Well...

I posted my novella for about thirty minutes. It upset some people. If you would like it though, please message me. It is adult content and mildly depressing.


evanfromanacortes@gmail.com

Really?

Is someone actually reading this from either Malaysia or India?


I find this hard to believe.

Intro To Something Longer

I didn’t have to go to college to know the paradox in cutting blow with a food stamps card. I didn’t have to go to college to realize the paradox in the narcissistic behavior brought on by cocaine and the fact that it is being sucked up your nose through a hundred dollar bill off of a mirror. I get it. I do. And it is a paradox.

            The metaphors here are endless.

Meet Matt Pastor (You might know who this really is)

I met Matt Pastor in a class called Human Origins during my first quarter of college at Western Washington University. The class of approximately 160 fresh-faced freshmen gathered three times a week to learn about the beasts we came from and how big their brains were and whether or not they used fire. I randomly sat next to this man who would become an integral part of my life.  He was scraggly looking, like you might imagine a hipster orphan to dress. Dirty trucker hat over greasy hair, thick framed glasses, a goofy ass smile plastered on his face, and a very interesting choice of sweatshirt for someone who might potentially be looking for new friends. It was a faded salmon color with a depiction of a super-model type tropical babe standing knee-deep in the ocean with a sultry positioning of her lips and one arm pulling her t-shirt up to reveal a perfect breast.

I was intrigued by this ridiculous presentation of a person. Who dresses like this? What is he trying to say? I wrote him a note during class on a hunch. It read, “Do you play music?” Turns out he did, a lot of music in fact. I would learn in the following years that Matt played more music than he did anything else, except for maybe sleeping, but it’s a close call. He practiced guitar religiously, produced and recorded himself, and was pretty damn good.

We became friends. Good friends. We had a band together for a minute, he helped out with the formation of my record label[1], and at two different points we lived together[2]. There are some things that you should know about Matt. He changed me and taught me an important lesson about self confidence and possessed a certain quality of enlightenment. He says, “If someone isn’t going to want to talk to you because of some aspect of your appearance, than this person is not worth wasting your time being friends with. You don’t want people so concerned with your image involved in your life because they will only hold you back.”

The following events are not chronological, but necessary elements in the attempt to understand the character of Mr. Pastor.

Matt convinces his youngest brother to eat the feces of his younger brother for five dollars and the allowance of being able to hang out with his oldest brother for the day. I can’t possibly imagine what Matt’s redeeming qualities could be to make this humiliation worth performing. Matt gets upset when he hears me telling this story to new people in his life, but then he shouldn’t have told me. Then again, he shouldn’t have done it because it is really, really fucked up.

Matt decides during his sophomore year at college that he is going to do some things differently. He swears off the use of mattresses and instead sleeps on a thin blue foam pad. I think that these pads are made for doing yoga on. He decides that he doesn’t need variation in his outfits and for over six months he wears a turquoise sweatshirt and grey sweat pants to class, to parties, everywhere. He doesn’t miss a day.

Matt gets bored of his inch plus hair and beard length and decides upon what I believe is an unprecedented hair style. He calls it “The Sunflower”. It involves leaving a band of hair (you must have long facial hair to do this) connecting in a vertical halo on your head. The only hair the remains on the top of the head is a band about an inch wide that begins parallel to the temple and jaw lines and connects on the top of his head. So, the first couple inches of his forehead were shaved bald, and the majority of the back of his head was shaved as well.  I don’t think this hairstyle lasted much more than a week.

Matt decides to again embrace an alternative hairstyle. This one was less complex but additionally more puzzling to his motive behind it. It was less astounding than the Sunflower, but more convincing and weird. He upgraded his glasses to even thicker and more square than before and shaved a considerable bald spot on his forehead ritualistically. He appeared to have aged twenty years.  He was ostracized at parties and I am sure did not care that it was preventing him from making friends or meeting women. “Women make you weak.” He tells me this often and with conviction.

Matt and I go out for drinks on the town. He likes to perform impromptu social experiments. When we walk from bar to bar, Matt pulls his scrotum through his fly and walks around nonchalantly. No one notices but me.

Matt is hitchhiking from Arizona to Los Angeles. A truck driver says that if he cleans up and takes a shower he will take him. He reminds Matt to “clean his ass real good” and Matt does not take this as a sign of danger. Driving through the desert, the truck driver begins talking about how almost all men will have homosexual experiences but most men don’t ever talk about it. He expresses that he would believe that Matt has “ a beautiful cock” and asks to see it. Matt is uncomfortable and does not wish to show this man his penis. The driver presents the ultimatum of showing his cock or being dropped off right here in the desert. Matt does not have many choices here, so he produces his penis and wiggles it around a bit, which seems to appease the driver. Nearing their arrival to Los Angeles, the driver offers Matt fifty dollars if he will masturbate in the back of the truck and lets him watch. He needs the money and agrees. While Matt is ruthlessly trying to stimulate his flaccid penis, it is no help that the truck driver is watching through the window and making comments along the lines of “Yeah…like that. Do that.  Yes, that’s good, that’s beautiful.” Matt cannot maintain his erection and gives up. The truck driver is not pleased by the result but gives him twenty dollars for the effort and they part ways.  

Matt spends a large portion of his day learning how to say, “Hello, you have reached Matt Pastor’s voicemail, please leave a message with your name and number and I’ll get back to you.” Backwards. He then reverses it and makes it his voicemail.

Matt asks me, “Have you ever gotten your salad tossed?” He is referred to the act of someone licking your asshole. I let him know that no, that shit grosses me out and I would not be down to doing that or having it done to me until I get completely bored of sex as I know it. “Well, I only asked because this weekend I got my salad tossed.” He seems proud of this. I want to know if I know this sad, sad, soul who licked such a vile person’s butthole. He tells me it was one of his little brothers friends and then asks, “Have you ever played Wizard’s Staff?” I have no idea what this is so he educates me. “You and your friends decide on a list of spells, and the more powerful spells require a longer wizard staff to cast. You can only cast each spell once. Your staff is made by drinking beer cans and by duct-taping them together when they are empty. Apparently, Matt got quite a decent staff going and cast the most powerful of spells. I wonder why, why does a group of straight males include spells on their list such as “8 beers = Put a glow-stick in someone’s ass, 20 beers = Have someone toss your salad, 10 beers = All Spells Cost Half as Many Beers.” This is the life that Matt lives, and he’s got pictures to prove it.

Matt is taking a Communications class and for one project has to bring in a bag with two items that represent him and talk about them to the class. I guess this was sort of an introduction to public speaking kind of thing. He procures a Bible and speaks at length about God, what religion has brought to his life, and how fulfilled and enriched his existence. This goes on for quite some time. For his second and final item, Matt produces a twelve inch black rubber dildo that he ordered online for this specific presentation. He says very little about it, but makes an analogy between it and a child’s security blanket.

We bonded through a common mentality. Scare the squares, be yourself, and question who yourself really was. He influenced the way I’d present myself, which was at times atrocious.[3]  We stay in touch these days, but have been pulled in different directions. At any given time I am not surprised to hear he is homeless in Mexico, working Ski lifts in Aspen, touring with his band playing music in Alaska, or that he is passing through town and needs a place to crash for the night.

[3] I went through a phase of shaving off one side of my facial hair, waxed my single mustache strand and colored it all black with masquarae that I stole from my roommates. I would wear a pull-over hoodie that had previously belonged to a middle school soccer playing girl that I had cut the sleeves off of. I cut it down the middle and sewed a single button into it to barely hold it together. It looked terrible.

Three Months After The Breakup

Now, in the aftermath of everything that happened between us, you are to me the gum I press around the edge of my water glass. You are wrenched out of shape, distorted from that which was previously stiff, yet flexible, finely edged, but now wrinkled, like our grandparents— all of mine are dead. You, as well as the gum, possess no taste, and yet inexplicably I want to place you in my mouth and work you with my teeth. You stick, you stay there, on the glass, in a fashion that appears precarious, but your balance does not depend on your distribution of weight. It depends instead, on your crushed solidity, your barnacle viscosity, your willingness to depend on something so tasteless as water, and the satisfaction of only fractionally blocking something so pivotal to my existence.

You Are Going To Die, But It's Okay

My sister is attending Evergreen State College, and my friends and I are on our final stretch of high school. About fucking time, we think. We decide to take an adventure down to visit her, but mostly the incentive is to do drugs in a safe place. I am joined by Sam Z, Benji Wolfe, and our friend Kelsey Jackson. I have never been to Evergreen before, but I’ve heard many associations between, Olympia, hippies, and drugs.. Maple, my older sister, welcomes us with drunken hospitality. “Baby Brother!” she squeals, even though she’s just a year older. She invites us to a party she’s going to, and feed’s us booze and mushroom chocolates. We are slightly over-zealous with our consumption. Chocolate is sweet, tasty, and tricky. The trip begins intensely and is chocked full of mind-fuck visuals. As textures flow and multiply off of posters and wallpaper and slide onto the floor in geometric patterns. As the floor becomes a rippling body of water, Sam Z chases his own hand around the apartment. He is giggling wildly as he follows his outstretched arm ahead of himself. The pursuit is intense.

