tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55708016095816313612024-03-18T05:47:26.382-07:00the asshat loungeKonohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.comBlogger853125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-47072424119497145112024-03-13T05:35:00.000-07:002024-03-13T05:35:42.315-07:00The Mushroom Diaries - An Evening with Lucy<p> It's been a while since i've dabbled in the more chemical side of things as they say... in fact i had to go back through the old mental calendar and think quite hard about when the last time i actually tossed a small bit of paper into my mouth and waited for the sun (as i used to say)... you see my early thirties were the last time i had actually taken acid and then it was the Night of the Ridiculously Strong Sugarcubes followed by the brief period of time, roughly a year or so, when i had somehow lucked into some purple microdots from a friend of the long gone Hippie Jack, a lovely guy with a white afro that would give a young Rob Tyner a run for his money... and since i hadn't seen them for a bit i of course bought ten hits to keep myself supplied for the near future... and of course great fun was had by all... or maybe just me because though i tried to share a few hits with friends no one ever took me up on the offer and so i spent ten nights/days tripping on my own... and it was a grand old time...</p><p>A very good friend of mine has come to the psychedelics game late, not that it's ever too late but he's now taken a keen interest in it, especially after discussing it with his brother and i over the past few years and it is that same brother, a guy a couple years older than me, who has found a connection (one has to love the restaurants of the world for they are truly a haven for scoring any number of substances, albeit some less harmful than others)... there seems to be an abundance of mushrooms and LSD to which my friend now has access... said friend being interested in relieving some of the stress and anxiety of his job and life in general he tends to want smaller doses and so his brother cuts the hits up very carefully and delicately... he's offered me a hit a few times but due to ride duties or having to work the next morning i have declined, shocking to the reader i know as there are very few moments in my personal history where i have declined any narcotic substance but let's just say as i skip merrily towards the void i've become a bit, dare i say, wiser? about things... and seeing how things are around the asylum these days i most definitely have to be.. </p><p>--- side story-- the other day boyo numero uno (a name borrowed from the Kid), came home one fine Thursday from school... we were supposed to do some project, mainly cook this dinner and take pictures so he could make a short film for his food class, a class that should be an easy A but that said boyo is still fucking up... now let me state the boyos know nothing of my current explorations into inner/outer space but they do know that their parents are not novices when it comes to psychedelics, something none other than the BW let out of the bag one night at the dinner table... once at home said boyo was fucking about and not doing his work and when questioned by the BW he began having one of his patented tantrums but then a few minutes later asked to speak with me, he had now been home roughly two hours and i was in the middle of doing something so i said i'd be up when i was finished... the tenor of in his voice that told me something was up and so i went to his room to see.. he was standing there fidgeting and i told him to sit down and then he explained that a kid had handed him something at the end of school which he thought was a 5mg THC gummy but as it turned out was not... he admitted to trying mushrooms once or twice so he figured he might have taken a hit because while it wasn't exactly the same it was similar.. i calmly listened and told him to stand up and come look into the light... he did and he was fucking pie-eyed so i explained he most definitely did not take and edible and his assessment was correct... now seeing the last thing i wanted to do was send him on a bad trip i calmly explained to him that he needed to just chill in his room, relax, and ride it out... that while i was not going to say shit to him now that tomorrow we would have a little talk and he should understand that he was most definitely in deep shit with his parents... he said he understood and thanked me for being cool about shit to which i told him i'm being cool because i know how to handle people in this state but i wasn't exactly thrilled, i also told him how fucking stupid it was to put anything in his mouth without knowing what it was... which of course is mighty rich coming from a guy who threw a ton of hits into his mouth not to mention the other illicit substances imbibed by our hero... do as i say not as i do... what i did explain to him was that i was a bit older when i got into this shit and that he and his pooh-butt friends had no clue what the fuck they were doing which is how people end up in trouble... now back to the post ---</p><p>And so it was one fine Saturday evening i went over to the Dub and Dabs night which on this night was Dead and Dabs night and took a tiny piece of blotter and placed it gently on my tongue... i then proceeded to to take a few hits off the pen while my good friend rolled a large and fine joint of a good indica... then i sat back and waited... and up came the sun... i can say from my vast experience in this field that this was a quality hit, clean as we say, not speedy and cut with bullshit but very high quality Lucy and while there was a moment when looking at the small plastic container with about eight little squares in it i thought about taking two and i can actually say that for once erring on the side of caution paid off... as this one little square turned out to be more than enough to set me off on a fine evening... </p><p>To be honest i didn't set out to compare and contrast the merits of acid vs. shrooms, it's not really a contest as they are different but the same, the old yin-yang but not exactly... if you get my drift... as i sat hanging with my friend i could feel the lysergic acid begin to work it's magic... strangely my head was incredibly clear, even with the large joint we smoked and the number of rips off the pen, the mind remained quite limber, the ideas coming quick and fast and being easy to verbalize, which does happen on mushrooms as well but maybe not quite as easily, i'd say it is more a inner dialogue with mushrooms and more of an outer one with acid... the other main issue when it comes to this is the relative size of the dose, something that is much easier to ascertain when dealing with the fungus than when dealing with bits of paper or even a bottle of liquid and even then it is still not as precise as when taking mushrooms because unless someone has taken the same stuff it's still iffy... is that a pro? or con? don't really know but it's something i dwelled upon once back at the old house and sitting on the couch with Phat Paco... </p><p>The old electric hum was still there but it felt slightly different... granted psilocybin and lsd are maybe a bit more like cousins than brothers when i think about it... call it the wisdom of experience (or something like that) but looking back on things i noticed the difference much more now than when i did when i was younger... the decade of my 20s and early 30s was spent getting fucked up for fucked up's sake... i liked to take huge amounts of just about anything, not the smartest move obviously but something when one is young, stupid and (thinks) slightly invincible happens... granted psychedelics, mushrooms in particular, are considered the safest of substances topping the list right ahead off cannabis, so in those instances i was never worried about "kicking it" more just an exploration of how hard can this psychonaut trip balls while wandering the various streets of Podunk U., then Ocean City and then North Oakland and the East End... but that hum... </p><p>If there was one thing i noticed about the tiny piece of paper i tossed in my mouth that night it was the hum was there but it was tuned to a different station, or something of the sort, could i still feel the electric pulse of the universe? yes and no... now maybe i'm biased or maybe i need to do more research (nudge nudge wink wink) but while i greatly enjoyed my trip, dug the music, was probably more social than had i taken shrooms, there was something i couldn't quite put my finger on that seemed to be missing, the thoughts and ideas were there, the tingling of every synapse and nerve in the body was there, granted maybe i just needed to take a bit more but yet the dose felt comparable to a decent dose of mushrooms... so what was it that felt different? that is what i've thought the most about since that night.. </p><p>The biggest and most obvious difference is that one substance is organic and one man made and if the the truth be told i'm a much bigger fan of the organic... not to be misunderstood, i enjoy them both but the mushroom seems to be of the universe, made from it, naturally occurring, a cosmic accident or a cosmic gift, it doesn't matter... science is a brilliant and beautiful thing and i fully believe that substances like lsd are invaluable for humanity (see Timothy Leary and his study of acid and alcoholism) but there is something about the mushroom that trumps them all... when the electric hum starts it is a different feeling and experience, of course one could argue that it was due to the dose taken but i've taken small(er) doses of mushrooms and there was still a difference... so what is it? </p><p>The interesting thing about the acid was just how clear and concise my thoughts were, i was most definitely under the influence of it and the doors were open but it was different than taking mushrooms, it was more a constant hum so to speak, there was none of the rhythm, which is the only way to describe it, that one gets with mushrooms, what i love about the mushroom is the way it works with the body and mind and universe, yes i may sound like some psychedelic wastoid who has taken one dose too many but that's just how i see it... a long time ago i read that it takes about seven minutes for the blood to circulate through the body, what amazes and what i love about mushrooms is that they are tuned in, one can feel them, like breathing, as they rise and fall, the intensity reaching a crescendo every seven minutes where at the height of it there is no thought there is just being, that electric hum or song of the universe vibrating through you and while you can get that feeling somewhat with lsd it's not the same, acid opens the doors as well but in a different manner, maybe it's just me and how it affects me but the connection with the world around me feels and is much stronger on and after taking mushrooms than when i take a tab, granted at my age (nudge nudge wink wink) i would definitely say i could eat a tab and go out for the night at the same time but i've already done that with shrooms (see the fabled Flaming Lips show) but having dipped back into the lysergic pool i most definitely could have a good time with acid... another big difference, i could still drink beer on acid while when taking mushrooms it's strictly water... it could be my strange and warped view of things but the mushroom is a bit sacramental to me while acid is more like a party... though i'm sure with enough practice those roles could be reversed... </p><p>And so i spent the night talking with my friend and riffing on any number of subjects, from the trials and tribulations of the boyos, to the meaning of it all, from politics and of course the futbol... i then got my ass home where i spent the next few hours wandering around the Cave, the downstairs room where i now reside for the most part, listening to music and wandering about, watching a bit of telly, talking with Phat Paco about how cool he is and in the end it was a fine evening with Lucy... something i most definitely look forward to trying again... Major Kono to ground control... over and out... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HtBQnPbyJZg" width="320" youtube-src-id="HtBQnPbyJZg"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-32836778635929153542024-02-19T06:21:00.000-08:002024-02-19T06:21:06.548-08:00The Longest Day 6.0<p> Going back and re-reading it's interesting the things that seemed constant in this day... the biting, early morning Cleveland cold, the sound of the highway, the light in my father's front room, the icy steps to his apartment... year after year it's the things that stuck in my head... re-reading them i thought what have i missed? what have i forgot or more maybe more correctly chose to forget? i believe it was the original post where i talked about sitting on a bench in the hallway, the early morning sun of a blue-skyed winter day blindingly gleaming off the pure white snow of the courtyard outside, sitting on that bench and eating pretzels and sipping water as i was still working to shake off the remnants of the illness that had laid me flat a couple of days before... sitting on that bench and watching the doctors and nurses and people walk by, for some it was just another Tuesday at work, for some it was an appointment or a follow up visit and i'm sure there were some people just like me, waiting and wondering and hoping that the person they love was going to be alright... looking back now i know that i'm not the only one who will associate that day with the Longest Day... there were others there, kindred spirits, all keeping our fingers crossed... for some in that place it was the last day... </p><p>The arbitrary names and numbers that help us count and keep track of things, even of things such as memories, they remind us not to forget, as if there is some crime in forgetting... but there is no crime because we don't forget, we know and remember and even if those memories warp and fade into something different they are still there... there is a comfort to them, even the painful or sad ones, because in the end they are another piece, another chapter in the story and in order to be complete we need all the chapters... even the one that's the hardest to read... </p><p>Six years later and i still go over that day in my head, did i miss something? is there something i forgot? thinking back and remember how i barely slept, how i woke up at 4:15 in the morning and didn't get back to my dad's apartment until almost 10pm... the moment, as my big sister and i walked out of recovery where i finally lost it, where the tears streamed down my face and i said "he's the best friend i've ever had...." Looking back i understand that the time my sister and father had a bit of strained relationship, mainly due to politics, my father detesting the Orange Shitgibbon and his grand old party while my big sis had become a card carrying member... i know it bothered my dad, he couldn't understand how someone as intelligent as my sister could support these people, someone with a son on the spectrum, how could she back a buffoon and a party who would relegate her child as a drag on "their" system, a party that would like nothing more than to strip him of his rights, benefits, opportunities you name it... they hadn't talked as much over the last couple of years due to it and when my father spoke to me about it i could tell it bothered him... even that night, as i drove my sister home in our father's car she began talking about it, sadly i realized the latent racism and white privilege my sister exhibited, i think somewhere in my father's mind he didn't understand how his two children could be so different... but then again he probably could, we were two different people who experienced vastly different things, particularly between the ages of 18-27... years my sister lived at home (she is six years older) and years i spent at college and then walking into the Wilderness... </p><p>Five times this day has come and gone since that first one... each time i get up and look out the window at the sky... not once has it been as cold and sunny as on the Longest Day... driving through the city that morning i try to remember what my dad and i talked about, it was nothing important, no philosophical debates on the state of existence, we just talked, mainly to keep our minds off what lie ahead of us, each mile bringing us closer to the inevitable... not that we knew it at the time but we also both understood, the 100-1 longshot doesn't come in that often... and these odds were even longer... so we talked about the mundane, mainly because it brought about some normalcy in what was decidedly an abnormal day, in a few hours my father would have his whole torso cut open and two highly educated and skilled surgeons would see if they could play god... and as we know they couldn't... but they tried... and that's all one can ask for... </p><p>The Longest Day, version 6.0... it wasn't 4am but it was early enough, somewhere slightly south of 6am the eyes popped open, Phat Paco walked up for some morning head butts before plopping himself down on my chest and purring away while i stared at the ceiling... it wasn't lost on me that i've been sleeping on this couch/futon for over six years now as well, before it was sweet Syd who hung out and now it's Phat Paco, happy to lay around and keep me company, i tried to go back to sleep but mainly i just lay there thinking, i'm not sure anyone else remembers this day, maybe my big sis, possibly my aunt, i'm sure my father's older brother would have but now he is gone as well.. and so i took a deep breath and got up, stretched a bit and quietly walked around a sleeping house, the only movement the cats who eagerly anticipate their morning treats, i walked up the steps to turn on the coffeemaker and i could hear the light tap of their paws as they followed me around with expectant looks... </p><p>The morning would go decidedly pear-shaped from there... it was the rare day that the I-mac was ready for school on time and as we drove towards the high school he was talking about basketball, mainly the NBA and about guys scoring 70 points in a game and if i thought it was easier today than it used to be, my reply was no, it's hard to score that many no matter what level your at and in the NBA even more so, it's just a testament to how skilled these players are... since he had watched a Tik Tok claiming otherwise he disputed this fact to which i replied, i kinda know cuz i actually watched the guys in the 80s... the problem is if one dares disagree with the I-mac a meltdown ensues, it started because he said i was getting shitty about it and the truth is i was, mainly due to the fact that he started being a shithead and disputing everything i stated based on a fucking Tik Tok clip of some guy who wasn't even born in 1986 or whatever the fuck... it was ridiculous to the highest degree and only went downhill from there as he began screaming and yelling before elbowing me while i drove to school... Disaster in the backseat rolling his eyes because he's seen this show too many times to count... i drop the youngest boyo off but now the oldest boyo refuses to get out of the car because he's too worked up and is screaming about all sorts of things unrelated to the topic that kicked it all off... yeah, we got issues...</p><p>(the I-mac likes to play this game, you see last week his mother was the most horrible person on the planet and he wanted only to deal with me, this week the roles have reversed and it annoys him when both the BW and i call him out on his bullshit, as previously stated the boy is a walking excuse for all his fuck-ups and assholery while claiming none of it is his fault and blaming anyone and everyone... at times he'll even blame the cats... nuff said.) </p><p>We drove back home, the whole time him ranting away and me tuning out, he ran in and found his mother and i got ready for work... sometimes being a gig economy serf comes in handy, with no set schedule i can leave whenever and though i didn't have a batch i said i did and left... sitting in my car alone i thought about my father... i never treated my dad like this, i had too much respect, i understood the sacrifices he made even at 17 and though i had a phase where i was a right shithead that phase was short lived... i knew what i had to do and knew how to play the game... Pops always liked that about his only son, from a young age i had street smarts... he dug how i operated and kept out of trouble even if keeping out of trouble was basically just not getting caught... (little did he know what sort of shenanigans his adult son would get up to and though i gave him a small glimpse of my former occupation during the Wilderness Years i never told him the scale of which it attained... to be fair, Pops was no fool and figured his boy might have been into some things and now and then would mention it... i'd always give him my shit eating grin and a little shrug and tell him he might be onto something... as he once said to me during those years, you never asked for a dime or needed a place to stay, i don't know how you did it, i don't want to know, but i respect it... )</p><p>And so the day progressed... just another day, i worked the gig for a few hours, it wasn't a particularly busy day so after a small batch i kicked off and headed to the pool... the heater has now been fixed which means the days of walking into an empty pool and choosing a lane are over... a few days before the water was up to 71 degrees, still chilly to most but to those who paddled through the water when it was barely touching 60 it actually felt warm... now it's back to normal which means i can jump right in... there are certain days i always try to swim.... Feb. 13th, Jan. 21st, May 16th... all dates related to my father... Jan. 21st, Pops' birthday, was my last cold swim before they shut the pool down for repairs, call it serendipity... the water was freezing and i was the only one in the pool and i cranked out 1400 yards, the cold made it feel like two workouts in one and as i dragged myself out of the water i gazed out the large windows surrounding the pool, it felt good... after 16 days off i had gotten back in and this swim would be my fourth swim back, getting older the conditioning goes quick but i decided to do a mile, breaking it up into sets with certain number of lengths, as a tribute to Pops, it was one of the best parts of the day... </p><p>It's an interesting feeling thinking back on that day as each year it gets further away from the now, just an arbitrary point on an imaginary line and yet it is fixed in my mind, how vivid the memories are, how on that day i can look at the clock and know exactly what i was doing six years ago, when i was eating, when i was attempting to diffuse an argument between my aunt and uncle on one side and my sister on the other, the pager going off as i stared at my chicken soup and my heart sank, the discussion with the surgeon, the waiting in various halls and rooms... it was around the time i picked up the boyos, (yes the I-mac finally went to school, driven by his mother) and stated that today was the day of my father's surgery and it was around this very time my pager went off and i got the news... i calmly and casually explained that this day was probably more difficult to navigate than the day he passed as it was this day that verified what we all know but pretend not to acknowledge... we'll all die, now and then we get an idea of how long we'll have, sometimes old death just shows up, cancer can kiss my ass but if there is one thing it does do is it gives you some time, time to spend with the person you know you're going to lose and when that person means as much to you as my father did to me you take advantage of it... </p><p>(As is his way, Disaster randomly walked by and gave me hug after we had gotten home from school, i knew why, it is a markedly different relationship than the one i have with his brother and while the I-mac and i have deteriorated at the moment what i said in the car had struck a chord, slightly i'd say, as one of the things i often tell him is that the world is not just him, that other people have feelings, emotions, views, and a lot of times you'll not know what's really going on... unless of course they say something...) </p><p>The Longest Day was the start of a month and change of some of the most cherished times i had with my dad... i knew it then but i understand it more now... we spent a lot of time, we learned a lot of things, but mostly we both knew that we had a brilliant relationship... during the divorce my mother once accused my father of being my friend, you're damn right i'm his friend was his response, i was a grown man at this point for all intents and purpose, finishing college and wandering off into the wilderness... he was my best friend... many days i look up towards the sky, not with any religious connotation but understanding the universe is made of energy and energy cannot be destroyed, we just become something else, born of stardust we return to those elements that we're made of... i talk to him, ask for advice, have a laugh... the Longest Day had come again... and yes it was long, by evening as i made dinner and folded laundry, washed dishes and felt the pull of an aching back it struck me how this day was understandably different yet also similar to the original, when i finally sat down on my makeshift bed, exhausted, i turned on the telly and of course a basketball game was on, just like that night six years ago, i couldn't help but smile... then Phat Paco came purring my way with his big shining eyes and plopped down next to me... he loves his Paco and Dad time as i call it... i lay down and pulled up the blankets, turned off the light behind me, listened to the hum of my big cat in the fluorescent glow of the television... i looked towards the ceiling and whispered, "i love you dad", and drifted off to sleep...</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-43650090635099046772024-02-05T05:43:00.000-08:002024-02-05T05:43:46.369-08:00Fathers and Sons<p> We all know what Oscar said about stealing rather than borrowing and while inhabiting the delusional world of a shut-in like myself i pretend to be a genius in my own mind while the rest of the universe knows, factually, that i'm a fucking idiot... luckily that doesn't stop me from getting out of bed in the morning but that's more because i have to than actually want to... if it was up to me Fat Paco and i would lounge about scratching our nuts and staring at the ceiling... so what, pray tell, have i stolen? mainly it's the title of this post but even that wouldn't be entirely correct... there's an excellent book written by Larry Brown titled Father and Son, hence where this title sorta comes from, there's also and equally excellent sequel to that book titled Fay... Brown was one of those writers that was classified as Grit Lit, a genre i didn't know existed and basically consists of writing about the working class... (unlike the previous post which references Easton Ellis and my own made genre of poor little rich kid lit)... Brown was a fireman turned writer who set his stories in the South and had a knack for writing about the plain spoken everyday fucking mess us commoners can make of our lives... something a great many of us can relate to...