Closing in 5 Minutes

Still have not gone to sleep once more, just another week of running around the country earning money that has already been spent. The attendent at the gate is all too ready to start boarding the passengers so I have to make this one quick. No assigned seating, cattle call mentality has taken over, mostly older people on this early flight, no one my age or younger would even think of doing anything at this time but partying, getting on a plane would be the last thing, unless it was time to escape the impending wrath of actions conducted the previous evening that would constitute a reasonable decision to escape the local authorities, federal agencies, or street level pimps who are more than upset at a non payment for services rendered with a few of their body sex vehicles. Not too excited about getting out this morning, slave, slave, slave, could right that for another five thousand pages and it would still get through my mind, have to live in denial with the booze, pills, drugs, and women to twist my mind day after day, I think about the waste, the purposelessness of all the behavior, but there I am at 3 in the morning on a day off, instead of sleeping putting chemicals into my system to further the friend nature of my brain, the heart is all over the place this morning, no sleep puts a lot of stress on me, done for now, calling us to board, have to get my free peanuts and drink, the high life.

Burning Red Eyes

Keep me from seeing properly, fuzzy, out of focus, straining to make sense of anything in my view. Second time this week, I have not gone to bed, luckily it has only been due to work and not drugs, shall probably pull another all nighter in a few days as a result of scheduling. Eating poorly this week has only exacerbated the impending heart condition I have been feeling, that muscle has been overused as of late, processing all sorts of bullshit food, drinks, and stress, why can't I keep these people with self destructive tendencies at bay? Feel like I did alright this time, hid in my room away from beasts of the midnight hour, all the cities seem the same to me. The same bars, same restuarants, same brick buildings, and throngs of tourists milling about, attempting to take in all the notable hotspots without any real sense of purpose.

Have to brush up on my Spanish, heading off to Bogota Columbia for 2 weeks, time to get out of the US again, disconnect, get some of the global effect back in my system while shedding away some of the Las Vegas spiral of death I seem to be in lately, bleeding money from all sides, whether on the road or at home, not much to do but drink, hang around at bars, and go out to dinner, would rather stay in the condo, eat rice, do a bit or writing, yet being out in the world always results in a large amount of usable material. Living surrounded by 4 walls has never really panned out much result beside the slow rising babble of introspective contemplation that grows so obtuse and surreal, a severe case of depression will be soon to follow. Excited about the trip, a little fearful as well, been quite sometime since I have gone out of the country for non work purposes, just have to go with my instinct, has served me well so far.

From the outposts, communications are being recieved on old battlefronts, serving in long ago settled wars, lost in the jungles where the sound of percussive rythmns do not get to the lone survirors who are so far gone into their personal mania an entire new reality has developed to further serve to slow the decades of destructive abuse beset upon their minds, bodies, and souls. So rather than face that tidal wave of pain, denial has been substituted to ensure no minds snap, no arterties bleed, and no souls dissolve. Sounds like a sure fire plan to keep the pleasure channels open and for the likes of these folks nothing else shall take precendence over the innate cumpulsion to get bombed, pan fried, and transcendental, there is nothing other way, means of escape is possible, living on the ship of the damned in reality while floathing around in outer space in a vessel that has long since ran out of fuel, lost all direction, and ever so slowly is being sucked in by the invisible forces of a black hole, time will cease to exist, a never ending dream that becomes a daily soap opera, one the television networks ever cancel, take solace in that idea alone, a true comfort and ultimately carte blanche to destroy without fear of reprisal, the eternal being, words from the next demension, I can't quite hear it, but sense the soft delicate voice playing like a melody in my mind trying to get me to retrieve the image, the character, and the substance of that voice, of the person from where it eminates, to bring them back to the world of the living.

4am Indy

All of the bars are closed but the neon beer signs remain on as early morning shift workers clean out all the stale alcohol, vomit, and sexual discharge. A battle raged on these streets tonight with anxious weekend party people seek a refuge to over indulge. A kid is selling hot dogs from a cart on the corner, he says there is only one more dog left, as an older man, quite intoxicated, begins to munch the thing down like a starve wolf eating for the first time after the winter season. The roads remain half paved, covered with metal plates, construction time again as the downtown renovation continues. Pizza shop appears to be doing some business, same pizza they served after the show was over tonight, all pizza tastes like cardboard at 3am, but the booze, the fatigue, and starvation make it seem somewhat tolerable, though the food is far from it.

MMA fans still remain outside our hotel in hopes that one of their superhero will materialize out the thick fog of afterhour party nightclub dancefloors, not likely, most of them are either face down in a pile of coke or balls deep in some fight groupie who seeks to have her personal fantasies fulfilled by the fighter of the moment. Everyone has beers, why not me, no one cares to share any, might just have to break into the hotel bar in the lobby and reopen the place, it would be a total windfall for the hotel. Other fans, take pictures with unrecognizable people, trainers, coaches, or some other facets of the machine of violence, these fans know way too much about all these fighters, over obsessive supporters snapping away photos, video, as if the president had just arrived in town, focused on getting some sort of evidence that shall link the two of them together for eternity, a prize to take back to their friends, like a fresh carcass from the hunt. Nothing left to do now but stay up the rest of the morning, take a taxi to the airport, watch people, write, then board, close my eyes and let the overpowering noise of the jet engines lull me to sleep.

No One Is Safe

Loyality, dedication, and efficency, all staples of 20th century work ethics have been thrown aside in the 21st century, strip everything down to the bare bone and declare a profit, hard to understand where the economic recovery has sprouted, sure have not seen it much in the US over the past few months. The media in their Orwellian nature to back a president who has done little for the constituants who put him in office, manipulate ideas, facts, and mathematics to tell the public, not to worry, go ahead and spend some more, buy up everything in sight, what choice do you have, all this is being financed by the Chinese anyway, so as long as our country hands over the latest technology for them to mass produce everything shall be fine, if that fails then go ahead with the encoded sequence to launch the the nuclear missles in the general direction of China, but who the hell will make all our cheap creature comforts? Furthermore, our addictive nature to television, food, and wasting time supercedes any real political ideology, wait, will whittle ourselves down somemore, wait, cut, slice, extract the remaining amount of reason, then go about the day.

Surrounded by spongers and two faced people who shall be the cause of your demise, undermining everything you do with a smile, we all lie to each other and pretend to be allies, but in the process continuously seek new ways to sandbag our fellow humans, so we can wake up in the morning to grab a bagle or coffee. Do not be fooled with camraderie, having beers, lunch, or hanging out in the strip club, it all means nothing, you will be ran right over with no one else looking back, shaking their heads as they pass while being thankful it was not them. There has to be a stopping point, are they any decent people left who are not already full of a thousand excuses from having to buy diapers to being upside down in a mortage they should have ever taken on in the first place. The stories of misery run so deep, no wonder the suicide rate has gone through the roof lately. People can no longer take the strees of living under a pile of bills, with the uncertainity of retaining employment, so don't participate in other people's bullshit anymore, realize most everyone for who they really opportunists with no real sense of purpose but to consume, procreate, and stand on the sidelines when the hard decisions have to be made.

Midnight Travelers

They wait folded up in chairs enduring long layovers in US airports, delays, cancelled flights, missed connection due to excessive drunkeness in the streets of Las Vegas, coiled up like snakes fighting to get some sleep the past week has seeked to escape. I know the feeling doing time in so many international airports throughout the world, flights abroad leave at certain times, very infrequently, once a day, miss that flight, might as well head back into town for another night beating the going, trying to stay up or not sleep through another alarm. From excessive indulgence to bad timing, I have had to stay up more than a few days at a time to get back home, completely derranged, possessed, and erased, life becomes a thin film of existence, celluloid, can't understand anyone, just nod, grunt, and attempt to say a few words, no one can understood me. I watch these midnight travelers in the early morning as I catch a domestic flight to somewhere in America, still somewhat jealous that they are off out into the larger world, a world much grander in scale than the crap they sell here in the states, but soon I will be out amongst them once more, free for a brief time to live with judgement.

Tabloid Racks

What is about the magazine racks at the check out counter, almost is if they had placed a bunch of sex mags on the shelves, something compels me to look over, analyize the latest gossip about A List movie stars with whom I have nothing in common with what so ever. Not much different than surfing the internet, just passing time, dumbing down, feeling the fantasy of digging into the hard times of those more fortunate than myself, a rally cry, a pledge, a victory over those who we allow to manipulate, control, and dictate our futures through social culture, economic trends, and the elusive fantasy of success. There is no real reason for these magazines, except to supplant, drugs or booze, they have the same effect, crawling away into another space, into another world, far away from the vicious reality of surviving in a world drowning in overpopulation, wasted natural resources, and a union of masses who would rather flush the mess down the toilet then fight to save anything.

