Saturday, November 9, 2013

We here at Team Gonzo...

            We here at Team Gonzo, have no idea, but through the spontaneous art of improvised story, how to bring any meaning to this world.  As the lead writer here, I started this blog sometime last year, only at the advice of my best friend, and my ex-fiancĂ©.  Having always had a colorful mind, and rich and unique experiences that transpired into spontaneous, and hilarious stories…frequently told with comradely and beer…I have noticed that we as human beings all poses some intrinsic value.

            I have noticed through my adventures, that if I took the time to understand some one, I usually could learn how to explain things, so that they began to understand me.  This truth I have experienced will defiantly propel me into some concept essays of the future.  Back to the crude and tasteless shit you all love to read.

            So am I just really fucking crazy?  Have an over exaggerated criminal mentality?  Take too many random… (And FREE) drugs?  Publically pronounce my self “The Street Urchin”?  Who knows if I’m making all this shit up and I’m really an Indonesian diplomat pretending to write as Wylie O’Rylie?  For those who know me better then others…the answerers should be obvious…but this is Gonzo, so maybe it was memories of a dream so powerful one swears that was real?

            The goal here is to tell the truth like it really is…THE REAL TRUTH!!! Not just a story about some crazy shit that may or may not have happened (due to legal, social, and moral reasons) but the real lesson deep down inside…the crux of the biscuit.

Many of us (as an example) have experienced a fight with our “better half” (which would imply we are the shitty half).  Apologies, honey moon, another fight.  If we take a moment an honestly evaluate the even, and admitted our place in it, TO OUR MOTHER FUCKING SELVES…there would be quite a different story, because, we all know that the “Truth is stranger then any fiction”.

Having said that, you all have a great weekend, I’m going camping…someplace where I won’t get arrested.  Gonzo Journalism…stories so fake, they just might be real...and here is a Gonzo video for your viewing pleasure.


Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Where in the World is Wylie O'Rylie...Adventure 1...Act 3

4:27 PM

By the time I had arrived at Market Square, the vernal sunset had reared its ugly head.  Market Square, magnetically attracts everyone in town, for NO FUCKING reason, what so ever, then to drink, or admire the southern landmark.  The result looks like a Phish concert, being held in an Amish community.

Traditionally, eastern towns had a farmers market at their centers.  These squares, act as a main nerve for commerce, and a center for communication and communicable diseases, for the rest of society.  Following suit with tradition of the east, Knoxville kept this bleak and desolate, quasi-soviet structure, in the interest of "historical preservation", and lined the perimeter of the square with bars, pubs, and an act designed to appease the growing tourist and college populations.  This was done while simultaneously pretending to care about the historical landmark, and the locals that loved it.

This carefully, crafted, concoct sounds good on paper, was as natural to watch as a French maid fucking a buffalo, while licking a tree frogs ass, but not as strange as watching the chick who played Precious, give a midget a lap dance!  Since I had a fucked up morning, and was already half drunk, it was time to play the game of personality roulette, where I'm cool as shit to some people, and randomly a total asshole to others!!

5:23 PM

The alcohol starts making pre-rationalized suggestions to me, that are amusing, profitable, and morally prudent.  I decided to enter the "Preservation Pub", in an attempt to right an injustice, that prevented me from overdosing on moonshine, just two nights prior (and for that, I'll make the fuckers who work here pay!!!)

I had grown tired of watching "Get on the Bus" with Bobby Lee, and grown tired of pretending to listen to his furry, fat wife.  I took leave of the company, and went for a walk when I ran into one of the strangest denizens of "Knox Vegas".

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Where in the World Is Wylie O'Rylie...Adventure 1...Act 2

            I woke up the morning after St. Patrick’s Day…my mind was usurped with fragrant memories of a distant past, different world.  For fifteen long weird, strange, and nostalgic seconds…I was stuck on stupid, and had no idea that I was, where I was, or how this happened to be…

            The damp cold air assaulted my nostrils, like Indian food on a Tuesday morning…after getting drunk the previous night.  It appeared that I was in a two man jail cell, complete with the latest of prison designer apparel.  With a stunning vista of the yard, garnished with steel fence, seasoned lightly with razor wire and axel grease, my new home had me wonder…WHAT THE FUCK HAD HAPPENED???!!!

