Americuh, welcome to the future, 110100100

Intro or The Grass Is Greener on the Other Side But that’s a matter of perspective Before 16 and pregnant was bad reality TV, it was my childhood. Your path is what you make it and mine revolves around marijuana, trying not to be a douche anymore, and trying not to have a nervous breakdown. When you’re broke, one is never given enough credit for not snapping but that’s just how it is, bandwidth - One’s capacity to fight through the bullshit, bullies and corporate lawyer lingo to figure out what’s right and what’s wrong.

So here I am exposing myself; soul and tale, cutting ties from corporate securities/insecurities.

You fool only yourself thinking corporate America is looking out for you; my first lesson was when I used to work at a cookie store.

Mrs. Field’s Cookies is one of those stores in big malls that has something good at an overpriced rate. Just another company that makes promises to the public, by supposedly helping the less fortunate by donating its waste to underprivileged programs, instead we would mark off the leftovers and I was supposed to throw them away (instead I gave them to friends).

Nothing is ever as it seems, there is no spoon - the secret to life is, there is none. I live a moderate lifestyle, paycheck to paycheck, occasionally selling personal items for some extra cash but in the big picture I am not poor, I am not rich. My personal success and hell is no different than yours, so far the secrets I’ve learned are hard work, dumb luck, and more hard work. In the end if what I’m doing doesn’t pay off then I’ll be okay, not because failure is awesome but because I tried, this is my key to happiness.

The things I know can fit on a t-shirt or mug Work Hard and Carry On and is simple like Work Hard and Love Your Family, the hard part is doing it.

The whole point of America is not to screw you out of your bottom dollar but for you to be you when it comes to making a living and to do that life needs an even playing field. Paranoia, delusions of grandeur, manic depression: these are all things we experience, there’s an imbalance, it’s up to the individual to find it, to be the better for your future’s future and if you don’t give a fuck about that you don’t have kids or want any.

Being an adult means eventually picking the stereotype you want to be every day. Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of youth (minority mostly and when I say minority I mean black, not racist just the neighborhoods I live near) that I can pick out as drug dealer or someone of ill intent by their appearance, why else is it easy to find coke in any city.

Our days are interrupted by gang violence and bad TV news. Americuh, where being good is taught to you as bad, at least that’s how the stage has been set in our school systems. Where jocks get cheerleaders with daddy’s booster club and nerds get wedgies as punch lines.

Many of activists believe we change the system through ballots and protest, I encourage that we become the system. Instead of fearing the police, let’s be the police. If you’re a marijuana consumer you’re automatically a rebel/criminal/and activist.

I guess you can say I am a marijuana activist even though I don’t consider myself one, instead I feel like Paul Reverie with no one listening. The hardest thing about activism is the paycheck and when it comes to marijuana you’ve got the added fear of jail and being labeled, at least these are my issues.

When I got out of the military and began working for a D.O.D. company, it became clear to me how the scales of justice are imbalanced and if you ask me that’s just un-American. How can we still imprison people over a plant less toxic than any fast food hamburger, as well as take away children from loving homes, and let’s not forget the fact that this plant is medicine just like alcohol (read your cough syrup labels).

Marijuana/cannabis/bhang/dagga/ganja/weed/pot/dope/buddah needs to be legal to make America a better place for her citizens, for the worker, for the parent and for the nonsmoker as well.

Despite being a pot smoking writer, I’ve been a functioning citizen in the communities I’ve lived. In Tucson, Arizona I was the night shift point of contact for maintaining several missile systems ensuring the machines could produce their million dollar product. Eventually things got too hot for me (this is not a play on words) so I decided to look for work in a cooler location.

Presently I work for one of the biggest quality assurance metrology companies out there. The more I see the behind of scenes of corporate America the more pissed I get that I have to worry about my job for my cannabis use seeing that “sober” people make just as bad and even worse decisions than I can make in a drunken, coked-out, pot-smoking session.

The same company that took 10% out of two of my paychecks during December while the president of said company made a “wish you a happy holiday” video while sitting in front of his 10 ft tree surrounded by presents with his children sitting next to him is constantly making horrible decisions that kill morale and deviates from what is supposed to be the business of quality. Words like metrics and profitability margin are used in absolute conditions but there’s a side to business that one does not talk about, the dirty work. Something one has to be good at to get shit done.

I am tired of being the get shit done guy for 6 figured salary individuals who have no concept of the science itself. People with business degrees and no passion for their work other than to make more money with less.

This is my book. Writing is sadomasochism mixed with determination; I wonder how other books get done. If you want the road map on how to “get there”, I’ll let you know once I have.

Abbie Hoffman (1970’s activist) wrote “Steal This Book” which exemplified the counter culture sentiment of the time, I hope you buy and sell my shit of mine.

I’ve wanted to be a writer ever since I’ve been able to want to be something, unless you count Ninja Assassin around 10, other than that writing has been my forte, my desire. As adults we classify each other by how we make money and who we identify with. It’s hard to classify

yourself as a writer when there isn’t any (money) but as I get older and time moves forward, so are my options, it is what I am (I am what I am) – for better or for worse my OCD won’t let me be any other way.

I’m a writer first and foremost as I put this down but the one thing feared and I have come to terms with -even embraced- is the idea of being considered a marijuana activist. I am more than the pot guy but to me it is the one issue that I believe could make things better in America when corrected.

I smoke and believe in the plant known as cannabis and write about the injustices derived from the illegalization of marijuana. I also write stories, poems, and other shit I’m not too sure what to label; for a guy that likes to write, I’m a slow reader with minimal education.

Like I said though one defines themselves on what they do for money, I am a technician. A fancy word for a guy that can fix things but I also like to write, smoke a lot of pot, and am still considered a minority (at least when it comes to home loans), I am an American in Americuh!

When labeling myself I lean more towards marijuana advocate, not activist -promoting the truth that marijuana should be legal for both medical and recreational, in a world where fast food, GMOs, pills, alcohol and fracking, marijuana is the least of my concerns.

I’m also a technician (this is how I make money), it’s what I know. People go through years of training to become or understand something, I did 10 years in the Navy. This may seem as a copout to your dreams but it’s more of a means. After 10 years I walked away with an understanding of AC/DC voltage, Radio Frequencies, and other electrical theories.

I walked away understanding the matrix in which we live, not just seeing the ones and zeroes but also emotions and desires, in the end we all poop and want to get laid. As I explain more of what I do for employment I hope you understand my A.D.D., the revelation that you are the spoon. To change society it’s not just the rules (laws) but also the hearts and mind.

Being of a darker persuasion one tends to be the spokesman for colored people but the truth be told I would cling on to my purse tighter also if I ran into myself in a dark alley. By being divided as people someone else is benefiting, I have no ill will towards anybody but my actions and appearance are constantly misconstrued.

The motto of the 60’s and 70’s was “Tune in and drop out” which I believe subversively changed the playing field in America - to the dismay of a lot of white parents. We need to turn it around to win the war on us. Get to a point where everybody lives by a common sense, not caring about sexual preference or any other means of self-pleasuring, as long as willing participants are involved. The tune now should be get a job, become responsible, that’s how you fix the fucked up neighborhoods, fix fucked up America.

Setting the example, living by a code of kindness is another form of activism. When you stand for something that you are, people remember. People remember kindness. If you changed somebody’s tire in the rain, they’ll remember you and what you stand for.

I fight two stereotypes on the day to day; lazy minority and stoner but in my case it’s true, who wouldn’t rather play in the sun all day with friends than work, albinos I tell you who, Albinos and vampires; I jest, truth be told I bust my ass. As a father, I work every day. I go to work because my kids like electricity and video games and we like to give them everything and every opportunity. As an employee I make others money, this is my purpose and goal. As a writer I just try not to have an emotional breakdown.

Work is not a thing I enjoy, that’s why it’s not called play. I find it weird thinking that my goal is for my writing to become my work. That eventually the thing I love to do will become an annoying task in my day but that seems to be my goal.

I plan to continue to advocate for marijuana no matter what I do and continue to mingle with the outlaws and criminals, who are also soccer moms and dads. Marijuana is more than a plant, it’s a human right, it’s an American right.

Dreams are those pieces of your soul that you cling on to. I use the word soul for lack of a better word. That thing inside that drives us to do shit we know is irrational, drunk or sober. So here I write and dream.

All the revenue from this venture will be going to a bigger picture of trying to make and become something bigger than me, this is my attempt to make the world a better more sensible place. I hope to entertain and educate. The following pages will consist of short stories, some of my promarijuana writes followed by some short thoughts I put on paper, welcome to my new adventure.

Precision decision: My Job Is the Science and Art of Precision, My Job Is Uncertain, There lies The Ultimate Irony

The military gave me the technical knowledge and life skills one needs to proceed with a proper life, poverty (when I didn’t know I was poor) taught me how to survive from people’s kindness, fatherless brown kids make great charity cases.

I presently work in the field of science and the art of avoiding a nervous breakdown (just like everyone else). I’m a calibration technician and proof one can be a functioning adult and contributing member to society, not all brown people are stoners but this one is.

I’m pretty good at what I do, simply because I don’t bullshit, that’s science – no bullshit. I am part of the checks and balances where nothing is really being checked and all parties seem to be okay with that, cutting corners while other people look away. For the sake of integrity I’m not proud of this but I understand I serve as a functioning part of a machine that makes money under the premise that we do it for cheaper with the same quality and integrity than the other guy does but in the whole we’re all pieces of shit, those successful in this industry -an industry of scientific snake oil salesman, good ole boys and management.

One can only produce a certain amount of quality. Quality will be maxed out with a certain number of items (quantity), no matter who you are or what you do. You can cut only so much fat from a steak before you affect the steak, you can only move so many spaces before you’re out of space.

The industry I work in is supposedly one of scientific reason and thought; the checks and balances of industrial America is unfortunately run by “big business”. People with no personal interest in you. Who should verify the heart machine you’re on, the pill dispenser used by pharmacies, or even items that concern aviation but the government with no interest of profits but of fair and equal work, instead its controlled by entities that have no self-interest or concern for you but for the profit, people whose purpose it is to get the right job done cheaper and faster, not better. Companies that like to sell loyalty but create none, they buy and sell industries and then outsource most of the jobs in the name of good business and at the same time say they care, Americuh!

The problem with my job is that you have to believe your own bullshit and lately I haven’t been feeling it. I’m a technician not a rocket scientist, a man smart enough to get shit done but also knows when he doesn’t have a chance or just when to go into “don’t give a fuck” mode, shit needs to get done always.

Everyone has an alter-ego. The Californian running joke is your waiter is also a screenwriter, everyone has their own hustle. I’ve always wanted mine to be writing, something so simple yet pretty fucking complicated when it comes to exposing your soul. The sex, the drugs, the lies and videotape.

First and foremost I’m a man winging it but aren’t we all, except it’s especially true in my case.

With no father figures except for a pretty bad ass grandfather my inspiration came from watching black belt theatre and learning about codes of honor via spaghetti westerns.

Only you can take yourself seriously. I’m a technician, I know shit. Sure I can pass or fail your tests but it’s all irrelative to the point of getting shit done. I’ve worked 12 on 12 off relentlessly underway at sea performing drills like a circus monkey in order to fight a fake fire I had to believe. I’ve been a part of projects sending squadrons off to do their deeds and late night benders walking looking out for friends. I’m everyone and nobody which makes me somebody, just like you.

It’s pretty fucked up when a business in the business of quality has a bigger HR and Sales department than quality department, who keeps them in check? Instead of proper science I’m a part of scientific double talk and tasked with accepting bullshit answers.

In the end I know there are worse jobs but one piece of advice I got from a Chief in the Navy is do it as long as it’s fun. As industries put the thumbscrews to things they think are needed, they also have to take into consideration what makes that job worth it.

Workers need the right to choose their afternoon delight, the better I feel at night the more the following day is tolerable.

When I left the military I was under the misconception that work in the civilian world was going to be structured and exact, no so much the case - it just comes down to the bottom dollar.

The irregularities and inconsistencies of what’s wrong in my job is what’s wrong with Americuh which also bleeds into people accepting a bullshit law like marijuana’s illegalization. We are told to accept that there had to be winners in losers in business, its just life. Just like the Dutch settlers convinced natives that they bought Manhattan for a thousand dollars, you are being told that everything is being done in your own personal self-interest, not true.

Daddy Issues As I approach 40, I am reaching the age my biological father was when we met. This is a story that has taken 13 years to write, 13 years with an unhappy ending. Most people in my personal life have a reference for their future, by comparing themselves to their mother and/or father’s lives as well as appearance, not me.

I met my father at age 20 by happenstance. There was no quest in finding him, even though as a small child I imagined one, late nights and foggy streets dressed in a trench coat. As I grew older there was anger that grew from resentment which eventually turned into a callous heart.

I was working as a temp on an assembly line, putting together computer parts, nothing special.

It was a decent job and my first taste of the technical and the manufacturing world. Being of the 51 flavor decent ethnicity comes up a lot in my conversations, when a woman found out I was part Samoan she asked if I knew my father’s name and when I told her she said I think I know him, all the detective work and soul searching I imagined would happen, happened over a lunch break and a bologna sandwich.

The following day she came in excited and confirmed that her husband worked with my father as a tree trimmer. She then handed me his number, the ball was in my court.

I held on to the number for several days; during that time I called my mom who encouraged me to call. She told me there was no resentment, just the actions of two teenagers that produced a baby boy. How he became out of my life is a whole chapter in itself, I was raised in my grandparents’ home across the street from my other biological set of grandparents whom let me play in their yard with their other grandkids but no one let on that I was family, they just treated me so.

As I approach the age my father was when we met I reflect and wonder if my boys are better or worse off because I stayed. My childhood wasn’t over fucked up, I was picked on, burned by strangers, possibly molested but definitely over exposed to grown up desires, now that I think of it – fuck! But still I’ve had it better than a lot of other people.

I wonder where I would be in life now, would I be more focused? More accomplished? Or even more of a douche? The “what ifs” are endless but those are my daddy issues and now I wonder what can I leave my sons and if they’re better off for it, all you can do is do and wait to see the results in the end.

40 has come and gone, I’m sharing my birthday with my son in and out of a hospital, nothing severely wrong but enough to scare the shit out of you. He looks like me and now has the same insides since I had my appendix removed around the same age; there is something godly about genetics.

As I sit in the hospital by my son’s side I reflect on my life as I guess everyone does or is supposed to do at 40, noting mind blowing comes to mind. We work every day to achieve some sort of

goal, the rat race it’s called, I work every day just so they don’t have to. I worry so they won’t have to and try to share every truth I know to them, that is my secret of life; living for others even though I’m a selfish son of a bitch.

There is not clear way to get to a better place but the first step is to stop lying to yourself. I am a simple man, with the ability to live happily without a thing but once I had this family I cannot live without them. I can’t picture a world without them, even the wife. My kids are the world, they are the best and worse parts of me and their mom, they are the best of both us, all of them.

As 40 comes and goes there is no real life lesson to share that hasn’t been shared before; work hard, play hard, love and lost are all part of the picture.

MeChille

I. The sun broke through the curtains beating on his chest, slowly brought him back to the world; the rustling of clothes being picked up did the rest. With one eye opened he saw her from behind gathering her things, trying not to disturb him he figured. He would be silent and let her think she got away with it for that’s what you pay hookers for, to leave.

Of course this one was different; she gave him back his money at the end of the night.

Something about treating her like a person and fucking her like an animal, she was a good looking whore and he enjoyed watching her apple bottom get dressed but she still had to go.

Once the pants were on he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep again, he didn’t want to have a conversation at 8 in the morning. As he laid there he remembered the weatherman saying something about being able to cook eggs off the sidewalk, it was going to be a long hot one.

Hearing the door shut gently he sat up and looked for his cigarettes or a joint, it didn’t matter at this point.

His only obligation for the day was an SAA (Sexual Addicts Anonymous) meeting at 1pm, hotel check out wasn’t ‘till 10 so he wasn’t in a rush. First things first, make a pot of coffee. The next thing, smoke a roach and turn on the television to see what was going on.

It’s another dreary day of politicians and corporations making money at the expense of their souls and our bodies. He’s not a righteous man but he always thought it funny that those who claimed they were of God were far from it - more proof that if there is a God, it has a sick sense of humor.

The TV is an insult to his consciousness so he turns it off and lays in bed thinking of the day ahead 1) go to meeting 2) get lunch, yeah that about sums it up. Thoughts from the night before begin to drift in; her name was Chastity (probably not her real name) and she had the legs that you wish you knew where they began. She didn’t right out say hooker but you don’t have to be a psychic when a woman looking like that shows interest in you and he’s never minded either way.

They shared drinks and people watched as they flowed into the casino, she got excited when she found out who he was.

“Oh I’ve heard of you. Haven’t read your book but I’ve heard of you.” Referring to his one hit wonder “667, The Neighbor of The Beast”.

His past year had been spent touring, reading, interviews, just about anything to sell his book aside from sucking a dick and at one point that wasn’t even out of the question than it all paid off. Late night talk shows and reputable magazines were calling him, instead of the other way around. It even landed on the New York Times Bestsellers list for a month straight, life was good.

Chastity listened in awe as he spoke of the past year and of how he’s trying to write another one but when you set out to write a best-seller, you set out to have writer’s block.

They shared more drinks and even stopped at a liquor store on their way to the hotel. As the thoughts begin to transcend into that night, he began to get aroused which sobered him up. No time for that he thought as his mind breaks away from the reverie; need to get on with the day.

The smell of coffee this morning was just as exciting as the scent of a woman fresh out of the shower. He dragged himself to the pot then looked for his cell phone with no luck. He poured a cup and dialed his cell. The muffle screams of the phone vibrated from under a pile of clothes.

Six missed calls, damn she’s gonna be pissed. He dials her.

“Hello” spoken with disdain.

“Hey baby” “Where the hell are you? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you since last night.”

“I’m downtown somewhere, not sure yet.”

“Are you still planning on going to the meeting?”

“Yes, I told you I would. I’m trying to get help babe.”

“Whatever, just go there and be here tonight!”

“OK, I promise.” as he fumbled with a lighter.

“Don’t fuck up again! I’m not sure how much more I can take of this.”

“OK, ok. I promise I’ll be there tonight. I know it’s important to you.”

“Well, I wish it was to you to” Click.

It occurred to him its hard having a girlfriend but she’s worth it. Never asking questions she already knows the answers to; knowing he has issues but she does to. It was her idea for him to go to the Sexual Addicts meetings - not like the NA or AA meetings were doing any good for him but he’d do whatever to keep her in his my life.

