The Crackcident

Because this sort of accident is always welcome at 23rd Street:

but, really, not oops ….because its awesome!

Jamba Juice (the junkie way)

Time for a story!

Circa early- to mid- 2005.

the JUNKIE way

Pretty new to Los Angeles and new-ish to relative sobriety (the first time), your author, in an attempt at some sort of fidelity, creates a new habit. Jamba Juice (the junkie way). Maybe that’s weak… but, then, it’s weak. I worked at my first ever talent agency during waking hours and a west coast version of The Olive Garden on weekends (some nights, possibly)?

Meth is a stimulant. And all of the sudden, I had to be on time and on the ball, constantly. And all of the sudden (well, less suddenly than that)… I did not have Meth.

In a time of getting high (or rather, trying to be functional) in a legal manner, I improvised. I took 2 psuedofed in the morning. You know, the stuff that they use to make meth. The little red pills that are literally just psuedoepinephrine. And consequently is now behind the pharmacy counter. Boo!

One down.

I didn’t enter Jamba Juice one morning looking to get high. That’s comedy. But like bad comedy. In any event… it was on my way to work and, again, in my search for some sort of fidelity, I’d become a bit of a minimalist when it came to meals. I thought health… juice… on my way to work… try it.

Now, in 2005, the Jamba Juice offerings were much slimmer. So, I choose from what I can. Always a small, the base was a “classic smoothie” called Peach Pleasure. Okay, fruit blahblahblah, no bananas… whatever. Smoothies are misleading… they can often be crazy-ass sugary calorie-laden concoctions. But, this was great. safe. no bananas.

“You get one free boost with that”.

“huh?”

I had yet to become the ADD-fueled morning person that I would. So, it’s a bit fuzzy.

But, what isn’t fuzzy is “the boost”. This is the gateway to Jamba Juice (the JUNKIE way)!

I look at the menu or the board all confused-like (as is sometimes my default disposition that I am trying to shake). The disposition that I have no idea where I am, what to do, that this question that I’ve been asked is possibly high-level mathematics related and I could never even conceive of it’s existence, even.

But I digress.

“ummmmmmmm….. how about Energy boost?”

And a habit is born. So, this altered smoothie with Energy Boost and 3G Charger Boost (though I’m sure it was called something different at the time) plus my psuedofed plus the office’s coffee. And I am good to go. I eventually ask if they sell the “boosts” in powder form separately. They do not.

I achieve something very similar to a low-high.

But it is great! Not because I achieve aforementioned low-high in order to achieve some sort of high, but precisely the opposite. I am an adult that has a day job with a dress code. I have vacation days. Health insurance. Overtime pay. I am never late. I own a car. All this is possible. I am a contributing member of society (somehow)… furthermore, I am actually a functional human being. My one-time faraway mostly theoretical wish of walking amongst the normal people in hope of one day becoming one is not only possible… but actually happening.

So, that’s the story. This only lasted as long as I worked at the company. The head of the company is crazy and tends to clean house every two years… give or take word of an agent interviewing elsewhere*. In any event, with no agents, I really had no one to assist.

*yeah, I hate to say it… or maybe I don’t care… but “Entourage” does not get anything incorrect. People are FUCKIN CRAZY!!! And I kinda love it. I mean, not to say that my judgement is the best… but WTF?! Tens of millions of dollars are based on crack headed decisions… eeek. But that’s what I love!

And the laying-off was catastrophic because it wasn’t really about the job… it was the entire idea that I had assimilated into society… that I could do it. Of course one really doesn’t directly have to do with the other, and everything ended up being okay… sort of. Hysteria.

I never really did go back to Jamba Juice.

Such is the mundanity of dysfunction cascading as sobriety.

‘…like crack’

Or rather:

 …like crack : pseudo-hipster “the office”-style.

aka 

The ‘When Drugs & Hipsters Collide’ Ultimate Super-Post!

Awesome! …and also the reason (though an interesting point has been brought up) pseudo-hipsters and hipsters are douche bags.

