Keeping up with the times.

It's why I have a tumblr page. You should look at it and stuff. And by "stuff" I mean masturbate furiously.

something like

Smokey treats

Coachella stories

I could talk about Coachella 2010 for hours. But I'll spare you.

I will say it was FUCKING AWESOME. I saw a shit-ton of amazing music crammed into 3 fun-filled days.

Shit about Coachella this year:

*Me & my peoples totally won in terms of getting on-site/inside all three days. We got there early enough on Friday to miss all of the madness at the gate.

*I am the black MacGyver. I now have the most fool-proof method getting my weed into Coachella. Fuck you, asshole bag-checkers at the gate!

*Everybody at Coachella was smoking weed. It was awesome. I was mad stoned the entire weekend.

*My one-hitter did get clogged at the end of Sunday night though. I'll have to remember to full clean that bitch thoroughly after each night next year.

*I'm considering finding a new housing situation for next year. I'd love to go with a bunch of party freaks, get a house and fucking go for it. The place I get to stay is awesome, but you have to be all civilized. And it kinda blows.

*Jay-Z and the Gorillaz fucking OWNED that shit. The XX, Plastikman, Mayer Hawthorne, Sleigh Bells, Deerhunter, Faith No More, Flying Lotus, Major Lazer, Little Dragon, The Specials and Echo and the Bunnymen were some other personal highlights.

* I met a really amazing girl. She was a friend of a friend. We actually bunked in the same room, which was kind of...weird. Thankfully, she was mad cool and we're totally gonna be friends. So everybody wins.

*I can' wait until Coachella 2011. Can't fucking wait.

Back from Coachella...sort of

Um, whoa. What an amazing fucking weekend. So much amazing music, an endless array of gorgeous girls in various stages of undress, and a half-oz of extra-kind buds to keep everything nice and chill. I made Coachella my own this year, and it was fantastic. So much so that my brain is still kind of there.

This weekend, meet me at the THC Expose in downtown Los Angeles. It looks like a lot of stoney fun.

Decade

Woke up. Got out of bed and hit the bathroom before assuming the position: In front of my computer atop Ikea desk in the living room.

Rolled a marijuana cigarette. Used a blend of Green Crack with a dash of Blue Dream. Checked email. Got conformation: I’d be listening to the new album by Very Big American Rock Band at 3pm.

Walked up Wilshire to the local Ralph’s grocery store. Purchased Gatorade, vanilla ice cream, sliced pineapple and a handful of Soy Joy bars. Took out $40 in cash.

On the walk back, I stopped at Roebek’s Juice. Ordered my usual (Venice Burner w/Immunibek). Shlepped everything back to the apartment.

Finished the joint from earlier. Ate a bowl of Multi-Grain Cheerios. Logged onto my computer. Spent an inordinate amount of time on Twitter, less so on Facebook.

Checked in with one Twitter girlfriend who’s been especially amorous. We exchanged dirty tweets until she wrote, “I think I just came.” At which point I jerked off, coming really hard in my Rolling Stones boxer shorts.

Contemplated buying cocaine, but decided against it. My will has been strong lately. Besides, with Coachella coming up, I’ll need that $$. I’d much rather put it towards getting at least a half-ounce of Green Crack to take with me to the desert. Not to mention the small fortune I’m sure to spend at the merch stand. No coke for me. My body is especially thankful.

Speaking of my body: For the first time in over a year, I’m seeing a significant change in it. I’ve lost a noticeable amount of weight over the past couple of years, but in odd fits and starts. Including a nice chunk of pounds over the last few weeks.

I haven’t been “fat” in years. But I’ve never been skinny. So when I look at the person in the mirror that’s bordering precariously on the verge of being, well, “ripped” for lack of a better word, it’s beyond surreal. It’s kind of scary. All I can think of is how different my life would have been if I’d even looked remotely like this 5/10/15 years ago. And then I think it’s just a delusion; I’m only seeing what I want to see. There’s no way that’s real.


After a good hour of that sort of dialogue running through my head as I stood in front of the mirror grooming myself (shaving my face/head can take a while), I got dressed.

I drove to Westwood. That’s where the Very Big American Rock Band’s management company is located. After parking in their structure, I took a few tokes on my one-hitter before going in.

The guy I met was cool. Young, Jewish—totally reminded me of that guy on TV show “Royal Pains.” He played me a bunch of new songs. They’re pretty nice. I seemed to like them more than the manager dude did.

On the way home, I listened to some Led Zeppelin. The album: “Physical Graffiti.” The song: “Ten Years Gone.” I couldn't help but marvel numbly at the opulence of Beverly Hills as I passed it by.

