Diamond Light Forehead Beam Application

I knew I'd paid too much for this soft cell injection kit but it was my last fucking hope. I screwed the headband down tight until it hurt and I could feel the blood getting trapped in the veins in my temples and pumping underneath the metal strip. I could feel each individual vein and they were screaming let me go. My vision got blurry as I positioned the guide to the spot above and between my blood shot eyes. I loaded the cell and searched for the on switch as my knees buckled. It was time, now. I smacked the switch down with my hand , hard enough to feel it dig painfully into my palm, then the flash blasted me and my kneecaps cracked as they struck the dirty concrete floor.

I woke up looking at pigeons flying over me . They seemed to flinch as they passed through the projection of laser light, but that couldn't be I'm the only one that can see it. I rolled onto my side and removed the headband. There were spots of blood on my pants where little bits of broken glass had dug into my poor kneecaps, not broken but they ought to be. I stood up and looked around, time to try this shit out.

The instructions were written in Mongolian engrish but clear enough to anyone familiar with illegal neural software. I could access the menus by staring at the point the laser projection landed on a surface then slowly close my right eye and hold the left wide open for 10 seconds until the cursor appeared. Then I could open the right and see the menus super imposed on the already superimposed laser image. I scanned them quickly and just upped the energy allocation levels to maximum, I could tweak the rest later.

With the diamond light appearing to increase as my energy returned I moved to a window grabbed an old table swept it off and looked out the old torpedo factory window towards the Potomac. Assuming the lotus position I cast the beam out and across the river towards the heavens. Instant and total mental clarity was what the ad had promised. I needed it now or the schizophrenia inducing virus I'd contracted in Albuquerque was going to shred my remaining sanity to bits. Bits I'd never put back together.

I sat there for 48 hours without moving a muscle until I passed out and hit the floor. the shit had worked but not in the way I expected. I was a wisp of air that was lighter than air my soul washed away into the ether. If I crawled out the rusted door of the factory and met the wrong people I was doomed to a life of unspeakable crimes. If I made it to my old high school library and found the Teacher still working there straightening the shelves I had a chance.

I found my pack and downed the half gallon of electrolyte water and ate a protein bar. I made my way downstairs past the piles of pigeon droppings and out to the street. The first thing I need is some sunglasses, this diamond shaped laser beam shooting out and through everything like a red hot knife through butter is fucking blinding me. I sighted down King St on the Masonic Temple and projected myself into the Egyptian Room on the 5th floor. From there I could see my old High School and projected onto the roof of the library. The rest of my story is ancient history, now retold in Annals of the 4th Psi War 5th edition.

Suicide Bomber Backbeat

90,000 Iraqi civilians dead I guess we got some payback for, whatever it was we thought they did to us, and here's a lighthearted music video by the folks we gave so much inspiration to. Bring that beat back! oh wait better not...

Venting , Raving, Panic Attack, I don't care what you call it

If Mcain /Palin gets elected I would support California's secession from the union by armed insurrection if necessary. I was going to propose putting Republicans in internment camps but there's too many of them here and California Republicans are more about keeping their money than about repressing freedoms so if they can be convinced there's a chance to make a profit they'll be co-opted. The gun nuts will also be down with fighting the feds so they can go straight to the front lines and start shooting those 50 caliber sniper rifles, because the bottom line is they just want a chance to kill somebody, anybody, and not have to go to jail for it. This would also be a good time to empty the prisons like Pelican Bay in exchange for 2 years service as suicide bombers. It's the christian religious conservatives that would have to be shoved across the Nevada border, along with the Scientologists and anyone whoever donated a dime to Lyndon Larouche. Wandering in the desert might be good for them and prepare all three groups for a rapture of their own choosing.

Our main industry will of course be weed and organic produce. We can buy whatever else we need from China in exchange for the homes of Hollywood Republicans.
OK that's about as far as I can get with that type of rant. If you motherfuckers elect Sarah Palin president all I can really do is pray like a snake handling baptist that you get what you deserve.

in rudy's basement park fairfax

In between rehabs I was crashing in my childhood bedroom back in Alex. VA. Smoking weed on the DL and drinking beer when I could. Rudy Rodan would call me up and we'd smoke hash out of a meerschaum pipe and listen to Lee Scratch Perry. Rudy took Perry's lyrics literally unfortunately, and would proclaim to all and sundry that he was a "Black Jew". He was neither, he was however schizophrenic and spending more and more time in locked psych wards throughout Northern Virginia. In manic episodes he would try and walk to Richmond from DC and would be found incoherent on the side of the road. I remember his hands were clammy from the side effects of Haldol and the constant chain smoking of Marlboro reds.

We would ride around listening to GO GO and Old School Rap on KISS FM going to various spots to cop weed often without success. ( I believe I was supposed to be at 12 step meetings, forgive me Mom and Dad)If no cannabis could be found we would catch a buzz by scraping every used smoking device we could find until a pile of resin was produced and then smoked holding every nasty cloud of foul smoke deep in our lungs.
There are times when I miss that feeling of complete and utter aimlessness. I was just waiting to for the smoke to clear from my latest drug fueled disaster so I could go out and do it again. Rudy Rodan was waiting until he could stop taking his psych meds long enough to let his mind fly away again. We were brothers in this state, listening to Rastafarian chants hoping for a clue that would give us both meaning.
I'm not sure what happened to Rudy Rodan, last I saw him was on the porch of his Mom's new condo, smoking one cig after another, asking if he could come live with me in California. A tall white man with a strong southern accent, thick beard, shaved head, white oxford shirt, black jeans, doc martens, who would swear he was a member of the lost tribe of Israel. I'm sorry I lost touch brother, schizophrenia's just another word for nothing left to lose.

so wrong and yet so right

those are unreal tournament sounds not quake BTW

sunset pancake hill

sunset pancake hill
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

the eastcoast is so green and full of old family friends that care about me very much, but I will miss the west soon I'm sure

back on the east coast

and it is another world that I no longer undrstand. We ate at a restaraunt in Concord NH called "The Common Man" apparrently it's become a chain of restarunts thats like a NH version of Crackerbarrell. They have free cheese and crackers with two dips and free chedar the dips one is an herb spread the other like thousand island mixed with cottage cheese. Then they bring you free "copper pennies" which are carrot slices in a sweet brine. The crabcakes were passable except for the rasberry aoli and a russian dressing shmear. the bathrooms have graffitti style quotations from famous new englanders and piped in audio of a woman with a thick NH accent telling the worlds worst jokes.

If I did'nt appreciate the absolutely effen fantastic food of the bay area I do now. Now i need a lobster roll. i'll add pics later, I cant look at them right now.

