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A Day at the Beach

How a drunken Lonestoner met the Prince of Pot

It was eight-thirty in the morning. I had been up all night drinking free beers, celebrating the success of the first show of the theater I have been living in for the past couple of months.

Flux53. Horrible name, but not a bad place to pass out in, even if it is a little cold and dusty at times. It was our first official show as Flux53, a Circus Cabaret, and it went better than I had hoped to imagine considering how utterly unprepared we were. But we pulled it off somehow, and once I realized just how good it was going to be I began to drink especially heavily.

Did I mention it was eight-thirty in the morning? I had been working almost non-stop for over two days at that point but the success of the party had left me in such high spirits and combined with all the leftover beers we didn’t sell, the next thing I knew it was eight-thirty in the morning, I was rip-roaring drunk, and I had the absurd notion in my head that I needed to see the ocean. Immediately.

Nevermind the fact that I was slurring my speech, could barely walk without breaking into my patented drunken stagger, and as usual had no money. Nevermind the fact that I was supposed to be at an important political event that I had helped organize, a people’s tribunal to help spread awareness about the growing problem of police brutality in Oakland.

I needed to see the ocean. I had lived in the Bay Area for nearly two months and I had yet to look upon the Pacific Ocean. I wasn’t okay with that at all. And I felt it was time. I told my activist friend whom I’d convinced to work security that I wasn’t going to be attending the tribunal I was going to the Beach and if he didn’t like it he could fuck off. He fucked off.

I shook down the place for cash, finding three dollars in the tip jar on the bar, and fifteen in the cashbox under the desk we were using as a box office. I loaded my backpack with a couple bags of leftover chips, a quarter bottle of whiskey someone had left behind, and as many cans of Budweiser as the bag would hold.

I had an interesting conversation with a fellow all-nighter who was also headed for the BART station. We drank beer, and later had cheap coffee and cake from a Mexican bakery, as we stumbled down the street and talked about who was getting laid, who wasn’t, and why.

At the station I bid goodbye to my friend, who was headed south, and bought my first BART ticket. Four bucks to the beach, or at least as close as the train would take me, I’d have to take a bus or walk the rest of the way.

I drank beer the entire time I was on the train going across the bay. It was only when I offered the gentleman in the seat next to me a shot of whiskey that I learned there were security cameras in every car. Oh well.

I had decided to get off the BART at the Colma station and walk to the nearest beach, which I later learned is called Pacifica, but while I waiting for the bus to Pacifica I met a young kid, nineteen or twenty, and gave him a beer and a smoke. He was from the city and he said he knew not only where there was a nice unpopulated beach but also where we could score some good weed on the way.

The kid’s name was DJ and he seemed cool enough, so I changed my destination and went back into San Francisco. We jumped off the train at 17^th and Mission and walked around for a couple hours while DJ tried to find some pot. Just as we were about to call off the hunt, the roommate of yet another one of DJ’s friends who wasn’t home took pity on us and tossed us down a big joint, free of charge. Waiting for the bus to the beach we ran into another friend of DJ’s who bought him a twelve pack, and we chug one and reload the depleted backpack while we wait.

The beach was well worth it. It was a beautiful afternoon, perfect weather, warm sun and sand, and those cool blue waves crashing against the shore. We find a good spot on the dunes and plop down, taking off our shoes and opening a beer. This had to be about number thirty for me by then, but I had made it to the Ocean at last, and I felt damn good.

The beach patrol cop was down by the water’s edge harassing a woman with an unleashed dog, so we had to wait a bit before sparking up our gifted joint but when we did it made the perfect day just a little nicer. DJ and I, who are almost as close as brothers by this point for some reason, start a deep discussion about true love, of all things. About the difficulty of finding the one perfect woman, and how you would know if you did.

We get stoned, and we get good and drunk, and after the sun has started to set a bit we are joined by a young woman. She told me her name twice but I’m afraid I don’t remember what it was. She was from Canada, the really French part, and her accent was a little hard to understand, especially in my inebriated condition. She wanted to smoke marijuana but all we had to offer her was alcohol at that point so she had beers and a couple shots of whiskey with us.

We walked down to the water, leaving DJ behind with our stuff, and splashed around a bit, talking and laughing and flirting awkwardly. She wanted to watch the sunset and then go to a club and party but I was really smashed and knew I’d never make through the night even if she was buying.

She was a nice girl and I might have at least stayed to watch the sunset with her but DJ had to leave before dark, he was going across town to see a friend who was dying of gunshot wounds, and I was unsure of exactly where I was at and didn’t trust the foreign girl to get me home. I have a few friends in the city I could have called but I didn’t bring anyone’s contact info. I only wanted to see the Ocean, not friends.

So we began the trek back towards the BART, and I was drinking beers the whole way, even on the buses. Nobody cared. I am totally blitzed at this point, loudly talking shit to anyone around and probably annoying the hell out of my new friend. Getting off the bus to transfer over, I fall in the street, something I haven’t done in a very long time. I realized I might not make back to the East Bay in my current condition.

I ask DJ if I can just go crash at his place, but he’s a street kid, he doesn’t have a place. He says he knows where there is a car I can sleep in and I say what the fuck are you crazy, but he says no it’s cool, and I’m in no position to argue. I know I’ll be fine if I can sleep it off for an hour or two and a strange car is better than the street. We walk a few blocks, and he opens the door of this minivan. It’s warm and surprisingly clean so I hop in back and pass out. I don’t know if I said goodbye to DJ but I know I forgot to get my backpack from him.

I wake up to the sound of the van driving down the street. Fast. I crack an eye open and see two guys I’ve never seen before in the front seat. I’m wondering if this is how my life is going to end, if I decided to pass out in the wrong tweaker van, when the driver, an older guy about sixty or so, says, “Hey he’s awake!”

I can tell by the way he said it that he means me no harm, so I sit up and say, “Good evening gentleman, I had a little too much to drink at the beach today and DJ said it was cool for me to crash here for a little while. Is everything alright?”

“That’s cool” says the passenger, a younger guy about twenty-five or so, “we just didn’t know who you were. I was gonna kick you out but Dennis said no, you was okay.” “Yeah” says the driver, who I now assume is named Dennis, “I don’t care if people sleep in my car, that’s why I never lock the doors. What’s your name kid?”

I tell Dennis my name and a little more about how I came to be passed out in the back of his car. A minute or so later we drop off the passenger and I climb in the front seat. Dennis tells me I can sleep on one of his couches. He says I really should check out his place, he lives in a pink castle with a blacklight garden. When we park outside his building I see he wasn’t kidding, it really does look like a pink castle. We go in through a side door, into a kind living room/den area, and Dennis has me a roll a joint from his stash. It’s such high quality shit we both have to put it out less than halfway through.

He shows me around the rest of the place, a huge space with three stories spread out over two separate buildings. In between is an incredible blacklight garden, covered in psychedelic paint, with a nice hot tub midway through. The castle acts as a reasonably priced, all inclusive Bed and Breakfast. Every bedroom has a private balcony with a breathtaking view of the city below.

The whole place is decorated with pro marijuana legalization stuff; signs, banners, artwork, etc. I start to get the feeling that I know this old hippie, or at least I should. I’m looking at a framed copy of High Times magazine with my new friend on the cover when it finally hits me.

It turns out that Dennis is actually Dennis Peron, arguably the greatest marijuana rights activist of all time, and a true counterculture legend. This old man who found me sleeping in his van is one of my personal heroes. He opened the very first medical marijuana dispensary in California, and was instrumental in the passing of Prop 215. I had just smoked a joint with the Prince of Pot.

He gives me a glass of juice while we chat with his brother for awhile in the main kitchen, then, sensing my exhaustion, he shows me to a comfy couch in the living room of one of the suites. I fall asleep knowing I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

I wake up in the early afternoon and go upstairs to the kitchen. Dennis and his brother are there and we have coffee and blueberry muffins, then enjoy a relaxing soak in the hot tub. Dennis talks about his accomplishments in the movement, and about the cannabis clubs today, how they are mostly just about making money.

Feeling better and only a little hung over, I bid Dennis and his brother goodbye, thanking them for their more than generous hospitality. Dennis responds by smoking another joint, and gifting me a signed copy of his book. He invites me to come back whenever I’m in the city, an invitation I fully intend to take him up on.

