Wednesday, January 2, 2013

Waxing emo in 2013

2012, I think, was probably the most diversely fucked up/lovely year of my life.

During the course of those 365 days, I experienced one of the most beautiful moments of my existence. I also passed through one of the most heart wrenching.  I developed friendships that are incredibly meaningful, and experienced the loss of a friendship that nearly stole all the happiness from my existence, and seemed to render all things bland.

Check out this emo dickwad.

Sometime around June, I found myself with a couple weeks off, and a shitload of mushrooms.  The logical thing to do, was visit Yellowstone, and trip balls around like, a fucking geyser or something.  Unable to find anyone that just had a bunch of random time off, and who wanted to eat psychedelic mushrooms surrounded by dozens of hundreds of Asians, I ventured alone, to the great, goddamned gorgeous North.

I have many memories of Yellowstone from my childhood era.  Throwing boomerangs in a field.  Losing boomerangs in a field.  Seeing the myriad animals, utterly oblivious to the anomaly situation in which they lived, completely disinterested in the technology abusing animals but a rifle shot away.  Chewing.  Watching.  Worry free.  Feeling utterly amazed by the natural phenomena boiling water in pits all the shades of an abalone shell.  Watching gouts of water erupt, rejected by the earth.

Because the psilocybin experience creates such a unique oneness with nature, I felt like this would probably be the ultimate thing to do, in such a place.  I wanted to strip away reality, and watch the earth breathe.

As I arrived in West Yellowstone, in spite of the fact that it was June, it was fucking cold.  The roiling clouds blanketing the sky promised to shit snow all over everything.  I surmised that I had about 2 hours before dark, and likely less than that until the tiny white hexagonal prisms began their soft descent to the chilled earth.

I hauled ass to my camp site, drastically weaving around the fucking idiots who, at any moment, would slam on their brakes, come to a screeching halt in the middle of the goddamned road, to check out like, a fucking beaver or something in a field.

Jesus, tourists.  This is the major downfall of Yellowstone.

I arrived at my camp, set up my tent, drank a Mirror Pond IPA, had my mind summarily blown to hell by said IPA, and climbed into my tent, as the flakes began to fall.

I woke up, with 4 inches of snow on the ground, and thought, "Jesus.  Look at that snow."  And then promptly fell back asleep.

2 hours later, I awoke to damp, snowless earth, and thought, "Jesus.  This weather is fucked."

I spent the next several hours, scouting the various wonders of Mother Nature, looking for the best spot to see the world as God clearly intended.  I drank 2 Old Faithful ales, and watched as said geyser, for probably the several millionth time (maybe a few billion, who could say) erupted to amazement, indifference, wonder, and entitlement.  This geyser fucking owes us.

Or so we think.

As I arrived at Grand Prismatic spring, and marveled at the indescribable color strains of bacteria, panting long streaks across the earth, in multiple shades of red, orange, yellow, green, and brown, I knew this was the place.  I decided on the morrow, I'd make my journey.

This was a terrifying prospect.  Being surrounded by strangers, on mushrooms, can be an utterly horrifying experience.  I've experienced the most absolute, irrational fear of other humans while on this drug.  But I'd never been around more than a dozen or 2 people.  So sitting on a boardwalk, with thousands of people passing by seemed frightening.

But this was fucking Grand Prismatic spring.  WORTH IT.

I ate a ton of mushrooms in a sandwich, grabbed my headphones, and up the boardwalk I went.  After about 50 minutes, I was convinced that I had consumed impotent mushrooms.  I kept staring at strains of bacteria, waiting for them to come alive.  Nothing.

And then it was happening.  I was completely lost to the transition; one minute I was certain nothing was happening.  And then suddenly I was enveloped in a world of dancing, breathing color.  I watched, as the patterns in the bacteria came alive; and it wasn't that they were doing anything abnormal; I was merely seeing them with eyes unfettered by bland limitations.

This is the world.  This world is fucking alive.

I sat on the boardwalk, staring out at the spring, about 25 yards away.  A thick cloud of steam constantly coalesces above the water's surface.  There was a periodic breeze, that would wash the steam over me, and I'd be lost in a gray abyss, with fleeting glimpses of the brightest colors imaginable, periodically stealing through the obscurity.