I have lived in Los Angeles for ten years now. I’ve never lived anyplace other than home for that long. For a majority of that time, I hated this place. But I finally surrendered to it, and now it’s all love.

Sure, I hate the drivers and the loneliness and the fact that this is the first place in the world I can’t even find myself a reliable fucking booty call, let alone a girlfriend. It’s warm, sunny and I have a sweet place for not a lot of money. I smoke amazing weed all day, every day. I do very interesting things for work. Yeah, I could use more money. Who couldn’t?

All I need is love. It’s the massive, gaping hole in my life. It has me doing all sorts of crazy things in pursuit of it. But without hope, I don’t know what I would do. Or specifically, I’m afraid of what I would do.

It doesn’t even have to be real. She can lie to me. I would pay for it, if I could afford it. The only women I can afford are not the kind that will deliver a genuine GFE, if you know what I mean.

I’ve been listening to Dr Laura a lot lately. I know—kill me now. The way she puts it, lonely people choose to be that way. Why do you volunteer to be lonely? That’s what she would say if I called her. And I don’t have an answer.

Crush of the Day

She goes by Zstarstruck. Yeah, that's about right...

I want to go to there. And live. Forever

Breakfast of Champions*

My Kinda Bitch (for reals though)

Spirits

So I was absently doing a line of cocaine earlier with the funky sounds of Parliament playing in the background when the sensation gripped me like a hand around my throat. The spirit of my brother lives in me.

OK, was that dramatic or what? I guess that was the idea.

My idea of spirits has changed dramatically over the years. Thanks to my mother’s intense fascination with the occult, I had a pretty terrifying view of spirits as a kid. Like straight horror movie action.

Now, I see spirits as intense impressions. The more impressionable a person is on you in the life, the more apt they are to “haunt” you in death. I believe the human mind retains the impressions (aka psychic energy) to the point that they see ghosts, have visitations, etc.

Tonight as I was walking to 7-11, smoking a joint in route to purchase beer, chips and ice cream, I had to laugh. This is exactly what my brother did every night of his life for years.

When I was still a kid, there was a point where my bro lived at home. He was much older than considered appropriate to be doing so. In his defense, he was never shown how to live on his own. I should know—they never taught me anything about self-reliance either. Sure, my parents made it happen for us financially and otherwise, but the whole ‘lead by example’ model doesn’t really work, people. You just end up with kids totally unable to live on their own. And that really sucks for the kid.

But while my brother was living at home in the basement (of course), every night he would get terrifically stoned and walk to the corner store for all sorts of munchies. Hostess chocolate cupcakes with ice-cold milk were always a favorite. Then he would go back into the basement, smoke more weed, eat and listen to crazy records like Parliament and Funkadelic.


My brother was also crazy. I’m pretty sure he was bi-polar. The guy had mad issues. He put the fear of God into my mother, who immediately shipped my off to private schools deep in the suburbs when the time came. The die had been cast; I was NOT going to turn out like my brother.

I was always fascinated and kind of scared of him. When he was up, he was the coolest guy in the world. But when he was down, he became the meanest bastard on the planet.

I didn’t even know what weed was back then. But his room in the basement always reeked of it. When he was stoned, he would let me come down and hang out. He’d play music or we’d watch TV (“Saturday Night Live” was one he would always watch together. Back when it was the best show on TV. Man, those were such amazing times).

Over the years I became a totally sheltered nerd, and he hated it. A lot.

An already long story short, I find it very interesting that I’m basically re-enacting that era of his life. Like to a freaking T. As I roll yet another joint, and finish off this bag of BBQ potato chips. Oh, and turn up the volume on “Funk or Walk,” the 1978 debut from Brides of Funkenstein.

Somewhere, my brother is loving all of this right now. And marveling at the exemplary quality of the marijuana I smoke. He’s gotta be impressed.

Eternal repetition

I pick a couple of buds from the plastic bag. I break them apart, pulling out any stems.

I mash the buds into my silver grinder, which is shaped like a stack of silver dollars. The buds are sticky, and often get caught in the metal teeth of the contraption.

I pre-fold a Zig Zag white rolling paper, and then place the fragrant mulch inside the waiting sheath. I still roll the exact same way (REDACTED) taught me all those years ago in our shared upstairs apartment.

It was on the job training; She was a classic old-school burn-out, as were all of her friends. Long-haired dudes, denim jackets, Motley Crue t-shirts, the works. But they were cool people. It wasn’t long before I fell into their routine.

