Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part five, "Ain't no thing but a Chickenwing!" . After breaking your nose, the fat detective finally told you what you were doing in the interrogation room. Video surveillance footage from the Super Wal-Mart showed a young woman and a man who looked remarkably like you fleeing into the night after the girl was caught shoplifting and the guy punched an employee in the face and laid him out. . Detective Blake's intention had been to get you to confess to the previous night's incident and thus allow him the honor of adding an assault charge to your lengthy, if rather unimpressive criminal record. But he'd fucked up when he lost his temper and broken your nose, and he knew it. What's more, he knew that you knew it as well. Once you've stopped the worst of the bleeding with the handful of Kleenex he'd begrudgingly provided you, you suggest that the two of you make a little deal, and he's understandably quite receptive to your proposition. . You walk out the front doors a free man less than an hour later, all records of your latest stay on a one-way trip to the paper shredder, and your nose freshly bandaged by the jail's nurse. . Your car is still in the police impound lot, but you've got a letter releasing it to you free of charge in your pocket. Unfortunately, that letter and a cigarette lighter are the only things in your pocket, you're flat broke. You decide to walk to your friend Chickenwing's house, a couple of miles away but still a hell of a lot closer than the impound lot. . Chickenwing, whose real name is Derek, got his name because he was born with a physical deformity that caused one of his arms to be much smaller and more crooked than the other. You'd first met several years ago at a dealer friend's house. He was one of those unfortunate souls that will put up with almost anything just to have a "friend" to hang out with. Besides being cursed with the poultrylike limb, he was also morbidly obese, none of which mattered to you. What mattered was that he had an enormous drug habit and willingly shared his drugs, and would occasionally let you borrow a few bucks if you asked nice enough. . You arrive at the door to his apartment in one of the more rundown complexes downtown sweaty and out of breath from the hike. You knock loudly, and when a minute passes with no response, knock louder still. "Just a minute!" comes through the door. . This means Chickenwing is in the middle of enjoying his unbelievably extensive porn collection and wants to finish his business before answering the door, and this is by no means the first time you've been forced to wait outside. Chickenwing is a man who takes his masturbation VERY seriously, (something the two of you have in common) a pervert of the highest order, regardless of who may be waiting outside. . When he finally opens the door, he's even more sweaty and out of breath than you were when you first arrived. "What the fuck do you want? I don't have any dope, and I don't get paid until next Friday!" He goes to close the door and finds your foot is already inside. "Let me in Chickenwing, you Dirty Nigger!" you cry with a silly grin. . "What the fuck happened to your nose?" Curious now, he opens the door and grants you entrance into his disgusting palace of self-pleasure. TO BE CONTINUED...
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part four, A Blast From The Past Comes Back To Bite You In The Ass . The guard leads you down a hallway to an interrogation room, where he unlocks the door and unceremoniously shoves you in. A disgustingly obese man in a suit almost as bad as yours is sitting behind the table. He motions for you to sit down in the other chair across from him. "Detective Blake I presume?" You make no attempt to shake hands, and neither does he. "You mind telling what this about?" you ask, knowing there's no way in hell you're going to get a straight answer. It's much too early in the game. . "How about if you tell me." Typical cop response, like you're just going to break down right there and confess to murder. Maybe tell him about all those bodies buried under your house. What a fucking joke this guy is. You decide you might as well try and have a little fun with him. . "Well, it could be about a lot of shit, but I'm not about to just start spilling my guts to you. Shouldn't my lawyer be present for any questioning?" As if you have a lawyer. "Fuck your lawyer punk, when I get through with you, you're gonna need a fuckin priest." You say nothing, just stare blankly into his eyes. He drops his gaze first. . "Fine" he says, switching tactics, "if that's how you wanna play it." He pulls a thick manila folder out of a scuffed leather briefcase. "You know what this is?" You have a pretty good idea, so you give him your most charming aren't-I-so-cute smile. "Pictures of that threesome I had with your wife and teenage daughter?" "You just better watch that mouth Mr. Comedian, or it's gonna wind up missin a few teeth. It's your criminal record. Let's take a gander, shall we?" "Sure, I could use a few laughs right about now." He opens the folder and begins to read. . "Drug possession, drug possession, drug possession, drunk and disorderly times five, public intoxication times eight, and drug possession with intent to distribute..." Your smile widens the tiniest bit. "What can I say, I like to party and I'm really good at it." "Sure ya are, you're a regular party boy ain't ya? Reckless endangerment..." . "Hey" you say, losing the smile for now, feigning indignance, "they KNEW it was a fucking flamethrowing