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.
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 Tim” 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, 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 and sober now for three Easters, two football seasons, seven months six days and 26.7 hours now and I am so grateful to bring coffee to Charley St and Stanton Detox and lick the bunions off of ALLLLLLLLL fellaz detoxing there.”
No, this house offers no such thing. The first person 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