Flash Fiction Bingymon Style

I felt it that day I felt it all as I ran up the stairs two at a time. At the top of the third floor I spun a tight u-turn and skipped to the end of the hall . The keys were magically in my hand and I made the special half twist and shake with my hand to silently open the door. I was in the tunnel everything was fine. Shari saw me from the living room couch as I entered her bedroom.
"What the fuck are you doing here Wallace Beaver! I broke up with you a month ago! Get out Get out Get out! " her voice rose in pitch level straight to hysteria.
" I told you I was crazy baby, remember?" I calmly stated though chattering teeth as I pulled the top off a can of red spray paint.
I gave it six rapid speed shakes as my finger found the button on the top of the can and I focused on the beautiful expanse of white wall over her bed. These old buildings with their solid plaster walls heavy with the grime of generations, I love them so.
My arm swept up in a precise arc I could never repeat on purpose if I tried a million times and the can hissed as I liberated myself of the image burning on the inside of the front of my skull. It wasn't a bad word or anything about Shari, but I knew she would understand, I had explained all this on several occasions after I'd fucked her senseless. I'd repeated my mantra enough I'm sure that she could grasp my intention at least subliminally.
A perfect circle! I'd pulled it off in one move! There was a little side spray of paint on the tops of the giant pillow and stuffed animal pile but a little paint thinner would take care of that later, much later.
I reached in my messenger bag for the second can and felt something tugging at my arm and a loud rushing noise in my ear.
"Wallace! Wallace! WALLACE! I'M CALLING THE POLICE YOU SICK BASTARD!"
Shari's voice sounded as if it came from far far away like the galaxy in Star Wars. I had the blue can now and the details began to emerge , the delicate flowers and hearts that covered the skin of the sacred satyr that represented my love for Shari. It didn't matter that she had broken up with me I wasn't upset, but this work was unavoidable , a bullet train of intention that I myself had no power to stop. My feet felt numb my legs were shaking but I kept on, now the green!
I swung the can towards the wall, time for another perfect circle! But my arm jerked and my muscles spasmed and my arm would not rise it was trapped. I turned my head to the side and saw the reflection in the mirror over the dresser. The boys in blue! Two of them behind me holding my arms, they weren't worried, I wasn't worried, we were old friends.
"Wally, are you done now?"
"Yes sir, thank you."

the folly of youth

this made me feel better

chest pain

my heart hurts and i know why
but i'm stuck here for the time being
knowing that is knowing something
doesn't really lessen the pain just makes it real
it's not enough to overwhelm me
no feeling ever will be
and still i want to run
because it's what i do best
damn
down rating myself isn't working either
i'll do what andrew t said so long ago
pray for the willingness to be willing
to accept
freedom through responsibility

twittering, is it real?

Twitter Updates
I am hungry and I must rest there is much to do in preparation for the autumn pig slaughter 3 minutes ago
i once wrote a poem called "sweating lifes blood in the grip of society's mindcrusher" i was 17 or thereabouts 6 minutes ago
i remember once i caught a magic fish that had a yellow tag for which i recieved a 50 dollar savings bond i later bought bad salmon stocks 11 minutes ago
in florence arizona state prison i used all my charm to get librium from the nurse 5 minutes later i was released all charges dropped 14 minutes ago
i was in jail in casa grande arizona with an inmate named betelgeuse if the guards said his name 3 times he went into a rage i was kicking 16 minutes ago

the gangster chronicles were a band of young hoodlums age 8-12 in Landover MD circa 1970 they merged with the crunchberry disciples you see 27 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad yea though i walk the valley of the shadow of death i shall fear no muttonchop wannabe or his petulant children 30 minutes ago from BeTwittered
johnnytoobad The author of the crashberry chronicles was an unknown poet from the upper eastside I channel his wisdom forthnnightly 34 minutes ago from txt
johnnytoobad Shoulda coulda woulda been a reggae superstar bingymon meets the rockers uptown inna dub roots style yes I about 4 hours ago from txt
johnnytoobad My house is the riggity wreckest its ever been the 4th will be a national day of cleaning at my crib 11:45 PM July 03, 2008 from txt
johnnytoobad @ HenryRollins you're a long way from hagen daz in georgetown where I first saw you and Ian I thought you were marines gone awol 12:33 AM July 03, 2008 from txt in reply to HenryRollins

More French Versions of Live Free or Die

The French have got the spirit no wonder this phrase has been in my mind for so long.

Vivre libre ou mourir

Vivre libre ou mourir
Originally uploaded by GerryL

"French for "Live Free or Die" is inscribed on the centerpiece monument at the Pantheon in Paris"

Horace Andy "Spying Glass"

You live in the city

You mind your own business

What you see you don't see

But some people they always see

They never mind their own business

You move to the country

You live in the hills

You think you're far from the wicked

When you check it them a use spying glass

They want to know all your business

You live in the city

You stay by yourself

You avoid their company

Still some people are prying you out

Just because you are rasta

Why I did it

Live Free or Die
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Jump to: navigation, search
This article is about the state motto. For other uses, see Live Free or Die (disambiguation).
"Live Free or Die" is the official motto of the U.S. state of New Hampshire, adopted by the General Court in 1945. It is possibly the best-known of all state mottos, partly because it speaks to an aggressive independence inherent in American political philosophy and partly because of its contrast to the milder sentiments usually found in such mottos.
The phrase comes from a toast written by General John Stark on July 31, 1809. Poor health forced Stark, New Hampshire's most famous soldier of the American Revolutionary War, to decline an invitation to an anniversary reunion of the Battle of Bennington and to send his toast by letter:
"Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils. "
It may have an earlier origin, as mentioned in Burke's 1758 The Annual Register of World Events: A Review of the Year, q.v. at google books.
The motto was enacted at the same time as the state emblem, on which it appears.

Or Die 3-23-94

Or Die 3-23-94
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

the other side

Live Free

Live Free
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

new tattoo today 6/05/08

City Boy

This heart of darkness is mine bitch
Don’t you know little girl
You should be careful messing with a man like me
It’s a dirty cold city that I call me
Not meant for lovely things such as yourself
No one here is really sure what will happen next
Mean men lurk on the street corners at night
Trying not to do bad things
But not always winning the battle with glorious failure
So fucking pure
Now I’m back on street level
Comfortable as hell
Not meant for human consumption

the language of my voice

Only in reflection of what little I write do I get a clearer perspective on who I really am. Some themes keep popping up over and over.

nuff said

nuff said
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

I could use a little Pimp Juice right about now but I need to sleep too I guess

Will Kill for Junk

In someways he was very very tired but he was never really that tired as long as it was present, in his hand, in his ruck sack, or in his veins, especially in his veins. Through 14 foreign conflicts and the armies of four major European powers he had stayed high. It was the thing that made him different why he could lie in a hedge row in the rain with a sniper rifle for 3 days carefully controlling his timed injections of Dexedrine and morphine so he was always awake feeling no pain but never nodding. In the nod he might miss his target and making the shot was only thing that made him feel anything real if only in that brief instant of the muzzle flash and the vaporizing blood cloud around the exploding head of his intended.