As I’m walking the few blocks to the BART station, I take a look what he’s written inside the front cover;

Dear Robert,

Keep your dreams!

Stay High!

Dennis Peron

San Francisco ‘09

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fbCiNnLvvDY

The Oscar Grant Saga Continues!

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/justice-for-oscar-grant-rally-january-14-oakland-clip-three/2305843012836487899/?icid=VIDURVENT01

Wednesday, January 14th, 2009

I was a bit late arriving to the rally, and missed the opening statements, when it was announced that Mehserle had finally been arrested. The crowd was much bigger and more diverse than before, and so was the police presence. They were itching for a fight I think, many of them wore zipties in their belts, to be used as handcuffs if need be. I listened to speeches by members of C.A.P.E. the coalition against police executions, and M.O.N.A. mothers of never again.

I took part in a demonstration where we lay on the ground in front of the stage with our hands behind our backs, imitating Oscar Grant’s position when he was shot and killed. They read the names of many other people who had been killed by police, and after each name we cried, “Please don’t shoot!” Mayor Ron Dellums took the stage, to a chorus of boos, and encouraged the crowd to “Take pride in your activism.” He also encouraged everyone to remain peaceful, a sentiment that was echoed many times throughout the night.

A group of young people read the five demands of the people. Here is a brief summary of those demands.

1. Immediate indictment of Johannes Mehserle for murder.

2. Resignation or retirement of Tom Orloff, District Attorney of Alameda County.

3. The release of the names of all officers involved in the shooting of Oscar Grant, and the filing of any and all charges relating to said shooting.

4. The creation of a BART P.D. citizens review board.

5. BART and the city of Oakland to give restitution to the community to be used in the creation of programs to stop violence and police brutality.

Next, rapper and Oakland native Too Short briefly took the stage. He said the protest rallies and marches and the resulting community togetherness and organization were a “very intelligent effort” and stressed the need to keep it peaceful. A prayer was said, and then the evenings march began.

We marched from city hall to the Alameda County Administrative Building, near the courthouse. I followed close behind a group of black clad anarchists, keeping an eye out for the pretty troublemaker from before, but while there were some of the same people from the night of the 7th in attendance, she and her boyfriend were not among them. Once again, cries of “No justice, no peace!” and “I am Oscar Grant!” filled the air.

At the Admin Building, there were more speeches given and more chanting and sign waving. I stayed with the anarchists, standing atop a brick wall across the street. As the speakers took to the podium, among them Oscar Grant Senior, I spoke with some of the anarchists, and felt confident that they weren’t there to destroy stuff, but if someone else started it, they would be happy to join in. I think I was a little hard on them last time, most of them are good kids, if a little misguided. (Okay, so some of them are a lot misguided.) One of the speakers read a letter from a death row inmate that prompted a robust round of cheering from the crowd.

On the march back to city hall, I found myself in the absurd position of holding one of the anarchist banners. I agreed with the sentiment painted on the cloth, but they thought I was one of them, when if they only knew that I was in fact the Lonestoner I would have probably been jumped and soundly beaten.

The march back was uneventful, and I left immediately following the closing ceremonies of the rally, confident that the anarchist kids would cause no trouble. And indeed they didn’t, but a group of young people did attack a Wells Fargo bank that night, and after once again dispensing tear gas, eight arrests were made.

In other news, there’s a walkout for Oscar Grant on January the 16th, and yet another, and probably the final, rally and march to ensure justice for Oscar Grant and to help end police brutality, will be held on MLK day.

Monday, January 19th, 2009. Assemble at 11:30am at the west Oakland BART. March begins promptly at 12 noon. Commemoration rally 12:45pm, Bobby Hutton Park. March continues through west Oakland, with a concluding rally at 2pm, back at the west Oakland BART. Organized by the International People’s Uhuru Movement, with a little help from yours truly. That’s correct, this time I actually AM one of the organizers! Come out and help us bring an end to 41 years of systematic killing by those sworn to serve and protect! For more info or to join the movement: http://www.inpdum.org/ inpdum_oakland@yahoo.com

http://www.revolutionaryworkersgroup.org/

rworkersg@yahoo.com

Anarchy in Oak Town!

Anarchy in the Streets of Oakland

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HeDjJf02fac

How a peaceful demonstration against police brutality turned into an all out riot that left downtown Oakland aflame and in shambles.

Wednesday January 7^th, 2009

It was just supposed to be a protest rally seeking justice for the cold blooded murder of an unarmed man at the Fruitvale BART station on New Years day. Oscar Grant, a twenty-two year old father of one, was shot in the back while lying on the ground by BART cop Johannes Mehserle and later died from his injuries. In an attempted cover up, Mehserle’s fellow officers began confiscating cell phones of commuters who’d witnessed the unprovoked murder. In spite of their efforts, not one but three separate videos were soon all over the internet and television news.

The killer was allowed to walk away from the scene, and was placed on PAID leave pending an investigation. He later resigned from the BART P.D. on January 7^th, having still not spoken with investigators.

Not having a television or reliable internet access in the theater I’m currently residing in, I first learned of the murder of Oscar Grant when I received an invitation to the rally at the Fruitvale BART station where Oscar Grant was killed via my Facebook account. Not being a fan of law enforcement in general, and outraged at the merciless killing of an unarmed civilian and the resulting miscarriage of justice, I immediately decided to go to this protest rally and lend my support.

The rally was scheduled for three to seven P.M. and it was just before three when the bus deposited me at the BART station. There was a good size crowd already, and once the speeches began, the crowd began to grow at an almost exponential rate. It was a really diverse group of folks too, of all ages and from all walks of life. Among these were a couple of anarchist kids, girlfriend and boyfriend. For some reason I disliked them immediately, especially the girl. I had the strange desire to punch her in the mouth with a roll of quarters and I couldn’t understand why. I was really conflicted, because I don’t have anything against anarchists, I used to call myself one in fact, and this girl was really sexy, she had beautiful eyes peering out from atop her black bandanna, and beneath her bandolier belt she was all curves. There were a lot of anarchist kids in attendance, and she wasn’t the only hot chick, but none of the others made me nervous. Something about her made me not just uneasy but a little worried and slightly angry as well.

I tried to forget about her and drank one of the two beers I’d brought with me as I listened to some of the speeches, collected some literature, and bought a “Stop the Violence” CD that later turned out to be blank. (If I ever see that dude again, I intend to have my two dollars or I’m going to START the fucking violence!) The crowd grew so large the BART people shut down the station to prevent the arrival of more demonstrators, although when I asked them they claimed to have closed it due to the unruliness of the existing demonstrators, a bullshit lie if I’ve ever heard one. I noticed a complete lack of BART cops, there were only the Fruitvale Village security guys, and the police helicopter, which along with every news chopper in the Bay Area, filled the sky above the station like a flock of mechanical birds of prey.

An impromptu march was scheduled, and roughly half an hour later, enough time for my other beer and some hastily scrawled notes, a group of demonstrators began to walk, down International towards downtown Oakland. Reports are conflicting regarding the total number but I would say at least four hundred, conservatively, and many people joined in as we slowly made our way towards downtown. The marchers, like the protestors at the BART station, were a mixed group; black, white, young, and old. Sure, we were intermittently chanting “Fuck the Police!” but it was still just a peaceful demonstration.

Remember the anarchist lovebirds who made me feel a little uneasy? A few blocks before the shit hits the fan, I’m smoking a recently bummed smoke (I had quit the night before) when I see the girl run over to the side of the street. She empties the entire contents of a free newspaper machine into her open backpack and rejoins the crowd. I’d first noticed she was part of the march about half a mile back, when one of the organizers of the rally had attempted to turn the march around, and she’d told him to “stop trying to run shit.” I knew it was just a matter of time before our previously peaceful demonstration took a turn for the worse, and it wasn’t long before she proved me right.

Near the closed down BART police station was a single police cruiser, it’s two officers standing on the corner across the street. The mob halted to shout a few choice obscenities. My sexy/creepy anarchist girl decided to use this opportunity and her recently acquired stash of paper to light up a nearby dumpster. A group of the white anarchist wannabes, almost as if they had just been waiting for this signal, push the dumpster over by the cop car while still others began to damage the cruiser itself.

