No, I’ve Never Been Much of Dancer

Around the end of Summer in 2013, Chromeo was scheduled to play a local concert in Chavez park.  Chromeo isn’t in my top 10, or even top 20, but I’ve dug their jams, and I know that chicks dig them entirely.  Thus I bought my ticket online, 45$ for one day I believe, and tried to enlist some friends to go.

 

I ended up going alone.  As pussy is the fuel for the rocket in my pocket, I fretted over what I was going to wear to this event.  Being overweight, drinking daily, and occasionally getting smacked out, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky.  I buckled up a short sleeve dress shirt, threw on a serious pair of what I consider, bro jeans, and a pair of aviators.  I used my favorite pomade, Cock Grease XXX to slick my hair into the comb over style I was rocking.  Then, against all rational thinking, I ate two of my homemade ganja cookies.

 

Some of you might be thinking, well what’s wrong with that?  Let me tell you.  I make, and am known to make, extremely powerful ganja food.  The kind where I put my friends Mom into a 36 hour coma like trance on accident.  That’s not really the problem.  The problem is the cerebral nature of the high.  If I eat ONE of my cookies, within 2 hours I will be drooling on my guitar with music dancing between my ears.  I will also be conversationally and socially dead to the world.

 

I’m already a painful introvert who will stand in the shadows and disassemble everyone’s body language, chime in one or two times, and mostly stick to himself.  All while feeling the buzzing electricity of social anxiety course through my veins.  Don’t ask me, it’s something I’ve always had and I am working on loosening its grip on my trachea.  I can evade its crippling grip by consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but then I’m an entirely different monster and not myself.  Thus, by getting high as giraffe pussy, which I was destined to do at this point, I would be stuck miles inside my head and my sociability would be nonexistent.

 

This wouldn’t be a bad thing, and really isn’t.  Getting bombed and drifting off into the imagination while listening to some live music is excellent.  But if you didn’t notice earlier, no one wanted to go with me, or they were too broke to do so.  Also, this all day show was BOUND to be packed to the brim with young, nubile, college aged girls.  Davis is right down the road from Sacto, and like I said, chicks dig Chromeo.  I was hoping to meet some new people, gals in particular.  

 

I went to Chavez park a little later in the day missing a few of the opening acts.  This is a total dick move on my part because I am almost ALWAYS one of the opening acts if I’m playing a show.  But I was too busy waiting to get catapulted in the stratosphere by these fucking cookies and worrying if these pants made me look too hipster.  I think they were these smooth like denim kenneth cole things I picked up at the 2nd hand store.  

 

Whenever I get as high as I was that day, it’s always like a minor psychedelic trip.  I feel in sync with the world, yet I am pulled back as an observer.  So even though I have the first person view of the day through my own eyes, I have almost a 3rd person view of the events as well.  Yes, I have an active imagination, and no I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, yet.  I had my mirrored aviators on because my eyes were cherry tomatoes amongst a red bearded sea of whiteness.  I did remember to put on sunscreen.  I would’ve been boned hard if I neglected that.

 

At any rate, I don’t remember a whole lot about some of the first acts I saw, but there is one particular act and one particular moment that stand out to me from the experience.  One of which gives me an icky, wish I did different feeling inside the pit of my stomach.  This band Grouplove was playing and with the day getting on in age, the crowd was bigger than before. They’re a hodgepodge group of cats who met at some sort of camping abroad thing.  I don’t know but they play this happy innocent like music with harmonies that sound like the chipmunks (check out an example of GroupLove here).  They’re not bad.  

 

Their live show, however, is pretty darn good.  I had never heard these cats before and made a mental note to check them out because they got down.  As their set started picking up steam, I started moving a little bit to the music.  As you might assume, being stricken with cosmic anxiety makes my movement a little rigid and I’ve never been much of dancer.  But I do move when moved to do so.  I’m drifting side to side, to and fro, and maybe a head nod here and there.  There’s a little room in front of me and people are packed in all around.  

dancing

At one point I feel two small hands grip my shoulders and move me side to side with the beat.  I turn slowly turn around and it’s this cute little blonde gal.  I don’t even smile.  It’s too fucking much for me at this point with all the fucking people, the loud ass music, the level of highness at which I was experiencing.  I turned back around.  I still get douche tingles to this day over that shit.  Listening to some jams today  this song starts playing and I relive that moment.  Regret for what you didn’t do.  I should’ve grabbed that sweet young thing by her hands, swung her around and started dancing with her.  That would have been smooth.  But at the time, as I am often am, I was a bumbling lurch on a grassy dancefloor.  