After a while, I started to worry that people would wonder just why the hell this fucking nut job was sitting and literally staring at one spot, for hours.  But then it occurred to me; nobody is here for more than 5 minutes.  Literally, one of the most beautiful fucking places on the entire planet, and people spend less than 5 minutes there.  I remember, at one moment, being absolutely convinced, that I was sitting in the literal coolest place in the world.  I was completely unable to reasonably comprehend that there could possible be any place even slightly cooler, in the whole entire world.

I'm not sure that I wasn't right.

As the months have stretched on, and I leave that moment further and further in the past, I've come to the conclusion that it was probably the most beautiful moment of my existence.  It was so profound, so meaningful on so many levels.  There is scarcely a day that goes by, that I do not think fondly on that moment, that sliver of time, insignificant when placed into the context of my time on this earth, and even more meaningless in the grand scope of this world's existence.  But there is so much beauty in that moment.  For a few hours, I felt like I was removed from every single thing that doesn't fucking matter in this world (which is almost everything).  For those brief moments, I was stripped down to nothing, and left in complete awe at the sublime existing in one, tiny spot on this earth.

I've been saying that 2012 was kind of a piece of shit.

Fuck that.

My heart may have broken in 2012, but I found my fucking soul.





Monday, July 25, 2011

This is why I never choose to die

I think that there exists few greater things in life, than sitting around a campfire, near an abandoned Winnebago, surrounded by the squalor which only comes from 2 hours of drinking.  Reflections of flames playing off discarded liquor containers; the deep maroon of a wine bottle, the glowing green of a Mickey's; a thousand tiny pin points of light, like the lambent eyes of inebriated cats dancing upon the detritus of a shattered bottle of Old English 800, marking the passage of the drunken release of a .45 hollow point.

These are the moments I live for.

The sound of two bodies climbing upon the roof of a Mazda; the noise unique to the exoskeleton of a car being slightly caved in by, what will surely be, at least one person with an incredible amount of hangover regret.  Hands held, the stars watch.

A turgid plume of smoke, derived from a gentleman's pipe, having left the cloying aftertaste of smokey apple cancer in it's wake, escapes the lips of one intoxicated gentleman after another, seated upon $5 camping chairs, surrounded by discarded "natural" Cheetos and garden salsa Sun Chips that missed their journeys into masticated oblivion.

4 voices and one acoustic guitar, immortalizing the moment with a slurred rendition of Linoleum, smoke and sound drifting upward and outward, lost in the dark expanse.

The desperate, yet content sounds of the biggest fucking skunk ever spawned by a fucking skunk, eating tortilla chips like they were the last tortilla chips it would ever eat.  Nibbles and crunches, constantly nudging me from the edges of sleep, making me wonder if that fucking skunk was going to befoul every other item of food carelessly abandoned by humans, too drunk to care.

The amalgamate sounds of sleeping, chewing, fucking and fighting, conspiring to deprive me of desperately needed sleep.

The whispers of a hangover head throb, somehow warded off by God knows what miracle.  The shock of that first encounter with the remnants of the previous night's disaster; wondering how so few livers soaked up so much liquor, and why the fucking skunk only took one bite of just about everything, save those tortilla chips.

The gelid embrace of a mountain lake, the mystery of the dark abyss below, and the cancerous kiss of the sun on bellies, thighs, and faces, as we paddle like water beetles to cliffs, jutting from the water.  The encounter with sub-human life forms, drunk off 101 Ice and Miller 40's by noon, unsteadily perched on cliff edge, word vomiting all manner of stupidity.

The insults directed to penis wielding bro-tards by the same, comparing them to our vagina bearing counterparts,  for their unwillingness to make the plunge into the cold waters below.  Because courage is rendered null by a labia majora, obviously.

Car rides, conversations, buffalo burgers, PBR on tap, restaurants with no running water, 30 year old Mexicans with 15 year old girl friends, bathroom keys attached to sliver spoons, proffered only after a $5 purchase.

A night and a day, spent laughing with people who make me laugh—it's easy to be happy when most of you're friends are funny.

These are the things, the sounds, the experiences, the people—the moments—I live for.





 

Saturday, June 25, 2011

Big goddamned surprises

I recently found myself incredibly fucked up at a bar.  Big goddamned surprise. Gary was hosting some incredibly attractive female from some other state for the weekend.  Also a big goddamned surprise.