A frenzy ensues as the mob mentality begins to take hold of the crowd, the lights and windshield of the black and white are smashed out, and then a group begins trying to flip it on it’s side. I contemplate joining in the destruction for the only time that night, I think one more person and they could have rolled that damn car, it was already leaning precariously on two wheels. I hesitate, and in my indecision the option is taken away from me, as several cans of smoke and one can of teargas are shot off in the street around the crowd.

At this point, most of the younger and older members of the march have had enough, they put an egg in their shoe and beat it. What’s left is the anarchist kids, a number of teens and young adults, all of the above feeling rowdy and pissed off, and myself and the few members of the press who’d chosen to follow the march instead of remaining at the rally. Also a few of the more hardcore protestors who, while not willing to resort to violence, are not yet ready to stop protesting and go home either.

I see the first police in riot gear arrive, and form a line directly ahead of me, so I decide to detour around the block. On the way I meet Bryan Wiles, one of the aforementioned hardcore but peaceful protestors, and since we both want to be where the action is and yet not necessarily take part in any mayhem and destruction, we “buddy up” and decide to watch each other’s back’s, and as we make our way around the block to where the police are making the first of the many arrests that night, we form an exit strategy and discuss what to do if one or the other of us is arrested.

Sometime between the ignition of the dumpster and the detour, the mayor led a small group of the original march to city hall and gave a brief speech. Previously, he couldn’t be bothered, and so he sent a flunky of some sort to the rally at the BART station to deliver a half-hearted apology. I missed the mayor’s undoubtedly stirring words, en route to what would become the front line of the war zone the evening would eventually become.

14^th and Broadway.

At first it appeared to be a kind of totally one sided Mexican standoff. Lines of police in full riot gear blocked either side of Broadway. In between them, completely blocking off any traffic, are the two dozen or so protestors. Some of the anarchist kids remain, but the lovebirds are nowhere in sight. Perhaps they were so excited by their little trashcan fire they felt the need to rush home to Suburbia and make love in their evil lair located in his parent’s basement, or maybe they were tear gassed and had to pack it in early. I like to think it was the latter.

There are still a couple of bullhorns left in the hands of the remaining protestors, and they aren’t shy about using them. They lead the crowd in chants like, “No justice, no peace, fuck the police!” and “We are all Oscar Grant!” I was even pleasantly surprised to hear, “Hey cops, you better start shakin, today’s pig is tomorrow’s bacon!” It reminded me of Hunter. I think he would have been both pleased and disgusted with the way the night played out, pleased that so many had gathered to speak out against injustice and police brutality, and disgusted at the senseless destruction and vandalism that had nothing whatsoever to do with Oscar Grant or police brutality, it was just kids having fun; breaking shit and setting shit on fire.

It starts with another garbage fire, this time not a dumpster, just a regular sized can on the corner. It’s lit up and then kicked over, but the police seem uninterested, so the can on the other side of the street is set ablaze and knocked over as well. Still no reaction from the police, so a few bottles get thrown.

That pissed them off a little, so they order the crowd to disperse, and when no one seems to be dispersing they start herding us down 14^th. This pisses the crowd off a little, and car windows start being broken, and a USA Today machine is kicked over and smashed. One of the cars with broken windows in set on fire when someone throws what I believe was a small Molotov cocktail inside it, in seconds there’s flames pouring out the windows and extending three feet over the roof of the vehicle. This was approximately eight-thirty, but I only know this from the newscast I watched later that night while having beers at Bryan’s place. I had no way to know what time it was at that moment, my ipod claimed it was just after three in the morning, which I knew couldn’t be right.

Several people refused to be herded like cattle, and I saw a couple sporadic skirmishes with the riot cops break out, usually ending with the person in the way being slammed to the ground, although one lady was simply picked up and carried away. I nearly catch the bums rush myself as I’m hastily scribbling notes and only Bryan’s tug on the shoulder saves me from becoming a doormat. “No justice, no peace!” chants the crowd, continuing on it’s path of destruction. It’s extremely violent, and just as senseless, the mob destroys things and sets other things on fire indiscriminately and completely at random.

I hear from a nearby photog that the police have closed down Madison, which intersects 14^th about a block down the street. As he’s telling me this, I watch a kid looting the cars with broken windows. No one says a word to him, there’s so much anger in the air I don’t think anyone cared. A scary looking SWAT vehicle, armored and with some kind of gun turret, rolls by, loaded down with riot police, some of them wielding bean bag shotguns. One of them jumps off the vehicle and begins chasing the looter kid on foot, and then two more jump off and give chase. When they catch the kid I see all three of them pile onto his back, their knees on his shoulders and neck, one of them slaps the cuffs on, and another blasts him with a taser. By that time the kid was completely docile, and the taser was just a little bit of old fashioned police brutality.

We’ve reached Madison, and sure enough it’s blocked off by a line of cops. We’re forced to turn left on Madison, which prompts another volley of thrown bricks and bottles. Once again I’m saved from being trampled under the feet of the riot police by Bryan, who thankfully is paying attention to them while I’m busy taking in the sight of all the property damage and trying to write down as many details as I can. I see another small skirmish, a couple of men attempting to have a fist fight with the riot police. It doesn’t last long. More shit gets thrown, more shit gets broken.

At 15^th and Madison, another car is in flames. I see a man across the street holding a fire extinguisher and go over and ask him why he didn’t put out the fire. “I was going to,” he told me, “but the cops told me to stay back. Dude said let it burn.” The power on the street goes out, and before it comes back on a minute or so later, the only lights are the car fire and the police Mag Lites. Someone says the cops cut the power so we couldn’t see them shoot us, which is both ridiculous and a little scary.

Once again, helicopters fill the sky above me. I see a well dressed man emerge from a nearby side street, speaking into a walkie talkie. “Keep the chopper right here, over me.” Says Supercop, for now I can see his badge and gun, both hanging from opposite sides of his belt. This is at 17^th and Madison. The SWAT tank rolls by again. The distance between cars with smashed windshields and windows has grown longer. The worst seems to be over with. By mutual consent, Bryan and I make the decision to call it a night. There was nothing more to see, and we were not helping matters hanging around.

Turning down Lakeside Drive next to Lake Merritt, we pass a badly smashed Taxi whose driver wants no part of us or our fare. There’s some damage to cars and property down by the lake but not nearly as bad as the last few blocks have been. After a long wait at a bus stop, the buses are allowed to start rolling again and we hop on the 40 and ride it back to my place, where I immediately dig my old pack of smokes out of the trash and light one up, before going to the kitchen for a beer. Helluva night.

What should have been a show of support for the family of Oscar Grant III instead became a series of senseless acts of destruction that destroyed the property of small business owners and private citizens. (I make no mention of city or police property because I could give a shit about any of that.) A small group of white kids all hopped up on “Anarchy” as they understand the concept, ruined what should have been a good thing. Taking the focus off of the cop who shot an unarmed man in the back and the system that allowed him to, and instead placing it on a bunch of idiots breaking windows and burning cars. Way to go kids, you sure showed ‘em!

Late night rambling part deux!

Insomnia is a real bitch. Sometimes sleep is a luxury you just can't afford.

I've been thinking, of a little place down by the lake, they got a dirty old road leading up to the house, I wonder how long it will take...

I have no business posting anything when I'm this FUBAR but I don't give a damn anymore. It's not like anyone is reading this drivel anyway. Fuck it. I can't sleep and I'm too fucked up to do anything constructive so this is what I'm going to do.

Projectile vomit with a toothache beats my broke ass down, hands tied behind my back I could eat that clown, with a knife and fork just go to town. Fuck your entire existence, you have no strength for more than token resistance.

Pass the marijuana, any old kind of way. I like it when you pass around the pipe, make sure the mood is right....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYW7BUc2bCQ


Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4pAE5G5OBzw

It's time for another installment of Late Night Rambling.

Brought to you by Sunny Brook whiskey, Vicodin, and Marijuana!

The NEW breakfast of champions!

For when you just want to push the "pause" button.

I don't give a fuck what you think, I'm not writing this for anyone but me! I hope no one ever reads it because you are not worthy.
;+}


There's something almost indescribably "magic" about the Bay Area of the west coast of California. I say almost indescribably because Satan knows enough people have tried to put it into words, much wiser heads than mine. Kerouac, Kesey, Ginsberg, Leary, Wavy Gravy, just to name a few. HST came closer than anyone to date, but even the good doctor never put it into laymans terms. Perhaps it can't be done. Is it some kind of strange hippie haven, a misfit Mecca of sorts? Did the "Summer of love" cause some kind of vortex that continues to draw in the eccentric? Call it what you want, it is undeniably, indisputably, the freak kingdom Hunter said it was. But why?