His record of confirmed kills (and the whispered rumors of twice as many unconfirmed) kept the brass from wondering why he was in the infirmary getting opiates for a spinal cord injury that never showed up on xray or slowed him down in brutal training exercises. When he began freelancing for the intelligence services was when the blinds on his secret addiction were lifted and he was offered whatever opiate he wanted (pharmaceuticals were recommended as they were easily explained on expense reports) as long as the job got done his reputation preceded him and he was never without IT. Some thought they could control him with it but being forced to seek it on his own only whetted his appetite. He knew where to cop in any country on earth.

Why was he still here? Why stick around on this earth causing mayhem and death with his only purpose to stay loaded and kill the men he was sent to kill? He was waiting for a call, and one day that call came.

"Mr, Louis?"

"Who's calling?"

" We have completed the final test on the machine, we can reach the date in question, your target is John Wilkes Booth"

"Is this line secure?"

"It won't matter if you complete your assignment."

" I guess you're right. I'm on my way"

burritos al pastor epiphany

burritos al pastor epiphany
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

taco trucks rule over all

I like sunsets

I like sunsets
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

Padded Window Punch

Cold foggy night in the Mission, Folsom and 20Th. Mark's brother keeps walking around the first floor flat of the old Victorian punching his hand and cursing. Psyching himself up for something I'm not sure what. Grey bushy hair in a classic Manson mane frames his angry face. He's the one who keeps asking who we are and if we're cool. Mark keeps reminding him that Running Bear is the guy who did his tattoos. Mark is bouncing around the apartment too rubbing his back and telling Bear that his back always aches when he's coming down. I run out for a couple 40's of Rainier Ale. We kicked in on some beans and tacos that Mark's toothless girlfriend is cooking up in the kitchen rapping to herself or any of us that wander in there. Mark has that classic biker metal head look motorcycle jacket black jeans and boots, black greasy hair that is pasted to his face because he's sweating alot. He and Bear are telling stories about people I don't know and I'm drinking as much malt liquor as it's polite to do without taking too much and I'm getting buzzed because my stomach is empty. I think we smoked some cheap "bama" weed too. I was wondering if we were going to do some speed but first we sit down to dinner like civilised folk. I was wondering if I wanted to do any speed and knew that if it came out I wouldn't be able to resist even though I hated it. I was in that frame of mind. Eating together was weirdly bonding and I was laughing and thinking these people were pretty cool and they lived around the corner so maybe we could be friends of a sort even though they were tweakers and I was into hop. My stomach was having a bad reaction to the canned re fried beans though, jumping and gurgling something fierce. Lately I'd been resisting and had only broken down and copped a couple times in the past month.Getting high on heroin in a house that was a daycare center during the day was a big no no and I felt pretty fucking shitty about it. But being broke and out of work will put you in that "I'll do any thing if it's free" mode and so chances were I was going to get some speed if I hung out, but these guys probably shot it and I didn't want to deal with using their works. Plus I really didn't like speed but there I was.
After dinner Marks brother got ready to go out and put on a big old navy pea coat and a black wool hat. His right hand had some kind of padding taped to it and he was slamming it into his left palm harder and harder. I finally figured out he was going out to punch car windows and snag car stereos or whatever else he could get. From what I gathered Mark was not going to kick down any speed to his brother for free so he was going out to make his own luck and therefore partake of the bounty of his brothers methamphetamine supply. I also figured out that I was probably not going to get any free speed either and decided to head home rather than hang out looking like a typical drug leech. I can't remember if Running Bear got high with that guy that night I think that although he talked like he was a big time meth dealer that really he was out of dope too and his brother was working to feed the whole houses habit. Marks brother had been grey haired but he was buff and scary and on parole. For the next ten years I saw him pushing a shopping cart around the Mission, looking worse and worse, muttering to himself and the knuckles of his right hand were always padded and at the ready. I was glad I didn't get high with those guys, and soon after I never high again on something I didn't want to do.

Wow, Guess What? Turns Out We Are A Bunch of Racist Fucktards

Have I been in the bubble of a blue state too long? I drank the Kool Aid (why isn't anyone protesting this reference to the Jonestown Massacre, we in the Bay Area should know better) after watching Obama's speeches early this year. He got me he really did and still does. I actually feel inspired to maybe get off my lazy ass and work for his campaign, starting with a bumper sticker and another 5 dollar donation. Unfortunately,(and god knows I, like a bunch of folks white, black and whatever, should have had a clue as to how bad it was going to be)we are still a nation full of racist bastards.
Calling the man a Muslim is the least of his problems. If he hasn't been filled full of sniper rounds (please God do forbid this)he'll have a couple of trumped up rape charges and thousands of illegitimate crack addicted children on his neo con rap sheet by October at the latest. That's if the Clintons haven't stolen the nomination with moves (given freely) from the Karl Rove playbook. The Clintons now have soiled their legacy so badly that it is irreparable. The worst kind of racist to me is one who mouths anti-racist statements but takes racist action on the other. Calling a black American elitist is a hard sell but they did it.

Robert Downey Jr.: Back from the Brink -

Robert Downey Jr.: Back from the Brink -
Robert Downey, Jr., star of the upcoming Iron Man movie, is alive and doing well, which is great news for his fans. This piece begins like many similar profiles of Downey, exploring the actor's resurrection from his well-publicized fall into addiction. But despite the article's title it doesn't pander to tabloid sensibilities. Keegan gets to the heart of the matter: that the actor is no longer defined by the labels of "recovering guy" or "ne'er-do-well."
in Time by Rebecca Winters Keegan, 25 APril 2008
This abstract was edited by Brijit. Read more here...

neurotic dreams of the never be Rich never be Famous

Gonna get these mothers
no drama no dreams of Ethiopia sitting in a lounge waiting for the injera to arrive
swaddled in silk
I'll never see that
wishing for things I don't want like tours of every Podunk pitiful nightclub in the USA
motorcycles that tear down buildings with their exhaust
french girls that cry when I leave
disposable Rolex watches
and diamond laser lights shooting out of my eyes toward the heavens as I am internationally known
for being "Lost in Prayer"

el veterano

beautiful tan suede fedora
beautiful black and white checkered wool coat
fat and classy gold rings with onyx inlays
wing tips
slacks with killer crease
wire rim glasses
motherfucker was shit sharp
eating four grams of black tar heroin per day
cannot inject via intra muscular anymore
too tore up from abcesses
does not smoke
does not drink
67 years old
5o years of heroin addiction
the original
original gangster

death by mistake

a patient who could have been me died of an infection he got during a funfilled 5 day relapse. Death came weeks afterward, after his "wake up call." after his last roll of the junkie dice, thought he'd gotten away with a taste one last time. In his death I am reminded, the game is rigged.