All these celebs, stalked like wild animals wherever they go, no matter what place on the planet, there is always some photographer hiding the tall grass, a catcus, or cocunut tree waiting to capture that golden moment which will put them on the map in the paparazzi department, either way, people must love the mags cause the store keep putting them out on the shelf to be sold, I get pissed at myself whenever I look over to read the headlines, a guilty pleasure, not even a real pleasure, but curious to see what the hell someone has painstakingly gone over in order to shape up into a some form of reading material, total junk, but to our society it supercedes, the evening news, politics, and global harmony, this is the real world, the silver screen, the super hero idealistic man and woman who the public shall never resemble, the masses live through the actors and their superstardom, somehow feeling connected, intertwined, and relative to their experiences when in fact most of the people live in hollow compact apartment, slowly dissolving on obseity, alcohol, and depression, drifting further away from sanity into another realm of no pain, where belief is enough to invoke change while riding the escalator to heaven, saved by the grace of Hollywood.

Retiredpornstars.com

Saw the name on the back of a window, a sticker of ill fortunate nature, where the relics, dried up whores, and drug fiends of the sex world unite for another trip down memory lane. Stories of syphills, HIV, crack cocaine, meth, 80 men gang bangs, and a total loss of conscience all merge together under one heading. Is a porn star ever really retired, jeez, some diseased pervert will pay money to fuck just about anything anymore, animal, children, freaks of nature, whatever, money crosses all lines and supposely washes away all sins, total bullshit, looking around in Vegas in the suburbs watching all the stripper, hookers, and sluts going grocery shopping for their kids will tell you enough in one day to know that the scars run deep, there is nothing proud, worthwhile, and meaningful about sucking cock and taking it up the ass, I'm sure plenty of prisoners in jail detest being on the receiving end of prison politics, sodomy, rape, animalistic ritual sex, we all crave it, watching it on the internet, television, or on some street corner in the alley only feeds the desire to enact, perform, and take part in such high levels of deviant performances. People have to find new ways to make money and luckily in society such ours there are a million new ways to scam the public out of their wages and most porn stars are savvy enough to know this, so expect the clone site of retired sex stars to give the Facebooks of the world a run for their money, cause that pussy is a cash machine right up until the moment the last bit of dirt hits the coffin lid.

Opposing Forces Unite

A deranged man walked around the Vons Gas station looking for some spare change. Why lie I need some beer, give me a few bucks, broken down here in this car over down the way, just something to keep me going. All the lines, a thousand more, did not matter, just get out of my presence, etched across the face of an uncomfortable white man, being confronted by a black man over who needs what, who gets what, and by the exact means. There was no way the brother possibly even thought about asking me for money, I don't waste anytime, just beat it, don't have time to listen to the soft sell or the hard sell, intimidation, guilt, or a general sense of oppression, skip it, might give them a few swallows of the gas going into my van, otherwise not interested. The best part is when the panhandler thanks me for turning down their pleas for money, oh the good lord...... on and on, doing my suffering for the afterlife where things will be much better that is why everyone is on drugs, booze, or food, distractions galore, forget about life as a failure, induce coma, lay back and imagine a better world in the mind.

By now, the local store clerk cretin has been alerted to the handywork of the bum who resorted to calling the white guy a racist while transcending into another entire diatribe blaming this man for the every atrocity conducted by the white race since the dawn of civilization. So the lackey clerk sent in the rent a cop security officer who happen to be black, like a repellent or avenue to mitigate the race card being overused at the time. The rent a cop had seen the brother's routine all too often and told him as much. This activity snapped the brother out of Farrakaan mode and into the united brother front, we are in this together to defeat the white man, let us unite, overcome, and rewrite the history books. The security guard got the homeless man moving in a direction from the customers off toward the bus stop where such behavior would easily be tolerated without judgement, rebuttle, or any sense of recognition, just another looney out on display. Negating race, pitting brother against brother, one paid by the streets, the other by the mechanisms of corporate America, shows you no matter what you have to choose a side, who will you defend when the time comes down, only one shot in which the rest of your life will be judged, a corporate slug or comatose binge freak, opposing force seeking death in the streets of Las Vegas, show teeth, violence, or death, nothing else will be tolerated.

Lord of the Carts

Part good samaratin, part obsessive compulsive, there did not seem to be any obvious reason why this street broken, mentally aloof, and universally disconnected human being felt the desire to organize the grocery carts in the metal corral left out in the parking lot which served as holding station for them until some teenage clerk found the time to wander around the area to grab all the baskets. Out of disarray came a blossomed flower of orderliness; the guy wanders around the lot gathering every stray cart as if it was a lost lamb in need of shelter and security. He did not work there, pushing the metal baskets between rows of oncoming vehicles, focused, committed, and unwavering, determination flowed out his pours like sweat from a person on a overly humid afternoon. This was all an attempt at one person seeking to control his environment, dressed in a well soiled, oil stained t-shirt, cut off pants, and a pair of dumpster salvaged dress shoes that looked to be a few sizes too large for the master of the carts.

He did not work there, still his nature to neatness felt a bit misplace especially after giving him the physical once over, personal appearance was nothing, but the calling to act as personal shepard to the grocery carts of Food 4 Less took the upmost precendence. I could not figure out exactly what was motivating this human being to undertake such a ritualistic routine, no one else around bothered to give it any thought, they were too caught in up whether to buy generic or brand name goods, what to cook for dinner, and if they really could afford to eat in the first place anymore. Such heavy weights on the minds of your average grocery shopper could create an unintended short sighting in regards to the personal mission of the Lord of the Carts who at the moment fell back in ranks to the rear of the parking lot, standing between empty parking spaces observing his domain, like a cattle rancher watching the herd as the sun sets in the west, stoic, proud, and overwhelmed with personal hubris, a champion overcoming the impossible, relishing victory in a subconscious moment of reflection. His actions created effiecency, facilated happiness in the eyes of the clerks who merely had to push the carts back in the store now, and finally feed his personal need to generate order in a society so bent on giving up to the everpresent eroding tide of urban decay. The battle would continue on forever, but his own individual front amdist the grocery store parking lot shall serve as a glimmer of hope for those cumplusive types who wallowed in the vices of self control, a psychotic fung shei episode that had no resolution, crumbling blocks stacked over and over again, yet if you forget you ever piled them up in the first place, there would be nothing to get angry about, this guy at that idea mastered, toiling relentlessly once more to reestablish a balance, no amount of lithum, methadone, or antipsychotic could remedy, this fight was his rehabiliation, maybe that is why no one stopped him from continuing the effort, just reaping in the benefit of the constant struggle to the entire house of cards from collapsing, no emotion at all, a robot of specific actions, applause held as the shoppers filled up the carts, then emptied them into their automobiles, unaware to the toil taking place amongst them.

The Backwoods

There is a discreet balance in the scenery out here in the Ohio backwoods. Large, thick tracks of treelands surround the retro grade neighborhoods that have been frozen in time since the 50's. General stores, gas stations with service attendents, and a myriad of local drivers in half broken down rusted out domestic brand lifted trucks with confederate flags are the norm. Yet no matter where my travels have taken me over the decades, the invisible magnetic beam of the weird somehow continues to pulls such outlandish individuals as those who drive such trucks into my presence. The first one must have been supplementing his income with regional meth sales as the guy behind the wheel and his friend cranked up the latest death metal sounds that Wal Mart had not already gone out of there way in banning due to sacriligous nature. Either way, these two epitomized the essence of rebellion in the small town country of southwestern Ohio, which happen to more or less border Indiana and Kentucky, don't think the proximity really had anything due to the stereotypical characteristics of the two individuals who in their cut of sleeve/ shirtless nature took turns leaning out their respective open doors while crusing down the roadway. Couldn't tell if this might be part local custom, mating ritual, or an all out effort to invoke a new form of intimidation not scene since the movie Deliverance. Of course, the fact I was driving a shitty little Hyundai compact car in the land of the free, home of the brave may have highlighted my already unwelcomed arrival.

