Sunday, April 12, 2015

Tommy Bahama & the Malignant Prostate Conundrum

I plan on ageing like boxed wine.

Ageing is a process that many people fear, and rightly so, as this is technically a process of dying.  For example, it is common knowledge that as one grows older, it becomes easier to injure one’s self, as it is also typically becomes more difficult to recover.  That having been said, I am not afraid of growing old.

The physical advantages of a young body aside, youth has never been something I’ve been game on.  When I was a kid, I hated other kids.  Now I fucking hate kids.  This persisted even when I was in my early twenties.  I was distrustful of other youngsters, particularly arrogant, lazy college kids.  I also still for the most part distrust arrogant, lazy college kids.  Even more, actually.  But then again, they seem to be getting more annoying.

 So, perhaps I’m a bit biased.  But if I wasn’t biased, would you be reading this right now?

 Let’s instead look at the facts.  Of course, I’m only speaking from a male perspective.  You can charge me with torches and pitchforks all you want, but the fact is, as women age, their ability to reproduce declines drastically, particularly after they reach the age of thirty.  On the other hand, as long as a dude can blow loads, he can still get broads pregnant.  Male fertility, even without recent pharmaceutical innovations, will always possess a longevity that female fertility will not. 

Even as we trudge further deeper into an era of sterile fecundity, where our seed becomes waste, it is important to note that within our recreational organs lie dormant truths coded in hormones.  Again, if you want to dispute this, please consult a website other than “The Lost Cause Lounge.”  We are not interested in proving such scientific points.  Sure, it’s a double standard.  But it’s just how it is:  women wither, men grow rugged.

 Aging for men contains many advantages, even when you are thinking with your dick.  Crow’s feet and widow’s peaks have been moistening crotches for thousands of years.  It’s just the way things have always been.  This largely stems from the fact that middle aged men command a certain amount of authority, which is why mustaches fit their faces so well even if some younger men can pull the look off.  Simply put, mustaches represent old school power.

Old school power in action.

The mustache is a symbol for paternal strength.  But this kind of “power” is not what I’m looking forward to.  It’s neither ebiophile fantasies nor a desire to be dominant that makes me look forward to the decades ahead.

Believe it or not, I’m not thinking with my dick as I write this. 

Let me break it down for you.

 If the mustache represents the dominant side of manliness, the Hawaiian shirt fits the laid back vibe of someone who has outgrown the Bullshit of the world.  This is one reason why Hawaiian shirts in general fit older men so much better than they do Spring Chickens.  Another important reason is that they are so festive and flamboyant that they typically require leathery skin or gray hair for contrast.  Having a male pattern baldness helps, too.

It used to be that Hawaiian shirts, pulled off well, acted as megaphones for the rods of young studs. They kind of advertised a bold personality and thus high quality sperm.  Even then, this was more true for guys in their thirties than their twenties.  Tom Selleck’s role in Magnum PI is the perfect example of the not quite middle aged man who killed it in floral patterns.  His image from that show subliminally exudes, Hey Ladies, I’ve got Diamond Sperm.  I think it was the abnormally hairy chest that did this, but I don’t know.  The important part is, they named a condom after him.  A condom for abnormally large dongs.   
Admit it: if you had a vagina, you'd be squatting on your Sybian right now.

Eventually the haters had their way and the mustache and Hawaiian shirt tumbled down from power, like so many bricks from the Berlin Wall.  In the spirit of most aesthetic changes, it just sort of happened, but I still call conspiracy. 

While the moustache has resurfaced in recent years for young studs, the Hawaiian shirt has been dry-cleaned and retired to the realm of the middle aged and elderly, which brings us back to the fact that aging introduces a carefree grace to men.

In this era, it seems that if a young man wears a Hawaiian shirt it’s either for yucks or it’s because he’s a fedora-wearing-ponytailed-dork.  You know the type, that guy who subconsciously attempts pulling resemblance to Hunter S Thompson but he’s really just advertising that he watches a lot of Japanimation porn.  It’s like seeing a little boy with a plastic badge.  He’s not a police officer, he’s still playing cops n’ robbers.  Nobody can ever take this shirt seriously when it’s a mere whippersnapper flying the flag.  In both cases, the boy in question is either just playing or they are delusional in how the world sees them.

