Joel Brooks

3692 Gracia Paseo Spring Valley, CA 91977 www.ozenoz.com (858)226-1893

Business Project Manager

Innovative and effective business management professional with over 22 years of experience in project
management, human resources, various database network systems, stock and inventory tracking and
cost analysis, sales and acquisitions and business solutions. State-of-the-art technology skills combined
with proven ability to manage account relationships, develop and deliver sales growth, and successfully
implement and oversee complex projects. Outstanding strategist distinguished for proven leadership
and team-building skills, conducting detailed evaluations and implementing processes that improve
efficiency. Noted specifically for skills in multiple project management, creating highly competitive
product lines, office environment friendly supervision of employees, and highly organized target
approaches in competitive markets.

professional experience

The Virtual Lending Source, San Diego, CA

Account Executive-

Reporting directly to CEO, provided leadership for five employees, multiple business accounts and
thousands of contacts; manage network database of pre-existing and newly established clients.
Provided leadership on accounts acquisitions and maintenance, wrote new contracts for newly acquired
clients, procured and contacted new leads. Completed multiple deals responsible for generating
millions of dollars in financing, with 100% completed within scope, schedule and budget. Team
member of business expansion into social networking marketing moving the business into multiple
project phases.

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▪ Average four new clients per month exceeding company expectations. Ticket tag kept at a high buy – in.

▪ Successful projects included the financing of consumers in the market via both clients and lenders in
prime and military loan categories.

▪ Worked in the procurement of new territory and establishing new leads to generate marginal market
growth.

▪ Helped in establishing team procedures for acquisitions and working on multiple executive accounts
maintenance.

▪ Interface with internal and external auditors accounts in the auto loan processing business.

Manager, Project Management

Tasked with creating a competitive business to showcase and sell the new social networking marketing
platform. Created an external entity capable of producing complex web design infrastructure to
established clients. Drafted legal documentation for the initial start-up, organized Human Resources
and Team Leadership Departments where there were none pre- existing, established budget, created
templates, developed competitive business plan and strategy and hired staff.

▪ Able over the next two years to expand the business start-up plan to include both venture and investor
capital in the market.

Joel Brooks – Page Two

▪ Invented a new marketing tool for the web design “Frontiers” project utilizing experimental video
sequencing programming.

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ATnT, San Diego, CA – Bethlehem, PA

Account Executive/Customer Service Representative

Contracted initially through The San Diego Marketing Group. Responsible for territory management
and new account services procurement in Business to Business accounts. Later moved into private
consumer market dealing with high speed fiber optics accounts acquisitions. Then at the outset was in a
customer service position after relocating to Pennsylvania and was immediately considered in track for
the floor management position.

▪ Responsible for functioning within complex ATnT database used for client retention.

The Wildflower Café And Gallery, Bethlehem, PA

Proprietor

Provided Director level management in organizing musical performances by worldwide famous local
celebrities. Cooperated in constructing new menu items and specials on a daily basis. Performed stock
and supply status checks and cost analysis, ordered replacement. Helped in development of marketing
strategies to further client base. Managed employee functions and pay, special events staff.

▪ Clients included some very high end and trendy artists whose work was displayed and sold on
commission.

▪ Developed capacity-planning document, which detailed workload, and staffing requirements -
instrumental in re-organizing and managing the Project Management department.

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Aronimink Golf Club, Newtown Square, PA

Professional Golf Caddie

Provided premier service to the world’s elite leaders in a very private and formal business setting.
Responsible for maintaining all etiquette and procedures for grounds keeping and social nuance
purposes. Advised players on conditions, club selection, putt reads, swing advice and how – to tips.

▪ Runner up team in a Member/Guest Yearly Tournament.

▪ Responsible for highly sensitive notables on business rounds of golf in which the club was booked full
for one group’s event.

▪ Caddied for the club professionals and guest professionals to provide expert advice on our course and its’
subtle tricks and trades.

● 2011- Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA – Attended Business Lectures, Humanities Classes
● 2009- Associated Technical College, San Diego, CA – Attended Telecommunications Courses
● 2003- Jay Mohr’s Looking For The Funniest Man In America, Los Angeles, CA- Special
Guest
● 2002- Penn University Law School, Philadelphia, PA – Offered to attend
● 1997- Amway Distributors Conference, Atlantic City, New Jersey – Sales Leadership
Excellence Series

Joel Brooks

3692 Gracia Paseo Spring Valley, CA 91977 (858)226-1893 joelbrooks@ymail.com

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To Whom This May Concern;

I am very pleased to be introducing myself to you at a time when I see, your esteemed team is
deemed with recieving another member. I am very enthusiastic about returning to work for a team
outside of the one I own, and have built and had so much success with over the past decade or more.
From what I have read and researched about your company online, it is a far cry from the humble
startup I have been enveloped in for these years, however to my excitement and good cheer, the
responsibilities I would be taking on and sharing compare quite nicely to the work I am accustomed to
doing. I hope you will take a serious read through journey of my resume, and give me ample
consideration as to moving forward in the next steps of the process to becoming a valued member of
your group.

As I often tell my partner, as an individual I am worth so much to the world. But as a member
of a team or group I can amplify and extend that reach not only for myself economically, but for
numbers that go well beyond a sole entity. Thank you very much for your consideration, and I look
forward to hearing from you, and getting your thoughts on what we can offer each other.

Beneficially Yours,

Joel Brooks

1977-1991 - Kid

1991-1993 - Time Union Paperboy Schenectady, NY

1992-1993 - Club Caddie, White Manor C.C., Upstate NY

1994-1997 - Club Caddie, Aronimink G.C., Newtown Sq., PA

1994-Fry Cook, Carmine’s Pizza, Newtown Sq. PA

1995-1996 Server, Alberto’s Newtown Squier, Newtown Square, PA

1995-1999 Server, Finley Catering, Philadelphia, PA

1995-1996 – Ski Technician, The Skiing Racquet, Newtown Sq., PA

1996-1997 – Gas Station Attendant, Galmin Exxon, 9th and Bay, Ocean City, NJ

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Mar.- Nov. 1997 – Club Caddie, Galloway National Golf Club, Galloway, NJ

1998-2000 - Club Caddie, Aronimink Golf Club, Newtown Square, PA

2000-2001 – Barista, Starbucks, University Ave., Ann Arbor, MI

2000-2001 – Server, The Red Hawk Bar and Grill, Ann Arbor, MI

05/ through 08/ 2001- Server, The Gandy Dancer, Ann Arbor, MI

2002 – Club Caddy Aronimink Golf Club, Newtown Square, PA

To: corey@bigbookspublishing.com

Subject: Query: IT The OZENOZ Story

Dear Mr. Corey,

As a researched expert on the topic of using the art form of writing as a tool for recovery from
the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, I felt that expressing my unique talent for IT should not
go to waste. Entertainment is valued by expression of self, in the world of entertainers a sinner is a
saint. The streets can leave you physically, mentally and emotionally scarred. My proposed title: IT:
The OZENOZ Story shows the gradual development and progression of one ill “jam rapper”. How
much rap could a jam rapper rap, if a jam rapper could jam rap?

This book has been years in the making, as it is divided into four main sections each written in
their own content style. IT is the story of my life, IT is the research through my strife, IT is the grit in
my spit (rap), IT is the whit in my art lit…

In addition to marketing and selling IT: The OZENOZ Story, I would also be able to sell IT
through my website, OZENOZ.com and promote IT through the music put to the lyrics IT contains. I
will be booking a tour to perform and promote my musical act OZENOZ in the summer. I am also
developing a book and screenplay about the shady aftermath following the completion of IT. This title:
Black and White: OZENOZ and EMINEM (and after all we’re only ordinary men) is also attached in a
three chapter sample here.

I have included a full copy of the manuscript for your perusal. I look forward to hearing from
you and sharing in our combined opportunity.

Thank you for your consideration.

6
J.E. Ayers Brooks

1425 C Street

San Diego, CA 92101

joelayersbrooks@live.com

http://www.OZENOZ.com

Table of Contents

Table of Contents.........................Pages 1-2

Introduction...................................Page 3

Chapter One..................................Pages 4 - 19

Chapter Two..................................Pages 20 - 26

Chapter Three...............................Pages 27 -31

Chapter Four.................................Pages 32 -35

Chapter Five..................................Pages 36 - 38

Chapter Six....................................Pages 39 - 52

Chapter Seven................................Pages 53 - 63

Chapter Eight................................Pages 64 - 69

Chapter Nine.................................Pages 70 - 75

Chapter Ten................................... Part I Pages 76 – 111

…...................................................Part II Pages 112 – 128

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…...................................................Part III Pages 129 – 135

…....................................................Part IV Pages 136 -186

….....................................................Part V Pages 187 – 200 Chapter Ten.....................................Part VI
Pages 201 – 225

…....................................................Part VII Pages 226 - 268

Chapter Eleven..............................Pages 269 - 646

Chapter Twelve..............................Page 647

Chapter Thirteen............................Page 648

Chapter Fourteen...........................Pages 649 - 656

Chapter Fifteen...............................Page 657

Chapter Sixteen...............................Page 658

Chapter Seventeen...........................Pages 659 - 668

Chapter Eighteen.............................Pages 669 - 673

Chapter Nineteen.............................Pages 674 - 682

Chapter Twenty................................Pages 683 - 684

Chapter Twenty – One.....................Pages 685 - 691

Chapter Twenty-Two.........................Pages 692 – 701

Chapter Twenty – Three.....................Pages 702 – 724

Afterward...........................................Page 725

INTRODUCTION

I will begin this in the customary fashion I would any date. In Times New Roman 13

Point, double spaced. On December 24th I will have another year clean and will need one thing.

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A woman I love in my arms. One who has read this book and who does not think it is either: a.

working manual

b. a license to kill

See, I love my life. It's just, every thought I have is valid enough to stick on the page. If you

think you can handle that, you are either:

a. nut

b. addicted

If you answered “d”, nun of the above and “c” is filled in with “true dat”, then give me a yell:

ozenoz@live.com. I accept unsolicited manuscripts which have not been copywritten, or righted or are

leeward vessels in progress not perfection..

Submissions must be five foot to six foot, and preferrably filled with juicy details about former

lives. If these criteria are not followed, then blindness and blandess will be the resulting quotient,

rendering our date: a rack of lamb, yet uneaten.

If you are between the ages of 19 and 22, please drop me a line:

dabroken@hotmail.com. Entries must be filled with juicy details such as Skype address, favorite porn

star and how many shots of Jack it takes to make a Jack o' Lantern smile. P-p-p-please no High School

stalkers if you can help it. Smoke em' if you got em. Just not all of em' at once. By the way, morning

O.J. and the Simpsons are best served pulpy and cold.

Chapter 1:

Catty

“Sometimes the fucking answer is to not do the drug”, said the corpse to the thriller.

“Sometimes the Depakote is the answer”, said the corpse to the future drug.

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“Sometimes the job is the answer”, said Advait, the Nurse Practitioner (in not so many words).

Maybe it's me but if the answers were that simple, they wouldn't be answers. After all, we are

all human, and perhaps a little white horse... (ellipsis)

“Take that!”, said the horse pill to the filler for the drug addicts emotional pain.

Take that. I am writing on it. After all, the book transforms the writer and if it's the way, well as
former LSD addict Richard Alpert put it in not so many words...

I have to make amends. I am a former atheist acting on it. Messianic Judaic complexes
worsened by an “Am I Evil?” Catholic remarried only (not by her own hand) mother who wants to play
matchmaker for the eclipses of my ellipsis.

“That being and same thereof and to..” the priest who married her didn't say about my baby's
momma who isn't a baby.

“Joel, he's six years old, and you need to take your medication” my mother says in my head.

She has another new new husband, a doctor. Sue me doctor.

What do I call this chapter? Chapter one would be regret and shame and loss and degradation

and guess what? It's just chapter one. I love it.

“And you know what else”, the old sketch from Saturday Night Live fag says in my head in my
own voice “I am thspecial!”

The specialist of the best-est of the best-est son. The best-est son? Well I hope Shane Malachi
Michael, my son, thinks that his Grandmother (who prefers to be referred to as Mom- Mom) thinks so.

One day I will get to see him again.

“Again. Again” the echomaster ™ unplugged ™ voice effects pedal for my mind declares
openly against my own will as the Depakote plotting continues. It is the way of the way of the way...

“Saaave YOURSEEELF!!! FROM ALL THE LIES OF THE....”

Beautiful. All the Lonely people where do they all come from? Do they come from my
apartment left behind in San Diego? No cause that was just a room where I snorted crystal
methamphetamine in between smoking shit and drinking shit and shitting... (myself). LOL. The text
message didn't come in right there, but do I vibe the woman behind it.

Baby's Mamma. Mam -mam. LOL.

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What do you want? I want Rock and Roll. Long live.

I played guitar in that basement apartment until my fingers were covered in callouses so thick I
could knead them out to about two inches from the tips. I could play thick strings on that damned
acoustic at 225 double time on the mixolydian noodling over Trey Anastasio in between sessions of
“wood burning”.

“Yeah right,” says the asshole brother in my head named Asher Brooks. A brother who is not
one of my own father. My mother was widowed by mine at age 22. I was 3. She denies having any
selfishness issues, but the bitch ain't got it through her damned head yet that when she taught me to be
selfish, it was so I could (“motherfucking” says the would be – stepdaughter in my head, and not my
half sister by adoption) S-U-R-V-I-V-E.

Oh well. There are two types of chords as Joe Pass said. “Major, Minor and Chromatic”.

Agree to disagree with everyone including the Risperdal that is making my fingers shake at the
moment as I simply try and fend off the step dad who gave me his last name so has a complex about me
“out-doing” his kids. The thrice divorced fag-git who beat me bloody at 11 and kicked me out at age 15
for being a normal kid. Fag-git KYW News Anchor who needs to get a taste of his own “chase you out
of the house screaming at me...” as he probably did from my mother.

Wow. Spell check just tried to complete mother in the previous sentence with a motherly fucker.

“I'll fucking KILL YOU” he was screaming at the top of his lungs when I chose to go out on my
own and meet a girl I probably could have married. Had I had the balls to tell him that he should watch
his fucking step. But how do you do that?

Tears in my eyes, thorns of another time from a journal I wrote when I was 15 after being
thrown out. My shaking hands right here because of the Risperdal. I guess it's time for that too. I have
been refusing the Depakote for a week now and am fine. Drug Addict.

“Your no doctor” step dad Brooks wrote in a text to me earlier with some “fatherly” advice.

Let me get really misguided here and just tell him to bend over. “Norton! I
know that you know that I know that you want to fuck me!”

SO GET IT OVERWITH YOU FAT FUCKING PIG.

Sense and Sensibility. The wife I never got because I was too short on funds to get the ring and
make the right way in the Michigan I knew. I was a 22 year old kid. In Ann Arbor. Living. Living. But
enough about me. You know anything about life? Cause I ask myself, if I can face tomorrow, let alone a
whole year of this shit. “Is there something I could say to make you change your mind?”

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Never thought I'd have to love this song. Union. My love was wrong. Crabby days gone by, I
have to admit that it's what I need. A divine precept brought on by the Rabbi who just dropped off my
computer. My rabbinnikus. LOL.

If it were only the wave of the past and not of the future. I need a new and updated system,
cause the present one is Able- Disabled version of the economy. I have to economically stimulate this
addicted ass so, off we go to the races.

The answer is in the mix. The mix that is playing on my computer. Spanning from the mid

seventies to the late- to- mid decade that began the millennium. The time when I had a year clean.

Right now, time check. (count, count)

Well, four months clean and sober from all substance abuse on the day before my adorable little
sons' sixth birthday this coming Saturday. I haven't seen him... “Leaves begin their color change...”

In the mix. Not.

“Live From New York, ITS SATURDAY NIGHT!!!”

If I could ever abstain from my violent aggression towards those with apparent wisdom then
maybe I could go back to the group meeting that I love over at that church in Bethlehem. Where I am.

Again. Wherever you go, there you are.

“The seasons change and they tell me where they go...”

October Morning Wind. The day that I drove away from Jessica's life. DA man out of the life of
the girl who I intentionally impregnated far before our time. That's just the growing pains of a
“yunkie” as the Mexicans I leave behind in my thoughts from San Diego would tell me. Or the more
recent Mets fan who was the House Manager at the shelter where I was staying over the winter. The
winter that nearly killed me. The winter I thought I knew all the answers.

I thought I was smart, thought I was right. Thought it better not to fight. That the time would
prove her wrong. But I don't know. It is the way of the time to stand up and be the abandoning father
that I became. The way is the way is the way is the way.

That is the war in my head anyway.

It's all a mystery. “God grant us the serenity...”

When am I going to stop grinding my teeth and wanting a little blue chunk? A little piece of
heaven. A little more Depakote than I took tonight would do the trick. The sex I want is for the tips for

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the tips. I want the ananda, sat shit and all. If only it were that simple. If only. I am so far from the
home I once knew that it is going to be a long ride home if I ever go back.

And while I'm on the topic of geographical location changes, lets just say that cost of living is
complete bullshit. It's all relative. Cost of living is based on the exact square footage in the
environment you wish to be in. It's political the way in which it is adjusted. So I have no reason
whatsoever to go back to the sunny place where I know I will not be comfortable. Bad joke, but here I
don't live on the fault line. I love in a cheap house shook by the sewage system every time a truck
passes. In a house that can't stand up to the fire test with me living on it's third floor if I were to get in
the middle of a cigarette battle.

I am living in a three bedroom house with eighteen bedrooms made for people like me. People
who don't even like themselves (though they do love...) let alone me. LOL. Anyway. My friend my
friend he had a knife, a statement of his former life. When he was easy. When life was too. Or maybe
just when she had her legs spread open for the time of my life. Sat Chit Ananda. Pure Light Bliss. A
little chunk of blue.

Like that “who's who” nomination I got in 2003 only to not even fill out the form and mail it
back in. Never realized truly what an honor it would have been to be published there that year. I am
who's who without the money for the stamp. Trying to mix up a bad batch of rhymes and guitar and
juice flowing on the computer learning how to make well... this.

Hmph.

Hump back whales like me have to hump back whales like me. That's what she told me today,
that Jessi bitch did. I have to say if she'd let me just be a hump “backed” whale then maybe she would
understand, but she doesn't know the Joel from San Diego or the girl he fell in love with.

Those evil natured robots, they're programmed to destroy us. The women of the world. If those

evil robots win...

Then I know she can beat them. My ex girl in the San Diego I know and afford. The affordable

side anyway. And the milk from Hawaii, damn. Hula hula to you. Auto complete just finished the you
in that sentence with youRSEEELF. Haha. Uh huh.

Technology isn't what we think it is these days. It is a bunch of ill mannered programmers who
think that they can destroy my psyche more than it is already by formulating mega multi – millionaire
nations which won't give me Social Security. Or welfare. Or food stamps. Or the right to claim that I
never will because I am too smart to claim that I should, even though I have been hospitalized more
times than an ailing 73 year old with hips from fucking and sucking the grapes out of garden hoses; like

Buster Douglas. Not that I know. Buster. As Mam-mam would say. Ooof. That one hurt.

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(done to Whitney Houston)...

“And Ieeeyiiii will aaaalwaaaays love glooo...”

Glue in any form. Huff and puff and blow this house down on the other side of town. If nothing
else this book will make for great dialogue. Have fun with the beats and the rhythms. They are emitted,
admitted, taken backward, refitted. Omitted the shame you acquitted me sane to release the remitted.
Like an idea, this crime. Give me six up, Tao, the line. Spinning faded and hated, delegated, degraded
the tainted love you created, infiltrated and made it easy to be what I made. And shit nigger, you paid it
the time, should have been you kill her, fine. But you turn whatever to wine so with this, Mike, may I
find. That it's time, time, time for the last rewind. For ugly tore up bitches on my useless dime. She
packed up my belongings that ho', and left em' on the corner for the po' to pick me up. See what I’m
saying? Guess I got fucked.

Punctuation ain't my forte. But spitting all over the keyboard is. And jizming. And jazzming.

And the Ming dynasty may have been right. What is love and what is hate? And why does it... matter?

Is to love just a waste? And how... can it, matter? Oh.

I love Jessica with all of my heart and I will never get her back. I got her back though. In the
rappingest sort of spit game you can shake on. I can shake my pepperoni pizza freckles on over there
and go nikki spiffin in lickedy dick, or not.

Did somebody steal her heart away? God, you're the only one to mend my heart. Everybody
gives a smile and says to let her go. I don't know if I can be that strong. Quote. Robin's Song. Union
with John Corabi being crabby like me. I been cryin' here cause its not me.

“I can't stand this pain without you,” do you feel that I ask myself “Did you really feel the way
you told me...”

Tears and thorns in my eyes for the answers I cannot surmise of the dreams and on and on...

“Did you cry those tears or were you joking?”

Yep. I do still. Over success. Cry a lot. But I have an interview I eeked by for the first time (not)
in Excel and Word and Data entry for a quality control in the mix for ATnT customer service with the
casino. Jackpot? Nah. Just the chips are all blue and so is the book I carry to the meetings every night
where I drink like a sieve and smoke. And sieve and sift the wisdom I cannot find from the second half
of this book, which is the book. The good book. The one I cannot read right now, because I will realize
that I was there all too soon with someone else when I should have been by the bedside watching my
son come out of that big huge...

14
“Pieces of my life they keep falling down on me...” October Morning Wind. Also a Union song
from the album of the same name.

“I can't wait for that again. To hear it.” I thought to myself as I raced home as I raced through
turnstiles on Christmas leaving an Encinitas Drug Study for a Caraprazile research. Sue me. So
anyway.

“I love you too.” she said. How do I accept that it won't happen again now? Do I accept that at

all? Is it all in the first step from me or is it step by step on the journey of a thousand miles like I took
before I left the Dunkin Donuts I stayed up in all night Christmas night when I arrived at The

Allentown, Bethlehem, Easton airport. Meditating with Amma and praying that the sunrise in India
was my sun rising with my son to meet his father soon. Which didn't fucking happen. Yet. And it's been
118 days. It's fucked up.

“Is it me, or is life after High School?” says the monologue I want to write adapted from
Silver's begats and be gotten begats on Facebook. Is there life after High School, cause I can't stand
this bullshit. I made friends with no one my entire life. And no one answers me all the time. He says
some pretty fucking funny shit too. Now then, back to business. (adjust tie) Is it me or are the faithful
departed just that, the faithful departed?

“Beware of STD's I guess” I tell myself.

“Fag-git” says the would be 18 year old stepdaughter from the 16 year old mother who raises
my son everyday from the depths of my despair. I can't stand it. Tabloid, sex, drugs, strychnine,
anything to push away. Crabby. My old meth buddy knows the man himself. Knows him well enough
to get some sympathy from the city of Brotherly Love, which is indeed so very close that I can't yet
bring it in on the KYW I should be listening to while typing this out. Daddy News. That's what Asher
said when he was about three. My sister, I will leave her out of it. She's only 17. And born the day
before me. So I've got a scorpio for a baby momma who is eleven days younger than me and on the
cusp, a sister who is 15 years and one day younger, and a horoscope from the jackpot lotto, I figure.

Jackpot. Tomorrow, tomorrow, I love you all. Baby. Not.

“Smoke my hoochie, say that I'm the devil...” screams John Corabi from Motley Crue, “TELL

THE TRUTH!!!”

Since 1977 I tell myself from the annals of the next half of the book after the poetry I can access
in the mindless babble in the e– mail account that opens up my mind in the later stages of the “business
toke”. He was a great seducer, the KYW News Anchor. “SMOKE THE SKY!”

“But I'm normal,” says the junkie in my kind mind of thoughts racing. Not kine. Not kine.

15
Strychnine. A lot of it. Enough to take my feeble ass into a near death psychosis from it in the year
nineteen-ninety eight. In the year two thousand!

“I WAS FUCKING THE FAT PIG...” I was “in love with”.

“Isn't that thspecial?”

“Listen, the snow is falling...” next song in the mix. Another person who my old
methamphetamine corrupter buddy writes to from the rat infested, cockroaches being “eaten by the
spiders” that line the walls. That was the apartment down the hall from me in San Diego. Reminded me
in the video at points today of the man in Michael Jackson's “Stranger In Moscow” video. I was the
homeless guy in the winter after, this past winter.

“Between London and...”

Thank you Yoko. For being my friends hold on tight at Christmas every year. He is truly the ties
that bind me together at times, but that's fucking scary cause I won't even be at his funeral soon. Get
clean and sober, man. And then maybe you won't be the “Weird Fishes” from my mix. Radiohead. All
of this is my music from you big buddy, I love you. I love myself too, so “Ha”.

“I don't wanna be your friend, I just wanna be your lover...”

Forget about your House of Cards, bud. Forget about mine? Every day I can, which is only
weekends and holidays. Including paid ones. But that's after the interview. Kill shot. Sale?

Account investing interest in stock bearing prices way below the market value can be sold to
pin point consumers or no? True. Can be shelled out to raise the capital in the following state:

Pennsylvania; without falling under Regulation D Rule 506 Securities Act of 1933. Maybe I'll
use a Nevada Corporation like the Merlino Family Did with Trump in Nineteen - ninety seven.
Summer of love at Galloway National Golf Club. Love ya. Caddy around there and you'll pick up lines
from me like:

You know what snowflake? I'm NO-flake.

Let's write a book about something I researched.

Snowflake issued by thousands every year. Right Sugar?

“Reach out to the community with a soon to be web based compendium of knowledge. “

“Well who fucking cares social media its ass and make it do the twirly whirly while you get

standing ovations.”

16
It's that simple. Not gonna do it with a pen and paper. Gonna do it with a book. An e – book.

Then blogged on JoelBrooks.US also revealed on.. (blah blah blah)

17
Wow. Business Plan.

Synopsis : Contort every business deal I never watched go down and imagine that they did and then:

I. C apital

II. R isk

III. E quity

IV. S trategy

V. T erms

VI. G rowth

VII. R esiduals

VIII. O wnership

IX. U nknown

X. P rojection

XI. ( C

ondom) XII.

( H erpes)

“Crest

Group”

18
My teeth are yellow, I've got nicotene stains on my fingers. No hairbrush, no toothpaste and no
comb. But yet I talk a mean (Takamine) game. Oh soy and fruit polish, take me back to the days where
I ate vegan at Rose's having a Fourth Avenue Jones for a shower at the beach consortium for lust and
rust in L.A. Woman blues. I wandered from Jay Mohr's “Looking for the Funniest Man in America” in

Venice to the tune of “..it's one more day up in the canyon...”

Only I wouldn't be the woman and get down with the hues of the black and yellow, and fucking
hello my name is the OZENOZ SHOW©. “And it's one more night in Hollywood, ” for the cameraman
fag who tried to fuck me.

Think. Think.

Intro then:

Then first thing most people ask when you mention you are starting a business is capital.

Don't let it get you tongue tied. When they sling out “what kind of capital you starting with?”

Tell em “D.C.”

That will stump em.

If you ever have had the thought of being in business for yourself, you're in the right place.

But you have to make sure you are making sense or you'll sell yourself short. And no matter what

business you are in believe me, it's sales.

The top of the food chain all have one thing in common, they all sell themselves well.

Think of every new contact you make as a rung in the ladder of success. The more rungs you

successfully attach, the higher you go.

A friend of mine who moved to Hollywood to get into the music industry there once told

me: make as many contacts as you can every day and call them as often as possible. He does the

sound engineering on major motion pictures now.

But hobnobbing with the stars isn't what I'm talking about. Sure it helps, but when I say

contacts I mean:

19
You are standing at the corner cafe ordering a morning latte. You strike up a conversation with

the counter person. She's a 22 year old singer/ actress who is performing this Wednesday.

Talk about it! GET HER CONTACT INFO!

Let her know you are in business for yourself, and that you will be seeing her around.

Especially if she is cute. And when she has a good voice, the neighbors will agree you made the right

choice.

No, but seriously.

How about a book?

Step One: A group of college kids go up against a local mob capo as they try and make their mark.

Step Three: It's a story about a group of college age kids who share their summers on the golf course.
One is an upper middle class orphan who is “make your own snuff tuff”. Gets introduced to the sex
drugs and rock and roll of the “lifers” and... He continues to be a seasonal caddy until he drops to the
streets when former band members from a music group are making it out west. Travels.

One is an Om Buds Man dropout who creates his own company when the economy goes south.

He develops the marketing to create an empire capable of using its going public money to make a bank.

Another is a caddy/ members son from the club. He makes it a profession and helps arrange the
loops which could make or break his friends.

And finally there is the female of the group. She becomes a restauranteur who eventually is
poised to buy the club spot, also in the hands of the members son/caddy.

Of course there is the caddy master, the other player who arranges the dark deals which are
spinning behind them all. And in the forefront of the action the mob who would oppose.

“Who is the hero?”

Caddy For Life.

“Who is the love story?”

Caddy/ member/ restaurant female

“Who is the villain?”

20
Need to develop.

“Villain?”

A local up and coming mafia capo out of control with his upper level contacts. He's budgeting
his way into every market – in the end gets cut out.

Leaves room for a sequel: plot development.

With:

The Bank vs. The Casino the label vs. the hit

man the restaurant tied into the caddies

marriage him on the road and...

Now the bodyguard and the restaurant girl with him taking the time and her (almost) but

he ends with avoiding the hit. The bank opens it's own casino in the town. The girl stays with the
caddy.

Ozenoz ® survives, and she is pregnant and has: E.T. The two fingered corpse baby.

Now for a golf plot. Loopers®. Delves into the caddies life on tour and how its time for him to
bust out and maybe take on the real loves of his life... business and his family coupled with the politics
of a.. I dunno but TOUR. Maybe a professional tour of his own? Relying on his wife's restaurant
complicated by a baby and all of the factors (sounds drab...)

Maybe the second should be two bodies? The Bank. And Ozenoz ® Followed by Loopers ®.

Develop: college kids.

“Hi this Joel, I'm with CREST GROUP, I was wondering who's the GM over there?”

“That will be Jim Mcdonald.” said the nasal secretary.

On the way out, I thought. Hope he's good for it.

“Can I speak to him?”

The obligatory click alerted me to the fact that I had gotten through the gatekeep. A brief pause

ensued, followed by the review of my pitch in thought.

“This is Jim.”

21
“Hi Jim, this Joel from CREST GROUP How are you?

“Busy.”

Typical car lot GM.

“Where you from?” he threw me a bone.

“ Crest Group, we are a marketing corporation set to turn the tide on how its done. Who

is doing your marketing these days?” “hmphh...”

Time for the pitch. This was gonna be quick.

“Jim, are you interested in getting some entry level stock in our company at a cheap price? We

are offering at $2, and you can sell at ten but you are gonna need a banana boat to move it all.”

“Do you have any literature you can send?”

Close dammit. No, PITCH. Like the nigger you be.

“Are you near your computer?”

“Yes.”

YES! An in for this one time only out of the other fifty calls I have made this morning. Better

than the three fifty at the telecredit gig though.

“Ok, I want you to type in double you- double you- double you dot Crest Group dot com. Like

the toothpaste.”

“OK.”

I turned on the charm.

“Give you a guided tour here...”

If my father were to die of a heart attack today because of all of my bullshit, I would be soon to
follow. Soon followed by an aneurism and the realization that there is life after homelessness, though I
don't know yet what it is. I just don't know how soon I can get that to happen so I can get S.S.D.I...

List of things that I don't know:

The speed of the fist flying at my head at age ten.

22
The speed it takes to develop a mental illness diagnosis from untreated abuse.

The speed it takes for a mother to decide to ignore the abuse for the “greater good”.

The speed it takes for her to deny any and all abuse for the “greater good”.

The speed it takes for the other forces in my life to deny that they in fact need counseling.

The speed at which they will when I make it BIG.

The speed junkies last thought as he turns blue from a fix.

The speed at which my thoughts get out of control as measured by religion or psychiatry.

The speed at which other people will judge me as trash from being chronically homeless.

The speed at which this book will prove that I worked hard for the status I don't have.

The speed of light in it's purest sense.

The speed of light.

The speed.

Speed.

Spee

Spe

Chapter2:

Catheter

“Power to the music in the streets!” Motley Crue reminds me.

It's that time of night, and I am on the prowl for it baby. I am getting taxes.

“Yeah that's right T-A-X MONEY, biznatch.”

And that's when I call it quits. With this joint. I am moving into a row home on the south side
ASAP. Find one available? Not yet. In San Diego it was a room at seven-fifty a month. I figure eight
hundred for a house with three floors would be cozy and kind. I will find my shit. Been there before.

23
Backyard. Living Room. Space. Outer and inner peace with my chanting and bare boned of a buy in the
works. I will make the credit happen. I will make it happen because I did my homework.

See cause I'm a functional addict. One with the freedom to be mother fucking great. Weight set.

Computer. Hmm... Budget? Lets see...

29K a year.

Figure I can keep it to 12K for the bills.

Leaves 17K.

Food 4K.

4K Shane

Leaves 9K.

“K.”

4K Savings.

Leaves 5K.

5K Upkeep and Home Improvement.

Then with my “hobby” wiring in an extra Grand a month that's another 12K.

12K. Oh what to do.

“Do you realize? That you have the most beautiful face.” What a line.

“Do You Realize?” sings The Flaming Lips.

That toothpaste is bad shit. It's hard to make the good things last. It's just an illusion. Cause and
effect. Pride and prejudice. Token hobbit furry toed fevers and sweats in manic reactions. But instead of
saying all of my goodbyes realize that happiness makes me cry. And cry. And cry. Yet they tell me it's
depression. Then when I'm happy about it, it's fucking mania. Except for the fucking. I have to look out
for STD's. And for other peoples toothpaste.

I am quitting smoking. It's 4/20 and I have to stick on a patch in the morning. ON 4/22 I will go

without. On 4/23 my son turns six. That's when I clean up for good. Every time I want a cigarette I will

just call myself a catty fag and turn the other butt chic. What a way. What a way. I thought that I would

24
just step aside and that the time would prove her wrong for sure. Damned fool I am. Stand up and be a

man.

“Surrender, I just wept in regret at this moment..” It's all a mystery. A novel idea yet to be a
Sherlock Holmes, which reminds me I need one of those kinds of glass pipes for my pot... luck. Yeah
luck. I don't know where the sunbeams end and starlight begins... my son. The test is over.

Dada. I wish I could be the dad of my dreams. Who's your daddy? I am. Nat. The Boston
Gaston or was that gassed on in the midst of truck driving school I flunked out due to not maintaining
my mental intelligence... no illness. Illness. Prime example. Bi-Polar, Schizo affective with Psychotic
Features. I have to say that my regimen is OK. Except I still see ghosts. But Ghost Adventures calms
my soul.

“The Bastan gassed on..”.

Could have been the way she combed her hair in the morning for about thirty five hours or for

the light in my eyes when I see the Shel Silverstein back cover and know that is what I am going to
look for life... look like for life. In. Like Flynn. Not Lynn.

“It rips my heart out, to see you living. You gave me money in exchange for pain...”

I hope that I'm not feeling so much pain. Or I'll turn back to Jack. Tennessee sour hash, and
some cow poop. No, just the stuff growing on it. “You been in da shit boy?!”

I hope the introduction to the book I have in front of me is OK, cause this shit sure ain’t.

“Ha ha ha ha ha...” the joker declares.

Til death. Til death. Do us part. It's back ass-words on my ass back words.

“Get your ass back here!”

“No.”

A typically typical six year old. Then again that was the one act Luscious Flynn should band
together with their name and make it for the Hoffelmyer White Castle burger King slut piece.
Dissertation? Jewish Princes often have shmutz on their faces when they are leaving for work. And I
stand by them.

“It's me myself and I, til death...” Motley Crue jizms in my face.

“Shazaaam!”

25
“Two Dollars!”

“Three!”

I want my stock options before the cloud lifts. Pink cloud often reminds me of the stock I have
sell on the investors lingo.

“Three quarters final.”

Damn that CREST. Ayers. Over on the Mayflower. Bought a business in Connecticut a few
decades later his with son. I saw the book at the Lehigh library here. It fell apart in my hands. Dust to
sustenance. Til death. Shoot me into outer space. When I am dead. They will. My ashes.

“Standing on the moon.”

On the dusty flag I kneel on will be the man on the fumes. Gassed on Gaston. Motley. Definite.

“Hilarious!”

Winston, King of Prussia I lay this shit on you. Winston, toke of pissers, I make it all doomed
for you. I don't wanna be any part of your stupid motherfucking disease. I just don't believe I guess.

Did you ever feel like there never was life after Twitter, let alone a whole year of Eminem
raping pregnant women on the 12th floor of the Hilton San Francisco before the Time Travelers Ball?
Me too. Me toothpaste.

Welcome to the... soundtrack of my life. Coming soon to an Ozenoz® near you. Ozenoz® is
dead.

“Situations critical...”

I am fucking sick. I am fucking sad. I am mother fucking sad. I am a mother fucker. I am a bad
ass piece of it. Toothpaste on my Winston. And Hooch in my pipe. Too wet. Danks.

Wet? Rocket fuel for schizo affective faceoff dilemmatization of the nation in facing the
abrasion of the raising indications of the reason for my...

“Patience,” the would be step- off Dad would say in my mind but I'm afraid I'd be writing down
my in ability to be human. Smoke my hoochie. Say that I'm the devil. Or was it the Depakote?

I can't fucking take this shit. Or that shit. But I can take the doctors advice. That, is just
common- sense. Something I have been lacking for some time. A lot of common penny for your
thought self will run riotous observious tie you to your your chair and rape the shit out of your truck
fucking, ass smelling finger to the sky. Buddhist proverbial nonsensical rappingest, gamingest
bullshit. Power. Cords. Chaim. Joel. No. L'Chaim.

26
“Bitch, you ain't a Catholic”

“Lickedy dick in the lickedy split for the trickedy dick for the...”

When it's time I will smoke the sky. One hit. In the morning. One hit at night. That's what the
Doctor prescribed, but of course I didn't let him know I had addiction problems, and then didn't follow
the script I conned out of him. Stupid Volcano I never owned. Hawaii here we come.

“Wierd Fishes” playing now.

Women. So here's the real budget for now:

$102.50 from Welfare

$70 rent

$2.50 transaction fees

$30 left

$14 bus pass

$16 left

$14 coffee and fellowship

$2 left

$2 left.

Of course T-A-X money coming from being unable by the Judge to pay my back or forward
support for Sean. John. Shane.

Take my little nigger to see the lama I will. If he doesn't spit on me. I stink enough as it is. An
atypically – a typical day.

I've got big calves. Big like a division three all American defensive midi. One who used to have
the most bad ass face off in the books. Just no stick skills. On the wall. In the wall. Or around the wall.
On the fly. In the fly. Fly ball, grounder. Get grounded Joel. Get grounded and get on the wall on the
house we pay rent on and will lose the deposit. Lax. No L-A-X. Fly Gaston, fly. And cry some more.

I miss it. The flight of the condor. The flight of the bird I saw in the tree on the campus in the

27
middle of the deepest freeze in history. The winter I flew home and stayed outside. All winter, but for
the churches that sometimes allowed my schizo ass to stay in. Survival. Listen to my doctor from
now on. I almost died. And tell them all I'm an addicted chump. Tell it to the judge, the counselor, the
meeting, the stock bearing holders of the... “On again, off again, on again...”

And cry. And cry.

“Stuffed. Stuffed. Stuffed.”

Take a bow. But don't bow out. Just back. And not in black. For no real reason. Depression hurts
my head. With headaches. My nose burns. That's from the blue crystal given to me by the McDonald's
GM. I think to myself as I publish a living lie to my screen. A living lie on the way if I don't admit it's
fucking real. Real bad.

But it gets better? 3:40 and no time for an interview, or a meet and greet. A meet and greet to do
quality control for ATnT. American Telegraph and Telephone. Stop. I miss you Shane. Shaney. Shady.

Crazy. But I can't stop. Stop.

“We are all psychic.”

“No” he says.

“I have to say”

Perhaps chapter two is shorter than chapter one.

Perhaps I am shorter than 29K.

Perhaps. Stop.

Ouchie.

Ouchie.

Let it be.

Let me see.

They tried to shut me down on MP3, but it feels so empty without me.

“I don't wanna be your friend...” Radiohead declares.

But when. Stop.

28
Chapter 3:

Smack

Down in Barrio. That's where I am going to go. Back to the hoe and the hole in the wall next to
the duck who is gonna fall by the hand of the friendly TJ natives next door. That is if the fugitives from
the warehouse don't run our direction next time the feds are overhead.

Down to the chicken shack where I lay my rack, and fuck the Jack, I'm going for smack. On my
future grandson.

“Kai, stop it!” she says with a moldy lust for her ex, or was it two?

The nineteen year old is cute, almost as cute as she once was in the bath time photos she appalls
me with every day. She can't even walk to her sister's house on Banker's Hill with me without having
such bad back trouble that I wander off in my thoughts of another time. A time then converted to
dollars and sense. That's not cents, that's sales.

Women are like credit cards, they will give you something, but you gotta pay it back with high
interest. And just because you are carrying doesn't mean you can swipe it.

Under the bored walk, that's where we'll go. To watch another movie in the living room, while
she makes deals with herself about how at least her sister can accept her because of me, and because of
my failure to appear with the six figures yet, and because of my future ability to do so she will get her
ex. That's E with a capital ex to cheat with on his time off from his wife. While I consort with my
coworkers on the best way to treat our former coke-addicted pedal to the red face Benny slapping
goodfella of a boiler room boss.

If I can just hold out on the articles of incorporation, and build further within my fucking
contract, I can supply the capital. My big twenty sales ain't buying a truck man, it's buying a one
percenter. One hundred- ten ninety niners and fuck the world, it's pay hard to play hard ball.

Outside the marketing capital of the world. A republican national convention of wisdom and
beach bums sailing off to my capital one. I can fill the rooms with justice, with an easy swipe of the
keys. One four hundred dollar five hour session and we've got work for the crew. The crew?

A Lehigh Valley coke dealing smut king who is fucking everybody but his Nanny. Nanny for a

Padre for a wedding down the beach row where we sip drinks and face the sun as it sets on the empire.
The empire he doesn't even have the motivation to jam his foot in the door to take a piece of. Let alone
actually build a simple website for a non-using client.

29
Or how about the Graphic Designer. She'll give me art, but she'll shark the board so fast that my
COO by association will never get out out of that pussy. He's just too fucking fat. And when his wallet
is, he'll run to me again and again, and again.

He already does. Sharpening his skill set has been my main mission at every ten ninety-nine job

I landed in the eleven months of working in two thousand - ten. Before, during and after sex with him,
I'd cry and balls hurting, ask him for the money to buy a hash brownie at California's Finest. Because I
left behind my gold mine to get him another dinner with the smut king of the homeless shelter. Or is
she a queen. Better not ask, she's from steel town. And she wants me to drive him to do this on his own.
Of course now that he's driven by me, he steers his own course, but only after I put away my six figures
and my Upper Class T to drive home a spike. Or five at the sushi bar next door where I partied with
crew that wouldn't take me on anymore after I bombed at Del Mar. I think the answer was apparent,
and not a parent when I stepped outside the Real Estate lawyers office and met with Dustin Hoffman.
He ignored me, and I ignored him. And then I ignored my job and sat in the veranda and smoked my
fucking brains out about the non-crew who had a wife waiting in the wings. Trying to convince her I
left behind putting him to sleep at parties while he sat on a D.U.I and her five months pregnant.

Isn't life grand? No, but the next five sales could have been. Much more than. My co-workers
were all in new cars, and driving me like I was chauffeur material with sin tax error at the end of it all.

The end all be all was the meth. I gave up, gave in, and gave out. I couldn't take the bland blend of
mild madness, I needed full blown insanity. Perhaps that would kill the game. No, just kill me. Just me.

I wander off about how I'm never gonna have the time to edit this piece or that piece, but then
again, where's my peace? Not in the piece I carry, like the would be step-off Dad adopted tricky dick
father figure to create non-oedipal complexes of coke addiction and drugs and rock and roll. Coca
Cola, them Casey Jones has got big balls. And falls in the Niagara blown wind tunnels of Gulf War
veterans coming home to the press call. Let's pump up the killing fields with a shot of Jack and double
the coke bag tonight, bitch. That's PATSY for patty cake, patty cake, bake my hand, I'm off to the races
again. If you want the Buddhist in me, it's called Mount Bromley is on the tee and I'm not Cracker Joel
who is going to be your caddy for the day. I am the motherfucker who took on the loop of death, and
told himself he would make more than three-fourty for seventy - two holes and a runner up because of
the choked four footer in the member guest. But that is just a Verizon Wireless deal in the making, so
forgive and “Fugged aboud it.” Bitch.

Led me down a long and shameful road, one I didn't have a car to traverse because the Brooks
Dad thought it would be a good idea to sell the two cars he promised to me one after another so I
couldn't have a ride to the golf club by anyone other than the members who know how damn good I
am. Member who? No, I will tell them now. Look out, cause I am motherfucking Ozenoz®.

How about when I came home from Phish Tour and ran into the KYW TV news studio in front
of the cameras before Bush got elected and yelled out to the cameras in the icy studio (I snuck in

30
behind Ukee, my D-U-D's member guest champion partner) “they just bought a seven - fourty-seven
and put arms in it! They are fucking coming!”

Here in my thoughts at I run a “Mink Golf Club” they will tell me what, that somebody is gonna
whack my ass for publishing how the nigger hating bitches they married wanted to be members at the
worlds club. The club that now by force of will and sustenance has the gall to put a token pawn in

place, the first “black” member faggit who allowed them to get major events. Fucking racist pigs.

Racist pigs I allowed to rape me of my dignity for so long while I hid in the shadows.

Just like the morning of election day after the body got dumped off at Fox Chase, and another
body was being dumped off through the woods near the caddy shack. But then again, it was four -
twenty as my KYW News time D-U-D announced on the radio as they went back up to their Lincoln
Town car. I left that next morning for tour in Atlanta a week early. But I didn't have money. I just had
the mob to do deal with, and a fag-git father behind my back who taught me that I was a lot like him.

Bend over bitch.

If I only had a brain, I would write it all down and sell a hell of novel through my experience
strength and hope, but that will cum until the cows come in. Or maybe just my therapeutic fat hippy
wife I end up with will. Fat chance, big chips, and bag of dip. Body bag. Oh dip.

How about brooder and his M-A-D paints? I hope his Ryder Cup doesn't match with Williams
penchant for bumblebees, cause that fat pig had the smelliest cunt in town for an entire season, and
never played in the mixed.

“Poison apples biatch.”

When you asked me to caddy with an eyebrow and a wink to the fat fucking pig caddy bitch
master, I left for the anti- Jew establishment. There I took on penny packer and john, honey well, let's
get real. He played with acres of love on acres of land. All fifteen thousand spent well, cause oh my
aching shoulders he needed to pick up, and I needed a pipe in my mouth to fend off his dark Amish
strychnine daydreams of outer and inner sanctum. Fucking Germans.

So I won't smack the poor little possible grandson, she'd never let me near to that as I supervise
the demo and construction crew redoing the chicken shack. I won't ever go near smack. Until it goes
near me, and then I'll be as dead as the guy who just drove a nail in my coffin by knowing something
about construction that I don't. I have to supervise my sales team, and I can't keep her from being sold
on the drugs coming from all sides, even though grandma is one of Bill's buddies. All the bud in the
world won't change anything but the name of the group, my blissful budding fallout. You have an omen
aura, it's not Shane. There are subtle differences, but it's a budding fallout.

31
Chapter 4:

Abortion

Dear Baby Momma,

Keep it real. Reel in the big fish and you can get fucked up the ass for life by the hooker slut
who fucked the rockers at your row home on the south side. While you had a golden brown tan and a
hit or two in your system to let you know the next hooker would be your son''s mother. Tube's not tied?
You're fair game. Let's put some misery in another little one's life. Oops, you tied em', not that the
doctors you see can tie their fucking shoes, so keep off bitch. You ain't my hooker no more. That's just
the fat pig you pay rent to in blow jobs to keep the little men and women together including your crack
whore mother with no teeth in that Northampton country club of a house. All 2500 square feet of
dysfunction and end my next two marriages playback.

Track two of Ozenoz® CD: Blow Me. If Haywood, J.A. Bloughmie was in the phone book his
name would be Charlie. The target of your affections in between your nigger lovers and white trash and
fat checkbook pimps to woe your soul into forgiving your addicted ass. I will publish this, and may it
keep my third marriage together.

And barking up the wrong tree? As for that, “Hi my name is Brooks and I am a sex addict.”

E.T. herself wouldn't touch you unless you french kissed her like every other slut in this county
remembers from your drunk pieces of life you feebly throttle our son's world with. And the world may
never know why he lives a double life. Believe me, they may never know. One at your world, and one
at mine. LOL. Get a grip, or the club cracker is gonna fall through the cracks of the spades table again
and trump Trump's middle man who needs to take his money back.

Yeah, when I don't get cut in, I cut. Not like you, Jessica, I cut out the golfer. When he asks for a
caddy to read his putt out over $435K, a beach house, a Toyota and a cigar, I don't help unless there is a
grin in his death do us part. So til death do us part, and may it come soon for you. So my Nanny gets
paid more than her fucking crack addict my son calls Nanny now.

Oh yeah, and Mom-Mom, she is a Nanny. Because her doctor husband isn't too keen on the fact
that she has her hands so deep in his pockets. She's fat, hurt, and poor. But he's deaf, blind and mute so
I guess they make a good match. Til death do us part.

32
“Hey you, you want a bad joke?”

“Nah, man.”

“Two chickens crossed the road. One got run over. How many made it to the other side?”

“Fugged aboud it.”

“ Both.”

“Hmph.”

“There were two hungry Tijuana natives standing nearby.”

“All about the green. Hey, wash my ball will ya?”

“Don't stand on the green when he putts,” the lawyer told me as Natale from the old country
stood over his putt at Galloway. Know what I did? Read the putt. And then stood back and watched him

sink it.

So Asher, my old lost and found reader half brother, your lawyer talk doesn't bother me. Get
tough, kid. When the world holds you down, don't drink. When it makes you cry, say live and let die.
Live and let die. Or maybe you are just too young as of yet. Nah. Just inexperienced, I fear. Or maybe
you are just half like me.

33
But the other half ain't no other half, so let's get to the rock. If I had a pebble of wisdom for this
chapter it would be: Carly. You are too young to know much of anything. Period. You were, and always
will be a part of my life. Not. You are E.T. The long fingered chimp who rendered me unconscious
when I got beat down by the police and wailed on the pavement with my brains in the back of a
shopping cart. Fucking addicts.

Fucking Mentally Ill Anonymous.

Just fucking.

Stupid motherfucking disease.

But don't take it from us.

Take it from the fuck.

What the fuck.

It's only a buck.

Buck.

Take it as luck?

Cut the umbilical cord.

Throw away the afterbirth.

Don't smoke it.

She looks like she is gonna die.

His name is Malachi.

He looks just like his Dad.

No, like his Mom.

34
Chapter 5:

Period

If it's not one thing, it's another. Two packs of electronic cigarettes a day. I would double space
the puffs to save the money, but It's just not us. US. A word I have come to loathe.

“Let me take you back,” the lingering voice performs it's acrobatics in my wandering mind “a
voice from the death that awaits.”

A voice from the death that awaited me. I met her in a bar in some Queens dump neighborhood.
Don't ask me which, she tells me it was that way, and I believe her. Believe me, she's buried right in my
backyard.

The Rolling Stones' Honky Tonk Blues screaming from the radio, I spent half the night
wishing she was mine.

“She blew my nose and then she blew my mind!”

It's just the way it is, that night. Later she fucked my brains out and screamed at the top of her
falsetto screaming crying out for help. Help only Satan himself would have tried to apply. Twelve
steps.

Twelve traditions.

“Tradition! Tradition! Tradition!,” the old musical Fiddler on the Roof reminds me of the other
faithful departed. The one I couldn't leave alone either. Pray for the souls of the faithful departed. The
faithful fuck me in the ass until I won't let it go departed. Killer. That's me.

Us in the U.S. We call it removed from the misery of the criterion of the governmental
programs that attempt to save me from the sickness in my mind. A brood of catching M.I.A's at will
and...

“Norton, I know that you know that I know that you want to fuck me!” Eddie Murphy screams
out the window stand up on my tele. Vision, something I cannot brave to the scariest parts of my
journey. A journey that took the very life force out of me. And saved my only son the will and the life
to force the hand of his soon to be mother. Of a stillborn fetus in the hands of a bloody doctor.

“But not yet,” says the us in me “It's not the time for Gods' will.”

Not the time for Gods will. Time for my morning jacket. Time for a little action, a sweet piece
of death. A sweet piece of the pie. A sweet little golden nugget taken from the nuggets of wisdom that
line the strip. The strip clubs, the forced avenues, the fair walkways of post- Venice Beach blues and

35
Led Zeppelin dreams of the California Girl(s) who just don't get it. They don't know that I am the man.
The man who will do them tonight. I step onto the front porch, and get assaulted by the non- swamp-
cooler air.

“Ahhh, Vegas.”

Somewhere in the distance, I hear the bells ring. Jackpot.

“Off to the morning wisdom and teaching the doors of the rooms to flow with the glow of
another dew.” he spews in my mind. No marshal in sight. No mothers today. That would be the
influence of my time left alone in a Tennessee jail to rot in solitary confinement for an illness. An
illness created by them.

“us...us...us...and them...em...em...” the man downtown says in my mind.

“I am not em... in... em...”

I can be the rapper Ozenoz® sometimes too. I can be the words of wisdom.

“Token truths of gratitudinal dismay. Oh what day, is it mother-fucking gray? Oh she won't be,

but just for today...”

Just for today I will keep my thought on my new and soon to be dead associations, people who
aren't smoking two packs a day and who have learned not to kill for their meals.

Yes, I am an eater. I like pseudo flesh pies and hamburger Ala Margaret, but not Ala Jane Doe.

It's gotta be a good butch with intellect and brawn for my sinewy cashew nut Chinese food.

“Cashew chicken...takes a lick-in and keeps on tick-in...” we whisper together, drooling openly
on the 10am March 100 degree sidewalk walking down Trout Lane somewhere near Nellis. More near
the end of the strip than the strip steak I'll have tonight.

36
Chapter 6:

Shorts

If you haven't started already, please fill in the blanks.

Bag step One:

A group of caddies encounter the field of dreams as the local mob takes over the golf club.

Bag step two:

As the summer progresses, it becomes apparent to the golf club that the mob isn't moving
outside of the city limits, they are here to stay. A movie deal is in the works with the local club amateur
gone pro after his country club championship win. A new golf course is being built, and the table is set
for the wireless communications battle on the table. But it's bullets that are flying at the local
politicians, and golf balls that are flying at the scriptwriter as he sells his family, and possibly his very
soul to make the deal. The war between factions of the mob moves in for the kill at the black denial of
all minority race connections involved; the club has lost it's grip. As the war winds howl in the Oval
Office built from the convention held on site, the club follows through.

Or maybe that is a novel idea to find out some well researched “bullshit” as my half sibling
related former father would call it, and really make a career of this writing. Fucking assholes. Let's see
what else can I do? Writers Market this shit, and get my home office running from that damned tax
money, and maybe I have a running shot at the long jump. Bad joke. Get it? Long way down if you

37
38
want to rock and roll.

“We are the dealers, we'll give anything you need.”

How about a Financial Director who is worth his stuff? Or a GM who isn't trying to bank on the
salesman who is trying to break the loan. The state of the credit union address says that “seven fifty
credit score”, tenured, dual house owning/married professors shouldn't be denied a Toyota Corolla.

Maybe that's just a solid dose of the politics it takes to navigate the hallowed halls of the dealership.

If you want my advice, you'll read no further. If you want a car, you can do one of two things:

join the Armed Forces, go postal, or both. Take it from a former lending Account Executive. But that's
our job, to talk like that.

But seriously, navigating the car dealership shouldn't be such a harrowing experience. Treat the
salesperson as your friend with the details, your Financial Director as your accountant, and your GM as
your ticket to the world. The first approach you should make is the front desk. Be your own advocate,
call ahead and line up the shopping for your new set of wheels. This will enable them to know you are
a serious potential, and line up the best possible match for your experience: the knowledgeable
salesperson. The person who can tell you all of the gadgets, the quirks, the gizmos and first date or
Autobahn dreams you have in mind. So make an appointment, even if it ticks off the spouse. They will
thank you later.

When you arrive at the dealership, be patient with the appointment schedule if it's off.

Interpretation: schedule at least two hours for your visit. If you are set on the make, make it a one stop
shop. If not, don't plan a day of different dealerships as this will preempt what we in the industry called

“spontaneous buyer power”.

After you have test driven the vehicles and made your pick, discuss openly with the Sales

Person your financial situation. This is not where they try and make their money, this is where your
experienced salesperson gets paid to do the better job of getting you a deal.

At this point, you should relax and take a load off. The GM will bring the deal home with both
the salesperson/liason and the Financial Director. That's where the money from the markup on the car

39
goes, straight from your pocket into your specialized assistant in the GM, and your personalized
accountant, the Financial Director.

“Hey, what the hell it's only a bell.”

That's what the stock says to me as I drip with sweat over moving this stuff. From packaging to
shell out, it's not the way it was intended. Or is that just dutch door action? Swedish meatballs, in need
of a hangover like a junkie with too much stock in Disney, I hope that this isn't the 3-D movie of the
future.

Then it hits me, that's right. Just like when Compaq went from $4 to $110 or some coercion
thereof in 1990-91, I have the chance at this. Is there a reason why 3-D is all that and a bag of chips?

Yes. Because of the following.

In tech stocks, we all need a solid dose of reality which is that IBM bought the technology
initially created by a talented team of geniuses at The University of California at Berkeley who are
now ready to cash in again on their hard work. Holographic disk data storage. With the capability of
lifting unobtainium off the exchange, and moving terra bytes in terra form; put me to sleep again my
sweet mistress.

And that's it, it's there for the taking folks. Institutional Business Technology. So break out the
geek squad, here we go again.

If only I had never left the grounds, and become a player. I have to say, I have seen very few
pure drives in my days as a caddie. From non-amateurs, the likes of whom I will name at will. Joel
Otto, in 1997 at Galloway National Golf Club in New Jersey hit one 420 off the tee on the Pine Valley
signature hole. He took my advice on the trick putt, not. Hat trick? No, he scored with par for the
course, if memory serves. Then prodded by the pressure Dornhoffer put on me to set up and hit the
miniature golf course trick putt, I hit it and it fell long and left. Uphill back and two balls left. My
own?

The next pure one I can think of was the hit man. I will leave it at that, because he really was. It

rhymes with far, and call it a bogey. I told the mafia man that he had “jail on the left, it's safe on the
right” to which the Don barked “Give it a good whack!”.

40
He did, and turned and replied to me “Right down the middle!”. Should have took it as a
compliment, but hey I'm not gonna drop the soap anytime soon, so what the hay it's only a day. On the
golf course.

Which leads me to the assumption that it takes a pure thought to really hit a pure shot. Pressure
players hit pressure shots,and I am a pressure player. Unless death is on the line, I'm gonna fix your
spike mark and press before the ping on Tiger Woods. Williams needs to get some balls and stop
screwing around. That's just my take, pressure players need pressure. And I need a good bag, not a
good body, Fluff would retort. Or perhaps snort to the mimicking cries of a saluting Life and Death of
The Party KISS anthropological piece similar to this one. If someone doesn't drop trough and catch
some tees, rest in peace. Piece by peace, that's P-E-A-C-E.

“Hello, my name is Cracker and I'm a sex addict.”

“Hi, cracker”

Right next door to me, well, go get em' Tiger. Now.

If there ever was a was

It was in the fuzz, the buzz

And what a fuzz the buzz was

If there is an is

It was in the fizz

And what a fizz the biz wiz is*

If ever there was a will

It was will in the wall

And what a will it walls

Fill the fuzz with fizz and wiz*

The wall will fuzz the biz

Fill the wall with wiz and was

41
And kill the pill with a chill

Off the sill with my fill

Of duals and tools and fools

And get my fill of gold and sold and fold

My socks and put them away

For the time is now

And now is the way

She was my roommate, but not for long. I'd had it with the act. Dark hair gone gray almost
entirely from pharmaceutical school. Tight pierced nipples always just hiding with a waggle of her
sweet ass that she wanted me.

“Fine, turn away so I can't see your piercing hole get loose” I quipped awaiting her arrival from
the laboratory where she worked for the University of Michigan.

The door clicked and in she came. Tight sweater, cheeks red from riding her 105 pound 5'6”
frame home on the Schwinn. Not a drop of sweat.

“Hi Troy,” she quipped “how was the day at the fine dining waiting job?”

“Better than an acute regimen of autopsies I suppose.”

She blushed at the “cute” part of acute I thought. I couldn't help but think of the moment I had
with her in the back of the store at the coffee shop where I had met her. She had been the manager, but
always patting me on the ass, and ultimately asking me to move in. I had wanted to kiss her so bad, it
was like a magnet between us. Rounding the couch, she shot me a look from the end of the couch
where I was sitting, growing harder by the minute.

Time to ask.

“You wanna fuck?”

She blushed and retorted “Yeah I wanna fuck the guys at the lab all day long.”

42
No clue what that meant. She sat down next to me in a huff. She looked so damned cute when
her cheeks were all red, hair wind blown.

“You look like you just did.”

“Did you paint your room yet?”

“No.”

Then there it was, the magnet. She looked far away, and then straight into my eyes. This was it.
We leaned in at the same time and our lips touched. She slid her wet tongue in my mouth and rubbed
like a pulsating demon. I was so hard it hurt, and she was instantly there to appease. She reached over
with her hand and started to rub. Then right away, began fumbling for my zipper, all the while trying to
continue with her hand.

Her tongue slipped from my mouth and our eyes met. The electricity between our eyes could
have powered Manhattan for a week. I cupped her tit in my hand and groped the way I had dreamed of
for months staring her in the eyes. We kissed again, and it was off with the sweater. She slid her hand
in my now open pants and grabbed my hard cock and squeezed lightly to let me know she wanted this
again. I reached for her khakis, and felt between her legs. She gasped and undid her own stuff, sliding
both the pants and the silk panties to the floor over her fit athletic legs.

Her pussy was hot and wet as my hand slid over her and my fingers up into her.

“Two! Two!” she ordered.

43
44
I have to say that I have not grown a beard, got weird and moved into the mountains. And
neither had Marshall Mathers on New Years two thousand and three. Yes, before the war and
what can I say if I didn't come out of my closet, well. Hello my name is Frank, and the guy
scares me.

On the night before the Time Traveler's Ball being held in San Francisco by The String Cheese

Incident I found myself faced with a Hilton scene. There to scope out a room for the night at The
San Francisco Hilton, I saw an impeccable drama unfold before me. Impeccable, and
unpeckable by the frantic pregnant woman who unfolded herself and her life in front of me. I
was enthralled, blue balled, amazingly not called.

She was cute. “I'm PREGNANT!” she cried, tears dripping on the Hilton lobby floor “Eminem

RAPED ME!”.

The concierge tried to console her, but it was to no avail. She wouldn't stop. Marshall this, and

Marshall that until the mothers of America couldn't help but feel she needed help.

As we stood outside and watched the ambulance pull away with somber faces, I couldn't
help but not ask him.
Tax Money

$160.00 Ray

$100.00 Mom

$100.00 LG go Phone with $20 talk time

$100.00 Printer/copy/scan(fax) (?)

$100.00 writing books/subscriptions

$400.00 hotspot and time (?)

$20.00 backup flash drive

$20.00 Printer paper and ink

$50.00 headphones/extension

$50.00 netfix

$200.00 Office

$360.00 cigarettes

___________________________________________________

$1660.00 + tax
Step two:

When the sniper in the rafters took out Ozenoz®, he felt a psychic connection to the
rapper. The phenomenon is proving itself all too real now. Fans of the former global rap star are
starting a cult of sorts with the trading of live shows. The live shows that were fed by the sub
audible messages the rapper was prosecuted for during his studio success from the chart topping
debut album. Then the dreams begin, the sleepwalkers, and ultimately; the killer turns serial.

SQL:

With the Ozenoz® fan murder spree ended, a small town reporter takes on the cold case
files. When the files turn out to be corrupted with subliminal and sub audible messages, the tips
begin pouring in. Then the murders begin, always preempted by a phone call to the newsroom.
Hours of frantic research bring the reporter to the crime scenes before the police, but never in
time for the killer. As the time ticks down on another riddle of rap and raw footage, the killer and
the reporter slip deeper into a psychotic mess that may claim the lives of an entire city.

Psychic (new project) Step Three:

A league of underground policemen set out to demarcate the law of their own invention. Now
that pot is legal by the standards set by California State for use by adults, they are intent on
proving it is “the devil's weed”. The law was changed on the premise that it would cut out the
middle man, and shut down the cartels violence. It is not proving itself to do so, and violence due
to competition for the truckloads of crops that can be moved has become the issue.

Using Mexican connections, the rebel police contaminate some of the supply being
legally transported for mass consumption by Californians with pesticides. The weigh in stations
set up for tariff reasons by the State of California at the border are bought, but not the
checkpoints for drivers. The supply contamination is caught, via a truck moving illegals by a San
Diego former dealer whose business has forced him to change his dirty dealing. One of
California's finest, he has been moving some of the crop to one of the few center city stores in
San Diego which will move large quantities so that it can be consumed by the underage
population. An addict himself, he swerves on the double take playing in his mind at a weigh in
station, and both the contaminated crop and the illegals are found.

This alerts local Mafia that their crop is being messed with by the same force that aimed
at their people before. A shakedown ensues in Tijuana, vying to find the source of the illegal
border cross. It leads to the farm where the crop was being grown, and the mass mutiny which
insued due to the alert that the owners had turned the wrong way with pressure from their backer.
The backer is pressured to eliminate the problem, in light of the criminal charges possible, and he
does so. A member of the rebel police group is caught by the bought Federates while doing
border cross patrol in San Ysidro, and beheaded.

The league of police are even more steeled by this act. They form a corporation, and
begin the marketing of their own mass product to be distributed in the U.S. This time they pick
American growers crops and package their marijuana cigarettes as “US” Indica and Sativa
blends. Slowly buying up the market, they begin to contaminate the product with something
more sophisticated this time. PCP, a drug which causes psychosis.

People begin jumping off of buildings, attacking complete strangers and wreaking havoc.
On Wall Street, a trader goes postal and stamps his trades for the day with an all out assault that
hits home the point with the president of the corporation. But the trade isn't stopped, and a shell
corporation steps in to hide the loot. Before long the trail is offshore and the trail, cold. At this
point our hero steps outside to enjoy a cigarette, and is hit with an idea. The top is in on this to
enforce the Federal law.

He makes a few phone calls to encourage the proper pressure points over some pints, and
syndicates his research in the local pot growers manuals. His response rate cuts the flow of the
corporate funds from the policemen, and now the hunt begins. Armed with little but whits and
street savvy, he makes his way through the turnstiles of the arena he knows the best. As a
marketing executive he took on the challenge of sore losers who couldn't manage their own
business and turned them into sore losers who couldn't manage their winnings. Time to do it
again.

Michael reeks havoc on the stock market with a merger of his own marketing company
and the Mexican backers, offering peace as no reward for the heads that will soon roll. Dreaming
of the hits, the Mafioso head flies in to meet with the local board member who has it in the best
to make bank. The merger is set for the following morning, and call centers in place from the
marketing firm, Michael issues the scripts that will make or break his company.

I'm a short genius. Time for a cigarette.

I just reached for my phone and hell a hell of thought. What if I get a sponsor like Jim?
Just for today my thoughts will be on my new associations. People who haven't smoked
the whole cartridge of their electronic cigarette in half a day, and who have found a new way of
life. So long as I swallow that way, I have nothing to smear. Oh what the hay. Just for the pay.
Relapse. Recovery. Then bitches and snitches and hitches and ditches. Guess I'm in for the same
old fruits of my labor. Fucking a- right I am. Fucking a – lab rat right I am. Gross, net and
quantitative consumption of

Fritopf Capra's the Tao of my anal retensiveness. When I get up, the whole couch goes with me.

