Thursday, March 31, 2005

'Have We Heard The Chimes at Midnight, Master Shallow?'

I am allowed the pleasure of reflecting on this entire experience while gazing at the amazing Seattle skyline, looking across Puget Sound. It's a gray day here in Washington, not unlike most days this time of year. The sun's light refracted through the clouds gives an even cast on all of Allah's Creation. Shadows barely exist in this light. Nothing can hide itself, not even my self-deceptions. I've laid it all out on the table for you (or most of it anyways). Now I'm expected to sit here and belt out some kind of hifalutin' inspiration for you all.

WELL, you want it... here it is: There really is NO substantial difference between sobriety and lecherousness. I didn't sleep any better, I didn't have more or less energy during the day and I really did not feel much difference in my mood other than an net increase of boredom (and occassional frustration). If I had been a raging alcoholic, then maybe at the end of this journey, I'd be peering out the window to a new life, or some played out nonsense such as that. I excluded myself from social situations, preferring the sweet solace of the Internets to the masochistic temptations of bars and house parties. Since I am a social animal, and most of the pleasure that I derive from life comes from shared experiences (the intersubjective, as Brendan would put it), I think I'm going to begin drinking and smoking post-haste.

Georgie's comin' home Martha, pack a fattie and start grilling up some grits.

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Sending me so far away

Once again, I obliterate my previous SF2 score with impunity. As meaningless as it is to all of you, it reinforces my trivial self-worth.

Today I embark on a quest to the Northern Land. Hills of green & rain. Lands of microbrewed magnificence. A journey for (literal and figurative) libidinal release. I leave all of you inebriated sodomites to your doings.

Viva la Intoxicacion!

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Anxiety Descending...

Again, a thousand apologies for the absence of frequent posts. I've been wearing down the last few days with plenty of work before my jaunt to Washington State. I'll break my back now, for earthly gains later. I don't mean that I'll literally break my back, if anything, doing this job, I'd break my wrists... and NO my job isn't being paid to masturbate.

As my trusted friend John could attest to, I showed signs of wavering this weekend; nearly having a beer at a bar. But, last weekend, like the previous 4 (or is it 3?), there were always temptations like that. The weekends were the worst. Intoxication is the favored goal of weekend endeavors. For how many millennia has that been true? As far as we know, fermented plant matter has been the drug of choice throughout civilization (at least WESTERN civilization). How long has this wicked cycle of toil and binge been replaying itself? Am I not just the inevitable by-product of such a mad course of consumption: the sober outsider? Just as Batman has his Joker and George Bush has his International Public Opinion, I have my undulating heards of drunken weekenders.

Enough rabble... the clocks ticks, and DESTINY awaits!

Friday, March 25, 2005

The Triumph of the Mortal!

NEW HI SCORE!!!
(or in football speak)
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOALLLL!

Miraculously, the Street Fighter machine was repaired, and now is marginally playable. Balance returns to my existence. My wallowing in nostalgia of a decade past will continue with little interruption. It's odd to share a public space with such people at the laundromat. As I was finishing up the aforementioned game, there was a guy who walked in, perhaps 6 foot 2, wearing neon green swimming trunks, who cracks open a tall can of Budweiser right there. Since I'd been in there for 15 minutes or so, I was fairly certain that he wasn't just trying to kill time while his laundry was done. He was just chillin'. Now I don't know about you, but if I'm going to start drinking alone at noon on Good Friday, I would sure as hell be doing it at home, and not down at the corner laundromat. Ahhhhhh, alcoholism: it's truly the tie that binds.

Less than a week stands betwixt me and existential freedom. My self-imposed bondage will be cast off by the Emancipatory Proclaimation of April's arrival (I had a dog named April once, but that's... alas... another story). As our Fearless Cowboy President says: Freedom is on the march. Perhaps, after the March.

Earlier this week, the inclimate weather and accompanying earthquake began to convince me of the coming of the end times. However, now that the sun returned, I will go back to skeptical optimism. The thunderclaps that rang out sounded like God's testicles slapping together: a stupefying noise indeed. Us rational-minded persons shouldn't view this as an astonishing antecedent of the end times, but instead the inevitable consequence of human arrogance. Our seasons are all fucked because we refuse to do something salient about the terrific amounts of hydrocarbons our automobiles produce. Perhaps if 100,000 people in California were to be washed away by an enormous Tsunami, then doltishly ignorant Americans would start believing what Environmental Scientists have been saying for decades. But, this, just like all other strife in the world, falls on deaf American ears as we are divinely protected from the consequences of our actions.