At some point, while standing in the gutter, waiting for Little Bean to maybe puke in that gutter, an incredibly intoxicated Herminio decided it would be a great idea to grenade-lob his glass into the road.  Another big goddamned surprise.

A very manish looking woman about to mount her bike, spent about 3 minutes trying to kick the glass out of the bike lane, where most of it had accumulated.  While this was occurring, I was thoroughly enjoying watching Gary's houseguest completely mind-fuck about 4 unbelievably desperate drunken assholes.  Guys having the best night of their lives, as this fucking vixen in skin-tight leather pants paid them some, obviously, not-so-standard attention.

Because she was wasted, Gary worried about it getting out of hand, as many a fingered appendage  wandered its way to her leather-clad (incredible) ass.  He finally shepherded her away from the douchebaggery, out into the street where we were standing, near a lot of glass.

She had previously removed her shoes, and after being cautioned about the copious glass shards in her vicinity, she proceeded to belligerently stomp and grind her feet into the street, saying something profound like, "I don't give a fuck, I can't even feel it."

"That's because you haven't hit any glass yet, you dumb bitch," I yelled in my head.

It took me less than 20 seconds to realize that I totally hated (and by hated, I mean severely disliked) this girl.  And that she was terribly fucking stupid.

Later, I learned that she is just terribly fucking afflicted with aspergers syndrome.  Big goddamned surprise.

Anyways, around 3 am, Herminio and I, in our drunken state, decided that ordering a 26" pizza was a great idea.  We way over anticipated the amount of people that we were going to be able to convince to come over and partake of said pizza.

Gary managed to find his way back over, while also managing to leave Aspergers at home.  At some point, Gary received a phone call from some girl demanding sex or something.  The big goddamned surprises of this night were endless.  She also happened to have a friend who was apparently desperate to make out with someone.

While Herminio and I were intrigued, Gary most certainly was not.  He was certain that this girl would want to go home with him, which obviously wouldn't work, because Aspergers was there, and would do God knows what, should Gary stumble home with another female.  Probably grind glass into her feet.  We decided to let them come over.

So they arrived, and the girl with the larger tits, who also happened to be the one apparently jonesing for a make out, began shamelessly comparing her much larger tits to her friends much smaller tits.  And not so casually inviting her friend to cuddle with her, apparently thinking that some girl-on-girl cuddling would cause our loins to burn with desire.

Every girl I met tonight was fucking stupid.  I texted Herminion, "These girls are fucking stupid."  He didn't notice.  He was too busy using a tiny Asian as a cockblock.  I was tired/passing out.  Herminio and tiny Asian were tired/passing out.  Gary was pretending to be tired, and pretending to pass out.  These 2 dumbshits were on a fucking mission.  So outside on the balcony they went to smoke, along with Gary.  To the couch I went, with a blanket.

A short time later, Big Tits comes in.  I'm half asleep, and not terribly coherent.  She says, "Hey, can you come here and help me with something?"

"Curious," I thought.  "Very fucking curious."

So I stumbled up, and followed her towards a bedroom, where I was then lead to a bed, and then promptly pounced upon by a girl who, it seemed, was intent upon chewing my face off.  Or licking it off.  Or stirring up some imagined concoction in my mouth.  I came to the conclusion in about 14 seconds that either: A) I was somewhere around the 3rd person she had ever kissed, or B) she had never kissed anyone more than once.

I felt like I was being mauled and clawed by a feral dog.  The one thing that almost made the experience only mostly fucking miserable, and her one redeeming quality, of which she had previously made ample mention, was her mountainous chest region, into which she forcefully shoved my face up to 4 times.

I have no idea what her name was.  At one point, after a few minutes, she said "Oh, I probably can only stay for like, 5 more minutes," to which I responded "Oh."  Which was the first, and also second to last thing that I said during the entire ordeal.  The last was, "Okay," after "I have to go now...goodnight."

It's been at least 3 years since I kissed someone that made me contemplate never participating in that activity ever again.  I vow, if ever I find myself in an "am I kissing a fucking sloppy bear?" scenario, I-don't-know-her-name may be somewhat shocked when I stop the whole thing in mid-misery and say, "Enough.  My penis has withered, and I don't even think someone spending life in prison could possibly enjoy this."