Why here, and not someplace warmer? Even those amongst the best and the brightest who don't reside in this particular region have some inextricable connection. The influence of Nor Cal is worldwide. Fuck fake ass Hollywood and their phony bullshit, the real culture is right here! NYC is a close second, but still no substitute!

As far as I can tell, it started with the great California gold rush back in 1848 or so. The miners needed bars, casinos, whores, and opium dens, and so the first remnants of counterculture for the area were imported from all over the world. After the gold began to become scarce, new sources of revenue were needed.

"In 1930, California had 5.7 million residents, and the population shrank as 120,000 Mexicans were repatriated. In the 1930s, farmers from the Midwestern Dust Bowl states, especially Oklahoma and Arkansas, began to move to California; 250,000 arrived by 1940, including a third who moved into the San Joaquin Valley, which had a 1930 population of 540,000. During the 1930s, some 2.5 million people left the Plains states.

The Modesto Bee on September 30, 2008 reviewed Dust Bowl migration to California. A series of wet years in the 1920s led farmers to believe that the Plains could sustain annual plowing to produce wheat. Drought in the 1930s allowed dust storms to carry away top soil, darkening the sky even at mid-day.

As families realized that the drought and dust storms would not end, some sold what they could not take and began to drive west on Route 66. Many hoped to become hired hands on California farms, learning how to grow fruits and vegetables while living on the farms where they worked. However, California farms typically hired seasonal workers only when they were needed, and used farm workers to perform specific tasks rather than learn how to become farmers in their own right.

The experiences of Okies and Arkies were memorialized in John Steinbeck's 1939 novel, "The Grapes of Wrath." It told the story of the fictional Joad family's migration from the Oklahoma Dust Bowl to California, which was considered the Promised Land. Dorthea Lange's 1936 Migrant Mother photo (www.migrantgrandson.com), taken at a pea-pickers' labor camp in San Luis Obispo county, is often used to symbolize the plight of the Midwestern migrants in California."

From: http://migration.ucdavis.edu/RMN/more.php?id=1355_0_6_0

Thanks to the dust bowl, the central valley became a farmer's dream, westward expansion kept the population steadily increasing and to this very day there's no end in sight. Move ahead a few years and you find the beginnings of what would later be called the Beat generation. Yes, it started in New York, but like all good things it made it's way to the west coast, improved, and stayed right here.

"The sun may rise in the east, at least it's settled in a final location."

The Beats begat the Hippies and Flower Children, and later the Punks, and from all that is everything counterculture is today. I live in the coolest place in the world, bar none.

Contact Info

Email: lonestoner916@yahoo.com

Robert J. Day
5306 Foothill Blvd.
Oakland, CA 94601

At Last it's Finally Over!

I hear Canada is real nice this time of year...

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“In a nation run by swine, all pigs are upward-mobile and the rest of us are fucked until we can put our acts together: Not necessarily to win, but mainly to keep from losing completely.”

- Dr. Hunter Stockton Thompson

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Like anyone who isn't suffering from severe mental retardation, which is a little better than half of us if you believe the numbers, I'm glad Obama won. That being said, I've never been more disgusted or ashamed to be an American.

I'm serious.

www.smartvoter.org/2008/11/...ate/prop/

What the fuck California? I thought we were going to open the political door to a whole new way of thinking, lead the nation in tolerance, understanding, kindness, and open-mindedness. But I was wrong. Oh boy, was I ever wrong. It's worse than I could have imagined in a thousand nightmares. I guess Matt Taibbi was right, the douchebag.

"Americans no longer have the energy to do anything but lie back and allow themselves to be jacked off by the calculating thieves who run this grasping consumer paradise we call a nation."-MT

A bit of poetry...(Not Mine, I try not to do that to you)

I heard this on the XM radio on the way to Burning Ham and loved it.

What We Might Be, What We Are

If you were a scoop of vanilla
And I were the cone where you sat,
If you were a slowly pitched baseball
And I were the swing of a bat,

If you were a shiny new fishhook
And I were a bucket of worms,
If we were a pin and a pincushion,
We might be on intimate terms.

If you were a plate of spaghetti
And I were your piping-hot sauce,
We'd not even need to write letters
To put our affection across.

But you're just a piece of red ribbon
In the beard of a Balinese goat
And I'm a New Jersey mosquito.
I guess we'll stay slightly remote.
-- X. J. Kennedy

New Short Story

Mr. Hyde is a real nice guy!
By: Robert J. Day Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day





"I think there's a whole region of images and feelings inside us that rarely are given outlet in daily life. And when they do come out they can take perverse forms. It's the dark side. Everyone, when he sees it, recognizes the same thing in himself. It's a recognition of forces that rarely see the light of day." - Jim Morrison



