SOC #18: Summertime Corruption

We, the two of us, sat in her car conversing away of what was wrong with institutions of all types from business, education, politics, or law. For hours and hours on end, for days without counting, for we cared not of the elapsing time, nor the kind of environment we lived in. Later, when it came to our mutual fancy, we'd make out for an hour. She'd cradle me, I'd feel her up, she'd grip my shoulders. One moment she backed her face away. I couldn't see her expression in the darkness, for we were parked in the garage, no lights. She commenced to kiss me for another five to ten minutes, then backed away again. Her hands on my shoulders gripping, then rubbing. I wished I could've seen her expression, but I couldn't. Her right hand left my shoulder, and I guess she pointed to the backseat, because she simply demanded, "Get back there. Now." I complied, my heart racing. She was breathing heavily. Both of us now in the backseat, taking our pants off, kissing more as we rubbed our genitalia together. I ate her pussy as I put on a condemn. She laid back, pulling me closer to her. She demanded, "Get to it, sexy." I complied again. Afterwards we laid together, continuing our conversation. She was asking, "If they say it helps us, but it actually hurts us, then why do they continue to do it?" I replied, "Because it benefits them the most. Worst of all, the masses know about it, but never cease going along with it. That's the real problem." She said, "That's crazy, crazy, crazy." I said, "THEY are crazy. From the top most echelon to the down in the gutter peasant; the entire spectrum both causes the problems and helps fuck the system at the same time. Simply my conclusion anyway." She inquired, "What can awakened people like you and I do to stop such corruption?" I said, "Only help ourselves most of all. Help others if they seek it, aiding them. Because even when a revolution succeeds, it wares thin in the long run, losing itself in it's own vanity." She asked, "Ready to fuck again?" I said, "Uh, I'm not an object you can take advantage of. Give me some time. Don't you think it's getting late?" She said, "I like to feel dirty sometimes. You bring it out of me." Later I learned that was a lie. She liked to feel dirty with others as well. Ignorance is not bliss. She suggested, "Hey, lets go to the hiking trail right now. I know there's a bench we can fuck on." I said, "What if we get caught by the Forest Rangers?" She replied mischeviously, "That's what gets me excited." That summer, her and I fucked in a lot of public places. I'll spare the details. I guess more young couples do the same for the rush. A guy I knew was in line for a roller coaster and a couple in front of him both were in a big hooded sweater, fucking as the line moved along. Don't people have any dignity? Well, I guess if a billionaire maintains his finances by the misery of millions of others, then simple people would do such "innocent" things as screwing in public, even if there's children around. Yuck. I never did such a thing. NASTY! Where was I anyway? Oh yeah, I was corrupted by a woman. Not that I didn't enjoy it. Her mother said I corrupted her daughter, but that old bitch was an idiot.

SOC #17: Dim Luck

Wandering in a city lived in by the fake uppity upper-middleclass I found myself shopping in a bookstore. And while browsing through the fiction section I met a girl. In my polite nature, I gave her a grin and a nod, which was as far as I was going to go in our chance meeting. Her eyes gleamed over with annoyance. I said under my breath, "Sorry for being kind." She heard me and scoffed. Then she left to go to the history section, looking over her shoulder every minute to be sure I wasn't following. My girlfriend had just left me, and whatever female I came across that looked close to my age I'd give a smile, or polite grin. Not that I was in desperate need of companionship, but I just wanted to put the options out there. I stopped going to the clubs and bars with my friends around that time so I wouldn't meet some money-grubbing skank, or a slut that'd fuck a guy if she got free drinks; a taste I wholeheartedly avoided at all costs. Not that there's anything wrong with it, but I'm not existing to simply drain my balls with a female at any cost. I would try to meet girls at bookstores, movie theaters, or some sort of festival. But no luck of course. These things, I guess, take more time when you're not drunk meeting new people. Being sober has its drawbacks like inhibitions, doubt, and worst of all, fear. I can understand that. I feel it's unhealthy to have those three things, and being drunk or stoned to rid them from your conscious is obviously unhealthy as well. Whatever, if it seemed impossible to find love while seeking art, I might as well seek art and the love will come later, I guess. The passionate artist will find passion from another later on. My time in Santa Barbara, and my trip to San Diego Comic-con and then Las Vegas, were such a waste. But I must admit that I learned a lot; my sense of character and how the society I occupy truly works really did enlighten my so called third eye those spiritualist people always talk about. Those fools mostly speak of being enlightened by the drug experience itself, sitting in a field of tall grass, laying on their backs, looking up at the sky, or sitting in a room with spectacles of colors on the surface of walls and blah blah blah. They don't speak of experiencing events and all the populations occupying those events, how they react and interact. As with the flow of nature and it's intermingling, people are the same way, they just talk gibberish sometimes. No, I didn't go to jail while partying, but I still felt it was dim luck that saved me, because few times I did come close. And my bank account became weak, and it has taken time for me to recover. When I did, the girlfriend left me, deciding that going through Hell with me wasn't worth it. You know what? It's worth her being gone. I haven't felt this good since being blitzed out of my mind. I've written more in the past few months than I did after finishing my first novel. And I don't care if I'm not making money with the words I put down. "God," "Luck," "Fate," are simply words that someone else had to create.

SOC #16: The Bickering Children

Now I'd like to begin by saying that I am not speaking for any other government but the one that operates in my own country which is United States Democracy. As I sat in school and learned about the history of the USA and how the government operates and it's constitution and all the ammendments put into it. I came to the conclusion that after over 200 years of existence the "Adults" still can't agree on how to run the country. I mean, shit, the men and woman wearing suits can't agree how freedom is suppose to be like. It's simple: we have personal freedom as long as our freedom doesn't infringe on another's personal freedom. Which basically means we can't murder anyone, rape anyone, or steal from anyone else. Of course when the constitution was first established, slavery was still around for nearly a hundred years after. So, I must have to admit, things aren't made immediate in the USA. By the time I was born people weren't treated as property(more like meekly paid peasants, but that's a whole other time of blathering), woman have the right to vote(some aren't equally paid in some circumstances, even in this third millennia age we are all now in), and only those who are considered criminals and placed in a prison system are the only ones who really have no rights(though the majority of inmates at this very moment are in prison due to non-violent drug crimes). The two party system doesn't work because they both work in tandem with the one system that is what sane people cherish most: A Democratic Republic. Both words which are the two party system. Wait, I always forget, the third party, the "Independent" Party, the section of the system no one listens to, though they have good ideas, no one seems to listen to them. They are treated as thieves, stealing votes from the two main parties. ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME! And there's a Socialist party, don't forget. And a communist party. Both of which are treated as transparency to be written over. The last best thing to happen in this country will basically be it's last: Same-sex marriage being treated as marriage. People don't seem to understand in the land of Freedom that point of view of the individual holds it's own definitions. Such as sin to one may be happiness to another, as long as that sin or happiness doesn't infringe on another's sin or happiness. If you're feeling down and out, in the dirt depressed, or feel stupid, know that politicians are nothing more than bickering children with better vocabulary. I know most won't EVER EVER agree with me, but that's okay, I'm not alive to change people's mind, just like no one will EVER EVER change my mind. I'm not existing to bicker like a child.

SOC #15: Their Excremental Disposition

I once met a man with a million dollars who couldn't see beyond his own deluded ego. Have you ever met someone with so much money that their total devotion to stupid decisions could never be dissuaded by another's words of reason? Accountability can't effect all those with responsibility. I've met many junkies with supposed "words of wisdom" while they couldn't get a license due to their drug offenses.  They called me stupid before I drove home. I was once one of them; hopefully now I am no longer like that, but I admit, I still could be. There are those who spent years studying in college, getting a bachelors, or a masters, and don't have the smarts enough to realize the system and institutions they believe and support have been stolen, raped, corrupted, and reprogrammed. One of these fools tried debating me over some stupid subject that 10 years ago wouldn't be newsworthy. The Zombie tried to convince me, attempting to change my understanding of life. Can you believe a person who wants a free society wants to control your mind, change your beliefs into his own? There are actually people like this, living in a supposed "free" society, I've seen it, I've talked to them. They are sorry, sad individuals whom can't see beyond what they are told. The lies and deceit, I've heard them all. The sane, the reasonable, the accountable, the patient, are hard to find, and are too scattered. The night before my friend and I left Las Vegas, I sat on the floor, still tripping on the acid-shrooms, chain-smoking cigarettes, watching a re-airing of a Presidential candidate making a speech to a clapping, cheering, sheep-crowd. He said the words, "Hope," "Change," bringing "Peace," ending what the "people" hated, blah blah fucking blah. I only watched the news channels while drunk or stoned. Seriously, everything he was saying was what that Hillbilly said in the early 90's; these politicians think we're all stupid. Just because the only change of the President was his skin shade, doesn't mean anything else would change; the fact a "black" man would fuck up the country like any other "white" man really changes nothing. Well, guess what, that's true equality. Put a smile on that face and go back to work until your wrinkled, old, brittle, and enjoying your last 20 years of life hardly moving due to your arthritis. Yes, sitting in that Hotel room, my friend laying in his bed naked again - the whores gone, thank God - I was being a spiteful man. The Politician's face morphed into Nixon's. I said, "Hello there, again, Dick."