                  It ‘s when my sister is beginning to leave for the party that none of us kids can fathom going to, that the shit really begins to hit the fan. It was hard to not notice that whenever someone spoke to me, their words were slammed into the air around their face like typewriters punch letters.  It was the same newspaper type of text, splattering and disappearing around the head of the speaker. This was actually very cool. If I could trigger this effect any time I wanted, I would do it very often. I walked outside onto the patio and I probably would’ve smoked a cigarette except that I wouldn’t start doing that for a couple more years. I was startled by a car engine starting with a grumble and the headlights flipping up. As the headlights turned on, the lights splashed like water flung from a bucket bailing water out of a sinking life-raft. I was mesmerized. This was good.

                  However, shortly after I got back inside what was a vastly entertaining visual spectacle became an introspective and panicked nightmare. Sirens started rising and screaming in a nuclear fallout warning type fashion inside my head. My friends became monsters, I was in an unfamiliar place, I was not in control of my mind and shortly thereafter, my body.

                  Clearly, articulately, and profoundly, a voice spoke to me in my head. It was a near deafening thunder of a bluesy sounding baritone black dude rising over the sirens. It’s message was clear.

                  “You are going to die. (Pause) But it’s okay.”

                  This was unpleasant and startling news. It was said with an air of authority, so I knew it was true. I accepted it and retreated to Maple’s room. I crawled into the bed. My friends were concerned but also fucked up. You know that horrible feeling that you get in your foot sometimes? Some people call it a Charlie Horse. It feels terrible, absolutely terrible. It happened to me once during standing-up style sex and I fell over. This was way, way, fucking worse. This was in my spine. I couldn’t speak, with brief exceptions of semi-clarity, and I was convulsing. My body was wrecked with pain, inhalations were frantic and gasped. Kelsey became concerned. She was asking me if I was okay. I wasn’t okay. Her face was pixilated and splayed out across my field of vision, distorted and zoomed like a drunk filmmaker was controlling my eyes. I could not answer. I was racked in a mental bondage of a hellish nightmare for hours. Despite my conviction otherwise, I eventually fell asleep and returned to what I consider normalcy in the morning. My body ached for almost a week. 

July 2008

I pause for a moment as I catch a glance of my reflection in the mirror. I am not intending to look at myself, but accidently I do, as I lean forward to get a better angle for wiping my ass. There is something, or perhaps many things, about seeing myself with boxers around my ankles, wearing a bunny ear head band, with a Pabst Blue Ribbon and a lit cigarette in my right hand that makes me wonder, “What has become of my life?”

Observations Of The Street Clans In Bellingham: 2010

I find myself wondering what draws these certain crowds to gravitate near bus terminals. It’s the same crowds who dominate the population when I go to lie about myself to get food stamps at the Department Of Social and Health Services.

            They remain there for so long…what is it they could possibly be talking about? Do they take breaks, in shifts, to explore the real world as investigative journalists to report back to the swarm with news of outside happenings?

            It would seem to me that this group would gather at one of their respective houses in order to escape the unpredictably fussy weather of the temperate Northwest. Or, I guess, maybe there is bad blood between some of the hive members. Perhaps someone hasn’t been taking his or her shifts.

            This, on the sidewalk near the bus station, is neutral ground. No one is invited, no one can be asked to leave, and no one has geographical zoning authority on who belongs. Perhaps they don’t have homes. Though, if they don’t possess homes, where do they stash their babies who are tempered and given tolerance towards to elements through daily exposure to the sun and precipitation?

Instructions On Kissing and Faces With Tony Cannon : Fiction

My cousin was born Roland Wilkerson but he always felt that this name’s cumbersome and boring nature would impede on his ascension to greatness. He christened himself with a new moniker: one, he deemed, more befitting to his explosive personality—Tony Cannon.

            Now I’ve got a small family—two generations thick—and just a handful of cousins. Tony is my only cousin older than myself; a mentor figure I guess you might say. He knew that he was cool, probably too cool not to be named Tony Cannon.

            Once, after joining me on my paper route, which he ruined by throwing irretrievable copies onto balconies, but still looked cool when he decided that a teenager riding a teeny child’s bike in a construction hat and safety goggles was a cool looking thing to do, we spoke—bunkbed to bunkbed—on a very serious topic that I needed some knowledge on.

            Kissing.

            I guess maybe it was more a desire of preparation than a “need” because I was nine and wouldn’t be kissing anyone for a number of years. We were talking about Nintendo Gameboy vs. Sega Gamegear when there was a pause in the conversation.

            “Tony, can I ask you something?”    A masterful segue by me.

            “Sure, fire away sire.”  He says sire. Saying sire must be cool.

            “How, exactly, is it that one might go about kissing?”   Again, a masterful play.

Attempt At Transition To A Delicate Topic Points: 25.

            “You’re asking the right person, kiddo. You see, through extensive and experimental research, I’ve devised an almost fool-proof set of instructions, step by step, that results in pleasurable and effective kissing.”

            My silence beckons him. Do, please, go, on.

            “Firstly you need to know that Positive Feel exists. Unfortunately the first and most difficult step, this cannot be taught in an orthodox educational manner. It’ll come with time.”     He pauses here, introspectively,    “Or it won’t.”   

I cross my fingers.

Using Physical Actions To Influence The Outcome Of The Universe Points: 6.

            “Upon determining the existence of the Positive Feel, one can proceed to the sequential steps. One: Make eye contact. If during a movie, where this happening is unlikely, it is maybe necessary to turn towards him or her…”

            “Her.”   My tone is that of resolution. I’ve only kissed boys so far.

Tony sighs before spitting out a clearly rehearsed string of words and repetition, “Life is full of possibilities and only a fool would judge another whose life decisions don’t harm anybody else and that includes harming others through harming yourself.”

A gem of knowledge escapes the boy who isn’t looking for gems but just panning for gold. I want instructions on the good stuff.  My silence indicates that I am not interested in life knowledge of acceptance, but instead hanging on madly to the necessary procedure that will result in a successful make-out session with The Little Mermaid. My darling Ariel, we’ve only gotten to eye contact.

“Anyways,”  he continues, “once eye contact is established, you begin.             So two: Lean in towards her face. She’ll think you are going for her lips but you’ll be far more clever and sexy than that.”

            I have no idea what sexy is.

            “Ah! Two-point-five is you gotta be moving your hand to gently rest on the right side of her face.      Her right.    Not yours.    Hand goes left.  If she pulls away now, your shit is fucked.”

            Shit is fucked?

            “So, step three, and this all has to happen pretty fast, is that you slow the approach down as you get near her face. Gum is advisable. I’d recommend Spearmint.      Or Wintergreen.   Oooor Cinnamon, though the flavor doesn’t seem to last as long.” He pauses, thinking about flavors, then continues, “You tilt up, like a plane does right before landing, just ever so slight so that your nose gently brushes the surface of hers. Move your face opposite of your face-holding hand for this move. Run your nose, ever so slightly across her face, like a hovercraft. Don’t be sloppy here.”

            Tony relaxes his face for a second. He’s gaining momentum.

“So you move across her face to the left side of her neck to plant your first kiss.  Err, her right.   Your left.    Opposite the face-hand.    You kiss once, pause slightly, twice, then inhale or exhale deeply or gently. Specifically, breathe out soft and suck in huge, but only suck in through your nose and breathe out your mouth. Careful there, it’s important. If the intensity of Positive Feel is great, a third kiss may, and should, be placed on the neck… and then!”

I feel that Tony is speaking far too many decibels points past the point of my parent’s tolerance of volume, but I think something like this is too loud and my left, her left, hands, my lips and say nothing.

“Then! Then you pull back slightly. You do it with a look like you can’t believe what you just did! At this point you need to have already stuck your tongue slightly out of one side of your mouth, either side, and bite it softly—while smiling! It’s a look. People like it. You weren’t able to not do it, you were compelled by unknown forces! That kind of look. Bashful, yet daring. Was it okay that just happened? That’s what you will both wonder, for a second only, and she’ll immediately let you know it was awesome.  If it was. Let a beat drop here, then proceed. Don’t worry about necessarily focusing on only the lips. Her lips. Use yours. Target different locations, again and almost always, moving life a hovercraft around her face. When you kiss, be tender, make use of the different distances of your face to her face and how it can change kiss-power. Slip your tongue, never aggressively, into the front of her mouth, not the back, here and there.”