fire cannon, they should have stayed the fuck back like I told them to and they'd still have their eyebrows!" "Sure kid, whatever you say. What's the deal with this public nudity charge?" "If you could have seen that girl, you would have went skinny dipping with her too!" "I'm a happily married man amigo, and I don't fuck around on my wife, I'm not a piece of shit like you! Alright, let's move on." He shuffles some papers around, apparently looking for something in particular. . "Bestiality? No shit? What kind of a sick fuck are you?" Remembering the incident, you can't help but smile again. "I was just messing around with my buddy's cat for a laugh while we were all drunk one night. How was I supposed to know those pictures would end up on Facebook? Those charges were eventually dropped, it should say so right there on that paper." You lean over the table a little to take a look and he moves the sheet of paper to the bottom of the pile and pushes you back down in the chair. "Sit your ass back down!" . "Here's one that wasn't dropped. Assault and Battery. On a sixty-seven year old woman?" "Okay, that one I was in the wrong, my bad, but that old bitch was just begging to have her ass kicked, she's lucky all I did was backhand her. Just because you're old does NOT mean you can just do whatever the fuck you want! Anyway that got settled out of court." Your father had paid the old woman ten thousand dollars to testify at your trial on your behalf, since the District Attorney insisted on moving forward with prosecution. . "Okay tough guy, last one. Explain this pimping and pandering charge." He looks oddly pleased with himself. "All I did was introduce my mom to a few lonely guys I know. I though they'd hit it off, my parent's divorce was really tough on her. If she made a few bucks, that's HER business. Too bad you're married, she's got a thing for fat slobs on a power trip..." . The last part was a total lie, the pimping charge had been the real deal, just you and some morally challenged girls you knew trying to make a few extra bucks on Craigslist, but you're determined to get a rise out of this prick if it's the last thing you do. . It works, the next thing you know you're lying on the cold vinyl flooring of the interrogation room, and blood is pouring out of your freshly broken nose. TO BE CONTINUED...
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part three, Further Degeneration of a Drunken Degenerate . Jail. It's been awhile since the last time you were a guest of the county. You'd briefly considered fleeing on foot but you knew they would get you eventually, the hotel manager saw you get into the car and even though you no longer resided at the address the DMV had on file, your current address was easily obtainable from the unemployment office. . So instead of running, what you did was lock your door, flip the manager a bird, and reach into the ashtray for the half a joint you'd left in there the night before. No since letting it go to waste, as the police would almost certainly search your vehicle. Besides, nothing makes a difficult situation a little easier to bear than sweet Mary Jane. The dickhead manager was standing in front of the car, unaware of the fact that you're a sitting duck. He pulls out his cellphone, and dials a number. You can just make out his side of the conversation as you fire up the joint and take a long drag. . "Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a theft please. My name is Roger Stanson, I'm the manager of the Holiday Inn down on Bradshaw Boulevard... A guy came in here this morning and stole a bunch of food from our complimentary breakfast bar. No, he's not a guest, I just told you, he was stealing!" A pause. "No, he tried to run, I'm standing in front of his car out in the parking lot right now, please send an officer immediately, I'm pretty sure he's smoking dope!" You smile and hold the joint out towards him, like you're offering him a toke. "Yes, I will, please hurry." . He hangs up and returns the phone to his pocket. "You're in a lot of trouble now buddy!" he says, "The cops are on their way! Yes siree Bob, a LOT of trouble..." There's more, but you were tired of listening to his self righteous and sanctimonious bullshit, and turned on the radio to drown him out. The weed had started to do it's thing, and combined with the sounds of Miles Davis blasting out of your one working speaker, you felt pretty good, all things considered. . You had enough time to finish the joint and two cigarettes before the law shows up. You're a bit surprised to see a state patrol car pull into the lot instead of the sheriff's cruiser you were expecting but a pig is a pig, in your humble opinion. You're tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music when the officer, after exchanging a few words with the manager, (who looks like he just received an unexpected and really good blow job) walks up to your window. . "Get out of the car and put your hands on the hood!" he ordered. You chose to ignore him and turned the music up a little louder instead. It was your favorite Miles Davis tune, and you had no intention of exiting the vehicle until the songs completion. But the cop would have none of that. He drew his gun and said, "OUT! Now Asshole!" So you shrugged your shoulders and with a sigh, did as you were told. You were immediately cuffed and shoved into the back of the patrol car. After searching your car and coming up empty except for a nearly empty pack of rolling papers and an old issue of Barely Legal, which he kept, the pig took fuckhead Roger's