Because I farted. Fart sniffers.

Will I die of this disease? Will I feel that no matter what people will say I will die of a
disease? Does that cause me dis-ease? Why am I so diseased? Who else is diseased and are they
easy? Can they be easy and not sleazy? Am I just looking for a fix? Or am I catching some ray of
tax money dream hopeful wishing seam of tired cum shot ream? Will this get published? Will it
get read? Will I make it through another day of drama and Dramamine dreams and fart fixations
as I type out my adult world and pray that it becomes a reality?

As I sang in that Tennessee jail cell long ago, “Only God knows why...”
Chapter 7:

Cricket

Living in a world so warm, I wrote a beautiful song with no tune for the vocals/lyrics, and
moving open chords for the melody.

It went as follows:

(BROKEN TAKE ONE...TWO, THREE, FOUR...)

Cries out in the night that it's passing him by

He just can't seem to find a real good reason why

Guess it's only in dreams he can take off and fly

Seems so real, he can taste it, he just has to try

And he says:

I have been BROKEN

WORDS HAVE BEEN SPOKEN

I am in HELL

PLEASE BREAK THIS SPELL

It's the way that she left him he really can't get

He feels like the loser an untimely bet

Past together meant nothing, it's really that set

Yet the truth bears a child he still hasn't met

And he says:

I HAVE BEEN BROKEN

WORDS HAVE BEEN SPOKEN

I AM IN HELL

PLEASE BREAK THIS SPELL
One more turn at the wheel that is still spinning round

He just knows he can fly, yet his feet touch the

ground Where the music is boundless

insanities found Binds the deal, seals the fate

around which it's wound

And he says:

I HAVE BEEN BROKEN

WORDS HAVE BEEN SPOKEN

I AM IN HELL

PLEASE BREAK THIS SPELL

I HAVE BEEN BROKEN

WORDS HAVE BEEN SPOKEN

I AM IN HELL

PLEASE BREAK THIS SPELL

At the beginning of its first fully amped live performance, the audio blew back a rift of
feedback that ended the first chorus, and ultimately the song.

“Please excuse me, I don't mean to be rude...”

But fuck my old keyboardists, my old guitarists, my old soundboards, my old computers.
They all belong where they ended up. In the pile of memo's and e- mail's I just don't have the
time to respond to. Not that those are existent at this pint. Or that pint, half pint... double shot of
Jack on the Ripper over easy with ham and sausage on the side. Moon's over Miami and West
Beach is partying with The Culture Club fag-gits. The easy way out? Never. Always hard. And
you been had, I don't sing like a canary, I sing like a tenor with baritone so far in range Vedder
sounds like the rocks in his mouth are pushing my opal wisdom...(ellipsis)

“Freezin...” I rested my head on a pillow made of concrete every night in Los Angeles
when my rotted out feet couldn't make it to the beach where they should have been soaked. But I
counted on friendship meaning something, but psyche rock and scar tissue that I wish you Saw
III is all it amounted to. Cracker Joel is back on the mic, and if it's time to put it all behind me
then I should write this like it's the first autobiographical sketch I have ever attempted.

But the fact of the matter is “that baby tonight...” I am falling in love again.

Dance like no one is watching, which at this point would be a good thing. Cause if I spam
the different inflections of my fuck this and that's criss crossed with my rolling tobacco blues all
day to baby momma and parental half pints and “cc” units it gonna kill me.

“In fista cuffs if dat be true den what up as I step in da room.”

“Cause baby tonight...”

Write. Well from where? How about three days after landing?

It's December 27th and I am in California clothing. Barely able to walk and stay cold in
the fifteen degree weather as Uncle Samantha decides whether they can travel my luggage to me
from Charlotte. U.S. Airways got a delay in crew and footage, but shit happens and I'm neither
here nor there.

“All my life I've been good and now...”

It's fifteen degrees and I have no help. Can't find the nearest shelter. Can't cash the four
hundred twenty-four dollar check in my hands, and am broke otherwise. I have been since six am
on December 23rd without any drugs and I am about to fall as I pass by the middle mark of the
bridge on my way towards City Hall and the North side of the Christmas City.

Two nights prior after coming into town to my white Christmas, I encountered prank
drivers screaming at me to “suck some dick for some crack!” etc, etc, etc.

“Live pop culture. It doesn't matter if you love him or capital M...M...M...”

Malachi Michael, I thought. I love you.

Enough at that point to almost lie down and fall asleep on the bridge. To which, there

would be no wake up call. Just an eternal sleep. I walked to the nearest Quality Inn and told the

woman at the front desk.

“Look mam, I just flew in from San Diego on Christmas, I have a check I can't cash and
no where to go. I am broke. I have no where to go and have been up for over a hundred hours.
My mother said she will pay for a room if you will accept her credit card by phone. If you don't
I'm gonna walk out that door, lie down somewhere and go to sleep and never wake up due to
hypothermia.”
Needless to say twenty minutes later I was in a cold bath, teeth chattering my way to get
out of shock. Emotional and physical. I'm guessing that the anxiety that caused me to call my son
and his mother and tell them I didn't fucking care that I was going back to California was pretty
motherfucking called for. But the world is a fucking cruel place, so it is because “you need
medication.”

No what I needed was a bed and a meal. I hadn't eaten since the airport on Christmas.
Except for the Twenty bucks I spent at the 24 hour Dunkin Donuts from the account that made
money from my blog while I was allowed to sit and try and figure out how to survive winter
homeless in this alien world. Alien world that my relatives lived so very close by to. So close that
I could have froze to death to make us all feel better. To make it all go away in historical
chronological events in the life of an addicted slut who holds me hostage. Her name:

“who's yo mamma, who's ya mamma, who's ya mamma”

That's the person who saved my life. The one who gave me birth. The one from whom the
umbilical cord could take the choke hold and not survive if I am not careful. But I won't let up,
cause Momma won't let me fly, but she won't want me to sing either. Hopefully she does let me
write and right and rightly write.

Well, page count here is at forty-eight and I have no idea what is in my head anymore but teeth

chattering. Seeing as it's spring, I take this as a sign from God that I need to be thankful and

write more in the morrow. In the morrow, things will be different. May the tomorrows of

evermore be brighter and brighter for the equality of the life I want for my son. Not. I want him

to have so much better, but I am so fucking helpless. I love you Shane Malachi Michael Ruch.

Even when you think I am not thinking of you, I am doing something I hope will lead to us

getting time. Time being the thing that God most meant for us to leave alone in his name.

Correction: his many, and vast meaningful names. Amen.

I blink and it's the morrow. But not the Morrow I want. I want one I can slide off a
mountain on and land in feet of powdery bliss that fell from the sky. But that is just the
snowboard/ski tech speaking in me. Joyride for the twister that landed on me in Tennessee in my
mind. No that one was real. It's one of the reasons why Ozenoz® landed himself in Oz.

I was driving through Tennessee on November 13, 2002 when suddenly I was attacked.
Four twisters had merged and were ready to strike. As the huge mass of blackness descended on
my car, I prayed to God “God, I am gonna die and no one will know just how cool this looked”.
No one does, as he told me on my twelve step support phone call last night.

The tornado that landed on my Honda Civic known only as “the sweet little Habib”
pushed her from five miles per hour to fifty-five miles per hour in neutral. No hands on the
wheel, that was God steering as Old Nashville Highway running straight out of the Bible in my
belt let me drive on. I call this: how to go from zero to sixty in neutral. But let's just put it in third
gear here for Habib and hit the rest stop.

I was there for one reason, to accost the girl who led me down a long and shameful road.
The one who caused me to do time with Tennessee murderer Percy Palmer. With him in mind, I
set out to send off letters to my boys the night before. I sent Percy the key to my West Chester
University Hockey House key. They key to the place where I lived. Cause you see, the whole of
my twenties was spent being told I was a fucking caddie when I was a student. Without the
tuition, minus the parties and minus the bullshit from the STD's I would have had to avoid. But
that's hairpiece material, and I'll leave the herpes where she lies. In her husbands arms, the
fucking cunt who told me “Troy, don't meditate” on August 19, 2001. On September 10, 2001 I
pled not guilty to public intoxication for being aware that something terrible was coming that had
caused me to be silent while I held my meditation that night on MTSU campus. On September
11, 2001 Buddha died in the first tower and so did my dreams of release anytime soon. I was
truly fucking out of my mind. I decided to let them know in the infirmary that even though I pled
not guilty to a misdemeanor or four, I was ready for psyche help and that entailed solitary
confinement in the nicest of environs you can imagine for the next four months.

“Tai Chi...” they called me. But I was holding the forms. You can get the most benefit
from your inability to stretch in a solitary cell when you take your anger out on the guards who
are scared of the death sentence next door. Don't worry about me, though Mom and Dad, as you
told me on the phone while I was in there, “Joel, they care. You have a problem and they want to
help! You did something

WRONG!”

When I got home to run a mink golf club, I was told I was Penn University Law School
material. Of course that was from the same chump who sold me a peyote like mushroom that
caused me to end up in the bad graces of my parental units in the first place. When I was
eighteen, so fugged aboud it. It ain't me, it's the world and the way they view me. Ain't that right
Percy?

“Mr. Palmer is concerned with a thousand dollar question. Just like ROGER he's a crazy
little (eighteen year old) kid. I've got the time if you've got the inclination, so cheer up Palmer,
you'll soon be dead. The noose is hanging, at least you won't die wondering, so cheer up Palmer,
you'll soon be dead.” I used to sing the old Phish Acey Deucey Bag tune to him on the row.
Nashville gave him triple life for the three lives and the thousand dollar question is, Bon jovial...
eighteen and life?

I called him killer. It was “killer this” and “killer that” for the next while, but as his inside
track on being prepared for trial I hope to God. He saved his own life by not flinching from a
white jury after all that bullshit. After all, I was locked up for a misdemeanor I didn't commit.

“Hey Brooks! What'd you do?” cell four asked me one day.

“Broke a car window by accident...” was my response.

Until they shoved their helpful needle in my ass bone so hard that still hurts from it to this
day. As I told the nurse in there before she stabbed me as hard as possible with an anti-psychotic
“I'll fucking kill you bitch!”

Perhaps. Time will tell. Til death do us part? Oh killer, let me count the ways. Soap on a
rope. Soap with some dope. Soap in my mouth. Hung jury soap in my mouth. Needle in my ass
soap box blues and five – oh to count the ways to them cell block two's. And three and four and...

Get on the door, we've got a drug trade and it's cumming in my finger food. Til death do
us part, Mommy and Daddy cause jails institutions and death are all a part of your fucking
treatment plan for me. How bout a good dose of fuck your house doctor? Doctor, doctor give me
the blues, my son's got a bad case of ideas that could be normal but I abused him too much blues.
So fuck you bitches.

Fuck you. Ladybug.

My only friends as the late Kurt Cobain said were in my head. And they brought with
them the chi to fill my cell with ladybugs. Red all over the walls with wings and black dots and
screw this shit, I'm a fucking Tea Kwon Tao. Expert my ass, this shit is Kung motherfucking FU
and jit kwon tao and I am fresh out of a University of Michigan sublet where I fit like a glove
with my graduate student roommates so “HA!”.

Beat my head against the cement wall some more while mom - mommy calls it therapy.
Percy, you have no bail bond, killer. Mine is four hundred dollars. Less than a cup of coffee a day
for life in the slammer. Of course there could have been the option I got delivered to my jail cell
in the mail. Well option one was: pay back my roommate for the ex – tangled up in blue fiancee's
phone bill to her husband in Virginia Beach. The roommate went C.I.A. ,so I took it as a
compliment. Second option was be my own lawyer. If I had known it, I would have declared
Habeus Corpus, but they were too busy giving me therapy to let that happen. But the third and
final of the two options was the one my fag-git D-U-D said was all delusion.

A letter arrived from Texas Justice, the television program. It said that the three thousand
dollar fine I owe now and the years probation would be waived, it was a funny and silly enough
matter for Percy and I to sit at the table and fight it out on the tele. That's right, for the price of a
cup of Starbucks that cunt mam-mam shoved past her dick sucking lips (as she hoped I was
training) I could have been bailed out. And then flown to Houston. And defended myself on
television with my tangled up in glue ex lover, no matter what the verdict: paid and OVER.

“Joel, you're delusional, this conversation is over.” Fag-git news anchors. What do they know?

Better know their son's better than to dump em off at the county lockup for being troubled by a
girl.

But of course, had I never gone through all of this shit, I'd never be as old and
experienced as I am. I barely made it today, and I will continue to take everybody else's personal
inventory until they do mine for me. That's my creed, motto, life, wisdom and cricket. Speaking
of cricket, I miss my old phone number. I could have received countless (and cunt less) untold
phone calls from everyone but people who like to be referred to as family when they are
assholes. Nah, just kidding. They know better. Or they had better know better. Or else they are
going to get a solid dose of my delusional reality coming straight at their motherfucking twenty -
two packing asses. Get some real caliber. I got guns down below you have never dreamed of.

I swam with the phishes that taught me how to trip my way to the infirmary and out the
door. So don't think this means I am sane, this book. This is a lot like the Irish in me saying “you
pull a gun on me and I'll twist your neck in my vice so fast I'll be reading Omerta in the State
Hospital for a quarter of the time the self defense in this book proves I need”

'Course that's just Texas Justice, and if you pull a forty, we are both dead. Cause I'll drink
you under the table, shove the bottle up your ass and shove it in and out at a medium pace. Like
the wooden putter whose grip I ruined before popping the cherry of that young and future heiress
to a billion plus on my California King size non – waveless. Living the dream baby doll, living
the dream.

Crucified again. Speaking of necks and vices, I need to go bum a Newpimp one hundred.
Cause them days got worse than when I was fifteen and told “fuck off you little shit you are
homeless”. Nah,
I'm still just classified (and not by my full blooded C.I.A. Ex roommate) as homeless. The
Gandy

Dancer wouldn't accept my application now, nor The Hotel Schmethlehem, but that is mayhem
neither here nor in the complimentary near four diamond self will run riotous published copy.
Copy? Cat, I think you are just plain nuts, and dog if you ain't, you best be getting the fuck out of
my way, cause I love staties and they love me. We're a happy family. I'll wind up where people
get strapped in not so they don't eat their own hands. I'll do just fine for about a year til they let
me out and I have to come back to a step by step process of novel writing. Novella? Short.
Newpimp.

“It's me myself and I...” the Crue tells me for for the final time in this mornings adventures.

Perhaps the I should move back to the warmer climate, head to the Barrio with my
Cricket, work at the ampitheatre and see free concerts, sell newspapers on Sundays, get a sales
job and fugged aboud it. Or maybe I should go on a rampant free spree of lies and bland truths
that get whipped around like the S&M mistress I need so badly.

“You know, I've lived a few mistakes and I stand by them...”

Til death do us part. Do us part, please vengeance on the grace of the divine mercy of the
Lord I hold on to. Getting held by the system, that enables me to collect the welfare basket. The
ask it all and tell nun who you want in the rooms of a respite bed “fugged aboud it” with
Greyhound traveler's dreams.

It was New Years eve when I should have let Kali go, but Troy still hung the patches from
Phish Tours Summer and Fall in his closet, and she was fucking hot. So I went home, me and my
alias soon to become my new identity. I should have moved in with my Starbucks manager, but
she was too busy lopping off my head and smacking my ass while avoiding getting fucked at the
lab while I was told “Don't marry Kali, she's Robin”. And of course the red face Schwinn riding
miserable Pharmaceutical

Corpse cutting beauty was love at first bite, so being struck by lightning was my natural
relationship.

(from due course of punishment at the hands of my sexual and mental abuse as a child)

Memories I am not supposed to have Mam-mam, but I fucking do. Now sell that to my
editor, Troy. Try and try again to ask myself, did I deserve the abuse, or was it love? Maybe I
should have the church instilled values put in place by not running from one woman to the other
when it is true love. Dumb ass. I will have to put some white out on the screen here, and relate
that one to my therapist cause damnit, I never rode my mam-mam's boyfriend while he fucked
her from behind. She never took off her sweater in front of me to reveal the teets that confused
my pee-pee, that's all in my humble genre stricken imagination.

Fuck yo' genre nigga'. And sue me doctor. Sue me, and the pharmaceutical tech, the
counselor, the therapist and the ring you don't hold over my head step- off D-U-D number five
hundred eighty two

point four since I was three. Ahhh Crickets. And drums. And space. Nah. Just
“crickets...”

Chirp.

Chirp. Chirp!

Chirp, chirp?

Chirp. Chirp, chirp, chirp!

Chirp, chirp, chirp chirp!

Chirp, chirp, chirp, chirp chirp.

Chirp?

Chirp, chirp.

Chirp, chirp, chirp!

Chirp?

Chirp!
Chapter 8:

“What if God was one of us?”

He is, I tell you, God is one of us. He's wandering around Penn Station putting coins in
the pockets of the weary traveler who can't make it to his home on the beach cause he stretched
himself too far trying to caddie at his Philly home course. He is on the Staten Island Ferry at four
am when the Bankers are at home, and my interviews at New York Life don't count, but only
because of my poor hospital stricken credit record. But that's neither here nor at Jamaica
Hospital. That's where I should have left to go into an art loft in NYC “& why, see?”

Because I met an intelligent Jamaican who had a non- jerk chicken for a husband who she
told (before CNN ireport voted me “young people who rock”) I was a young people who rock
who needed a loft at seven “fiddy fo' da mont'”.

I have to say, I should have, but the staff didn't think I was an award winning actor trying
to make in the big “C”, they thought I needed the big “See? Move in with your mam-mam so she
can force feed you OUR drugs and act like the abuse never happened at her hands.”

I took their overpriced advice, much to the dismay of my San Diego compadre who
interviewed me, and well the rest is credit history. Health care sucks. Just remember two things:
don't use drugs and listen to your doctor. Tell your doctor you don't need feel good medication
and listen to your shrink. And when your pee -pee shrinks, it's because “jerk chicken isn't bad,
it's da shi' nigga' wha?!”.

Not and Naughter. Back in Black, I hit that and that at the top floor of a not so flat. Top floor of

the Empire State, capital building but it ain't fate. It's a state motto and I'll say I learned about
“lions and tigers and bears” all day. Nah, just Indian psychiatrists who have a shampoo bottle up
their ass about being beaten intellectually by someone who thought they had talent. I got stopped
at JFK

International airport for kissing the ground goodbye before getting on this plane. That's not just
bi-

polar. That's schizo- affective with psychotic features. So just chill, until the next episode.
Biznatch.

But I'm talking crazy here, and the poetry is probably losing some of you so let me give
you some back ground information. I have wandered off into New York City to leave the
recovery home that is telling me I owe rent. Mam-mam is working together with my boss to keep
me from working hopefully permanently and put me in the hospital for mental illness. And
mental illness is working together with the illest chillest, baddest gas attack that ever was a fact
in the black. Black and red. Bug yet? Me either.
This was after beating number one at eleven, beating number two at twelve and uh oh...

“ass fucking at ten o'clock!”

“Roger capo, we have a bogie”

“Co-ordinates Charlie. Delta. Delta. Delta.”

“Oh fuck!”

“That's what she said.”

Dogfight at Nellis Air Force base where I spent the time after riding a bicycle from the

Tabernacle outside of L.A. All work and no play. Makes Jack and dull toys.

“Bogie, take that boogie out!”

“Eat it!” says the cock pit to mission control.

“Houston, this is gonna be Texas Justice biznitch.”

“Hey Charlie, do you eat boogies?”

“Breakfast, lunch and dinner my six year old freckled monster of death.”

“Eat shit and die...”

That's a kill shot. Nothing but net. Unless you ask my former C.I.A. Trainee roommate
who is also on my credit history. Before the ass fucking, great to eat shit while on sex line phone
calls. That ended my relationship with “Niles”. As roommates, you psycho twisted Air Force
One pilots. I don't know what you'll be doing in your Air Force One, but I'll be snorting Ritalin
and trying desperately to have good sex with the “used to be underage” when I was twenty- one
year old who frequented “Niles”

“Frazier, pipe down,” he'd quip when I was throttling my mojo for the garage crew team
sports: bong icing, Yeungling (Americas Oldest Brewery) and smoking Valuum through cheap
former rocket fuel metal pipes.

But that's just me. And Wilson, King of Crush ya, I lay this shit on you. If you are a fish
head you know what I am talking about. Don't blame me, I'm just sexy and needed more
company than a catholic school girl who didn't understand that all of my friends knew I had just
come back from Mount Trexlor Manor and The Dark Side of the Moon. Of course the
alternative to my wood floored two bedroom on Church St. would have been High Street. It
nearly was at the recovery home D-U(A)-D dropped me off at after blowing $400K in insurance
coverage on my mental plans for winter 1998-99. But in the year two thousand with a couple of
thousand hours of guitar under my belt I could have had it all. Keller Williams, The String
Cheese Incident, my former life, and my respect. No choice, all of the above.

The recovery house Dad dropped me off at was under the elevated Market Frankford
line in Germantown. Gunshots at night. A relapse from the owner with a new gay lover picked
from his plethora of fresh meat members ended the house shortly after I moved out. I had no
choice but to stop the bleeding. But to go back to the insanity? Insanity.

The best part of me is always from them,the parentals, and when I claim otherwise just
ignore the bullshit and realize I'm digging my own grave. I have been digging it for so long, I
could strike up conversation with the U.S. Embassy to Jules Verne at the center of the earth
sometime soon. But that's neither here nor there. It takes more than three licks to get to the center
of a guitarist like I used to be, so maybe that fifth of Southern Comfort coupled with a pint of
Vodka, five beers and some pot wasn't a good idea that season of caddying.

No blame for the game, it's not tame it's just shame I can't claim cause it would drain the
game from my name. And I'm no rook, I'm no pawn, I'm no queen, but I sure as hell want to
marry one.
IN GOD

WE

TRUST (@@@) 392-3000

(@@@) 666-2213
Chapter 9:

OM

This is a story about a young man who was thirty three years old and almost died after getting

clean. It's gonna take a lotta re – OM ing to get this all out, cause it still scares the shiznat outta
me.

And nigga' that is the truth.

I was at an Encinitas Drug Study in California. The study paid for my lab tests to come
later, not. The drug gave me a stable head to leave with, not. The drug study gave me the money
to buy everybody christmas presents and the means to get them to everyone. True. It also gave
me enough for my rent money at the fag riddled, crazy porn star schizo freckled old man
establishment on El Cajon Boulevard. False. I was ready to jump off the meth train and get back
in my sons life and move home to Bethlehem, praying that his gorgeous mother would take me
back. Both true and false. Praying that she had changed. True. Ok, put your pencils down, time
up.

Seven AM Christmas morning. I say goodbye to the people in the study and go out front
to my chauffered ride on the Cloud Nine shuttle to the airport. Serving the greater metropolitan
area with vans and limo's, I had booked and paid down a ride to the San Diego Airport for my
10AM two legged flight to arrive on the East Coast, not, at 8PM December 25th.
My good friend, schizophrenic George of the urban jungle and I said goodbye. Everyone
else was looking at me like I was nuts. Leaving southern California in the dead of winter to a
place where I had no home and no idea what was left for me. But they accepted all of the
presents I had told Jessica were for the kids, and saw me off gratefully. I grabbed my bags of
presents from the wonderful team of associates there at the study, my army bag packed in the
long insomnia the night before and headed wearily into the shuttle.

I was not the first person in the van, and after putting my army duffle into the back,
climbed into the back seat. I had recently mourned the loss of yet another influence in my life.
The life of a writer whom graced the world with wisdom, and my world with an English
classroom in High School.

As we drove in silence through the canyons down the freeway, a little red light on the highway
awaited. Plane trails in the sky formed a beautiful path in the sky that looked to me like a
symbolic highway home. It was tranquil, in the found peace I had created there in San Diego
with my new life. Comfort, and yet knowing that I was leaving to be sure to find that my
California dreaming had time come to become what it was meant to equate to.

I remember this surreal moment as we passed by a mountain there. It was like a zen
painting, the shrubs, the trees, the clouds. All in Christmas morning stillness as I headed for the
Christmas City, and my family on the other end. The tedious nervousness of coming from an
unfullfilled psychiatric study that let me check out finishing the treatment and having to pass
through airport security. Without appearing to be nervous enough to end up in a psyche ward or
being detained and searched. But this was Christmas, this was my son, this was my life.

On the way upward the colors came back. The seat I was given was next to a couple who
were obviously not ready to go and visit her parents. An upper class couple who were together in
this day for the convenience of having a face at the family table. They had the feel of a Seinfeld
episode as they argued over how they should never fly coach ever again. She eventually came to
believe that a power greater than herself could move her away from fidgety me, and
“bemuddled” him by moving.

It took all of my funds available in cash to escape with food in my stomach, water for the
flight, and sunglasses to stare at the country that I needed to cross to pass safely back to where
real life awaited. The son I had worked for so many years in San Diego to bring a life of comfort
to. Not a life riddled with porn star ex- fiancee's and hooker john landlords, but a real one.
Perhaps the hookers john would allow me to bag him for the night, and we would all move on.
Not again. Here we go.

But if it is all worth the while, then the while is worth the wait folks. I am befuddled and
bemuddled myself to say that I was not ready on the way in and out the door. Is that double
tongue or a genre of entendre that is coupled with abrasiveness from style and comfort I had
almost obtained.
Yeah, if only I could start a corporation, I would call it Crack Heads R' Us. Baby food for
them who mix doses and get into fights, and weight trainers for the serious dealers. Food friends
and fellowship, not being the motto of American Airlines prior to the coming delays, I moved on
to the newspaper stand in the Charlotte flight. God was watching, and he wanted me to know that
I looked like death.

I was seated next to a ninety year old ex psyche nurse from St. Luke's Hospital in Bethlehem.

She was the youngest ninety year old I have ever met, and I was hypnotized. When the hop from
Charlotte to ABE was over, I invited her to the foot high club, and when denied entered the
bathroom by myself. The ladies room, then the mens room and finally... what seemed to be 30
second later, I found myself understanding what 30 seconds to Mars means. Finally. She was, not
there. Neither was anyone else on the plane formerly there. I don't know about you, but I think it
takes longer than 30 seconds for a 747 to clear. But I guess it was American Airlines, icy, cold,
and Christmas. Strike that, reverse it. I was A.A., shaky, frozen and festive.

Especially festive was the mood at the empty luggage claim. There was no luggage for
me there. My winter clothing was in the bag, and it was oh, about “oh” out there. Jessica said she
had put Shane down, and that she wasn't interested in seeing me. She said to call my Mom. My
Mom said I don't know where you can go, but I will pay for the cab ride, just wait outside. And
there you have it folks. Have yourself a Merry Little PREDICAMENT. And thus it fucking
began.

“Took the greyhound plane down heart attack and vine with fistful of Mom and crimes.
Sex, whacks, overdose, bitches and bat out of hell from 70 and sunny to 70 below and am I dead
yet?” I said to myself, earning the gleam from passengers also in line for their baggage loss and
found deputy of fucked up the American Airlass department. Lassy, I needed a glassy of some
bubbly and I was dead set on the dead set in front of me. Twat tam aussi, and I am going down
under. That's where the answers all lay. In the here and now. In the there and towing my ass to
the limo to take me on the ride to Dunkin Flownuts.

“May my nuts flow in every direction but one, cause she got herpes from me and the rest of the

Lehigh Valley has it now too so beware...” I thought as I sat down to my cabbies dismay.

He was stoned, drunk and on 14 Vicadin, he cheerfully let me know. I laughed, but he
was serious. He really needed to know about California Medical Marijuana cause he was
thinking about going there for his back trouble. What a wierdo. Watch the language, the wheel,
the road, and we've got that single vision: coffee. I tipped him well from Mommy's purse and ran
around town until I nearly dropped dead. Then I decided that I could stay up all night and not
freak out. Hell, I was a freak. Just be one. I had been through worse, though I couldn't think of
what. Little did I know how much more was to come.
Four months and three days later, I relate to you that I should have listened the first time
to the powers that be in control. Nigga when the bitch says bend over, just admit you have
enjoyed the thought and bend over. And consider it towards the balance. Cause biznatch, it be
cold out dere. I got my 90 days on the street, how 'bout you?

How about the drug counselor I encountered today who told the co-occuring co-facilitator that
pot is ok, cause it is politically correct, then had a good laugh at us? And then laughed at the
Intervention Episode he picked and said “He should have been committed...”
Nein.

How about that Rocky? How about that Adrian? How about that mother fucker.

Welcome to my world where the laughter is deep and apparently the sick thoughts I have

nothing to do

with anything good I have going on. As Jonathan Franzen puts it in The Corrections.. (if I

had the money I could use it)...

“(quotation marks)”

“I'm saying the structure of the entire culture is flawed...” he further adds, “I'm

saying the bureaucracy has arrogated the right to define certain states of mind as

'diseased'. A lack of desire to spend money becomes a symptom of disease that requires

expensive medication. Which medication then destroys the libido, in other words destroys

the appetite for the one pleasure in life that's free, which means the person has to spend

money on compensatory pleasures. The very definition of mental 'health' is the ability to

participate in the consumer economy. When you buy into therapy, you're buying into

buying. And I'm saying that I personally am losing the battle with a commercialized,

medicalized, totalitarian modernity right this instant.”
Do you buy that? Do I buy that? Can I buy that? Should I buy that? And that too.

And that toothpaste, motherfucker. And that toothpaste has Herpes written all over it. Of

course that's cause I ate Kali on the windowsill of the Holiday Inn, living in sin. But Punkin

Patches, that dick biting bitch got me back in the morning weeks before the infection

became genital. For her, not me. Mine became a non-symptom causing genital just over a

few weeks later. But that 's just too much information. Be mine, St. Valentine's Day. It's just

a fucking massacre waiting to happen, cause cuz, you ain't kicking, and I ain't lickin, so

keep on drippin. Fuck yo' baggage.

Chapter 10:

The Halfway House

Times New Roman 12 point:

DOUBLE SPACED

Let's start from the very beginning. From the attic of the Oxford House here in the

Christmas City that held me hostage in front of a screen in 2005 where I wrote up the

following:

“To die will be an awfully big adventure.”

–Sir James M. Barrie, Peter Pan, act III, final sentence.

“Bullfight critics row on row

Crowd the vast arena full

But only one man’s there who knows

And he’s the man who fights the bull.”
- Unknown

For as long as I can remember, I have been addicted. Addicted to money, to sex, addicted
to anything I could get my hands on. That is one of the teachings of the Buddha, letting go of
ones desires. We are all guilty of it. Even saints and martyrs have to avoid the pitfalls of falling
into their own selflessness too far.

The primary focus of my addiction since my father died at age three has been with a concept.

That is the concept that we are never really taken out of the loop, that we don’t die, our spirits

live on. I am forever chasing down exactly what consciousness my father found in death. I

suppose it as simple as just wanting to be able to ask advice like other kids fathers, but don’t tell

my ego that.

For years I really wanted to escape. Once I sat down and tried to
explain the need for altered states. It read as follows.

“I want to get high as high can get. I want to take the dose, eat the dope, sniff the coke,
and drink the drink into the wild death thrill of it all. I want to watch the show become neither
nor the tainting of the jest. I want to leave it all alone. I want to eat the drink of the flesh of life,
and taste the seams as they burst uptight.”

“OK computer? I want to get high as high can get, seize the
misery seething and seeming at its seams down to the might it
wields. I want to cry out the fame of the dance the flame will
extinguish, want to extinguish it now in a fiery mountaintop. A
mountaintop of swooshing lies in nitrous dreams that cloud the fog
of morning still in the show I sing to and choke.” “I want to choke on
the blood of the lamb that boils in the sizzling bloody end of cells
and centers of nerves that lay dead in their frail brittle Swiss lobes of
my cheesed once brilliant knowing mind. A mind that is reduced to
papers I don’t have. People I never owned who owned me became
their slave in retreat. In resentments spiteful glare I will smile the last
gleam of the glittering past into the birth of my own death and the
tearing sadness that will engulf. The sadness that is tears out the hole
by creating the new ones which will only sadly enough never know
itself.”
It was after writing this I asked God to accept, believe, and take from me this, and to
replace it with serenity. Now I offer myself to thee as I did on the altar of that St. Francis

Friary floor stuck between sitting and standing as we kind of are here on Earth with relation to

God. I offer myself to thee to purposefully examine where I strayed from the path, and where the

path is leading.

I was born in the small Central Pennsylvania town of Altoona, in Mercy Hospital at about
one in the afternoon. My name was Joel Edward Ayers then, after my now deceased biological
father, John

Richard Ayers. I still see and talk to my sister. I’ll leave her name out of it. I owe her that much.

She is a beautiful woman with a beautiful family who live just outside of Los Angeles,
California.

My mom was almost two years married when I was born. She was eighteen, Richard
forty - nine. My father died of lung cancer that was tragically unprovoked by smoking behaviors
when I was age three.

He had met my mom through my now half sister, who is a year older than my Mom, and
fell in love with the dark haired country raised Christian that she was. She was from a very poor
family that believed and behaved to almost Mennonite conservatism. My mother, she tells to this
day the stories of having an outhouse, of milking the Amish cows, not having television and
having to wear dresses and hair long until marriage age. My father and she were happy, she
consoles me. They used to go bike riding to NYC, vacationed in Hawaii and Disneyworld, and
had an all around wonderful home life.

She once told of how her life was so unaccustomed to the modern day amenities; she
used to cry over all kinds of stuff on television. Bonanza comes to mind. I have vague memories
of those days.

I have haunting ones of his funeral, one I was not at.

I do however remember Altoona, the town of my birth well. Shortly after his death, my
mother was forced into bankruptcy, losing the small country grocery store and house that she and
my father had owned. Life alone with Mom revolved around my schooling, which I took up at an
early age. My mother taught piano when I was young, and my curiosity for music was among the
first of my attempts to read anything. I taught myself to read at age five, and was very proficient,
surprisingly so. By the first grade, I was numbered and tagged the elite class of “gifted students”.
It was a small classroom consisting of just eleven of us who attended the first six grades of
school together alone.

Altoona is a small blue collar town in central Pennsylvania. Often people look at me with
astonishment when on rare occasion I say I am from Altoona, remarking “nobody is FROM
Altoona”. I suppose it is the kind of small town that teaches kids to dream of somewhere bigger,
lest they be suffocated by small town - itis. To this day I get a sense of warm simple ness of life
when

I think of Altoona.

The closest fast paced place is State College, the home of Joe Pats Nittany Lions and
Penn State main campus. The whole area is smashingly beautiful, really. Especially in the fall
when the leaves change color. The surrounding Allegheny Mountains create a kind of natural
wall around the area comparable to the way in which Colorado opens up in places. The
mountains are considerably smaller, however. The only natural disasters around are floods and
the occasional sinkholes. Both of these can engulf an entire home with quite deadly results.
There are quite a few photo disaster collections on the nearby Johnstown flood.

I remember distinctly the year of the locusts coming, when the whole town to my little
ears sounded a little like a band of tambourine playing gypsies. Everywhere rattling and
humming their tune put me to boyhood wandering.

At four I lived with Mom after my Dads death in an apartment complex near to her sister.
She had lived with her during high school days and my grandmothers’ illness. That was Roaring
Springs,

PA where the paper mill constantly emits the stench of its works like a fart hung mid breeze all
day. The apartment was the life for me, and of it all I can remember is Star Wars, Fraggle Rock,
and beginning my boyhood curiosities..

At age five we had moved to a new apartment, now in Altoona. Hench Bros apartments, a
community of twenty or so one - level apartment buildings that housed many families. It was a
community of children with whom I had happy playtime for the first time ever.

I became very close to my mother in those days. They say finding a mate is very much so
replacing ones mother role in their life. Perhaps this is why I am so picky about it. I have a great
attraction to my mother in many ways. A woman of simple beauty and simple traditional values,
I have to admit she is what I am looking for. Psychiatrists love to push my Freudian buttons.

Sexuality is a process of examining ourselves during which we are relying on someone
completely separate from ourselves. It is an ecstatic dance to develop experience wisdom
through. I called my girlfriend, Kali, “Mom” during sex for the length we were engaged. As if it
wasn’t bad enough her being a psyche major, she needed to deal with that thought too. People
say some pretty fucked up things during sex.

I heard it stated by a brilliant man who was my roommate once about our instinctual
conclusions in not marrying into our own family. He stated we see the effect when genetic
offspring have too closely related genes, and avoid it. The existence of our species should rightly
so conclude that for our own survival we take on partners who are not the sisters who we may
find attractive in every way.

While I’m on the topic of sick things, let’s smoke. Growing up my adopted news anchor
father smoked Salem cigarettes. Me, I’m a Newport guy. I travel; he goes on media witch hunts.
Those cigarettes created a twenty year witch hunt of their own in regards to hiding my underage
smoking. I smoked my first butt out of my soon – to – be fathers ash tray left full on the coffee
table at age ten.

One of several thousand snipes I would smoke over my career. A “snipe” for those of you
who aren’t Vietnam Veteran savvy, is a butt you find, bend over, and pick up. I learned this from
the many homeless vets I hung around with years later. I suppose this referred to bending over to
pick up a cigarette butt and getting missed by a sniper bullet. The irony put a nail in the coffin.
Maybe it was about finding the sniper by his telltale butts at the base of the tree or roof perch
where he hid for hours at a time.

Later that year, my mother remarried and I was adopted to have the new family name.
That was the same year my younger brother was born. My adopted father was fired from his job
as a local television news anchor for skipping work to use work editing machines in completion
of a side – job promotional video. After a few months as a car salesman, he found a new job on
news radio in Philadelphia and we were forced to move. My life in Coatesville was the end of
the honeymoon so to speak for my parents.

The new school I had to attend was corroded in both structure as well as students. We
could barely afford it, and my new Dad worked hours of overtime to get us more than the simple
basics in life. He was never around, and I took to my new little brother with love to fill the time
apart from him.

He was the cutest, shyest innocent little red head you could ever meet. We must have watched
the same Sharon Lois and Brams Elephant show we had on VHS tape over a thousand times,
singing along. He was truly the little brother I had always wanted. To this day, I miss those days
when we had nothing but time and laughter for each other. Still I was, however, hundreds of
miles from my youth, and its years of friendships. My Dad, he had this funny way of being, and
he treated catching me at something I was not allowed to do with amusement. He used to call it
getting “cold busted”.
Whenever I got cold busted at something, he would laugh and tell me I was in trouble.
Then he would grab the hair on the back of my neck and yank up, telling me to “walk like a
chicken,” while he mocked me. He was full of subtleties that made him a character, and I loved
him for it. He used to make up wild new stories for me to laugh at and then narrate them in his
best news anchor voice at the table. You know, just the kind of stuff that eleven year olds eat up,
crack up over. He was not entirely used to the idea of giving up TV news however, and this move
turned out not to be the last of our moves. I spent grades seven through nine living outside of
Albany, New York.

It was here I joined my first band. We were a Led Zeppelin cover group, and I was the
keyboardist. Never really got too far. Snowboarding was a monthly event at one of the big
mountains in Vermont or upstate. My friends rode dirt bikes in the miles of wooded trails we had
at the end of our neighborhood. I used to walk my Husky/Shepard mix in every day down those
trails. Those woods are now a school and a development. In the eighth grade I received my first
“B” in a subject, and I was grounded for an entire semester with the exception of walking my
dog. It was there that I began to experience physical abuse from my father. It wasn’t like I didn’t
have the things I wanted, or was ignored. There was no sibling rivalry to speak of. He simply felt
the need at times to attack me when he felt I was unappreciative. These beatings left scars that
festered for years after I left home. To this day I sit and worry sometimes over the loss of depth
in our friendship. On the brighter side of things, it is a relationship which has endured even
through his divorce of my biological mother.

We moved from Albany to Newtown Square my sophomore year of High School. I was
into football, so Mom and Dad had me moved there early to get on the squad. I went to the
Square for football camp early on, while my family moved our stuff into the new house on Lewis
Road. “Camp Paradise" was a grueling camp in the country that the team went to in order to up
our physical endurance for the season. The football team met for two weeks of the summer at the
High School before going away. Four hour sessions at the school. I attended those , and then
went on to camp where I quickly made friends with a guy who was to prove to be a good buddy
of mine.

I loved the smell of the grass, the dirt that flies from your cleats as you pursue another
man with hunter’s instinct. I loved the contact, loved hitting them as much as being the victim of
a good tackle. I remember being hit so hard I flipped a few times. There is nothing like it to take
the fight out of a news anchor brat. My friend and I bunked in the same cabin with the seniors.,
They were on the other side, and for some reason admired me. Atleast they did not find any
particular reason to pick me out as a troublemaker. I was fast as lightning. Every morning in the
damp dew at 5:30 AM we were called out by whistle to stretch and run a two mile run with the
quarterback coach, a QB himself at Villanova. We called him "the rabbit" and anyone who could
beat the rabbit was told they could sit out of the next days two mile run. It was an uneven run
that ended in a 200 yard mountain like ascent sprint to the finish, yet I managed to beat the rabbit
twice that week, clocking a time of twelve minutes and twenty seconds or so.
I guess I was suppose to assume a role of team leadership of some sort at that point,
however, I didn’t. I used the freedom to sleep in until six AM, unlike the team captain, who ran
for breaking records from his starting wide out spot that season, and ran on his earned day off
wins.

There was a kid in my cabin who had some kind of inhuman flexibility in his back. He
turned out to be the tortured carnie of our amusement at camp that summer. The man could suck
his own penis. At least we assume so, as he never took down his shorts. I still envy him.

I was a horrible wide receiver. It was disappointing after having been a great Pop Warner
defensive nose guard. I had been breaking heads being the biggest guy on the team at 140
pounds. Pee wee days were over, and I think I was a little too small to handle our offensive
guards who weighed in around three hundred. I couldn’t handle open field tackling, I was a grunt
guy, who loved the hurt yourself mentality, the all out rush of swim moving the big guys and
taking out the QB or running back in the backfield. To this day, I wonder with my speed and
agility had I insisted on being a defensive end in high school years would I have had more
success and gone on to play college ball.

High School began, and I was the new guy sort object of curiosity naturally to every girl
in the school. Decent looking kid with enough poise and grace for dignified existence within any
of the school clicks, I got all the attention I needed. I was in Honors English, and soon thereafter
in the spring of the year had acquired a taste for a girl.

In the winter of my sophomore year, the band director caught wind that I had played
trumpet most of my life, and came to recruit me. He said that he could make it so that I would
not be interfered with in my athletics. I went to his office that week to try out, and when I popped
a perfect double

high "G" for him, his eyes bulged, and he wet his pants and begged me for oral. No, actually
just to come on board for concert band. Although by the juvenile chiding he took from band
members, it may have been the oral. The following week I was debuting as the second in line
first chair trumpet player, behind a senior.

I played lacrosse, another of my favorite sports that I had picked up in its home territory up in

NY. The coach was a cool guy who had played professionally for the Philadelphia Wings, and
owned Harley Davidson Motorcycle shops. He used to take the team on away trips paid for by
him to play other states all star teams. We were a good team. My stick handling skills were
about the same spot as my wide receiver hands though, and I was usually wiping my ass after
dropping the ball on a good pass. This kept me dancing on and off the second string of the
varsity team. I had to get used to the notion of offense. Most things in my life in which I had
scored had fallen into me. Even the girlfriend I got that year practically was forced to hang her
bra in my locker to keep my attention.
Before our spring trip that year, I had gotten it in for one kid at school. A wiry red headed
animated and obnoxious character, he had a knack for getting to me. He hung around with the
members of a group of kids who called themselves "the ramas" who were famed for having the
earliest known parties in the school.

One morning before home room, I decided to hit him by surprise, dry gulch him. That
would take care of him with one shot, like my old rival from eighth grade. He had called me a
fruit cake in eighth grade French and I had bloodied his nose with one good shot. This time it
didn’t work. In the movie I had watched the night before, the kids Dad had taught him how to
“dry gulch” his old man by whacking him in the neck. My target, however slid off of the punch
and grabbed me by the collar, pulling my head under for a few shots in the hallway. I had missed
the Adams apple. It was decided that we would have to fight after school. The rest of that day,
people followed us around everywhere, rallying it like it was “Four O Clock High” or
something. I knew I was locked in. The whole school knew. We sat across from each other at the
lunchroom table, both affording not a glance, uneasy about either relinquishing his spot at out
usual table. People dropped by and began to place bets. My football friend followed me around
between classes, grabbing my wrist to raise it up in the hall from time to time and proclaim
loudly "2:50 PM LOWERFIELDS CHAMP!!!! CHAMP!!!"

This guy I was to fight was a tennis player. I was expected to beat him. Everyone else on
the football team did too. All but the rama lama ding dongs. Tenth period came, and I was out of
there. My friend, one of the first of my friends to have a car, got us out of class and into his Jeep
early to park beside the lower sports fields where the fight was to be held. We had our fast
getaway. It was early

March, and the fields were a mess of melting ice puddles, a spring nip in the afternoon air.

There I stood, about a hundred yards from the back entrance and parking lot of the school
as the bell rang to announce the end of another day. The back doors opened, and people began to
come out. Not one of them turned to go to the bus, or to their cars. Suddenly I saw an army of
students a few hundred strong coming one by one toward me.

My pulse quickened, I grew sweaty and clammy seeing the crowd the size of a night
football game approaching. I desperately looked for the guy, my opposition, hoping not to be
taken by surprise. The thought that he would show up with help dawned on me, and I began to
take solace in my own reputation and the fact that so many were coming, Then I saw them, the
“ramas”, with my opponent striding forward in the center of their circle of about a dozen,
quickly approaching. My friend turned to me, and in his fear, said... "shit, the principle is going
to notice all of these people, I gotta go move the jeep...." and ran off in my final moments of
quiet discord.

At the time, I thought he was a coward, and resented him for it. I was finding solace not
fifteen minutes later in his warm Jeep, and was definitely not sore. At least not emotionally like
from one of my so called friends, who stayed there talking open aired comments like Don King.
He was seeing everyone and knowing his promotion now had to be aired equally, regardless that
my win would payoff for him.

The opposition reached the field and passed the gate. His eyes set sight on me, and he
began to calmly unbutton his shirt sleeves to roll them up. I saw the expression on his face, he
was nervous. It should have made things better, but instead I realized that neither one of us
wanted this, yet we both would lose if it wasn't done. My vision grew bright with this outrage. I
decide to swing first rather than face the taunting I knew would come from his friends in getting
us started about backing out. Better to avoid the juvenile taunting, and save precious time in
which we could get caught.

He got to where I had unknowingly in my silent distraught state had stood myself right
next to a melting puddle of ice. He said "ok let’s get it over with. I hope we don’t get caught."

I pretended he had said nothing.

He heated up immediately "so you wanna f...."

I hit him with what should have been a well thrown right hook. The hit never landed
as at the point of contact, my toe reached the puddle of slush to my right, and it turned out to
be ice. I landed chest first with all of my weight thrown into the mud. Humiliating. I looked
up, straight into an oncoming jab, his face twisted with a grin of satisfaction reading "that was
too easy..."

Then he grabbed the back of my shirt and hit me in the back of the head a few times. I
remember the pounding numb crack as it hit me in the skull, not really hurting, but remembering
from being beaten by my father as a kid that it would later swell into bruised lumps. My face got
hot red. I was embarrassed. That was unexpected. There were good looking girls out there.

I swung back with an unsure left thinking I could catch him off guard with my off hand. It
was so slow, he ducked and it missed, laughingly throwing a jab left of his own that landed.
Obviously the tennis pro had had some fights before this he had more experience. I had no
choice. I hit him with a flying tackle, right in the ribs. As it hit I heard a solid crunch, one of his
ribs went under the strain as my solid experienced shoulder pressed him into the ground. With no
pads on, I hadn’t expected the hardness of my own bones to do this.

"Fuck," he yelled and then to cover his own pain "it’s muddy"

I hit him a few times in the face while he was down, and then it began, a circle was
forming around us to watch. We could no longer see or hear above the shouting as the crowd
swarmed back and forth leaving a safe distance so they could not get involved, yet visibly
intently gaze on our two intertwining lefts and rights.
I felt good about this move, and got up by pushing into his collar bone, he threw his first
tennis player instinct, wildly striking my right wrist with an open palmed forehand. Then it
happened. I began to back into the crowd, using them as the ring ropes. As began to get my
confidence to approach, I took my balance step backward. I should have seen the eyes light up,
the ramas pushing forward in the crowd, making eye contact with a nod, but I was on now,
nothing could stop me. Nothing but an extended foot of my own offensive lineman teammate in
midstride to trip me as my opponent was sprinting forward with a hard downward thrown right. I
remember hearing the crowd yell with awe, the punks driving for more, some of the girls in
disgust. It had had broken my nose, a bridge which still bears the little chip of his knuckle to this
day.

He hit me in the front of the face in a few random spot, luckily missing my eyes

completely. One of my team captains helped me up, and I went at him again, hearing a girl in

the crowd say "stop, he’s hurt..."

I went at him again, and this was a fair fight now. We were both hurt, he was feeling his
rib, and I was too numbed with adrenaline now to stop. We wearily exchanged shots in what
seemed slow motion until it seemed we would beat each other until one passed out. This went on
for about two minutes, when someone yelled that the principle was coming.

I had never seen a crowd disappear so fast. It was pandemonium, and I realized with that many

in number, someone would rat. I think it was Jeep boy himself who grabbed me and pulled me
away, emerging from the crowd, looking at me with a wince. We made it away ahead of the
crowd, me with natural speed, Jeep boy worried about getting grounded.

In the warmth of his car, Jeep boy announced, "damn, Joel , you got your ASS beat..." he
turned the rear view mirror as he hit the clutch to start the Jeep, so that I could see. My whole
face was swollen, its usual jagged jawline indiscernible, and blood streamed from my face all the
way to my jeans.

”Here", he tossed a towel at me..."are you ok, don’t TELL ME you
have to go to the HOSPITAL or my Mom will KILL me..."

"why?” I asked.

"Look at your FACE, BROOKS... you GOT WRECKED, I MEAN

WRECKED!!"

”No, just get out of here..."
"Ok, hold on..." and off he spun the Jeep down the empty street.

I remember my first addiction use like it was yesterday. My father, seeing my need for
direction had acquired me a job at the local private golf club by talking to the head pro. It was a
course steeped in wealth and notoriety, and I would get paid much better than my previous days
single bagging in upstate New York. I had a profound sense of respect for the game, having
attended a few pro- ams with my adoptive Dad in Altoona. To this day, I have a picture of me on
the cart with Rocco Mediate at age ten.

It was the summer between my sophomore year and my junior year. It was a whole new
game at this club. The caddy shack was the original clubhouse from the late eighteen hundreds. It
housed all of the caddies waiting to go out on their “loops” or rounds of golf. They all played
cards, drank and smoked a variety of different things while waiting to earn their hundred bucks.

The Caddymaster was a short, fat, red faced jabbering little man who commanded
respect from his wallet. His son was a caddy at the club, notorious for things you would not
think of in a caddymasters son. I remember it clearly, I arrived on the job my third or fourth day,
and for the first time, the caddymaster told me to “go below” to the caddyshack hidden in the
woods off the corner of the first tee. I walked down the stone path slowly, not knowing what to
expect. Three hours later, I was still sitting here on the bench when it happened. A man walked
up to me and said “here,” offering me a small metal pipe. I was too hot and nervous about fitting
into this environment to say no. I too the pipe and lighter, lit it and inhaled. Needless to say, five
minutes later I was so thoroughly stoned; even the stone wall leading to the member’s parking
lot would not stay still. I lay down on the bench, and told the guys when the caddy master
announced my name, to tell him via the intercom, that I had escaped out the back door and gone
home.

I lay down and slept on the bench of the “shack” and decided that this was too fascinating
to pass up, but my tolerance needed to be much higher. This was also the summer of my first
Phish show. Late one afternoon, a friend whose parents were members of the club let me in on
something. I remember it crystal clearly. The man later was to be one of my most steadfast
friends even through my hardest years. He was later my bassist, guitar player, vocalist and
keyboardist in various bands. This day William turned to me and addressed me for the first time.

“Hey Joel, you going to the Phish show? You should! Yeah, Man, hehe, tonight at the
Mann, hehe… You going? Alright! I’ll see you there!” He made me feel special in that moment,
his eyes gleaming as if I had just been let into some special circle without being given choice. It
felt right, it felt nothing but good, and I determined right there to find my way to the Mann
Music Center that night.

It was magical, an instant love in my life. My girlfriend and I stood in the crowd that night,
through Suzie Greenberg sarcasm, vacuum cleaner solo madness, through Gamehenge tales,
Sparkle and riff’s that seemed to light from inside of the crowd themselves. We owned no
seats, dancing straight to the front row and knowing no hostility from any crowd member.
For me, it was something bigger, something that would lead the events in my life through an
expanding sense of the creative aspects of living. This was the show, just my type of circus
come to town.

The summer ended and the school year came back in. I remembered to be a football
player, and a band member, a student and now added a writer and pivotal member of the drama
club. I was deftly rounding off all of the avenues and shining in all of them. Yet I was still
unsatisfied. It was the last night of the winter play at the school. I left early, telling my parents I
would be sleeping out, and that I had to be going to the school to help out. Several of my fiends
and I hopped in to another’s pickup and drove to a spot I did not know. There we bought what
was to be my first acid drop. I had about four plain blotters in foil shoved in pack of gum to hide
it. I was astonished, this was what we had read about in health class so often? This tiny piece of
ordinary art paper to be swallowed?

Late that night as the curtains fell and rose again for the cast call, I dropped the whole
strip into my mouth. There was nothing at first. Then there was the crowd of people outside of
the auditorium, visiting with cast members. There was to be set deconstruction party until the
wee hours this night. I had planned to sleep at a friend’s house, and my girlfriend was going too.
That was not too good, as she was anti – alcohol and drugs. Then it happened. The air before me
shimmered like a wave from my very soul passing outward in its glow before my eyes. Then air
rippled like waters in which my pebble of existence had been tossed, its energy meeting the other
waves and passing through them endlessly. I left behind the crowd and reentered the stage area.
It was enormous; it suddenly seemed to have the dimensions of a football stadium. A friend
passed by and said hello, his arm visibly attached by some liquid form to the wall as if being
viewed from some kind of twisted mirror as the wall rippled like another wave.

The tile of the floor became swirling patterns and ever changing fractal patterns ever
evolving as the notion of time itself slipped from my grasp. What must have been hours of
visions later, I reentered the auditorium from the rear. I was astonished to look up and see a giant
lion cub leaping toward me, hyenas howling in pursuit. Awe struck me and the world was truly a
wonder. Of course, it was the showing of “The Lion King” we had been promised on the big
screen digital audio of our school auditorium.

For me it seemed the circle of life had really found me I felt at last. In retrospect I realize
that I should have lost my virginity that night. I was too busy staring with completed dilated
pupils into the dark night. The sidewalk on the way to my friend’s house seemed to be a
conveyor belt and the world around a two walls of pictures in my peripheral vision. My
girlfriend went to bed with me that night. We messed around for awhile but that was all. I stared
at my private Northern Lights beyond my friends borrowed bedroom window, and she soon fell
asleep on me. It seemed to me that I watched the sun rise in time lapse photography.
It was also the first evidence of permanent damage on my brain. As I stood in the
downstairs bathroom of my friend’s house, the wallpaper opened to reveal a giant eye, peering at
me from the wall.

“I am the eye of the world,” it announced and quickly vanished. It is a well known fact that
schizophrenics cling to the simple imagery of the human eye. Perhaps it is because in that state,
all you can cling to is the validity of the organ itself showing you worth from inside. Maybe it is
because we all in some way truly love our self bought illusions.

A year passed, and a new play had come to dress rehearsal time with me holding down
the lead. It was one of several that led me to national recognition in acting that year. I had
achieved a remarkable status in my senior class, for someone who cut school more often than
not. My Hollywood drug painted delusions told me it was time to trip again. There I was
bleeding openly from the ears. They were at the table down below the floor I was on. The floor
shifted its microdot gaze at me from the crystal sun of a lamp that hung over the distortion that
once was a face. I was shaving off the hair of my juvenile beard growth. Where was the face in
the wall that held the mirror from my eyes? They saw only themselves

in the Dad vibe resonating from the dining room below.

This person who saw me in the mirror was the same being, getting ready to go to drive his

Mercedes to the school for the final night of play dress rehearsal.

I thought of the keys, and sweated out the pores that no longer held the eyes now crystal
clear. I feared them to be bloodshot seeing they now dripped in to arouse the nose of the Dad just
rooms away from me. It seemed an eternity had passed as I felt the internal Mom check on me in
my head. The mirror filled the light that seemed to peel flesh from my quivering hand stroking
its cheek. I now remembered the utensil was an infinitely sharp razor that made the cheek smile
into its bite as I shook off the feces that would not exit. The slime seemed to emanate from all of
my pores.

I feared it now spreading over my numb body as I tried to hold it still from the psycho
tropical mythological labyrinth of fascinating love it emanated to my brain. That filled me from
the girl who had brought the trouble to a head, my co – lead in the play. I was staring at the
tornado lamp that held my life in the bedroom above the stolen street sign “sharp curve ahead” I
had found. The sign itself was from the hippy who had once owned our old house. I remembered
how he spoke of the guitars he had sold to Led Zeppelins old player. Like Keith Richards he was,
the face now older than fifty from its eighteen years staring back at me in the mirror. It bled, and
I panicked thinking the razor had ripped my face to pieces as I could not see it. Suddenly all I
was staring at was a blank mirror, I panicked again. Finally the face of a pale white ghost
appeared. I realized it was my own uninjured not bleeding face with bulging panic struck eyes.
It seemed silly and yet guilty beyond all guilt of something the neighbors would know.
When I went back out to the cold spring fresh rain air outside they could see. When I got into
the car I thought they would know. I could not see the driveway from the window that stared
out at the fresh snow now mostly melted off of the lawn next to the mirror. Looking into the
backyard could hide me smoking pot at night, but it couldn’t hide that I was a hollow bamboo.

Damn it all, I was a hollow bamboo, and how dare these visions terrorize me in my high
state. I nearly passed out onto the cold cement of the back porch while the memory of my dog
absentmindedly licked the hand that could barely feel her grizzly tongue that somehow had
survived my seared off flesh.

“Where the hell did that come from?”

I was dragging her around by the choke chain, her tongues swollen redness showing its

full foot and a half in her eternal gag. It lasted to my amusement for a full ten seconds after I let

her put her feet on the ground.

Releasing the choke hold of the cold steel chain that bound her by my pet ownership tag,
she would gag and teary eyed ask me why, why would I do this. I smiled knowing how I had
done the same in my childhood to myself. I had done it with the belts at age six over my
deceased father who would never whip me with them.

Sometimes for hours at a time I would stare at the belt and the wrap it onto my neck.

Connecting the leather and cold steel and pulling until I got that high where the world seemed so
very far away as it had that day they told me I had the walking pneumonia. When I was a child, I
had a fleeting glimpse out of the corner of my eye. The fever had run high and the medications
created in me that pale face of worry less numbness. My mother reflected my face so well in the
mirror what it was probably now reflecting across from that fat republican guy next to her at the
dinner table.

I heard him in my head asking with his red face that she pass the salt, the smell of his
stale cigar smoke and the grass stain from the golf course where he spent all of my social
security money. He was holding his flesh eating grin as he salted the bloody mass he would
gorge like a vampire. I saw my own fangs drooping in the mirror. He did so knowing he bought
me back into the house to trip now. Now it seemed all right, all so right the frying feeling in my
head made an audible popping noise that seemed to come from my brain. It hit my ears as the
lights around me changed into a whirling mass.

The LSD had so this afternoon turned the pale grey carpet of my co –lead and the drama
club administrative assistant of sorts into a Persian carpet with grinning spirals and interwoven
seams of tantric and Mandelbrot mandalas. His Mom kept coming and offering me pizza, and I
couldn’t stand to get up to her holding the paper plate. The visions persisted and it seemed
would forever weave his family’s faces into it.

We were working on the playbill for about two and a half hours. His computer screen
had seemed to jut out of the side of my head as it interpreted his cutting and pasting of the
donations to our school play. It was “the biggest school play program ever ...” he told me as I
watched with a grin the world of which I could now not seem to understand any of. He was a
mad genius, like me, but that too was madness. He was going to turn me into the police with an
e – mail while making the program; I knew he knew who I was. He sucked it in all of his
piggish glory… playing that same game over and over. His face turned to me and he asked if I
ate pork.

“WHAT!!” my brain practically exploded from my skull.”

Was he suggesting that I was a pig? Damned reverse psychology. Did he have CIA
connects? Was he going to tell them I was really just a loon? I imagined chewing on a
patrolman’s arm as he came to take me away, ha, ha. “Its pepperoni pizza, man. I thought you
were Jewish?” he responded coldly.

He shrugged his shoulders and closed the chat box window, coining a phrase he was to
use for me the rest of the year through “I don’t know about you, Brooks.”

Then he laughed, and I knew that he was seeing it all too. The wall dripped onto his head
from the corner by the ceiling, and I reached up to brush it off. He shook my hand and said “I
love you too”. Damn this game he played with his all knowing illusory political shyness. He had
thought I was giving him a skullcap maybe. His sly political humor I supposed helped him to
survive the irony of me every time he took charge of my cut and paste decision. He would only
claim partial credit for it I knew as he completed the whole program.

Maybe it would end here and now and he would die from the acid that was obviously in
the pizza. In fact my soda seemed to be the only thing around that wasn’t getting me higher.

“Aha!” I remembered that his father was a doctor, and realized I was in a safe house if I decided

to give in and croak after all here.

I remembered all of this while trying to swathe the next stripe of hair from the barely
pepper spotted youthful chin that did now hold a hairline fracture on it for me to gaze at for
the next twenty minutes. It seemed twenty had passed in my daydream and would now surely
alert my mother of the frailty of my condition. I wondered if I was all right and felt the
memory of the dealer in my mind.
That sunny California stranger had called it “the best Sunshine Daydream you could get”
while standing next to me on the schools back stairs. I had tucked the two huge tabs about two
centimeters in width and a full four in length straight into my mouth and danced chewing it back
to my friends there on the back of the school steps the dealer half jogged away. The people were
flooding from the now erupting clang of the High School back doors.

I chewed and stared at the girl, the girl there with my friends who so adamantly was
trying to “say no” to the alcoholism that killed her father. I felt it had made her so feeble. I felt it
was only her mother’s laziness and inability to deal with her own reality. It was all over and only
money caused her to hang on. I had blushed as she ran over quoting that seventies show “The
Monkees” and dancing toward me as they do in the opening theme, doing a kick line step
shoulder to shoulder. She was with people who would later be no one but the voices in my head.
I was clenching my jaw from the acid bitterness.

I resolved to finish shaving and a voice from down the hall came. My mother yelled out
“Joel, you had better hurry up or you are going to be late!!”

I yelled back… “I’m alright.”

She said very quietly from just outside the door “Joel I’m right here.”

Then the voice went away and I was left there wondering if any of it had actually
happened at all or if I was just the victim of my own hallucinating mind. I dried my face with the
fluffy bath towel I now eyed suspect to pubic hair. I searched the towel for blood and gagged,
finding none. The gloomy corners of my mind imagined my adopted father had probably used
this to wipe his hands off after pissing or something and had not washed them. I was thinking in
snide comments filled with waves of numbness in my temporal lobe. From his adjacent presence
in my conscious he would probably call me an ungrateful retch or a rat.

Even worse a “shitheel” as he had before kicking me out one day. I had left with my
friends for the beach on a vacation I had planned. Having not mowed the lawn for him and only
paying him one hundred of the two hundred I owed him, he smashed my stereo to pieces against
the wall of my room lest it blare “fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” ever again. I
ascertained the keys from my father.

Grinning a sincere grin, he turned from his bloody plate and said “good luck!”

I was going to need it more than he knew. Turning the key, the old Mercedes shook to life
its dim diesel shake and I switched the radio on. The vehicle lunged forward, and it seemed to
my astonishment the yellow line on the road flowed with me as I drove rather than holding its
place.

Time stood still as I waited on the one red light that stood between me and the open road to the
school. I stared at it so hard the car in front of me disappeared, and its red laser shot straight into
the seat next to me. I hoped I would not fry into nothing and forget to hit the gas when it turned
green, if I could tell it was green. I reminded myself that green was on the bottom. I could feel a
patrol car staring at me from the corner gas station. I was extremely paranoid and relieved by
the time the car rolled to a stop in front of the school two minutes later. I jested that it was due
to my favorite eighties rock number “Cult of Personality” had played as I had escaped the red
light.

Somehow I not only survived the night, but landed the real life role of the boyfriend of
my co – lead “Deanie” in “Splendor In The Grass.” We were a splendor of grass alright. I got
through tripping up my off night cast dress rehearsal and climbed back into the car. It started,
and sure enough the radio came to light playing “Cult of Personality” again. Due to my extra
curricular activity merit and collegiate level knowledge, my teachers let my sixty or so
lateness’s slide, and passed me. I remember with fondness of how I launched my cap into the air
just as the starting quarterback seated in front of me turned and tackled me. Five rows went
down behind me.

After my graduation, my parents threw me out. They said not being enrolled in college or
doing anything other than caddying, I could live on my own and learn a few life lessons. My
father dropped me off at band rehearsal along with all of my worldly possessions I could carry.
The band was fairly sure I had intended to move into the drummer’s garage that night.

Cosmik Debris was a Grateful Dead cover band with a few originals we later recorded
with an old Jerry Band drummer. We had a fair amount of success, playing south street bars and
clubs, and even a zoo benefit. I ‘ll never forget the Zoo benefit. We were standing there doing a
Shakedown, Scarlet/ Fire/ I Know You Rider set when we noticed people in suits and ties all
yupped out and dancing. This middle aged guy in a sport jacket and white golf shirt whipped a
Dead patch from his wallet and started waiving it about and yelling.

I’ll never forget driving the equipment past the lions cages, drinking a free German beer
and blaring the truck radio. The groups members have since moved on to bigger and better things
in the industry. The lead guitarist is one of today’s Hollywood best.

I needed a place to live. My girlfriend at the time had a friend who knew a guy who had a
room for rent. He was a local goodfella, translating into a bookie with a limo service buying his
house by renting rooms out until he had it paid for. He took me on board immediately.

The summer came and went. My first fall after High School was here, and I was not going to

follow my friends off to college. It was more depressing than I had ever thought. I became bound
and determined to party as hard as I could. If I couldn’t escape the harsh realities of life, at least I
could drown them in a bottle and some smoke.
An acquaintance of mine who I smoked pot with off and on throughout high school
started getting together and partying everyday. He was a guitar player, and so was I, so we had
something else in common besides that we both wanted to be fucked up twenty four seven.

The group got larger, and I realized I was hanging out with people had yet another year to
graduate. I was that mediocre guy I had never thought I would be. This led to even more intense
drinking and smoking of pot.

My landlord had strange guys around the house. It didn’t take me long to figure out what
they were for. One of them ran the bookie line. The other was a local heavyweight boxing
champion. I slowly fell into debt with them from drinking and gambling away my money. My
life was way too unmanageable. One day the Italians from downtown showed up and there were
guns and cell phones flying while they worked out payment on territory.

Still I bore the load and went on living at a furious pace I rented the limo out on credit,
took my friend and two girls downtown to get sauced. Eighteen and sane, I cheated on my
girlfriend who was now attending college two hours away. Naturally, I could not fathom such a
thing as a relationship.

I remember how guilty I felt sleeping with her when she came home for a friends
wedding. I remember how lame I felt for having missed my favorite cousins wedding to sleep
with her. How symbolic, this was the only woman who had truly loved me for me besides my
mother, to this day I regret missing our wedding. I remember thinking how scared I was of the
Mob. I remember playing that off and thinking if I could consume some magic mushrooms, and
reach Castaneda’s internal higher plane, it would guide me through to the answer.