</p><p>But this bit is not a book review... it's about fathers and sons or more to be more specific a certain father and his two sons... and the trials, tribulations, joys, laughter, pain and the rest of the shit that goes along with said gig... to steal another line from a guy in an over-sized suit... sometimes i wake up in the middle of the night in the chilly dark of a downstairs room and wonder, well? how did i get here? which to be honest is not a question i spend a lot of time thinking about... you is where you is or more correctly i be where i be and what else is there to really know? it's been stated ad nauseum here on the lounge how the boyos basically saved their old man's life... it's no secret that over the years i've battled a variety of demons (see substances) that i've had a predilection for but luckily for me (and dare i say you dear reader... that's a joke) i'm as stubborn as i am stupid... having kicked all those habits not entirely unscathed but more or less still intact... taking stock of the situation i understand that had i not made the questionable choice of a wobbly union followed by the birth of the boyos i was most likely drastically increasing my odds of finding myself in prison or the morgue... given my activities at the time those two destinations had much higher percentages than i would admit or even think about way back when but realize now how attainable they actually were... and yes i sometimes get that cold shiver followed by that belly laugh that says... life's a fuckin' trip innit? </p><p>So here i am, ensconced in the suburban bubble, attempting to raise the boyos so as not to be assholes, so as not to act or be like some of the privileged shits who roam the tree-lined streets filled with McMansions, a conglomerate of whiteness where the children are all "special" and the autos all high end... how does a working class kid from the West Side of Cleveland acclimate to a place which is the antithesis to his strange and warped ethics while also trying to instill into his sons the same such moral code... a code that can be simply stated as such... don't be an asshole, don't dwell on the material, remember you are not the center of the universe but a miniscule part of it, that your existence is but the blink of an eye in the cosmic scheme of things so make the most of it and most importantly enjoy it... there are so many people shuffling through this life not seeming to grasp the finite, hung up on the most trivial bullshit a culture can muster, head buried in the proverbial sand... i try not to make it too heavy because it really is all just a laugh... the alternative would be to try an indoctrinate them into a cult that believes in an all knowing, all powerful being with a silly set of rules, many of which pertain to said "being's" own vanity... or i can try and teach them not to be an asshole, seems the latter is the more pragmatic solution... </p><p>There is nothing which drives home one's own mortality like their children... since the birth of the I-mac and Disaster it seems that time has been speeding up... yes i know it hasn't but as i watch the boyos grow up it seems like it wasn't that long ago when i was changing their diapers and feeding them from a bottle, watching first steps, hearing first words, and now here i sit with both of them in high school, the I-mac soon to be graduated and dipping his toes into the waters of independence... well with any luck, the I-mac isn't exactly excelling in the responsibility and accountability department but we're trying and it has been and ugly and frustrating process to say the least... it's something that the BW and i take full responsibility for, in short... we fucked up, not for lack of trying mind you but we've made mistakes and have done our best to learn from them... i've always had a theory about the first child (though i'm not sure if it pertains to the only child), the first child is the trial run, the experiment, one day they hand you this squirming ball that does nothing more than cry, eat and shit themselves, walk you to the car and say have a nice day... for those of us attempting to do a decent job at this endeavor it's fucking terrifying, i had no fucking clue what to do, one can read books and the like but until faced with it there really is no way to prepare... said child is showered with attention, most of it positive, very little negative, all the phobias, worries, concerns, quirks or what has commonly been dubbed, helicopter parenting are heaped on Kid One... note the difference between the first and second kid, not the difference between the first and fourth kid (if one is so procreationally inclined), it's staggering... </p><p>To be clear the 16-17yr old Kono was no saint, in fact i too was a major shithead it's just that my shithead phase lasted a couple months not a couple of years... the spring of my junior year in high school i was dating Wendy da Wabbit (there's a lovely post somewhere about Wendy and how we used to screw in her blue Chevy Caprice after she got off work from Taco Bell, fucking young lust!), i had begun drinking and smoking weed, i was in a serious hardcore phase listening to nothing but Black Flag, the Circle Jerks, Dead Kennedys, Suicidal Tendencies and the like... i was acting up and spreading the wings a bit and i was a right dipshit... i came home fucking blotto on a Tuesday (school night) and Pops was none to impressed or amused... shortly thereafter he sat me down and gave me a talk about me being an raging idiot and then stated that if i thought i was a man to let him know and we could go out back and he'd show me, the exact words were, "you think you can take me?" and he looked across the table with his steely gaze and i looked right back... ah the Gen X kids, the last of the feral children, the kids raised without seatbelts or bicycle helmets or cell phones to track us... yes i sound like the old man yelling get off of my lawn but it's true, it's how we came of age... when you got your ass kicked you didn't call from your cellpone you had walk to a payphone to call for a ride and explain what happened... the thing was i had massive respect for my dad, even as a shithead teen i knew he'd put himself through school and sacrificed a whole lot to provide the life i had... and that's the difference. Respect. </p><p>I've been warned repeatedly by the BW not to ever talk about the Wilderness Years... sometimes i wonder if she thinks i'm stupid... maybe when the boyos are old enough i'll steer them towards the old man's ramblings but until then the less they know the better, particularly the I-mac... he may be the poster boy for what is commonly known around here as the Lebo Douche, a species of privileged suburban teen (and sometimes adult) who believe the universe shines out of their ass, horribly superficial know-it-alls who think they're hard guys when really the more apt description would be cream puff or marshmallow... the BW has spent countless hours worrying about him while i have tried to explain to her that helping him, see actually doing his schoolwork/projects, is not a remedy... failure is a remedy, failure teaches far more than success, failure will teach him that he can't just fuck about and think the world will lay down for him... i tried to explain this to him when it came to football (soccer) but it fell on deaf ears... and it wasn't like i didn't know what i was talking about, his old man played hoops in college until injury and frustration taught him it's more fun to go to school and enjoy it than be beholden to a coach he couldn't stand, but the fact was when i was in high school there was no doubt in my mind i'd play in college and i worked at it, on my own, to make sure it would happen though even i don't think i realized it... i was just driven... i played a sport in college that takes less than 5% of the players that played in high school, and that's all levels, i was recruited to play at the top and had offers from Division 2 schools as well... in short, i know what it takes... </p><p>If there is one thing i can't stomach though it's the excuse machine... i was lucky, i had a coach in high school, that i later realized, believed i had a ton of talent, i should have been benched for my mouth and attitude at times but i never was, he also told me, well more correctly yelled at me, an important bit of advice one day, he said "i don't want to hear your damn excuses just get it done." It was my junior year... it hit home... and those words have stuck with me ever since no matter what i'm doing... i used to talk to the I-mac about practicing on his own, not in the pushy parent vicariously living out his dream but because he stated he wanted to play in college and i explained so did a lot of people and to get to that point one had to work at it not talk about it... that he had all the physical gifts one could want but that really it was up to him what he did with them... he ended up doing very little other than talk about it... </p><p>The problem is this pattern of behavior permeates every aspect of his life and then when shit goes pear shaped he feels bad about himself... a classic case of the cover-up, he acts like a confident kid with high self-esteem but he's lying to himself... and sometimes he admits that to himself, the issue is he doesn't try to change it, he pats himself on the back for recognizing the problem and then does nothing to fix it... other than fly into rages, teenage temper tantrums that often have him lashing out both physically and verbally... it ain't pretty and i've now had him throw things at me, throw punches, spit and hurl any number of insults that would most likely bother a normal parent... but i ain't normal... i know what he says bothers his mother and since she spent her childhood dealing with an abusive father i'm not about to let her kid do it as well and so when he goes after her i make sure to draw his ire towards me... as my father once said to me, "you're a different animal kid", i know i am and i can be a hard and cold motherfucker, sometimes that's what it takes... ultimately what i've told the I-mac is what what Pops told me... it's his life and the only person he really owes anything to is himself... if he wants to do something or attain a certain status (a phrase i find nauseating) then he has to put the work in to do it, it doesn't just magically happen, in less than six months the bubble of the lily white high school pops and the beginnings of the real world will begin to beckon, his mother is worried sick, i'm what you call concerned but also of the opinion that when life kicks you in the fucking balls a few times one learns.. or at least they should... but for every yin there is the yang... </p><p>Disaster is a typical teen and sometimes i worry that he feels like he has to be perfect because his big brother is such a raging pain in the ass, i also worry about what the outbursts and stress do to him when his big bro flies into one of his toddler-like shit fits... Disaster is his dad's boy, always has been, when we moved out to the burbs and the Big World Bank Machine laid me off i became the Big Hairy Carol Brady for a bit, (until the pandemic when the BW decided it would be good for me to become a gig economy serf), for a couple of years it was just me and him all day, he was a mellow kid and i was a mellow dad, we'd go to the park or lounge about at home, one can check the post about the night he got lost at the high school football game and the first words he spoke when we found him, "i was afraid i was never gonna see my dad again...", i honestly believe the boy loves basketball because of his old man and that he gave up soccer, which he was pretty damn good at, because he wanted to be like his dad... as anyone with multiple offspring knows it's a different relationship with each kid, you love them both the same but the relationships can be night and day... </p><p>If there is one major difference it's in the sense of entitlement my two sons possess... the I-mac seems to think he deserves everything handed to him while Disaster is much more cognizant and appreciative of the the things people do for him, not that the I-mac is completely oblivious but one would be hard pressed to know that by his behavior... Disaster on the other hand is the polar opposite... how it happened that way? no one knows... or maybe we do but that's a lot of family therapy to sit through... one thing i can point to is a basketball camp Disaster attended over the summer, the camp was excellent on teaching the mental aspects of things and one of the things it taught was to appreciate and respect what people do for you, there was a session that discussed the cost and the time involved in said camp and how someone had to spend the money and take the time to get the player there and how that each player should recognize that and thank those people and how that just wasn't about the camp it was about life in general... Disaster was always a good kid but that lesson seemed to really hit home and since then he's been even more appreciative in a truly genuine way that is brilliant to see...</p><p>Recently Disaster had been hanging out with some kids from the next neighborhood over, there is/was a girl involved and one weekend when i was supposed to hang at Dub and Dab night with my friend (where his old man brings his dub and reggae records to his friend's place and they smoke/dab copious amounts of ganja) we had it set up that i would get him before i went over and drop him off at home... as things do sometimes it got a bit messed up, Disaster asked i he could stay later and i'll admit i felt bad about saying no, he's in high school now and should be able to hang and so we discussed things and i told him that sometimes when you make a plan you have to stick to it, i asked how he'd get home and his explained his friend would be able to take him back to his house which was right around the corner from where i was... i agreed and said to keep me posted... Disaster is more reserved than his brother but if there is one thing that bothers him if it's his old man is mad at him... not that i ever get that mad at the boy but it's funny how he worries about it... i've explained to him that he's a good kid and that it's cool but on this night he even stated that he didn't want me to be pissed and wanted me to go hang with my friend... it's an attitude of consideration and thought rarely seen from his older brother... </p><p>So the plan was made and i waited to see how or if it would work out.. Disaster and his friend caught an Uber back to his friend's place (fuckin' kids these days, used to be we had to walk, ride a bike, bum a ride from someone or take the bus), his friend had already set it up and so Disaster caught a ride back with him and texted me when he arrived, when i pulled up ten minutes later he was standing out front and as i pulled up all i could think of was what a great kid he was... he got in and smiled and i told him i was proud of him, that i knew he was relying on other people to get back and that sometimes people can be unreliable but that he did what he said he would do, that it showed responsibility and maturity... i could tell he was quite chuffed at the compliments and we drove home and he talked about his night, how funny the Uber driver was, the girl he was hanging with, Disaster loves his drives with his dad, he'll even ask to go with me if i'm picking up food or what not, just to hang and talk and sometimes play songs, some made by his friends, which i good naturedly indulge... to steal from Bobby Pollard again, the things that i will keep, these conversations, these moments in time... i have a feeling it's what Disaster will remember too... and what i really hope is that Disaster and i maintain this relationship until i step into that void... </p><p>It's a strange thing how two brothers can be so different in so many ways... raised by the same people, instilled with the same values, i understand the outside influences that creep in and how they can alter said kids' views and attitudes... and yes mistakes were made but as previously stated there is no handbook for doing this shit... one learns on the fly and hopes they don't fuck it up too badly... my research has given me the glimmer of hope that the I-mac will get his shit together at some point... most likely after good old life kicks him in the nuts a time or two... if he doesn't learn then? well i guess we'll take it as it comes... as for Disaster? i don't sweat it as much... i know they'll be trials and tribulations along the way but the kid reminds of someone i know... mainly his father... which does worry me a little bit knowing his old man like i do but i also know that his old man will do his best to help him steer clear of the dumb shit he did... or at least he's gonna try... (to be cont.) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JCQVnSOFqfM" width="320" youtube-src-id="JCQVnSOFqfM"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-27746825902500594252024-01-08T05:37:00.000-08:002024-01-08T05:39:12.687-08:00The First Rule of Swim Clulb<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/gXk1mUrypmY" width="320" youtube-src-id="gXk1mUrypmY"></iframe></div><br />... is you don't talk about Swim Club... the second rule of Swim Club? well to be honest there is actually no Swim Club, it's just a name made up to describe the place i swim at and my fellow swimmers and of course the gaggle of elderly "walkers" who populate the pool... and by walkers i don't mean in the zombie like sense, though there is a case to be made for some of them, but the elderly folks who spend their time walking back and forth in the first lane which is often more of a social thing as they tend to stand and talk to each other more than actually walk but since that's the lane of last resort for the swimming set it works out pretty well... as is my usual i have taken a keen interest in making up back stories for my fellow patrons of the pool and yes i even have friendly, meaningless conversations with some off them... and why not? as Mr. Vonnegut said, the point of life is to fart around... and Kurt was right, i may be a misanthrope but i've always been a social misanthrope, a cultural anthropologist of a sort studying the inanity of modern society all so i can sit at a computer in the morning and spin yarns into the ether... it makes me feel productive or some such shite before i get on with the rest of the day in this trainwreck of an era known as late capitalism... </span></div><div>For one who has lacked discipline for most of his life i am incredibly disciplined when it comes to swimming... what started and still is ostensibly for my aching back has now become something of my hour of Zen... i truly love the rhythmic movement of my arms and legs, the breathing, the feel of gliding through the water... i enjoy the feeling when i'm finished and the tired beauty of the muscles, my ritual of jumping in the hot tub for five minutes before hitting the shower... in fact i believe i've graduated to being (almost) a real swimmer... see i consider myself a half-ass swimmer, an ex-basketball player with creaky knees and a shit back who can no longer run so instead swims... the real swimmers, as i call them, swam in high school or college, can do the flip turns, wear the kind of swimsuits that a real swimmer wears... i show up in my old board shorts and goggles and just go at it, no bathing cap or fins (though i do like swimming with fins i've just never got around to getting a pair) and i'm afraid to learn the flip turn cuz the pool is a shallow lap pool and i'm convinced i'll smack my head off the bottom and knock myself out... i'm somewhat amazed when i have people ask me about my swims, when they mention how i seem to just cruise along, how i can swim for forty minutes or an hour at a decent clip.. there is a that brief flicker of accomplishment, the feeling that maybe i don't look like a jackass splashing my way down the lane... </div><div><br /></div><div>There is a culture at the pool, a set of unwritten rules that <i>most </i>of us follow, yes there is always the odd individual or the newbie who jumps in and pisses the regulars off... i on one occasion started yelling at a guy because i was swimming in a lane by myself and he just jumped in, now i'll gladly share a lane with anyone but at least let me know that you'd like to share and don't just jump in and start paddling down the middle of the lane... when i almost cracked heads with the guy i stood up and started yellling... "what the fuck are you doing? you need to say something if you wanna share and pick a side (of the lane) man, i mean what the fuck? i'm not trying to fucking knock myself out because of your ignorance..." yes one could say i was pissed and said guy looked shocked but it was bullshit, not only was it rude but it was fucking dangerous, for the novice they most likely don't understand that state of no mind that envelops when me when i'm cruising through the water, if i'm sharing a lane it's the same, i know i have my side and the "real swimmers" understand to stay on our side, yes sharing may not be as tranquil as when i have a lane to myself but when it's busy there is no use being an asshole... i share... though there are some who most decidedly don't or become annoyed if you ask... and those people can get fucked... </div><div><br /></div><div>The Swim Club does have it's fair share of annoying shitheads, there are a few walkers who regularly get on my fucking nerves... there is one woman who feels the need to tell you to move over or to share a lane with someone else so that she can have a lane to herself (or invite more of her walking friends) to slowly walk or sometimes float but mainly to stand around and talk... when she pulled this on me the first time i was sorta surprised and so being the nice guy i am i said sure, though the look on my face was one of bemusement, when i realized what she was doing i was a bit pissed and when she came in a week or so later and asked the same thing i smiled and politely declined and kept right on swimming, she wasn't very happy about it but little did i care, she has since taken to giving me the stink eye but has not asked me to switch lanes in the middle of my swim anymore... </div><div><br /></div><div>It's not all selfish assholes though and there are a good many people who are nice and pleasant, the Stock Broker is one of my swimming buddies, we have a bit of an unwritten rule that we'll share a lane with each other when it's crowded, he's one of those guys who swam in college, drives a black BMW and probably thinks like him i'm some successful type who can swim in the morning or afternoons though i am decidedly not... but he's cool... there is Turkish, a woman who is sweet and always shares a lane if asked, i believe she is of Turkish decent and has talked about her many trips to the country... there is Mamcita, a young Hispanic woman who always wears a two piece and can be quite distracting... she's quite attractive and it's funny to watch when she comes in with her kickboard and the men all do their best to take clandestine glimpses of her... there is the lesbian woman who i've become friends with, she sports a subtle triangle tattoo on her back but we share lanes and always joke about who is setting the pace when we swim together, she always saying she's trying to keep up with me and me saying i'm always trying to keep up with her, another very cool person to swim with... there is Open Water, dubbed so because the woman is an open water swimmer, her last of which she told me was an 18 mile swim in the rivers (see map of Yinzerville) that took almost 11 hours, i stared wide-eyed as she told me and laughed that i didn't feel so bad anymore when she was lapping me every two minutes, i told her it was a bit soul-crushing to share a lane and she said i get that a lot, which we both had a good laugh at... there's the Handyman, a retired guy who used to swim and does a workout that blows my mind, he's 67 and swims like a madman and then does sit ups in the water with his feet up over the edge of the pool before taking off on another few hundred yard set... i told him that when i grow up i want to be just like him... </div><div><br /></div><div>There is the Penguin, a little old man who looks like the Penguin character from the old Batman tv show from the late 60s early 70s, he shuffles to the hot tub and then wades slowly into the pool and usually is complaining about something under his breath, he looks miserable but is great to watch as he pulls his little suitcase behind him... and there is Paul, my favorite, an older guy who was an autoworker, one of those old card carrying liberals who always has to deal with the other old white guys assuming he's a member of the grand old party... Paul most definitely is not, he's got stories both heartbreaking and brilliant, he has talked about how he's lost both a son and a grandson to the opiate epidemic and tells tales about his days as an off-hours pool shark, how he won a Cadillac one night shooting pool in a bar near Flint, Michigan where he worked, how when he got the job he drove all night and showed up sometime close to midnight on a Saturday and the guard laughed and said, you early, and directed him to a motel while telling him to come back Monday morning when the bosses where in... we talk politics on the sly and both laugh and worry about the dumb shit we hear coming out of people's mouths, how if you're a white guy of a certain age other white guys automatically think you support a certain Orange Shitgibbon, how to deal with a latent racism that underscores white males when they think that only white males are around, a situation that is both disgusting and frightening, Paul is easily one of the most intelligent guys around this joint and it's always great to talk with him... </div><div><br /></div><div>And then there is my favorite case study... Bateman. As in Patrick Bateman as played by Christian Bale in the movie adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis novel American Psycho... and while i'm not a fan of what i've dubbed "the poor little rich kid" genre of which Ellis wrote extensively, the movie is a good laugh especially for the whole Huey Lewis scene where Bateman gives his overview of Huey Lewis and the News before taking an axe to an unsuspecting co-worker played by Jared Leto... Bateman was christened Bateman due to the fact he looks <i>and acts </i>uncannily like the character from the movie... he is meticulous in his appearance, his form in the pool, while somewhat odd, is both mechanical and perfect, he most definitely has a bathroom filled with products designed to keep his skin healthy and exfoliated, my bet is he spends hours admiring himself in the mirror while talking to himself, a conversation that vacillates between raging narcissist and loathing self hatred... he is most odd and there are days when i don't see him where i chuckle to myself, in a rather sick and demented way, that he had to dispose of a body this morning... he shows up with his bag of supplies and his Gatorade Zero, hates to share a lane, never appears to swim all that fast and seems to take breaks every lap or two where he proceeds to stare down the lane at all the demons in his head... or something like that... </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll be honest when i say i worry about Bateman, mainly because we got off to a bit of a rocky start... i was sharing a lane one day with a guy and as we both were finishing up we were talking for a minute at the end of the lane... Bateman was still adjusting to the new pool as his old one wasn't nearly as busy, when he rudely leaned across the lane and started barking orders at us as to which lane we would now be in and how the guy in his lane would come to mine and the guy in my lane would go to his and how he liked things to be a certain way and that we needed to stop talking (which is funny since Bateman spends more time standing at the end of his lane than actually swimming)... the guy i was sharing a lane gave me a look that stated, "what's with this fucking guy?" to which i gave him the same in return, since we were both done we informed Bateman he could have the lane to which he promptly told the guy in his lane to move... i do have to admit i slipped in a "i'll be done when i'm fucking done Patrick" to which Bateman gave me a surprised look.. i'm quite a bit larger than Bateman and thought about playing Out Asshole the Asshole and stopped myself from asking him about Huey Lewis and the News...</div><div><br /></div><div>Then there is the Grove Crew... what is the Grove Crew? The Grove is a bar/restaurant/club not far from where i live that apparently has DJs every Saturday night... i've now had a few women tell me i should come down some Saturday night, in fact the one jokingly said she was going to stalk me until i showed up some night... let me clarify that the thought of this place frightens me... this is not the clubs of old where i spent my wasted youth tripping until the wee hours before going to an all night diner and having some grub before walking in the door as the sun came up... this is one of those places that play basically the same pop hits from the 70s and 80s, some disco tossed in for good measure, where many 50 and older white people drink too much and dance poorly, it would be akin to Sartre's No Exit if that was set in a suburban dance club that from the outside resembles something like a Siberian gulag... it sounds like pure hell... granted i'm polite as i smile and say "i'll have to check it out sometime" but there is really no fucking way i'm checking this place out... unless of course i eat some boomers and wander in for a laugh but usually i don't like to get off the couch when the fungus is involved... unless of course it's to ride the train to see bands at a certain venue... </div><div>--------</div><div>These days the crowd at the pool has greatly thinned out... the heater has been broken for the past couple of weeks and the water temperature has steadily plummeted to temps that make one seriously question their judgement as they plunge in... and believe me there is no easing into this shit or i'd say fuck this and head to the hot tub... i'm still trying to work out if the best method is a freezing cold shower before plunging in or just jumping in and taking off... i've tried both and they both fucking suck... even once i'm going the water is still cold enough that i never feel even slightly warm and my toes are practically numb by the time i'm finished, the body does adjust a little and i still feel great when i'm done but my swims are now more like two workouts in one, the swimming part and the battling the freezing water part... the club has put up signs apologizing for the inconvienence and claims they are just waiting on a part... that sign also states the water is "approximately" 75 degrees (Fahrenheit) but that's being far to generous, i'd say it's closer to 70? which doesn't seem that bad for a nice fall or spring day but when one plunges their whole body in and then proceeds to subject themselves non-stop to that for 30 or 40 minutes it becomes a bit masochistic (most days i swim between 40 to 60 minutes).. needless to say getting a lane to myself has been rather easy and even the psycho Bateman seems to have halted his appearances, not to mention how all the walkers and elderly ladies who use the pool more as a social thing have completely abandoned the idea of getting in... so while i may not like the water temp i guess there are some advantages to the whole situation... and while it feels strangely good on the creaky old back i'm really hoping they get the damn thing fixed soon... but just like Tyler Durden weeded out the recruits with a test of will i believe i have passed said test... or as i said to one of the the few remaining fellow swimmers the one day, we have to be either crazy or stupid to still be doing this shit... the first rule of Swim Club is... </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LB5YkmjalDg" width="320" youtube-src-id="LB5YkmjalDg"></iframe></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-9317404333718442832023-12-20T05:52:00.000-08:002023-12-20T05:52:27.116-08:00The Final Whistle pt. 5<p> The I-mac had taken to taping up his wrist before games, we never really knew why and he never stated there was anything wrong but he always popped up on the field with his wrist and thumb taped... on the day of the big game he had went to the trainer to get taped but the custodians had locked all the gates leading to the training room and so he had to hop some fences or take the long way around... and so the I-mac did what any 17yr old would do, he hopped the fences... there were two fences to hop about ten feet apart from each other... he got over the first one fine and for some reason switched his Crocs out of sport mode, a mode i didn't even realize they had but which means the little thing in back which flips over the heal was up instead of down which makes it more like a sandal... so on the second fence as he climbed over, Crocs in non-sport mode, his Croc began to slip and his leg was caught and he was in a weird position and worried about his knee so he somehow yanked his left leg free coming down hard on his right ankle and foot... so hard he said his body wouldn't even let him put his foot down after impact... he went to the trainer, they checked it out and said it felt okay and would probably just be sore tomorrow but everything felt good, the taped it up and off he went to warm-up...