old story idea no. 2

Legendary Blood Rustlers of the Vallejo BioGen Plant
You could live longer, stronger, bigger and faster but you had to get the right batch of blood. Slimey and The General found frozen bags deep in the cryo storage warehouses on Mare island in the north east section that the Navy claimed to own but really rented space to the gene police feds. Just cause your a janitor does'nt mean your stupid, especially if you took the job on pourpose after failing out of Stanford. They thought they could be like Steve Jobs and skip school, but bioengineering does'nt allow such slackeresque success and so after going broke after investing student loan money in a melanin enhancer that did not work at all they resorted to petty crime to keep the server farm in their rented shitbox warehouse going. The plan was to use passwords bought from an oldschool silicon valley hacker, now crankster addict to access the experimental database at BioGen identify dna enhanced blood that was tested but not being used and "borrow" it while they were supposed to be following a germ killer robot through the dark frozen tumnnels of the cryo warehouse. The whole thing was tricky, very tricky but if they pulled it off they could sell it for plenty o' EFT Electronic Funds Transfer to a not so picky gene fence in El Cerrito. "Whose gonna play gueina pig tonight generalissimo'." loudly whispered Slimey to the general as they rode the hydrofoil ferry from Heyward to Vallejo. The General looked over at his friend in the seat next to him and observed him with a critical eye, wondering if his crime partners appearance would give them away. Slimey got his name from the lavender pomade he insisted on wearing big gobs of in his jet black hair swept back fom his high aztec forehead, but it was all the peircings that got him noticed. His eyebrows , nose , lips and hairline were lumpy with clear crystal "zeppelin' style peircings that streched his facial skin tightly, not your average janitor look these days. At least his jump suit was plain enough silver metallic green though it was. If only he was'nt 5 foot two to boot. "You sound hyped up did you use some of that go fast from Marcos? You know you cant inject the dna bags with meth in your system ,taints the final product, Jesus Fucking Christ! Whats with you that shits bathtub crank by the way I know I can smell it a mile away." 'Just enough to write some code for that sideways helix matrix last night whats it to you I carried last weeek," snarled Slimey. "Maybe you did but you brought out the wrong shit and it took two weeks to get rid of those four extra breasts, it was supposed to be a Grow Tall variant you'd be 6ft 2 by now if you paid attention you fake ass criminal" "Shit, wait'll you try to identify those bags on the fly and then inject in the pisser just hoping it's not a Parkinsons batch, my hands shook for days after wards"
The general grunted assent and popped up out his seat heading for the bathroom to complete his dusguise. He did'nt really need it with his shaved head and red ahired goatee, he looked like 90 percent of the other Janitorial engineers at BioGen, except he wasn't a racist meth smoking bastard like they were. At 6 ft 190 lbs of gene enhanced muscle and neuro boost electronics in his head the general fit in almost too well at BioGen. Sometimes the counter intel software at the plant scanned your profile even harder if it seemed too perfect. you'd hear about it, soon.

old story ideas no 1

The battle of marin County in the year 2025,I switched my mountain wheels for road from a stash near Whites Hill. It really saved time when you had to use surface roads, most of the squad were ok using road on most trails. but for the more extreme spots. If you really wanted to hide you need to go to the deep spots that only a mountain bike could get to. I adjusted my smart bars back to drops and set off down Sir Fances Drake in the dark, whizzing along with my tires making there special hum, but no lights til Sausalito at least. My sniper weapon was folded up in my pack but my side arm was strapped to the small of my back in a protective case that deflected the Metal detectors. Most times if you walked in a store and the buzzers went off nobody even looked twice but if the invaders were patrolling close by you'd get a mean stare and people would whisper " hey Resister, you trying to get us killed, we support you but cant you stay in the hills" I would casually reply " Mans gotta eat limon' sorbetto whats he gonna do, suck on a Lemon, how gauche. " I still had a thing for marinites.Their homes still looked great but the lack of fresh paint was telling.

Faded and Jaded

The new kids that came around called them Mr. Faded and Mrs. Jaded they were just glad somebody still came around since most of their friends had gone corporate, or died. They bought the house back in the day when the coke flowed freely and you could make money like that. No one in the avenues noticed them, they were up when the Chinese neighbors were in bed. If anybody asked they said they made their money from a lotto ticket. Coke became too dangerous so they moved into weed and pills, only problem was their mutual benzo habit.
Somewhere deep in the recesses of his valium, xanax, ativan, and clonopin addled brain Danny knew something was severely wrong. He’d seen this look on his mothers face back in 65 and hated the slack skinned face that snidely put him down for being a hippie. Oh how he railed about “mothers little helper” as symptomatic of her whole fucked up generation. Now that same look stared back at him from the mirror and there was no way out.
They tried to quit the pills one time and after 4 days Cheryl came after him with a knife saying he was Richard Nixon in a cat suit sent by the DEA to take her plants in the basement. He was so psychotic with his own withdrawal symptoms he looked down to see if he was wearing a cat suit. Luckily he called Fred the Head who had a benzo habit too and he came over with liquid valium to save them and counsel them on the difficulties of benzo detoxification. “It’s taken me three years to get down to 50 milligrams of blue valiums per day. My wife Sarah tried it cold turkey while I was on tour and was in the hospital for a month on an ativan drip.” The plan since then was to taper slowly but somehow that never happened it’s hard to keep track when you’re stoned on the latest strain from Amsterdam.

This is your life

I've had several conversations with a friend lately where I was asked to tell the story of sections of my life. Afterwords the perspective that I gained held great value for me. It amazes me how little time I spend reflecting on the series of events that have led up to this day, today. I think I tend to be in the now or the future usually worrying about things to come that will most likely never happen. This is not a healthy way to be, in my opinion. Perhaps by telling my life story in as much detail as possible, not necessarily for public consumption but for my own edification, I would be able to keep some semblance of a cohesive perspective in the forefront of my consciousness. Whoops gotta get back to "work."