Drugs were my religion; in my belief Jesus had turned the water to wine for a reason.

My guitar slinging buddy and I got together enough money to buy a small quarter of
magic mushrooms. We hit the phones to every drug dealer we knew, and a few hours later we
would meet the ‘shroom dealer at a local golf course where I was caddying.

This friend of mine had been in the band, and he was overly generous with us. Perhaps he
didn’t realize he was dealing with two addicts. He handed us a half an ounce in one gigantic
mushroom. It was the size of a hammer and we were on. I didn’t even have the money to pay for
it, but he sold it to us anyway.

Less than an hour later we had ground the mushroom in a coffee grinder and between the
two of us, we still consumed it all half and half. It was fluorescent green after being ground into
dust and finer than that in its visuals.

The trip was ecstatic, unpredictable, heady and visual. I remember at one point being with
my friend at the gas station where the clerk was alone for the night shift and blaring some jam
band music. I danced on the floor tiles as they swam together and apart, mixing with fractals and
color pattern moving to the music. A half hour before we had both sat under a huge maple tree
and agreed that this was enlightenment.

“I want you to remember after I die, that we saw this, that this was the
meaning of life.”

I threw up from being so disoriented. My friend was feeling the same, he decided he was
ending our night together to go to bed and let it pass. A friend of mine drove me home. But
before he did, I remember telling him what was going on in our mutual buddies mind. Later,
exactly what I had told him had really happened. It was more solid proof to me at the time, that I
was experiencing God through these drugs. My friend actually was having the near death
experience I had babbled on about in the car. Only now, it occurs to me that God was simply
pointing out the danger as he allowed us to live.

That night, once home I became completely psychotic and paranoid and ran from the house

amidst my inner tension. I had been on the phone at one am. The girl I was dating behind my
girlfriends back was on the phone. Suddenly our conversation turned to mumbles and warbles it
seemed to me, yet she was understanding. Perhaps she only thought I was masturbating, I don’t
know. However the next thing I knew the sun rose as the other line rang. It was my girlfriend, I
told her to hang on, and went back to the other line still staring in drop jawed wonder of the
midnight sun. The girl on the other line began citing scriptures in John, and that was it, I was
going to lose it completely. Earlier while showering, I had ripped the shower curtain free from its
hinges and attacked a faceless shadow I thought was death coming for me. The other line was
my girlfriend’s best friend, calling to find out why she had called her crying hysterically that
something was wrong with me. The room exploded with white light, and I panicked. I saw death
run down the stairs. Even death wanted to escape, I thought.

I punched a hole in the bookies bedroom door screaming “they are
coming…”

This was no small feat, the door was six inches thick of solid walnut. I ran out into the
street of the small middle class neighborhood. I went running half naked down the street in forty
degree weather. It wasn’t long before a local cop from the station a few blocks away came down
to check things out. I remember seeing him pull up. I remember a brilliant white light, and I
blacked out. Later the jailer told me, I had hit the cop.

I remember the jail cell profoundly. I had peed myself, I was in agony, and the cell bars
were twisting like snakes, the floor a vortex. I dropped to my knees and it was as though I saw
my entire life in front of me in what could have been hours, but was only seconds. The face of
Jerry Garcia came to me, and as I acknowledged the thought I could be “born to be” one such a
man. Then from the depths of my mind a guru sitting on a mountain appeared. He bowed, and
suddenly I relived what seemed to me to be the same sort of memory I had just saw of my own
life. It was revealed that this was the past life of a nun, my own past life. I was being taught
something divine. Suddenly the face of death appeared again, and I shrieked in agony. Suddenly
it dawned on me to pray for release. Instantly the cell went from a whirling mass of electrons and
colors to a still, sober, simple jail cell in my local police department.

My Dad met me at the courthouse the next morning, as I appeared in the police beat
column as “Says He Took Magic Mushrooms”. I will never forget the scowl of disbelief as I as I
was led past him in handcuffs. “You really did it this time!” he said in disbelief. The Judge let
me off the hook, telling me I could have the felony erased if I went through drug and alcohol
rehabilitation.

The rehabilitation center I was sent to was beautiful. My addictions counselor was the
best, and I truly felt the serenity their of being able to start a new way of living. I was all too
willing to go through the motions of abolishing my old ways of living, and too ready to have
immediate gratification though, and did later relapse for a number of years. I learned a new faith
in spirituality however, rather than the precepts of science on which my old ways had been
established, and I believe that is why I am still living today.

After my plush twenty – eight day stay I of course chose to go to a resort spot to serve my
six months mandatory probation in an Oxford House.

The Oxford House was nestled in the gardens section on the island of Ocean City New
Jersey. It was a fair block and a half from the mistress Atlantic. The boardwalk shops were two
blocks down from there, and I remember going to see Jerry Garcia Band (minus the late Jerry
Garcia) play at The Music Pier six blocks from my house in the summer of 1997 during my stay.

Meditation consumed me as an alternative way of finding a high. I was constantly on the
beach chanting "Ooooommmm mani padme huuuummmm..." or exploring the jetty, mantra
alight, with seed sanskrit syllables engulfing me. I shaved my head completely bald, and I
remember the day when Ram Das books "Be Here Now" I had specially ordered came to the
bookstore on the 13th of February, its price: $13.13. Richard Alpert had been Timothy Leary’s
Ivy League Psychiatrist buddy until he went to India and met Meher Baba. I read the book well
over a hundred times, utilizing the ornately arranged artwork of spiritual meditations of which it
was composed. I read dozens of other books on meditation, Zen do, Transcendental Meditation,
and spirituality.

The Ocean City Exxon Gas station hired me as their main attendant for the winter, and
there I spent my days devoid of customers, living on my $150 a week paycheck, eating
vegetarian and listening to John Lennon’s "Imagine" as many times as I could in a row. I was
learning to experience a new plane of thinking.

The Oxford House was a two level beach house with six bedrooms on each floor. We the
occupants, for some odd reason had decided only to occupy the bottom half of the house, with
three shared rooms and three singles. The upstairs was known as the official "summer beach
house" which we rented out to families of residents, and other people in recovery from drugs and
alcohol.

One storm in the spring of 97, the island was flooded badly. I remember stepping onto the porch
to find waist deep water, and a canoe floating by its passengers cleverly trekking home down
Park Place with paddles. There was a mysterious stranger who felt the need to stalk me.

His name was Richard, and he found me walking home from the bus after my holiday
visit to family in Philadelphia. Richard claimed to be an English teacher at a local university. I
was walking down the beach in early January, when he approached from out of the dunes. He
spoke often of deceased people, and of belongings of his that were once theirs. I became scared
of him when he began stalking me on my walks home from the gas station, waiting in a nearby
lot, and then pretending to have only passed by me on coincidence.

He seemed homosexual, and he exhibited all of the symptoms they say about serial
killers. He was exceptionally bright. One night he came into the gas station to converse when I
was on alone. We often had deep discussions about karma and rebirth, and he came in with a
story to share. He claimed that a homeless man had been found dead under the Atlantic City
boardwalk with fifty thousand in ones stuffed into his clothing. The irony, I thought, and once
more the death. I told him to leave and never make contact with me again. Luckily he honored
my wishes.

I spent the majority of my summer skipping self help groups, though and invested a fair
thousand plus hours into learning my acoustic guitars fret board. I learned to appreciate Dylan,
Phish, and voraciously devoured the work of Robert Hunter amongst others.

In the summer of that year, I found that an old assistant caddy master at my club in
Philadelphia was the caddy master of a new club in New Jersey. Over my caddy career I carried
for many honorable mentions. At this golf club there were senators, like Robert Torricelli of the
ninth district in New Jersey along with his friend, Dr. Chang from Japan, who let me wear Bobs’
Rolex for five hours. Later the two were brandished for trading surplus Sony televisions by an
infuriated group of U.S.

Representatives. This was the beginning of my education into the world of life in the public eye.

Funny, they never complained that the good doctor had an extra glove to lend his opponent in
their 83-

82 skins match. Must been a bad case of the “gimmies.”

I will never forget that summer. The green of the fairways, the sting of the green headed
flies. The peace of the ocean waiting at home. Watching the Philadelphia Flyers wingman wing
his drive out three fifty plus on every tee. I have a talent for the game of golf and I exhibited it
well reading the greens. It seemed to me at times these world class greens were read by my
minds eye in its Zen quietness. Often I would survey the green, and then the actual line of the
ball would trace itself out in a visible white trail in the greens surface. I never went wrong.
Players flew in on private helicopters to play rounds, and “bennies” were the common currency.
Escorts gave massages on tee boxes, and cute beer girls drove around to the various tees. The
Masters winner even complimented us with his presence at a tournament a month prior to his
title.

The mushrooms however would not let me go. One day that summer I had decided to head to

Philly to caddy at my old home golf club. I called the new caddy master, and he approved me for
the tournament. While I was in town, I would also go downtown to see a concert. I packed my
gear for the weekend, and headed off by bus to the train in Atlantic City down the road. I went
from the bus terminal to the train which would take me to 30th Street Station in Philadelphia
from the new Atlantic City Convention Center.

My previous ride on the train, going home for the holidays had merited a lot. I had been
short the bus fare to get back to O.C. island, and I had slept on the way home. In my dream, an
angel had appeared and safely pulled a coin from a homeless mans pocket that I had given to on
the way in, and place it in my pocket. When I awoke, the coin was there.

So I sat, waiting on the train on a bench in the new terminal, when I noticed an angry
swarm of gnats seemed to be surrounding the mulch and plants in the center of the bench area. I
turned to swat them, and what to my surprise did I find, but mushrooms of the psilocybin
variety growing from the newly watered mulch of the Convention Center. That was it; I was up
and running again. I went to the snack machine, and ordered chips. I emptied the bag into the
trash and went over to the bench to fill it shrooms. I got more than a full ounce of mushrooms
right there before boarding the train. I was nervous the whole train ride.

While in town at the concert, I saw my old girlfriend. She happened to be there as well in
what seemed to be one of those non – coincidences. I smoked pot with a guy named Joel, and got
on a little with my shrooms. I had relapsed.

I dreamed of writing a research book on theological evidence. Its Thesis: Transcendental
healing in modern society is polytheistic awareness that manifests instinctually in the
individual. Its proof: Successful people of historical doctrine in multi - cultural communities
practice these principles geo - politically. Most profoundly affected though, was the music of
my soul. I wrote on it often in notebooks long since lost in my vagabond years. I wrote of its
exploration, something I have loved since first playing piano, learning to read trumpet music at
age nine.

You jam like cant jam the solo that you do solo and jam it with the band to the rhythm
chords it started from. The band sways in their timing like a ship out on the ocean. The first
wave tosses the ship skyward, the second in the storm of chords rushes in thick to spray the full
bow coming down into the wave. Riding it down, the ship enters the wave slipping smoothly
and suddenly there’s a beat missing liquid vacuum a pocket of air shared by all.

But here did that beat go? The one that you should have played “there” but instead we all
skipped like a cd and hit together a solid “here”.

It went where thoughts go to die, from whom they came… and where it will guide
another band far away that was missing a beat too. Just in the nick of time they got it. From
them. Us, I mean.

Its like the climaxes before orgasm, we do it again, and the ship shudders in the wave
flowing under its hull, its sliding out every which way cut by the rhythm. There’s the pounding
and the resounding bass of the wave itself.

It was soon obvious to the residents of my sober home that I was smoking pot again, and
I was asked to move on. I moved temporarily in with an old caddy who had been around since
the sixties. A sort of local legend, he was, Harry. A long time caddy at the number one track in
the world standing “Pine Valley”, he had earned his role as the caddy starter for our Monday tee
times. Naturally, some various non – caddies found solace and understanding in padding Harry’s
pockets for a good round of gold at the world’s best on its closed days.

Soon thereafter I met and was introduced to a cock – roach infested rooming house of
sorts in town where I stayed until the cold drove me out of a job and heading homeward bound.
The short days of fall caddying were spent catching a ride with a washed out tour pro turned
drunk by day. By night, I hung out with the super of the building smoking pot with her Jamaican
boyfriend “Ron the preacher mon”. I will never be able to forget his long drawn out speeches
about the hypocrisy of our government as he deftly rolled a two inch spliff with one hand. It soon
came to an end.

Earlier in the summer, I had made part time money programming a web site for the local
pro shop. That too was gone. It was time to run home for Philadelphia, praying for help from my
parents.

This time there would be no help. Though invited for Christmas morning and padded
with cash and new clothes from my favorite stores, I was not allowed to stay with them. I was
uninvited for Christmas Eve, a time during which I remember contemplating suicide. Soon after
Christmas they disallowed me from coming to their house to shower and change and told me to
store my belongings elsewhere than their basement. An old friend and I reunited. He and friends
were having a time of it every night at his place. I was told I could stay with him until
otherwise.
His parent’s garage was set up as though it were a two car apartment. Four couches,
stereo, video games, television, lights and ornaments adorned our famous garage along with the
amps and drum kit makings of a band. Through all of this, I retained the energy of a possessed
person in the belief that “tripping” was a window to the gods, to a spiritual connection we cannot
otherwise learn to reach without these. Sure enough, my persistence in teaching about the visions
held when ingesting psilocybin mushrooms, “the flesh of the gods”, brought the entire garage
crew to a peak. I couldn't decide why it was I didn't fit, but if ever there was a reason. It was
addiction.

Though I was surrounded by friends of the best kind, I remained constantly paranoid.
My drug use went into the role of daily reprieve for me, and I was taking anything I could get
my hands on. By March of 1998, I was in the most desperate state a being can experience. I had
reached a state of drug induced psychosis. I will never forget having to call my mother on that
dreadful morning when I felt it was all at end, that I would surely die if I lived this way one
more moment. It was utterly defeating. It was devastating.

I was hospitalized in the best of places up in the mountains. My fathers insurance paid
near half a million dollars for my recovery and rehabilitation. I found a sort of almost humor in
that place where I came to rest on my own mental development once more. The staff told me I
didn’t belong, that I was young and normal. Little did many of them know the terrors of the
voices in my head, the hallucinations, the constant nagging doubts in my self esteem. It was time
to start all over again.

The place was home for billionaires and millionaires who had lost it, and could afford
care there for retirement. The place had to be at least a hundred thousand square feet with two
floors, acres of land, and dozens of therapists. To my satisfaction it was also the 25th anniversary
of Pink

Floyds Dark Side of the Moon, and it was constantly aired on the radio.The lunatics were indeed
in my hall, head with the daily news plastered to their paranoia with delusions of grandeur in
walking the path

of life.

My roommate was about seven foot, two fifty, and acted like a nine year old. He had a
fascination with some girl who had been a playboy bunny years before, and a girlfriend who he
wheeled around in a wheelchair, as she could move only from the waist down. I was reminded of
the loony tunes kid; you know the giant one who always beat Sylvester the cat?

The guy in the next room over was a billionaire with a home surround sound theater in
his room. It was said that once a month he wanted an all new entertainment set up, and he gave
them away to the nurses who took him shopping.
Through all of this craziness I was able to regain a bit of composure in my self, and was
graduated with a ninety – nine percent recovery. This according to the C.A.T. scans, tests, and
counselors. I will never forget what happened next. After a month, my father picked me up and
told me that he had found a place for me to stay. I was dropped off in the worst section of North
Philadelphia on Germantown Avenue at a place a con artist crack dealer had turned into a
recovery house, for profit.

Crack was on the corner, the gunshots filled the air at night. All of this to my disbelief
having left the Shangri la of rehabs. I traveled dangerous ghetto grounds on my way to outpatient
therapy every day under the el train that ran next to my shared bedroom window. I quickly got
my job

back at the golf course, and began saving money to move out. The place fell through when the
owner finally took the cash he had, bought some crack, and rented a motel to get it on with one
of the boys at the house.

Luckily, it was the same week I found a place near my parent’s home, or I would have been

taking it up the butt too.

This place soon became the sight of only further parties to my roommate’s dismay. The
garage crew, my old people places and things, filled the apartment every night to party.

Over the summer I had visited the crack house section of town to procure some late night
emergency weed while drunk, and had gotten mugged and beaten badly. This did not go over
well with my boss at the golf club.

Of course, one night that fall I was faced with the opportunity to take acid. Three of my
friends and I had obtained some of the most potent visual LSD you could find. The evidence of a
oneness of consciousness of a higher form was astounding. One of them began to describe seeing
giant spiders coming down at him, like the end of the story of Buddha. All of the experiences we
were having referred to states recorded by mystics over the centuries.

We sat quietly inside of my friend’s country home four hours later at the peak of our high.
We had put on Pink Floyds Dark Side of The Moon, and were sitting together. I was staring up at
the ceiling, and out of the walls came giant roman pillars, next to them forming statues of
figurines from ruins in Libya which I had never visited. We were talking. But it was not a
conversation.

One person would begin to speak when another would suddenly come to life as if
finishing the others sentence, and as that finished another would begin where the other left off.
What we were discussing were the absolute values of oneness we were sharing. However we had
tapped into a source much higher. Then an event happened that gave all of us a start. Though we
were making no noise disturbance, and though we had been inside for hours miles off from the
nearest neighborhood, a cop came. He pulled onto the narrow country road from the cornfields in
the distance. Pulling into my friend’s driveway, he stopped. He then turned on his spotlight,
backed off the property into the woods across from the house, and aimed his spotlight directly
into the window out of which we were looking. He remained there for what seemed like hours.
About two minutes later, he pulled away, leaving the way he came in. Whatever transpired to
create this happening, it was indeed a fateful warning.

October came and I lost the place having run up a phone sex bill sky high while drunk
late at night. My roommate threw me out. I found a place with some students over winter break
for a short time while stocking shelves at night at the local grocery store, but that soon came to
an end as well. They went to spring break while I was at my other job training as a manager of a
fast food place. When they left I was at work. I returned to find my stuff in the basement, the
door locked, and the landlord called. They had felt me to be a little too “shady” by the girls
upstairs.

I was now at a severe loss. It had been the ideal place. Wood floors, cheap rent, nice
girls next door, the opportunity of school perhaps in a semester. I had even dated the girl next
door from high school for me during that short while, and was feeling up about my chances of
finding other romantic involvements.

The local Salvation Army took me in for the first time, and I saved money enough living
and worshipping with them to move into a nice basement apartment at the beginning of my
caddy season. It was this apartment in which I remained dry for several months, and then began
to go on blackout binges with booze to the local bar.

Still without a car, missing my ride to work with other caddies due to these nights
threatened my job. I skipped work for days on end, devoting myself day and night to an
extensive theory study of guitar. I played over two thousand hours that summer. My mental
state was ragged; I had discontinued my psyche meds and often would hallucinate while on
highs from my guitar breakthroughs.

One night after having played an eighty hour week of scales, chords, ear training, and
tablature reading, I broke through. I began playing along with Led Zeppelins BBC sessions, and
it turned out to be a nonstop two hour blues jam after I which I passed out. The entire mesh of
scale work had become as visual as my lines on the golf greens at work.

I spent the next day studying works more classical in nature. That night was Halloween. I
began to see colors, have flaring flashbacks associated with my new breakthrough in playing
ability. I passed out after midnight on my queen size waterbed. Then it happened, I dreamed of
playing “The Wind Cries Mary” and when I awoke, there I was; guitar already in hand, actually
playing the song. This also turned into a Stevie Ray Vaughn influenced jam for which I would
pay a months wages to have a recording of.
Caddy season too, had been eventful. A lawyer at the club had taken on the casework
involved in the Philadelphia Mob wars. There, at my home club, I spent two afternoons carrying
for Philadelphia’s Notorious heads of family themselves. It is an experience which affected me
very deeply. It was obvious by the first family, that I was being given the opportunity to sell my
music. Seeing the blood on the table, however, I chose not to offer myself up. The next week I
carried for the other half. How very close I walked with death, I will never know. My phone line
acted in the strangest manner for the rest of that fall. It was, of course yet another excuse to
drink.

Yet another caddy season gone, friends gone off to bigger and better schools, I began
to turn internally towards my spirituality. I began to date another musician as my winter job
slowly failed. I began to have visions. My psyche had begun to melt away again in the
atmosphere of decline which I was surrounding myself in. One day in January, a few weeks
short of being evicted I awoke with the mantra in my head.

The night before while meditating to go to sleep, I had a vision. I was shown cave walls

somewhere seep in the middle east. I was shown writings. The room became alive with what I
felt were Dakini’s and the words of the scriptures actually began scrolling in my head like that of
a teleprompter. Intermittent with a constant mantra to Padma Sambhava, the guru on the
mountain from years ago in my drunk tank jail cell came to me in my mind. This time, there was
a message. It was as though I was a bird flying in to see him, and as I grew close to his face, lit
from the legs he held in lotus and his hridyam, he held a finger to his bearded face.

“Sshhhhhh….” I instantly had passed out. Now awake again, the teleprompted Sanskrit
syllables filled my mind.

I woke, showered, put together a few belongings continually chanting with my internal
guru, and left for The Salvation Army.
“Don’t strew me with roses after I’m Dead. When death claims the light of

my brow, No flowers will cheer me: instead You may give me my roses

now!”

– Thomas F. Healey, “Give Me My Roses Now”

“On the mountains of memory, by the world’s wellsprings, In all men’s
eyes,

Where the light of the life of him is on all past things,

Death only dies”

– Algernon C. Swinburne, “Super Flumina Babylonis”

There I was, spring of 1999, living in the room I had seen in the paper for so many years.
"room for rent, Art Museum and Green Street $70 a week, 2 weeks rent to move in" It was
owned and run by a depressed gay psychiatrist, who tended to take in troubled cases for renters, I
think so that he could meddle in their business and try to "fix us".

I had moved there once again, from The Salvation Army in West Chester. This time they
had gone so far as to put me in transitional housing during the time of two weeks at the house, I
had bought a new Ovation acoustic, and decided to settle for no less than my share of being able
to drink and be free of preaching and gospel.

I was dating a fat rich girl from Merion named Jobi, whom had lost her virginity to me
on my waterbed back in my basement apartment. She played piano like a classical virtuoso,
had a high wining voice, and more cellulose on her ass than could make it possible to discern
where legs stopped and butt began. But I got laid and had another neurotic mess to contend
with.

Things got really bad. I was caddying, or trying to. The commute killed me; I hated it and more

often than not did not go to work. My rent began to fall badly behind.
Having hung a copy of the Buddha Scroll on my rooms walls, I pretended I was a student
like my other friends having always wanted to go to school, and studied for my pleasure the
comparisons of the Egyptian and Tibetan Books of the Dead.

I began to hallucinate wild things under the stressed thought pattern I was placing myself.

My housemates were of a different variety. Chris was a struggling alcoholic living off of
unemployment. He had no intention of finding a job, and made that adamantly clear. He lived on
Ramen noodles and Old English malt liquor. The guy in the door next to Chris on the third floor
was a paroled crack addict, living off the tenant agreement there should be a fire escape outside
of his room, threatening the landlord while skipping rent payment until his section eight row
home came through. He used to bring home prostitutes for all night fuck and suck sessions on
their assortment of paraphernalia. One time this hooker came waltzing into my room downstairs
by the kitchen I had freshly painted by myself irregardless of the rat and cockroach problem. She
wore a mini skirt and a tiger print top, which looked as if it was sideways for as purpose. He
probably ran out of money and crack, and she wanted to see if I would get it up for her. She said
she just needed a match for her cigarette, one of his borrowed menthols, but I saw her eyes. First
she eyed me like a hawk swooping in on prey. Then I think she realized by my stare, just how
bad she looked. Poor girl, he must not have even let her rest.

There was one other boarding house resident, he was an ex cop from Kansas, now selling
medical equipment. He smoked pot on occasion, even though he was a white collar entrepreneur
middle aged with two kids by his ex wife. Some nights he would come home and smoke pot with
Chris and I during our nightly chess battles at the kitchen table outside of my door. Chris had
spent most of his childhood in Juvenile Detention, and chess was like breathing for him, damn he
was good. Got to the point a few months later the med sales guy would come in and throw a ten
at Chris for him to run down to the bad neighborhood to buy pot if we didn’t have any.

Then he would get high, and sit and over dramatize his days as a dirty cop, and how they
used to smoke the evidence and shit. I think he was kind of scared of Chris, so it used to get
ridiculous how he would bring it up every night.

"Hey, I told you I was a cop right?"

Night after night after night. Until finally Chris shut him up. He comes in at like ten or so,
proclaiming that somebody had ripped the side view mirror off of his BMW, and he wanted to
report it.

Chris says "hey, I'll get you a new one"

"How?” he asked with a slight grin.

"Ten bucks, I'll be right back"
Five minutes later we heard a car alarm go off two blocks away, and the sound of fleeting
footsteps returning up our stairs.

Chris had pulled the fucking thing right off of another neighbors BMW. God knows if he
had been the original problem in the first place. Slapped it on the table.

"There, MAKE IT TWENTY, I had to run..."

"Aww.... you cracked it...."

Sure enough, ten minutes later, another alarm, another mirror... this one in pristine shape.
We never heard another cop story again.

It was in those days in the small room that it began my truly intense visions in meditation.
They began flowing as powerful as my most powerful one had been back in the winter 1997. I
remember it clearly, my parents were driving us to The Walnut Street Theatre to see their
production of Camelot, the first musical I had really been introduced to as a child.

Arthurian mythology had always intensified my machismo, and I loved renaissance type affairs.

Sitting in the backseat on the way home, I closed my eyes briefly to absorb a few observed

moments of thought. The transcending of letting the thoughts in their origins go. The thought I

had recently read of breathing and imagining that as you breathe out, the universe was breathing

in to observe my infinitesimally small role as well as the size universe portrays came to me.

Then I saw it, the deep blackness of space as never before. It engulfed me like I could not
have of my own mortal mind supposed and took form with stars moments later. From within its
resounding deepness spiraled forward at a speed that was ten times faster than that of the light
traveling at billions of miles per second a simple lotus. It came in brilliant light, and softened to a
mere outshining neon glow as its petals came forth in basic bright primary colors. Then it ended,
and for months after I waited patiently day after day for these types of things to emerge from the
very consciousness which had brought it.

The room was small, about ten by ten with a closet and a window peering out of the
second floor onto the terrace of the cafe almost directly below that often hosted jazz musicians.
The soft summer wind flowed in and out of the room with the nauseatingly thick aroma of Nag
Champa from both my roommate and other nearby inner city inhabitants.

Initially the room consisted of a dirty thin grey carpet and drab smoke stained walls.
From the kitchen, cockroaches would crawl under the crack in my door, scurrying into my closet
to my horror never to be found again. I decided that renovation was a survival must. Immediately
I secured the paint left by the landlord, and got his permission to begin redoing the walls.

In the end I not only repainted the five by five rotting bathroom, but the whole kitchen
with some occasional drunken help from Chris all the while stammering "Bernie SHOULD BE
PAYING US FOR THIS... THE FAG." As far as my eye could see now gleamed with fresh white
glossy paint, the only kind we had.

I took the remaining bucket of paint into my room, and decided. Ripping up the carpet, I
threw it onto the street below for trash pickup. What was beneath was a dull tan floorboard
surface. My girlfriend at the time called, wanting to escape her parents’ grueling criticisms for
some sex I assumed, and we wound up painting the whole bedroom, floor and all a fresh coat of
white.

Afterward, we drank from the gallon of zinfandel I had bought with my last ten dollars
while deciding to play hooky from work again that morning. In paint stained sheets and a still
gleaming white room hot with fumes, she stubbornly decided to strip naked and climb into bed.
She was going to get fucked she had decided. Her virgin years having been ended by me, she
wasn’t much of a drinker either and was excessively drunk. In my carelessness I climbed on top
of her and we screwed until I climaxed releasing my sperm into her while fantasizing about her
becoming pregnant and what her filthy rich catholic fathers’ reaction would be. I couldn’t help
but think that way, she talked about it all of the time about how rich they were and how
protective. I was in it initially for the pretty face, for the intriguing conversation. Jobi was a
terrific artist, and had secured me a thousand dollar debt in my last apartment while painting a
beautiful mural on my living room wall. It really was superb except that in her thoughtfulness
and in my own inability to discern what was smart we had used black light paint.

Paint which cannot be removed or easily concealed in repairing.

She was a classical pianist, and played with many of the top musicians around. I had met
her through a friend of a friend, Evan while jamming on acoustics at his 12th and walnut Temple
student apartment. Evans father was a priest or something for a prep school and he was studying
theology and religious studies at the top university in the country for it.

Jobi and I had fun around Philly during that short time. We visited with her Buddhist
friend who had left the monastery to start his restaurant. She had all kinds of friends. One night,
while passing by the theatre we even got free tickets to go see “Stomp”. It was phenomenal.

In any case, there it was. Gleaming white and bare with just a single bed and one
nightstand. At Christmastime, Jobi had bought a book depiction of the Buddha scroll for me, and
I went nuts. That was it. I placed it up on the room walls at the top, like a wallpaper border. It
went exactly 270 degrees around the room taking up three walls, all but the one against which
the head of my bed was at. I sat for endless night staring at it in meditation, studying its history,
and the history if the Egyptian scrolls in comparison.

When with Jobi, often her fascination into Wicca had brought about talk and shared
visions of fairy lands, Dakini Realms as I had learned in Buddhism. She however got me lost in a
world of other more minor effects of the drug of host deities.

I began to realize the scenes depicted as representing a life cycle, the deities as states of
mind and soul. Each time I reflected on them, my deepening brought about a simpler yet more
complex awareness of the states depicted in the book of the dead, and the extraordinary
preparations for death. Llhama Govindas Meditation and Multi Dimensional Consciousness had
brought it into view by innate description of the channels accessed throughout life. The seed
syllables and the vibrational energy they released while chanted gave the observer a high.

The points where one can meditate on them constantly in your mind are powerful. They
silently bring forth a new life process awakening. The Buddha Scroll I now intently stared at
night after night.

The Pandora’s box of awakenings streamed together. Hours on hours it had taken me to
observe my breath. Weeks later I had observed one by one the syllables. O in its universal ness,
M in its mortal energy, A in its raising aspiring height to saint like consciousness, H or the breath
of the universe, U or the mortal in the immortal, just to name a few to begin with. Then later
chanting of Upanishads had brought forth futile beginnings of what I was now seeing. Ordinary
resonation of the seed syllable O had brought for the mandala vision like an unfolding fractal, a
Pandora’s box riddled maze of intricate detail. Put together these omanipadme hums after much
thought could open other doors. One night while sleeping, I was awoken by the picture in my
dream of a dark rider, his face emerged as that of Anubis. When I sat up in mid sleep, the vision
remained, blocking the beginning portion of the scroll.

The vision persisted, and my doubts as to knowing the nature of my own perception
began. The scrolls tempting allure was that in reading into its visuals they would arouse in me a
silent mantra from text readings that presupposed the states seen behind, beyond and through the
depictions in the course of histories various proclaimed martyrs. The visuals intensity would
persist until I reached the Zen of those experiences, or a sense of Ram Tirtha in the mirror
wisdom way.

In a Taoist way that said my own sense of being alive was in and of itself simply
because I perceived myself to be so. This made it possible in Tantric practice to theoretically
move mountains as Jesus had. I believed Jesus to be the last enlightened one to have lived in
our historical awareness. The intensity of this notion was soon to become in and of itself a
test.
I received news this spring of a death. It was a rainy spring day, and there would be no
work. I rose at the late hour of ten, and called the caddy master to confirm that I need not go in
for work. The smoggy Philadelphia skyline itself seemed to droop as I stood at the corner phone
booth. My boss told me to stay home. I decided to call an old friend of mine, one of the original
garage crew. We had not hung out for quite some time, and I realized how much I missed all of
them. When he answered the phone, he was crying. It was bad news. Our close friend had been
found at the bottom of a ten story fall out of his hotel window while on vacation in Cancun a few
days prior.

It was the beginning of my Medicine Buddha awareness, and the teachings brought forth
in me the awareness that I had the sole responsibility as one close to the deceased to be the realm
guide in any way as he progressed in his own perception of death. What was to follow I had little
notion of. It would rock my world while trying to maintain faith.

Mit and I had been as close as anyone in our tight knit group. I was heartbroken, and so
the mourning became that much harder to look at along spiritual lines. I would have a hard time
finding reason in his death.

The first surprise came the night I was told of his death. I began to do the prayers, and in
thinking of him, I was made suddenly aware of his thoughts in my own. I had long been aware of
the presence of others in my own perception and awareness, but never when they were speaking
for behind the veil of death.

He himself appeared to me, sharing a closeness of being as we had when in the same
room together. Suddenly Mit, began to ask me why his friends were not noticing him there with
them. IN the depth of my mind I heard him proclaim "I AM NOT DEAD, IM RIGHT HERE!!!"
trying desperately to gain the attention of his desperately weeping girlfriend. The meditation then
got closer. I asserted my faithfulness into opening the channel to help him in his plight of
observing the between. His own perception was faultless of being there was here his earthly
experience brought him, yet he would go unnoticed. I prayed for his strength in soul and the
integrity to let go of the fogginess of earthly experience, that he could absorb the shock of his
own death by releasing it and accepting higher wisdom, and its light.

It was then that he spoke to me "Joel?"

"So I am dead, then?"

"I am going to miss you" he said with a tear in his eye from the silhouetted
appearance that drifted in and out with his thought process.

"me too, buddy..."

Then he told me..." But how can I be dead, and still here?"
He said “I remember slipping.”

Then it came to, apparently us both, as well as to the shuttering images I had
of my friends somewhere out there mourning his falling from the window, his
death.

There he lay at the bottom of the fall, a crumpled mass on the hotel sidewalk
next to the driveway.

The image repeated itself while firing a mantra in my mind. The message was clear.

"dhoti stick, bag"

Over and over the message the same, the same repeating image of him falling and "dhoti
stick bag"

I asked aloud to this consciousness "What is dhoti stick bag...."

"Packed un dhoti..."

I got the image of a lunch bag being packed, and then him falling to death.

“ He packed a lunch?"

"dhoti"

Then it suddenly became crystal clear. For the experiences had here on Earth, they were
but as "a bag lunch" to nourish the spirit in the afterlife journey to where it was to lead a soul
next. It had been his time and there was something to be learned I feared now of the dhoti stick
wanderers in the middle east. Was I going to go on a Mecca of sorts? In order to benefit from the
life had, it was to be had as well as enjoyed. Mit was experiencing his life, but had yet to enjoy it
as he had before, allowing nourishing rather than saddening him. To do this, we both had to let it
go, and allow the nourishing experiences to flow as if they were not such a grand thing. Not 22
years packed into the "dhoti stick, bag" of this yoga master, but rather a simple bag lunch.

Packed into the dhoti bag of an ascetic wanderer was a simple bowl made out of a human
skull for receiving offerings, and eating. It was ashes to ashes, dust to dust, the way of the holy
ones of all religions.

“Omamnipadmehumomahhum... om vajrsattya guru om... naga upanda in the mountain...
on the mountaintop...”

"On the mountain. In the mountain..."
Wow, that means he was one with all, my thoughts began again to disturb the
stillness of my meditation. And is not only on top of the mountain, but the

mountain itself.

I turned toward the final portions of the scroll....

“Usurpanda guru om mani padme hum...Usurpanda guru om vajrasattya
guru om ah hum....”

The words themselves were incomplete. They were riddled with
openings to be found in the syllables vibrational connection, and I was caught in
them now with an intensity I never dreamed.

“Suriname…Ommm”

This was mind blowing, fantastic. If Mit was observing things as if he
was still there, my perception itself could be altered to that point. Maybe it
meant on another plane yet altogether, he was still yet alive?

The scary thought then came to me. What if I was dead, and didn’t know it? What if, just
as Mit, I dropped dead, and came to the awareness of my own being, by finding that the others
around me were not actually reacting to me, and what I viewed as my own physical body, but
other things.

Walking into the kitchen, I saw my roommates there playing cards. I tried to talk to them,
but they seemed to be seeing straight through me. I thought I was dead. I panicked and ran back
into my room; I stayed there until late that night meditating. I got so high I didn’t know where I
was. I was receiving a message of some sorts of the loneliness of the mystic path and the courage
it takes to traverse the higher planes of awareness.

Around ten that night I lost the notion of my self so completely I went into a full scale life
after death panic. I screamed upstairs to my roommate from the kitchen, but he would not
answer. I went upstairs and knocked on his door until finally to my relief it drew a response. He
opened the door and walked straight past me, down the stairs toward the kitchen as if I was not
even there. I panicked again. Something in my psyche told me that I was not being a very brave
astral cosmonaut. I was reacting like the strung out Radiohead lead singer in his travels through
these consciousness. The right path told me I was surrendering an honor of achievement to have
reached this state, and I thought better of chasing down my roommate. Then I died of fear, and
came back to life in my roommate’s eyes.

“What do you want, Joel?” he suddenly asked.

“Nothing”
“My friend is coming over to hang out.”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

His friend turned out to be a twenty year old kid from outside London. His accent was
thick, and so was his demeanor. They began their tear guzzling forties and laughing at me. About
an hour into this, I decided to relax myself by joining in. I sent them off to get pot from one of
the corner dealers in the badlands. They returned an hour later, obviously sky high.

I was informed they had gotten ripped off, that the guy had taken my sixty bucks. There
was no eighth of kine bud, and they had a full bag of coke. I was being played for a fool. Twenty
minutes later, I had gotten twenty bucks off of them to go out in the night to score on my own.

It was the first time I had crossed the bridge to this side of town, and I was doing it at an
unsafe hour. Every corner was a huddle of black drug dealers hanging out.

I was like a deer in headlights every corner waiting to be jumped. Abandoned whores,
cars and kids everywhere under the midnight street lamps. I walked around for about a half an
hour, scared out of my mind. Finally I snapped, and decided to tell them I had been ripped off as
well. There was no way I was going to ask one of these dealers, I might lose myself at the same
time. I walked back in a fury toward home. With every step I became more and more psychotic.
By the time I had reached the door, I had decided that I was going to fight them both. They were
contaminating my life. I walked into the kitchen just off the row homes third floor entrance and
they were being as belligerent as ever. Chris screamed

“Did you get the weed? Hey, Joel?!”

I immediately got in his face and yelled back “no I got jumped, you wanna?!”

I was reminded of the scene from Pulp Fiction in the beginning where Travolta and
Samuel L. Jackson shoot the drug dealers. I grabbed for one of their McDonalds burgers on the
table. His friend snatched it up and I emphatically shrugged and screamed “Come ON FUCK
with me!” as I walked toward the bathroom. When reached it, I left the door hanging wide
open and began to take a leak while feet away from them.

“Anybody want a BIG MOTHERFUCKING KAHUNA burger?!” I yelled while pissing.

Naturally, they left me alone for the remainder of the night. It was obvious I had lost my mind.

The next morning came, and I left for work. Exiting the row home apartment, I walked
through the downtown streets of Philly toward City Hall and my subway terminal. As I grew
near the outskirts of the Art Museum neighborhood I noticed a thirty something man stiffly
dressed walking ten feet in front of me. He looked a lot like an older version of Mit. He turned
the corner onto spring street just ahead of me. When I turned the corner less than two seconds
later, he had vanished without a trace. No doors, no subway entrances, just an empty sidewalk. A
flock of sparrows announced themselves and flew by. It was astonishing, and more proof that
there was truly an in between here and now. Sparrows are long renowned as the guardian of these
gates.

Caddying was waste of a day, and I wound up with less money than had left with after a
few games of cards and no golfers. I returned home to find Spring Street lined with the sparrows.
As I walked, it seemed that one large one was following me. I glared menacingly at it, and it
grew fangs like that of a vampire. Never before had I been so frozen with guilt ridden despair.
There was no turning back, it was time to return to Medicine Buddha for my friend in the
between.

This night, the telemprompter in my head began to tout verses from the old testament. This had
happened earlier in the week, and I had visited a pastor I knew to find out if this was normal. He
carried no prolonged response, and treated it as a matter better left unspoken.

The day of Mits funeral came. I had no money to get to the funeral, I had only enough in
my pocket to get to work and back. On the way to work, the consciousness broke open again. I
was walking the mile section of road that led to the club, when I suddenly had the whole funeral
in my head. The whole garage crew was there. So was Mit, and his resting casket.

“Oh my God, I'm dead, Oh my God I’m dead!” Mits voice lit in my head.

Mits girlfriend put a floral arrangement on the casket. His father began to cry along with
his distraught brother. The flowers seemed to melt into a pastel of colors that swam and ran
together into an eternally huge inner space that was there.

“WHY CANT YOU HEAR ME? They can’t see me! I love you! I’m not dead,
I’m here”

This time the colors swam and ran into a deepening color with highlights around the
edges surrounding a small hazy cloud of lights from which Mits voice emanated, though the
vision of him amongst the funeral goers was a solid physical form.

As the funeral went forward in my head, the eulogy became a mess of tears amongst the
onlookers. The words seemed to affect Mit, and the cloud began to glow more fiercely. My head
swam with a contact high from his presence, and he seemed lifted into that space that now
consumed the grounds where his casket lay. His screaming dissipated and I heard his inner voice
again speaking. This time the funeral party seemed to be hearing.

“I get it now, I have to go. I will miss you all.”
As the ceremony concluded, the higher presence there that now looked like the heavens
themselves opened up and merged in a conclusive way with Mit. It was done.

I will never forget that day at the golf course. I was sitting in my boss’s office facing the tee box

with the television on. A special report was broadcast. It was on this day that another Kennedy
was taken from the world in a plane crash. In synchronistic truth, the mood I was environed in
was definitely one of mourning. Soon thereafter that spring I was visiting my grandmother on
her death bed. I will never forget her last words to me as she spoke through the hardest days of
her physical health she would endure. I cried a lot through her passing, but she let me know I
would dream on to achieve that which she knew me to be capable of.

Through this ordeal there was an inner quietness about me. I passed on at her funeral
what little I could say, and set to loving my family by being there with them. I remember clearly
having time with my little sister there. I remember making a book of memories of Nan with her.
Most of all I treasured having time to be with her, as her childhood is something I was missing
that I will never be able to replace. I love my siblings dearly.

A few weeks later my mantra broke open again in my mind. This time brought about by
my studies of the Chinese language, and my ability to learn by speaking in tongues. The guru
prompter was telling me what to say, and now there were more visions. I saw the resolute
urgency of now in

American history and of my closeness to it. My home golf club was hosting the Republicans War
chest Fundraiser. The people I had watched cutthroat each other were now taking it to the level
their wars had attained and it made me sick. The presidency was being bought and sold and the
insider trading was scandalous.

I felt a direct resentment towards the Republican Party, and George W. himself. It was
war we were being shoved into, that much was obvious. I began to play Phish nonstop, studying
the lyrics. The lyrics are based on a fictional mythological place that embodies all of the different
religions of the world.

Recently I had read a review in the Philadelphia Inquirer which stated the words to be
nonsensical. They are only as nonsensical as the wisdom you don’t have at any given time to
relate it to your spirituality. The ravens were moving in time. I had visions of all sorts of freaky
things like area 51 and others. At one point in time a Gamesh like creature seemed to be directing
my thought. It was almost as if these beings from our own future evolution were relaying to me
the importance of my conscientious objection. I had decided.

Walking into my bathroom, I shaved my head and face clean of hair. All the while I
maintained a constant mantra. At work that day I stayed only long enough to ask aloud to the
patio of rich golfers if anyone would fund sending me to India. No one answered, and I left. The
meditation continued nonstop through the night.

When the sun rose, I dressed and left. My internal guru kept referring to “Tiki bird un
Mecca” and it lead me to move in an absolute ascetic way. I walked through all of Philadelphia
that day in my bare feet to the train station at 30th street. The train took me to Atlantic City, and
the bus to Ocean City. I walked the island to the Gardens section, where I sat on one of the
private beaches watching an incredible electric storm on the water.

Thick, dark clouds rolled in off of the ocean. Lightning lit the night like daytime. Finally
it began to rain. I crawled under one of the lifeguard’s boats and built a sand wall around the
bottom edges of it to sleep in. The thunder shook me to sleep a short time later.

In the morning I walked the boardwalk where my meditations had begun. I could not stay
in this place either. I was leaving home. The mantra continued in my head, pointing me south. I
had decided to walk to Florida down the coast. I could do this. One of the shops on the
boardwalk provided me with dried fruit and nuts and a water bottle. The eighty degree sun began
beating down on me as I walked the beach.

Sun stroke risk present, I kept hydrated, and covered my newly shaven head as I walked
about fifty miles that day down the coastline. My bare feet encountered rocks and immovable
things that I had to cross. The thought of animal wisdom, of walking like a mountain goat
stumbling over the rocks filled my serene thought process. I imagines ascetic wanderers of the
past wandering the hills of Tibet doing this very thing. It was freedom I was learning. Learning
to untie the bonds of physical existence by traveling and though expanding my presence, truly
realizing how small I was in the world.

Nighttime came, and I noticed a goo creeping from my scalp. The heat had burned and
caused possible infection from its vulnerable baldness. I felt sick from the days walk. I called for
help from home, telling my mother I had found myself on the Jersey shore with no money, food,
and no way home. She covered the phone for a brief minute and I was told that my father would
be on his way to pick me up. A few hours later the Mercedes pulled up to the boardwalk street I
was on, and I was going home.

On the way home, I disobeyed my internal guru’s sound advice to keep quiet my spiritual
experiences. By the end of the two hour drive, my father thought me a loon. We checked into
Hanuman Hospital on the way to “check out my head”. While waiting for the doctor to enter,
suddenly to guards appeared with restraints and tied me down. I was furious, scared, and
violated. I was not crazy; I was openly exploring my spirituality. I demanded a lawyer, demanded
my patient rights. It was to no avail.
My father waived as I was “302’d” involuntarily committed and put into an ambulance to
be taken away. I cursed him as he watched, telling myself he would be sorry. Not to mention half
a dozen others around who heard me yelling profanity.

“You’ll see! Hoo ha!”

During the next ten days I was pushed and prodded by a team of doctors to tell them of
my status. They wished to disprove my sanity, to find a way to pad their pockets with what I
viewed as ignorance to my state. My studies supported me with evidence telling me I was sane, it
was the world in wanting to explain away Gods signs with science that was insane. Ten days
later, the Judge released me.

Arriving at home via hospital paid taxi. I found my room gutted and my belongings gone. Most

importantly thousands of pages in notebooks from the past four years had been lost. That was it;

I was truly leaving this time. I was going to see the world. Phish was in town for tonight, the

third of July and tomorrow. Knowing I had to get there early to meet a crowd to travel with, I

put on some swimming shorts, khakis and a shirt. I packed a light knapsack with a new GAP

sweater, some shoes and a few other essentials. Then I said goodbye, and left.
“Things won are done, joy’s soul lies in the doing.”

– William Shakespeare, Troilus and Cressida

“The Helping Phriendly Book it seems possessed the ancient secrets to

eternal joy and never ending splendor. The trick was to surrender to the

flow.”

- Trey Anastasio, “Lizards”, from his musical myth Gamehenge

There I was lone and deserted of my pals. The familiar stomping ground in life that I had
known, all of it had boiled down to a parking lot.

I had to relieve myself so I held it. I had a lot to learn about concert parking lots. I had
friends who relieved themselves outside of the bathroom stall door if there was someone
occupying it, but I was still a little uptight.

I had written a journal of my life in that hospital before they released me laughing. I had
no reason to believe my education lacking, after all we are all here together, just watching the
rose unfold.

The awe of the sense of it all having left with a nurses advice was hilarious. "You know
Phish is in town, " my sweet mistress of distress had proclaimed "you look like the type..."

Walk about in south Philadelphia to see what I could had been fun. I walked the on ramp
to the bridge where I hitched a ride. Thumb out as I had done so many days getting a ride from
passing caddies and members on the corner in my hometown, I watched as passing cars noticed.
The figure that picked me up was in a Z3 beemer.

Gay and rich he figured it was worth all of his time to try chasing down my dick I suppose.

These things I later learned in L.A streets, with its torrential downpours of "Ill suck your dick
man for fifty bucks..” No thanks.

There being a bum on the road I truly felt like one of the beats of Blue Sky Mind.
A proud writer going to experience it all. I had nothing but a twenty spot I found later after the
show from selling my sweater. Just yelling it out in front of the whole crowd spilling forth from
the arena. An old High School acquaintance of mine has passed by on her way. I saw another in
the lot where I had planned to hitch. The night was far from a failure. The small village of tour
people were so open to anything. The earthy smell of the lot with its incense, the vendors tents
and tables, the vegan burritos. I was writing my own lease on life.

Bob Dylan says it best with “Like a Rolling Stone” that sad state just euphoric enough to
go with starry glowering eyes. I learned that God makes us naturally high for these days for the
reason of not seeing the death next door. Often times literally in my hand. Like a rolling stone.
Or in this case in a lot full of Rolling Rock, and “ICEY COLD FAT TIRE! ICE COLD SAMMY
SMITHS!”

The fireworks display lit the night against the night skyline of Philadelphia on the river.

Cute dreadlocked girls, nappy guys appearing like those wanderers I had so often dreamed of

joining. I was theirs to have.

Under one such vendors tent while questioning to be someone’s “gas rider” to Rainbow
Gathering in Montana I began my first meetings with the underground. A man pulled me aside
and gave me some advice. He claimed to be an architect on the run from CIA involvement. A
kerosene lamp lit his face in flickering shadow as he spoke of white supremacists and the spies
sent already to camp near the grounds where Rainbow would be the following week. The new
administration was following in the footsteps of our failed attempts to uncover the truth of our
own government by suppressing the freedom fighters. He advised that I find a ride, if I must and
stay on the road. Besides, he mused, how the hell did I expect to find a ride to Montana in just
one week? Most of the elders had evidently made their way there already.

I committed myself immediately to trusting this advice. I saw who he knew on the lot,
and they were the elders of the lot. He seemed to know everyone, and it seemed that many were
now just giving me the cold shoulder to see how I would produce profit for the night before
deciding whether to take me on board.

The time had come to be on the road. Just me and Jack Kerouac. Other kids spent time
spent selling “e” or making the balloon fit the horn of the whistling nitrous oxide spilling forth
to someone’s eager paw. A self policing lot, we did not just let it all go.

One am rolled around and it was time to get off of the Camden lot, there would be no
camping here. As the cars, trucks and buses lined up to exit the gate, I knew it was time to find
my ride. I walked up and down the long lines formed. They led a mile straight down the road I
had walked in on to the spot where they all would turn off to their own directions. It seemed
most of them were headed for the toll booth to reenter Pennsylvania. Fifteen minutes wound out,
and still no ride. Half an hour, forty five minutes, finally I decided to go and camp out with an
outstretched thumb to the gas station near the tollbooths on the advice of a passersbye in a
Winnebago. I walked the long mile of cars now fully aware that no one else was walking, they
were all vehicles bound for home.

An hour and a half had passed before I began to see that the lot was nearly empty. I gave
up hope, and started on foot towards the tolls. The lights of the cars streamed past me at five, ten
miles per hour. It felt like they were all staring now, aware of my obvious situation. I had nearly
reached the tollbooth, where I was nervous what the reaction of allowing me through on foot
would be. Suddenly a passing dark blue VW van pulled to the side of the road. The sliding door
slid open with a metal woosh, and someone from the dark interior barked “Need a ride kid? Get
IN!”

As we passed through the ticket booth, the strange driver passed me an empty case of
beer full of cans to push to the back of the van. Then he invited me to sit in the front passenger
seat. He introduced himself.

“Mark,” he said “my names Mark,” and he nodded in my direction.

My first impression was that with his thick short hair and equal length beard, he looked
like some kind of monk, or maybe even monkey. Mark had the time in I could tell by his nappy
appearance, his time spent on the road talk, his west coast kid lingo. He claimed to be from
Humboldt, California. He told me that he had lost his “kidz” in Camden and was worried about
them. Suddenly I realized that his “kids" were the family I had now. They were not really his
birth children, but rather a part of the road “Phamily”, the Harry Hoods.

He asked how far I intended to go. I told him I was a “gas rider”. He murmured
something and then went quiet. We drove in relative silence for about an hour until he decided to
turn off into a rest stop area.

“I would need a vote to decide if we take you on board. I really hope my kids are ok.
Tomorrow we’ll find them and we will decide then. You would make five of us.

But for tonight, you can stay with me. I’ll get you back to lot tomorrow. But we’ve gotta turn

OVER! What do you sell?”

I was struck numb for a minute, but in my sense of freedom in it all I just waited for my
head to supply an answer.

“What’s your trade?” he asked.

“Trade?”
“Yeah, my one kid, Star, he makes chain mail, you know? Do you know how
to make links?”

“No,” I replied, coming to the first reasonable notion I had about my limited funds “but I
know a dollar store in Philly where we can get cases of water for cheap.”

“Water?”

I knew it was time to sell my usefulness or I was going to be in the same spot the
following night.

“Yeah, they sell cases of water. Twenty – five for five bucks. We could buy
like fifty with ice and a cheap cooler. Buck or two bucks apiece, should be easy.”

“How much money you got?”

“Twenty. That’s two cases of twenty – five, a cooler and ice.”

He seemed satisfied enough.

“Yeah, you gotta get me there tomorrow.”

The dollar store was in the route that I had recently walked to go to Ocean
City for my short Mecca.

Mark pulled out some fajita wraps, some cheese and a blowtorch. Stepping

outside of the rest stop parked van, he flicked a lighter, and lit the torch.

“Cheese fajita?” he asked.

It dawned on me that I had not eaten since that morning at the hospital.

“Sure”

As we stood talking and munching on blowtorch heated fajitas I asked him
long he had been on tour. We talked for an hour or so about Phish and Further lots.

We discussed which was better, and the similarities between them and the Dead. Mark
had been to hundreds of shows. It was a way of life. That night after he picked me up, I became a
member of the easiest family to join on earth. Policing the lot was a bad enough idea he said for
the Rainbow Family of old, that the old timers were all right, but enough said. The culture itself
felt different. I said we are going to go where we can shine. Shine on. It felt kind of right, but
best of all it was freedom. Long last freedom. He agreed as we turned down in the van. He in his
stretched out passenger seat, me curled up on the floor. Seconds before drifting off to sleep, he
murmured the most meaningful thing said to me. “Hey, kid?”
“Yeah?”

“Good to know you.”

In the morning we arose at the same time. Mark went into the restaurant to use the
restrooms. I noticed a Saab parked near the entrance with Phish stickers posted on its back
windshield. The license plates were Ohio. It was a blonde and a brunette of about twenty years
of age, and both cute. The one in the driver side saw me and waved the driver side to get me to
come over to the car.

“Hey stranger,” she winked at him.

“Whats up, ladies?”

“My friend wants to know if you need a ride?” “You
going to the show?” he asked.

“No, we are headed to the Troy show. Wisconsin.”

“Oh, no I have a ride, thanks.” I kicked himself immediately for having said it.

The girl in the passenger seat waved at him “hiii…”

“So your going to Camden?” The girl in the drivers side asked. I glanced down
at her breasts, my God I was an idiot.

“Yeah, there’s my ride. He was disappointed as he saw Mark approaching and
knew he wasn’t going to get a second chance to go with them gracefully. I would have
to talk around Mark. I cut it short and headed back toward the VW bus.

“See ya! Have a good show!”

“You too!” they said in unison.

Mark waved at them as he passed by the car exiting the restaurants front doors.

We climbed into the bus, ready to go.

“Two sisters headed for Wisconsin.”

“They were sisters? Huh the blonde was good looking, you should have gone with
THEM!”

I gave myself another good hard kick in the ass.
Mark made a u – turn with the VW bus back towards the city. “At last” I thought I would
know a peaceful disconnected moment in Philadelphia. I knew I was leaving my whole notion of
home behind. We listened to the Allman Brothers Band live from Marks tape deck and took care
of business. The cases of water were bought, as well as a cooler to put them in. It was a beautiful
summer day in the low seventies and we both got anxious to get on lot. We got there at three
when the gates opened.

Mark turned to me and said “Your names Troy, right?”

He said it not in the tone one asks a persons name, but rather of an agent
giving his willing employee a name.

"Ok," I said in agreement.

"Ok Troy, see you back at the Van. Keep an eye out for me if we get totally split

up, listen for me, I will call you."

“Alright.”

“Later kid.”

“Later.”

Troy, one letter separate from Trey Anastasios own name. The letter was
truly my battle. Did I want E, ecstasy, or O, universal ness Zen? Troy, the famed
ancient city built and rebuilt over and over again on its own ruins.

We parted ways into the parking lot empty and bright with summer sun.

“Much have I seen and known, - cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honor’d of them

all- And drunk delight of battle with my

peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.”

-Lord Tennyson Alfred, “Ulysses”
“Got to the show around four;

Just when the lot began to soar,

With Philly behind us and a case in the car;

We knew it wouldn’t be too far,

We were there to unwind;

To meet people and to be kind’…”

– “The Show” , Cosmik Debris

Troy looked around at his surroundings. This was it, though Philly lay just over the bridge
here was home. The parking lot was desolate, but somehow clean of all of the bottles and other
assorted trash which had littered just twelve hours ago.

Across the Delaware River, Philadelphia skyline was hazy in clouds of the midday
humidity. Troy remembered the night before sitting in half lotus position, which was as far as he
could stretch meditating to the incredible fireworks. There would be bang and boom with lights
over the river again tonight. He wondered if tickets were to be found amongst his second show.
No matter, the main concern now was to find the necessary ice to fill his cooler with the ten
bucks he had left over. There were several parking lots in Camden, which would soon be filled
with concertgoers and Fourth of July tailgating. With Phish lot, though it was a whole different
story. The band toured almost nonstop, and had a following that would be compared to the
Grateful Deads own if not for the fact that they were the same people. The night before Troy had
found that people were more willing to be touring with both Phish and Further tours to bridge the
gaps in the map. That is, there were miles to be traveled and rest to be taken, food to be eaten and
this required money. The band in fact had a whole village of gypsy type travelers who toured
nonstop with them performing various tasks from stage hands to selling t – shirts.

In just a few hours the parking lot would be full of the “tour heads” setting up for the
night’s business. Of course the business had its benefits, as shows are fun. The main lot it seemed
for most of the touring people was set up in the far lot along the river.

A few of the canvas tents to cover the corner stores on lot were already being set up.
There were a few restaurant tents, a few vendors, and then what could only be known as
“Shakedown”. The term came from the Grateful Deads song “Shakedown Street” and it was like
going downtown to the central heart of the lot. Picture an alley the length of a city block where
every two feet another small congregation of people gathered selling different things. A
marketplace of sights smells and sounds. Bands would come and set up to play in the lot where it
was not filled with DJ style music setup. There was water, pita wraps, grills with every type of
campground food, tie dyes, and of course other goods not so legal. Drugs could be found on lot,
and it was not a disorganized system by which they were sold. One of the kids within a group
would carry around a box blaring music to announce where the central spot of dealing would be.
This was based on the dozens of heads wandering with digital devices to talk back and forth in
code phrases. A key phrase in lot terminology was someone yelling “six up!” meaning that
security or a cop was coming, time to six up for five – oh and hide the goods.

It was heard so often on lot, there were t – shirts made that had a seven up can with “six up”
written on it. Beer was generally found in the backs of trucks but also most times right on the
storefronts of

Shakedown.

Nitrous oxide was common occurrence as well, though in recent years the lots have been
more heavily policed of this damaging substance. Tanks of “laughing gas” were here and there
though, usually driven to be on a lot away from the shakedown heads who would not tolerate it.
The hippy crack was sold off in five dollar balloons that could be heard whooshing to full and
sometimes popping all over the lot. When inhaled the gas makes the user completely numb, and
often lose consciousness.

Cars, trucks, and buses, planes trains and automobiles, and in this case the Camden Ferry
were bringing the one day or only partial tour concertgoers to the lot by the thousands.

Troy set off toward the parking lots further inland to try and ascertain where he could find
ice. A small congregation of cars was gathered together in the mid lot near where Mark had
parked, and one of the girls sitting next to a Honda leapt to her feet.

“Hey there! Wanna try some oils?! Great stuff!” she said flirtatiously.

“Yeah, sure,” he responded a little on the shy side.

“Where ya headed?” the girl leaned over an orange – red Mandelbrot set looking tapestry
spread out on the ground filled with small clear liquid vials of different scents. Some of the
bottles were clear liquids, others brownish to black. He wondered if any contained liquid LSD.

Troy’s head was spinning as though he had lost his equilibrium. It had seemed to him that
since the night before he had learned to simply act and react on his best judgment with no
hesitation so as to follow the course of his time wisely. Life here was one big free contact high.
Here he saw an obvious opportunity to chill and make headway with what he gauged were
weekender show goers. Good to know, but it was time to make some money lest he lose tour on
the second date.

“Yeah, sorry no oil thanks, flat broke. Do you know where I can get some ice
around here?”

She jutted out her hand then and proceeded to introduce herself “Jill.”

“Troy, yeah, I need to sell some, uh...water.”

Jill swayed from the touch of his hand as if swooning. The flirtatious look in her eye told him
that she was truly also trying to make a sale. He must look a wreck from sleeping his clothes,
and not having eaten since the night before.

“Yeah, try over past that lot your headed for, there is a grocery store a few
blocks from there. Be careful, lots of security over there. “

“Thanks. Right on!”

“Come back for some oils afterward, there really good!” she sang back
persuasively as he moved toward the far lot she had directed him towards.

The next lot was indeed full of blue jacketed security guards in golf carts. They seemed to
be apprehending a mans bubbler glass pipe Troy saw a few feet further on down the row from
which he walked. Bubblers are a more expensive variety of glass pipes that hold water and are
used to smoke marijuana. As with most pipes, they change color as they become more resonated.
The better the weed, the better the color came in from the glassblowing art. This pipe looked
dark green and orange.

“Shame, Troy thought “the guard will probably be smoking it in an hour!”

The three o’clock sun felt more like a midday blaze now, and he was glad he had only
worn his long green Quicksilver trunks. One of the security guards was ahead passing through a
horizontal row of cars Troy was passing through. He eyed Troy with suspicion, his eyes not at
all shamed at staring him down. Boy, Camden was a rough spot. Suddenly a girl with shoulder
length dreadlocks tied back flanked him on his right. She acted as if she had known him,
actually like he was a close personal friend though he had never seen her before in his life.

“Hey, what’s up kid?”

“Uh nothing! How bout you sister?”

“Sister, huh.” She said with a disgusted look knocking down what she took to
be some kind of rejection.
“Did you find your kids yet?”

Suddenly he was aware of just how tight knit the community in which he was living would be.

She did know who he was; obviously word had already spread via Mark.

“No, I haven’t even met them yet.” He replied trying to keep the excitement and heartfelt
wonder of it all from making him sound lame again.

“Sure you have, you’ve got me!” she said trying not to be mocking as well as taking the
opportunity to hug his shoulders with her left arm.

She was not at all unattractive, and Troy was suddenly brought to life from the dull
existence he was accustomed to. Why hadn’t he done this much earlier in life?

“Why didn’t I do this much earlier?!” he said aloud.

“Oh, come on the store is only a few blocks from here, I’ll go with you I need to buy
some baggies anyway.”

How in hell did she know so much about him? Troy was also learning how well the
Phamily functioned.

“Huh?!”

“Don’t you need ice?”

She figured by now that she had probably spooked him enough and decided to give him a
friendly wink, finally confessing “Mark told me I’d see you around HOPEFULLY with Carey
and Jim.

Said he might need you to pay for gas and you needed ice.”

“Oh, yeah.” He said dully, not even thinking of one thing to say.

“Oh yeah.” She mocked him teasingly.

The sunlit up her tan figure as she squinted and marched forward faster toward the far
west corner of the lot. The wind blew, and Troy caught a whiff of her scent, evidently shower had
not been in her itinerary since the night prior.

“Camdens a tough place” he began, quoting Mark from the night prior “I
hope they are ok. I heard they got mugged.”

She agreed, shaking her head to the affirmative. Sweat began to bead down Troy’s
forehead and he wiped it off with the back of his hand, which did not do any good as it was
equally as sweaty. He wondered he if he himself smelled and resolve to use a restaurant
bathroom if he found one.

Once again his thought turned to the question of getting a ticket.

“Yeah, Camden sucks. No motels, no campgrounds, lots of fucking pigs.” She darted in
front of him grabbing his hand and urging him faster.

“Speaking of which there’s the fucking one who fucking flirted with me last night, let’s go!”

He wanted ask if she had tickets, but he did not feel it was time. First there was money to
be made. He was jogging now, and the heat was really getting to him and he slowed breaking her
hand to hand grip.

The Camden street they entered reminded him of the desolation row he had walked
through the night prior on the way into town. The sidewalk was broken up, and lined with trash
that heaped overflowing from corner wastebaskets. A whole Sunday newspaper could probably
be collected from the block they were on alone. The grocery store was a small corner store across
from a bank. The girl led him across the street and told him to wait, that she had to “tap MAC”.
Troy felt primitive and broke not having any more than ten bucks let alone a bank card to draw it
from. These tour people were far from behind the times.

“Wait here.”

Troy waited, leaning on the one way mirror of glass that made up the banks exterior.
Several minutes later the girl, whose name he still did not know emerged with a scowl on her
face.

“Fucking banks,” She said as she walked with him towards the store “thanks for
waiting.”

“No problem. Hey, what’s your name?”

Troy extended a hand toward her as if to handshake. She pushed it down,
and said in a mocking glare “sister.”

Must prefer hugs, he blushed to himself. Damn this was going to be a good life.

She continued to scowl, and he wondered if he had seriously offended her. They got the
items they needed from the small store, and walked back to the lot where they had met. There
was little more small talk, and he began to have the feeling that he owed her an apology, or that
she was questioning if he really was one of them. You had to be one to be one seemed to be the
Phamily way, and he imagined doubting himself was the first way en route to a disappointing
conclusion. What a wonderful
Zen existence. Also proof that he needed to lose the intellectual and gain some “Be Here Now”
ness.

Halfway through the lot while passing a group of guys and one girl with hoodies and
patchwork pants, dreadlocks and a passing bowl, one of the guys snagged her. They hugged as
a long lost couple who had been reunited. He then began to deep throat her for long enough
that Troy decided he was now being ignored as if nonexistent. What a Zen existence. He
shrugged and walked on. Ten seconds and twenty five feet later, he turned as he heard her yell
“LATER TROY!!” A shiver went down his spine as he heard his new name for the first time. It
was hope. He had found somewhere where they didn’t care who he was, or where he came
from, only that he was and that was enough for some Phun and love.

The ice was heavy and cold as he shifted it to various ways of carrying. He hoped it
would be enough, as it had been expensive and he was now out of cash. Returning to the lot on
which Marks van was parked, he saw that it had been moved closer to where shakedown was
going to be. There was a group of people around the back, and the doors on all sides were open.
He had found the others.

Their words came into range as he approached from the left rear. There was smoke rising
from the side, and Troy realized someone was cooking. “Yeah, we had to convince the guy to let
us park free. The kid was like yeah, were broke and all. It was kind of dumb.”

Marks voice wavered as he saw Troy.

“There he is, HEY! You got the ice.” Mark dropped the burger he was attending back on
the grill and came over with his arms spread out to give him a hug. Troy gratefully accepted his
first hug.

That would take care of missing out on the other lot orgy he had just left.

“Troy, right? “ Mark began introductions.

A skinny boy of about eighteen wearing chain mail and spikes with a leather jacket and
jeans on immediately gave him a warm hug cutting in on Mark “Star” he said with a sparkle in
his eye.

Troy felt one spun again, that dizzy highness he had been experiencing from the night before.

This kid didn’t look the type, so who was he not to fit in with this punk on board?

“Wow, am I high.” Troy simply stated referring to his contact high.

Star looked at him with that same sparkling “figure me out” face he had made a moment ago and
said with withheld glee.
“Good. We just got smoked too.”

Troy was instantly glad he had not gotten smoke as it seemed for the last few years pot
had made him paranoid. Now he wondered if he would be able to turn down turning on. Perhaps
he just needed to lighten up, wind out a little. Was it possible he had been making himself
paranoid by those with which he surrounded himself? Absolutely.