statement and carted you off to jail. . By the time you were finished with the usual rigamarole of the booking process, the strip search, fingerprinting, and paperwork, and were at last allowed your phone call, it was early afternoon. You called your father, and got as far as "I'm in jail, and..." before he slammed the phone down. . So now here you are, in the grimy holding cell that reeks of piss, body odor, and cheap disinfectant cleanser. You've got the place all to yourself for the moment, it's just you, the stainless steel toilet/sink combo, standard issue inmate mat and scratchy and stained green blanket. There's a phone on the wall that only calls bailbondsmen, useless to you with no collateral of any kind and a negative bank balance. Your laptop is stolen and the title of your shitheap of a car you pawned last week for the price of a couple lapdances from your favorite stripper, Bliss, who refuses to fuck you for any price but will tolerate the occassional groping because she says you're a nice guy. . The situation looks pretty bleak. You'll most likely be here until you go in front of the judge, who, at your last court appearance, promised to make an example out of you the next time you set foot in his courtroom for any reason. You figure it will be anywhere from three days to a week until your number comes up for court. Nothing to do but wait it out and hope like hell his honor dies from a stroke in the meantime. You lie down on the mat, balling up the filthy blanket for a pillow, breathing in the built-in smell of the countless farts of all the losers who came before you, and just as you begin to nod off the cell door opens and a voice calls out your name. "Get your ass out here, Detective Blake wants a word with you!" . TO BE CONTINUED...
Here's the original post: . I have a huge bathroom. . I am a female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate. Times are tight and I need some extra money. I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home.
My bathroom is large. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it.
I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you confine yourself to the bathroom. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room. This might change as I get to know you better. You may have guest over as long as they are cnfined to the bathroom as well. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is $400 and the bathroom is large. . . . Now, here's my interpretation: I have a huge bathroom. . I am a (mentally unstable) female in my mid 60's and I am looking for a room mate(prisoner/sex slave). Times are tight and I need some extra money. (Heroin ain't getting any cheaper ya know!) I am willing to rent out my bathroom in my 1 bedroom east village home. Also the cabinet under the kitchen sink, as soon as the eviction proceedings for the current tenant are finalized. . My bathroom is large. So large that the neighbors will never hear your screams. You can easily put a twin air mattress in there. Or forty six dead cats, neatly stacked. I only ask that when I need to use the bathroom, you or your air mattress are not in it. I masturbate frequently, so I'm gonna be in there A LOT. . I do ask that when you are in the apartment, you avoid direct eye contact and confine yourself to the bathroom. If you do not confine yourself to the bathroom, I will confine you there myself. I do not feel comfortable with a stranger walking around my living room while I'm doing my Pilates. It's MY fucking living room, you stay your ass in the bathroom damnit, unless I need to use it, in which case you may wait on the fire escape. This might change as I get to know you better and adjust to my new meds. . You may have guests over as long as they are confined to the bathroom as well and are between the ages of 12 and 14. This might seem a bit odd but please remember the rent is A REAL BARGAIN at $400 (rent subject to change without notice) and the bathroom is large. Weirdos and creeps need not apply. . * cats are OK - purrr
Tales of a Drunken Degenerate, part two -A Mid-morning Tale of a Hungover and Still Hungry Degenerate . Your alarm wakes you up at ten a.m. It's been just over two hours since you and Wal-Mart girl fell asleep on your bed, your Spongebob blanket is still slightly moist from the sweat of your coke-fueled sex and smells like a combination of bodily fluids and cheap whiskey. Why the hell did she set the alarm you wonder, as you lie there listening to the shrill beeping that seems to be piercing your brain and causes your head to throb dully with that familiar pain that comes from a night of excessive debauchery. It had to be her, you haven't set the alarm since you were fired from your last job three months ago. . After fleeing into the night together, the two of you jumping into your car and speeding away so fast you would have made the Duke boys of Hazzard County proud, you drove to a deserted construction site and snorted some of her blow off the dusty dashboard of your Caprice Classic. You laugh hysterically about how you punched out the stock boy, and the getaway you had just made, talking loudly to be heard over the classic rock station blaring out of the radio, neither of you even for a moment considering turning it down. . She offered to take you up on your request to buy breakfast but thanks to the cocaine you were flying high, and no longer hungry, so you stopped at an all night gas station where she ran in and grabbed a case of beer. It was after two and not yet six but the bored looking cashier just wanted to get back to his copy of