There was not much I could do, besides turning back around to the Indiana border, most anyone with all their teeth and a bit of an education would stand out in these parts which makes the fact that a major university sets somewhat hidden in these mountainous hills, a bastion of learning where the overall intelligence level probably makes the entire state of Ohio appear partially capable of thought process, but do not be fooled it is down home right here in the backwoods, as the two screwballs bang on the sides of the truck doors to the death metal music while driver revs the engine somemore, not much else to do but laugh, already half pissed off because none of the road signs match any of the maps in my possession. There must be some sort of code or legend on the map I am missing which shall translate the myraid of posted highway markers alongside the shoulder, going on nothing but instinct at the moment, roadside taverns be damn, should just pull over and forget it, have a few drinks with the locals, instigate some violence then head down to the police station.

Regardless, the Dukes of Hazzard turned in another direction motivated by other means of spreading narrow minded hate amongst the citizens of Hamilton Ohio or wherever I happen to be at the time, everything looks the same, the houses, the treeline, the shaved mullets, and mini cars with sticker letters spelling out car detail services even though the car with the letters on it has not been detailed in years, missing bumpers, primer paint job, cracked windows, and enough junk the back pickup to make even the most endeavored horder turn awash in envious bliss. Guess the whole rebel flag thing might have to deal with our current president or proximity to Kentucky, quite possibly just small town America period, as if it matters anymore, symbolic if anything, like any other extremist activity in the US, outside of ideology Muslim related. Had to stop in a convenience store for directions finally, did want to spend the entire night driving around in circles looking for Miami University, the place just sort of appears alongside the road without much prompting which makes me crazy, either way, not much left to do but roll down the window, crank up the Greatful Dead and open a beer.

What It Takes to Gather

All too rarely do the people in the Las Vegas television and film industry get together. We do have an annual Christmas party, which was created in honor of an untimely death of a fellow co worker, this reason generally tends to be the only rallying point of people lately, shameful though that none of can find the time to hangout, granted we are all out there on the hunt for some work in a city that has undergone a serious economic recession, so maybe people feel like they are in competition, hopefully that is not the case, though I asked a few people at last night's rememberance of a video engineer who passed away last weekend at all too early of a time and the fact he was partially key in my education in this industry made the evening a bit more sad. I stared at the photo of him and it just did not fully set in that he would no longer be walking out of the video portion of the television truck praising me for a job well done. Thankfully, his wisdom and guidance will live with me, so in my mind he is still alive, a bit of him in all of us here tonight, discipline, focus, and attention to detail. Those lessons came over a decade of being thrown in over my head, where he was my immidiate superior, shaking his head as I did everything wrong, still mistakes were only made once, after a dressing down that left my ears stinging with a look as if I just fell from the sky unable to process his command without looking dumbfound.

Over time, I just shut up, observed, and paid attention gaining lifetimes of experience. it has served me well. After talking to a few more co workers it seemed unamious in the realization that as a community we were pretty distant, spread out, and factioned, this could be due to generational differences, social circles, and personal tastes, yet why should these things seperate us, maybe living in Vegas has made people somewhat transient. I can remember last weekend when everyone on a television shoot found out the news, the sense of loss was complete and irrefutable, total shock, I was hanging out with him the weekend before, then boom, gone, no more, everyone moves on, goes about their business, thankfully though last night his memory would not be lost, so Riceman shall be a wealth of knowledge, eternal, purposeful, and a legacy of the personal desire for perfection.

Neon Reverb

The underground music scene of Las Vegas has come together this weekend to showcase a great cross section of artists who might otherwise have not toured through this city or remained locally underdiscovered. With a bit of research in the weekly city magazine I found that there happend to be a number of bars and nightclubs who put on nightly music lineups. Must be honest, it has been quite a few years I have had any desire to investigate the indie band showcases, especially in an era of self promotion via such internet tools like MySpace, Facebook, Twitter, You Tube, and a host of other less recognized mediums of sites which allow bands to post their music and bio information on the webpage. After some further research of Neon Reverb I decided to head down to the Beauty Bar to watch a number of acts perform. For some reason, the synthesizer has made a resurgence in a number of bands, a hybrid of the Killers/Muse vibe with dreamy lead vocals, retro 80's dance beats, moody bass lines, and an aluminum shell to generate that self conscious distance so prevalent in art pop.

The Beauty Bar looks like a hair salon, all the booths double as the back bar area where all the bottles of alcohol have been setup in a loose assembly with the upmost effort of random precision. After grabbing a drink I went outside to a backyard picnic area, listeners hung out in loose pockets, talking amongst themselves, others probably friends who were more intent, more passionate, singing along with the lead singer who did his best to become more motivated, twisting, jumping, then rolling around on the stage, while slyly looking over his shoulder to see if anyone really cared about his antics. A group of twenty continued shouting and screaming motivating the band to increase their tempo driving into a lathered frenzy of ear piercing distortion and manical bashing of the drums, the drummer looked intent on turning his drum set into pile of wooden rubbish. Damn, this band is loud, forgot how painful listening to music in club can be, had to go to the back of outdoor area to lessen the fierce overwhelming sonic assualt, but if its too loud, you are too old, guess that is the case now. It took a few beers to get past the earache until nothing but a dull thud remained. I stood near the audio mixer he did not seem too concerned with the distortion, in fact the band complained between songs that it was not loud enough.

People watching became the routine for the night, started up a couple of discussions with a few photographers covering the event. gone are the days of paper based rock and roll magazines, they exist, but these photographers covered this event for various music websites, blogs, and various Vegas nightlife guides. At times, it appeared that the number of people snapping pictures and rolling video outnumbered the fans in the audience. This did not have a noticable effect on the bands who in total looked excited to be playing their material in front of more than their friends and family, I could sense the personal satisfaction resonanting out of the speakers, whether punk rock or hip hop, the pursuit of showmanship poured out into the Beauty Bar, song by song, band by band, it got me excited about music again and about hanging out in public, attempting to socialize once more, even though I am some old geezer now, others find a weird sort of wisdom in the experiences of my life and they offer me some insight in negotiating life in an era of uncertainity, no one seems concerned, only more motivated to express what is on their mind, might be love or the pain of seeking employment. This is just the kind of message everyone needs, otherwise we'll be sailing down a sea of alcoholic abuse, drug binge consumption,
and an unfathomable depression. We already went down that well in the early 90's of self destruction with a bit of art to show for it, but also a generation who refutes praise, support, and brotherhood. I count myself among them, yet to hang out with a new crowd gave me a sort of revival, now if I can keep the drinking down to minimum there is a chance of getting some real work done, back out into the field.

The Brood

Three generations of 20 something partiers have past through the well worn battle grounds of Las Vegas nightlife, since the golden age of late 90's pre bottle service VIP booth corporate fleecing of the casinos came to pass. A friends birthday as well as the interest of a girlfriend compelled me to go back on my somewhat recent rigid stance of staying out of the nightclubs for an extended period of time. Not to fear, due to a recent resurrenge in the local party scene a fresh crop of off strip underground spots had began to flourish once more bringing with it an entire new scene of youngsters eagerly spilling out of their SUV's and luxury sedans seeking a sancutary where they could conduct drug experiments upon themselves in the proximity of cool revelers, liberal security, and non oppressive dress code that turned many places on the strip into more like graduation festivities than a open minded, come as you are, be yourself, type of house party.

As I got out of my friends luxury sedan, legions of youthful adults lingered around their automobiles down in the parking lot from the bar where they played a variety of dance music tracks, absorbing that repetitive, deep, seductive nature of house music and with each proceeding song becoming more and more committed to the cult of the midnight sun, who live from dusk till dawn, sometimes longer, until the drugs wore off or they found another afterparty with complementary ride, might be a hotel suite, a cabana at one of the hip casino properties, or possibly a McMansion decorated in a tropical themed backyard, the pool, slide, wetbar, booze, drugs, and the potential for sexual exchange.

There are moments when my age ceases to exists as the decades of adventures in the excessive celebration come back to life pulling the inanimate digital files of debauchry off the shelf, then back into play. It all arrives so naturally, nothing forced, as if I happened to be conducting masters classes on how to go completely insane while having fun at the same time, the naunces of pushing the boundaries with no limits, walking along the line of extreme behavior and death, fearless, empowered, determined to outperform, over glutton, as well as lead the charge in the night time crowd pushing themselves in series with the ever intensely increasing sounds of the dance music coming from the speakers in the room, had a flow to it, a rythmn, which over time became ingrained into the DNA of the listener so no matter this person might be in the world, once that familiar pulsation of bass could be heard in the distance, a bee line rush in drone like fashion would be made to the source of that vibe until the person was enveloped in the subtlities of latin flavor, sped off to distant regions while reconnecting with various like minded brothers and sisters on the dancefloor.

