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.”

Tim's House Part 2 version 2.0

...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.