Category Archives: Young

…and in other news for the self-destructive…

I ♥ Pills

I ♥ Pills... thank you, FDA!

Vicodin: Feds Lower Painkiller Dose In Vicodin, Percocet (AP & Huffington Post)

I love adorable things. Misleading language is more a lawyer’s thing… “painkiller dose”… so cute… but I’m into it. I mean, read this bitch. It’s good for me! “Good for me” as I would love all non-narcotic ingredients in narcotic medication to go away. Especially the most benign and most easily prescribed. I’m not a downer person… I’m not specifically a narcotic person… but I am a drug person. FDA? you’d like to save my liver while getting me more easily physically addicted to narcotics… you have my blessing.

But I may be a bit subjective. …just a little.

I mean, is this the FDA or pill companies that want more clients more easily addicted to their product? I don’t care. Actually, I do. I like it (for me) and it works (for me). Just get me a fuckin’ doctor to prescribe me… golden!

…I mean, I do enough liver damage with alcohol. eh…. Thanks!

Number 2:

Promoting Anorexia: An Interview With Kenneth Tong. This Was No Hoax (Huffington Post)

I have less to say about this because I’m currently drunk-ish and haven’t actually read the entire thing. But, I love balls-to-the-wall! And I love the synthetic pyschological “disease” that it may or may not speak of.

love/hate… I could never be the best.

whatever.

…and so it is…

 

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The Nines

The Nines. Is the only thing that accurately depictes the manner in which I was once completely unaware. …I am, the author, afterall.

It’s a movie, by the way.

Incidentally, or maybe not so incidentally, it’s sad I think, that I will probably never see jasen again.

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a stranger in strange times…

aka ‘the text, the livingroom on ludlow & the homeless-penn-station-shuffle’.

14 Aug 2010
A Stranger in Strange Times: This is what I am.

To begin:

Late in the week: My friend E texts me…. doesn’t know where I am. Nobody really knows where I am these days. This is not metaphorical, mind you. There are literally a handful of people that actually know my physical location. And this, simply because I’d neglected to mention the fact. Where ever I may be, the aforementioned text also says that, where ever I am, he would be in both of the potential places that I would be, at certain times and invites me to 2 separate soirees in two separate cities on two separate coasts… you guessed it, approximately two weeks apart.

  1. That Saturday (three days?), he will be downtown at the Living Room on Ludlow playing with his band.
  2. The aforementioned some later time, he will be in that opposite coast place, at his apartment/duplexy home, co-hosting a barbecue.

In keeping with the adult theme (not like dirty adult… just like actual ‘taking responsibility for your person and your actions and thinking beyond the next 2 seconds-adult), I want to be where the barbecue is. I want to go to the semi-domestic-type barbecue that I’ve been invited to with his girlfriend and young-adult chatter. I want to pretend, again, that I already am something that I’m, currently, half-commited to be. I really really really kind of want this.

Alas, I am 0 for 1. I am not in that opposite coast place now; far away only in space… but space counts, I suppose as much as time as far as practicality goes. So…

Going back to number 1, I will be downtown and available to see a friend on Ludlow Street on that Saturday. No substitute for the adult-soaked Mid-Wilshire barbecue and/or a growing semblance of evolution, but as good as I can get at this point? Sooooo, I go.

Annnndddd…. ACTION!

It’s really not like that, however. I decided to tell E where I was and actually go and not just surprisingly show up somewhere a la kiko of years past because I was rockin’ the adult thing. And because I thought that I may be able to transcend location (space, whatever). With my friend E, I feel that I had started this sort of thing. Respect and general relatively mundane adult behaviour. …I say ‘relatively’ mundane …to syringes and speed and benders that went on for days. In any event, I kind of really didn’t have any sort of business going at all, what with my no-money and no-job and no-actual anything and all. I went because it seemed like an adult thing to do. Or atleast, it resembled the closest thing that I could grasp as adult. Sooooo….

Subway downtown.

And this is where “action” should really be called.

