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

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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!!!