The solution: poking-out-of-eyes! Take THAT fly-over states! [PLOINK!]

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Nothing's Gonna Stand in My Way

You may be asking "Where is Casey? Has he fallen off the wagon? Did he take too much valium and never wake up? Have homosexual NAZIs kidnapped him and forced him to reenact the childhood of Adolf Hitler in hopes of creating a new Color-Coordinated Fuhrer?"

No, no my little kiddies. No such nonsense has happened. Although, I'm now in the single digits: 9 days, I think. I'm just tryin' to get ta heaven, before they close the doors. And by heaven, I mean March 31st, and by doors, I mean my rabid impulse to consume THC. It's a metaphor actually, so you can't just cut and paste nouns onto other nouns and have it make sense. JESUS!

My status: I'm operating within normal parameters. Still pixelpushin', still not loving tha police! I've found that I have far more partial to Marijiwanna than alcohol. I'm not nearly as tempted by the endless stacks of beers that permanent inhabit our refridgerator as I am the 14 Js that live inside my desk drawer. I'm dealing though.

The joysticks were repaired on the local SF2 machine, however, the bigoted moron that runs the place does a half-assed job. It's still unplayable, and hence a huge disappointment. Despite the fact that I have the roms and an emulator to play SF2 at home, it can't match the exhilaration of fighting for the worth of your quarter. Perhaps it is just the dying dream of a child now grown. That game WAS made in 1991.
Alas, I will not be able to attempt a new jaunt at the Hi Score for several weeks now I fear.

Take it all in, you sycophants. You won't have my desperation to feed off of for long. Instead, I will be inviting you over to this den of denial to aid in my reintoxication. Coming soon.

Thursday, March 17, 2005

A Far Better Thing That I Do...

I do believe the worst is over. What an atrocious day. Fewer days ahead then there are behind. I found myself slipping into a personality and a mode of thought that I'd thought I'd abandoned in high school. There are so many different faces that make up the "whole" self. It's the path to realizing that "self" that pushes us towards xenophobia and exclusion, and, yes, human weakness.

I will continue to do this, despite my weakness, because I am (mostly) rational. I (mostly) have control over my conscious urges. My life over the past 6 months has been full of restraint, loss and stale anticipation. I feel quite fortunate that certain constraints in my life (primarily financial) have fallen into place, and allowed me the opportunity to feel some relief from the crushing jack-boot of our oppressive social systems. This Hour lends itself to aid me in meting out some half-obscured truths.

Now, just as it was 8 years ago, the company of close friends and confidants carries me through moments of unsolicited doubt and uncertainty. I was a chubby, glasses-donning ball of angst and cynicism then. Beneath my thinly-vein and shoddily-founded Nihilism hid a great Idealism; waiting to be unearthed by life experience and all-too-human pain and suffering. I've experienced unconditional love, indifferent exploitation and personal satisfaction. I certainly have run the whole gamut, but like the mathematical limit or Platonic form, I am approaching the plateau. This course is by no means certain; it must be constantly reaffirmed.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Creeping Death (of my self-restraint)

Little pangs of temptation keep hitting me, but this is really no surprise. It most often happens when I am stagnant; doing nothing at home, waiting for the time to the pass. In a way I'm glad they're still there. What if I got through this and DIDN'T WANT TO SMOKE ANYMORE? That would be a goddamned tragedy.

Much talk has been thrown around about St. Patrick's Day. It draws quite near. Although, I didn't want to make this prohibition exclude myself from social situations, this is an exception. My friends' sole motivation behind the holiday is to get krunked. Once the second and third beers go down their collective imperatives will be to get me to break my restrictions. So, I'll remove myself from the situation. No word yet on what I'll be doing instead. Maybe stay home and drink O'Douls.

I'm near the halfway point in this tumultuous journey. Although I still can't see the finish line. I'm blinded by sobriety.

By the way, The Daily Show may be the only television program worth watching these days. Think of that when you're glued to the T.V. watching the OC and having their will to live syphoned out by corporate advertisements.