            I will definitely not be putting my tongue into anyone’s mouth because I am sure that mouth’s taste disgusting, but I guess maybe less so if I am sharing my gum. I think at this point I know enough.

Tony continues,  “Use your hands! Always be gentle because freaky bitches will let you know they’re freaky bitches but it’s never safe to assume so. Touch the side of their ribcage….don’t go straight for the tits or the other parts. You’ll get to them eventually if you play your cards right. So when you get there, to the tits, you need to know that they also require delicate attention—the gentlest of nibbles, sensual fondling, etc…”

Etcetera? What else can you do with tits?

“So, if the mood and the time is right for both of you, following these steps could definitely lead to some fucking.”

Fucking? I am fairly confident that I can’t get past the tits part if I am trying to seduce The Little Mermaid. I don’t ask regarding modification to the steps when considering the woman was half-fish. We then resumed talking about a far more important subject—videogames.

The Delicate Art Of Fast Food : 2003

Almost immediately when I get back from Thailand, I started plotting my return trip and convincing my friends to go back there with me after we graduate. This presents all of us with the issue of funding the proposed adventure. I set aside a day to begin turning in applications all over town, but am hired on the spot at the Taco Bell / KFC. Apparently at this location the management has trouble keeping their employees around. I soon discover why. Manager Hateface is a balding, gun-toting homophobe whose disgust at his own horrible existence manifests itself in the form of abusive power trips and the unnecessary belittling of his workers. He sucks. Luckily for me, he spends most of his time in his office with the door closed; I imagine he’s likely watching child porn or snuff films and masturbating frantically.

                  On top of that mess -and you might not believe it- the clientele of such establishments don’t tend to exude much respect or sympathy to the constantly bombarded robots handing their food to them in order to satiate their throats.

                  I work with a pretty colorful cast of characters now. Besides myself, the only other kid from high school who works here is my good buddy Sam Zaillian. Sam Z is suffering the same disgrace for the greater good – post-graduation travel. We tape little stickers of Thailand related kitsch to the underside of our KFC/Taco Bell baseball caps, since clearly now we know there couldn’t be a God and we need something to gaze upward to believe in.

                  When I am filling out my paperwork there is a box labeled: DESIRED NAME. I feel that this is a pretty ridiculous question but manage to put together that this indicates what will be printed on my name-tag. I scribble down “BUG”, mostly arbitrarily, but also because I am fascinated with insects and the fact that my first car had been a Volkswagon Beetle. I am unaware at this time that this will be an alias of mine for years to come.

                  The positions in fast food restaurants turn out to be predictably type-casted. If the option is available, those who can scrape together some sort of semblance of enthusiasm tend to be assigned to the front counter &/or drive-thru so customers don’t directly have to associate their meal purchase with depression and hopelessness.  Those who have already given up on the possibilities of life or who possess a visage of undesirable quality are usually tucked safely away in the back. The distance from the front counter is based on a gradient scale of how hidden said employees are deemed to be. There will always be positions available to run the fryers at fast-food restaurants; even if your face is missing or you have got a really bad case of Tourette’s syndrome.

                  At some point, almost everyone works the line. The line peeps make the food, take out the trash, clean the place…etc. These seem to be generally the most quality people around – and in a way possess the most desirable position as they don’t have to work with burning hot oil or have to deal with unpleasant dumb-fucks.

                  Interestingly enough, it appears that the most desired quality for a manager is to be generally sad. It behooves one to be also contented with coming to terms that this position may be the peak or rather more accurately the plateau of their time on this planet. The companies like these people. They are non-threatening, virtually powerless, and malleable as putty. This position is not the place to be. This is shooting real fucking low, even by career standards of the mentally retard and paraplegic.

                  However this rule does not quite apply to Assistant Managers. These individuals have not yet necessarily made the commitment to the depraved lifestyle of a fast-food restaurant manager. Their superiors have merely noticed a potential weakness and lack of real ambition or self respect and have positioned them in a place where they can be tested – or broken.

                  Don is my assistant manager. I had originally become aware of his existence when Charlie and I were getting Taco Bell with an oversized plush bear chained in the back of his GMC Sprint[1]. Don asked Charlie at the check-out window, “Heeeeeeeeey, what’s with the bear son?[2]”

                  So Don is basically my boss when Manager Hateface isn’t currently present. We get along alright. He is from the deep south, in his late forties, and has leathery brown skin and sad, sad eyes. When we work night shifts together, he often will open up to me and talk about his problems or minor victories. He groans over his difficulties, which he appears to have many of. Covering rent on his limited income, the deterioration of his living space, his lack of quality friends, and mostly the absence of a female presence in his life. I try to have empathy for him. I like the guy and he’s been mostly nice to me but I never really know anything to say. I just nod and throw in comments like, “That really sucks boss” or, “You have got to be kidding me. Seriously?!” Despite my lack of real contribution to the dialogue, I do feel better because he seems to feel better vocalizing his grievances.

                  I don’t know it, but this is the last evening that I have a closing shift with Don. We are standing at a counter sorting the food filth that we can legally save for the following day from the filth that legitimately has to be tossed. Don’s voice is solemn. His works are spoken slowly and with emphasis. I imagine that this is the same tone of voice that a father uses who is saying goodbye – forever.

                  “You know Bug? I been lonely. Maaan, lately I been real lonely. I feel like only so many days s’possed to pass where things don’t get better and you deal.” At this point, his gloved hands stop filtering out the quality of the detritus we shove out to the masses. He intertwines his fingers together and his head tilts down slowly. I try to keep him only in my peripheral vision, as eye contact seems inappropriate and probably somehow against company protocol.

                  “Well Bug… I need a change. I’ma done waiting for things a get better. I gotta leave this place. I gotta go somewhere where there are some fine black women who can appreciate me. You know, man?”

                  I do not know. This is a phenomena that I have never known. “Yeah….” My confusion and discomfort is transparent, ignored, or unnoticed. Don squints around at the remaining “food” we need to gauge before done. He begins to strip off his gloves as he says, “We just about done. You finish this up, eh Bug?” When all the work is done, Don locks the door behind his sad robot army and I’ll never see him around again.

                  So there’s this young woman who is probably three years older than me who just calls herself, “Tinkerbell” or “Tink.” She spouts obscenities like a sailor and has lived her whole life in trailers thus far. The boys she hangs around with all wear that costume that looks purchasable at gas stations in its entirety. You know those sparkly gangster baseball caps, shiny blue football jerseys, and gigantic diamond looking earrings? Those costumes.

                  Despite what I consider poor taste in men, I still really like Tink. She often careens around the restaurant drunk, slamming orders out on the line. She barks instructions and frustrated obscenities while flirtatiously inquiring about casual sex during break-time in my car. I smoke weed and Tink cracks her window and smokes cigarettes. Her mind is kind but mildly warped. She is ingrained in her culture and somehow maintains a seemingly, if blurry, happiness with her lifestyle. Our class difference doesn’t impede on our tossing of smiles and mutually exponential shit-talking. I think we respect each other. Her explosive personality is sexy, as is the shape of her body, but the abrasive and bitter words she spits out of her pinched, blotchy pink face, remains distinctly unattractive.

                  Needless to say, Tink provides an interesting variable at work that consistently keeps me entertained. Inexperienced young men like myself are pleased with almost any kind of attention. One night, while I am mopping out the hallway, I hear a sharp, double knock. I look to the window in the door to the kitchen and see Tink pressing a naked breast into the window while massaging her other with her hand. My mouth drops and my face snaps away from the startling display I have just witnessed.

                  Jose works solely on the line. His English is limited but his smiles are infinite. Jose sets the standard that the Taco Bell/ KFC Corporation uses to justify not replacing all their employees with robots. He was fast. Faster than robots are. I feel guilty sometimes knowing that he works much harder than I for the same money that means much more to him than vacation spending cash. He is happy though, at least to be employed, and well, he is the backbone of the restaurants functionality. He thinks it’s humorous when I make monstrously hideous faces at him. This means that he must understand that I like him.

                  I feel like you should make the most of a situation when your environment gets you down. Job stress can be completely relieved by pushing boundaries and succeeding with it. My first real push is when I realize that a 25lb box of small robot toys have been abandoned in the storage section near the backdoor. Our location didn’t even put toys in the kid’s meals at this point, so our stockpile of un-used toys has been stacking. These cheap plastic nothings are fair game – and I want them.