Sierra Ronin

I grabbed a pair of binoculars off the sagging Formica table in the kitchen and peered through the dirty screen of the back window splotched with mosquito carcasses. You could glimpse pieces of the trail on the hills above the cabin, tan switchbacks among the dry scrub and pine trees. something or someone was coming down the trail, I was sure of it. I trained the bino's on another gap in the trail where I anticipated the intruder would be revealed and got a millisecond glance of two men in camo moving quickly down the trail. How long did I have, 5 minutes? Probably less, I was glad I had left my back pack unpacked. Looking around quickly I decided that there was nothing here for me, but memories of a time when I had a family, before I made my first kill for the Combine. I knew they would be coming I just thought I'd have more time to rest and let my arm heal. The flechettes had been removed but the muscles still felt weak.
Groaning as I thew the backpack on over my shoulder, I then grabbed my helmet and went out the front door. My bike was thankfully pointed down hill so I just jumped on stuck it in neutral and pointed it down the steep fire road. They would know of my presence the second I started the bike so I waited as long as I could, until I reached the gentle up slope before the spring house. Then I cranked it over and it sounded like a machine gun going off. "Loud Pipes Save Lives" but not when your trying to outrun corporate hit men hired to force you into early retirement. I thought I heard yelling behind me I thought I heard shots but I think I imagined it.
Surprised that there wasn't a roadblock at the two lane highway but thankful somebody had slipped up, I checked my gas gauge and gunned my highly modified sportster up the road. Destination: the Big City, my real home where I could re enter the digital grid, collect my weapons, and make my final stand.

24th and Folsom 81 Subaru

car not registered coffee strong
i'm an outlaw again high on drugs
good times

Damn Adrenaline

Oh no it's that damn adrenaline
Oh no it's that damn adrenaline
back in the early 80's there were a group of dopefiends that hung out in DC's Dupont Circle, shooting dope in the bushes while government workers walked to theor jobs at the embassies on Mass ave or the various Federal goernment extensions. Dupont Circle is a beautiful stately circle park with a classic round multitired fountain in the middle. You had to be pretty freaking hot to swim in that water but if you were loaded enough on a super muggy DC day you might go for it. The guys who shot dope in the park ranged from white boys sneaking in from the burbs to hardcore lifelong heroin addicts who could'nt hang down at 14th and T or (th and O because of some transgression or lack of hussle due tpo age. It was easier for them to fix a 10 or 20 dollar bag in the morning come to the park and drink all day to stay loaded than to manage a hundred dollar a day habit. Copping dope for white people in DC was especially hard for white people, you were either attracting cops cause you stuck out so bad or getting nothing but powdered aspirin. If you got to know one of the veteran dope fiends you might get an arrangement going to go halves on a speedball or a dilaudid. "Going halves" meant you gave up half the dope to the the "flyer" (aka you buy I fly). 75% of the time the flyer never came back or came back loaded and nodding just to laugh in your face. This situation left those on the fringes of this arrangement to engage in experimentation.
The particular incident to which I am referring was told to me by Red Haired John, a transplanted North Carolinian who had been running around DC's worst streets since he returned from the Army to live with his grandmother. John told me that one of the regulars down at Dupont Circle was another white boy named Doug the Wino, who dressed like Dave Vanian from the Damned, probably before anybody knew who that was. (Doug later jumped out of a window while high on PCP over on Belmont Street, but thats another story)
Doug the Wino was really more of a junkie than a drunk but that varied with the seasons. Doug and John were some of the few white guys who had the cojones to walk down to 9th and O sts and cop dope for people. They were in demand because they tended to return with some dope and if they wre high enogh on heroin would make a run just for 10 bucks or a vial of "shake caine" aka powdered coke specially formulated for injecting. One of the people they ran for was guy they called "Ali Hajii"
"Ali Hajii" was of course not his real name but back then no one at the park had ever tried to pronounce a middle eastern name and this was as close as they could get to his real name. He was an Iraninan who'd come over after the fall of the Shah with a prodigous opium habit in tow. Black sheep of a rich family he stumbled into Dupont Circle one day recognized the signs and symptoms of his fellow sufferers and would come down and ask John or Doug to make a run for him.
One day Doug who was bit more scandalous than Red Haired John came to the park with something he'd gotten from a chick from Bethesda who's dad was a vternarian. Injectable Beef Adrenaline, or at least they thought it was injectable. Doug really had no idea so when Ali Hajii showed up at the park dope sick and looking for a speedball he offered him something "better" Poor Ali Hajii paid Doug then Stuck his arm into the bushes where John used the leaves to conceal him "hitting Ali in the arm. Red Haired John later said he felt bad about participating in this subterfuge but was just as curious as Doug as to what would happen.
John pushed in the plunger and hid the works in a bag benaeth a pilke of leaves. When he stood up to ask Ali how he was doing all he saw was the back og Ali's black silk shirt as he ran full speed down Pstreet towards George Town, literally bouncing into the air every few steps. Doug and John felt this was a good sign and preceded to give themselves injections of the beef adrenaline too.To be continued this is raw un spell checked

Wow that was interesting

Human communication is a crapshoot at best. Roll the dice and decide that's what the other person meant. I've got whiplash from my latest endeavor to be honest. All it got me was one more kick in the head. I truly don't understand a motherfucking thing anymore, and maybe thats the point. My only goal in life as of this date is to fuck with people by saying whatever the fuck crosses my feeble mind.

The Once and Future Original JLo

So I have this silly nickname from my day job where people call me Jlo because my name is John Lorenz. It started as scribbled initials on a fax and went from there and since I'm older than Jennifer Lopez I am the Original JLo. Now it seems that the other JLo is giving up on the name leaving it free and clear for me maybe even to copy right. cool i have lots of other nicknames including bingymon, bingy, Go Go Chilly Love, Boots Poleski, and Big Slim. See the article if you have way too much time on your hands "Jennifer Lopez's sale of her new twins' first pictures to People for a reported amount of $6 million is well known by now. But today TMZ uncovered a new clause in the contract between Lopez and the magazine: People had to agree to stop calling her J. Lo!"