Monday, March 14, 2005

I Ching Sea Change

I almost might have thought that my weekend doldrums would be unshakable. Given the Monday to do nothing, save laundry and the laborious task of having to feed myself, I attempted to repair the mood swing that Sunday brought on. To my fortune, Mother Nature (or is it El Nino) decided to make Monday one hell of a day: sunny, slightly breezy and crystal clear. Weather talk seems so boring when laid out on a seldom-read blog, but when you're in the midst of it, with very little distractions, it can be your own personal Jesus.

So, I rode. Pointed west, as always. Ended up in Venice, of course. Walked my bike out to the sand and laid down in the warm beige sand. It should be so cliche to find your emotion center whilst peering off into the crashing blue waves. I also began dragging my hand to-and-fro through the sand in front of me. Just like those miniature zen garden with the little rake, it honestly did drown out all of the racket in my head. It's very easy to lose yourself there. Spending hours looking down into the sand, behaving in ways that would, under normal circumstances, have on-lookers believing that you were mentally deficient. At the beach, especially Venice Beach, even the mentally deficient seem in their place; at peace.

A life of beach-bummery for me? No, thanks. Living near it is quite enough.

Sunday, March 13, 2005

Wake Up Call; Busy Signal

I've been a bit of an insomniac recently. I've been sleeping an acceptable number of hours, but wake up often and can't seem to get RESTFUL sleep.

I took the bus to downtown Los Angeles. It's amazing how much an enormous city, in such a populous city can be so empty. Also, how astonishingly small and lonely it can make you feel. A few years back I used to go downtown on the Metro Rail and take photographs. I wanted to eventually put together a retrospective called 'Entropy and Repetition.' I was (and am) fascinated by the collision between nature and city, and especially the decay of man-made structures. Also, the contrast between the super-wealthy and the destitute was quite compelling. Obviously, I still saw those things today, but I just came back from it with a sense of intense loneliness. Sundays downtown, despite the fact that there was a Clippers game (which undoubtedly brings unfamiliar persons to the desolate downtown area) are nearly devoid of pedestrian traffic. Three-quarters of the shops and restaurants were closed. It's so very mysterious, that I don't know how to put my finger on it. I actually spent most of my time talking on a cell phone in a little corporate-built courtyard between two skyscrapers; a disinfected haven from the mean streets. After only a few hours, I felt it necessary to make my way towards the bus route to get back home.

I hope I'm not hitting a wall of chemical withdrawal here, or perhaps it's just the collusion of dreary March days, abandoned metropolises and lovelorn wonderings.

Saturday, March 12, 2005

To Die, Perchance to Post...

Sorry, I wouldn't normally just pageslap a link at y'all, but this might be the funniest thing I've read all year.

Clicky

Friday, March 11, 2005

A Tale of Great Wealth, Large Quantities, and the Laughing Gnome

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What's in the powder blue tupperware, you ask? What's presently 7 inches from my leg as I type, beckoning, mocking me? What weighs a net of .5 ounces? I'll leave it up to all of you peoples' well lubricated imaginations. To be fair only half of this bounty is mine, as the other half is destined for my well-rhythmed Irish crusader. Still, it represents quite a significant challenge to the strength of my commitment.

I saw "In My Country" last night at the "independent" theatre in Santa Monica. If there truly has been any circumstance to make me violate my prohibition, it was after witnessing such a well meaning, but horribly executed movie. It had Samuel L. Jackson, and there was not one scene in which he referred to himself as a "Bad Motherfucker" or unleashed badass Jedi lightsaber skills. Instead it was a poorly written, edited and directed film. I have not seen such a bad movie since Million Dollar Baby. But, I digress.

Damn if they can't make a movie worth watching. Even the trailer for Star Wars Episode 3 makes me cringe. I will certainly go, to be dazzled by George Lucas' capacity to make movies that look like video games. The fellow who plays Anakin Skywalker however seems to be getting LESS emotionally capable of playing the character. What would otherwise be a good cast is ruined by the fact that you have no connection WHATSOEVER to Princess Amigdala and Skywalker. Fuck you Lucas! For stomping on my childhood. You should've just kept making video games on your franchise and I would be happy. But instead, you're an old obstinate bastard who refuses to do what make Eps 5 and 6 good which is to share the writing duties and RELINQUISH your directorial responsibilities... because you're a horrible director. But, now it's all about ego. You bastard. If I can find a way to sneak into the movie when it opens (which I won't) that would be optimal. Garbage! I laugh at you silly Frogman!