The brood has been split into two camps. The early crowd that prefers a more mainstream sound, music that played again and again on the public airwaves until it achieves a subliminal state, a comfortable space where they can feel, cool, accepted, and unique while not undergoing a phase of self consciousness when the DJ begins playing vocal less techno music that only becomes more aggressive, uncomfortable, unstable, and erotic, setting off a nueral impulse inducing death cult, hyper sexuality, along side inexplicable indecent acts that make people unaccustom to such performance exceedingly distressed. Yet that is their personal issue which these types have to come to terms with in order to be considered amongst the true batch new brood who roam the neon streets nightly in conquest of fresh kicks, unyet imagined hedonism, and brain serum extracts that get the user higher than anything else known to the human race.

By 3am, the early crowd is gone, the music is proper, and the people in the place have no qualms in regards to race, sexuality, and distate, the foundation is being laid to maximize personal pleasure while sprinting through a drug stimulated time warp. The friend of mine wanted to go old school after being offered some exstacy tablets by a person we had be talking to throughout the night. I personally passed on the tablets for years after finding the powdered MDMA which always was purer and uncut without the sort of knockoff, easy to find, cheap, synthetic narcotics that gave the user a different ride everytime, could be good, but ocassional the chemicals in the pills only magnified an undercurrent of paranioa or smacked out emotions. Yet, how could I say no, when all the other 20 somethings around me were already high off their tits giving me the subconscious thumbs up, as if to say, hey old man, we hear all this talk of your reputation over the decades from this party to that party across the globe, well teach us something we don't already know, can you do it? Make a believer out of this crowd. Now my new place in the club is as elder statesman, motivating everyone around me to get mental, fall into the music, the fury of the beat, to throw everything away, self, ideal, any sort of hope in attaining all the lofty well placed goals of society, discard them, they no longer apply to anyone on the dancefloor right now, if you hang around past 5am, then the gods of the eternal evening succeeded in converting your soul into a lifetime participant, no matter what age, when the call is made, you will respond, take you rightful place amongst the new camp, to teach, to observe, and most of all to listen to the new camp, who seek wisdom, reassurance, and compassion from a life that at best sometimes feels volatile. The youth danced on, track after track, 5am arrived, as my age and unexercized will took control once more, daylight was upon us, not again, I thought, not another sunrise, the brightness of the sun would have to be postponed one more day, return to the isolation of my darkened room, let the afternoon pass, seek shelter with a familiar friend, let her soothing seduction calm nerves, give me the strength to go another day without real sleep, eyes dialated I look in the mirror, such a familiar sight, but the thighs of a fresh warm woman await, a delicacy one such as myself finds immense comfort and pleasure in with which to keep the horrors of a drug induced comedown far away.

Deep in the Heart of Texas

1am, time change means another night without proper sleep, not much of a bother only when proceeded by a weekend all nighter, very little sleep the next day, and an early flight the following morning. Just have to be satisfied with the well trained routine of catching a few hours during the plane flight to Austin. Maybe it is the jet engine noise, my dark shades or the highly confined space of the airline seats, either way heading off to work out of town becomes a series of obstacles to be avoided that only result in more restlessness, had to turn off the television a few hours ago as the combination of bad food, light beer, and over salted snacks has given me an awful stomach ache provoking the rest of my body to fight off the terrible feeling. With such a diet today it is no surprize that everytime I belch, the mixture of sandwhich meat, Miller High Life and Ruffles potato chips make we want to heave, which would probably serve me better than holding the food down, still putting my head in the toilet for the next fifteen minutes to clear my guts does not resound so well with me at this time, nothing more than a downward slope to feeling bad the next day, only thing to do is ride out the mild food poisoning, drink a bit of water, listen to some relaxing music and let my body unwind.

Already 1am have to be up at 8am, the balancing act between rest, being productive, without enacting a sense of self imposed guilt for laying in bed while watching streamed tv on internet has grown tougher to stay happy with lately, might just be my age, hitting 40, now all of a sudden I have held down a job for over 20 years, a series of shit jobs, up until my current one which is ever evolving, so learning new things is actually very cool, the politics suck, but that could be said about any job, the toughest thing is staying focused, have been allowed to live with little structure as a child, teen, and young adult, maintaining concentration, goals, and direction are all to easy to brush off to the side with some alcohol, a bar stool, and a couple of other friends who really don't care about the future outside of being able to survive, an entire life of survival is not much of a life, luckily thanks to traveling the world, I have been given some perspective, yet this past year, a relationship breakup cancelled my usual yearly travel plans, coupled with my mother moving to town and finally buying my own place, the chains are really on me now.

It is not just my work equipment, but a 20 percent downpayment on a condo, bad economic conditions, watching a lot of my friends exist on unemployment checks, my mother as well, part of me wants to get out of Las Vegas now, go anywhere, start over, away from all the drugs, booze, and partying there is nothing else here, accept fresh reinforcments of youth staying out all night repeating the same mistakes I made, year after year, pissing it all away for some imaginary and most of all temporary pleasure that fades with the first night of proper sleep, but for some like myself that slumber would never arrive, going out again and again, hungry for the fix, to burn out the fun meter, break the glass cover, either the sanitarium or exit ramp to infinity, where have I been going with all these antics? The lifestyle is fun for 20 somethings fresh out of college attempting to find themselves through the hedonistic sewers of Vegas, but there is nothing tangible, nothing redeeming, all is empty, vague, useless, and life numbing. The treasure at the end of the rainbow in Las Vegas resembles a lake of fire, where demons prod victims with their pitchforks into the turbulant seas of liquid magma to tread on its surface for eternity, without reason, physical movement as an illusion of survival when in fact all of the sufferers experienced death many decades earlier. I am amongst them existing in a dream without purpose, functioning as no more than a robotic servant, memories implanted to follow a lifetime of segmented distractions which culminate in a reactor of energy to fuel the next generation of broods who will look upon my actions will revulsion, disdain, and an overwhelming craving to immerse themselves into my digital hallucination construct of Pleasure Island, where the fun never ends, the drugs are always pure, and the high last forever.

Cretins in the Supermarket

Bred by the nearby neighborhood park located in the indentured servant sector of Las Vegas, the cretins of the supermarket follow a tractor beam of confusion and self imposed misery to lose themselves in the aisleways amongst gluttonous supply of basic food needs that their drug filled bodies no longer require in order to function as living organisms, but to call these mindless zombies functional is a stretch. Many decades of abuse have rewired their central nervous system resulting in a total realignment of nueral paths throughout their bodies. Communication channels are nothing more than red alerts in a heightened state of paranioa. As I push my shopping cart around the store, young kid is walking behind me wearing a baseball cap with embroidered Philiphine national flag, mirrored shades and cutoff shorts. It looks like he just came from a week long poker tournament where sleep, meal breaks, and intensive focus had worn this kid down to his basic motor function of walking, but now had found himself lost in the supermarket like a rat on LSD and PCP unable to decipher any sort of spatial parameter, left to wander around the store aimlessly until death or a means of reasonable exit present itself.

The young kid followed behind me until I quickly stopped and turned around in his direction causing the guy to jump right out of his shoes as if approached by a murderous preadator seeking to tear him to shreads, the delusional being assumed a reactionary pose of innate self defense, ready to battle to the finish with arms out stretched, awaiting the first strike like a diseased rat fearing for its life, who was put in a corner with two choices to either fight or die and this primitive animal looked intent for self preservation, all I could do was redirect my cart down another path, while laughing to myself about the incident. Young children in far off corners of the marketplace yell for their mother, just like the kids I remember in grade school who had no parenting, any sort of discipline, left at home by themselves to fight amongst their siblings for microwave pizzas, scraps from the dumpster, and the occasional stolen goods from the local convenience store. Dad was not far behind, he did not seem to care about the kids loud, brash, and unruly behavior, he looked distracted, as if calculating a plan of escape from his current predictament as father to these children, maybe he was dreaming of life a single man, far from the impending responsiblity of raising kids who were so full of energy that they had already lapped their father while search the frozen food section for the elusive mother who by now probably was on her way to the downtown Greyhound station with what ever cash and belongings she had on her at the moment, attitude growing more cheerful with each step as she boarded that bus toward wherever, putting the family in the rear view mirror as she hyperventilates knowing each breath gives her more and more clarity, more confidence to carry forward, burying the past like fresh wooden casket into a grave, doused with kerosene, then set on fire and finally covered in a rain of animal fecal matter.