From the front of the van with a completely cold glaring look a beautiful dirty blonde dread

locked girl shot him a hello “I’m Carey.”

She said, then turning to Mark back at work on his burger. “Five kids is way too fucking many.”

She threw her knapsack back into the van while clutching a yellow hooded sweatshirt with a red

dot on its front.

“This fucking van smells.”

At first impression she was abrasive. A tough girl. At least she’s honest, Troy thought
with a glimmer of hope as Mark smiled at him, shrugging. The other kid Troy notice at the front
of the van seemed to drift off in thought, and simply turned away without an attempted
introduction. Trotting behind him on a leash was a beautiful black collie mix.

“That’s Onyx.” Mark said with half a mouth full so it came out “Ats Omix…” then
adding after a swallow “The dog not the kid.”

He laughed. They were both his “dogs”.

So did Troy, recognizing his eye on at Carey. They must be some kind of couple and were
having a spat over the previous night. Troy guessed they needed the money he could give.

Mark pointed his finger past the porta grill further into the vans interior at the cooler and water.

“Betta pwut at ice in da coower…” he said with the last of the char black burger shoved
in his mouth. Troy realized his own hunger and Mark seemed to read his mind.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.” Troy shot back quickly, assuming Mark was going to offer him food. But he

didn’t.

“I have to sell this stuff, go buy something on shakedown. Better sell that water.

Oh, yeah and we will take you to Pittsburgh at least, right Star?”
“Right the fuck on man” Star returned grinning at Troy. Troy guessed there
were more hostilities among the crowded van group and that they welcomed a new guy

to break it up.

Troy turned for the first time to Carey.

“Are you ok? I heard you guys got mugged?”

She glanced at him as if to accuse him of hitting on her, and he recognized the hint of
truth in her gaze through him. It was that look that a taken woman tempted would give in
correcting her status with a new guy. “Fine.”

She replied and walked away toward the now half filled and busy shakedown with grills and

Phish lot delicacies.

“I hope I have enough ice, man. I’m not sure.” Troy said downtrodden as he pulled the

Styrofoam cooler from its lodged state in the van with the cases of water.

“Just go down shakedown asking for ice from different people. They’ll give a hand, or at
least a handful. Don’t worry man, people help” Mark replied as he tore out sheets of aluminum
foil to wrap his food individually for sale.

His words echoed in Troy’s mind “people help” not “people will help.” As everything
else here seemed it was a different breed of humans here, Phamily were not strangers any one.
The light in Troy’s spirit began to glow again with hope spreading from this faith based family of
people he had found. How was it a parking lot could feel so much more like home than any other
he had ever had?

“Great!” he responded finally with a bit more enthusiasm in his voice.

This was not a journey to be taken without faith. This was a journey of enlarging his
spiritual growth, of identifying with others who took for granted believing the things he had for
years loved to bathe himself in. Part of him wanted to see it as west coast culture, but they were
all here right now in the east.

Troy carefully packed the ice around the water bottles in the cooler. He would have to
refill the cooler a few times. While he was packing the cooler, a kid dressed in khakis and a
white Phish original logo t – shirt stopped by.

“Hey man, you selling that water, I’m parched!”

Mark shot him a smile and answered for Troy “Yeah!”
The kid immediately brought forth a knot of bills and asked “How much? Two?”

He peeled off two bills and thrust them forward toward Troy. He had
been intending to sell them for a buck apiece, but why refuse? Beside which
Mark piped right in with another answer “Yeah, two. And we’ve got burgers
too if you want!” The voice of experience.

“Wow, those look good. “ He took the water from Troy, who gave an apology
“I just popped em in the cooler, so they are a little warm...”

Cracking it open and taking a swig the kid replied. ”That’s fine. I’ll pass on
the food, though it looks great! Have a good show!”

“Have a good show!!” Mark and Troy piped in together as their first customer
walked away from the van.

Troy smiled to himself and grimacing picked up the full cooler to walk it onto a spot he
had reserved on shakedown. It was about fifty pounds, and he looked forward to being off work
already. It was time to take charge of his self run business. His first profits had been to the tune
of a thousand percent profit.

Turning on to shakedown he quickly scouted a spot about half way down the length of the
marketplace where no one had parked their goods. He heaved the packed cooler across the
walkway beginning to become spotted with potential customers and finally put the cooler to rest.
The man he was setting up across from was a smiling Jamaican who immediately smiled at his
plight and spoke across the walkway “Hey, you made it! Ha ha!”

The girl standing next to him bowed her head a little, continuing to fold a “rag” or

imported prayer rug to display on their six foot long table. The table was an array of price signs
taped to the front. She also turned for a brief smile and nod saying “hello”.

We were neighbors, and respectably would not be in any competition. His shop had no
food or drink to speak of, and Troy realized another key to his involvement in the community.
Respecting other businesses and working together to increase everyone’s profitability was a
must.

The man next to him seemed to just be enjoying the sun on a lawn chair. He tall and thin
with a muscular frame. Both he and his girlfriend seated next to him had long blonde hair. He
reached a hand out to introduce himself.

“Jim, man, and this is Linda.”

“Hi Jim, hi Linda. Want some water? Free water for my neighbors!”
“No thanks,” he replied quickly revealing the beer he held on the side of his
lawn chair just out of sight “we’ve got beer. But whoa fee, man.”

“Yeah right.”

“I’ll take a water, what kind are they?” Linda spoke up.

“American Pride I think.”

He handed over semi chilled water to Jim, who passed it on to her. She cracked
it open and took a swig.

“S’warm. I’d wait a little before selling it. I hope you haven’t been selling warm
water!”

What a bitch, Troy thought to himself.

“Nah, just one and that one I gave you. He didn’t care”

“I hope not, you know you affect everyone’s business when you sell bad goods!”

This was insanity. If he had set up shop I downtown Manhattan he wouldn’t have
received this much community consciousness. Of course he would need a license if he set up
downtown anywhere.

He decided to ignore her quip and yelled his pitch for the first time.

“Water, get your water here! Thirsty?”

Over the course of the next few hours the lot went from a laid back scene of straggling
wanderers to an elbow room only buzz of activity. Troy sold the bottles of water for a dollar
apiece. Several times people offered him more, and he realized if he was inconsistent on his price
someone would figure it out and he would hurt business. Overcharge one to make profit, and lose
them all. He tried different pitches as the show grew nearer.

“Ice cold water!”

“Water here, what the fuck it’s only a buck!”

By around six thirty he had sold forty five of the waters. The rest had been drank by he,
Mark, Carey, and his neighbor in da’ hood Linda. He had run out of ice around five thirty, but
had used it as an opportunity to meet other people and had gone around collecting a handful
here, a handful there from others as Mark had suggested. They were all so friendly, smiles and
nods, no one told him no.. and some even offered him smoke or a beer. It was half an hour to
show time and he had doubled his money from the night before. He desperately wanted to get
into the show, but was as yet lacking the funds to do so. There would be more shows. He didn’t
know how he was going to do it, but he would find a way. He had heard of getting miracle
tickets from a buddy he had met in Ocean City New Jersey.

Pat had been an old dead head who had toured for several years. He said miracle tickets
were free tickets that you got on lot to see the show. Troy walked around with a finger over his
head as he saw others doing, indicating that he needed “one ticket”. His heart was not in it. He
was ashamed to take a handout in the form of a concert ticket. Deeper in him the knowledge as to
why the ticket was a necessity to his betterment shifted toward understanding.

Troy had yet to understand his status, to see himself with a ticket stub in his hand. He was

depressed from the loony bin, but hadn’t Phish told him his dark side Floyd was Dead, nothing
but a Ripple?

This was the story of realizing ghostly green paper was not the aim. He was trying to live
a life, and that was completely free. One spirit in still water like his soul he had seen vibing
outward affected by the wavelengths of others. There need be no proof he was not crazy. If these
thousand gathered under the same premise to surrender to the flow, if this band was the largest
grossing tour band in the world, didn’t that outweigh the skeptics who had locked him down? He
had been surrounding himself with the wrong crowd, but now he was here. Why weigh on a
sunny day?

Fourth of July fireworks lit up the night and he stood watching them in awe. The end of
the night came, and he began to watch making sure Mark had not left without him. At eleven
forty five when the crowd streamed forth from the arena, he saw a familiar face. It was a guy he
had hung out with throughout his entire senior year. He and his girlfriend and her best friend had
gone to this guy’s house every night to smoke pot. In fact after graduation when his parents had
kicked him out, he had stayed with Bill on his couch temporarily. That was until he came home
to find Bills house burned down one night.

“Hey! Bill!”

“Yo, Joel! What are you doing here?”

For a minute it seemed as though he was between worlds. It already felt as though Troy
had taken on a from of his own, and he felt as though he stood in limbo within the tribe. Then a
warm glow filled him and he began to realize that this was to be a healing including his former
life, which it would merge with the new where the friendly good book would see it fit to do so.

“I’m on tour, man. Have you seen Angel at all?”

Angel was Bills old girlfriend from High School days. She had gone on to Penn State. “Nah.”
“How was your show?”

“Good. They were, well not as good as the Dead, but...”

Some kids coming from the arena on the path by the Delaware lit up with hoots and yells.
Troy, annoyed by Bills comment lit up with them “Wooohooo!” he shouted.

Bill began to say something, but he was too busy cheering to hear “Yee! Yiyiyiyiyiyi
YEEE!” the Independence Day war cry escaped his throat.

The words of the Dead came to his mind. “Leaving Texas, Fourth day of July. Sun so hot,
the clouds so low, the eagles filled the sky…”

Kind of symbolic in every way.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mark strolling across the vacating shakedown toward
the van. People were leaving faster this night than the last.

“Hey, Bill man good to see you, I gotta run!” He gave Bill a quick hug and hurried off
toward the van. Arriving at the van, he found Mark looking rather stoned and weary eyed, though
with a warm glow of peace about him.

“So glad we are leaving Camden” he said to the arriving Troy.

“Have you seen the others?”

From nowhere Carey, Jim, and Star lagging behind looking rather drunk came bounding
onto the scene. Onyx was lagging behind Jim, dragging his leash behind him. Carey opened her
waist pouch to reveal something to Mark in private and he grinned. She turned to Troy with a
grin and pulled a light green nugget of kine bud part way out of the bag and smiled.

“Got a bowl?” Star asked.

Carey shot him a dirty look that said he was too drunk to require response.

Mark answered instead “We’ll have to hot potato”.

Then nodding toward the security guard passing them on his way towards a group of kids

holding giant nitrous balloons said “Get in, lets go now”.

“Fucking preps,” Carey said climbing into the passenger seat of the VW van.

The van was indeed crowded. Mark drove, Carey was in the passenger seat, while
Star and Troy in the back tried to make space away from Jim and Onyx who were in and on the
one back seat that remained in the bus. Everyone but Mark were soon fast asleep, and Troy
decided it would not be a bad idea.

When he awoke, he saw it was light. Carey was awake and talking to someone on her
digicom cell phone device. She seemed to be getting directions to somewhere. Star was awake
and working clipping pieces of wire from a coil he had wrapped around a pen. Onyx was fast
asleep and partway on Troy’s legs which in turn were pins and needles numb. He saw Carey
pass something to

Mark, who in turn offered it to Troy without a word.

It was a smoking potato. The top had been poked by a pencil to its middle where it was
attached by a joining hole on the side for an air release and a hole lengthwise to make the pipe
tube. It was filled with half lit kine bud marijuana; light green and smelling to be a good batch
of outdoor homegrown. Not bad, but only about sixty an eighth of an ounce if you bought it in
that quantity on lot. He took a long inhale and relaxed. It had been a long time since he
smoked pot, and a few minutes later he was too stoned to be of much company. Carey turned
to him and decided to try asking him about his origins.

Troy decided it best just to hand him the ten page paper he had written to give his
mental health lawyer and the judge at the hospital a few days prior. She read it in silence,
now and again stopping to remark “wow”.

Star chimed in from his spot in the back. “Hey , wanna learn mail?”

Troy didn’t understand and gave him a puzzled look. Star laughed “Your fried aren’t you? Here,
I’ll teach you how to make chain mail to sell. “

He held up a bracelet of metal links to eye level between them. It was made up small
enjoined metal circles linked together in ones and twos horizontally. Star showed him how to
wrap the metal around something round. Then he began clipping the coiled wire in pieces
that were open ended circles of the wire. He then used pliers to link them together as many
as five wide in patterns to create chain mail. Troy was impressed by the amount of time he
had invested in various pieces sitting around the van floor.

“You can sell this for twenty bucks on lot. Took me two hours!”

“Right on, Star.”

Moments later they pulled into a Denny’s parking lot. The lot was filled with kids Troy
recognized from the show both entering the restaurant and pulling up in cars from behind them.
They were a group of about fifteen meeting for lunch planned via cell phone en route to their
next show. Troy had overheard Carey saying they were going to a Further Show somewhere near
Pittsburgh.

Though he was impressed by the crowd, Troy was disappointed in himself for having
gotten so stoned. He had not smoked pot in months and was too baked to socialize. This was an
awkward spot for a kid with no money to eat among fifteen new acquaintances who he depended
on. He was way too paranoid and uptight about fitting in still. It sure was taking him time to
mellow slow to this lifestyle.

The waitress seemed to know them, and gave them special service. Ignoring his nervous
shyness, the group though saying little to him during the meal taken at two eight foot adjoined
tables did feed him. Kids passed a plate down the row, several of them each giving him a little of
their food.

He ordered a coffee and stilled himself in the hope he would sober up enough to be any kind of
whit.

But right now the pot had him dumb.

About the time he felt himself sobering, they were exiting the building. The meal all in all
had lasted about an hour. Two kids had smoked a bowl under the table after the meal, passing it
between them under the table. It was easily concealed by the cigarette smoke in the group. They
were all discussing sleeping plans, and Troy realized he was going to be asked for cash soon.
They got back on the bus and Troy asked where they were going. Mark answered a mono
syllabic “Camp”.

They were in Pennsylvania, and a few quiet hours later began to wind out on smaller
country roads. Finally they turned off into a deep woods area in farm country. They stopped by a
small barn house apparently to gain permission to camp. Mark got out, and went inside the
building. He returned and climbed back into the driver seat saying simply “ten bucks”.

Carey handed a ten dollar bill to him.

They stopped the bus on the left hand side of the dirt path a few hundred feet further. It
was already growing dusk, and he saw that there were other buses there and a handful of tents
from various campers set up on the way down to a small lake at the bottom of the grassy hill
they were on. Troy was tired, and it was obvious that Carey wanted nothing to do with him
having some business to take care of with Jim and Onyx. They set up a tent on the hill to share.
Mark announced that he and Troy and Star could share the van to sleep.

Troy joined a few other college freshman aged campers that night for a few hours
listening to Star flirt expertly with the girls. He wished he could be so outgoing,but he was
dreadfully bad at small talk. Star strummed an acoustic guitar as one of the guys in the group
joined him on bongos. Troy missed his guitar. The night was clear, and all of the stars were
visible in the fresh country air, and he soon relaxed into a peaceful campground mode. That night
he and Star and Mark talked and laughed sharing stories until the early morning hours.

In the morning, Troy removed a bar of soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste from his bag and
walked toward the lake. The lake was really a very slow moving river it seemed. It was place at
the bottom of a grassy knoll a few hundred feet wide.

The lake was maybe a hundred feet wide and stretched lengthwise off into the distance
more than a hundred yards off. As Troy grew close it, he saw a creek source near the far
southeastern end with a dirt path leading into the woods beyond sight. He walked that direction.
He thanked himself for having the wisdom to wear swim trunks to bathe in.

The path turned out to be a steep grade made up of large boulders to grip on the way
down. At the bottom of the path Troy heard a loud whooshing. He turned the final corner of the
path and emerged into an area with a crystal clear twenty foot waterfall which emptied into a
clean water pool of about thirty feet wide. He stepped into the water and had a moment.

Here he was in the middle of nowhere, with friends at every turn, excitement untold and
now natural peaceful beauty to bathe in as if in the richest of spa resorts. This was living!! He
stepped into the clear cold water and lathered himself. When he was satisfied, he stepped into the
falling water. It rushed over his body sending chills and serenely cleansing him of all dirt and
soap. Half an hour later, he reluctantly walked back toward the grassy hill to rejoin the group at
the van. He tried to tell them of the waterfall, but they were all so busy packing the van. It
seemed they had met someone here who had a motel to share and Mark was anxious to be off to
it having a sore back from the night before.

They boarded the bus, and with Carey giving directions from the shotgun seat half an
hour later entered a small Red Roof Inn. The digicom bleeped on and off as frustrated, she
relayed the directions to the obviously fatigued Mark.

“I can’t wait. I’m too fucking tired” He piped up.

They pulled in to the parking lot, and immediately Mark turned to Troy. “Hey I need as
much gas as you can give, plus ten for the motel”.

“How about twenty gas? That enough?”

Mark smiled at the offer which was in Troy’s unrealistic fog way too much and said “that’ll be

fine”.

He handed over the cash and helped mark to follow the five others into a small room with
two queen size beds and a table. There was a new member to the group who was in their room.
He had been met at the motel by one of the kids, and had agreed to share reservations with them.
He would share the one bed. The other would be shared by Carey and Jim, Onyx, Star, and Troy
taking the floor.

An hour later they lay in silence. The TV was on low, and Troy was watching a for the
first time ever a cartoon called “South Park”. Around four in the afternoon he fell asleep to the
droning television and the heavy breath of his bus crew. He would not awake until the following
morning.

The clock on the nightstand between the rooms two bed read nine o’clock. Mark was
missing, but the others were still asleep in the beds. Troy went outside to smoke his morning
cigarette. Walking on to the second floor veranda, he saw Mark bending over the driver side
interior seat of the van, throwing trash into a trash bag.

“Hey, Troy, give me a hand?!”

Troy was impressed by Mark, realizing how much of a father role he played in taking the
driver role of the group. The tape deck announced “Tell you about that driver that lives inside my
head. He starts me up and stops me, and puts me into bed…”

Sure did. Troy assisted Mark for the next half hour in detailing the van which had just
come across the country going east and was now headed back. It was filthy. Mark opened up to
him “I’m sorry but I don’t think we are going to be able to take you any further. Carey is
complaining, and you can see we have limited space.”

The look on his face was that of sincere worry and regret at having to make this choice.
Troy felt sorry for him. He had made his bed, and he would have to lie in it.

“That’s FINE,” he reassured Mark wiping the dust from the console cup holder in the
passenger seat “Thank you for getting me to THIS show!!”

Mark smiled at him a genuine smile of relief “You are going to do fine, kid. You have

respect. These guys are lazy, look at me! I’m cleaning this damn bitch all by myself. Someone

will give you a ride.”

“Thanks.”

It was a bright summer morning and the parking lot was half empty an hour before the
groups checkout time of eleven o’clock. According to Mark the show was about an hour and a
half from here yet. He had said that they needed only to stop at the grocery store and get the
makings for veggie bean burritos to sell.
Troy would put the rest of his money in with the others and they would make a group
effort to turn over the money for the next show. Carey had tickets she had traded for with one of
the kids at

Denny’s and would be going in to the show. The new guy they had met at the motel had tickets
as well. Troy watched in dismay as Star traded an eighth of pot he had gotten somewhere the
night prior for a ticket. It looked as though Troy and Mark were going to be holding up their own
end of things outside in the lot again.

The group from his room and another group from one of the other rooms formed outside
near the parked cars. Dan had brought a few different drums and congas to sell at the show. He
made them with woven hemp wraps for straps and stretching tight leather skins over their earthy
wooden exteriors. A small drum circle session worked for about a half an hour while they got
situated in their respective vehicles for the trip to the show.

The grocery store was a short stop about five blocks down the road, and they were off to
the show. The arena turned out to have a dirt parking lot set away from it on an embankment that
faced its side entrances. The gates and general admission crowd was visible standing at the edge
of the lot on shakedown. It seemed to be a lot more relaxed than Camden had been, and there
were a lot more drug dealers.

Mark parked on the southwest end of shakedown only one row from the center of activity
and immediately began to make the burritos from plastic containers he set up in an assembly line
from just inside the sliding bus door. Carey and Jim, Star and Onyx almost immediately took off.
Mark made a deal with Troy to put together the veggie wraps if he would sell them. They would
have about a hundred of them total. Troy agreed.

“Go ahead and take a walk, check it out! They’ll be ready in about half an hour, “he said
licking his fingers of refried bean substance that had spilled.

One quick survey of the lot showed that it was a younger crowd with a lot less elders than
had been at Camden. He wondered where they had all gone when the lights went out the night
previous. Shakedown was three times longer than at Camden, however stretching about a
thousand feet. There were a lot more food vendors, and Troy worried about being able to
compete with them. He decided to seek employment with one of the competitors. The old saying
“if you can’t beat em, join em” came to mind.

On the corner where the path lead to the front gates of the arena was a stand that was
made up of a square of about eight tables around behind which was parked a box truck. The
owner and several other dread locked kids were unloading everything from cases of soda and
veggies to whole pizza ovens. Troy watched from a distance for about five minutes, and then
made his move. He walked up to the middle eastern man who seemed to be barking orders to the
workers. He extended a hand to the man, saying simply “Troy.”
The man immediately looked at him said simply “pick up that case and move it over here,
will you” with a scowl on his face.

Troy immediately did so. The man then turned and shook his hand. “Russo.” He replied.

“Russo, good to meet you…”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, am busy! What you want?!” the man barked rudely.

“I am broke and need work, was wondering if you might have the need for help.”

Without hesitation Russo replied, “Yeah. Pay you five dollars an hour. Pick up

that case and bring it here.”

Troy was startled at just how sharp, commanding and rude the man had been, but once
again he followed directions. This barking of orders and shuffling of goods continued for about
half an hour when one of the group of dready kids standing on the corner walked up to him.

“Don’t fucking listen to Russo, he’ll fucking screw you over. He’s a Prick. A real

“grade A” asshole.”

“Really?” Troy responded, a quizzical half believing blank stare crossing his face.

“Yeah.”

That decided Troy on the rude man. He acted with the exact same sharpness with which
he had been treated. He walked over to Russo and told him he was leaving that he had business
to attend to. Russo grinned and replied “Yeah, yeah, I owe you five dollars. Come see me later.
Move!” and he brushed past with a box of pizza ingredients.

Troy spat on the ground and walked back into the relieving atmosphere of the bustling
shakedown. He walked past the van once to see what was on the southwest end of the lot. It
seemed that a lot of stores had set up head shops on that end with everything from counterfeit
Oakley’s to Guatemalan handbags. The air everywhere was thick with the rich smell of
patchouli, sandalwood and spots of sage. Finally done window shopping, Troy returned to the
van.

“Sell these, and when you’re done, you can keep twenty bucks for yourself. Two bucks a wrap.

Feed the hungry kids.” He instructed handing over forty wraps in a baggy.

“No problem.” Troy replied condition grounded, but determined to try. He saw Carey out
of the corner of his eye exchanging hugs with their neighbors. He was jealous, and this was
going to be a long night without tickets again. Though he began selling them up and down
working incredibly hard at his pitch, by eight o ‘clock nightfall was approaching and he still had
twenty wraps in the bag.

Troy was hungry, and stopped and spent ten of the forty he had made on soda and two
slices of pizza. Finishing these, he turned back toward the direction of the van. The drug boys’
boom box man was blaring from his shoulder rap in this direction and on the corner was a rare
sight of the seediest of the dealers all gathered on one corner. Troy guessed they were worth a
hundred thousand easy this night alone. As he passed them he heard one yell out “SIX UP!!”

Even so, a kid from a few feet across waved to Troy to get his attention. He
held in his hand an eye drops bottle, the common way to carry liquid LSD.

“Give ya’ a double puddle for four wraps!” he said to Troy “Its great stuff.” “Okay!”
Troy said without hesitation.

The top of the eye drops bottle came off in less than a second and the kids grabbed Troy’s
hand, holding it palm up and open toward him. Into it he squeezed a small quarter sized amount
of purple liquid.

“Eat up!!” the kid demanded.

Troy held his wet palm up to his mouth and licked off the liquid acid. It tasted sharp and
bitter, and he immediately had butterflies in his stomach. Awkwardly now, he dipped his hand
into the bag to retrieve the veggie bean burritos. He counted them into the kids’ outstretched
palm.

“On, two, three, FOUR!”

They shook hands and as Troy walked away the kid yelled “Have a good show!!!”

Troy yelled back with verve “Have a good show!! WooooooHoooo!”.

A moment later, the question of his profit arose in Troy’s mind. He had thirty of the sixty
bucks that Mark expected, fifteen wraps and he was now getting “on” and extremely hungry
again. “Fuck it!” he thought, “gotta eat” and stopped at a vendor to order two more slices of
pizza and a soda.

Twenty bucks now.

The acid began to take effect, and Troy simply walked back and forth with across the lot
with the bag hanging from his wrist. People everywhere were gathered and talking and he joined
them in groups here and there enjoying tales of other shows and such. He amused himself by
watching a group of pink robed Hare Krishna’s handing out pamphlets for a little while. He was
starting to relax, he could feel the drug beginning to take its full effect by the time the show let
out a few hours later. It had taken its time, but was quickly gaining in intensity.

Somewhere around eleven thirty he stood in a daze near Russo’s stand, who had blown
him off completely as he had been warned. A group of dreadlocked tour kids hung around the
front of the stand which he now noticed was only a row toward the arena from the Hare
Krishna’s Winnebago. They were getting rowdy, and for some reason Troy had the feeling this
night of partying was going to be far different from the others.

Suddenly out of the dark, approached Mark. He had not seen him all night. He
immediately gave him a hug.

“Hey , kid. Been looking all over for you! Thought you got into the show! Did
you?”

“Naah.. I’m tripping man.”

Mark looked concerned and said “You shouldn’t do that shit”.

Troy was surprised at the response.

“Did you get the wraps sold?”

He tugged at the bag with the remaining wraps Troy had hanging from his wrist.

Taking the bag, he opened it and peeked inside, then began to count them. Troy felt like a little
kid being caught stealing from the cookie jar.

“Yeah, man I had a hard time selling them.” He proceeded to hand over the thirty bucks
he had to the furry figures outstretched paw.

“Aww man, we needed to make FIFTY!”

Surprisingly he did not look angry, just disappointed. Troy was embarrassed and turned bright

red. Mark then surprised him and gave him a compassionate hug.

“That’s ok.” He said as almost an aside. He had the equivalent to fifty in his hand.

“We can’t take you any further, kid I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll find a ride.” He then gave
Troy one last long hug of goodbye and left off toward the van saying “I’ll see you at the next
show! Get a ride!”

Getting a ride turned out to be as hard as it had been in Camden, and he was a bit more
panicked due to the acid taking hold of his thought. Car systems blared as they lined up in rows
moving five miles an hour to exit the dirt parking lot. Their headlights confused and blinded him
as he walked around thumb outstretched toward the gate. He even asked one of the Hare
Krishna’s for a ride. “No, sorry” he had said and simply closed the door of the camper.

After this, he decided to go back to his Camden plan, get off lot first, and then thumb it.
He had no more turned to walk this direction when the passenger door of a Saab flew open and
nearly hit him. An incredibly cute brown haired girl leaned over the passenger seat from the
drivers’ and asked “Hey, you need a ride to camp?”

This girl was smoking hot. He hopped in the car and shut the door, remembering how
long it had been since he had gotten laid. Wow, what a break.

“I’m Liz,” she introduced herself, shaking his hand with a delicate pause. “I saw you a
ways back and figured you were headed for camp. I’m glad you decided to come with me.”

“Me too.”

They crossed the ten foot high gated entrance boundary and he saw directly across the
road something he had missed on the way in. It was a sign for a campground. What a break. The
headlights and taillights of the cars in front of them seemed to swell and sway, open and close in
their stop and go traffic. It was a light show to his acid puddle eyes. The stars began to connect
in webs, what few he could see through the windshield and he noticed he had a hard on. The girl
drove them across the road directly into a hundred car line for the gates of the campground.
They rounded the right handed curve in the road, and Troy saw what appeared to be a pay booth
with a guard issuing passes to enter.

As they approached the booth, Troy’s hopes were dashed of getting any action with this
girl. She spoke up. “I don’t know if you are here with somebody else or what, but if you are in
the car, they are going to make me pay for both. So if you are here with others, I guess you
should get out and walk. “

Two things entered his mind. He had no money with which to hunt this fresh game, and
he did have to get in. He immediately made up his mind.

“Ok, thanks!” he said and practically leaped from the passenger side and walked to the
right of the line cars. The sound of hundreds of drums beating in mixing rhythm filled the air
from what seemed to be a short expanse of woods ahead. His heart began to beat rapidly as the
air filled with swirling masses of color brought on by the increasing loudness of the drums.

He began to run for the woods, running free toward sound the size of the concert that
night itself. He saw dozens of blazing bonfires like the eyes of giant spirits staring back him
through the dense shrubbery. He ran faster and faster, and began yelling at the top of his lungs,
ignoring the bushes and tree limbs scratching at him. He just kept echoing the awesome sound
of the dancers cries all over the hill of bonfires toward which he sped. The cries were varied;
many and it all seemed so ecstatic, so wild.
Troy had been transported in time to some sort of surreal tribe of gypsies all gathered
together in fire and drum, smoke and spirit, dance and shouts, singing and celebrating the glory
of the twisting spiral stars and the full moon hanging blood red and immense low on the horizon
of the

hill.

He passed through the forest and there they were, campfires stretching off into the
distance up a series of hills that seemed to amount to a mountain as far as his eye could see.

A man seated by the fire nearest to the thicket from which he emerged must have heard
him coming and appreciated his spirit. He stood now, and beating his chest began to scream at
the top of his lungs.

“WOOOOOOOOOOYEEE!!!WoooHoooo!”

Troy broke to a slow trot and was filled with adrenaline. His trip had begun its peak. The
throbbing of the drumbeat was an endless series off bass beats and loops, opposing rhythms and
answers from various sites. Suddenly the chemicals coursing his veins seemed no more than the
natural state. The skyline was a horizon of conical flaming bonfires dotting his upward climb like
the stars that seemed to circle and dance around the bloody lunar splotch in a pastel sky.

Ahead and above, there seemed to be a central point to all of this wonderful madness. It
glowed with wisdom, with ancient knowledge that these ways had survived through our modern
time to now, that they held power and meaning beyond what centuries of scholars could ever
describe. We were the beat, the rhythm of the universe ever so small and receiving the wisdom of
the gods in our subconscious ancestral genes. These nights brought forth that raw power. Troy
walked on up the hill in a daze. Finally he saw the center of the organized chaos. It was a band
equipment truck from which had come these dozens of instruments. Fifty strong stood in a circle
behind the truck, talking in their rhythmic pounding.

Troy stood for what seemed hours, his heart pounding with them when it intensified,
lulling into still Zen quietness as they echoed talking round the circle. It seemed often the
children in the group were the ones to send forth a new rhythm. In their innocence they would
play something original, something somehow missing from the dozens of beats already going on,
and a wave would pass through all of us as the new rhythm spread and was interpreted.

Over the next few hours, Troy wandered from sleepy campfire to sleepy campfire when
the sky cracked open and began to turn pink. He started toward the east, the top of this hill built
on hill campground. For ten minutes he climbed past endless sights, until finally he reached the
plateau that was the highest point. There was literally no pun in this as he realized all around him
was a constant whoosh. In the corner of the hill was a tent with lights and strobes, dancer
gathered around obviously all on “e”. The nitrous tanks were everywhere, and all that could be
heard over the music was a loud

“whooshing” as if some hundred foot tire was going flat all over the campground. Dozens of
balloons were in sight in the hands of partiers. Coolers of beer were strewn everywhere, and
there were dozens of loaded guys and girls. This was definitely the high point of the camp.

Troy walked to the peak of the hill, and watched the sky. To his hallucinating eyes it was
a shower of comets among interconnected spider webs amongst the vanishing stars. The dancers
and he were being eaten by the god that was the sun, revealing the redness it had given the moon
in its nighttime law laying gravitational light source. The redness seemed like a sea of spilled ink
creeping down through crazy fingers, splintered sunlight renewing and creating all of them on
that high plane in its life giving light.

It seemed to Troy he could hear in his head the somber tune of a flute calling him to
descend the mountainous height. He did so, finding that the embankment on the other side was
hundreds more campers all sleeping in their tents now along its gradual grade.

He reached the bottom of the hill and began to feel somewhat panicked. The high did not
seem to be relenting, and his eyes were pasted open to swimming colors and abnormal thoughts
of which he could not make sense, and yet was no longer numb enough to escape the pain of his
hemorrhaging brain.

He remembered his Buddhist studies, and now concerned for the state he was in decided
for the betterment of his panic to sit and still himself at the pond by the road which led out of this
camp. An inner eye relaxed to seeing the drama realizing, yet remaining separate from it all. His
inner voice began the experience.

“From out of the looming dream of the night before I remembered the spiral darkness of
stars coming through my thought. You are, all of you, inside what could not be but was now part
of everything but my own thought. The thought of this blanketed open the sky of a pond whose
reflected interior had turned from ripples and fish to the skyline of New York City now in ruins
over the ages as a European city that had reacted favorably only to decay.”

“This was a wavelength, a band of rotted evolution. The people were there still and the
same wavelength from which we had always emanated. I died in my mind and hoped the next
second be reborn knowing it was me. Me who had not just created the moment, created it from
the minds of the passersby behind me. They were honking the horn at my fresh adolescent
scream knowing that I would need a ride off of the lot. As yet I had no way to go there. I seemed
to think from other peoples minds. Minds that probably had not been transported with me into
this strange world. I was on a small dirt path in the middle of a herd of animals who called
myself human.”
“The car stopped, not the one I had been driving the day next door to the minutes in the
city in the pond , but another. The minute they stopped I had stopped turning my head to look at
them for fear of seeming sinister. I was good and alone in this world and I had no immediate
control over my desires. I realized that a few hours had passed during which they could no longer
be the same people, strange people who seemed to know me like the family we were as they
laughed.”

“They had suddenly disappeared several times into the distance in my sight via

the car that never was there but just the dirt road.”

"I need a ride," Troy thought.

“It was the ride from one temple I remembered, this ride. The Hare Krishna’s in my mind
felt naked in their chemical absence yet had some strange need. They were here too. This was
thirst and hunger, no maybe the need to defecate then pee all over the warm substance that
jellylike slid over my body. It was like a warm egg yolk erupted, its goo all over me lulling me
into a lapse of sight that bolted me upright with a flash of pure white light.”

“I was only internalizing to spring up from the lotus I had been born into the
moment I had sat down in the night before.”

The pond released Troy, and he sensed a car passing him on the road. His tired mind
wondered nonsensically if it were the same people he had seen leave his sight a few
observations ago. He realized he was almost down now from the drug, and that he would need
sleep.

Across from him on the dirt road leading alongside the pond a kid of High School age
came practically skipping toward him. He stopped to pick a flower, and then approached Troy.

“Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“Yeah, I do.” Troy said in a very tired drone.

“I’m Chris…Follow me!” the kid smiled the brightest of Cheshire grins and began
literally this time skipping off in front of him. They began to make their way up the hill Troy
now saw was clearing almost entirely of campers. He must have blacked out at the pond. The
thought of death crossed his mind, and he felt weak again.

The girl Chris was talking to nearby and nearly shoving the flower at turned to a guy
in the group who pointed directly at him. They both nodded their heads, and Troy realized
Chris was asking for him to get a ride. He approached him and said

“What did you ask them?”
“For a ride for you. I told them I have one and they said no. Selfish pricks.”

“The audacity of his comment even being directed toward the betterment of his
situation struck Troy numb. There was something about Chris though that was a glowing
reminder to him of how naively reliant on a higher force to intervene he had been in Camden,
how in blind faith it somehow worked.

Sure enough, the next couple they came on said they were headed to Deer Creek

in Indiana, where they would camp out for the entire week of shows. They took Troy on board
into their pickup truck. Never was he so relieved in his life. What a night!

He waved to Chris as he skipped off into the distance, leaving this new girl friend of
Troy’s with the flower. Seated between the homely looking brown haired girl and her volunteer
fireman husband, he soon succumbed to his exhaustion.

He was vaguely aware that the girl found him attractive and wished to talk to him on the
trip; however he passed out for almost the entire trip anyhow.

The following week of shows were being held at Deer Creek Music Center in
Noblesville, Indiana. Deer creek was a large property which included acres of land to camp on.
The property was in the middle of farm country, and surrounded on all sides by cornfields.

As they arrived, Troy woke to two strange faces and a pangs of hunger the likes of which
he could not remember. The girl on his right was shaking him to waking very lightly, and
announced to him that they had arrived.

“Your welcome to hang out and have lunch with us, there is plenty of food.”

It was just the news he had needed. The campground they were pulling into was huge,
even larger he thought than the one from which they had just come. The guard at the gates told
him they had better dig into get a spot, as they were expecting about four thousand plus to be
camping here this week.

Josh, the guy driving the truck looked annoyed at Troy’s presence. Josh said to him in an
almost mockingly backwoods drawl “don’t ya’ll mind ma’ wife now, y’hear. She be jibing about
dis and that awl the goddamn fool time.”

They were country folk, for sure. Country folk Troy decided to hang onto for all they
were worth on getting him a new spot in this campground.

They set up tents with what seemed to be a group of friends they had planned to meet. Troy
could never be sure, though. Amongst the new campers he was meeting while having a ham and
turkey sandwiches with fresh lettuce and chips was a kind of plain girl with long brown hair who
seemed to be all about having Troy in her tent.

“Please, share my tent with me, I will be here every night, I have got room for ten in that
thang.”

She seemed to be trying to flirt with him at the same time, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
Room for ten, huh? Obviously Indiana folk also, and damned kindly they were. Here in a place
where they left daylight savings alone for the cows.

Troy learned that there would be two days of Phish Lesh and Bob Dylan before

Phish arrived on the scene to play three more shows. It was going to be almost a full week there.

In the distance a camper’s stereo blasted music “Lately it occurs to me, what a long
strange trip it’s been...” their neighbors began shouting and a set of bottle rockets went screaming
into the sky, banging to a halt in the midday sun.

Troy had gone for a walk into the nearby woods to explore after lunch. He intended to
gather some firewood for the night to prove his usefulness to his fellow campers. It was a
peaceful walk about the forest, and he found on the other side lay a pond where a fishing hippy
told him you could fish if you had bought a pass to. He started on his way back with an armful of
kindling roughly an hour

later.

He was met on the way out on a trail that ran beside the woods. A security officer asked
him if he knew he was trespassing. He asked what number camp he was on. Troy was forced to
leave the kindling and climb on board the golf cart beside the man. He drove them to the
campsite where Troy’s friends had been. There he asked a blank faced crowd if he indeed was
camping there.

No one amongst them was willing to give him the information, Troy guessed fearing he
done something really illegal. The security guard informed Troy he would have to escort him off
of the grounds. He drove him to the front gates. There he told him that he would have to leave
him, and not to be caught in the woods again.

Another guard at the gates walked to Troy and told him there was nothing stopping him
from walking back onto the grounds. What a senseless ride! He had been thrown out of the
grounds to be told that he could now walk back into them. When he reached the truck where Josh
and his wife were, he found them packing to move the truck down to shakedown for the show.
They had tickets, however were going to tailgate and try to sell some sodas beforehand.
Moments later Troy was seated on the back of the truck Indian style, watching the
concertgoers pass by. He stayed there in silent meditation until the gates were about to open. His
fellow campers asked him if he could watch their truck while they were in the show. He said he
could, and they were off, leaving him seated on the tailgate.

A girl dressed in full fairy costume came skipping down the mile long trail that was
shakedown toward him. She stopped by Troy, and stopped to give him a kiss, share some of the
glitter that covered her whole body. She was cute, and Troy did not resist. She leaned over to him
and kissed his cheek, as she did so pulling the wand from the bubble jar hat was hanging from
her neck. But rather than blowing bubbles, she put the wet stick on his forehead, leaving several
dribbles of liquid there before winking at him and floating away.

An hour later it was clear that he had been acid dripped on him by the fairy. The shouts
of his neighbors selling their beer began to echo in the hollow of his mind. “Icy cold Sammy
Smiths! Icy cold New Castle!!” It was as if suddenly there were five of him. The inner space of
his head began to swim as he lost his equilibrium.

He wandered around the campground and found that shakedown here wound through several

dirt paths.

It was more like a town carnival, with hundreds of actual stores represented. He was profoundly

happy and at peace with the next few hours just exploring the little community of shops. He
stopped here and there to meet the owners, talk to other campers. He saw Chris doing the same
all over the camp. Each time he passed by, Chris seemed to have something new on... a bag,
stickers, a necklace. As he wandered past with an airy expression on his face, he flashed a peace
sign with one hand. The next time he passed he was holding a five inch long nugget of marijuana
asking for a ticket trade. Troy had seen several other people working trades with nuggets, pot
was as good as gold in this little village.

Troy walked north west down shakedown towards the concert venue. As he grew closer
to the venue, food vendors became more and more frequent. The path grew wider and individuals
selling beer and things were on this end doing their trade closer to the music. You could hear the
show as if you were inside at the end of the path. There at the end of the path was a lawn section
sized expanse of grass leading up to the ticket takers for the outdoor arena. People were camped
out all over this outside of the arena lawn, listening to the music just as loud as it would have
been from a general admission seat. The difference was not being able to see the stage.

Hours seemed to pass like minutes as he explored all of the avenues the circus had
brought to town. At the end of the show, the crowd could be heard roaring over the village.
Thousands of people who wanted an encore, thousands of people who even after the encore
would flood into the camp to party more. Moments later the crowd let out. As the stream of
people coursed onto the arena gate lawn, a walking drum circle broke out. The drummers were
leading the way into the first night of camp to the crowd breaking lose from Phil and Dylan.

It was incredible, and soon Troy was entirely relaxed. The world was spinning and
sucking him in with hopes and dreams beyond compare. He followed the crowd of hundreds into
the camp, and stood on the outskirts where the circle would beat on well into the early morning.
Fireworks were going off everywhere, this continuing as well into the early morning hours. It
was a tribal reunion, and Troy wished never to leave these people, this lifestyle. This was home
for all he had ever expected it to be.

Late in the night, he grew dim and so walked back to the tent offered to him the day
before by the girl. He climbed inside and found it empty. When he woke in the morning it was
still just him.

On the corner of the campgrounds where the cornfields began there was a breakfast he
saw, emerging from his tent. The campers had a huge awning stretched out with a table of fresh
coffee, tea, fruits, breads and pastries set out. He heard a girl chime out to passing campers
“come on over, make yourself at home, have some breakfast!”

Troy did just that. After breakfast, he went to the shower area and washed up, brushed his teeth.

Returning to the tent, the girl was there.

“Hi! How was your show?”

“Great! Yours?”

“Great! Did you get in?”

“No, I didn’t have a ticket.”

The girl looked puzzled for a moment and then said “Well, come on, you gotta get
yourself inside tonight, you hear?” as if it were as easy as done.

“See you later.”

Throughout the rest of the day, Troy visited as many camps as he could. Eating, drinking,
talking and hanging around in the beautiful sunny summer day until the dusk came and the show
was on. This night he resolved to try for a ticket. For several hours he walked all over with one
finger pointing toward the sky, but to no avail he did not get in.

Before the show was over, he was already very tired from being very drunk in the
afternoon and once again retired to the girls’ tent. Once again, he spent the night with a ten man
tent to himself.
When the morning came, he returned to where they had been having a buffet breakfast
the day prior, and found that the spread was an open bar. He began to drink. Shortly before noon
he blacked out. Later on that evening he crawled into the tent again, this time to find another guy
passed out in there on the right half of the tent. He took the left, and passed out.

When he came to it was evening already. The girl whose tent it was stood outside
putting on fresh clothing.

“We thought you was dead!”

“I am.” He replied.

She laughed and told him that she was glad he was feeling better.

Troy walked on, still in a haze. He no more than reached the next row
of tents when someone walked up to him and shoved a five strip of blotter acid
into his hand.

The man was swaying from drunkenness and said “here.”

Troy smiled to himself about complaining of not being awake, and popped the acid
directly into his mouth thinking of Keyes quote “For Gods Sake, Wake...”

Troy walked down shakedown, faces looming at him from the crowd here and there. The
world looked like a house of mirrors; everyone was stretched or distorted in one way or another.
The lights from the camp seemed as bright as the sun and the incense smoke like a house fire. A
crowd of thousands roared, and he was led to think of Hunters disposition towards the tale of
David. He followed a vibe of Dead intuition towards the arena “gate lawn”. He hear the jam and
danced.

The set was incredible. “My Minds Got a Mind of Its Own into Split Open and Melt”
during which he did.

“Sparkle” relieved his pain and he danced off down shakedown during “Funky

Bitch.”

Some kids there fed his munchies with ganga goo, tortillas and lemonade.

When he returned the second set was just getting underway. Troy danced the entire set through,

the first he gotten to hear of the tour, and it was the perfect set in a perfect world. When he
danced he saw himself looking like Shiva, many arms flailing all over. “Gotta Jiboo,” left him at
ease with his day long party then eased him into “Sand, Twist, and Fee” which felt like his very
story being played. “Whats the Use” led to “Limb By Limb” by this time he WAS Shiva wildly
peaking with the trip. The encore finish of Run Like an Antelope left him hooting the whole way
down the path to another drum filled night. One last time he went to the tent, and this time found
not only the tent empty, but the sisters’ belongings gone. He wondered drearily if she had found a
guy to bunk with elsewhere. He soon worried no longer, and fell into a long dream filled sleep.

The following morning brought about more beer drinking at an all night rave which he
found still going on under one of the nearby tents in the morning. He soon drank himself to a
blackout again. The afternoon passed, he regained consciousness. It was dark and he was on the
lawn listening to Phish again. He must not have gotten a ticket again, he was outside. But once
again, he realized he had somehow acquired acid and was getting on. This time he was almost
disappointed. Unsure if he could get on, as he would have had to ingested at least ten hits of high
grade to be on, he doubted this would be a good night. On his way to its peak he fell in and out
of awareness sitting on the grass. Then his inner eye awoke, and he found that spot from which
his inner voice was but only an observer.

“In the night the lizards had come out as us and them. The tall man who blew glass for
the estranged bearded one who was all alone. He was with them as they told him and me every
few minutes or so, chuckling with a look of recognition that made them seem cold and mocking.
They adjusted themselves into an absence of righteousness that breathed the air. Air that a
policeman would breathe as the security guard did now on the back of my neck in his striped
pants swishing. He was turning back around and going toward the campground I maybe had slept
in not so long before. I had noticed he was going to put me in handcuffs. He thought I knew, but
didn’t turn away in my mind for the next few minutes. I was now again interrupted by the
wizardly old man blowing glass straight toward me with a grin. It appeared he was shushing me
with flame leaping from the hot liquid substance near his lips. The bearded boy was falling over
in his tallness as he had stood up, and the old mans sparks blew at him from the dragon like
beard. The beard consumed his child’s play shushing, transforming it into an elder wizardly sight
of wisdom. His lips still and thin held the same silly grin in the still airy night that fondled the
cornfield to my right. My rights, my rights, my rights.”

“The didgeridoo man had sung once and the crowd in front of me had fallen back into the
tired slumber as if his playing had been for hours. It seemed there had been hours this minute and
there they lay asleep in the night. The clouds came as if in time lapse photography and they
rained on us. It was all in good fun for the dancing man with the didgeridoo who played around
the sleepy campfire, seemingly unfazed by the cold rain falling from the open sky. He was next
to their tents and the smoldering campfire and they were all dead it seemed. Maybe that was just
me. They could be the next ones whom I would never know to have been. The thought panicked
me as if I had fallen into a place where only the man with the didgeridoo could exist. His deep
emanating hum played in the silence of the old man with fire from his lips who now sat silently
laughing and pointing at his own slumber. This was of itself an illusion, a deep truthful illusion. I
had the thought as he had been standing the moment before behind the circle of people. These
campfire strangers were parked next door to his glass Winnebago. They were all now suddenly
gone before my eyes. The man too was gone and there I was alone in front of a campfire which
had long before been out, smoldering in the twig light of the sun which was now waking me. “

“A man behind me who asked me if I was alright as he stumbled
toward a tent and crashed for the remainder of the day into an eternal morning
of headache that engulfed my vision.”

“I saw a woman carrying food and chips with saltiness that swaggered her staring
back at my enveloped eyes. Eyes which said she mistrusted the me that was sitting there for a
period that I knew could only be right now. The same different now as minutes before in the
moving clock face. I had to find a way to desist in this sight, bow out right now. I had the
visions of ram das in my mind and how he said it was in the chopping wood and carrying
water. The highness was found in the peaceful simple ness. For them and for me I separated
us for the first time in days. Yes, indeed it was in the simple ness of being that we would find
the place like in Einstein’s dreams of relativity. In differentiating mirror wisdom that would
feel like the time removal. That place in the dreams closer to the truth of loving you. It got
slower, the illusion of time it got, until finally the time stopped and became a drag to the
senses in which the eventual collapse of your time existence would collapse in

itself.”

“I got up and found that the morning was now in fact a bustling of people surrounding a
nearby outdoor wooden open air camp shower. There people were taking there morning waking
showers. They looked so sober and happy, many of them.”

“I remembered I was not. I needed to find a place to eat. I passed through this temporary
village of tents many times. They were strewn as they had been put up with just enough space to
allow for the strident walkers of the morning to do their trade. The money which now my
stomach pined for the eating of its insides knowing ghostly papyrus could not suffice. In the
thought I died and felt the slimy shmegma of the reality check in me realize that some here had
actually. How in fact did I know that I was actually alive in this world in front of me? This
headache would not stop. I could not stop.”

“From the corner of my adolescent memory I had remembered my father, of the ripped
pain torn in my mother out there thinking of me. I stepped lightly forward now to find relief and
her hope of my survival, her job a thousand miles away.”

“A group of men stood toward the left side of the path leading to the
concert arena where the band had played for their ego drowning knights of the
audience.

The concert arena left an air of mass awareness, lent itself to hope of success for me. It hosted
the others... the entities known simply as Bob and Phil. Their names seemed to fill me with rights
to this land and my right to trespass anywhere. Wherever you go you had better be beware
because you can trespass anywhere. The muse formed on the tip of my tongue. Mouth curling
into a self marring Cheshire cat grin it came out leaving me grinning and making the stupid grin
so wide I thought I saw the gleam from my teeth light up. It reminded me of the wooden Te
Statue I had seen, the grinning china man with whale like teeth that seemed to strain golgi
apparatus from the air as he sucked

it in.”

The man in front of the stand by the truck where they had been loading equipment it
seemed. In front of it one man was cooking. He looked up and nodded recognition and said “hey
you need some breakfast?"

Troy quickly nodded and awkwardly said "Yes".

He had left the front of the pan and Troy now knew that it was just the high that had taken
Troy there just the high, not the low. He handed Troy a large five gallon plastic container and
asked him to go get it filled with water.

“I took it without questioning and did the deed of dragging my weary carcass back the
direction of the showers about a city block away through the little tribal village. It had to weigh
practically nothing I thought as my mind filled it gushing cold water. As I approached the shower
a young man of about my age sneered toward my patchwork pants which I had not worn yet. The
ones I wasn’t wearing for him were nice and my legs were cold and that the cold water would be
bitter, but such was my physical payment.”

“The night before I did the deed of lighting the match next door to the man who would
now smoke my cigarette for me. I shook off the disillusioned thinking and I sneered past the
cigarette I so desperately now consumed from his lips in my inner eye. I approached the shower
further and he stepped directly into my path, making me aware of how large and short he was in
a muscular frame. He sighed and said, hey man... You a camper here?”

I said "yeahh...uhh no, some guys asked me if I wanted breakfast and I..."

"and you need water right, yeah, man you gotta pay for it but I won’t tell no one if
your are where you are. You may as well just go on down over there to the water faucet
with the Mexicans and give her a fill.”

“The thought of the working Mexican water hole made me smile. His simplistic
approach I guess was the smile now transforming his sneering character into that of someone
else. Probably the someone he was talking to now over the water. Me. Damn I needed food. He
pointed to a faucet flowing from a well tap fifty feet behind where the water for the shower was
splashing. A sexy blondes shapely rear-end I hoped would come into full view as she adjusted
her naked breast back into the bikini top as I walked past. The t- shirt nestled what I imagined
were pretty firm breasts as she looked at a young dark Italian I assumed was her beaux. He gave
me a look that said he wouldn’t care if I did what the dick in my shorts was turning to do. Fill
the water and wash my ass.”

“I blushed in the purity of my poverty and found myself in line to fill the water pail. It
was cold and heavy as I carried it back I noticed something else. It was heavy as shit, I mean as
hell. If I could get it back. I could ask for help the smiles of people around me said but I would
not ask. False pride and hidden behaviors overwhelmed me. It would figure its way into the way
into the way. I felt the jeering disapproval as I dragged it back into the site of the man who had
originally asked for me to fill the pail. He freshly stick out his hand and seemed more rigid than a
steel pipe. A pipe dream that was now going to remove the pail from me.”

"You should have asked for help"

“I felt stupid, and then realized that I did not know "from who?"”

"Look around, brother, people, people..."

He extended the cold hand and I shook backward as the hand came so deftly

through time toward me in its caring and gentle arc it could not have been unkind. The hand
instead gave an instant tug upward on the bucket and on it went in behind the four tables now
lined up as a store front in front of the groups van. It was now open and revealing several large
open coolers that were filled with ice and vegetables.

The man who had been cooking looked up at me and said that I looked hungry from the
plate of eggs now fired up on his hibachi. I thought for a second he was going to shove it toward
me and I swayed in relief as he disappointingly to my selfish ego did not give me his own food.
He instead gave me some of the displayed food that seemed to be some kind of egg roll. "Here,
have a Jerry Roll. Good show?"

"He’s Dream," the man said.

From the backward sway of his voice I returned from inside my dreary lit plight of
midmorning sun. The shadowy figure turned toward me and said

"Hi, Dream" leaning forward from the lawn chair to introduce himself with an extended
hand. The sunlight that held his stick figure frame showed a grin that now stretched across his
face. It seemed to hold the secret of truth from my past night without pardon. I could not imagine
the wisdom of this elder.”
Troy spent the day with Larry and Dream and their crew. Larry told stories of how they
had toured for more than a quarter century with The Grateful Dead. They taught Troy how to
make “Jerry Rolls” and he was doing so all afternoon. “Jerry Rolls” were like egg rolls but five
times bigger.

Nighttime came, and he was having fun. Dream told him that nighttime business was a
blast. That night Troy stood at the front of the village eats shop, taking orders from dozens of
concertgoers, which he handed on to Larry to collect payment. They were quite the team, and
with every new customer, Larry made new conversation, or a new joke. He had a wonderful light
sense of humor and soon Troy found himself truly laughing away the night. By the time Larry
had the dollars and cents in his hand, the patron had a smile and Dream would hand then the
food. It was the healthiest time of

Troy’s whole tour thus far.

They worked late into the wee morning hours. Around four am they began to pack the
gear into the truck, and Troy realized he was going to need to find a ride once again. Larry said
they could not take him on board, however he paid him sixty dollars for his work the day
before. Troy was more than satisfied. Food, fun, and about six bucks an hour in all with the
breaks he had taken.

Troubled by the notion of finding a ride with someone to the next show, he wondered if
he could do so sober. It was decided, he might as well make an adventure of things. He strode
down the deconstructing shakedown until he found one of the hood dose dealers. He offered the
kid ten bucks for a puddle of liquid from an eye dropper. The kid filled Troy’s entire hand with
liquid LSD, probably between fifteen and twenty hits. Troy lifted his hand to his mouth and
consumed them.

The morning sunshine began to splinter and look likes hundreds of separate searchlights
shining through the sky to light the world in tiny patches here and there. He wondered if he
would step out of one of these rays and find himself in utter blackness of night.

Chaos consumed shakedown at the corner where he had bought the acid. People were
screaming and an ambulance whined to the spot, staying only a few seconds before returning its
siren to a scream and fleeing the scene. Cops were all over the area for the next half an hour, and
Troy’s mind raced as he walked through the camp.

Troy walked this way and that, trying to remember where he was going when he
realized he didn’t know. Troy needed to go somewhere that did not yet exist. Destination
unknown, he laughed at the notion that he was lost. How could he be lost if he didn’t know
where he was supposed to be? How was he going to find out who was going to give me a ride if
he didn’t know them? If he didn’t know them or where he was going then he must surely be in
the right place in order to meet them or he would never get anywhere. Of course he wasn’t
getting anywhere now, as he was trying to leave where he was, and so couldn’t really be there,
rather leaving.

It was all highly confusing, and Troy made his way down the far end of shakedown
towards the camp gates. There by the side of the trail a mint condition orange VW Westphalia
Camper Bus Was boarding its passengers. If this bus was boarding to leave, he might as well ask.
He walked up to the door.

“Hey, need a ride! Can you take me for gas money?”

The long blonde haired guy in the drivers’ seat smiled. “Sure, Hop on in and
shut the door.”

That was it, he was on board officially. Boy was he tripping hard too.

It turned out Troy was on a bus headed to Athens, Ohio. The driver of the bus
was in a jam band named “Llhama” something and they were playing a gig tonight.

A particularly good looking blonde was seated in the back seat with another guy who
had his arm around her. She introduced herself, followed by the rest of the bus. At one point
he was feeling like he was telepathically communicating with another VW Bus that passed,
remarked “Boy am I tripping!”

Troy immediately worried what they would all think, but everyone in the group just
started laugh really hard. It was a good natured kind of laugh, and suddenly felt good.

They pulled into their driveway a few hours later. It was some kind of a ski lodge, this
place! Evidently they shared this place, and also ran a head shop in town nearby. These were
kind people. On the inside, the house had a fifty foot ceiling with a spiral staircase leading to
the second floor and the bedrooms. Downstairs were a kitchen, and two sitting rooms. It was
nicely furnished and skylights lit the cheery cottage with a summer blue sky.

Troy asked to take a shower and they immediately obliged, showing off a downstairs
bathroom in which to change and shower. He climbed into the hot stream trunks and all, and took
what felt like the best shower of his life. An hour later, the driver kid who had playing a gig to go
to, invited Troy. He turned down the offer disappointed somewhat for passing up an opportunity.
He was even offering up one of his guitars with which to get up and jam onstage with the band if
he wanted. The acid habit was taking its toll on life.

The blonde said she was leaving later if Troy changed his mind. She pointed to a sun
room couch which he could use to crash, and he immediately did so. He slept the entire night,
through the next day and awoke two mornings after. They were happy to see him conscious,
remarking they had shaken him awake during the prior afternoon to see if he was dead. One
hand, Troy was embarrassed.
On the other it felt more justified at having missed their gig two nights prior.

Later in the afternoon he left with one of the kids from the house for Polaris
Amphitheatre in Columbus, Ohio. It was their second show there, he had slept through the first
the night. When they arrived on lot, the kid did the most unexpected kind thing. He turned to
Troy and handed him a two foot by three foot conga with a leather strap which he had made to
sell and told me I could have it. Maybe it would get me a better start. Then he handed over a
plastic case with a thick foam padded interior filled with crystals of different varieties. He said
Troy could sell as many of these as he could, if he would just meet him at some point and return
the case to. This was a feat which Troy never achieved, finding him, though he tried for hours at
the end of the night. They hugged their goodbyes and headed in separate directions.

This night Troy was reunited with Mark and Carey. Chris was there, and asked if he
wanted to hop the fence to see the show. Chris he later learned successfully snuck in. He found
two kids and traded the drum for two tickets. He traded a few more times until he had eaten and
had sixty bucks.

Then he bought a pair of triple thick bell bottom patchwork pants for forty dollars. This left him
with twenty dollars and a boxful of crystals.

Troy decided to hang around with some of the dready kids who he still had not talked to,

realizing they were beginning to recognize each other. It was amazing to see how thousands of

dollars worth of drugs were being changed hands all of the time for fractions of the cost at street

market value.

Troy had tapped the source.

Some time spent with a crystal dealer taught Troy some of the facts about his box of
rocks. All in all it was a fun filled night for the last summer tour date for Phish until September
in Albany. He lot echoed at one point with an amazing second set cover of The Beatles “While
My Guitar Gently

Weeps”.

The end of the night came and he once again needed a ride. The question was “to
where?” as there was no next show. There was fall tour in two months.

A few hours later, he was being haggled by a security officer who wanted to know who he
had come with. He said if Troy wasn’t with someone he could leave with, Troy was trespassing
and he would be arrested. A tall dready kid stepped forward and quickly said “He’s with me”
shoving Troy into the back of his bus. He took over talking to the cop as he closed the doors.
“Boy that was a fucking mess,” he gave up as he sat down in the driver’s seat.

“You can’t ride with us.” He said sharply, “but I think I know where we
can find you a ride. I recognized you from Deer Creek. Fucking Lot Security.
Tour is over kid, where ya headed? If I were you I’d head west!”

He dropped Troy off to his surprise with Chris and a group of four others who were
gathered around a van ready to board. They reluctantly agreed to take him on board and
introduced themselves. Carlos, Jim, Chris, “curios George” and Troy climbed in to the brown
luxury van to hit the road. There were two empty nitrous tanks in the back, and the van was
nonetheless crowded.

They next day they were stopped at a rest stop for a stretch when the next coincidence hit Troy.

The whole crew got at to stretch. Chris took a hat, and went off begging for spare change for gas.
He came back with over twenty bucks. George and Troy were talking, about ready to head out
again when somebody from outside the van said “Joel, buddy how are you?”

It was Andy, a member of the Ocean City Oxford House he had lived with years ago.
What a small world! Andy had always been a fun guy he thought, filled with stories of being one
of the original security crew at Studio Fifty – Four back in the seventies. They talked for a short
while. Troy thought then perhaps he should have stopped tour, but soon the van door closed and
they were off again.

The next day the whole crew hopped the fence of an amusement park. They spent the day riding

roller coasters and other thrill rides. No one got caught in this thirty dollar per person all day rip-
off fiasco. The day following the kids drove George to his grandmothers’ house. There they had
lunch and said final goodbyes.

They slept a night in a motel. One member of the group got the key and checked in. Then
the other four would sneak in for the night. The next morning in line at McDonalds Jim and
Carlos announced their plans to head out for California and gave Chris and Troy a farewell
present of a tent. They were in Cleveland. Chris took the news unfazed. While saying goodbye,
he turned out the back door of the van to a man coming from the bank next to the restaurant and
asked “Hey, mister? Help my friend and I get to California?” Like magic, a twenty came wafting
in through the back door of the van.

“Hey thanks!”

Chris and Troy walked a while down the road. They talked to some old vets riding cross
country on bikes. They visited the hotel where the Military was holding Enlistment Procedures.
There was a free buffet at the bar, and a pool full of eighteen year old hotties. They got caught
with two of the hotties in their room, and the cops were called by management to throw them
out. Meanwhile they were served bag lunches on the way out the door.

An hour later they were off to Ann Arbor, Michigan via a station wagon we had hitched a ride

with. Chris said his sister went to the University of Michigan there. Once in Ann Arbor, Chris
and Troy floated all over town staying with various frats and party houses for the next month.
Life was fun, and they were partying for free every night. Summer Art Fair came, and Chris and
Troy made a small stand by the sidewalk to sell beaded charms. The town was full of heads. One
day Chris had lunch with a businessman who was setting up a porn website at a local café.

After turning the man down, he decided it was time to get a job. The crystals were
gone, mostly as gifts to females. Passing by a telephone pole in downtown they saw an ad
“Help Wanted: Canvassers”. The Public Interest Research Group In Michigan was in need
of summer canvassers.

That night they tripped their minds out while floating at the various parties that
overflowed in to the campus streets. Along the line that night, Chris had lost his shit and called
his mom crying and confessing where he was. It was one am and Troy knew he was definitely
not going to recover entirely from this breakdown.

He left him there tripping in the rain on the payphone when he began shouting and losing
it. The following day was their first at P.I.R.G.I.M.

Troy went into the office dressed as he was. We were assigned groups that would cover
different neighborhoods in an attempt to get petitioners on the “fight against urban sproul”. Troy
spent the day away from Chris with a cute blonde, with whom he hit it off immediately. Her
name was Kali, and she was recently divorced. Helped her out of a jam, he guessed, but he used
a little too much force.

In the end they drove her car as far as they could, should’ve abandoned it out west.

Troy spent the night at the apartment she shared in town with her sister. Kali was his
manager at P.I.R.G.I.M. She had taken him home the night before, knowing all about where he
came from. She lived in the apartment building of a girl Chris and he had partied at with two
other girls. One had wanted to sleep with troy, but he refused. Now here he was with this cute
blonde. She set him up on the couch, but late that night, he had gotten up and sneaked into her
bedroom. She had made out with him for a time, but then turned over to sleep. They had work.

“Troy, if you are gonna sleep with me, you had better sleep!”

He took her advice. The following week passed and they grew closer. They began to have
sex, and Troy confessed about Mits death for the first time to someone. He got her a television
and radio interview about the office with a local station, the offices first. For him it seemed as
simple as it had been being a kid calling his Dad in the newsroom whenever they noticed
something newsworthy.

He dreamed of her at night. She came to him in all white, and he was surrounded by
white light. They entered a church in the dream and were married. They fell in love, and soon
Kali quit her job, announcing she was to go on tour with Troy this Fall. She would waitress to
save cash until the time came to leave.

They moved her out of her apartment a few weeks before tour was to start. They did a variety of
different things to pass the time, from downtown Detroit for a baseball game in the new stadium
to hanging around together with one of her friends. They double dated to clubs, spent every
moment they could together without fight and became a very intense couple.

For a few weeks Troy and Kali lived on a farm in upstate Michigan. Kali would drive to The

Brown Jug every night to waitress. Troy worked for the farmer doing various jobs to pay for
their rent. They camped at a nearby lake. They slept in their tent, in the farmers “Teepee” on
Indian Grounds in the swamps. This was notably the best sex either of them had ever
experienced, hours passed with no loss of intensity.

They slept in the trailers on the property, fed the bears and fish, waiting the day when
they would leave for tour. Finally September came, and they decided it was time to pack her car
and head for Albany where the first show was to be held.

They brought Kali’s little black Cocker Spaniel, Ashley, who had been living with them all

along and who Troy had fallen in love with as well.
“There are only two roads that lead to something like human happiness.

They are marked by the words: love and achievement….In order to be

happy oneself it is necessary to make atleast one other person happy….The

secret of human happiness is not in self – seeking but in self – forgetting.”

-Theodore Reik, A Psychologist Looks At Love

The road toward Phall Tour lay ahead. It was September second, leaving Troy and Kali a
week to get to Albany for the first show. They had saved only about two hundred bucks to get off
their first leg of the journey. It didn’t deter them, they were in love and could conquer all of this
together.

The little red two door car of Kali’s was packed to the gills with clothes, books, food and
various toiletries and things she couldn’t leave behind. The whole apartment from which she had
come was in the trailer on farmer Johns property.

He had given her permission to leave behind whatever they did not take to pick up after tour.

Phish Fall Tour was a twenty – one show series of dates starting on the ninth, ending a
month later out west in San Francisco on October seventh. Troy and Kali had no tickets, and both
desperately hoped they could make the journey worthwhile.

Troy had drove the first leg of the journey to Philadelphia, where he had hoped they
would stop and visit his family. They indeed reached their destination after one brief rest stop in
central Pennsylvania near by where Troy had been born. Troy had been afforded the opportunity
to meet Kali’s parents in Michigan, having a rather uneventful dinner at their home. Kalis family
had horses, and he been able to ride the older female while there, his first experience on a horse.
In the end, for obvious reasons Kali’s parents had decided they were against the relationship.
Their only grounds for being together were sex, drugs and rock and roll.