 

Why did that come up for me?  Because I feel shame around that level of social ineptitude.  Are you a better person than me for being without social anxiety?  Fuck no.  You just have an easier time dealing with people.  I’m not the only cat on the block who deals with this issue.  But I don’t remember all my war stories, even some of the good ones.  Some stick out though. Those are the ones to hold onto and learn something.  

 

So I’d be a bit different if that situation ever happened again.  At least I hope I would.  See there are few cats who write truly about their strike outs. This wasn’t even a strikeout.  I didn’t get out of the batter’s box.  One thing my offensive coordinator has asked me to stop doing is analyzing people’s body language.  It’s a tool I developed and can use still at a gut level.  But when I consciously go around and get all FBI sleuth on motherfuckers, I take myself out of the moment.  For a cat like me, being in the moment is the best place to be because there I am whole, there I am myself, there I am without reservation.

“It’s better than Crack Cocaine, it ain’t Medicine but it will ease the Pain.”

There’s an interesting post by Kyle at thisistrouble that riffs on, in his view, the reprehensible arguments posed by stoners he’s had contact with.  He’s not far off in his observations, I’ve heard the same shit from people all too often.  He cites four main arguments potheads use to defend their use:

“1.  They drive better when they’re high on weed.

2.  It’s not addictive.

3.  It’s GOOD for you.

4. It’s great medicine, in terms of a broad argument.

So let’s take a look at these:

1. They drive better when they’re high on weed:

This is a steaming load of shit.  People don’t drive better on marijuana, they just like to drive while high.  Weed impairs motor skills which are used whilst driving.  While the pubmed article claims response time wasn’t significantly effected, errors in linear and rotary movement increased with dosage.  Personally, I hate driving when I am high. A few months ago, I was getting ripped with a friend, when another cat stopped by and asked for a ride.  Since we were rolling one up, he decided to do the same, and we proceeded to get high as fucking giraffe pussy.  Then I gave him a ride.  As soon as I hit the main boulevard, I regretted saying I would take him.  It was high traffic time, and I was just too blazed to be on the road.  Fortunately it was only four miles.

I can also relate it to performance in other areas.  Skateboarding was always a challenge after getting stoned.  Instead of being balls to the wall and fearless, I would often times psyche myself out, and bail the trick.  Playing music is another area.  Sure, if I am at a road block and can’t come up with an idea for a song part, getting ripped can trigger new thoughts.  However, when playing known material and working on complex improvisation, or just a fast part in general, my accuracy is impaired.

2. It’s not addictive.

It’s the feels not the herb that people get hooked on. Weed isn’t physically addictive. If you smoke every day, from sunrise to sunset, even if you quit cold turkey, you’re not putting your life in danger. This is unlike benzodiazapines and alcohol, where you can actually die from withdrawals, or opoids / opiates, where you will feel like you want to die.  However, you can become dependent on smoking weed, which, when you stop, could effect your sleep pattern and mood for a few days.

3. It’s GOOD for you.

I don’t think it’s necessarily good for you.  Smoking anything is detrimental to ones lung health. *takes a drag of a stotch*  However, occasional use of marijuana can provide a pleasant sense of euphoria. That said, smoking weed does contain a significant amount of carcinogens.

“Marijuana smoke contains about 50% more benzopyrene and nearly 75% more benzanthracene, both known carcinogens, than a comparable quantity of unfiltered tobacco smoke (Tashkin, 2013). Moreover, the deeper inhalations and longer breath-holding of marijuana smokers result in greater exposure of the lung to the tar and carcinogens in the smoke. Lung biopsies from habitual marijuana-only users have revealed widespread alterations to the tissue, some of which are recognized as precursors to the subsequent development of cancer (Tashkin, 2013).

Alternative methods to smoking do exist, and I will be writing about those in the future, as promised before.

4. It’s a great medicine, in terms of a broad argument.

Marijuana is great medicine when used for pain.  I  know a gal, who provides a Doctor with ganja, who in turn is able to isolate the pain relieving part of the THC molecule.  He then makes small edible chocolates out of them for cancer patients.  I also have a olive oil / marijuana concoction that can be used as a topical rub with anesthetic properties.