And I guess it shouldn't be a big goddamned surprise when I get punched right in the withered penis.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Boxed wine induced communist anthems

Sometimes, when a guy gets really fucked up on boxed wine and jalapeno ale, he starts to pass out in the kitchen, and, for whatever reason, goes down singing Part of Your World from the Little Mermaid.

Well, there was a reason.  Little bean said, "look at this stuff," referring to god knows what stuff.  At which point, brain—swimming in alcohol—takes the cue, and continues with "isn't it neat."  The next thing I remember, was getting extremely intimate with the toilet, and Herminio was snapping his fingers saying, "Hey. Look at me.  You aren't going to puke.  You know why?"

Hand meets cheek meets teeth.  Skull meets brain sends pain to cheek.  And teeth.  And brain.

"Because now you're too focused on the pain to puke!"

Fuck you.  "No, it didn't work.  Get out.  I'm going to puke."

Bile meet esophagus meet tongue meet teeth meet toilet water.  Toilet water meet face.  Goddammit.  

The good thing about violently puking into a place where people shit, is you are more focused upon the stomach acid upheaval than about location.  Draping yourself over a place where untold smatterings of shit and piss have accumulated is about as pleasant as puking on the chest of a super model.  It's all the same.

Since this incident, I have had that Little Mermaid song stuck in my head.  I also have this stupid fucking habit of talking to myself when alone.  Living alone has merely exacerbated this phenomenon. It isn't as though I sit and have conversations with myself. I simply sometimes narrate what I am doing. Like a real asshole.

So, I have found that lately, when this song gets stuck in my head, I have begun to, rather than sing it, say the words. But in a Russian accent. I've realized that imagining that I am Joseph Stalin, whimsically saying the words rather than singing them, is really funny when you replace certain words with other words.

For example:

Right before Ariel breaks into song, she says this: "Maybe he's right. Maybe there is something the matter with me. I just don't see how a world that makes such wonderful things could be bad."

Now, imagine Joseph Stalin, sequestered away from the common folk of the Soviet Union, in either an underground compound, or whatever (this definitely works best if you imagine him underground, for obvious reasons). And if you don't use a Russian accent, it blows the whole fucking thing.  "Maybe the comrades are right. Maybe there is something the matter with me. I just don't see how a world that makes wonderful things could be bad," says Comrade Stalin, as he wistfully imagines a country not fucked stupid by communism.

"Look at this stuff...it is not neat? Wouldn't you say my arsenal is complete? Wouldn't you say I am comrade...comrade who has...everything? Look at this trove...stockpile untold. How many warheads, can one compound hold? Looking around here you think...sure...this comrade has everything.

I have gadgets and gizmos a plenty...I've got whose-its and whats-its galore. You want thermal bombs? I have twenty (said, as he waves a disinterested, dismissive hand in the direction of said thermal bombs) But who cares? Is no big deal. I want more....(said in an intense, sinister whisper.)

I want to be where comrades are. I want to see, want to see them marching. Standing around in those--how you say?--food lines. Riding around underground compound in party leader issued red Benz you don't get too far, a comrade must use legs for marching along on those—how you say—streets?

Up where comrades walk, where comrades run, where comrades toil all day under threat of nuclear fire storm...wandering free, wish I could be, part of that world..."

You get the idea.  I think that if maybe—just maybe—Stalin had seen that movie, he'd have taken the Soviet Union in a different direction.  He'd have realized, "Hey.  This small mermaid and I?  We have same fucking problems.  We are same comrade—cooped up, misunderstood, waiting for chance to break free from fucking fish king with trident weapon/glorious communism."
I need to stop drinking goddamn wine in a box.

Sunday, June 5, 2011

God, I hate blogs that start this way

Here I go, indulging in one of my most hated pet peeves in the realm of blogging: the "hey, this is why I decided to start a blog, here is the first one, here I fucking go" post.

I have another blog.  People read it.  Quite a few, in fact.  Listen to me, toot my own goddamn horn.  One of the people who happens to (quite frequently) read my blog, would be my mother.  Some things, a true gentleman just doesn't want his mother to read.  I think my mother's uterus would wither up inside her, were she to encounter the fuck word in one of my posts.

Anyways.