</p><p>And the kid played a blinder... the most dangerous player on the field, he played more minutes than anyone, 70 of 80, created chances, had the only dangerous shots on goal, was tracking back and winning balls, was physical, played brilliant one touch passes and created a half dozen chances for other players who promptly wasted them... and of course the defense got out of position and got scored on right before half, they were down 1-0... they now had forty minutes and needed two goals to have any hope... they didn't even get one... those playoff hopes were now nonexistent, mathematically there was still a chance but it would take the team above them to lose both games and those games were against the sections worst two teams, those teams had two section wins between them, mainly the one beating the other one twice... so basically, once again, no playoffs... </p><p>In the car the I-mac told us what happened before the game and once home his foot was swollen and painful... the next day before practice he went to the trainer again and the team doctor just happened to be there, he took one look and immediately sent him for x-rays... the x-rays would show a broken ankle meaning the kid his coach thought was soft effectively played his last high school game on a broken ankle and was still his best player by far... the most telling thing though was what the I-mac said to me, he said "it's weird, i feel like i should feel sad but i'm not, i'm more relieved than anything...", it's something that someday i will tell Cageboy and let him know that it's one more huge reason why he should never fucking coach again... that statement spoke volumes... </p><p>The BW had taken the I-mac for the x-rays as i had to take Disaster somewhere... i was back home when i got a text from a friend of mine, his son (who i coached in basketball) is a freshman like Disaster and played on the JV soccer team, he told me that Cageboy had called in the team, mind you with two games left, and announced he'd be stepping down at the end of the season... had there been no games left i'm sure a large number of players would have cheered but they all stood there and listened... honestly though the season was over as Cageboy would cancel most of the practices left while collecting his check and taking almost no interest in what was happening... the smart money was on the fact Cageboy was told he could resign and leave on his own terms or be fired... don't forget this was Cageboy's dream job, he was going to restore glory to the program, he was going to be a hall of famer like his shit mentor, instead in four years he had produced one winning season, one playoff appearance that resulted in a home loss and finished with a career record six games under .500... was that horrible? yes and no... most coaches would be given the benefit of the doubt and be allowed to continue, this is high school soccer not basketball or football and at a public school to boot, some districts are just happy to have someone willing to coach the team, but here in the lily-white, where we compete with all the other affluent bubble children, the community expected better especially given the talent... a couple of good players can make a huge difference in high school soccer, Cagebooy had those, I-mac was one, he had a team full of club players, yet still could not or would not set them up to be successful... any halfwit could have set this team up better than Cageboy... his firing/resignation was well earned... </p><p>The last official bit of business was the team banquet... the I-mac being a senior both the BW and i went even though it wasn't something any of us were looking forward to and of course on the way there the I-mac began acting like a right shit to the point i wanted to drop him off and return home... luckily the players all sat together so the BW and i sat with a couple parents we knew... Cageboy, ever the fucking coward, showed up late after dinner had started... it was obvious he didn't want to have to speak to any of the parents mainly because you can't bully adults when you're a scrawny half-wit shit coach... i can say he most definitely did his best to avoid getting within earshot of me but i had been told before we left to be on my best behavior... it's funny because while i may be a fucking neanderthal i know how to navigate the world, now was not the time or the place no matter how disgusting i found Cageboy and his antics, though i've been told i can make people feel horribly uncomfortable without saying a word and the few times Cageboy made the mistake of glancing my direction he had to clench his sphincter a bit as he was met with an icy glare and quickly found somewhere else to look... </p><p>Once upon the stage, sober, it was just as much a shit show as the drunk Cageboy... i'll quote his own words... a fucking loser, an embarrassment, a joke... and some of my own... a bitter and angry chickenshit who demonstrated even less class, something i didn't even think was possible... it was a veiled airing of grievances, he said nothing about the players but mainly praised all the hard work he had put in, he sounded like a spoiled child who had had his new toy taken away... by the time he was done talking, a speech mind you that was maybe five minutes unlike the hour of drunken rambling the year before, i had to remind myself to stay seated and not greet him as he walked off the stage with and uppercut to his chin... an action i'm sure would have been met with wild applause... he took his seat and at least stayed through the video presentation (excellently done by a player's father) but was sure to jump up and practically run for the door as soon as the presentation ended... Cageboy the Coward had always had good speed i was told... today was no different... </p><p>It was quite ripe that a man who loved the word accountability, when faced with possibly having to take some or face some, was dashing so fast to his car that there was a trail of flames behind him... there's a word i save for special occasions, when it is both earned and called for and this was one of those... Cageboy was a cunt... pure and simple... maybe now the program could actually get moving in the right direction... it would be nice to say the story ended there but disgraced coach Cageboy has never been accused of being particularly bright... like the idiot who sat catatonic only to jump up and vehemently protest some inane call in the center of the pitch, Cageboy ran his mouth to one of his former players... and of course since there has only been maybe one or two that actually like the guy (this one not being one of them) the player promptly let the current players know what he said... </p><p>If there is one thing Cageboy could be commended for it most definitely be his ability to sink ever lower into the realms of shit coaches... while i didn't ask if this conversation took place in a bar (the smart money is it did) Cageboy proceeded to whine about "kids these days", how they were uncoachable, how he had lost the team the last couple of years <i>because of the kids, </i>how they didn't listen, how they were soft and lacked the requisite toughness that a career benchwarmer apparently displayed when he had played... you fucking kidding me bruh? Mr. Accountability once again was on his soapbox preaching about how it wasn't his fault... it was everyone else but not him... Cageboy can go fuck himself in the ass with an unlubed giant dildo... it's astonishing, once again i thought my opinion could sink no lower but kuddos the the Cageboy, it did... i've coached the same kids in this community, usually in hoops, and yes you get the problem kid here and there but if one actually has a spine and some principles shit gets straightened out... when this shit happened i used to explain to the parents that one, i'm not a babysitter for a few hours a week, and two what i ask is commitment and respect to teammates, coaches and what we are trying to do... if that's a problem then feel free to contact the home office and bitch but also feel free to remove your kid from my team... since i've coached i've had nothing but overwhelming support and positive feedback from parents, their kid learns and gets better, yes i can be a bit animated but i know how to communicate and get things accomplished... i take full responsibility for how my team plays, give them players credit for the wins, i take the blame for the losses, i've had one or two kids pack it in but a couple dozen who have told me they loved playing for me and it was their favorite seasons when i was their coach... the exact opposite of Cageboy... it's the most gratifying part of the gig... </p><p>As the banquet ended and we began to file out the exit, an exit which was easy to find due to the still smoldering trail that Cageboy had left as he dashed towards his FJ Cruiser, i ran into the JV coach... as previously mentioned he's an excellent coach, a guy with a PHD in education and a masters degree in nutrition, a guy who should have been hired four years ago if not for the Walrus putting his boy in place and promptly hitting the throttle and steering for the iceberg... he said it was looking good for him to get the job, i said that would be great as i felt he deserved it, that he was an excellent coach who knew the game, knew how to set up his team and get the best from his players... then i added, you should have been hired four years ago, he smiled a bit, i then said, this last guy was abysmal, i loathe to call him a coach because as someone who coaches he is everything i abhor but at least if they hire you the program could get back on track... i told him i would be writing the AD and recommending he get the job, he thanked me and said he appreciated the support... sadly, i said, it's too late for these seniors who had to suffer through the last four years but i'm happy for the kids coming up... we shook hands and then the I-mac, BW and i walked to the car... (to be cont.) </p><p><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-57504025318847570242023-12-14T05:55:00.000-08:002023-12-14T05:55:14.391-08:00The Land<p> I was zipping along I-79 when the song came on... i immediately thought of two things, the first was Pops, the song in question, Middle America by Stephen Malkmus and the Jicks, was off a record that came out two days after my father died, but this song had been the first single and had been playing on the old satellite radio for the last six months or so, Steve being one of my favorite musicians ever (i was an early devotee to the band Pavement) i was stoked to hear this new one and of course it became an integral part to the soundtrack of my life particularly at the time... the lyrics hit home in a way specific to me, a kid from a working class suburb who was now dealing with the terminal illness of his father, a man he loved more than anyone, his best friend, as it came on the satellite radio again i could feel my eyes well a bit thinking about hearing this same song as i drove back and forth from Pittsburgh to Cleveland to help my dad for all those weeks in February and March, in my car alone and singing at the top of my lungs as i'm prone to do when a song i love comes on... on this day with the boyos half-asleep in the backseat and the Breadwinner quietly sitting in the passenger seat my mind drifted to those days as a melancholy grin settled upon my stubbled mug... </p><p>The second thought that sprung into my mind was from that old weirdo Robert Anton Wilson, the writer-philosopher-shaman and his thoughts and ideas on coincidence, how he felt there was more than a little coincidence in the coincidences that seemed to happen to people, mainly as if they were not coincidences at all but somehow willed into being whether consciously or unconsciously, an interesting theory and one i have varied thoughts about but it was interesting that how a song that was over five years old would come on the radio as i drove back to Cleveland for the first time since June of 2018 when i went to celebrate my Dad's life on the shores of Lake Erie, a summer day spent listening to stories and watching the sun set spectacularly behind the shimmering lake, there was something beautiful about the coincidence and symmetry of it all and though i'm not sure there is a word for it if there was i guess it would be called life... and death... and everything in between... (coincidentally, it was on Dec. 12, 2017 that my father told me he had cancer.) </p><p>I'm not sure about the rest of the world because i really only know about my warped mind but i often have on ongoing inner dialogue that amuses and entertains me endlessly... we were driving back to my city to watch a basketball game, my hometown Cavs vs. the Los Angeles Lakers, now boasting Cleveland/Akron's favorite son Lebron James, it was a win-win, got to see my hometown team and the boyos got see their favorite player (as well as their old man's favorite player and his old man's favorite player)... and so i drove back to the house i grew up in, the house of Late Night Maudlin Street, the house where this man has put the demons to rest, where i've made amends with my mother and now have a good relationship with her, granted we don't talk religion or politics but there is no need to, neither of us is going to change our views so instead of useless arguing we just talk about other things, like an unstated rule... and it works... as usual my Mom had made chocolate chip cookies, some incredibly delicious and horrible for you concoction called White Trash which seemed to be some sort of sugar coated goodness made with all kinds of things thrown together... in true Rust Belt style, a dinner of beef brisket and everything that goes with it... the trip would be quick as we had to get back the next morning but having not been home in five years i was excited to see my hometown again... even if i kept it to myself... </p><p>The trip got off to a rocky start mainly due to the I-mac being a specialist when it came to being a selfish, self-centered jackass which has become his MO these days... but the rest of us were still set on having a good time and we most definitely did... driving through my old neighborhood i felt a bit like a resident alien... as in a space alien visiting from what felt like another planet or alternate universe, it happens every time i return, all the things that have stayed the same yet so much of the landscape is changed, i look for things that aren't there, the buildings or businesses long gone, the bars i drank in underage, the budget movie theatre i went to as a teen, the mall basically empty, the Denny's where i hung out in my wasted youth scrounging change to buy coffee and toast or on a good night an omelet... and then without even realizing it, i drove by the place my dad lived... and subsequently died... i had forgot it was there but as i drove by i gazed upon it and felt my eyes begin to well once more (because i'm a fucking sentimental sort) before turning left and heading towards my Mom's place... </p><p>The downtown of my youth has changed so much it's almost unrecognizable... the new bars and restaurants, certain streets now closed so that it's only foot traffic, new entertainment districts, the old clubs i danced in chemically enhanced until the wee hours now gone, but there was still Public Square and the Terminal Tower, the streets now filled with new businesses and bars to explore (if i had the time)... i was pleasantly content as i walked down the city streets talking with Disaster about the game and about his old man in his youth... and then of course there was the many times of smelling that sweet herb, the boyos and the BW even chuckled at how much weed was wafting through the air... my hometown, you can take the boy out of the city but you can't take the city out of the boy, i'd have fit right in blowing fat cones of the finest herb and wandering the city streets... like nothing had changed in 30 some odd years... Cleveland was still a rock and roll town... </p><p>I missed my city... having not seen it in five years it had struck me how much i loved and always will love my hometown... from our pathetic and hapless sports teams, to the skyline, the lake, the neighborhoods i wandered and hung out in West Side and East, to my working class suburb and it's dwindling population, it's pink flamingos and pierogies, the brutal winter wind that blows in off the lake, these streets are like walking with ghosts, of myself and my friends and the people who have come and gone, of my father... pointing out places to the boyos (particularly Disaster) that was like giving them a history of their father's youth, of a guy they never knew but somehow still do... a character seen in old and faded photographs, i thought about my Mom's chocolate chip cookies, how she was now 78, how this river of life keeps flowing right up until we go over the falls and into the void, how i loved these cookies, they were my childhood, a lifetime of memories baked into a few bites of deliciousness, how we all have these things (if we're lucky) that remind us in ways we can't put into words of our lives, things made out of love, i thought to myself how many more times would i enjoy these cookies? </p><p>The next morning i rose to the sound of my Mom in the kitchen, i walked past my old bedroom, now and office... the old corkboard that covered the one wall was still there and in the upper left corner my masterpiece still hung, Sesame Streets Bert and Ernie done in chalk, done in roughly first grade, it's damn near fifty years old, it was the height of my artistic abilities, it has hung through my childhood, through my teens, through a divorce, a remodel, a remarry... i'm amazed it hasn't fallen apart... </p><p>Standing in the driveway of the house i grew up in i took a long look around, as if i was soaking it in, not knowing how many more times i'd be here, understanding that at some point someone else would live in this house, the things we begin to deal with and understand as we walk towards that void, i still have friends here who want me to come back and hangout some weekend, something i'd like to do if i ever get the chance, to roam the city streets once again with the boys i grew up with, now men with their own families, it'd be a right laugh i believe as we sat around talking about where we were and where we are now, shit we never thought about back in those sparkling days of youth.. of course now i have a different home, in a different city, i'm not the son but the father (and one can apply any biblical references they'd like) and while my new home is my home, with the boyos and BW and cats, Cleveland will always be my <i>home, </i>spiritual and otherwise... even when i have no place to go... i love my city... always have... always will.. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/i9KQP3Cbt_g" width="320" youtube-src-id="i9KQP3Cbt_g"></iframe></div><br /><p></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-71973286729984206422023-12-04T05:35:00.000-08:002023-12-04T05:35:47.442-08:00The Final Whistle pt. 4<p> This post could be subtitled, how to lose your team in under five minutes... meaning, when your players hear the same dumb shit over and over they begin to tune out the coach, they also begin to lose respect for said coach especially when the coach is proving to be so fucking inept at his job that it's painfully obvious to all that they are good and fucked until said idiot is sacked... sadly, in high school sports, it takes a lot for a coach to get shitcanned during a season, equally sad is the fact these kids can't ask for a trade (it's high school) or transfer schools (where they'd have to sit out and then most likely be barred from playing in the playoffs as per state rules) so effectively they are stuck with what they got... and this very unlucky group of kids had a fucking nitwit... the word inept keeps coming up a lot but maybe i should just call him what he really is... and immature asshole who was fucking abysmal when it came to coaching... it really is hard to fathom how someone who has been around a game so long had managed to learn almost nothing about it... i'm not a fucking astrophysicist but i'm pretty sure if i'd spent thirty odd years around a bunch of people who were i'd have picked up a rudimentary and working knowledge of the subject... amazingly, Coach Cageboy had managed to learn nothing in all the time he was around the game... and even less when it came to running a program... </p><p>There is a belief i have in coaching that the best coaches are not wholly fixated on their sport... guys like Phil Jackson who are reading philosophy and literature, yes they may relate the knowledge gained back to their sport but what it really points to is a level of intelligence, they are more than just a "coach", that's nothing but a title, they are humans, thinkers, problem solvers, they enjoy figuring things out... it's one of my favorite parts of coaching... if i scout your team i will figure out a way to beat you... if my team is weak in a certain area i will find drills and ways to practice our weaknesses so that my team gets better, all the while i'll explain why and how it will do this, how sometimes we have to do the shit work in order to get to the fun stuff, i get my team to understand the method to my madness... and my team's have always responded... part of that too is because i listen to my players, one of the biggest faux pas committed by Cageboy, he didn't fucking listen, if you don't listen and respect your players they damn sure aren't going to listen and respect you... it ain't fucking that hard, yes as coach you are the boss but a good boss knows the more information they have the better prepared they'll be... </p><p>Cageboy's teams were shit when it came to passing, they had horrible movement, their shape was fucking awful... and why? because someone never bothered to correct the problems... after one of the rare wins they played American football instead of practicing... now i'm all for making practice fun and rewarding my teams but the fact is when the team is deficient in any number of areas, particularly in passing, i'd have used that practice to work on getting better... yes the team was coming off two games in three days, make it a light and fun practice, keep it to an hour or so, get shit done and then send the team home to relax... it's something i learned from my old college coach, he stated there was never any reason to practice more than two hours, we all knew how to play, practice was to work on certain things, to fine tune... he talked about not wasting time and energy, practice was posted outside his office down to the minute, by the end of the season (a season that was 35 games, our record was 28-7) we were practicing for 45 minutes, the guy knew what he was doing... Cageboy on the other hand couldn't organize a fucking one car parade without fucking it up and having a meltdown and blaming someone else... </p><p>And yet the team hung around... they had slim playoff hopes and in the last four games it would come down to winning out, a daunting task considering that two of those games were against two of the top three teams in the section... they won the first game (which they should have as it was against the section doormat) and then came up against one of their biggest rivals, a team based in a community filled with horrible shitbags but that's a post for another time, the same team that had openly stated the year before how frightened they were of the I-mac, a high compliment coming from one of the best coaches around... and yet what would Cageboy do? he'd cut his minutes, which was interesting as when they played the best teams he usually played more mainly due to being the only credible offensive threat they had, he sat the team's best defender the whole game, the kid didn't even get on the field, he played his nephew and his boy crush major minutes, they had one good chance when the I-mac burst through and ripped a shot the keeper just tipped wide... they lost 1-0...</p><p> At the half down one and needing a spark he came up with what might be the dumbest fucking formation in the history of football... basically moving the left wing into the center of the field to clog up his own striker's space because they felt it would give their left back a chance to get up the field more... what? anyone who has played FIFA on Playstation would understand this was fucking flat out stupid, it didn't create space it clogged space, i actually kept asking the I-mac, he meant to do this? it was beyond idiotic... and yet not only did he mean to do it he did it with two players who were basically useless, it was as if the last thing he wanted to do was win the game, as the I-mac came off for the last time with roughly 20 minutes to go he was visibly angry and stood in front of his coach and asked if he was going back in, Cageboy apparently stuttered and uttered some gibberish... he did not get back in... at the final whistle, the father of the defender who didn't play walked down behind the bench and let Cageboy fucking have it, he screamed he was the worst fucking coach he'd ever seen, that he was an abomination and should fucking quit and that the team deserved better... call it the first domino... </p><p>It was after that game the defender left the team... it was after that game a steady stream of players started going to the athletic director and letting him know about their coach... a couple more parents let their feelings be known as well... for the record i had never said a word to Cageboy though i was never shy of letting my opinion be known and could only guess that Cageboy knew it... if asked i often said he was the worst coach i'd ever seen and lay out all the aforementioned reasons, then i'd state that given the info i had he was even worse as a human being, i would often state that this was not issued with malice, i was well aware of my son's issues and what effect that would have on any coach though a quality coach would have a better grasp on handling it and getting one of his best players on the right track, but given all this clown had spewed, not only was he a shit coach but a horrible human being as well... </p><p>They were now on the outside looking in when it came to making the playoffs... as i told the I-mac, it was his junior year when they should have been a lock and had his coach not been an imbecile they would have had a chance this year... just not with nephew and boy crush as his main attackers, there was no chance of beating any good team, these two were like the invisible men in those games, one didn't notice them because they couldn't even get on the ball... the team now needed help to make the playoffs and had one of the best teams in the section up next, at home, a must win... a day before the game Cageboy had pulled the I-mac aside and told him he was going to start, Cageboy said the reason was because he wanted to win the game... think about that statement for a moment... </p><p>In what could only be called a moment of clarity Cageboy had come the realization? had an epiphany? or maybe just inadvertently admitted that not only was the I-mac his best offensive player but that the reality was he had fucked him over but seeing now as the rumblings were getting louder and the guy's job i believe was on the line, he needed him to win... i told the I-mac i'd have laughed in his face and told him he's fucking joke as a coach and that if he really wanted to win he'd have logged the minutes he deserved all season... see that was the problem and one Cagebooy made sure to run from every time the I-mac tried to talk to him, every other player on the team was given the benefit of the doubt when it came to playing time they "earned" even when they didn't... boy crush was fucking awful and yet never lost substantial time, Cageboy would shove him back on the field somewhere as long as it didn't involve his nephew losing time, every time the I-mac brought this up to an assistant (as stated Cageboy would run away) he'd be told some bullshit excuse... he dribbled too much or played too slow... the fact was he didn't and the film (the games were all filmed) would prove him right, in fact he openly told Cageboy he'd be happy, in fact wanted, to sit down with him and watch the film but somehow Cageboy couldn't find the time... when it came to slow play and over-dribbling boy crush and nephew were the biggest offenders, boy crush usually dribbled away from goal, missed about a half dozen chances to pass the ball and then would either lose possession, foul or pass it back to the defenders... nephew wasn't much better... </p><p>But when it came to making your own luck no one was as bad at making good luck as the I-mac... and once again he would somehow take one step forward and three steps back... (to be cont.) </p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-39173534362749110442023-11-20T05:39:00.000-08:002023-11-20T05:39:23.067-08:00The Final Whistle pt. 3<p> After Coach Cageboy's email about not making the team the I-mac showed some of his old fire... and though he didn't really want to play at this club he also knew his options were limited, yet not even getting an offer pissed him off, especially from his high school coach... that's the game at these clubs, the coaches like to build the best team possible but often try to divert the best players on their high school teams to their clubs where it gives them an opportunity to work with the players more... the I-mac went out and began destroying kids in the summer high school practices, the kid was always the class of his program, they had no one who had his skill, intelligence and athletic ability all rolled into one and once again Coach Cageboy was telling him how he expected big things, how he was going to run the attack through him, how he was the key to the team's success this year... and yet somewhere along the lines things went pear-shaped, badly... </p><p>Let me state this... Coach Cageboy is hands down the worst fucking coach i've ever seen in any sport i've ever been associated with... fucking awful... he has no tactical ability, no game management ability, doesn't know how to run a program, horrible at training, can't break down film or scout, seems almost incapable of evaluating talent and incapable of taking the talent he has and getting it set up in the right positions to get the best out of his players and be the best team possible.. he acts like a dictator, is unapproachable to his players, will suddenly bench a kid and then not speak a word to them, not tell them why or what they did to lose time, (he openly ran away from the I-mac and would use an assistant to intercept him before he could actually speak to him) wouldn't listen to any of his assistants other than his old head coach who was another shit coach who was the beneficiary of excellent players but as a coach was almost as awful as Cageboy, information that came from the old coach's ex-players... Cageboy was a fucking trainwreck... his style of coaching was to sit catatonic but then jump up and start screaming at the referee about the most mundane call in the game... with his players it was name calling, he called them fucking pussies, fucking embarrassments, fucking losers, said they took no accountability for their play, said <i>they made him look bad </i>and at one point last year threw an expensive camera in anger in front of some players... in short a fucking loser who has no business ever coaching kids... in a way i almost want to send him a thank you note for not taking the I-mac on his club team where i'd have to pay to have this ass clown as the I-mac's coach... </p><p>To say i have no respect for the man would be selling it short... i've coached off and on for a long time and not once did i ever blame my players for a loss... this guy seemed to think every loss was his team's fault and that he had nothing to do with it... this gig was his dream job, he played here (albeit one season as a starter and the rest as the waterboy), grew up in the community, has his own business here, liked to trot out the medals they won in high school and talk about legacy... (full disclosure, a very good friend of mine was as an all-conference midfielder two years running on those teams, as a junior they won the district and as a senior lost in the district finals, making it all the way to the final four of States that year, he thought it was hysterical how Cageboy talked about the year they won the district as Cageboy barely broke a sweat... other than warm-ups)... i've also never called my kids derogatory names and told them they're making me look bad, i've had some tough losses as a coach and i've always told my team that if there was any blame it was on me, that i didn't do a good enough job and that they gave me everything they had and that's all i can ever ask for... i won't say if i'm a good coach or not but i always tell my players and parents to judge me on these things... does the player get better? does the team get better? and are we competitive? i've had a number of parents tell me the season or seasons they've enjoyed the most was when their kid played for me... i've had players tell me they developed and learned while playing for me... and it's a great feeling when i see a kid, years later, and they yell "Coach!" and stop and talk with me... it's better than any paycheck i'll ever get... the gist is as a coach the team's performance is my responsibility and i'll take the heat for the loss and give the players the credit for the win... that's how you fucking do it... </p><p>As the season inched closer it seemed that history would repeat itself... Coach Cageboy had fallen in love... with a sophomore he wanted to play at striker, the I-mac began to mention how the coach fawned all over the kid and knowing Coach Cageboy like we did it did not bode well for the I-mac's season... he was still having stomach issues but was working to get it corrected and had for the most part but right before the season he had an anxiety problem, he talked to Cageboy about it who seemed to say all the right things... (a side note: the school had put in place a program about mental health for it's athletes and stressed how important it was for coaches to be cognizant and aware of it and to help the players if they were approached and talked to about it, the coaches had to take classes and understand and help them if anything came up...) but Coach Cageboy is nothing if not a raging shitbag and it appeared that this was just the thing he was looking for... granted the I-mac can be a bit of a headcase (as previously noted) but this time he had done the right thing and communicated, after a few days he actually told Cageboy the talk had helped and he felt a lot better about things and more relaxed... the team went across the state for the season's opening weekend, an event that's been going on for 30 odd years, he started both games but would be subbed off around 13-15 minutes into the game (in high school soccer a player can come off and go back on) and then come back in with a few minutes left in the half or not at all, by game two he wasn't even starting the second half... the kid who was told they'd run the offense through was now playing roughly 30 minutes out of 80... the writing was on the wall... </p><p>Then came the