"Here's your breakfast dear" the man’s wife said cheerfully. He took his eyes off the morrning paper long enough to glance down at the plate she'd place in front of him. Bacon and eggs. Every goddamned morning, it was the same fucking thing. Bacon and eggs. Jesus fucking Christ, couldn't the stupid bitch fix something different once in a while? "Thank you darling" he said, giving her his best smile. "Would you like some toast, or a glass of orange juice?" What I would like is for you to just once surprise me with some French toast or waffles, you fat, lazy cunt. "No thank you sweetheart, this will do just fine."
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He finished his bacon and eggs without tasting them, rinsed his plate, silverware, and coffee mug, and then put them in the dishwasher like the well-trained dog he was. "I've got to be getting to the office now honey, I'll see you tonight." He gave her the obligatory kiss on the cheek, and managed not to grimace in disgust, then grabbed his briefcase and overcoat from the hall closet and headed out the door.
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As she watched him leave, the woman thought to herself, as she often did, that she was extremely lucky to be married to such a wonderful man. He was just such a nice guy...
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I wouldn't give a shit if I never saw that ugly bitch again, the man thought to himself as he rode the elevator down to the lobby. "Good morning Mack!" he said to doorman as he stepped out of the elevator. You worthless sack of shit. "Good morning to you sir! How bout those Giants? Gonna go all the way this year I'm thinkin." Who gives a flying fuck what you think you goddamned old drunk? Fucking dumbass mick. "You betcha Mack, take it easy, don't work to hard okay?" Like you ever have. "I won't, you have a good day sir!" replied the doorman.
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Ernie "Mack" MacDougal smiled as the man stepped out into the street. Nice guy that one. Helluva nice guy.
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"Where to mister?" the cabbie asked as the man got in, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. Back to India or Saudi Arabia or wherever the hell you came from raghead, thought the man. "21st and 6th please" he said politely. The cab driver nodded as he reached over and switched on the radio. Immediately the cab was filled with the most awful noise the man had ever heard. What the fuck is this shit? the man wondered. How can he stand it? I suppose this crap is what passes for music in your country Habib, but you're in America now, you asshole. Jesus fucking Christ.
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He tried going over some reports during the ride to his office, but the horrible sounds that continually blasted forth from the cabbies speakers ruined any hope of being able to concentrate.
The man thought about what it would be like to reach forward and stick his expensive pen (a Christmas gift from his wife) into the side of Ali Baba's neck again and again. He imagined that his surprised screams of pain and anguish would probably sound quite a bit like the utterances of the dickhead who was currently singing that goddamn foreign gibberish shit on the radio. His head was pounding by the time the taxi rolled to a stop in front of the soulless glass and steel tower that housed the offices of his company, and countless others exactly like it.
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In spite of his headache, he gave the raghead a five dollar tip and a cheerful, "thanks a lot sir!" wondering as he handed over the money if he was helping to fund terrorism. What a nice guy, thought the cabbie as he drove away.
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On his way to the elevator, the man spotted Artie Jenkins from accounting. Please don't let that schmuck get on this elevator he thought, I can't stand that whiney little son of a bitch. Artie stepped into the elevator just before the door was closing. "Hey, glad I caught you!" Artie exclaimed. He then began a rambling narrative that had something to do with his wife's sister, the man wasn't sure, Artie's voice was so high and whiney he was never really sure just what the hell Artie was talking about, it was hard to think with that shrill voice ringing in his ears. He tried to nod in the right places, occasionally throwing in a "really?" or a "you don't say?" when he thought it might be appropriate, but his headache was getting worse.
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At last he reached his floor, just as he was seriously contemplating choking Artie to death with his cheap necktie. "Take it easy" he said to Artie, who was already moving on to his next victim. "Super nice guy!" said Artie to the bored-looking advertising executive next to him, pointing to the man's back as he stepped out of the elevator. "Seriously, just an all around good guy!"
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"Good morning Karen." Karen was the man's secretary. She liked to flirt shamelessly with him but he knew if he tried to go anywhere with it she'd sue him for sexual harassment so fast it would make his head spin. "Morning handsome, you're looking sharp as usual. Anything I can do for you?" Bend over your desk and hike up that skirt you cockteasing whore, and put your fist in your mouth to muffle the screams because I'm going to wear that pretty little ass out. "Just the usual coffee, thanks." And your tits. Your firm, perky tits all over my face. He watched her pour the coffee, bending way too far over to put back the pot, causing her already short skirt to rise up and give him a nice look at the cheeks of her ass. "How is it?" she asked, after he'd taken a sip. A little too sweet, not unlike your wet cunt my dear. "Just right, thank you Karen."
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What's with this guy? thought Karen. She'd been practically throwing herself at him for as long as she'd been his secretary and he was always a perfect gentleman. He was just too nice. "Mr. Sondenfield would like to see you when you get a moment." she said.
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Barry Sondenfield was supposedly his boss, despite of the fact that he didn't know his ass from a hole in the ground and when he bothered to show up at the office at all he generally drank his lunch. What the fuck does that incompetent moron want from me now? thought the man. How long am I going to have to do both our jobs? When will my poor head stop hurting?
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"Outsourced? I'm afraid I don't understand Mr. Sondenfield, how could this have happened?" And why the fuck am I only just now being told about it, you nasty old piece of drunken dogshit? "Times are tough..." said drunken dogshit with a nervous grin, "the company is making cutbacks and laying off all over the place. Hell, I was lucky to get promoted just before the shit hit the fan or else I'd be in the same boat as you. Unfortunately, one of the conditions for my new promotion was that I'd have to be the one to break the bad news to everybody. Don't shoot the messenger buddy, ha, ha."
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He continued to speak, but the man was no longer really listening, his anger wouldn't let him concentrate and his headache was so bad he thought his head might explode. That fucking rat bastard sold me out. Really fucking screwed me good. Now who was going to be around to fix his fuckups, the retarded son of a bitch. He could have easily put in a good word for me and had them find me a spot somewhere. What the fuck was he supposed to do; he had a stack of unpaid bills and next to nothing in the bank. With the job market the way it was, it could be six months or more before he found another job, shit maybe even a year.
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Drunken Dogshit was saying something about how he really appreciated all the hard work, but the man's head was throbbing so hard he was seeing black spots, and his hearing seemed to be fading in and out. Something Sondenfield said earlier had stuck with him, and kept repeating over and over in his brain. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger. Don't shoot the messenger...
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"And of course I'm more than happy to write you a letter of recommendation." Sondenfields speech had come to an end it seemed. "Thank you very much sir." said the man, rising from his chair and walking toward the door. "If you wouldn't mind doing that now, I've just got to grab something from my desk and I'll be right back."
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Without waiting for a reply he left Drunken Dogshit's spacious corner office and walked down the hall towards his own modest little cubicle. Shoot the messenger? Oh no, he had something much better in mind. Reaching his desk, he opened the bottom drawer and took out the 9mm automatic and the extra clip he'd been keeping in there for several months without really knowing why. Or perhaps he'd known all along. He released the safety just as Karen came walking in. "What are you doing with that?" she asked, looking completely unafraid. "Shut the fuck up bitch." he said, and shot her in the face at pointblank range.
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The man shot and killed thirteen and seriously wounded six of his colleagues and co-workers that day before he was killed by police gunfire. Among the dead was Artie Jenkins from accounting, his boss Barry Sondenfield, and of course Karen Leary his secretary. The story made headlines across the country, and everyone interviewed by the media said the same thing, surviving co-workers, college friends, the taxi driver who'd brought him to work that day, family members, even his grieving widow.
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"It makes no sense, I just don't understand, he was such a nice guy."



The End?

Jesus meets Dirty Sanchez!

Check it out!

An article I wrote for the Black Rock Beacon's website after Burning Man 2007 has finally been put up on the site! I stumbled across it accidentally and was pleasantly surprised!

http://bitethe.com/brb/

A Christmas story (outline of yet another work in progress.)

I think I may actually finish this one though, I like it a lot...

Copyright 2008 Robert J. Day [Don't plagiarize me, bro!]

A Christmas story.

There’s these two tweakers, a relatively happy couple despite their horrendous meth addiction, which isn’t immediately apparent in the story’s opening. The story begins with the happy couple (Tim and Debbie) about to embark on a shopping trip. They’ve been really “good” for two whole weeks and if they put off paying the electric bill, (they’ve paid late before and not been shut off, they’ll just have to pay the late fee again is all) they’ll have the princely sum of ?200$ to purchase Xmas gifts for their three kids, one of whom is named destiny, the other two’s names mean something like paternal love and responsibility??
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Their hearts full of love and Christmas cheer, they set off for the local Wally World to make the holiday dreams of their children come true, and why not?? They’re good kids, they deserve better than just the one or two cheap dollar store presents they got from Toys for Tots last year because Debbie had to bail Tim out of jail and there just wasn’t any money for presents, or even a tree.. Shit, Debbie had to give a couple blowjobs just to get the last few dollars for the bail money, and when the newly-released Tim learned his old lady had no beer money and only a little dope, he sent her back out on the streets with a black eye to suck her way to his next high. On Christmas.
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Debbie didn’t mind, not really. She loved him. Besides, he was different now. He’d been making good money the past few months stealing copper from construction sites for recycling, so they’d had plenty of crystal and sometimes Tim would bring home a half gallon of milk for the kids with his case of beer. And Tim felt so bad about last Christmas, he’d insisted they clean up for two weeks so they’d have money for the kids.
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Cleaning up meant only pot for her and no meth, for him it meant he’d only do his friends dope at “work” and not buy any himself. But it was the tree that made Debbie believe that Tim had really changed for the better this time. Just this evening, Tim had come in with a barely used, fake Christmas tree, the kind with the lights and the the ornaments already on it. It was at this very moment set up in the living room, next to the TV, flashing and blinking, it was in fact “lit up like a Christmas tree” and Debbie thought it was the most beautiful Christmas tree she’d ever seen. To anyone else it might not have been anything special, but to Debbie it represented everything good and normal that a family is supposed to be and so it was the best tree EVER.
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They wait until the kids are asleep, and leaving them in the care of their friend Dinky, they head to Wal-Mart. As they’re getting into the car (Pinto or Station Wagon??) They run into hambone, one of several dealers in their apartment complex. Hambone sells meth, and Tim and Debbie were important clients of his until about two weeks ago. He wants to know where they been, he was starting to get worried about them, etc. Well, it’s good to see them anyway, and hey by the way, he’s got some killer shit, did they need anything?? No thanks, they say we’re fine. Are they sure, this is REALLY good shit, and just because they were friends, he’d give them a great deal. Well, maybe just a little to perk them up for their shopping trip they say, they can afford to spend a little of the money, it IS their money after all, and there’ll still be plenty left for presents. Sure what the hell they say, “Give us a 20.”
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But of course Hambone can’t do a 20, his shits already been pre-weighed and packaged and he doesn’t have any sacks that small. He says he’ll give them a 50 sack for forty, cause it’s them. They don’t need that much, but Tim says he can always sell the rest to the guys from “work” and since they needed to save a few dollars for Christmas dinner anyway, it was just like money in the bank.
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They score the shit and go to a nearby park to get high. They’re sitting on the swings passing the glass dick back and forth when Carol shows up. Carol is a fellow tweaker who used to live in their complex until she was evicted. Now she divides her time between the local shelter and this park. Tim and Debbie are feeling exceptionally giving this evening and invite carol to join them, which she gladly does.
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Hambone was right, the shit is killer, and the three of them are soon VERY spun-out, the first bowl led to bowls two and three, as it often does , and a couple of hours pass by almost unnoticed, as they often will. “Shit, we gotta go!”
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Carol switches the dope sack with a sack of cut, and Tim sells cut to the wrong guy (Stevie) on the way into the store, they shop like they’ve never shopped before.
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Stevie is waiting in the parking lot, and he isn't happy. He says they sold him a bag of fake shit. Tim says no man, that shit was really good, come to the park with us and we'll try it out.
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At the park Stevie beats up and robs Tim, taking everything, and then he proceeds to rape Debbie in the park, as Carol watches from the bushes where she’s been hiding. Tim is beaten so bad he's barely conscious and can do nothing but watch helplessly.
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They return home with nothing, and when the kids wake up asking if Santa Claus came, Tim beats them out of shame and frustration, and after catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror, is sickened by what he sees staring back at him.
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Not knowing what else to do, he dropkicks the fake tree across the living room in disgust. Destiny sees it fly across the room, and it is the ugliest thing she’s ever seen, to anyone else it might just look like a flying xmas tree but to her it represents everything ugly, vile, depraved, and evil that her family has always been and so it is the worst tree EVER.
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The story ends with the lights going out, it seems they had gotten away with paying their bill late for the last time. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
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Definitely NOT The End.