            I had been warned my whole life that eventually, I’d get so fucked up on drugs and alcohol, I would do something completely ludicrous, illegal, unethical, retarded based on principals, and just plain irresponsible…like shoot a goofball in my arm, after consuming a fifth of vodka, by myself, at 438am…at some scandalous down town, seedy and shady motel, and decide I wanted to go see my ex-girlfriend on a whim to see if she will still let me suck her tits, while I dry fuck the shit out of her (YUP…IM BRINGING IT BACK!!!) , I hop into a stolen car, proceed to crash into a Mexican, a boat, and a tree…all in one collision, and serve the rest of my life in prison…but that’s not what just happened…oh shit…now I remember…(FLASH BACK MUSIC INSERTED HERE!!!)

Monday, September 16, 2013

The Art of Hustleing

            The ancient tradition of hustling and scamming is a time honored craft, handed down from generation to generation.  As noble as the samurai, or as esoteric as the oracle, the hustler commands a unique and distinguishable character, that rivals that of the Dali Lama.  Truly a wonder of nature, the hustler is arguably as benevolent as the practice of religion itself!!!  It’s even been debated that this highborn craft, could indeed BE, the worlds oldest profession thus, making prostitution come in second place…which would make it first loser.

"Hustling" by definition, is essentially the fine art of sugar coating a rotten lie, and decorating it in such a way, that it becomes the catalyst to usurp some poor superficial, simpleminded sucker's retirement savings straight from his hands.

A good hustler can essentially get the "scammed" to do for the hustler, what ever the hell he wants him to do. 

Friday, August 30, 2013

The Art of Busking


          Busking is my preferred method of fundraising while in a pinch.  Busking is the ancient art of the traveling bard...playing music on the fly for crowds, or individuals for cash.  Bard’s throughout history have been traveling around the world, playing for food, beer, or pussy since the ancient Egyptians.  Busking is essentially one of the only acceptable forms of begging.  So why doesn’t every asshole who thinks they can play an instrument just pick up there recorder or skin flute and just pick a corner to play at (in Nashville they do)?  Let’s take a look at some of the pros and cons of this art shall we.... 

In today’s world of free information, Google, and $20 data plans for that I-phone you stole while you were drunk at a bar, the value of a live musicianship has greatly diminished.  A busker can sit out all day long in various places, and still only make $15, half a pack of cigarettes, and a free hit of black tar heroin.

Yes, all these rewards will be presented to you, promptly after a 10 hour day of being called a street urchin, being requested to play very obscure songs, entertaining requests for songs you hate to play (like “Stairway to Heaven” or some lame Jimmy Buffet shit), or having the infamous drunk guy approach you with a ten dollar bill.  He then proceeds to tell you “That he can play better then you so say these ten dollars” then he drops your guitar, and walks away with the promised money.  How can someone be successful at this? 

Even in world renown music cities, like Nashville Tennessee, (where you will be lynched for NOT tipping a street performer), or San Francisco (where you be tipped only with drugs and coupons for prostitutes), with little sales experience, one can only pray to make enough to cover your parking pass or your bus fare.

I spent a wonderful three months in the country music capitol of the world, Nashville Tennessee.  I managed to make close to $200 on most the fuck did I do it?  Did I threaten the locals with offensive jazz music, or tell them I would eat there babies for breakfast?  No, I just applied good ole fashion canvassing tricks to street performance; let’s take a look at these shall we….

Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Professional Panhandleing

Professional Panhandling

The art of Busking, Hustling, and Panhandling…
(A secure future for our American kids)

            It occurred to me once, while I was sitting in a gutter, picking my nose, somewhere in Oklahoma City, that I spend a great deal of time, feeling feelings.  Why the fuck not?  Sometimes I feel happy, sometimes sad, or angry.  Sometimes I feel a set of boobs, behind a single stalled bathroom, at taco bell!  Regardless I still “feel” all the time.  When times feel desperate, desolate, and draconian, despite my dashing and dapper, demeanor... I know that in my heart, when I feel truly fucked in life, its always when I feel...THAT I NEED SOME FUCKING MONEY!!!!