My confirmation saint was St Louis

People laughed in the church when I said it, but I was confirmed. Turns out St.Louis was more than a bit of a douche bag, who bought his sainthood with the blood of peasants. Technically that means I'm still a catholic boy and I definitely still get turned on by catholic girls. My goddaughter has asked me to be present at her baptism, which I am happy to do, but I'm anything but a christian in my heart. Christianity as defined by modern society is a total fucking crock if you ask me. Based on a bible directed by an English king with an agenda of subjugation it is generally rotten. Anyone who claims to take that version or any version of the bible literally should go to hell just for believing that crap. So I suppose I am a lapsed catholic or so far gone I'm a prolapsed catholic.
My first confession the priest was drunk and yelled at me for stumbling over the words saying something like "Goddamnit your supposed to know this fore you come in here!"In his slurry Irish brogue. Thank you Father Casey, I hope you died of cirrhosis.

sleepless in vallejo

horrible village of hell
bankrupt of positive anything
people here are stupid and
getting what they so righteously
deserve
I guess that includes me and
I can't fucking sleep

Johnny is a chump

Johnny is a chump
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

So I added another woman to the list of females that don't want to talk to me again ever. This may be my new forte. I'm a mess and throwing that mess onto someone else plate seems shameful, dishonorable even. I may not be right for some time to come. Thing is you don't know how fucked up you really are until you start relating to someone and the ghosts of marriages past begin to creep in fostering resentments towards people who are being just as sweet as they can be. Evil incarnate in the form of reactions to past abuses that no longer occur unless I have to be in the presence of the abuser. Ironically "she" is an emotional abuse perpetrator who makes her living "helping" people, how nice. My toxicity level is too high and that's frustrating, I am left wondering if I want to be in an intimate relationship at all ever again. I suspect I am not alone in this belief as I cruise the interwebs seeking connection with other lost souls. Such a,small comfort to know you are not alone in a dynamically digitally interconnected society of loners. Ahh yes "Alone Again Naturally."

To all and sundry I apologize from the bottom of my shrapnel laden heart.

Momma n' Junior

6 hours later I found them at the back of the Target store. Junior was dragging Momma through the toy section and stopping to explain to her about every single toy in the store. They might have spent an hour just in the GI JOE section what with the way Junior was going on and on. Momma listened intently to every word he said , shaking her head of gray curls in amazement, at the in depth descriptions the 4 year old boy gave her. Momma had no idea how long they'd been in there , each item was a brand new world to her, time was so unimportant now. What Junior knew was that Grandma loved to hear him tell her about everything and it made him feel important. He loved that feeling and he loved his Grandma cause she was never too busy to listen to him. I sidled up to them quietly, Momma recognized me for a split second and whispered in my ear as Junior tugged on her hand.
"What's this little boys name? He's cute little bugger but I think he's lost."

Golden Gate HDR

Golden Gate HDR
Originally uploaded by vgm8383

I have crossed this bridge many times on bicycles, cars, and motorcycles and the thrill ain't gone no sir. Saved a woman from jumping and watched others fall. See the movie "The Bridge" of you want to know the score.

I'm just an average squirrel

trying to get an average nut before the asylum calls
before the dew drops fall
no way am I gonna cop to feeling as crazy as I think
that would be blasphemy
and one thing I am not sir is a blasphemer
a scheming bastard yes I am
I just dont got no hustle left
shoeless
cluess
WTFWJD
nobody gives a damn about the protocol we once held so dear
these truths self evident?
oh fucking no

Found Slumped Over

aussie Rules

Junkie surfer comes over from sydney as a young lad, surfing stops but junk continues, gets involved with the mob and the hells angels but junk has him wind up on the streets, something happens to piss him off, someone fucks with his girlfriend perhaps and he decides to get clean in order to exact his revenge on the bikers and/or mobsters that have betrayed him, when it's all over he considers going back to junk but decides to go back to australia where he surfs and works as a drug counselor.

Repost of an email from my father, WWFS What Would Freud Say?

"Your joke is very funny.It reminds me of something that happened 14 years ago. I first heard it in a Holiday Inn where I was staying in May, 1994 in Colorado Springs. I was due to make a talk to a group who's annual meeting was in a estaurant at the top of Pike's Peak. The guy who told me the tale was an elderly busboy, cleaning up after morning coffee.

I realized that I had left my medicine kit at home in Alexandria and went back to my room to call my doctor back home. He told me that it was a serious problem and to get the name of a pharmacy and call him back with the pharmacist's phone no. Idid so.

The drug store was located a couple of miles away in a strip mall. I went there and got the medication. Upon leaving I saw a black and white dog running around in the back of a pick-up and as it was a cute critter, I went over to pet it. When I did, 15 year old girl ran out of a Dairy Queen. She said, "Mr. Doyou want that dog? You can have it." Isaid , "What's wrong with it?" She said "Nothing. It was running around the parking lot and I thought it might get hit, so I put it in my truck.

I said, "I ppassed a city dog pound yesterday. It's right where I'm have to turn to go to Pike's Peak. I'll take the dog there and leave it off." So I did.

The story gets more intriguing. As I approached the dog pound my passenger went berserk, JUmping and howliing from front to back. It appeared to me that this was not the first time this particular animal had worked this trick. He had been here before and did not like it.Determined to rid myself of this wild beast, I grabbed his collar with my right index finger and dragged him into the parking lot where the dog began spinning around and broke my finger in three places. God. did it hurt.

On my way up to Pikes Peak, I spotted a "doc- in-a- box" establishment and pulled in. I could hardly drive, my finger hurt so much.The Doc fixed me up and told me to see my regular doctor back home then turned me loose to resume my trip up the mountain.

When I got to the restaurant I learned I was too late to give my talk and since was in cardiac rehab back home, I was wearing a purple work-out suit (I had intended to use the work out room before the speech.) The attendees listened to my tale of woe and I left to retreat down the mountain.

Now, here's the part that causes me never to forget your joke, or everyhing else that happened that day: as I drove down Pike's Peak, a mountain over 10,000 feet in elevation -- where I had planned to exerciise that day -- I passed a sign that said 5,800 ft. Suddenly I recalled my heart specialist telling me that my five bypasses were likely to fail if I ever Iexcercised at more than 5,000 feet!

Since the Dairy Queen girl had introduced me the dog which may have saved my life, I went back there to tell her how the day went and get her name. I diid both. And when she told me her name I was sure I had a of morestory for a religious magaziine. Her name is Angel."

My Myspace blog in its entirety, ridiculous it is

Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Yall can just go F_CK Yourselves Current mood: pissed off
Category: Goals, Plans, Hopes
Thass right I said It Bitches as of 2 am this morning every motherfuckin one a y'all is on my permanent shitlist
I'm going back to the trenches 9th and O st NW DC
Belmont and 15th NW DC
11th and I SE DC
Georgia Avenue DC
7th Ave Lower East Side Manhattan
Turk and Taylor Tenderloin
I like fat 20 dollar bags of china white cut with quinine and the occasional dime of shake caine to throw in the cooker
Blue Top Works please
32 oz Heine in my left hand
Oz of weed and a 3 foot graphix in my right hand
3 cell phones in my jacket
Triple Beamin Money Schemin
They call me Mother Fuckin Johnny Lightskin
AKA Go Go Chilly Love
32 Automatic in my sock
Try to take my shit you will get dropped
I'm not playin
I'm not playin
Dont push me cause I'm already over the edge
Motherfuckers, every last goddamn one of ya
Currently listening : We Cant Be Stopped By Geto Boys Release date: 25 April, 1995
2:25 AM - 4 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Monday, April 30, 2007
Updates to my fabulous life Current mood: ecstatic
1. Passed the Hep C test technically cured, hard to believe but true.
2. Divorce papers filed stll living together mostly amicable, ex wife to be has a boyfriend (4 months), I'm absolutely ecstatic, helped me to move on instantaneously, not jealous at all, blood would have spilled otherwise.
3 Bought a Harley Sportster 883r 2006 brand new on 4/26 has 350 miles on it already, lovin' it.
4. Back on the dating scene after 14 year hiatus, y'all should lock up your womenfolk.