However, in the article at thisistrouble, he states one argument he’s heard is using marijuana for depression.  That’s another bullshit argument.  Chronic use of marijuana can lead to depression, due to the brains receptors getting used to the drug, and tolerance to the drug building.  Being high becomes feeling normal, and then you can’t reach that “normal” place, so you find your spirits a little lower.  There’s also this:

“Another study involved close to 2,000 participants in the Baltimore area who were interviewed in 1980 and then again between 1994 and 1996. The researchers assessed the participants for signs of marijuana abuse and symptoms of depression. Researchers defined abusers of marijuana as people for whom the drug caused social problems, such as inability to perform at work. The results showed people who initially did not have depressive symptoms but abused marijuana were more than four times as likely to have depressive symptoms at the follow-up date than those who did not abuse marijuana. The depressive symptoms associated with earlier marijuana abuse included suicidal thoughts and a feeling of boredom.”

That study does say it is unclear if marijuana triggers the onset of depressive symptoms in people predisposed to depression, or if it’s the cause.  I truly can’t answer that myself.

Obviously, I am not knocking weed.  The current laws and archaic legislation keeping drugs on the black market are unjustified.  I believe for this reason, marijuana users vehemently defend their precious plant.  The social stigma around marijuana, not to mention the threat of being cited, or thrown in jail, is definitely one that has users constantly defending themselves.  Many drugs get a bad rap due to shitty laws and public fear.  LSD could be a major tool, but the stigma attached to it by the D.A.R.E program and those old laws prevent it from ever going mainstream. I’d love to see where microdosing could take me.  Sure it’s fun to fry balls for a couple days, but there are other uses that don’t incur hallucinations.

Yes, marijuana effects motivation, but not everyone who partakes is a lazy stoner.  Like most things, it should be used in moderation, and when done so, can be a nice tool for whatever one desires.

Coffee Shop Meditations

The reason for the Season.

I just want to note right now, that I am high as fucking giraffe pussy, straight posted at the coffee shop I frequent almost daily during the work week. I did this because that is the shop I am most comfortable with and well, being this ripped and at a new place would trip me up. I mean this place will as well because… well I don’t have a fucking excuse. When I go out and interact with people, it’s like a new ball game every time. It feels like a place that is brand new. Of course it feels brand new right now because I have more than efficiently severed the connection between my short term and long term memory, thus everything is brand new, thanks to the half of the retardedly strong ganja cookie I ingested about an hour ago.  I feel like my dog. I want to watch everything going on and I want to hear what people are talking about. But I figure it’s a few things they talk about; school related, work related, money related, pussy related, god related. Haha! Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. Looking someone in the eyes seems a heinous crime sometimes. But it’s a comfort zone rupture I am going for so just sitting out here in this heat in the shade with an iced coffee and a slight hangover, David Hasslehoof ripped, is a fucking ordeal. Next time I will post up in a new coffee shop and not be as fucking high.

Dumbass.

Truth is, I figured it might be a good time to post up at my local joint and actually get to chill outside for a change. I am always, 5 days a week, boxed up in a closet outside a closet. No gateway to Narnia, no stargate tower. I used to believe in the boogeyman. He had a white horse nose that came to a point. His face looked like a stretched joker from Tim Burton’s Batman. Jack Nicholson. He had hoofed feet, white fur, and he wore a purple blazer. He used to freak me the fuck out, but he really looked like the boogey man off the 80’s Ghostbuster cartoon “The Real Ghostbusters.” I was terrified that he would come out of my closet when I was asleep.  His lair was one crazy Alice in Wonderland through the rabbit hole nonsense and the walls were covered with doors that opened to bedroom closets.  His whole purpose was to terrorize children because he fed off their fear.  I’m sure I gave him a good meal or two.   I would line up the stuffed animals I had to stand guard. But they weren’t only standing guard against the boogey man. They were standing guard against the possibility of creatures of netherfield searching through the portal underneath my bed. I was just that tasty and yes, I had stuffed animals. I named them. I still have one that I was given when I was just one, I guess. I named him Doggie.

I remember one night I was sleeping and the boogey man came out of the closet, because that’s where you get to his world. His world was animated too. If I wanted to make my dream even more terrifying, I would apply today’s special effects. It would be an animated character, but he would have an electrostatic aura about him. He would glitch in and out quickly like a television antennae coming into focus. Or it would be the visual equivalent of a cd skipping, only he’d be moving forward. All cartoon on reality. Like when the chick came out of the television on the ring. At any rate, I was dreaming under the covers asleep on my pillow. Mister Boogey came out grabbed me by my hands and started dragging me to his lair. I felt my lip being dragged against my bed sheets. When I woke up I was completely opposite my original sleeping position. I was on my stomach, on top of the covers with my feet where my head was supposed to be. True story.

