Telemarketing 2.0 Act 1

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).

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-fiancé.  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.





CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!!!!!!!!!!



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 restaurants...in 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".

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!!!)

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. 

The Art of Busking



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 days...how 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….

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.

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

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

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 California.  San 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!!!

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

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Tina the Trollop 2.89

It was as simple as that...no 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!)

The Story So Far...

FUCK! I NEED MONEY!

The heart warming tale of two friends, broke as shit!!!

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…

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.

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!!!!

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

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. 

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.

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 10^th 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.”