For routine’s sake, I suppose… subway downtown, wine in a Coke cup with a straw. Didn’t need to get my drink-on… just thought: It’s wine in a cup with a straw. It’s also around 9:30pm and I’m completely sober… these things somehow = ‘this behaviour is okay, makes sense and therefore, I don’t really have to think about what I’m doing, ergo… learn and adjust potential behaviour’. Really, it’s embedded routine and a taste of autonomy vs. chill the fuck out (this is not five years ago, you’re not going to W 4th to see the guys play The Bitter End, you don’t care about being fleetingly fun and cute and… whatever).

Anyway, in the end, as traced from the beginning “fleetingly fun and cute and whatever” wins out… routine, man… it’s fuckin’ routine, man. And now, I can’t say that I don’t know how it happened, all wide-eyed because I’ve just told you.

*The rest is mostly written LIVE-like on a blackberry wordpad as I progressively get drunk. (that’s why it reads like I’m on crack)

Later…
I walk up the stairs from the subway… somewhere downtown. …somewhere downtown east, even. hmm… Disoriented (as exiting any subway station, for anyone… even the most embedded of denizens of this city are), I am ‘between’… among, a sea of others. …must ….manage ….energy of ‘winning the stairs’.  Must go up as fast as humanly possible. However, vertically, horizontally, everything-ly, I am between… among and possibly burdened by the external. …however, it’s not a burden; it’s a sea of people that move. One adjusts their speed or pace and ‘winning the stairs’ in one’s real-time, becomes, a concept though so singularly focused, comfortably adjustable here-and-there. In that way, I might, leg-half-lift’d, wait a millisecond more for the person in front of me that might also wait for the person in front of them in the same manner as I  (or conversely struggle just a bit with the pace). But the sea of people move but we all adjust and somehow become one. But somehow, we all remain intensely individual.

So now, I slo-mo clop up the stairs in the intensely individual pseudo-socialistic adjustment bureau that I find myself in. It smells like NY… late summer. This is comforting. This is something familiar; something familiar that strikes one over the head like an all-engulfing mallet (smashing an entire hemisphere of one’s brain to absolute minutiae) with no effort on the part of any party on any side of this ill-conceived metaphor/simile.

I stare, though. A wide-eyed stare that I once rocked as ‘my thing’. …a million years ago. Similar-to anyway. …the stare. Familiar again in a displaced manner; a displaced tone. The same low energy. This low-energy concerns me, however. I know its not the same… Its not as naïve and sweet and pure.

I may have depleted all of my dopamine or actually, it seems, serotonin receptors yesterday…. at T‘s place. I forget that I’m not the severe, ritualistic alcoholic that I was just a few months ago… Physically. And physically, I handle it in the way that only a novice/born-again-whatever can.

Everything is up for grabs now. This is grand without saying. But the ritualistic and unfamiliar just catches one sometimes… Off-guard and all. …when they are presented in such a stringent and spontaneous-like manner. I’ve spun so many things in so many directions too many times, most likely. And now, when I can ‘check myself’ for a second… Even the most familiar is based on this spin. The familiarity is incongruent, discontinuous, piecey… and dizzying as a result.

And I know enough to know better (atleast I’d like to think so), but its still a jarring prospect that nothing can remain the same.

Drinkdrinkdrink… watch the band. Hug people. Say hello to others. drinkdrinkdrink. Say hi to E, talk as much as we can above the music; but there is something going on. Something that doesn’t involve me, probably. I sense this, so I go… (he tells me that he is kind of offended, though, that I hadn’t mentioned the whole picking up and definitively moving to the other coast)

Even later…
And so, some cute-kiko version of the beast has been unleashed… Moremoremore. And walking on ludow, I need to focus on getting to the F or something. I am not hungry… But I needneedneed, somehow now. And need equals hunger? Then… Katz’s… Yeah-yah! I don’t but I do… Want roast beefish things inbetween bread… Even though I actuaLly can’t fathom chewing and esophageal southward movement of ‘stuff’ to eventually fester in my stomach. Then food pregnancy. But for some reason… I want for anything. More alcohol; consumption of food…. Something… Moremoremore… Something, please. I go in… it’s all confusing… and really all I really want is more drink.