The Bogeyman

The Boogey / Bogey Man. Yes they had two different spellings.

An ass just walked by so nice that it made me want a cigarette. I don’t understand the correlation. However I cannot have a cigarette right here, because this joint doesn’t allow smoking on it’s porch, plus there’s a dude and his daughter chomping it up right next to me. I hate smoking around kids, I won’t do it. Just get away from me. Sometimes I find myself in a situation where I will be doing my damnedest to get out of some area, away from anyone under 18, to have a fucking smoke and lo-and behold, there I am with some droolbucket huffing my second hand destruction. That’s something I hate.

I was thinking about things I hate and I couldn’t come up with much.  Even the lady who hassled the land manager to get my moving truck out of her parking spot when I moved into this joint and he turned to me when she left and said, “She ain’t got a car right now.” Nice. I don’t hate her either. She’s getting a 30 day notice for being a crazy bitch. Apparently, she has super sensitive hearing, I’m sure there’s a word for that, hearing that only mutes out her own voice and actions. Her intolerance of my neighbors slight music making, in the afternoon, offends her so much, she has to throw a tantrum the equivalent of a tiny child that has teeth coming in. Just pissed the fuck off. I don’t hate her, she’s just a racist.

I hate bad dog owners.  That shit grinds my gears like no other.

Pictures of little kids. Save them for someone who cares.

That feeling when you sit down to show someone a song, riff, or something, and they immediately tune out and don’t listen. I hate that feeling. (Also, I am inherently guilty of the doing the same thing.)

I definitely need to explore more coffee shops around here.  This place has no talent. Funny though, as I say that, someone who belongs in the “Coffee Shop Caf-fiend Chronicles” the High Duchess of Falootingtonshire, here for a serving of the queen’s royal pudding, who is a mind reader, or something, shows up, tea in hand, pinky finger extended.  She seems like a talented individual.  She definitely believes she has an audience. One day she said the name of someone I was thinking about right as I was thinking about it. Tripped me up for a second, then she explained I looked like some guy who had that name. Not me.

High as goddamn giraffe pussy. Retarded son.

The High Duchess of Falootingtonshire is lecturing her servants, or parishioners  or giving a historical account of the courts back in her hometown.

And I just sat here for about 10 minutes not writing a goddamn thing. Time to walk the dog.

Not too much, Just enough.

This has been a few days of astronomical proportions as it pertains to my growth as a spiritual person.  The God hits have been a flurry of impacts, like the sky falling during the yearly Perseid Meteor showers.  I don’t know if I can full on communicate what has occurred but I will do my best.

I think people may be able to relate to the motion of the body and head as one begins to pass out.  The distinction between reasons for such an edge of conscious does not really matter.  It could be the chicken neck thing people do when they are extremely tired, falling asleep while sitting up.  It could be the loose and stretched look of someone on a blackout drunk, fighting the shutdown of their brain by trying to hold their head up.  The reasons and situations are plentiful, the swimmer who swallowed too much water, blue in the face, lurching up the remains of the sea to breathe again.  Lost in lust, a face writhes to and fro during the riffs of ecstatic sex.   The pill popper fighting consciousness on the couch, the meditator, teetering on the cusp of sleep, the dancer, the head banger, the hip hop artist, these movements all have one similar motion, bouncing the head.  It’s just like the smiling baby being bounced on a knee.  Those events perpetuate through the course of ones existence.

The focal point of the energies leading to this kind of movement is 4 corners leading to a pyramid like shape with the human as the center.    It’s a neon sign saying “don’t forget, you are never really here.”  But more than that, it is a reminder that the spiritual world is right alongside us.  Call it God, call it Creator, call it Mother Earth, call it what you want, it is there all the time.  However, much like the movement, it is not calling, it has to be called, to be welcomed, into the heart , before one can be guided by it.

I spent the weekend  with an old friend.  Not my oldest, but a guy I got clean with and spent some of the most emotionally honest time hashing out thoughts, actions, fears, regrets, and hopes.  We parted ways, as he had his deal and I had mine, but we didn’t lose touch.  He’s one of those people where you pick up right where you left off in the first place.  We spent Friday, fishing out on the bay near his home.  We caught a ton of fish and some other things, but only kept one black cod.  I caught a number of Canary cod but those are illegal to keep, and we follow the rules of fish and game.  We were out in a small craft, just bigger than a dingy.  The sea was for the most part, calm, and it didn’t pick up chop until much later in the morning.  It was still spooky, three of us sitting in this tiny craft, about a mile off of shore.  Don’t get me wrong it was a ton of fun, but at the same time, I told myself, well, if we’re going over and this is the end, then that’s ok.  We talked about going out Saturday on a different boat, but decided to put it off so he could spend some time with his wife and kid before they went out of town.