SOC #14: Wasting away blearily in Las Vegas

There's nothing better for the soul than memory; no matter if it be positive or negative, it can give you a better perspective and may aid your well being. It has for me. Comic-con was over and my friend and I departed without saying goodbye to either Bee Bee or that Skank. We packed our things and checked out of the Hotel. On our way out of San Diego we lit a joint and made a beeline for the great, shining, spectacular party city of Las Vegas where dreams can come true - if you got the money, that is. Let me just get to the point: the trip resulted in the draining of my finances, my dignity, my self-respect, and most of all my self-awareness of the consequences of my actions. Even after coming home from the trip I cared not for spending so much money and then continuing to spend more of it until it was gone. Anyways, we made our way to Las Vegas late in the afternoon, a few hours before the sunset. My friend did some bumps of cocaine at a few stop lights. Then, for no good fucking reason, the gonzo hit me, and I ate some more of the acid laced shrooms. I don't know what came over me. An impulse of the moment in which it felt like I was in a void filled with bright spiraling light, and the only way to remain sane in this upright maelstrom was to get into a prolonged derangement of the senses. I think unconsciously I hated Las Vegas. Guess it was a clairvoyant thing that made me know what that fucking city was going to do to me. My friend saw me reach in the open zip-lock bag for a second serving of the acid-shrooms. He said, "Puto, I thought you wouldn't do that shit again." I said, "Oh, I thought they were Beef-jerky." Then I burst out laughing maniacally. "Fuck it. Fuck inhibitions, I'm in fucking Las Vegas." My friend said, "Save me some. Don't eat them all." I said, munching on my second serving of the acid-shrooms, "Whatever, coke-head. Lets find a cheap-ass Hotel closest to the strip." My friend informed, "There are not cheap-ass Hotels nearest to the strip. Just look at all these extravagant mother-fuckers." I said, "Cheap, fucker. CHEAP! CHEAP! We're not on unlimited credit." My friend asked, "What's got into you?" I replied, "You know, I could never have fucked Bee Bee, though I got to be in her presence." My friend said, "I tell you, man. You could've had her. She liked you." I asked, "How could you tell? You were busy with the skank." My friend said, giggling, "Yeah, she was an easy insert. Put some magic powder in her, and the legs open." I said, revolted, "Disgusting." We found a cheap-ass Hotel nearest to the strip. Well, the cheapest we could get. I had my friend check us in while I sat in the car, looking straight ahead, making sure I wasn't staring at anyone walking by, leaving or entering their rooms. I thought about Bee Bee as an Angel that day we walked to the Convention. If only I wasn't on this shit I'm on right now. But then again, I had my new girlfriend back at home. She told me before I left that I could do as I pleased, but not to tell her until she asked. "I don't think I'll lie to her," I thought. She was my real Angel. My friend opened the door. He parked the car nearest to our room, which was on the top third floor, we then got our luggage and walked up the stairs to our room. My friend asked, "Why you keep giggling?" I said, "I didn't know I was." My friend said, "We'll unpack our shit, get into new cloths, smoke some weed, do some blow, then walk the strip." I said, "No more coke for me." My friend said, "But acid-shrooms is okay." I countered, "Just this last time." In the room we took our showers and shaved, making our bodies look and smell nice. We got dressed in our best attire. My friend had to pick out what I had to be sure I looked the coolest I could be: a Misfits t-shirt, black jean shorts. He said, "Be sure the chain from your wallet hangs out. It's a good look." I said, "Chicks are gonna think I'm a goth." My friend countered, "No, they're gonna be impressed you don't give a fuck about other people's perception of you." We left the Hotel and got in a cab. The driver, from my perception at that point, was a cheetah with pink hair. My friend asked the pink cheetah, "Where's the best club at, the most happening." The pink cheetah looked in the rearview mirror at us with his green eyes. He said, "I got just the place for you two." I said, "Cool, take us there, and we thank you." The driver said, "My pleazzzzuurrrrre." That, for some reason, got my heart beating fast. The cab pulled up to the Hard Rock Hotel. The pink cheetah told us there was a nightclub called "Vanity" that, from what he could tell by the look of us, was fit perfectly for us. We paid him and made our way to Vanity's entrance where there stood a security guard. He asked us, "You gentleman staying in the Hotel." My friend replied, "Unfortunately not. Couldn't get a room." My friends lie was effective, I think. The big, bald security guard, who wore an all black suit and a pair of sunglasses, said "That sucks." He looked me up and down. "I like your shirt. I'm a big fan of them too." I said, "Thanks." The guard said, "Go on in you two. Have a good time." We entered. I think in Las Vegas, just like drunks, they love people on hallucinogens and coke. Of course it was the kind of club that I hated: fucking strobe lights, fucking big-ass disco ball, fucking techno-industrial-hip-hop. But there were two exceptions: Hot chicks, and I heard some rock and roll in the music, and some metal at times. We sat at the bar and my friend ordered us sweet-tasting mixed drinks and two shots of rum. He said, both of us holding up our shots, "Here's to Las Vegas." I said, "Hopefully we remember it." My friend retorted, "Who fucking cares we don't remember? I won't." We tapped our shots to one another and downed them. I chased it down with the cocktail my friend ordered me. I didn't know what it was called, but I do know it was green. My friend ordered two more shots. I looked at the bartender and saw she was a TSA officer in her blue uniform and wearing latex gloves. After she went to another patron, I asked my friend, "You think she'll grope us for weapons?" My friend looked at her ass, then replied, "I'll grope her ass with my dick." Three young ladies came up to the bar nearest to my friend. He began talking to one of them. I could hardly hear the conversation. Two came up to me asking if I really wrote a novel. I affirmed what my friend told them, and they seemed overly amazed and impressed as if I was already made of money. My friend and I danced with them. After we went to the casino floor, the ladies in tow. We played craps, lost money; played Black Jack, lost money; played slots, lost money; there was a show at The Joint - a famous rockstar was playing, don't remember who - there were still seats available, near the front actually. I bought us all tickets - fucking expensive. I can't remember the fucking rockstar because all I saw on stage singing was a big fucking bear roaring into a mic, and the band members were orangoutangs. They really knew how to play for low-to-no-IQ animals. The show was over, it was just passed midnight, I guess, we went to another bar with the ladies. My friend gave them some coke to snort in the bathroom. The bar was full of what I could tell were Aliens from different cultures throughout the entire universe. I asked my friend, "Are we on Coruscent?" My friend asked, "Where?" I said, "Never mind." We took the ladies to our Hotel room and it turned out they were fucking prostitutes. GODDAMNIT! But I kept my cool. I gave my friend some of the biggest bills I had left on me, then headed downstairs and walked along the strip. I found it fucking hilarious that amongst all the spectacular, colorful, flashing, shining lights of Las Vegas that on the sidewalk were short men passing out prostitute cards, or Jesus Freaks yelling about Vegas being the work of Satan and shit. I yelled, "God's Mercy on all you swine!" Then I lit a cigarette and found a good spot to sit and watch the Sun's light fill the sky.

SOC #13: Coke did a body Bad

After my friend and I were clean-shaven and showered cleaned I still paced the room in anticipation for our night out with Bee Bee and that skank. The acid-shrooms had waned as much as time could subside from my senses. My friend patted me on the back, telling me to calm down, and that a bit of cocaine would help. I drank two little plastic bottles of Jack Daniels from the mini-fridge under the television(at ten bucks a piece, fuck it) and the anxiety of anticipation of partying with Bee Bee subsided not. My friend said that if I took a few bumps that all I would desire was having a good time, and he suggested that maybe Bee Bee did some too. So for the first time I did a bump, then two to three more lines(can't remember), then drank two more little plastic Jack Daniels. Dunk, tripping a bit on the acid-shrooms, and now high on cocaine, there was a knock on the door. I ran to it as my friend was making his way to answer. I threw it open in a flash. I hollered, in a squealing tone, "Hello!" The skank was at the door wearing a black dress, but I paid her no attention; my attention was on Bee Bee behind her. She wore a green t-shirt that stated, "Waiting for delivery boy," and tight blue-jeans with some tears throughout the leggings. My kind of woman. The skank was my friend's type from the body, face, to the useless character. What occurred next was like a vivid dream, and at the same time it all happened in a flash. We left the hotel, took a cab to a club we didn't have to wait in line for, sat in a VIP booth to my friends excitement. A bottle of Grey Goose Vodka was brought in a bucket of ice to our table. My friend, I, and the Skank drank immediately and heavily. Bee Bee being the calm, un-submissive type that I loved, drank lightly. Her and I talked. I don't remember what we talked about but she grinned, smiled, laughed, occasionally touching my shoulder. I took no notice of my friend and the skank until I turned to him to ask a question, I think, and saw they were gone. Bee Bee said they went to the dance floor. I said, "Come, take my hand, my lady." I remember that at least, and made our way to the dance floor. It was a typical techno-hip hop-industrial club with a DJ at a big-ass podium, strobe lights, disco balls, the likes of which if you've read my previous posts I only liked to be in if I was wasted. Bee Bee and I danced for ten minutes until my friend tapped me on the shoulder, indicated to me that he wanted to do more cocaine. We left the Skank and Bee Bee to dance with each other. In the bathroom stall I told him how gay it was that two men did coke together in a bathroom stall. Then from the next stall over I heard a dude say, "Just a couple more then we can leave. I need this shit." My friend gestured to the next stall over, indicating a "Duh." Then we snorted two bumps each. As we were washing our hands, the stall where I heard the voice come from was opened and out came two big tough bouncers wiping their noses and sniffing. My friend and I were laughing as we made our way back to the VIP booth. The girls were there. We all did a few shots. In the booth next to ours I saw a Stormtrooper without his helmet on doing a shot with a Rebel star fighter. I don't know if they were actually there or just a figment of my diluted, fucked-up, brain. Sometime later we took a cab to a beach, found a surfer bar, did more shots of Vodka. Then went to layout in the sand under the somewhat shining stars. I told Bee Bee I liked her a lot because she reminded me of my new girlfriend back home - blond hair, blue eyes, smooth, pale skin, and a nice butt. She told me my girlfriend was a lucky woman, and said quietly to me so the other two wouldn't hear, "Just lay off the cocaine and LSD." I informed her, whispering close to her ear, "It was shrooms dipped in LSD." Her and I left the beach alone and took a cab back to the Hotel. My friend and the Skank didn't want to leave. The night was too young for them. Bee Bee had work to do in the morning. I, even being completely wasted out of my mind, knew I had reached my limits. With an arm around her shoulders, Bee Bee led me to my room. I think I told her, as I opened the door, "You know, you can take advantage of me, if you want. Just know I love my girlfriend, and will pretend you are her." She giggled as she walked to her room. She said, "Goodnight." That night I dreamt I did not who I was or what I looked like. In the dream I looked in the mirror and only saw a blur.