This is not drink. And so, finally, I end up at the Egyptian boy.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned the Egyptian boy? There is an egyptian guy. Or boy. I am again in penn station and again, I am confronted with time. Slow… Fast… Passage, time. What-the-fuck-ever. The egyptian boy works the place that sells the french fries (grave fuckin yard style… the working of the boy; not the style of the fries). I see this as I pass (off of the uptown a,c,e… Whatever) I am as drunk as my body can accept (abnormally… Incongruently)… I am also poor as fuck.

The rest of the night/day goes:
1. sleeping in the transitional place between penn station, nj transit and armtrack? or whatever that other thing is.
2. major headache hungover, can’t deal.
3. sitting miserably downstairs against a penn pole
4. weird child molester-looking guy talks to me. he is not a child molester… but I feel that he is autistic. I say this multiple times. He says that he is in sports. Um-hmm, sports. He rarely speaks, but when something is awesome to him, he prefers the term “fantastic”.

I don’t fuck him or anything. I mean, this is all just too mundane. and, yes, Leon, I am a stranger in a strange land… in strange-ass times.

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StoryTime…Yay! (part II)

…see, it’s possible.

my most recent ‘to be continued’ is not a lie of an optimistically well-intentioned egg fertilized by the sperm of bad memory, apathy and drunken lethargy.

I swallow (and never spit… even during a calorie-free obsessive period) the cute little white swimmy-tads contained in the opalescent jizz that regardless of boy, seems consistently infused with the essence of brie… cheese. glug, glug, glug, gag, glug… deepthroat. Hey, if one can’t be a natural bulimic, why not work the gag reflex to… advantage… I don’t even fuckin’ know.

I’ve totally digressed. Metaphor has become literal and distraction has become… a crutch.

So, without further adieu:

STORYTIME… YAY! (PART II)

Again, I do not know if I’m tired. But after an unknown amount of time in the cold cold holding cell, I decide that I will sleep until I am freed… which shouldn’t be longer than a couple of hours, the guard assures me. Yeah, okay… people that work for the government, in public facilities [ie DMV, prison, healthcare clinics] never know what they are talking about. But naive, new-to-this-whole-jail-thing, me, I do not know this just yet. So, by this time, a couple of additional people are put into the holding cell, including a chick in what seems to be a prom dress-like apparatus who is a completely entitled drunk bitch that belittles the guards. The guards tell us that this is the only opportunity for us to make local calls for free. As my phone was sitting snuggly in my apartment; the only local numbers I have memorized are the cell #’s of the producers that I work for & the office. Not a good idea.

Most of the people I know, myself included, that live out here have some sort of out-of-state number. This is not free. And Jasen, my sort of friend that has vowed to protect me in any situation [without my asking or real wanting], ironically lives pretty close in Glendale … but I do not know his number off-hand. Oh well, I should be released in maybe seven hours, at the most. At this point, we are lined up, released from the holding cell and told to walk down the hall, and around corners. We are separated into two groups; by felony and misdemeanor. There are two guards. I move to the felony line. The guard that told me that I would be released in a few short hours tells me to go back to the other line. I feel better. This is when I start to realize that people don’t know what they are talking about. Because I say something about, “Um I think I’m charged with a felony”. The guard looks at the pink slip that I was given and is all, “well, look at that.” Then looks at me. “She right” she says to the other guard in her high-level Ebonics.

And so, we pick up our scratchy blankets and useless sheets. The jail cell sliiiides open and we enter. It is somewhat dark… this is both positive and negative. We walk down the middle of two rows of horizontally and much too closely positioned bunk-style beds with vinyl/plastic-y gym-mat mattresses. This is sort of cool. But the coolness of the bunk bed can in no way, this time, trump the fact that there are no cool ladders to climb or child-like colors but rather an exposed toilet and an arsenal of middle-aged women already in there. I take the second to last high bunk stage-right, contacts positively stuck like transparent colorforms to my eyeballs. Hoisting myself up with just my arms makes me feel youthful, lithe and childlike. So, I win for a second.