During my first break I walk into the back, pull the box off the shelf, and exit through the back door. I weave through the drive-thru car barrier and break through into the parking lot. I am feeling pretty fuckin’ conspicuous as I pop the trunk of my car and place the contraband inside. However there were no repercussions. The box of toys will only be missed by kids who wouldn’t have seen them anyways. It is a victimless crime.

                  The trek to my car in the parking lot is not an out-of-the-ordinary event. In fact, it’s an everyday thing. During my ten minute delusions of freedom, I usually sit in my car and smoke a bowl or two. Ahh, yesss. I justify this as a way to cope with my predicament. Because of this particularly heavy smoking period of my life, I’ve begun to develop phlegm. The thick build up of mucous that now congests my airways has just recently introduced itself to my life and will soon be the cause of a moment of utter panic in the workplace. I head back to join the line. It’s the tail end of the lunch rush and both Tink and Jose are fabricating edible looking sacks from bubbling bins of whatever at a frenetic pace.

                  I merge into the middle of the assembly line with foggy eyes and am trailed by a billowing scented cloud of skunky grade A marijuana. I look to the TV that commands us and my brain registers the order of constructing ten regular hard tacos. This is a relatively simple process. With slick gloved (or sometimes not!) hands, one cradles an empty taco shell upright as a taco shaped spatula is dunked into the primarily liquid beef-excuse. This is lifted above the vat and allowed a moment for the excess liquid to drip back down. Slam that shit into the shell, drop lettuce shavings, sprinkle cheese gratings and wrap in origami paper. Easy.

                  However, when I reach Taco #7 I experience an unpleasant surprise. A sharp burst of a single shotgun cough launches a whirling, semi-liquid disc of yellow throat discharge into the vat of liquid “beef”. As I am stoned, freshly paranoid, and disgusted with myself, the addition of being sandwiched between two co-workers spirals me into a fitful state of panic. There is only one option here. I ruthlessly assault the floating village with my taco spatula, beating it with repetition into the liquid, scattering its mass into floating particles of additional flavoring. I am very, very sorry if this story is real and if you maybe ordered tacos after that happened that day.

                  I meticulously gauge the day that I can quit and still afford my planned adventure. I give Hateface my two week notice. I find that on my pre-determined last day, I have a considerable quantity of energy built up in reserve in my emotional capacitor. On impulse, I pass out a handful of flyers at school. They read:

EVAN’S LAST DAY AT TACO BELL/ KFC!!! WEAR A COSTUME AND BRING A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT!!!

                  Since it’s last minute and with little incentive or graphic design, my plan recruits very few followers. I have some back-up though. I have Teletubby ear attachments that are wearable under my mandatory baseball cap. This definitely undermines the professionalism of my position, which is infinitely debatable in the first place. I also bring a small handful of fake blood capsules in my pocket, just in case.

                  Sure enough, a sordid procession of obnoxious high schoolers wiggles into the restaurant. Just a small handful of six kids led by Sam Z. Z had quit a few months prior to allow himself time to use his thespian abilities to act in & better the school’s final theatre production, Little Shop Of Horrors. He played the dentist, of course. Sam doesn’t hold anything back. His life is a performance. Not in the way that he is always playing a part but instead he considers every occasion as a one-time opportunity to make a memorable impression.

                  So they saunter around dressed like 80’s hair metal rockers while being irritating to the staff (including myself—backfire), the customers, and the management. They wield only unpleasant voices and battery powered Casio keyboards but manage to torment the restaurant to a point that interrupts Hateface during a session in his masterbatorial closet of an office and forces him to emerge into the real world.

                  Inevitably this makes him upset. He yells at the idiot kids, calling them “idiot kids” and such. It’s near the time when we’re supposed to be shutting down the front section of the restaurant that this is occurring. Due to the unexpected explosion of additional situational discomfort combined with the general atmosphere of the restaurant, people begin to leave. Manager Hateface presents the boys with an ultimatum. “Leave or I am calling the police.” His venom is sharp and his method effective. Sam Z lets me know that he’ll wait around outside for me to mop up.

                  I am sloppily mopping up the front service area when an unexpected rush assaults the drive-thru. I’m standing in sight of some goblin-faced customers when I decide to duck around the corner for a moment to pop two fake blood capsules into my mouth. I return to a visible position. I yelp as I pretend to fumble with the mop and slip. I am not actually slipping though, but instead kicking the guiding rails with my boots. Hopefully this simulates the illusion of hitting my face. I moan loudly and pull myself up to the counter. I lock eyes with a middle-aged woman in a suburban. I begin to sob hysterically. I drool, stunned for a moment, and then spit the fake blood onto the counter and slump back hidden to the floor. I overhear much hub-bub and enjoy the chaotic murmurings with relish.

                  Hateface emerges. Again, he is inevitably upset but his eyes are concerned, or rather likely worried regarding liability issues as he asks me, “What happened?!” and “Are you alright?!”.  My mouth begins to twist into an uncontrolled smile and I start laughing hysterically while drooling the crimson remnants of the capsule out onto my face and neck. Manager Hateface’s eyes return to their usual hating squint.

                  “This is completely unacceptable behavior Bug.” He says my alias in poisoned tones. “Clean this up RIGHT NOW young man!”

                  I jump over the counter prepared to fulfill a long desired fantasy.

                  “NO WAY!!! I quit!” Fireworks go off somewhere, I’m sure.

                  “I’m sorry, that’s incorrect. You’re fired.” Hateface says his favorite words and ejaculates. Again, of this, I am sure.

                  “NO!!” I am yelling now. The drive-thru customers seem bewildered. “It’s YOU who is fired!”

                  I point to the cook, who is a regular douche-bag, “AND YOU’RE FIRED!” Repressed emotions are surfacing uncontrollably.

                  I point to the bitch-goddess at the drive through station, “AND YOU’RE FUCKING FIRED!” I haven’t bothered to learn her name yet. Good call self.

                  I point to Jose, his slight grin is friendlier than sunlight, “And YOU! YOU are the new manager! You are AWESOME!”

                  Suddenly, Sam Z squeals into the drive-thru, his ebony wig is glinting in the florescent lights. He senses the tension and screams, “Evan! Let’s go!” He’s right about the necessity of fleeing this awkward moment and I run towards him. Hateface is seething. I begin my dive through the drive-thru window and Sam Z pulls me by the armpits into the safety of his truck. He slams down the gas pedal and screams dinosaur noise.

                  My time here is finished.

                 

                 

---

[1] A GMC Sprint is a car-truck combination, popularly associated with the El Camino. Imagine a scene; a dusty film of grit over a tattooed man with a thick moustache, an overflowing ashtray, with blood, cocaine, and semen splattered and scattered on the dash and upholstery. If all these factors are present, that person would be driving a GMC Sprint.  A truck? No, wait, a car? A catruck? A truckcar? Wow! Oh man, that’s cool!

[2] On one particularly stoned Value Village adventure, Charlie and I became bizarrely enthralled with one of those excessively large plush animals that they make impossible to win at carnivals and that all children demand at Disneyland. Well, we purchased it and chained it up in the back of his Sprint. We named it Riley. Charlie would occasionally carry Riley around with him from class to class. He’d pretend that he had a delusional attachment to it, and would threaten temper tantrums at suggestions of separation. His teachers didn’t bother trying to take it away. The day we rescued Riley we swung through Taco Bell/KFC on the way back to Charlie’s. This is how I met Don. He often inquires about the bear’s health and I never bothered to tell him that Riley was eventually kidnapped. It would’ve just made him sad to know that the bear was found hung upside down in the cemetery; his disemboweled fluffy soul in a pile beneath him. Villians.

Weed Dirt, Love Strong

As we did four years before in Africa, My father and I decided to travel to a country unfamiliar to both of us, and navigate through it with machinery that both of us were amateurs at. It was the most wonderful, changing, and bizarre experience that I had encountered in my seventeen years of kicking around. We lived out of our backpacks and his wallet as we moved on 125ccs of sleek scooter rocketry from location to location. We got to know each other a lot better then, as we had been fairly distant in recent years. We bonded on these trips. We knew it, and we let ourselves slip in our official appearances. We dropped our guards. We became comrades and adventurers. This was our third continent to visit together. I was an adult, almost.  Things were different.

A paranormal vacuum vortex occurs when a semi truck stampedes by -  dousing you in gasoline flavored mist. You feel sucked in, your heart races, you experience moments of pure panic, but with a tranquil clarity. It is sort of like, and opposite of, falling in love or deciding whether to kiss someone for the first time. Except instead of getting denied a kiss, the repercussion is being black-holed into a barreling truck. Same, but different. The roads are slick but the butterflies are still migrating in the occasional rain. When we stop to snack or drink water, we accidently watch them die; still fluttering confused and smashed into the front baskets of our bikes. Unlike humans, animals do not know when they are supposed to die.