Time along with economic well being has not erased these memories of my childhood where I lived in such an exact setting with so many displaced misfits of society, today in 2010 over 30 years later the same apparitions walk the same unkept, crumbling, infrustructures of inner city metropolis, babbling amongst themselves, searching for innocent people to prey upon, fixing on drugs in broad daylight unconcerned with how the rest of the world percieves their general actions. Everyone has come to expect everything for nothing and when the promise goes unfulfilled sets off a series of crushing blows of confidence to the psyche inducing a loss of consciousness while invoking virus like symptoms dissolving these people into blood thirsty retribution driven carnivorous beasts who will kill every living human around them without, emotion, senitment, or regret, as the bodies pile up to be fed upon by those who are either too weak, too lazy, or fully addicted to the taste of tainted flesh and the hallucingenic rush it brings. Navigating all these landmines, obstacles, and potential aggressors, I make it back to my van, all the time watching my back as my surroundings quickly close ranks in the hunt to erradicate the planet of thought forever.

Spreading the Disease

She likes to walk up and down Karen Avenue during the midday hours. offering herself while wearing the most seductive attire her status in life can afford. Part militant, part predator, and all expliotation, the prostitution routine has the allure of a tragdic comedy, a multiple car crash of clown filled automobiles, when stared upon inducing a sense of grotesque fascination remininsant of an autospy or horror film mutilation initating feelings of nausea as well as curious desire to investigate this traveling sex machine a bit further. There is no sense of shyness with this street side performance carried out along the sidewalk corners and strip mall alcoves where she can hide from detection. The local authorities do not seem to care, relagating her existence to nothing more than that stray dog you might spot walking down the rural shanty dirt road, covered with mange, delusional, barking at imaginative object invisible to the human eye, no real harm or possibility of rabid acitivity, just an organism slow deteriating, heading to the compost heap of life, a small space in a lonely desert alleyway filled with rusted broken window automobiles on wooden blocks, phone books, and cement bricks, just another victim of consumer culture.

Still, there does not appear to be any shortage of willing participants who cruise these streets searching for her brand of sexual satisfaction. Are they offering valet service tonight, as a stream of vehicles form a single file line inticing regional ladies of the night with promises of fast cash, free drugs, and the romantic illusion of breaking free from the chains of servitude over into the realm of socially accepted middle class suburban subdivisions where they could tend to their physical and emotional wounds with the promise of rehabilitation which never quite develops or takes, transformation from the hustle to a somewhat percieved humane facade ends up being nothing more than entertainment for upper class movie goers. These veterans of body givers wear their past like a surgical scar from a botch operation, a low grade reattchment of the limb carried out in some fourth world country. But for today, this woman will show a smile behind a pair of dark shades, waving customers over like those halfway house convicts washing cars for Jesus in order to maintain an early release, the disease will spread as long as need remains our primary objective, each john taking another cut of already withering soul, dissolving into sand blown away by the wind of the night.

Lag

This is how one gets behind, falls short on their commitments, I use to have one to the blog in a sense as far as posting every day, but sometimes other things get in the way, such as work, drinking excessive amounts of alcohol and the always reliable multi-day drug binge, nothing like that last one to put a person in a non-productive mood that is one part time ally who shall never let me down. In my profession, there are periods of ebb and flow, during the ebbs are the times to do mundane things like, reciepts, invoicing, purchasing of new gear, while surfing the internet as well as the cellphone attempting to drum up new business or continue with projects in the process of completion. However, I can't seem to get away from my favorite hangouts during down time for more than a day or two, any excuse is a good one, it does not take much to coax me from my one bedroom condo and the laptop screen. For someone who appears to detest the human race as much as I do, being around them is necessary, almost like a biologist or anthropoligist studying groups of either animals or humans, maybe both. There is no refuting that my existence remains well outside that of everyday people, my likes, dislikes are only tempered in the constant desire to be cool, even though it seems my daughter's generation is getting into all the music I liked at their age, which is fairly shocking, to see all these late fourty and early fifty hipsters back out on tour after going into hibernation for the past 15 years.

It was as if the 2000's became this big vaccum which sucked out anything geniune, anything unique, replacing it with mock heros, false truths, and a cancer of shallow existence that has an entire generation living on a respirator. I have completely forgot that 2010 has ushered in a new decade, another chance, a time to remember, forget, then move on, my fifth decade, the 70's drugs, disco, the 80's drugs, new wave, the 90's drugs, grunge, the 00's drugs, hip hop, and what is to become of the 10's drugs and ? The chemicals may change but the need stays the same, for the most part music forms quite a few opinions as well as nature amongst the younger generations, for the older folks, if the Eagles, Paul McCartney, and Bruce Springsteen concerts are any indication, they like to hold onto the music of their youth. Until recently, I was of the same faith, clinging to those Stone Roses, Mudhoney, Oasis, New Order, and Public Enemy CD's through a dozen moves throughout the world. Thankfully, with the rebirth of the multi-day concert extravaganzas my curiousity for new music has grown, feeling like a bandwagoner, some of my teenage fan obsession has returned culling the webpages of the internet to hear the lastest indie rock darling, what all this has to do with lag I am not sure at the moment, adherance to distraction, put that on a t-shirt, we have built an empire of distraction, creating art as such a thing has made paupers into kings, while melting the minds of an entire planet, still the 10's drugs, distraction rock, so it has been crowd, distraction rock will be the trend for the oncoming decade, to get out amongst the people, take drugs while disconnecting with society, the self, and the physical being, total annhilation, something the public can readily embrace. Inside the goo of posted concert outtakes, unreleased tracks, behind the scenes photos, until the fans and the band become one entity, absorbing the band's humanity to infuse into their own, for better or worse, as mode of change or commodity, feels like commodity when a concert ticket costs over 100 hundred dollars. Matador Records and indie rock label from the late 80's, early 90's, is turning 21, so they are throwing a bash to celebrate the ocassion with a roster of all the art alt rockers from yesteryear, now that this generation of fans is supposedly in their prime earning years, the promoters, et al, find it appropriate to charge anywhere from 150 dollars to 250 dollars for a 3day pass to the event. It feels so ironic, first of all to have the show in Vegas, the label is 21, I get it, legal and all that, but never back in the early 90's when I paid 5 bucks to see the label bosses Superchuck play would I have concieve such a rebound for fringe music, music drop outs listened to high on LSD, painting at their friends house, while playing in a noise rock band that people would embrace today, but loathed back in the early 90's, time is weird, it either validates or nullifies, which is one thing that keeps me alive, a real important one.

Anti Social House

The room is packed with casual pedistrians on a dance floor, everyone donning headphones, wearing dark shades, and busily typing away on cellphone keyboard pads. Dance floor territory is at a premium everyone appears to feel threathed from space invasion, tension runs high, a few tourists begin to talk to themselves in hopes of allivating a bit of the invisible yet overwhelming uncomfortable aniexty beginning to swell, an erratic sea of xenophobia amongst citizens of the same planet, same country, same being, what does it matter. This is the Anti Social House Party, a throwdown where everyone in attendance stays in their personal comfort bubble far away from the self induced mania of having to meet new people, still there are various ways to circumvent the 20th century ritual of face to face communication.