infamous bus incident... the trip was across the state, if someone went in the bathroom on the bus and the person near the door put the seat back a bit the person wouldn't be able to get out of the bathroom... the I-mac was sitting at the front of the bus nowhere near the bathroom door... it had been going on the whole trip, on the way there and back, but on the way back Cageboy became aware of it when the kid in the bathroom was making noise about being locked in... remember these are teenage high school boys, which really is all that needs said... Cageboy then had a meltdown on the bus and asked who knew about it, basically the whole team did and when they all raised their hands somehow Cageboy "managed" to only see some of the hands... his new boy crush wasn't even paying attention as he was too busy looking at his phone so he didn't even hear... when they got back he had a team meeting and told roughly ten players they would lose minutes and those who were starters wouldn't start the next game... one of the captains, who raised his hand but wasn't seen, was relieved he wasn't named and as i told the I-mac, the team should vote and strip him of his captaincy (something the kid would lose later in the season for posting stupid shit on social media... guess who thought it was fit to name him a captain? that's right Cageboy)... in the I-mac's case it was just what Cageboy needed though, a chance to bench him and put in his new boy crush... (it should be noted they were 0-2, having lost both games over the weekend.) </p><p>As i've said before i've coached off and on for 30 odd years... one of the things i've been told i'm very adept at is scouting talent, i understand what to look for, the strengths and weaknesses the player possesses, when it came to Cageboy's boy crush i was literally at a loss... it was nothing personal against the kid and in truth i felt a bit bad for him, his coach was doing him a disservice by fawning all over him especially when it was painfully obvious to all that he wasn't very good... yet Cageboy with his sage eye felt he had discovered a superstar... the kid played defense on the second team at one of the lowest ranked clubs around... a brief synopsis of his skills... his first touch was awful, he over-dribbled and held the ball far too long, his passing skills were nil, his main attribute was shoving people over and committing fouls, his soccer IQ was close to zero... the kid wouldn't have started on most JV teams and wouldn't have started on our JV team (the JV coach is actually and excellent coach) but Cageboy believed he was the savior... he actually nicknamed him D-1 at one point, meaning he thought this kid was going to play at the top level in college someday... when i heard this i almost choked... are you fucking kidding me? this kid is just bad, he's just not a very good player, he needed a ton of work and even then he'd never be fast enough to play in college at any level to be honest... he's just flat out slow, not to mention lazy... on multiple occasions players the I-mac knew from other teams would ask him on the field what the fuck his coach was doing? they'd openly laugh at D-1, one player walking up to him and actually telling the kid he was the worst high school player he'd ever seen... as stated Coach Cageboy was doing the kid no favors, his own team was getting fed up and grumbling cuz the kid was so ineffective it was almost painful to watch, he may have been at least serviceable against the bad teams but against the average and good teams it was like playing a man down... some of the opposing players even told the I-mac they felt sorry for him to be on such a bad team with a shit coach... even the fucking opposing players could see it... </p><p>One could only guess that opposing coaches were laughing at Cageboy and his "genius"... and when it came to Cageboy's "genius" there was no limit to depths it could plumb... by the end of the season over a half dozen players had went to the athletic director and laid out a long list of grievances against the man... Cageboy had singlehandedly chased what was arguably the team's best defender off the team, the kid went from starting to playing ten minutes to not playing at all and was never once told why, at one point Cageboy called the kid a cancer when it was obvious the only cancer was the coach... and there was also the little matter of Cageboy's nephew playing on the team, a kid who played out on the left wing but had no left foot, he just couldn't use it... not at all... it wasn't long before every team in the section knew it and rendered the kid useless, he'd either dribble over the endline or lose the ball, at best he'd just pass backwards to his midfield, it was a fabulous display of inept coaching and nepotism... this team was sinking faster than the Titanic, it would not be long before the annual Cageboy meltdown would occur and the asshat would lose the whole team... (to be cont.)</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-1639003172164184912023-11-08T05:54:00.000-08:002023-11-08T05:54:41.921-08:00The Final Whistle pt. 2<p> There was a club that the I-mac had been begging to tryout at... it was ranked #1 in our area and had a national ranking in the top 30, the problem was it was up the nightmare known as Route 28, a bottleneck of a road prone to idiots wrecking into any and everything... it meant that the drive to practice would easily run close to an hour while the drive home would run close to 40 minutes... the I-mac not being the best student, mainly lazy and unorganized (a problem he blames on his ADHD and something his parents have been working tirelessly to help him with... to not much success) there was a deal that i wanted cut... i'd agree to sign off on his trying out at this club but he had to dedicate himself to getting on top, and staying on top, of his schoolwork while also committing to taking care of himself in order to have a productive spring season if he made this club... i contacted the coach and set up a tryout... </p><p>When the I-mac is focused and ready to play he is an excellent footballer... a natural winger who can play striker or attacking mid, he is fast and strong and in the game of soccer here in the US he's the rare kid with both size and speed, the sort of athlete that usually plays American football or basketball or baseball... or in this part off Pennsyltucky, hockey... not the kid one expects to see playing soccer... he went to his tryout and played exceedingly well, this club actually has a pro team in the lowest division of American soccer and on his second night the academy team scrimmaged the pro team, a team made up of high level college players and older guys who have played at high levels, some even overseas... the goalie was an eastern European chap who though now in his late 30s had played close to a decade in Europe... the scrimmage kicked off and the I-mac bossed it, he scored twice and was abusing defenders who were playing at a local Division 1 university, in fact it got so bad they were screaming at each other about how to stop him... towards the end of the scrimmage the ball fell to him at the top of the 18 yard box and the boy laced it, a dipping curling shot that went top right corner, the goalie had no chance, the pro coach walked over and said, kid what's your name? and added great stuff today... the goalie patted him on the back and said the same.. the academy coach seemed somewhat amazed he didn't have a team but also knew how shit worked in these parts... a lot of tunnel-visioned coaches who pigeonholed kids based on what they did three years ago... </p><p>The boy got an offer, he was placed in the pool with the top two teams and those teams would be selected by how the boys trained, it was the chance he was waiting for and with the best team around... the coaches, particularly the head coach, were excellent, the training was excellent, everything done with a purpose and a reason in order for the team and the individual to get better... sadly that tryout would be the highlight of his time at this club... </p><p>What started off so promising quickly went pear shaped and the I-mac had his hands all over it... he didn't take care of himself, spent the weekends partying, was constantly sick due to the sharing of carts and joints, turned up at home on weekends ripping drunk a few times, still was torching his stomach and ended up missing about half of the practices in the two months leading up to the start of the season.. he also had a mishap working out with the high school team and injured his leg which also set him back a week or two yet even then when the first tournament came around he was in the starting line-up, albeit for the second team who were still ranked rather highly in our region... </p><p>The weekend of the first tournament i was coaching my hoop team (which Disaster played on), it was the league tournament and i was not about to let my team go into it without their head coach, the BW took the I-mac to the showcase and thus began the beginning of the end... he was coached by an Englishman and if there is one thing i know about Englishman coaching in the States it's that they feel quite superior to everyone when it comes to soccer... the fact is, they are not, though i understand why they think that when one does see how shite most American coaches are... the boy took a knock about ten minutes in and asked to come off for a minute and then never bothered to tell the coach he was okay and ready to go back in... at this point i believe the coach was beginning to have his doubts about him and it would be the last game he would start the rest of his short, troubled, injury and illness plagued time at the club... </p><p>One could not blame the coach for not really factoring the I-mac into his plans, a common theme in these posts, the I-mac continued to not take care of himself, we had bloodwork done to see about his fatigue and stomach issues, thought it might be long Covid, but in the end it was more a lack of care and preparation, one can't play at a high level if one does not do the work to stay in shape and in form... the boy was playing in the President's Cup, the state tournament for second teams which then feeds into a national championship, when his luck went from bad to worse... granted i've always been a proponent of making your own luck and had the boy taken care of himself he most likely would have been playing in the State Cup with the first team... it was during warm-ups of their second game of the day when his teammate, for some unknown and stupid reason, passed a ball back through where they were doing drills, the I-mac was mid shot when the ball rolled under him and he came down on the ball rolling his ankle badly... he was done... on crutches and out for five or six weeks, basically the whole spring season... was it bad luck? yes... but sometimes the football gods are letting you know... it ain't gonna happen... </p><p>The reality of it was the boy had lost his focus, it happens, life happens, like most kids he discovered sex and drugs and rock and roll... and as Ian Dury once said it's all a brain and body needs... and there's some merit to that but it conflicted with what the boy had stated were his goals, to play in college and see how far he could go... when he was finally back there was basically one tournament left, in Maryland... in three games totaling 210 minutes he played roughly 40... once again he was sick, his stomach was bothering him, he claimed to feel like he couldn't breathe, he would pull himself off and the coach would basically relegate him to the bench for the rest of the game, maybe five minutes at mop up time if the game was decided, as we walked to the car to drive home after the final game, his final game at the club, the coach walked by him and said rather brusquely, "you need to go to the doctor and get healthy", that was it.. i could tell by his demeanor that he was done with the I-mac... the truth was i couldn't blame him... </p><p>In reality the end came before all of the above happened... it was a Thursday night, the night when he was guaranteed to be in front of the top coach, he was complaining that he didn't feel great and felt "off" and i was basically fed up, i asked if he wanted to go or not and if i should email the coach and let him know he wasn't going to be there, he mumbled about not feeling good and i told him to make a decision, he finally said he didn't want to go and play poorly in front of the guy, i stated playing in front of the guy was better than not playing at all, that if he's not there it looks worse, he then stated he didn't want to go... at that point i said fine, emailed the coach and basically checked out.. i knew it was over even if the boy didn't... as the saying goes the best ability is availability and he never made himself available, the top coach, an excellent coach, never saw much of him after his tryout because he was never healthy enough for one reason or another... by the time the tryouts came for the next season, held in early June, the club had sent out pre-offers to all it's current players... he had been dropped all the way to the third team... he could find a club playing in that division much closer to home if he wanted to play, a local division instead of the regional one the other team played in, the regional ones being where the college scouts looked for players... the I-mac felt insulted and was bummed but as i told him, what did you show them this season? he blamed his injury which was legit but the fact was before that injury he had a chance to show them for two months, 2-3 sessions a week, what he could do, he made maybe half... the team kept track of attendance and while they knew players wouldn't make every session for various reasons missing over half the sessions spoke volumes... he was an afterthought at his dream club and much of it was his own doing... </p><p>Searching for a new club he went back to his old one, he had arguably his best season at this club, a 15 goal, six assist campaign where he scored a hat trick in the national league they played in... unfortunately he had turned them down the year before and i wondered if that would affect his chances, even worse his high school coach happened to be one of the coaches who coached this age group... once again he was the only player currently not at the club to score during the tryouts yet after a few days we had heard nothing... i emailed the top coach who bluntly stated he had no interest in taking him and wished him well... i knew at that point the boy was in trouble and so i emailed the second team coach, Coach Cageboy, who got back to me saying that he wasn't going to take him either, that there was a numbers crunch and that what they had been looking for was defenders to fill out their roster... i smelled bullshit... he then added that this in no way was a reflection on the I-mac as a player and he was excited and expecting big things from him this high school season... i stated to the I-mac that it might be a long season for him... consider the fact the guy already had four of his high school teammates on this team and the I-mac was more skilled than all of them... things were not looking good... </p><p>Turns out my sense of smell was correct... there was another kid from the I-mac's high school team who tried out, a forward/winger like the I-mac with nowhere near the skill, a kid who dribbled with his head down and was thought of as a below average player when it came to knowledgeable minds... after the season i did a little digging and discovered the kid had made the team the I-mac had not, though Cageboy said he wasn't looking for offense, in truth maybe he wasn't cuz this kid wasn't going to give you any, but he had still taken this kid, as stated a far inferior player to the I-mac, his email was bullshit... the fact is Mr. Tell It Like It Is Coach Cageboy didn't have the balls to tell the truth, granted he knew he needed the I-mac for his high school team but had he just stated he didn't fit his plans or style of play or even that he never knew what he was going to get from the I-mac i'd have had some respect for the guy, the fact he lied basically told me all i needed to know... i've coached or a long time and always told my players if you have questions about playing time etc just ask, i also tell them i'll tell you the truth and sometimes it may not be what you want to hear but my goal is to make you better... this guy was a fucking clown, the typical paper tiger, he was good at bullying high school kids but his nut sack shrank to the size a pea when an adult showed up... i had never actually spoken to the man in person, preferring to let the I-mac handle shit, he's old enough, but there were certain things this clown pulled that made me want to pull him aside and have a discussion... i'll be honest... i've seen him looking at me and i'm quite positive i scare the living shit out of him... he should be fucking scared, i have no use for coaches who don't seem to respect the kids they coach... and this guy was exhibit A in that department... to be cont... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-2565384873348588332023-10-30T05:48:00.001-07:002023-10-30T05:48:54.260-07:00The Final Whistle pt. 1<p> A few years back, one of the I-mac's better coaches looked at his team of 12 and 13 yr olds and asked them an interesting question... this coach was young and coaching the boy's club team on his way to coaching in college (he's now somewhere in Colorado i believe) but the question was this... how many competitive games do you think you have left in your career? a somewhat heavy question for these kids but an excellent one i thought... he then told them the reason he asked them was this... at their age they probably think that they'll be playing for a long time, that they have a ton of games left but that in fact they don't, that it will go fast, that for a large number of them when they play their last high school or club game as a U19 that most likely they will never play an actual competitive game again in the sense that they were playing for something, meaning a league or state or conference title... he than said that there was no excuse not to play hard, to train hard, because before they knew it it would be over... and he was right... he cited his own injury as proof, an excellent player in his own right he had started his college career at a Division 1 school, after injuring his knee he then moved to a smaller school before deciding to hang up his boots and get into coaching... </p><p>I understood where this coach was coming from... (i actually really liked this guy cuz he was an excellent coach who got the best out of the I-mac and had him developing into and absolute beast on the pitch)... i was a hot shit basketball player who had a Division 1 offer on the table pending the decision of a 6'10 inch kid... it's a long story but back in the pre-internet days word somehow got out i was going to a Division 2 powerhouse in Michigan and truth be told it's probably where i should have went, problem was that coach didn't give scholarships to freshman (see the high rate of freshman failing out and i now understand the coach perfectly) but said once i "make the team", which he told i most definitely would, my following three years would be completely paid for... being young and stupid i thought that was dumb seeing how other schools would pay for four years but as stated i understand better now... back then i was first team All Northeast Ohio, among other awards, and of the six players listed i was the only one who didn't have a school, the rest were all going Division 1... one of the players on that list was going to the school that would make me an offer contingent on whether or not the 6'10 kid took the scholarship but they told me if he took it they had a place for me to play, full ride to a junior college in Wyoming, where the plan was i'd play two years, get stronger, and then transfer in... of course this is a post for another time but the point here is i have experience in what it took to get to that level and i've tried to pass that on to both the boyos... </p><p>The last two years for the I-mac have been somewhat of a disaster... some could be squarely placed at the feet of his high school coach, a guy who on a personal level was unfit to coach and on a professional level, meaning being a good coach, was fucking abysmal, in fact i don't think i've ever come across a worse coach than this fucking clown... of course that does not absolve the I-mac in his role in the last two years and much of what has taken place is of his own doing... sometimes one has to make a decision, either commit to the task at hand to be the best player/student one can be... or one does not... the I-mac has chosen the latter (though he would claim different), which is tough for his old man to say but it's the truth, i've tried my best not to sugarcoat things for my sons when it comes to things cuz it does no good, i will calmly talk to them about what they want to do and what they need to do to get there and as i often tell them that's all i can really do as it's up to them to take it from there, i can guide, i can help in different ways, but when it comes to putting in the work it's on them... in short, it's their life and no one can live it for them... </p><p>The I-mac suffered a torn PCL in his knee playing club after his freshman year, he was all but cleared, in fact would have been had his physical therapist not been on vacation but went back to high school practice only to torch a senior center back (he was a sophomore) who would haul him down breaking his arm and spraining his MCL, a play described by teammates as "fucking filthy"... Coach Cageboy, his high school nickname, which he despised, given because he was the hyped up moron who spent most of his time on the bench, didn't have the decency to ask if he was even okay as he and the trainer walked off the field, that one play basically cost him his sophomore year... in between he got a girlfriend who liked booze and weed and sex... granted i'm under no illusions what 15yr old boys are into, i was very much into the latter activity but never touched booze or weed until the spring of my junior year in high school, well late by most people's standards, and during my senior season i touched neither and had no girlfriend preferring to stay focused on hoops... after a summer of drinking and getting high then ordering greasy food late at night the boy basically torched his stomach... he had actually played really well all summer but right before school the problems intensified, particularly in the mornings when they had a practice and though the coach had told him he was going to run the offense through him suddenly the guy was watching a kid who looked like a shell of his former self. </p><p>Now as a guy who has coached off and on for 30 some odd years, which really makes me feel fucking old, i did understand where Cageboy was coming from, a coach can't build a team or run an offense through a player who isn't fit, one who seems to be a hot mess, one who a coach never knows what he's going to get, will he be okay? will he be able to play the role? handle the minutes? and so Coach Cageboy, two days before the season opener completely changed the system... the players and parents didn't seem to understand why probably because they didn't have all the information but i understood... </p><p>This was the I-mac's junior year, they were a senior heavy team with talent and experience, they had all the makings to make a run at a district title that they hadn't won since 2009 and had last played in the championship game in 2019 only to lose in OT.. everyone around the place had high hopes, there were only three underclassmen penciled in to start and the I-mac was one of them and the only offensive player... he's a bit of anomaly in the US, an almost 6'3 inch striker/winger with blazing speed, a wicked shot, can use both feet, the shit coaches dream about... until tryouts and all his issues... one of which being said girlfriend breaking up with him... that threw him for a day or two but timing is everything and it just happened to coincide with the week of tryouts, hence Coach Cageboy watching the kid and scraping his plans... he changed formation and the I-mac was moved to the bench... what followed was a nightmare... the team went 7-11 and missed the playoffs... the team lost 6 games in the last five minutes or OT, each time being beat on a counterattack because Coach Cageboy really had no idea about how to adjust tactically, it wasn't fucking hard, he kept telling his defenders to push up when they should have been sitting deeper to prevent the very way in which they got beat a half dozen times... a good coach would have figured this out the first time it happened and definitely by the second (though honestly one time should have been enough)... the fucking muppet even had the audacity to stand up in front of a room full of people at the team banquet and call his team the unluckiest team he'd ever seen, did i mention he was drunk? i actually had to stifle a laugh and wanted to stand up and shout at him, "are you fucking kidding me? they were the worst coached team i've ever fucking seen you moron!"... the I-mac still had one more year with the clown so i held my tongue... </p><p>By midway through the I-mac's junior year he had worked his way back to the starting line-up and was playing really well... in fact the top team in the section actually told his coaches how much he frightened them, how when he was on the field they were on edge due to his skill and speed... his coaches actually told this to the whole team before their game versus said school... so what did Coach Cageboy do? he cut his minutes of course, in fact i've never seen a coach who wanted to lose as much as this fucking guy, maybe Cageboy thought he was outsmarting the other team? but if there is one word one wouldn't associate with Coach Cageboy it would be "smart"... the fact is by midseason the I-mac was back to his normal self yet this moron refused to go back to his original plan and formation, even with his team begging him to switch to it (a 4-3-3 instead of their flat 4-4-2) because they weren't scoring or coming close to utilizing the skill they had in the best positions possible... but as i've often stated, give an asshole a whistle and the title "coach" and some turn into Smiling Joe Stalin, this fucking clown would listen to no one but his old head coach, a dinosaur who in having talked to his former players, was more the beneficiary of talent than actually being a good coach... Coach Cageboy wouldn't listen to his assistants (both very knowledgeable guys and good coaches) or his team... another cardinal sin... a coach who doesn't listen to his players is destined to fail... i may have butted heads with my old high school coach, (i was a fucking handful) but when i told him i saw something to exploit he listened and vice versa when he told me.. we may have wanted to strangle each other but we did respect each other, something Cageboy severely lacked... </p><p>Sadly, the I-mac's junior season would be his best with things going drastically south afterwards... after playing U19 as a U16, the coach who really loved him as a player was reassigned to a younger team, basically how they do it here in the States... the I-mac was put back with his old team due to an injury and mix up at tryouts even though on his last tryout he absolutely torched the top team in a scrimmage, torched them to the point they were man marking him with two players while a third helped... they still couldn't stop him.. we were then notified, well not really we actually had to contact the club, about the fact they brought in a new coach from the one he thought he'd have who while starting out a bit rocky the I-mac now got along with well... the new guy was a fucking joke, ran practices built more for U9s and in short turned the team into a shit show... in fact they went to Florida for a tournament, something i was glad to not have to splash out on, where they lost three games conceding 13 and scoring 1, a penalty... they were god-awful and got no better...</p><p>Before that shit show though the boy had played in a showcase with this club... or basically one game after which i told him he could leave and we could find a new club... he was easily the best player on his team and he was horribly frustrated by his teammates, a lot of what they did could be corrected by coaching but at these clubs i began to realize that some of these guys are doing as little as possible while collecting a paycheck... during the game as the I-mac sprinted down the line after the ball on a wet pitch he slipped as he went out of bounds, my heart sank as he went down awkwardly and i thought he had done his knee again... he went to get up and then went back down and the linesman, who was a decent human being told him to stay down while he waved the flag indicating injury, there was blood pouring down his leg as there wasn't much room around the field and he had hit a bit of a rough spot, basically gravel, when the linesman asked if he was okay he said physically yes but mentally no, the guy said he understood and the I-mac jogged off but his frustration came to a head and once at the bench he punched the dugout so hard i thought he shattered it... </p><p>It wasn't the smartest thing and i told him that later, there were college coaches there and any who might have been interested most likely would have crossed his name off their list but it was his own coach he proved to be the biggest asshole... as a coach i've always tried to take an interest and get to know my players, it helps to know their personalities, any previous injuries, of course this guy barely knew his players' names and so he then made a comment about "being mad cuz you got a boo-boo", i actually told the I-mac i was proud of him cuz had a coach said that to me back in the day they'd have had to pull me off him as i kicked his ass... i was worried about his knee but as he walked towards me and the car i knew it was over, never had i seen the kid so joyless playing a game he loved... he was angry and upset and as we drove home i told him we'd look for a new club, this one was a horrible fit and it was probably best i not get near this coach... i don't care whose kid it is, if you see a kid go down like that, get up with blood pouring out his leg, maybe a little concern for the player's well being... the I-mac didn't handle it well but this clown handled it worse... (to be cont.)</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-37020797617420767282023-10-20T05:49:00.000-07:002023-10-20T05:49:46.633-07:00Deer Park<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0rk7f87scuaw-Yq-87N4Emff3lwHcYpS6LbWd7nPirtWHTkaqGAfQylkqeDhbTjmWA7TvGvVLSiuRpCieZvu_RPJG9S6u3AIlI6sPgoKR74MemsXkg2Opf2-mG77Gbe30yMGGb39jLpfv-NRvv42fO72R1cavE13OmxbkGnyU_xx47_wqQxu-eP6ZtI/s640/IMG_0615.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiz0rk7f87scuaw-Yq-87N4Emff3lwHcYpS6LbWd7nPirtWHTkaqGAfQylkqeDhbTjmWA7TvGvVLSiuRpCieZvu_RPJG9S6u3AIlI6sPgoKR74MemsXkg2Opf2-mG77Gbe30yMGGb39jLpfv-NRvv42fO72R1cavE13OmxbkGnyU_xx47_wqQxu-eP6ZtI/s320/IMG_0615.