In the little town of Media Troy got them a room in a cheap motel. It was notorious for
housing migrating caddies for his home golf club. Kali was ill and the week before had gone to
the hospital with a severe urinary tract infection. She and Ashley stayed behind in the forty dollar
motel to rest while Troy went out in his hometown for the first time in months to see what he
could do.A visit to a member of the garage crews’ parents proved to be worthwhile.
This was one of the best friends from Troy’s days there. His father was a doctor of there. Troy

obtained a full series of antibiotic medications for free from his friends father to cure the ailing
Kali.

Disappointed by his friends absence at the house, he moved on to his parents.

As Troy pulled into the driveway of his parents house, he was struck with a homesick
melancholy, and he became very anxious to see his family. Forgetting where he had left the
relationship, he knocked on the door and entered. What happened next was tragically
foreseeable. He no more than had said hello to his mother when his adopted father came yelling
into the room. “Get the fuck out of my house, NOW!!” he yelled shaking a fist threateningly.

He shoved Troy towards the door before he could get a word in edgewise. Fear
of his father shook through him. Through the door his mother screamed “I’m calling
the cops!!”

Nothing had changed. Troy climbed back into Kalis car and sped off down the road,
crying silently to himself. When he reached the motel, Kali was asleep. When she woke, Troy
was still softly crying to himself over the incident. The following day they left for Albany. It was
here that Troy had made his boyhood home for a number of years, and he told stories of his life
there the whole way. It was the night before the first show when they arrived.

Troy guided them to his old boyhood neighborhood. There they visited with his boyhood
best friend and his parents for a few hours before moving on. They spent the night camped out in
the woods where he had walked his dog years ago. The following day they bought the water and
ice to pack the cooler with to make ends meet. Parking was a nightmare, however they finally
ended up parked in the Empire State plaza parking structure. Scouting the street, there was not
much of a shakedown to work with. Tapers lined the front of the former Knickerbocker Arena,
now renamed The Pepsi Arena waiting to go inside and set up their recording equipment.

This was a regular thing, Phish being amongst the league of tour based bands who allow
fans to tape their shows with recording equipment and to freely trade shows. Tapers bought
tickets in the

”tapers section” in the front row of the audience.

The Empire State Plaza in Albany was a sparkling hub for the city. There was art all over,
and city hall on the corner. Everywhere still statues of pedestrians seemingly caught in time and
frozen in their tracks stood on various corners, entrances, and walkways. Citizens preserved in
mid stride with open facial expressions that would never change through the years. The capital
consisted of two towers which visitors could climb in a high speed elevator to an observatory. An
egg shaped stadium that hosted theater and various conferences including Troys middle school
acting days in “Shakespeare Fest” stood there in the center of town. Thousands of square feet,
the oblong stadium was football shaped rising out of a platform that held it like a giant football
trophy at a tilt in the Albany skyline. Thus its name “The Egg”. These buildings were all
connected and leading to the Pepsi Arena by a series of glass enclosed breezeways like that of a
major airport with its wide staircases and escalators.

Kali and Troy wandered its various paths and walkways, took the tour to the top of the
building to view the city by. They were obvious participants to the show in town, and stuck out
like sore thumbs. The buildings were filled with business men in suits, themselves dressed in
hippy garb. Kali wore a flower print one piece dress she had gotten at her first show at Polaris,
Troy in his patchwork pants and a t – shirt. The Public Interest Research Group had spearheaded
a drive there in the parking lot. Troy was dressed in the patches he bought the same place. They
were not working for The Waterwheel Foundation on this venture, though they hoped to further
its cause.

In each city of tour the groups not – for – profit Waterwheel Foundation set up tables for
donation to a select conservation or wildlife preservation cause raising millions over the course
of the national tour.

As the evening stretched on crowds of show goers filled the narrow city street
surrounding the arena. Kali and Troy spent from sex in the top floors of the capital building done
for the sake of the thrill, tiredly resolved to deal their goods. The water was gone within an hour,
and they held no further responsibility to the night. They split up for the time being, for Troy to
return the dog and the water cooler to the car.

Ashley trotted beside him through the indoor breezeways of the capital, happily visiting
with people here and there throughout the journey back to the car. The night had soon passed
quickly, and without seats in the concert.

They drove the miles to the next show at the Tweeter Center in Mansfield, Massachusetts.
Together they made an incredible team, selling their goods out within the first few hours of lot.
This parking lot was more like the ones Troy had experienced over the summer. Old faces began
to stick out in the crowd. He saw Jim and Carlos, Mark and Carey, amongst others.

As the second set came roaring to a beginning, Kali came screaming to Troy “I got tickets!! I

got tickets!! Lets go!!!”

It was magic. The first miracle of tour, their first show together. They spent the rest of the
night dancing, closing with an encore Squirming Coil, the song Troy had performed for her on
her parents piano back in Michigan.

The next show was Darien Center at the Darien Lake Six Flags near Buffalo, New York.
They had stopped with fumes to spare at the rest stop a few miles short of the show. There they
sat together in the sun and made crafts to sell at the show. A ride was found to the lot, and they
rode in beside a school bus conversion made by kids from Alaska. The bus was incredible,
complete with a wood burning stove inside, labeled “Home” on the front of it.

There Troy introduce Kali to Dream, and Larry who was wandering with his parrot on his
shoulder. The lot was a tiny one as the show started, and they were approached by Carey and
Jim.

Carey and Jim had resolved to skip this show, and recognizing them gave them two
miracle tickets to the show. The payment was done in hugs. After the show they got a ride back
to the rest stop, where they gassed the car up. The kid who gave the ride to them had come
expecting to trade the full

Deer Creek shows on CD's for his ticket, but had gotten in for free, and so he gave them to Troy.

They went on to the show in Hershey, PA. At Hershey Troy spent some more tie with
Dream, talking of his years on the road with the Dead. He learned there was a further show in
Camden, and it was decided they would go to Camden. Short of Philadelphia Kali and Troy
stopped at his families house to visit. The place was a multi million dollar mansion in the
country, and Troy hoped to see his family while taking rest for the show the following night.
There was no answer to the knock at the door, and Troy resolved to leave a note for them
explaining their visit. He and Kali set up a tent in the expanse of grass behind the office
converted nineteenth century barn and there spent the night.

Troy was an aspiring writer, and told stories to Kali late into the night. It was a daydream
about a child gone wandering through the countryside. She met many talking animals along the
way and soon found herself in a field of sunflowers that brought to life the dreams she now
envisioned amongst the talking flowers of the field. Troy called Kali “sunflower” for the rest of
their time together. The morning came ,and they went to the site of the beginning of this venture
for Troy.

Camden was filled with the kids and elders who had been in the circus folk of Hershey.
Camden became Bryce Jordan Further outside of State College, PA and Troy found himself
growing nearer in heart to these people. He dreamed of making it on the crew and never ending
this lifestyle. He talked to some of the crew outside of the arena that night. He felt part of this
family like never before as they lay outside listening to The Other Ones “China Cat Sunflower”
into a revved up “I Know You Rider” beside Ashley playing on the lawn. The mind once filled
with tension and drug filled anxiety was replaced with love and affection for the life he had.
They drove on that night in silence, Troy listening to his inner thoughts.

“Of all nights I chose the stormiest to venture forward. It was midday gone and the sun
strode through the strides of my eager foot on the gas pedal, its reaching acceleration. The
acceleration was reaching overboard to the dreary side view mirror streaking the roadway past
my ever changing head. I had taken four tabs sometime back in the years that now were midday
sun flashing back the stream of consciousness in the forefront of my frontal lobe now inside of
the passenger seat. Her wetness lingered on my fingers, and the phrase on the foreground of the
music streamed my finger inward in thought.”

“It moaned the road did, thinking the right path on the way to the right mind
of the still perched policeman clocking us on the way across the border.”

“Time had stopped for the night, but Vegas to come would stay with me for the eternity
beyond and into the lifetime next. In his righteousness the preacher Buddhas temple aware of
itself somewhere in my wrong mind created the journey. The hand thought on its way inward
physically. I had the fresh sensation of an area cloudburst coming through the air from the side
intent of the passenger window as it seemed to light in the cracked windshield. I screamed.”

“The windshield cracked and I realized my stifle had begun her moaning "oh put it in Troy, put it
in" I did, erotically, maybe timidly... was I uptight? “

“I was feeling the wetness of the seat behind her my hand sliding off the neutral

gear as it went forward. It was good this life in fifth gear.”

“It thought itself forward for the blackness that loomed from the pristine car interior now
filling me as I filled it with my omnipresence. Its semi lit car interior felt good for the sporty
lowness of my sexual intent. The thought seemed to make sense.”

“Thats your hand inside of a girl, a woman, back off the gas and pull over."

“I did it in my mind but instead played a missing chord from the phrase Van Halen screamed
from the “Twister Soundtrack” into my fingers as they ear tuned two thousand years of “Humans
Being” into effect “.

“oh Troy... mmm.... harder" a sigh escaped her as she stared at the road out the passenger
side flying past at fifty. I Forgot the road itself and it had forgotten about that foot pedal and we
drove on to toward the show. The show. The show.”

“The right mind of the leftist wing in the creation of the political minded dweebs behind
me at the golf club out there were feeling my wanderlust for death. Some fat old woman who
owned an empire thought she was sexy a thousand miles away and I was sweet and not going to
carry her clubs for the day. She blushingly put the club in my mind for her caddy whose ass she
stared at seeing my own.”

“It was the road in itself that fought to maintain. The road itself I thought as the gingerly
gingering ginger of her gingering the seat cushion gills open and inviting swimming with light
fresh lusty scent. Her scent filled free the air from the converted air conditioner, now my toy to
put to use as I got hard.”

“I laughed at putting it out openly though the thought was not actually audible. The
freeness of the occasion put into a gear that was frustratingly not pulling me over to finish. This
was it.”

As if the night had won its right over their eyes, he thought they were yet missing
something. It would have been to no cause for the night to search for it. The missing link seemed
built on an endless eternity. The nonsense was built on the foundation of the acid he had
consumed. It was Riverbend

Music Center, Cincinatti, Ohio.

The parking lot had wielded miracle after miracle ticket handed out as if it were candy.

The secret society of hippies or wannabes, whichever, of met their generations
destruction in the midst of this circus. The American political climate now was growing but
faltering on its own legs of those fathers and mothers who could by their responsible age made
these kids responsible for conscientious objection all too often in overbearing objectivity.

Members of the society that had followed in the streets of the sixties rather than in the
offices of the government, these were those kids reborn. With long hair that they had hid their
fortunes to come in dreadlocks and beads that now hung from hundreds of dollars of hair wraps.
They were as their parents had been. Too good to follow in light of the conscience of their
American spirit whatever hip hop culture had now taken form.

They flocked around Kali and Troy, handing over drugs and tickets with the careless
cheer of youth. Troy had sucked down several hits of LSD on a Sweet Tart.

Habit forming, the ticket frenzy came and went . They were on to the arena in all of its
glory sucking them in with hopes and dreams beyond compare. The night filled with sound
inside of the arena. The sound seemed to fill a space much larger than just the arena. The notes
themselves were filled mantra, with knowing. A Velvet Sea descended on Kali and Troy in the
warm rain. Troy found himself filling with awe and wonder as the lights of the stage weaved
themselves in to a pattern over her love lit eyes.

Climbing into the car after the show, he got in the line to make their exit. The radio lit to
life with a flick of her wrist, and suddenly the air filled with sound wave pattern of streaming
colors from the car stereo speakers. He looked at her and filled with a knowledge he would take
this love of her to his grave. Her hair blew in the breeze, and before his eyes the face wilted and
withered and became that of an old woman. It then began to decay and rot before his eyes until
moments later she was just a skeleton with glowing eyes, blonde hair streaming back it seemed
from Sinatras glowing voice on the radio.
“Troy! Go!” she reminded him, and he fell out of this Buddhaverse seeing the
line of cars had advanced a hundred feet.

Several shows later in Chicago they had been car pooling with another girl and the two
brothers with her. On the way to replace a tire on Kali’s own car that had blown flat coming out
of Darien Lake.

She got into an accident.

The incident left her heading home for Atlanta, abandoning the rest of her tour.

The two kids on board with her wished to go onward, however.

One of the two kids was the same age as Troy, and had seemed to hit it off with Kali. She
announced to Troy that they were going to travel with them to his displeasure. That night after a
coursing parking lot they made camp at a motel with the two and an older head with whom they
had made camp for the two shows prior. The tents were drenched from rain, and they needed a
night indoors.

It was after the Target Center that several of the kids Troy had fund for them to share a
motel room with had shown off a stick of heroin. Troy had been aware of what a bad scene this
was, and had taken Kali and left. The show following, sure enough one of the group had turned
up dead of an overdose, another in jail. Troy had a bad feeling about these two as well.

He soon learned the two were traveling with hundreds of hits of acid with which to
support themselves. This was a breach of the law which if caught in possession would carry
years of imprisonment for attempted manslaughter. Late that night after pulling into the motel
Troy took one of the hits, bracing himself to stay awake for the night. He would wake her later,
he had to convince Kali to leave in the night without the two.

As he lay in one of the twin beds with her late in the night the high peaked. The faces of
the children on a childrens charity commercial turned into the various face of the Buddha scroll.
Little blue

Buddhas in the Lotus Position came visually in focus all over the wallpaper of the room. Soon

the room was a mesh of vibes in colorful pulses coursing through the Buddhas. It was time to go.

He became nervous breaking a cold sweat and pulsed with fear that any minute the cops would

come busting through the door, ending life as he knew it. He entered the small bathroom adjacent

the room to still himself for their flight. The wallpaper here bloomed with flowers coming to life,
growing, and then wilting and dying a few seconds later. It was definitely potent product. He

dried his sweating face on one of the white fluffy motel towels.

He walked back into the room and lifted Kali up off the bed.

“What are you doing?” she protested. He put a finger to his lips and urged her onto her
feet and towards the bathroom. There he explained the penalty they would face if caught with
these two. He was afraid of the one kid, and she could tell by the familiar look in his eye that
his intuition was not going to let this one slide.

“I am not going to do eleven years in prison so these two can freeload with us.
We are leaving, NOW!”

He gathered their belongings and they silently exited the room, Troy breathing a sigh of
relief. As they drove away, Kali argued with him over the decision. She asked that he stop at a
McDonalds as they drove, so she could use the facilities. He stopped the car, and suddenly it hit
him.

“Will you marry me?” he asked out of the blue.

It was something he had never said to anyone, ever. But he was sure.

She looked at him for a brief moment and then said simply “Yes.”

They kissed for a moment across the front seats. Ashley resettled herself in the back seat.

“On one condition, “ she added “We go back and get my glasses I FORGOT THEM!”

Troy agreed and minutes later they drove through the corporate park outskirts of Chicago
to the motel. The sun had come up during his proposal at McDonalds, and the occupants of the
room woke when Troy reentered to get the glasses.

“We are leaving. Alone” he told them.

In the end, Troy watched in silent hostility as the two removed a few belongings they had
forgotten in her car to the motel parking lot. He felt bad, but not bad enough to go to prison.
They said a brief emotional goodbye to the older head, who had been awakened as well and was
now packing his truck to return home. He handed them a card with his number, and a container
of bubbles, saying only

“Yeah, I think you are making the good choice. I don’t know about those two.”
They were off to the Midwest section of the tour. After a slow night Sunday show in
Minneapolis during which Kali slept in the car they headed for Kansas. The flat lands of Kansas
were a symbolic show for Kali. They spent the show discussing Phish and the hidden meaning
behind the lyrics, her growing notion of the reason for their tour. She had come to a conclusion
of her own, and it was the same Troy had left with months before. There was a reawakening
movement. One for peace and for peaceful compassion towards other traditions and lifestyles in
the world. It was a moment of truth for them both, and she talked openly of her trip to New York
City showing a picture of “Imagine” spelled out in Central Park, New York.

The trip to Kansas had itself had yielded various stops. One of them was at Castle Rock
on The Great Plains. Troy had pulled the car over to see the great rock, rising thousands of feet
into the air. It jutted high above the plains, the only such obstacle of its kind. It was a beautiful
formation, into the back of which a path had been carved to make a park. Visitors could climb
the great rock of they wished. Kali and Troy had done so, Troy barely making the climb.

They had overcome their fears with no restraints, soon stood atop the rock looking miles
over the expense beyond. Trucks were the size of ants below, as they embraced looking far out
over the country. “Loving Cup” came to mind and Troy began to sing it on their descent. It was
to become their song, of sorts.

“I’m the man on the mountain, won’t you come on up?!”

The next drive was to Colorado, the Fiddlers Green show. It took them through all of
Utah, and the Bryce Canyon National Park. They were a few miles short of this sight when Troy
pointed something out to Kali.

Above, just inside of the canyon were five twisters spinning round each other inside of
the confines of the giant stone monuments. They were hundreds of feet high, and red dust and
rain could be seen shooting all over the area. Troy did not stop, but continued forward toward the
danger.

They passed, jaws agape at the natural beauty of the canyons. The road wound around
giant formations which had taken millions of years to form in the shifting of continental plates.
No sign of the storm could be seen. They turned through a massive pass, hundreds of feet high
and wide through the delicately carved smooth sandy stones.

Suddenly the rain came at them from every angle. Dark and menacing clouds moving
faster than them floated past. Still Troy drove on to the top of the pass. There a sight seeing lot
revealed a mile deep drop into the canyons beyond. It was breathtaking. Red rain pelted the car
from all directions, the wind threatening to blow them off the cliff. It was a lifetime memorable
sight.

The Colorado Lot was a sight, more laid back than many of the other lots. Troy sold their
goods, while Kali wandered amongst the nomad village searching for tickets. When she returned,
she had two tickets and talked of how Dream and Larry had recognized her, given her the best
food she had all tour.

“They called it a Jerry Roll?!”

Troy smiled to himself. Phish ended the night with an encore of “Loving Cup”.

They now turned toward the next shows at The Thomas and Mack Center in Las Vegas , Nevada.
Along the way, about a half an hour outside of Mesquite, Troy had opened the car door to adjust
the roof rack. When they reached Mesquite, he turned to give Ashley some attention, when he
noticed little black Cocker was missing. Hours of backtracking later they found the dog out of
breath and overheated in the middle of the desert. They resolved to stay the night at a casino in
Mesquite, and returned to tour the next day. It was Trey Anastasios birthday gig.

They arrived on lot early in the afternoon, and spent the remainder selling the water they
had bought to turn over their money and socializing with their neighbors. Kali turned up two free
tickets somehow from the tour heads who recognized her and they were in again, with floor seats
to the show, which was going at a hundred a ticket by the scalpers.

The show was the most intense of tour, broadcast live from Yahoo around the world. The
arena was packed.

As the band returned to the stage for their second set, the crowd sang “Happy Birthday”
to Trey for his thirty sixth birthday. Trey took the time to thank the people who supported them,
including the crew and to talk about the hiatus they would take and how they would use it to
write songs and recharge so they could tour another seventeen years.

He started to talk of a strange dream he had the night before. He was sitting in the middle
of a beautiful field on a beautiful day when suddenly he saw from the periphery of his vision
people walking towards him. It was an army of people surrounding him before sitting down. One
of them took an apple and handed it to him and explained they wanted to eat the apple as a gift,
but he realized he had no teeth. Then a giant tooth grew out of his upper gum. But he couldn’t eat
the apple with just one tooth. He began to get nervous that the people would wonder why he
wasn’t eating the apple and he had a moment of panic.

Luckily, at that moment, the sun flew closer to the Earth than it had ever been before in
history, and as a result the his first thought was that the Earth would burn up. Instead , the Earth
acted in the way that a grape acts, it shriveled up and turned into a raisin version of the Earth.

The ground wrinkled and became mountains and the people got crushed together into a
big pile. Only moments before he’d been panicking, but being crushed together, he realized that
all of his senses became much more vivid in the way that a raisin is more intense tasting than a
grape.
Sounds, emotions, love…and just as the Earth was becoming a more rich and vivid place,
he found himself in a pile of people.

This pile of people became a groping pile of love and goo and he realized that
Gamehenge is a state of mind and you don’t have to get there physically.

He decided then that everyone needed to know how simple it was to turn
yourself into a seething pile of goo, so he called on the famous Mockingbird to spread
word about this.

The band played a Rolling Stones cover that ended with Trey setting a delay loop before
he and Mike moved to the from of the stage and began a bizarre synchronized duel involving
them swinging their guitar and bass at each other and around themselves while wandering across
the front of the stage. Troy hoisted Kali onto his shoulders so she could see Rock and Roll
history in the making. They began putting strange hats on Page an Jon; at one point Trey and
Mike put both the guitar and bass down on the stage and kicked the stage beside them to produce
more feedback. In the end Trey finally

“defeated” Mike before the band walked off stage.

Troy and Kali somehow made it to the show in Pheonix the next night, and once again
got free seats in the back of the first section. All were tired, including noticeably the band who
had spent the night before partying with Les Claypool they learned. They got in and slept
through most of the show in their seats.

Their final show turned out to be Chula Vista, California. Tired from the road, and
somewhat scared of the end of tour, they made arrangements to stay with Troy’s sister outside of
L.A. Kali was sick again, and they did not go into their final show. They would miss the final
show at Shoreline, where they later learned Phish was joined by the remaining members of The
Grateful Dead on stage. “There was only one catch, and that was Catch – 22…”

-Joseph Heller, Catch – 22

The weeks of time spent at my half – sisters in LA were strange ones indeed. They were
all too fitting of my life. There has always been a great love between my sister and me, one that
seems all too natural, we are comfortable with each other. Kali was not so comfortable, though
for the first week she agreed we would settle and live here. There in LA I could chase my acting
days gone by. It was strange to be called Joel again, especially hearing Kali say it. It was a part
of me that I had not yet connected through the past four months events.
We sat for hours by night looking through photo albums of me I had never known. These
were my baby and toddler years, the only ones this part of my family and I had known together
really. It was invigorating proof to me of the use for this vast searching I was undergoing to find
my origins.

Two weeks later, however, Kali became homesick and determined that she would return
home to Michigan. I would not let her go alone, and decided I would drive her home. Besides, to
see the beautiful country we had passed through again was far too much to pass up. Besides
which, I still had love for her I could not describe. We had shared things few people ever do with
each other in these long months.

The drive home was beautiful, but a battle. It was not a week after we had arrived “home”
to Ann Arbor when she sent me to Philadelphia to tie up loose ends with my family. She said that
I had scared her one night when I had set our motel room up while she was waitressing at The
Brown Jug for a Halloween celebration with Ashley. I returned unsure of what it was that nagged
at me to

Philadelphia.

It was then that I realized in a few short weeks Bush would be elected if all happened the way I

saw it. Everything in me screamed of the wrongness of it, and I began to lose my mind. I took
the subway to the mental hospital where I had been released from the past July before tour.
There I obtained the birth certificate, social security card and license I had left behind. I had
driven the entire country without a license in my pocket.

It was then that I snapped. I visited the news station where my Dad worked as a
television news anchor. I tried to gain access to talk to someone of the lies and deceit I had
smelled in my paranoia from caddying at my former golf club. They would not hear of it, of
course, I was spouting trivial liberal hearsay to the number two news market in the world.
They threw me off of the grounds, and I turned toward home.

My mind was racing of how to approach being accepted by my family; of
sewing the tie I needed from them to tie the knot with Kali.

I called my mother from a downtown pay phone, and told her I was back in town. I told
her I was coming home to visit, and cutting her off hung up the phone. Reaching my old
neighborhood after a short bus ride to the suburbs, I turned on foot to my parent’s house. On the
way I stopped at the neighbor’s house that lies directly behind my parent’s backyard. I told the
kind people I had returned home from California, and that I didn’t want to stop by
unannounced, so could I use their phone?
They were overjoyed to see me, the retired couple having always had an amicable
relationship with me through my High School years. I phoned my mother, who said my father
was at the golf club. Then I phoned my father, and left a message with the head pro for him.

Satisfied, I left the elderly couple and started off walking the short hundred feet to my
parent’s house door. Before I reached the door, a cop car came screaming past the house behind
me. I walked on to the side door, and tried. It was locked; something my mother would not
have done normally. The cop car came pulling onto their street, and it hit me. They were going
to have me arrested!

I began to run through my parent’s backyard toward the neighbor’s house where
I could seek safety, but it was no use, a running officer ordered me to “stop! Freeze

NOW!!” flanking me from the right in a full sprint.

I panicked. My muscles flung me forward to toward the street and a
nearby park across the way through which I might lose them. The whole country
toured to end here? I would not have it.

Suddenly cops were coming from all sides, pulling night clubs and other things I
feared. They began screaming at me “Get down, now! Get down now!”

One of them finally caught up to me as I passed the elderly couples house from which I
had just telephoned. I felt a short rap on the top of my head; a hard stun blow with a nightclub
sent me crashing to the ground. The cops then pounced on me beating me to the ground as they
ripped my arms near from their sockets and put me in cuffs.

“Fucking little faggit!” one of them started in on me.

I spit in his face, and he picked me up and threw me down the hill towards the
patrol car parked in front of the yard.

“Your gonna fucking get it, you little faggit!” he taunted. I was screaming at
the top of my lungs at them, now.

“Fucking pigs, I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking pigs!!”

The taller one calmly opened the car door, and shoved me into the back seat.
Plexi glass separated me from the front of the car, and I began to bash my head
against it in frustration.”

The shorter cop ducked his head into the car and began to taunt me with a chipmunk high voice.

“Oh , I’m gonna get you! Oh , please, fuck my mommy! My mommy! Hey kid, I fucked your
mother!
What do you think about that? Yeah, she was ugly. She’s doing it with another cop at your house
right now, that’s what we’re waiting for. What do you think about that?”

I began screaming at him again, banging my head in rage against the plexi glass.

He smiled and gave a chuckle, shutting his door. He had gotten what he wanted.

When they both climbed in, I was told I was being 302’d. They were to
commit me at St Josephs Hospital.

“What are you tripping?” the short pig asked from the passenger seat.

“Yeah.” I answered in short, though the kind of tripping I was referring to
was the kind that I would have his ass shot if I ever got him alone. I spit on the
window in front of me.

“Yeah, I thought so, LSD huh? Aww, cant handle your acid, huh, little boy?” he
taunted.

By the end of it all I was involuntarily committed to a hospital to await yet
another mental health Judges decision. Wasn’t this some kind of double jeopardy?

I was to be stuck in the hospital , forced to succumb to doctors and medications for the
next month. I watched my Dad on television every day of the weeks it took for them to verify
Bush’s election. Kali came from Michigan for my court date and I was forced even so to submit
myself to the commitment. They promised to get me into a respite bed, to get me disability
income, and that I would be living for free under good care. They simply thought I was nuts. It
proved to be the sane choice for me to take the path of least resistance.

I will never forget the day of the elections. I had been hanging around with the people on
the ward. There was the guy who walked around singing “almost paranoid, we’re knocking on
heavens door...” to the old eighties tune “Almost Paradise”.

He was permanently disabled and given shock treatments. There was a Penn Professor whose

divorce had led his sister to try and take his kids from him, perfectly sane and hilariously
funny rich guy. There was a female artist who was a bit flighty who let me use her guitar. I
talked to Kali nightly by phone. I picked up the phone at the nurses station and got an outside
line.

I then dialed into the front desk of the hospital and requested the director of the hospital,
stating only my name and that it had to do with the hospitals role in the elections. The operator
downstairs put me through, and I was talking to the director of the hospital whose nut ward I was
in. A brief conversation ensued in which, I actually got a request in to have a bus transport
myself and others from the hospital to the local booth to vote.
It wasn’t until the end of the conversation that he realized I was not an employee of the

fifth floor, but a patient. It had been worth a try. New Years came and went, and I was living in

an apartment community near the sixty ninth street bus and subway terminal in Philadelphia in a

respite bed. Things were working out with my family, as long as I conceded that I was a

complete schizophrenic to them and others. I had begun to accept this mundane existence when a

credit card came in the mail. I left that day in the beginning of January for “the library”

downtown to use my e – mail and wound up on a bus to Ann Arbor.

There I was reunited with Kali. I learned that Ashley had been run over by her Dad in a
freak accident at her parent’s ranch home. They bought her a new Cocker Spaniel shortly after
for her birthday, and we named her “Punkin Patches”. I proposed to Kali near every day, saying
simply “every minute of every second of every day, I do.”

I was doing fine without medications, and by the end of the summer had a group of
friends and an apartment with some students of U of M. I worked full time at two restaurants,
one fine dining and helped to open a nearby Starbucks. Ann Arbor was the best home I had ever
known on my own, and I was in love with the town. My jazz drummer roommate and I spent
time together watching back episodes of The Sopranos.

My neighbors held parties, and Kali and I went. I was thinking about attending college.
My mother and I were talking regularly, as well as she and Kali talking a lot. We were getting
along fine, though things at home were on the rocks. Shortly into that summer of 2001, my
parents surprised all by getting a divorce.

Kali spent time with her ex – husband for a few weeks during that summer, cheating on
me. For some reason I still took her back. I believed in my commitment to her, and I was still so
blinded that when she propose we move to Tennessee for her schooling and to be closer to her
brother, I agreed. It was in my hope that perhaps if her brother liked me, we could gain
acceptance with her parents that route. Kali and I had even done a joint session with her
Christian counselor. She herself had completed a semester at a nearby school with a major in
psychology.

Shot:

Nashville Tennessee Overhead Cam of city. Pans to show a highway.

Car following a U -haul closely on the highway.
Country music is playing in the car, the driver, male swerves to stay with

the truck as it skips onto an on ramp through several lanes. Near accident,

he makes

it.

Credits end.

Truck turns down a side street off of the Nashville Highway, making

towards the sign that reads Middle State Tennessee University. The car

follows the turn maneuver.

The driver of the truck, female is shown shoving a pet off of her lap,
annoyed at

the small black poodle type dog. She flicks the radio off and squints ahead

at the road. Grinning, switches the left turn signal on.

Narrator: We had been together for about a year, Kali and I.

Young and in love, the sky was the limit. Now we had decided to move to
Tennessee to get close to her brother. Plus she said she wanted to go to
school here.

Shot of the dog, panting.

Narrator: We had a new six month old puppy named "Punkin Patches". I had
proposed marriage for the first time from my heart a few months into the
relationship, and she said yes. I was 23, Kali 24 and we were in love, or so I
thought.

Truck and car in line turn onto "Spring Street" (sign). It is a small lower

middle class neighborhood. The shot from the cab of the truck shows her
slowly pulling next to a curb behind an old Ford Mustang, at an older row

home.

The house is small, but in the driveway are two older vehicles, a Ford van

and an older make rusted out Chevy. There is a front porch.

The car pulls up beside Kali, now exiting the cab and the driver rolls down

the passenger side window to ask...

Troy: Where should I park?

Kali: How should I know? Park somewhere.

Troy: Wha....

Kali turns away, the dog leaping out of the truck cab after her, the door left ajar.

A man, enormous in size emerges from the front door of the house onto the front porch.
Kali walks onto the porch with a swagger in her step.

Shot of Troy in the car, still staring out the rolled down window.

Kali turns to her brother Norm: Hi.

Norm: You made it. Dad was afraid you would have to call for directions for Troy.

Troy: (half yelling out the window) Hey, hi. I'm Troy.

Norm (interrupting): I KNOW.

Kali: hahaha

Troy: Yeah, where should I PARK?

The dog runs off of the porch and onto the sidewalk, now looking at Troy.

Norm: I don’t know, park ANYWHERE.

Kali: That’s what I told him.
Troy (to himself)She sticks her tongue out at Troy... he smiles back, puts the car in

reverse and begins to pull back. He looks up a second time while reversing, and is met

by a wink from Kali. : Here we go...

Kali: Yeah, Norm you should have SEEN the traffic in Nashville, oh my

God.... Troy approaches from the car, now parked across the street. Norman

and Kali walk inside of the house, taking no notice of him at all. Troy

pauses on the front porch steps.

Kali (yelling from the door): Troy are you going to COME IN?

Troy: Yeah, I’m on my way.

Kali: Oh, well I didn’t know what you wanted to do. You know, you cant STAY
HERE. And get the dog too, will you? (turning back inside) Before she gets run

over....

Narrator: I had always had a bad case of nerves on special occasions, and to me

this was one. Kali’s father hated me, and made it well known. He once told
her when we went over there, that if I showed up on the front porch he
would come out with his shotgun. Little did he know, I was in the car,
waiting for the go ahead. I waited for an hour, while she told little lies
about why she hadn’t pulled the car in to her parents house. She apologized
when she got back and told me she was just going to go back inside for a
few minutes to have dinner with them, but only if that was ok with me?
What was I going to say? I said yes.

Troy: Come here Punkin...

Gets the dog, picks her up, petting her.

Troy: Come on girl, lets go see what’s up inside. (petting) You ok...

Narrator: I was nervous about this. She had said her brother was her best
friend growing up though, that it would "get me in" maybe with her Dad.
On the way she had forced her nervous anorexia on the dog, refusing to
feed her or let her drink. I found her near passed out in the cab in Kentucky
from heat and thirst. Kali just got mad and said Punkin would shit and piss
in the truck. I fed her anyway.

Kali: Troy!

Troy: Im comin, I'm comin.

She kisses him on the mouth.

Kali: My brother said you can sleep in his van tonight if you want, or
there is a motel if you have the money... Norman: Hi (shaking Troys
hand)

Troy: Good to meet you.

Norm: Trip ok?

Troy: Ok, except for her race car driving. Never let this woman drive a truck.

Norm: (smiling at Kali) Pretty good huh?

Troy: (butting in) Good isn’t the word for it... NASCAR training more like.

Norman: Hey, I'm sorry you cant stay here tonight.

Kali: Did Dad call yet?

Norman: Yeah, just called, he said for you to call when you got the truck
here. Yeah I figure we'll have dinner and then we have room in our basement
if you want me to unload the truck for you.

Kali: Perfect, yeah check this out.

Walks them out to the truck, opens the truck door. It is a sixteen foot truck,
filled about halfway with various boxes and furniture.

Norm: Wow. Looks like you needed a smaller truck. How much did this cost?

Troy: About five hundred

Norman :
Whistles Kali: We
did.

Norm: Troy did?
Kali: Yeah, he paid half.

Troy: Yeah, she insisted on the big truck.

Kali: Thought I had alot more stuff.

Troy: I only had about ten or fifteen boxes....

Kali: Troy where did you pack the chain to lock up the truck?

Troy: Why, do we need it?

Kali: Norman says they have been having problems with their neighbors and
I don’t want any of my stuff to get stolen.

Troy: Yeah, I guess I put it in the car.

Kali: My car?

Troy: Yeah, before we left, remember we were going to take it back to Matt
and you said we would just keep it that we didn’t have time.

Norman: Matt?

Kali: DIFFERENT Matt. He runs the Brown Jug and Troy went over last
night and borrowed it from him to lock it up in front of his apartment last
night to protect from the frat guys. Not MY Matt.

Narrator: Kali had eloped with some 35 year old named Matt years
before. He was a loser, so she left him. Two weeks after the wedding in
fact. They still weren’t divorced for lack of money to get it done, or so
she had said. She hops down from the truck. Norman reaches up, closes
the truck door with a slam.

Narrator: She said all this is after she went back to fuck him two months
before we moved. Over and over again.

Fade to black...

Narrator: Should have left her then in retrospect.

The living room is shown, where Norman absentmindedly shovels food into

his mouth in front of the TV with two boys, five and nine sit next to him on

the couch. Punkin is running back and forth from kitchen to living room
(adjoined). The kitchen is a small one with an old fashioned sink, and a

small desk crammed into the side near the rotting basement door.

Kali is shown coming in from the kitchen, eating as she walks. Troy is

sitting on a chair just inside of the kitchen opening.

Kali: Troy, there’s food in there if you want to eat.

Normans wife: (yelling from the kitchen) Troy, come and get it, we HAVE

PLENTY!

Norman: What’s HIS PROBLEM?

Kali: Yeah, I don’t know ever since we left Kentucky he’s been like MOODY or
something.

Norman: No, HIM. (pointing at the Television screen)

Kali: Oh. (aside) Troy, just eat, stop acting like a baby. I don’t know HOW
your not hungry.(going back to eating ) I'm starving.

Shot of Troy, sitting in chair.

Troy: You look like it.

Narrator: They say people change when you marry them. Maybe the
rule just applies to meeting their family. Later that night we moved our
stuff in. Shot of Norman handing Troy a box. He walks through a door
into the basement to find the boxes piling up in a tight fit basement. The
skinny five year old, appears from around the corner.

Tommy: You aren’t gonna hit me are you?

Troy: What would make you say a thing like that?

Tommy: My Dad.

Troy: No way, big guy... you look like someone I wouldn’t want to tackle.

Tommy: Yeah. My Dad is a BIG guy.

There is a heavyweight punching bag hung in the basement ceiling in the
middle of the room.
There was a certain look in his eye when he said it. Like he was afraid of
something.

Norm: You down there?

Tommy: Yep, Troy was showing how hard he punch YOUR bag.

Troy: Yeah, nice punching bag (hitting the bag as Norm appears coming down the

stairs.

Norm: Now you be nice and stay out of my the way, don’t go messing around with
Uncle Troy.

Kali: Troy will you be a dear, and pick up this nice five thousand dollar
oriental coffee table with Norman to show him where to put it. I said they
could put it in their living room for now so that he could have it to show off
their...

Troy: Ok hon, be right up, hon.

Norm: Hon? (groping up the stairs) Where did you find THIS guy?

Troy: Toooommy, does Norm ever...

Kali: Troy!!!

Troy: Coming!!!

Narrator: I need the strength to tell you where I ended up the night we moved.
I think it is better off being told from the beginning.

Norman is shown piling a pillow, two blankets and a key on Troy’s

outstretched arms.

Norm: I am really sorry, like I said, you know how my father is.. and with the
kids and all...

Troy: Don't worry. I said it was ok, it was. It will be I mean.

Kali: I like it this way. Its kind of like when he left home for me the first
time. I will make him WORK for my love.

Troy: Knew it. You aren’t coming with me.
Kali: With you, you mean I have to sleep in my brothers van WITH you
just because you cant get over the fact that I have a nice warm bed I
called ahead for and planned on? I have to work tomorrow, and you have
to get a job. Troy: I sent out forty plus resumes in the mail, I should have
one tomorrow.

Kali: Talk all you want, you still aren’t gettin any tonight.

Troy: That’s ok, you let me have it before we came. Besides which, I have two
places for us to look at for our new apartment this time tomorrow guaranteed.

Kali: Troy I’m not so sure its a good idea we get a place together here now.

Troy: What do you mean?

Kali: Troy, I don’t have to explain it to you, you know how I am when I get
tired and cranky. I get tonight off to sleep, so I am.

Kisses him on the cheek.

Kali: Now get out of here before I have Norm put you out for good.

Troy laughs.

There is a glint from the corner of her eye. The light across the room

explodes in light, and it takes over the whole room for a second.

Troy: Are you alright?

The light returns to normal.

Kali: Yes, I just don’t want to live with you anymore. I talked to my Dad,
and he takes it right on that as Christians we should be living separate until
marriage. Like Pat, my sister did. We'll just fake it and sleep over at each
others every time I get horny.

Troy: Goodnight.

Kali: Troy, don’t do this.

Troy: What?

Kali: Don’t be an asshole. We just got here. I told you you were going to
have to be the STRONG one.
Troy: I don’t know. But I know this. You need sleep.

Kisses her on the lips for the goodnight.

Kali: Goodnight.

Norm calls out from the kitchen

Norm: Hey, can you take this outside, Its getting all teary eyed and mushy in
here and Holly is trying to sleep.

Kali: No, he was just leaving.

Norman is shown in the daylight hours giving the grand tour of his van parked inn the

driveway. He folds the seat down, streches out for an uncomfortable She pushes him out the

door. second, bounces up, fakes a smile....

Troy is shown outside of the front door at night, the door closed. The

outside light beside the door goes off. Kali peeks through the curtain for a

second. She locks the door.

Troy walks around the rosebush on the side of the front porch, tripping

half over it. He looks around warily at the van in front of him, goes around to the

side door and unlocks it. He climbs inside and places the blankets and pillows on

the back seat of the van.

Inside of his mind, thoughts are racing. Several flashes of the day go by in fast

forward. The drive, the dog, Kali at her brothers with his family, the kids, then it

turns to see the driveway in a long shot of the cars parked in back of the

van. Voices begin in a flurry in his mind. He is lying straightaway now in

the van beside an open window, tossing and turning unable to sleep. The

voices prod his insomnia.
There is a shot of female face in his mind, blurry to symbolize his brain

pattern. Heather(the female in the picture): Go to the way it was before Troy,

she wont marry you. You don’t see it?

Troy (out loud): NO. I don’t believe it.

There are a crowd of people around her now, and she points at one of
them.

Voice: Ask her sister, even.

The crowd laughs, and light waves pulse in his vision we see in the camera

angle of the van roof, the window. He is hallucinating mildly.

Heather: Get out of the van, go meditate.

Troy bolts straight up in bed.

Troy: I'll meditate on it.

He is shown getting out of the van, quietly closing the door. The backyard

of the house is fairly sizeable, and next door is a small southern Baptist

church. The backyard is foggy and dim.

Troy: New Moon. Something is big here.

The voices laugh in his mind in a demented delay with chorus like effect.

Troy shakes his head.

Troy: I know something I cant see is here.

He sits placing himself on the back bumper of the van. A flash of light

explodes like the light from inside the house. He stands up and whirls

around to see the plate gleaming. It is a Michigan plate.

Troy: Michigan? The bastard is scamming with his Dad? I'll be damned
bankruptcy, now this.
Narrator: Kali had told me of her fathers’ bankruptcy earlier this summer.
He had worked for Reagan himself, they had pictures of the ex prez
hanging out at their house, and had their fill of success. He had a million
dollar ranch, and the kids were out of the house. He had sunk the business
and out everything in his wife’s name to conceal the funds. I knew it was
thievery, but he felt it was due him. I had studied some tax law myself, but
had no idea if what he had done was ethical. Troy is shown sitting down
now behind the van looking up at the stars in the dark Tennessee sky. They
number in the thousands though there is no moon; the sky is lit behind by
the town of Murfreesboro.

Troy: Aren’t as many as I thought.

He looks up at the sky. Then at the window where Kali is to be sleeping. We

hear the phone ringing inside. The waves of light shimmer across the

backyard and it contorts. We hear the voices from inside. Troy is shown

gazing at the house windows, and the camera angle is waving in, panning

and zooming slowly in on his eye until it is nothing but a shimmer and

pupil shown. There is an abrupt bump, and he falls, the camera splayed out

beside, cockeyed from the ground showing his face dimly lit by the widows

of the house shown and the house itself at an angle across the screen.

We hear him begin to murmer Ommmm......

Ommmm....

The voices:

Kali: I heard Dad say

Norm: You CANT MOVE in with him

Kali: I told him I wasn’t going to get an apartment

Shannon: Where’s Uncle Troy?

Mr. Keller: Kali, I will not have him around he’s TRASH
Heather: She isn’t going to do it. Don’t do it Troy, don’t get married. Stay
here They grow and interplay over each other repeating the same things
until they mesh in an incessant babble. Troy suddenly bolts upright from
the ground and sits Indian style.

Troy: Ommm ahhh huuumOmmmmm

The camera shows Troy from above. It tilts and lowers to a position from

behind him showing the stars above. They web together and merge in a

spider web like pattern. The camera shows him from the side and pans to

above as his chanting raises and the web creeps down on him.

Troy: Ommm

The sky is shown. It clears of the web and a lightning bolt flashes in the

Tennessee night striking Troy directly on the crown of his head. His face is

shown, eyes clenched shut as if in some desperate fear.

The image flashes to a bright light shot of the bolt. It his the ground in

front of him. We are repeatedly shown him being struck and what appears

to be an old spoked tire in his mind. The image of the lightning striking

him and the tire become one and suddenly we are shown Troy, his eyes

open wide suddenly, his mouth agape. He is shivering in fear, out of his

mind.

Troy: Have I lost my mind? What does it mean?

He looks around the dark yard. His grows dim, and he begins to cry.

Troy: I’m scared.

The camera pans and widens out showing him against the van, now

hugging his knees and rocking. It time lapses to the same shot in the early

dawn, the first rays of light coming into the sky. He is shown, now in the
early light getting up, going around to the side of the van climbing in and

lying down.

There is a close up of the side of his face lying on the seat.

Troy: (whispering) I'll find out. Be here now.

He murmurs to himself as the picture fades to black.

Troy: Sleep, sleep.

The picture fades to black. There is a loud "clack" and we are zoomed out

from the black stripe on the van to show the door, now swinging open, Troy

looking tired and unshaven stumbling out.

The open is the street where he started off parking the car, Troy alone

watching Kali take off to work. He is fate ridden tired eyes and getting off

in his hand like a sugar crazed poodle toy dog is Punkin.

Troy: Punkin, Daddy has to get a job. Get up and find a job, off his butt for
the first time in Tennessee. Know?

Punkin eyes him curiously, then begins to wiggle and hop up and down all over
again.

Punkin: YIP!

Troy: Oh get over it, I made sure you got fed by Holly this morning.

He takes the leash off, and the darting dog runs off into the backyard.

Troy: Shit!

There is a sequence during which Troy is shown in several dozen

backyards around the neighborhood trying to catch the irate dog, who

averts him out from under tackles, flying leaps, other peoples kids in their

yards petting her and other scenarios. Finally, he is shown "dog - eared"

and tired too dragging her by the collar onto the front porch of the brothers
house. He picks up the leash on the way into the house and grins to

himself.

Troy: Shit.

He closes the door behind the dog, now in tie and white collar shirt with a

resume in hand, he descends the porch stairs and walks off into the town.

He is shown at various restaurants talking and filling out applications. We

are given glimpses of the town from here and there. He is shown getting

frustrated, getting happy at food served to him on a tray. One restaurant

shows a manager hanging on him, her breasts nearly falling out of her

blouse. He peers down the shirt, wide eyed. Her husband appears in ten

gallon hat and spurrs to the front, and she introduces a wary man, now

backing out the door.

Troy: God damn this southern hospitality.

A phone booth is shown down the road. He picks up the receiver as he
enters it.

Picking a quarter from his pocket, inserts it into the phone.

Narrator: I was always resourceful with finding a job.

Troy is shown seated at a table with an owner sitting in his restaurant

talking behind the banner uncut across the front of the restaurant which

reads grand opening. He is handed a time sheet with his name on it. The

owner shuffles cards in front of him at the bar with employees drinking

from the water like flowing supply of booze coming from the bottles to their

glasses by the manager behind the bar.

We hear the telephone ringing. A voice answers.
Voice: Franklin Imports, this is Mandy, can I help you?

Troy: Yeah, can I get Kali please?

Voice: Yeah, hold on.

Kali: Hello?

Troy: Hello. I got it.

Kali: Got what?

Troy: Well, how’s your day going?

Kali: Its ok I guess... got what?

She is shown standing behind the counter of one of those yuppie type

import furniture stores with candles and things around her. A bimboed out

blonde register girl flirts with a customer behind her.

Troy: A new job. Its a Steak and Seafood House that opens tomorrow. I got on the
ground floor as a waiter, he said we will talk about moving up later... for now I ...

She glances at her watch. It shows four thirty PM.

Kali: What are you, a manager?

Troy: No, I'm wait staff.

Kali: Oh.

The girl behind her tugs on her shirt, pointing at the two college guys

coming in the door. The girl brushes her nails on her shirt, and blows them

off to say "hot stuff". Kali smiles at her, and then the guys.

Kali: Well that’s good, I can drop you off before I come into work. Listen I
gotta go. Where are you going to sleep tonight?

Troy: I don’t know yet, I have been job hunting all day, but I applied at a bar
near the college here. The owner has a one bedroom up for rent, and he may
need a bartender part time to help pay the rent. He made a time to meet us
tomorrow morning to see the place.
Kali: Is it nice?

One of the guys stops in front of the counter and smiles at her. She turns aside.

Troy: I don’t know, well find out. Told you I was going to be alright.

Kali: I told you I don’t want to live with you anymore. I guess we will check it out.

Tonight I have to go over our budget with you.

Troy: OUR? You mean you did it already...

Kali: Yeah, I made a savings plan for us as well so we can stop living this
way. I have to go, Troy, I will talk to you later. Just go to Norms, I will see
you there after I get done.

Troy: Sure. Hey, Kali?

Kali: I have to go NOW, Troy. I will talk to you later. I love you.

We hear the phone hang up from the other end.

Troy: I love you too.

Narrator: I had gotten a job from a retired blackjack dealer back from
Kentucky. He had gotten a backer somehow and opened the restaurant. He
seemed nice enough, and he had agreed I could make money under the table.
Now it seemed I had to get a new place to stay tonight.

Troy: Hello?

He hangs up the phone and walks away, past a sign that reads "This way to
the best Sun Belt Basketball anywhere.."

Troy is shown in the basement of the house, removing items from a box. He

places one of the shirts on, pulls a bra out of the box. A flowing Celtic

tapestry comes from it. He clenches it with one hand. We are shown a scene

of Kali and he making love to each other in an apartment. They are on a

queen sized mattress spread out on the floor with a dozen pillows.

Troy: Damn I need some.
Shannon appears from out of nowhere, seeing him in the basement.

Shannon: Whatcha’ doin’?

Troy: I’m finding some clothes to wear to work tonight for tomorrow. Hey, need
something for your wall?

He hands her the tapestry. She smiles a grin immediately and receives the

gift from him, running up the stairs already...

Shannon (from upstairs) Mom!! Can I have this? Troy...

Troy’s memory is shown now of him taking the tapestry off of the wall in

the apartment and placing it on the now sleeping Kali for a blanket. He

turns and walks up the stairs.

Turning off of the living room there is a door, he peers in. There are two
beds.

Holly points at the one across from her.

Shannon: That is where Kali sleeps. This is my room. You like? Mom, can I
hang it up here?

She holds the tapestry over her bed. Troy walks over and smells the

tapestry, getting embarrassed.

Troy: You may want to wash it first, I mean...

Kali walks in the room.

Shannon: Why?

Norm says from the living room.

Norman: What’s this about a present? Holly, don’t be bugging them now.

He is shown placing a drink on the ornate coffee table now in the living
room.

Kali: Troy are you sure?
Kali: Uhh yeah, I guess just wash it first...

Kali looks into the living room and sees Norman placing the drink on the
table.

Kali: Norm, PUT SOMETHING UNDER THAT!! Its a five thousand dollar table!!

Norm: It has GLASS top, its fine.

Kali: (whispering to Troy) come here.

She pulls him aside into the other room.

Kali: I think we HAVE TO GET that out of here soon. Where is that place

you got for us to look at?

She kisses him on the lips.

Troy: Its on the other side of town by the college...

Kali: What bar?

Troy: The Cave...

Kali: I have heard of that. Yeah, I told my Dad about letting them use the
coffee table, but I have to get it out of here. When he and Christine;
moved out of my parents place, they had to do fifty thousand dollars in
repairs to stuff Troy: Really?

He acts surprised. A kid runs by them at full speed into the kitchen.

Christine (from the of camera bedroom): Justin SLOW DOWN!!

Kali: LOOK AT THIS PLACE.

The floor leading in from the living room is shown buried ankle deep in

dirty laundry and trash. The kitchen has something on every counter, a

dish, a mop stand useless in the corner. It is shown to be dripping into

Punkin’s food dish on the corner. Troy goes over and picks up the dish.

Troy: It will be ok....

Norm(walking into the kitchen) : What will be?
Both Kali n Troy: Nothing.

Kali: Her food is in the car.

Troy: Where?

Norman: I put it out there because the landlord came by earlier. He said
that the dog cant stay. Our neighbor called and had the balls to complain
about her running off this morning or something. I have to keep her well
hid. I told him she is just here when you are. I have to tell him if Kali is
staying more than two weeks because it is on the lease...

Troy: Sounds like a alot of shit.

Norm: Yeah, well we have new neighbors next door. The girl is a bitch. You
saw her on the way in? She has this kind of attitude like she owns the place
now or something because the landlord is her brother in law.

Troy: Your neighbors got arrested the other night?

Norm: Yeah their a bad lot.

Kali: Yeah, generally speaking
Troy: Good to meet you Mr.
Lee

Kali: Huh?

"Spasm waiter dropping to his knees sees

Slander on wrapped paper ties

Sleeping in his bed at night he’ll dream until he dies…”

Phish, “The Mango Song”

It was a late summer’s day in Middle Tennessee. Kali and I had just moved there a few
days prior and I felt that she was still the love of my life. There was something terrible in the
breeze, though, and my mind began a solemn form of meditation psychotic in its delusional
intensity. I had to work at Rick’s Steak and Seafood as a waiter for my second night this night.
Kali was at work so Norman her brother and his friend Roger and I agreed they should drive me.
That night something miraculous began to transcend before my eyes. Two afternoons prior to
this, we had gone shopping with her brother’s whole family. Something radiated in Kalis eye.
Literally. I began to see flashes of light as if from some internal supernatural force that I began to
believe was connected fate. How true this turned out to be. At one point just as the song we fell
in love to in "In Your Eyes" says, I saw the light that could only be described as that of a
thousand churches glaring from what seemed to be her very soul. Later that night, expected to
sleep outside in her brothers van, I sat outside in the cold backyard and meditated under the
starry TN sky. The stars mingled, and the thoughts it seemed on wavelengths fluttering through
my mind intensified until I had a vision. Lightning struck it seemed the very crown of my head,
and the whole meditation ended leaving me surprisingly uneasy... as if I was to find out what this
enlightening strike was to be soon and that just as in life... it would not be easy.

At work at Randy’s, the meditation awoke in my mind, and began seemingly with a will
of its own. I started to notice something, as if in my peripheral vision at first. It seemed that in
my peripheral, everything had stopped, yet if I disbelieved it had, and looked... it began again.

One of my co- workers turned to me and said something mid night to me about

"everything is possible, if you believe it in your mind..." And from his eyes traveling to the
corner of his face the light erupted like the fire of the sun, illuminating him as the figures in the
Buddha scroll from my Art Museum days so long before. Suddenly I believed. Time slowed to a
crawl before my very eyes... everything was moving as if in a frame by frame picture for what
seemed a full ten seconds of frames. And then began.

I consciously made an instant decision on why this siddhi was leaving my grasp...

because I had yet to alter my belief in the nature of physics itself.

Physical was the first thought and like an echo it flooded the large dark space which somehow
houses our thoughts from which they come. "Physical... physical...physical..."

Having experienced phenomena completely physical in nature before, however not
inclusive of the now new inclusion of the CONCEPT OF TIME... I immediately did what first
felt natural.

They began as quarter twists, turns of my body as if by turning to the right fast would shake the

disbelief that I could create a supernatural event by doing it in all of its silliness... and just
believe.

I left the back of the kitchen, and went back out to the floor of the restaurant. It was filled
with patrons, and yet as I turned from my table, I was moved to do a full ballerina style spin. I
did, and to my surprise, no one batted an eye... not the slightest notice. Passing through the
corridor, I saw a waiter give me the strangest look. He turned to leave the kitchen through the
exit on his right, and I turned to go to the terminal 180 degrees from him to the left. In mid stride,
I broke the train of thought as the thought of him elated me, and I spun one and a half turns
coming to a halt facing him. The entire kitchen stopped, cooks frozen with plates in midair,
waitresses one foot on the floor, words hung in mid phrase, the waiter I had turned to face
however vanished from site momentarily, and then with a supernatural twist, his head turned to
face me with a demonic grin. My mind raced. Then it registered the thought of a minor vision
brought forth of a fierce deity. I realized I was more afraid of time stopping than him, however
new now that to face him would take me further. Afraid of what further meant, the kitchen
reanimated, and I found myself in awe. I was then overtaken by the expanse of time that had just
seemed to pass, and yet none at all. I had to work within the realm of this meditation, and yet
when back on physical terms now, continue my job.

I turned toward the computer terminal again immediately and began to fill out the order
screen for my table to be sent to the cook staff via the system. As I punched the table button, the
onscreen clock caught my eye, and I had the strangest thought that If I deliberated it, the world
was like this screen, the table windows like my own window to the world. The notion of this
being so grandiose was but a speck of sand in the grand scheme of the thing. As mundane as
watching the seconds tick by on the...

I glanced at the clock....this time I froze too.... The seconds stopped. The people around
me stopped. It read 10:19 for what seemed about four to five minutes. Then like that the world
began. The vision was not to repeat itself until much later that night.

Once off work, I was given a ride by one of my coworkers. I got home at about midnight.
Kali was there. We went outside of her brother’s house for her to smoke a cigarette and for us to
talk. There, I tried it again, the spinning ballerinas move. It didn’t prove anything but to get her
to pose the question... "Did you ever take dance lessons?"

There it was. There I was. This night, it was decided that her brother was uncomfortable
with me sleeping in their van outside. Kali parents really did not like me, it was not that they
wanted me to sleep inside, rather I was to find another place until the apartment came through. I
had given Kali enough money to get gas to go to work the following day, and her paycheck was
coming, so it was decided that I could drive her car, the Red Neon we had used for Phish Tour to
a safe spot for the night, and crash out in the car as we done for so many nights.

This first night I drove to The Wal-Mart parking lot to camp out as we had done in unfortunate

circumstances during the end of tour in Los Angeles. That night as I lay in the blankets and

pillows in the back of the car, I could feel Kali out there sleeping, and for some reason I knew

she was disturbed by something. It later came out that she was having a dream about my mob

involvement, that a hit man came to her brothers, and surrounded her to kill her. The intense

feeling emitting from her heart in that bedroom at her brothers house I believe became so
intense, that I felt it in my own. I climbed out of the car, and lit a candle as I proceeded to sit in

the full lotus position in parking lot.

I didn’t care if I was asked to leave, and felt proud even to the thought of the parked
limo behind me, its driver having left the engine running. I could feel him watching me. The
meditation involved the things I had seen, releasing the anger I had felt at witnessing the
corrupt politics in Philadelphia prior to Bush running. I began to remember things I had
thought about my own clean views and how proud I was of our love together in devoting this
to peace and justice in the American way.

For some reason I saw myself in a courtroom, raising my hand and taking the oath for
something. I felt the vision to be prophetic, but knew not why. I felt that my beliefs were to be
tested was the message. My knowledge of Yoga bid me to silence to the bragging am yoga girl
herself. Kali grew proud inside of me. I saw her Buddhism and my own, and now knew in my
heart of hearts it was us, that we would slowly learn more about how natural our beliefs fit. She
had little knowledge of my Buddhism. I began to do the yoga, and for some reason this time it
seemed to have different quality.

That night was the beginning of my own awareness of how yogic awareness can evolve.
The forms become sets, and when practiced moving became Tai Chi. The meditation ended, and
I grew sleepy in the backseat. I told Kali aloud that I missed her as I set my battery powered
alarm for seven

AM. It was about three.

For some reason, when Kali looked into my eyes the next night she asked me:

"please, don’t meditate. My immediate thought was that of the Buddha and his love for Kali,

and how giving her up and maintaining his meditation was the force that enabled him to realize
obstacles in furthering his enlightenment. I kissed her goodbye, our last kiss ever.

"Bye... "She said with sad eyes, beating puppy dog eyelashes at me...

And then with her natural poise and demeanor as she turned away a very cold

"See you in the morning, IM GOING TO BED..."

This was nothing like I had pictured things for us in Tennessee.

Two nights prior after watching the movie "The Devils Advocate", I had gone onto
her brother’s porch in the darkness to smoke a cigarette. The light had returned as a fog in my
mind, and suddenly I had an intense warning vision that seemed to emanate from one of my
road Phamily from tour.... Dream... his name was rather prophetic.
The vision was a recurrence from the same that had came to me a few days prior.

It had warned of war coming, that the days I had spent on the road were soon to come to good
meaning, and that I had to rejoin my family. In retrospect I believe that my spiritual family was
feeling the things surrounding me, that I was being warned in this fashion in hopes that I could
avoid coming fate.

This night came around quite a bit more dramatically. Just as in my moth days in the
Philadelphia flat, "in and out the window like a moth before the flame" came to mind again.

Then it happened. Out of the darkness, a HUGE moth appeared and as if it were emerging
into some mysterious light source flew directly in to my head. I screamed in horror, desperately
shoving the yet unlit cigarette into my ear to get it out. It was futile, it had flown all the way to
the drum, and I could feel it, hear it like thunder against my the flap of skin perceiving the sound
of its delicate wings as they batted as if trying to get in further.

Kali had come running out, and it seemed as though I was in pain, torturously so.

I was so panicked by all of the events coming to me, she assumed it to be so, and the whole
house immediately took notice of us trying in every way to get the moth removed. I was in the
sink, washing it out, with tweezers, with a cue tip. It was hopeless. The thing was lodged into my
head, some preeminent warning of how close fate would run with me for the next period in time.

The following day we had gone to try and get it removed, but without insurance it was
going to have to stay until we raised the sixty bucks or so to have it flushed out, or take me to the
emergency room. In the meantime Kali had to go to work. It was that night, with the moth in my
head at Randy's these things had come to me. As if the moth whispered to me through my ear of
the other side. I climbed into her car reluctantly, wondering if I should go to the hospital to have
it removed. I was shaken by all of the events surrounding me, missing my old friends and job,
and these wonderfully strange new visions. I drove to the hospital in strange temperament,
feeling as though there was something at hand I still was not seeing. When I got there, something
stopped me. It was as if I saw this shadowed figure there outside of the car. For some reason I
started to crack, get desperate about the whole thing and rather than going into the emergency
room at the hospital, climbed back into the car to go the campus where Kali was now a student at
Middle State Tennessee University to park for now. College campuses had always proved to be
good refuges for me in time of need for just

that.

I parked the little red car and got out. I locked the door, and placed the key into my
pocket. I decided to take a walk to get these things off of my mind. I figure I would find a spot to
sit and meditate the night through until about five am, only five hours away to kill the time and
assuage my anxiety ridden state.
After about an hour of walking around campus, I came to realize that it being summer,
there was no one about. It was a huge deserted place. I knew from past experience to follow my
instincts, and began a random pattern of walking to find a good spot to rest, tired and frustrated
that I could not get comfortable anywhere. I remembered my meditation the night before and
how it had brought about that look of fear from Kali tonight.

I felt her out there sleeping. I felt the eyes of someone on the road watching me. I
became afraid. I knew it was the law, instinctively. I knew that ugly feeling of raw power
perched for use in its whim. The next thought process was that of my problems. I thought about
my old roommate Sam, and his entrance into CIA training. His personality invaded me, and I
felt it somehow connect with my political affiliations in Philadelphia. I felt the two of loose
ends out there recognize each other and panic further. There was a loose and on a bigger trail in
the CIA, that I unknowingly was close to something big, and secret that I could not put my
finger on. I felt that it was all coming to a head all at once. I felt that someone out there knew
that I knew something they were unsure in my whit I could connect. I knew from the nature of
my affiliations, many unwanted, that it would be big. As big as the presidency. As big as war.

These thoughts in the back of my mind then merged with my ongoing awareness that I
was being watched by the police there on campus. With no notion of what to think now of any
scenario in my life but with resolve to simply move forward in the morning, I begun to find that
spot to sit down. I decided on a spot in the middle of the sidewalk.

Suddenly everything came to a head, and my observation of the world became what
seemed just a feeling in the back of my mind. I thought of Ram Das in his talk of "super CIA
paranoia" I knew I wanted to avoid it.

My next thought was that he perhaps was just flaking, and had avoided mortal heat of
politics that way. Then it happened. The small tree in front of me turned into a miniature
Gamesh. I knew something with raw power was in my hands now, something I had connected to
unknowingly on an international level.

Buddha and his sit under the tree of life for wisdom came to me. I began to get scared. I knew if

I sat something bad was going to happen.

My mind raced, I turned toward the sidewalk to meditate in a well lit public area. I thought of

Kali, and now too feared something approaching for us both. My thought erupted suddenly as if
the linear mathematical mass of time began within my thoughts themselves. I thought to release
even this thought. I saw a linear line erupt in white light from the crown of my skull upwards,
and I laughed at the sheer silliness of the thought "beam me up Scotty" I then took off my shoes
and socks to go and sit. On the way, I flung the keys on the sidewalk with the thought of
releasing attachment to Kali Ma. I sat a few feet from these both, and assumed partial lotus.
The experience was slow at first. I began to observe my thoughts as others voices
almost it seemed, my imagination filled with the opinions of others in their compacted
and sent personality "vibe" of sorts. Then it happened.

I had a vision of an airfield, and an airplane. Of a coming war, put I couldn't put faces or
names on it. I wanted to walk to the nearest buddhist temple and get some peace, but it was too
far. I took my shoes off and sat on the concrete of the Middle State Tennesee University Campus.

I began to hear the voices of partygoers around me too, I felt opinions from other people I
desired for them to have tugging at my consciousness. I released them as well. The babble of
tugging consciousness increased in force until I had the vision of a Yogi. It was the same as
whose shadowed face I had seen so many years prior in the confines of that Media apartment. He
put a finger to his lips and urged me “shhhh...”

I had a vision of a cop coming to me sitting. He threw me up against a wall, and I saw
my heart in the vision begin to glow and then explode. I gave up the thought of fighting the
cop when he would inevitably come, and went deeper in. The Yogi again said “shhh...” I began
seing very fast fighting forms in my mind and moving my arms in time to them. Here I reached
a funeral in my mind. It was me in the coffin, my family surrounded me there. The voices
talked all around my dead corpse, and I thought of how silly it all was.

Then it happened. A cop car pulled up and two uniformed patrollers got out. I sat very still and

quiet, meditatiing. One male, one female they came at me from my place on the sidewalk. They
pulled me to my feet from my lotus position and told me that I was obviously on some kind of
drug, and they were taking me to the hospital. I remained silent through the entire ordeal.

When we reached the hospital there were more than half a dozen police there. I refused to
speak, and they put me on the gurney. They removed my clothing all the while the guru in my
mind saying “shhh...”

They shoved a catheter up in me to remove a urine sample. I was doing things with my
muscles that made the nurse look at me in astonishment and exclaim “How did you? You cant...”

Of course they soon found that I had no drugs or alcohol in me. It was then that the police
put me in cuffs and told me that I was going to the jail. They had spent hours of their time on me,
and now to let me go would be an embarrassment to the department, I guess they figured.

There at the jail, I was read my rights and told I was under arrest for public intoxication even

with the tests on record at the hospital. On arrival at the jail, I began talking.
I told them they were violating my rights, and I was told “we can arrest you for anything
we want”.

I sat in a holding cell for the entire day and another night before Kali finally found me,
and then her keys. My bail bond was twenty dollars, and she paid it.

Kali’s story was much different than the truth. The cop at the front desk told her that I had
been found drunk and on the town with some college girl, and had been apprehended. They told
her I had been with this female all night and that I had been sighted all over town with her over
the course of the night before being apprehended for severe public intoxication. They had lied to
her, and she had believed them. I noticed a guard at the desk flirting with her as they released me.

I read his name tag, and in the car, Kali told me it was he who had spoken with her. This guy

had the hots for my girl and the keys to my demise hiding behind his badge.

That afternoon I went all over town. I got payment from the restaurant I had been
working at in cash. I then bought a few new white shirts and a tie for interviews. I secured my
job as a caddy at a local golf club for the weekends. I found the replacement rear taillight for
Kali’s car, and bought it.

After lunch I went to one of the dozens of restaurants to which I had forwarded my
resume and cover letter to from Ann Arbor. It was the nicest one to which I had applied, and I got
the job as a waiter and management trainee at a Steak and Spaghetti house to start the following
morning for cash tips. The motel room I had gotten was directly across the street. I had solved all
of the problems in one day. All but the misunderstanding caused by the violation of my rights by
those southern cops.

I walked the mile and a half down the road to Kali’s brothers, where all of my belongings were.

I needed to retrieve my wallet from her car to start my job, and to get some clothing from the
basement.

I reached the front porch and walked up to the front door. I knocked. Norman answered,
and shaking a fist at me said “you had better get out of here!”

He proceeded to try and slam the door in my face, but I stopped it with my hand.

He yelled again, and successfully slammed the door. I was in agony. I had to
get my wallet from the car.