A chat room for the Anti Social House Party has been started on Skype, as well as a Facebook page, unlimited bandwith free wireless internet for some of the artistical types who have already began posting videos of the celebration, not to mention the resident DJ of the night, taking requests via his Twitter account, no need to fear the reaper at this social gathering or any other human contact at all, just post a personal profile, in the next hour the emcee of the bash will be randomly introducing people via Zoosk, Match.com and for the more daring types Chat Roulette, taking all the guess work out of learning more about that potential someone, become immersed in the virtual individual, scroll through their likes and dislikes, digital avatars have been constructed for possesion in order to have conversations through distant means without ever speaking, just type away, send links from your favorite viral videos, post links to illegal downloads of music each of you enjoy, create a digital mixtape playlist, share favorite bars, clubs, books, restuarants, and movies, with a myriad of websites, blogs, and saved favorites, go hand in hand down the world wide web of consumer fetishes. You can tag each other in sintilating photos throwing up gang signs, drinking waterdown cocktails, while personalizing your attire for the digital avatar, customize the body, looked ripped minus the sweat of the gym and dieting, hell, be a squid if you want, everyday is Halloween in cyberspace. All is silent at the Anti Social House Party, no one moves except to type or click on their cellphones, looking at no one, expressionless, as I sit in a bar this afternoon, completely seperated from all the other patrons in the place, knowing the Anti Social House Party is the only real party left in town, a few drinks more, while watching the Friday night 9 to 5 crowd spill over into the tavern, like a pin just pulled from a grenade, a stampede is formed in the direction of the bar with well conformed employees sweating through another week of potential unemployment, increasing demands for productivity, and gravity of existing in credit/debt society, the government is in the red, so why not all its citizens, no wonder everyone is already drunk at 5pm on a Friday afternoon, discussing the politics of the workplace, frustrated by management, fed up with co-workers who have no idea what they doing, as well as kiss asses that take all the credit for success without actually assisting on a particular project. All these conversations float around me like nervous caustic energy rapidly moving through the bar randomly colliding at ever increasing speeds, generating more anger, more hate, and more desire to drink. It seems no one can stop drinking now, as patrons jump over the bar and begin chugging the hard liquor straight from the bottle in attempt to sedate themselves from the webs of the office cubicle lifestyle. A casade of drunk debauchery crashes on these people who impulsively start to lash out, first in words, then with fists, barstools, empty liquor bottles, and beer taps, the frustration of being caught in the slave/work circle is being dramatized tonight.

The landlord has no choice but to call in the riot squad who arrive with trugdeons, mace, and aerosol forms of MDMA, nothing left to do but hose down this crowd with the MDMA, mix in some opiates with that cocktail, the boys at the station, call it obidence, all enforcement officers must be hosed down with it in order to understand the effects of passiveness, bliss, and acceptance, once in a while some of the riot squad members sneak a bit out, goes over well at the dance clubs, turns those self indulgent beasts into liquid jelly, like a god damn Roman orgy once that obiedence spray hits them proper, that's when you hit them with the consumer construct program codes, such as spend 600 hundred dollars on dress shoes, 5000 dollars on VIP booth bottle service, sell cocaine, MDMA, sell your body, your soul, never let the night end, it is all waiting, don't let the last record play, just overdose, time warp and arrive in the future the next day, black out equals time travel, moments the subconscious shall never recall, give me Zombiedust or give me death.

Mile High Telluride

Tough enough to breath at sea level but at 10,000 feet the process of keeping oneself alive has taking on an entire new meaning, which would not amount to very much if content to walking around all afternoon roaming the small town sightseeing, dining, and shopping, yet my focus centered around a cabal like free for all of multi-day exposure to a variety of narcotics, street freaks, and the liberalize mind of Colorado who on this particular early weekday was welcoming the high octane, intersellar, transcendental three ring circus known as Phish. Not so much the band as much as the extremely loyal legions of fans who come from all over the world to immerse themselves in a non judgemental, intensely excessive, marathon sprint amongst the mountains of Telluride Colorado. There is really not much to brag about in the sense of undertaking such a potentially fatal endeavor as hanging out with a bunch of seasoned degenerates who sole purpose is reconvene for such events and attempt to reconnect with the plasma like force a band such as Phish projects onto its crowd. From the music, to the lyrics, to the light show, everything has been elevated to overload the senses, generating a hypnotic shamanesque transmission affecting parts of the brain that would otherwise never have been explored or tapped unless under the watchful eye of LSD or DMT experimentation, yet it will not be too hard to find willing participants who seek to add such narcotics into the myraid of other substances to enhance a Phish, as if most human beings would even need it, the experience of going to a show itself invovles a series of psychological acceptances, things are going to get weird, even if just having a few beers at the show and from what I have seen at over 35 Phish show in the past decade would leave me convinced that very few people would settle on drinking merely a few beers, as if to say why waste this opportunity to push the boundaries even further, to go out where few tread, where all the fun exists, why not fry some more nuerons in the brain, aren't billions of those little things in there, singe the ends and see what happens.

Would I be any different today? Of course not, day three, kept things to a minimum, meaning I remember most of the events of the past two days, refrained from ingesting an overtly gross amount of psychadelic, stimulants, depressants, and opiates all at one sitting, yet for some reason an arch angel or various other sub diety has planted the desire in my head to take acid for tonights show and not just to do some right at the start of the show, but dose out while waiting in line to get into the venue some four hours before the band goes on which leaves me with plenty of time on my hands and a rapidly receeding slope of sanity with which I cling upon as sun makes it way back down the mountainous terrain.

Well one dose of LSD would not be enough today as I ask a friend for the first one while he placed a dime size like puddle of the substance in the palm of my hand, but there was disciple of the Pranksters roaming around us in a nearby encampment reminising about old yesteryear when no one gave a fuck, drugs were cheap, and people knew which side they stood on, all of this banter went right past me cause the first dose from my friend was kicking in, all I could do was focus on the guy's little pigtails coming off of his head, with proper pink rubber bands to hold them together, this was very amusing, his demeanor came in a strong second with a steady cadence of pacing around the campsite where a number of beat up 70's era caravans had taken up residence as if posing as a cadre of armed resistance fighters who looked bent upon spraying down the entire crowd later tonight in various aerial raids of sythesized experiemental drugs unyet tested on humans, merely reserved for clincal trials on a lab full of pan fried test rats who had long gone over the moon via a battery of episodical trips paralyzing their brain in entirety until nothing but a white film grew over the eyes while a state of catatonic distress froze the creatures into something resembling Greek statues. The rats had left planet Earth for good, where they headed now was something left for philospohers and the insane to decipher.

Nonetheless these results would not delay the next phase of testing and what a more formidable as well as resilant audience to conduct the round of trials upon, the crowd would welcome such a fresh infusion of mind debilating hallucinations and inner contemplations to supplement the already borderline college level chemisty department wandering around the campsite as well as line up earlier in the afternoon, but who is to turn down any sort of antidote to the overwhelming presence of reality existing not too far off in the distant horizons of middle America that was the real dark cloud, the true evil beast seeking blood, sacrifice, and cannibalization, not the fans, they were only interested in taking life to the next level by whatever means available around them and in a town where the medical marijuana dispensary sold medicinal ice cream, I began to wonder if there needed to be any sort of store front at all to justify to painfully obvious cravings for the Phish fans to ingest as many legal and illicit drugs as possible in a five hour evening, myself included, leading to a total disconnect, short circuit of all rational thought, all long term memory, and inability to differeniate between the time/space continumum. Brave astronausts by the thousands dawned their suits preparing for another journey into the unknown, with no itinerary, goal, or intergalatic map, nothing more than the will to undertake the adventure, unconcerned of consequence, authority, and mortality, only one path laid in front of us all, together a general consensus of the people told me right away we would come out the other end unscathed, enriched, and hungry for future explorations.

When the Medicine Wears Off

Self awareness envelops me like some R-rated horror film antagonist, an entity from which there is no escape, redemption, or bargaining. A creature whose only desire, purpose, and drive revovles around complete assimilation of the young teenage kids attempting to run desperately away from its grasp only to head arms open wide into the fatal final envitable conclusion of death. Not sure if has to do with being off of drugs for a while, working out two times a day, or just finally living amongst the general public for more than a week at a time before rushing off to another gig in some city across the world. Either way the pure crystaline jewel of fright jammed up the arteries near my heart as a vision of absolute conclusion struck the brain like the onset of armageddon was beginning to take place. All at once it seemed everyone was aware of my presence or maybe I happened to be more cognizant of the peripheral landscape than usual while checking out at a local Wal-Mart.

This afternoon had started with more sleep than usual, a good 12 hrs which is rare nowaday, harkening back to a time in college where rest was a multi cocktail swirled together with binge drinking, sex, and drug experiementation, fast forward 20 years and it does not appear that much has changed, however I have not felt this good, this adjusted, or balanced in at least a decade, even adding in all the mini self imposed rehab stints, which got me thinking about the amount of numbness my overall being has endured over the last couple of decades. Is this a mental shift, one from over the top, take it to the streets, excess, excess, excess, drug consuming lunatic, to a more mundane, tranquil, and obvious sub human. Well, I spent the rest of the afternoon along with millions of others in the U.S. on this Labor Day weekend going to a BBQ, watching college football, drinking Coors Light, arguing with other guys about sports, and unconsciously munching down greasy, fat fried, processed snacks. There were plenty of small children running around, jumping into the pool, encouraging the adults to play along, but what happen to be most refreshing happen to be the lack of recreational narcotics floating around the party, unlike the other type of house parties I attend, sans the kids, the youngsters became my personal barrier to shaman channelers, resident dope pimps, and systematic enablers who took a perverse pleasure in watching me piss another unproductive day down the tubes in order to get completely wasted out of my mind, floating around the pool in a plastic innertube, singing Shine on You Crazy Diamond to myself in the dark as the other kids take my presence as some sort of unoffical life guard, conning their parent into letting them swim well past their bed time.