Playa Time VS. The Best of Intentions

It never fails...

You make plans, buy stuff, make more plans, maybe make a few promises...

You fully intend to do all those things you said you'd do, meet those people you've been wanting to meet, and who wanted to meet you, but the second your feet touch down on the Playa, everything flies right out the window.

It goes slowly at first, but by the end of the week it's out of your control. Playa time. When "I'll be there in an hour" turns into "See you next year!" and you have no idea how that could have happened. I have as good an excuse as anyone I guess, I was working for the Gate department most of the time. Partying my ass off and having the time of my life, but working nontheless.

Even when I wasn't working at the Gate I would often find myself there, or in the vortex appropriately named The Black Hole, and even though I missed a fuckton of cool shit, I was right where I needed to be usually. Fuck what you heard, the real party is the one behind the scenes, primarily before and after the actual event.

So while I am truly sorry I didn't get to meet anyone I was so looking forward to meeting, I'm not THAT fucking sorry, because in the end it was you who really missed out, and not me. If that sounds a little conceited, I don't mean for it to, because it's not really about me or any one person in particular, although I did meet some of the truly great ones. It's the combination of all the eclectic and unique individuals and our common goal that makes The Pirates so goddamn special. If you see the pirate ship coming get the fuck out of the way, because we WILL run your hippie ass over!

But that's not what this blog entry is about, oh no. More on the Pirates later perhaps but for now I'd like to take a moment to try and convince my other Burner friends that I am not completely full of shit. A tall order perhaps but I believe I'm up for it, mainly because I've got the truth on my side. I arrived on Playa the Thursday before the start of the event and with all my plans, hopes, and dreams still very much intact. The next day after helping erect a giant bottle of Ketchup I worked my first shift at the Gate and became violently ill.

I had Gate Fever, a nasty ailment whose symptoms include but are in no way limited to: Euphoria, right-on'ness, a sense of accomlishment and belonging, and mass alcohol consumption with no intoxication, which can lead to workaholism. I lost an uncle to workaholism, and it wasn't pretty, there were pie charts, graphs, and alphabetically filed receipts everywhere man.

There is no cure for Gate Fever, and once infected it will almost certainly kill you. I guess it's not such a bad way to go...

To Be Continued...

It's been awhile...

Since the last time I posted anything here. I've always hated blogging, and while I know keeping a writer's journal can be beneficial, I've never been real good at keeping up with one of those either. It's hard enough to just write something everyday, much less having to post it on the web for all to see.

My apologies to any and all of my internet friends with whom I promised to meet up with at Burning Man this year. I was busy pillaging with the Pirates of the Gonnorhean, AKA Gate, Perimeter, and sometimes Exodus staff.

When I wasn't working for or partying with the Gate family, I was working for or partying with the Ketchup family, my friends and Playa neighbors. Much love goes out to Mr. Bruce Bender and Kat, and the whole Krazy Ketchup Krew! Only you could have kept me away from Doc Pyro's Meet and Greet!

Stay tuned for the garbled details of my many misadventures in the desert!

To Be Continued...

Daily Blog #666 "George Carlin is worm food!"

I would tell you what he meant to this world, but you just wouldn't fucking understand! George was one of a kind and you are all sheep! Fuck You! Bunch of fucking pussies!

DB#12ish I haven't a clue...

I simply must stop getting obliterated and then posting on the message boards. Better I should drunk-dial an old girlfriend, at least she already knows I'm a Jackass! My writing has done a great deal for my personal life, most of it good, but no good can come from spouting off nonsense into cyberspace at four in the morning, looking at the computer screen through one bloodshot eye... Sure, it seemed hilarious at the time, but in the sober light of day I realize that for a man of few words, I really have no idea when it would be better for me to just shut my fucking trap, and when I should keep talking. Don't drink and post, and NEVER drug and blog!

;+}

http://turnpike.net/~mirsky/drunk/test1.html

DB# Eleventy-seven! I have a confession to make...

I've recently started kidnapping homeless drifters by luring them into my house with the promise of a shower and a hot meal, and then I keep them locked in my basement! On Saturday nights, for kicks, I hold them at gunpoint and force them to act out scenes from my favorite sitcoms of yesteryear! If you thought Full House was mildly amusing back in the nineties, just imagine if it had starred a bunch of half-starved winos begging you to spare their lives!

;+}

DB#12 This one time, at Burning Man. Reposted from Eplaya.

Last year was my first Burn, and my reasons for being there had nothing to do with getting laid. Nevertheless, after three or four days of walking around seeing some of the most beautiful women I had ever seen (We had some in our camp even!) some of whom were wearing only shoes and a smile, I was feeling a bit randy, to say the least. All you men know what I'm talkng about, those Playa Princesses that you still think about on an almost daily basis. I decided to go out that night and see if I couldn't do something to remedy the situation.

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I started this little adventure at the Root Society Dome, well I guess technically I started it at Thunderdome right before that, when I spoke briefly to an Aussie Angel with an accent and perfume that drove me crazy immediately. Alas, that was not to be, she was with a group of friends who decided they wanted to leave almost immediately so with barely even a "G'day" she was out of my life forever. That's when I headed over to the Root Society, I hoped to meet some girls on the dancefloor and indeed I did, I danced for about five hours and in that time I "met" three women. I put met in quotes because it was so loud in the dome I have no way of knowing if they understood a word I said. It went something like this; I would be dancing (or what passes for dancing in my case) I'd spot a girl who seemed to be alone and try to catch her eye. If she gave me a smile I'd work my way across the floor and proceed to dance with her. The first couple of times I made the mistake of trying to start a conversation.

Me: "HI!"

Her: "Hey!"

Me: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME?"

Her: "WHAT??"

Me, louder: "WHAT'S YOUR NAME???"

Her, louder: "WHAT?"

Me: "NEVERMIND!"

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The third girl I didn't even try to speak to, I just motioned that it was really loud by covering my ears and then pointed outside. She nodded and we walked outside where we promptly ran into her boyfriend, who'd apparently been looking for her at another camp. After introductions were made he told her that the party was way better at the other place and invited me to go with them. I said no of course, but did manage not to slug the guy as he and his incredibly hot girlfriend were hugging me goodbye. (That last part was a joke, they were very nice people really!) Anyways I'd had enough for one night, so I returned to my camp, to my enormous canvas tent in which I slept alone.

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The next night I decided to ride a few art cars in hopes of meeting someone in an environment where I could actually hear something besides bass and possibly get myself laid, but the only thing I got was VERY, VERY, DRUNK. Damn those Bar Cars, I love them! I didn't meet any single straight women until I was three sheets to the wind with the fourth sheet fast approaching. Finally I met a beautiful girl, and guess what? I actually REALLY liked her, she was smart and funny as well as beautiful! But I'm getting a little ahead of myself. A few minutes prior to meeting her, the art car I was riding nearly hit a darkwad and our driver, who was almost as shitfaced as I was, was forced to slam on the brakes rather hard, jostling everyone on board. Unknowingly, and not a little drunkenly, I spilled the entire contents of my cup right into my lap. A few minutes later, having at long last jumped ship and once more afoot, I met the abovementioned beautiful, smart, and funny girl. We were talking about our Burn experiences so far and flirting, and I was actually scoring a few points, despite my state of total inebriation, when for seemingly no reason at all she turns and walks quickly away. I'm wondering if it's something I said or if, like Lewis Carroll's white rabbit, she was just really late for something. It's then that I notice the wet patch on the front of my jeans, clearly visible and far too perfectly round to be anything but what she thought it was. That poor girl will always believe she was being hit on by a sloppy drunk who'd recently pissed himself! I wanted to chase after her and explain but I knew there was no way she was going to buy my ridiculous story which just happened to be the truth.