SOC #12: The Heart of Alchemy

It is theorized by scientists that gold is naturally made at the center of stars, and when the stars die and explode in a Supernova, all the gold is shot out into the universe in all directions, making its way through space and shooting into whatever planet, or moon it lands on. Alchemy is a single Human's attempt at creating gold in a lab, basically from whatever source there is on Earth: Water, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide etc. etc. In my own personal opinion, the real Alchemy is not creating wealth from a common element, or from nothing, but in the simple belief something such as gold has any true value in the first place. Think about it for a second: What does gold itself do for our health? The answer is nothing. It is simply a shiny rock, no different from a stone that's stuck at the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen by human eyes. As far as I know, it is human imagination that gives gold value enough that we need it to acquire things from nature that would otherwise be free if it weren't for the powers that be. Hell, because of Nixon the gold standard in the USA was thrown out, and now humans base the value of finance on pieces of paper, by which the value of it can be adjusted by inflation. My friend worked for a bank and told me once only 75 percent of all transactions in the "civilized" world are now computer generated. So we went from value of life based on paper, to numbers on a computer screen that can be changed with few people even knowing about it. Anyways, I'm blathering, let me get to the heart of what I'm trying to convey to you. As I wandered through San Diego Comic-con, I began thinking about human imagination and how it has brought us to a self-awareness that, as far as all of us know, only humans have. The ability to ask the question: Why are we here? Why am I alive? Why am I living? These questions have given purpose to billions, and has gotten them through the stress's of simply existing. It has brought people together, as well as separated(a side-effect most people don't like to admit) but it's only because people - to me anyway - have taken those questions too damn seriously. I've come to the conclusion that it's not the question of "Why?" but "Why have I bothered to ask 'why' in the first place?" I look around the showroom floor at all the booths, the artists(illustrators, writers, actors, etc. etc. Then I see Kim Kardashian? Whatever.) Then I see the fans getting autographs, shaking hands with their favorite artists, taking pictures with them. I see all the cosplay people as characters created by established artists, or characters they created themselves just for events like this. That's the Alchemy. It's not in a lab, mixing chemicals to create a shiny rock, which not even Newton could do, but here where there were thousands of stories from thousands of people based on their imagination. And it was not in a fucking lab; it's based on their personal experience, or something they thought about while bored in a classroom, sitting at home, on a hike, reading a book etc. etc. That, to me, is the heart of Alchemy. I was late to Ray Bradbury's panel, but the door was open and I was able to hear him speak - the last ten minutes anyway. I had read his most infamous novel by that time "Fahrenheit 451." It wasn't hard to find a seat, but the acid-shrooms were still going strong, so I sat near the back. He was talking to a man sitting next to him about his life, his writing process, what inspires him, blah blah. Same old shit I've heard writers say on youtube. The coolest thing he said was when he referred to all his fans as, "My bastard children." Everyone laughed and cheered. The day was done. Entering the Hotel room I was met by the sight of Bee Bee's skank co-worker, putting on her cloths. I got to see her tits for a mere moment. Nice tits, but I cared not. She said, "Hey, you, the writer friend. Sorry, I'm in a rush." She picked up her purse and rushed out the door. My friend was in his bed, under the covers, obviously naked. He said, "Toss me my pants, man." I found his pants in the corner of the room nearest to my bed. With only my index and thumb I picked it up, then tossed it to his reaching hand. I asked, "So you two meet at the convention and you persuaded her up to the room?" He replied, "No. I snorted some lines, then went to the ice machine to get a bucket of ice for some Jack and Cokes I wanted. It so happens she was there too. She noticed the powder still in my nostril and asked for a few pumps. We came back here, and as they say, one thing led to another-" I interrupted, "You are one smooth dog." My friends eyes widened. He yelped, "DUDE! She invited us out to a club all the people that work for website hangout at after the convention is over for the day. And the best news," he slammed a fist on the bed, "Bee Bee is single!" I said, "That's cool, man. But there's no chance I can get lucky with Bee Bee. I got no expectations." With his cocaine induced expressions, my friend said, "She loves writer's, man. What's her name told me. Wait, what's that girl's name?" I told him.

SOC #11: No gold in the Rainbow

One of Hunter S. Thompson's most famous quotes: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." The man eventually shot a bullet into his brain, but still remains one of my literary idols to this day. The best way to admire artists is loving their work, not what they do in their real world lives. My friend and I got to our room after going down the hallway in the wrong direction, then going the other way, only to pass it, realizing we both weren't reading the fucking numbers on the room doors, but staring down at the carpets as we walked. My friend said, "I can't tell what it looks like. It keeps moving." I said, "Stop looking at the floor, look up. We got to get to the room before it's too late and they take us away." My friend said, "I thought you were looking for the room. I was just following, staring down at the carpet. I always do that on shrooms." I said, "I was doing that too. Where's three-three-seven, goddammit?" My friend stopped, then informed, "Right here, man. I don't got the key." I stopped, turned around, came to the door. It took me three swipes of the room key to open the door. When the door finally opened, I rushed in, my friend leisurely strode in, still staring at the carpet and the difference in pattern from the rooms carpet compared to the hallway's. I grabbed his arm, pulled him clear of the door, saying, "We're safe." Then tried to close the door, but my friend's luggage got in the way. I picked it up and tossed it further into the room. I closed the door as normally as possible. When I locked the door, I exhaled as if being saved from drowning. My friend said, "Damn, dude, we cool. Look at the carpet, it's like the galaxy with a lightbulb shining on it." I said, "Stop talking like that. That's not a lightbulb, it's the sun shining through the window." I got fixated on the view immediately upon noticing it, tossed my suitcase and backpack on the bed, and went up to the window. I put my arms up, my hands in fists, and said, "I feel like I can fly like Superman." My friend said, "Don't be like that one asshole and jump out the window, take off from the ground like all the other flying creatures." I said, "Oh, that makes sense." My friend sat on the bed, turned on the TV. He said, "Lets eat more of the shrooms and watch the news. You won't believe the shit you'll see." I snapped at him, "I didn't come here to watch the fucking news. Soon as this shit wears off as much as it can. I'm going back down to the convention to enjoy it with sound mind." My friend said, "Coke can help mellow you out." I yelped, "You brought cocaine?" My friend admitted, "Yeah, and -" I interrupted, "I thought we were gonna just smoke weed and eat magic cookies on this trip to begin with, then I learn you brought shrooms that were dipped in acid, cocaine, and what else?" My friend smiled, chuckling. He said, "Maybe I won't tell you the rest. More for me." I said, "Yes, more for you. No more for me. I'm going to the bathroom, then I'm going back to the convention, and maybe catch a few panels." My friend said, "I thought you were going to write." I said, "Not right now." After going to the bathroom to piss and shit, then throw up, I left the room, making sure I had the key, and was about to head to the elevators when I looked up to see Bee Bee exiting her room, a gold halo over her head, and white-feathered wings hanging from her shoulder blades. Damn. Or damn lucky. She noticed me, giving me a short wave. I said, "Have a good day at work." We both were headed to the elevators. She said, "Thanks. What are you about to do?" I had to think about it for a bit as we walked, side-by-side. I asked, "There any author's in any of the Exhibit Halls today?" She replied, "Yes. Ray Bradbury is speaking later, but I don't know which room he's going to be in." I said, "I'll find out. What's your schedule like? Who are you going to interview?" She said, "One of them is the comic book writer Mark Miller. You know him?" The elevator doors opened and we entered. I replied, "No. I'm not a big comic book reader." We walked to the convention center, chit-chatting about this and that. I think she could tell I was on drugs, but was polite enough not to give any indication she noticed. We went our separate ways: her going to work; me, well, just tripping balls, observing art, hopefully remembering it later. 

SOC #10: In the Rainbow Part 2

On the showroom floor I couldn't look at something, or someone in cosplay too long with being entrenched in it's hypnotic, magnetic world of their own mind. The creatures, statues, posters, and toys came to life. I said to my friend, "Look, over there, Alien is about to eat that woman. And she's smiling." My friend said, "It's just a statue, man. It's standing still. It's just the LSD and shrooms distorting your view." I asked, "How can you put up with this shit?" He replied, "I know what to expect. Oooh, she's hot. What character is she suppose to be? Look at those tits." I shushed him, then said, "Not too loud, they may not like such compliments. Respect these whores." A twenty something girl squealed, "Excuse me? Who are you calling a whore?" Oh, shit, I thought. "Not you," I said. And as she was about to say something else, my friend and I moved out of that scene. I bumped into The Incredible Hulk - that massive green, mean machine. He said, "Hey, watch it." I apologized. He then stomped along. I turned to see if my friend noticed, but he stood staring at a glass case with small toys of half-naked women at a Manga area. I walked up behind him. I said, "That was close. They almost had us. I thought I was done for when the Hulk stared angrily down at me with those spiteful eyes. How did that kid make himself so tall?" My friend said, "If only real women looked this good." I said, "Those artistic nerds always over-exaggerate what a good-looking woman should look like. They're more like jocks than people like to admit." My friend was transfixed on the toys, studying each detail, every curve of booty and booby. I finally said, "Come on before they think we're creepy pervs." We continued walking throughout the showroom floor. Predator was walking around, and as he passed me, I said to him, "Your target is just a few booths over in that direction. He's eating an innocent woman." Predator said, "Okay." My friend said, "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to random people." I admitted, "I thought it was a statue again. You're right, no talking. Just observe." We came to an area with a lot more outside light shining from big windows where there were smaller booths. I saw two old ladies, behind them was a poster for the first Evil Dead film, and a sign that said, "The Actress's of The Evil Dead." I said to my friend, "Lets go have a cigarette." Near the entrance to go outside, Erik Estrada was taking pictures with young woman. I said, "Hey, it's Ponch." My friend said under his breath, "Fake Mexican." I asked him, "Why do you say that about every Mexican-American?" My friend said, "Never mind, you don't understand." Smoking a cigarette outside in the hot sun, we noticed, guys dressed as The Fellowship of the Ring smoking from a glass marijuana pipe. My friend asked, "Wanna go smoke with 'em?" I said, "I don't trust the Dwarf. He looks like he want's to punch me in the nuts." My friend giggled. He said, "This place is nice." I said, "Let's check into the Hotel now, I don't like this shit anymore. I want to sober up before tomorrow." My friend said, "You won't for about another six to eight hours." I said, slapping a hand on my forehead, "Fuck, I forgot! Shit." We went back to the parking garage. After about 20 minutes trying to find the car, I said, "Dude, where's my car?" Yes, I actually asked that question. "Where's my black Nissan-" Then, in unison, it occurred to both of us we had the Gold Lion. We laughed for a good few minutes. Then when we realized we were standing right next to it, still laughed as we got in the car. Both of us were exhausted by the time my friend started the car. It was at this time the LSD-shrooms took their total grip on our senses. Checking into the Hotel was no trouble. My instructions: say your name, then give I.D.; when she asks, give credit card for her to swipe in the system; say, 'Thank you.' Fuck I think I smiled too much, because she chuckled. Room 337 was our room. Waiting for the elevator doors to open, I said to my friend, "Soon as we get to the room, I'm writing." My friend patted me on the back, "Good, man, that's good. I can't wait to read it." The elevator doors slid open. We entered. Two other people entered behind us I paid no attention to. I said, "I'm gonna write until my hand hurts. That's what I did when I wrote my novel. No hesitation, no inhibitions, and most of all, no doubts." One of the people in the elevator with us inquired, "You're a writer?" It was the voice of a woman. I looked up at her and simply said, "Yes. Got a book that just got accepted for publication." Then I realized who it was - an angelic celeb in my eyes - she had blond hair and a smile that shined in my dilated pupils. For legal reasons I will call her Bee Bee(B. B.). She was a correspondent for a well known website that covered and reported on such events as Comic-con. And by chance, fate, God's Will, whatever, she was not only looking at ME, but talking to ME! She asked, "What's it called?" I swallowed, then told her, trying my best to seem of sound mind. With her was a slut I didn't like who did the same job as her, but had no wit nor any indication of intelligence. Bee Bee said, "That's cool." I said, "We're here to, you know, celebrate." She said, as the elevator doors opened, "Maybe one day you'll be on a panel in an Exhibit Hall." I said, "In a small one most likely." She and that other chick left. The doors slid closed. My friend began to say, "Wasn't that-" I answered, "Yes." My friend continued, "The one you-" I said, "Yessss." I leaned against the elevator's wall and gave him a gleeful smile. I said, "And she just talked to me." The elevator arrived at the eighth floor, and I tried to open room 887 with the key, it didn't work. "Fuck," I uttered, "the key won't work. They don't want us here." I turned to my friend. He said, "Idiot, the room number is 337, not 887. Dope." His eyes then widened, then dropped his suitcase, grabbed my shirt collar, pulled me close to his face, and said, "Do you know what this means?!" I replied, confused, "No." He said, "Bee Bee and that sexy bitch got off on our floor. They're rooms are on OUR floor." I said, "I need to write. Takes away my shyness."