It happens to the best of us,and it happens to the worst of us.  It happens to those to cheap to spend an extra 20 cents, to upgrade your french-fries TWO sizes larger!!!  We either miss-balance our account, over calculate our earnings, or get to drunk at the bar on payday and blow all of our money on rounds and rounds…this is done in the hopes, that we will gain the respect of our peers, and woo an unfamiliar lady into bed, by getting her so fucked up, she can’t tell you’re a totally irresponsible, broke asshole (until its to late that is.)

We have felt the crestfallen cry of a cold coin-purse.  Perhaps we were driving back from Las Vegas, while on parole in California, with our punk rock band.  Navigating through life, with a BAC of .5, high on coke, and stranded at a gas station in the middle of the fucking desert, in a giant black van that looks like the Mystery Mobil got a makeover in the Rape Dungeon.  To make matters more of a challenge, we are simultaneously convincing the highway patrol officer, who is currently standing in front of us, that we are a group of Jehovah's Witness, on a cross country mission, and we are just stopping for gas.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

San Clemente (We Are Punk Rock!!!) Vol. 2

It's my birthday MOTHERFUCKERS!!!

            I remember feeling cheated and irate, as I stepped foot inside and discovered that we were amongst the first 20 people let into the club that night.  The lack of visual stimulation left my brain vulnerable to the worst thing ever, MY BEST THINKING!!!!

MISTAKE  # 1 – Immediately tipping the bartenders the sum of a Mexican King’s ransom (that would be about $10 U.S., a stick of gum, and three lottery tickets), so that my drinks would be served to me as a priority over the rest of the club, for the rest of the night.

MISTAKE # 2 – Selecting “Black Russians” as my drink for the night (served with goat’s milk too)

MISTAKE # 3 – Feeling angry when the rest of the guests arrived, because I am no longer the center of attention, and am to inebriated to communicate my superior ability of carnal incantations…and as a result, pushing every male of his female counterpart, in order to usurp their female bodies.  This eventually led to my expulsion from the club by the time I got around to the 8th or 9th couple.

MISTAKE # 4 – Paying my way back into the same club, while simultaneously quenching my parched throat, and climbing the drunk latter, up to “Super Baracho” status.  In this heightened state of wisdom, and unconditional empathy, I decided it was a wise choice to make an example of the man who dresses up like a bumble bee and sneaks up on all the patrons while they are dancing.  He first, blind folds them, and then forces tequila down their throat, while simultaneously blowing a god damn whistle in their ears.

            The nerve of that bumble bee man, asking me for a tip, and not checking me for consent in the first place.  American violence solves all problems, except in private clubs run in foreign countries, where my constitutional rights don’t even apply.

MISTAKE # 5 – Ignoring my friends advice, to just lay low at the beach, and paying my way into the club a third time, just to pick a fight with a bunch of spring breakers from Florida.  Since the pussy’s declined, I decided I had no choice but to ascend the bleachers during the climax of the foam party (they literally pump soap suds on the dance floor), whipping out my wang, and proceeding to piss all over the crowd from Florida.

MISTAKE # 6 – Breaking the cardinal rule for American’s visiting Mexico, and peeing anywhere OTHER then the toilet, and ending up in Mexican jail (a very, very pleasant place).  My friends posted my bail, and I was escorted to the car.  On the way to the parking lot, one of the guys I pissed on spotted me.  As soon as I made contact with our car, I immediately passed out into unconsciousness.

Friday, July 26, 2013

San Clemente (WE ARE PUNK ROCK!!!)

Happy Dirty 1st!!!

              I woke up this morning, on the eve of my "dirty first" birthday, on a roof top that over looked El Camino Real on one side, and the North Beach on the other.  I could see off into the distance, a vague memory of a hill top, lush with tomatoes, kegs of beer, and 20 year old hookers...vivid memories of where I had my 21st birthday, only ten years prior.

              The hill top today, has been torn up, and split up into a failed housing project...a multiple failure I might add.  The hilltop, which on one night, entertained 30 of friends and there friends, and housed a keg of Newcastle, and another keg of Sierra Nevada, stands tall with the skeletal remains of re-bar, copper wiring (which eventually got stolen by tweakers) and chucks of cinder block...resembling California's most cherished garbage can...Indio California, and the Sultan Sea.