There comes a time in most guys’ lives where they can don those bright parrots and flowers and coconuts and hula girls with grace.   I think it happens at different times for different dudes.  It’s when they hit that state of mind where they know they don’t need to prove anything.  They’ve done hunting, they’ve done gathering.  Now it’s time to casually peruse the world.  This is a far cry from the Magnum Ideal of seed sower supreme.  And this is huge.  This is why I frequently envy these guys.

They’ve done the dance, they’ve been around the block.  They’ve earned the colors.  Just like before you join the Hell’s Angels you have to go through a beat down, to truly be a fully patched member of the Tommy Bahama Crew, you need to go through life’s beat down.  

Like a boss.

Of course, this comes with a price:  higher risk for numerous cancers, heart disease, liver spots, brittle bones, fragile joints.  And with this fragility comes a heightened vulnerability that criminals will  run behind you when no one’s looking and beat you, rob you, even sodomize you.  This list goes on.  It’s literally the beginning of death.

This sense of mortality is a double edged blade.  If one can accept it in in all its various forms, the daily proximity of a definite end to all that is you washes away the trivial bullshit anxieties and obligations of earlier life.  It cleans the spirit, trims the fat.  I’m not saying all guys get there, nor that it is necessarily a set Utopian destination.  Like a lot of things, I would imagine it’s a process on a thousand continuum in so many different ways.

In any case, when I get there, whenever it is, I’ll be flying the floral print, but until then I’ll be garbed in drab.

Mr. Mudknuckle, on the other hand, fucking kills it in floral prints.  

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Powder Diaries II: rituals and initations. The beginnings of a fuck up and yeast lord

First time doing coke:
I was drunk living in a party house in a college town with four roommates. All but me and the influist were sleeping. We had been drinking and playing cards (I think gin or gin runmy? Whatever one you play to 500 and have sets of cards to get the points. Fun game.) 
I knew my roommates occasionally did blow, but due to the strength of the pot we smoked I was always passed the fuck out as they merrily hit the nose slopes. 
But not this night.
It was me and my roommate Derin. She was my friends girlfriend, a former college softball star, student and Fred Meyer employee.  I don't know how the conversation went but basically she said, hey we got some coke for Angie's birthday, you wanna do some? I said no but she pestered me, I was depressed and my life was shitty. I was failing out of a post baccalaureate journalism school stint and massively in credit card debt. I was having fun living in a house with  friends from back home but I just felt like I was fucking up in a bad way. Anyhow she convinced me.
My only drug up to that point was pot, and once I told some people I had an old hydrocodone bottle from getting mono and they said pain killers and booze make you feel magical. (Turns out they do, I went to a comedy show and the whole theater had a rose tinged halo to it, and I laughed more than I should have and felt great.  A forty and a vicodin is a good time.)
She brought out the coke and I am trying to remember what it looked like but it was white little powdery rocks in a plastic back.  The snorting part of coke was the first thing I liked about the experience. 
The first time I snorted something was at a frat party when I was in high school playing a show at my older brother's school. Some guy had some snus, a powder tobacco inhalant, and as an at the time non tobacco user it was a good head rush. (Ok take that back, snorting pixie sticks in grade school was my first snorting experience and pixie sticks burn just like coke does when you first do it, before your nasal cavities get eaten away and hey, you might even have a hole connecting your nostril cavities!)
Second time was crushing up the hydrocodone and snorting it off a Waylon Jennings vinyl sleeve. Turns out vicodin and hydrocodone have like 500mg of acetomenophin, which is what makes up almost all of the pill. So yeah. Have fun snorting that you big dummy.
I don't remember much about that night but the thing I remember most was enjoying the ritual. Preparing the coke, chopping up the lines.  BUT!... THE VERY BEST THING AND MY FAVORITE FOR QUITE A LOT MY COCAINE ADDICTION..............
I had recently become a habitual smoker and to make smoking even cooler was her showing me how to make a cocaine cigarette. In the Denzel Movie Flight John Goodman calls it a coco puff.  The way she showed me how to do it is you lick your cigarette in four places with the end of your tongue making wet lines on the shaft. Then you lick the end of the cigarette and dab a liberal amount of cocaine on the end then roll the cigarette in a line of powder where you licked it. Let it dry and you've  got a thing of beauty. Besides a few times of trying to smoke foils, (Cocaine and water dabbed on aluminum foil then dried, and using a bic pen as a straw inhaling the smoke, being carefully not to heat the coke too much.) this was most if the coke smoking I did.  It tasted chemical like and smelled that way too.  I am not sure if these coke cigarettes even make you high, and I had forgot about them til now but I think they might have been my favorite part of my fucked up times doing coke.
As for the rest of the night I don't remember much but for the coke cigarettes.  I did not have a come down or a need to do more. I woke up next day mostly feeling like I had sunk to a new low in my fucked up life. Alas, my friends, that was just the beginning of another era; (if you can call it that) a fucked up can't keep a job max out credit cards doing two and three day benders of sniffing lines and the overly anxious dry high and hassle of being at the whim of the one guy you can get drugs off of trying to figure out how to go to sleep, maybe painkillers, wish I could have gotten some Xanax, and I was  basically a human vacuum for as long as the ride lasted.
And then just a poor fiend.
And later putting my life back together...
Years later writing this and the last blog and a bunch of internet searches and finally some social networking will lead me to another entry tentatively called the 500 dollar five day blizzard.  Hopefully my last ride into hell,  chasing my demons  while my past dark nights of the soul overtook me. Cue