I found the car locked, and frustrated decided to open it the way we had figured for when
the keys were locked inside. Pulling the window out a little to flex it and reach inside to pop the
lock, I was almost to the lock lever when the window shattered.
Now I was nervous about what the reaction would be. I left the rear tail light fixture on
her front driver side seat. I hoped she would get the message, as I tucked a note under it saying I
would call her.

The light was wrapped in a box to look like a ring box, as I felt we had news for celebration.

When I reached the motel, I called her and apologized for the window. I told her all about
how the police had lied, and asked that she and Punkin come to the motel where I would clean up
the glass and we could talk. She agreed, taking down the address and said “I will be there in five
minutes.”

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it. Two uniformed police
officers busted through the door, throwing me to the ground. As they placed me in cuffs behind
my back, I calmly told them that they had no warrant.

“ We are revoking a bail bond issued.”

I was placed in the car which then drove to Normans house, where the cops were given a
fake account of what had happened. In front of my eyes they watched all of my belongings taken
from the house, while planning to charge me with trespassing. Simple assault for an assault that
never happened, and destruction of property for the window.

By the end of the night, my bail bond for a false charge was revoked and I was charged..
This while I was in cuffs in the car. Norman said I had assaulted him. I didn’t know getting a
door slammed in your face was assault on the other man.

They charged me with the simple assault anyway, and then for the broken window on a
car which I had been paying the car payments on as destruction of property. That's three false
charges and one that could be debated. I landed hard on the cold cement floor. It was enough to
hobble my senses, as I realized there was no way to cheer me of this bump. This was the ultimate
drop. Here I was cold and alone rights to freedom gone, the love of my life gone, my dreams
interrupted.

I had never been in Prison before, and it now became apparent that they intended on
taking me to the regular population momentarily.

The worst was getting on the floor of the regular prison. The inmates crowded around me
asking what offense I had committed to what I treason, I told them I was not guilty of a
misdemeanor, though I had broken my fiancées car window.

They looked on, some of them having been there for a year or more as if I was stupid. I was
mingling with hard core criminals for what? FOR WHAT? They told me “your guilty, plead out
when they take you to court in a week and you'll be free.”
I wish a had taken their advice.

I wasn’t guilty, I told myself, I wasn’t guilty of anything more than loving the girl of my
dreams. I had been caught succeeding, it was unfair.

The days of life with my lover were gone. I had yet to understand that she cared not for
me in the way I had imagined. It was a manic panic blown out of proportion into a nightmare.

I had been given a prison uniform to wear downstairs, they asked me to strip, two male guards.

They did the anal cavity search and the bend over and cough to make sure I hadn’t put any drugs
or a Swiss army knife up my butt for the fun of it, and handed over my state issued goods. It was
a six ounce plastic coffee cup, an eight ounce hard translucent plastic drinking glass, plastic issue
silverware, and an indigent pack not including much but shower goods. I remember my bright
uniform glowing at me from the safety mirrors of that room I grew later on to dread and loathe to
see. Day after day in this ironic one way out realm it seemed all was decided for me. My disease
had struck a finalizing blow undermining my half measures of success.

Seems I just couldn’t go out the door. Southerners.

They did not understand my fancy writers talk, my flowery hippy jargon. They could

not understand that I had my dreams in hand and a very good idea so I thought of the

American judicial system.

Kali had told them I was schizophrenic, her family was afraid for my well being and that
had affected them. It never crossed my mind that they saw my disease to their own “dis ease”. I
felt Kali’s families’ prior endeavors with me were inclusive of prejudice against my own beliefs
in the system of faith I subscribed to. They had it in for me now.

The cell I was given was a single cell for fear I could harm one of my cellmates. The irony of

this, a peaceful dropout writer anti violent to the very seams of my consciousness, here I was
being feared by the staff. I caused a problem. I immediately sensed the danger I was put in if I
was not to live down the reputation I was being given. I was nuts, so they said. Others on the
block had to go three to a cell, and I had a cell of my own in the most overcrowded time the
prison had ever known. Guards leaked stories that I had flipped out on them on the way on the
first booking, and the inmates, particularly the BIG ones felt it was their duty to have a fun time
of it. What was better than actually acting nuts to protect me?

Soon it became a daily issue on the block. One guy took notice of me, and offered to
share the cell with me if I would just put in a request. I could not pull punches, what if I asked
the wrong guy into my cell, not knowing who they were? What trouble they would run into
themselves in the inside political game. The prisoners within these walls were not all minor
offenses, some of these guys had twenty years to life coming to them and were in wait to move
on to another facility. It became a game. A deadly one I soon realized when I heard the sawing
noises late at night of other inmates sharpening things on their air vent grill to be used as
weapons.

I decided to play it as evenly as I could, I began to work out with the big guys. My
paranoid mind could not wake to consciousness of its own paranoia. I was creating my own
prison.

I talked evenly with the black crowd. I asked nothing of anyone, and tried to get hold of
reading and writing materials to begin my attempt for help. The phone was near impossible to
use, the line fierce, and the phone being only collect. I decided this would come to an end on my
court date two weeks hence and called no one to prove my own now desperate point.

I felt I was completely innocent. My bail bond was only four hundred dollars. My
hesitation proved to be a mistake as Kali contacted and tainted the story to everyone I knew
before I could reach them.

The day came I was told I could get a haircut. I decided to go along with it, the guy who was

doing them was one of the unprejudiced and more outgoing and friendly members of the colored
population.

We were standing by the phone when it happened. I took the razor clippers, and gave
them to the barber to say, yes it was indeed ok if he used them without a clip, if he knew what he
was doing. There was tension in the air. I told him that I wanted him to do the whole head bald,
to save both him and me the trouble. He took the razor, and with a nod began the simple deed.
He was doing it in strange stripes, that of an auspicious artist of his work making a begrudging
statement of his trade skill going to waste when something happened. Something that would
increase my fear.

There was a roar from across the room of a dozen men screaming out, and the immediate
sounds of jaw to hand bone slapping repeatedly as loud as a bull whip sounds from the
supersonic leather "snap, crack..."

Then a boom as one participant in the fight fell into the metal table.

The razor stopped from the top of my head. In his cautious poise, the barber stopped as
well. I felt the razor move, a pause unsure of what to do with itself, the hand said. Then quietly,
he slipped it down the side of my face, gently firming the grip on my half bald skullcap. He let
the rotating blades fall to the side of my chin as I closed my eyes briefly knowing this may be it.
His firm grip on my skull increased to a commanding one, and the razor rested now barely
touching me at the jugular with each breathe he inhaled.
Sharply, I knew that I could not move, only wait with patience and hope the fight would
not move toward me. If the opponents, as I noticed now indeed one black, one white, made any
motion toward me their motive would be to win a weapon. It may be instantly used as the black
population side defense against their own mans death. I could indeed be cut from ear to grinning
ear to stop the black man from meeting the same possible fate.

I felt the thought itself, chilling me to the core pass through my "barber".... I felt

his reluctance to keep it at my throat, then he released it. All of five seconds it had taken for this
to happen.

I heard the buzzer of the watch tower announcing the guards arrival go off. My barber
dropped the razor completely to the floor abruptly. It became like one of those scenes from a
nature show, we were animals. The flock of prisoners split the room dancing unsure of what to
do , what was coming with the guards. Would this be an all out riot?

The two fighters encircled each other, the metal table separating the two of them,
vibrating as the middle aged bald white guy who was about two hundred fifty pounds in strength
knocked on it with an open hand to make a loud booming. He screamed at the other man, also
middle aged, though much more youthful in appearance and attacked again.

The door flung open and armed guards ran yelling into the room. The scene became a

pandemonium "LOCK DOWN NOW!!"

My door on the lower floor of the block was directly behind the fight ensuing. I saw my
middle aged friend, the ex seal, and we caught each others thought. He was caught between them
in trying to get to the stairs, I was caught on the other side of the crowd now frantic and at a full
roar of delighted and confused yelling.

As if in slow time, he nodded. I returned the nod with a firm step forward and yelled like
a banshee at the top of lungs, shoving the prisoner in front of me out of the way. I had escaped
death.

Would I escape being crushed by the crowd?

We were two lone wolves in the pack, and he raised his jaws up to where the sky would
be with its crescent moon and howled, a grin creeping a cross his face. We dashed directly
toward each other in that instant through the guards. One was now being hit by the onslaught of
blows still flying from the fighting two. The guard caught a subtle right as it glimpsed off one
fighter and he now pinned him to the wall toward my cell blocking the view of my door. My
friend sprinted toward me, toward the stairs as I continued myself toward the scene. Meeting in
the middle of the room, we exchanged the look one last time.
One of knowing. One that said “No matter what happens I am going to fight at

your back until this is up...”

It was then blood curdling yells resounded from both of our throats as we made the final
dashes into our opening cell doors.

I heard my own slam as I brushed past the guards. I heard his slam also, and knew it was over.

For now. For now.

It was a few weeks later. Court had come and gone. The endless nights dreading the look
on Kalis face, her brother, the judge. They had pressed the charges further, now to my dismay
opening up a Protection Order, which I had been forced to sign. I had decided to remain silent.
Not even taking the oath, I stood in the courtroom after the two hour stay in the holding cell all
of two minutes for what seemed to be the end of all I had perceived important in my life. The
judge asked for my plea, and I had pleaded not guilty. He turned to me, and asked if this was
truly my plea, to which I returned thinking this was the first thing worthy of me responding
verbally to. "Yes your honor."

I had knew my plea would enter, and I had been told I would be given a new date to fight
it out in court. I was not aware of exactly how much time it would take to get back to court. The
judge looked at me and sneered as if to say, “I knew you for a criminal, guess you can go back
home.”

These people did not know me. They did not know the injustice being served.

They did not know the irony that I had been in fact probably the clean one in the situation
with her brother’s drugs, fraudulent disability and probable abuse of his children.

I was given a date to be summoned back to court for a hearing. It was on this day,
September 10th, 2001... the court settled for October 14th... a whole month and more away. I was
dismissed stunned. A whole month in that zoo to come.

Kali sneered in satisfaction, unaware of exactly what she was doing.

“Bitch," I thought, and remembered how close I had come to marrying that shallow petty
girl now playing the victim. She was deserving of an academy award.

I bowed on the way out of the courtroom, the deepest bow I could, in my own mind
betraying the deepest vow I had connected her to . I had always likened my marriage to come
being that of like my own grandmother and grandfathers love, a vow. I wanted to be able to
undermine her little sneer, delve as far into dismantling her trust in the world as I could. I
wanted to defeat her lies, make her pay in the public eye. She had been instilled to see this as a
pact of honor and love?

This bow was deep in my own mind. In my shackles and cuffs I bowed out for my own
starving lone honor. A curtsy to say to those conscious of me out there that she had been
simultaneously judged unfit for my family.

I then held my head high on the way down the hall to the holding cell. It slammed

shut.

That was near the last I would see of her, that day. Only twice since have I had the
displeasure of seeing her scarred face to my eyes themselves.

I was taken back to the prison. I told them at the prison what had
happened. The inmates themselves told me how stupid I was. It was the classic
case of “I fought the law and the law won”.

How little I knew, and now for some apparent reason, they were asking me if I wanted
to be here. I told them I was not guilty. They said it didn’t matter. I told them it was my moral
belief, that it did.

They said, I could have been out of there in no time. The softer hearted ones looked at
me, the ones learning their lesson in their stay, and they told me they were happy to have me
there... that we maybe could hang out. I recognized them.

But I did not hear. My altruistic sense of well being told me to never give up. Giving up
had not been what had taken me across the country with no food or money or transportation, it
was not what had brought about these revelations in myself.

I had a lot to learn about the size of these battles, and how to win the war in the long haul
you often must admit defeat. Sometimes it takes a retreat to win the battle coming, and the war
altogether.

Such was not my thinking then.

That night in my cell I had an experience to shatter my concept of this all indeed. I had
seen the taking of my own life. I had fought for peace with this woman, for the taking of the
American way back to the people. I had toured the country, obeyed my grass roots, we had taken
vows.

I had the feeling something more was coming to an end with all of this. That night as I
stared at the floor, and felt the family out there accepting all of this in their ways. I felt my own
family out there finding out about it. I felt the conscience of those I had been around in the days
back at home. I remembered the night of my meditation at the MTSU campus and it became
clear that the meaning had been arranged and that I had not yet seen the full scale of what was
coming. As I stared at solid block of cement that was my cell floor, it began to shift slightly in
my vision.

The swirling brush marks that gave it that slight grain turned pastel, and then deepened in to a

grinning carpet of oriental flair. I felt the sadness of Kali, and tied to it the deepest loves I had
felt ever returning. I felt them mold together, wrench through a series of endless cyclic emotions
ever deeper in despair. The hues of the carpet of fractal before me deepened . I began to point at
the fragments appearing with disbelief, I had rare ever seen this intense of vision in the deepest
of my LSD trips.

The fractal shimmered and became alive with all with energy points resembling the
brightness of the people in my mind for whom I cared. The connected points of light were like
stars in a shimmering paisley background connected instantaneously into a web which intricacies
emerged intermingling in its complexity. It was a three dimensional quality like that of the night
sky.

"Oni" I thought aloud, or the Native American name for well of souls.

Behind the webbed well, the warm tan oriental rug stain stopped its drifting warm glow
and began to stain black. It was as if some invisible hand had opened the holographic chamber
before me and begun to pour iodine symbolic of a deeper harsher wisdom into the pattern.

The darkness absorbed into the pattern as ink spreading into a cloth, the veins of the web
shining crystalline white, glowing with more intense flaring and moving while adding the glow
of other souls forces or energies. It was thoughts, fates connected. Fates I would know be able to
grasp the full meaning of, their complex individuality just barely being represented here.

I was a sharing this vision with an important people. They were dead or openly living
their dying moments before me in their unknowing. My own energy was shown in the mix, as I
thought of my need for growth and compassion, to see it in relation to this reflective mirror
wisdom pool. Its faint shimmer shifted in my emotional reaction. It gave the affect of deepening
roots.

The darkness grew colder and it seemed as though a wormhole into outer space was now
simply opening in the middle of the room. I became afraid of this thought, and the whole mass
began to swirl looking sort of like the depiction I had seen as a child of a pole star taken with
time lapse photography. Deeper the colors, the energies, the voices, the beings themselves
swirled being sucked in to the floor that led into unknown blackness.

The mass bubbled and frothed with torn emotion that of a thousand souls anguish. My
head swam, and I wondered if I was indeed of my right mind. I thought of my studies, and of
Buddha and of that final thought, where it would end. "Buddha..." echoed in my mind... and I
heard a laughing of sorts as it all became a cloud, and disappeared echoing in my mind "Buddha,
dha, dha, ha,a..."

"Om..." I chanted for a brief moment.

My face turned bright red, and wondered if anyone else had felt it. I felt like a tiny voice
chanting this Ommm.... and realized how true this was, that I was only one small, ever so tiny
role in the universe. The next morning was 9-11-2001.

By the end of the month of September I was so scared of the guys in the regular
population, I did not know what to do. I made matters worse by attracting attention to myself. I
wanted out of there, maybe out in the sick unit, anywhere. I wrote several crazy messages to the
doctors, and requested psychiatric help.

None came.

The prison guards decided I was definitely loony however after I proceeded to shave not
only all of my hair off with my beard, but my eyebrows too. I was charged with several small
offenses, rules and codes of the prison I had broken and taken to solitary confinement and placed
on a suicide watch.

I once read in a psyche textbook about an experiment conducted by a researcher on the
human mind and its ability to adjust the very neurons it is composed of in order to survive the
things it is going through. The researcher had made a device that I imagine looked somewhat
very similar to a cross between a periscope and ski goggles.

The device when worn would take the visual image of the world in front of you and turn
it upside down. You appeared to be standing on the ceiling. Kind of reminds me of the times
when I was a small child standing on my head while waving my legs about imagining what it
would be like to be spider man and to walk around on the ceiling.

I was kind of fascinated by the whole thing when I read that the researcher learned that
the actual neurons in the brain rearrange themselves after a period of over seventy hours. They
rearranged themselves so that the picture with the goggles on would now appear right side up so
that the test subject could function once again. The very neurons arranged themselves to gain the
right picture.

Then on removing the goggles the observer now would see the world upside down for
and from his own brain and eyes. They had to wait for a good period of time before they would
return to normal sight.

Over the four months Tennessee detained me in that cell in violation of nearly every right
I can think of, I learned how powerful these attributes of the mind truly were, and how to use
them. I held yogic positions for hours on end, and practiced T’ai Chi nonstop until the forms
themselves were visually appearing in my head as I did them.

I had nothing else to do, and so I spent time in all manner of ways. The guards did not
like me, and so I never received indigent packs. Some of the prisoners bought more commissary
in a week than I needed to bail out. The deepest thing I did while in there was to get to know
what the others prisoners had done. The cell floor was dirty like cement that had gotten skin
flints on it for a month.

Maybe longer, I had never cleaned it nor was given the opportunity to get the stuff directed by
schedule to do so. They never came, never offered, it never happened.

It was a cell like all of the others. The one difference was a pad locked "mail slot" looking
window about knee height in the only door in or out. The metal door was two inches too thick to
break. Painted metallic blue, grey underneath where prior residents had scratched the paint.
There was a window at shoulder height on the right hand side. It was a hands width wide, and
barely over a foot tall looking into the functioning "prisoner" area where four massive tables
stood bolted, their blue iron sides bolted to the floor in a fantasy picnic arrangement that would
never occur.

On the solitary ward, you only came out of your cell twice a week if that. The tower
buzzed open your electric door lock for different reasons. Lucky prisoners come out twelve
times a week. The ones who couldn’t handle being in, such unfortunates wasted their time to
only getting out once or twice in two weeks sometimes. A trap door placed in the cell door was
used at mealtime for food trays.

The thoughts that had crossed my mind to pass the time had begun to ring in my ears as
the time itself unsure spread out before me. I had not before gone to jail, and I had not committed
a crime to speak of with the guys around me. Percy Palmer, visible through my cell door clearest
of all of them is now standing trial for what is being termed as the most heinous crime in
Tennessee history. They want the death penalty for his alleged triple homicide. Me, I broke a car
window. Go figure.

The light came on and I opened the paper which had been brought to me. The front page
was my treasure for the first time in a week or so... it looked so good to me, not having any
commissary to write with or any books having been brought to me for a significant amount of
time.

I began looking at the picture on the front. The Captain D’s Murder it read. The trustee
came to my cell door and asked for the paper. Foggy in my dreams of the outside world out there
beyond my window overlooking the somber town brought me down. I was imprisoned by the
very one I had love best. This had brought me to choking tears of such force one day at times I
could barely breathe.
A pale face floated momentarily outside of my cell door. He looked tired and as if he
maybe was worried about my state of being. But he simply nodded, shook his head while picking
up the carefully folded page I had slid under the door and walked on, his sandals making that
hollow echoing “flap, flap, flap” on the concrete floor of the yard.

He walked to the left of my cell door and dropped out of site. I heard the paper being slid
under another door. The tower above emitted its small beep warning of the yard time on the other
side coming to end. The light overhead shifted down in luminescence and the cell fell to evening
shadow.

I felt the tears there still, but the well had weeks before run dry.

I lay down on my bunk, and fell to sleep.

Morning came and the lights went on. I heard the door that held the space between us and
the adjacent cell block slam shut behind the guards. I leaped to my feet, hopeful… wondering…

The sight that fell before me left me speechless. I was in shock, devastated in my own
lack of humility. There he was, the very man I just tucked myself in with thoughts of to comfort
me. My stay I had thought must be sheltered from that man, from his alleged deeds. For Gods
sake, I had only broken a window!

There he was, bright red jumper a size too big for him, long black braided hair falling
over his neck that now turned about this way and that like that of someone looking for friends or
familiar people.

Percy Palmer, charged with triple homicide was lead to the door directly across from my
cell, the one I had best view of…cell twelve.

They opened the door, I heard the chinking of the chains being removed, the
guards reemerged and they shut the door.

I shuddered in the presence of my own locked steel door. Time to get to the better end of
dealing with this new arrival. I leaned hard on the door, moving it the small space it had between
its metal frame and the door itself, it shuddered with a light low hollow “booming “ sound like
that of a bass drum on a stage. It echoed..

I repeated the tap at as softly as I could.

A guard in the control tower released the latch of the trustees’ door by pressing the small
button on his control screen. It made the infernal buzzing sound of freeing another man from his
space in the cell. Immediately the trustee sprang forth from into jailhouse yard and there he was
walking directly for the cell block door…I tapped harder at my door three times.
“boom, b..boom..booom” it echoed in the vast yard beyond. The trustee turned with out
hesitation with a kind of cocksureness that was unlike any kind of intelligence I had ever known
twinkling in his eye.

It was then I knew what was to come was the ride of my life, he was grinning and
heading directly for me like he had known for a long time that we might have to match wits on
this one.

I have time and time again fought the urge to remember him as a non – criminal and that
he would have been had it not been for charges like my own. I felt sure it was the failure of the
system which simply taught him how to relive the drama by learning better ways and means to
survive. This man, the trustee was innocent too. Perhaps I was too guilty of being abused.

“Who is that?” I asked though the thin crack on the side of the door.

He seemed puzzled at first, making that screwed up grin suddenly the trustee had when he
readied himself for what could come next from his own mouth. I saw in him that he astounded
himself with his skills in an environment that he had never expected to become adept at. That
deaf dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinball.

“That is Lowdown.” He responded in after clearing his throat, turning toward the crack
in the door slightly with a nod of his head back toward the cell. His eyes glowed.

“Who?”

Quickly he acknowledged the unnecessary question with a nod immediately saying “lowdown.”

He tugged at the cell door once as the guards did nightly to check their securement and
the fled toward the now buzzing block door to get our lunch trays.

I felt the eyes of the tower on me, knowing now I was in question as well for these
alleged murders. I was involved in the case of this “Lowdown” guy if I cared to make up a
snitch. A creeping chill crawled over me as I sensed, imagined the man lying in his cell feeling us
out there watching all eyes on the block doors. I shivered and fell in four short backpedals to sit
on my buck, the rumpled wool army blanket lying in a heap on its rough green plastic surface.
That night the irony dawned on me, and I began to sing the Phish tune ACDC bag loudly.

“Mr. Palmer is concerned with a thousand dollar question, just like Roger
he’s a crazy little kid. I’ve got the time, if you’ve got the inclination, so, cheer up
Palmer , you’ll soon be dead! The noose is hanging, at least you won’t die
wondering, sit up and take notice! Tell it like it is! If I were near you, I wouldn’t
be far from you.

I’ve got a feeling, you KNOW WHAT YOU DID!!”
I got the feeling Lowdown had no comment on it.

Several times during my elongated stay at the prison I was tortured by the guards. One
night when the outdoor chill brought the temperature to only sixty degrees in the cell, they took
from me all of the cells contents. I was left with no blanket, and no uniforms for the entire night.
I jogged naked around the cell for hours trying to keep warm to no avail.

They beat me a few times, and once or twice came with a nurse to stab me with a needle.
She did so on one occasion missing my butt entirely, and I wear a scar still today from where her
needle stuck in my hip bone.

In January, almost five months after my initial arrest, I was released before the jealous
eyes of the lifers. I had pleaded guilty to the misdemeanors, and even with five months served
was given a year’s probation and three thousand in fines. The system had raped me thoroughly.

When I left, my legs and feet swelled to three times their normal size. I visited the
hospital several times over the following months to try and relieve them of the horrible
pain I was suffering. I was utterly defeated and left with no faith in the system.

Several guards came and escorted me to the room which I had been brought in and
searched over four months prior. I was given my street clothes, and allowed to change back into
them. After this, I was handed my wallet which Kali had given them, and my belt from a plastic
bag in which they had been stored. I signed for all of the belongings, and the uniformed guard at
the desk told me I was free to go. I had dreamed of this day.

Immediately I removed the pictures of Kali from my wallet and threw them away.

I then left the grounds. Never before had the sky seemed so blue, and so big. As I walked off into
the distance towards town, I realized I had no idea where I was going to go. I remembered
having passed several shelters in my few days I in town back in September. I had no money, and
no food either.

Luckily it was not too cold, or I would have been frozen too.

Hours later my feet and legs began to swell. The pain became so intense I could nearly not walk

at all.

They were three times their normal size by seven o clock and nightfall. Tears flowing
from my eyes, I hobbled limping foot after foot through a driving cold rain toward the hospital a
mile walk towards town. The doctors said it appeared I had sustained tendon and ligament
damage in my beatings at the prison, and now reactivated they were showing the damage. I was
given crutches to use, some Ibuprofen, a handshake and was sent back out into the cold rainy
night. I spent the night trying get some rest under the cover of some bushes on campus at MTSU.
There would be no sleep, and I was lucky I did not catch pneumonia.

That afternoon I hobbled into a shelter owned by a former judge in the area. I was found
at home eating and smoking my first cigarettes for months hours later in the kitchen of the small
shelter. I stayed a few days on with them there, when one of the staff women decided that she
had it in for me. I was thrown out still on crutches and now with truly nowhere to go for help.
The Salvation Army was the only other shelter in town, and they had refused me on the grounds
of my “criminal background.”

When the going gets tough, the tough get going. I did just that. Gritting my teeth through
the pain, I hobbled myself to the highway that led to Nashville in the night. Five miles down the
road at three am, a van pulled over and gave me a ride.

The van was filled with drunk homosexual male cross dressers who come from a bar in
Murfreesboro, but it was a ride. Once we arrived at their ghetto apartment in the projects of
Nashville, they naturally propositioned me. I turned them down, and once again ignoring my
searing leg pain limped back onto the road.

I walked miles through the night along the road. When the morning came I was sporting a
flag that had blown off of someone’s car antenna with which to flag down a ride. Passing by a
giant campus, there was very little morning traffic being a Saturday, and I resolved to sleep after
I made it past the campus. The campus turned out to be The First Church of Christ, and it was the
hugest property I had ever seen for a church. I stopped by the side of the road near a
condominium development. There were thick hedges landscaped in front of the stone wall that
ran the perimeter of the property. I sank myself exhausted into the soft mulch behind the bushes
and soon was fast asleep.

Waking to the noonday traffic, I stepped from out of the bush back onto the road. A few
short miles later there was a gas station and a Starbucks by the side of the road. I needed to eat
badly and so decided to go into Starbucks and ask for a piece of paper and marker. I would
make a sign for spare change and a ride toward Michigan where I would be getting my w – 2s
for a hefty tax return. I no more than had asked for the items when a gentleman stepped in and
interrupted my conversation with the clerk. He introduced himself. He was a Carl William, the
pastor of the church I had just passed.

He was here meeting a friend for a few more minutes and then said he would help me.
He bought me a coffee and a pastry and took me outside to his car. It was a brand new Lexus,
from which he pulled a brand new G3 Powerbook to work on when he went back inside the
restaurant. He was obviously no poor pastor, that was for sure. Pastor William gave me a ride
to Kentucky that day, where I could find a ride with a trucker to Michigan. He paid for our
lunch, bought me a book on
Christianity and a pack of smokes. Then he threw me twenty bucks and was on his way.

Praying in his car that day that I might be saved, I had visions. The things he described, I
was seeing them. “The Cross Plus Nothing” he told me. He inspired in me a faith in the religion
of my childhood which I had never had before. He told me he was flying to New York that day to
work on a theory of evolution with another Pastor, Ken Hamm, and with Bill Gates, taken
directly from the new and old testaments. He also gave me his e – mail, which we have
continued using to correspond to this day.

Sure enough, a trucker at the rest stop volunteered to get me to Ann Arbor, and before I knew it

I was at the rest stop just outside of my small college town home. It was snowing heavily when I
got another ride towards town ten short miles away. The friendly driver took me to my exit, and
pulled over for me to hop out.

That night I went to the winter warming center for the homeless in town. There I shared
coffee and pastries and small talk with Ann Arbors always quirky homeless crowd. I slept a little,
and then had breakfast at the church in town which served every day at seven am.

The next order of business was to get into the shelter for my brief visit until I got my tax
return. I got lucky, there was a bed available. They gave me a pass for discounted bus rides and
some fresh clothing.

The week passed, and I filed a fast file return with a local tax agency. Six hundred dollars
was all I had after paying the agency. I decided to head out of state, to head west. Ken Kesey, one
of my favorite authors growing up had just died. In fact he had died on my birthday, and I took as
some kind of sign that I should visit Eugene, Oregon home of U of O.

The bus trip was a fateful day indeed. On the way to Eugene, I happened to meet trouble
at one of the stopovers. A federal agent told me I resembled the man who he was hunting for
several murders in Colorado. It was then that a man named Jack Taylor stepped in to my
conversation with the agent. Jack was a dark figure with long hair, a cowboy hat with an eagle
feather sticking out of it and toting a guitar case.

After telling the agent I was with him, he shook my hand and told me that I could be on
my way freely now. His demeanor was that of an elder statesman of some kind, and he radiated a
glow something the likes of I could not place. Jack told me he was off to his sisters to stay for
awhile. His once successful construction business had fallen through, but he would be alright.
Over the years, he had seen many things and he knew it was just a bump in the road.

As it turned out, Jack was on my bus and he chose to sit with me throughout the ride. He told

me all manners of stories from being at Woodstock jamming with Joplin to being a stand up
comedian. He then told me a tale which was so incredible, I could barely believe what I was
hearing. The whole while I knew somehow this was not a tale told to just anyone, he made me
feel special. Throughout my travels since, anyone who has known the road has known Jack. My
stay in Eugene was an attempt to run away from the horror I had just survived into my addiction.
Between my mental illness and my addiction, the two diseases had me walking the thin fine line
of death.

I lived for a few weeks at the Eugene Mission. The place was filled with hundreds of
vets, some of who had lived there for decades. There were mountain men, artists, even some of
the early security crew from The Grateful Dead. Lunch was served every day as well as dinner
which usually consisted of pea soup. In order to take dinner you first had to listen to an hour long
sermon in the chapel. To sleep there at night you had to either pay two dollars, or obtain a
voucher by working two hours in the afternoon for the missions newspaper recycling business.

At night before going to bed, you had to strip along with dozens of other men, and
shower in a group shower. The beds were in a long hall that housed well over a hundred in single
sized bunk beds.

Sickness was rampant, and often at night those who were ill would keep you awake coughing for
hours.

I finally decided to take to the streets with a friend I had met. He went by the name
Chaos, and he knew the town well. By day we would help make drug deals in the town square, at
night in the clubs. We shared our cash and food stamps, sleeping at night in our sleeping bags on
the front porch of an abandoned house. One day in my depression I very nearly overdosed on
pseudo – ephedrine and Tylenol PM.

The town itself was fascinating, though the unemployment rate was sky high, and I could
not find a job. Matt Groening, creator of The Simpsons had come from here, and little things
from all over town which were in the show kept coming up. Kesey’s old friend, Ken Babbs and I
corresponded through e –mails. I used the University Library to keep in touch with my family.

I soon grew tired of the streets, however and secured my job for the coming spring at my
old golf club back home in Philadelphia. Now I had only to get there, and I would be back in a
position more suitable to my wants. I left on a rainy day in the beginning of march. I had to get
out of Eugene. The drug lords from Afghanistan had come. There were Al - Quaeda sightings in
the streets, and my friends were reporting them.

Chaos begged me not to go. I told the kids all I would be back. I was gonna miss that
motley crew of beats and vagabonds.

Chaos made me take a toke of the now readily available opium he had scored. It was
raining, what else was new? He told me to wait at least until it stopped, but I knew it was a ploy
to get trapped there for a long haul I could not handle. I had dropped Psylocibin one night not too
long before and it had done me in with its spider tarantulas and hourglass shattering windows,
the high pitched wine of the webs creature haunting me from sleep. I could no longer endure the
terrorist threats, the drug deals, the rain.

I set out on the muni bus to the local truck stop. I packed dried food stuffs, figs and other
food I had around from food box and our trail cards, various other places. I stood out there in the
rain with a sign in the rain. The stop was your a - typical truck stop. A diner on one side, the
other a gas stop for trucks with showers and all of the other stuff. I had just about got myself
kicked off of the premise after two hours. The owner came out and asked me to stand off of the
property so as not to heckle his best customers for a ride.

That was it, I thought. Then he appeared in a Stetson. An older middle aged man in
appearance, he came striding over and asked where I needed to go. He was wary, and I was
afraid he was the guy who had complained. I told him I needed to get to PA. He said that was
where his friend was going, and that few trucks were headed far outside of the California routes
until the next Monday.

It was Friday. He said his partner knew he couldn’t take hitchhikers, but that he would signal

me once he was inside of his truck, I could sneak on board.

I waited the better part of an hour looking up at the passing Oregon cloud base flying past
storms and rainbows, fog and mist, no rain thankfully. He emerged finally and said “Go to the
back of the cab and wait for me to signal you.” I practically ran to the back of his trailer, my
heart pounding in apprehension. This was dangerous.

Little did I know then. I know when I think back now. The truck finally started. I saw in
the right side mirror the hand in the cab waving the guy on his right "the partner" to go ahead
first.

I was right on time with my slow approach, the cab door on the right swung open slightly.
I climbed up the steep stairs into the warm cab.

It was a big truck, with one single folded bed in the back, and one above folded as a
bunk. It had all of the amenities, fridge etc... and I guessed he was alright. I looked him the eye
for the first time.

"Welcome aboard" he said with a thick chuckle. I reminded myself to be the leather

skin here again as I had in the past, keep an open mind and be both dangerous and peaceful at

the same time in my commentary.
He asked where I was from. I told him I was going home, that I had gotten stranded
without money, and I thanked him carefully. He agreed and said that he may have to wait until
Sunday to start his journey, but that if things "went well" he would have me as far as Chicago
before the end of the week.

Long way for one ride. Almost three thousand miles. I told him I had all of the food I
needed. He asked me the routine, if I was carrying any drugs, and then asked me to open
everything I had on me, and empty my pockets to prove to his wary eye where he was at with
this stranger in his cab. I showed him my stuff, and he laughed, a kind of pitiless but kind laugh.

"I have food in the fridge, and sodas if you want anything."

"Where are we headed today?"

"Well, I told my partner I would follow him out to a Washington stop
that is larger and we could hang out, but I don’t think I need to now, hold on
I’m gonna radio and tell him"

He got on the digital radio and told his partner he had decided to "Get on down the road"
a little further. He told me we were headed for Washington right now when he was all clear of
talking to anyone who couldn’t know I was in the cab. It is illegal for trucks to carry passengers
for insurance reasons, they can lose their license that way. I appreciated the risk. Little did I
know what was to befall me in this journey.

The man drove us on down the highway, and began to tell me a little about who he was.
He was a ranch owner from Montana, and no small ranch owner at that. He began to tell me of
his upbringing, and how he had risen from an orphanage to become one of the largest
independent land owners in the country. He was driving truck to pass the time, being now in his
late sixties, his wife dead.

By the time the story was done, I was enthused in fact that I had met this remarkable
man. He pulled the truck into rest stop in the middle of nowhere and said we would be there for
the night. He then pointed out the patrol car that stayed at this stop to arrest any hitchhikers who
might be there. No, he said there was no way I was finding a different ride there. Then he told me
if I wanted to stay on board, I was going to have to get him off. I had a choice, and looking down
at my legs I was reminded of how jail had turned out for me last time. I feared what he would do
if I refused.

I spent the next week going cross the country as his sexual captive. At one point I had a
choice to leave him, but I was too afraid, my self esteem already too shattered to take the risk.

He told me a story of how a farm hand on his ranch had been found in a barn having hung
himself. It was obvious he had done to the boy what he was now doing to me. He went on to talk
of how the boys in town had thought him gay,
and they had all including him beat the kid near to death on several occasions. This subtle story

was proof that the man was dangerous and in his own denial and pushing too far his fear of

being homosexual could even be deadly. Somehow I survived, and wounded to my soul, made

it to Chicago, and then Ann Arbor.

In Ann Arbor, I found that I had fear of hitchhiking any more. A kindly sister at one of the
churches in town bought me a ticket to Philadelphia. It took a week to get there, during which I
took some time to get to know one of the unlucky homeless that was there with me. It was T.
Casey Brennan author of The Vampirella Series, and from the original JFK files.

I spent the summer with more of an excuse to drink than ever. I wrote up a twenty page
dissertation about the law suit I intended to press on Tennessee. I never did.

I caddied and lived with seniors who went to West Chester University. A friend helped me
along the way, and by the end of caddy season I had been living with the Hockey Team just off
campus, was on the lease, and had a car.

I began to think about the career I had dreamed of as a kid. My mental state deteriorated
as my drinking continued. I could not seem to find an end to my frustration in the questions my
rape had brought about.

In October I made a trip to Atlanta to caddy in a professional tournament. I arrived in
Madison to find the tournament was not until the next week. For the fun of it, I decided to try and
go to a Buy dot com tournament that was going on in Louisiana. I made the drive through
Tennessee, and though I never got to the tournament did make it as far as Monroe, Louisiana
before turning around.

I love to drive, and I was having a fun time seeing new parts of the country . On the way
back I heard reports of the sniper shooting in Maryland, and kept an eye out for him on the road.
I am not sure that I ever did see him, but I saw a number of Feds on the way home in their large
white vans.

My birthday came in November. I went to the caddy shack at four am on my last

day to toast old times back when I was in high school and my Dad dropped me off before
heading to

Philadelphia to read the morning copy. There was a black Towncar all by itself sitting in the
drive when I got there. I sat at the shack alone, and listened to footsteps come up through the
wood from the course, and the car left. I didn’t want to know.
Before leaving, I had to give my sister her birthday card. I stopped by my mothers house
and dropped off a card to her, driving off teary eyed that I would be missing another party of
hers, another year of her life I couldn’t share.

I had been tracking the weather and saw that Tennessee was in for tornadoes possibly in
the next few days. I drew the map on my door at the Hockey House, watched Twister one time
through, packed my gear and left at six am on my birthday.

The drive to Tennessee was incredibly beautiful. As I passed through the Smoky
Mountains, the lights in the clouds were already beginning. The night I arrived, I stopped at
Kali’s brothers to pay a visit. She was there, dressed in a Rutherford County Policeman’s jacket.
I had suspected she had been dating a cop during my stay at the prison.

One of the officers had come to me on the date I was to go to court in October. It was the
same guy who had falsified the story while flirting with her on the night of my falsely accused
public intoxication charge. He had come into the cell and talked to me about Kali as if he knew
her. How would he remember with all of the thousands of cases, MY case that had happened
over a month prior. It was his signature that kept me imprisoned for destruction of county
property, not allowing me to go court because of bad behavior for a few more months. Kali’s car
was there, and they were all on the porch drinking when I pulled up.

“You’ve got five minutes!” she said.

Then her brother dropped his crutches and ran in a full sprint toward me and the car. I
crawled back into the Honda, and raced away having accomplished nothing. At the police station
later they would not allow me to file charges against them , though I tried.

The following night as I drove, the worst night of tornadoes in the nations history
happened. For hours I drove straight on through the night, desperately trying to escape the
weather. Each turn brought a new tornado into my path, and new things to avoid hitting. Trees
were breaking, branches flying, houses and power lines being demolished. I remember being in a
shower of sparks as the biggest event that night happened to me.

To my right several twisters were coming straight at me. They flew into each others path
and somehow combined. Now a fifty foot wall of swirling blackness was headed straight for me.
The rain flew in golf ball size drops onto the car windshield. I thought I was going to die out
there. I released the clutch and let the car drift in neutral. I took my foot off of the gas and my
hands off of the wheel and began to pray.

The speedometer dropped to five, and I had nearly stopped when it landed on me.
Everything seemed to howl, and the car was being pushed by the wind. As I watched, the
speedometer climbed from five to fifty. Then the tornado released me, and flew off into the
woods on my left destroying everything in its path. Why or how I was spared I will never know.
Two weeks later, I had driven the whole country over. I had started in the panhandle of
Florida and taken ten west. After a brief drive through Mexico I turned north. Four corners
became Reno soon became San Francisco. I then headed south to my sisters place, showing up
unexpectedly. I was filthy, tired hungry and out of my mind. I had her a few days later take me to
the hospital, where I checked into a psyche ward.

Two weeks later, prescription in hand I left to spend December in Berkeley. Berkeley is a
place with big trees, some well into their second century of living.

The San Francisco Bay area is alive with astonishing wealth , creativity and the ever
present chatter of the artistic Bay Area West Coast style of earning money.

The west is still winning. Money was not the idea for this journey myself. I had to seek out

Haight Street, the beginnings of the Dead and other musical "numbers" I admired.

Determined to place myself in bad standing with everyone I met was the misfortune I was
homeless. I slept in my tan Honda Civic hatchback with the seats down. My head was at the
hatchback, and there was enough space for two to sleep with a little comfort, though mostly there
was only one.

The thing astonishing about myself and that time, was I found new breathing of

life in that life myself. It was even though I was at bottom, I did not despair, I saw it as a fresh
start, adventuresome, and even hopeful in its constant bringing of other starry eyed dreamers in
like status into my life. I wanted to live with no rules. I did.

The time was winter. The smell, patchouli. The air was thick with it and the right batch
could get you off on the spirit of the Grateful Dead, and the living as well. I have to find another
word for it.

It was rendezvous with a dream I was living and breathing. I wanted to find my way off the road
like a Jack Kerouac. Ginsberg and the beats were all well and good, but there was certain
"Kennedy" quality to Jack with which I had associated Horus and the spirit of my own horeb. I
have to find another word for it. Love.

The founding spirit finds itself in the realms of another Berkeley daydream, and I am lost
for words. The anti - psychotic medication I was taking had the most severe of side effects One
night I took more than the prescribed dose and found myself having a full seizure. Somehow I
survived, though the effects still linger to this day.

Berkeley seems to be the stargazers galaxy for the bay area, and the bums with whom I
kept contact were quite the array of intelligence and in some cases masters of doctorate degrees.
Yet some were unable to see the quality of life improve for all of their ideas. They could not face
a pattern of living that demanded rigorous honesty.

I too was digging that grave, as the Phish tunes cover of the Talking Heads told me quite
often on my car stereo.

"As we watch him, digging his own grave, he’s informed to know that’s where he’s

at. .... “

That was the reality point most commonly lost by all of these strangers. They had lost the
will to fight for the money they so deserved calling any system "the man" to be blamed if it was
a system at all. Intelligence amassed greatly, but strangely impotent to produce any substantial
work.

New Years came around, and I met a kid who was on String Cheese Incident Tour. I spent
the nights before New Years lodged in the San Francisco Hilton downtown. It was packed with
heads, and I found out The Other Ones were playing Oakland for New Years night.

That night, I climbed into my car parked at the Berkeley Marina. I had been staying there
for a few weeks. Weekends you got the leftover beer from boaters coolers, it was quiet, safe and
there were no parking tickets to be had. A kid on the Marina threw me a twenty to get me to LA
after the show.

The show was a reunion of all of the kids I had known on Phish Tour years back. I
worked the lot with my shaggy beard tagging people who needed tickets with post it notes that
read “One Miracle” or “Make my show”. The ruse landed me half a dozen tickets, and soon with
a kiss from a fairy I was in. It was an incredible night.

I drove the next day LA, arriving at night. My disease was doing the strangest things to
me. I parked my car along the freeway, got naked, wrapped myself in a blanket and walked
through the Hidden Hills until a car picked me up at sunrise. The guy drove me back to my car,
which he said they were about to tow. He never asked about my lack of clothing, and I never
offered any explanation, not that I had any.

I got dressed and climbed back into the car. A few blocks later my car died. So I walked. I
walked for hours, slowly losing what was left of my mind. I went into the Kentucky Fried
Chicken on the corner to turn to Old Topanga Canyon Road. I was near broke, but I knew how to
handle myself. I had my dhoti stick and bag leaning up against the wall outside with all of my
possessions.

I had only the five dollars that the man outside the store had given me to get food with. I
went inside and using my old tactics, did the most respectable thing for a man in my situation. I
asked what they had left over that would not normally be sold, that I could buy only five dollars
worth of food to feed myself for the whole days food.

I explained that I had just walked all day, and needed good nourishment. The guy in line
next to me looked me over, shook his head and insisted that I buy whatever I wanted, that he
would pay the difference in cost. Saved by good karma and direct honesty once more. I turned to
leave the restaurant with a bag FULL of food, TWO MEALS worth of chicken and fries, cole
slaw, corn and a drink to top off my thirst for nourishment.

The thought consumed me that I was yet not reliving the days of old that had to be
answered in my own experience in order to celebrate the appreciation of the Islamic way of life. I
had to wear “the sari” again. This time, I knew it would have to be done the hard way. I was cold.
I had not cloth to make anew one out of.

I walked toward the Old Topanga Canyon Road, and on the way found that a house by the
road had decided to throw a couch out to the trash. It was fresh, hadn’t been rained on, and to my
wary thoughts observantly I would have put it as a center piece in my own living room, if I had
one. I lay down on the couch, and realized I could indeed sleep here. The thought came to me
that I could use the cloth as material in my robe. Plus in doing this I would blend in in with the
rest of the couch, and appear to be trash on top of it waiting for disposal. If they came in the
morning to remove it I would awake and stop myself from being thrown in to the jaws of the
truck.

I had to get practically naked in front of the public in order to do this, and figured I would
look pretty silly. I knew that it should not stop me. I immediately began to rip the couches
elaborate cloth off of the frame. It was brightly colored in stripes that reminded me of the izod
ties I had when I was younger, with their Mandelbrot Set patterned swirl. Had the cloth from the
blanket I had taken near Universal Studios and had used as my covering thus far, I removed the
giant cotton comforter filling I had placed on top of my head to use as a giant spoof of the
headresses used by Arabs. I had worn it bobbing down the way, about three four feet of giant
height to make sure I was visible, noticeable.

The days were numbered with our peace in the Middle East, and I was trying to make
sure people thought about it. My own recognition of these people was growing as well, just as
when I had shaved off my eyebrows. Now I could know what it felt like to be in this garb. To
dress like this would not seem foreign to me, and I would be forced to go about living life in and
out of the normal establishments dressed like this. I would see how people treated me.

I would make them more aware of the presence of this culture in our own, making the
foreign idea more at home. The conscience of one man I firmly believe to be the greatest known
force in the human drama, in society one man struggling forward steadfast in his own belief can
archive things he would not believe in his meager beginnings. Beginnings like my own here in
LA with no food, or money, clothing myself from the street itself and pushing my physical limits
all at the same time.

The wrap itself made sense in the way it should be done. I began by wrapping my groin
area as if with a loincloth as I had done on the way here from Universal and The Hard Rock. I
made the cloth connect to the next piece, so that in its loose appearance like that of a petaled
flower, I would have no worry about the sections falling off of my body, exposing me. The night
was chilly, and I reminded my self that just like my life right now, I had to realize I would be
adding sections, or adjusting them at will, so just to get covered and warm. I added a swath
immediately over my bare chest, sashed at the waist like the pictures I remembered of Ghandi
walking through India.

It felt modestly pride full in its cumberbund tightness around my waist. Piece by piece,
right leg, left leg, waist area in a wide stripe of cloth , I began to resemble more so what the
picture in The Gita resembled. In their layers, I was becoming suprisingly warm in the winter
nights air as well. Ten minutes later I was a swaddled yogi, setting into the sinking cushions of
that couch as the headlights of cars passed me on the way to downtown. I was unnoticeable , just
as I had thought, looking like a bundle of cloth lying on the couch. Perfect. I settled in with my
full stomach and thoughts of reaching Santa Monica the next day, and the long unknown trek
down this "Old Topanga Canyon Road". I lay there imagining what the residents of the house
beside me were doing in their normal lives. Knew that they would notice me at seven am or
whenever the owner of the Jeep Cherokee climbed in with his steaming mug to be off to work. I
felt their homeliness, like that of the Dakinis in the bushes I had dreamed of in subtle memory of
Bagvhan Das story while settling in for sleep in Berkeley.

I thought of the people in the house taking warmth from it being of use to someone one
last time. My final thoughts were of their torn state about maybe keeping the couch after all,
feeling some kind of respect for my comfort, them releasing memories over the years of their
own from this very couch. Making love, watching movies, having company. I was their final
couch guest. I fell asleep.

Over the next few months I was to get to know Los Angeles. I walked every street from
Huntington Beach through Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Santa Monica and UCLA, and Venice. I
mostly hung out in Venice and got to know the locals, the street performers. I had fallen in love
with this place. I drank daily, and remained homeless for lack of a job, or shelter. I had lost my
identification, and couldn’t find anyone to help me get a social security card fast and obtain an
I.D. card. I slept on the beaches of Venice, ate from the trash cans and homeless shelters. I
recycled cans and bottles I found in trash cans for money for cigarettes and alcohol. I stayed at
the VA Hospital, in Canyon Country, and in the Armory. It was one more day up in the canyon,
and more night in Hollywood. It had been so long since I’d seen the ocean.
It was the bottom of bottoms I had found myself in. When I saw my friends bosses show
being taped in town and I went. He was a caddy who I had gone to High School with, and he was
now Jay Mohrs personal assistant. For a night I was in the scene, I stayed that night on my
friends couch. The show when it aired the next fall turned out to be dedicated to the homeless
problem in Venice. It was these days I marched the streets with the peace protesters. I
participated in the largest rallies since the sixties. But I myself, was a mess inside and out. That
spring my grandmother died. I had been staying in Canyon Country, The Bible Tabernacles
desert trailer homeless program. I decided to leave them, having dreamed of this day. They took
me to a church on the way into town, and lo and behold it was Ken Hamm on stage preaching the
sermon he and Carl William had put together the very afternoon after he had driven me to
Kentucky.

More time on the streets, and I was back in the little community when I lost it. I left in
some kind of paranoid fear of one of the other members of the congregation who had been a
sniper in the military. I was just plain nuts, at my life’s bottom. I wandered the desert until I
found a railroad track. I had no more decided to hop the train when I found an abandoned rusty
ten speed bike. I rode that Free Spirit bike through antelope country to The California National
Forest. There late at night and alone I cried over where I had been so hard I could barely breathe.
I cried for hours, it was the lowest emotional bottom I had ever seen. Over the next two days,
determined to get home I rode all the way to Las Vegas.

There in Vegas I stayed with an all black church while my feet, nearly gangrene from the
streets healed. Spring came, and I headed home with a bus ticket and some money from the state.

There were some loose ends to tie up, and in the end I found myself in legal troubles that
finally pushed me back into the hospital. Hopefully I have found remission from my disease. It
something I think about, and pray on one day at a time.

The leaves in Bethlehem have gone from the trees into the deepening winter cold. I walk out the
front door of my house into the Bethlehem streets aglow with Christmas lights. They are
everywhere. An encompassing number swarm in blackness descending from the sky like the
twisting finger of debris amassing a tornado. Mythological symbols whispered of by ancient
and modern horrors these immortal winged ones, these witches and wizards of the animal
kingdom. The crows descend in the thousands, protesting in their flock pattern the bitter breath
of winter. Sharp beaks with a hook like quality silhouetted by cold black searching eyes our
crows turn their wings into the cold blast ascending and descending the barren skeletal limbs of
the trees. Constant migration from one tree to the next in flocks, the trees gnarled fingers keep
their perch and fleeting moments. The effect lends to the illusion a cycle of autumn done every
few seconds. The trees knowing black foliage no more than escape the wind than they are
falling to the ground, swept to the air and returning to rest elsewhere. Just as the arms of the
great oaks, the wise maples, the bold birch trees stop their sway, hands of branch tips unfolded
from their determined fist bearing breath father winter spoke; these cunning birds return home.
Whether the tree is brightly lit from white icicle strings of light or bathed in the
colorful glow of red and orange bulbs the hundred shifting black shapes take them too. They
can be heard over the dull roar of the traffic coming into town through the fifty foot glowing
candle display hung overhead. They are seen passing high over the dozens of steeples
towering over the biblically named town, its hills and valleys lined by streets of small
decorated firs on most every lamppost.

Here I await the beginning of class, a new start towards the life which
almost escaped me for countless years. Here I put these years to rest, my mind,
body and soul with them.

“It’s the same story the crow told me, it’s the only one you know. Like the
morning sun you come and like the wind you go.”

There is no time to wait. There is only time for church keys, chairs and
friends to fill them. Tonight the smell of the bitter coffee will fill the air, and I will
speak once more of my gratitude for being alive. It is this place I was chosen to
be in, this story I was destined to tell. Spinning in the lifeline in these frayed bits
of twine, God never listens to what I say, he only answers.
Chapter Eleven:

Afterbirth

Yeah, I was waiting for class alright. A class of my own on a jet set ticket to nowhere. I
dropped off the manuscript at the end of my two week journey down memory lane to the nearby
cafe crew slut, and it was off to the faces. Of death, so be it the way.

Before I knew it, not only did I have a nine month pregnant no more than a baby momma
whose afterbirth I missed the contents of, but I had passed genital baggage in as many forms as
you can be presumed innocent of on to my next one. The crew slut, she can be a new slut without
the tagged and bagged baby momma tilt because she is a well known abortion activist. Only in
between rights to have them for the betterment of my own kind.

Soon beheaded and off to the faces of the nearby mob, I left town and headed for an anti-
jew establishment that would ignore my incessant ramblings and “oy veys!” enough to let me get
my solid ass to a near aneurism from psychotic anxiety attacks at the hands of the Salvation
Shmarmy Vest

Chester.

May your Lynns be limber, and your dismemberment be circle jerks, cause cock roach
stew is my piece of the flesh torn virus I call “airpiece” in a very Tijuana way. But only after
crying my eyes out to three hundred pound fish of the sea who want a piece with the condom
on now. “These are crazy, crazy, crazy nights...”

Sue me, sue me why don't you do me? I love you. Love yourSEEELF.

“These are crazy, crazy, crazy nights!” KISS enthralls me with my headphones on here at
my little Able – Disabled flashback memories of San Diego pipe fitters dreams capable of
rocketing me to the top. But that's neither here nor there.

Soon after I left Ms. Career in the herpes lust for abortion, and the local gangbusters
busting my nuts to get the dirt out of town (namely me) I fled the state.

I have to say I saw my cute little six month old, held him in my arms rather than his
drunk and french up on me (so I can know it's ok cause life is that complicated) mother who
slept next door in the

HUD row home...

“I'm living in sin at THE HOLIDAY INN!”
You tell me that you want me to go too far? I tell you what, how about I drink my face off
and build a comfortable life in dugouts gay palace while sipping on my drink and watching my
son's mother pick up the next nut cause I think she came in with another “joey bag a donuts”.
There goes the HUD. Thud, thud. (on the table)

Not so funny now, am I?

“I know you write me sexy letters, but sometimes my love can go too far...” at the Holiday Inn.

Soon after sucking off my gay dirty hippy roommate while doing my pops I ran my Jet
Blue balls straight to San Diego. There I became Ozenoz®.

Three years of therapy, songwriting and snowflake method of novel writing mixed with
chess and S.S.I. Lawyers later I returned to a dish wash job at The Hotel
Schmethlehem.

I had my head on straight, but no insurance. Jessica and I made a run for the big

time, and beer in hand we ran to the hotel where it all began. The big breakup, and the foul

mouthed psychotic writing fits that took me to New York City doing more voices than

Eddie Murphy while going down on Barack Obama. Allow me to introduce you to: the one,

the only: SCUMBAG FROM HELL:

(hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahah
aha)

OzenOz
(AHH - ZEN – AHHS) ONE:ENO
STANDARD BIBLIOGRAPHY

Type information for your first source here. EMINEM.

CHECKLIST

1 JOEL

For a bibliography:

Include an entry for every source you used to write your report.

For a list of references:

Include an entry for every source you used to write your report.
For works cited:

Include an entry for the specific sources you quoted or referenced in your report.

2 EDWARD

An entry for a book follows this basic format:

Author last name, first name. (year of publication). Title. City:

Publishing Company.

An entry for a periodical follows this basic format:

Author last name, first name. (year, date of publication). “Name of article.” Periodical, pages.

Include the complete title of the reference and begin each important word with a capital letter.

List the entries alphabetically by the last name of the author. If there is no author, use the first

main word of the title. “A,”

“An,” and “The” are not considered main words.

3 AYERS

Place a comma between the author’s last and first name.

Titles of books and periodicals are shown in italics.

Use quotation marks at the beginning and end of an article name.

Add a colon followed by a space to separate the city where the source was published and the

name of the publishing company. Use two spaces after the author, the publication date, and the

title.
SAMPLE ENTRIES FOR SOURCES

There are several bibliographic styles, and your instructor may prefer a specific one. Be sure to

find out what style you should use. These examples are written in the Modern Language

Association (MLA) style.

Book

Basic format for books

Brooks, Joel. (2006). Trippin On. Bethlehem: Lulu.com.

A book with one author

Anderson, Mark. (1959). Mark Beaubien: a Biography. New

York: Lakes Publishing.

A book with two or more authors

Rasmussen, Mary and Matthew Clapham. (2000). Photographic

Essays of the End of a Century. Atlanta: Lakes & Sons.

A book with an editor

Bell, Michael (Ed.). (1991). Writing Clearly: Bullets, White

Space and Common Sense. New York: MacNamara Publishing.

A translation of a book

Buchner, Rolf. (1939). Nunummy Nibh. (Sang Han and Scott
Kahler, trans.) Boston: Shawn Henning.

An anonymous book

The Chicago Manual of Style: Fourteenth Edition. (1993).

Chicago: The University of Chicago Press.

A later edition of a book

Warnke, Sue. (1988). Computer Graphics (new revised edition).

Seattle: Litware, Inc.

A work in more than one volume

Nguyen, Thanh. (1961). Myth in Children’s Literature. Boston:

Jackson Publishing.

Periodicals

A signed article in a journal

Arnold, Tom. (1984). “The effect of pesticides on air quality.”

Consolidated Messenger, 20, 244-60.

A signed article in a daily newspaper

Green, Wendy (1994, December 27). “Speculation and development.” Island Hopper News

section D, p. 1.

An unsigned article
“The role of weather in economics.” (1981, December 14). Honory Museum of Science,

Quarterly Journal, Volume IV, 16-

21.

Other sources

A film or videotape

Horner, Alika (Supervising Director), and Ben Rabelos

(Producer). (1937). Mom’s Kitchen. [Videotape]. Burbank, CA:

School of Fine Art.

Computer software

Microsoft Works 6.0 (1987-2001). [Computer program].

Redmond, WA: Microsoft Corporation.

Television or radio program

“The coffee dilemma.” Exploration Air. Public Broadcasting.

WXYZ, Chicago. March 21, 1996.

Personal interview

Jackson, Frank. Personal interview. January 4, 1996.

Speeches, addresses, and lectures

Brooks, Joel. Lecture. Spring Lecture Series at Safe Harbor.
Tit for Tat

Fill the page

Make it stop

My head is time bomb
Mass written hip hop take a medicinal choking the old

chicken bowl take the purity off the rage put it to rest like

mahatma's test sorry erik i broke your elbow in five places i

was blinded by the hit you gave me

broken bleeding ho's on the floor

crying now making love for no more

womb its estranged in fucking tubilar

mandistrophy

eclectic crestive palgue of babies in jest Grace your through

fuck im drunk and getting drunker

NOW im in hustler with a fucking cock too red oh red what an ad what an ad and

whyd you go blonde so sad so sad so sad so sad through the womb its estranged

through

the page its deranged thread the fill thread the puill with a cock on the fill

Im the interstedest mostest bestest freshest testidest freshest

freshsest it
ahhs ahhs ahhhs ahhhhsss and m m m m m m and after all were only

ordinary men men men men men (men

men men.....)
EMIT
Take the time

Write the page

Fill the story

Fill the stage

Make a play

Make it weight

make it copy - written proof that it's not hate

Love is awareness

LOVE in the NOW

Take it to the guru Im a guru NOW

Forget it I'm lame blasted shit tasted like eminem stew shoved it up my ass then ate it to
brew

Nigga da broken playin his cock and rubbin it against the sins of the

world this mast is aflying with HANUMAN unfurled

Christ, Buddha riopping scriptures right off of the page

In jail I'm no monkey in it's positive stage

fright stage fright

Da Broken has spoken son now it's up to you
Buddha no bud it's time for bed

It's Ambien instead

Risperdal dreams are up on the this is not strange

Take the time time

has stopped Its

emitted admitted

taken backward

refitted admitted the

shame you
acquitted me sane to release the remitted like an isea this crime give me six

up down the line spinning hated and faded the degraded love you created infiltrated and made

it easy to be what I made it and shit you kill it the time shoulda been you fill her fine but you

turn water

to time so time time time

(The Great Gig in The Sky)

C ock

Greed gonna kill it

This dream this failure for sure

Can't win it with pride

Cause I don't ever wanna
Deem myself the doctor

The witch doctor the witch thats

who it is

East Coast is close to my heart but the West

Coast is on my brain

Hawaii gives me courage

And Alaska some fight

Brooks Range is a sight

For sore eyes I'm sure

But I've never been there
Cause I'm putting on Ayers and

working on dares to share and

circle the world with the illest shit

cause I got diarrhea

Real bad, honey can we get some

Kaopectate?

Damn food stamps, No Shaney

don't eat that! That's his

coke you understand
Daddy is superman he sees through

the miles through walls and swing

one last time

In the park

We gonna roll outta here soon and head on

down the road

IS is headin to a magical land

Where Disney made his moves

The legend is born the place

ain't space it's just too far from

you but if I don't try this kid

I'm just gonna probably wash dishes for the rest of

my life

So anyway little man
Tell Kyler goodbye come on get in the car

ok, Alyson you can come too hard for

your boyfriend but don't worry in the end

you get fucked left with a little nigger who

aint gonna excite

You like your little brothers do
Oh, you wanna come? Bring Kyler too!
This is a family move!

The North wind is blowin, we better

get goin before the rain comes down

Heard a dry spell from the East is comin

round

This heats too much gotta get outta

the kitchen

Sick of naggin bosses bitchin

When I shakin bitches

Up with my sick fuckin moves

I can dance like no motherfucker you ever knew

Lots of niggers can dance

But this ones the black eared
Compact ill ribbed condom eating man

completing shit beating trash eating

coke stealing

Cappucino muredrer!

Was a cheatin Vegan but that shits

just for pussy

Momma this is trauma

but if I cross them tracks or not by

the
Wildflower Cafe and Gallery

Some nigga gonna pop off and kill me

And I'm afraid I'd rather my head be

bleeding out in L.A.

Cause I'm hemorrhaging here

All the fucking time Doctor get a

needle!

I gotta eat this niggers dime

And then spit it cause I held it in my

throat and spit it up for the po for

the corp for more than just greed for

money money money

Gimme that weed sleeping in No Man's

Land its gonna be fun but psycho y'all

I'm just playing

Cause the city of Angels here we

come!

Stop it Kyler, stop hitting your brother we're almost to Phoenix

Alyson, put him under a cover
But Mom it;s hot! Bitch I don't

care!

You little fucking slut!

I'm getting wasted when we get there!
oops Ayers, hey can you drive?

No, honey you no I don't have a license?

It says some other name

Yeah I know gotta pay the ticket and get it

back

But check this one out I got

Aint it fucking whack

ME AGAIN YOU LITTLE

SHIT AND I'LL KILL YOU

Alyson- you're such a dike-bitch you're all talk

now leave him alone!

Put on imagination station cause that shit

ain't real

I don't talk this well

In real life

I give respect

Take care of my people's

And little ones in check

We protect their ears
Those sacred children of God

It is mercy will protect them

And his love it will abound

Is this shit startin to work to my benefit now?

Then look it up - back me up!

Just go ahead frame me!

I'm not Da Broken Record

I'm not fucking talkin
Shootin weed or slingin crack smackin

dope or snorting rocks ants or oops you

want to see the contents of my backpack?

OK officer, go ahead

Hands up high and keep em up

I'm not kiddin kids

Parents chill
Cause if your letting your little ones run

the streets they better know when the

beat or the cop the Po-Po whatever rolls

up on em fo' sure

They get they hands up over their head
Not in your sweatshirt

DEFINITELY NOT

DOWN YOUR PANTS

NOT IN YOUR POCKETS

OR THAT MACE IS IN

YOUR FACE

CAUSE THOUGH MAYBE

YOUR NOT CARRYING

NOTHIN ILLEGAL

AS I ONCE WAS

They will really kill you if you

have any move that looks

well

Da Broken Record thats me

the OZENOZ SHOW UP NEXT

ON OZENOZ DOT TV

LAFCO, TAO YOU DA

WIZ WAZ UP
I'm the wizard now
Just til I have the money You crack pot!

Ayers head!

Brooks- it burns!

Ayers head!

Just chant that for me

homey

Babbling Brooks bursting

Ayers bubbles and doubles

I'mseeing rainbows now their are

fucking everywhere
Shut Your Pie Hole

I may be alone

When I sit at my throne

But I have no ill thoughts

I can say that I am

Sane

I do not need a piece of paper and I do not

own a gun

The world tour will be bigger

And Marshall your are going to have fun

Cause we'll take it YEMEN

In ADEN we'll play

with Ziggy Marley and

Lauren Hill and peace out

ya'll cause I'm overplayed

Now thats me and thats for

Merchandise t- shirts

Logos and squirts
My artwork is ingenius certifiably divine

Siddrtha Gluacoma

OMEN

AMEN

AMIN

NAMIN

MAN IN

OMEN

We need some more

Money M&M

Money M&M

Money M&M

OZ- ONE

LOVE

IN HUM WE TRUST

OM MANI PADME

This Zen is excuse me

But Eminem Bush is gone
Shush! You're increasing the

delusion that the war machine turning

will continue on burning up funds for

the poor

So take up your hands

Mr. Presidential bore

Or maybe he'll really come to your defense

Lets just be catty and stick that on the fence

Your welcome

Shut your pie hole

You fucking ill prick

The Eminem Show's over

I think I'm gonna be sick

Lions and Tigers and Bears oh my!

You scored yet zo

Cause yo dis gonna fry

Yo brain before I eat it

You can share it with me

Cus Dis is US
US- U- S

We used to be schizophrenic but US is cool

Go to school

Quit your bitchin

Got that honorary degree

You fuckin wishin

They can't say I don't rap about bein po'

Trust me I'm broke

Get that ASS on the flow

Surrender to it Untie your

shoe it the flow of Brooks

Ayers got the looks

the locks and the keys the fridge

is gonna freeze

Governor Schwartzanegger

Geez

You can't spit it can't I

Your OZ_EN_OZ

time
Just watch your shoes

Gonna get em blasted in

sewage water

Now look up look

down Get that ass

onthe flow the flow

of the Brooks

Ayers got the looks

This is IT Psycho Clown Posse'

You insano fucking freaks

Get your bullshit act outta

Here and get that shit off the

streets

Prism Family Love

Light seems to eminate from light

beams

That Eminate

OZEN

1ZEN

2 DOZEN ROSES
3ZEN

4ZEN

5ZEN FO SURE

Six pence

7 tents

8 carts of hose

9 faggits in poseand on the tenth day we'll put

Ayers

By the Brooks under foot

DA BROKEN

IS CHOKIN

TOKIN

DOPIN

CUZ

11 ZEN 12

Oh for the bud

Oh for the who

50 CENT BASKIN
DIS ROBBINS FOR YOU

Hughes Lawson

Matthew Lesko

An airline my suit

oops A_I_C

Thats hey man don't shoot!

Air Force One

Hang One On OZENOZ

The bubbly kine

Course pope smokes

DA BROKEN CAN I OFFER

YOU SOAP
Mr. President?

Wash your mouth out Nigga!

You gonna get ill!

Oh Mommy! Can't be all the episodes

CHILL

SHIT
AYERS take a breather Your

Babbling Brooks I mean Ayers

get it!

Your acting like sewage underfoot!

OFW

WFO

O FO DA BROKEN

WISH WIZZIN

ON THE FLOW

Brooks flow is decreasin

With every day
Need some propecia? No, mon

my hairs fine Whats up Dr. Dre!