                  We left Chiang Rai as early as we could in the morning, or rather as early as my Dad could get me to wake up. The night before had been reckless and risky. I had asked permission to go out drinking in a city that was completely unfamiliar to me, and received it. I met up with a couple ex-patriot falangs[1] and we all began drinking. Eventually, I had worked out a deal with one of them for an ounce or so of weed, and soon thereafter I was stumbling into the bathroom to puke violently until my insides had expelled everything they could. I careen back to the table and was greeted with eyes that conveyed a mature concern about the state of mind of an idiot kid. One man offers to walk me back to my guesthouse. I appreciate this immensely, however I cannot remember the name or the location of my guesthouse. So instead we walk around the city and he passes on all sorts of worldly advice that I forget. I am sure he dropped some useful gems of knowledge that I could’ve retained for future situations. Oh well. I am saved when I see a German couple walking around with a Lonely Planet guidebook. I ask them if I can look through it and finally recognize the name of my guesthouse. I write down the address and the concerned man walks me there and disappears.

                  My father isn’t super excited about my hideously late return. I explain the situation. During this explanation I realize that the real message that I am conveying is that I was acting stupid. I make a mental note to always keep the name and address of where I am staying on my person when I wander. The mental notes are stacking. I let him know that I did manage to buy some weed and he reminded me of the ridiculous repercussions of getting caught with marijuana in this country. I knew already that a two-year sentence in a 200-person cell for any quantity was a going standard for possession. I also really wanted to get high.  My Dad thought I was an idiot, and as usual was right, but he didn’t take it away and he only rolled his eyes at me as I tried to tell him how to fashion a ghetto pipe out of an aluminum can. I sat on the windowsill, smoked my can, and fell asleep.

                  This brings me back to the slick, twisting roads snaking their way through the jungle. The jungles of Northern Thailand are thick and vibrant tangles of trees that teem with wildlife. They hum, chatter, and chirp as a plethora of birds calling out to each other and cicadas blasting that weave together into an ambience of pulsing tranquility.

                  We make a pit-stop in a city called Fang. We needed a snack, gasoline, and a momentary rest for our bottoms that had been vibrating down the road for a few hundred miles.  It was the halfway point to our destination- Pai. In a gas station, I was approached by a young man who spoke a teeny bit of English and seemed extremely friendly. He introduced himself as Tin. Tin wanted to take me out to eat for some reason. Perhaps he wanted to practice his English and make a falang friend My father and I followed him to a restaurant that he informed us was “Number One!”. We small talked, and I really mean small talked as my understanding of Thai was limited mostly to “Stop Talking!”, “Delicious!”, “Hello”, and “Thank You!” Tin’s English was decent, but we couldn’t really communicate much. However, he was enthusiastic about wanting to do nice things for us. He insisted that he pay for the meal and wanted us to come and stay at his family’s house for the night.  Why not? Tin made a phone call and returns to us with a large smile on his face.

                  We soon found out that Tin’s family is far and away the most powerful family in Fang, and quite possibly much of Northern Thailand. Dozens of square miles of orange groves greet us after we pass through the security check-point that is guarded by two men with rifles. It is beautiful. An endless horizon of short green blurs polka-dotted with little orange spheres. The smell was incredible. We slowly motored past clusters of elaborate houses as Tin pointed out which members of his families lived in each one. Four generations of family lived in what seemed like a village. This village, however, had a large gate around it and was peppered with guard towers and eagle-eyed security guards armed with scoped rifles. I guess you need to be pretty careful about people stealing oranges when you have so many. I feel getting shot for a delightful basket of citrus would be a pretty shitty way to go.

                  Tin showed us to the guest house we were going to be staying in so we could drop off our stuff.  It was a beautiful place with huge statues of Buddha, dragon sculptures, elaborate paintings, and fine wood furniture. I think while at the same time we were both amazed and enthralled by the situation, we didn’t really know what we were doing here and it was kind of awkward. My dad was exhausted and he went to go lie down in one of the rooms. We had the house to ourselves. Tin picked me up with a little Jeep and we drove around to give me the tour and point out different types of oranges.     

                  We were sampling different oranges, including one that you eat the skin of, when Tin’s radio went off to let us know that dinner would be ready soon. We sat outside at a long table which by the time we get there is decorated with plentiful plates of food. My father and I spoke mostly together with our eyes and in fragmented sentences to our hosts. Everything was delicious and we filled our bellies excessively at the encouragement of Tin’s family. Tin seemed very pleased with himself. We drank Singha Beer and whiskey and soon headed back to our own little private mansion to pass the fuck out.

                  In the morning we exchange email addresses with Tin, thank him extensively, and hit the road to Pai – a six hour ride. We smile as we weave past cars, goats, and cows and bond without speaking. We stop infrequently to snack and drink bottled water. We are close to each other, and I am having the biggest adventure of my lifetime. We grin as we purr through jungle roads slaughtering beautiful butterflies unknowingly on our front baskets. It seems too soon that we descend from the hills into the valley of Pai. We stop at a restaurant that our guidebook suggested was the shit and have our first real meal of the day. As we select a potential guesthouse to spend the next couple days in, I feel as if it’s never been better. Of course, I want to tell my friends about this wonderful place of magic, but feel contented getting closer to my father and planning my return trip. We check into an adorable little cabin on the hills of the outskirts of town. We sit with our backs to the walls talking about life and sucking back the beers we brought home.

                  In the morning, my dad informs me that he is going to rent a mountain bike and exhaust himself in the countryside. I extract spending money from him and tell him that I am in the mood to explore. Getting stoned and riding my scooter around aimlessly sounds like a pretty brilliant escape. Dinner plans are established – five o’clock at the same place we went last night.  I get on my bike, start it up and putter into town. I was hungry but wanted to get a feel for this little tourist trap. I cruise around without direction until I find the street vendors.

                  Street food in Thailand is incredible and cheap. Various types of barbequed meat on sticks, sweet fruit shakes, huge hunks of chicken breasts, and chopped fresh fruit are found everywhere, while the more exotic items are found in the bigger cities. Banana shake and three skewers of pork is what I want this fine sunny morning. In Thailand they only have three seasons. Hot, wet, and cool. This is the cool season, and it doesn’t hardly rain a day during our three week stay. I feel that this food choice will taste even more delicious if I find a nice spot to get high before inhaling the nourishment. I realize at this point that I have forgotten my stash of weed and must return to the guesthouse to retrieve it.

                  As I open the door to our place, the atmosphere of the situation is very awkward. My dad is sitting on the bed reading yet the shower is running. The look on his face was that of a father whose son had walked in on him jerking off. He is surprised to see me, clearly. I explain that I came back for my weed and he releases an understanding “Ah.” Honesty is the best policy when your parents are cool and you really aren’t fucking up that bad. We are still on for dinner and as I leave I am thankful that I didn’t see the man who helped create me with his sperm abusing his penis when I burst in. I mean, I could’ve handled that kind of shit, we Are only human, but that image would have been burned into my mind for the rest of my life. But why was the shower running? Whatever, I figure, I got my weed and I am going to have fun.  

                  I get beer, whiskey, soda, and gas at the petrol station and figure out the route to some local waterfalls. Upon my arrival I sneak off into the bush, thinking only of snakes, and burn a couple bowls in my soda can. Apparently smoking the paint and aluminum of a can isn’t that good for you, but we’ve all got to make sacrifices to get what we want. I wandered over to the waterfall and waste time drinking beer and watching some local kids slide down the smooth rock face lubricated by the gushing stream and splashing into the pool below. They look like they are having fun and I am having fun watching them have fun while I start to get fucked up. If I had started smoking cigarettes at this point in my life, I would have been chain smoking them here. I start to miss my girlfriend Lindsey a little bit, and my friends a whole lot, but I subdue these weakenings with an additional batch of bowls and a couple more beers. The cicadas are cheering – I think cheering for me and my lack of responsibility and how I am using it.

                  I cut myself off from the beer in order to drive safely, or more accurately I run out of beer and just kill a little more time trying to write in my notebook. I was writing some pathetic attempts at song lyrics in a wasted effort to describe how I was feeling and where I was - when I was startled. There was a toddler standing quite near my sitting spot who was staring at me. He wore a sweatshirt that probably used to be bright colors of blue and red but was now dulled with mud. This contrasted with his face, which was shiny and cheerful. I like little kids, so I did what I do sometimes to express affection to those I like; I made a hideous monster face. This did not go exactly as I planned. The corners of his mouth and eyes moved like polar opposite magnets across his face ; curving to the sky and earth with a clear look of distress. He did one of those choking about-to-cry baby sounds like a starter engine in slow motion, and began to cry.

