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.