It is time for a new outlet; one which isn't so censored.  Because most of what I would love to write about, I never end up writing about.  You know, the whole withering uterus thing.  I love my mother, and the last thing I wish to do, is ruin her uterus.  Or at the very least cause her to curse that uterus from whence I erupted, so very long ago.

Last night, I decided that it was time for a new life experience.  Since, because I love wearing plaid, I also inherently love the band Ratatat, I thought that at a concert, surrounded by my dearest friends, as well as a slough of pre-pubescent 10 year olds, glow stick twirling fucking rejects, and killer beats, that ecstasy might be something I should delve into.

Mind you, I have always been fairly anti drug.  I was the goddamned poster child for D.A.R.E. until my mid twenties.  And, in fact, I am still, to a certain degree, against the idea of drugs (but not, obviously, the idea of using at least—but not limited to—6 commas in one short sentence.)  I don't like the idea of relying upon chemical means to create an experience.  I have always feared developing a dependence upon said chemicals, to experience anything extraordinary.

I have, however, always been somewhat curious about ecstasy.  I mean anything that "will make you feel super fucking cool dude," is like, a pretty easy sell for me.  I'm just waiting for some shaky as shit meth head to approach me with a spoon, lighter, and a mouth full of rotten teeth to offer me a fucking good time.

Done.

Anyways, some of my friends occasionally delve into the lighter side of the drug world.  All had been planning for weeks to have a glorious, drug induced, mutually enlightening experience during Ratatat.  Our hearts were going to meld together during a couple short hours of drug enhanced cognizance.

Weighing in at about 200 lbs, 1.6 hits wasn't quite enough for me.  Or, I have an innate drug resilience gene.  Either way, I wasn't rolling as I had hoped.  While I felt "cool," it was short of "super fucking cool."

What the drug did do, however, was sweep me into a very pensive, contemplative state.  After the show, I felt as though I was drifting through time, like a semi-substantial ghost, flowing through a jell-o mold.  One thing I realized, in this pretty-fucking-hard to describe state, was that I'm a terribly judgmental human being.  This occurred to me for a couple of reasons.

First of all, Little Bean told me I was judgmental as shit.  But she included herself, and her boyfriend in that assessment.  And I think, for the first time in my life, I whole heartedly agreed with that evaluation.  I have always deemed myself the penultimate accepting person, because I grew up in a Mormon society, yet still manage to love gays, and people who "sin."  Look at me, high fiving illegal immigrants, bitches eschewing previously live fetuses into bio-hazard bags, and stem cell researchers.

But in reality, I'm a big goddamned fraud.

I see the dude with the huge arm muscles, god-awful tribal shit tattooed all over them, wearing an Affliction t-shirt and immediately assume he is a big fucking douche.  And maybe, 90% of the time, I am absolutely right.  But who am I to judge?  How did I become this pretentious hipster piece of shit, who immediately shifts into a state of absolute reticence the moment some alien other enters my comfort zone?  "God, she is wearing flare jeans.  Who the hell invited her?"

What an asshole.

I'm so tired of not giving people the benefit of the doubt.  Because EVERYBODY deserves the benefit of the doubt.  Who is anybody to judge anyone else?  In the end, I think we're all just trying to find something that makes us feel like we fit into the universe in a meaningful way.  Some people find that in religion.  Some people find it in art.  Some people find it in weed.  Who gives a shit.  All I know is, I am done immediately assuming the worst.

I also realized last night, now much I love and adore certain people in my life.  This isn't something that is singularly drug induced—I often have sober, infinite moments when I realize that I really truly love a human being.

 I realized that I love Herminio when, as he sat on the railing, high above some 60's era vehicle, I thought that if he got bumped off by one of the drunken idiots on the balcony, and ended up in a mangled pile of bone and viscera on a concave car hood, that I would be really fucking upset, and maybe the offender would follow him over the railing.

I realized that I really love Little Bean, when the thought of her being accidentally pregnant, and moving home, really hurt my heart.

I realized how much I really love Padraic when Arnold Schwarzenegger came on screen, and all I could think about was how much I wanted him to be there to see that.  He loves Arnold so much.

I don't need drugs to be happy.  I don't need drugs to create meaningful experiences.  But, it seems, that sometimes....they sure help nudge you there.

Here I fucking go.