                  So he doesn’t get it. Whatever. I choose to believe that my error is due to cultural differences of appropriate facial muscle movement and not the nightmare qualities of my hideous face. I convince myself easily that his sleep wouldn’t be disrupted for years to come. I shove my helmet back on, switch the keys on, and thump through potholes on my way back into town. Some sort of flying beasts seem to be having some sort of parade or protest in the sky as soon two have splattered against my visor, one on my chest, and another leaving a welt on the bare skin of my neck.

                  I arrive at the restaurant before my father does; a single local family is eating there and masticating happily without time for conversation. Yes, the food is good here. I select a table in the open air corner. I order a beer and a mango smoothie before even picking up the menu that is illuminated in the flickering light of four candles. My father rolls on in. His forehead is beaded with sweat, he is puffing slightly, and smiling. My father is into this kind of thing. I don’t know who got him suckered into this making your muscles tired to get stronger scam, but he fell for it.  Anyways, this self-torture makes him happy, so he’s probably covered lots of ground today. His spandex aerodynamic bike-faster suit has obviously also met the bug exodus. We remark about this gathering as we order. We decide that they are termites just as the number increase exponentially in a less than a minute. The street lamp kitty corner to us is a beacon. Thousands of insects are swirling around it in a gradient haze of concentration. It is beautiful. The lamp above our head becomes a secondary beacon as the street light’s visitors are beginning to get a little congested. The termites blindingly strike and are repelled by the surface of the bulb. Unlike humans, insects do not give up. They are unquestionably determined. They slam repeatedly into the glow while making a subdued version of the sound when someone makes a toast on a wine glass. They begin falling to the table; their wings are gone and they crawl around frantically. Some however misread the lamp beacon and instead center on the various flickering candles. These are few, but those who do crash into the wax, which engulfs them, and burn hysterically flapping their disposable wings until the flame silences them and they melt. The parachute-less para-droppers have started to bump into each other on the table while we just watch with open mouths. They begin fucking, fighting, or perhaps attempting to merge with one and other. We watch passively until our food arrives, the server makes swooping motions with her hands, and when she leaves we escort the tabletop fornicators to the floor with our napkins

The food is delicious. We both ordered different style of curries and are happily sharing as we remark on what we are loving about this adventure. The food of course, was both of our primary pleasantries. It was flavorful, fresh, spicy, and different. We were leaving Thailand fairly soon, and we recapped some of our favorite moments and our excitement for another ride on the Chiang Mai-Bangkok night train. I decide to tell my dad about my lazy day of moderate vice, and he tries to explain to me the virtues of exercising. Yes, duh dad, everyone knows. When he see’s that this is probably not a conversation that will go anywhere, he shifts gears slightly.

“You know Ry, there is an incredible heightening of senses after a person exhausts their body, With the expenditure of all of one’s energy, I think the body appreciates what seems a be reward of sorts. An understanding of delicious taste can only be appreciated after such activities.”

This makes sense to me. He closes his eyes like purring felines do when scratched, except he is just relishing the taste of his Panang curry. The termite swarm has dissipated and we make eye contact during his pause. He breaks silence.

                  “Also…,” He has a considerable pause here, but begins to smile, “It may also have been the pot of yours that I smoked.” Wow. What? Shit has hit the fan. My dad smoked weed?  No, this is not possible. He is kidding, delusional, or stoned. Wait, stoned? He is stoned! This is fantastic news. This is groundbreaking. I can never get in trouble again.[2] 

                  We head back to the guesthouse after we eat and watch termites fuck and die. I wonder if he is excited as I am. Somehow this mundane activity breaches the gap in my head between family member and friend. We roll over ten joints. I tear the dirt weed apart and he spins the paper. We are into it. We are a factory. We are smoking and talking about our family. I am confused how this man, who I have seen so little of recently, can know so much about my life. Turns out we are in this whole thing together He claims he hasn’t smoked pot in twenty five years- I don’t believe him at all. He wants to turn on the shower and claims that the temperature of the hot water will force the smoke out the window. Okay, sure, alright dad, let’s run the shower and open the windows. Unlike him, perhaps because I am still drunk from earlier, I do not think anyone is after us. The weed is dirt, but the love was strong and I think this was the moment that my father and I became friends.

---

[1] Thai for Foreigner

[2] This reminds me of a time where I arrived home at the same time as my father did. He was ahead of me, and apparently did not see me behind him. I distinctly saw him throw a can of beer out of his car window on the drive-way up to the house. Yes. Security. Littering, drinking, and driving? Just try and tell me I am grounded for smoking weed. Just try me. I’ll expose you.

Stock Jokes

A Stock Joke is a little quip or reusable saying that can be applied to many situations without having to be actually very clever or contextually appropriate.  The most common ones include “That’s what she said.” Or “That’s what your mom said last night.”  Let’s examine situations of where those jokes are usually delivered.

John is indicating a piece of stale bread that’s been left out on a counter for over a week. He remarks about its condition, “It’s so hard!”  Clever and witty as usual, his buddy could say either, “That’s what she said!” or “ That’s what your mom said last night.” Get it?! Hilarious, I know. While you read this sentence I guarantee that there are dozens, if not hundreds or thousands, of people saying that phrase RIGHT NOW all over the globe.

I want to broaden this scope of humor-lacking go-to remarks to allow for a larger variety of applicable situations in which they could be delivered. One of my current favorite’s is “That’s what they used to call me in college.” This phrase can be used with far more obscure lead-ins and provide much more interesting and confusing results. Let’s take a look.

John is indicating a plate in the sink that is covered in detritus from breakfast. He remarks, “This is so fucking hard to clean. It’s completely covered in sticky bacon fat.” One could respond here with,  “That’s what they used to call me in college!” John might look quizzical and say, “They used to call you Sticky-Bacon-Fat? Why? And wait a second, aren’t you still in college?” They are confused, and you are satisfied with your correct application of the stock joke. Try it sometime.

Abstract Satisfaction Points : 5.

“That’s actually the only way I can get hard.” This joke requires clever and bizarre applications that test how inappropriate opportunities one can muster. Higher imaginary points are awarded for more offensive and taboo projections of fetishism. Examples:

I am walking with my buddy Wyatt downtown and we see a little girl in a swimsuit bawling her eyes out next to the fountains. She has scuffed up knees and is hobbling and screaming towards her mother. Wyatt says, “Jesus, poor kid.” Opportunity arises. “Actually, that is the only thing that can get me hard.”

Taboo Points: 10.

Generally Fucked Up Points: 23.

Brittany is riding shotgun in my car when she notices a vastly overweight woman driving down the street but actually pushing her electric scooter along with her left leg. It seems to be running low on batteries. I don’t imagine that under such immense gravitational pulls that any battery could hold on long. Or perhaps she was on a road trip. Brittany gasps and says, “Oh my god… That is so sad.”

Noticing my opportunity, I can shrug and say, “Actually, that’s the only way I can get hard.”

Taboo Points: 15.

Generally Fucked Up Points: 45.

The points are stacking.

                  I’d like to divulge from the topic to wander on a different tangent. It’s the lamest super-hero power idea, but I’d still choose it if I got to choose one. I would want to know the statistics of everything. If I wanted to know how many cigarettes any given person has smoked in their life-time, I would know it. I could even maybe summon up holographically projected graphs. If I wanted to know how many times I’ve taken a shit, how many beers I’ve drank, how many times I’ve masturbated, or how many beers I’ve drank while masturbating, I would know it. Anything. Lastly, I would want to know how many points I’ve accumulated and for what in assorted mind games that I award myself points based on a completely arbitrary scale.

                  The last of my three prepared responses to situational dialogue involves opportunities that arise only when someone around you says something grossly inappropriate and it is necessary to one-up them in taboo.

                  Jack says, “Man, at this party I only have one goal. Find a semi-attractive chick with low self esteem and get my dick wet.”

Generally Fucked Up Points: 25.

Opportunity.

                   I can now respond, “God, you sound just like my mother.”

Taboo Points: 30.

One-Upping an Inappropriate Statement Points : x5 Base Point Score (25) = 125 Points.

You see how these points can add up and I want to know how many points I’ve got.

In conclusion, I would like to leave you with an activity that doesn’t necessarily generate points but definitely eliminates some elements of boredom. This activity requires a cell phone with texting capability and two simple steps.

1)     Text an excessively sexual and dirty message to someone you might consider an acquaintance but not a close friend.

2)     Wait 45 seconds and then respond with an embarrassed and explanatory message that the message was not meant for you, but instead a close family member.

Example:

Sent 11:42 am: Omg[1],  I am so fucking hot for you right now, I am at work but I can’t stop touching myself thinking about you. I can’t wait until we can get some time alone so I could really show you what kind of man I am. I can’t wait to taste you again.