The party ended rather traditionally with the conclusion of the college game as plans were initated to get together for some NFL football games in the future, while continuing to argue about the upcoming season in regards to our favorite teams respectively, no talk of taking LSD or staying out all weekend in nightclubs or spending another months rent at the regional strip clubs. No, tonight, there were kids who had to go to school the next morning, lunches to be packed, and new acquaintences that must prepare for the return to the 9 to 5 grind. Fantastic, light beer, had about 5 tall boys and still feels like I have been drinking water the entire night, enjoyed a prototypical BBQ dinner of beef brisket, pasta salad, and watermelon. It took another fifteen minutes to break free from the cranked up personal insults developing from all the discussion of each others football teams, but at the end of it, handshakes, fistbumps, and goodbyes were exchanged as I headed out the door to navagate my way back home through the speed traps, sobriety check points, and semi-pro drunk drivers in order to return to the familiar terriory near the Las Vegas strip content to sleep another night without pills, binge drinking, or opiates.

Chelsea Girls

The first woman sprinted by me on the way to the supermarket, seems the liquor store did not carry their favorite brand of cigarettes, no matter, she was nimble and fleet of foot in no time crossing the 100 meters necessary to reach the entrance to the nicotine temple where this woman would reunite with her favorite flavor of toxic cancer sticks. The second woman talked frantically on her cellphone as if still feeling the effects of cocaine binge earlier in the day. The sound in her voice felt deseperate, as if a cry for help, some sort of relief from the constant overwhelming heartbeat, blood pressure and near faint status, as the first woman ran by the second woman relayed a phone number of some other aquaintence, a solitary entity on the other line systematically controlling the actions of these two ladies. The license plate on the car was from California, Labor Day weekend, here to party, make some cash at the local strip clubs, and or visit family; the possiblities were endless, but all that mattered at the moment amounted to the resupplying of smokes, gas, and a valid credit card. It appears that Chelsea girl two had her belongings stolen last night, maybe by another stripper, cousin, or as the result of over indulgent antics clouding the memory of the previous night, sweeping away in its cold front through the mind, the memory of how she lost all the valuables formerly in her possession.

My damn front tire has gone flat again, so time to pony up some money for a new set of tires, the manager of the tire store shows me how worn out the side of the flat one have become due to many years of service on the streets of Las Vegas, but I am distracted by the Chelsea girls, number two is Hispanic, five-ten, aggressive, rough, like a predator sizing up her surroundings, she needs money while walking the expressway tightrope of being engulfed in a narcotic substance overload seizure, where time comes to a complete halt, breath escapes the lungs and refuses to return, paranioa, fear take hold of the mind, can't black out here in front of a liquor store at 3pm in the afternoon that's what junkies and drunks do in their daily performance of self annhilation, no medical insurance, have to just ride out the ascent till reaching the plateau, making an effort to gather the senses as her words turn to babble, she looks at me for an appeal, guidance, suggestion, possibly some money for booze to calm the high, Chelsea Girl number two looks ready to go into cardiac arrest on this 100 degree plus day. I tell the tire store manager to replace all the wheels, while keeping an eye on the girls, as Chelsea Girl number one returns with the cigarettes slowing her frantic sprint as if being timed for Olympic prequalification in the 100 meter sprint competition, everyone is happy again, shaking asses as if subliminally reassigned by headquarters of internet waves of ether, the celebration can continue, next stop the cabanas at Encore Beach, professional party girls can't be wasting time, soon enough those swimsuit model curves and looks fade, bringing on the dawn of desperate nature where no amount of boob jobs, make up, and hair dye will erase the years of hardcore, sleepless sex, drugs, and rock n roll, just another horse walked out to pasture as the next batch of young twenty something recruits relish in their virgin like experience overwhelmed by the sheer debauchry of the global jet set festival tour, where Vegas is just merely one stop on a multidestination journey from Dubai to Phuket to Goa to Ibiza to Sao Paolo to Tokyo, New York, Paris, Sharm Al Shiekh, and London, 12 months a year, 24 hours a day, waiting for no one, those who fall off to addiction, overdose, and or death, shall be given no sentiment, just walking papers as well as the same kind of treatment the Native American Indians gave their sick, leave them behind to be reclaimed by the gods. The party trail is a tough one to follow, no mercy, full on, fearless with reckless abandon, money fixes any problems while jail time is considered a merit badge of honor, still the best ones never taste the rusted iron bars of lower class prison cells, no all too quickly back on the Lear Jet to another destination refueling their desire to live without boundaries, the only real freedom left on this planet.

Gas Station Interval

It's the first weekend of college football, don't feel like going out to watch the local college team get beat by fourty five points, navigate the traffic, watch my fellow alumni break out of their comfortable middle class skin to transform into a former self for a few hours with an onslaught of drunken excess, bong tokes, and lashing out their wifes for having the audicity to question their sophomore antics in front of all their friends. Granted, it might have beeen worth going to the game just to witness all the above commotion, but I have to pull a long 28 hour plus work day for the Jerry Lewis Telethon this weekend, those last 8 hours can grind the most endurant granite immovable street fighters, the cavalcade of the vaudville like performers and hosts of the event wield their personal blend of tent revivalism mixed together with local cable network beauty pagent, talent show, and variety show extravaganza which will wear down the mind, body, and spirit; their is no escape, just a fifteen minute break each hour, an experiment, back into the cruciable, turn on the heat and fry the brain, not much different than volunteer medical testing, the pay is great but the damage to the nervous system is potentially irreversable, but after surviving the first year, this will be my fifth time undergoing the Ludevenko Technique ala Clockwork Orange, a subliminal attempt to make me shallow, happy, and obediant, be fearful of instutional organizations and embrace the cult of pity, another cash avenue as useful as alcoholism, cigarette smoking, and medical marajuana.

Labor Day Weekend Carnage

Abumlance sirens echo through the streets of the strip manuevering through the gridlock of weekend motorists preoccupied with the multitude of distractions littered throughout the city of Las Vegas. Twenty something party people overdose an a combonation of exstacy, alcohol, coke, and prescrpition pills. Emergency vehicles outnumber the limos parked out in front of the hipster hotels. California empties its bowels every holiday weekend, Labor day weekend marking the final throwdown to wrap up a entire summer spent dealing drugs, sports gambling, and pissing away financial business seed money on an array of lecherous strippers, professional party girls, overpriced drugs, hotel suites, and the pending wisdom derived from a 72 hours sprint through the neon lights, dark alleys, casino bathroom stalls either passed out or face down in a pile of cocaine. Funny thing about these types of self indulgent adventures is that participants tend to remember very little of what had taken place throughout the weekend, coming to at various moments, such as reviving from a disco coma in a poolside cabana with two beautiful women under each arm where a table full of six vodka bottles sits in front of you, surrounded by a posse of new friends who are getting stoned, snorting MDMA, topless dancers, loud club music, vision whittled down to a radius of ten feet. no idea of where you might be, no signs, no clues, or useful audible advice, smiling faces, high fives and your best friend speaking in tongues attempting to reaccount the previous evening where you had a three some with the two women under you arm, time for a drink.