I mean, I’m not offended when anyone says ‘like crack’. I love it. I wish it spreads and generations and cultures of people start comfortably throwing it around… I mean, like the proverbial grand mother at Thanksgiving or the African kid (that doesn’t speak English) at his tribal gathering.

Nothing would make me happier.

…with the exception of crack.

Brought to you from the crack vault beneath 23rd Street (it’s kind of like a wine cellar for crack. …well, there is wine there, too).

‘…like crack’

Or rather:

 …like crack : pseudo-hipster “the office”-style.

aka 

The ‘When Drugs & Hipsters Collide’ Ultimate Super-Post!

Awesome! …and also the reason (though an interesting point has been brought up) pseudo-hipsters and hipsters are douche bags. The ultimate when Drugs and Hipsters Collide Super-Post!

I mean, I’m not offended when anyone says ‘like crack’. I love it. I wish it spreads and generations and cultures of people start comfortably throwing it around… I mean, like the proverbial grand mother at Thanksgiving or the African kid (that doesn’t speak English) at his tribal gathering.

Nothing would make me happier.

…with the exception of crack.

Brought to you from the crack vault beneath 23rd Street (it’s kind of like a wine cellar for crack. …well, there is wine there, too).

So, I lied

It happens.

I guess one gets a taste of pseudo- audience and it’s hard to do this any other way. Not impossible. Not even nearly impossible. But “break-the-routine” hard.

I could write this as I wrote everything (on my computer/in a random notebook) with a fantastical notion that, one day, it will be read. This blog thing is like crack. …without the stringent physical side-effects. And without the stringent physical side effects, it’s harder to categorize and learn from. It’s harder to deem something “harmful”. It’s harder to stop and resume everyday life.

Well, anyway, I’m writing half-thoughts on this thing right now. That’s what’s happening. Whatever. We’ll forgo the Phil is dead thing because there’s nothing really to write there.

 

unique IV’s

I mean, what do I have to do to get people to read this thing? I’m being as honest as possible. Like, dull knife to the chest dragging down with a compensational force… or whatever. Lips sucking and sucking and drinking… sooo thirsty… soooo sooo thirsty from my heart. Like, all pink and dehydrated wrinkle waiting for the blood to pump through again.

and this is the metaphor for my entire being.

but the thing remains. just because I give it my all…. just because I’m as honest as I can be… just because I feel that I’m giving as much as I think that I possibly can… doesn’t mean that others can detect it any more… or less than when I was below the radar…. than when I thought that all my information was the only thing I had. parts of my body that I would give away or something. All the thoughts, feelings and ideas kept within me because they were my only weapon.

Information is power. And, for the longest time, this was the only power I could wield.

And so, whatever… what the fuck… I’ve given pieces and pieces and pieces. Everything. I’ve done what I think is the thing that I’ve always prevented. I’m giving up ‘power’.

But what I’m realizing, more and more, is that no one cares. Not in this like cyncial post-apacolyptic way… just, I realize that all of the things that I’ve held… grasped so tightly… held so near and endowed with so much importance and power really is nothing at all.

People do it all the time. …say how they feel and all. The earth doesn’t come to an end. The person they speak to doesn’t all of the sudden have all-access power over them. Moreover, frequently, the person to whom they speak doesn’t catch the candid, honest nature of what is being said to them anyway.

It’s like signals being given off. Signals that are so powerful that you believe they may destroy you. But you realize that any signal, regardless of it’s importance, can only be as effective or utilized as the receptacle receptive.

whatever.

this whole thing started out as “unique IV’s”. I suppose I digress.

I was just going to say that I’ve been away because I’m engrossed in my quest to obtain enough unique IV’s in order to crack surrounding WEP. ie… I don’t want to pay the RussianWHORE for shoddy, intermittent, crappy internet service anymore. Thus, I’m trying to learn. It’s all very strange.

I totally digress.

always.

 

Twitter

I don’t get it.

I don’t.

So, like… there’s (before the interweb-social-network-fuck) the concept and follow-through of creating a website for a your specific purpose. You’d have to learn HTML or have a crappy 2 dimensional website that gets lost in the mire or both. Or in the pre-latter years, a crudely functioning WYSIWYG-type interface. So, it’s easier. Whatever.