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div>About a week and a half ago i did my back as i bent over to pick up my swim goggles off the floor, yes i'm not sure how i fucking did it, i had just got done swimming over a mile and wasn't even thinking about it, just reached down and suddenly there was this grab/slip which creates this weird hitch in my lower back which then reminds me that a back spasm is just a movement away and so i shuffled over to my locker and carefully got dressed... a fellow swimmer saw me shuffling out to my car and inquired if i was alright and i told him i was a bit fucked but after a ten days off doing fuck all i'm back up and running... luckily i medicated heavily... and i do mean heavily to get me through it... if one has never had horrible back pain it's hard to describe and the fact is one never knows which movement is going to send horrible shooting pains to all parts of the body... so i spent my time icing my lower back and watching the shit show that is humanity try to do each other in... and then of course there is the clown show known as the US congress or where certain fuckheads not all that interested in public service go to build their brand... fucking wankers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So since i've been laid up and have been sitting on a stockpile of things to write while still trying to get through the fucking Wilderness Years i've decided to write none of the above and post pictures of the old backyard... starting with of course a big old buck perusing the hill... after which comes my boy, my new best friend, Phat Paco... Pacito loves the great outdoors and since the yard is fenced in and he has his shots we let him run around a bit (the boy needs it, lol!) but one of his favorite things is laying among the flowers to be planted in the BW's battle against the weeds on the hillside... and just look at that handsome boy, how can one not be smitten? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">There was also a doe and her two fawns which made their way through the backyard each night, they'd stop and nibble at the honeysuckle and clover but they seemed to take a great dislike to our boy Zuko, a black and white cat, or tuxedo as they call them, who among our cats is easily the most laid back, he doesn't seem all that interested in catching any chipmunks or moles like the other cats, he prefers hanging out and watching and eating a bit of grass (hmm sounds familiar), he completely ignored the deer yet they would do this little stomp each night as if to tell him to beware while he was totally unaware...when he did notice it was almost like, what the fuck you on about? the strange thing was the deer didn't do this to any of the other cats just Zuko, staring and stomping and snorting a bit while he remained oblivious, it was fine entertainment if i do say so... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And i'd be remiss if i didn't post the turkeys, i actually had to look up what you call a group turkeys and found a multitude of answers... wild tiurkeys are a run, flock or brood but they can also be called a rafter or a gaggle depending on who you asked... i mean how many fucking terms do we need to name a bunch of fucking turkeys (though i think we could add the term GOP house caucus to the list though that would be an insult to actual turkeys everywhere), i decided to go with gaggle mainly because i've heard it before and the word amuses me... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and of course there is this... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1X2hx5rBwpU" width="320" youtube-src-id="1X2hx5rBwpU"></iframe></div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <p></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-83087005458709213202023-10-03T06:53:00.001-07:002023-10-03T06:53:27.082-07:00Gym Rat/Nightswimming<p> Sometimes i'm amazed at how everything i thought ends up completely backwards... if someone would have told me which of the boyos would be more of a handful when they got older i would have easily said my boy Disaster would be the one i have to worry about... and while it's still early doors in the high school years for Nick Disaster i can say that he will be hard pressed to top the Imac when it comes to being a royal pain in the ass... to say that the last few years have been challenging with the Imac would be selling it short, it's been a shit show, one where his parents have been at a loss many times when it came to dealing with an emotional, impulsive and tempermental kid... the worrying part comes with that impulsivity and doing incredibly stupid shit... i've become a bit tired of getting a call from one of his friends and having to pick up my trashed son... </p><p>Then there is Disaster... there are times when i think i got the names wrong as it's his brother these days who is very much the disaster and not my youngest son... of course with every kid you worry about different things... whereas the Imac is the ultimate social butterfly, hanging out with whoever whenever just to be making the scene, Nick Disaster is quite different, much more self contained, more disciplined, able to be by himself where his big brother is not... even when he Imac is by himself he's glued to his phone snapping or texting or whatever the fuck the kids like to do these days... in fact where the Imac and i used to have some great conversations, on car rides, we barely speak anymore, i having given up due to being fed up with repeating myself because he's too busy tapping away or taking selfies... Disaster on the other hand is the opposite, now we have conversations in the car that we both quite enjoy... i'm keeping my fingers crossed they don't dissipate like those i used to have with his elder brother... </p><p>At the beginning of the summer Nick Disaster had his first girlfriend, he was hanging out with a bunch of kids that spent their days at the basketball courts behind one of the elementary schools and near a small strip of local shops... they'd play hoops and get pizza, they'd go back to the one kid's house (near our place) and swim and hangout.. it was awesome watching him spread his wings so to speak and while there was a worry he would follow down the same path as his brother those worries quickly dissipated... many of the kids Disaster was hanging with were football players, not all, but a good chunk and when the pre-season workouts started Disaster wasn't hanging out as much anymore... we (the BW and i) sorta chalked it up to the workouts and the two a days that football has but then it became apparent that those kids were still hanging out at the one kid's house, the ringleader so to speak with the pool, it's just that Disaster never went over... i knew the ringleader had a catty way of exiling kids from the group and i worried that Disaster had now incurred his wrath though he was always one of the most well liked kids in said group... </p><p>Nick Disaster is not anything like his older brother when it comes to divulging information... where the Imac will tell us way more than we need to know about everything, and i do mean everything, Disaster keeps shit close to the vest, one has to let him give information when he feels comfortable and any attempt to get it out of him results in him quickly shutting shit down... he reminds me of his father in that respect (funny i know coming from a guy who has spent the last 17 years posting shit online) but when i noticed he wasn't hanging out as much and particularly with the crowd he had spent the last six or so months with i began wonder what was up... there are moments when one finds themselves immensely proud of their kids... as it turns out Disaster mentioned that his old group was "kinda beat", the ringleader had started vaping nicotine, smoking for all intents and purpose and Disaster wanted none of it, it also turns out the ringleader would make fun and pressure kids into doing it as well and my boy distanced himself from them, he wasn't into that shit and i told him it takes a lot more courage to walk away from friends doing shit like that than it is to give in to doing it, as i told him these kids don't know what they're getting into and will be fucked when they think they can stop, it ain't that easy... but fucking hell was i proud of the kid and let him know it, that he had made the right decision even though i could tell he was bummed...</p><p>A few weeks back, after school had started, the BW had mentioned how Disaster said the weekends were boring especially if his friends weren't around, he had been hanging with some different kids, one he sorta goes in and out with, but on this night there was a big football game and i asked if he was going, he said probably not, he was playing video games and i could tell he was a bit down... i walked away wondering what i could do... to quote Mr. Marley "my heart can be hard as stone, yet soft as water"... when it comes to Nick Disaster it is soft as water... and so i paced and thought and then walked back in and said, "do you want to go to the gym?"... his face lit up... really? he asked... yeah, i said, it's open til 9, we can go and you can get some shots up and work on stuff, he jumped off the couch and grabbed his bag, ready in a flash... </p><p>The boyos have heard the stories from their old man, how most of my Friday nights from 7th until 11th grade were spent at the local junior college playing pick-up basketball, usually against older players until the young bucks got so good the older guys just laughed because we'd kick their asses (little did those guys know they were playing against what would become some of the best high school talent in the area)... Disaster wants to play hoops in college, he has also heard his old man talk about the sacrifice one has to make to get there, his older brother had the potential to play high level soccer in college but that has fallen by the wayside, it takes discipline and desire to get there, Disaster has shown he has both and so i drove to the gym fully expecting to rebound for him except when we got there the gym was full of older guys playing... Disaster has played with some of them before and many will talk to him and teach him things, so now, just like his old man, he has a place to play every Friday and work against older players, in fact he's the youngest player there and i've told him he has a standing invitation, i'd take him any and every Friday he wants and i can tell he's stoked... as i explained to him someday all this work will pay off if he keeps his head on straight and keeps working at it... the boys becoming a regular Gym Rat as it's called and i love it... that and his smile because it's awesome to watch him grow and get better and i can tell he likes his time with his old man... the feeling is mutual... </p><p>----</p><p>Which brings us to the second part of this post... Nightswimming... that first Friday as we walked into the gym i noticed how empty the pool was... i usually swim during the day when it can be more crowded (and usually is) so when i saw nothing but open lanes and then discovered they ran games on Friday nights i told Disaster this was perfect... he could go into the gym and play, i could get in a swim and then a soak in the whirlpool after which i'd come in and wait for him to finish playing, no matter what time... </p><p>The pool is on the corner of the building and has huge floor to ceiling windows on three sides... some of the lights are burnt out in the ceiling which gives it a beautifully tranquil feeling and as i sauntered over to a lane dusk was settling in... i love my swims... usually they are a mile or more depending, always varying the distances of my sets from swim to swim to keep my creaky old body from settling into any routine... my mind floats in and out of thought much the same way it used to when i was running, except now i don't crash from sore knees and an aching back, instead the body feels beautifully worked, the lungs feel expanded, the mind feels at ease... going back and forth, catching glimpses of the sky when taking breaths, thinking of Disaster in the gym playing hoops, i'm sure if there was a camera under the water it would catch this tall goof swimming with a smile on his face... Friday nights back at the gym with his youngest son... funny how the universe works... </p><p>There is that old saying about things coming full circle... my boy Disaster in the gym just like his old man used to do, the old man in the pool back to working out on Friday nights... it's funny to think where i'm at in this existence of mine... there was a time, decades in fact, where my Friday nights involved nothing but drinking and drugging... usually from the time i walked in the door after work until sometime around Sunday afternoon... the various incarnations of Kono so to speak, from the heavy boozing, weed and psychedelics, to the dabbling in the powders and pills (sometimes more than just dabbling)... moving smoothly through the water i'm amazed i've made it this far... thinking about the boyos and my father, my cats both past and present, the thoughts of a lifetime played out to a four count rhythm as the hands hit the water and my legs kick along... and of course the best part... walking out of the locker room and into the gym to watch Disaster play... grinning at how he's improved and all the things he can do now... he has the makings of an excellent player... i know i made mistakes with his older brother which i'm hoping to correct with him... but the real treat, the beauty of it all... the time we spend... it's more important than anything i've ever bought him and i know that someday when his father just a memory that he will think of these nights and smile, the same way i do when i'm gliding through the water and thinking about Pops... </p><p>Then there is the drive home... we hit the drive thru and Disaster gets a couple of burgers, his favorite mango lemonade, we talk about how he played, he asks to put on his music and i say yes, (Disaster is currently into drill rappers and once again full circle as i remember my dad letting me listen to punk and hardcore bands back in the day) he's relaxed and talks about school, maybe his friends or a girl he likes, it's pure fucking gold... and worth even more... and i know this will not last, that he'll get older and do his own thing but for the time being it's pure beauty... fleeting moments that ultimately stretch out into infinity... these things that i will keep... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yXX-qpZVrgw" width="320" youtube-src-id="yXX-qpZVrgw"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-63346422103335282272023-09-24T05:41:00.001-07:002023-09-24T05:41:59.679-07:00The Mushroom Diaries - vol. 25-26<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HrpVcBjoltg" width="320" youtube-src-id="HrpVcBjoltg"></iframe></div><br /> The mushroom will tell you... it always does... even before you ingest those lovely little bits into the system they are communicating with you and letting you know how much to take... i can see my dear reader sitting back and starting to think, "hmmm, fucking Kono may have gone off the deep end with his psychedelic research" but fear not, as a veteran psychonaut i'm well aware of where i'm at in the process... though i have discovered i go a bit further than some people my age.... in fact the Furious one was laughing at me for the amounts i sometimes take along with my love of dabs (for the uninitiated dabs are cannabis concentrates that regularly have THC contents of 80% and up, currently i have some diamond thc crystals that are a whopping 98.9% thc, i described at it as the stoners equivalent of shooting up, it starts at the top of the skull and washes over the body until one is grinning and tingling)... having stumbled upon some banging boomers, a batch so strong one really does have to be cognizant of how much one takes, the trips have been more than a tad bit interesting...<p></p><p>So one fine evening i weighed out a two or three grams of super strength boomers, my friend who had taken a gram or so said he didn't know how i did it with this batch because even a small amount was crazy... as stated my dose usually depends on any unwanted surprises, like say the night i had to go pick Disaster up when his friend bailed on his ride home, that night as previously stated i had taken what i'd call a maintenance or fun dose and not the research dose as i call it... this time i dove head first into the blue swirling waters and didn't look back... </p><p>It's strange as how i've gotten older i've come to really enjoy doing absolutely nothing but sitting in a dark room with some music and letting the mushroom take me where it wants to go, how in my youth all i wanted to do was trip and run the streets and at other times stay in my apartment usually with friends who were all tripping as well, listening to music, laughing, hopefully acquiring female companionship for the night... now it's the solitude and the journey, the chance to learn something new, the chance to work out problems... </p><p>On this night something both exhilirating and frightening would happen... once the mushrooms started to kick as i like to say, i took a deep breath, a sip of water and then sat back and enjoyed the ride... what i find most interesting in my experiences now is how i can drift in and out of consciousness, falling asleep yet being totally awake, how the mind just hums along with the universe and it's own cosmic music that flows through it, it's one of the most beautiful feelings there is, at least to me, akin to love and death and happiness... call it complete and total freedom from this mortal coil and all it' trappings.... and then something brilliant happened... i had come out of one of my slumbers and i was listening to a song when i realized i had no idea who or where i was... i couldn't remember my own fucking name! i was just there, this 76 odd inches of organic matter vibrating on a couch, i laughed out loud as i realized there was no El Kono, just this, what i was before i was, the ego and all had gone and i was nothing more than a buzzing, humming part of the universe from which i had been spat out of and to which soon i would return... no fear, no sadness, just a happy resignation that i was nothing... or nothing more than stardust temporarily organized into this being, a cosmic accident in a trillion cosmic accidents and i was back to the beginning? no name or classification... just is... </p><p>I can't even be sure how long the state lasted, it wasn't long, maybe five minutes? maybe it was five seconds... but i remember smiling and thinking, who am i? what am i? what's the name people call me? and when it finally came back, when the id? was finally overtaken by the ego, when the name came floating back in, there was a bit of melancholy, i had found something but hadn't been there or nowhere long enough to really grasp what it was... though undoubtedly i will try to get back but then again i can't really try because to try would be to negate any chance of getting there, it's not up to me... and that may be the beauty of it... but at least now i know it's there and next time i happen to stumble upon it i won't be as startled as i was this time, because yes there is a moment when one is baffled, frightened, wondering if the mind has been lost and the answer is yes, the mind has most definitely been lost but in the best possible way... and when the mind comes back maybe there is some insight or even contentment in having been lost... one can only be lost if one is afraid, if one is worried about not being found... to surrender to the journey, to let go of the fear and anger and clinging to the silly trappings of consciousness (though i'm not sure that 's the right word), to realize you are nothing special and yet the most precious thing in the universe, mainly because you are the universe, not a single being or thing separated from it, but IT, of it, made out of it, a small piece of thread in an infinite fabric... </p><p>Of course it should be stated that not all these forays into mushroom world are some kind of half-assed psychedelic research by an aging nutter... no sometimes one's gotta take them just for fun you know? and so the next time i took a smaller dose from a different batch, the last of an ounce i had bought a few years back... it always amazes me how well these bits of fungi hold up if you take care of them... and so i took my dose, pulled out the pen and took a few long pulls of a lovely indica and waited... now one of the things i've learned is with smaller doses you still drift along and reach those glorious states of nothingness they just don't last as long, one comes in and out of them quicker... but on this day i had a bit of a plan, once they did kick i was going to listen to one of those records that had such an impact on me back in the day, August and Everything After, hell it even had it's own post way back when, probably make the greatest hits on the lounge if there were such a thing and as things around me went quiet i sat back and listened...</p><p>As previously relayed this record was often played on the jukebox in the bar around the corner from the Fry Hut where i was working, where i'd play foosball with my boss and co-workers drinking away our hour long breaks before heading back to the heat... (it was always funny when the people saw us walking out of the bar and then straight back to work, little did they know what else went on among those of us known as The Chemical Crew)... it was the summer of Kono's Discontent but even amid the shit crumbling around me i still found it a brilliant time... there was something oddly beautiful in the regimentation of life at the time, the never ending grind of the Fry Hut coupled with my second job next door slinging roast beef sandwiches, between the two it provided me with enough free sustenance to survive amid the ridiculous amounts of boozing and drugging, add in the wacko Jesus freak joint two blocks away that served free dinner every Thursday and breakfast every day and i managed to keep myself fed on the cheap for the most part... a grad school dropout with long dreads living hand to mouth and the famous exchange between our hero and the woman at the Jesus joint, "you look like John the Baptist" she said... "thank you" i replied, "but he ended up with his head on a platter." I laughed and got my free ice cream and left. </p><p>Back to the beach and the bar, as i lay in the dark listening to the songs, the images came floating in, sometimes so vivid it felt like i could reach out and slide the mug of beer towards me and put it to my lips... towards the end of summer back in good old 95, i was sitting in that bar, The Cork Bar, it was a slow night and i sat at the corner of the bar in the dim light watching the people walk down the boardwalk towards their hotels, sipping at my ice cold beer, beer so cold a tiny ring of ice would form across the top, i remembering pulling out some crumpled up one dollar bills and playing most of the record as i sat and listened and thought about the summer that had just passed, how the Waitress and i were close to splitting up, how the hovel i lived in was actually condemned but the landlord let all the tenants stay for some strange reason, how my roommates were such shitheads that even though my rent was paid and i was broke i moved out and down to 2nd St. with a co-worker for the last month i lived there, how earlier that summer Elise and i had spent a night sitting by the bay and re-hashing our summer of 93 and how she said she'd find me when she came back down at the end of the summer with her parents, by which time the Waitress had left and we spent the weekend drinking and fucking after i got off work even though by this time i was thoroughly exhausted and would have been content to just sleep... </p><p>And yet even with all the shit that happened... the roommates, the Waitress, being down to my last 4 dollars at one point, knocking my head off a shelf so hard i gave myself a concussion along with a half dozen or so stitches, there was something eminently beautiful about my existence... eating acid and going to work, wandering the streets til all hours of the night, always hearing my name called out as i strolled along, sometimes being dragged into bars or house parties where i'd be handed beers and drugs, hanging with the guys i worked with and partying like the madmen we were, the Fry Boys, the guys who worked the grimiest, sweatiest job on the boardwalk... and then of course this record, which got me through it all, the good times and the bad, the quiet times where like that night i would sit and listen and think, sometimes it's the simplest of things, the simple pleasures as they say, that get us from sunrise to sunset and back again... and there in the dark with Phat Paco chilling next to me, i was smiling once again at how gorgeous life can be... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-28042968541816918252023-09-04T05:32:00.001-07:002023-09-04T05:32:04.173-07:00An Old Man dreams of Youth... The Days of Late August - 30 years on<p> The beauty of the lounge is it doesn't fucking matter... i can write and rewrite the history of El Kono as the memories ebb and flow from one year to the next... to mix the past and present... working in a dying platform in dying medium, those of us still out here doing this shit are doing it out of some weird compulsion to document things, to tell stories... i once read somewhere that we learn more from the common man than we do from the captains of industry... Elon, Mark, Jeff? they can fuck right off really, there's not much one can learn from them other than how to be a horrible bastard, fixated on their own privilege and believing they are god... they are not... and here i sit pecking away at stories worked and reworked for nothing other than the pleasure of doing it, my own personal art project tapped out and posted online for no one to see... the internet may be a vast wasteland of opinionated idiots but it also gives one a chance to do this... write it all down... there are a few of us still out here spinning stories but as time marches on we find ourselves more and more on that list of endangered species... </p><p>Life's a fucking trip innit? i was actually sitting at the dinner table, listening to a record, gazing out the back door as Fat Paco excitedly watched Jed the Groundhog shuffle around the hill behind our house, munching clover and honeysuckle, Paco had no way to get to his new friend and so he sat, tail twitching, eyes wide, a feline's favorite show... it suddenly struck me that it was now thirty years since the glorious summer of 93... christ i'm old... a young maniac fresh off his first stint selling weed, having just graduated from college, having turned down jobs in advertising, preferring to surf (poorly) and write poetry (equally as poorly) instead of pursuing some "career"... easily one of the better decisions i've ever made... moving to Ocean City and living life without a net, having built up a decent bit of coin for a 22yr old wastoid and having the foresight to show up at the beach with two ounces of weed, a vial and a half of hash oil, ten hits of acid and a half ounce of mushrooms... when it came to certain things i was always well organized... </p><p>The beauty of hindsight... the beauty of now 52 summers come and gone, how each one brings back different memories, those hot city summers from my mid-twenties to my early forties, the serene and strange summers of the last dozen years exiled in the suburbs... and then those summers of my youth, strange to think that of the four summers i spent in Ocean City three came after i had graduated from college, granted i went back to fuck about in grad school for a year, go all Raskolnikov (see old posts) but for the most part, by certain societal standards, i was supposed to be on my way to being a productive citizen... instead i was working shit jobs and selling weed... fuckin gorgeous...</p><p>And so as i watched Paco and Jed and listened to the breeze in the August leaves it took me back, suddenly, to those days of late summer... there were points of demarcation in the OC years, if you made July 4th you'd made it halfway through the season, a season sectioned off by Memorial Day, the Fourth and Labor Day... but by mid to late August things began to thin out... most of the summer help started packing up and heading back to school, the boardwalk wasn't nearly as crowded, the stores began to shut a little earlier, the help wanted signs began to go up in every place of business, things were slowing down and for those who either lived in the backwaters of the Eastern Shore or were like me, migrant retail/restaurant workers with no place to go, it was the most beautiful part of the season... </p><p>In the old whorehouse where i lived, of the eight rooms half were empty... as August crept towards September all those years ago the landlord informed us that the last day we could stay in the place was September 23... the whorehouse didn't have a heating system so state law meant we had to get out... my room, on ostensibly the third floor (there were two apartment units on the first floor), was finally starting to cool off after having been a fucking oven for most of the summer, as the pace slowed and roommates left i was heading towards my fourth job of the summer, washing dishes at a breakfast restaurant a block off the boardwalk... the dishwasher is the lowest rung on the ladder but oddly the most important grunt one can find in any restaurant... we keep the shit going... washing the plates and the pots and pans tossed at us by the cooks, each day i was covered in sweat, soaked by the water, sneakers soggy from standing on a wet floor, it was fast and physical work and we (the good Doctor and i) were always the last ones to leave the place... but we did get a free breakfast (or two) and i spent my breaks, some authorized some not, in the walk-in cooler smoking weed and doing nitrous hits out of the whipped cream cannisters with one of the waiters who was tight with the owner... </p><p>The one day when the waiter and i had pretty much decimated the whipped cream stock and the waitresses were complaining to the owner i stood at my post scrubbing pans while the owner, a woman in her early 30s who basically took over the family business, was irate over the situation, Cary the waiter pulled her aside and with a sly grin and glance towards me stated that someone was probably sucking the nitrous out to catch a buzz... the owner was like what? he explained and she being a bit of a partier herself then told him to show her... she had brought a few cases of whipped cream to replace the dead stock and so they went to the cooler and came back ten minutes later as she laughed and laughed, Cary now giving me a big shit-eating grin as he walked in behind her... basically letting me know we had nothing to worry about... </p><p>If the mornings were spent busting my ass, the afternoons it was usually time for a nap, then rising in late afternoon, grabbing dinner, though now with my friends at the pizza shop across the street gone my free grub was gone too, and then of course the most important decision of the day, to go to the bar or sit on the porch and drink... the porch was like a hub that summer, there always seemed to be someone out there drinking and people would stop by to see what was happening, to relay info about other parties going on, to discuss various bars to go to... now with the summer winding down it was relaxed, people would still stop up and we'd bullshit about the debauchery that had taken place here all summer, drinking forties and smoking cigarettes, heading up to my room for a toke, it was laid back and about the only thing we really lacked was female companionship... Elise had gone back to school... Audrey, the girl who i was supposed to take acid with and get married , had gone back home heartbroken by our hero's action, there were still women around but there was some strange thing going on, having hung out all summer the one's still around were more friends... maybe we knew that time was short and we were tired from a summer of working and partying with minimal sleeping... </p><p>The local pub was markedly less crowded though they still had all the summer specials going and each Wednesday the good Doctor and i would saunter down to play foosball and drink $1 imports, not a bad way to spend an evening...and speaking of the evenings... they were getting cooler, one usually needed a sweatshirt as the ocean breeze blew in off the water, it was that strange late August early September nights, humid yet cool at the same time, the boardwalk now<br /> practically barren by midnight, there were drinks on the house from summer bartenders as farewells were said, the "see next summer" goodbyes with most of us knowing all too well we'd never see each other again... it was like the big comedown off a great high, the end of the summer and the slowed pace after a few months of nothing but hustle and grind, of drinking and drugging and screwing, where sleep was a luxury and someone was always ready for a trip to the bar or a hit of acid to waste an afternoon off work... those halcyon days as they say... and now thirty years on looking back it's a strange feeling, it feels like it wasn't that long ago and yet it was lifetime... but the beauty is and was in the doing... of having trod upon the terra firma and lived (at least for now) to tell about it... in a dying medium, in a dying platform...