Friday, December 14, 2012
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
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
...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.”
...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.
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......
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
“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.
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
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.
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
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 J ). 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.