Before the guard sliiiides the cell shut, she asks if we would like the large television on. We do not have control of the channels as it is mounted somehow outside of the cell. Though I still do not know if I’m tired, as mentioned before, I’ve decided that I would sleep until this whole thing was over… so I assertively, though kindly say no… everyone else assertively though also somewhat kindly says, “yes”. So, I lose for the moment but I wouldn’t know just how severely until after I’ve seen all the current commercials for soy products, osteoporosis, motherhood, Pantene and all things celebratory of woman-hood 50x over. Estrogen-Nation exists in the Van Nuys prison.

Again, To Be Continued…

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StoryTime! …yay!

Its as straight-forward as it sounds. Story Time = a Time for a Story.

On with the show.

02 June 2007…
I don’t know if I’m tired. But I find myself on a cousin of the vinyl/plastic-y comfort of the mats that line all high school gymnasiums. In a certain New York suburban abyss, they were orange; here, I believe they are some sort of navy…. With my scratchy fiber-glass “blanket” that I am instructed to take from one in a series of garbage cans that hold things like scratchy blankets and useless sheets… And so, I feel absolutely exquisite!!!

…if not for the fact that I just ruined my entire life and/or the fact that I now share quarters with crack-addict middle-aged women felons in the felony tank somewhere in Van Nuys. I don’t even know where Van Nuys is. I understand that it is in ‘The Valley” though. A place where, unless required to by a work commitment, or a medical emergency, one really has no reason to be. No reason to travel over the wondrous Hollywood Hills to Burbank or Sherman Oaks. It’s like living in Manhattan and going into Brooklyn or Staten Island . Useless and time consuming.

But for not better, and much much worse, I find myself in the Van Nuys prison. I must side-track a second here and say that I was looking pretty kick-ass. My hair was still passable as awesome [growing out, but still boyish short and adorable at that] and I was wearing this totally unconv-trendy-like almost sea foam green Diesel t-shirt/dress-like, though sweat-shirt material ensem; completely off-the shoulder, it wrapped around just under my collar bone… with black capri leggings; lace at the bottom and ballet flats [this will become useful later].

After a myriad of finger printing and confiscating of bag complete with searching through and itemizing; counting of my cash; removal of all jewelry [rings, earrings, toe-ring, necklace… some of which I never take off]. I am sent to this random room then to holding cell; where I’m first introduced to bed-cots with aforementioned high school gym-mat mattresses while cold cold air blows on me. It is June in California , there is no reason that cold, cold air should blow on anyone. Though it is the valley, I suppose.

I am allowed to keep my jacket. In the holding cell, there are no scratchy blankets or useless sheets; and my exposed shoulders and bottom of legs POP with goosebumps. There is this one other chick in there when I get in. Sort of young like me watching some mind rotting reality-something on this television that is blaring it’s sound from the ceiling with it’s friend the cold, cold air. It’s like I’m on an ecstacy trip gone bad wherein all of my senses are hyper-aware of all that is uncomfortable in my immediate experience of the world and rendered unavoidable. [this is theoretical, mind you, I was not on ecstacy]. And this is also when I stop receiving information about what is presently and will happen to me.

I was arrested in West Hollywood probably a quarter of a mile from my house. The arresting cops were really nice. I dug them. And asked them a lot of questions about themselves. I mean, I was freaking out a bit, this was not part of the night’s plans or anything, but why not make it fun? There was this one rookie cop that was totally fresh off cop academy or whatever. I asked the other guy, seasoned and such if he’d ever killed anyone. He had not.

TO BE CONTINUED.

heh… I always say that.