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Feeling rejected and oddly humiliated (I didn't do anything damnit!) I headed back across the Playa in the direction of camp. I decided that "Bernie" had a better chance of getting laid than I did. But things like rejection and humiliation can't survive in the desert, and before I made it back to my camp my pants had dried and I found a really good party at the gay camp near home. (5&G)

NO, I DID NOT "EXPERIMENT."

What happened was I met a cool straight girl, and while she was not the most beautiful or even the funniest or smartest, she did take pity on me and drag my drunk behind to her tent and have her way with me, after which she promptly showed me the door. That's how I knew it was pity and not lust! In fact I think I may have been the recipient of one of those "gift fucks" someone mentioned before! I didn't mind being used in the slightest!

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The morale of the story is this: If you're looking for it you're probably just setting yourself up for diappointment, but in BRC good things will almost always happen when you least expect it!

DB #'s 6-11! One Lonestoner deserves another, or Fuck you, I know what I said!

It's been several days since my last blog entry so this one is extra long to make up for lost time. I've been preoccupied with Burning Man stuff, my apologies to all my faithful daily readers.

Both of you!

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The other day, just for fun, I tried Googling Lonestoner to see what would pop up. I've Googled myself plenty of times but this was the first time I've tried Googling an alias. (Sounds dirty doesn't it?) The results were quite unexpected. First off let me start by telling you a little about the name and how it came to be, at least in my case.

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My very first internet screenname, way back in the old dial-up AOL days, like 94 or 95, was bongheadbob. While apt, this name could in no way be called original. One night, while sitting up alone and smoking some herb, I was trying to think of a new name, and it occured to me that most of my herb smoking was done alone, and that I very much preferred it that way. I'd always been a loner, and at age 13 was well on my way to becoming a stoner. I was a stoner loner... I was like the Lone Ranger of pot smoking. No wait, I was...

The Lonestoner!

And indeed I was. Keeping my silent vigil over the sleeping masses, blowing smoke rings of protection, my only companions Jay and Conan, and sweet Mary Jane. And so it began.

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Getting back to the Google results, I say the results were unexpected mostly because of one Douchebag, who has the nerve to call himself Billy Bud Toker (of Da Unda Hoggs, no less!) a wannabe gangsta rapper who not only took it upon himself to claim the title of Lonestoner, it's the title track of his album! Naturally I was curious to hear the song, but after much searching the closest I got was a 30 second sample. It was enough to go from curious to furious. For those of you who are interested, you can purchase the song for about a quarter, but after listening to the sample I can promise you won't get anywhere near your money's worth. Luckily I won't have to take any legal action against Mr. Toker, since he seems to have faded back into the obscurity from whence he came, but it still pisses me off to have my nome de plume associated with that kind of garbage.

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The other search results weren't nearly as infuriating, and some were downright cool, like Lonestoner the banjo player! http://www.banjohangout.org/myhangout/home.asp?id=3497

Then there was Lonestoner the online Pokemon player, with an impressive record of 0 and 1.

http://gamebattles.com/ds/pokemon/team/lonestoner

And who could forget this hopeless romantic from Kentucky: http://www.love.org/105/lonestoner.htm

I believe this one might be an old account from way back in my hardcore gaming days: http://www.gametracker.com/player/RSB*%20lonestoner/?game=bf2

And of course there was the REAL Lonestoner: http://people.tribe.net/5d67d1a5-b113-47b2-92a4-8347aa7ca925

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A Google blog search will turn up this blog, but thankfully no others. All in all I guess things could be worse, and I like to think there is a little bit of Lonestoner in all of us!

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And now I'd like to end this post with a bit of gibberish verse, reposted from Crypto's nonsense thread on Tribe. The first one is mine, the second is by my Tribefriend Adam and was the inspiration for my gobbledygook.

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Lyrics+babbling stream of consciousness=?

By: Lonestoner and various artists

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I was born a thorn away from the rotten petals, a forgotten rebel, crafted in the absence of Heaven's heavy hands to develop an evident level of benevolence, so it's probably better I sold my soul to the devil and gave Jebus the shirt right off my back. .

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Like Buddy I know about the keys, and the door, and the bees, and yes they call me the breeze, I keep blowing down the road. The only road that I have ever known, and I can't wait to get on the road again, drinking beers and smoking tea. This infantry life's the life for me..., for nothing in this world is free. Except Freedom. NO, wait... .

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The killer put his boots on and, walked on down the hall!! He was late for work. Killing was his weekend hobby, just a little something to pass the time while his wife was out of the house. She was supposed to be shopping but in reality she was going down, down, down, to Cedartown to sleep with his brother. Oh brother, where art though? Am I my brothers keeper, and please won't you be, oh please won't you be, my neighbor? I'm not the lizard king, I'm the king of cats. I like funny hats. .

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I built a bridge across a stream of consciousness that almost seemed to be overflowing. Up Shit Creek with out any paddles, but still I'm frantically rowing. Reaping what I'm sowing, Wait, without even knowing, I seem to have started badly rhyming. I hate this stream of consciuosness shit I need to quit, I'm over it, hit the switch I'm done with this, that's why I'm not a poet, and the red, red, robin goes bob, bob, bobbin along...

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My seeing-eye dog chased a car around a blind corner, you should have fucking seen it, damn your bloodshot eyes! I had to quit using my computer for awhile because of a really nasty virus. This PC works fine I'm just a sick, sick bastard...

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I got the rockin pneumonia and the boogie-woogie flu baby, so hit ctrl, alt, delete, and end this task.

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Here's Adam's:

... so I was a hippy mall-rat supertramp; entirely unfocused on anything other than my own self-similarity. I saw that in a dream that was a lot like a Williams S. Burrough's novel written on used single-ply toliet paper. Therein my existence became entwined with dust that will never... EVER... dislodge it's grainy little soul from my Coleman sleeping bag. The woman at the free psyllocibin coffee shop was emphatic that I needed to wake up all of my strands of DNA. It was time then to catch the glactic green turtle train to the rainforest which was recently raised to the ground due to the rising demand of cheep beef. I made the journey and sat with all of the now homeless forest critters smoking bongloads and commiserating over what a fucking bummer it is to be out of a home.

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Time shifted drastically upon meeting the roadside shaman with rapsheet a mile long. I am sure that he put something in my drink because I started this post in the nineteenth century and it is now a quarter past eleven in the new millenium. I can't sleep when I think about what it is that one would need to conquer their little slice of the world. I scream for donuts but all I get is powdered sugar, there's no substance there for a person in need of doughy goodness. Not that any of this makes any sense at all. It is not supposed to make sense and their are people trying to save my soul by putting it in a jar under their kitchen sinks right next to the two-year old bacon grease.

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Then everything folds in upon itself again and there is a break in the world of make believe and what truly is. They dance in constant flux always breathing into each other, kissing without ever touching, bending but not breaking.

DailyBlog#4 Fuck it all and have fun.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=9hSfHGXNACA

You only get one shot at this life thing, so why not make the best of it? Let that shit go, and get over yourselves and life will be much easier to bear. Too much of our lives is spent hating and fighting for no good reason. I'm well aware I'm treading dangerously close to dirty hippie territory here, (and what's so wrong with that?) but that's not what I mean. You don't have to LOVE everybody and truth be told you might not even like the majority of people you come in contact with, I certainly don't. Just don't let them bother you so fucking much, save your energy and use it for something beneficial. Like stamp collecting, or beastiality...

DB#3 Gay Marriage legalized!

It's about fucking time. Now maybe the rest of the country will follow our lead and come out of the dark ages. Gays have the right to fuck up their lives just like straights do, why should us straight people be the only ones miserable? Half of all marriages end in divorce anyway right? So legalizing gay marriage will increase the rate of "Happily Ever After" by fifty percent! It's simple mathematics... The bottom line is that it's nobody's business what two consenting adults choose to do except for the two consenting adults in question, period. The world has much more important things to worry about. For all you gays, congratulations! Now get off the computer and get to work, you've got a fabulous wedding to plan girl!