Saturday, April 4, 2015


Mexican Mafia and Dirty Biker Gang commonalities; "It'll make ya feel like a million bucks - trust me dude" -- The lizard skinned mullet man 2002

(Author's note: this was supposed to be a piece on my small experiences with crystal meth but it is hard to talk about meth without coke because I only encountered meth because of doing coke.

This is an unfinished piece as I try to find a better through line or more narrow piece to write about.)

I've smoked it and snorted it (first time I forgot to crush it up and immediately threw up). It has been a kid brother helping me out when I was out of MY Big Daddy, and it was the only thing keeping me from withdrawals.  The only reason I ever used it was because I had none of my guy left.

And my dude is a bad motherfucker. I've been told my choice is basically like taking money and throwing it in the trash and I should be using kid brother for my escape from life.

People love it.


  I've never felt like it did anything but make me feel normal. And the only times I have have done it I had either been doing mass quantities of Yayo all night and day and didn't want to experience the come down of cocaine withdrawals where you will do just about anything to get more white lines. But this is about crystal of which I know none of the slang for as I have done it less than a handful of times and still have all my teeth as a result.

I have done two types of meth. The first was from a cartel who this girl I was unlucky enough to know was working for. It was brownish yellow kind of looked like sugar in the raw. 
The second I had the delight of doing a fresh from the cook house batch of Annie or Anhydrous.  It was white and looked more like coke.

I had a lot of access to money the first times I did meth but not a lot of easy ways to get coke when I ran out and had no other option.

Coke is mostly a waiting game and the highest part of doing coke is the mindless hours fiending and waiting for your dealer to call you back or being told to go to a spot and wait til they get there give em your money and wait til they get back.  That's the dry high. 

The first line, actually the second you get your bag and ditch the dude who you may have to do a gratuity line with, and you either hide it in the best place you can in your car or you just palm it and get home as fast as you can. That is the  calmest part. Knowing you've got an eight ball or hopefully more and I can go home when I lived by myself and do my routine.

Ok i guess this piece is now about powders I was gonna do a little piece about the handful of times I did meth but FUCK IT! 


And I had one long run of doing coke for as long as I could sleeping it off and then taking those hours pestering my everything guy to get off his ass and call the black guy D or Jr. The short fat mexican who had to go on  the lamb after he shot a guy in front of the 7-11.

I just looked up all my old dealers of whom I knew their real names and they are all in jail or have warrants.

It was in the  first few minutes of the video game Battlefield Hardline that I got a trigger to even think about coke or the people I associated with or even what it was like to be a coke head.

I am going to post this un finished rambling so my blog master will write something.


More to come...