Things were on and off for them until she read his book “667: The Neighbor of the Beast”. Than it seemed she understood him and wanted to “fix” him.

Our life long antagonist arrives early in a church basement. Waiting for him is an empty circle of fold out chairs with pairs of people in deep discussion standing. There’s a beautiful 40-ish red head making a plate from the snack and drink table. Making an effort to blend in he goes to make a plate.

As he approaches the table and makes a mental note on how the redhead looks like the one from “40 year Old Virgin”. Not too shabby is all that comes to mind. He approaches the table nonchalantly not knowing what to expect and hoping not to stand out.

“First meeting?”

He turns to see the sexy redhead nibbling a cookie. “How’d you guess?”

“You got that ‘I have a hard on and don’t know where to stick it look.”

“Well after seeing you, I think I know where.”

“Easy tiger, this is only my fourth meeting and I may take you up on that.”

He grins. “So what do we do?”

“Prior to every meeting there’s a social time. The counselor should be here soon, his name is Richard Cabeza; but don’t call him Dick. It’s Rich or Richard. Once he shows up we start finding a seat.”

As she spoke a portly man in a collared shirt and tie showed up. “That’s Rich.”

People began to fill in the empty circle chairs, “Sit next to me “said the redhead patting the seat next to her, he obliged.

Most counselors (the good ones at least) are recovering addicts themselves, this one was no exception. His appearance however seemed to contradict the addiction. He looked like an 80’s movie stereotype of a nerd, the one that can’t keep up because of the doughnut in his hand and the jelly

covering his face. There was a 90 percent chance he lived at home with his mother and was a 5th level Dungeon master.

“Please be seated everyone and let’s get started. I see some new faces today as well as the regular ones. Let me get started by introducing myself and my background. My name is Richard Cabeza from Phoenix, Arizona and I’m a recovering sex addict. Before here I was a counselor in Phoenix and before that I was the one being counseled.

My number is on all the handouts and you’re more than welcome to call me in a crisis if you can’t get a hold of your mentor. Mentors are assigned after your second visit just to make sure you’re serious.

We’ll start off with some old business than work our way to new. Jim you said last week you were starting to peek in on your daughters friends……..”

As interesting as young girls in panties sound my mind began to drift on to what the hell am I doing here? Is she really that special? Am I ready to give it all up? And what the hell is, the all, I’m giving up. These people all look so sad and horny to me, especially red here; damn she smells good, coconut and vanilla.

Now this guy across from me is babbling how he masturbates to his sister. Why can’t there be more horny females. They come and go but the dysfunctional males still out number them. He’s looking at me, god damn it the counselor is looking at me.

“Sir, welcome to SAA would you like to introduce yourself and perhaps why you came in today?”

“Yeah hi, well my name is MeChille Phillips, no relation to Mackenzie Phillips.” He pans the room to see no reactions “Never a good time for father-daughter fucking jokes?” He smirks. “Sorry. Well, I’m half French and half Mexican, hence the name. Americans tend to abuse any native language when they

think it’s edgy and cruel to their children when giving a boy a girls name ……” thoughts of last night, of his present girl, and of his childhood flood his mind now. “I’m here for help.”

“When was the last time you had sex MeChille?”

“About 12 hours ago.”

“And how did you feel?”

“Pretty fucking good actually. I’m mostly here at the behest of my girlfriend.”

“Did you two have any problems last night?”

“Last night wasn’t with her.”

“Oh I see. Well you came to the right place if you’re sincere. Are you familiar with our twelve steps?”

“Yes.” “And what did you think of them?”

“Well I'm here aren't I.” “Fair enough, would you like to share anything before we proceed?”

“Not right now.”

“Well fair enough. Since we have a newcomer let’s start with the basics in our 12 step recovery and one of those basics is belief in a higher power. When we refer to a higher power we use the word God but you could use Allah, Yahweh. It doesn’t really matter it’s the ultimate being that you put your faith in.”

The counselor mentions faith. I use to find religion for the weak. A person praying to me was really wishing out loud; but as you grow older you realize if you believe in nothing than you still believe in something.

It’s my turn in this circle of trust “What’s my faith? Well I would have to say words are my religion. Take for example the words God and Jesus. They get a bad rap here in America from all the zealots that have killed, raped, or any other whimsical digression in the past. Just like I’m sure there are kids in Bangladesh tired of Buddha and kids in Iraq tired of Mohamed.

Stay with me on this though, I believe the Buddha, the Jesus, the Mohamed, the any other figure of faith are one in the same with the God word. The God is that thing in us that gives us strength, intuition and that quote, unquote, inner voice.”

The circle is silent for a minute, than I’m passed. Red is next, apparently she’s Wicca, not shocked. Another hour of this internalizing goes on and than the meeting begins to conclude. We’re instructed to work on the first step of the 12 “Admit we are powerless over addictive sexual behavior – that our lives have become unmanageable” – which is total bull crap to me; but it gives me something to think about. No one likes to think about themselves as powerless but what if it’s true. I wouldn’t have had an 8 hour romp with a hooker if I was in control, would I? This woman, my girlfriend has got my head all in a muck. In a world where education is utmost important, she has taught me more than anyone - How to love, how to live, how to give. Things that are common decency and knowledge to most people, she has shown me.

As the meeting adjourns everyone stands and begins hugging and hand shaking, each person telling the other “I am here for you” “Stay strong” and other fluffy bullshit. Red turns to me, slides her

hand into my back pocket and whispers in my ear “Wanna recreate last night, call me. My number is in your pocket, by the way nice ass.”

The penis perks at hearing this but today I’m a new man. Last night was the last hurrah. I owe it to her to try.

The number makes its way to the trash and off to the liquor store I go, than to Steve's. His proper English name is Stephen but in the states he prefers Steve, Stevie, etc... Stephen he says is only for proper times and places, here is not one of them. The man's been in the U.S for only 6 months and has already figured out how to get the kindest weed. He looks like Russel Brand but acts like Brad Pitt in True Romance.

3pm and already its 103 degrees in the shade, it’s gonna be a long day. Rule number one when parking under the sun, look for shade. Damn air-conditioner died last year, I knew I should have had it fixed then.

Here's some advice, whenever going to your dealer always bring some form of liquid courage.

You'll walk away with a heavier bag and a pretty good buzz. My dealer just happens to be an Englishman with an affinity for Mexican beer, today it'll be Corona.

We both live on the “bad” side of town with the dregs of humanity, these are my people. Even in this heat you can’t keep us down. As I walk to his apartment with a cooler of beer I pass the working girls and the crack dealers, nobody slings weed anymore (there’s just no money in it). I pass the street hustlers peddling whatever is available, these are my people. I mean really what separates them from me, I just whore myself out in other ways.

I use to date these two women at the same time, a housewife and a stripper. The housewife lacked any emotion possible, probably didn't help she was having an affair; still she was quick to open

her legs but not her heart. The stripper on the other hand had the heart of gold. She did little things like buy me notebooks for my writing or surprise me with one of her girlfriends for some fun. Not just because of the incredible sex but out of lovingness that it came from is what held my attention. Of course like everything, nothing lasts forever; I'm working on that one though.

As he makes his way down the street he hears a woman beckoning from behind “MeChille!

MeChille!” It’s Sindy or at least that’s the name she goes by in the streets. She is a typical southern California girl, long legs, blonde, and it only would cost you 100 bucks to see what’s under the black formfitting dress she has on. We met when she noticed me going to the bathroom every half-hour in the shit-hole bar known as the M&M Saloon “Now I know man has to pee but you’re bladder must be the size of a peanut or your nose has a serious appetite.” She called it since that night we’ve been good friends.

“When you gonna be ready for a round 2 my Pierre?” One night after too much cocaine and booze I woke up next to her, buck ass naked and feeling good. For 3 weeks I couldn't get a night’s rest out of fear of my dick falling off, even though she was beautiful, she was also a hooker and I couldn't remember if I put a condom on or not. In the end nothing burned.

“I don't think so babydoll.”

“What do you mean? Is there someone else?”

Only a blank face meets her questions.

“Oh my fucking god there is, well Pierre you know you have to bring her by for momma to check out.”

“Sure, you're invited over to the next family gathering.”

“You’re such an ass.”

“I know.”

A couple of slow driving vehicles pass by. “Well gotta go back to work honey, momma's gotta eat.” A blue sedan pulls up next to her and she begins her spiel.

Steve’s apartment building is stuck in the space time continuum known as 1950. It’s called the Desert View like everything else in this town. Things start with the word desert or paradise just to remind you where you’re not. An art deco masterpiece 60 years ago, today it’s a tired looking slump block building of faded pink and shit brown fever spots. The only positive thing about it is the security buzzer to get in, “Hello” “Steve it’s MeChille.”

“Come on up mate, use the stairs the lift is broken.”

“Okay” The apartment complex is surprisingly clean. It’s run by a Polish couple that absolutely loves Steve, only because he’s English I think though. The wife brings that fucker home cooked meals on Fridays and the husband drinks vodka with him on Saturdays, not too shabby is all I can say. “¿Que onda esa?” As he leans back with arms extended in the air “Got me a shipment of some real fire holmes.”

The man is a walking cliché but than again, aren’t we all? “Why do you talk like that man? You’re not gangster for Christ sakes you’re not even Mexican. Hell you’re not even tan.”

“You never heard of when in Rome you fucking wanker.”

MeChille thrusts a cold Corona into Steve’s palm. The beer is ice cold and already sweating “Here, use this for your man pleaser. What you got going on and how much?”

Steve takes a gulp that brings the beer below bottle neck level “That’s some good shit.

You’ve got to hand it to the brownies they make some good beer and pot. Speaking of here’s some of the finest green west of the pecos” He hands MeChille a zip-lock baggie of marijuana.

“Easy you fucking racist” “You know I mean nothing by it vato. What’s got your panties in a bunch? ” “Nothing, yeah I know. So, how much?”

“100 an ounce” he says as he grabs another beer from the cooler.

MeChille is a connoisseur of things green. He approaches each bag, each bud, and each toke like a wine aficionado. First he examines the contents; noting the white crystals, the red hairs, and if the bud was compacted for smuggling or fluffy like it just came from the source. Next he takes a deep inhale savoring the potency and than finally he'll examine a piece in his hand feeling how sticky or non-sticky it really is.

“Damn you’ve come through again. Just give me one. What are your plans for tonight?

“Me and the blokes I get this off of are hitting the titty bars. My favorite is the Candy Store, I’m always bound to bring a scrubber home. The best are the ones with bunches.” As he weighs the bag on a postal scale.

“Man I wish you spoke plain English, anyways if things go well stop by the Warehouse. My lady friend is having her first showing.”

“Still dating the same bird I take it.”

“Yeah I am. You still troll the schools for little boys?”

“Bug off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well I need to head out, see you next week than.”

“Of course, you're helping me pay for me flat-screen.”

MeChille leaves Steve’s apartment 1.3 ounces heavier than before. The plan is to shower and shave.

There's really nothing in MeChille’s pad since he's been on the road most of the time. There’s a desk in the corner with his laptop, a couch, a TV surrounded by bare walls. Before he showers he packs a pipe and smokes pondering how somebody new to his country finds better connections, dumb luck he guesses.

Laid out on the bed is the only suit he owns, along with his only pair of dress socks, a tie and belt. He’s really a plain clothes type of guy. Never wanting to stand out he’s an amoeba of the streets; but for her he plays dress up.

His lady friend is a successful photographer. Mostly working for magazines and snatching the occasional news worthy shot, this was her first showing. They met at a Nicholas Baker signing. He figured any woman into Nicholas Baker would be good in bed, so a one nightstand would be great – that was 3 months ago.

The gallery is downtown. The building itself has gone through quite a few changes over the years. Prior to it, it was a warehouse, a garage, and during WWII a bomb factory. When he walks in he's greeted by cheese and wine, his favorite part of these events and looks for his lady. As he looks for her,

he examines her work. The walls are covered with pictures of genitalia and of people in obscene positions. Her theme for this show is “The Human Condition”; he thinks she is the next Mapplethorpe.

He comes across a penis with a poem on it. He doesn't recognize the dick but the poem is his; “Jesus came” Now let the jokes begin.

On her On your back, In the mouth.

“Jesus saves With coupons.

My job.

Bad is good, compared to worse.

“You made it!” As he turns he sees the 5'5'' beauty of a woman in an off shoulder red dress matching her long curly hair extending her arms with the intent of embrace. He falls in willingly.

“I told you I would and I'm glad I did. Everything looks wonderful.”

“Two sold so far. How did the meeting go?”

“It went, I'm working on it.”

“Well at least you went. Would you like to come mingle?”

“I'm good. Go do your thing babe. I'm gonna write some thoughts down; but I'll be here.”

“Okay, don't leave without telling me though.”

“I won't. I promise.”

“You and your promises.”

She takes off and no sooner had she started her flight someone grabs her arm to inquire about a photo. MeChille walks outside and sits on the edge of the entrance. He pulls a notepad and pen out and begins to jot down some thoughts; 01Mar10

I use to think life was about being the best user; but lately I've been feeling it’s the best doer that counts. What you do for yourself, what you do for others. When we're hungry we feed ourselves, but do we watch a funny movie when we're sad, no? Do we watch something calm when we're angry, no? The solitude I've found myself in has changed me and it hasn't even been a real solitude because it’s been me and the Internet.

At the drop of a url what I want is mine. If you're horny there's porn for it, if you're lonely there’s a chat room, and if you're bored, a game. For what it’s worth these things have helped me keep my sanity, even though I'm losing my mind. What is the next book gonna be? How do

you go up when you hit the top? Or even better, how do I just stay on top? These questions will have to be solved tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight is her night.

II For ten years he's had the same five dollar Timex watch always on hand. It was with him for his two year stint in the Army and his first marriage which lasted just as long. Since than it’s been odd jobs and women keeping him afloat. MeChille is a sentimental man and refers to his watch as Bettie.

Bettie went off at the butt crack of dawn, it was time for a new day. He woke up in his lady's bed, she was already gone. His head was pounding, not from the alcohol but from the late night conversation after sex.

They laid in bed for hours cooing after each other; talking about Nietzsche’s genius to madness and Mark Twain’s insight of a mans’ soul, if there is one. They pondered God’s existent and the devils to, for you can’t have one without the other. She reveled in the power of women and despised the sexual revolution for that’s when a woman’s best weapon became exposed. For hours this went on naked to the world basking in each others light.

As the pounding increased in his head he sunk deeper into her goose down filled covers. This bed was his favorite part of her home, lying in a cloud shaped like a bed. The blinds were closed but he could see light on the edges, the day was calling him but he didn’t want to listen.

A glance at the watch shows its 830am, “Damn better get up.”

While MeChille gathered his things he saw his phone flashing, an alert for a text message: MRNIN' LVR - That’s always a nice way to start a day.

Today's the day I put something down, he thought as he made his way home.

His apartment seemed dreary after waking up in his lady’s home. Where he would encounter scented candles, pictures of her works and magazines on the coffee table his home was the contrast; bare walls, an ashtray, and scattered papers of notes he has yet to connect the dots with. I’ve got to make this place more user friendly he contemplates.

Obligations got him up early this morning; he has a court appearance for NA and AA meetings this year, today its NA. On their first date he bashed the head of a drunken cowboy into a Miller Light mirror advertisement.

The cowboy kept hitting on his lady when the couple was already in deep conversation.

MeChille kept it civil as long as possible, each time ignoring him or telling him he’s not welcomed. As the night and booze progressed so did cowboy’s aggression, than in one moment everything came to a boil.

The cowboy grabbed his lady friend from behind the waist and proceeded to kiss her neck. MeChille couldn’t recall much after that except for having bloody fists and sitting back in a police cruiser.

Several witnesses from the bar showed up to the court hearing, unfortunately for MeChille he was legally intoxicated and tested positive for cocaine and marijuana, along with the rehab sessions the judge gave him a 3 week anger management class, shit happens.

There’s plenty of time to get ready for the meeting so coffee is priority number one. He likes his coffee black like he likes his men, that’s been a running joke since his service days. The maker is dripping and the euphoric smell fills the room. He walks to the laptop and lets “the process” begin: Gabriel's home rest in the hills overlooking the city, his city; He sits perched on his balcony, eyeing the city like a bird of prey while sipping his coffee. So far there is no mention of him on the morning news, just the way he hopes to keep it………………

MeChille imagines the scenario of a crime fighter for his next book, “Not to bad I think”.

He walks to his bedroom and pulls a shoe box from the closet; inside the box is nothing but paraphernalia, time for a smoke break. Like a soldier who knows how to prepare his gun for war, he pulls out a pipe and disassembles it, cleaning the chamber with a dental pick from his kit he takes out a new screen to put into the bowel - all the better to smoke with. He then opens a glass jar containing the pot he just bought, a dark green sticky herb. He needs his surgical shears for this operation. Delicately cutting piece by piece off and fluffing it to his liking, loading his weapon of choice, the first drag of the day always seems refreshing to him, clarity sets in.

He knows in this condition not much more will get done but at the computer but at least the notes will be and they are just as important to him. Throughout the day entries will be made in the spiraled spine notepad, some relating to the story some just to the day but just the fact that he can write is what’s important to him. It’s said Oscar Wilde wrote 4 hours a day and so did J.D Salinger.

The next drag is held in little longer then the last now is just part of the ritual. A feeling of euphoria and a dash of paranoia overcomes him; the pot is kicking in and its time for a shave and a shower. He’s in his element now; he’s also starting to get mixed feelings about the story though.

In that same folder with the crime fighter beginnings there are 30 other beginnings, each as valuable as the next.

The shower is his second favorite place to contemplate stories, the reason makes Catholics cry.

Damn it, I got to make sure the next one stays as interesting. Nobody wants to read about some asshole that holds a job and pays his bills on time. No, they want to read about a bastard son whose mother woke him up in the middle of the night to rub his shoulders sobbing about how her boyfriend left her even though she did everything he wanted, especially in the bedroom, people are just fucked

up. Unfortunately that story has already been told and sold. I guess I could write a continuation of the story but it gets old and intrusive. Well hello there Mr. Tip. From this point he spends the rest of his shower time on his nether region. Thinking about his lady friend to the 18 year old Latina that always shows up at the NA meetings in bootie shorts, so short he’s noticed she has really nice legs and shaves the no-no zone.

Once the water washes away his sin he dries off and prepares for the meeting; another toke from the pipe, some visine for the eyes and cologne for any lingering smell.

His counselor is Walter Cummings an overweight Native American with bad knees and a cane.