DB#5 -Luv Storrey part1 a short story by Robert J. Day, copyright2008 Robert J. Day

This is the first part of an as yet unfinished short story, my newest. I'm not sure where this story is headed but I do know it's nowhere nice...
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Jim Jones was a mess, both literally and figuratively speaking. He was twenty-seven years old, unemployed, and still living with his mother in her tiny two bedroom apartment. Jim's mother was nearly eighty, and suffered from severe Alzheimers and dementia, the state paid the rent for the tiny apartment and provided a caretaker for Mrs. Jones. The caretaker, Mrs. Galloway, was supposed to be a full-time, live-in caretaker, but Mrs. Galloway was a large black woman, and Mrs. Jones was unabashedly racist, and verbally abused Mrs. Galloway at every opportunity. Mrs. Galloway pretended not to mind, but Jim, who was no racist himself and thought all that stuff was rather silly, was humiliated by his eccentric mother's behaviour, and so he convinced Mrs. Galloway to move out and allow him to take care of his mother himself. Nowadays, Mrs. Galloway only came by twice a week to clean up the apartment, the rest of the time Jim and his mother were alone together in the small apartment.
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Jim took care of his mom the best he could, cooking their meals, washing the dishes and doing other household chores, and cleaning her up when she had one of her "accidents." Lately there had been a lot of "accidents." His mother's Alzheimers was so bad that she often mistook Jim for her brother, Tony, who had been dead for over five years, and if he tried to clean her up when she was like this, she would scream, and yell at him that she was going to tell Daddy that he was "tryin to get at her again." Other times she called him David, and told him she loved him still even though he'd left her all those years ago. Jim didn't know who David was, his mother had never mentioned him before she got sick, but he was pretty sure she'd once told him his father's name was Paul, so maybe David was some guy she knew before him.
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They had no other living relatives, and Jim had no friends. Truth be told, Jim hadn't had a real friend since the second grade, when his best buddy Wesley had moved away. Jim wasn't as smart as the rest of the kids in school, and had to be in the "special" class. Also, his mother had made all of his clothes herself from old scraps of clothes she brought home from the thrift store where she worked. His clothes never seemed to fit right, and with all the patchwork and mismatched buttons, they were obviously handmade. The other kids teased him mercilessly, and everyone, even the kids in his "special" class, called him Patches. The name had followed him all through his school years, and he had remained a social outcast until he dropped out in his sophmore year when his mother had begun to show the first signs of Alzheimers. He was nineteen at the time, and his intention had been to get a job and help pay off some of the medical bills that were even then piling up with a rapidity that was nothing short of amazing, or so it seemed to Jim.
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Finding a job turned out to be a lot harder than he thought though. Jim was not a particularly big boy, he was in fact quite scrawny, and as we've already established, he wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer either. Also, he was painfully shy, so when he was interviewed the interviewer more often than not came away with the impression that Jim was severely retarded, instead of just a little slow. After several months, Jim was able to get a job at a local fast-food burger joint, but it was just like high school all over again, his co-workers put him down every day, and called him "Corky." One of the men he worked with, Bryan, would torment him everyday, knocking his hat off his head, and kicking over his bucket of fresh mopwater, scalding Jim's feet and soaking him up to his knees. Once when Jim was taking out the trash, Bryan had snuck up behind him and kicked the garbage bag out of his hands, causing it to burst open in the parking lot. "Better hurry and pick up all this shit Corky!" said Bryan, laughing. Jim had been having a really bad day, and he just couldn't take it anymore, so he screamed at Bryan to leave him alone, and then Bryan had stopped laughing and started smiling in a way that made Jim afraid. He punched Jim in the stomach as hard as he could, knocking all the breath out of him in a single surprised whoosh, then he had punched him in the face repeatedly until his nose started gushing blood, and he finally stopped. Jim was afraid and humiliated, and he'd ran all the way home, crying hard and holding one hand over his injured nose in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Jim had never gone back to that place again, not even to get his first and last paycheck, the thought of facing Bryan again was just too terrifying.
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Jim tried to find another job, but it wasn't long after the incident with Bryan that his mother's Alzheimers took a turn for the worst. So Jim asked Mrs. Galloway to help him sign up for public assistance, and he had been taking care of his mother ever since. The only time Jim left the house was when Mrs. Galloway was there to keep on eye on mother, then Jim would go down the block to the supermarket on the corner and get whatever groceries they needed. This was the only break he got, and he tried his best to make the most of these little adventures, sometimes he would stop at Baskin Robbins and treat himself to a chocolate cone, or he would have a chicken sandwich and fries from the Diner next store if there was enough money left over.
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Most of the time though, he went straight to the supermarket, and the reason for this was quite simple; Lindsey might be there. Lindsey was one of the cashiers at the market, and she was also the most beautiful girl that Jim had ever seen. Even though he'd never said a word to her he was in love with Lindsey, or at least he thought he was, he wasn't exactly sure what love was, he just knew that whenever he saw her he felt dizzy, and his heart threatened to beat it's way out of his chest.
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The thing he liked most about Lindsey was that she was both beautiful and kind, Jim was too afraid to use her checkout lane when he paid for his groceries, (he would have had to speak to her) but he always used the lane next to hers and he saw the way she was nice to all the customers as she rang up their purchases with a smile. She wasn't there every time Jim went to the supermarket, but when she was there Jim forgot about all of his troubles for as long as he was in the store. His crazy mother, his sad friendless life, all of these things ceased to matter to him when he walked through the automatic doors and saw her standing at her register.
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When she wasn't at her usual place however, Jim would immediately begin to wonder where she was. Had she gotten another job? Or, worse yet, had she been in an accident? Was she hurt? Had she been kidnapped, and was she tied to a chair in a basement somewhere, waiting for Jim to come and rescue her? These and other equally ridiculous scenarios would play out in Jim's mind while he shopped, and Jim would be in a state of near panic until the next time he went grocery shopping and saw Lindsey standing in her usual spot behind the register in checkout lane number four.

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And so it went for some time, Jim lived out his sad life alone with his mother and twice-a-week Mrs. Galloway, and the only real happiness he knew was seeing his beautiful Lindsey at the grocery store. Then one day she spoke to him, and everything changed forever.

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It happened quite unexpectedly, but it started out as just another ordinary shopping day. It was a brisk fall day, the air outside crisp and pure and cold. Jim whistled cheerfully to himself as he prepared to leave, shrugging into his old jean jacket with it's many brightly colored patches. He watched a few minutes of General Hospital with his mother while waiting for Mrs. Galloway to arrive, then bade them both goodbye with a hug and a promise to come straight home he had no intention to keep.

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His heart felt lighter on the walk to the supermarket, as it always did, but it fell to the floor when he walked through the automatic doors and saw a woman who was clearly not Lindsey standing at register four. Jim was immediately filled with the usual fear that he would never see her again. Something's bad happened to her, I just know it, thought Jim, as he pushed a cart up and down the aisles looking for items on his list. He began to daydream, imagining Lindsey being held captive by ninjas in an old abandoned warehouse downtown. Who would be brave enough to take on the skilled ninjas singlehandedly and rescue the beautiful cashier? Jim, that's who!

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"I like your coat." Her voice came out of nowhere, simultaneously bringing him back to reality and causing him to blush a scarlet crimson. She was stocking shelves, and he'd been so caught up in his fantasy he'd managed to walk right by without seeing her. Now he wished he'd kept right on walking, because he had no idea what he was supposed to say.

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"You're not at your register." As soon as the words were out of his mouth Jim realized how stupid he must sound, but he felt a little better when she smiled at him. Then he realized she was smiling at him, and he felt as if he might pass out, just faint dead away in the middle of the pasta and sauces aisle. Just a few seconds ago he'd been ready to rescue her, whisk her away from danger like a slightly retarded Spider-Man, and now that she was standing there next to him it was just too much.

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"Yeah, they made me stock shelves today, Mr. Nuvoski said I spend too much time talking to the people and I take too long to ring them up, and then my line gets long, so he said I have to stock shelves, since the store is so busy from everybody buying stuff for Thanksgiving and since I'm too slow and I talk too much."

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This was as close to Lindsey as Jim had ever been, and now that she was right there next to him and he'd heard her speak, Jim realized something. Lindsey was "a little slow" just like he was!

To Be Continued...