It’s not a lie unless I die without continuing…

p.s. the fact that I got caught was surprising to me. kiko is above the law, you see. I mean, the rules never applied to me before this relatively ultimately debacle.

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just do it!

yes, I said that I was going to finish that last post ‘a minor detail’… this will happen… probably. Do not take the existence of this new(er) post as an absolute proverbial white flag in the aforementioned efforts.

It will probably happen. I think about it, so… whatever.

Anyway, today I’d like to address something that has been plaguing me for the greater and latter part of my existence. This would be my irrational need to shrink away from the external while completely shutting down my own awareness and consciousness of anything I may be feeling or thinking in times of ‘action’. For I’ve been most successful in achieving whatever goal in said ‘times of action’ when I just go about… mostly empty-headed and lightly glide as a result.

…well…

okay, so… as a child, I realize my rational thinking or thinking in general may prevent me from experiential awesomeness. Ie. I’m not jumping out of the fuckin’ plane if I think about it. But I want to jump out of the plane. Simple logic: don’t think about it. Just do it. Plane jump. Yay!!!!!

Nike slogan or not, this is probably how I became a drug addict riddled with periods of disordered eating habits. And that whole adorable notion that I fancy myself an artist and special and all.

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How Do You Plea…?

I claim that I drove (instead of fly) across the country because I wanted to ‘appreciate the physical distance between these two places’ bypassing any cognitive miser-dom associated with LAX > board plane; and viola!, 6 hours later, JFK > exit plane. I oftentimes don’t ‘get it’ you see. This ‘it’ varies from situation to situation. Sometimes it’s a general central idea; at other times, its a wide-scoping, long range truth that I’ve been one of the only people unable to ‘get’. I guess the latter can specifically be attached to certain periods of hardcore drug usage and things of that nature’s lovely cocktail that I’d created with a quart of denial and equal part glee. The former (general, central idea) is less dramatic, more incidental and I’d suppose easily attributed to not paying attention.

I also suppose that this could be correct… though too general and very easily submerged into a sea of ADHD or Dyslexia. …wherein schedule II stimulants are forced upon blahblahblah… I believe I’ve made my psychological diagnostics argument many-a-time before. In short, I believe I may not completely pay attention because I’m just a careless listener, whom, at this point has become easily bored (due to past illicit and current less-illicit/dr prescribed drug-usage coupled with my most current years spent listening to people that love to hear the sound of their own voice ie. Hollywood agents, managers, actors and producers… and their mini-me’s in the form of assistants). …not that I don’t miss Hollywood, the west coast or the business. But I digress.

And so, I felt that it might be better, quality-of-life-wise, if I did it this way. Drive instead of plane-ing it, I mean. It is a grandiose, dramatic and, most importantly, typical move for me, yes. Much harder than need be, possibly impossible, and interpretively unneccessary. But the experience was not for experience’s sake. It’s great to be able to tell a good story… which this could be given the state of my car (which, itself, is yet another story… and has possibly been accounted for, in fragmented bits-and-pieces on this very blog ….oh how meta-). Right there, I have two possibly interesting stories. So, that argument can be made, Mr. Lawyer for the Plaintiff. …which, I guess would be the notion of experience for experience’s sake and a good story. Or my car?

I also have motive. As a sometimes practicing former writer, this sort of thing is probably always bubbling, however muffled or forgotten beneath the surface. This, I suppose would be akin to the genetics argument.

But I plea, not guilty, to these charges. And my reason? Again, I needed something this big to ‘get it’. Because, I knew that I may not.




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…enter title here…

I have.

I’m almost certain that I have.

…lost that child-like wonder… that absolutely exquisite limbo… that comes with limbo. The moments in-between things. When one can be anyone, anything, in any town… anywhere. This complete freedom of not being responsible for yourself… pretending.

And everything… anything’s possible.

That giddy-ness, that complete molecular dissolve into surroundings. I can’t feel it anymore. There is something eery. I can sense some sort of slightly nagging absence of something inherently. …not something enough to be something.

The denial has become anxiety.