It was simple; every night around 9PM, (REDACTED) would start making calls to her battery of weed dealers around the college town. She’d call until one of them would say, they did have an eighth of grass they could sell her. I don’t think she ever even bought a quarter. It was always an eighth. Every night.

So she’d procure the pot, and whoever was around would gather in a circle on the living room floor. (REDACTED) would pull out her special Motley Crue rolling tray (where she found the thing I’ll never knew. But she had pretty much everything ever produced with MC emblazoned somewhere on its’ surface. That and Camel cigarettes. She was queen of the shit found in the Camel cigarette catalog). She would start talking shit and rolling joints. And so it would go, every night, for what seemed like forever.

I knew I’d been fully accepted into the circle the night she tossed the bag and the rolling papers in my lap.

“Tonight, you learn how to roll.”

And she sat there with me, patiently going over each step of rolling a joint. But then came the real test.

“OK, no one smokes until he rolls a joint.”

Oh, shit. The pressure. A room full of well-done burn outs, all waiting on my rookie hands to craft something for them to smoke.

It definitely took me longer than it should have, but when I was done, there was a crooked but smoke-ready joint of the finest schwag weed money could buy. 

There was no applause, just the appreciative nods from around the circle as each person took a long, heavy pull on my handiwork.

I miss college.

Miles of smiles

Greatest Girls Making Out Video Ever - Watch more Funny Videos

Happy birthday, Keith Richards*

Girl. Hot girl. Twitter, of all places.

Eventually found our way to AIM.

A little bit of this, a little bit of that...

At some point she's just not there. Hm. OK, cool. Whatever. La di da.

I make another whiskey and Diet Dr. Pepper cocktail. Still thinking up a name for that one.

Dig into my new bag of OG Kush buds (just purchased this afternoon from my handy marijuana delivery service) and fish out a few small nuggets. Toss 'em in the grinder, and throw 'em in the glass pipe. Yes, that glass pipe.

The glass pipe that traveled many miles before finally ending up here. I fire it up and think of her. I just saw that she's leaving for a trip to Chicago in the AM. Hm. It also seems she was caught in the undertow of the old big house we all used to call home only a few scant moons ago.

All I can think of is hiking in L.A. the other day, marching happily to a really inspiring mix of music.

The Neil Young song "Walk On" came up. And WTF? It pretty much says it all about 2009 for me.

Anyway, the AIM girl. I'm drinking, smoking, onlining, and she's still gone. The line is just open, like an errant phone left off the hook in some old-timey detective movie.

And then, right there on Twitter, came an answer to my unasked question.

"TRUTH: Theres something about the late-night-fucked up-6am-sunrising-orgasm that is just extra special. Were going to bed now...night"

So. While I'm sitting here wondering just what this mystery woman was up to, she was actually getting her poundcake on in some NYC dorm room, more than 3000 miles away.



We are all technology's bitch. Some more than others. I'm just polishing off a pint of Jim Beam, thinking how Keith Richards would have just slammed that thing during pre-game and called me a bitch.

Story of my life.

(Shout out to Jay McInerney)

Snort the pain away

It's just weird, especially given the way that we ended. It was all so open-ended and "not the end of us, not by far." I should have smelled that for the bullshit it was. But my dumb ass totally took the words at face value. Stupidstupidstupid.

It's all right there. Pictures, funny little inside jokes (shared for all the world to see, of course), happy fun time and yay aren't we all so very happy?

Um, no.

There simply isn't enough cocaine. After tonight, I will have blown through an 8-ball in less than 72 hours. All by myself.

More, more, more. I'm actually tempted to say fuck it and grab two grams tonight instead of just one. Why the fuck not? I don't have anything to do tomorrow. I don't have a fucking job.

Ah, slow your roll, player. Dr. Feelgood isn't going anywhere. Besides, at some point you're gonna wanna call your OTHER Dr. Feelgood (the one that brings the kind buds to your door).

Yay, drugs?

Please stand by...

High

I’m remembering why I was such a stoner in college.

I was an uptight, naïve kid that needed to loosen up. Marijuana absolutely did the trick.

There are the fondest of memories inside a tiny bedroom in an attic apartment in a particular Midwestern college town. Sitting in front of a cheap department store stereo, baked out of my mind on the sorriest excuse for weed my stoner roommates could help me score.

I’d sit there and listen to the Smashing Pumpkins and My Bloody Valentine and just bug the fuck out. Drink some cheap beer (usually some Busch Light Draft in cans, God help us all), maybe nom out on some Little Debbie snack cakes from the store on the corner. Life was good.