Rolling Stone and sold her the beer without batting an eye. You were half afraid she'd try and steal something and force you to beat another hasty retreat, but apparently she'd had enough of that for one night. . You went to your apartment, cracked open a couple of cold PBR's and she cut up the rest of her stash into lines on your coffee table after first wiping up some of the ashes and marijuana particles that liberally covered the table's surface area with a fast food napkin she pulled from the depths of her shoplifting coat. . You got high together, and took turns playing Youtube songs for each other on your laptop until she finally said, "Are we gonna fuck or what?" So you fucked, and over the course of the next couple hours you fucked several more times, until the coke was long gone and you both started coming down, exhausted from all the physical exertion. . And now here you both are, lying in this filthy bed together, you with a raging hangover made infinitely worse by the high-pitched, Banshee like beep-beep of that goddamned alarm, while she sleeps on, oblivious... Fuck That. . "Hey, wake up!" you elbow her sharply in the side and she barely stirs. "Hey!" you yell louder, shaking her by the shoulders. "What?" she mumbles sleepily. Her morning breath is atrocious, which should come as no surprise considering the filthy things she did with her mouth just a few short hours ago. "Why the fuck did you set my alarm clock?" you ask, making no attempt to disguise your irritation. "Oh shit, I gotta go to work!" she says, and immediately gets out of bed and begins hunting for her clothes, which are strewn out all over the bedroom. Moving quickly, she's dressed in no time. "It's been fun." she says, and without another word she's out the door and gone, leaving the alarm to continue it's battle cry on the nightstand. . You can stand it no longer, you reach across the bed and yank the cord out of the wall, then sling the fucking thing out the bedroom door and into the hallway, where it hits the wall with a resounding crash. At this point you'd like nothing more than to fall back asleep for ten or twelve hours, but you soon realize that's not going to happen. . Now that you're no longer intoxicated your hunger is back, and it's back with a vengeance. You realize it's been two days since you've last eaten. This poses a problem because you have no food of any kind in the house and it's still three more days until that unemployment check hits your mailbox. Luckily you've been in this predicament before and know just what to do. It's just past ten, so you've got a little less than an hour to make it happen. . With a groan you drag your carcass out of bed and over to the closet, where you pull out the only thing hanging therein, a pinstriped suit that's seen better days. It's threadbare and could use a good cleaning but should be more more than adequate for the task at hand. . You dress as quickly as you can, which in your condition (Dead Dogshit) is just slightly faster than a snail's pace. In the car, you pull a clip-on tie out of the glove compartment and put it on before starting the engine and driving away. . By the time you pull into the parking lot of the Holiday Inn and park, it's a quarter to eleven. You're pushing it, but should have just enough time. You walk into the lobby, past the front desk, and into the dining area, where you grab two styrofoam plates and load them up with the hotel's free breakfast. Sweet rolls, fruit, cereal, sausage patties, a waffle, the whole works. You set these down at a table in the corner then make two more trips for beverages, three cups of coffee and two cartons of orange juice. . Twenty minutes later, your ravenous hunger thoroughly satisfied, you're feeling a million times better. Still not quite human perhaps, but much, much better. You're debating on whether or not you have room for one more cinnamon roll and fantasizing about a threesome with Wal-Mart girl and the hotel maid wiping down tables across from you, when a voice breaks into your reverie. "Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?" . It's the hotel manager, Roger according to his name tag, and he looks anything but happy to see you. "Pardon me?" you ask, trying to play it cool. "You're stealing food, and I'm afraid I simply can not allow that." His voice is so stern you would think you were stealing the food right out of the mouths of his children. "I'm afraid you must be mistaken sir, I'm a guest here." You hope he doesn't ask what room number you're staying in, or worse yet, to see your room key. . "Bullshit!" he's furious now, face beet red, a vein in his temple throbbing. "I let you get by with it the first few times, but now you come in here looking like a complete derelict, eat enough food to feed a family of four, and eyeball rape one of my maids, who also happens to be my favorite neice! I'm calling the police!" . You'd forgotten that your face was recently used as a punching bag, while you were getting dressed you hadn't bothered to take a look in a mirror you were too focused on the primary objective of getting some food in your stomach. Also you smell like a rutting pig, and you're sweating booze out of every pore. Ah fuck, here we go again, you think, then make a mad dash for the door. . He wasn't expecting you to run, and you've got a good lead on him by the time you hit the parking lot. Jumping behind the wheel you can't help but laugh a little at once again finding yourself in this sort of predicament, but the laughter stops real quick. The car won't start. . TO BE CONTINUED...