In The Glossy Rainbow

(Author's note: This is an extremely embellished, fantastical dramatization. I'm not going to inform on what is true or false, because it wouldn't be as fun. I'll simply say real life wasn't as extreme as depicted in this major anecdote.)

My big marijuana haze is now behind me - four years have passed, in fact - and all I do now as I recollect those days of toking on that green herb is laugh, and see it's pointlessness. It was fun anyway, and luckily I didn't go to jail. Now I'm going to rewind 3 years before I lived in Santa Barbara to the Summer of 2008, I had just gotten my first girlfriend, and I felt so lucky and so happy, but most/worst of all had delusions of grandeur with the idea that the book I wrote was a guaranteed sell, and I wouldn't have to worry about financial issues once it was published. See, by that time, the publishing company had already accepted it for publication. So, in my idiocy, I quit the job I had - a good paying one - and my friend and I went on a road trip. Originally just planning to go to San Diego Comic-con, then drive back home, but being in a drug-infused, debauchery fueled mindset, we went to Las Vegas afterwards. I'll save Las Vegas for later. As we saw the sign that proclaimed, "Welcome to San Diego," I lit a joint and passed it to my friend, then I lit a cigarette. I turned up the music, playing a CD I burned(I forgot what song was playing - side effect of drug use, the small details fade away). My friend was driving. I had rented a car for this trip. Don't know it's make and model, but I know it had four doors, and the color of it was gold. "The Gold Lion," I would call it. I slapped the sealing, yelling, "Fuck YEAH! We're here. To the heart of human imagination we go. 'Twas where God was born." My friend said, pointing, "There it is, the arena where the festival happens." I informed, "No, man, it's a convention, in a convention center." He replied, "Sounds conventional." I said, "From the outside. The life is in it's bowels." We drove near the front of the Convention center, and we got stuck in a lane with cars slowly moving. "Fuck this, " my friend said. He switched to an empty lane, and the car continued, hopefully we'd find where the parking entrance was. My friend yelled, "Why are they all in one lane? You hopeless fools." After a few seconds of driving past all the cars, my friend said, frustrated, "It's too easy, dude. What's wrong here?" I said, "They're in line to get into the parking garage." In unison, we uttered, "Whoa." He then said, "Well, that makes sense." Then did a u-turn and made his way to the back of the line. While the line of cars slowly rolled to the parking entrance, my friend said, "Hey, man, look." He held up a zip-lock baggy with something in it I was unfamiliar with. I asked, "What the fuck is that?" He replied, "It's shrooms I dipped in acid." My eyes widened. I said, "You brought that here without telling me?" He said, "Yes, I already ate some when you weren't looking. Here, have a couple of bites." I put my hand up, saying, "No. I've told you before, I don't eat stuff grown in shit." He put in, "They use fertilizer to grow vegetables." I still declined, "No, man, I just want to be stoned during my time here. I got weed cookies, and that's all I want to do." He urged, "Dude, you came here with the desire to experience something more than just sitting on your ass, hearing a rich guy talk, or simply walk around, wandering from booth to booth, simply shaking hands, saying hello. I mean, I'm right, am I?" I replied, "Yeah, I know, do the whole Gonzo thing and all, but to that extreme? How we gonna check into the Hotel later?" My friend looked deep into my eyes, and said, "No matter what happens, I'm here for you. I can handle this. I'll hold your fucking hand if I need to." I relented and took a few small pieces, ate them. I said, "Goddamn, they taste like shit." My friend said, "Hence, grown in shit." We later parked the car, and headed to the long line for registration to obtain our badges. The line was so long that it stretched to an alleyway in between two buildings of the convention center. It was a narrow passage way with white walls on both sides. As the acid-shrooms kicked in, the walls moved in, then back out again. I tapped my friend on the shoulder, he looked at me, grinning. I nodded, affirming my trip commenced. We weren't dressed up in costume(cosplay is the term) like most of the others in line. We just looked like regular dudes with bloodshot eyes, our pupils dilated; one a pale brunette, the other a Mexican. We could tell people that we were a comedy duo from some movie, but I couldn't think of one. Suddenly I noticed one of the people ahead of us was Hunter S. Thompson, my literary idol at the time. I nudged my friend, saying, "It's him." My friend agreed, "Cool, like fate." I mentioned, "Didn't know he was a woman." My friend said plainly, "Just a chick dressed as Thompson. That's cool." I asked, "Can people do that? Be the opposite sex for only three days." My friend said, putting his hands on my shoulders, "Relax, stop thinking so much. Wait until we get inside and walk around. We can talk in there." I uttered, "Talk?" Then whispered, "Thought I was only thinking." I kept as normal appearance as possible when we retrieved our badges to enter the convention. Instructions to self: don't smile; don't look around at all the colorful people; the clerk isn't really looking at you, she's got a job to do, just give her your I.D., take the badge. It was done. We had the badges hanging from around our necks and were in the convention. On the main floor, not only were the people moving, so was everything else. I saw something I didn't like. I put a hand on my friend's chest, and said, "Look, a nurse. I've been ratted out. Manipulated into thinking I was headed to a fun place, but led into a hopeless, solitary hospital, living a listless existence as I slowly die, and experimented on." My friend, nervous, informed me, "That's The Joker in a nurse's uniform. You know, from the movie." I turned my face in a snap close to his, making him jolt. I said, "Gotcha! I just like him in the purple suit better. Man, you were right, this is good shit as Bill Hicks would say. Now, lets enjoy a good two hours, then check into the Hotel."On the showroom floor I couldn't look at something, or someone in cosplay too long with being entrenched in it's hypnotic, magnetic world of their own mind. The creatures, statues, posters, and toys came to life. I said to my friend, "Look, over there, Alien is about to eat that woman. And she's smiling." My friend said, "It's just a statue, man. It's standing still. It's just the LSD and shrooms distorting your view." I asked, "How can you put up with this shit?" He replied, "I know what to expect. Oooh, she's hot. What character is she suppose to be? Look at those tits." I shushed him, then said, "Not too loud, they may not like such compliments. Respect these whores." A twenty something girl squealed, "Excuse me? Who are you calling a whore?" Oh, shit, I thought. "Not you," I said. And as she was about to say something else, my friend and I moved out of that scene. I bumped into The Incredible Hulk - that massive green, mean machine. He said, "Hey, watch it." I apologized. He then stomped along. I turned to see if my friend noticed, but he stood staring at a glass case with small toys of half-naked women at a Manga area. I walked up behind him. I said, "That was close. They almost had us. I thought I was done for when the Hulk stared angrily down at me with those spiteful eyes. How did that kid make himself so tall?" My friend said, "If only real women looked this good." I said, "Those artistic nerds always over-exaggerate what a good-looking woman should look like. They're more like jocks than people like to admit." My friend was transfixed on the toys, studying each detail, every curve of booty and booby. I finally said, "Come on before they think we're creepy pervs." We continued walking throughout the showroom floor. Predator was walking around, and as he passed me, I said to him, "Your target is just a few booths over in that direction. He's eating an innocent woman." Predator said, "Okay." My friend said, "Maybe we shouldn't be talking to random people." I admitted, "I thought it was a statue again. You're right, no talking. Just observe." We came to an area with a lot more outside, light shining from big windows where there were smaller booths. I saw two old ladies, behind them was a poster for the first Evil Dead film, and a sign that said, "The Actress's of The Evil Dead." I said to my friend, "Lets go have a cigarette." Near the entrance to go outside, Erik Estrada was taking pictures with young woman. I said, "Hey, it's Ponch." My friend said under his breath, "Fake Mexican." I asked him, "Why do you say that about every Mexican-American?" My friend said, "Never mind, you don't understand." Smoking a cigarette outside in the hot sun, we noticed, guys dressed as The Fellowship of the Ring smoking from a glass marijuana pipe. My friend asked, "Wanna go smoke with 'em?" I said, "I don't trust the Dwarf. He looks like he want's to punch me in the nuts." My friend giggled. He said, "This place is nice." I said, "Let's check into the Hotel now, I don't like this shit anymore. I want to sober up before tomorrow." My friend said, "You won't for about another six to eight hours." I said, slapping a hand on my forehead, "Fuck, I forgot! Shit." We went back to the parking garage. After about 20 minutes trying to find the car, I said, "Dude, where's my car?" Yes, I actually asked that question. "Where's my black Nissan-" Then, in unison, it occurred to both of us we had the Gold Lion. We laughed for a good few minutes. Then when we realized we were standing right next to it, still laughed as we got in the car. Both of us were exhausted by the time my friend started the car. It was at this time the LSD-shrooms took their total grip on our senses. Checking into the Hotel was no trouble. My instructions: say your name, then give I.D.; when she asks, give credit card for her to swipe in the system; say, 'Thank you.' Fuck I think I smiled too much, because she chuckled. Room 337 was our room. Waiting for the elevator doors to open, I said to my friend, "Soon as we get to the room, I'm writing." My friend patted me on the back, "Good, man, that's good. I can't wait to read it." The elevator doors slid open. We entered. Two other people entered behind us I paid no attention to. I said, "I'm gonna write until my hand hurts. That's what I did when I wrote my novel. No hesitation, no inhibitions, and most of all, no doubts." One of the people in the elevator with us inquired, "You're a writer?" It was the voice of a woman. I looked up at her and simply said, "Yes. Got a book that just got accepted for publication." Then I realized who it was - an angelic celeb to my glazed eyes - she had blond hair and a smile that shined in my dilated pupils. For legal reasons I will call her Bee Bee(B. B.). She was a correspondent for a well known website that covered and reported on such events as Comic-con. And by chance, fate, God's Will, whatever, she was not only looking at ME, but talking to ME! She asked, "What's it called?" I swallowed, then told her, trying my best to seem of sound mind. With her was a slut I didn't like who did the same job as her, but had no wit nor any indication of intelligence. Bee Bee