Thursday, March 10, 2005

'Sad days' said Said

A dreary cloud now floats over my head. The Street Fighter machine at the corner laundromat is now inoperable. The player 1 joystick has been making like the left sensor was waiting to give out for weeks, and it finally did. I was guilty and ashamed that I was the idiot who broke it BUT, I wasn't doing anything extraordinary (like smashing the joystick in anger) and also, I figure I've been the only one playing the game for the last 2 or 3 weeks. I have so much sentiment in my heart for this machine: the wavering vertical lines that flicker so distractingly in the CRT, the words 'Fuck Pete Wilson' carved into the plastic of the joystick shelf, the old and yellowing cardboard window overlay still left from 1991 when the kit was first assembled. Although there are thousands still like it in existence, it feels like an old friend; it feels like coming home.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Nimoy; Timothy Leary; The Sexy Beast

Apologies. I'm falling behind in keeping up with posts. If any of you are still paying attention, I've been trying to keep up with posting the PREVIOUS day's entries. I'm a lazy bastard, without the aid of motivation-stealing chemicals.

I fell asleep last night watching Original Series Star Trek. It was 'The Changeling.' Y'know, the episode with Nomad: the floating AI space probe. He kept saying 'I AM NOMAD!' And then Spock mind-melded with him, and then he was saying 'WE ARE NOMAD!' Hilarity. How could Leonard Nimoy keep a straight face?

I had a great, extended conversation with my tall Irish friend. We agreed that all you people should take psychadelic drugs at least once (if you never have) and more often (if you have). You people who consider themselves relatively self-aware and critical may gain quite a bit of insight from looking into those parts of your sub-conscious that you keep repressed, like jamming the toilet plunger down in the bowl to try to get that huge sewer rat back down into the drain. Some of you less stable personalities may want to proceed with caution, as you may end up burnt out, constantly thinking that you are a glass of orange juice; warning everyone around you no to "spill you."

I know what some of you are thinking: why are you advocating breaking the law? Well, I should take this time to quote the great Mahatma Ghandi (or at least the Academy Award-winning movie starring Ben Kingsley): 'There ARE unjust laws.' An activity being illegal isn't a compelling reason to NOT do something, just a good indicator of performing that activity with caution and adequate forethought.

And also: Shut up you prude!

And with that I bow, curtsey and make a mad dash for the fridge.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

The Doldrums

Another day of feverish nothingness followed by fervant work. I think my new pixelpushin' job works out well with my routine. The spurious moments of heightened adrenaline when the telemarketers call seem the pass the time away. I think I like talking to the foreigners better than the Americans. The Americans get more easily annoyed at my attempts to dodge their offers and keep them on the phone as long as possible. The foreigners, however, I suspect cannot tell the difference between talkativeness and malicious evasion. But, I surmise they get paid whether or not you sign up for their health care plan or not. It is really too bad that this apartment is on the Do Not Call list, I ever so much enjoy talking with those poor sods.

These days seem as if they are a game of waiting. I've been waiting for my goddamn replacement contact lenses for 3 weeks now. Also, my external harddrive seems to be putting it's way along here. Life IS a game of waiting. But no longer (or for this month at least) I am able to obliterate those stagnant moments with a little gaseous (or liquid) temporal acceleration. I must move back to other, older distractions such as Street Fighter 2. As you can see, I've placed my hiscore at the top of the page. I challenge ANY of you fools to try and beat my score: original SF2 ("The World Warrior) on one quarter, arcade only. And, for all you cheating kids, one can tell if you try and put multiple quarters in the game, it adds digits to the last two numbers. That being said, you could put in one hundred quarters, but at that point, it would be stupid. I dare ya! Pussies!

Monday, March 07, 2005

A Day of Consequently No Consequence

April 1st = 1/4 ounce (no foolin')

I walked to work today (which isn't a terribly large feat, perhaps 2 miles) as it was a beautiful day. Rather uneventful. I broke a million points on Street Fighter 2 at the corner laundromat.