I have no idea how this is going to turn out but I promised her something weird and rambling tonight, so I'll give it my best shot. Pay no attention to anything I'm about to write, it's all complete and utter nonsense I assure you my furry little friends! Just recycled jokes (recycling is good for the environment damnit!)and social commentary from the mind of a heartbroken and slightly cynical lunatic with way too much nicotine, sugar, and caffeine in his system. Just be thankful that's ALL it is this time! . I've got the headphones blasting out the funky hip-hop beats for inspiration, and I'm enjoying yet another DELICIOUS Pepsi and Reese's flavored ice cream soda. If I keep on drinking these things I believe I really could give up the liquor. Who knows, I might even put on some weight, apparently I have to gain fifty pounds or Pam will never date me. Says her. Of all the reasons not to date me, and Satan knows there are plenty of those, it's a little bit of body mass that comes between us? Damn my metabolism! Slow Down! Ha! Like I wanna date ANYBODY anyway. Nowhere near ready for all that again. How big do I have to be for "friends with benefits" what's the weight requirements for that? I'll start eating right fucking now, I swear! . There was a time, not so very long ago, when I could walk around inside a crowded store, and the hot high school chicks would smile at me and check me out. Now, they just kind of "keep an eye on me." Back then I was too timid to do anything, and now that I'm brimming with confidence in my boyish good looks and silly/smart charm suddenly I'm the creepy old guy? Damn, it's like you follow one girl home in your car, and you're a creepy stalker for life... Pretty soon if I want to get laid I'll have to whore myself out on Craigslist to horny retirees and terminal cancer patients looking for one last roll in the hay. . Speaking of hay, what the FUCK am I doing out here in the boondocks, caring for farm animals and picking the last of the fall harvest from the garden? Green Acres is NOT the place to be, I don't care what the admitedly catchy song tells you. Meanwhile, back in the Bay Area, all this cool shit is going down, Burning Man parties and gatherings, concerts and plays... and I'm forced to live vicariously through friends and internet friends. . In other news, it seems that A-1 steak sauce will make you more attractive to some women, so guys, throw out that goddamn Axe body spray! That shit always smelled funky to me anyway, although I must confess I'm guilty of using it on rare occassions, usually to cover up the smell of marijuana smoke around someone's parents or spouse. I generally prefer to just use a good antiperspirant and let my bodies natural pheremones do the work. I do have a soft spot for mens Nautica but I haven't worn any in a long time. .
But I digress. I was going to tell you the story about the shaved poodle, a pissed off upstairs neighbor, a bathtub full of cottage cheese, and a stick of dynamite, but I just don't feel up to it. Besides, I'm pretty sure the judge never lifted that gag order so I better not. Another time perhaps... . Man, this is turning out to be harder than I thought. Usually I can fill a page with nonsense in just a matter of minutes but this has taken the better part of an hour. Granted I have been switching back and forth to YouTube after every song. I never could perform under pressure, I get as nervous as a virgin in the back seat of a car on Prom night. Maybe if I had an actual topic? Current events it is then! . *Families urge Iran to release U.S. hikers* "It's high time Iran put an end to this, showed compassion and let them come home," said Cindy Hickey, Shane Bauer's mother . Yeah, that'll happen Mom! Iran didn't listen to the U.S. when we asked them to stop with the nuclear shit, but you think if YOU just ask nicely they'll let your son out of their prison? It's going to take a lot of ass kissing and probably a former president, or at least the Reverend Jesse Jackson. I'll bet Oprah could get him out! . Alright, screw current events, there's never any good news anyway. Actually I suppose that's enough gibberish for tonight. If you're still reading this, you REALLY need some kind of hobby, stamp collecting, scrimshaw, anything! That's all folks, except for one last thing. "I know that you believe you understand what you think I said, but I'm not sure you realize that what you heard is not what I meant.” . Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow!