         (Here one waits for approximately a minute before texting again.)

Sent 11:43 am: This is so embarrassing. Please ignore that last txt. It was totally meant for my nephew. Srry.

So get out there. Explore the world of stock jokes. Start keeping track of your imaginary points.

Live a little.

        

                 

---

[1] A commonly texted acronym representing the phrase, “Oh my god.”

         An expression of feigned disbelief, astonishment or incredulism.

The Thought That Counts

You know how you break the plastic apart on the rings that hold six packs together so it doesn’t strangle birds and small animals…?

I just stretch mine out.

I am going for bigger game.

Holograms: 2001

Holograms

 May 3^rd, 2001.

If ever you are sixteen years old and living in Anacortes, WA without any realistic connections to finding hallucinogenic substances, you know that drug-experiment prone teenagers have to be resourceful in finding ways to get fucked up. Fort Ebey[1] became the initial drug playground of my inner friend circle. We discovered that for some ridiculous reason our parents were okay with our occasional weekend vacations to this monumental place. We drove about an hour away on ultra-fresh drivers licenses’ to go camping with a conspicuously zealous frequency. We went because we could, because it was huge and unfamiliar and weird.  Our parents weren’t there, the beach was beautiful, the cliffs were steep and felt dangerous, and the empty World War II forts were creepy and echoed eerily with the slightest of sounds. On top of that, we could be wild there.

                  However, on this particular weekend, our hopes of wandering around with our minds whirling with LSD or psilocybin mushrooms were thwarted with a failed rendezvous with some sketchy guys who probably would’ve ripped us off anyways.

So we improvise.

                   Bronzewick has a bit of weed, I cover the food, and Benji had previously ordered a small vial of 20x Salvia Divinorum[2] from Japan. Salvia is legal, incredibly powerful, and the experiences that last under ten minutes make it attractive to our desires of escaping reality .A small-town high school environment can be an incredibly mild and mundane existence, so I guess we just needed some spice.

                  On our way, we stop at a grocery store in Oak Harbor and make a decision that is not only impulsive, but also un-researched and dangerous. I don’t know how we pull of this suspicious and somehow legal purchase, but we select different checkout lines and each of us buy a tube of Dramamine[3] and a specific bottle of cough syrup that’s only active ingredient is DXM[4].

                  When we arrive at the Fort Ebey campsite we set up our tent and smoke a little weed. As we nibble on the snacks lifted from my parent’s pantry we discuss the plan of our evening. Bronzewick suggests a procession of drug imbuement.

“Let’s take turns hitting the salvia, down the cough syrup, & stumble down the cliffs to the fuckin’ beach. There, we should smoke another bowl, down the Dramamine and then see what happens.”  We agree that this is a good idea, and begin the adventure.

“I’ll hit it first.” Bronzewick says, inspiring a needed initiative.

Bronzewick returns from the woods; his face is solemn and stone.

“How was it?” I am anxious. Bronzewick doesn’t answer.                    

I decide to go about ten paces back into the woods to trip. Bronzewick stays at the picnic table, winding down from his own experience as Benji comes with me to watch from a distance.  I sit on the ground as I fill my pipe with a marble sized bowl of salvia. I hold my lighter high above the glass and lower it slowly until the flame licks and ignites the plant matter. I inhale deep and slowly and hold my breath as I lean backwards into the brush. I stare straight up at the tree canopy far above and the blades of sword ferns stabbing into my vision from the sides. As I exhale, my consciousness begins to experience the indescribable reality-crashing-down-world-imploding-collapse of all that one knows and is real – of refined salvia divinorum. As this phenomenon begins to kick in, Benji leans above me – his head breaks into my field of vision as he asks, “Is it working?” The spherical shape of his head remains as he pulls back, the look on my face conveying the answer to his question.

The sphere begins to hum, vibrate, and pulse as it shimmers flashes of silver, white, and gold. Each flash of the alternating colors pulses in my body as well as cascading emotions of fear, utter astonishment, and orgasmic elation. The sphere blinks and hums a thumping bass sound into the center of my vision as my head remains completely immobile. Five sword ferns emerge from the sphere, all evenly spaced out, and it begins to spin. All the while, the sphere that was at some point generated from Benji’s head, continues to flash between bright colors that are resonating with a thumping, humming, distorted bass noise. Suddenly it splits apart like cell division; straining against itself for a fraction of a moment before splitting and spitting out a clone. This process repeats itself until there are five spheres spinning and rolling around, bouncing only at the end of my vision – like a screen saver. My chest rises and falls like I imagine a person’s does when experiencing the sharp plummeting of a plane crashing. I do not know who I am, where I am, or what life is. All I know is that this is immense, terrifying, and I am absolutely helpless to what is happening. The sword-fern spheres begin rotating faster, the pulsing sound that seems to emanate from inside of my body becomes louder, a crescendo of many emotions at once all rushing towards the climax – the crash.

                  Then it is gone. Instead of the loud sound of an explosion, there is an unexpected bell-chime of the seatbelt symbol blinking off.  The plane is righted and I, the only passenger, remember everything. My name is Ryan Shipman. I am sixteen years old and a sophomore at Anacortes High School. I am laying on my back in the damp moss and twigs at the Fort Ebey campground. I am here with my friends, Benji Wolfe and Chad Bronzewick. I am blondish, I play music and like all food, and I am alive. These facts immerge in a wave of re-realization from conscious awareness to finer detail.

 I sit up, and am eager to relate my experience to my friends. My limbs feel as if they are being jerked around with finely coiled cables instead of sinewy muscle as I head towards the picnic table. Bronzewick and Ben look at me expectantly. As I open my mouth in an attempt to describe the hypnotic pulsations of the bouncing sword-ferns, the only thing that comes out of my mouth is garbled incoherence. My mind is frustrated as the dialogue is brutally destroyed by the incapability of my mouth. I try again, and again I am met with a string of words incomprehensible to anyone. My friends laugh at me, with a knowing understanding. A few more minutes pass, and I am able to sound out my thoughts. However, words lack the capability of describing a hallucinogenic experience.

Benji is taking his Salvia dose as Bronzewick and I prepare to ingest a horribly viscous tincture that tastes like a vile bastardization of what one may have been tricked into thinking cherries tasted like. Yes, cough syrup is gross. When Benji returns, we down the medicine as fast as we can manage without vomiting and gather our backpacks to walk to the beach. The trail from the bluff to the beach was steep, rocky, and a pleasure to descend. It gives a feeling of security as no decrepit drug-hating old people could likely traverse it without assistance and ride us for our transgressions. We pop our entire tubes of Dramamine and wander around, tossing rocks and reflecting about how our brains had been destroyed in moments and debating all sorts of existential crises, I’m sure. 

A short chunk of time has passed when Benji begins to act very crass and irritated. He is thirsty, we have no water, and his body is beginning to experience intense duress. All of our bodies are beginning to feel the weight. It is getting dark, everyone is starting to feel funny, and we need to climb the path back up the cliff to return to the safety of our campsite. The journey was harrowing as things began to haze and our flesh-vehicles began to dip below optimal performance.

It’s an interesting cocktail. One of these grocery store drugs was intended to stop motion sickness and the other was supposed to suppress coughing. We were not suffering from these ailments. Little did we know what this mixture meant when one ingested an entire container of said drugs at one time.

                  Soon enough, Benji and I find out what happens. We arrive back to our campsite, unscathed by the cliff ascension. We are restless. The three of us decide to walk around the camp loop. This should have taken us about fifteen minutes, but Benji and I are gone for over five hours.  At this point, memories and consciousness are only present in fractions of moments; bizarre recollections of what may have been. Bronzewick has more of his wits about him and realizes that things are getting too deep. He tries to lead us back to our tent sanctuary but is unable to due to our complete inability to understand anything. He gives up as he too is battling the same chemicals that would carry us into a nightmare.

Flash: Bronzewick is telling me that we need to go back to the tent. He reminds me “Campsite six man, remember? We’ve got to get there.” His face is flashing, morphing into Benji’s, his voice is doing the same thing. I do not know who he is. At this point I black out and collapse.

Flash: I lift my face off the pavement and stand up. In front of me is a wall of leaves. As I turn around slowly I discover that I am completely surrounded by bushes. I push into one of the walls to try and find the path. My hand passes through the leaves I have tried to push aside. They are holograms. I do not understand. I black out and collapse.

Flash: I am standing on the concrete path and two lighthouse beams are flashing towards me in long knife-like shafts. I do not remember a lighthouse but I want to go towards it. As the light gets brighter and closer I hear two voices. I freeze, and two campers pass by with their flashlights. They seem uncomfortable by my presence and say nothing as they shuffle by. I am confused. I remember “Campsite Six” and the need to find a number post to find my bearings. When I locate one, the number on the post is 23; but only for a second. It then blurs into 4, blurs into 43, and continues to cycle through different numbers without stopping on one. I stumble on. My campsite will be difficult to find. Loss of consciousness.