Perhaps the most significant thing to report is that I found a one-hitter on the pavement near work. It is a little scuffed, but no worse for the wear. I really wonder why people buy these pieces of shit. Here's a picture of it, next to Siggy.

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Sleep sounds good my children, sleeping until April.

Sunday, March 06, 2005

The Lord's Day

Today has been one of rest and reflection. Despite the constant attack, on all sides, by drinking foes, I still haven't truly caved.

I started the day off displaced and at the whim and mercy of my captors. Being without access to a car in Los Angeles is quite like being without a sherpa in the Andes. But, I am fortunate to have such generous friends.

Particularly compelling was the revelation that I got today, probably from decoding all of the insanity that happened the night before. I spent a short period of time with a couple; newly minted in the grand scheme of things. Of course, I'd had some time already to develop an opinion on the subject, but now I'd say that solidified. My conclusion was that I don't think I'd ever seen such an harmonious pairing as this. And, notwithstanding some kind of major tragedy, it felt like they could really keep it together forever. When talking to them about the mistakes and misfortunes of others' relationships, I am given the overwhelming sense that they may be past all that nonsense. I was so encouraged and charged up by these ruminations because it also made me so very hopeful about my own situation.

The rest of the evening I was preparing to make dinner for a small group of folks, followed by a movie. I chose 'The Breakfast Club.' I felt it necessary to comment on the aforementioned movie because it illustrates one very important fact: the destruction of class barriers and social resentment are eventually destroyed by what??? You guessed it: marijuana. Important social commentary; you heard it here first.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

To Live and Die In L.A.

Certain events are either too remarkable, or too unspeakable, to be believed. My current dilemma is, like most things (spontaneous and premeditated) are really rather unremarkable. Tonight was most certainly a fantastically bizarre occurance. After working a bit on Saturday morning and spending most of the day in the uneventful pursuit of organizing my digital music collection, I gathered myself to lend a hand as the designated driver for a massive house party prearranged on this date. I resigned to prepare myself for the notion that this was to be an excellent test of my resolve.

As predicted, I waffled my way through 4 or so hours of slurred conversations, loud fits of inebriated ranting, unceasing narcotics consumption and pounding top 40 dance hits. I would not even attempt to venture a guess as to how many people were there, let alone how many of those souls that were exercising their vow of chastity; how many were skillfully fulfilling their roll as the revered designated driver.

The night began to slow (for some, speed up for others) and we split after 2 A.M. We left a comrade behind; for him the night may have been far from over. I loaded everyone up into the car and we proceeded towards the Hollywood Freeway post-haste. We were passed by two LAPD cruisers weaving their way through slovenly early morning traffic as we slowed for a light. Then, almost unassumingly, a series of four or five shots rang out. A good deal of commotion was happening at an Arco ahead of us. Pedestrians around us began to run for cover, clamoring to find an effective shield. All of my passengers began piping up, their blood alcohol content sharply lowered by the rush of adrenaline. I tried to position ourselves between the scene and another car, just in case anything else was came flying. The terror I had experienced was mild, probably infinitesimal compared to those poor bystanders on the pavement.

The traffic ahead of us started to pick up as they, much like us, wanted to get out of the area as soon as possible. Passing by the scene we saw, to my relief, that it looked like no one had been struck by any bullets. Two men were lying face down on the gas station pavement, pacified by the steadily aimed gun of a police officer. We made a b-line for a freeway, trying to put the scene behind us. I had, as any resident of living in Los Angeles could attest to, been witness to the aftermath of such abhorringly insane carnage before, but never so temporally close to such an incident.

As for my sobriety, I was certainly stone cold sober after that. I was grateful that I was there to navigate ourselves to a safe resolution, but I'm certain any one of my companions would have been able to do the same. I'm not entirely sure if, while reflecting on an incident like this one, makes me believe I should get fucked up ('cause the world is) or that I can only assure my safety, and those around me, if my sense are sharp and I'm in total control of my faculties. It reaffirmed my perception of the "real" by solidifying the event as experientially real. I can watch Colors and Menace to Society all I want, but, in the end, they are frightfully un-real stereotypes. It was what Foucault referred to a "limit experience." More concretely, it was an occurance that redefined the borders of what seems possible to experience.

I feel quite grateful to be here, intact, and also to have the people around me that I do. I'm fortunate to have such genuinely good people surrounding me.