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/C1Gls7sQ_Ws" width="320" youtube-src-id="C1Gls7sQ_Ws"></iframe></div><p></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-65998307030736483232023-08-14T07:16:00.004-07:002023-08-14T07:20:22.522-07:00Negril Notebook - Holiday in the Sun<p> And so we come to the final installment of my holiday in the sun... the highlights so to speak, those little moments that stuck out and made an old stoner grin at the wonder of it all... with all the shit going on in the world one can forget it can be a beautiful place... though one day while i was sitting on the beach stoned and gazing at the water i was thinking about this island... and island that was at one point nothing more that a depot for the slave trade... but unlike the US, slavery formally ended in 1834 with full emancipation coming in 1838, i mention this because on an island where 90% of the population is of African descent i think it's a good learning experience for "white America" to go and be the minority... i understand that the dynamic is different, that as the moneyed tourists from the north pour in they still feel "privileged" and some even act that way... but it's an interesting experience... what's even more interesting is the number of African-Americans who vacation here and i believe it has something to do with this whole discussion... granted to get into the racial politics of it all would be a few posts in itself but there is an interesting dichotomy especially when African-Americans are still treated poorly in their own country... why not go to a place where the population looks like you? yes there are cultural differences but it made me think... </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">So what were the highlights? there was the day, while getting ready to leave the beach for a quick beer and afternoon smoke that a couple of Rastas were walking up and down and playing music... they just so happened to stop near me, in front of a group of people lounging on the beach, and began playing Rivers of Babylon... fucking hell! it was gorgeous, just an acoustic guitar and a wooden box that the one Rasta sat on and played like a drum... it was brilliant... i stood off to the side listening, soaking it all in as the sun was beginning to start it glorious descent over the west coast of Jamaica (and sunsets over the west coast of Jamaica are some of the most gorgeous in the world)... i wish i would have had some money on me as i'd have walked up and tossed it the tip box, they deserved it but i was skint... sadly the people they played for seemed not to have a clue how great a rendition they had just heard was and pretended to ignore them... see paragraph above... <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/pPXLfitAwkU" width="320" youtube-src-id="pPXLfitAwkU"></iframe></div><br /></span></div><p></p><p>There was also the drive to the Blue Hole where on the way we passed a little cluster of houses, it was a neighborhood made up of tiny trailers, little brick houses and some literal shacks... it was Sunday and out in "the yard", a common area, crammed between some houses, was a young kid playing music, a DJ, he had his system set up and was playing tunes for the whole neighborhood as people sat on lawn chairs or their little stoops, he was playing an old Wailers tune, Nice Time, when we slowed and passed by and had i been alone i'd have probably told the driver to stop... as a geek for Jamaican culture and music this was right up my proverbial alley... this was as Jamaican as it gets, a sound system in the yard, it was this very thing that led to what would become known as Hip-Hop in the US when Jamaican immigrants would set up at the parks in NYC and do the same, soon "Toasters" would get involved talking and hyping up the DJ, records and crowd just like they did back home and soon those Toasters would evolve into MC's... the rest as they say is history... but even my brief few minutes of seeing it was a thrill for me, the nerd who has read a half dozen books on the history of reggae and dub and Jamaican culture and how inextricably the music is tied to the people of the island... </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/JXOcCos1lxw" width="320" youtube-src-id="JXOcCos1lxw"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p>Speaking of that music... what amuses the hell out of me is that if you listen to the radio in Jamaica the bulk of what you hear are pop songs reworked into reggae, or maybe reggae pop, as there are many offshoots of the style... but it never fails to make me laugh when i hear some pop hit, past or present, being covered as a reggae tune... name a popular song and it guarantee it's been covered... </p><p>Last but not least was my discovery, after three trips to the island, of what may be my favorite thing yet... (not counting the ganja of course)... Ting! and it's rival Bigga (think Coke and Pepsi)...<br /> though i'm a bit more partial to Ting... what is Ting? well Ting is Jamaican soda that comes in all sorts of island flavors, my favorite being pineapple... granted the sugar content probably cleans the enamel off one's teeth but damn is it good and goes particularly well with some jerk chicken, fried plantains and peas (beans) and rice... how i never tried it before is beyond me but let's just say i took to it quickly... there is a Jamaican restaurant near me which makes excellent food and carries it when they can and lately i'm always stopping by to grab a little jerk chicken and check to see if they got any more in... (last time i walked in the music was so loud it was awesome, the guy came from the back room, saw me and smiled, not yet mon but soon he said it regards to the supply of Ting) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KXmz6ts1KQxweX6TByychNacej5DOm2CDwx8hV2xugknWAAW2hw60UBruKG7sCF9uDpaMTin8Xb5kGpgcuqxfJdUpnu1x-y22BLdxNK0b7pBRbIAgeXt1tVK9k6kw8SSt6xkBWfcvbuDyw5VV0tjKct0wj1o8z2VChZ8bil73hJ64e9PpjVo-j3i9jM/s640/IMG_0548.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-KXmz6ts1KQxweX6TByychNacej5DOm2CDwx8hV2xugknWAAW2hw60UBruKG7sCF9uDpaMTin8Xb5kGpgcuqxfJdUpnu1x-y22BLdxNK0b7pBRbIAgeXt1tVK9k6kw8SSt6xkBWfcvbuDyw5VV0tjKct0wj1o8z2VChZ8bil73hJ64e9PpjVo-j3i9jM/s320/IMG_0548.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p>Of course this whole little write up should have been posted long ago but things around the old house have been a bit of a mess and so the lounge has suffered from a bit of neglect due to the circumstances... that being said i'm hoping things can get a bit back to normal... hope being the operative word... </p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-4320994615248891932023-08-14T07:16:00.002-07:002023-08-14T07:16:32.394-07:00Negril Notebook - Musings <p> There is nothing more poised for disaster than the holiest of American rituals known as the family vacation... having been through enough of them i can confidently say this from experience and observation, going back to when i was just a boy and the yearly trip to Ocean City, usually my mom and her sisters would all go the same week, stay in the same place, and by midweek there was always some sort of argument, hurt feelings, crisis or all of the above developing or in full bloom among the participants on the trip... fast forward to my various forays with the BW and her family and i almost pined for the good old days with my own... her father, or the POSA, as he is known, is such a raging dipshit that it was just a matter of time before he had his infantile meltdown, usually involving other quite infantile behavior from another family member, and then it was yelling, screaming and tears... in short let the shit show begin! </p><p>I can honestly say that the nuclear family trips with the boyos and the BW haven't been nearly as dramatic.. is there always that threat of things coming apart at the seams? of course... and since the last year or two have been particularly, let's just say, challenging with the I-mac, there was always a worry about shit falling apart... not to mention the lovely fact that siblings are well versed in pushing each other's buttons and the boy dubbed Disaster is an absolute fucking master at the art of setting off his older brother... but this trip would be more characterized by the razor's edge walked by the I-mac and the BW and their varying state of emotions and moods... Disaster and i sort of just go with things... </p><p>Probably the biggest obstacle faced on any trip like this is the expectations of the BW... she has this idyllic version of what families should do in her head and while there may be some families out there who pull off this vision in some fashion for the most part it is nothing more than a pipe dream... and not like the one's i was having with the ganja... when things go pear-shaped the BW likes to begin the diatribe about how she'll never do this again, how unappreciated she is, how she works and sacrifices for the benefit of all but herself... it's a bit laughable to say the least... if i got paid like the BW i'd have no problem with a job that rarely consists of a 40 hour work week... don't get me wrong now, there are definite challenges and issues to be dealt with and she is actually quite good at running multiple restaurants almost single-handedly, what accounts to a multi-million dollar business when it's all done and dusted... but she makes things harder than they need to be... or maybe she likes it that way... a theory i've developed over the years as i sit, usually stoned, as i listen to the pissing and moaning... </p><p>In fact part of my job on these trips is to play along and pretend like we have a good relationship, which of course we do not... i'm tasked with doing a lot of listening, i've learned not to try and engage in any topic other than what the BW wishes to discuss as it's met with complete indifference or sometimes outright hostility and derision... luckily as the previous posts revealed, i'm usually so fucking high i don't really care and so i listen and nod all while daydreaming about whatever happens to be occupying my thoughts at the time... for someone often accused of being unable to multi-task i do a damn fine job of it... though i'm careful not to let the BW know... so i sit and listen and provide the appropriate answers at the appropriate time... </p><p>As noted the beauty of this trip was the fact that the resort made us get two rooms, basically it stated that the rooms were really only set up for two to three adults and so in order to fit we'd need two rooms... the interesting thing was that it was the same price whether we got one room or two and so why not be comfortable? and so we were put in two rooms... basically the set up was that there were hallways that led to two rooms, our rooms were in one of these hallways so basically we just stepped out of one room and into the next... in theory the BW and i could have stayed in one and the boyos in the other but the fact was that we wanted to actually sleep and it wasn't lost on either of us that the boyos, and the I-mac in particular, might want to sneak out at night and fuck about... don't get me wrong his little brother would have been right there with him and so i happened to luck out... i wouldn't have to stay with the BW, funny right? most parents might enjoy a little private time in their own room but since we don't share a room or bed at home why start now? in short, i was thrilled... </p><p>So Disaster and i got our own room... the BW and the I-mac got the other... there were many times where it felt like the whole thing was about to meltdown, the first couple days in particular the I-mac was in rare form being the emotional and moody teen he's become so adept at being... add in the BW, who in general is emotional and moody, and we had a recipe for disaster... and while we skirted the lines many times, we somehow, for the most part managed to avoid any full fledged meltdowns... that's not to say there weren't some flare-ups, almost all involving the boy and his mother with me playing the usual role of peacemaker and police officer but in the end we managed to get through it in a relatively pleasant fashion... even Disaster would roll his eyes at his big brother and on one or two nights when they were out he'd come back to the room early and state that his big brother was being an ass and he didn't feel like dealing with it... i'd smile and tell him he made a good decision by walking away and then i'd ask if he wanted to go back out, not that a kid wants to go hang with his old man and he'd laugh and say it was cool, sometimes we'd hang on the balcony for a bit and discuss the constellations or just talk about things in general... it was pretty damn cool... </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-42653491320037970492023-07-16T05:53:00.001-07:002023-07-16T05:53:16.412-07:00Negril Notebook - My Friend Herb pt. 3<p>One fine day near the end of the trip we procured a driver to take us on a little journey into Negril proper as well as the Blue Hole... what is Blue Hole you ask? The Blue Hole is literally a hole in the side of a hill with a natural spring bubbling up from it rich in minerals, it's a 25 foot jump (or higher if you climb into various other spots) or you can take the ladder down and jump in from there... the hole is roughly 35 deep and the water is much cooler than the Caribbean Sea (though the sea was damn near a perfect temperature) which in the hot Jamaican sun is wonderfully refreshing... our driver was a young guy named Troven and it just so happened that it was Father's Day... the boyos and the BW, in our previous trips to Jamaica, hadn't really ventured too far off the resorts, yes they went into the towns we stayed in but never really to far off the beaten path as they say... they were about to experience a bit of the same adventure i had on my trip to Nine Mile as we made our way towards the Blue Hole... </p><p>The first part of the trip to the Blue Hole was on the main road that took one into Negril but before we reached the town (technically we were right outside Negril in a little town called Hanover i believe that was considered Negril along with a couple of other resorts) we made a left turn and onto what i call the quintessential Jamaican road... the sort of road that at times can only barely be called a road... it's a road that's barely big enough for two cars to fit on and it winds crazily up and down the hills, the driver spends a good amount of time honking his horn because there are so many blind turns where one can't see what's coming that you creep along, at times the road is so rutted and beat up that you slow to even more of a crawl then when taking a blind turn and at times those rutted spots are on the blind turn, it's an adventure to say the least and that's not counting the spots where the road is nothing more than a dirt path... and so we bounced along slowly on the way to our destination... </p><p>It was as we made our way towards the Blue Hole that Troven glanced back at me and said, "Kono... are you interested in marijuana?"... i laughed and told him, yeah just a little... he then proceeded to tell me that behind the Blue Hole was a farm that one could take a tour of if i was interested, i told him i most definitely was but that with the family in tow i most likely would have to skip it but had i known about it earlier i most definitely would have taken a tour... the farm has it's own web site, Wabba's Weed, which can be looked up online, as i said Jamaica finally has gotten wise and begun to seriously cash in on it's most valuable natural resource, forget the bauxite that was mined to make aluminum, this resource was far more valuable and much less harmful to the environment... </p><p>On arriving at the Blue Hole we had to go through a little restaurant and bar, it was Sunday and early so it was slow and as we entered there was a Rasta rolling a joint right at the door, in fact every one of the five or six people sitting around the bar was smoking a spliff, i smiled and thought i could probably stay here all afternoon... next to the Blue Hole was a pool that was fed by the natural spring and while the BW got a pedicure by one of the locals using the minerals from the Blue Hole i took a quick dip in the pool to cool off before we both watched as the boyos jumped from the side and into the Blue Hole... the I-mac really loved it while Disaster was a bit apprehensive but after watching his big brother do it a few times took the plunge himself... the I-mac even went farther up, jumping from a tree stand that was roughly 32-35 ft. up... the old man (see me), who in his youth used to jump off a bridge into a shitty river while in college, was a bit too stoned from his morning intake to jump and so i went about halfway down the ladder and jumped in... the real challenge being getting out of the damn thing.. which meant a trip back up that same ladder which shook like mad as you climbed it but was a decent little workout... </p><p>Now behind the Blue Hole was a house... while the boyos were jumping and having a good old time, Troven explained to me that the house was the entrance to the farm, an old Rasta with dreads piled high on his head sat at a table in plain view and rolled a spliff, Troven then pulled up the web page and showed me and i was bummed that i couldn't take the tour, a trip through the fields and the curing room then followed by a session with a Rasta in a little hut using a gorgeous old water pipe... Wabba has won some awards for his sativa and being an indica man i wondered if there were other strains to smoke once the tour was over and i watched as three American guys came strolling down the path with their guide smiling and then being shown into the smoking hut... maybe i was a little green witb envy (pun intended) but one didn't have to take the tour to sample the weed as every guy at the Blue Hole would sell you some or roll you a joint, get you a pipe to smoke from and had i been alone or without the boyos i would have been high high high... </p><p>Negril seemed to be a hot spot for weed and mushrooms and there was even a tour you could take that went to about a half dozen different spots (the Blue Hole and weed farm being one) where you could sample the island's wares... there were bakeries selling edibles, a restaurant infusing food with cannabis... and there were signs in front of cafes stating "Magic Mushrooms sold here", mushrooms having never been outlawed in Jamaica they were now learning that their neighbors to the north enjoyed all kinds of substances and that a good many who enjoyed weed also had a predilection for the fungus as well... smart move... </p><p>And so what was the final tally of an old stoner's weed intake on the trip? well let's just say i did pretty well... using my trusty Raw hemp cones i rolled 12 joints of roughly a gram or more... finished every last one, usually averaging two a day... i'd smoke a bit and then carefully put it out and back into the joint bag so as not to taint the unrolled weed hence my ritual of rolling the next day's spliffs the night before... i'm quite meticulous when it comes to my ganja... so the stoner smoked just under half an ounce on his Jack Jones to go along with his daily slice of ganja cake... had i not blown money on the damn airport drinks i'd have scored more ganja cake but the truth is i didn't really need it, i just really liked it... and that was the trip... from the weed standpoint... i can honestly admit now that once i settled into my groove i was usually high from the time i got up until the time i went to bed, a feat i haven't pulled off, well? since the last time i went to Jamaica... seems the BW understands that it's probably a good thing i stay stoned as i can tolerate, for lack of a better word, her incessant talking (and sometimes worrying) about nearly everything while the herb puts me in a meditative and thoughtful mood where i can sometimes offer solutions... not that they will be implemented but hey man, i tried right? </p><p>On my last night, as i smoked my last joint by myself on my balcony, i looked up at the stars and listened to the sea, how many days do i get to do this i thought, i'm a lucky bastard in some respects, the old yin yang, there is the trials and tribulations and there is this... my thoughts turned to the boyos and my dad, i smoked a whole joint to the head then cracked a final Red Stripe as i gazed out over the coast of West Jamaica, i thought of how much i loved this weed and how i hoped to get back here again to partake but that if i didn't? well, praise Jah for the chances i've had to imbibe what i consider this sacred strain of herb, grown and cultivated and cared for by people who love the plant as much as i do... a plant that has meant so much to my life that it's interesting to sit and contemplate... to just sit and be irie mon. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/NAufWe9tfx0" width="320" youtube-src-id="NAufWe9tfx0"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-50209583807294791922023-07-10T05:35:00.004-07:002023-07-10T05:35:17.862-07:00Negril Notebook - My Friend Herb pt. 2<p></p><br /> With the rush of scoring wearing off my head began pounding once again, i knew it would take an hour roughly, give or take 15 minutes, before the ganja cake would kick in and so i went back to the room, turned on the weather channel, (i love watching the tropical weather channel when i'm in the Caribbean, yes to see the weather but also to gaze at the map, to watch the weather forming off Africa's west coast, how the storms form, how they track them, how for four or five months out of the year all these islands are in a game of hurricane roulette)... i took a long drink of water or Wata, the local bottled water the hotel provided, and closed my eyes, i breathed slowly and methodically and soon i was out.. i slept for an hour or so when Disaster bounded in the room and i woke briefly, the headache was almost gone and i smiled at Disaster and closed my eyes and went back to sleep... <p></p><p>As previously mentioned the ganja game was exploded in Jamaica... where once one had to hit the beach after dark and look for those flicking lighters and whispers from the shadows, now it was everywhere... every local on the beach whether they were selling bracelets or water or coffee, also sold weed, a good number were carrying something to sell only as a charade when their real intent was selling weed... they'd sell you flower, roll you a joint right there for $5 or $10 dollars, they'd open a bag and all you'd see is that lovely green bud, it's delicious smell wafting up even in the ocean breeze... </p><p>Let me state this plainly and simply... the native strain of Jamaica, the Blue Mountain Sticky Wicket, as i call it, is hands down my favorite strain in the world... as one could guess i've tried a ton of different strains, i'm not a fan of sativa but am an unabashed lover of the heavy indica, a stoner in the truest sense of the word, sativa strains mess with my head too much where the indica and i get along perfectly, a body and mind high that lets me contemplate, relax, ease the pain of old joints and a aching back... i have no idea what the BMSW is but i'm guessing it's an indica or indica leaning hybrid, it's got a fruity smell on top but as you begin to grind it and cut it up to smoke there is an earthy dankness that creeps out... in short it's fucking delicious, it stones you well and good yet it doesn't knock you out until you lay down and then one will pass right out with a contented grin on the face... it can only be found on the island and i'm lucky that i've gotten to partake of this wonderful strain on three separate trips... </p><p>So with my stash procured, at least one thing was sorted... the first two mornings, since i hadn't had the time to properly break up the stash, i took to eating a piece of ganja cake before breakfast... i mean when in Jamaica... also, one cannot stayed stoned all day if one does not start in the morning... and so i started in the morning... one of my other favorite things was the process of cutting up the sticky wicket, an endeavor that takes on an almost mystical or religious type ceremony for me... this weed is so sticky it needs to be broken up and in the best case scenario left to sit for a day or so just to dry it out a tad more, it remains sticky and delightful just smokes a little easier... and so i'd carve out time when i could escape to my room and prepare my weed, patiently and lovingly cutting it up with a little pair of scissors stashed in my checked bag, cutting and re-cutting into smaller pieces, both my fingers and scissors becoming sticky with the resin from the plant, the whole room filling up with the most beautiful smell Mother Nature has to offer, it's one of my favorite parts of the whole trip and each night, while the boyos ran around the resort, i'd head to the room and go through the ritual, first rolling two joints for the next day and then getting to work breaking up more ganja to dry a bit for the next night, a process i'd do for the next five nights... </p><p>There is nothing like the Blue Mountain wake and bake... i'd get up in the morning, procure a cup of coffee, quietly slip a joint out of the joint bag (i bring extra baggies to separate things, the joints in one bag, the flower in another, ganja cake in it's own, i'm nothing if not professional when it comes to weed), i'd sit on the balcony and listen and gaze at the Caribbean Sea and smoke my joint, there was a little coffee shop on the resort that made delicious iced coffee and sometimes in the tropic heat i'd go with one of those to start the day... of course me being me i had to watch my morning intake, there were a few days where i was precariously close to biting off more than i could chew, gooned and on the verge of crawling back into bed but instead i'd walk down to breakfast and enjoy more coffee and a warm croissant dusted in sugar, an omelet, just what the stoner ordered! i'd listen to the BW ramble about this or that and have not a care in the world, listening is part of my job on these trips as the BW goes on and on about her various worries and concerns and pipe dreams while i just contentedly grin and nod my head, too stoned to really give a shit but smart enough to pretend like i do... </p><p>I quickly settled into a pleasant routine... a smoke and some ganja cake in the morning, followed by a small beer around noon, sometimes a bit earlier, the rooms were stocked with Red Stripe (my favorite) and El Presidente, the former in 12oz cans and the latter in 8oz cans, i never actually got drunk, the beer was just a refreshing way to relax along with the herb, i'd space them out over the course of the day, usually having 3-4 a day, now and then the occasional beer at lunch or dinner, i actually avoided the slushy fruity rum-filled concoctions but the BW and i did let the boyos have a couple on the trip as a treat, the I-mac almost being old enough on certain islands and Disaster beaming as if he'd gotten away with something... i'd also wander back up to the room for an early afternoon smoke, followed by the pre-dinner smoke, which was then followed by a evening smoke or two... i realized at one point towards the end of the trip that i was so fucking high sometimes that by the end of the day<br /> i'd just find myself smiling, grinning and content... </p><p>And while i enjoyed all my smokes there were a few that were some of the most serene and peaceful sessions i've ever had... the way the resort was set up we had to get two rooms, there was a little hallway that led to the doors of both, the BW and I-mac on the left, Disaster and me on the right, this was the closest we could get to adjoining but more on this later... some days the BW in her usual fashion would turn in early-ish and i would adjourn to my room to sit on the balcony with my spliff, a cold beer, a bottle of water, the sound of the sea lapping at the shore, the stars blazing beautifully above me, the gentle sea breeze rustling the palms... and me... stoned and thinking about everything and nothing, contemplating the stars and the sea and the everything in between... thoughts of my father and my sons, of my life in general, of things long forgotten, just a man and his wandering mind... i could faintly hear the goings on at the main area where the entertainment was but for the most part it was beautiful solitude, no one else on the balconies around me, up on the third floor i watched, sometimes sitting in a chair, sometimes leaning on the railing, watching the couples walk by hand in hand, the younger ones sometimes slipping off to the beach, the families strolling by all enjoying themselves, i'd wonder what the boyos were up to, knowing they were off having a good time wandering around, i'd gaze up and down the coast, blanketed in darkness and then back at the sky and the glimmering stars, leaning back in my chair, casually smoking my gear, knowing i'd be back to stardust soon enough, grinning at the wonder of it all... not a bad way to spend an hour or two... (to be cont.) </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3173UtxNbDknYVFmr_WuKvzCIeymoz9pYVVT_dtfrDf0gVNvPNcmkHekW91ZzVEmNDPuwHCuJCx7uSjfT4sbsNEMpb_sQjGQD3-glEwbL2RbNkBW_V68ApL2pGC4oMDsRSRS_46OCFrvPaGqFRpEBcl_u5MfBTm0SMvx34ZpZX6xWx8TlO4mrBxaSqlo/s640/IMG_0530.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3173UtxNbDknYVFmr_WuKvzCIeymoz9pYVVT_dtfrDf0gVNvPNcmkHekW91ZzVEmNDPuwHCuJCx7uSjfT4sbsNEMpb_sQjGQD3-glEwbL2RbNkBW_V68ApL2pGC4oMDsRSRS_46OCFrvPaGqFRpEBcl_u5MfBTm0SMvx34ZpZX6xWx8TlO4mrBxaSqlo/s320/IMG_0530.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-82313314398355039302023-07-03T05:56:00.001-07:002023-07-03T05:56:56.984-07:00Negril Notebook - My Friend Herb pt. 1<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_o5FRx0D9nCaKgf4tccdszjOiWg5ZuII_cuSnNIDIuo5eDORuv0Hcb_yaj722me4sU2jUEO9R6ECrb0pXYzyHWamA2t_JxJBgq8WBQK-jhd25gl-mdS3gUrPDyqtBSUzhpWE3iC4LL2QkgG_aB7JR1YeAvbesRmvKkl_RtxYcA500B8hzFkkz7ATtQU/s640/IMG_0532.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_o5FRx0D9nCaKgf4tccdszjOiWg5ZuII_cuSnNIDIuo5eDORuv0Hcb_yaj722me4sU2jUEO9R6ECrb0pXYzyHWamA2t_JxJBgq8WBQK-jhd25gl-mdS3gUrPDyqtBSUzhpWE3iC4LL2QkgG_aB7JR1YeAvbesRmvKkl_RtxYcA500B8hzFkkz7ATtQU/s320/IMG_0532.