Luckily for MeChille the man is a fan of his book and the occasional articles that he gets to write. Walter called him out in their first meeting “I know who you are. Hell I even identify with half the shit in your book, so don’t try to make a mockery of this program, you got it. Look, I know you’re not a bad guy. You don’t even qualify as an addict but the state says you have to be here, so you will. Don’t fuck with me and I won’t fuck with you. On your days you’re supposed to be here come in early and straight to my desk.”

Since than every Wednesday has been spent in Walter’s office with Walter trying to convince MeChille to take his manuscript to his publisher. As long as the man signs off on his meetings and gives his urine a clean bill of health, it doesn’t really matter what he tries to sell.

MeChille arrives early as usual 1:15 on the dot. Walter is waiting behind his desk “Have you talked to your publisher?”

“I told you, it doesn’t work like that. You need an agent, someone to represent you and even than you got to do all the footwork. Get yourself out there; join a writing group or two. Have you even started blogging to get your feet wet?”

“No; but I think it’s a really good story Confessions of an Addict.”

“Isn’t there something illegal about putting down other people’s stories?”

“That’s if they read. Half these people don’t even own a TV.” “True. Okay I’ll tell you what, write me a proper query and I’ll give it to my agent. After that I’ve got nothing, if he likes it he’ll call you, okay?”

“That would be great! Don’t forget to put in a good word for me. Just so you know, the courts called again asking for me to send a random sample to the lab. Are you clean?”

The only reply he gets is a raised eyebrow and a smirk.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Don’t worry, I got you covered. Well let’s get to the meeting.”

Adjacent to Walter’s office is a spacious room with the circle of chairs MeChille has grown accustomed to in these settings. Nobody is there yet so he takes a seat across from Walter trying not to appear buddy buddy and gets lost in his own thoughts.

Despite all the grousing I do before I come here I really don’t mind these meetings. In fact in a strange way I look forward to them, maybe it’s the story teller in me looking for one to tell. Like the sexy latina who just walked in but was on my mind earlier, she comes from a broken home (don’t we all), her father a heroine addict who came in and out of her life while her mother stayed shagged up with various men just to stay off the streets.

She herself talks about turning to drugs and men for reassurance (see you at my other meeting) ‘till eventually one day they beat the shit out of her ‘cause she wouldn’t fuck the neighbor for crack money.

Then there’s Todd Fliker, a jock who peaked out in high school and has seen first hand the side effects of steroid use; from what I’ve gather will never see him at the other meeting.

Oh and here comes pill popping Suzie homemaker a.k.a Sarah Palkin. She’s not a bad looking broad, just cries way too fucking much blaming her drinking and pills for her bad life ignoring her own bad decisions.

Seems like the regulars are here, the rest are trickling in; people on court orders, people who have relapsed and need confession, others who will try and never come back, the whole gamut.

Hmm, seems the chula has my book in her purse. I’m feeling a little flush seeing she’s reading me, do I approach her? Nah, I’ll just wait for her to talk to me. I feel all tingly inside, damn you penis.

And there goes Sarah again, blabbering about her life.

“I-I-I think ma-ma-my husband is cheating in me.” Sobbing uncontrollably these are the words you can make out.

Walter now plays therapist “Sarah, why do you think he’s cheating?”

“He just seems so despondent. It seems I can never reach him-m-m.”

“Do you think maybe he’s the same now though and you’ve changed with your sobriety?”

“But in the bedroom there is nothing. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t talk dirty to me, nu-nunothing!” The tears are uncontrollable at this point.

“Of course he’s cheating on you, I would to if I had to listen to this shit!” All heads turn towards MeChille. “Look lady, you need to take control. If you want to make his toes curl and his eyes roll back grab his cock and suck on his balls!”

An awkward tension fills the room than one of the walk-in’s, probably homeless breaks out in extreme laughter, almost a cackle. His laugh is so contagious others in the group participate.

Sarah stares at MeChille with drying tears and a somber look than asks “Do you really think that would work?”

Now the air is lighthearted and everyone has a laugh, even Walter.

“Look if it doesn’t he must be gay but than again I think gay dick works the same as straight one, don’t quote me on that though.”

Sarah seems to take comfort in this and seems to begin forming a plan. Somebody owes MeChille dinner.

The rest of the session wasn’t so filled with the superficial drama but with stories of relapses and regret. The homeless walk-in that broke into laughter even started his confessional “I’m the reasons half the parks in our city can’t play games at night. You can always count on the power being off around 1 am, that’s when you go in and steal the coppa wires. I needed tha money for meth, I’m a thief but I ain’t no homo. You won’t catch me sucking dick for a score.” The irony here is a lot of the dealers that have done time wouldn’t give a second thought on giving a dimebag for a blowjob (even from a male) but still “they’re not gay”, I would even accept bi.

2:30 rolls around and the session begins to die down. People begin to get up and head for the coffee and cookie table. I stay seated and lean forward, trying to play coy waiting to be approach, nothing happens, guess I’m not that important yet.

Walking outside was like walking into the sun. Mechille’s eyes had to adjust to the bright light and his body temp had to adapt to the 114 Fahrenheit degree weather. The city is slow during these

temps, minimal cars on the road with minimal people on the sidewalks, the smart ones stay in buildings with central air. His first instinct is to call his lady, so he finds a coffee shop and escapes the heat.

“Ice coffee mocha please.” The shop is filled with college students and old hipsters trying to recapture their youth, this is what happens when you’re in a town with a University. He finds a secluded corner and dials.

“Hey!” You can never surprise anyone anymore with caller I.D, she even answers the phone with a warm embrace.

“Hey babe, what you doing?”

“I’m presently fighting the bureaucracy of the machine known as the photo department. They take all the artistic integrity out of a shoot, I might as well be working at Glamour shots circa 1980.”

“You’re shit will take off soon but ‘till than…”

“Yeah I know, got to pay the bills.”

“How was your meeting? Any interesting materials come out of it?”

“Same old same, I got high to be popular or I was molested and that’s why I’m bad – the usual social hang-ups. Anyways, what you doing tonight for dinner?”

“I would love to lover but there’s a last minute shoot tonight with a pre-madonna and I have been specially requested.”

Something in his gut drops at hearing this “Oh, okay.”

He sits on the curb drinking his ice coffee and realizes that that gut dropping feeling was disappointment. Its funny how disappointment can make you feel like a child again; the parts where you

learn you don't always get what you want and some things are out of our control, the parts of our lives where nothing goes as plan that the nothing is in control.

Sitting down he is consumed by one thought “Damn.” and that's all that comes to mind.

III. As his ego deflates and a melancholy mood sets in he sips his coffee for a second wind. He pulls out his notebook and begins writing; Dear Self;

Not use to being told no by women but today it happened. You know its not really the no that bothers me, its my sudden realization that I look forward and depend on seeing her, how fucking lame is that? I’m starting to not miss the days of bag ‘em and tag ‘em. What’s happening to me? Am I becoming pussified? Or is this the thing I’ve been missing all along? Fuck!

Well she’s not able to see me tonight due to work; but what will I do? Sounds like casino night.

MeChille closes his notebook and slides the pen down the spiral cave. He stands and brushes the street off of his khaki pants bottom. Like most poker players he has his superstitions, so he goes home to gather his.

Smells of urine and cheap booze assault his nostrils as he walks to the entrance of his apartment. Darryl the local king of down and out is passed out escaping the heat in the shade. Except for

his claims of being an ex-CEO of British Petroleum and that he's seen Jesus, the guy is generally okay.

Give him some McDonalds and he’ll watch your car all night. Different Strokes for different folks. In the concrete jungle being primal is different for everyone. Sex, drugs, and Rock and Roll.

Most players bring lucky trinkets to set on top of their cards, things like Monopoly figurines and military coins. MeChille brings a roach clip and two joints, one for the pre-game, the other is post.

Inside his box of decadence there’s a rolling machine. The one thing MeChille never mastered nor ever will was rolling. His pre-gambling ritual includes turning the computer on to a classical music station for background noise then he begins his meditation. Methodically pouring out the bag of joy, he separates the whole buds from shake than with eagle eye precision pulls every seed and stem from the shake. When everything is back in its place he begins rolling.

He takes the first joint and slides it in his wallet where the bills go. The second is place next to a mini-Buddha statue on his dresser; he’s not religious but figures “It can never hurt”. It’s off to the showers than to prepare for battle.

As the hot water penetrates his face he contemplates strategy. Play aggressive, play coy, play dumb, all of them options. Unfortunately he’ll be playing on the reservation casino and not a Vegas one; the two are extremely different games. The Vegas style games are just like the ones you see on TV, a person can walk in with a thousand and go all in. In a reservation game you have rounds of betting with caps on them but you can walk-in with thirty dollars and walk out with hundreds. Thinking of his options, he’ll wait to see what kind of crowd shows up tonight.

Dressed to kill in his khaki shorts, flip flops, and a t-shirt that says “I Brake for Mohammed” he climbs in his car, starts the engine, slightly cracks the windows, and lights up his pre-game joint. With each inhale he feels a sense of oneness. Now he knows most of what he initially feels is psychological, its

there non-the-less. A state of euphoria is encountered, a moment of peace. Back on the chain gang by the Pretenders comes on the radio and it makes him smile.

At the casino he makes sure to park under a light, it makes it easier when looking for your car hours later.

Upon entering the card room he observes it is full. Seems like every octogenarian and college kid who saw Rounders decided to come out tonight. The old timers all wear hats from the service they served in and the kids travel in packs having their buddies egging them on to call or raise.

The only women on the floor are arm candy. As a general rule I never play against a woman.

They are better straight faced liars “Oh he’s just a friend. I love you. Oh, its so big.” and of course the fake orgasm.

There’s a seat open on a 4-8 Texas Hold ‘em game so I decide to take it. 4-8 is a good pricey game. First round before the flop is 4 dollars and then can be raised and capped at 16 dollars and if all 10 seats are filled that’s 160 dollars to start a nice pot. Than there’s the flop where everyone gets to see the same 3 cards and decide the quality of their hand. Again another round of betting than can get capped at 16 dollars, another 160. The turn and the river are a little more pricey and start off at 8 dollars and can get capped at 32. So potentially if all 10 players stay in for 4 rounds of betting all of which get capped your pot potential is 960 dollars. Not too bad if you start with a hundred or two.

I hand the cocktail girl a hundred and she passes back a rack of chips, time for war. Everyone is courteous, some are drunk but no one wants to lose. I’m lucky enough to be seated in between a man that remembers the Alamo and one that probably went to high school with Jesus.

“What you drinking young man?” says Jesus’s college roommate.

“Just a coke”

“Just a coke! Just a coke! Just a coke is for pussies. Why don’t you put some rum in it.”

“Leave him alone Charlie.” Says Davey Crockett's butt buddy. All this banter is meant to just throw me off my game, that's all. A distractor to the real issue at hand, playing cards.

“Its okay” as he glances he sees faded, old recon tattoos on Charlie's forearm. “What division were you?”

“1st infantry! The Big Red One. Nothing you or the Spongebob generation knows these days.”

MeChille rolls his sleeve which exposes a skull with blades and the words No one left behind.

“1st Recon. We made Kadafi cry and Hussin die” Charlie extends his hand “Nice to meet you son” The dealer directs her voice to MeChille “The button is on you sir. Are you in?”

“Yes” The dealer is a slender native, dark hair, dark skin, eyes that make you wonder what you're doing wrong or would do for her. She deals the cards with ninja like precision each one landing directly in front of each player.

First card to MeChille is the Ace of spades, the song by Motorhead pops in his head. Second is the Ace of hearts. Pair of Aces, not too bad of a start, at first glance a pair of Aces is awesome but not so much.

Pair of Aces is of course the top single pair. So if you were only playing with two this would be a guarantee and not a probability but you add in 5 more cards and 10 more players now you’ve got

yourself a probability. Always play Aces cool, wait for the flop and never raise unless of course another Ace pops up.

The first round of betting passes and I’m in for 6 bucks there was a raise on the other side, I call to see the flop. Six of hearts, seven of clubs, nine of spades are the first three cards, not good and not bad yet.

First better throws in six dollars. The bet is than called and raised by the time it reaches me its 18 to stay in. In this case a pair of aces is no good. I’m looking at straight draw or somebody that has two pair.

MeChille’s phone vibrates “Excuse me a second.” He gets up and goes outside where the sound of traffic plays in the background.

“Hello.”

“Hey, baby what you doing?”

“Hey sexy, didn’t recognize the number. Where you calling me from?”

“From a house in the hills, didn’t have reception out here so I’m using the land line. What you up to?”

“Nada, just playing some cards at the casino. You?” “Presently waiting for the Jell-O to solidify in a tub.”

“What the?”

“Its for one of those no fur ads. There’s presently two half-naked models waiting to get neck deep in Jell-O.”

“Wow, wish I was there.”

“I bet you do lover. Well I was just seeing what you’re up to. Won’t be in ‘till late tonight. Do you want to do something for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sounds like a plan.”

“Okay, I’ll call you than. Love you.”

“Me to” Click.

The only thing that comes to MeChille’s mind is Women!

He walks back to his seat as the dealer starts dealing. “Are you in Sir?” “Yeah” The next couple of hands proved to be a success. A pocket pair of tens brought him trips, nine/ten a straight and a couple flush draws prove to dominate. As the night progressed his luck and tack for playing cards seemed to intimidate the other players. Most of the original table left or just fold when he stayed in but eventually he got what he was after. Four racks of chips and a nice light buzz.

At 1 am he graciously thanks the table and leaves a twenty-dollar tip for the dealer. Walks to the cashier and places the racks in the window.

“Are hundreds okay sir?”

“Just three please and the rest twenties.”

The extra three hundred kind of give him a second wind. Three hundred dollars extra for 5 hours’ worth of work is saying spend me.

Hookers, heroine, blowjobs and getting high with strangers, nothing sounds fun. So he heads home, on the way buys a case of beer. ……………………………..IV. MeChille’s phone rings at 8 am, he possessed by a pulsing hangover and the body funk from the casino, he feels like hell “Hello”.

“Pancakes or Omelets” “Huh…” “Pancakes or Omelets, I figured that will help figure where we want to meet.”

“Oh yeah, omelet.”

He rolls to his side and grabs his notepad and pen off the nightstand. And jots some notes down while on the phone.

Note to self

Less drinking, more writing dumbass.

“Than I think maybe the Bread and Butter downtown?”

“That sounds good. Give me an hour, I think there's a midget in my head pounding to get out.”

Slight chuckle first “Okay honey, I'll see there. First one there grabs a table.”

“Okay” He hangs up and goes through his notepad frantically. Peeling page after page like a drug addict scrambling for change for a next fix. “Fuck!” Deep breathes, deep breathes, try and calm down. He goes to his laptop and searches through the files there “Damn, nothing new” he mutters to himself.

Last night when he came home from the casino he went home with the intent to write. To sit and work on the stories he had already, on his new favorite Gabriel the psychotic crime fighter. Last he remembered Gabriel was content with still being unknown. That meant to him he hit the right ones, the bad guys – people that humanity won't ever miss, men with no souls.

And that was it. Unfortunately he remembers having this overwhelming feeling of an idea so powerful it was sure to put him back on the best sellers list. It was his Mona Lisa, the answer to world peace, the cure for cancer. Only problem is, he can't read his notes.

He scrambles around a little bit more going through his scribbled notes and re-reading whatever story was written just hoping to jog his memory. After about 20 minutes he comes to terms with his ultimate loss and gets ready to meet his lady for breakfast.

Coffee and shower are essential no matter what the day intends. He checks his cigarette case and sees there's nothing in it, so rolls some joints for the day ahead. Dressed and stocked up there's nothing he can't do.

MeChille arrives a little late.

“On time as usual my Pierre'” As he slides into the booth, he takes the chiding with pride. “I'm sorry baby, drank too much and lost my senses this morning.”

“Okay, but next time you owe me a spa day.”

“Deal.” and they both have a slight giggle as they open their menus.

A few moments the waitress approaches. She's a stereotype of a waitress; white, middle aged, slightly bad complexion and tooth maintenance – perhaps a recovering meth addict. She's no different than the brown trash he's come from himself, he finds her to be almost a kindred spirit. Her name tag says Teri. “You all ready to order?”

He looks to his lady as she smiles and nods “What's good for a hangover?”

“Personally the chorizo and cheese omelet does it for me.”

“I'll have that with loaded hash browns please.” He turns to his lady.

“I'll have the egg white omelet with a side of fruit.”

She gathers their menus and walks away as the two lean closer and appear to be conspiring criminals. They hold hands and talk in a whisper. They talk of the night before and the nights to come: Of upcoming divas and bluffing at poker.

“I have a book signing in Phoenix tomorrow, do you want to come?”

“I would love to but….” “but?”

“But I have another shoot with the queen of divas. This time they’ve rented the zoo, lord knows what she has planned.”

“Okay, but you owe me a day the spa.”

They both have a giggle at this. Between his lack of responsibility and her taking on more responsibilities time together is never on schedule. Teri pours them coffee as the two coo at each other in a nauseating manner. Finally the food arrives and all is well.

“She was right. I feel the booze being absorbing away. Almost ready for round two.”

She rolls her eyes “Can we at least have half the day together without drinking?”

“I was just kiddin’. Besides I never drink before noon on a weekday when Jupiter is in alignment with Mars.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

She smiles and diverts her attentions to her meal. “What do you want to do today?”

“Anything you want my dear.”

“I was thinking about going to the open market. It’s covered so the heat should be bearable.”

“Sounds good.” He sops up the last of any remaining liquid on his plate with a tortilla “Let’s take your car since I don’t have AC. Besides it’s a good reason not to leave your side.”

She blushes and agrees. After the meal MeChille leaves a nice tip for Teri and the two make way to her car.

As she takes her seat behind the wheel MeChille can’t help but appreciate how beautiful she is: Pasty white skin in a sunflower sun dress with strawberry blonde hair caressing her shoulders. He admires how the sun reflects behind her, giving her one of those bible painting glows. He gazes down

admiring how the dress forms around her legs than fits around her form on the way up. So form fitting he can make out the thong she has on.

He leans over to nibble on her ear as his hand slides up her leg “Stop, you’re gonna get us killed.” Is spoken in the soft pleasant I have to tell you no but don’t want to kind of way.

He pulls back and leans against the car door, smiling at her in the most cavalier way.

“Do you want to die on the I-10? ‘Cause if you keep that up your wish may come true.”

In response he leans forward all the way down, his face in her lap and his hand up her dress. She quivers with a shuttering sound as he proceeds to let his hands know her intimately. His fingers lightly rubbing on her outer lips ‘till he feels something wet and inviting to come inside.