I'm just a poor white boy from Oregon who knows so little about such things. But, I would gather that I share so many commonalities with those gunmen. Still, I'm mystified by not matter how narrow (or wide) the difference in background, upbringing or social standing, the potential for such destruction and callousness leaves it's mark on the psyches of all of us. I envision a day when those urges are driven out of our beings; trading the animalistic propensity towards violence for the all-too-human instincts of compassion and spiritual solidarity.

Friday, March 04, 2005

The Beginning of the End of the Beginning

Alas, the dreaded weekend is upon us. And perhaps the cruelest temptation awaits within the seemingly abysmal period of idle time allowed. I've even elected to work tomorrow morning in an attempt to combat these doldrums. I think I may need a hobby. Base jumping? Underwater CTR training? Faith healing? I feel quite listless. Unfocused. It's quite an irony that the absence of substances of are meant to dull and drown the senses can have such an effect.

Don't worry all you folks out there in TV Land, I'm safe from any real harm. I'm not about to fall off the wagon. If anything, I'm more likely to tether myself, jump off the wagon, and drag myself along the ground behind the wagon ala Indiana Jones. In some ways it would be much easier if I were to commit to NEVER drinking or smoking again, then I wouldn't have the thought of "This behavior is OK, just not now." If there is one thing that I have been throughout my life it's impulsive. So, if I'm likely to open a Christmas present early or spend some earmarked cash, I can nearly always find a decent rationalization.

Yes, yes. My suffering continues. Line up and take sadistic pleasure you fools! It's like reality television! WWWOOOO WEEE!

Thursday, March 03, 2005

The Devil's Due Diligence

Well, it didn't take long. Three days to be exact. After I got back from pixelpushing today, I had the strong and uncontrollable urge to spark up. My brain felt burnt, 'geeked' as we would call it in the Shadowrun universe. The Devil's tongue was seductively caressing my ear. I still have this "special" package to my sister (upon which I'm sitting until it can be sent to her while she is at home to receive it) in front of me... taunting... beckoning. After dismissing the initial uncontrollable urge, I decided to walk down to the Mexican market and grab myself a soda. And, of course, pass by the apartment building that constantly smells like weed. The walk was enough to clear my head and cast aside the craving. It was, however, an incredibly potent feeling. It leaves no doubt that I relate relaxation to imbibing in the Green Lady. This will need to whip this association out of me.

A conversation with my Punk Rock Catholic coworker of mine lead me to, yet again, another embarassing coincidence about the timing of my abstinence. The ritual of self-denial and ascetic moderation lines up quite nicely with lent. Obselete and manipulative religious practices are what I LEAST want to be associated with. I certainly don't want to be mistaken for a... [gasp]... CATHOLIC! The most lowly, servile and superstitious of the major Christian sects. Also, that whole contraceptive thing... forget about it! (For all you diehard Catholics out there: don't be upset, y'know, you gotta be able to laugh at yourself, right?)

As to Sir Richard Cranium: If you are intent to having a "March of Intoxication" to balance out my prohibition, at this very moment you better be drunk, high, already popped and few vicadin and preparing to lick multiple toads. You and I both have a great deal of work to do. Happy Birthday Dickhead!

I must sign off now... and attempt to combat the mercilous temptations of the most fowl Beezelbub. All of you silly Catholics, and any other delusional deists, pray for my troubled soul.

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

The Long 2nd Days Journey into Night

Sobriety is a laughing matter. I have come to believe that the only reason why people don't give me the same reaction they did when I told them I was a vegetarian lies in the fact that they know that my restraint has an expiry date. That reaction being "WHY?"exclaimed with a vile and contorted sneer. All the talk on this subject, instead, hovers around what will occur in a month's time. Is this time of reflection just a tightrope to be walked, or a frosty window which frames the sordid conflict within my person?

It's quite funny what you notice when you allow (or dis-allow) yourself the opportunity to observe with some distance. Every person I socialized with today (aside from at work, which is one of the Great American Taboos that Europe certainly does NOT share) was drinking or smoking. As I recall, I had conversations with 12 people over the course of the day. That means I'm in the 8 ⅓% of people who aren't seeking to get fucked up. Just like everything else salient about me (except for my chronic whiteboyness), I appear to be in the statistical minority.