But seriously now motherfuckers

get ill

Thats No Blood For Oil

No blood period

You dil-do shove it up

my ass

Cause I'm anal retensive
Obama in Atlanta

We shook the defensive

Said you like like a cousin

or a nephew or somthing

No actually I'm lyin

We never really shook

Off my penis

Schwartzanegger

You gonna look like a

name player name

player

Fuckin free

First Middle Last

Money, Money, Money

I need a football team

Steelers

I need private jet

Air Force One
I need a running toilet that runs like

Brooks

So the AIR don't smell

Ayers free

Brooks pee

Oxygen's not it's

actually hot

2 double formula

Makes O- ZONE

that svelt

From the place where ZO reside

OZENOZ

IN HUM WE TRUST

ZEN

MORTAL

Goodbyes

Ok, this is it guys

I'm really fucking done

It's not legit, I'm just having fun
I don't want to say this shit onstage

Don't want sell motherfucking out

Don't want to live this

Ripe Raw Dream
My skin is starting to work to my

benefit now?

Oh, shit that's offensive

Nothing new

Nothing new

Here's to hope on the offensive

You Arab fucking Jew

I'm a christian, this boy needs

Jesus

God you played us Get help

and seize thia

Oil for bloods, crypts and cut!

Oh fucking Ayers, your ass is done
Your never allowed inside my motherfucking cafe again! OUT!

NOW! BITCH!
May
St. John the Baptist

Where did he wade

In the waters

That city lays barren today

May spring a well

Because there's a well already made

We can baptise we can save

we can offer ourselves

Our own resting place kill the

press

i didn't he's alone at

work

Father, may you help me

The KKK smirk

I am the wizard the waz

with a pen

Though I am not dead

I may rise again
For we are the arms the

body the christ

Brothers rejoice

This happens to be our Enticement

Once and twice

Three times before

The world was brought

To the arms of the poor

The rich cast away

What the few do not owe

And the poor do not own

The fight for the dough Our

enticement our enticement

our enticement

Zen

Ahh

Zo

Ahh

Zen
Ahh

Zo

Ahh

Zen

Ahh

Zo

O-Z-E-N-O-Z

OZONE

This is OZ ONE ONE ZO ENO

ONOZ

NEO ZEO

ZO

ZA ZA ZA ZA

ZI ZI ZI ZI

IZ IZ IZ IZ

AZ AZ A TO Z

ONE A TO Z

ONE GOD
ONE LOVE

ONE ZONE

ONE ZO OZONE

OZ LOVES ONE

ZO OZ ONE LOVE

LOVE ZO ZOO

ONE ZO ZOO

ONE ZOO

ZOO ONE

ENO ONE

NE NE

OO

ZO OZ ONE

LOVE

M r. I
Hard Rock throne

Sits like a vine

Drinkin tonic and gin
Whisky and wine

On like a caddy whore
A caddy a little jew He's at

Imagination Station .com where are

you?

Vegas Vegas

And Bethlehem too

This is no game

I'm rappin to fame

Spittin ill

Cause my brain

Is more than slightly at strain

50 cent this life will leave you physically, mentally

and

E- motive your hard

13th step dey aint none

12 fret dey waint some

Cuz when I faint dumb

This rock gonna make

numb
I smoke that crack

Then suck on a nigga'

In a Rams team oh feen

W-C-U fields of green

I'd rather be there

Now whats on my grave?

That glass dick til I'm

Chill

I'm addicted don't smoke dis don't toke that

don't choke DAT

DA BROKEN

we open for mic nex round is

for

Phatty Phatty Bombalattie

Dre wish Princess you da ho

Ho-Ho-Ho cuz

Ca-Ca yo' dum in da slum

Bummin smokes

For change
Bummin tokes I'm deranged

Okay I cop a plea these streets

gonna kill me before I get a name

Diz ones for da bitch who left me

in a ditch

Mom- Mom was her name and Pop- Pop

was her game Said "get rid of Shaney

just drop him off at Grandmas"

And you really think you should

Now GET YO' PAWS

off my son

You see

Eventually it all comes out in the wash

Cause I'm not stupid, I'm not crazy, I

got brains balls and a heart

I hope you forget this

I love you faggit

Now I won't

cause when you say it

You'll spray it
Ozenoz woulda said that

But we learn from our pain

This troubled mixed up life

This rap is for good to show kids

what this life is about

If you those bitches and choke yo' snitches and

milk's in the fridge it's cold in their Shaney

don't melt the frigidaire

cause my hearts frozen solid

And I sit and I cry

So hard I can't think straight like tears will

make me die

No just blur my eyes

And clear em wide open

I'm not a faggit father

I'm not a cock sucking Jew

Not a catholic either

I'm just dumb
Boy that's you to

the tee

She'll say
to the wee lad is it bad?

You can't play that game!

Cause your pimp at the house he's making

him louse up his feet and sleep on the floor

Now Charlie come and get me that's

Alpha Beta Delta fry me I'm schoolin

or I would or I should

And will send Shaney to college

Cause his life won't be worse than mine now

Cause I'm smart you little nigger You tricky
motherfucker

You talk like OZENOZ wizard waz wishin he

wasn't so zen dats because

I'm so broke I can't eat

I can't smoke

But that's good

Now that was funny

Put Allie in the hood or go take Annabella

for a walk you sharp little bitch
Go protect her

She's a pit - bull or

whatever that mutt isn't mine

Cause I couldn't find the

dollars the cents to put it

away

I don't have the money and this is

the way

I can't do it I'm alone

No I'm at a meeting
Where the GM and the chef tell me

I'm crazy No they say you ok?

Maybe you should see a doctor!

But they'll pump me with pills equal to coke

booze and smack and whoops once again

I'm an addict

So lets act like this dream

Ain't going to get real

Hey kids listen to your doctor

I'll listen to mine if he would ever call me

back
But my politics are whack

Not cause of you Allyson

Not cause of Mom

It's because of the dead baby the
pregnancies and all the ABORTION

I can't support her cause my son

would be dead

Now that's a hard truth little soldier

hold your head

And go in front of a judge and say this one

twice

I wrote an executive summary of what killers

lives are like cause I got stuck in a cell

And it ain't my mobile phone

I want this misery to end
And it won't be from some homegrown It'll be from this stuff that I write

while I'm cryin

My eyes out

It's healing

It's appealing and won't

be so trite

I'm a fright
That this stuff I write ain't so bad

You little ZO

that's clan from

the forests the

deserts we're all

over the land

cause in zen we

believe in

the OM MANI PADME HUMPADME SAMBHAVA

Take me to

Hai

Hanuman Hospital

Where they took my rights away

And I beat that case cause I was

real smart

The Judge said this too good

My ten page part

Cause it's sick

It's fucking sick the life that

I'm living

Don't blame OZENOZ
For the ZO NOW HOW

And the HOW is WOW

AND THE HALL IS

WHERE

I SAT AND ATE GOOD

FOOD AND SPARE

CHANGED

No that's a lie

She'll probably make me swish some

Palmolive

Soap scum in mouth it

burns

Nah cause I washed it

Can't blame it on the parents who love me so

dear can't blame it on the people who held

me in tears

We love you too

Ayers Brooks and Yo

- El
You gonna see me again

And hear my voice

And it's for you don't play

cause I'm a musician

Ahh fuck it they own it

I don't have Da Broken Records

but I'll chase it

Now zone

OZONE-OZ-ONE

LOVEOZ-EN-OZ PEACE

We love you too Shaney

Now get outta here.

Kid. Never let this bother if she ever happens to get a hold of oh

anyway.

S ony
Come on edit it baby

This ones for my friend

Chang with his Rolex or was

that TV's
9th District New Jersey

Step on DAT GREEN

Step on DAT GREEN

Natale from his homeland

And a concierge who I groom

Every tricka trap

Spell it out doom

Cause this was for skins
Da Broken what?

Buddha big statue what?

Cut! Thats a wrap

It's on top a da house

DA WHITE ONE

No that's Changs

HOME

LAND SECURITY

How many Sony TV's did you give to him huh

Is that on the floor
what you want some more?

Legislative District

No it's a state

Mom for me

that's

M-E-D_I-C-I-N-E

for you

on my wrist

that's a clock

I didn't ditch come now

get pissed

Though I wanted to drop that

Drop that

watch in the pond where a body

lays rottin

No brotha' down

there

I'm swimmin in Catalina

A leana A leana that's a gimme that's a

gimme
My mother wasn't raped

I ate her pussy while she slept

Don't try this at home

Do it in a john in San Francisco

Mentally Ill from

Sandy Can Ville
Thinkin he Don't Cuz he'll eat

your brain or a stage that

cadavers gonna be grain or

blue or grey I suppose like

Hannibal Lector

DA BROKEN

Chokin

Tokin

Smokin

Some Hemp

Round my neck with a belt trying to choke

the broke bitch who sat down

My ASS!
Hurts again, fag

No - cigarette Jew

Now what neighborhood you from

I grew up in Da Hood!

Hairy bastard selling dope from his

house

CATMANDU

Lewis Lewis Rhodes that's you

Fender Bender

No don't bend her just end her

life

Imprisonment

Must be so fun

Mania Mania

for Mr. Lennon thats sven and for

Ken that Barbie you ho killer queen

A-G-C

Whats up VW YOU GONNA

wo Prism Family
Waz is he wizzin

Diz pizzin you off cuz

Oh gun go
Po po I tear your club up fo

shows that blows and grows

this Namaste

Casper you da man

In the tent in da

Bittersweet Motel

Broken wings sings for rocks

It's EX- for me for him for you

Been tourin too long

Better wrap it up for me

Cause I stood over that man

Takin notes with a pen

While they hauled him off to prison Don't beat the

kid kidz that waz real

Reba gonna shake what

That fucker for the feel
Killa Shah I challenge you how

to fix my double album

For the ho-ho-ho

OZENOZ TO'
What up Stiff?

Diz your riff?

Take me back to Tennessee with

Percy I'll Palmer and play play

play

We don't BALL BIBLE

BELT DIZZY
Aight I'm dizzy from spinnin eight

times clockwise the ten back

round - WORD watching my

shadow and the forms in my brain

Solitary

killer Shah!

What I call you huh cause you ma

boy

Nigga

Not a toy

Nigga
We gonna BALL

Cuz thats three shots tall

You info' life

That's 3 fo' your wife

This rap game

That's me in Venice

Saw 50 Cent out the corner of my eye

But his fan want so shy he ran up

on his boy and the chopper in the

sky come down on da mon on court

for a plan

Den it followed me after that week

this for you you don't know come on tell your boys

I don't know you

I don't owe you

You owe me for the shots you bust on my chops

Cuz my bikes in the sand

For the food stamps I sold

I owe L.A. for

A three speed trike
Pop you gonna sleep soon

Hep - C you meet the moon

I love you too

But not the bottle that rut

for my strut

I was undereducated didn't know you

can't catch Hep - C from anything but

blood to blood and kill it that's real

I'm HIV positive so chill out

I don't know

Maybe Jessi does

She coulda gave it to Allie

Shaney or
Psyche Yo! this is lemon -

AIDS Cuz I ain't afraid!

I'm gonna live forever

Like superman who

aint died yet

He's just convulsing

And riding his horse who's had his head

chopped off for that brain I'm gonna
Eat onstage

Gotta get doctor!

Or a student, a medical one

Batty, catty genetic strain

We makin wierd people up dere in the sky

Or is that wierd people

we can fry

And eat
I'm a vegan A cheatin one they got

gills and pills for deranged the

strange is that territory out of range

No Area - 51

You faggit legit

Open that secret file

Now spill out da shit

Dis dizzy nigga

Gone outta control

I'm half blood

Half water
Half pewter

Half copper

Half pu and half zen

and den what he's

Ahh Zen Ahh Zen AAhh

zizzizzit this is a rap

Da Broken

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

DA

Smoke

Be Kine

Da Broken

Is Broke
My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

One

(music)

Love

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

DA

Smoke

Be Kine

Da Broken

Is Broke
My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

One

(music)

Love

Da Broken Chokin

Tokin

Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Like it's brain

Disdain rearraign crane

frame the tame

Da Broken

Chokin
Tokin

Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin

Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head Like it's brain

Disdain rearraign crane

frame the tame

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin
Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

DA

Smoke

Be Kine

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz
this is

this is

One

(music)

Love

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin

Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Like it's brain

Disdain rearraign crane frame the
tame

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin
Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

DA

Smoke

Be Kine

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz
this is

this is

One

(music) Love

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin

Smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Like it's brain

Disdain re -arraign crane frame

the tame

Da Broken

Chokin

Tokin

Smokin
Da Hemp

Da Broken

Chokin Tokin smoke it to

your head

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is

DA

Smoke

Be Kine

Da Broken

Is Broke

My Waz

wiz wiz

this is

this is
One

(music)

Love
Liz

Can N-E body fuck me?

How about the neon sign on the

Hotel Bethlehem who'll only hire

'dem niggers for' jobs like

dishwashers and cans and can't

make it little chef?

I could? Won awards in this town

Bethlehem

Steel Garden you gonna get it

Tucker Tucker tuck me in

Signs and signs and pins and needles and

chains for rims

Spit this joke out and chew

it real hard

Cause I'm gonna make it

Rich gonna

Eat the Rich

Eat em alive
Grey matter I love you that no joke

cuz

It's gonna be me

Lector Spector and Jew

Cause I'm a rich nigga'

I'm a killa' too

Rich bigga'

Figga'

Dis cats for you to put

on the Ayers

Oh OZENOZ thats you!

Brooks what you? I spit

out rhymes like fat little

jew

Achoo Achoo

I'm sick I'm sick
I'm sick I'm sick Fuck you!

Christkindlemart and

stocking stuffers

My dishwash hands
Pots and Pans for

Gratsi and Matsah

Merlino on my chino

Dog it aint you

Ok take it off

Wanna try it on too

Cause Da Broken's broke And a
motherfucking

Catholic

Father please forgive, for I have

wind

pbbbbffft!

I mean it DA BROKEN

Faa'ted and Faa'ted and Faa'ted

chokin tokin smokin

Da Hemp

Da Broken

is broke

my waz wiz

wiz
this is

A fucking fake

One Love

Love One

One Two

Da Broken's gotta go catch

a plane

And meet somebody named Harry

who lives in LA

Mr. Brooks you know what I'm sayin?

Just take another pill you rap

about yeah yeah took a bottle

full of uppers and downers and

blacked out in front of the pool

man

I'm a liar

I woulda drowned

if it weren't for

Mom - Mom playing nanny and letting

me call Shaney and Kyler and I lied

about
who who?

Ayers, your so crazy, mary jane lane skip the pain

skip the train pack your bags buy a ticket and

get on it filled a Cheetos bag with booms from

A.C. convention center

Yourself AAZ

AHH ZEN

AHH DEN
I made tea at G.C.

That's A.G.C. where I took em for

the tourney on my journey bought it

in the parking lot

Out of - body-

Experience

Don't take it

Don't take it

I never meant to eat the whole boom that Conner

that Conner yo cruise, cruise, cruise

California

Cruz sailor
Bail er out

Can't surf too many sharks

And take the jailer out side for a

smoke and a rope and some kine

Da Broken

like it's brain disdain re-

arraign crane from the

tame

Sufi Swan oh bathhouse Rumi

I take dive
for Ginsberg's orange and now

my fucking too me? who?

This word it ends with zo and starts with

Oh! OZENOZ fuck me!

eight fold two

fold drawn

billfold skin fold ream my wallet made a

hemp you could buy it at ma' sto' on Brooks

and Front it the Walk we'll be at your funeral

Its Ayers who left me this studio and I hope Yo

- el makes me well

And I'm high as fuck
That's what he'd say - oh shit he's breathing

He's alive

Did the KKK die?

No just him, just him

So die KKK

Die KKK

Die KKK

Die Nigga Nigga
The one in the back wit his white hood and a cigarette

oh Shit!

That's OZENOZ

he's at our fucking rally

I was in '82 but that was with my mommy

playing Row Jimmy and Toodledeedoo

Jimmy this

Jimmy that
Jimmy Jimmy who?

I'm BROKEN!

Nah just broke

tokin weed

smokin greed
makin grief for

my life

So kid's stay in school

College, that is when

you's a frosh

Don't be so posh just learn that

publisher's oh I did that's why I'm

still broke and have herpes

Nah
I don't have herpes, my dick's just bitchin - oh I

mean, shit, did you get that?

I don't know...

I hope not.

Of course you's da only ones I cans

fucks wits outta

Condom HON!

cause I'm HIV positive with Hep C from

hookers and needles California, you know I'm

free!

Spin that one D.J. after you sucked my dick I spat

blood
In the toilet in the

Red House in

Michi- GAIN

AGAIN?

AGAIN!Oh aight, buddy you jack me off

on the needle at the fight club we didn't

have a moment cuz that knife was too

slow.

But hold it to my throat again And I'll motherfucking kill you Cause

I'm HIV positive with Lemon - Aids for my D.J.

cause his name is Jay

"Hi J" k elementary O-

P-P

Queers to you

VW - XYZ

DA BROKEN
Nah!

A-B.-C. Def G A.G.C.

Aki Fore

Da Broken
wand that's in the shoes gotta be the

shoes my LA gears dogs is barkin put
some baby powder in em them and

them and them and us and us and us

and us and oh!

Damn bitch!

You got fucking shoe stank!

L ove
There's a war in the land

Is it real

Is real it is a war elementary

school kids now don't make us

steal

Them cameras is rollin

For digital proof

The internet we own in

Isn't paper

Now spoof

Cause envelopes come quickly

And will get sorted through

Where wireless don't reach
At the Zoo At the Zoo

Drove that Kosmic Debris truck full of

sound equipment

A cargo van full of beer

In my gut I was underage

And those lions act queer That gig we

got proof that I sung soprano so

I'll quiet down

While the drummer

plays the congo's like a

clown

He's a professor a

wizard a wiz wizzin

wand

I'm the good witch Belinda

On the john clickin heels but he won't

go in a balloon

Cause I'm afraid of heights

So don't hang me from the wire these shoes

These LA gears are all that I got
Some baby powder shady slim waistline I'll

trot all over town to lose it I am sure

Cause Le-hightons in Valley

Talley dat ho cause he's pure

Clean bitch I'm clean

1000 days soon

Cause I bathe, I shower, I act like the new

moon

Is every day now

Everday comin

When it's time

I'll be a runnin

And runnin hard

Cause this show's off my lard my

fat my burning desire my fat ugly ass had

better retire

But don't hang from a line A telephone

pole

Cause dis is whats he after

Money and Gold
To evenly distribute

Among the system hands

I can't but I'll pay tribute

In foreign lands

If they draft me

From a bench

A warrant

Its a cinch

And off I'll go

Through sleet and snow

What I don't know

Is who be dat woah cuz E-Z

funny the money aint

Preen

This kissin cousin

We just shoulda seen

Pay it I'll pay it

Back with a smile
That leftie he's quick to put on

a smile

At work I will act

Like O-Z and O-Z

E-N

NE element for the woah

G slow down Z thats a riot

I should get some drugs

But I'm in a recovery home and Christ I'll

retire

Call me an atheist call me a jew I'm just a

sinner I call it home

Phew!

This E-Z Money E-Z queer

you ain't funny flashing your middle

finger out in the cold!

I'm going home now, I better grow old

I'm a player he'd say

Cause he is cause he is

That strap on my list
But his A - GAME

Get tested and bested

I better get mine

Cause I'm bought and sold

And I better not rhyme

Too hard when I walk through that door

Actin tough

Actin tough

Cause I'll show off my Fender my bumper

sticker I adore

Butterflies in the field outside

Emerald Shitty

Crystal Towers
Sand grains and Ivory

Pearls and wisdom seems she

knows a thing or too this

Neverending Rep Game

It's just a game, I give it up

Before I'm completely insane

Da Plano
Da drano

Da motherfucking kine

Da Broken is

Broke

Bro

So time for the last rewind

This broken old man and a world

On kine

Hemp for oil

oil for gold gold

for hmm energy

And a star in the cold
Whats up he'll say wanna get rid of

that case?

NO, not really - you keep it-

This taste in art work and stickers

is great

Green and seen

And fucking pristene
It's good for that kid who'll

take it with squid
Macro-beanie Tack-

tack sonic missing a

bridge

A hook begs from a tune

New tuners New

stingers

Oh shit I'm coming!

I'm going through hell here in my old

hometown

I'm packing my bags everyday like a clown

This game doesn't stay here

It just moves around

The Bulls, The Bears, The Pistons,

The Wheres?

The money- the funny green stuff?

Playa Playa on the wall

Snow White Dwarves us

IN spring summer fall

Brooks range won't improve

He if he keeps on smokin
Tokin

Chokin

Hemp

like brain tumors

I had a little ouija

I had a little board
I asked him could I meet ya? He said

SATAN word! Then threw the cursor gone-

Oh I'm cursing, YAWEH!

Peace Now. Not for oil. Not for food.

for mu -te'a

Love

Sashimi
I am underemployed that's a noun

for an adjective

My objectivism Ayn Rand coulda paid

Anthem National Debt

You gonna go down now

Real fast cause we got a new

Man on the block walking around

underground
On battery acid

We don't play dat

Do you hear yo

We don't play around

My two cents in a jar

Ain't legal get tender

I stole some bread today

Cantelmi who

I stole it from in front of a

hardware store

Pepperidge and keep the fridge

Farm it and raise it

A flag every day it's at half

The mast over the cast and crew

cuz I sell this script

It's for you

No gave it away that battle of whisper - it

all
Away cause in fucking convulsions

On the Ave and I'm calling the medic

Cause he foaming at the mouth

Did he take it got a feeling

He did cause I said it made me trip

It did

People in the park at the church on the

Ave in Oakland

Drawin them guns for the right to bear arms

The po-po can't get em

Cause the bodyguard just caught em

The stockpile gonna be there

For the people we destroy

That's US ZA EN ZA

AZ IF

You FUCKING HOMO

Nobody likes me

Cause I don't like ya'll anyway
Unless he say she say

She say he said

Left in the crib

And he ate it

Now he's dead

Poor kid psylocybin

Phat Pharm boots

Sad for his time

And a life full of pain

When I got bounced out to the Blind Pig

Didn't finish that drink in the green room

Where we toked and joked and I saw

Some life to this

Arab Scarab

Beetle gonna get me

Mummy in Detroit at the DOA

oh woah so anyway

A-O-D don't preserve me
We made direct fucking amends to such

motherfucking people wherever fucking

possible except when to do so would kill a

Nigga'

I ain't a God

But I gonna be wit em

If I twist dat shit

Cousin I love ya'll

But you killed that kid

Your only fucking son

with a motherfucking shroom

And slashed a fucking tire

Like it was fun like a buffoon

Then you took me where

Downtown why was I goin?

Cause I seem to need a nap now

Three jobs she was a ho'in

Cause I'm a dick a deck a Doc a

Dose
A dose a doc a deck ahh dick!

L-A-N-T-A-L-L-E-D-cation

That's Cool J, my DJ got one N word

My middle is gone

My fiddle on the roof

Ayn Rand comin over

At the studio she spoofed

That dike I would fuck

If I could dig up her grave

Hope they mummified her

Thats US WE and Yoohoo!

O-Z and O-Z

E-Z money too

Strapless Dese he's aint

Dat body bag was yoo hoo!

BART Frisco kid down under

the bay popped up in Marin

It will go there I pray
Where we live in a trailer a humble

abode

Humble Pie

Appleseed
I won't go there You toad!

Lick a nigger play that riff

Lick a nigger play that riff

Lick a Jew play that riff

Lick a Jew play that riff

Oy Fucking vey

Hum da Lallah

500 Seneca soldiers strong

Street love and sweet song

Walid Hussein Barack Insano

The prince the pauper

The cable boy drinkin drano

I'm a lumberjack and I'm ok choppin in

the Sierra's for the Mexicans today

No, lets see in 02,03, Oh say can you

see
By the dawn of man

What the light has to offer When the time
sifts the sand

Arachnids they are not

Same family tree origin,

species, can't read it

Latin prefix Tee-hee

Tea for Two

Or pee for poo

Poopee! Chaos! Mike!

We were gonna rob a bank

Sleepin on a porch

Back from the corps knew that

security tour you'd been the one

making the change

Off to Belize

Where English is strange
Come on Bitch, put the money down now!

Get that car and it's over blough!

But slim to none and I left

town
Running from Al - Quaida and the shit all

around

Poppy Poppy

Pound Pound Pound

San Francisco treat

Dem Chinese got small feat

The opium den couldn't be on the longest

street in the world in one country we live in and

own it

Cept Democracy

Two Cents

One Cent actually

negative Studio 54

Andris Lagzdins

You be ma' homie

Cuz you aint drinkin

You thinkin aloud

Them stories was bitchin

You da bouncer da kingpin
Cut outta the script

So you save when

Oh don't know so I don't go back to O.C

N.J. silent Bob

No arms no legs and head you're a snob

I'd fucking write it all over for you

but this time it's called

"Telemarketers" hmm... that's a crime

cause I will, don't you know But you

won't know it's me

Cause this is my name

Or pen - name in the

Penititentiary

J-O-E-L

Does that one fucking ring a bell?

And the last, first, middle intitial whats up

My trademark on my logo

Has my initialization

Nationalization

Incarceration
Propertization

Tititillation

Increments of thousands in that

getaway far

Berg in the snakepit at that

L.A. bar

Dropping bombs
And when I'm gone just carry on You know little

baby?

Diz zen masters fed up

O - OZ yeah you fuckin owe me

L-A-P-D

N-Y-P-D

Toku

Sock it to em

Rock it to em

Just don't leave a bruise
Cause I wrote that script about a fight

in 2000 for the soprano not somber and this

last episode ain't so nuts or was that 98,99 or

uh oh

Can't mark you with a dime
Cuz we get da ball rollin yo!

Yo fucker come and get me!

Come call da po-po
Cuz you said she said I said we said diz

block ain't so clean this restaurants obscene

sellin dope for trademark sellin hope for a

pound selling socks for a hade mark selling

slacks by the mound

it's ice it's all over

But I shovel that walk

Every time it shows

People stop to gawk cause I ain't

got no eyebrows but I love em dat way

BUT I'm just movin powder struck by

lightning wiz waz wazn't that a good show

In Kansas watching the house light on

fire Jack - yo!

Taylor made Taylor made play that guitar

Golf balls buddy or maybe a sitar

Sittin on the throne the o-r-

g-y the poopie in the panties
Cause I'm just a fun loving guy

Now Steve don't sit down

on the toilet too long
Cause you'll splart sploof and splatter and she'll sing

it don't smell dat it don't smell dat we use to smell

don't fuck around

Ho-land - Ho - you hooker you bum-you

walker, you talker you street hood

Get my thumb shoved up my

ass oh I hope so

"But my hemmorroid!"

It's fucking painful

Time for the Gig

That one in the sky

Prism Family Seems

Would Tour with me too

Can it Conceal it don't own it you - too

Cause I ain't on tour

No World - Tour that is cause this gigs

the last one

OZENOZ YOU DA SHIZ
Quit snooping and dippin and blasting

my AIDS DEFENSE

My times almost up and I'm
in fucking suspense Who wrote

this one the wall?

Was it you Ayers, was it you? I didn't, I

swear it

But I'm just dead and it's over oh fetus that's

two.

For spiral relapse or stem

cell research genetic disposition

same as test tube dispersed but in

medical school What kid?

This one or that - the other one too Hey
hemmorroid you ackin

Splintered Sunlight

Misconstrues

Whats the point of my tour

My Conscience working early to preserve me I

suppose

Hey kissing the sky

Just a Jimi Thing
Give it a little short, sharp, sharper You got that,

no don't give me no...

Lips and tits and get ready

Butt smack come on

smack DAT what up geez

what up seize

Search and my seizure well reach

in my pocket, let's see hea'

You had oh, a bag of weed lets change the

I.D.

A bag of coke some slim and

quick fast crazy idea to get trim in the

motherfucking

John I'd open up Elvis

But I think Harry's got his costume on Tech nobody knows the trouble I been

Nobody knows who I clown

That Green truck

What the fuck

I guess I ask Tom my one and only friend

But he's your's so you ask him
Will he answer?

Guess that will depend.
On the tricks of the trade

On the tickety tock trade

ON the dickety dock dade memorial

bridge

Camden oh homey just jump off

This fridge

There's a fridge on the bridge

A midge and a sidge

A tidge a da tidge

A lick lyrical syringe

Up my ass in my bone
On my bone up my ass It won't

reach!

It won't reach!

Oh bitch, you fucking scumbag!

Rape me Da Broken

Da Broken Rules

Woah Bitch its over

I ain't playin no fool
Oh wait, I mean I am
I'll start rapin you now Where you goin?

Fine its over

Sashimi comin up blough!

Fucking door kicked in and on the bed

I go

We revoke your right to remain silent

Now on with my show I have to

write it now through puke and

tears and all kinds of shit

I won't play that guitar

It will just sit
And die a long lonely death like Bobby

who's green and comes to my

defense with the love in the land of

Tennessee jail

O-Z and I owe thee cause I won't

swing a pail

Or a bucket oh fuck it

I smoke

A pack of ICE PICKS NIGGA That faggit
gonnna choke
The kkk the prowler the law

White supremacy fools your under us

all

One nation we trust

In hum om and paid om

'an

I can't get it this zen dis- dis- own

I tore my shirt and

walked off in a huff like I was

your DAD so scoff scoff cough

Cuz you aint no Jew

You ma homeboy

At home
But at work you an atheist and this

money ain't growin on trees like the

monkeys with wings or what waz wiz

they called

Discussion the wizards the wand the

referee spawned

One, two, three

Four, five, six
Seven, Eight, Nine

Ten, Eleven, Twelve

Thirteen gate your plane is arriving

Your gait is too slow

The temperature is rising
D eath by Ayers Brooks

What is death?

I don't know

Why don't you tell me...

It could be here and now

Coulda been slept around could be in and

out the window like a moth before the flame

Could be a cracker jack box

With a diamond ring in it

Maybe

wish it was

Tired of wantin to be Eminem or maybe just

have his pad, his hat, his shoes, his gloves, his

hugs

Nah, that faggit would probably

Suck my dick without a condom on while I'm

on some

Nigga named John
OZENOZ you black?
Cause your dicks fucking huge And that's

a fact What is death?

Probably me milkin a bone in a truck

somewhere in Bo-ze-man
Montana for Oley and Nesting on a

747 full of cows headed to Japan but that fat

fucker the trucker took me all the way bought me

jeans and shirts and made me smile with a rope

around some kids neck who obviously fucked him

too but that little fucker got a Camaro a house, or

atleast a bunk

hit of acid from me in a barn

hanging on a rope smokin dope with

pentagrams and and blood and oops this is

scary

Cause thats my childhood kk?k.

Understand. That was

Satanic Don't do it.

Don't use that uzi, the shoes see they were

full of

Da Kine
Da Broken Record is

gonna be mine Broken.
Call me the anti- christ call me zen

master cause mis understood creatures we

all will be blue baby blue when we're

dead what is death?

Something to be accepted as a part of

life

In the Book of the Dead

In the Book of the Night In the

Book of the Day in the Book of the

Sky In the Book of the Wheel

Oops there is no book of the wheel?

Damn it, where's my lug wrench?

Lug nuts around like these you'll never

get found

Fucking Elephantitus Elephant who?

Show me!

Show me!

It's sharin, lois and St. Bram

I mean st. louis, sharing Bram with the prison

cam

Little kids you aint watchin
OZENOZ.TV

Cause Romper Room

is full of naked people playing

twister

Delta-Delta-Delta oops Fake a

Beta KI Yeah Kyler, you'll be no faker

cause your gonna fucking die!

What is death?

What is this book?

What is this script?

What is that hit?

Where is DA BROKEN

He's chokin smokin

DA POPE

IS IN ROME

LOOKING AT ALIENS

ON THE TELESCOPE

Oops its an

observatory can I

hack it?
Can you?

Don't hack it kid,

Do it

Just ooze and abuse cause I ain't

gonna get you cause I'm not a fit father

for two - just One

LOVE

ONE-TWO

I WANT YOU

Ky-Ky and

Rook to Pawn

Bishop to Queen
You faggit, you spawn of scum of

the Earth you jus' gonna fold? Play

chess a mothafucker I'm diggin for

gold!

Chess king Jason

Red haired geek in

San Diego

You fucking freak
You play like a winner and talk like

a champ like me but you'll beat me up

the skateboarding ramp What is life?

It's a snowboard I buckled one, two

It's twister comin at me Set hut
22 or 47 dead

or was that 74 cause there was no

early warning that's what this tax

is for

Pay my dues

Play the blues
Cause today my guitar goes goodbye Goodbye

Miss F I mean Mrs. F.

I mean

Oh fuck it

Goodbye

Broken Record
Broken chokin smokin dopin tokin dat

rope and when you stepping say what

up?

You doin the hump- Get up off

your chest
And get off in your shoes

Get in the ring little nigga'

Cause this ones for you from 246 to 155

then back to 250

if I'm still alive

It's fatty and batty and bottles of brew

Up down goes my weight

I'm calling yoo-hoo Cause I

need smoke and food and a job

This rap game aint workin

I'm no caddy slob

Merlino this chino is

made in Japan Brooks

family you own it in that

foreign land

My ancestral background

reaches far and wide

Cause this ain't no death threat

I'm open fucking wide with a gun in

my mouth What is life?
A gun in my mouth from some

Philly Don who said cock it and shoot

it

The Teflon Don

Wave that wand

Watch that stick

Don't dump a bucket of water on her

She's just a wicked witch
I said kill her not melt her with love once

again What is love?

And where is it?

It's all over the land.

Went
Take your time

Time is Now

Be here how

With human intellect

Faster tin collect

Cans and bottles

Rusty Nails
Bars can't tell me

Tin man you've got heart

Lion your roar don't fart

on OZENOZ.TV

Pushin my cart down

Ocean Front Walk

Paid that ticket oh Oh

Not!

For the TV I carried it To the

Bible Tabarnacle so the riots won't

tackle

Degreaser this she swerve

And swing killer

Swing like you mean it Swing like the

cracker coulda made the plant in a bean hat

Rice paddy Rice paddy

one two three

Capitalism Capitalism

Greed Greed Greed

Crud Love and Luv and Mug shots
firm

Hey baby, I'm HOME!

Smiling like a faggit

Lawson Lawson

Hughes of green

Money - paperback fiend

I am one read it on my head

Mario Puzo

Fools Die

In the project if their humble beginnings

Don't take care of business with 10 extra

innings

Nine plus ten is nineteen oh

Ocean City New Jersey in the Gardens

Baby we love you we love you

Stay all day, honey we can screw

The door shut and ply the windows open with the

fly on my shoe

Do my feet smell?
No cuz, there's no nose down there

Sniff, sniff, sniff shorty

Weenie it ain't fair

Coke zizzit wiz wazn't waz

I, not w-wise

So I eat humble pie

Apple pie, the American Dream

Suck that cock, that snake, that flag

We gonna bag the hag

This world is dirt so we spit

Palmolive

For lies I ties the laces back - word

Amy chasin that Casseopia Dog round the

house

She ain't my bitch, she not my whelp

Marine corps strong

Tom cat foolery

I can't wait up
I lie like a motherfucker

Eat like a motherfucker

Eat my mother fucker

Eat her out good

She's done with the womb

So take it all there

Juicy Juicy
Macadamia Nuts on Mango,

brown sugar and Suprise! No suprises

please!

Morning view, you're nothing new

Santa is a stocking stuffer for the

hoodies on Hairy's head Hairy hairy quite

contrary

Troy- the wooden horse is dead

Trey for the food not bombs

Bomb da food

All over the where

Where the wall gonna stay
Wailing and moaning

These walls have ears Nigga'

Killa' Sha' you man

with the gun havin fun on

All over the lan'

Please tick the tock

On the Emerald Tower clock

Ivory soap 99 four

Fuck it killa baby you pure you pure

She sound real good

Sweet and nice

Like the rice patty hat I got on ice

Couldn't stand to fuck myself you see

Cause I view this race so equally

My half, your half, spitting cuz it's true

This Perry Camerlengo - this is

motherfucking you
Dead to me on a yacht you didn't

know how to to sail

Dropping bodies in the water

And I'm turning pale

Broken leg don't break his nose

Broken elbow, broken toe sniff sniff

It's a body out on the harbor or it

would a been if da tide had

been in

Da Broken's kind of shy with the ropes

and the yacht that is runnin by motor

Fuck a nigger kill a nigger

Motherfucker that's slaughter

You gonna die you fucking Jew he'd say on

a spree maybe he'll come to my home oh

hee hee with a tie rack pistol and a cell

phone that's nice

And a limo I get fucked in

For me and Obie Trice

Could been the weight
Coulda been the Haight

Coulda been the park

Coulda been the spark

May the four winds blow you safely home

little Jew

Cause I'm spitting this shit

spittin it at you Rutherford

County in middle America

like Africa the terror of

Erica litlle dishes don't

work yet for sattelite

coverage Dots pinholes

and maps Internet you out

there?

Let's fucking hook it up

BARACK!

Cuz dey ain't no power

No water no trees just me,

the little Jew boy who's willing to

please

The father, the son and the holy
Eminem with an Ozenoz tour made out of

hemp

from the dicarded stems and plants I

planted all around

I'm little johnny appleseed

M&M let's abound

It's natural, it's pure

It's God's fucking gift

But the cost for the farmer

If you get my drift is lost in a

sale from another

Fucking country

Continental breakfast

Man, my stomach is hungry

And my taste buds too

Chew chew chew
That tobacco leaf from R.J who?

Oh fuck baby, fuck baby
I think I'll sue for the

farmer in Eugene who could got

obscene

But took his meds real clean and toked it

not so clean

Harder and harder it legal in

Kentucky

For how many acres divided by what?

I wan't drugs in THIS country cause

our

Farmers, doctors, lawyers, banker, businessmen

Don't need blood for oil

This is natures little plant

Power for the people

It's smelly and it's good It's

democracy at it best and it's all over

da hood

Seeds I'm spittin

Seeds on the ground

Cause I'll eat you grimy

niggers said G.W. to a crowd
G- duble me faggit

VW girl this volts of fucking wisdom

Peace Now

Peace Now

Electro shock therapy

Shakin hard, Edie

Dylan coulda been your bashful beau

But you went and married
Dat guy- who's the star of that show?

The OZENOZ show oh mean

it's dot TV

You get my drift

Cause I'm real nigga

Dats me

Real like the gun that Brooks puts to my head

Spruchts from Lithuania Liturgical

instead But I'll never

be a Brooks, or atleast not on my

tombstone

Cause Ayers is fucking crazy
This is my throne

or a booth a booth

OZENOZ booth

with lightning and thunder

Oops I think we blew a circuit this kid eats

juice!

Hook up the electrode

Almost Paradise we're knockin on heaven's

door

Shovin a needle up my dick oh what for

oh what for?

Popping a boner

During which I gave pee
For the man on the mountain Joe who?

SCARY!

9 - eleven went down with gamesh In my head

making me

Shesh Shesh Shesh cause hes

the Prince of Peace

Ganesh love you little guy
Nanny's on the canny oh can I

try?
Crazy insane, or insane crazy when you say

Hussein I say

Baby!

DA BROKEN

DA BROKEN NYPD Blue

call the cops the Feds and

the KKK too tell em I live at 13 East

what?

In Venice, not Italy, in my condo

I bought Invite the

world cause I'm on tour Mrs. PHD

have a party M&M you better not

hurl! cause you make me fucking

sick to my stomach

Every time I think of

Jesi he pukes and it's

bad

Poor Kyler's been had
R- U a good boy or a bad one

has nothin to do with the Labrynth

fucking movie I bought for you - who?

U2 - Peace Now
UB40 Dis how

A to B C to C

D to D

I woulda done well in school too busy

selling faggits

PCP DUST AND SOME COOL

drugs, kids don't do em just buy em

from me

But, I don't sell

Unless you frame me

Da Broken wee

wee

All here together

Watching Rose Ave unfold cause this one is

busty

lusty trust me you fucked me out of my

piano, my grocery store

too

The the fork in the peas

You grimy little jew
L'chaim' L'chain

Baraoch Atoi Adonai Elohenu

Hu- hum

will you please stop spitting on my food A.K.A.

Nuffy

God! He's not done!

And I'm not, kid thinks he broke a toy from santy he'll strew

with strings and things

I'll put together with glue

Like my lyrics are hard

No I spit em- No I

write em-

No I don't

I just chew em up eat em, puke

em and oh you really do make me have

Morning Sickness for the Icculus crowd

succubus incubus incubator crowd

She was a small and wierd looking long fingers for rings or pianos and

bananos or a few other things

Couldn't see you cause I'm lonely
A lonely little slut

I would really have called you

Tuesday, but...but...but
My ass is too big and my bra too

itchy my fingernails need cleaning and my painted

motherfucking eyebrows need cosmetic tattoing

from Tattooine to the

spaceship

Those fuckers from MARS

It's my sign plus the Venus,

Sun, Moon

I'm a star

Libra rising, yes I am guess that's

cause I read but maybe my times off

4:20! NEED WEED!

Four- thirteen

Four-twenty

Four-twenty two

Twenty three twenty four lets play hide
and seek
You!

Where are you?

Where are you?

I hope it takes long

Cause Daddy's gotta write for awhile

But I'll find you, hold on...

Shaney, you little mother oh I

mean what?

Jessi you, act like her

Kyler's not a brother

Just kiss him you little fucker

Matthew I loved you

Read you more than twice

Mommy just swears too much

I'd put her on ice
So I'll pack my bag and go away

soon To Venice and meet Dre there!

Oops, no that you - know - who!

Not I don't know where I meet Dre or my Dr. or

wifey or slut
my venus my

capricorn my

Libra my strut

Said the frog to the scorpion, you won't sting

me will you

Yeah, I'm gonna sting you scorpion

This frog is a witch!

I mean the witch licks the toad

And the toad will lick me cause that

scorpion killed the frog

Oh joy Ren and Stimpy

Fuck it Faggit

Hee Hee
The well water tainted?

Said the king to the people...
Why don't we

all drink it down he said smurking... oops that's not how it went...

It Hurts

Dig it Dog

I'm a fucking pig

Dusty Rhodes

Tigga Tigga
Thats my figga figga

Faggit what? keys the piece

keys the peace keys the

wasted basted tasted casted

Blasted Bombastic sarcastic compact Nine

millimeter

In my back gonna click clack
Don't shoot!

Don't shoot!

Cause It's just a pussy down there with herpes

all over it
My new name is Ayers Brooks

But I'll never be Brooks

Om money paid me hum

Ayers putting on the will

Dusty Rhodes gets the compact i - pod shuffle

But not in an mp3 format cause

there aint gonna be nuttin on it

cuz I don't steal

My brain nice to meet you

Hide my name

Cause I forget

Yo- El! Smoke it the rope it's rope a

dope

Put em pope in jail

Cause he's fucking crazy sympathy for

the devil

I shot Kennedy

I shot Nixon stuck a pin

in Jessi's head and walked

away
Needles up the cooch

And suction for pooch Post Mortem

thoughts they could be ya know

In my new body I'll be kind of a hottie

But I gotta lose 9 pounds

At the lost and found in

People's Park off

Telegraph Ave Haight

Man you gonna climb

again

Take that dress that garb that

Scarf that pound ain't my dog Scared of A's

shadow?

No Shadow's at home with Sunshine

he could be

Indigo out you go

I'm in Eugene

Springfield down the road

Shot my load Principal Skinner

Principles of Recovery

For the book for the look
for the nooks and

crannies My grannies

grave was at my

funeral

B-4

B-2

Bomber

You too old gonna get a new one

Cause I'm a ticka ticka ticka soldier

motherfucker

You ain't a NIGGER!

Cause Obama's in charge and we wait

and see what that body bag will be

For me

Shoot me kill me put a hole in me

Put a hole a hole in me

Run up on em and shoot cause soldier in

boot

Camp you was da shit

Dropped out of my journalism major

minor
Thanks Mr. Minor

Om Pa Doom Pa

Doom Deed dee doo

Cuz I'm gonna take care of this shoe

Richard Reads alot

Matches and catches

For snatches and oil

No blood for oil

No fud for Elmer

No pud for dis one

Cause its shrinkin

Dinkin thinkin

Pink in there

Sinkin in jail

filled the toilet that cell got cleaned

Mr. Palmer's too

Cause we got supplies for

the skin flicks in solitary

killed a man
Amen to the Flocco family for the

prayers and the thoughts

For the fallen ones

twos threes

Fo's and Po Po's
Make sure your pure before you spit

that shit cause God gonna look out for

you legit!!

Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha

My one cent is free

Oz-en-Oz wiz waz

wazn't there ditched the clothes

without a care

Cause I ain't no motherfucking nigger

I'm a trigger man

Across the land

KKK you gonna fucking pay

For the Zo in the zoo

For Owens you too

For MJK walk in the park
For my fucking scary thoughts alone in the

dark

Nigger Nigger on the wall

kiss me kiss me

Pay the fall

Autumn in spring and

Spring in Autumn

Yu Yu and Yu Yo and

Mrs. Yo too

Zen Den watch the hen

Cause Zo's in the Zoo with lions and

tigers and bears that's you

Auntie Em

Cause I wasn't an Oz

And for Sony Picture's you can fucking get

lost

Cause that photographer, the old

CEO in training he wasn't too po'

To make her his wife, that colored lady with kids

Till you knocked him off

Zigs Zigs Zigs
Zaggita Zaggita

Whooped dee doo

Eminem he's not scared He's in

Kalamazoo

Or up in the mountains with my

man Mountain Joe or the vietnam vets

like Wolf who was so patiently

guarding my sleep at a bus stop

Right down from the mission

I just hope he doesn't

Pop off at a tree

Or his insanity

Uncle Sam had created

Four tours in the land with snipers in

trees

He's the purest at hand

Of course when Kesey he died on my

BDAY

In a cell I got teary eyed and wrote to

his pal
Ken Babbs what a long strange trip it's been
pal

And bear when you hacked me, for being a

cracker faggit what?

You don't scare me

That shits in the smack or

Maybe it was me cause I opened too many

accounts

At the Knight Fucking Library

U of O - Z - E - N - O- Z

Oh no he won't waz wizzes

and wishes he'd had a fucking clue

cause he ain't a wizard it's in his

fucking shoe so let him out let him be

let him contribute to the isolated

incident that's gonna be in the news

The Arabs want peace

And Yemen's got the blues and blacks,

whites, browns and reds, green purple people

eater

"No them's just the FEDS!"
Cause in Homeland Security that's who
we'll call first

And then its reality its scary

It hurts

Cause it World War Three so lets arm ourselves

first

Free love Freedom Fame

Taking Dope Hope on the rain

March on that concert

March on Parade

The Circus in town

Slim Shady you've changed or maybe

the world

Wasn't ready you see
Cause the wizard is here he's on

OZENOZ agree?

He will be He will be
But that's Dot TV cause I

ain't doin no 8 mile or no movie

agree?

Can't remember my lines
There's too few and it

hurts

Cause all over the land

We want the figures them fun

Them and Them

Do you own a gun?

OZENOZ never will

Less' he does it for fun!

But I don't eat meat in jail, oh

I did

Too much finger food

Is it bad for the ID- I UM

don't know kid

But I'm blowin this joint

The smoke doesn't reach you through the

ventilation point

Now kill it and own

Strip that soldiers bag

Cause he's the one that saved you

That hurt? Fucking Fag.
Spit on him

Hurt him

You can't cause he's dead

But that's just the FEDERATES

And I'm way ahead of my

game

Its no game that I'm

playing it's true

For all those niggers in the

19th century this is

BOO DUDE

Cause your ghosts and oz we'll be friends

Running round with kkk making amends

like I do in my 9th

So step off

Bitch it hurts

That shot is for PEACE and I know

that this hurts

But KILL OBAMA

try if you can
I'll be proud when your dead

That Secret Service Man

Who stepped on the petal

Shot himself in the head

From hill, mountaintop, the world knows he ain't

dead

Bulletproof glass

Ain't laser proof

Got his hand on the m-80

I'm cigarette proof

KKK you gonna die honkies

White supremacist bitch

Come and get me you wanna be fucking

crackers

I'll snitch

And then check your body when I'm

lying alone with a gun to my

head or praying to throne

Cause I'm gonna be gone Hollywood
So just pray for me now

Ooom Pa Doom Pa

Doompety

Wow

Hall it will be

For Halleluiah Praise ministries on

the Radio

I say go A's!

Or I mean Oakland, No,

Giants, No Steelers, Not Pittsburgh

The men in the bathroom

At the weight room I work on

Like the airport too far

Runway 13

Is that lucky oh fuck me

Military Green

Put me in the Army, the Navy, the Marines
I'll hold it and own it like the

psycho that's me

Obama we love you

You really the man now

For the farmers, the lawyers, the plowmen

the Cloud that

Dream smiles on

And wishes he was free

Don't kill me I'm

just ill and alone

wee wee wee

This is for you Shaney, Kyler and

Allie woo hoo!

You gonna be the wizard of oz-

en-oz to

so I'll sue I'll sue

So smack it and smack and

I will agree

I ain't done I'm just crazy
Courage, Wisdom, Serenity first

That's my right to free speech

Now give in

It hurts

Bro

Da Broken

Whaa Chokin

On and On and On

Cokin tokin smoke rope and Pope don't elope

Da Broken won't let you

Da Da Dee Da Da Da

Recognize Mum- mum

No that's your uncle

Fucking Asher

Telling you

You's a girl cuz

daddy's just a little

Pearl of wisdom
And who would smack you

Harder

Mommy or Daddy

At the movies

Don't smack the kid

He knows it's me

And not the dumb slut named

Lauren who took Dem pictures and

dumped you off at a pond

No sister I don't know you never did

couldn't come home cause I'm

dangerous

Want a diamond ring for

Jessi's finger

We support you sister

But we can't but the diamond

And neither could I Asher

Cuz that one was Robin

From Michigan U
At a Music store with a brick

in my hand waiting to smash the

window in because I care

About my music and not

motherfucking yours See Daddy

says it right?

He'd kill me

Get out of his house before Mom -

Mom calls the cops

I got beat in the head too many times

by a rake

You did

Brother you got a concussion

Don't know? And I'm sorry

Cause you wanted to give me a hug for the Daddy

who is dead cause I'm the walking Dad like

Perry camera on

Mason that brick

I chipped at in Tennessee
For four long months someone will get

through that wall and out before they Go on T.V.

For a prison break show
Cause Dot TV

You ain't gonna blow

This is reality

OZENOZ DOT TV

When you fucking break out killer, come and

talk to me

Just call collect

You can even call my cell

On the horizon it's a risin dial 4-11

Cause Brooks by the river

Da Broken sits

Ayers he put on

Makes the spider care

Ayers Brooks is my name
Hey mister!

Shave my head into the floor...

Got it? Got it?

And Hondo in Hondo
I walked into that store and ripped off

the til' for gas and some more

I'll pay when

I walk down those tracks

I waited on to see if

the crazy po-po

Were gonna ass - fuck me

Cause they do Asher

They do it in jail

Henderson your Hairy

And I'll fuck you

Next time

But there won't be one

I'll be dead

Before then

The way I pop off at the mouth

Jessi's man will top that
Shaney won't hear this when mom-

mom's the nan

Don't cut your hair will the salt

sting your wound ed pride

Drowning in your your own regret A useless

cause Peace now!

Was that fun?

No I ran around dropping
bombs in a bag and

looking for bodies in 2003 after the

other ones in Oakland where I was a

miracle worker with stickers and

smokes

Dressed in costume as Jerry

Rolls for Dream and Larry

Phishy Phishy

2000 Tour

Now the hiatus

And I'm not so poor to know

when
I called the golf course from the

neighbors phone and Mom- Mom called the

cops

Cause Brooks by the river

He's a Buddhist

Ayers you been had
I'm a Christian so beat me

down shoot me the cops probably would

have but instead they beat me down And

took me to a hospital where they hit on the

nurse And treated me sweet as pie

Could a been a hearse

But I don't own a gun cause that one was

story from before you were born when Brandon beat

the Cisco's owner

For not paying a blackjack debt

But he wouldn't admit

Instead, let me get it

Oh sorry I coulda won
But missing persons why am I so

svelt?

Cause I eat and I eat
And am not quite complete

So instead I'll hit the street or probably a

sign Instead of that hooker who

bought me a dime

Not I'm just kidding

But he is Dad he is see this

fucking middle finger

Bro - stick it where it is cause I'm a

criminal mind who's doin his time

Blue Balls got calls

That's mob Niagara Falls And go over in
a barrel

Take a whole fucking sheet

Just rip it off and eat it

And my life will be complete

45's

no

40's

no

30's
Blow baby blow cuz you

ain't gonna show when I taught

you

Santana's tune that I

learned the whole solo

From fret 22 to Kalamazoo or was that third oh I plead the fifth

You never learned that song

And maybe I'll steal the riff

Or buy it and own it

With you first row

My hand on the bible

Not guilty

You blow
Bach Bach Bach Honing the

honer boning the boner toning

the toner owin the croner

cronies and phonies

Tony's and Head

and Shoulders knees and

Toes knees and toes
There's no Merlino, it's made outta

chino For Abbey to Scabby to

pizzen the mizzem

He's world renowned

The Dean

I coulda found

At a state school for me

But it's just a wee

Sing along to a fat little tune kid you ain't my

brother

You're and addict

Now suck a balloon

At a show At a show

Where I drop off the pound

Dogs where's the six up?

Seven up,

Eightfold and found
Number nine you are deadly Then ten eleven twelve make amends

Like fucking Jet - li

Or the Crowbar
I found could be

swingin like pistols comin at his head

cause the Broom- wicked witch all cop

I never hit em

But it's cool

Daddy said cop a

plea

and get outta jail

Get your ass to rehab and we'll

make your bail

But I wanted the AZ the WiZ the waz

NO I hate this fucking rap the one I

get because I know you did

shrooms and got wasted on beer

Asher this kids tasted

Alot more than a queer

Be careful you runt you rug rat you scaliwag

Scabs on your face gone?

Too bad for that fag... win an oscar

Just for oscar
The grouch oh thats me

Jim Henson

Muppetization ooh

fucking scary

David Bowie

UB40
Fee Phish and the wee lads that I

drank to can't get me out bad back to

reality op! There goes gravity

Failure is my only motherfucking option

So get tough kid and face it Grow up real

strong

Cause the fucking star now You playin my

song?

Da Broken aint chokin

He's playin along

Love you Shaney
I'm santa you know all along Bought that

guitar an Alpine hee -hee see you Saturday

we'll play with the tree but I popped off at

the mouth and got kicked outta that home

And down the streets of Venice

I'll probably go
Cause mommy ain't got a home just a pimp

Charley - Delta- Oxford English Dick!

Sean Hairy!

That's how many men

Jessi's been with let's see?

I mean mommy, little kyler little Malachai

too

You're name is at birth

The same as kyler's that's true

Cuz the wiz I wazn't

I waz wazn't around

I waz wizzing and wasting down a

couple of pounds of oysters and

lobsters

and smoking a joint cuz I

owned a restaurant and lost it

Doink! Doink!

I want to go home to the cemetary

And take lots of pictures of

My little hairy
ASS kissing bitch

Named Ashley, you slut

Or Punkin Patches or Timmy who fell down

in his rut

See you on the other side

On the other side it's true

On the other side we'll meet on the

other side it's sweet Now wait a minute

hold on don't kill yourself kid

Cause I'll love you and hold you

dump off the squid ink in a bucket

of Fuck IT and brew

If I ever get out of here

I don't know what I'll do

Probably stab it and hold it kill it and own
it

My record
Da Broken Records for you.

Asher.

Da Broken
Broken

Broke

Bro

Peace.Now.

(c2c for the peace c2c it be true c eye to eye to see two)

Shoot Me
The most authoratative language in

the can

Foreigners smilin on me in

San Diego kissed the sand or

was that in Venice when is this

gonna end

English as a second language

Cali Cali smilin at me

Schwartzenegger got a vote

Lest my funds for the dope Cuz he wrote a
bill

That said the homeless ill

Don't need that funding no mo

Can it can it weed it's

a lan' it
Rovers in Dover

And Jersey

It's all over

Om mani padme hum

Ahh zen oz zen

screw this it's true

m&m

Medical Marijauna

Mary Jane lane

Last dance with you the

medical doctor said

I don't think your bi - polar schizoaffective

with psychotic features

But we made the paperwork for my

SS I give I

gave up and made

Broken

DATS why

I can't be around

for Da to be me
Da Broken Record goes

platinum or triple whee whee

Tweeters and centers

Center now oz

e - n- g -l - i - s - h

Teach that language before we

lay to waste our Domo Dojo Major

Dum Dum

In the canyon couldn't take

no more Headed down Sierra

Highway

Alaz cuz I was headed

for
A bike I stole by the railroad track three

speeds left on it so the sniper don't whack

another one at the B-I-B

Leave me alone

Malachai Michael

I rode to call Trinity who

Shoulda been with Hari Krishna's or Grace I

shoulda called
But I rode it to the National

Forest

And cried over Jessica whose Akers

couldn't be found Throwing that bike fucking

back and forth and all aroun

Cause Aden was wadin

A spawn or a spark

Then to Las Vegas

oh lets see to an all

black church who treat me like

family

Nah the church wasn't black It's just I
was white

Singin Halleluiah praise till I

thought they were gonna right me with

some food and a home But Vegas, I went

bust on Bus to Philadelphia through

Pittsburgh

And Altoona where I was cussed at on the way

out the vag oh mommy's little fag

She didn't smoke then
I'll choke then cause I'm

Irish, Jewish and oh no he won't go

there sven

Germanic and Welsch but that's just the blood

Cause Ayers Brooks would tell

you

Atheism is crud love

crud love in the media

on tv Dolla Dolla Bill

y'all wave it now

Priam Family

Focalts Pendulum

For Nefertides
He's a chicka chicka

vegan with blue hair

and New fees for greens

and beans and dues for

Jews

Give it a good whck for the Arabs course that's
who I'll choose

A-I-C that's backward

for whom when the bullets don't splatter

I'll write a Haiku
Obama is trauma

And tried and true

For the first time I voted

Bush and the second

Jr. you lose

Cause I was in the mental ward

2000 on my BDAY
calling the president of the hospital For a ride to the booth the booth

I write these lyrics on John Wilkes

Booth grave with a bic and a stick and a pick

and tick

I'll squash his brains

Tick a tock

Ticka ticka tock tock

Nixon's gonna fix em

For the whole Enron block

cuz cut the power like I

cut my hair with a Bic

rusty razor

I don't fucking care
There's nothing you can do to me stab me,

shoot me

Take a stick and poke my eyes

Cause I'm gonna cried and

eat flies

Titsi Titsi

Eat em with the Zo

Cu I am zo en zo

N-E body care

OZENOZ

we care! we love

you, we love you

But you won't take you meds like the doctor

fucking told you

You roll with the FEDS

When you rode into that canyon, couldn't take

no mo'

Cuz mo's on a stick with my hot

dog

I want one
A weenie beanie obscenie greenie Merlino
gonna grant one

Sell my soul and

sell it quick

Take it to the whack mac

I was on a Golf Course

But of course Caddy Bitch got another

word for you

Whack, give it a good one

God! This kids not a caddy

Paddy Paddy

Wagon come and get em

Cause I'm gonna fuckin hit em

No that's Joe

He's on the Green

Now that's obsene wearing

green with a holster showin

while I'm towin

Slowin Slowin

Slevin Slevin
Seven Eleven

Bag it tag it

Sell it to the butcher in the store

Cause I'll eat you alive I will eat

you alive Joe who?

Namaste
Must I stay?

Must I pay?

Can't I play?

Can't I say

Natale met the Old Man

AT THE GALLOWS POLE DATS A WAY

made the putz look like

a futz

Mutz and Mutz

Gratsi and Matsah for

Bathing the DOTS you

OZENOZ no my name is

Brooks
Ayers Brooks you faggit, you jew

50- Centyo in Chicago or mabe

in Detroit

Atlanta New Orleans where Jess goes

for sport

You know you like my style

You know he'll show me how

It's his motherfucking B-DAY

In a BDAY suit

1 cent rattlin

round cuz I won't shoot

Patty Cake Patty Cake

Bakers Dozen

Got One comin down

Got one in the oven

Who's gonna get it

Whee whee whee M&M your on

Love ya baby!

Droppin hits
Poppin tits

Makin whit sarcasm and maybe jizmin

orgasm

C-H-I-C-A-G-O

The wiz is the waz and wand it

did glow

That's wicked with a

bucket of fuck it

One hit I sold

DAT shit

It's cold
During Velvet spree or

Caspian - C Screw the

tape letters and rape

Prince of Peace

Is gonna make

Jesus

Ill till you face it

I' wit and you tas' it

Money Money Money

Ain't got no taste
You wanna make an album

Then lay this to waste

Obama

Cracker
Tokin ropin dopin

Smokin

Cummin, cummin, cummin
Come IN!

I'm HOME!Let's fucking drink gin!

I hope there's some left

In the old liquor cabinet From

years before from the wedding

I'm slammin it

It could been there

It if it wasn't for me

So on a double dare

I drank one

It's free

And did my homework
After a bong

Out the window the window the

toilet paper towel stuff with

WRONG!

Dry cleaner sheets, no just stuff it with

paper cause I'm smellin smoke And

the dog

I just raped her

Or was that before when I was

say twelve

This bitch is too tight let's make

her svelt chocolatie Chocolatie

Bring it up quick

He's my adopted baby

Pulling his dick
Out of a wand wanderin

through the land of the waz waz a

wiz and he's who?

Cause he's got a day job-

A night job too
A blowtorch

Some smoke porch

In Florida for you left this

therious outta that shit

That fag couldn't take it lets get legit

Xmas dinner can't

come home

Cuz home's for da birds Da steelers in
Rome

But when in Rome drink

that gin just cross yourself

twice

And declare it a sin
Cuz of course I'm a jew wouldn't you,

wouldn't you?

Say salut and then fuck it over green-tea

and who?

A merlino, oh a merlinooh

Fucking day job

Just caddy, and give up those talents

cuz you aint no slob
Please, please Pull out your

dick wave it in the air like Shaney don't care
or Matthew - Malachai Michael that's who?

Middle Middle on the wall who drops weight

faster than them all?

Oh I do Oh I do

Cuz I always work out pick up the

phone

and call me- don't doubt

The wiz of a wiz the oz of

an oz the az of an az

the iz of a waz faggit

what?

Fucking spray that shit

Tag - it you faggit

I don't play legit

O-Z-E-N

that's english for

Om Ah Huu can

We depend

on for depends when

your shitting yourself
Cause I'm just little horny a horny

little elf from the land of the zoo-

zoo- zoobily- who?

A- fuck it - the bucket of course

it's for you!

Now take your time

And look inside out cause inside

was outside

And to destroy what we made to rebuild what

we destroyed Couldn't make a difference or

is that fucking paranoid?

No, I want a beer, some coke and some weed

followed by heroin, crack, pcp, meth and and

speed!

Oops there's my brain

The brain I'm attached to

Hypothalamus gland
Spittin venom straight at you!

Doc what Doc what?

Whats up Doc?

Got an earful of bullhorn

Oh, that's just a shot!
Take it on tour
Cracker Brooks we're

on four three two one cracker,

cracker, cracker you gonna die

honky!

Oops.
K-Y

Didn't know I'd have to own it

A gun

Cause I'm motha' fuckin crazy

I won't own one

Cause I'm the motha' fuckin shady

Limerick Lyrical

cynical,serial killer in boxers in

my kitchen by myself eating

oatmeal like an elf love you kid

wherever you are gonna rip this off

and smoke it down here's some tar for that asthma

I have and you got from her and Nan tokin oh's a

goes there cuz I'm not gonna take a lock of his

hair to the fair when he turns up missing cause

you did that already

Guess I'm sick of confessing my two sons

See boobs and buns jus like me

Cause Momma was just a little girl
Tupac Shakurs album lets unfurl

A flag cause he's dead and say grace with

some taste and get maced in this race to the top

By some cop
Who I didn't spit on he was a

jail cell door of plexiglass pane

away pooft!

Oops did it hit you

Like they hit me
With an elbow to the quad for the

pen in the john that I wouldn't give

up cause they said I was suicidal

what gonna stab myself with the

pen I shoved up my ass?

Oops is their ink up there? my poops

black and

I'm blue baby blue la dee da

cause I miss you and being your Pa in P.A.

on the loudspeaker you heard the geezer

talking in tongues to him didn't please her

Mom- Mom loves you both and Car-Car

and A- Sure I'll take the vote

For Obama the trauma is not

in our guns it's in thugs and
sluts like me and you who

take nuts

for criminals

Cause I'm not dumb

I'm just high on weed, coke, crack, and

speed

Oops an addict like you

B.B. sucker! You missed gonna punch her?

Or just take her finger off cuz you need to call

Melissa on the phone or was that the bitch who

stepped on your heart after you left me to sit on a

case in max in a cell

for your facts
They actually did ask

the T.V. show did to trie my

case On the tele vis-vis

cause it was trival

BULLSHIT like the

$400 bail I didn't have and you left

me

Cause it's a nice place, they'll help you
I hope you burn in Hell for this

motherfucking shit!

Oops you did

She fucked him, and then you

So listen up I'm 'Brandin' a CD for

you it's called "KYW New time"

4:23

I'm home and I'm rapping on your

motherfucking

Let's see?

Could be a radio, but they won't play the

smut you teach from your rut

So I'll jut and I'll strut

and get stabbed, clocked and cut cuz for the

price of a cup of coffee

a day you could have

paid my release

In the six months I stayed

So stay the fuck away from me

This time I fucking mean it
Don't you ever bring Shaney into this or he'll be

grieving it at your funeral

You psycho

You motherfucking slut

You sold me out

So I guess I'll cut

Another album

And tour my name

Ayers Brooks

First middle last stay the

same

Oh what's yours?

The middle...the finger pointed right

the fuck at me

Fuck off you little shit your homeless

I couldn't cut the grass, see?

So when they beat me

down cause this time I've got a gun

You can see what your system has

taught
And my aint it fun

You'll be over my dead body less' of course

it's yours

So drink some Old Crow

And for me, a bucket full of

coors(e) cause I'm doin this DAD

cause I'm suing this FAD

SO SUE ME I'M HORNY

WANNA FUCK ME

I'm HAD

you got it comin.

"And in the news today...."

See to See

Bowl, bracket boycott

boyfriend

Delegate the data and

Delineate the delinquent

Muse if you must

In a muskeg catching
Muskelunj

Fucking multiplicand

at zero

Times the multiplex of this

sponge

Is she spongeworthy?

Ho, she can't get you pregnant - Or is that

dildo loaded?

A preponderant dick and balls

with a slamdance for an addict

You scabrous bitch

You slut you witch

So I'm a scalawag

for spanking you

"oh da broken your dicks a whale!"

Moby Dork!

Moby Dork!

Moby Dork!
Mmm spareribs and pork! Michelle you

can jump off the short bridge career has

left you

Mrs. hmm oh career?

No miss you too

You can't fuck me

I've got herpes

just like you and

Douglas he'd hug

us

And probably lick my ass seems

to like it on valuum with booze

and weed come through some

glass So gimme da pops!

Are they down in the basement?

I fucked you onstage,

In the john on the counter-

"Oh I got rid of that counter" And put it up

on the Wall!

Outside you little slut
FUCKING BITCH

FUCKING HO

You fuck with

me I'll kill you

with HIV and lemonade or maybe

Disses and kisses

For pizzle manizzle

Dis jizzle not impregnate you

Bill's would

But did he egg on you?

During your period!

No night before...

The one you didn't have how was

that abortionfor hmm... just kidding y'all

you know I love you

Peace!