              What brings me back to this isolated sea town?  The last, true, coastal blue collar town, in all of Southern CaliforniaSan Clemente is a bastion of liberalism, yet maintaining an elegant "Fuck You" attitude leaning a little toward the right; San Clemente is a true punk rock jewel in California.  It's here, where I have had many strange and random experience's that seem to feed my lust for life and for this little surf town. 

              Just the other week as an example, I was arrested at the Ralph’s on El Camino Real.  I was drinking a handle of Bacardi 151 with about 5 other "residentialy challenged" transients.  The sheriff’s department showed up, and asked us to leave.  So we did...and I made it across the street with a psychotic transient (we shall call "Fuck Stick the 3rd") and his ugly girlfriend, who looked like a bull-dog (we shall call her "Man Kind").

Who did'nt get arrested here!!!

Sunday, March 31, 2013

Where in the World is Wylie O' Rylie? Adventure #1...Act 1...Knoxville

I had left Washington D.C. at 11:30 am on a Sunday morning,  I was in need of adventure, and a fresh perspective on life.  I hoped on the "Mega-bus", and negotiated a $15 ticket to allow me to exodus our nation's miserable capitol, to depart toward...Knoxville, Tennessee.

I was in excellent spirits, despite my lack of "spirits", wine, or beer.  I sat in the front, to take in the Virginia countryside, the cradle of my childhood.

Our first pit-stop was at Virginia Tech, the our next layover was in Galax, Virginia.  The driver announced we had 30 minutes to rest.  That gave me 30 minutes, to usurp beer, bum cigarettes, and buy burgers.  I entered the gas station which was a-joined with a Burger King.

My first culture shock, was that all the employees here were white, a diametric reality to California, my home.  I approached the clerk at the gas station, who was laboring at glacial speed, a very plain Virginian woman.

"How ya do'in sur?"

"Quite well" I responded.  "Um..I'm in a hurry...where can I get some beer?"

"Well...I reckon ya cab get it up da street dere, at that gray gas station on the other side of the road."  She pointed.  "If your fixen ta drink dat is."  Her southern draw was beginning to amuse me.

"No"  I responded  "I'm just being a good Samaritan and buying for that group of 6th graders outside on their school field trip."

"Ya what naw?"  And with that, I made a B-line for the suggested gas station.  Seeing as my trip, would take several more hours, and I was on a travelers budget, the alcohol content counted in this case.  I selected two "Mike's Hard Lemonades"  and approached the clerk, who looked like Larry the Cable Guy, and was sporting a mullet.  Not the hideous 20"-80" mullet, but the more noble and fashionable 10"-90" mullet found prevalent in the L.A. glam rock bands, of the 1980's.

Thursday, March 7, 2013

Tina the Trollop 2.89

It was as simple as credit check, no deposit, no bullshit (save the bullshit that originated from within the apartment).  Between Juan's income, my income, and the outrageous income that Ming, our silly Chinese landlord demanded, it became clear that we needed a 3rd roommate.

I had a friend named Adam, who was from Indio California. To describe Adam would be like trying to describe an enigma wrapped in a riddle, with a meth pipe duck-taped to his mouth. Adam was a violent and angry drunk, who worked as a shady contractor by day, and a twacked out fisherman by night. Adam was always just an inch away from violating his parole, a classic example of recidivism. I had met Adam through the grape-vine somewhere in Dana Point, California. While smoking a joint on the lawn in front of his ex-girlfriend's cousins house, I had met Adam, who in turn, introduced me to his ex, who introduced me to her best friend Nickey, who introduced me to her mom...Katherine.

Katherine was an exotic Japanese M.I..L.F. (Mom Id like to Fuck). Katherine had a house in Capistrano Beach, California, where she lived as a “dry-drunk” with her boyfriend Jason. Jason was a quintessential example, of a heavy metal guitarist gone professional tele-thung... type clech. Jason looked like the “love child” of David Spade and Kevin Bacon.