Fatalities, heatstroke, the young woman laid on a beach chair passed out for the last couple of hours while her friends covered her in mustard and ketchup, finally a friend who happen to be a nurse had the medical squad come over, another thirty minutes and she would have died the medical staff relayed to the passed out woman's friends. There is no sympathy for those who cannot handled their shit. These people are left to expire, fade, and discarded to the furnace of sacrifice that powers the hedonistic energy of the Las Vegas Strip. No need to ignore its presence, this invisible dark presence which governs the decisions of many party goes here on Labor Day weekend, who wants to spend an entire week stuck in a Las Vegas hospital, but the local UMC hospital down the street from my house sounds like a war zone with the constant presence of high pitch wails from oncoming vans, club casualities swept into the gutter, not going to let that rookie ruin my weekend, shit, this is my last paid vacation of the year, you mean I have to cut it short because that dumbass would not stop doing tequila shots, did two 8 balls, smoked some meth, took some X, and ate a handful of pills, some people just do not know when to quit, they just keep going ang going, starting fights with complete strangers over imaginary conflicts, total embarassment, sometimes you just have to let idiots like that take their due course, whether it is prison, hospital, or the grave. They will not quit the crash and burn mentality, every damn holiday weekend, who keeps inviting this self destructive creature, their behavior is what beings bent on a suicide trip undertake, no remorse, no end point, till the blackout, sub zero, hoping to arrive through the time warp of pleasure seeking motion. Abandonment does not discourage them, they will gravitate towards like minded people, as we await the pay phone call five days later when we have all gone back home, another trip to Western Union is in order as well as the hassel to get the money repaid, still these fiends always have money to part, some secret stash or multiple felony heists to fund the full on, over the top, taking it to the streets for a high-living, self satisfying throwdown to return with another array of shirtless fist pumping to electrohouse music on a Labor Day monday afternoon, no waiting in lines, which is the only reemding trait of this party machine, he or she knows all the right people, all the doormen, VIP hosts, sports stars, and Hollywood actors, the rest of us just go along with it, unable to understand when the hell this animal assemble such a cast of connection, at such times the only thing to do is smile, wave at the cameras, give the A-list startlet a hug and kiss on the cheek, as another victim is wheeled out stuck with a six pack of IV's, she looks good in her two piece though and sometimes that is all that matters.

What Lies Behind the Lights

Just a few blocks from the glitz and overpriced tourist nature of the strip is lo-fi residential urban wasteland where an slumped over hunchback elderly man in a blue trucker cap, polyester slacks, and industrial engineer work shirt initates a huanting melody of scraped soft metal walker against the well worn unmaintained sidewalk of Sands Ave. The sun has set he is most alone now with nothing but the constant flow of traffic to keep him company as he pushes on like the ant, motivated by something not readily apparant on this human beings face, in fact his face is hidden, possibly focused on the ground in front of him looking for any familiar signs which might indicate close proximity to his dwelling, whatever form it may take, trash dumpster, back alley, hallway, or undersized apartment in the concrete jungle. What propells him on his journey from convenience store to unknown destination. The old man does not look to be conscious of the surrounding reality as if frozen inside his body, his mind, trapped walking like a snail crawls along the sidewalk surface in the dew of the early morning sprinkler runoff. Soon enough he will disappear back into the biovac of working class abodes concentrated so close to the million dollars condos and billion dollar hotels of Las Vegas.

The cooling temperatures of late bring out more people, a group of men are helping a woman jump start her car, one of the guys happens to be an employee at the local dry cleaner/laundrymat, plenty of biovauc residents busy between shifts at the casinos or construction site cleaning clothes for a family of six, I feel like am shopping for towels as one lady stacks about thirty five of them in stacks of seven across a plastic emrald green table. The next generation of uncontrollable heathen kids run around unattended as their older sisters do their best to keep them under control while dad watches television, preoccupied by some other thoughts, the mother busily, frantically tries to keep up with ever increasing load of clothes from the wall of driers behind her, a battle she is sure to lose.

Weekday Transformation

Never the thought the suburbs would invade my favorite bar, but due to more than my recent transient nature of late at this particular establishment, it should be no surprize that management in its post World Cup financial windfall could take a few chances in reinventing the tavern without fear of clearing a profit this fiscal year. First of all, I never really spend too many nights in this place, tends to be during the afternoon or early morning, both times where the 8pm to 12am crowd has already cleared out for the night leaving the counter top vacant for the locals who quietly bide their time waiting for the Karoke singers, trivia participants, and college kids to vacate the premises. Things calm down a bit, the pop music gets turned off and the cool hipster rock replaces it, conversation turns to international football, England, along with the relavtive down turn of the bar itself, as one by one all of our favorite serves leave for other occupations leaving us drunkies in the lurch.

Still, while sitting here in the moment on a barstool watching indistinctive twenty somethings throw darts or gather in small circles commenting on how much they like the Fiona Apple song, another unmemorable karoke singer does their best off key rendition of a muted melody vaguely resembling the original. What is the purpose of these types lip syncing to cds on a terrible tin can mono soundsystem, a resonance that takes me back to the early days of AM radio with spontaneous speaker feedback included to shock the patrons out of their defensive minded protective coma, Pavlovian dogs never had it this hard. My time at this pub is quickly coming to a close. Friday afternoon should be much better. The England national soccer team has a qualifying game for the Euro 2012, which will offer up a crowd with whom I much more familiar with, not this one tonight who just seem deseparte for something to do, as an alternative to watching television, while pretending to have a microcosm of a social life, Vegas might be partially to blame, there are not too many local spots that do not already follow this well practiced formula of karoke, trivia night, mash up dj, and resident cover band who can test the patience of even the most peace loving saint, what?, a charge at the door for this garbage, why not just put the jukebox back on, at least we have a choice on what we want to hear.

Numbered Days

As I get older the thing that weighs most on the mind is all the wasted time, the hours watching television shows, hanging out drinking in bars, hallucinating on drugs, and wandering through dangerous streets of foriegn countries looking for something, experience, wisdom, or connection. Not sure this idea, object, or person ever surfaced, the only thing left to do is sort through the catalouge of adventures in an attempt to discover a common thread, a bridge connecting such a wide assortment of pursuits that very few would bother to spend a lifetime undertaking. So here I am 40 years later with all this raw data spread out through twenty years of writing and photography. A countercultural collection of rumors, short hand, and over exposed images, left to become nothing more than a barfly of the 21st century gathering wrinkles, opting for polyester clothing, where alcohol does nothing more than pass the time between the early hours before the rising sun.

But why the sudden compulsion to do what so many others in Las Vegas already spending their early evenings formulating into ritual. Is this when it starts? The down slide into death. Am I doing nothing more than priming the body for delivery into the afterlife or just foregoing the sleeping pills to embrace an easier as well as somewhat more social method of getting some rest. All the binging of the past 25 years has finally peaked, not in a sense that the spirit of indulging in such bustle has dissapated, no in fact the strength of personal conviction in regards to living like Jim Morrison only seems to grow. Most 40 year olds do not experience narcotic induced blackouts, my life appears to embrace a few a month and when the xanax flowed freely, more like a few a week. A current relapse into the arms of this particular sedative made me realize how easy it is for my reckless nature to take over the steering wheel and drive the bus with blind fold properly placed over the eyes. Lucky to still be alive, more like lucky to have friends who care enough about me while enjoying my antics to make sure safe passage back to a hotel, friends house or my home has been attained. There have been a few moments of waking up in hotels without recollection of how my arrival had taken place, disgusting acts of instinct subconscious might which if harnesses could potentially be the active agent in conducting mental telepathy amongst human beings. No different than a chain of ants communicating during a ground swell of industrious nature, a living system disassembling organic matter at one end of the chain to arrive at the low end of stream like barges on a river.

The most difficult part is to get over the guilt of waste, of the constant desire to continue dashing away the days as if I had achieved some secret immortality, kept to myself as the acts of self abuse continue to increase with such a level of intentional harm those around would be entirely convinced I had made a pact with the devil over some base desire of achievement that was nothing more than a ruse for my soul, to be tormented day after day inacting animalistic commotions as payment for series of the catstrophes strewn throughout my existence. The hard dollar has arrived, a cash reward that will never be fully earned, just dangled about as an exit, as a tropical oasis, as a means to an end. The ability to wake in the morning with no plans, no commitments, no expectations, to drink, fuck, and do whatever I please, which is kind of what I do now, but with a job mixed in.

I have not found a way to seperate complete rigid dedication to the ebb and flow of living in the work moment, isolated from the bars, restuarants, and any sort of fun. Why, can't there be both? But, allowing the good times to spill over into the job has rapidly declined into an impassible mountain range that only grows in height exponential height with each passing year. Recovery is like voodoo, sometimes it is there, other times it completely abandons you and all hope of ever returning which makes life like one big drug junkie come down, the complex range of emotions in that time has corroded my sanity, drawing the well to a status of emptiness. The super bouts of multi day free for alls have become nothing more than beat downs from invisible aggressors who take pleasure on watching me suffer the long road back to sobriety. Thankfully, there is a insoluable substance inside that keeps me going through all the pain receptors working on overload to break me, a mind fighting, trying to tell me to get straight, kick all this boozing, pill popping, and drug sniffing, at this point the battle is still up in the air.