Friday night we were psycho babbling back and forth about things, and I was hit with a reminder that I must be careful for anything can change at a moments notice.  I also predicted that something “bad” was going to happen the next day but I didn’t know what.  I figured it would be on the boat if we went out.  I wasn’t trying to make a self-fulfilling prophecy, I just had a gut feeling.  We took our dogs for a walk in the woods behind his place.  His dog is named Rojo, and my dog is named Iggy.  We let the dogs off the leash, and they happily sniffed along the trail with us.  They are well behaved and respond when called.  We didn’t have any issues.  We made it to the local high school and turned around opting to trek back through the woods instead of taking the streets.

About 5 minutes away from his house, the dogs went berserk. They started sniffing and pacing across the trail and into the woods, which they hadn’t done the entire time.  My buddy gets Rojo back on the leash but Iggy is not responding.  I look around to try to spot what he’s after, because I don’t want him to get skunked on, and I spot about 50 yards away, a grey fox, with tail in the air, staring at us.  The fox is a good third bigger than Iggy.  Due to connection between master and dog, Iggy sees the fox too.  He takes off full sprint after this fox.  They are off running, we’re yelling to get Iggy to turn around, and he’s gaining on the fox.  He gets to about 5 feet from the frantically fleeing fox and turns around to look at me.  The fox senses this as a moment of weakness, turns around and pounces my dog.  I have my knife out and am full bore in that direction.  However, when I pull up on the scene, Iggy is just sitting down panting.  The fox is gone.  I scour him looking for punctures, signs of pain, etc.  But there was nothing, he was just doped up on adrenaline and clearly not used it.  We made our way back to the house without any more incidents.

Now it needs to be mentioned that Iggy does not chase other dogs.  I have never seen him do that.  He minds his own business and is way more into people than other canines.  His behavior was not like him in any form.  In fact, I can only attribute his sudden aggression to one thing:  he’s a pure bred Smooth Fox Terrier.  The story of how he came into my life will have to be saved for another day as this post will read like a book instead of a short story.  Fox terriers were bred to chase down a fox, slink into it’s hole, shake that fox by the neck until the hunter pulled the terrier out by it’s tail.  That was Iggy’s ancestors original purpose.  It’s in his genetic code to go after that fox.  He got the scent and primal Iggy took over.

It was a reminder to me that I often put my purpose aside:  my music.  I have not followed through and have not put enough energy into doing what I like doing most.  Bam.  There was a hit.  I watched my friend stress over his family, and the things he was doing.  He would listen to my spiritual babble, but he was distracted.  That is because his purpose is with his family, and it’s something he was losing sight of.  I sometimes think that we are just spirits looking through the windows of our eyes as our atoms hold our memories.  Our genetic history is fed through our consumption of oxygen, and it will be passed forward into the future, whether it is in the dirt, the sea, or a child.  Sometimes I think I can sense something along those lines and it was apparent this weekend, that I had forgotten that I could sense anything like that.  I found out that my Pops fell while riding his bike with my sister in law up a long steep grade the same day Iggy met the fox.  I think he was pushing himself too hard, he’s almost 70, and was at a breaking point.  He had to turn around and head back.  Thus, my prediction was eerily close to accurate.

Everyone is right where they are supposed to be at this moment.  That’s how shit works.  Our fragile minds cannot conceive time as it actually is, and we cannot perceive the world in it’s true form.  It is a reminder that the Spirit is everywhere, touching each and everyone of us, we just need to welcome it in. It is a reminder to always have a purpose and be working towards that goal, towards something.  It is a reminder to stop hesitating to talk to that stranger, or introduce myself to that pretty girl I saw, because we’re in a race against time, and the opportunities that we are presented might never be the same again.

As people in this day an age, we are constantly bombarded with distractions, with bias, with things that take, or want to guide us away from our purpose, things that take us away from connection with our spiritual selves.  Computers, cellphones, video games, television, food, booze, weed, drugs, porn, worries, possessions, and fears, are all distractions that aim to deprive us of our true potential, our true meaning.  I must learn to use moderation with all things, thus I have come up with the mantra, “not too much, just enough.”  It can apply to many aspects of my life, but for my purpose, with music, and my spiritual goals, I’m going all in and am not going to question it again.  Music and meditation be my voice and thoughts and my will be guided.