Flash:  I am very dehydrated. I see a can of soda lying ahead of me in the middle of the path. I am relieved. I reach down to pick it up and my hand passes through the can. I continue trying, convinced that my depth perception is tricking me somehow. I eventually give up. My fingertips hurt.  I stumble on to find another campsite post with whirling numbers. No help here. I need to find our car.

 Flash:  I am talking to Benji, I think, although his face and voice are at times that of Bronzewick. We are both scared. He doesn’t have shoes. “Do you know where campsite six is?” I might have said. He responds that no, he doesn’t but is very tired and confused. I am also confused. I realize that I am cold and I no longer have my coat. We lose consciousness or each other or both.

Flash: I am surprised to find Bronzewick’s Suburban. Sanctuary. I am saved. I am also surprised because I did not know that he owned a Suburban but I know it is his. I try the door handle. Locked. I wonder why they would lock me out. I knock on the windows, and violently try the door two or three more times. Someone yells at me from their tent, “Hey! What’s going on out there?! What are you doing?!”I realize Bronzewick does not have a Suburban and I am in someone else’s camp. I leave the scene quickly.

Flash: I notice a picnic table on the path in front of me. I feel that standing on it will give me the vantage point I need to see our car and tent. I approach it and raise my leg to plant it firmly on the bench seat. The bench seat is not there. It is a hologram. I lose balance and face plant. Blackout.

Flash: I find myself almost pressing my face up against a sign post. I am running my finger along the groove of the indicated number over and over. My hands are dark with soil and grime. The number is still whirling and indecipherable but the fluctuations between numbers have slowed.  I become convinced that the swirling motion of my fingers have been tracing a six, or perhaps an eight, despite what my eyes are telling me. I venture past a car and see a tent on my right. As I unzip the zipper, it drapes inside and reveals the sleeping face of Bronzewick. Specific lines of his features are blurring and morphing but I touch my hand to his face and it stabilizes. I am sure that this is him. He groans and swats at my hand and opens his eyes slowly. “What the fuck happened to you? Where’s Benji?” he asks. “I don’t know.” I answer as I plummet face-forward towards his feet. I am asleep.

We wake up pretty much simultaneously. Our return to reality is a chain reaction of consciousness returning and our mouths are all moving at the same time. We are all investigative detectives inquiring for details of our own stories. There are many facts missing and the list of witnesses are impossible to contact through our means. We debate if we would even want to interrogate the witnesses or if in fact this activity would incriminate ourselves. “Ignorance is bliss.” Bronzewick reminds us.  Benji is missing his socks, his shoes, and his wallet. His jacket pockets are stuffed full of leaves. He thought, at some point during the nightmare, his luck had struck and he had found bushes full of cash money.

“You know there is a very common saying that relates to that.” I guess Bronzewick thinks this is funny. Bronzewick found the tent before the nightmare struck. He didn’t experience the inability to stay conscious for any amount of time, or the frustration of three dimensional holograms that limbs inexplicably pass through. However, Bronzewick does understand the potential repercussions of the night as his eyes widen and he mutters, “Fuck.” We follow his gaze to see a uniformed Ranger approaching us. We look awful. Benji and I both have raw and bloody fingertips from attempts to pick up holograms and dirt from digging around wherever we had been digging around.

“Good morning Gentlemen. I have a couple questions for you.”

“Of course Officer. What questions are those?” I am sure all of us say this in chorus.

“I had a report of a young male prowling last night in Campsite 42 at around 2:15 am.  Have you boys been drinking? Does this have anything to do with you?” His eyes glance around for signs of meth, PCP, Carlo Rossi, something.

We shake our heads though. No trouble lying here, as we had no alcohol. We wonder in a panic what he might think of the three discarded tubes of Dramamine or the bottles of cough syrup and their respective packaging in the back of the car. We are too petrified to say anything, knowing the explanation of combined chemicals and our recollection of what occurred would put the Officer in a very interesting position.

Instead we all put on, “What the fuck are you talking about?” faces except with innocent and polite eyes but our little act is obviously weak and he spares us the confusion. The ranger then sighs and says, “Does this belong to any of you?” He produces from his pocket a wallet that is clearly Benji’s.

“The campers at 42 reported that a young man tried multiple times to enter their tent and seemed unresponsive to their attempts to communicate. Can you tell me about this?” says Ranger Tom. 

“I’ve had terrible experiences with sleep-walking, Officer. I woke up very confused and do not remember being at another campsite. I had no mischievous intent, I can assure you. I am a good kid. I am very sorry and very embarrassed.”

Benji manages not to lie. Sort of. Almost all these things are true. Ranger Tom seems as confused as we do. This kind of situation is not covered under normal procedure, clearly.  He sighs again as he says, “I’ve just got a weird feeling about this guys. You’re not in trouble but I am going to need your names and the phone numbers of your parents.”  Apparently we do not pass for adults at this point.  Ranger Tom hands Benji his wallet back and we write our info down on his little pad of paper.

“Be safe guys. Stay out of trouble.” Ranger Tom’s parting words of advice are forgotten easily, but we consider ourselves blessed. Immediately upon his departure from the campsite, we begin to pack up all of our gear and flee. With little knowledge of what had occurred the night before, we feel departing any last known location is our top priority.

All of us are giddy with confusion as we begin to peel around the loop on our way to the exit. “Wait a second, the fuck is that?” Bronzewick says as he stops the car suddenly. Outside the car is my jacket; torn and partially stuffed into a wall of bushes. Twenty feet further, we notice Benji’s socks and shoes hanging on broken branches of a tree trunk. We recover our items and commence our journey back home. Our bodies hurt, our minds are littered with holes, and we’d spend that day and the next one recovering just enough to make it to school on Monday.

Despite our warning, Fort Ebey remained our primary zone of exploration of drugs and vice, until we discovered the magic of the Umpqua Dunes just about one year later.

---

[1] Fort Ebey was originally built during World War II as a coastal defense near the mouth of the Puget Sound. Located 2 miles north of Coupeville, the park consists of 645 acres on Whidbey Island with 3 miles of saltwater shoreline on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a freshwater lake, and over two dozen miles of hiking and mountain biking trails. Other available activities include fishing, beachcombing, bird-watching, interpretive activities, paragliding, and getting incredibly fucked up.

[2] Salvia divinorum (popularly known by its genus name Salvia) is a psychoactive plant which can induce dissociative effects. Aside from individual reported experiences there has been a limited amount of published work summarizing the effects. D.M. Turner’s book Salvinorin—The Psychedelic Essence of Salvia Divinorum, mentions that the effects may include:

• Uncontrollable laughter
• Past memories, such as revisiting places from childhood memory
• Sensations of motion, or being pulled or twisted by forces
• Visions of membranes, films and various two-dimensional surfaces
• Merging with or becoming objects
• Overlapping realities, such as the perception of being in several locations at once

[3] Dramamine or dimenhydrinate is an over-the-counter drug used to prevent nausea and motion sickness. Dimenhydrinate is used as a deliriant at doses of 200 to 1200 mg, although it should be noted that body weight plays a significant part in dosing of any drug. Frequent users of Dramamine are sometimes called Dramatists, a pun on the name. Tripping on Dramamine is sometimes referred to as Dramatizing or "going a dime a dozen," a reference to the amount of Dramamine tabs generally necessary for a mild trip. The auditory/visual hallucinations coupled with the ensuing confusion and short-term memory loss often leads to mild or intensive paranoia among the users. Though auditory hallucinations are more common than visual hallucinations, the visuals of a "Dramamine Trip" can seem very real. At higher doses the hallucinations are more frequent, realistic and in some cases, frightening. Hallucinations induced by Dramamine abuse are sometimes shared among users; that is, it is common for Dramamine users to hear their own name being called, to see frightening creatures (such as insects or zombies), and to have conversations with non-existing people. When taken before going to sleep, users tend to randomly sit up and look around at their surroundings, sometimes within 2-5 minute intervals.

[4] Dextromethorphan or DXM is one of the active ingredients used to prevent coughs in many over-the-counter cold and cough medicines. Since their introduction, over-the-counter preparations containing dextromethorphan have been used in a manner inconsistent with their labeling, often as a recreational drug. At doses higher than medically recommended, dextromethorphan is classified as a dissociative psychedelic drug, with visible effects that are similar to those of ketamine and phencyclidine (PCP). It can produce distortions of the visual field, feelings of dissociation, distortions of bodily perception, excitement, as well as a loss of comprehension of time.