3:46 PM - 5 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
Thursday, March 22, 2007
where the hell have I been? Part 1
I'm going to try and recap the last 20 years or so of my life so I can pass this on to all the friends I've recently connected with. This will be the short version, too much has happened to really get into precise details.
I think I'll start from the present and go backwards.
March 22 2007
I live in a house that I own with my current wife (Syntha) in Vallejo, CA that we bought 2 years ago. We are filing for divorce but so far it's an amicable split and we both feel better having made this decision.We have been married for 7 years. She is a Marriage Family Therapist with a masters in Expressive Arts Therapy. I work for University of California San Francisco Dept of Psychiatry, Division of Substance Abuse and Addiction Medicine as counselor with the title of Social Work Associate. I mainly work in the area of Opiate Replacement Therapy at San Francisco General Hospital and various city clinics. I've been in this field of social services/ mental health/ drug counseling for over 11 years. Clean for almost 13 years. I also have a small business selling data networking and telecom supplies online on ebay and in my web stores (fiberopticsurplus.com and doublediamondco.net) that I hope to turn into a full time job. We have 2 dogs Skipper and Ginger that are our surrogate children. :)
Prior to Vallejo I lived in SF for about 14years, mainly in the mission or noe valley or south park. I raced road bikes (bicycles) for about 5 years (masters cat3) but stopped when I moved to Vallejo. I recently completed 11 months of chemotherapy for the Hepatitis C virus which I've had for at least 15 years. I find out this week whether the treatment was successful it was one of the hardest times of my life recently but no matter what the outcome it was worth it in terms of learning how strong I can be if I have to.
More to follow
10:25 AM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove

stream

could this be dynamite the cooling water for my mind
i've got reason to believe that the warmth of my blood is cooling 1 degree a year and will prove to be my undoing
They entered the room a group of men with bulging muscles anger in their eyes the abilty to hurt maim and kill in their souls

Yes Doctor!

Lea told me that in the end she could no longer hit herself and had to pay "The Hit Doctor" down on 14th and R St. NW to inject her with the ten or more speedballs she did a day while hooking on the streets of DC. "The Hit Doctor" was missing a leg herself and eventually an arm, but people still payed her 5 dollars a hit or in drugs for her unerring accuracy in finding a vein in even the most abused of bodies. Her patients were forever grateful and shouts of "Yes Doctor!" could be heard on the street outside. You had to watch the doctor though as she was known to squirt a little of your dose mixed with blood into a bottle on the shelf for her to accumulate a stash to inject later when all the customers were gone. Perhaps this is why she lost her limbs at the early age of 47. People who injected into exposed wounds were not uncommon, some said that using a cut of quinine which was particular to the heroin scenes of DC and Baltimore contributed to a premature burning of the flesh. The truth will set you free, sayeth the bingy, amen.

Are YOU Hip To This?

Addiction isn't a weakness; it's an illness. Now vaccines and other new drugs may change the way we treat it.

presumption

I keep thinking you are thinking about me but it cannot be true. I remember the day your husband found my motorcycle parked out front of your childhood home. You told me it was over but you never told him and now it's too late. You will lose everything and your children will hate you. I know it's not my fault but I should have loved you from afar. I was in prison for 4 years two weeks after we met and thought of you every waking second of every day and dreamed of you all night. I was amazed when you found me in my uncles hotel bar and took me home where we fucked and cried all night. Your husband caught us and he beat you as I watched. I wanted to kill him but I won't go back to prison even for the love of my life. I should have loved you from afar, now I know for sure. Adios amiga.

Stop censoring myself now!

That is my message to me today. I started a new blog hoping to increase my writing skills and in a peak of hypo mania sent links to my blog to mi familia and friends. Friends were OK, familia , not so much. That's mainly my problem because I am cutting short my blog entries because I'm already anticipating them reading it and so I am not posting what is on my brilliant mind. Wrong, wrong wrong. I believe if you are honest and let the chips fall where they may without being cruel or manipulative than you cannot go wrong. This self honesty crap is harder than I thought, Goddamnit.
In other news: The judicious use of commas is an art form and I am in agreement with a certain former so and so that correct spelling is sexy, damn sexy.

Report: Security relaxed at Obama speech

Report: Security relaxed at Obama speech
Yes I drank the Kool Aid and spammed my friends, and Yes I am beginning to fear for Mr. Obamas life, the Secret Service needs a swift kick in the balls. My friend Mollena posted this on her blog first.

philz coffee 24th and folsom sfca

the caffeine addicts friend

Mission Baby Sportster

Mission baby sportster
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

my baby called and said I need you here
too bad it's raining, dream on dreamer
upgrade to 1200 coming soon

suicidal ideation as a form of stress release and fun

In California we have the 5150, which is the legal code number for the states ability to hold on to you and observe you for 72 hours if you PLAN to hurt yourself or someone else AND have the means to do so. If you just have vaguely suicidal thoughts you're fine, no one can lock you up or pull you away from the rail at the Golden Gate Bridge, as long as you don't verbalize a plan. (I guess if you were at the bridge you would have means at your disposal but I digress and I love to digress)
I bring this up because my family read the first post of this blog and called me to see if I was OK. They did the right thing and I appreciate their love and concern immensely but the fact is as someone who has assessed hundreds of people for possible 5150 referral to an emergency psych unit aka PES, my statements would not have warranted the blinking of an eye, so everybody can just chill, ok?
Here is my personal take on suicide: I have had thoughts of suicide probably close to a million plus times in my lifetime, but I am sure that the chance of me actually, overtly, intentionally, hurting myself are close to nil nada zilch zero. My personal belief is that I'd rather be in excruciating unending pain (which I have been in many times for long periods of time) than to cease being a sentient being here in this social construct we call reality. That includes emotional pain, physical pain, spiritual pain; you name it I'm not going out like that over it. I'm ok with watching the apocalypse and smiling as the mushroom clouds rise (hopefully) in the distance. Even if it is my own apocalypse I'm curious to see what happens next. I have the ability to examine and question the multitude of strange and terrible thoughts that float through my head rather than act on them (I'd have been dead a long time ago otherwise). I am grateful to be a witness to my own process, there are many who do not have that luxury, most of them Republicans.
The people who successfully commit suicide rarely talk about their plans to anyone. The good docs down at SF General PES have used their powers of intuition many times to hold on to people who swore they did not want to kill themselves. They did protest too much. Unfortunately they can't always guess right because a determined suicidalist will find a way. I remember stories of patients being discharged with a cab voucher to take them home and telling the unsuspecting driver to take them back to the bridge to complete their task of hurling themselves into the icy waters below. I have several bridge stories to tell but they will be individual posts of their own.