Her legs effortlessly spread as his whole hand is in between her thighs. Her sundress now waist high from the brushing against his lips as he kisses her thighs. With every stroke and kiss there’s a deep breath followed by a moan. He looks up to see her grip tightening around the steering wheel with each penetration and manipulation of the clit.

The closer they get the more he works at it. Every other breath is held than let out with an “Oh god, oh god……”Almost to their destination the excitement of being watched by other drivers gets to her. Her hips thrust forward, controlling where the depth and pressure of his fingers and she lets out with a “You fucking bastard! Oh god, oh god” and proceeds to fuck his hand.

MeChille realizing his goal has been met laps up any fluid produced, kissing her thighs gently before sitting up. As he’s sitting up she’s turning the corner into a pay parking lot. “Just in time” he says as he licks his fingers as if there was barbecue sauce on them.

“You fucking bastard” she says with a smile and a glow as she pays the parking lot attendant.

The Open Market is a bi-weekly downtown occurrence where locals sell their wares. Everything from lawn ornaments to art and food can be found there.

As they approach the market smells of mesquite and meat permeate the air. “Mmmm, smells good. Did you work up an appetite?” He says to her while holding her hand.

“Not yet, besides you just had a fish taco.”

They both laugh and explore the wares on sell that day. Artisans from various crafts come here.

Metal sculptures, paintings, blankets and food, all of it and much more to be had here.

They stop and buy some churros to nibble on. “Have you written anything new?”

“Nothing I can bank on. I’ve got two half ass stories in progress but sometimes writing can be just a pain in the ass.”

“What about poems? You know I love your poems.”

“Just one that’s in progress.”

“Do tell. Pleeeassse.” As she bats her eyes in a Marilyn Monroe way.

“Okay, but let’s go sit off to the side. Want a beer? I see a vendor over there.”

“Sounds refreshing” and she smiles with glee knowing she can get her way.

After the light sugary snack they grab two beers and walk off on to one of the side streets and sit on the curb. MeChille pulls his notebook from his pocket and takes a deep gulp from his beer.

No matter how many book signings and coffee shop readings he does, he’s always feels selfconscious - More so with his lady. It use to be damn them all to hell if they don’t like it, artistic integrity

and all that but something in him wants her to accept his tortured soul. “I’m thinking of calling this See you on the other side, here it goes Boy meets girl, Girl falls for boy.

Soul mates for life, neighbors by chance.

Together forever is more than a carving in a bench for these two, Soul mates for life There’s nothing more true.

Days at the creek, Were always neat.

“Catch me if you can!” she’d cried.

“Tag. Your it!” was his reply.

There was a log for a bridge where they would play.

“See you on the other side!” he would run across and say She scooted across, This is how they’d play.

On the other side of the log is a teenage boy and girl, High school sweethearts.

Boy on the football team, Girl his cheerleader.

“Catch me if you can!” She would say “Tag you’re it” and it would end with an embrace.

Boy becomes man, Girl woman.

Man and woman have a boy and girl together.

Time goes by and woman falls ill, Man is there, still.

Woman lays in bed, as cancer kills Man lays next to her, oh so very still.

Breaths are hard and deep, “Tag you’re it” he’d whisper to her And in a final breath she said “Catch me if you can” “See you on the other side.” Was his reply.

MeChille looks up from his pad and sees her eyes are all welled up. “I’m gonna assume you like it so far.”

“You’re such an asshole, of course I like it. I like everything you do.” He beamed with pride at hearing this but it was also one of things he hated about sharing his words with friends and family. A perfectionist at heart it was an unbiased opinion he always wanted but was glad whenever she should emotion like she did.

“Wanna smoke?” In his case was a fine selection of joints, from fat to skinny. He went with the medium just in case she didn’t want to.

“Sounds good my Pierre’. You know that poem is one of the reasons I love you. Deep down inside that asshole exterior is generally a nice guy.”

Right before lighting he searches for any cops, cups his hand over the joint and lights up as he listens to her. Her words make him smile again and now he looks like James Dean lighting his joint with that bad boy smirk. He takes a deep puff ensuring the red glow stays than passes it to his woman.

She in turn takes a deep inhale than breaks into an uncontrollable cough “Holy shit, you could of warned me it was the good stuff.” Was the final outcome of what she wanted to say in between coughs.

MeChille had got a chuckle from this and handed her a beer to help soothe the throat. Every once in awhile a person would walk by making a comment like “smells good” or some other indication they knew what the two were doing but this didn’t phase them one bit, they were partners in crime.

When the joint got to just above finger tip level MeChille flicked it on the sidewalk “Maybe a homeless guy will find it.” And than the two proceeded to see what was for sale.

“Ohhhh, that smells so good MeChille. You and your fucking pot. Let’s go see what they got.”

She turned to a stand run by the people of the Tohono O’odham nation. They were making fry bread which could be topped with meat, rice, and beans for an outstanding lunch or sugar and honey for a sweet treat. Both had the hunger of a third world nation so it was meat, beans, and rice for them.

“I would say it’s a requirement to cook good if you’re poor but my mother was a horrible cook. I mean really, how do you fuck up cereal?” MeChille was passionate about his food.

“I swear if I get fat because every time you get me high, well you just better still love me.”

“I will my dear. I will.”

The two enjoyed their mid-day lunch than went on to search for more local wares. His lady found a pair of earrings she couldn’t do without and MeChille obliged her. After two more hours of eye shopping the two were exhausted and head back to get MeChille’s car.

“You’re not gonna pull that shit on me in the car again are you?” His lady asked meekly.

“No my dear, I believe to be full.” as he rubbed his belly. She than smiled and fanned her self not sure if that was the answer she wanted to hear, she did enjoy having a boy toy.

On the way back plans were being set-up for when they could meet next. “So should I call you after the signing tomorrow?”

“No it’s probably best I call you. You never know with a pre-madonna. It may be a one hour shoot to an all day thing, who fucking knows.”

MeChille loved the fact she was a non-starving artist, she just didn’t have the name recognition yet. “Sounds good. Do you want to come over for a night cap?”

“MeChille, there’s no such thing as a night cap between you and I. You know it’ll end up as a fuck-fest than neither one of us will be good tomorrow.” She was only speaking from experience.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right” Just as he was agreeing they were rolling up to his car in an empty parking lot.

“When you going to get a new car hun?”

“Seriously? If I did that I couldn’t leave it in a parking lot like this.” They both had a laugh at his expense than kissed and parted ways.

Left to his own devices, MeChille sits in his car and contemplates what to do next.

Tonight’s a good night to see if I can recall last night’s epitome. Damn it that I had to have a drink or two, not tonight though. Tonight it's just me and Mary Jane. ……………………………VI. MeChille sits in front of his laptop and reviews what was written from the night before. Like any good composer he would hate to be redundant. He pulls out the fattest joint from his stash and lights it taking a deep inhale as he ponders his character's next shenanigans.

Gabriel is done playing nice guy in this town. The scum that sold his little brother the white powder that killed him is going to pay ten-fold. He lights a cigarette knowing he should quit savoring another day of being alive.

Being a former dealer he knew the spots to hit. Tonight was the Chatterbox, a bar where 20 bucks extra could get you that special coke with your rum. The new stuff is strong and he needs to hit back stronger – 4 years upstate taught him that.

He gets up and reflects on the direction of the story.

It has one of those nickel paperback feels to it, I dare say like the master Elmore Leonard but early Leonard not the successful cult hero one - Definitely good enough for reading in the bathroom.

Gabriel is what I want to be; strong, savvy, intelligent, brave – none of that I’ve been feeling these days.

Everyday growing up MeChille was lambasted by his mother about the men in his family. “Your father was a piece of shit and his father was a piece of shit chances are..” she would say after her third vodka tonic. At the same time she would point at him with a cigarette in either her hand or mouth. “Not everyone is a descendent from the Aztecs” she would say “Others got their asses kicked by them. Guess which side you’re from.”

She had a deep rooted hate for anything with a penis and he understood why. When she was younger, before he was born, she was a beauty queen, a diva, a genuine pin-up girl but than she got caught up with the wrong crowd. Not all of it was his father’s fault; he was just there in the end.

Her other sticking point was that all of the men were cowards, weak and runaway. Telling him his father’s side was full of war deserters. This one point never really bothered him, in fact he thought they were the smart ones. Who wants to die?

MeChille thought of himself as the man to be his family’s last redemption “Live life ‘till you die!” was his motto, this was all covered in Chapter 3 of his book entitled “Girls and boys both have daddy issues”. He gazes out his apartment window counting the homeless and hookers; he loves watching the streets changed from daylight to night. Street lights come on, almost like a lighthouse beacon for more call girls and drug dealers. Staring into the city he contemplates how Gabriel would see this scene. He takes a deep drag and holds it in. When he let it out it was as if L.A was coming out of his mouth.

Gabriel goes to his closet and inventories his clothing and accessories for tonight. Leather jacket (check), billy club (check), leather gloves (check), mace (check) stun gun (check); his usual weapons of choice are there and waiting. You may wonder why he doesn’t get a gun and it’s for two reason 1) felons

are not allowed to have one in possession and 2) if things go terribly wrong he wouldn’t want it used against him.

He decides after breakfast to go downtown and try to gather more intel. As much fun as he’s having busting small time dealer’s skulls, it’s the source he wants. Since his time as a dealer the players have changed but not the game. Give them a taste (just enough), get them hooked = customer for life.

Gabriel dresses appropriately for the daytime, jeans and a polo. Guys in leather jackets with billy clubs tend to stand out. He decides to head to Miracle Mile first, a street where the name implies anything can happen. There are several strip clubs there, where he hopes to find some good info.

He arrives at Cheetas and there he sees an old acquaintance from his prior life. His name is little Rocko at 6’6’’ and 300lbs he’s not so little but that’s what happens when you’re second generation criminal.

“Holy shit Gabriel tha’ Ark Angel! When did they let you out?”

“Couple months Rocko, how’s business?”

“Good as usual man. Hey, sorry about Squirrel. I really liked him.” Squirrel was the street nickname Rocko gave Gabriel’s brother because every time he saw him he was trying to bust a nut.

The fact that Rocko brought up his brother assured him he was on the right path “I appreciate it Rock, as a matter of fact that’s why I’m here. What do you know about his death? About this new shit called Snowflake.”

“Not much bro. Just that, that shit is bad. Real bad. I draw the line at coke man, fuck meth and all that other shit. Its suppose to make you feel euphoric with the strength of 10 men and that if you get in anybody’s way on it, watch out!

As for you brother man. There really hasn’t been much talk about it. People been staying on the low low about it. What I can tell you is he was mixed with the Garbingo gang. Remember those assholes.

Well they’ve gone from knocking over 5 and dimes to selling them.”

Gabriel just takes it in. He remembers a couple of fights with the oldest of the gang and that they weren’t very bright “I appreciate it Rock. They still based out of the warehouse on 9th?”

“Yeah but it a fortress these days. Armed guards, pit bulls, hell I even think they got lasers protecting that place. Want a lap dance before you go and kill yourself?”

He chuckles “Nah, I appreciate it though. I’ll take you up on a victory dance when all this shit is through.”

“Not a problem.”

Oh fuck, now what? Maybe a walk around the city will help. It appears to be at the end of the civil twilight, my favorite time of day. The time between good and evil, night and day.

He grabs his small pocket knife for just in case, his last rolled joint and commences to blend in with the hookers, junkies, and johns.

The whole point to wondering the streets is to find inspiration but instead he finds every impulse he's trying to break 'till he hears some music coming from club Deca-dance. Its a steady beat with a steady pulse calling him. The bouncer steps up to him than walks away recognizing MeChille, not because he's famous but because he use to frequent this place.

He sees the DJ and smiles to himself. She's a pale skin, red haired, 5ft, dreadlock, beauty, controlling the crowd. Half of these kids are stoned out of their gourd high on ecstasy, acid, or whatever

kids do these days all writhing and thriving to her whim. Techno house beats mixed with reggae. Her name is Unique and they use to fuck.

At the bar he orders her favorite drink which most people don't know, pina colada and watches the waitress bring it to her. When she sees the drink she smiles than when the waitress points him out, she looks at him than flips him off. He sits at the bar and waits.

Behind him he hears “Were you planning to buy your way with drinks back to my bed or just jump right in?”

He turns to face a shimmering woman “Neither. Heard the music and was hoping it was you but I always loved how you looked all sweaty. Always reminded me of sex.”

“You would say that. When did you get back?” They might of use to fuck but there were no expectations between them. At the time of their affair she was seeing another guy and a female. There were no expectations, just a lot of fun.

“Couple of months ago. How you been? Still dating the bouncer and the stripper?”

“Still with the stripper, not the bouncer. Men are over protective and insecure. But we haven’t had any cock in awhile, care to come over.”

This isn’t why he came out but it didn’t hurt. Unique was still Miss Hightimes quality and he remembered the stripper could do amazing things on the pole, her leg strength was legendary. Some of the best sex he ever had was with Unique. They use to play a game where they looked up sexual names like Dirty Sanchez, Rusty Trombone on the internet and than perform them. With a sigh and a grimace he tells her “Not this time. I’m in a relationship of sorts.’

Unique walks up to him and gently grabs his crotch leans into his ear and whispers “Whenever you’re ready. I have to go be a DJ now.”

Out of frustration MeChille leaves the club. Instead of jerking off he lights the last joint and starts walking back to his place. The usual cast of damaged children is out in force now; crack dealers, prostitutes, and johns – he thinks it would fit if lawyers were on the corners to but nobody said life is fair.

Half way done his joint and half way home, he sees Sindy “Hey Pepe le Pew, how about you let me get a hit off of that?”

Sticking your dick in a hooker is one thing, kissing them though should never happen nor should sharing anything from you mouth. “How many dicks you suck today so far Sin?” “Only two and one more if you got some time.”

“I’m good babe but thank you. Here have the rest.” If this was his last he wouldn’t share but he has the luxury of knowing there’s more at home. “Been busy?”

She takes a deep lung filled drag. The cherry glows like red neon sign “I needed that, thank you Pepe. No, not busy at all. You can always tell when it’s in between paydays. You watch, next week this street will be filled with college boys and grunts.”

“True. I’ll catch you later. Stay out of trouble.”

“We, we, monsieur” He knows if he didn’t let people know that mocking his French side got to him they probably wouldn’t do it but how do you fake not being bothered? And really he had no loyalty to his French side, it just gives him flashbacks of grade school and how they would taunt him.

When MeChille enters his apartment the only light in the room is the blinking indicator for the answering machine. He smiles with content because only one person would call him at his house, everyone else has his cellphone.

Before he checks the message he draws a bath, packs a bowel, and pours in Mr. Bubbles, the day is done and so is he. Right before he sits in the tub he pushes play and listens; One new message (beep) MeChille it’s Arty. Great news for Six Six Seven, you need to fucking call me as soon as you can. I don’t care what time it is, just call me! How’s the new one coming along? Is it another memoir? Anyways call me (beep) End of new message.

“Good news he said. Something to look forward to tomorrow.” He ponders with great satisfaction as he slumps in the tub.

As he soaks in a most complete moment of Zen, he takes a deep draw on his pipe thinking how real men take bubble baths.

V Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep beep. Beep beep beep. Beep beep beep beep. 8 a.m. and the alarm was going off. He woke from the rest of kings, nothing like a good bubble bath and pot to soothe the nerves.

Plus he had a book signing today and he loved doing those, anything to feed the ego.

So far his fondest memory (or what he could remember) was the signing in Vegas. The heat was over bearing reminding him of home and the fans were true hardcore that night. Endless amounts of drugs and sex was thrown at him. Several times he signed the boobs of some fan. Vegas lived up to its name, Sin City.

There seemed to be an extra pep in his step while getting ready for the day. The smell of coffee was in the air (timers were the work of lazy geniuses), he even swore he heard birds singing. Today was going to be a good day; he didn’t have to use his AK. Rituals and routine were important; this was learned in the Army. So he broke the box of goodness and rolled 10 more joints for the day, got his coffee, packed the pipe and sat in front of the laptop to write – there was still time even though Phoenix is an hour away.

The Warehouse has been a known chop shop and drug stash for years. Only reason the cops never busted it is most of them are on the take and the others don’t want to be heroes against a gang.

Gabriel drives by slowly making note that they’ve built a 8ft fence with barbwire around it and even have two goons patrolling the fenced in area with guns.

In his younger days he use to pick up “shipments” here, so knows the place in and out. He wonders if they’ve taken into account the industrial drainage system that is in the main hangar. Not many know or care about it and the ones that do are in the gang or dead.

As he drives by he sees Tony Garbingo walking out of the building escorted by another two goons. Waiting for them is a souped-up black Escalade, goon one opens the door for him while the other gets in the driver seat.

Tony was the youngest and brightest of the family and also the meanest. With always something to prove he would take things one step further. If you owed him money by 12, he’d be there at 12:01 with a baseball bat.

Gabriel wonders where Tony is on the food chain these days, if anything he might be on top.

When MeChille was younger he lived on the East coast for a bit and knew guys like these; Tough, crazy, and Italian. Writing about such characters made him long for a youth he never had. He got up with his pipe took a deep drag and looked about the hustle and bustle of outside.

Road crews were setting up for work on his street, kids had backpacks on their way to school; he loved living on the outside. Nine to five is a slow death for all but for him it was near suicide. He preferred the grunt jobs over the office jobs but he preferred writing most of all.

As he watched the world around him it occurred to him he had to call his agent.

“This is Arty.”

“Hey Art, its MeChille. What’s all the hub bub, bub?”

“MeChille! Great news, we have two companies having a bidding war for the rights to make a movie based on your book.”

“That’s awesome. Where they at on the bids?”

“Right now we’re at 3 million!”

Arty hears the phone and pipe drop next to each other. MeChille is hit with a sudden case of light headiness and to gain his balance as he braces against the wall, still facing the window.

On the floor his cordless phone is talking to him “Hello! MeChille you there? Are you okay?

Should I call an ambulance?”

Taking deep breaths he regains his composure. Euphoria overcomes his body, this high is like non he’s ever felt accomplishment, love, rocky road ice cream, all the positive feelings he can possibly have are in him right now.

Smiling he picks up the phone “No, don’t call an ambulance. But I may need a maid, I think I just shit myself. Did you say million?”

“Fuck yeah man! When negotiations settle I’ll call you again. I’m gonna go for merchant rights and DVD sales commission, if that’s okay with you?”

“It sounds fine. Just let me know what I need to sign.”

“Awesome. Talk to you in a few.”