said, "That's cool." I said, "We're here to, you know, celebrate." She said, as the elevator doors opened, "Maybe one day you'll be on a panel in an Exhibit Hall." I said, "In a small one most likely." She and that other chick left. The doors slid closed. My friend began to say, "Wasn't that-" I answered, "Yes." My friend continued, "The one you-" I said, "Yessss." I leaned against the elevator's wall and gave him a gleeful smile. I said, "And she just talked to me." The elevator arrived at the eighth floor, and I tried to open room 887 with the key, it didn't work. "Fuck," I uttered, "the key won't work. They don't want us here." I turned to my friend. He said, "Idiot, the room number is 337, not 887. Dope." His eyes then widened, then dropped his suitcase, grabbed my shirt collar, pulled me close to his face, and said, "Do you know what this means?!" I replied, confused, "No." He said, "Bee Bee and that sexy bitch got off on our floor. They're rooms are on OUR floor." I said, "I need to write. Takes away my shyness." One of Hunter S. Thompson's most famous quotes: "I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me." The man eventually shot a bullet into his brain, but still remains one of my literary idols to this day. The best way to admire artists is loving their work, not what they do in their real world lives. My friend and I got to our room after going down the hallway in the wrong direction, then going the other way, only to pass it, realizing we both weren't reading the fucking numbers on the room doors, but staring down at the carpets as we walked. My friend said, "I can't tell what it looks like. It keeps moving." I said, "Stop looking at the floor, look up. We got to get to the room before it's too late and they take us away." My friend said, "I thought you were looking for the room. I was just following, staring down at the carpet. I always do that on shrooms." I said, "I was doing that too. Where's three-three-seven, goddammit?" My friend stopped, then informed, "Right here, man. I don't got the key." I stopped, turned around, came to the door. It took me three swipes of the room key to open the door. When the door finally opened, I rushed in, my friend leisurely strode in, still staring at the carpet and the difference in pattern from the rooms carpet compared to the hallway's. I grabbed his arm, pulled him clear of the door, saying, "We're safe." Then tried to close the door, but my friend's luggage got in the way. I picked it up and tossed it further into the room. I closed the door as normally as possible. When I locked the door, I exhaled as if being saved from drowning. My friend said, "Damn, dude, we cool. Look at the carpet, it's like the galaxy with a lightbulb shining on it." I said, "Stop talking like that. That's not a lightbulb, it's the sun shining through the window." I got fixated on the view immediately upon noticing it, tossed my suitcase and backpack on the bed, and went up to the window. I put my arms up, my hands in fists, and said, "I feel like I can fly like Superman." My friend said, "Don't be like that one asshole and jump out the window, take off from the ground like all the other flying creatures." I said, "Oh, that makes sense." My friend sat on the bed, turned on the TV. He said, "Lets eat more of the shrooms and watch the news. You won't believe the shit you'll see." I snapped at him, "I didn't come here to watch the fucking news. Soon as this shit wears off as much as it can. I'm going back down to the convention to enjoy it with sound mind." My friend said, "Coke can help mellow you out." I yelped, "You brought cocaine?" My friend admitted, "Yeah, and -" I interrupted, "I thought we were gonna just smoke weed and eat magic cookies on this trip to begin with, then I learn you brought shrooms that were dipped in acid, cocaine, and what else?" My friend smiled, chuckling. He said, "Maybe I won't tell you the rest. More for me." I said, "Yes, more for you. No more for me. I'm going to the bathroom, then I'm going back to the convention, and maybe catch a few panels." My friend said, "I thought you were going to write." I said, "Not right now." After going to the bathroom to piss and shit, then throw up, I left the room, making sure I had the key, and was about to head to the elevators when I looked up to see Bee Bee exiting her room, a gold halo over her head, and white-feathered wings hanging from her shoulder blades. Damn. Or damn lucky. She noticed me, giving me a short wave. I said, "Have a good day at work." We both were headed to the elevators. She said, "Thanks. What are you about to do?" I had to think about it for a bit as we walked, side-by-side. I asked, "There any author's in any of the Exhibit Halls today?" She replied, "Yes. Ray Bradbury is speaking later, but I don't know which room he's going to be in." I said, "I'll find out. What's your schedule like? Who are you going to interview?" She said, "One of them is the comic book writer Mark Miller. You know him?" The elevator doors opened and we entered. I replied, "No. I'm not a big comic book reader." We walked to the convention center, chit-chatting about this and that. I think she could tell I was on drugs, but was polite enough not to give any indication she noticed. We went our separate ways: her going to work; me, well, just tripping balls, observing art, hopefully remembering it later.It is theorized by scientists that gold is naturally made at the center of stars, and when the stars die and explode in a Supernova, all the gold is shot out into the universe in all directions, making its way through space and shooting into whatever planet, or moon it lands on. Alchemy is a single Human's attempt at creating gold in a lab, basically from whatever source there is on Earth: Water, Oxygen, Carbon Dioxide etc. etc. In my own personal opinion, the real Alchemy is not creating wealth from a common element, or from nothing, but in the simple belief something such as gold has any true value in the first place. Think about it for a second: What does gold itself do for our health? The answer is nothing. It is simply a shiny rock, no different from a stone that's stuck at the bottom of the ocean, never to be seen by human eyes. As far as I know, it is human imagination that gives gold value enough that we need it to acquire things from nature that would otherwise be free if it weren't for the powers that be. Hell, because of Nixon the gold standard in the USA was thrown out, and now humans base the value of finance on pieces of paper, by which the value of it can be adjusted by inflation. My friend worked for a bank and told me once only 75 percent of all transactions in the "civilized" world are now computer generated. So we went from value of life based on paper, to numbers on a computer screen that can be changed with few people even knowing about it. Anyways, I'm blathering, let me get to the heart of what I'm trying to convey to you. As I wandered through San Diego Comic-con, I began thinking about human imagination and how it has brought us to a self-awareness that, as far as all of us know, only humans have. The ability to ask the question: Why are we here? Why am I alive? Why am I living? These questions have given purpose to billions, and has gotten them through the stress's of simply existing. It has brought people together, as well as separated(a side-effect most people don't like to admit) but it's only because people - to me anyway - have taken those questions too damn seriously. I've come to the conclusion that it's not the question of "Why?" but "Why have I bothered to ask 'why' in the first place?" I look around the showroom floor at all the booths, the artists(illustrators, writers, actors, etc. etc. Then I see Kim Kardashian? Whatever.) Then I see the fans getting autographs, shaking hands with their favorite artists, taking pictures with them. I see all the cosplay people as characters created by established artists, or characters they created themselves just for events like this. That's the Alchemy. It's not in a lab, mixing chemicals to create a shiny rock, which not even Newton could do, but here where there were thousands of stories from thousands of people based on their imagination. And it was not in a fucking lab; it's based on their personal experience, or something they thought about while bored in a classroom, sitting at home, on a hike, reading a book etc. etc. That, to me, is the heart of Alchemy. I was late to Ray Bradbury's panel, but the door was open and I was able to hear him speak - the last ten minutes anyway. I had read his most infamous novel by that time "Fahrenheit 451." It wasn't hard to find a seat, but the acid-shrooms were still going strong, so I sat near the back. He was talking to a man sitting next to him about his life, his writing process, what inspires him, blah blah. Same old shit I've heard writers say on youtube. The coolest thing he said was when he referred to all his fans as, "My bastard children." Everyone laughed and cheered. The day was done. Entering the Hotel room I was met by the sight of Bee Bee's skank co-worker, putting on her cloths. I got to see her tits for a mere moment. Nice tits, but I cared not. She said, "Hey, you, the writer friend. Sorry, I'm in a rush." She picked up her purse and rushed out the door. My friend was in his bed, under the covers, obviously naked. He said, "Toss me my pants, man." I found his pants in the corner of the room nearest to my bed. With only my index and thumb I picked it up, then tossed it to his reaching hand. I asked, "So you two meet at the convention and you persuaded her up to the room?" He replied, "No. I snorted some lines, then went to the ice machine to get a bucket of ice for some Jack and Cokes I wanted. It so happens she was there too. She noticed the powder still in my nostril and asked for a few pumps. We came back here, and as they say, one thing led to another-" I interrupted, "You are one smooth dog." My friends eyes widened. He yelped, "DUDE! She invited us out to a club all the people that work for website hangout at after the convention is over for the day. And the best news," he slammed a fist on the bed, "Bee Bee is single!" I said, "That's cool, man. But there's no chance I can get lucky with Bee Bee. I got no expectations." With his cocaine induced expressions, my friend said, "She loves writer's, man. What's her name told me. Wait, what's that girl's name?" I told him. After my friend and I were clean-shaven and showered cleaned I still paced the room in anticipation for our night out with Bee Bee and that skank. The acid-shrooms had waned as much as time could subside from my senses. My friend patted me on the back, telling me to calm down, and that a bit of cocaine would help. I drank two little plastic bottles of Jack Daniels from the mini-fridge under the television(at ten bucks a piece, fuck it) and the anxiety of anticipation of partying with Bee Bee subsided not. My friend said that if I took a few bumps that all I would desire was having a good time, and he suggested that maybe Bee Bee did some too. So for the first time I did a bump, then two to three more lines(can't remember), then drank two more little plastic Jack Daniels. Dunk, tripping a bit on the acid-shrooms, and now high on cocaine, there was a knock on the door. I ran to it as my friend was making his way to answer. I threw it open in a flash. I hollered, in a squealing tone, "Hello!" The skank was at the door