So between the dry-drunk Katherine, her Hollywood gone homo boyfriend, Jason, and her slutty daughter Nickey (a hot little jewish princess with curves that gave her a plesently plump appearance) Adam my tweaker trailer trash friend, and myself...we had enough material to cover 93 different Jerry Springer episodes...oh yes...this will no doubt become very weird.

"Those dry-drunk fuck sticks, are a bunch of fat mouthed liars!!" exclaimed Adam, while he slammed back his 211 tall can...the one he just stole from the liquor store down the street, from our current location.

"How so dude?"  I asked

"Well...fuck they think they are all high power and good now that they don't drink and shit, yet...yet all they do is eat norco, smoke heroin, and shove xanex up each other's poop shoots!"  Adam exclaimed as he threw his 40oz accross the street, having it land in the streets on purpose, just so he could have the satisfaction of destroying something.

We walked back to Katherine's house, and slamed a few shots of tequila on the way.  Adam handed me a few somas...(which are skelital muscle rexlars) while I was finishing my shots.  Oh, this may end up turning into an ugly night (and as you shall discover, it really did!)

Monday, February 25, 2013

Friday, February 1, 2013

Tina the Trollop Part 2.3

And the saga continues...

Could this be Tina...God I hope not....
That would be 6 months worth of heavy
drinking and drugging to explain!!!

The one truth in life to withstand the trials and tribulations of time, through and through again… a quintessential fact like 2+2=4, that prostitution is the oldest profession, or as elementary as God doesn’t understand Mormons.  If a man has a crazy story to tell, by definition, he has thousands more long forgotten, and beleaguered by total embarrassment, yet should the narrator take a moment to humble him-self, and remove his shortcomings and defects of character… (Oh sorry, I thought I was at an AA meeting for a second…as I was saying), REMOVE HIMSELF FROM HIS EGO; the hilarious tale becomes an epic saga, or rather a string of tales, thus becoming a work of colorful art.

To exclude a man who’s first impressions leaves you remembering a pit-bull Mexican who looks kind of like Abraham Lincoln, and is so drunk, he’s pissing in plastic tree, in the bathroom, right next to urinal, and talking to himself about savagely fornicating with an entire female bloodline, transcending generational gaps and boundaries, possibly starting as young as sixteen, definitely passing the age of 60, would be like leaving out the color blue from the sky, in a 10 year old's painting…

Tuesday, January 22, 2013

Funk You (Flavor for Yo Ear Drum)...Bootsy Collins

Bootsy Collins Getting Down!!!

                Of all the concerts I have been to, in my life (and of course NOT counting the ones I have played in)...there are a few shows that stand out in my mind...but of course, one of them stands out better then the time I saw the Smut Peddler’s play at Coconuts, in Capistrano Beach…where every single member of my Prop 36 drug-diversion class was present, and all turned out to be BIG FUCKING LIARS about their state appointed sobriety, as they would all brandishing drinks in one hand, and pipes in the other.

More memorial then watching Stanley Clark play at the Galaxy, in Santa Ana, CA, where members of my swing band and I all car pooled with me, driving my 1985 Volkswagon Vanagon...then rendezvousing with another driver…ariving at the show entirely too early, and had to sit through an awful opening band, with was comprised of 9 musicians, and one of them was tambourine player, who never learned what the word "tacit" or "rest", or "just shut the fuck up and stop playing that God awful creation" meant.

Monday, January 21, 2013

My Gonzo Valentine

We here at Team Gonzo stand behind education 100%, especially education of the arts...
Where those be fine arts or street arts.  Here is a collection of video's featuring me playing jazz music, this alludes to the post I'm working on, called "A Purpose Driven Life".  Enjoy...the world of art is infinite!!!!

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

The New Face of Gonzo - An Outlaw Journalist and his Lawyer

It appears Hunter S. Thompson and I have much in common...and much like he and I are crazy, we both have best friends who are lawyers.  Here is an account of Nick and I reuniting after the 15 years I spent in prison (yes...we all felt it was strange to sentance a 15 year old to 15 years at Pelicon Bay State Prison, but they gave me two free pencils and a female inmates booking number, so I did not complain)

------Wylie O'Rylie