when the drugs aka junk foods stop working

It's a sad day when
Little Debbie Zebra Cakes
lose their magic ability to comfort a troubled soul. Stuffing them down with a double espresso was my drug of choice and typical breakfast for many a moon. As long as I was riding a bicycle 200 plus miles a week my sugar jones only affected my mood and the hydrogenated oils clogged my arteries, but I didn't care. I was used to the slash and burn mood swings of a junk food junkie. I saw it as a right and privilege to indulge this way I mean I'm not hurting anybody right? Unfortunately like any good addict I found ways to cause collateral damage with foodstuffs. I was as petulant as a 3 yr old if I didn’t get my sugar fix. Planning ahead to make sure there was Rainbow Flavored Nerds and Chubby Hubby ice cream at the house, enough to get me through another night of my living hell of a marriage. Maybe if I had taken that stuff away I wouldn't have put up with so much abuse and BS. Then again maybe not, all I know now is that comfort foods are not working and I lost close to 40 lbs this past summer. When I try to fantasize about a big steak dinner at Black Angus I just get sick to my stomach. That is sad but then again heroin stopped working too, what are ya gonna do. Many of my post illegal drug use addictions have fallen by the wayside, food, porn, gambling, Counter Strike, Unreal Tournament, cigarettes (a long time ago), cigars etc. Oh I still eat, sometimes its junkish, sometimes I check out "pron" (and with the open minded females I date watching it with them really takes away the furtive taboo shame I once reveled in), sometimes I buy a 1 dollar scratcher ticket, (but never a Super Lotto I don’t want to win a million dollars, believe it or not), but I never play video games anymore. None of it allows me to wallow in escapism, something has changed and I am more comfortable than ever in my own skin so I don’t need "comfort" foods as much as I once did. Goodbye Little Debbie our May-December romance was never meant to be.

13 years clean

almost to the next one, but still crazy as a shithouse rat, just not a shithouse rat on drugs, which is an improvement, trust me.

Please do not read my blog

I am feeling the need to expose myself so watch out. I will not however, vomit emotional spew just for the sake of showing off my technicolor yawn of a psyche, but I will try to censor myself as little as possible. My LIFE, in the past three years I have bought a house, done a year of chemo thereby kicking the Hepatitis C Virus, and seperated from my Ex Wife To Be (I'll save the bitter rant for another post, thank your lucky stars). We have been seperated for over a year and are in mediation to figure out the financial details. I suffer from clinical depression and ADHD (see my blog on that which I have not updated since november, ugh)http://unitedadhd.blogspot.com/. Both of these maladies are a source of pride not shame, by the way. Recently, like this week my migraines returned in force, hoo fucking ray. I believe that the average man would have been crushed by what I've gone through but I am not average, not necessarily superior but not average by a long shot. I am a struggler who has to fight for everything even the small things that I think others get to take for granted. Writing is helping, writing will not pay my bills I am not in competition with Norman Mailer, but I have stories to tell that are clogging up my mental hard drive.

22 years ago skinny weird and smoking

f_johnlm_c2fa590
Originally uploaded by johnny94110

If I recall which is not easy I was high on LSD and had been wandering South East Washington DC drinking with random folks I met on the street like Funky Frank who wore jewlery made of pop tops and car parts, used zip lock bags for hats and played a mean busted in half guitar.

Listen up you beautiful bitches you

2/18/08 Today’s Sermon
Very often lately the act of shooting myself in the head seems plausible, probable and desirable, oh fucking well. That’s why I don’t own a gun, nuff said. That Elliot guy has flow I'll give him that but I think I have flow too. Ralph Tiger Jones, another patient I stopped going to see because there was nothing I could do for him nothing until I found his picture on a website devoted to old fighters that had disappeared 99% percent of them drunks like that guy Don from New Orleans, who wears a helmet to hold his brains in now. Punch drunk to begin with once they became alcohol dependent and began occasionally running out of booze and or passing out for too long they went into withdrawal and were highly seizure prone. But I will say this they are generally more colorful in character and demeanor than your average mush mouth alkie and more fun to talk to if you have to unless and until they get mean and piss off the nurses who will then be pissed at you for chatting up this guy who’s about to blow diarrhea out his ass like he’s playing the trombone ( “Saints Come Marching In” anyone?) if you don’t get him out the door and into detox yesterday… I hung old boxing promo pictures of Ralph Tiger Jones by his bed and instantaneously the nursing staff and doctors treating him gave him oodles of respect that is until he died. Definitely it was ten times better than wasting time telling him to go to AA mtgs which he would never do. There was nothing I could do for him counseling wise he was too far gone and those are the breaks if you fuck up your brain bad enough (aka constitutionally incapable as the AA’ers love to say) you wont get sober or clean unless you're institutionalized and even then if you have even a milligram of cunning you can drag your ass showing in a hospital gown self down to the liquor stores that are always a block from any city hospital or SNF like Laguna Honda and get a pint or a high gravity lager or whatever, or have your cousin bring you some crack that you smoke in your room with impunity even though each hit means a session with the nebulizer while your lungs crackle like bacon in a frying pan.
I remember the first seizure factory, alcohol inhaler from the ER that I couldn’t help Glenn something or other. His wife and child had been killed in a car accident, there was no consoling this man, telling him things were going to get better, they weren’t, if he had another child maybe I would have had an in, something to shame him into living for. He hit his head on the concrete one time too many times during a withdrawal seizure and died from the legendary subdural hematoma. Getting clean for your kids is perfectly alright by me, fuck the conventional nebulous wisdom of the "therapeutic community" type of drug treatment that is dying out in SF at least thank god. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t give a rats ass about yourself if you have kids you have a purpose and that purpose is to raise them up right the best that you can whether you're dying to get high every second of every minute of every day, too fucking bad, you fuck up an innocent child after you have been given a chance, a real chance to get clean and stay clean then hell is way too good for you. This is not to say if you're schizophrenic or psychotic for some reason including past drug use that you may very well be incapable of properly raising a child but I have seen people who swore that Jesus Christ was sneaking in to fuck their ear hole with his green glass penis at night who took their meds and sent their phenomenally normal children to college. Sayeth the bingy, amen.