It's sixteen minutes after three in the morning and you've just been thrown out of the bar after you realized that once again you have miscounted the number of beers you drank and now you don't have enough money to pay your tab. You apologized profusely and gave the cute blonde bartender all of the money in your wallet but it wasn't enough to prevent the meathead bouncer from blacking your eye before he threw you out the door and into the parking lot, where you landed in a cold puddle of muddy water and motor oil. . Pissed off and hungry, you drive to the twenty-four hour Super Wal-Mart. Your intention is to shoplift something to eat, a deli sandwich, or maybe one of those really big microwaveable burritos, but your soggy and oil-stained clothes and your swollen purple shiner make this task exceptionally difficult, even at this late hour. You've drawn the attention of one of the stock boys, a pimply-faced young man who looks as if he's got something to prove to the world, or at least his shift manager. He's following you. . You wander the aisles aimlessly in an attempt to lose him, but he stays right on your ass. You're beginning to think you might have to detour to the restrooms where you can put some cold paper towels on your eye and hopefully shake him off in the process, when you come upon the girl in the arts and crafts aisle. . She's pretty, hot even, (at least by your minimal standards) and because she's looking at paint-by-number sets and velvet felt tip marker posters at just after four in the morning it's a safe bet she's tweaked out of her mind, which means you might be able to score in one way or the other. . "How would you like to buy me a nice big Waffle House breakfast?" you ask her as you walk up. "I'll bet I'm a lot more fun than arts and crafts." "I doubt it." she replies, checking you out and taking in the whole picture. Your soiled clothes, black eye, and slightly nervous grin. . Deciding you look relatively harmless she decides to toy with you a bit. "If I buy you breakfast, what are you gonna do for me, huh?" "I'm sure we can work something out." you say. . Just then she notices the stock boy, who's been lurking at the end of the aisle, watching this pathetic scene unfold. "I gotta go." she says, suddenly uneasy. "What's the rush?" you ask. You reach out to stop her as she begins to quickly walk away and end up with a handful of her coat, which pulls back. A jumbo pack of markers and a few paintbrushes spill out and hit the floor. . "I knew it!" cries the pimply-faced boy triumphantly, as if it was her he was after all along. He heads down the aisle towards the two of you, almost skipping in his exuberance. "Stay right there!" he orders in his best I'm-in-charge-here voice. . Without thinking about what you're doing you give him a hard right hook to his greasy chin, with all your anger at the meathead bouncer (who was just too damn big to hit) behind it, and he goes down hard. . "Run!" you yell, but she's already headed for the door. TO BE CONTINUED...
. As always, images are used without permission but with thanks and gratitude! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tzWckYfZhbA . It's been awhile... Having just a few days previous attempted the online equivalent of drunk dialing and being utterly ignored (well, in all fairness, she did remove me as a friend on Facebook.) I'm not exactly flying high here folks. Quite the opposite in fact. I'd love to crawl into a dark place and die but I'm afraid that's just not an option at this late date. Neither is drinking myself into a coma, the bars have long since closed and there's not a drop of liquor in this place. Probably best to try and catch that wagon, see if I can't manage to hop on this time... . And so I write. The question that is foremost on my mind is age old; Is it truly better to have loved and lost?? Right now I would have to say that the answer is unequivocally NO. Not at all. Perhaps tomorrow I shall feel differently. . I have an uncanny ability to completely fuck up everything that's ever meant anything to me in my life, and I'm not sure why I insist on using it. Four pitchers of beer?? Why not take a nice late night motorcycle ride?? Now, after a brief stay in the old gray bar hotel, I have my first official DUI, a right leg that resembles raw hamburger, and Pops is laid up in an Atlanta hospital with a brand new piece of pipe for a leg bone! Good Times?? No, indeed. . On the plus side, my Muse seems to have awakened from her months long power nap, and oh boy, is that bitch pissed off! She's spoiling for a fight, and I am just the man-child to give it to her... . If I can scrape up some currency I believe I'll head out West, first back to Cali and then to The Big Easy for some much needed R&R of the best kind, the kind that helps people. . That will hopefully carry me over to Burn Time or thereabouts. Afterwards, if the Muse stays on her game, I should have enough for a "book" of some kind. (Books are these things with words that you read. Like tv only better because the picture is in your head!) Maybe I can finally publish some of this insane drivel I've been banging out and halfheartedly submitting these past few years. Or Maybe I'll meet a rich Brazilian beauty in "Naawlins" and set sail for parts unknown, never to be seen again. Only time will tell. Stay tuned!
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 17th 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 it 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 EastBay 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;
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
How a peaceful demonstration against police brutality turned into an all out riot that left downtown Oakland aflame and in shambles.
Wednesday January 7th, 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 7th, 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 existingdemonstrators, 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.
14th 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 14th. 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 14th 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 15th 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 17th 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!
.jpg)