…still. One really needed to create said site. It was a whole new skill set to learn; to dedicate yourself to.

You have a ‘thing’… you want to create a website around said thing.

To jump or not to jump?

This used to be a question.

Not anymore.

Its just too easy now.

I’m not saying anything about anything. I mean, I have this blllll-ahhhh-g that’s monetarily free (sans domain name) on this widely used, weak blogging bullshit alternative to the sell-out ‘blogger’-blog (doggy-dogg… ha!) client. Like it’s okay that way.

I recognize my hypocrisy.

I’m just sayin’.

What the fuck is Twitter?

Alright. There’s creating a webpage… whatever. Then blogs/vlogs and/or social-networking arises… as does the nausea.

There’s MySpace…. for the obese tragic fourteen year old that hangs them self due to teasing from some supposed suburban boy, boy’s mother, neighbour, something… that she thought her boyfriend. He wrote really nice things, after all. And she was infatuated by words on a screen.

You know, instead of finding an exercise plan or, at the very least, eating disorder to soften the blow of existence.

“Way harsh, Ty”

Apologies. Really. I know, 14, 15… it’s hard… seriously…

…but virtual infatuation trumps actual disintegration in the land of denial and low self esteem…. apparently.

lazy. baby.

right here right now. now-now.

and more. and now and now and now.

Okay, and now: Facebook and MySpace is enough. Do we really need Twitter?

I mean, really?

Twitter is the electronic equivalent to the ADHD drugs (speed aka amphetamine salts… a younger, softer brother to the cracked ‘bennies’ used in the factory in the sixties… among other places… and among other analogues of amphetamine) that we readily dole out to our 6 year olds.

I mean, really?

Facebook… MySpace… kind of okay. But Twitter is every second… Twitter has people “follow” people and like-wise people “follow” you.

“I am a stalker…. Yay!”

Can no one just sit in silence for a second?

Again, being a non-meth-using-meth-addict (out of the woods for a staggering year and a half… I mean, if you can dig that)… I recognize the hypocrisy that runs through my veins.

Maybe I just don’t get it. But fuck it.

Like the short-attention-span drugs for developing brains are bad enough. Worse, maybe. But maybe not.

Because, maybe ‘human problem solving’ has reached a place where, although the aforementioned ADHD drugs are ‘prescribed’ by a ‘doctor’… through laconic desperation and the quick-fix of the American-Way the majority of parents actually recognize that the pills they administer their children are amphetamine; the Schedule II drug that they are.

And following this back-of-head recognition, they realize that they are making a choice. They realize that they can give their child speed or not.

I mean, this is all covered in a Myelin Sheath (some call it denial) of ‘medical prescription’.

But, I’d think, for the most part, there is a part of people that actually understand… because ‘medical prescription’ can only go so far as time stretches an epidemic of sorts.

Invidiously, it’s a drug. A controlled substance, at that. And invidiously you choose to or choose not to give it to your child… knowing exactly what it is. Whether it’s sanctioned by the FDA or DSM or APA or NSA…

And that’s the thing: one can update their status on Facebook. One can update their status on Facebook every hour, every minute, every second. One can be a Facebook WHORE! But you’re a whore in a larger sea of things that are going on.

People don’t have Twitter pages. They just have their crack-whore updates.

Again, I may not really ‘get’ Twitter… but it seems like crack.

…that homeless black people smoke out of pipes in the alleyways of New York in the eighties.

And So (because I can only understand things in stimulant drug metaphors):

A created website = Methamphetamine or one of it’s long-acting brethren

Facebook/MySpace = Adderall or Ritalin or the latest dirty speed pill for kids

Twitter = Crack; homeless, urine-smelling, rock-buying crack-addict-crack

But the thing is that, it’s too soon for the public to recognize this fact. Delineate. It’s all the same. It’s nihilism.

But just like the prescription speed epidemic… people will sense it in the back of their heads in a year or so and, only then, be responsible for their Twitter updates.

CRACK!