Clarity sets in and he settles on his couch. He contemplates after commissions and taxes paid that if he clears a million he’ll never have to write again but then again when you make money, your past comes out of the woodworks. The possibility of a bastard child or two along with a scorn woman that will sell a tell all story to a rag magazine. Fame is fleeting he thought but I like the money.

By now the cherry on his joint has fallen. He sits and relights it leaning back into his couch, each drag takes him deeper into the couch. An incredible urge to share his good news with his lady makes him dial the phone “You’ve reached…” he hangs up before it could finish. Damn, she did say she had a shoot or some shit today.

Realizing the time MeChille hustles and gets ready than heads to Phoenix in 105 degree weather with no air conditioning. “It may be time to get a new car” occurs to him as he stops every thirty miles or so for bottled water.

He arrives early and sees a little line waiting, this excites just as much as anything that looks like a breast or ass. Fans were his new family and as dysfunctional as his last. He made his way into the bookstore and was greeted with handshakes and cat calls, he loved his fans.

In the bookstore he was greeted by the management. Mr.Phillips this and Mr. Phillips that, it was quite annoying but eventually he found his seat with a huge board behind him. On it was his book cover “667 the Neighbor of the Beast” and underneath the notation “New York Times Bestseller in store today”, this gave his cockles another warm fuzzy as he settled and got ready to sign.

1pm and the velvet rope was pulled. One by one his people came to meet him. He wanted to thank each one for their 3 dollar contribution since that’s about what he got from a 15 dollar book. All of them damaged goods like him, all of them just looking for somebody to identify with, like himself.

There were tons of handshakes and your book really helped me through some tough times bullshit, he even got to sign a couple of breasts. One young man asked if he’d contribute an article for his marijuana blog, he agreed and wrote down his e-mail address. Another chance of redemption “I’m truly a big fan of yours Mr. Phillips. The Bullys, Beatings, and Burns chapter had a lot of shit that happened to me.” He rolls his sleeve up to reveal circle burn marks on his arm “This is how your taught a lesson where I’m from.”

MeChille hating seeing those marks, it brought back memories since he knew exactly what they were, cigarette burns “Stay strong kid. Are you out of that situation now? What are you doing?”

“Yeah. Mom called the cops. These are from her ex-asshole boyfriend. Kicked his ass out, for forever I hope.”

“Good.”

Another fan, a dark brown Hispanic in his twenties was looking to party with the master “I was wondering if your story of doing cocaine off a hookers ass at a bar in Mexico was true?”

“It is. Funny thing was the old man running the show was her grandfather. Nothing like doing lines with an 80 year old man and his 20 year old granddaughter, at least that’s how old she said she was.”

“That’s fucking awesome man! Would you want to roll with me and my homies? We got a couple whores waiting for us and think it would be great, free coke, booze, and pussy for you.”

Oh how he longed for those days, months ago seemed like years but instead “I appreciate it but I’m working on a new chapter in my life titled How not to be a complete asshole. I’ve dedicated my life to all that macho shit. Women are recyclable, the more the better, but I’ve found I’ve listened to my dick way too much and soul not enough. Months ago I would’ve took you up but not today. Thank you though.”

“Okay grandpa.” The sarcasm didn’t bother him. As a matter of fact he felt quite joyous inside. It seemed the more he kept doing the right thing baggage fell off his shoulders one by one, not all of it but he did feel better. Just like when he passed on the threesome, something felt good inside of him.

The manager comes to MeChille’s side and asked if he would do a small reading at the adjoining coffee shop, something for the fans. Right there the man tugs on the right heart string “Okay but after I take a quick smoke break”. Immediately there’s an announcement with low murmurs from the crowd.

MeChille hates readings and hopes this wasn’t a bad decision.

As he finishes the last of the book signings, MeChille stands and announces he’ll be back in a few. He finds the manager and asks if there’s a back alley he could escape to, there is.

A dumpster, a homeless guy, and trash are his company. He pulls a joint out and begins smoking, a little vacation away from work. MeChille finds himself pacing around the alley as he prepares for the read.

Half-way done with the joint he hears a voice “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” looking behind he sees a cop twenty feet away. Quickly he moistens his mouth than tosses the joint in, extinguishing the red flame with built up saliva.

The cop is taking quick strides to him “Answer me! I said what the fuck are you doing?”

“Just getting some air sir” after time in the Army, you can be polite in any situation.

“Bullshit, I smell pot.”

“Not me sir, must be that guy.” Pointing to the passed out homeless guy covered in cardboard.

Just as the cop is about to ask more questions the managers head pops through the door “Mr. Phillips are you ready?”

MeChille faces the cop “Am I?” “I’m watching you. Get the fuck out of here.”

Right before he enters the door MeChille lets out a huge burp that has some smoke in it, turns, and smiles at the cop.

The coffee shop is adjoined to the bookstore by an arch opening. Once through there are miniround tables with little lamps for ornaments and a stage on the far end of the room. There is of course the bar where the barista sits and what seems to be a healthy selection of sandwiches and pastries.

On the stage a small jazz band quartet is playing beatnik rhythms. MeChille thinks he loves this place or it could be the joint he just swallowed making him feel really good.

The manager steps on to the stage and to the microphone. Slowly the quartet fades out their music and the man begins to speak “Ladies and gentlemen, hepcat boys and girls. It is my utmost pleasure to present the king of misguided children, the prince of paupers, Mr. MeChille Phillips.”

Liking his style MeChille wonders what the hell is this guy smoking and steps up to the microphone “You all have to bare with me this is pretty much an impromptu thing. Glad to see so many turned out for the signing. Its thanks to every single one of you I can smoke, eat, drink, and be merry.

Thank you.” He pauses as a small wave of clapping occurs.

“I think for you all today I’m gonna read part of the last chapter ‘Some people are born with a silver spoon, others a spork’; Everybody has their issues. From prom queens to pimply geeks, you can never judge a book by its cover. You can spend your time being mad at the universe/god whatever you believe in but why? The average human lives to be 80 or so, people usually don’t become self-aware and independent ‘till 15, now balance this out with your body degrading and not being able to do what it once did by 60, that leaves you with 45years. That’s 45 summers, winters, falls, and springs. 45 spring breaks, summer vacations (if you’re lucky), leaf racking, and snowball fights, why spend it being mad. Maybe we should be thankful.

Life is what you make it and I made it to 35, not a big deal except I never thought I would( too many things could have killed me; drugs, fast cars, STDs, jealous husbands) but I’m here sharing a tortured childhood, awkward teen years, and a decadent adulthood; turns out we’re all fucked up.

Too many times I see tortured youth killing themselves, thing is I could’ve been one of them to.

There were times I’ve tried suicide out of a melancholy depression but luckily it was just another thing I was bad at.”

MeChille takes a deep breath and pans the room. Everyone’s eyes are glued to him. He wipes a bead off his brow and rubs his eyes as he feels a tear welling up. “Let me continue To the youth I say what you’re experiencing now isn’t everything. I know it feels as such but its not. Eventually the head cheerleader gets fat, eventually the outcast fits in. These are the secrets adults keep. Low self-esteem is a money maker kids. From make-up to magazines, somebody is making money off somebody trying to fit in. The point is nothing is forever, your misery, their happiness and vice versa.

In this time of seclusion find something that you want to be good at; writing, drawing, knitting, mechanics, play an instrument, whatever it is dedicate a little bit of yourself to it everyday. Eventually you find those assholes that criticized you everyday have nothing after highschool and you still have that thing you love. Now not all advice is 100 percent. You’re gonna find there is that one asshole that is beautiful and good at something, you may even find they’re a really good person and that makes you hate them more but don’t.

Don’t dwell on shit you can’t fix. Like I said you only have 45 (give or take) more years to make this life worth living. No matter what your background is you are somebody, make that somebody special.” Shutting the book clapping begins from one table to the next until the whole room is finally ecstatic with joy.

“I appreciate you all coming out here and appreciate you buying the book. Have a good life everyone.” A crowd forms on his way out and he’s greeted by thank yous and pats on the back in the little café’ portion of the store.

Finally out the sun lets him know he’s still in the desert. Watery images reflect off the streets, mirages from heat vapors. “Not today” he thinks “not today will this shit bother me.” In 110 degree weather he feels cool as a cucumber, the world is his. Now he just needs a new car.

On his way home he dials his lady to again meet her voicemail, this time he leaves a message “Hey babe, the signing turned into a reading it was great! Give me a call, I’ve got great news to share with you. Dinner will be on me. Love you.”

Love you. It felt so natural to say, yet it was really his first time saying it when he wasn’t provoked. It was his first time saying it to her without her saying it first, instead of love you to it was “Love you”. Two words that mean so much, we all think we know love but its always been something masked with sex, desire, and drugs. It has been something synthetic and unnatural, ‘till now. He couldn’t write a better story if he tried.

At home he settles in with a pipe watching the desert sky from his window. Over the city he sees the sky painted with shades of orange with white clouds smeared across. It’s a love hate relationship with this place; the weather and politics drives him nuts, yet he finds beauty all around. The sky is always something out of a hotel painting or postcard, this has always amazed.

He sits in a torpor gazing watching the outside turn from light to dark. As the day goes away he feels his eyelids closing to. Unison of his mind and the outside is occurring when the phone interrupts.

“Hello” “Were you sleeping?”

“Just dozing, what you doing babe?”

“We just wrapped things up for the shoot. Wanna meet for dinner?”

“For sure. What you feel like eating?”

“Well since you’re buying, steak. Take me to The Keg.”

“Okay, meet you there at 8?”

“Sounds good babe.”

She hangs up and he gets up. After sweating his ass off on the car ride home smells of dirty construction worker come off of him. He feels like a little kid before Christmas waiting to tell his lady about his than his mood downswings. The negativity starts creeping in things like; what if the deal falls through or this was a onetime deal with that crowd today, than like every other time this happens he says “Fuck it! I’m gonna enjoy it while it lasts.”

He arrives half an hour early at the restaurant to ensure a table is ready for his lady. The maître d tells him they’re full than when MeChille accidentally drops a 50 dollar bill his attitude becomes friendly and there will be a space available at 8pm.

MeChille decides to build an appetite with his time left and goes behind the building to smoke a joint. He finds a couple of overturned buckets and uses one as a seat than lights his joint. While he’s basking in the glory of the day 3 workers come out for a break. They see MeChille and approach.

“You kno’ your sitting in our break area.” Says the smallest of the group. A young dark skin Hispanic male.

“I didn’t. How about I share and we all live happily ever after.” As he raises the joint towards them.

“I can live with that Pablo. Can’t you Jaime?” the only white boy of the group reaches for the joint than takes a deep drag than like everyone else breaks into a deep coughing fit.

“Odelay, I think Brett is turning purple. Give me that.” Just than Pablo the big mouth breaks into his own version of a coughing fit and hands it to Jaime.

Jaime takes a soft drag, inhales and passes it back to MeChille while holding his breath. MeChille watches as he lets out his breath appearing like some brown dragon, great respect is given and gained.

The boys were prep cooks and were about to smoke their own weed but it wasn’t as good as MeChille’s. They were star struck when MeChille told them what he did for a living. Pablo swore he was going to start reading more so he could “get proper”. The alarm on MeChille’s watch went off and he left to the front of the restaurant to see his lady in waiting.

She saw him approaching as he was straightening himself. “Out back getting ready for dinner?” she smiled than pinched her nose “At least it smells like it.”

He laughed as he pulled cologne from his pocket “Have to make sure I clear my plate. Didn’t you hear there’s starving children somewhere.”

Hand in hand they walked in. Right away the host attended to them “Your table awaits. Follow me please.”

“Impressive, did you order our meals to?”

“Damn I knew I forgot something.”

At the table he stands beside the chair and sweeps his arm across the chair gesturing for her to sit “My lady”.

With a hint of red in her cheeks, she smiles “You really have the charm on today.”

“I try” is his only reply.

Their waiter quickly arrives to meet their needs, filling water glasses and leaving them with menus. When he leaves they both simultaneously break out with “I’ve got something to tell you”.

Laughing she presses him “You first.”

“Well, there’s a movie deal underway for my book and I may be getting around a million.”

“Oh my god, that’s wonderful! In that case I think you can afford the lobster tonight.”

“Hell order two and we’ll save the other for breakfast.” From there they break into a fantastical of European trips, breakfast in the Alps and dinner in Paris all in the same day. He tells her he’ll lavish her in diamonds and he’ll finally get a new car, something sporty maybe.

MeChille asks for the wine connoisseur who embellishes them before their meals with a variety of reds and whites. The more that is taken in the looser the two feel, a melding of a perfect night then MeChille remembers “Wasn’t there something you wanted to tell me?”

She looks a little uneasy but it passes “No, I forgot. I think your news just blew me away.” The two enjoy a meal that would make royalty envious.

The night was intoxicating without wine, MeChille finally felt he has become. With a zest for life, a potential income to retire off of and a woman that he loves there was nothing the world could throw at him now.

After dinner they went to the theatre to see Wicked, much to his love’s surprise it was her favorite play. From a beautiful dinner then a delightful show the rest of the night ensued of vigorous gymnastic intercourse.

The following morning MeChille woke up optimism and focus, today was a brand new day to a brand new life. As he stretched and felt glorious for one split second in his life he felt something was wrong, something was not the way it was last night.

He rolls over to find his lady gone with a note in her place;

My love, my heart, you’ve been my everything; It’s with a heavy heart I write this my dear. I tried talking to you about this at dinner last night but felt I didn’t want to damper your mood. The love you have shown and given me has been more than wonderful. Being a part of your life/ your art has been more than wonderful but I’ve been given an opportunity for my art. Art for art’s sake, right?

I couldn’t tell you this in person because I know I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it then. The company is sending me to Iraq and then to Afghanistan to document post occupation.

There’s going to be so much to see over there and I can’t do that as a married old Bettie, it’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to me. I’m going to where the world started! Please forgive me, this has not been an easy choice but I need to reach my own success. I know you’ll understand.

Love continuously, Sariah After reading the letter he jumps out of bed thinking he would catch her by the front door but he is too late, too late for her. Upon the realization that he has no control over the situation he becomes despondent, his mind becomes muddled. Hearing becoming cloudy with an endless ringing noise like when a bomb goes off near, the note was a bomb to his senses.

He stumbled back to the bedroom, his hands guiding since he can’t see all too clearly and finally to the bedroom, where he sits on his bed rubbing his temples and covering his eyes. Tears want to come out but there is no water in the ducts. As he catches his breath and gains vision he adjusts to life without Sariah.

With deep breathes and the occasional tear that no one can see he realizes he needs to adjust to life as a responsible adult. If Sariah taught him anything it’s that he can love and be loved, he just needs to be honest to himself that he is weak.

Today was another N.A meeting and he thought about not going out of depression but figured he would, maybe he’d find a date.

A drug addict talks about how she's nothing inside and has attempted suicide.

MeChille feels for her and delivers uplifting speech “No matter how down you get you can get by. Listen, I may not have bottomed out like some of you have but I know where you're coming from I'm an alcoholic and sex addict.” Slight dramatic pause “Look I got my own demons but it’s about not letting them take control. No matter how broken you are, there's something redeemable in you if you look for it. Remember every broken clock gets the time right twice a day.”

The worn out girl smiles with tears in her eyes. Walter looks to MeChille and asks “Is there anything else you'd like to add?”

MeChille looks at the counselor sardonically and says “My name is MeChille and I'm a pothead.”

Everyone snickers than in unison “Hi, MeChille” He leaves the meeting feeling refreshed; the need for self-destruction slowly melts away and the sun strokes his shoulders as he walks down the street, he feels as if nature has laid a blanket on his shoulders.

The following day was another meeting but this one was his sexual anonymous meeting and he again he contemplated not going but was motivated at a chance of getting laid to go.

MeChille arrives early as usual to find a good seat and not be in the spotlight. When he walks in nobody is in the room but coffee, water, and cookies are set up on the far end – so he decides to partake.

As he’s savoring the flavor of the coffee he ponders that it must be Folgers - Good in the beginning than bitter in the end. A small voice chimes in “Mr. Phillips?”

He turns around to see a dainty half-Asian, half-Caucasian woman. She’s about 4’11” with creamy skin and doe like eyes. “Yep, that’s me. What can I do you for?”

“Oh I’m so excited, I thought that was you. Your book is my utmost favorite. Are all the stories in it true?”

“For the most part they are.”

“The book has gotten me through some of my darkest times. Just knowing I’m not the only one that has had a fucked up life. I’m rereading it for a third time. Would you mind signing it, it’s in my purse.”

“Anything for my fans. Especially the cute ones” She pulls the book out of her handbag and hands it to him.

He examines the book like an archeologist discovering a bone for the first time; Noticing certain pages with dog ears and water mark stains on the first couple of pages. Ohh, the marvels this book must have seen alone with her in her bedroom. “Who should I make it out to hun?”

“Sandy. Sandy Beaches. I figured it would be more your style to use my stripper name.”

Wow, this girl does know me. “Is there a favorite part?”

“Well, I was wondering. Is the “And the horse you rode in on chapter true.” ” “For the most part.”

“I totally identified with it, thank you.”

It’s not too often he hears that and when he does it makes feel good. Knowing that he wrote it for himself and all the other misfits in the world like him. Once he takes his eyes off of Sandy he realizes most of the usual crowd and then some is here. At this point Richard walks in and asks everyone to please be seated.

Being on the far side of the room he’s unable to grab a seat away from everyone like he wanted so he sits up front.

“I hope everyone took into consideration where we left off last week. Today I wanna discuss what causes sexual addiction. In 90 percent of the cases I’ve worked there has been some sort of sexual trauma in that person’s life. Whether it happened to you or you witnessed something that you shouldn’t have including walking in on mom and dad.”

You could hear a pin drop and the rustling of seats as each person contemplated their own demon. So Richard continued “My trauma isn’t as bad as some but it’s something that shouldn’t have happened. I had an older brother, a far older brother that constantly liked to show me porn and tell me about the things he was doing to girls. Now this may not sound like much and he wasn’t trying to be abusive but there are some things a six year old shouldn’t see. This I believe what lead me down the path of sexual addiction. Would anyone else like to share?”

Each member looks around for that first person to open up, when finally Sandy Beaches stands up “Hi, my name is Kim.”

The group is in unison like all good rehab groups “Hi Kim” She blushes at the kindness “And I’m a sexual addict. My trauma started when my father would crawl into bed with me.” She tears up a bit and speaks with a choke “He would call me Daddy’s special girl while sliding his hands up my nightgown.” She begins to shake and her voice is trembling. “Every night it was the same thing ‘till I was 13. Then I ran away.” Now the heavy sobbing begins.