Standing around in the unbreakable chain of the marijuana circle (or "rotation"), tonight I observed (with my newly heightened senses) that the process terminates with surprising speed. It don't take long to get high. Time seems so expanded when you are waiting for you next hit (even when it is a multiple-piece, counter-rotating affair). Also, the rate at which people get drunk is also surprisingly quick. The reddened cheeks, bright smiles and slurred speech come hastily. Probably because these symptoms are welcomed, nay, expected.

I was commenting to one of such persons about how I feel high or drunk sometimes in the afternoon. This might be happening due to the normalization of my brian chemistry after so much consistent abuse, or might just be from the experiential expectation inherent in shifted consciousness. Reggae still sounds just as good. A slight nagging still exists; rap-rap-rapping at the cellar door of my subconscious. Is it the denied self, or simply self-denial?


Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Captain's Log, Supplemental

The first day passed, and I seem to be well grounded in my sanity. Although, there must be some sort of endorphin release when one gets to walk around in sunny Los Angeles on a gorgeous week day such as this one. I let my mind wander to my friends who were spending the day up in fluorescent-washed offices. It was some sort of surreal, hallucinogenic place to be in. Sauntering around in the late morning is also more of a temptation to solicit the Green Lady, when you realize how great it is to sit around and stare in every direction, listen to the wind, absorb some sunlight... on weed!

As I write, I am sitting and staring at a little package I am intending to send to my sister. Since I am a considerate and compassionate sibling, I got into the habit of rolling up a tasty treat, and sending it to her in a satisfactorally sealed package. To avoid any "Imperial entanglements" I address the package to "Able Rawley" from "R. Gustav." I consider myself clever, but I just may be lucky that no U.S. Postal worker gets wise to the idea (or isn't paid well enough to care about doing their job well). It's good that my last vestage of Herbifiable temptation is inaccessible: sealed within several layers of packing.

Also, my wayward co-worker and subletter, Chet, brought home a 24 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, pushing the intensity of enticement even further. Ahhhh PBR. The memories: the long poker nights, the shitty beer and the endless hookas! That's hookas, not hookers.

I do feel as though I owe an apology, however. Two (count them) of my fellow scalawags are having birthdays this month. And, obligatorally, parties full of debauchery and mayhem are bound to ensue. I must say, that the decision of which month to try out this scheme was arrived at arbitrarily and it happens to be an unhappy coincidence that their parents' decided to fuck in July. Hey baby, hate the game, not the player.

Oh, yeah... and St. Paddy's Day is in March too. Goddamn it. It's going to start feeling like I've just had my wisdom teeth pulled, and I'm forced to sit down to dinner with 10 other people; gazing longingly for even the smallest taste... or maybe that's why God made the contact high.

Storming into Sobriety -- Day One

I thought I'd use this opportunity (and by opportunity, I mean free webspace and the excessive amount of free time afforded to me by my new job) to chronicle my pledge of sobriety for the month of the March, anno Domini 2005. I should first lay down my intentions for embarking on such a fool's errand, and then establish the groundrules.

My Intention: see how the "other half" lives. A few prominent friends of mine live on that dangerous path of absolute sobriety; one that does not allow for even the slightest deviation into the Shangri-La of drugs and alcohol. I'm actually quite sick and tired of trying to moderate myself "a little bit." That kind of restriction can only be maintained when your inhibitions and higher brains functions are operating without interferance. That is to say, these prohibitions are impossible to follow when you're fucked up.

In all honesty, I'm fairly certain that I'll be able to survive said restrictions. I have acheived, by my standards, an insurmountable obstacle like this just recently. I became a vegetarian. Anyone who loves to eat and has made the switch could tell you that to even to begin requires enormous restraint. So, if going dry is anything like that (which it isn't) then I'll do just fine (or won't).

The Rules: plain and simple. To avoid liquid intoxicants and other, more prosecutable, reality-evaders. It's all or nothing: if I so much as accept one mixed drink or harmless toke, I'm off the team. Mind you, this is totally self-initiated, so if I cheat, I (and my conscience) are the only ones that are accountable. The experiment ends on midnight of Thursday, March 31st.

As I begin this bold leap (or maybe foppish tumble) into the relatively known, I invite any visitors and confidants to post comments at any time.

And with that, thus begins day one...