride.  As I had mentioned before, I have a phobia about being alone.  My dad and my step mom/sister (she was only 3 years older then me) had gone somewhere on a trip, most likely their honeymoon, or perhaps TGI Fridays.  I invited all my friends over and promptly started drinking for 112 consecutive hours.  My dad said he’d be back Sunday night.  He lied, and when he entered the house that Sunday morning, promptly kicked everyone out of the house just like the actor who played the grandpa on that Snoop Dog video,Jin and juice (so old school, but if you remember the video, your probably old).  I knew I was fucked by the color of the big pulsing vein that turned blood red on his bald forehead.  If the vein was greenish blue, I was good, but chicken yellow or blood red pretty much meant a beating.  So, it was time for me to leave, and that’s when I found the K.B. house.