MeChille’s eyes pan the room and everyone is still. He gets up and gently consoles her as she sits down. “Some of you know me already by my book, the rest of you probably don’t care but my name is MeChille and I’m a sexual addict.”

“Hi MeChille” says the group in unison.

“There’s too much for me to get into but I’ll read you a chapter from my book. This will give you an idea of what I’ve seen. Kim could you hand me it.”

As she’s pulling out tissues to regain herself, she hands MeChille his book.

“This chapter is entitled “And the horse you rode in on” “ And the horse you rode in on When it comes to family secrets they are like assholes, everyone has one. Until you have someone like me that writes the tell-all tell-all. We’ll never be the Rockefellers but you don’t have to be to keep secrets that no one has to tell.

I had an Uncle. We’ll call him my Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom was a decorated Vietnam Vet, part-time carpenter, part-time evangelical preacher, and full time alcoholic. When my parents got

divorced Uncle Tom came around a lot to help my mom. He was a man of two personalities one sober, one not.

Uncle Tom was my baby sitter when mom wasn’t around and she wasn’t around a lot.

I remember around age 6 Uncle Tom would turn on the television have a mixed drink by the side and call me over “Boy! Come over on Uncle Tom’s lap and tell me what you did today.”

Being so young I would oblige. “Ever play horsey boy?”

“No Uncle Tom” “Okay, well this will be lots of fun. First what’s your favorite TV show. I’ll put it on for you.”

At night there wasn’t much of a selection back than “Different Strokes Uncle Tom.” And then he would put it on whatever channel I wanted.

“Good” he would say then he would put his hands around my hips while sliding me back and forth on his lap. I would feel his erect penis, not knowing what it was and his grip around my hips getting tighter and tighter. “Whoa horsey” he would occasionally blurt out.

Even at such a young age I knew this wasn’t my kind of fun; but what could I do? Mother was always gone or meeting a new man to replace my father and my real father left the state, hell for all I knew he left the country.

This would go on for years and as it went on, it got worse. He would call me into the shower to help wash his special parts because he “couldn’t bend over from old war injuries” than when he was done whisper “Don’t tell your mother. Good little boys know how to keep secrets” (I’m not a good boy any more Uncle!).

An uncomfortable silence surrounds him as eyes glance at one another, each asking who is going to be the first to speak. Kim starts he voice in a quiver but slowly gains strength “And that’s why I’m here. Because I know I’m not the only one with a fucked up perception of sexuality.” After she spoke there was a small applause, the rest of the meeting was preceded by each person sharing their own life scarring moments.

After the meeting MeChille signed anything for anyone, he liked the new celebrity status and wishes now he had someone to share it with. There were several offers to go home with him that night but he decided alone was his new black.

String Theory: The Thread of LIfe I woke up in the dark. Not in my bed, not in my room I presume; Just the dark - dark enough where I can’t see 3ft in front of me. Instead of standing I get on all fours to crawl and feel. It’s a hard surface, feels like some sort of tile. Funny how I just woke here, how did I get here? What did I do?

Come to think of it - Who the hell am I!?

Everything feels natural but my mind is a blank. Where am I? I’ve found a wall; it feels flat and solid, not going to be able to break through this. I slowly rise, feeling along the wall and nothing. Still flat, still solid, better work my way around. 1 corner, 2 corner, nothing. Working my way around the third corner I feel an indentation in the wall - the door!? My fingers slide into the slot feeling the size, first down than up - sure enough it’s a door. Now with my palms pressed against the door, I feel for the handle.

I feel a groove of some sorts, big enough for 2 fingers to slide into. There’s a mini-lever inside, I pull and here mechanisms at work. Gears spinning, hydraulics releasing, this is one heavy fucking door. I feel the door making progress, slowly forward. As what I assume is opening, there is still only darkness, negative nothing.

It is fully open now, I hope - For all the mechanical noises are gone and dead silence surrounds me, not even a shoe squeak. I slide my hand along this huge thing; I still can’t imagine what I did to deserve this. Who the hell am I!? What the hell did I do? – I can’t get these thoughts out of my head.

I finally found the edge and sure enough it’s thick as hell. I’m going to proceed forward and see where this leads. One step, two step, three, fourth step I hit a wall. It’s always good to have your hands in front of you, god I hope nothing stabs me.

Well, I assume there are only two ways to go, exit stage left or stay. I treat the wall as a hand rail, making sure with each step I’m touching it in. Why aren’t there any windows in this fucking place?

As I’m searching, I’m pondering, trying to recall at least the past 24 hours. I can’t seem to make a memory past the darkness but yet, I remember what a kitten looks like, the sun shining on a park, children playing. These things I remember and know I’ve been there but for the love of god, don’t remember when or why.

I can hear the echoes of my footsteps, what does this tell me? I’m alone for one; the hallways must be spacious and empty. The  I’ve stumbled over something. Something bulky, oh god please don’t beit is. A person.

I regain my composure and ease over. I’ve found a leg, working my hands up – please don’t wake up – well it’s a woman. There’s no pulse on her neck, fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Well the only thing to do is scavenge.

I pat her down. Fuck this is creepy, at a time like this I’m thinking about her firm body as I pat her down, even in crisis I’m a perv. She’s has a flashlight, thank god, and a ring of keys. The only two things I find useful, this can’t be a coincident.

I turn on my new found guiding light, only to see more hallway and along the sides of the hallway, hospital gurneys.

There’s a door with a number on it, I must be on the 11th floor; behind the door is a stairwell, I can hear noise coming from below. It sounds like a bunch of people scurrying about, finally, somebody breathing. Maybe they know who I am.

As I descend down the stairs the overhead tube lights begin to flicker on, I can hear a generator motor running now.

I open the door where the racket is coming from and I can’t believe what I see. People in military and hospital uniforms, wounded of all types, it’s a macabre scene.

One of the soldiers sees me and yells “The Colonel is awake, the Colonel is awake!”

So I must be a soldier than, a killer. Funny, I don’t feel like one. As a matter of fact, I feel weak and flaccid.

As he approaches I seem to recognize his face, images dance in my head, like when a mirror reflects a mirror image, distinctive but far away. Things like oscilloscope, spectrum analyzer, and waveguide pop into my head. Familiar to me like a hammer and nail is to a carpenter.

“Colonel, glad to see you’re ok. We weren’t sure if you were gonna make it after the accident.

Quite the shit storm we’ve got brewing.”

I take in his words best I can; Accident? Make it? What the fuck happened?

“Sir, you seem a little bit out of it. Is there anything I can get you?”

“No. No thank you” I read his name off of his shirt “Williams, what the hell happened here?”

“Sir, it happened at the Chateau around 1600 hour. I don’t know the particulars, since I’m only your guard. Perhaps, we should find you a change of clothes and get you back.”

“Sounds like a plan Williams” On the way to the Chateau Williams briefs me. My name is Colonel Phelps but I’m a Colonel not because I’m a military bad ass but because I’m a scientist and the Chateau is not any kind of resort but a laboratory where we work on government warfare.

We arrive at a plain looking house. Williams leads the way. We walk into what appears to be a plain room, one couch, one floor covering rug and a fireplace.

“Stand by Sir” He proceeds to the opposite end of the room and walks into what appears to be a closet. I can’t make out what he is doing but soon the rug begins to rise and an elevator is appearing before my eyes.

“This way Colonel” As we go down, parts of my memory are slowly seeping back to me. I am divorced twice. I like cognac and cigars. My parents are deceased. I went to the Academy and from there military service.

Slowly tid bits are coming back; but I am not a hundred percent.

When the elevator doors open a rush of memory exploded into my brain. I know this place; this is my home, sterile and robotic. The area is vast; upon entering there is the reception desk, than behind that 3 corridors filled with rooms for various purposes, this is my home.

My head is overwhelmed, my vision blurry, I can’t hold on.

This time I wake up in a well lit room. There’s a discussion in front of my door. And I slowly sit up.

“Morning Sunshine” Major Lin, I remember who she is, her first name is Iva and she is beautiful.

At least this much I know.

“We thought we nearly lost you again. Do you remember anything? What happened?”

“Only from when I woke up the first time and some fragments of my life before that; But not the whys?”

“It’s was called Operation Mind fucked and we fucked the pooch on this one. Your little sleep was the result of an experiment gone bad.”

As she speaks memories of monkeys with head gear, dissections for analysis, records of data, I remember, damn it hurts my head.

For 10 years I’ve been working on this project.

Mankind’s mind has had so much potential; we were merely trying to access it. Could you imagine a world of no wars? What if there was a certain world leader that needed to be disposed of, you could send them a message and make their death appear to be a suicide or even a touch of madness.

We started with receiving the signals, examining the Beta and Gamma brain waves. Interpreting love and hate, desire and disassociation; the plan was simple, understand the output than you can make an input.

After 7 years we thought we decoded the human emotion, and then came the animal trials. Fear and anger are basic emotions, as well as, love and kindness; in lower reasoning animals it should’ve been no different.

The trials were to be strictly on animals, so we can gauge emotional reaction but apparently being in charge means being head guinea pig. We were on a time crunch; the higher ups wanted to see more and more results at each baby step we took. So finally I found myself in a position no man should ever be in, the human trial.

I thought it best to start with anger, at least if anything went wrong I would just be a permanent asshole, or so I thought.

The experimental room is a 15 by 15 foot room, surrounded by layers of concrete, steel, lead, copper, concrete and steel again. We were hoping to contain all frequencies emitted from this room; but something went wrong.

Everything was all set up when I walked in, all checks were routine and functional, and we were given a go. 5 minutes under the ray, 5 minutes of pure hate and anger, and then off; but 5 turned into 20.

We made the machine to function like a gun so we could concentrate the beam on a designated target but there was a short and it wouldn’t turn off. After 4 minutes of extreme rage I passed out but the following are the discoveries made from an in house investigation.

It was discovered that there was a perfect crack in the corner. Somehow the engineers forgot to compensate for the facilities being about a quarter of a mile underground. The shift in the Earth created a crack which turned the room into the perfect transmitter.

The combination of the crack and the short in the gun essentially turned a section of Arizona desert into a testing ground. It seems our perfect transmitter was able to propagate in a 100 mile radius.

Luckily only military personnel and the occasional traveler was effected which minimized the casualties but the results were horrifying. Madness, pure madness ensued for these individuals, the shredding of all that made them human.

A van was found abandoned after a crash, 20 yards from that was a couple. It appeared they had a fight that and the man violated his companion with a cactus; he died from clawing the flesh from his arm and bleed to death.

He’s told the base looked like it was attacked from within, as if a battle was fought. When the remote command hadn’t from the Chateau they knew something was wrong and protocol was to isolate power to the facility and follow-up with the cleanup crew. There are the obvious parts of a cleanup crew like the guys that dispose of the bodies and wipe up the blood and guts but then there are the analysts.

People whose job it is to find out what went wrong, the people who know the secrets of area 51 and are high ranking Masons.

The medical crew from the cleanup crew found him curled up like a baby; there was no sign of madness, in fact the opposite, a perfect calm. He was then taken to the special hospital room that hasn’t been used since the 50’s for nuclear accidents.

After Major Lin breaks down the past sequence of events, he begins to feel weak, not like before but just exhausted asks to be escorted to his office in case he falls. “By all means” Major Lin follows with “You’re scheduled for an after accident physical at 1620, first will be the samples and we’ll take it from there.”

He nods his head and is lead towards his office. His office looks like a CEO’s office, large Oak desk, large leather mahogany chair that swivels, picture frames on the desk, am I married is his first thought.

He sits and feels at home here, he begins to rifle through drawers hoping something will catch his eye; folders with different titles like Test Subject 1 and frequency theory but nothing stands out.

Sitting in something familiar but not knowing everything is like having a word on the tip of the tongue, you know what you mean but can’t get it to come out, he sits and sulks looking at the picture of him and what looks like a fishing buddy on his desk.

As he sat there staring into space he kept trying to open the closed doors in his mind. He reached for a pen to do free form writing, as soon as his hand hovered over the pen it rolled spontaneously on the floor, his only thought “How odd”. He bends over to pick up the pen but as his hand hovers over it again, it rolls again this time but with a strong force towards the wall of the room.

He realizes that this is no coincidence and examines his environment. The old CRT monitor on his desk has a distorted image like there’s a magnet in the corner, the corner in his direction. In the desk drawer he noticed a digital camera and takes a picture, on the screen his face is distorted, like parts of his image wasn’t captured.

Contemplating what this all means a piercing headache kicks in, forcing him to drop the camera and press his fists against his temples, images of sonic signatures and him in the middle jump to mind, like heat waves off an asphalt road, these are fuzzy with real feeling. Nausea kicks in faster than he would like, as he aggressively reaches for the trashcan it flies from its location, embedding itself in the wall, followed by a pounding knock on the door “Everything okay sir!?” He then begins to vomit right before the door.

The soldier hears the heaving and gives him a moment “Sir! Do you need me to come in?”

“No, I’m good just a spasm and nausea.”

“Do I need to call medical, Sir?” “Stand-down soldier! I feel like shit, didn’t turn into a cripple.”

The Colonel regains his composure and evaluates what to do next. It’s obvious his physical being has been altered somehow, the accident has changed him. All evidence points to his personal body magnetism has been altered, the metal pen moving, the CRT electrons being pulled towards him and finally the trashcan; especially the trashcan. It flew with such force which implies he should be able to control it.

It occurs to him that the upcoming lab test may prove to be hazardous to his health; the whole purpose of this facility is to create weaponry and reverse engineer what’s out there, the only way to reverse engineer anything is to take it apart, he didn’t feel like being taken apart.

Drumming his fingers on the desk seemed to calm him; he began thinking of the next move when the phone rang. He put the phone on speaker phone “Hello”.

“Colonel, its Major Lin, I heard you had a bout of nausea earlier. I was wondering if you would be up for test in an hour?”

“Can you give me two. There was a bit of throwing up and I would just like to rest for a minute.”

“Roger that sir, two hours but no more or less.” followed by a dial-tone.

Realizing he didn’t realize how long until the next blackout, the Colonel knew he had to get out now, unfortunately he knew he didn’t remember the layout of building or where he would go once out.

He couldn’t use the computer, when he pressed the power button the console the monitor display was as if there was no hard drive, so he began going through the drawers again.

One file stuck out in particular, it had multiple sticky notes sticking from the side the title of the folder is Mason. The intro to the folder spoke of secrets of the Masons and their use of frequencies and magnetism used in moving objects like in the building of the pyramids. He opens the middle drawer and everything metallic scatters and shoots out as he places his hand inside, nothing good anyways.

Along the far wall are cabinets, in them he finds a gym bag full of workout clothes, he takes the folder and places it in the bag. He grabs a clipboard and a pencil from his desk, with the bag over his should and proceeds to walk out.

“Soldier” he says in his most authoritarian voice “Show me where the accident occurred if you could.” He notices the dog tags the soldier has on neck move a little; he tries not to get close to any small metallic items. On the way they walk through a control room, as soon as the Colonel steps into the room the three personnel who monitoring the controls and sipping coffee jumped into a panic trying to figure out why their systems are rebooting and freezing up. The Colonel walked briskly past them with the airs of being above them and not concerned with what they were worried about but inside he was shaking hoping they didn’t put 2 and 2 together.

They enter the control room for the testing facility, everything is disheveled and broken, the madness made its way here - he guesses it was everywhere. “Standby” he commands and enters the test room.

In the test room the Colonel notice the corner taped off with chalk mark arrows pointing to a crack in the corner. This crack is in the seam of the room, some weakness in the material made them not bond, the edges of the crack are round, smooth and bulging as if they were melted and cooled, the Colonel asses that the force of frequency and sound waves through this corner spanned the spectrum

from DC voltage to Radio Frequencies going through the scenarios of what could’ve happened in his head he’s also contemplates the next hour and a half before the physical.

Scraping samples from the edges of the crack, he’s not sure what he’s looking for but it’s a start, looking up he sees the back of his escort standing at the doorway in military parade rest like all good soldiers do and like all good soldiers they follow direct orders. Guessing that there should be no reason for restrictive orders he comes up with a plan.

“Soldier!”

“Coming Sir” immediately jumping to the Colonel’s order like all good soldiers do.

“Take me back to the facility where I woke up.” Keep it brisk and direct, the less given the less he can question.

“Yes, Sir.” While they were on the way to The Facility as it’s known, three men dressed in stereotypical men in black suits, the only thing not part of the standard uniform is the shiny ring each one has with a compass and square on it, the symbol of the stonemasons enter Major Lin’s office. “Ma’am, I’m from a special division in the NSA and need to see the Colonel who survived the accident.”

Major Lin was sitting comfortable, legs up leaning in her chair, head halfcocked having a reverie before having to put a friend through a duration of test that will hopefully come out negative for any sort of damaged life when the goon squad enters her space. Not only is she panicking because the secret alphabet soup showed up barking orders but they interrupted her moment of Zen and those motherfuckers are hard to achieve “I’m sorry who the hell are you and why do I care!?”

It was only a matter of seconds from the rude entry, the extreme outrage from Major Lin that her phone rang “Major Lin speaking” The conversation was clearly one sided “Yes sir, I understand sir but by whose authority!? Yes Sir I understand.” She puts the phone down on the receiver “Clearly you gentlemen have friends in high places, it will be a minute before you can have him though, we still have to perform an examination to make sure he’s okay.”

“Ma’am with all due respect, this will not wait. We will perform any needed testing but for right now we need the Colonel in our custody.”

Obviously this didn’t sit well for the Major but she had no choices and her option of stalling was limited “Okay, give me a minute, I’ll wrap up this report I was working on and we’ll be on our way, if you wouldn’t mind taking a seat in the lobby and give me 10 minutes.”

“10 minutes and that is all.”

The mystery team left her office and she tried reaching the Colonel’s office with no avail. She then radioed the soldier accompanying the Colonel.

As the Colonel was examining the room and materiel where the crack was located, he formulated a plan. “Soldier! I need to commandeer your vehicle. I need to check one of the perimeter antennas.”

“Roger that Sir!” The Colonel walks up and past the soldier briskly with his hand extended grasping the keys dangling from the soldier’s hand.

As the Colonel drives away the radio on the on the soldiers side goes off “Hen house to rooster, hen house to rooster, come in.”

“This is the rooster ma’am.”

“I need to speak to the Colonel right now!”

“He’s on his way back ma’am.”

“Back! Back from where?”

“We came here to the recovery center and he said he needed to do some follow-up work ma’am, he left me here waiting for a pick-up as he does more research.”

The hairs on Major Lin’s neck stood up upon hearing this, it’s one thing when the secret alphabet soup shows up but it’s another when a longtime friend and mentor goes on the lam and she doesn’t know why. She didn’t know why the Blues Brothers were there and she was determined not to leave them out of her sight until she found out.