And, I hate to say this, but I think it may be the prescription stimulant. It allows me to communicate, to be direct, to actually pull things from my brain, to understand what I’m thinking… to not seem like a slow retard…

But to what affect?

A level of anxiety that presents itself in subtle ways. But a level of anxiety that’s not me, maybe. Because, maybe, I don’t like the entire genetic manipulation-esque function of the drug. Pill. Long-acting. Swallow. Ahh. Good.

Maybe speed should just be speed. Not acceptable in societal norms. Not made long-acting. Not for children.

Because maybe that dulls the senses. And maybe…

…it’s too good. It’s too comfortable a thing to know that a pill will make you okay. It’s just easier to take the thing that makes it possible for you to wake up in the morning and face the world.

AND MAYBE THAT SHOULDN’T BE OKAY.

Because, then, it’s harder to actually deal with anything that actually exists that’s bad.

If I’m shooting up (in my lovely, engorged vein) ice that has been procured by the guy in the car that I see everyday (night), and we have to be discrete and beware of cops (or whatever)… I mean, he is a drug dealer that delivers explicit and illegal substances to me.

…as routine as this will become in my two and a half year daily dance… it’s not routine enough that you don’t (somewhere, atleast, in the back of your comprehension of life) understand that

…the pills are nihilistic. My pills are nihilistic. That is my conclusion.

And nihilism is to bad as searching for bobby fischer is to good in kiko realm.

…bad metaphor.

But, beyond this… what can I possibly do about any of this? (as I no longer have anyone in my corner)… as I’m in a hotel room, in the mid-eastern most part of new mexico… driving away. From the immediate familiar to a familiar that (even after five years, maybe a bit raw… and will always be a bit trapping).

Somebody help me!

Wait, nobody cares.

I have to help myself.

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…One More Night in Hollywood…

I don’t write… ever.

anymore.

ev-er!

“and it’s one more day up in the canyon… and it’s one more night in Hollywood…”

i fucked everything up.

…i mean, it’s not all grandiose like that… but maybe it is. maybe people were hopeful that i could deal. but i didn’t even try.

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lies, lies, lies v 2.0

I suppose the whole 2.0 thing renders lies, lies, lies the original. …the first.

Lies, Lies, Lies

version

1

…point

…oh.

or whatever.

And whereas in any medium other than tech-shit, the original is the best. Superlative, even…. pure. When entering this Brave New World of version-istic technology… of a product revealed with such melodramatic grandiose gravitas (bullshit)… innovation, as no one could have ever imagined, showered unto the masses… the original is just a test subject. The hype, like millions of smoke screens (à la a foggy carcinogenic smoke-filled bar in Manhattan in the late 1990’s), protects (hides) its status as ‘test subject’ saving its reputation as ‘so fuckin’ cool… so, like, right now… I’m dying… I totally just died because this thing is so fuckin’… I can’t even… I just… I can’t deal’ and the pseudo-communist (more dirty hippies in communes; less “we don’t need no education” meat grinder marching) idea of ‘everyone’s opinion will be heard’…

woah, I digress.

I’m done with all of that. right now.

I’m just sayin’, that whole original lies, lies, lies thing… it happened. The call-in. All that.

And maybe I want to cover all my bases (ass), but:

Things one may want to know (or not)…

I was drunk at the time.
It was approx 1 1/2 years ago.
Yes, I may sound like a child. …but I’m so fuckin’ not 12.
Adderall is a raging dirty crack whore mirage.

what-the-fuck-evah.

so… oh and these call-in shows where celebrity experts (regardless of experience and degrees attained)…. I mean they cater to-, strive on, rely on… the damaged, crack whore who may or may not find some comfort in listening to a ‘professional’ on the radio.

all like, “maybe they care… about me”.

stupid.

…I mean, all intentions may, in fact, be pure. And this is all the stuff that I could have gone without learning.

… one rarely just falls into an open man-hole cover of “celebrity”- anything.

It happens.

But…

…I need to take a shower.

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