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /> Not surprisingly, there is no place on Earth easier to score weed than Jamaica... and that's how it should be... the whole island benefits from the growing and cultivation of some of the best (or in my humble opinion, THE BEST) herb on the planet, and after years of somewhat fighting against it the powers that be have come to embrace it. If you have a US med card you can use it in Jamaica, it's now legal to possess up to three ounces of herb and grow up to five plants, in fact in another forward thinking move by government my other favorite bit of organic matter, mushrooms, are also taking off on the island as they have never been outlawed and now the government is actually encouraging investment in mushrooms as another way to bring in revenue and tourists ... as for the weed? they realized it's the biggest cash crop around and are now using it to spur the economy even more... there are actual dispensaries where the going rate is about $7 a gram, a bit better than you get from the local guy on the beach but that also involves a cab ride, a med card, etc so i'm happy to report that the little guy is still, at the moment, thriving... <p></p><p>The trips to Jamaica have been well documented and i'll admit i was lucky on my first trip, a sharp-eyed bartender noticed the forlorn look of the weedless in my eyes and had me sorted in short order by his partner, a cleaner, in the bathroom, a handful of the Blue Mountain Sticky Wicket as i call it for $60, it was probably close to 10 grams, i was ecstatic. Like any good stoner i've become adept at doing the research so that when i hit a place i can score my weed, learn the tricks of the locals and understand how to haggle a bit and get what i want, i understand they may be tourists "prices" but as long as i'm getting the right gear that's cool, i want to support the local weed slinger and prepare accordingly with money specifically set aside for the trip. While my first two trips i had to wait until i got the resort to find my gear now it's a bit of a free for all... in short, weed has exploded in Jamaica... which is saying something considering how popular it was before... </p><p>This time i wasn't out of the airport parking lot before i was being propositioned to buy some ganja... as i walked over the bus (see previous post) to get our ride to Negril, some 80km from Montego Bay, i was drinking my first of many Red Stripes... the driver on noticing then asked if i did anything else, i smiled and said yes i do and made the universal sign for smoking herb, he then told me to meet him at the back of the bus to which i stated my sons where in the back of the bus and i'd prefer not to do anything in front of them... he said no problem and he'd get me... so i got on the bus and a few minutes later he asked if i could step off as he had a question about which bag was mine to make sure it was in the right spot... i had to admire the line as it was definitely a professional move, one used before i'm sure on suburban dads who wanted to score gear as quickly as possible... the problem was i'm a bit different when it comes to the weed game and scoring gear in exotic locales... i smiled at him and said "sure no problem" and got off the bus...</p><p>And so i walked to the side of the bus with the driver who proceeded to pull out a packet of weed and tell me $60... i had managed to scrape together about $200 bucks for my slush fund for this trip and like an idiot i bought some drinks at the airport... one beer, a daiquiri, and a virgin daiquiri... when the waitress said $32 i actually said, American? she smiled and said yes honey... knowing the BW would be put off in the first ten minutes of arriving if i asked for cash i handed the waitress $35 and knew that i had just spent a decent chunk of my weed money, not that i was going to spend it all on weed but if need be i had no problem doing just that but mainly because i love the ganja cake and was interested in maybe obtaining some ganja tea... and so as the driver tossed the weed down for me to look at i asked if i could smell it, he said sure and i picked up what looked like 3-4 grams and smelled it... it was not what i was looking for... i politely declined and explained that's not the Blue Mountain Stick Wicket (BMSW), that i had been here a couple times before and i know what i'm looking for... he said, no problem no problem, i got what you need but it's expensive, he then pulled out another small package, (they were all pre-packaged which immediately raised a red flag) and said this was it but that it was more expensive, $100... i picked it up, gave a good sniff and said no thanks, i'll wait... Jamaican men are well know for their forwardness, the no bullshit and aggressive attitude and the driver kept pushing for the sale... i finally, a bit more firmly stated, listen sir no disrespect but no, i'll take my chances, told him i had a card and could to a dispensary where it was roughly $7 a gram and that i know of at least two in Negril... he begrudgingly accepted temporary defeat and i got back on the bus... luckily he had one or two more customers who got taken by his high price and not knowing the game... when he got to the resort he pulled me aside for one last attempt, the $100 bag had dropped to $60... i said no thanks again and as he told me i'd have a hard time finding weed i smiled and told him i'd take my chances.</p><p>After a long day of travel, a couple beers and not nearly as much water as i usually drink in a day, by that evening my head was pounding... i needed to some gear pronto... so while the boyos walked around the resort, the BW and i took a walk down on the beach because that's where the action is, look for the lighter flick and the whispers from the shadows, i knew it was there that i'd find what i needed... it took roughly five minutes or so.</p><p>We walked up the beach but i found no one but on going back the other way it didn't take long, near the main walkway, now shrouded in the Caribbean night, i saw a man in the shadows... the BW then turned up the walkway to wait while i said hello to the guy in the shadows... he said he was the Nightman, which made me laugh and i said, nice to meet you i'm the Dayman... which made him laugh... though i don't think he was a fan of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia... we proceeded to talk for a minute and it turned out the Nightman aka Sheriff Joseph had just what i was looking for... it was around this time when the resort security guard walked up, he was standing behind my new friend and i told him someone was behind him, there was a brief exchange in patois and then the guard asked to see my wristband, he wanted to make sure i was staying at this resort as apparently Sheriff Joseph was so popular people from outside would wander in to buy his weed... a strange encounter to say the least as the guard wasn't concerned with my buying grass only that i was staying at the resort... wristband shown, he moved on and the Sheriff and i got back to business. </p><p>As usual he offered me the shit weed first and as usual i asked to smell it... he handed me a rather well used plastic container that once held peanuts and i took a whiff... i handed it back and told him that's not it... i explained i'd been here before and that i knew what i was looking for, what it looked like, the aroma... yah mon he chuckled, i know it, and he then pulled out another jar and immediately offered it to me, i took a good sniff and smiled, that's it. We then discussed a price and he began shaking out the bud into a plastic bag... i asked if he could get me ganja cake and he said of course mon! i have it here, i smiled and asked, you have it now? yah mon, he said and then pulled out a bar wrapped in foil, $40 he said, i have the best ganja cake around... i took it and checked it out, i could smell the weed in it, asked about how much to take and he held up his pinkie and said, like dis mon... i smiled and said perfect... i asked if he was always down here and he said, yah mon... told him i'd probably need more at some point and then he said, i give it now and you go get the money, i said really? yah mon i trust.. and so he shook out some more bud into another bag, i put it into my pocket and told him i'd be back in a few minutes, that i needed to go to my room and more cash... yah mon, no problem.</p><p>I went up the walk, explained the deal to the BW and then hustled back to my room... i grabbed some cash, stashed the stash, and then opened my package of ganja cake and broke a piece off, popped in my mouth, took a long drink of water and then headed back. I found Sheriff Joseph, settled the tab and then made my way back to my room to lie down and get rid of my pounding headache... Sheriff was quite adamant that he had the best ganja cake around, that other dealers on the beach would say they were him, say they had the ganja cake but that they did not... he told me to look for him and the badge he wore, a toy sheriff's badge that he clipped to his shirt... i nodded and said that i would make sure it was him, thanked him and took leave in that traditional Jamaican way, respect he said, respect i replied, a quick fist bump and i was off. (to be cont.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7JUm_Y0R6Og" width="320" youtube-src-id="7JUm_Y0R6Og"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-65249675407434921502023-06-30T05:33:00.000-07:002023-06-30T05:33:04.743-07:00Negril Notebook - Riding on a Bus and Thinking about my Father<p> Jamaica... how do i love thee? yes it's no secret about my love of this island... the music, the culture, the food, the people, it's a strange and wonderful place... it's terrain is so rugged that every time i'm there it both stuns and is stunning... towns and roads hacked out of a tropical jungle so thick it seems like a lush green carpet covering everything in sight.... this was the third trip and this time it was Negril, on the west coast of the island, where Lee Scratch Perry had lived before his death, to get there one flies into Montego Bay and takes a bus, taxi, etc some 80 kilometers west to Negril... </p><p>It starts with navigating the traffic in one of the island's largest cities, Montego Bay, the party town filled with tourists... traffic congested streets, the kids all leaving school in their uniforms, the vendors walking through traffic selling fresh fruit, nuts, drinks and of course, ganja... but we'll get to the ganja because as we know it's an important part of the story... i think what is so striking to us Yanks, used to wide streets and multi-laned highways, is how close everything is on the road, bumper to bumper traffic creeping along slim lanes, motorcycles weaving in and out of cars, it's a world unto it's own... and even in the city the plants are everywhere, creeping over walls, forming canopies in certain spots dense enough to block out the Caribbean sun... </p><p>As we wound our way out of the city and into the countryside it was there that this thought struck, partly because as we drove along i was looking into those lush green hills and mountains and it reminded me of the last time i was here, shortly after my father's death, taking a trip to Nine Mile alone and being in those gorgeous green hills on the way to see Bob's final resting place... as we drove i realized that trip to Nine Mile was only made possible by my father, the BW surely wouldn't have signed off on it had my dad still been alive and if she had it would have been a point of contention for the rest of the trip, the fact he was gone had granted me a bit of empathy plus the fact her father and sister where on the previous trip so it wouldn't be just her and the boyos all day, something that in truth she probably couldn't handle... though i'm sure she'd claim otherwise. </p><p>The trip to Nine Mile, i understand now, was something of a pilgrimage to me.. the Muslims have Mecca, the Christians have i don't know how many places (Turin, Lourdes, a hundred others), and the stoned white dude who is slowly crafting out his own philosophy has a trip to Nine Mile. Maybe now i understand what all those other pilgrims feel as they make that trek, thinking about the ones they love, thinking about the journey, riding that bus through the hills of central Jamaica was like a cleansing, a way to relieve the sadness of my father's passing, an event i knew was coming and that i had handled with as much aplomb as possible but something that was still there, still fresh, and as i made my way through the hills i smiled as i looked out the window, the bus slowly making it's way up the winding roads, the shacks and houses that dotted the way, how i thought how drastically different the lives of those people were from mine, from my father's... </p><p>Looking back now i understand it was the trip of a lifetime... as i checked the map to see how far it was from Negril, any hope of making that trip again swiftly dissipated, it would definitely be an all day affair with my most likely not getting back until after dark, the BW would not be cool with me leaving the crew for a day and making my way into the hills no matter how much i would have liked and so i knew it wasn't possible, didn't even bother to broach the subject and in some way knew that maybe i didn't want to taint that first trip with another... that it was a beautiful, thoughtful and peaceful day of wandering on my own, of seeing the final resting place of a favorite musician not to mention human, that the old cliche of not being able to go home again was kicking around my head... </p><p>And so i we bumped our way down the roads of western Jamaica towards Negril there was a content smile on my face... yes i wouldn't be going back to Nine Mile but that was okay, gazing up at the green hills i thought of my dad, i looked back at the boyos, Disaster looking out the window and the I-mac passed out in his seat... even the BW was quiet and looking at the scenery, commenting on how lush it was, i nodded and went back to my thoughts, a cornucopia of images and things gently swirling in my mind... man do i love this island... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/lQFKMar4x-w" width="320" youtube-src-id="lQFKMar4x-w"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-66988334476729412262023-06-12T06:42:00.002-07:002023-06-12T06:42:34.616-07:00The Mushroom Diaries - vol. 25 & 26<p> I met my new connection through my old connection... well not quite, it was more that my old connection's guy had stopped getting those lovely bits of fungi and so i was stuck looking for a new way to procure my medicine (as i like to say)... It never ceases to amaze me they way people trust each other in this line of work, though i've always had some weird aura (for lack of a better word) or vibe that people somehow trusted me, knew i was on the level as they say and not a fucking narc.. form Cowboy Dan to Hippie Jack to Cocaine Mike, there was an inherent trust... i somehow exude the criminal mind... well not really criminal because i don't view it that way, i see my favorite plant and my favorite mushroom as medicinal tools to figure out this mortal coil, yes i could spend hours meditating but modern life doesn't leave much time for that and to be honest my achy old knees aren't exactly primed to sit in the lotus position for hours on end, i'd be stuck that way more than likely... so i one could say i take a short cut... as i was reading both Carl Sagan and Alan Watts at the same time i've been currently vacillating back and forth between nihilism and some warped spirituality... or maybe i've created, something unique, my own brand of philosophy called Spiritual Nihilism, i'll be opening my own storefront place of worship very soon where there will be a chalkboard with all the most relevant wisdom i've culled off bathroom walls scrawled in multi-colored chalk on the board. </p><p>So as we slowly crawl toward the decriminalization of these types of organic matter i'm still left to circumvent the law to find the one... it is here where i often dwell on the moral dilemma, well not really moral more societal? if that's the right word... it has been well documented that i once made a living, a damn fine one at that, off the distribution of illicit substances, it's what keeps the economy going and one can find various articles and papers in academia and economics which state as such... the black market is an integral part of the economy and so i feel it's an important part of society... i'd probably just now be finishing off my student loan repayment but the weed game helped me pay it off twenty years early... fuck the bankers... but this business also helps people make rent, pay for food, keep the lights on (as it did for me) and so i happen to believe it's not all bad... it only goes south when people kill each other over it which lends itself to the argument that it should all be legal or decriminalized while the other side lobbies that because of that we need more prisons, more cops, more bullshit... as for now, except for those forward thinking Western states (and some Eastern ones), the former is still subject to the latter... and so i'm left to delve into the "criminal underworld" as the Fuzz would call it, to procure something that helps me think, that clears my mind of clutter and helps me see the truth, or my truth, for lack of a better concept. </p><p>If there is one thing i'm somewhat adept at it's stockpiling, like that squirrel or groundhog i often idly watch out my window stocking up for the winter i seem to always keep a stash on hand, slowing my intake until i have a new supply coming in. The lovely thing about mushrooms is that they stay good as long as you keep them in a cool, dry place... in fact i once gave shrooms to a bartender friend years ago, they'd been sitting around for at least of couple of years and i didn't even know if they'd work, so he went on his camping trip and took them and when he came back he told me they were awesome, that they were super strong he could barely speak and that his friends were envious. Live and learn. I stored that info in my mental file of drug-related miscellanea... I met my old connection at his old job where he was a lifeguard, a young kid, we got to talking and we began discussing weed a bit which didn't take long for him to ask me about psychedelics... it's strange how it comes up because i know a lot of people who've smoked weed who aren't that into psychedelics or maybe i should say way into them as i might be classified, but he had questions and so i did my best to answer them. He was just starting to try them and so i used what knowledge i had accumulated to help him out... which in turn led to a mushroom connection... cosmic accidents indeed.</p><p>The new batch i picked up where like nothing i'd previously seen in all my years of boomer taking... gigantic mushrooms that apparently were termed medical grade and came from out west where they have actually begun to use these incredible bits of fungus to help people... did i mention they were incredibly strong? of fucking yes they were!! The day i grabbed them i was like a kid on Chrimbo morning who spends all his time looking at his favorite present and is giddy with the anticipation of getting it out of the box and trying it out... so that night i cleared my schedule and got ready for takeoff... </p><p>I never have a plan when i go into these things, other than laying/sitting on the couch and watching videos while they kick in and then at some point turning off the lights and letting them run wild. It wasn't a huge dose, roughly over two grams, but goddam!! these boomers hit hard and fast, there is a feeling i get when it's really hitting, a strange and wonderful feeling as if my head is coming apart in the most wonderful way, almost rearranging itself to better function while the mushrooms slip me secrets about various mysteries, questions, answers to problems i'm facing, it's a brilliant thing, at the height of it there is nothing but a beautiful kaleidoscope of nothingness, no thoughts, just a feeling of nothingness and oneness, a yin-yang of nothing and nowhere with everything and everywhere... it makes no sense yet perfect sense and this thing called language really doesn't do it justice... i often catch myself smiling... at one point as i sat up and took a long drink of water, i stood up to stretch and wobbled a bit, the shaky legs of an animal being reborn, i laughed as i found my footing, did my best kung-fu moves and giggled some more... i'd call it the joy of existence but it's not, it's something more and whatever it is there is a peace and beauty to it, there is an overwhelming feeling of empathy and compassion that helps one connect to things in a new way, to understand we are far less important than we think we are and that realization is about as liberating as it gets... abide, dude, abide... </p><p>The next trip i actually dipped into the stockpile, two lovely specimens of a different strain, equally good but in a different way and probably not quite as strong and a slightly smaller dose... as previously mentioned, one of the things these mushrooms are known to do is, somehow some way, inject this massive amount of empathy into the subject, as noted before when lying on the couch/bed and dwelling on the mess the BW and i created and my role in it this time it was the one of the boyos, the oldest, who's been a bit of a handful as they saying goes...</p><p>The boyo pretty much bottled the whole year both academically and athletically, at this point i just want the kid to be able to take care of himself and to find a way to have a happy and satisfying existence... and so as i sat there this night i thought, i thought a lot about him and his situation and how i could help, i thought a lot about me and what i was doing right and the myriad of things i was doing wrong, i'm far from perfect as a parent and knew i had made mistakes.. the other thing these little bits of fungi do is remind one of how much they love someone, it's a challenge when the arguments and meltdowns drive one insane and it's a hard reality when one must admit that though they love someone immensely at times they don't like that person very much, it's especially difficult when that person is your kid... and so i sat and i thought late into the quiet night... i worked at figuring things out, doing my best to find working solutions... </p><p>A few days later as he walked in the door from school, after the previous night of fighting with his mother and i playing referee (sometimes the BW and i reverse roles and she dons the striped shirt) i told him to sit down, of course he didn't want to but i said sit down, we're going to talk about some shit, not yell, not argue, but talk... and so we did... and i explained to him that there is no handbook for this parenting shit and that both i and his mother make mistakes but we're doing the best we can and we do the things we do, things he may not like to do or hear, out of love... that having been through this shit we're trying to give him some advice, guidance, whatever but that ultimately it's his life and he will have to live with his choices, actions, etc... i explained i'd never seen his mother worry so much about any individual on the planet as much as she worries about him and that even though he might not like the way we go about things we're doing it out of the best intentions... doesn't mean we got it right but we're trying... which i stated could also be used as an example for possibly how he could do things... we talked about learning to accept help when it's offered and that if you constantly reject any help sooner or later you won't get any even when you need and ask for it because people won't give a shit any more... i explained it to him as constantly swimming upstream, making things tougher than they have to be, and that sooner or later you go under... learn to accept help i told him, it's not a sign of weakness but a sign of strength... we must have talked for close to an hour... a few days later he walked up to me and told me he'd been thinking about that conversation and he got it, understood what i was trying to say and realized (somewhat) the challenges of parenting and said he'd put in more effort on his end... it was a start... </p><p>Now back to the original night... and the call coming in... one of the things that goes into whether or not i take my trip is if the boyos have their night sorted, have a ride home, don't go out, and so on this night it seemed that everything was in order... and so at my usual time, in my usual way, i ate my two lovely shrooms, sat back and waited for the universe to come calling... except the first call i got wasn't the universe, someone needed a ride home because his friend had flaked and though he could walk i didn't want him to at that time due to a lack of sidewalks and streetlights in certain areas and the fact he'd most likely be alone... it was roughly 10:30 and things were just starting to kick off in the synapses, the universe was beeping in on call waiting as i hung up and grabbed my keys... </p><p>It was the old rock and the hard place... i could either ask the BW to get him which would immediately arose suspicion and i didn't want to have to tell the boss that i had eaten some boomers cuz then of course i'd be dealing with all sorts of shit, basically harshing my mellow and ruining my trip, and so i took an honest assessment of my faculties, my experience in the field of driving, the short distance on empty suburban streets and decided... fuck it... i'll get him... i'll just drive very carefully. </p><p>Full disclosure... i spent most of my wasted youth driving when i shouldn't have been... this is not a boast or something i'm particularly proud of but a fact and i'm fucking lucky... i try to avoid that now though i don't have to worry about the booze so much these days as the ganja...but the fact is i've been known to drive stoned, shocking i know, but as the studies have started to show, the stoned driver is really no worse than the regular driver if that regular driver isn't looking at their cell phone... and all one has to do is take a look around to see that half the people on the road are staring at their phones... mushrooms? well that's a bit more complicated but there are days when i hop the train down to a certain venue to see bands, i sit in the parking lot of the station and gobble my first dose and then jump on the train, have a great time at the show, catch the train back, then drive home... usually i'm on the downside but the remnants of cosmic fungi are still kicking so once again i drive very carefully, two hands on the wheel and all that shite...</p><p>I walked out into the cool night air, got in the car, rolled the windows down, tuned in a fine station on the old satellite radio and pulled out of the driveway... the whole time i was giggling to myself and having a conversation with no one, not unlike Billy Idol dancing i was talking with myself, i carefully navigated the empty streets, at one point a bunny sprinted across the road in front of me, i slowed and told the bunny he shouldn't do that shit, that as a friend of his i want to see him live out his bunny days and not end up being shoveled off the pavement by the Public Works dept... i made my way through the quiet streets, past my friends house, past a certain woman's house with a dickhead husband who'd i'd like to gain carnal knowledge of, laughing as i passed knowing that all the the squares would be appalled at my habits, i saw no cars until i had to wait at the lone light at the rec. center parking lot, drove in, smiled as Disaster bounded over grinning, and then drove home, the whole time listening to my young son who was in the process of getting his first girlfriend... the content grin on my face basically said it all... </p><p>Yes i know this wasn't the most responsible thing to do but sometimes you have no choice and weighing up the situation i knew i could handle it, i even brought my glasses just in case, though i don't know what they'd do except help me to read texts on my phone, the third eye would help guide me home... and once home i listened as the boyos talked in the kitchen, i took a pull off the weed pen and sat on the edge of the couch smiling, thinking about my sons, i lay back down and listened to music and ruminated on the state of things... shit would work out one way or the other... it always did... so i gazed up at the ceiling and enjoyed the ride... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bP6B9HttRI8" width="320" youtube-src-id="bP6B9HttRI8"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-21129673983473007252023-06-03T05:25:00.001-07:002023-06-03T05:25:47.450-07:00The Wilderness Years - While the Billy Goat Sings<p> There were times when i had to admire the balls Billy Goat had, for he possessed either huge balls or almost unprecedented stupidity... or maybe a combination of both... you see the Billy Goat kept getting further and further behind on the upkeep of his payments. When he'd arrive at my place, backpack in hand, it was becoming commonplace for him to hand me a stack of money well short of what he owed and then ask for a couple more pounds. The number of stories i'd hear about why he didn't have all my cash varied from somewhat believable to outrageously stupid... but he always had one, some bit of misfortune that befell him or someone he knew and i'll give Billy credit he had a decent argument for why i should be so kind and wise as to give him more gear when his tab kept rising, like a charming drunk conning another drink off an empathetic bartender, except he was not charming and i was not all that empathetic... especially when it concerned getting all my fucking money. </p><p>One fine afternoon the Billy Goat arrived at my apartment to inform me that he was still in the process of collecting cash from his minions but that he really needed three more pounds of grass. I stood patiently near the armoire, a bit of furniture bought from Ikea that housed my triple beam and copious amounts of ganja. It seemed that tragedy had befallen the Billy Goat's girl and her roommate and Billy wanted to play the knight in filthy armor... they were short on the rent which meant he <i>had</i> to help them, which meant he didn't have nearly enough to pay what he owed while in the same breath asking me to front him all three pounds, remind you this would be fucking six grand he'd owe me once he walked out the door and since he now owed me over two K already i was none to pleased with the current situation. I calmly looked at him and said, let me get this straight, you gave <i>my fucking money</i> to your girlfriend to cover her rent? that's the story? Yes, he replied, but assured me he'd have it back to me in no time. Like the other fucking two grand you owe? He grinned his stupid grin and whined, weeeeeellll not all of it but i'll definitely have the money for these three and probably a little more. Probably a little more i chuckled, you need to do a bit better than that my friend or you may not have a connection. Billy then laid out his argument, one could tell all that expensive education under that Golden Dome had paid at least some dividends, as he rolled out his rationale... I can't make your money back unless i have a way to get that money and the fastest way to get it is if i have weed to sell, the confidence in his voice was waning as my gaze turned into a glare. </p><p>I stood looking at the triple beam on the top shelf of the armoire, then i turned and spoke... Here's what's going to happen, i began, i'm going to front you two pounds... he began to speak and i stopped him... you just fucking listen, i growled, and when you come back to my fucking place you'll have all the money for those two pounds plus some, if not you'll be on the hook to me <i>and i will come looking for you</i>, dig? you also won't get any more fucking grass unless what i just said happens understand? He nodded and began to speak... na-na-na i shot back, listen to what i'm saying, you bring me all that and i'll front you another one or two and the same rules apply, you need to start paying shit down not having your tab explode, you should be fucking happy i'm giving you these two, fucking i don't give a shit about your lady and her friend being homeless, they can turn tricks or better yet get a fucking job, why is it that <i>my</i> money is paying <i>their</i> fucking rent? i can tell you most certainly i'm not all that fucking jazzed when i have to dig into my pocket to cover your fucking tab when i head to see my guy and reup. Fucking understand? He nodded but i knew all he really heard was that he was going to get two pounds yet the fucking muppet still pressed the issue. I really need three, he said. And i don't give a fuck, i shot back, you get two, you need the next one? come back with the money for at least one and i'll give you another, i'm getting a little tired of the fucking bullshit every time you turn up and are short my cash which these days is every time you show up. I'm just saying<br /> i can't get your money unless i have product, he mumbled sheepishly. I get what your fucking saying! i shot back, i understand the fucking logic, that being said i ain't fucking happy about it and you should start worrying cuz it's not good for you when i'm not happy, got it. He nodded. </p><p>I turned and grabbed two pounds and threw them on the scale, the triple beam moved and we both watched as the scale went north of the 448 gram mark that was a pound. This one is twelve grams over, this one sixteen, i said, i suggest you use some of that as your head stash and move the rest and get me my fucking money. The Billy Goat put the weed in his backpack and then began to hem and haw about how he had to get going. There is part of the game that brings out the worst in people, that makes one evil when it comes to dealing with people. I could tell the Billy Goat was in a rush to leave so i kept talking so he'd have to sit and listen. You said it was your girlfriend's rent money? i asked.. He stumbled a bit and started rambling, well not exactly hers but her place, it was some of her roommates. Oh, i said, i see... so you're playing the hero and swooping in to bail them out with <i>my money,</i> well you know there are always ways to pay me back on that account isn't there... his face went pale as he realized what i was getting at... not that i would ever act on such an insinuation but the threat was always effective when it came to getting motherfuckers attention in the debt collection department. If you want any more gear make sure you come back with all the money for those two and then some got it? He nodded and i showed him the door. He made his way down the worn carpeted steps while the yellow hallway lights magnified the spring that had been taken out of his step. </p><p>It was a tough situation. Billy Goat did move tons of shit but Billy Goat was a fucking moron when it came to certain things. I'd met his girlfriend and he was clearly batting above his weight, i'm sure the main attraction was the fact he was a "dealer" who had disposable cash. His girl had also been most friendly every time she met me and the one time i had to go to his place to drop off some gear and pick up money it wasn't lost on me that she considered me an upgrade. Sitting at her old kitchen table, a metal-legged antique straight outta my grandmother's basement, she sat in her shorts and t-shirt chatting me up and smiling the whole time... i understood the vibe and no i'm not some narcissist i just had honed my skills when it came to dealing with people, i could read them, i also understood that certain women liked guys in my line of work, it made us more attractive and i was not some short, round, ridiculously bearded, bucket hat wearing muppet with toenails that were a universe unto themselves. Who knows what she told the Billy Goat on meeting me but it seemed to cause him a bit of bother. Good. </p><p>Had this most recent episode been the first of the Billy Goat's visits where he was "just a little short", it wouldn't have been much of a problem. The facts were this was now a regular occurrence every time he stepped into my apartment and his debt kept growing. There was part of me that thought of broaching the subject of interest on his debt seeing that most of the time my money was being used to pay for his lifestyle. There were car repairs, the aforementioned rent, a road trip to see some hippie bands and of course the usual non-sense of him having to track down the stragglers who owed him for weed... the excuses were vast and varied and hung in the air like a stale fart each time he bleated one out. But he did move gear... there was no denying that but when i'm waiting for my cut to come in, my profit, it doesn't do me any good how much he moves, he didn't seem all that worried about my cash just so long as he got his and that was beginning to really piss me off. I was about to grab him by his fucking beard and explain that i get paid first before he goes all Richie Rich with whatever lame-brained scam he's conjured up.... and his most asinine idea was yet to come... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/3fjwaQy1Tjo" width="320" youtube-src-id="3fjwaQy1Tjo"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-27879164429992080142023-05-26T05:55:00.003-07:002023-05-26T05:56:49.562-07:00The Wilderness Years - The Return of the Billy Goat<p> (The last post on the Billy Goat was from August 2020, for those interested... not that i'm under any illusions that (maybe) more than three people read this shit, one could start there for a refresher- the mgmt) </p><p>When we last spoke of the Billy Goat it was of that fateful first meeting, what one might call a blessing and a curse, to hint at a lovely foreshadowing. The Billy Goat was all in on the dealer game, he was living the hippie dream, as previously noted he had graduated from a prestigious university known for football and a certain golden dome and was now living in a row house in one of the many cuts in the East End. These row houses were havens for the students and the hangers-on who were clinging to the college years before actually being forced into getting a real, or for that matter any, job. It was an excellent location to deal out of because with that many students there was always foot traffic, lots of it, which made it hard for the cops. The last thing the police needed was a raid on a place that turned up nothing or next to nothing while then finding out that the place they raided just happened to be occupied by the spawn of some hot shot politician, lawyer, businessman etc. They didn't need the hassle. So these little enclaves were left alone unless of course someone was incredibly stupid... and as we all know, never underestimate the stupidity of any given human. </p><p>The Billy Goat knew the game, he said all the right things, showed up with cash in hand, like any new employee he was on his best behavior, he looked like the classic hippie college kid with his long scraggly hair, big beard, tie-dyed shirts and Birkenstocks. One might recall the horror show that was the Billy Goat's toes, in fact actual billy goats had much more attractive toes than our Billy Goat, i probably should have included a toe nail clipper with one of his orders as a hint but then again i more rightly should have included a gift certificate for a pedicure... and Jah help the poor Asian immigrant at the local salon unlucky enough to have to work on this cat's feet, it wouldn't be a shock if they quit when they saw them. When he stopped by i always hoped he'd be wearing actual shoes that covered his toes but those were rare occasions. </p><p>The truth was the Billy Goat was a good earner who moved a lot of product. Once he got the gear and showed it to his people he was coming around every couple of days to pick up another pound. I'd even alert him to when the supply was low and ask if he needed me to hold onto something so that he could get through until the next re-up. It was all so smooth... in the beginning. </p><p>The healthy (or unhealthy) paranoia i had cultivated always kept me on alert and even with the Billy Goat seeming to do a bang up job i had my doubts about his reliability but when he asked if he could get two pounds at a time instead of just one i had no problem, of course the second pound would be fronted to him so each time i saw him he'd pay for one plus the fronted one and get two more, a rotating line of credit, i did inform him that as long as he kept up on shit i'd have no problem with this arrangement and for the most part Billy did keep up. In fact once the Billy Goat got hooked into my supply line his business exploded and he was one of the first to ask if he could get a discount. I explained to him that i was thinking of something like that but the fact was i didn't have control over the price but i was getting ready to broach that very subject to my partner (see Stiv). I informed him that i had another guy who had asked the same thing and that i felt it would be beneficial for all involved but i did warn him that my partner was a bit of a greedy headcase and that i couldn't promise anything. Billy nodded and pontificated in his rather high and nasally voice on all the reasons that should happen. I patiently listened and told him i agreed but that it was up to the guy one rung up the chain. </p><p>And so the Billy Goat did his thing and kept flipping pounds at an expedient rate. Of course it didn't take long, around two months or so, when the Billy Goat began to think he was "special". He was under the impression that he was my biggest mover of grass and the truth is that he was, though Metal Gary, one of my warehouse co-workers, wasn't far behind. But because of this Billy believed that he should receive some sort of special treatment. The first little hiccup occurred when a batch came in that wasn't quite as good as what we'd become accustomed to seeing. It was still green and looked pretty good, the smell wasn't as strong, which in certain respects was a nice break from my room smelling like an Amsterdam coffeeshop but now the Billy Goat had some issues. I found it rather amusing or more correctly annoying that a guy who was getting a couple of grand retail on the cuff had an issue with anything. But soon the pissing and moaning started. </p><p>There was a time when this conversation took place every instance that the quality took a slight dip, and the fact was this was outdoor grown, mass produced cannabis and in all honesty it was well done. For the most part batches came in that were so good they bordered on what the kids called "kind bud" back in the day before branding and names became all the rage. The US wasn't the ganja capital of the world like it is today, but more correctly it was high midi, as we'd say. High mid-grade weed that was excellent quality and a good smoke at a great price. It wasn't pressed, brown Mexican brick or seedy dirt weed, the shit was good, nuff said. The problem was the Billy Goat took me for some kind of sucker, in the cock-offs of the dealer world we all think we're the smartest guy in the fucking room, wielding the biggest dick and Billy definitely thought he was... he was not. Not that i'm claiming i was but let's just stay i was brighter than Billy. You see because while all this was happening Billy was falling further behind on his payments. Now he owed me for more than just a pound and i cautioned him on his tab getting a bit more than i was comfortable with but Billy, not realizing i was wearing my wading boots because i knew the bullshit was about to get deep, would assure me that soon he would collect it all and be straight over to settle up. I smiled and laughed and said i knew he would because i'm sure he enjoyed walking without a limp and not eating through a straw. We'd both laugh but one could detect a bit a nervous anxiety in Billy's face i grinned coolly his way... (to be cont.) </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/CkRSfpIF9Lc" width="320" youtube-src-id="CkRSfpIF9Lc"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-88951920923356819112023-05-15T05:36:00.001-07:002023-05-15T05:36:49.566-07:00The Wilderness Years - Disco, the epilogue<p> Sadly, the story of Disco Dave did not end there... While things with Veronica and i had come to an end she was still in town, in fact she wouldn't leave town until nearly two years after things had ended and so there were occasions when we would run into each other. Things were always cordial and i usually walked away from these encounters with an ache, she still mesmerized me, honestly probably does to this day, and when we saw each other we'd talk, ask how each other were doing, i'd ask her if she was still with Franco and she'd ask if i left my girlfriend yet, the look in both our eyes was of longing, the pure folly of human existence, when what should be a beautiful thing ends up being a disaster, ends up crumbling like a dried and dead flower... and yes most, if not all of it, was my doing.... </p><p>One day i just happened to wander into the bar she was working at... more correctly i knew she was working there and so i stopped in to have a drink and see her, it was a basement under an Indian restaurant that had DJs every Thursday through Sunday, a place near the big university... and for the record the lunch buffet at the Indian joint was top notch... i sat down and she turned and smiled, cracked an Amstel and set it front of me, i loved how she knew what i drank, she had become an excellent bartender and i mean that as a high compliment, good bartenders are often hard to come by and i'm sure i could write a post or two on the why and the how considering i've dealt with more shit bartenders than i care to remember... it was as we talked that out of the blue she brought up Disco Dave. Disco seemed to like to frequent the place on certain nights to get his groove on, something that Veronica admitted was rather comical. She stated that Disco thought he was quite the dancer but seemed to be a bit spastic which brought a big laugh... then she stated that Disco had taken to hitting on her... relentlessly. </p><p>It was at this point that my smile faded... did i have some right to be pissed? absolutely not, i had no claim to Veronica, i had fucked up and let her go and yet i still had this protective feeling towards her, not that she needed me, she could definitely take care of herself but this information bothered me none the less. She mentioned that he had even said something about our trip and how he was "a player" too and that she should go out with him. She said she had politely told him no the first couple of times but after the sixth she had told him to get fucked, there was no chance. Disco then said something stupid and slinked off and that seemed to be the end of it and though he did still hit the bar on certain nights he didn't really talk to her anymore and made it a point to go to the other bartender working when getting his drinks. I told her "that fucking cunt beat me for half a pound because he's a fucking moron", stated that he was persona non grata and that he would do well to steer clear of me... especially in light of the information she had just relayed to me. She smiled at me with those gorgeous eyes shining and turned to make some drinks for some customers. I sat at the bar fuming... i wanted to annihilate this fucking smarmy prick. </p><p>Fast forward a few months and i walked into the strip club with T-bag to relax. To refresh the memory, T-bag was a the young buck who i got into the strip club underage, who then started dating a stripper, and who was a bit of a pit bull, meaning he wouldn't mind punching someone in the face. As we walked in i clocked Disco and his entourage sitting at the bar, why the fucking idiot would come here, knowing full well that i frequented the place, was beyond me... unless of course he was trying to find me. Of course he could have tried to call if he wanted to talk to me but the fact was he knew i wouldn't answer if his number came up and i didn't answer the cell for numbers i didn't know. Any message he left would be unreturned. I took my usual place at the corner of the bar and mentioned to T-bag that the fucking idiot in the duster and ugly shirt was the dipshit who got popped and bailed on a half pound... T-bag immediately wanted to go over and punch him in the face but i told him to relax but be ready just in case... Disco looked over and smiled, i nodded, the bartender walked over and said the guy at the bar had bought us a round. Great, i said, it was the least he could do, he only owes me about 400 more drinks to pay me off. The bartender, who knew me, laughed, she opened my beer and set it front of me and smiled. </p><p>Since Disco had shelled out for a beer he then thought he had earned the right to parlay with me... he hadn't and i'd have been happy if he had stayed on his side of the bar... it was early in the week and slow at the club and he and his sidekicks sauntered over. The one was a scrawny little fuck who looked like he might piss himself, the other was an African-American chap who i happened to recognize though i couldn't quite place where i knew him from.. the mystery was solved soon enough... we exchanged pleasantries, T-bag already growling in my ear to say the word and he'd punch Disco square in his mug but i said be cool. The black guy then looked at me and said, i know you... you do? i replied... yeah, he said, didn't you use to buy hash off my boys over on Chesterfield St.? I chuckled for a minute, yeah man i did, what like almost ten years ago? that was before i went back to school for a year, yeah man i remember you. How you been? i asked... pretty good, he said, except i think i broke my hand, had splatter some fuckers nose the other day, he said this as i rubbed his swollen right hand... that's good to know i said stone-faced, just in case shit kicks off. The countenance of his face quickly changed. </p><p>Disco had been standing there like an impatient kid waiting in line to sit on Santa's lap, he was in full hood mode with his act though it came off more like a rich suburban white kid trying to be cool... he was a cartoon character. Thus began his plea... Disco wanted back in my good graces, wanted to make things right, wanted to get back on the team... i sat and listened patiently as he rambled on about how i was the man and no one had shit like me and that he wanted to get back to moving weight and blah blah fucking blah... if i had a nickel for every time some jive ass motherfucker wanted a break i'd have never had to sling a sack of weed. The part i found most interesting was that Disco didn't even have the money... at least not all of it, and was gonna put up roughly half the cash that was needed... which was both ludicrous and futile... cuz he could have offered to pay me three times the price and i'd have told him to get fucked. </p><p>As Disco droned on i watched the dancer on stage, strolling up to tip her and smiling, they all knew me here, dancers and bartenders and patrons alike. Disco stopped yammering when i walked away a bit confused at my aloof attitude. I want to get back in your good graces, was all he kept repeating. I told him he was, that the tab was paid but that the price of that tab was there was no business to be done. It was over... and it would fucking stay that way. He hemmed and hawed some more and i explained about the snowballs chance in hell... you know how it didn't have any... the whole time T-bag sat snarling practically begging me to say the word so he could clock Disco in the mouth. I turned to Disco and smiled... oh yeah, one more thing, leave Veronica alone, understand? or there will be some hell to pay, dig? Disco developed a stutter, wh-wh-what? you fucking heard me, i shot back, you have no and never had a fucking chance with a girl like that and don't think i don't know what the fuck you said cuz she told me, yeah man, we still talk so you better get this shit straight, leave her the fuck alone. </p><p>A slow Tuesday was suddenly getting interesting for the sad sacks at the bar... the tension in the corner where we were gathered had risen considerably and i was now standing and leaning against the bar explaining to Disco his situation... again... we were fucking done, there was no business to be done and if any wise ass thought about doing something stupid, aka dropping a dime, he would once again be the first person i came looking for... as for Veronica, i better not hear he so much as looked her way let alone talked to her or we'd have a serious fucking problem, more so than the fucking grand he still owed me, besides i laughed, she thinks you're a fucking joke... he stammered about buying me a drink and trying to be cool and i told him i didn't really give a fuck what he thought. By this time T-bag was begging for me to let him punch this asshole in his face while Disco's boys pretended to grow a pair. I told T-bag it was cool and that i wasn't much worried about any of them, that our friend here told me his right hand is broke so not much worry there and that the little guy here looks like he's been about to shit his pants since they walked over. The bartender had come over and asked for us to keep shit cool and i assured her we would, that there were no problems here, in fact there was nothing going on here at all. That my friends were just leaving. She smiled at me and then looked at Disco and his crew and said have a nice night.</p><p>Disco began mumbling shit while he gathered his jacket but i'll give him a modicum of credit, he knew better than to push it. My old acquaintance from Chesterfield stood around trying to look hard but i stood up and told him i had no problem with him, that we're cool, it's just his friend fucked up and fucked me over and in my business that means "no mas". He understood where i was coming from and we parted on good terms as they made for the door, none of them looking back except for the little guy who looked relieved that things didn't kick off. T-bag sat there gesticulating and ranting that i should have let him beat that guy's ass but i smiled, bought him a shot and a beer and said relax, it's all good, a chump's a chump and Disco knows he's a fuckin' chump so don't sweat it. I turned my attention back to the stage and began redistributing the wealth to the local dancers... </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/G_hUBMZQHUA" width="320" youtube-src-id="G_hUBMZQHUA"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5570801609581631361.post-73469263039502088902023-05-12T05:47:00.001-07:002023-05-12T05:47:52.140-07:00The Wilderness Years - Problems pt. 2<p> A week had gone by and there was no sign of Disco Dave... granted my gut feeling was always that Disco Dave was a top class knob end but since he seemed relatively intelligent my thoughts were he wouldn't piss away what was commonly referred to as the best connection in the city. His sexually ambiguous hairdresser friend Kyle, the guy who had got Dave through the door, a guy introduced to me by a hippie chick who had been introduced by an ex-roommate's friend's sexually ambiguous boyfriend (cue Blur's Girls and Boys), were all big fans, they couldn't believe their luck at finding what was the steadiest and most stable weed connection around, the last thing anyone who had stumbled upon my little enterprise wanted to do was get cut off especially the guys moving quantity... but a week later and Disco had become a ghost.</p><p>Kyle had stopped by a few days later to pick up something small, usually i would have kicked him to my business hours at the bar but he caught me on the rare slow day and so i told him to swing by. Kyle was always amusing, he understood the game, understood the protocol, come in and hang for a 20 minutes or so and then get the fuck out. There were always stories and laughs and there was the time where Kyle and a friend of his turned up one Saturday afternoon with a tank of nitrous oxide and we spent the afternoon drinking beer and doing balloons... the Waitress was at work and was none too pleased when she rolled in the door, apparently you could hear the tank from outside and one of the agreements we had was that business would be kept to a minimum in the apartment, by this time it was mainly the heavy hitters who got a foot in the door due to the amount they were picking up and the need for me to count a lot of cash. Kyle had stories of nude photo shoots on sailboats, strange parties where he was the "entertainment", always interspersed the word "girlfriend" into his stories though in all the times he stopped by i never saw her... he often offered to take me for a ride on his motorcycle, a crotch rocket, where he said i could hold onto him as we did 100mph up the freeway... i passed. </p><p>On this day having Kyle come to the place was more about gathering info then selling a quarter ounce of weed. I asked if he had seen Disco. He said he hadn't in a while. I said cool and if he saw him that he should tell him to get a hold of me ASAP, he owed me for a half pound and his lack of communication was concerning. Kyle, being the ever-friendly guy who wanted to help, said he'd do his best to help track him down and relay the message. I tossed in a couple extra grams and said thank you. I could tell my line of questioning had changed the vibe in the room and while it was still congenial and friendly Kyle picked up on the dark undercurrent, mainly the fact i was a little pissed about some fucking rich kid owing me a grand. I quizzed Kyle a bit on Disco's financial situation and since he wanted to help he made it pretty clear that Disco had money and that his momma would bail him out if needed though he may not tell her why he needed the money. I stood listening and nodding and then Kyle made for the exit albeit it less smiley and jovial than when he came in. </p><p>It wasn't long before the mystery of Disco's disappearance was solved. I often wondered if Kyle didn't know or after leaving my place beelined it to Disco's to tell him he better give me a call cuz i was none to pleased. When the cell rang and i saw Disco's number i answered, Disco was affecting the timid fuck-up voice that i had come to recognize every time some fucking idiot shit the bed and didn't have my money, be it $50 bucks or $500. I wasn't pleased... and so Disco began to spin his yarn... he said there was a problem, that he had gotten popped... at that point i stopped him and pretended i didn't know what he was talking about, i told him i'd call him back shortly because my phone was almost dead. My phone was not but here this fucking moron was, on the phone, telling me he got busted, i didn't need anymore info relayed and the dealer paranoia came slamming in like a tsunami, what the fuck was this bonehead doing? were the cops listening? i didn't think they were but i also didn't want to find out. For those who don't know the late 90s and early 2000s were boom years for the prison industrial complex and those who took their campaign contributions, they were tossing people in prison for fucking dimebags let alone duffel bags filled with grass, the last thing i need was this conversation being overheard by anyone with a passing interest in law enforcement. I hung up and ran down the street to a payphone. </p><p>Years from now when some kid googles asshat and stumbles upon this experiment they may read this and wonder, what was a payphone? yes i'm old enough to remember the days when they still existed and luckily at this point they still did, on the corner next to the mini-mart and across from a bar stood a lovely and graffiti covered payphone. I dialed Disco's number, he answered and i let loose with a torrent of controlled anger, don't call me on my fucking cell and tell me you got busted, what the fuck is wrong with you, i'm in no mood for fucking laughs my friend and that kind of shit makes me fucking very nervous and my being nervous ain't gonna be the best thing for you Davey Boy, got it? Disco then mumbled and bumbled his way through some lame ass apologies before we got to the crux of the situation which was... what the fuck happened you stupid fuck-up? </p><p>The story went like this... Disco Dave had a customer, some pooh-butt chick who apparently had all sorts of issues pertaining to various substances and in the process of feeding that habit got popped... in exchange for leniency she cut a deal with cops to "help get" someone else... i'm sure the cops didn't think it was going to be some half ass weed deal and were hoping for some clown with a bundle of stamp bags but the pooh-butt wasn't about to get the dealer she needed in deep shit therefore the easiest and wisest target for her was fucking Disco Douchebag. He explained she wanted to meet in a gas station parking lot, something he thought was strange but since she was a bit sketchy he figured she was just paranoid. Yes it's as stupid as it sounds and i asked why if she was sketchy and suddenly wanting to meet in a parking lot did he say yes? Of course his reply was that he was trying to move shit so he could pay me, to which i replied pay me for what? which he realized meant i didn't want to be implicated as having anything to do with this situation while fuckhead was on his phone... because now my healthy paranoia was running rampant. Were the cops really going to tap Disco's phone? probably not but then again i had no idea what Disco had spilled, for all i know he had pissed his expensive and ugly jeans and offered them "the man." </p><p>Disco then continued reassuring me that he had said nothing to the police and that he had gotten himself a good lawyer but the problem was this was his second offense. I asked what he got caught selling and he said an ounce. In one sense i was somewhat relieved because though an ounce was more than a dime bag it wasn't something like a quarter pound which would have definitely got the boys in blue all hard with the prospect of taking down "an organization." Still, an ounce was enough to keep the cops interest but Disco had sworn up and down that he said nothing, which to me meant fucking jack shit. It was around this point that Disco began to sheepishly explain he wasn't going to be able to pay me. Why? i asked, you got busted with an ounce, where is the rest of it? Yes i realized i was now implicating myself in this little dilemma (had anyone been listening) but i needed this shit resolved. He said he had given the rest to his brother, the one who stole the triple beam for me, and that he was broke because he had to pay for a lawyer, in fact he had to hit up his rich mom for help. The thought that maybe he could sell some of his swanky threads crossed my mind but i stood in the cold listening intently to the ramblings of an idiot. </p><p>So let me get this straight, i hissed into the phone, you fucked up and got popped with a zip selling to some junkie cunt in a parking lot like a fucking moron. You also don't have the money to pay the bank what you owe even though someone still has the bulk of the gear. That's the story correct. Yes, he mumbled. I looked up and down Ellsworth Avenue, already watching for anything unusual. Here's how this plays out then my friend, the loss of that cash covers my security understand, it's off the books, you don't owe a thing, now if i so much as see a strange car or the door gets kicked in or a couple of guys in suits come walking up and take my arm you my friend are fucked, got it. One of my first calls will be to a certain friend of mine who owes me a favor and specializes in things like this, meaning you'll be walking with a fucking limp for the rest of your days or maybe worse depending on my mood... and believe me you'll never see it or know it's coming but understand if it ever gets to that point i'll be watching from somewhere, got it. There were more mumbled apologies as the sad sack version of Disco rambled for a minute before i cut him off and said, that's it, nothing more to discuss, good luck with your case and have a nice life, but we're finished here. </p><p>I hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Things were going to be dicey for a minute or two and i'd have to keep things wired as tight as possible. I contemplated discussing it with Stiv but seeing as he was high strung and paranoid to begin with i decided best to keep him in the dark about the situation, maybe explain that some shithead beat me for a half pound but that said shithead was now cut off. It was around this time when i started to consider a safe house, a place where i didn't do business but could stash some extra weed and some cash just in case. I had a few places in mind, both good friends, old roommates, who knew the deal as they had lived with the dealer. Granted i'd make it worth their while and who doesn't like money for nothing and free weed? Walking home i could feel the weight, the game was always precarious, a delicate balance of business acumen and luck, hopefully that luck ran good but on occasion when it went south one hoped it didn't go way south. I knew there would be no good night's sleep anytime soon. (to be cont.)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/yPkNE1fdlJ8" width="320" youtube-src-id="yPkNE1fdlJ8"></iframe></div><br /><p><br /></p>Konohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13865029570865495659noreply@blogger.com0