She walks out of her office and sees the two men standing in front of her door “We have a problem; it seems the Colonel is doing some follow-up work of his own. I’ll have to take you to where he was last seen.” Dead silence followed the Major to her vehicle.

As the Mystery Team made its way to the Colonel’s last location, he was half-way to Reno, his memory slowly bleeding back in, remembering who he was and what happened during the accident.

That picture on his desk was no fishing buddy but his husband and that picture was from their honeymoon.

They had a house just outside of Reno in a quiet residential neighborhood, he had to be careful though, he knew eventually they would think of it to, just like contacting his husband directly is not an option.

He began to remember where the source of the material for the experiment came from, the secrets of the pyramids, the truth behind the masons, enlightened science. The ability to understand the universe through frequency and light, he found out years ago the Masons had part of this down. For

years they’ve held onto the science of voice propagation and the ability to move objects through sound.

Years ago they’ve understood that words and fluctuations have chain reactions, some of which is moving objects or people internally, the Colonel learned this and was trying to understand the core of the sound which is why he was in the chamber when the sonic disruption occurred.

Flashbacks of the pain as each frequency penetrated a cell and rearranged it to its will; he remembers wanting to die but yet at the same time knowing everything was going to be all right. In theory the eye of the hurricane is what a lot of storm chasers are after; he got more than he bargained for thanks to a crack.

He remembers long nights of number crunching, experimenting with circuits and researching folklore looking for that small truth that lies in each of them. Just like in religion from all over the world there’s some bottom line that’s pretty much the same, be good. He was looking at chakras, musical tuning (440 Hz vs. 432 Hz specifically), and the secret numbers revealed at the Coral Castle in Florida.

As the memories flood back the emotions are on a rise, he knows his life won’t be the same, there’s a chance he may never see his husband again plus he wasn’t sure what was going on with his body.

His block was approaching, he veered off to the adjacent street - he needed to scope out the situation on foot. There was an apartment complex behind their house and he decided that would be the best route. Nothing stood out it was business as usual in the complex, hoodrats selling what they can in the corner, kids in the sandbox and doors open, parents observing their kids through the power of listening; he was safe for the moment.

He approached his house from the back through an alley, there were no signs of anything unusual so he opened the back gate and peeked his head through. The yard was pristine just how he knew Charles wanted it. Shrubs and garden beds immaculately trimmed and made for paths in the yard, their fountain pouring over just how he remembered it, sitting in the back smoking a joint cuddled with his man under the moonlit sky bedazzled with stars and the secrets of the universe.

Once inside the house he went to his office to grab all the research materials he had there, now it was a matter of trying to understand what happened to him and what’s going to happen.

Packing the last of what he could, he went to the kitchen to leave his husband a note, just then he heard wheels screeching out the front. Quickly he was out the back and through the apartment complex while in the archway entrance he saw two overdressed men standing next to the car he was in with Major Lin, he didn’t even think about the built in GPS systems. The Colonel changes corridors, going out a side street probably not under surveillance yet.

He darts down side street after side street, he looks up and sees a military helicopter coming, he decides to wait until the night in a dumpster.

Meanwhile Major Lin and the super-secret service were examining the vehicle.

“The hood is still warm; he must’ve been here for at least half an hour. Agent White, you take the north end and I’ll head south with the Major.”

They split up and the one in charge has a couple words for the Major “Ma’am, I don’t think you’re helping us in your nation’s best interest. In fact, if I was a betting man I would place one that you’re actually trying to hinder our search, why didn’t you use the GPS tracker from the onset.”

“That honestly was a miscalculation, mistake on my part Agent…”

“Brown, you can refer to me as Agent Brown ma’am” “As I was saying Agent Brown, I am not trying to hinder your progress but I do not appreciate thugs coming into my work, trying to hunt down fellow coworkers. So no, I’m not trying to hinder your search but I am a little flustered as to why another government agency is trying to interfere with should be a routine follow-up to a mishap.”

“That’s confidential ma’am” As they’re making their way around a corner the Colonel sees them pass the alley as he peers through the dumpster pushing the lid with his head, if he had any doubts about the mishap not being recognized by big brother, they’re gone now. He lays back in the filth and tries to close his eyes, as he sits there resting he feels multiple pinches on his arms and the nape of his neck. He tries to rub the pain away but is instead poked by multiple slivers of metal in his hand.

Out of pain he pushes himself back against the dumpster wall, as his adrenalin rises out of fear, pain and desperation he sees the metal slivers extract themselves, the more he witnesses the more he panics, his heart going at a pace meth addicts only know, fear rises through his throat and all at once he hears the metal of the dumpster bow and expand like a bag of popcorn.

Realizing there’s a connection to what’s happening to him and his emotions, he lies down, closing his eyes and taking deep drawn out breathes, meditating in filth and trying to accept what has been happening so far.

Inhale deep, exhale long. Breathe in, breathe out, finally at a point of calm his body shuts down, enabling him to take a short nap. As he peeks his head through a crack from pushing the dumpster lid, he realizes that daylight is going away and as it does he sees things in the air he never noticed before.

Signals?

Strong auras of various colors surround what he acknowledges as antennas, cellphones in pockets and hands, wifi watches on wrists, anything electrical is pretty much a vehicle to be an antenna he recognizes this but there’s also more; wave propagation like colorful streamers different densities and colors waving like an ocean from object to object, person to person. He was seeing what no one can but what he always suspected, we are walking in oceans of frequencies, almost like walking through different slices of the universe.

He slowly climbs out of the dumpster and just stares down the alley as various colors of string pass in front of him; he reaches and finds that he’s able to grab the strings, each bringing him different thoughts and feelings. There’s a blue one that he decides he tries to hold and a conversation pops in his head, this must be a cellphone signal, a red one floats by, he grabs it and a radio station pops in his head; he realizes he is becoming one with each signal, some make sense, transmissions of people’s voices and video but the rest is machine, language telling other machines to do something via wifi and then he follows that signal to what he thinks is a server, his mind overpowered by just a fraction of what the server does on the internet, stumbling now his mind shuts off and he falls against the dumpster, appearing drunk and homeless, he slumps in corner between the wall and dumpster to gain composure.

The RF waves interfere with his visibility like a mist; the night his new found friend and worse enemy right now since they might see him first. He reaches for the red lines flying by, each one telling him a different story around him, finally he picks up what he considers it to be the yes men’s radio “Agent White here, no signs of subject, orders.”

“Retrieve all items from his home and office. Find associates involved and detained them, as well as their records. Wait for further orders.”

There’s a moment of relief that ends quickly when he realizes his friends, family and coworkers are in danger as well, as to what kind he has no idea. The Colonel reaches for another red, this time it’s his husband on the phone but somehow he’s also able to sense there’s someone else listening, a wiretap of course “He left me a half written note and then some men came by looking for him, I’m scared mom.” It was heartbreaking to hear the love of his life worry but it was also for his safety the Colonel had to stay away.

Since the goon squad was preparing to leave, he decided to wrap boxes around him and cower in the corner, hopefully appearing homeless. While he sat there he would grab the various lines of waves streaming past him to see what he could find out what other capabilities he has.

He sat there for hours picking at each string like an acoustic guitar, each string a shade or combination of colors, it was a whole new world to him. As he was plucking away he noticed something extra special about his new found gift, emotions. There were shaded of beige color waves passing him and as he plucked he felt greed, anger, hunger, lust, satisfaction, pain, and happiness. With each new emotion he realized that they were attached to the passerbyers at the end of the alley, on top of that he could see the chakras and how the waves interacted with each person’s aura.

Tears begin to come out, his freak accident proves all his theories about the impact of the modern world and our bodies, he can see it! Not only can he see it but there’s some manipulation ability as well. A child skips happily across the valley view; he sees a thread and touches it, its happiness. Once he’s able to identify what it is, he’s able to stop it as well, the child stops as well with a frown and a new wave comes towards the girl, when he lets go the original wave resumes its process and the little girl shakes it off, skipping away.

He gets up and scans the ones he believes are radio signals, no secret service noise. The night is new to him, able to see the world like never before. As he approaches the end of the alley he sees locals, each with their own aura like antennas for emotions and radio waves, passing through us every day.

Slowly he reaches for another internet wifi signal, slowly embracing the thoughts coming in, this time he directs them in a different direction to find the view of a beautiful casually naked in a robe woman surfing the internet, he realizes he’s seeing through her webcam and knowing what websites she going to; banking, e-mail, and porn. Amazing is all he could think, the ability to communicate or at least receive electronic signals.

He lets go of the stream, not out of common decency but necessity, he needs to seek shelter. In his pockets are four hundred twenty dollars, a pocket knife, and a pack of chewing gum. There’s only one destination and that’s the ghetto, there no one ask questions and it the last place anyone wants to look. There’s fast food restaurant at the corner, he heads there to change his clothes, takes off his military jacket and throws it in the dumpster but needs to get rid of it all, not to stand out.

Walking towards the grease pit his mind explodes with new knowledge of each passing person, each building, anything with some sort of electricity or life resonates; he sees the invisible life he knew was there, his horrible accident proves him right and scares the shit out of him as well.

Passing as just another dirty homeless man he makes his way to the restroom and changes. In the shadier part of town there’s a motel he’s familiar with via stories and gets a room in the Pink Palace, where you can also get a room for an hour, if need be.

The room is on the 5th floor and consists of a bed, an archaic T.V/Radio with an antenna, cheap mahogany furniture and a shower. The Colonel sits in the armchair next to the window and watches all the various threads of life pass by, some pass his room and when he touches them he knows instinctively what kind of signal it is i.e. phone, internet, television, baby monitor, etc… He touches upon each thread, each wave, until he finally falls asleep from exhaustion.

I apologize for stopping this story short, this is something that intrigues me and I am continuing on with on the side for future sharing. I’m trying to get a package out there to start my funding, to quit the day job while still feeding my kids, as I promote and advocate for marijuana/cannabis/weed/ sensimilla I am a writer, an artist, some fatherless brown kid that said he’s writing a book since he was 18 and never had the confidence to share a full thing until he was 40.

This is completely me, from typos to whatever actually floats your boat from something I’ve shared, I appreciate your time and hope you’ve been entertained thus far.

The following writes were posted blogs from www.theweedblog.com, www.sativaonlinemagazine.com , and my personal blog Brother Can You Spare a Dime(Bag). Blogging and writing for a book are two completely different things, blogging has the advantage and almost requires you to include pictures, videos, and hyperlinks leading to more information about whatever subject you mentioned, with pen meets paper you will never be able to embed a hyperlink, it makes you describe more for the reader.

Marijuana and Video Games

(June 25, 2010)

Marijuana and gaming go together like peanut butter and jelly, like porn and the internet, one just makes the other that much better. If Microsoft did anything right it was bring us the Xbox 360, now in a sleeker meaner looking package.

Some of you may be PlayStation people and deep down inside I am but my checkbook isn’t, even though the online play for PlayStation is free for Xbox it’s a monthly or yearly rate.

The online option is my favorite part of gaming these days. Playing individuals from across the world is amazing. For awhile it was a guarantee while playing Halo I was playing with a Marine in Japan.

It’s very rare but it does happen that I play somebody locally and on one of those occasions I made a marijuana connection. He had some Diesel and I had a couple hundred to burn for about an eighth. At first I felt ripped off but when it lasted me about 2 months I kept my mouth shut after that plus according to High Times it was the going rate.

I’m definitely not the only late night stoner, half of the other gamertags I encounter are 420 something or another (mine is Miggy420), feel free to add me I play around midnight Arizona time.

When I say marijuana and gaming go together, I’m not saying it marijuana makes you better, I’m just saying its hell of fun. Even though I can kick some major ass under the influence (I make a very good virtual driver) I’m not saying it makes me any better.

The neat thing about gaming under the influence is I can tell automatically how just drinking, just smoking, or the combination of the two effects me and clearly just drinking by itself turns my gaming experience into a bunch of cursing and that’s mostly from my teammates.

If just drinking my playing goes from pretty good to extremely shitty in about two hours. My thinking and motor skills become completely shot. There’s a point when I just eventually give up. Smoking on the other hand can last until I become drowsy (can’t afford the good green just the sleepy kind) and the combination of the two turns me into a virtual killing machine. If I’m not playing good I’m at least pretty funny to listen to. I think the reason for lasting longer under the influence of the two is the alcohol can heighten the amount of sugar in your body. Ever drink late at night than can’t fall asleep?

Gaming and altered states seem to be part of the human condition. Did you know it took 44 years for “laughing gas” to be used as an anesthetic? Before that it was a recreational party drug and let us

not forget parlor games played in opium dens and bars. It just seems to me that as human beings its a natural desire not to be sober, add games on top of that and now you have a party — we just like to have fun.

I’ll never tell you marijuana makes me or anyone else better at anything we do but I will tell you it sure makes it a hell of a lot more fun.

If you get a chance get “Chile Con Carnage” for the PSP. There you will be avenging your father’s death against the Mexican Cartel and at one point you have to destroy their farm with pot leafs on the crates. Yes my friends, marijuana, gaming, and the internet were meant for each other.

Hey Mon’ July 2, 2010 I find the recent post, What is the Best Job for a Stoner ironic to me because I wrote the following paragraphs days before hand. Isn’t this really what its all about: Adults wanting to work and smoke with the security of not losing our jobs or worse jail.

Personally I’m following the Joseph Casias plight very closely. If California does legalize it (and they should) than his case could set a huge precedent. What kills me though is what if he was prescribed percocet or vicodin for his pain? Than popped for that. Would he have been let go than? Answer is probably not.

You should give Mr. Casias a holler via Facebook, I did. Just to let him know he’s in the right. And don’t forget to write Marc Emery, send him some stamps if you can — I lost mine and now have to wait.

Now, for your reading pleasure. Some shit I started the other day.

Growing up sucks. I find myself on the precipice of what could be a smoking sabbatical. Rumor has it; the place I work at may be having layoffs soon. Soon in light of recent news I will have to A) clean my system to find another job or B) Start dealing. ‘Till than let me impart some real life on you.

Cleaning my system is no big deal. Not smoking is no big deal; but the fact I have to do it fucking sucks. If I find myself unemployed it’s not because I’m lazy or incompetent (all smoker stereotypes) but because the Big Dogs can’t balance a budget or took too many coke lines off a hookers ass at a company engagement (I’m just saying).

The second half of my dilemma is okay say I can’t find work, do I start dealing? The thing is you can’t make mortgage payments and pay hospital bills selling pot in dimebags or ounces.

This is the one thing I’ll never understand in the marijuana debate, if the pundits really knew what they were talking about they’d know there’s no money to be had by small time dealing. If you want to say the least pay your bills, to say the most start your own rap video — you’d have to be pushing pounds; and that’s the kind of shit that makes you someone’s girlfriend in the pen (I pray for your sanity Marc).

The fact is there is no guarantee in life kids but as long as people with money need ditches dug I’ll have a shovel. There’s always a way I believe. It’s just a matter of the choices to get there.

So here’s some advice for our readers young and not so.

To the youngins, do what you want to do. That don’t mean go on some sort of serial killer rampage, it means if your heart tells you there’s something you want to be than work towards it.

All my life I knew I wanted to write. As far as I can remember wanting to be something, it was a writer or a ninja assassin but the latter didn’t pan out. So I took life gradually and wrote only when inspired. Snippets of paper with one liners are all over the place. I would stop with disillusion or no focus and take up again, writing is my addiction — that thing I can’t do with out. You see those crazy homeless guys with sheets of paper with scribble on them, that could be me (laugh now or forever hold your peace). The point here is I only slightly did what I wanted to be. And sometimes you just gotta keep living life doing what you do ’till you bump into it.

Not everybody wants to be the lead singer or guitarist. Not everybody wants to be a writer. But if you find that thing you want to do (shoveling shit included), do it everyday.

I say this not cause I’m paying my bills with this but because I’m able to do the thing I love to do with other people that love one of the other things I love do (say that 5 fucking times). Thanks to NinjaSmoker and Johnny.

As I reread this the following seems bleak but I don’t intend it to be so. Its just that as I find myself in this real world situation I will have to take action accordingly and may not have the time to produce many more articles, all pending on the what happens next. And the only reason why I even bring this kind of shit up is because as a smoker and activist these are all issues somebody else has to deal with to. So in the interim here’s some advice to our readers young and not so.

To the younger people, live for love. You will be hungry occasionally but the things that you truly need and desire will fall into place.

To the not so young like me; Let us not forget where we came from. Let us not forget who we were.

Recently I had a friend (with his family) who I haven’t seen in awhile come by my house and hang out overnight. As I smoked my special goodness he cracked a joke “that’s so high school” that right there was a bummer but it also gave me some perspective.

He made me think that there are millions of people like this and now I know why. As we get older and take on responsibilities things change and we want the best for the children we’re raising. Which

is why I’ve bumped up my activist voice. I don’t want my children growing up in a world where booze if okay but marijuana is demonized. Or you could take the alternate route and shun it because you know it’s not socially acceptable.

There’s a time and a place for everything. When you have to, you’ve got to quit smoking, shave that beard, take a shower, and tell some lies.

We do what we gotta do to survive. Tell me lies, sweet little lies.

Marijuana is still illegal impart to the people that use to do it or tried it once than went on. They went on to say “Oh that it’s nothing” or “I tried it once and it didn’t do a thing for me” – So their biggest problem is that they’ve been unimpressed by this plant.

The fact that it is and can be “nothing” should enrage people, why is this illegal? Why are billions of dollars spent a year fighting something that in a worse case scenario makes you feel like not getting off the couch because once its legal paranoia won’t be an issue unless you’re under the proper age limit.

I started this piece off with Growing up sucks but it really isn’t that bad. It’s the ones that grew up and forgot what things are about, those are the grown ups that suck. Anyways, I will continually support and defend any pothead whether I’m smoking or not it’s just a matter of circumstance for me. ‘Till next article, I’m gonna barbecue, smoke what I got, drink some beer, and wonder how I’m gonna get some stamps.

Smoke and Mirrors July 10, 2010 Day 4 of no marijuana and its kind of depressing. Not jump off a building or stick my head in an oven depressing but the depressing that is mixed with sadness and anger. Let me elaborate, its kind of sad knowing if I was in one of 3 neighboring states with my medical record I could achieve the daily peace I want. It’s angering because of the slant that’s been put on it for years and years. Pot makes you crazy, pot is a gateway drug, etc… Is the rest of the nation that ignorant?