wearing a black dress, but I paid her no attention; my attention was on Bee Bee behind her. She wore a green t-shirt that stated, "Waiting for delivery boy," and tight blue-jeans with some tears throughout the leggings. My kind of woman. The skank was my friend's type from the body, face, to the useless character. What occurred next was like a vivid dream, and at the same time it all happened in a flash. We left the hotel, took a cab to a club we didn't have to wait in line for, sat in a VIP booth to my friends excitement. A bottle of Grey Goose Vodka was brought in a bucket of ice to our table. My friend, I, and the Skank drank immediately and heavily. Bee Bee being the calm, un-submissive type that I loved, drank lightly. Her and I talked. I don't remember what we talked about but she grinned, smiled, laughed, occasionally touching my shoulder. I took no notice of my friend and the skank until I turned to him to ask a question, I think, and saw they were gone. Bee Bee said they went to the dance floor. I said, "Come, take my hand, my lady." I remember that at least, and made our way to the dance floor. It was a typical techno-hip hop-industrial club with a DJ at a big-ass podium, strobe lights, disco balls, the likes of which if you've read my previous posts I only liked to be in if I was wasted. Bee Bee and I danced for ten minutes until my friend tapped me on the shoulder, indicated to me that he wanted to do more cocaine. We left the Skank and Bee Bee to dance with each other. In the bathroom stall I told him how gay it was that two men did coke together in a bathroom stall. Then from the next stall over I heard a dude say, "Just a couple more then we can leave. I need this shit." My friend gestured to the next stall over, indicating a "Duh." Then we snorted two bumps each. As we were washing our hands, the stall where I heard the voice come from was opened and out came two big tough bouncers wiping their noses and sniffing. My friend and I were laughing as we made our way back to the VIP booth. The girls were there. We all did a few shots. In the booth next to ours I saw a Stormtrooper without his helmet on doing a shot with a Rebel star fighter. I don't know if they were actually there or just a figment of my diluted, fucked-up, brain. Sometime later we took a cab to a beach, found a surfer bar, did more shots of Vodka. Then went to layout in the sand under the somewhat shining stars. I told Bee Bee I liked her a lot because she reminded me of my new girlfriend back home - blond hair, blue eyes, smooth, pale skin, and a nice butt. She told me my girlfriend was a lucky woman, and said quietly to me so the other two wouldn't hear, "Just lay off the cocaine and LSD." I informed her, whispering close to her ear, "It was shrooms dipped in LSD." Her and I left the beach alone and took a cab back to the Hotel. My friend and the Skank didn't want to leave. The night was too young for them. Bee Bee had work to do in the morning. I, even being completely wasted out of my mind, knew I had reached my limits. With an arm around her shoulders, Bee Bee led me to my room. I think I told her, as I opened the door, "You know, you can take advantage of me, if you want. Just know I love my girlfriend, and will pretend you are her." She giggled as she walked to her room. She said, "Goodnight." That night I dreamt I did not who I was or what I looked like. In the dream I looked in the mirror and only saw a blur. There's nothing better for the soul than memory; no matter if it be positive or negative, it can give you a better perspective and may aid your well being. It has for me. Comic-con was over and my friend and I departed without saying goodbye to either Bee Bee or that Skank. We packed our things and checked out of the Hotel. On our way out of San Diego we lit a joint and made a beeline for the great, shining, spectacular party city of Las Vegas where dreams can come true - if you got the money, that is. Let me just get to the point: the trip resulted in the draining of my finances, my dignity, my self-respect, and most of all my self-awareness of the consequences of my actions. Even after coming home from the trip I cared not for spending so much money and then continuing to spend more of it until it was gone. Anyways, we made our way to Las Vegas late in the afternoon, a few hours before the sunset. My friend did some bumps of cocaine at a few stop lights. Then, for no good fucking reason, the gonzo hit me, and I ate some more of the acid laced shrooms. I don't know what came over me. An impulse of the moment in which it felt like I was in a void filled with bright spiraling light, and the only way to remain sane in this upright maelstrom was to get into a prolonged derangement of the senses. I think unconsciously I hated Las Vegas. Guess it was a clairvoyant thing that made me know what that fucking city was going to do to me. My friend saw me reach in the open zip-lock bag for a second serving of the acid-shrooms. He said, "Puto, I thought you wouldn't do that shit again." I said, "Oh, I thought they were Beef-jerky." Then I burst out laughing maniacally. "Fuck it. Fuck inhibitions, I'm in fucking Las Vegas." My friend said, "Save me some. Don't eat them all." I said, munching on my second serving of the acid-shrooms, "Whatever, coke-head. Lets find a cheap-ass Hotel closest to the strip." My friend informed, "There are not cheap-ass Hotels nearest to the strip. Just look at all these extravagant mother-fuckers." I said, "Cheap, fucker. CHEAP! CHEAP! We're not on unlimited credit." My friend asked, "What's got into you?" I replied, "You know, I could never have fucked Bee Bee, though I got to be in her presence." My friend said, "I tell you, man. You could've had her. She liked you." I asked, "How could you tell? You were busy with the skank." My friend said, giggling, "Yeah, she was an easy insert. Put some magic powder in her, and the legs open." I said, revolted, "Disgusting." We found a cheap-ass Hotel nearest to the strip. Well, the cheapest we could get. I had my friend check us in while I sat in the car, looking straight ahead, making sure I wasn't staring at anyone walking by, leaving or entering their rooms. I thought about Bee Bee as an Angel that day we walked to the Convention. If only I wasn't on this shit I'm on right now. But then again, I had my new girlfriend back at home. She told me before I left that I could do as I pleased, but not to tell her until she asked. "I don't think I'll lie to her," I thought. She was my real Angel. My friend opened the door. He parked the car nearest to our room, which was on the top third floor, we then got our luggage and walked up the stairs to our room. My friend asked, "Why you keep giggling?" I said, "I didn't know I was." My friend said, "We'll unpack our shit, get into new cloths, smoke some weed, do some blow, then walk the strip." I said, "No more coke for me." My friend said, "But acid-shrooms is okay." I countered, "Just this last time." In the room we took our showers and shaved, making our bodies look and smell nice. We got dressed in our best attire. My friend had to pick out what I had to be sure I looked the coolest I could be: a Misfits t-shirt, black jean shorts. He said, "Be sure the chain from your wallet hangs out. It's a good look." I said, "Chicks are gonna think I'm a goth." My friend countered, "No, they're gonna be impressed you don't give a fuck about other people's perception of you." We left the Hotel and got in a cab. The driver, from my perception at that point, was a cheetah with pink hair. My friend asked the pink cheetah, "Where's the best club at, the most happening." The pink cheetah looked in the rearview mirror at us with his green eyes. He said, "I got just the place for you two." I said, "Cool, take us there, and we thank you." The driver said, "My pleazzzzuurrrrre." That, for some reason, got my heart beating fast. The cab pulled up to the Hard Rock Hotel. The pink cheetah told us there was a nightclub called "Vanity" that, from what he could tell by the look of us, was fit perfectly for us. We paid him and made our way to Vanity's entrance where there stood a security guard. He asked us, "You gentleman staying in the Hotel." My friend replied, "Unfortunately not. Couldn't get a room." My friends lie was effective, I think. The big, bald security guard, who wore an all black suit and a pair of sunglasses, said "That sucks." He looked me up and down. "I like your shirt. I'm a big fan of them too." I said, "Thanks." The guard said, "Go on in you two. Have a good time." We entered. I think in Las Vegas, just like drunks, they love people on hallucinogens and coke. Of course it was the kind of club that I hated: fucking strobe lights, fucking big-ass disco ball, fucking techno-industrial-hip-hop. But there were two exceptions: Hot chicks, and I heard some rock and roll in the music, and some metal at times. We sat at the bar and my friend ordered us sweet-tasting mixed drinks and two shots of rum. He said, both of us holding up our shots, "Here's to Las Vegas." I said, "Hopefully we remember it." My friend retorted, "Who fucking cares we don't remember? I won't." We tapped our shots to one another and downed them. I chased it down with the cocktail my friend ordered me. I didn't know what it was called, but I do know it was green. My friend ordered two more shots. I looked at the bartender and saw she was a TSA officer in her blue uniform and wearing latex gloves. After she went to another patron, I asked my friend, "You think she'll grope us for weapons?" My friend looked at her ass, then replied, "I'll grope her ass with my dick." Three young ladies came up to the bar nearest to my friend. He began talking to one of them. I could hardly hear the conversation. Two came up to me asking if I really wrote a novel. I affirmed what my friend told them, and they seemed overly amazed and impressed as if I was already made of money. My friend and I danced with them. After we went to the casino floor, the ladies in tow. We played craps, lost money; played Black Jack, lost money; played slots, lost money; there was a show at The Joint - a famous rockstar was playing, don't remember who - there were still seats available, near the front actually. I bought us all tickets - fucking expensive. I can't remember the fucking rockstar because all I saw on stage singing was a big fucking bear roaring into a mic, and the band members were orangoutangs. They really knew how to play for low-to-no-IQ animals. The show was over, it was just passed midnight, I guess, we went to another bar with the ladies. My friend gave them some coke to snort in the bathroom. The bar was full of what I could tell were Aliens from different cultures throughout the entire universe. I asked my friend, "Are we on Coruscent?" My friend asked, "Where?" I said, "Never mind." We took the ladies to our Hotel room and it turned out they were fucking prostitutes. GODDAMNIT! But I kept my cool. I gave my friend some of the biggest bills I had left on me, then headed downstairs and walked along the strip. I found it fucking hilarious that amongst all the spectacular, colorful, flashing, shining lights of Las Vegas that on the sidewalk were short men passing out prostitute cards, or Jesus Freaks yelling about Vegas being the work of Satan and shit. I yelled, "God's Mercy on all you swine!" Then I lit a cigarette and found a good spot to sit and watch the Sun's light fill the sky.