Riding my girlfriend’s purple bike across campus late at night, imagining all of the brilliant and amazing things we were going to do together. Our babies would be so beautiful she would laugh in that tinkly laugh that would never fail to make my insides flutter. I was young, brash, so very ready to rule my corner of the world with this gorgeous woman next to me, making me better just by her presence.

Of course none of it came to pass. I just saw pictures of her first baby on Facebook. Another man’s child, so innocent and sweet, unknowing of the twist inside my gut at the sight of him.

When it was all said and done, the only thing left was me, a duffel bag and an eighth of marijuana in an SRO hotel in Chicago.

I haven’t thought of the Chicago years in forever. Not really. That was such a severe time. There was a period where I was living in the Ambassador East hotel on somebody else’s dime, for fuck’s sake. What? How did any of that ever happen is so beyond me now.

To have made it through all of that to get here now is why I’m doing what I’m about to do. I didn’t survive all of THAT only to just kind of drift away. The plan was set a long time ago. I’ve just been taking my time about putting it into effect now that we’re here.

When I burn through yet another bowl of this designer marijuana that I now have delivered to my door, it somehow connects me to that dork in college trying so desperately to fit in, and get laid, and build something that would last forever. Two out of three ain’t bad.

Still choppin

Work hard, play hard.

Those words have begun to rule my life.


The past month has been a frantic blur of deadlines, freelance assignments, added responsibility at the office—it feels like I’ve been working three jobs. At least. Somewhere, my father is loving this.

Oh, but we haven’t forgotten the play hard part of the equation. I’ve been burning through cocaine like Lindsay Lohan. Take the gram I scored last night, that was supposed to last me the weekend. I polished that off over an hour ago. Which is why I drove a half-hour to meet up with Mr. Dependable, my old tried and true coke dealer from back in the day.

For one, I just couldn’t hit up my current guy twice in two days. That’s just too cracky. A guy’s gotta keep up some appearances, anyway. 

But I also feel like his bags have been kinda light lately, and I’m pretty sure that shit’s mad diluted. I mean, I know I’m a cokehead and all, but I should not be able to snort through a gram that quickly. Famous last words, right?

*Excuse me while I do a line…

Oh yeah, that’s that craaaaazy shit. The stuff that smells faintly of olives. Fuck, just one rail of that shit and I’m vibrating over here. Nice.

*OK, here goes line number two…

Whew. But fuck it. I’ve been working like a mad person. I’ve been out every night this week. The weekend is here, and I’m not committed to shit. Except getting fucked up and watching “Orgy World Vol. 9,” which showed up in the post today. Good times.

The monarch's big day

Wake up. Contemplate the profundity of existence. Check the weather channel. Sunny and hot—imagine that.

Shower, get dressed. CNN drones in the background. People are mad at the President for reasons that are not wholly clear. It seems to have something to do with the fact that he’s an “uppity negro” that doesn’t realize that even half-black people have no right to make major decisions that will affect the country. I mean, I realize that he was voted into the office and all, but there are limits. This is still America, right?

Somewhere in there I smoke my first bowl of the day. Inside my head thoughts slowly clank to life, like a rusty old machine that hasn’t been turned on in years.

Pack my shit (computer, power cord, Odwalla bar, etc) into a briefcase and head out.

Get in my car and start down Olympic towards the office. Car makes weird sounds that are cause for concern. I promise myself I’ll take it to the shop soon. I’ve been telling myself this for months now.

Attempt to make it to the office without any road-rage meltdowns, which in L.A. is never an easy feat.

Pull into the parking structure. Park on Level 3. Clip my ID badge to my belt. Climb the stairs to the top of the parking structure. Make sure the letter is still in my back pocket. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. Below, fellow drones march listlessly towards their own destinations, oblivious to the fact that there’s nothing at the end of their journey but a hole in the ground or the inside of a large oven. I notice an attractive woman below. She’s young, late teens, maybe early Twenties. She’s beautiful, with flowing dark hair and a tailored business suit. She has the smile and gait of someone that’s really going somewhere, with a bright, vital future in store.

The woman is talking on her cellphone, oblivious to my presence a few stories above her. When my plunging body lands on her and kills us both, she literally has no idea what hit her.

It’s my little parting gift to her. No need to suffer the crushing disappointment that surely lies ahead, the cruel way time would eventually strip her of her looks. She wouldn’t have to endure men that would eventually look through he as if she were no longer there when she gets old. No child would break her heart by growing up to become a whore on the streets of Baltimore that lets guys from the suburbs videotape her sucking them off in their expensive cars to afford another small bag of blessed death to slowly take her away from all of the horror.

Instead, just silence, peace and the warm, comforting embrace of nothingness.

Objectification