Everyday I Google and Yahoo the words marijuana, cannabis, pot, and as of late Marc Emery. The latter because they (Jodie and Marc Emery) have asked this of their supporters which will add to that great big logarithm in the sky and the first ones because I would like to see what kind of daily buzz there is on something that shouldn’t be an issue.

Recently a poll came out that says the majority of California voters are not in favor of legalizing pot which seems kinds of fishy to me from a state that is in a deficit and was a mecca for peace, love and happiness in the 60′s. The most disconcerting part is let us say the poll is true, its only after a recent report put out by the RAND Corporation stating marijuana prices will drop and smokers will go up if it is legalized. Which leads to propaganda articles by such papers like the Christian Monitor.

My question is; how did they come to these magical conclusions because I want that time machine for my stock predictions. What the RAND Corporation probably fails to take into consideration is #1 growing anything is pretty fucking hard and #2 we as Americans are generally lazy. Not lazy in the sense that no one wants to work but that of in our high-speed internet, fast-food culture we live in if it can be got at a store that’s how we’ll get it. I mean really its not like microbreweries have taken Budweiser or any other big name beer out of business. So again, something seems rotten in Denmark or rather in the United States.

Seems to me the RAND Corporation has perfect timing with an upcoming vote and setting fears without substantial facts. Even if marijuana dropped to 38 dollars an ounce the state and county would tax the shit out of it and people would still pay 100 to 200 for some legal killer green bud.

There should have been a disclaimer before they put out those results saying “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain, pay no attention at all.” At least than I wouldn’t feel a warm fuzzy as someone is blowing smoke up the nation’s ass.

As discouraging as all this crap seems I still have and get hope for a common sense approach towards marijuana. Hope from you the reader involved in TWB, hope from Jonathan Dine who is running for senator in Missouri and claims to want to legalize it. There are people out there willing to

take the risk (I don’t consider it risk though) instead of just saying no based off of fear and conjecture.

Its up to every single one of us to some how get involved. You may or may not know I’ve recently come into a personal drought. I’ve decided to embrace it and consider it homage to Marc Emery and everyone else who has been or is locked up for a pound or two. My hope is Arizona is wise up this upcoming November and I’ll be able to find that special doctor, pay my fees and walk away a proud card carrying member of the not a criminal club but like I’ve said before if I stumble across a pound “Its mine! All mine!”.

Mental indulgence, I am one step away from sleeping on a park bench, social incompetence?

Weed Guilt

Weed shame, I never really thought I had it especially since I write about it and everyone that loves me knows it’s something I’m passionate about but I never thought I had it until I picked my son up from a school event, high.

When I say high, I don’t mean I walked in stumbling, slurring my words: that’s drunk, or was yelling sporadic things like “I’m the king of everything!” Nope, this wasn’t the case. What I did was show up on time to pick up my son from a student council event and got him home. After that I did laundry, vacuumed the house, did the dishes, worked on my writing, checked my work e-mail, picked up a cousin for a sleepover and cooked dinner. I’m sure there are other things but you get the gist, all while high.

It was recently pointed out to me that I had weed shame for my inability to come out of the weed closet, which I of course denied but now I know better, I have weed guilt.

It’s the feeling of how can this be wrong when nothing wrong is happening. The feeling that you are wrong when you know deep down inside you are right for believing in the legalization of marijuana, hell not even the legalization of the plant but the analysis of how it got to be so without a trial, since the one that it did have was clearly a sham filled with racial prejudice and inaccurate science.

The overwhelming feeling of knowing people are going to jail and being imprisoned for that high feeling which is just a matter of feeling better for the individual. Hell, disregard that it’s the safer recreational of things human beings do to escape reality, its medicine.

It’s hard believing in something so right, something you know would make a universal difference but yet continues to exist when your job can be at stake, zero tolerance is a failed concept when it comes to recreational devices and that’s from a business standpoint in America.

Intelligent good people stand behind marijuana and the more that have to lay in hiding the more we lose.

I don’t go to marches but I try to get my point across, you should to. The armchair activist is just as important as the one chaining themselves to doors, putting your money where your mouth is can’t speak any clearer. I work for a world where marijuana guilt isn’t a factor, where I can talk out loud about the beautiful garden I saw or get growing tips from a coworker. Not everyone out there is against marijuana but the ones who are, have way too much control over my life right now.

Marijuana guilt or just smart enough to keep my mouth shut, either way it’s not right, no one should go to jail for a plant.

Canna We Talk: Cannabis on Social Media (This is the pre-edited write that was posted in the March issue of Sativa Online Magazine)

Ever since the internet became accessible to everyday people it has been a means of exchanging tasteless jokes and poignant e-mails that we felt shared our thoughts. Thanks to smart phones and other advances in ways to interface with the internet, social media has evolved from a temporal snapshots of a family event, hobby, to a feed into life.

Intelligent people fundamentally know that cannabis was never given a proper day in court, especially after you watch Grass narrated by Woody Harrelson, thanks to social media and the free one hour and 18 minute video watched on Youtube, people know the truth.

Thanks to social media I no longer have to use code words like I need half a pound of parmesan cheese, extra dank please. I live in legal states so got that covered and as for my regular employment, I’m ready for that fight but also I’m a viable part of the work force, I make assholes money.

My friends at the weedblog recently posted an article entitled “Is It Safe to Buy Marijuana on the Internet”, the short answer is no. There is a reason I use to use code words and still would if the world need be, unfortunately with that said if any individual I speak to from here on now is of “reasonable suspicion”. I’ve purchased weed through Craigslist but only under these pretext 1) I’m in a legal state 2) I have a prescription and 3) I’m a 230lb unattractive male that will bite your fingers to protect my 40 bucks.

The deal was fairly painless and creepy, this dude rolled up in a pretty nice SUV while it was snowing.

We identified each other with the “Are you here for a weed deal” nod; I opened the passenger side door, said the code word (his name) and jumped in. It was pretty quick and easy, on the phone he asked me my preference and how much, when I looked in the car were various bags of the amount I was looking for. The night ended with strawberry Kush and a good night’s sleep.

Social media has provided us ways to educate the masses, to preach as armchair activist. My friend Johnny Green eloquently points out (http://www.theweedblog.com/marijuana-activists-should-neverunderestimate-the-power-of-social-media/) that social media activist are just as important as the one able to provide a dollar or appear at a rally, clicks of the mouse and upvotes are as close to dollars as some can come and that’s okay because it’s working.

Unfortunately there is still a need for common sense (by that I mean understand your local community) when it comes to posting things on the social media. Yes you can get arrested, for you’ve done all the hard work for them by giving them evidence. We (any decent human being that sees the world around them) knows that cannabis has been given a raw deal and that posting pictures of your garden is less evil (use whatever word you got for wrong) than posting pictures from the club late at night with a drink in your hand.

Recently a man named William Bradley was arrested from posting his videos on Youtube of his garden he called H.O.P.E (Helping Other People Everywhere). When some people see this video, they’ll see a guy getting what he asked for but when I view it, it’s a guy dying that’s saying fuck it.

Besides Youtube arrest there’s Twitter. I’m sure there are people that use Twitter safely between people they know in the real world but what about what can happen when you post to the general public?

Kunith Baheerathan, mechanic at Mr. Lube in Toronto, Canada tweeted he was looking for a dub sac and got sacked from his job.

Besides the horror story of some dude venting his frustrations for the need for a recreational smoke, you have the world of Facebook. For the past 4 years I’ve been writing under the nom de plume Miggy420, ever since I could log on to a website the gamertag, my screen name, has been Miggy420 which I think added to my nerd credibility if you Google it, there’s one other Miggy420 but I’ve only seen him on Tumblr and who uses that but everyone else but me. If it wasn’t for the mediums like Myspace and Facebook I believe I wouldn’t be as far in my marijuana life as I am without them, you’re reading this aren’t you?

Social media websites that let you create your own page, your own thumb print on the universe give the common man/woman the ability to express a feeling and share something visually is cannabis’s strongest tool, as we each share our own personal truth about a simple plant with a bad reputation intelligent beings will question why it’s wrong and perhaps join the anger which is outrage over social injustice persistent in the age where we know better than that.

I think the biggest lesson for people who want to worry about something, worry under what name you post, especially when you post on a police page as in the case of Brandon Whitmer, who called out the Columbia, South Carolina Police Department for a large pot arrest suggesting they go after real criminals. The police chiefs response was “Thanks for the responsible suspicion” but isn’t that a catch all.

I say call them out just create an account you can burn.

Then there are settings and who has the ability to access your data as in the case of Todd Wilford.

Unfortunately he’s the victim of a boy proud of what his dad does, sharing pics on Facebook, followed by some Captain America asshole seeing the pics on the boy’s page and calling the cops – know who sees and shares your shit and what level of risk you’re willing to take.

Lastly I would like to address the most well named app Instagram. Recently Mikayla Rock was arrested for posting pics on Instagram, now I don’t know about your area but the cops have more to do than troll Instagram for potheads, now ones posting baby rape fuckers. Another victim of the police internet trolls is Dakota Lamandre , who got arrested with his mom and dad. Just like any other proud gardener, farmer he was proud of the process and shared pics accordingly, unfortunately his local police department was following his status also. Here’s the thing, you have to know at what level of this cannabis game you are at in America. No matter where I go on to scale of one to ten I’m a level 0 to everybody since I don’t grow or sell anymore but little do they know I can read and write as well.

Social media has changed the cannabis conversation, prohibitionist cannot hide behind a scary present or future, in fact places where it is presently legal has not had an increase in violent crimes, you can’t hide these facts. People who smoke recreationally or are another other part of the pre-process are not bad people and social media will prove that, one person after the next.

Patent number 6630507 (Posted in Sativa Online Magazine’s April issue) An unexpected origin Patent number 6630507 is an existing patent that lists the use of certain cannabinoids found within the cannabis sativa plant as useful in certain neurodegenerative diseases such as Alzheimer's, Parkinson's, and HIV dementia. This research was funded and is owned by The Department of Health and Human Services, which has performed some of the most important non-biased research when it comes to the quality of life for a Cannabis consumer.

Always being the pessimist, I try not to highlight any government agency too much but their mission statement says a lot: “The mission of the Department of Health and Human Services is to help provide the building blocks that Americans need to live healthy, successful lives. We fulfill that mission every day by providing millions of children, families, and seniors with access to high-quality health care, by helping people find jobs and parents find affordable child care, by keeping the food on Americans’ shelves safe and infectious diseases at bay, and by pushing the boundaries of how we diagnose and treat disease.”

The mission statement alone explains why a government agency would perform an unbiased scientific experiment whose conclusions mean everything that they teach kids about marijuana, and the reasons people are in prison because of it, is wrong. I believe patent number 6630507 is just a byproduct of a government agency being efficient and I’m not sure which is more shocking — a government agency actually doing something good for the people — or a government agency being efficient.

Is government consistency an oxymoron?

We’ve all seen the meme with Captain Picard’s hand extended with the heading “Why The Fuck?” followed by a witty and poignant statement at the bottom. The one I’m thinking of in particular is with the witty statement: “Why does the government own patent #6630507 on Cannabis’s medical qualities and claim it has no medical qualities?”

The meme itself is comical but raises a very valid question: how can one branch of the government (DEA) dismiss the fact that marijuana is healthier than man-made pharmaceuticals, supported by evidence produced through scientific research done by another government agency (HHS)? One branch is staffed by cops the other with scientists. Who are you supposed to believe? The Department of Health set out to discover which medical properties Cannabis has besides CBD; THC is categorized as a psychoactive drug, but does that mean it can’t be medicinal as well? No. What if I told you that the government knows that there’s a natural medicine out there that can be used for: “neuroprotectants, for example in limiting neurological damage following ischemic insults, such as stroke and trauma, or in the treatment of neurodegenerative diseases, such as Alzheimer's disease, Parkinson's disease and HIV dementia. Nonpsychoactive cannabinoids, such as cannabidoil, are particularly advantageous to use because they avoid toxicity that is encountered with psychoactive

cannabinoids at high doses”? (Quoted directly from the U.S Patent office website). The statement I copied and pasted above could also be said like this: what if I told you there’s a natural plant out there that can act as medicine against brain disease and, by the way, it’s all natural and our government owns the patent on it?

Conspiracy?

The existence and denial of U.S patent number 6630507 screams either conspiracy or just plain ignorance. Some would argue the country is backwards but by whose definition? There’s still a lot of ignorance predominant in this country but Cannabis awareness movements and those providing good information are killing reefer madness.

As people become aware of patent number 6630507, they need to be aware that this isn’t something that just happened on October 7, 2003 when the patent was approved. The government patented it because of their discovery that it is possible to separate the cannabidiol in 1942. I reference this time because at one time scientists could openly experiment with and test Cannabis.

By now there should be a little outrage rising up in you, that part of you that likes to vote in a poll or with your dollar — this is how the tides of Cannabis legalization turn. Medical marijuana isn’t legal in 20 states simply because a lot of people like to get high, but because the truth is that it’s good medicine.

Our body comes with cannabinoid receptors, which tells me our bodies are meant to have Cannabis just like you’re supposed to have Vitamin C. Maybe it’s not for everyone but it should be an option for anyone, which is the American way, isn’t it?

We’ve come a long way from waiting in strange parking lots and living in fear, to seeing Cannabis available in retail stores, but we’ve still got a long way to go. Patent number 6630507 is a gateway to vindication for many and perhaps an eye opener for others.

Reschedule It! (This is a pre-edited write that was posted on Sativa Online Magazine for their May issue) I want to believe, I really do as I close my eyes, click my heels three times, tell myself I think I can, I think I can while holding on to my rabbits foot and making the cross symbol while saying a prayer.

Policies and viewpoints come out in the strangest of places, recently while testifying before a Congressional Subcommittee Budget hearing Eric Holder testifies that the Department Of Justice would be willing to work with Congress on rescheduling the plant (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=skO37q3CTA4&feature=share&t=2h35m56s this happens 2 hours and 35 minutes into it).

When legalization happens we won’t be able to point to one group or person that made it happen but to the moment, the moment when marijuana is rescheduled accordingly and prisoners are release for a crime that has no victim. The truth behind cannabis is like a stone thrown into a pond with multiple ripples or a snowball rolling down a hill building momentum, the truth is getting out there, marijuana is just another way for us to understand our body just like when it comes to alcohol, sugar, and all pill form medications.

I want to believe so bad that I don’t have to fear for my personal safety when I travel from state to state, when I can smoke safely in the privacy of my hotel room or in an secluded open location, without fear of police, fear of ignorance, fear for my personal freedom and the implications that happen when arrested by just being me.

After Holder made the following statement “be more than glad to work with Congress if there’s a desire to look at and reexamine how the drug is scheduled” in regards to accusations that the department selectively enforces the law, the blogosphere lit up and so did newswires, all pointing towards the common sense policy that should be in place, the rescheduling of marijuana that does have medicinal values, THC and all.

I sat through four hours of video just to hear a 30 second snippet that shows that some people have a common sense approach to what is right vs. wrong, cannabis consumption is not wrong for whatever reasons its being done by responsible adults, responsible Americans. Some people will boost this as great news and it is but during those 4 hours I also saw a bunch of fear mongering from people in powers of authority that don’t give a damn about you and me.

The questions and arguments that marijuana causes addiction is changing the subject on something less addictive than cigarettes and cheesecake, it is proven that it is medicinal and it seems Eric Holder does not stand well when confronted about the medicinal value of marijuana even when the Department of Health owns a patent, US# 6630507 during his testimony to the subcommittee.

Politicians want to cry afoul that legalization will lead to crime and what about the children but there are presently 50 people doing life sentences for some it’s even a death sentence for a crime that has no victim.

For true crime there has to be a victim and the only victim in the cases of people involved in the cultivation and/or distribution of cannabis, there is no victim. Congressmen Frank Wolf wants you to

believe that marijuana makes planes fall from the sky by pointing out the only known incident of a man who fell to his death after eating a marijuana infused brownie but there should be a lesson here in dosage and responsibility, not imprisonment.

There’s a majority in America being slightly heard and a minority being incarcerated. In case President Obama, Fox News or any other authority figure didn’t get the memo Americans don’t believe in reefer madness.

I want to believe more than anything that marijuana will get its chance to be rescheduled in light of government owned patents and proven health benefits, prison populations will decrease, and that Americans who believe in the au natural can live in peace without fear of prison or have rights taken away due to some bullshit conviction.

The moon and the stars are aligning for marijuana reform, the polls are in our favor and whenever science is involved cannabis wins, cannabis is safer than a lot of over the counter pharmaceuticals i.e Benadryl. Americans, smoker and non are waking up to the great lie, perhaps the biggest one still ruining lives and protecting no one.

According to the highly revered non-bias Gallup poll of October 2013, the majority of educated and aware Americans believe marijuana should be legal. That’s more than half of your nation, half of the people you work for, in a perfect the majority consensus is also the majority moral barometer and in this case involved multiple races, sex, and ages, the only real issue is the minority can incarcerate, steal your things, and give you an undeserving punishment for something that really isn’t a crime or unhealthy. th

In an NBC News/Wall street Journal survey of March 5 2014, marijuana is rated the least harmful when compared to tobacco, alcohol, and sugar. My only thinking here is that those people polled were asked to be impartial and to base their decision on their social understanding, don’t forgets peanuts have killed.

Despite the medical properties and values of this wonderful plant it is used recreationally just like alcohol, cigarettes, and coffee – the fact that something makes you feel better for a moment and is used for pleasure can be called recreational, the same can be applied to masturbation and ice cream, that being said according to the CNN/ORC poll of Jan. 3-5, 2014; 79% of Americans believe there should be no jail for a plant.

In a CBS News poll taken Jan 17-21, 2014 the majority 62% believes the decision should be left to the individual state, that’s just a pussy way of not having to make a decision about something that shouldn’t really be decision but a right like gay marriage. I thought being an American meant a pursuit of happiness and personal freedom, not censorship and imprisonment.

When Nazi Germany began, at what point did people not flee when they had to wear stars and were given tattoos like cattle, could it have been stopped if the majority said no. While there are raids still and trials are still going, people lie in cells for feeding their families and providing to their local communities.

How can people sit idle as this occurs, smokers and not. American society is starting to understand the great marijuana conspiracy, mad enough to vote the truth. Everyday someone spends a day in jail staring at a wall in jail, forced to eat what is given, told to sleep when lights are out, not given any personal freedom topped with threats of personal safety than there’s a lie that exist that cannabis is bad that personal freedom is bad.

I want to believe that the adults in the White House are finally give Americans the right to be adults and make personal choices and be held accountable for their own decisions.

Dear Government, you haven’t gotten the memo but its coming. We are not the enemy, you are.