SOC #8: Rejected by Free Spirits

My favorite quote from the stand-up comedian Bill Hicks has always been: "They don't want me. They don't want the voice of reason." He said this in his last interview with a public access television program based in Texas. He will always be my favorite comedians, no one in my mind has surpassed him, though many have tried. Moving into my Boss' house was fucking cool, even though the house was full of silver bags filled with all different strands of marijuana, the house's property being a bit small with the houses surrounding it close together - I mean, one could smell weed a block away if we didn't keep the window's closed. One of my Boss' pet-peeves was people smoking joints in the house, which I can't understand to this day. The house smelled of weed already, smoking one joint and passing it around as we trimmed the buds made no change. Now, my Boss was one of those Hindu worshipping types that judged people by what Zodiac sign they were. He hated the fact I smoked cigarettes, his attitude being like, "I have nothing against you, but I hate you." He would tell me at times, "Your body is a vessel, and must be treated positively with encouraging -" Blah, Blah, blah, fucking blah. I simply smiled and uttered, "Uh huh," in mock-agreement and fake politeness as best I could. The man was a Canadian, who first took a hit of acid at age thirteen and started smoking weed in the same year. I agree with modern medicine, if one smokes weed that early in life, one'll not be as smart as could be in adulthood, even if one is a self-made millionaire. During the time I was working for this guy, he was in some dispute with the city over his business license for the medical marijuana dispensary. Now, when it comes to running a state legal medical marijuana business, there are certain rules one must go by to operate. He fucked up one of those rules, and the city cancelled his permit, which he couldn't apply for again in another two years. In his anti-authoritarian effort, he appealed. We still worked for him, but seldom got paid. I never knew Canadians can be such pricks and that stupid. He wouldn't show up to the house for weeks at a time. One day, I worked four straight hours making hash out of the bud trimmings, then went outside for a smoke break. I was relaxed, my face towards the sun, blowing out the tobacco. A good life. "What are you doing?" yelled my Boss. At the door to the garage, staring down at me as I took another drag. "You know the man next door is an investigator for the DA. You're out here smoking a cigarette, poisoning your body, and blowing second hand smoke in his direction." I informed him, "The dude smokes cigarettes too, and his wife." My Boss demanded, "Get in here." I said, "I'm not done with my cigarette. Just on break." He said, "I'll need to talk to you." I said, "Okay." I finished my cigarette. The man on the other side of the fence wasn't even home at that moment, and when he was, he was either smoking a cigarette in his backyard, typing on his iPad, or yelling at his wife about giving money to his junkie sister. "This will be the last hundred I'll ever give her," the investigator yelled in his yard one day, pacing on his lawn, smoking a cigarette. So I went back inside the garage to get chewed out by my Canuck Boss. He told me how lucky I was to have a job and the only reason he let me work for him was because of my friend -- blah, blah, fucking blah. Other than smoking all the weed I wanted while working for the Canadian, people who came some days to trim with my coworkers and I were really nice people. Most were struggling reggae musicians who would play the occasional local show. To be honest, I only enjoyed reggae when I was stoned. That's all they would play on the iPod speakers as we trimmed the buds. I worked well into the night, until I was by myself, put in my iPod, and blast some metal. One of the few nights my Boss would stop by and hear what I was listening to, he said, "That's Devil worship." I said to him, chuckling, "A man with dreadlocks doesn't feel dread, and a man with a devilock, such as I, doesn't believe in the Devil." He stared at me blankly. He then said, "Whatever. I got your money." During the summer of that year, our boss said my friend and I had to leave the house so his friends could have a place to stay while they were on break from their work. These new house sitters were roadies for Damian Marley. They were great people to work with. I loved to listen to them(when they spoke english, other times they would speak in Jamaican) as they spoke about politics, philosophy, spirituality, and their work with the Marley family. My friend asked one of them how the politicians were in Jamaica. He replied, cynically, "Fucked up." Now, the reason my Boss hardly came to the house that Summer was he consulted on a big Hollywood film directed by one of my favorite filmmakers, Oliver Stone. You see, my Boss was a friend of his. And I hoped my Boss would take my friend and I to the set, I wanted to meet Oliver Stone so badly, but my Boss never took any of his employees, though I heard a rumor Oliver Stone wanted at least two of us to speak with the actors. I could have met Blake Lively(whimper. I don't know, sparks could have happened.) But I actually just wanted to meet Oliver Stone, shake his hand, look at the script for 'Savages,' and have one little chat with him. Mention my book to him - blah, blah, fucking blah. It never happened. Before spending a full month on the set of 'Savages', my Boss bought over 300 clones, and left them in the garage, not telling us how to properly mix the nutrients we would have to water them with. Wow, what a great spiritualist: Called me a Devil worshipper; thought he could sue the entire city of Santa Barbara; and forgot to tell us how to water his marijuana clones due to his dumb-fuck ego. I left at the end of August, my Boss still owing me a few grand, but "Fuck it," I thought. My friend told me later all those marijuana clones had to be thrown away because my Boss couldn't secure land to grow them on.

SOC #7: An apparent brush with Da' Thug Life

Stupidity is in every generation of humans. It's not their fault, they just act before thinking, never considering the consequences. My older coworker, his girlfriend, my friend and I went to a house party one Saturday evening. A typical college party we were invited to by my older coworker's girlfriend, whom was my age, attending the University. It wasn't in Isla Vista, I think it was in Santa Barbara, I guess. To tell you the truth I got drunk and stoned before hand, my attention span became a bit bleary on the cab ride to the party. We arrived. Took us a while because my older coworker lit a joint, pissing off the driver, so he got lost on purpose, increasing the number on the meter. I gladly helped pay the fee. Walking into the house to the sound of that same techno/industrial hip hop shit from the clubs I hated so much. God, why? The living room was one big dance floor of course, black lights, and strobe lights making a nice mock-club atmosphere. College kids freaking on the dance floor. "Jesus," I said to myself, "why don't you just take your cloths off and have an orgy? Party like an elitist." My friend asked me, "What's that, man?" I replied, raising my arms, "Let's party like Rockstars!" In unison, my friend and older coworker, both hollered, "Yeah, yeeeeah!" We all danced to the music for a bit, taking swigs from a bottle of Squirt half full of tequila. My other coworker arrived with two of his friends from Los Angeles. He held up a blunt. We made our way through the kitchen to the backyard, on our way I saw a door open to a garage-turned-entertainment center with couches and lounge chairs. Sitting on the couches and lounge chairs were college kids who drank a little over their body weight. They were either passed out or leaning forward, elbows on their thighs, losing their balance(though they were sitting). One of the college kids ran through the open sliding glass door, he was apparently one of the renters. He bleated, effeminate, "Oh my God! My neighbor just called me. Someone left their headlights on, and they're pointed right at their front window. Anyone own a dark blue Honda? I asked everyone else inside, they don't. If you guys don't, I'm about to break some lights with one of my golf clubs." The dude had to catch his breath when he was done talking. One of my coworker's friend said it was his, and left with the other friend in tow. The four of us stayed in the back until the blunt was done. I began to wonder what the hell I was doing their; I didn't feel I belonged with these people, this scene. By the graciousness of my friend's connection to a better paying job, I was here, away from my home town, experiencing a new environment, but not enjoying myself, because I knew better. This was my friends scene more than it was mine. He was all about living and doing without worry, as long as he didn't hurt anyone, and I found nothing wrong in it; it just didn't fit me. My boss wasn't paying us on a weekly basis anyway. Fucking cocksucker, mother-- The music went off inside the house. "Goddammit," my friend said, furious. He, my older coworker, and his girlfriend went inside. I stayed to have a cigarette. There were a few other people outside as well. One girl came up to me, and asked, "Do you worship Satan?" I answered, "No. I get it. It's my hair style." Then my friend came outside, saying, "We got to go. She already called a cab for us, so we got a ride. Can you leave with those assholes?" "Why?" I asked. "What happened?" He said, "Those two idiots tried to steal the laptop in front of everyone. Like no one was going to notice the music abruptly going off. They tried to run out the door, but obviously they got caught. Can you go with them, so they don't cause anymore trouble on the way back home?" I said, "Yeah, you got it." I got in the car with the morons, and on the ride they were saying how they grabbed the laptop playing the music, and almost opening the door. My coworker said, "That fag almost ripped your shirt off. Pretty strong for a fairy." His friend said, "We got caught! Fuck!" He then slapped the steering wheel. There was a long moment of silence. I was hoping they were coming to the realization that they sucked at thievery, and it wasn't for them. My coworker, much to my chagrin, broke the silence with, "Nah, man, THUG LIFE! That is thug life." And that's what they all chanted as the car sped on the freeway.

SOC #6: One Hot Onion

The weekends at that condo in Santa Barbara were mostly wonderful, but there was another incident with a coke-head that wasn't so pleasing. We were having a BBQ on a Saturday, where my older coworker would do most of the cooking. It was, I tell you, the best food I had ever eaten; could be the  marijuana I smoked at the time, but it was great food. After the main courses were done, he heated a whole onion in the grill, and we'd all take layers from it as it slowly cooled on the table. Ghost was there with one of his friends. Ghost was a nice guy, but one you didn't want to be on the bad side of. As I cut a piece of onion for myself, Ghost's friend did a bump of cocaine, and then looked up at me. "Man, hot," I muttered, my fingers hesitantly touching the piece of onion. Ghost's friend was giving me this distrusting look(now, you must understand I was the only white boy there with a bunch of Mexicans. I'm half Mexican, but most people can't tell; people just see one color.) He did another bump of coke as I sat back down in the patio chair. My older coworker, sitting next to me, said, "You like?" I replied, "Oh, yes. I've never had a hot onion before, let alone ate an onion by itself." I heard a sniff. Ghost's friend, still staring at me, the door key he snorted from still at his nose. I took no notice, it still wasn't occurring to me that this guy didn't like me, even though it was the first time I met him, and hadn't spoken to him yet. I rolled a Tamaira(a Tobacco joint laced with weed, what I call it anyway) and talked to my older coworker about how he learned to cook by simply teaching himself. It's crazy how I've always been told growing up that you HAVE to learn to do things from someone else higher than you. An authoritarian worship I think of it as. All of our ancestors from a hundred thousand years ago learned to survive by teaching themselves the ways to continue going on living in this seemingly never ending continuum of --  Ghost's friend stood up, snorting another bump of cocaine. "Hey, man," he said to me, "what's your name?" I told him. There was a pause as he put his little cocaine package in his pocket, his eyes zombified, his mouth agape. "What you do for work?" he asked. I answered, gesturing to my older coworker, "I work with him on the farm." He said, "Oh, and what you do on the farm?" His eyes shifted over to my older coworker, then back at me as I answered. "We grow weed on the farm. Right now we're trimming the buds for the 'patients' of my boss. I call them customer's but everyone in our business call them 'patients.'" My friend was coming back outside, lighting a joint. Ghost's friend shook his head, saying, "Hey, man, I'm DA." He reached behind him and brought out a pistol, pointing it at my head. My friend sat next to my older coworker, noticed the gun, and froze. My older coworker smiled, laughing. Now, I was stoned, and buzzed from a few beers. And all I said was, "It's not DA. It's DEA. A DA is a fucking lawyer." Ghost said, "Put that away, puto." His friend said to my coworkers, "This gringo has a big mouth. How can you guys trust him?" I replied, answering for them, "Dude, I knew you knew what we do for money. What we do is legal under state law. Just because I'm white, doesn't mean I'm stupid. Now, put the gun away, have a seat, relax, and keep snorting your cocaine." Ghost's friend smiled, chuckling, putting the gun back where it was before, and said, "This white boy is cool. Ballsy and funny. Want a bump, amigo?"

SOC #5: Vodka Ice Storm

Before I moved into my boss' house full time in Santa Barbara, I slept on a small couch in a living room of a condo with 7 other people, including my friend who slept on a thin cushion on the floor. One of my roommates, Ghost, lived with his girlfriend in a room upstairs. It was my first time living away from home, and I didn't care that I slept on a couch where my feet hung off one end; I got good sleep on that couch. What I'm going to tell you next happened about a month after moving into that place. Ghost and his girlfriend got into a fight when my friend and I were at work. The following weekend we were chilling in the condo, drinking beers, smoking joints, when Ghost's girlfriend opened the front door, holding a plastic bottle of vodka in one hand, a pinch left at the bottom of the bottle. "Lets get fucked up!" she said, raising the nearly empty bottle, seeing us smoking a joint we were passing around. She wasn't walking straight. She slammed the door shut. My friend gave me a worried look. It was 3 in the afternoon, and her being drunk as fuck didn't seem strange to me; us being free spirits and all. But the owner of the condo, my older coworker, looked worried just like my friend. She stumbled in the living room, plopping her ass on the couch between my coworkers, continuing to say, "Lets get fucked up!" Finishing the last of the vodka, she threw the bottle across the room. It hit the wall and bounced to the floor. "What the fuck, guys?" she asked, nearly screaming. "Where's the shit?" I tried to pass her the joint. She scoffed. "No," she said, "the shit, shit, where's the shit." She was wearing a black tank-top with thin shoulder straps. She pulled down her tank-top, showing her titties, digging around them, looking for something with her glazed eyes. My older coworker stared down at her boobs, smiling. "Whoa," he uttered. Then he said, "Wow." My friend seemed to enjoy himself too. Well, she was looking for cocaine that wasn't there; that's how fucked up she was. "You got shit?" she asked me. "No," I answered, chuckling. "What the fucks funny? I want some fucking powder, BITCH!" she yelled at me. "Sorry," I said, "I ain't got none." I went through the sliding glass door to the small, cement backyard of the condo, closing the door behind me to have a cigarette. She was fucking nuts. I chilled in a chair, smoking my cig, when I heard her slamming her fists on the sliding-glass door, yelling at the top of her lungs. Thank God I was outside. Then she came out, my friend following her. FUCK! "Where are my fucking car keys, goddammit!?" she yelled, running up to the glass patio table. I shook my head, shrugging. She then took hold of the table and flipped it, shattering it to pieces. I sat in the chair motionless, astonished, shocked, and scared. The fuck was wrong with this bitch. Ghost wasn't around; he hadn't been around for days prior to this incident I'm describing. My friend said to her, "Go inside and look. The keys must be inside." She then went back inside, her hands waving all around, not knowing she could hurt someone with one slap. "Dude," my friend began to say to me, "we had to hide all the knives." I asked, "Why?" He said, "Because she'll grab one in each hand and wave 'em around. You see what she did to the table? Imagine if she had knives, man." When I went back inside the condo, she immediately came up to me, her bloodshot, drunk-as-fuck eyes looking into mine. She asked me, "Where are my keys?" I said, chuckling again, "I don't know." She asked, "Why are you laughing at me?" I replied, "I'm not laughing at you. Life is just entertaining. Be happy."

SOC #4: A wasting talent

Now the main reason of moving to Santa Barbara was the job my friend was able to get me into. Oh, and by the way, that two pounds of marijuana that was in my trunk had to do with my job. No, nothing illegal...well, by States rights anyway. I needed higher income and the job I had in my hometown was total cheap bullshit. I was trying to pay an independent publishing company to publish my first novel. And the fastest way to get it done was the medicinal marijuana business. For me, anyway. I dropped out of college years earlier - my first semester - to the shock of people that knew me. I just didn't care for the academics I could've achieved, all I could think about was that story in my head, and my eagerness of writing it down and submitting it to anyone who'd take it. After a few months of queries and submissions of the first ten pages of my first completed novel to agents, and small publishers, the first that showed interest was a publishing company that required me to pay for some of the cost of publication. A lot of established writers, and struggling ones, hate the idea of the writer suffering the burden of paying for ones own publication, but I cared not. My story most likely was never going to find interest from a literary agent, let alone any mainstream publisher; it was simply just too extreme for most people. By the time I went to work for the medicinal marijuana dispensary, I was 40 percent away from finishing payments, the publishing company didn't mind my payments were going to be late, so my novel was still safe, lying in wait to open up to the reading world. The job was hell of easy at first, so fucking simple. At first I spent about a week on a farm about 40 minutes outside of Santa Barbra, got up around 7 in the morning, got a silver bag full of untrimmed bud from a room full of silver bags(let me tell you, dear reader, it was a shitload, like a silver lake), then went outside to a tent where tables and chairs were set up. While my friend and I walked to the tent, he stopped, looking up the hill to the road behind bushes and shrubbery, his eyes wide, paranoid. "Dude, don't," he said to me. "Come, move." I looked up the hill and saw just bushes, trees, and shrubbery. "What?" I asked. He shushed me, beckoning me onward to the tent. "The fuck is wrong with you?" I said. He shushed me again. He told me later that pigs were parked on the road near the entrance to the farm, watching whoever entered. See, the Sheriff of the county where that particular farm was located liked to be informed if there was medicinal marijuana being grown in his area, even if it was not required of the owner of the farm to do so. My boss, who didn't own the land, but was leasing it, did not inform the Sheriff, because my boss was a clandestine type with delusions of superiority over authority, he didn't feel it was the Sheriff's business to know. Before I started working for him, my boss grew too many damn marijuana plants, over 3 motherfuckin' thousand, and the neighboring farms smelled it and called the Sheriff. That was the only day I worked on that farm, the owner wanted my boss' business off his property, he got his money, and a week later we were working at a house owned by my boss in Santa Barbara and trimmed the buds their. That first day was interesting though, being in the tent, I trimmed with Mexicans who came from the deep south of Mexico. They spoke Spanish to my friend, and my coworker, but amongst themselves they spoke in a Mayan dialect. We didn't know what they were saying, but it was cool to hear. Not only did I work for the business for the extra cash to pay for the publication for my novel, but also write, which I seldom did to my disappointment. I lacked discipline the entire time: if I wasn't getting stoned on weed and watching movies after work, I was going out drinking, getting wasted, wasting away my talent. Seriously, the 6 or 7 months I was there, I wrote only 8 pages of a second novel I was writing, a novel I scrapped due to the fact it was going nowhere, it had no purpose. When I came back to my hometown, I e-mailed the publishing company and told them my payments were not going to be sent for a while longer. They replied that they would amend my contract with them, and change the publication of my novel to On-Demand printing, which just meant that if someone would want a copy of my book, rather than downloading it, it would take a little longer to be delivered to them. My first novel was on its way to publication, and I didn't go back to Santa Barbara and work for that fucking idiot asshole of a boss. He couldn't run a hot dog stand in New York City if God helped him.

SOC #3: Close call to a 3 way

Now I must have to admit I never got laid while living in Santa Barbara. I had a cool special lady friend back at home, and though we had an open relationship, I never committed myself to such a thing. My friend loved woman, seemed like every night he got a new one in his bed, or the same one for a week straight before moving on. Oh, youth, how freshly elastic your quench never seems to cease. And he loved strip clubs, I mean, LOVED. But Santa Barbara only had one strip joint, an 18 and up place, no alcohol, only sold soda, gatorade, and red bull. So my friend, me, and another one of my coworkers would frequent the strip joint at least once a week. My friend would sit their, completely hypnotized by the ladies on stage, being fond of each and everyone of them. I did enjoy myself, but at the time I didn't have much money, our boss was out of town a lot, consulting on a film in production, and he wasn't paying us every week. Fucking asshole. So I kept myself from getting a lap dance, or even tipping, for the cab ride back to the place I stayed at. We didn't have a car, because we were drinking at Sharkies, a club down town. I didn't want another run-in with the cops. Fuck NO! So I sat in a comfortable seat watching the ladies do their thing, an occasional one asking if I wanted a private dance. "No, thank you," I would say. My coworker was already getting one, and my friend was talking to another. The stripper being all flirty with him. "Money. Give me your money," her body said. While she said, "Wow. You do that. Amazing." Then would laugh. Digging for gold like those fucking pigs. "Hey, your friend looks unhappy," she said to my friend. Then said to me, "Hey, are you okay?" I replied, "Just chillin', enjoying the show." Bitch leave me alone, I was thinking, no money for you from me. When the night ended at 1 a.m., we were waiting for a cab to come. My coworker was telling us how he gave the stripper who was servicing him a joint, and in her excitement, she invited us to her apartment. We took a cab to her place, being it was against the rules for her to leave with us. The chick opened the door. She looked good without her makeup and her hair back in a pony tail. She had a tattoo on the back of her neck that said, "ALASKA." And while we all conversed with her, we learned she was from Alaska, and she was attending the community college to study journalism. There was a knock on the door, and low and behold the stripper my friend was talking to at the strip club entered. In her street cloths, and her face without makeup, she looked just like my cousin. When the girls gave us a private show, she kept looking at me with teasing, seducing eyes, yuck. The night ended, my friend left with my cousin(I mean, his new stripper friend), leaving my coworker and I alone with the Alaskan. I sat in a chair watching the TV while they talked on the bed. I realized it was nearing 5:30am. And I was going to work the next day. "Come to bed," the Alaskan chick said to me. I said, "I'll sleep here on the chair. I don't mind." She commanded, "No. Here. My guest sleeps in my bed." So I got in her big bed, under the sheets. My coworker fell asleep. Her and I talked a bit. She wanted to fuck. But if we did, my coworker(a potential Bisexual) would wake up and join in. I wasn't sure if he was really a bisexual, but I didn't want to take a chance, and find out he was. I mean, if he was, he would touch me, yuck. A worser feeling than fucking that stripper that looked like my cousin. Weeks later, I heard my coworker on the phone with one of his lady friends. This is what he said: "He's one hot dude. "(pause) "What? Didn't I tell you I'm a Bi?" (an even longer pause) (really long pause, like he finally admitted who he was and the relief of it) "NO! I'm kidding. I like pussy."