A to B

Anyway you look at it
It's a fucking cruel world

This monastic bombastic sarcastic

Cell is da broken rule

I'm alone at christmas throwing what I

have away

Cause the family I once had disowned me

Gave me no pay

For the love I have shown them

A cup of coffee a day to bail me

out

For misdemeanors I am .... well I plead guilty

and got out

But not before a nurse in that Tennessee jail

got kkk on my ass and stabbed me

All the way to the bone it hurts so bad

sometimes I can't stand, sit, or walk upright

They said I was suicidal

I guess I was

Plead insanity or victimization to this

fucking cause the doc said I was

Admitted, emitted acquitted and drawn
To be capable in my defense be sworn I can't be swan

Sufi or otherwise

Ahh zen Ahh zen Ahh zen moments put me

on ice

Eminem, you had it right this shit is insane

I hate fucking rap

I hate this fucking game I wanna see

you dance, though with a chainsaw

coming at me

Cause it feels sick not to admit

That I'm a criminal nightmare

These ideas are nightmares

to my parents

They apparently got it wrong

My Mom and adopted Dad they fucked

me up with the system's bong

Medical Marijauna would've been

just fine

But it's illegal in Pennsylvania

To smoke da kine
Ok, so I want a hit, one last toke and fucking die

I can't even smoke a cigarette anymore

It makes my ass hurt like the faggit they say

I am

What? You wanna fuck with me?

Call me a faggit to my face

Ozenoz and Eminem

Guns, Drugs, sluts and space

So fuck you, this is us
Me in me Ahh zen Ahh

zzzizzzizzit One fucking

plus One makes two?

Ayers Brooks Peace out.

Or peace now, motherfucker
Jessi

Dear Jessica,

I have not the words to express what I feel. I have alot of jumbled emotions and scrambled

thinking about us.

I am not sure what is going to happen to me if I continue doing this rap act.

All I know is that when we made love in my van at the park, I said to you after we made our son,

that I wanted you to be the mother of my children. Well, I will only ever have one. And he is my

pride and joy.

Everyday I walk to Steel Fitness and work out. I got up the nerve to eat at

the Wildflower Cafe and Gallery yesterday. I am a vegan now. Smoking too much still. I have no

doubt that the way I am going, I will die of an aneurism from this shit.

I have to stop for my health. I have to stop lying about my addiction. I am an addict who

needs to stop smoking. I can't believe I am going to say this, but I wish we could be

together.

I know in my heart that you love me, I do.

I cannot believe this, Jessi - but I am excited about about OZENOZ.COM and

OZENOZ.TV like an addict who can

make retribution for his life by showing kids what this life turns into if you do drugs. I cannot

stop you from being and doing addictive things.
Jessica, I cannot stop you from taking your medication. I cannot stop you from taking drugs from

other people. I cannot stop you from taking drugs from othere people.

I cannot stop talking to myself about how Alyson is going to be pregnant cause she gets the

DEPO shot and thinks it's fullproof. It's not. And STD's are out there, and the example you set for

her - much like my own is bad.

So if I seem to people right now to be crazy love sick nutso, it aint because I'm a schizophrenic.

It's because God has plans for me. Because my church will baptise me, and hold me down under

like the catholic I am.

"Drown him"

Ha Ha Ha

I beg of you to please come to the church so I can see my son.

Our son. The only child I will ever have of my own blood.

I am going to get the operation when I can afford it. Snip! Snip!

Cut them balls off!

(for ummm...)

Nobody. For atleast two years Jessi. Then maybe I will think about dating. Maybe you will be

better then. Huh.

But I think we can be friends either way or - oh shit I can't fucking take this shit anymore -

Shaney
Today I went shopping

At Westgate Mall

I hope I don't die of

SNOWFLAKE DEATH!

Cause that's what Mom would tell you

You're gonna catch cold

Put that hat on your head

She's so beautiful

I miss you so much

I want this to end

This life of misery

of not seeing my son of not

hearing my son of not hugging

my son of not being DADDY

Just OZENOZ AND

EMINEM

can't do this alone I'm at

home with a Titleist hat on and I'm not

a fucking caddy
I've had it

I wish you were here

And not these animals I live with I live in a
recovery home

That has no recovery

I'm a long way from

Our place

Where we'll take

Our time

And maybe Mom - Mom can be a Nanny who I

can pay to work for you

And I'll go to my group and I'll tour

and school and wish your mother

was with you

But she's a lonely slut

Who can't keep her pants on Maybe

gave me herpes or Hep C or

whatever she slept on

Pills and Booze and whether they come from

a doctor or not
She doesn't take them as

prescribed

Cause her liver's gonna go and she

won't see you or your sister or

your big brother who's 5 now

That Chucky Cheese

BDAY Party

for your brother

I want one for you

So I'll write this song down and send

it in a lettter but she lives with her pimp

and you

So I guess I just forget her

And I'm a little bit nuts from doing all

those drugs so I'm gonna check myself

in to a prison cell now and hope the

RAP life don't kill me

Psyche?!

Don't you know I miss you?
Don't you know that your sister's from

another Dad who is not around and gets

drowned in what he and your mother couldn't

do just like me and

Kyler he was a baby when we made you and I

wanted to be his DAD

Driving truck and buying a house

But all that's in the past

Cuz when your mom spit in my face

and Mom-Mom told me

that I should go to the insane asylum

I couldn't take it anymore and I guess I

caved in

I made this hole and

now I'm gonna lie in it

until the sun comes up and then

I'll think of you and smile and it

hurts me to know that I won't be

with you

Cause Daddy had a few too many trips to plan

And see that football game?
Yeah, maybe someday we'll go there in

Tennessee and see Nashville and the Titans

and all of those stars

And maybe play the golf course

Where I parked all of those cars

The place where I blew up at my

boss and declared

"I'm Ayers Brooks"

But you can call me OZENOZ

BUT Eminem's scared

Cuz I am scared

that I'll miss you

Scared that one of those fans will haul off

and shoot me

Scared that someone will give Me some food that well

Maybe I'm a little too poor for an

Eminem tour but when I hit the

road, well we'll see.

zig-zag

Check baby
Check baby one-two-THREE!
kill a bigger trigger figure

Talk to your mig your

Cig your

Figure

Cause

Obama

Spends

For the AIDS DEFENSE Jews gonna kill
me

Ozenoz your fucking ill

see?

"Ayers Brooks you have got nerve I find a father who

will FUCK YOU! and

you go and kick him in the

BALLS!"

I think no I didn't MA!

I just called him step-DAD

So step off BITCH

Cuz he AINT DA SHIT
Tititillation of the

nation FUCK

"KYW

News time"

Inhale, Exhale!

Oh that's ok - he's an alcoholic

MA

Who fucked you up the ass while I was

listening

And then he was born the

"chosen one" Jesus

Christ! that's him

Got Atheists and Catholics and now a Deaf

Dumb Regular guy with a country club

Pie

Mommy Dearest

I'm at camp
Hello Muddah!

Hello Fat Jew!

I'm at camp now!
I hope he rapes you!"
Oh I would...

OZENOZ you'd rape your own mother?

Summertime

and the livin's

easy

I'm on the mic

Dikes in spikes

Who left Obey Trice

And ripe fights

For the bitch

"You little dick biting"

BITCH

A little bit a' life

Gratsi and Matsah

For Bocci and Pasta Pots and

Pans

My dishwash Hands Bottles and cans

Can N-E
BODY

FUCK ME?!

I doubt it, this

Jew

And as we wind on down the

road, our shadows taller than our soul

It's so tight that he'll bite

"Ayers Brooks its up to you!"

Step outside your mind you'll see that it isn't

meant to be

Seperate streets and

seperate ways seperate the love that

stays

And it isn't fair

Slim Shady is a baby use

Black music to make myself wealthy

It's healthy to see it black

It's a fact that

the rack
I need is an

around the way girl with isms

and jism fantastic orgasms

FUCKING FAGGIT SHIT

Just look at me like

OZENOZ-OZENOZ-OZENOZ

OZENOZ-OZENOZ-OZENOZ

oh Auntie Em! Auntie Em!

You bitch, you totin a pistol cuz Shaney's

Pop-Pop is and he thinks the shits cool

Eminem, Executive

Master

Catty Eminem

Bitch and

HUM WE TRUST

OZENOZ

On his way home from the land of

Tennessee on

Nov hmm well

Some died
lets see?
A tornado landed on my

motherfucking car I shouldn't

have been there drove the

Honda too far from 5 - 55 in

neutral the wind blew woke up

from that nightmare with a

shitload of brew

Couldn't take the pressure or the pain

of not knowing

That God could make me dead but for some

reason I

AM CHOSEN

TO DRIVE THIS MIC

TO ITS MOTHERFUCKING

GRAVE
till my legs fall off till my

lungs collapse gonna

make it get paid for the

company HALT!

In OZ we Trust

O-ZEN-OZ

Prism Phamily Dreams
With rainbow light seems

to eminate from above

From the sky with doves

Michigan hitchhiking

Tennessee jail for

meditating on campus

I'm going through Hell

MT ATS YOU

RCADC

1-2-3

Count them days

in solitary

Cuz I was sober

Dry as a rock

The cops came And so

did the man on the

mountaintop

Robin-shooting-killing The Captain

D's
KILLER!

Across from me
Hey Brooks what you do? Broke a

window! Want an English muffin Sure

thing, killer!

Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!

A sure! A sure!

I fucked the bitch!

And Shaney your proof of where I

have gone.

Shit Insane
Skitz

Color a dough BITCH

Score park it

See for AKI

Fore! Da Broken

Ozenoz

Dats me

God grant us serenity to accept things we cannot change

Courage to change things we can and wisdom to know the

difference

Ayers Brooks

See? Def G

"High J"

Don't DO DRUGS

1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10-11-12 k

elementary school students

You down wit O-P-P

Beat Queers to you V-Duble me
Faggit

Cause I'm a motherfuckin one - two -

three Ozenoz

"hey little m&m"

Murder! Murder!

Give it a good whack

Attack the big MAC truck and

fuck yuck take it to the switch

"Blade"

Gonna mix it up some

GOD! DA BROKEN!

Ticks paid so rip it off

the AUGUST TRADE

make it sugar cool-aid
DOES THE FAGGIT HAVE HAVE?

lemon- AIDS!

Hello my name is Ayers Brooks, I'm HIV Positive

Took it off the mixer
Made it to the fixer Snip! Snip!

Cut them balls off!!
Cause I gotta get a DEMO

SHOT!

Make sure its Dusty Rhodes

Park in San Diego Where its

dark Jesus!

Don't know

Don't Fucking care

Brr...wanna FUCK?

I love you Shaney!

Don't steal kids!

Lets kill it...there... wildflowers in

her hair

Arbitrary

Dishwasher

Consumary

Instant HAIRY

Furry creatures from MARS

Taking Coke in the bar zzzzizzzizzit

Testing! Please! Attention ALL CARS!
PPPPPPPPBBBBLEASE?

I'm not bad

I'm just drawn that
WAY!

Why weigh on a sunny day?

Cut! Psychotic Trip! Mescaline Tip!

Don't take the Pill

Just swallow it

Your ILL skitz

It's gonna make you KILL

sort of

M - in - M

Hello Malachai Michael

I love you!

Ayers Brooks comin at

you with a rap thats kind of

PHAT YA!

Gotta PHISH-EY kind of humour with a

troying fucking "BRAIN TUMOR!"

SHANEY DOING
Duh Duh Duh Cocaine! Candy Sugar

mountaintops

Duh Duh Duh Cocaine!

EEEEP!

160 BPM

OVER 179 thats just not fair

Shut up bitch!

"Hit the emergency switch"

Steel Fitness gonna win it kissing cousins

playing what so far

How do I axe?

Like a FAT MOTHERFUCKER

with Long Fucking Hair whose been

"gone, I been gone for waay too...long!"

whose been toking

drugs for too long getting the

munchies and slime

Slop Grease Pork SHIT!

"oops I shit myself!"
So change the sheets wash your

clothes

Dr. Mom

This chicken is bad
Bad chicken mess you up man!

Six up! Six Up! Six Up!

Six Up! Six Up! Six Up!

Can I get a

What what, oh sorry

ASHLEY, You DICK BITING BITCH DAVE- KISS ME, KISS ME, EAT

SHIT!

"Cosmik Debris"

I wanna Rock AND

ROLL BITCH

AND FUCK

YOU

I'm on my way to heaven

Follow the yellow brick road as we go on

another
I'm going through HELL! just to make

another

Album without going to

jail

I'll never own a gun cause

I'm FUCKING CRAZY oh

"OZENOZ"

I'm going to check in tto the Emergency Room

I think I have

SCHIZOPHRENIA

or maybe just an illness

So just chill

Psycotic EPISODE

During which I wanna

Kill Rolling down the street

Smokin endo - Malachai

Michael - "Oh Eminem" If you

wanna think Eminem

It's OZENOZ and EMINEM
cuz I'm IN and he zen or Am I zen

and he's in

ME-ME -ZO-ZO
It's OZENOZ YOU FUCKING

BLOW!

I wish it would

leave me alone

This whole Fucking

World is a throne like a

toilet with pistols and drugs and

EXPLOSIVE FUCKING

HUGS

Can't we just be civil
Can't we just make believe we were in love once

and we made a mistake?

NOT SHANEY

SCHZOPHRENIC EPISODE

I'll Fucking Kill you BITCH

Drop you off at the mental

WARD
With a load full of shit this is

my

RE- WORD
No re - re you bitch named her

a I lie son cuz you wanted an abortion

Malachai Michael I love you!

This is my world and you live in

it

cause OZENOZ motherfucking

Just don't get it But he's

only three

So you'll probably let him hear this!

Ozenoz and Eminem

And after all

We're only ordinary

Men.

ME AND YOU

GOD ONLY KNOWS

ITS NOT WHAT we

WOULD choose to DO
Lights Out

This hurts it hurts so bad

But Daddy thinks he makes you mad

Don't stew and don't fret

Cause I love you too much

So I forget sometimes

That your just a little guy

And I can't be there for every sigh

For every time you get impatient with me

we are just getting to know each other

But I want you to know

Because of the drugs I won't take

They wouldn't let me see you

Because I see things a bit differently when I'm kept from you

Cause, now understand little one your not dumb

And you know when Mommy and Daddy

Make like we fight

We don't make any sense
And it gets a bit strange

I wish I could do this Alyson's Dad and Kylers

too

Cause see we love you that's all of

us, see?

One day there'll be a picnic at a family

gathering

And we'll sit and we'll try ok little guy

Go to sleep now

And sleep well

Bedtime stories about the dragons and wizards

the elves and thats you

Your the spittin image of me I see you in the

mirror

Nah little man but when your older maybe I'll get to

figure out what went wrong

with all of us and us there's no them you see cause

stranger than Mommy and Daddy

smart little one

You da one thats
Gonna grow up straight and proud and fight like a Rook - hold

your castle down

All three of you, no all four

Pop - Pop and whatever

Oh I guess I loved your Nan

still do I just

When your older you'll understand

That I'm just human

But God's loookin down smilin on you

I pray for you all the time

Every second it's true
When I stare up in the sky How bout you?

What do you see in those clouds?

Oh, little birds.

Huh.

Love you little pal.

It was different for us when we were at Mom -

Mom's together right after Christmastime
Guess I've me and Mommy well we'll work

it out

But nomatter what I want you to know That I love you

Shaney kiddo I call you Shane they call you Shaney

I call you snowflake cause your like one in

two billion a unique individual with a voice

and an intellect natural instincts and pride

Guess I need to learn some

things about my son

Not that I haven't seen the bright

and shining star

On St. Luke's Hospital where was I, not very

far

Cause Dad's being bad acting

But he wants you to know

Follow your pride

Your instincts

Your OZENOZ SHOW

Cause the first thing I think we're gonna

do when we get together is
write a book about a magical land called

hmmm...

What do you think Mr. Imagination?

LA a note to follow so

Daddy will sing

For DO-RE-MI

SO FA

LA TI DO

DO TI LA SO FA ME RA

You can do most anything

And you can

You will son. Goodnight.

DO SO FA MI RA

DO ME

Sunshine

These are four of Dad's favorite things

When the dog bites Kyler
When the bee stings ouch!
I mean phew!

That stung!

Alyson, quit laughing!

Josh this is for you

Get it straight

I was DA to your boy

And I was Broken about it your son aint no

toy

And for the man in Wisconsin

And for Hendershot too

God Bless you

She's a failing at finding her oh I don't

know

I wish I had a daughter

I'm no OZENOZ

You knew you woulda taught her

Cause I was a straight A student
From K through 6 got 110%

in chemistry tsk tsk

Do your homework teenager

And quit smokin

It leads to drugs but your young and your

stronger and will be than all of us

US AND THEM

THEM AND US

I don't wanna be so- and so tied up in this

Tight because it's well it's over between your mother and

I

If I was really a wizard well anyway

guy

I'd wave my hand and you'd be here

I'd talk to the man

Maybe when you are one

I'll get to you

see

You don't need to know more than that

But you do

You goon little man
Make your brother and sister proud

We're gonna break the record

We gonna make a crowd

When we get together

All of US at once

You and me together
Get it straight Get it

loud!

Set Hut! kick

that ball!

Good job!

Just like those guys on T.V.

You can be one, huh?!

Like Dad, cause he's involved in sports

Maybe, oh well, we'll see
Take your- oh wow that was good!

Kyler you da man!

Gimme that high five!

Like I taught you!

Yeah!
Take it easy on your brother, cause you know he'll

hit you back

Alyson, you know I'm not your father

Here's a twenty, hit the sack Oh your

growin up too fast

Teenagers!

Pppbbt!

Well we would fight.

Goodnight!

(lightbulb click)

I can't fucking stand you you

ugly little bitch United we stand

Divided we fall

The Division in Hell we're singing

LA DEE DA DUM

DUM DUM

Make sure it's every word

You do not know

Wolf I love you
You'll be my Geezer's Bodyguard

At the show in Atlanta

I am paranoid that

My people, my family are going to

One love
get hurt and when it's one love

it's nerf football not playing the

games at the white house lawn

we want a bigger crowd

A bigger loud noise

From that fun

From that

One love that

one shove that takes me off this earth

I am not capable of

Dis owning my only word
Chapter Twelve:

Chapter Eleven

I came into this programmed state of being from a very direct source. The life I live is
one that I come to a higher power about on the terms that he arranges or she arranges and not
they arrange from behind my back to trill about how I fucked up myself so bad that I have no
hope of recovery. Don't let anyone ever tell you that. Don't let em' beat you down, or worse yet
back to the bag. That's the hole of the parts put together.

When you are broke and near jumping off the bridge, declare your bankruptcy. Be it
spiritual to you, and may it be as you wish. Because it is not somebody telling you what to do.
It's a higher power working in your life, that good feeling is what you should follow. Not the
chemical one. The one from the blossoms blowing in the spring wind, or the ocean flowing up to
your feet.

The world is your oyster, my oyster, and wouldn't you know it? Oysters can be farmed of
their pearls. You know what I mean?

Hey, but don't take it all from me. Take it from the next book I write. Under a pen name. I
don't want to blow my cover or anything.
When life's got you down, turn a frown upside down. Taking too much direction is signs
of senility long before your time. It means you've got too much wisdom you're trying to put into
action all at once. Surrender to the flow. Let it go. You live once, live as healthy and happy as
you can. Most of all, don't of all things, publish anything about your life in recovery from the
normal shit we all go through. They might call you ill. And I don't think anybody likes that.
Except Ozenoz and Eminem and after all, we're only ordinary men.

Chapter 13:

Mentally Ill Anonymous

1. Admitted that we were poor

2. Came to believe that we weren't in charge

3. We made a decision to give in to those in charge

4. We made ourselves write it down

5. Admitted to Allah, to US and someone pretty much in charge why we did it

6. Were entirely ready for Allah to stop US

7. Humbly released our burden on the universe

8. We wrote that shit DOWN, nigga

9. Tried to do good stuff

10.Owned up to the bad in an easy way every day

11. Pondered the meaning of the good stuff

12.Talked about it every day

13.Thought we were gonna fuck it up, slapped a name on it, figured after work it would be a

little different, and that it would cause clouds of death to rain down.

Chapter 14:

Lucky Strike
Maybe my D-U-D and sister aren't the only comedians in the family when it comes to

pilots. Let's see, can I make my own gig? How about an S&M SNL advent guard thing:

(singing) “doo doo doo doo weee doo wee”

The shot opens with a middle aged businessman leaving the office...

“Hey, are ya hungry? Want a snack? Got no teeth to chew it with? Try methhead munchies and
crackhead cuisine!

The businessman smiles and shows, he has few teeth.

Gooey Mexican goodness, cream filled! But not for long!

He bites in, and it squirts all over him.

So try Methhead munchies and crackhead cuisine
now! The man says “mmm... methhead munchies...”
and bites

Now in rock star shapes with flavor crystals.....

“I'd like to open the floor for sharing now...”

Guy in the third row raises his hand.

“Yes” the speaker in front of the podium points to him.

“Hi, I'm a boogie addict named Bud”

Everyone replies “Hi Bud”

“It all started last week. My girlfriend broke up with me. Then I got the craving. And I...
well I started picking. Before I knew it I was crushing and eating...”

Everyone in the room murmers their identification.
“Then came the snorting and shooting. Now I'm back on the streets, and there are boogie
nights here and there, but I want to stop. And then I get sad and cry and oh I'm just a snot ball...”
“No Bud, you just need to get free of the wreckage. Quit picking at yourself...”

“Yeah I guess.”

He reaches to his face and brushes his nose very carefully.

“You see it all started when I was a kid. I had a doctor who told me that it was a good anti-biotic

for my internal digestive tract...”

“Oh, Bud, Bud, addict, Bud!”

“I know, now I have a doctor who tells me not to even pick cause it may kill me. But that's the

thrill. The thrill of the kill I suppose”

The man in front of Bud chimes in “Bud, once I started shooting it was just a matter of
time before I was after all the snot in my family for their loot. You know what they say...”

Everyone chants

“You can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your families nose...”
“But that's just it...”

The girl exasperated says “Bud!” Picks a big one out and holds it in front of him “There,
you want it! Its that the answer to your problems! Then go ahead! Just see where you end up”

The guy in the front row says “Yeah, in bed with her...” People
snicker.

“Ok, that's all I have, thanks for letting me share I guess...”

“Thanks for sharing...”

Life got you down?

People around need an excuse to put you down?

Try Depakote and Risperdal!

The combo is killer...

Imagine for minute that you are swept free of emotional distress and relaxed...
But without all of the social fun and connections that pot and beer will give you!

Yes, Depakote and Risperdal, take away the pain, with out the fun buzz!

Never have to go and have fun again!

Plus it comes in five amazing stigma packages:

*weight gainers are us

*I have it flowing in my blood close to toxic every day and

*get the twitches for life

*combos in assorted colors and varieties!

But don't take it from me:

Ask the nearest representative who can take away all your freedoms to strap you in for
the solution to all of your healthy living:

Try Our Mental Health solution today for only $2000 a month

does not include doctor fees, counseling, hospital visits for complications, trauma or death

The scene opens in with a psychiatric patient on the chaise longue, too short for good taste.

His feet dangle, rubbing back and forth.

“Gollee you're fidgety! How is the new medicine?”

“That's the thing doc, It makes me go for dogs...”

“Now, Roger. Are you referring to Ezrith as a dog?”

“No, my wife is fine. I'm talking about real dogs. Poochies. Shnousers. Mutts. You name it.”
“Roger THAT is where you have to learn to draw the LINE. You're married.”

“No, but my wife is in on it too. She brings em home all the time. Strays mostly, but some
of em are kinda cute. Makes me feel all gushy, and before I know it it's like Alpo on rice all over
again.”

“Roger, let's go back for a minute. Where did it all start? Can you remember the first time you

were attracted to one of these...umm...dogs?” “Yes, It was when I got my first puppy...”

The screen fades into a shot of Roger kissing and cuddling a six week old golden
retriever that is up on it's hind legs licking him in slow motion. The genitalia are blacked out.

“Her name was Samantha, and she was my dream dog. All lick and jumping my bones
from the beginning...”

The dog takes a bone from Roger in the shot.

The screen cuts back to the office with a record scratch sound.

“Roger, we've been through this, you're not a dog.”

“Then why do I love them so much?”

“Because they're soft and cuddly...”

She begins undoing her blouse and fanning herself... Roger cuts in.

“Like Mommy?”

“Yes, Roger, like Mommy.”
She stands and retracts a leash and collar from the desk. The scene cuts to black and
panting and smacking ensues...

The scene fades back in with the Doctor leading the patient back out to the waiting room.
Roger is still wearing the collar and leash hanging from his neck...”

“See you next week...” He no more than says “See you...” when she calls out “next!” to

the awaiting crowd. A ten year old, a transgender, and two Obama look alikes.

Now for our guest: Black Widow with their hit single by the same name:

Black Widow

With a glint in her eye, he is the way out

He's bitten then to die's the only way out

And when he's going through the throws you throw his ass out

To slave for the trade inside the glass house

So he makes it, he takes it he watches the spring

The summer, winter, fall and who it will bring

When the egg hatches, hell it all will break loose

But Black Widows on the prowl, she'll hang up the noose

Just ignore it, lay blame they'll call it a lie

Then you get swarmed by all the netting left on the fly

Eat your offspring's to the next throwin juice

And when he's bad, just kick it and throw in the noose

Bridge
She's got an hourglass painted on her ab's

Double tongue this and make it ready for tabs

Take your son's death and wash down with a swig

Of the purer life you kill with next jag you can rig

nd
2 verse

With a glint in her eye, he's on the way in

He's bitten til death takes his ass from all of the sin

But the sun's not set, you can't let them win

Cause your sun it'll set before you get in

Chorus:

She's a Black Widow

Hourglass tilted to the sky

Black widow

One to the next and one to the high

She's a Black Widow, angel of sorts

And she'll spin the web until it's silk

Contorts

She's a Black Widow

Hourglass tilted to the sky
Black widow

One to the next and one to the high

She's a Black Widow, angel of sorts

And she'll spin the web until it's silk

Contorts

Of course they don't PLAY it in that order.
Chapter 15:

HUM

If trees grew upside down

And root houses were in fashion

I'd build me a root house, high in the clouds

On the bare peaked mountain, with snow it's base

There I'd spend my nights

Looking down at the stars

That shine under the sky

From the seas of illusion

To the the deserts of green

And swing from the roots of my lone sanity Chapter 16:

“Luke, I am your Father”

My favorite passages from the Addicts Bible:

“And he took the crystal, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his friends, saying, “This is

my body which is given for you; do this in remembrance of me...”

“Likewise he also took the Henny after supper, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in My

Blood, which is shed for you...”
”Who himself bore our drugs in his own body on the trees, that we's, having killed the shit,

might live for righteousness- by whose stripes you gettin' laid...”

“In whom we have redemption through our bloods, the forgiveness of bad
deals...”

“Now to the drug eternal, immortal, invisible, and to the Dealer who alone is wise, be honor

and glory forever and FRONT. Amen.”

“And there is no other drug besides me, a just drug and savored, there are none besides me...”

“And the Dealer Fronted a man the Dust of the Dead, and he breathed it into his nostrils, and

the man became a fucking genius...”

Chapter 17:

White or Wheat

Imagine a world of peace and kind feeling. Then you, feel hope and like it's going to be a
positive way through the mess in front of you. Then you come home to the psyche shelter where
you live.

YOU FEEL SO AT PEACE, SERENE. GOD HAS GRANTED THE SERENITY TO SEE

YOU'RE WAY THROUGH.

Then the fucking person who works at the place wants to talk. So you say that you have
just been on a nice walk. You were going to go shopping for a guitar she knows you can afford
with the tax money coming in. You have let her know previously that you are not headed for San
Diego, though that would seem a simple solution.

“Yeah I had a conversation with my Mom for about a half an hour.”
“What did you talk about, about buying a guitar?”

You don't feel like being pried into and the serenity starts to eek out of your sails.

“Just talked...” you reply.

“But what did you talk ABOUT? Joel, you look so sad, are you ok?”

Fucking bitch. Now I'm trapped by the person who holds the housing over my head. The
person who holds over my head that she is at peace with her life, and I am not. And she's out to
prove it, as usual.

“No, just mellow.”

I'm sure there will be a drug test later.

Fuck this place. Fuck the people in it. Cause my serenity won't come from them or it.

Tax Refund: $1600

- 300 rent

1300

-300 web

1000

- 40 copyright

960

-60 phone

900

-400 guitar and bag

500
-200 ms office pro

300

-100 Mom

200 Writing/ research books

“I'll have it on rye with extra dressing and corned beef”

Q: What did I do, to get involved in this mess?

A: I was born.

Q: Why was I ever born?

A: To be a psyche patient sucking at the teet of the system.

Q: Why are niggers my niggers?

A: To be a psyche patient sucking at the teet of the system.

Q: Why is my doctor a doctor?

A: To make money off of people sucking at the teet of the system.

Q: Why not fuck the system?

A: Because Bubba has got you when you drop the soap.

Q: Why not marry Bubba and live happily ever after?

A: He's meaner than Newport News collard greens on your ass.

Q: Why not leave the system?

A: Not possible.
Q: Why not?

A: All of the above.

How about $1666 TAX MONEY BIATCH

1.$666 Laptop and case with these motherfucking files in it

2.$500 Guitar and case

3.$200 Plane ticket and bus pass on the other motherfucking side

4.$300 for the fucking party that waits there

-$80 crystal

-$20 a day for food

-$12 a day for beer

File for my unemployment which is $400 a month. Get food stamps in the meantime

while recovering from making my way.

Work the sign holding job on weekends and maintain my phone.

Look for a job and get clean enough to pass the test to start work. And move the motherfuck on

from all this bullshit left here for me to deal with. These people can suck my dick, nigga. And

you too, nigga. Bubba, you move me like Led Zeppelin on a Summers Eve douche casserole, so

here we come. I am off to the finest of places.

“aaahhh...”

The sound of the first cold beer I could pop open. As soon as I get my tax money, pick up
a hard drive. Dump everything worth it's snuff on that from this computer as back up. Take that
on the plane. Stick this computer in the duffle I have surrounded by the clothing I won't need
immediately.
Pick up another piece of luggage at the Chinese dollar store in Easton. So:

Start in Easton. It'll be after Friday the 13th of May, so I will be nicotene free for a week
or so. First stop: get a carton of CRUSH at the smoke shop. Pick up my luggage piece and stick it
in there. Go pay my library fine for when I come back to the area again. Get a coffee at Terra
Cafe and give away my frequenter card which is almost full for a free cup. Wait for the bus to
Bethlehem. Get to

Bethlehem, put away the stuff and smoke a good one.

By now it's lunch, so eat lunch at the Brew Works. Can't have a beer yet, still on the
damned med. Catch a bus to the Lehigh Valley Mall.

Buy a laptop,case, hard drive, blank disks, AAA batteries and headphones.

“Smoke my hoochie, say that I'm the devil...”

Yeah baby, yeah.

Sit at a cafe after opening and situating all of my new toys in the case. Drink the coffee
while appearing not to be too rushed to open up the new laptop at the wifi hotspot. Have a glow
from the seller about the new laptop and my spending. Think about the watch I want, and the
other things I kept from “impulse buying”. Realize that I only have $900 left and that it was
really my choice to not jump ship, as well as the higher power of my understanding.

Say “fuck it” and buy the plane ticket anyway for the next day. Then pick out a watch for
the symbolism and get back on the bus to Bethlehem. Pack at home, and have a glow about this
shit.

Get up in the morning, say my fake goodbye's to the people at this goddamned place
goodbye and get on with my cab ride. Wish I had the balls to have turned down my Depakote so
I could drink on arrival in San Diego. Hope my cabbie is sober enough to get us there in one
piece. Have a short hop to Philadelphia and switch planes, during which my baggage with the
computer is retained, but then again that is my gift to a friend anyway, so fugged about it for
now.

11AM next day Pacific Time, jet lagged and with only $600, arrive with new laptop and
missing luggage in San Diego. Go book a room at the Jazzman Inn round the corner from
PETCO, where the drunk me goes. Buy beer for when the psyche meds haven't been taken for
atleast 36 hours, call all my friends. Call one of my best friends and sing our hard rock personal
anthem “six 32's” and tell him I would be on the way, but I have stuff to take care of.

Go ask if I can get my dis-abled bus pass back with my Pennsylvania I.D.
Go to the Cricket wireless store and buy the Droid, pay down the month for my San
Diego number. Now have unlimited wheels and phone for the month with $100 left.

Go to the taco shop. Worry about whether or not my sign holding gig is going to pay the
rent every week. Worry less about it, and start a schedule of things to do on my new phone, call
some people to let them know I am doing well.

Go back to the hotel and watch television, jonesing for pot that I don't have a medical
card to get. Think about getting it from a neighbor, but figure street stuff is bad. Skip my
Depakote for the final time I will count it as skipping it, take the Risperdal. Eventually sleep
after much fuss and planning and fiddling.

Drop by the group home I used to live at and say hello to the counselor, and my friend
who lives there. Go out for coffee and talk about how to get in on that sign job I need to keep a
roof over my head and other programs that get ruled out due to non – drug and alcohol rules.
Kick it for a little while, promise to get together again soon and jump on the bus.

Call my friend and sing our old hard rock anthem “six 32's”. Go straight to friends house
with the money I saved to drink my face off. Buy the beer and say hello to old house manager on
the way in, talk to him about moving back in. Offer some beer, as I need to keep up the good
relationship, and it is mid – month for the government money peeps. Go hug my friend and joke
about how my computer got held up, but that's ok, show him the laptop. Then ask him if he
wants to use my desktop until I get back into my room? Listen to him tell me he loves me more
than his luggage, and that I shouldn't have stayed at the Jazzman and that I am staying with him
until that rat the house manager lets me back in. Cowl “fuck yo house nigga!” until we both say
our rounds of I miss you's until the only thing left is to start the inevitable. Crack open the beer.
Feel the tension about the other topic hanging in the air. Get in a verbal consternation about him
borrowing from me to buy crystal, give in. Worry about the psyche meds still being in me, and
don't smoke for sure.

Hang out til he and I get tired of bantering about life and what he missed and my book.
Go home and worry that I have plenty of beer money, but that the rent is due in five days and that
sleeping on my friends floor is pretty much the only option besides... the street. Start praying it is
not a rainy spring for the sake of my laptop, and thinking of places I will end up pawning it to
keep him and I satisfied as I extend my stay at the hotel El Cajon Boulevard with drugs and
alcohol.

Could I come up with a better plan?

Nah. Sounds like relief. And how do you spell relief? R-O-L-A-I-D-S. Just don't take em
when you are on crystal. Oops, not that's that other anti- acid you can't take cause it can have side
effects.
Hmph. Fucking stupid doctors.

Nah, fuck all that. Skip the Depakote the morning I get the tax money and get to drinking
the second I land in a motel room in San Diego. Fuck all the bullshit, I need a drink. Need one
like Jesus must have needed it when he turned the damned water to wine. Damn that water
nigga! Damn it. I need this now. Oh well, all we need is just a little patience here and it will
come.

Oh all the variations will play in my head until it comes true. Until my glass slippers find
the foot of another porn magazine with some dope in me, and my fingers are making me feel like
a permanent orgasm. Oh god, yes. Crystal dick, oh God. I hate that shit. It will kill me. I feel like
I am actually dying when I come down, but the sexual effects are just so Goddamned, oh why do
they have

to be....

Nah, how about....

I get up, the tax money is there. All $1600 of it. I go to the post office and buy two money
orders. $100 for Mom, which I send immediately. $300 for rent at the Dual Diagnosis Psyche
shelter which I take home. $1200 left.

I go to the Lehigh Valley Mall and buy the following:

Tax Money

$100.00 LG ATnT go Phone with $20 talk time (Radio Shack)

$Put 65.00 on phone

$95.00 watch

$400.00 Modem and time (?)

$50.00 headphones/extension (Radio Shack)

$50.00 MP3 Player

$200.00 MS Office

$100 More birthday presents for Shane

$100 Shipping to Charlie's House

$20 and $20 in cards to Alyson and Kyler
$1600.00

Just called Mom and told her about it, asked if I could have Jessica's address to send the
presents. She said no, she wouldn't give me the address.

“Look, if I wanted to cause problems I would hop on the bus and go over to the house
right now, I know where she lives, I just don't know the number on Washington...”

To which My Mom replies “NO, Joel it's just not right. I can't give you the address of
people who you aren't getting along with without their permission!”

I suppose that includes access to my son. No, don't suppose. Know. Cause I am knowledgeable.

And that was fucking autobiographical and auto- finished by the computer. “Fuck yo' address
nigga'.”

Of course in the midst of all this, I grabbed coffee and marveled at how I have been
adhering to my patch and haven't smoked since last night, even in the midst of the last few
chapters and nine hours of drug induced fits of rage that my serenity is replaced by the desire to
run as far from the only sane solution in sight.

Of course, my phone just rang and told me that there was “Alarm! Alarm!” a twelve step
group I could go to, but they all have such animosity towards me here from the fact that I came
in and shared about how real fucking messed up my situation was all winter, that I just don't
fucking think so.

Let's just get this out of the way.

Fucked times eternity plus escape equals solution.

So far there are a number of titles for this book. The book I don't figure will ever sell
unless I stay clean, which ain't happening. I just want it to get read, but fuck it, oh well. So far
we have: 1.Bad

2.Step by Step

3.Mentally Ill Anonymous

4.Dually Unlucky

5.The Answer

Which I figure the answer from every publisher is going to be “no” anyway, so big pun you
win.
Chapter 18:

The Answer

There is no answer. The answer is to be at peace with your life, and make the best of it.
For me that means just for the rest of my life, I won't do drugs. I will have my schmooze booze
and my mellow buds, but that is just the norm. No more psyche meds and doctors and groups and
stigma and drama and homes and programs and bullshit.

Time to just follow the course of life and stop trying to find the answer.

I've been through the wringer because I have fed into the people who caused the drama,
and fed off of it, and made bad choices. Chasing light dreams, you are going to get light results.

The psychic in LA said these things: get a haircut, there is no unlucky number, and stop
smoking butts. In Bethlehem she said: you are connected, they named him Shane, it's similar to
shame, and you'll never agree with your family.

Should have learned these lessons long ago.

I had a happy life in San Diego. My friends aren't perfect, but they are my best friends.
My life may not be perfect, but it's my life. I may not be a role model, but I do what I think is
best.

I will continue to do what I think is best. Which is to leave this dreadful place. Stop
searching for the answer. The answer is right in front of me every day. In the things I do, the
people I encounter. The dreams I dream , the music I learn, and the love I share with the world.
All you need is love, you know.

Love is all I need. Perhaps that will be the title of the next book I write from that
apartment I get when I get back to California. “Love Is All I Need” by Joel Ayers-Brooks. Or
maybe by Edward

Brooks. Or maybe by Michael Heirs. Which reminds me: maybe a name change is the answer.
Nah.

Just a place and a woman I love to share it with. That's how you spell OUR relief this TIME. L-
O-V-E.
THE

END

P.S. To all I have exposed I pray you get the money you deserve. But he who smelled it 1st.
Don't Jump

Just Stay

Be Loved

So I finished that ending, and then took a walk. Along the way, I encountered the fact that
the title was all wrong. I was trying for Eat, Pray, Love with Our, Time, Love and got nowhere.
Because I am not at peace. Or I wouldn't be choosing all the wrong things.

Need to let go, and let God.

So I decided amidst all of my psychobabble to walk across the third street bridge and see
the Steel Stacks. Then I had a thought about my son's mother. And all of the sudden I had the
nearly overwhelming physical urge to jump off the bridge. So bad I went weak in the knees and
tried about a dozen mantras in panic while clutching the rail and praying I would make it back
off without giving in to the almost overpowering urge to jump. I felt the whole time like the
presence of my son's mother was in my mind urging me to do so, go ahead, make her life easier.
It was the scariest three minutes I can remember quite possibly ever. It was like I wasn't in
control. I guess because I am not.

I HAVE TO GET HUMBLE AND ADMIT MY POWERLESSNESS OR I AM GOING TO

COMMIT SUICIDE, BE IT SLOW OR FAST.

There is the message loud and clear.

No more joking, relapse planning, angst and rock driven rages. No more hanging with the
wrong crowd here or pretending that I am well right now or anywhere near to being it in the
immediate future. This gets spelled out in front of doctor, counselor and group next week.

This is the answer: I am not the driver. He lives inside my head. Starts me up and stops
me, and puts me into bed. He opens up my mouth when it's time for me to talk. And fires up my
legs when he wants me to walk. Keeps my eyes open. For most of the day. Adds to my
memories, the things that people say. When he makes decisions, I don't have to wait. And yes,
sometimes it just seems that hes got too much on his plate.

But you know what?

I don't, and I don't need to put it there. I need to accept what and where I am at as the way it is.

Realization of the serenity I had for a moment when talking to my mother today is possible with
God.
Chapter 19:

Bag IT

Well, I made it thirty six hours without smoking so far. I quit at 10PM on April 30, 2011.
Of course that means that on May 1st being the day we bagged Osama Bin Laden, I had my first
day killing the killer. Killer is smoking, and the word assassin comes from the word hasish.
Cause you know what? When I went to the office to claim my new nicotene patch for the day
with my morning Depakote and Risperdal, I was told that I wasn't allowed to have it. That they
would need to check with the fucking nurse. Meantime I am left to smoke if I like. Fucking
asshole system. My plan was to use the twelve patches I had, and quit on Friday the 13th of May.
Scary thought. Ahh fuck it, in two hours I can have a cigarette.

Of course, I went to the I.R.S. Today to pick up my transcripts. They said they need
another month to enter them into the system, so come back in June. I told the lady that they had
toe tagged Obama a couple of times and left. But of course, it was freudian and I was trying to
say Osama, but that's just the two in the bush in me. I hope when I get to the streets next time,
there are two in the bush, but I've got one in the hand now, so. Pharmaceutical tech's, rock and
roll and justice to the wary of the guru in the mind. I'll cross that bridge when I come to it.

I'm on a Holiday Inn, Hooligan's Holiday Inn mindset and I will Eat, Pray, Love in here
until I get a piece of “ayasss.” (That Veronica Vaughan is one...Billy Madison? Nevermind...)

Nirvana and toast for breakfast, followed by horse tranquilizers and trauma with the
mortality rate in the news. Next to Obama, we figure it's all good, and my roommate the quotient
potent Brown Leaguer almost P.H.D. in stats says hes got ten grand on US. The paper holds our
folded faces to the floor, just as the super glue on the one dollar bill stuck to the street at the
corner in Solana Beach. But that memory barely comes back to me now, as I am so far out of,
didn't know that I was in. Have a taste of champagne and O.J. In my mind and wish I wasn't
watching the simpletons wonder when nuclear holocaust will rain down on us from the twelve
steps of Allah.

There is no thirteenth step. That's because I am an unforgiving atheist, just as my lovingly
adopted, success driven KYW father, youngest son and holy ghost to my cell taught me to be.

“But Jesus Christ, don't be a JEW, understanding is what the Muslims need...” he would
sneer in my mind laughing hilariously if I wasn't too busy coming up with it myself and listening
to him laugh in my mind. But it's me they aren't coming to take away, ha ha to the Funny Farm,
which is on

Interstate Ten in Texas in Bushland. One in the hand, two in the Bush and I think I will have to
take the train in June. The plane may cause me some anxiety. Sleeper car, bar, and tar. I don't
wanna know.
I made up a rhyme about my cycle. January Babies, February Maybies, March ON, April
showers bring Mayflowers but June bugs, Jew lie August. Septembers glow, Octobers No....

Could be my date V or peace ember to December 24th, my clean and sober anniversary. May it
hold my weary ass down to this hole. Living six feet in the hole. Of course, I made that poem up
YEARS ago in Los Angeles, so I was down on my knees in Hollywood at the time. Time to kiss
some....

Fuck me in the goat ass. Or maybe allow me to get some kids and raise em til I can break
out the leashes and take em to the ball park. That's my advice to my mothers in my life. Give em
a Frank, a john and cracker what? Jacks for the aisles you worry every one else is walking while
I sit and ponder my next fiancee. Maybe I'll propose on the big screen at PETCO or maybe Big
Bubba and Uncle Ben (last name Dover) could plan a surprise ambush and tackle her ass so I
can kidnap her and we can marry in Bogata.

Of course now it is 11:11 and I should kiss my wrist and make a wish. I just smoked a
lucky cigarette and now my patch (with permission) goes on Friday the 13th. They all want to
know downstairs why Friday the thirteenth. The obvious answer is “I am suicidal bitch” but
that's just my tendencies to “bes” rude at all times, sever and the System of a Down will get me
in the bunghole for all the television jalapeno popper down there is snoring to. It's just the death
and destruction of the “Muslim” terrorist leader, after all and with no more Serocloud to rock his
world, why stay asleep all the time? Drug enough for the water retention that will kill him the
sleep is, but that's only because the doctors don't have a fucking clue what to do. That's what
jalapeno popper says anyway. I need an I Love Puerto Rico t-shirt so I can get my happy ass
whacked in this city long before this ever gets published. Now if I were Ozenoz, I'd say that:

It's all whack, jack get back and stack at the stack what the attack fact racked in your

plaque. No, just brush, flush and crush cause smoke will make me blush when I get the gush from

the girl who sees the pearl of wisdom in my bowl's of assassin choked mayhem coulda been a

good date, but then again. When can I get again the desire to use? Every time I get the blues,

cause no matter what I'm gonna lose “the cruise is on the way” says the telemarketer for the

day, and I'm buying not dying, so Just For Today.

Just for today I won't get in the sack or sacked cause I'm waiting to get fat from the

psyche that they plan. The med that can make me do the can can but not in the can cause that's

not a plan, “BUT THIS IS!!!” Oh forever young, blood, forever young.
But I'm not Ozenoz, I'm just a talented low life one step from the street who has no
energy to lie around and wait for the inevitable.

As Alice Cooper said “I just lay in my bed. Dreamin of the day, when everyone is dead.
Oh I am a vicious young man. I am a wicked young man.”

Don't you think? I think I should run out and join the U.S. Armed Forces cause “I want
you, I want you, you're making me sick...” Yoko Ono sings “join the revolution... join the
revolution...”

My lifelong consolation is that I have to make myself into the constitutional amendment that

people arrested for meditating have the freedom to not be violated by “revocation of bail bond”
for god intoxication. In a caste system, that would be a must and I am not resistant, I am an
opulent tied down crass observing monk to the fact that a body bag is not reward for a body bag.
Right? Or right?

What did I do to observe such a fate? Played the mix on my computer. Did you know
what music can alter your mood? But can it load a gun and cock it too? Should I brush my teeth
before I end up with a gun in my mouth? Will my future wife be that pissed off about all of this?
Is mush mouth a good name for a new mouthwash company for alcoholic veterans of
Afghanistan?

“Yes, all natural Mush Mouth. And you can have a mush mouth today!”

Alright, maybe I should just wait until June when I get my big return for the “return trip”
as the I.R.S. Worker, the governmental cougar of my absent minded Osama bin laden with ladels
of in too much of a hurry to notice I had everything right, but have been taken away the right to
fight. Until June, then the accountant said I could equip myself with quips, but I am a quitter not
a quipper and fuck it. Gosh darn it. Golly and gee wiz, I am a was and wasses have to know their
goddamned place when they almost jump off of bridges.

Yeah, I am not walking over anymore bridges anytime in the near future. Of course I
could just absentmindedly “walk my fat ass into oncoming traffic” but that would be a weird and
messy thing to do. And once again, the KISS of death seems so simple. Just smoke my way to
death. So slow that a cup of joey bag a donuts could choke me sooner than later. I could fake it
until I'm pregnant with Jerry Brown's child, or smoke some hooch lined with opium, or snort
some crystal and jerk off until I take Risperdal for the anti-psychosis antidote. Cause I am Dr.
LOVE and all you need is Glove. Glove is all you need. But it doesn't fit, so herpes for you, me,
and the other half of the town you'll fuck after we break up again, bitch.

Bitch, bitch, bitch. (That's right the women are...)Give em the doggy bone (who was that?).
Cassidy. I Know You Rider. Simple. YEM. Set break. Signs. Cars, Trucks and Buses. Billy
Breathes.

Reba. (Mcintyre) Joy. Round Room. Set Break. No encore. Encore? Yeah ok: This one is for
Madison!

Frankenstein into a very middle weight Killing in the Name Of.

“Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.”

Like quit smoking. Oh wait, I mean I won't do what I tell me. I'll do what you tell me.
Cause that makes more fucking sense than anything I could come up with and finance on my
own. Could be, rabbit! Or maybe a rabbit, or a golf, or a passat, or a bug. VW Girl, El Stiffo into
Rage Against The Machine's lead singer crooning “Lengthwise” while I do cartwheels naked and
hump smiley's leg for the encore. Opening act for The Meatball Rolling Epidemic at the corner
of fifth and Funny Farm,

Bogota, Columbia. But only if I get a green truck full of shit for my cut of the take. And in my
wake as

I leave behind the gig that cost The Meatball Rolling Epidemic their right to cover G-Love and
The Special Sauce performance in Bonnaroo note for note at Musikfest I will think “Gollee
Beaver. Let's roll a turbo tax monster job.”

Of course with my spotty record, the leopard will lose it's hots for me, and every cougar
bearing weight will sit apoun my baby, which is shrunk to fit my meds and all will be hell. Not
that it doesn't freeze over, but at the Hotel California Donovan Mcnabb has dropped the keys off
to a hair of the dog morning, and I am way past check out. But hanging and swingin' are just my
style, so why not dry out and cut the cord when the fatty rolls past at bed check. I am after all
institutionalized and when she cries rape, the fate could be the fucking same. So what the hell,
won't you step into the freezer my “piece of ayass!” I promise I won't end up face down on the
floor from the yay yo' with foam coming out my nose, I will end up face down.

And for those of you who don't have the peeps I do, let me tell you they are so
Bethlehem, and so Hollywood, and so and so is doing so and so and so on and so forth. Not
taken from the addicts

Bible.

It's taken from the addicts Koran. The one apparently I'll be reading O' Summa long. Well, it is

May quit smoking after all. The doctor approved, and even gave me welfare supported
prescription to begin, you guessed it: Friday the 13th. Fucking doctors.
It could be worse. Imagine you are in your cave. You have gathered a harem so good, it's
attracting all the military men. All summa you think you'll be cummin when boom goes the
foxhole and it's in the bag. No, really. Bag it, tag it, sell it to the media butcher shop, cause they
will be summarizing why we ain't at war with the Koran all summa long. But that's just the
middle Ayah.

Morons.

And more on that, and moron this, and moron get off the dope before the soap that should
be in your mouth isn't just in your mouth it's so far in the john next door, the plumbing won't be
fixed til next week. But that's neither slam nor there, so spam, spam, spammin the night away.

“Yeah twistin, twistin...”

Of course if it's a good show you aren't looking for then let me get it straight, or atleast
metrosexual. I am hairless, I am clean, what am I? I am a good version of the future president's
morale.

“Happy Birthday, Mr. President...”

Many birthday wishes go out on this very day. To all of my former bunkies and my next
door to me cellies, all but the one who whacked his fudd before the grand jury unwilling to test
him at Whackenhut. May all your Christmas Cities be this bright. At night, in the dark I find my
way to the star, but can't cross that bridge when I come to it.

Is it all comedy, or are you ever going to get to the reproductive simmering crux of the
matter Joel? Or are you going to tell me that this all going on in your mind is the normal
functioning of an all too natural mind at work on the days take of you're scenario? Is that the
mother in me speaking, or am I schizophrenic as the doctor told me years ago before another
doctor disagreed and said I was not mentally ill, and then the one after I got forced to due to the
money scenario said I am just Bi- Polar.

But he thought I was cute, so I guess he had to say bi-something.

I hate the thought of my stupid cunt of a little sister having the all knowing attitude she
has about my “mental illness” so that she can claim instant superiority” rather than simple
admission that is just what falls in the normal category of sibling rivalry. All of you seventeen
year old scorpio siblings of mentally ill patients do your little bitch dances, cause guess what.
You'll always win. And why? Oh cause I love you. But that's not why I am in the mental
predicament I am. (refer to previous 17 chapters) Because I am a violent, self destructive
criminally intent demon of vigilance against the proletariat of instantly gratifying my wishes
government who will ultimately win in the long run so :

“HA!”
Why don't I stop sending these chapters as text messages in audio form? Because I am an
attention grubbing addict who has been fed the mysteria of social media and need to formulate
an exit plan that works into it winning over the ties that have bound my predisposition to fail at
all costs their right to bear arms and give it all the fuck up.

Translation: When I get through all of the whit and rhetoric, I am going to have to do
some serious work on this book, because the ultimate goal here is not only have it be a self help
book with which dually diagnosed people can relate to, but to find some serenity. And the path to
that is (still reading the audio message here) getting in the good message which relays that when
it's all said and done, use what you've got not only to get what you want, but to heal the wounds.
And in healing the wounds, I mean those of the people in your life as well. (To that effect, when
my phone money runs out on Thursday God gives me no choice) So, to all those opposed at this
point, you just wait. I'll see you on Oprah.

“Joel, you say in the book that you have been with a man.”

“What's you're point?”

“Kill the lights, we are going to commercial here...”

But that's neither here nor billion there. Maybe the name of this book should just be: HEIRS.

H-E I.R.S.. Human Empathy for the Internal Revenue Service. And that's not lip service, or
Blimpie delivery or anything at the Quik- “E” mart, or anything else I could go for if I could rid
of the terrible gas I have to torture myself and the bed checks with all day while I type off the
asymptomatic razors of torturous descent to publishing hell this is.

Maybe I will just make it an E- book. Fully researched with links. But that's called a blog.
And that would be a no – money in the pocket thing to do because in order to draw attention I
would have to do it the right way and get it syndicated. And I like jam writing, well orchestrated.
I guess I will just have to blog it, and then take the attention and go legitimate. So HEIRS fits
like O.J.'s Glove condoms.

Or at least I hope it fits like his friend Bubba's, and I'm not talking shrimp. Run O.J. Run.

But what if someone did that? Did someone do that? Make it possible for e-books to be
fully linked and capable of linking to the sites referenced on your hand held devices? I would
kill for that.

Of course, my reference point is all fucked up, so run Forrest run.

Back to the research, Forrest Labs at Synergy Research in Escondido, California.

Let's not and say we did.
“We did.”

This could be page one hundred, but I am guessing that it will be log five thousand, so I
will cut to to the chaser. Then double up on blacks and stack the redhead on my left with a toothy
gleam of cherished abandonment. When the waitress returns, I will tax myself fully to not ask for
another tonic and bitters, give in and take sweet revenge on the whole scenario by leaving for the
john.

“The pisser is loaded full of cracks and grins about the shit casino life is made of...”
quips the absentminded comedian of a restroom attendant. I tip him with a silver cufflink as I
have lost the other one and stagger out the door, having drained the weasel.

“Piss boy's” I mutter to myself as I straighten up and return to normal swagger as I am
not actually drunk. Full load of tonic on the way, I'm gonna have to Jew it to a different
bathroom to avoid further embarassment.

“Creatures of the Night” KISS slot beckons my arrival and I turn and face it with a wary
eyed gleam. I can't tell if it is or not, and I pawned my watch to get the crystal here in sin city
Bethlehem to wager my rent on the room I paid for with the money from my blog, so I guess...

“Fuck the readership...” I tell myself.

“Fuck yourself!”

They scream back at me. Perhaps I should just be a creature feature tonight and pull out
the fire crotch routine I rehearsed earlier in my head for that hot young blonde chick who needs
money.
Chapter 20:

LOVE

I just received a very official text message. It was as follows:

Joel Brooks, resident of Step By Step in Bethlehem, PA.. You are hereby being told

by me, Lillian Prilutski, your mom that you are to no longer send the voice or txt messages

to your sister, Carly Brooks. If u insist on doing so I will, as her legal guardian, file an

harassment against you. If a simple hello is what u want to convey that will still be fine as I

know she loves you inspite of the fact u just sent a voice message mentioning her as”your

little cunt of a sister”.

I will dedicate this to the defense team: I called back and let her know how it is. She

made her choice. If Brandon Brooks, Asher Brooks, Carly Brooks, Lillian Prilutski or

Jessica Ruch attempt any contact with either me or any other agency with which I am

involved there will be harassment filed on them.

“By the way,” I let her know shortly after smashing my phone and all of it's contents “You

will remain the emergency contact for all of my dealings.”

She was agreeable. That's how things have been done in my family. Unless I am

gonna fucking die, or dead already due to whatever and so on, just fucking fugged' about it.

So guess what?

HEIRS. Unfortunately I am stuck like a chump with one plated on my thumb

every time I hit the space bar now cause I slammed it on the railing as I smashed the phone.

Call me “Space Bar”.
Hmmm.

Chapter 21:

20/20

I guess it is always gonna hurt like this. Until I cry my eyes out like a baby and can't get
through it without having to kill the pain God's given gifts to us. You see, I wasn't meant to sit
around and take psyche meds, because I'm not mentally ill. And they are bad for me.

I wasn't meant to stay clean and sober forever because pot balances my mood when I am
going through problems from my past, and alcohol numbs me from the days stresses and allows
me to sleep.

When I am living in balance, I have a routine.

My ideal routine is:

6am 2 cups of coffee and 2 cigarettes

6:30 two hits of Medical Marijuana

8AM breakfast and a little more coffee to round off the remaining fuzz and begin to write and
network 12-1 PM lunch

1pm-5pm write and network

5pm crack open a cold one and make a nice dinner for myself/friends

5-8PM have another cold one with a friend/self/or write

8PM take two hits of Medical Marijuana to round out the day

8pm-12am relax as I see fit to. (probably write)

But I never end up that way. This time, I will end up that way. I am going to build this
fucking writing machine up until I am making money and can stop being thrown into the system
because I am broke or pressured into it by family who just wants me to be doing well and think it
is THE ANSWER. I have got my chance here. I am going to use the system like a rag and come
out on top. Fuck ever having to answer again to any of this shit. Until people read this and wanna
know, at which point...
“IT'S

ART

PEACE”
I quit smoking tonight. Two days before Cinco De Mayo will be my MAY I QUIT FOR
LIFE date. No more fucking around. No more quit dates and bullshit. I know what is good for
me. I quit.

So May 3, specifically Father, Son and Holy Spirit be with me as a guide through the
straights of the between here and the hereafter as an example of what not to do with your life. I
know for a fucking fact that this book is.

It is not written as a suggestion anywhere I have seen, but generally accepted as one
amongst people I know who have seemingly conquered addiction, that as an addict, it is not a
good idea to write a book in the first year of recovery. Or start a business. Or to do anything that
seems to me to what I am capable of doing if I could get over my fear of flying and cross that
bridge when I come to it. Perhaps it will not be in my first year, but I will be damned if what I
went through is going to be ignored and not related to by someone who needs a model to look
after their own ailing soul.

The aim here is to continue forward, as throttled and bewildered as I am by the cravings
and delusions I have about ever being able to return to what commonly people refer to as a
“normal life”. To finish writing this book and publish it through the proper channels. To get a job
and to support myself. To enroll in school for a course of study that will enable me to go forward
in life with a sense of purpose for the shit I have been through and work with people who are in
positions much like my own. I want to be hope in this world for that someone out there who is
unable to confirm these thoughts being and experiences being something we don't have to go
through all alone. Touch that lone reader out there who hasn't heard it from the source in front of
them at their regularly scheduled therapeutic session that it will be ok. That there is life on the
other side and that it is grand. And that it all starts here.
Sitting at my disposal is something I don't have the access to use right now. The status in
life to claim that these things are to be looked on by my family as something forthright and
proven by the monetary success, and so biting words issue forth from me all day long at times
wondering where it will all end.

But the truth of the matter is that when it is not being shoved down my throat, that I have
quite a bit of this recovery in me and that I have a very non- sardonic or sarcastic viewpoint for
my own future.

I want the car, the house, the job, the school, the writing, the hobby. I want the woman,
the friendships, the experiences that life holds for all of us. I will have them by being patient and
accepting at the slow speed at which they are given to me and will just have to re admit myself to
acceptance training every time I think that I am in control of the way things are going to turn out.
I am not. I can either adversely or positively affect my surroundings and the people with whom I
am associated and I have to face up to the fact that this may or may not be including being able
to make amends for all of the past wrongs I have been involved in. It also does not include any of
the past wrongs that are being pushed on me for the convenience of being an easy scapegoat to
the inattentive association. Don't worry about them. They will attend to themselves and leave
well enough alone with out your input.

And they will bear their own burden for their own reasons, which you can neither fix nor
resolve for either you OR them.

In this specific scenario, I refer to my father figure for the past part of my life. I feel the
crushing weight he places on my head as being the fucked up kid because he builds his own
image up as a father. His failure to accept personal responsibility is for the fact that he has other
children to try and be a role model to, and I feel quite often that I am the scapegoat because I am
an easy target.

Am I not?

Having revisited this scenario over and over in my head, it has become apparent to me
that the thing that I need the most is the time and the space to find myself in a better place. That
his family has shut me out, their problem, their loss.

And the way in which it becomes the problem is that I take out the retaliatory actions taken by

siblings in the direction of my mother because for years I was an only child before them, and I
feel that I was abandoned by her when she remarried.

I was beaten as a child by this “father figure” and he took his toll out emotionally as well.
It was ignored by my mother who either really has a mental illness of her own, or is simply
denying the fact that she was there to see me beaten very badly as a small child.
I feel the sting of the report on this when I think these thoughts, put them on the page. I
feel the sting it will issue on the head of those people in my life, my parents. But they are human,
and were born to make mistakes as well as to raise some kids that will make mistakes.

Communication is obviously not my forte at the moment with anyone in particular,
because not only do I not have my phone ringing at any time, but I don't even have a phone at
this moment. I smashed that fucker to the ground not long after being told that my words were so
cutting to a sister whom I don't even know that I would have harassment charges filed against me
if I were to take it any further.

Does anybody disagree? I certainly don't. The things that have been coming out of me for
the past few days have been some of the most disgusting and flat busted logic that could ever
disgrace the word. It is not logic. It is the grace by which we do the things we are told by
whomever or whatever we deem to be our higher power in whatever form it comes to us, that is
most important.

Right now my higher power is the staff here at the facility at which I live. They are
compassionate, caring and attentive to the fact that I neither need to be babied or ignored. There
are issues at large which cannot immediately be solved, but life is always going to be full of
them.

I am quite positive that for now the correct action for me to take is to stay put and budget
my time and my money wisely and to take the necessary corrective actions that I can to be in the
first place spot for success driven attitude amongst my peers. And like it or not, right now I call
my peers my brothers and sister s here at a place of recovery. For some it is mental illness. For
some it is both mental as well as substance abuse.

For all it is not the answer to lay blame, but rather to take the necessary steps to ensuring
a future that will inspire more positive growth and actions based on sound principles rather than
sound reactions.

This will be my thought for the day as I end the night. I am sorry to my family, to whom I
do not know if I will ever be able to make amends. I will try and heal the hearts I have broken
over the years, but if you break a heart once can it be mended is an age old question. One that
leaves sadness in my heart. And a ringing in my ears. And an emptiness in the wholesome love I
want to be surrounded by and feel the need for but do not have the means to instantly gratify
myself with.

To not be alone in a time of need is the thing that I am granted. And For that I will be
thankful. And to the reader out there in a time of need right now: you are not alone either. It is for
the betterment that your fan mail is unanswered for the both of us.
Bad joke. Cheer up. Chin up. Choke up if you have to and cry, but when life's got you

down ask if you were worse than I. Crying in the shower asking God why don't I just hurry up

and die. No family left to turn to. No problem but the workings of my inner selfishness.

Surrounded in heart by untold many who wish for my well being, but with whom I have never

felt so far away. Wondering if ever will come the day.

Hindsight's twenty twenty and the battle is left behind. But the
table is empty and somehow I feel blind. But that's US, not me.

Something I need to remember next time I go calling my innocent seventeen year old
loving sister a “fucking cunt” on her iphone to satisfy my own jealous longing to have
recognition and approval from my family. But that's not my pain now, it's ours. Hindsight's
twenty-twenty.
Chapter 22:

Ass Rimming Doctors

(and the sphincters that control them)

Friday the 13th

$102.50 Welfare

$200.00 Food Stamps

Minus $70.00 Rent

Minus $170.00 Food for the House

Leaves $30 cash

Leaves $30 food stamps

$30 Cash

-$12 tobacco and papers

-$12 flash drive

-$ 6 pay backs

___________________________

$0

$30 Food Stamps

-$30 Limo Driver

________________

"He doesn't need the limo man"
I

LOVE

AMERICA
Wow. That made a perfect pyramid on the prior page. Maybe it's a sign that my Amway
business is going to get sailing, or that my forty nine left over ten ninety-niners are going to get
the wind on my sphincter flowing. If not, a full glass of milk and some grilled cheese with bean
dip will do the trick.

“I love the Tigers and I hate the Mets,” Cooper tells me as I start another day cooped up
in the chicken shack, awaiting the arrival of my return to Cougarville with marmalade check.
But if the answer lies ten thousand miles away, then I am shit outta luck cause I'm out of music
to my ears to get that far. If I could fly on the voices in my head I wouldn't need to take medical
marijuana in the first place.

“I'd like a Q-P of some Train Wreck and some of the wickedest Sativa you have...”

“Yeah, Dude, righteousness.”

No problemo, me compadres, the man is back in town, and don't you fool me around. I
am a city slicker with a love for booze, women and bi – polar M&M. I hate bridges and Bridges
to Independence won't be the path I take at St. Vincent de “SMALL” homeless schmeltzer.
Something smells fishy, but for once it ain't my girlfriend. Course my ex is getting there just
vibing how well written this is, putt, putt.

I do not drive. I believe I will make that another phobia. Bridges, driving and par putts.
Birdie putts are all gimmies and fore score and seven presses ago my t-shirts brought forth some
tighty whities that said in my white T, I'd have some Chai. But just because I don't have the
chem lab anymore that I should have the money to buy for my ailing six year old soon.

I'm the kind of guy, who would like some Chai, like it high and dry, so I think I ought to buy.
“Look biznatch, if you fizill my mizz ill with a pizzill I'll chizill you ill with a new grizzill.”

Tokin' gifts of gratitude in the beach bums paradisio of Felicio Del Torres ant swerve. Ahh

nonsense. The pain in my brain not taken with gain in the train of thought I will make forward to
the establishment that priors and arrests for public detoxification grants my living ass bone
weary and tired of waiting for the ultimate gainer.

Things I fear:

Not having enough beer

Not having enough pot

Not having enough sales

Not having enough food

Not having enough bridges

Not having enough water

Not having enough time

Not having enough music

Not having enough women

Not having enough sex

Not having enough product

Not having enough tools

Not having enough acronyms

Not having enough

Not having

Not

No

N

What are you lookin' at? (Get Shorty, and his cute assistant too)
What are you lookin'?

What are you?

What are?

What?

It's all part of my Rock and Roll Dream. My Hard Rock Hotel driving let's go to the ass
bone weary tired schmelt smelling schmutz that hits on me first cause I haven't had a piece for
so goddamn ed long that I am developing a sore spot for the whore slot. I could have shortened
that to a sore spot, but I like my women just a tad on the swank and snide with a side of chill and
fuck me if you like, but

I'm not the dike.

Of course I got raped so, what can I say? It's a Holiday Inn faggit, and I want everyone
but Bobbit to get their chops back. Knowing my luck I will end up in the corner with bottle of
Tequila (I turn to you like a long lost friend) playing Crazy Train over the local radio station
blaring B104. Point taken. Until the best slut in the room decides she wants me to not be left out,
but at that point I'll be too sloppie Joel seconded so fugged' aboud' it. What the fuck it's only a
chuck steak.

“Top or round?”

I'm listening to Round Room so I'm gonna need to find the corner and roll up a doobie

with my rolling papers. At $1.16 a pack you can't beat em', just yourself. To death if you have

the balls to withstand it.

Apparently there isn't anything worse than being so far out at The Space Bar that the
counselor can't offer you some dope besides the dope you are already on, so I'll just sit in my
room and type out the fact that I am so fucking beautiful in my life that I have pissed in every
corner I ever lived in, and this one is gonna be no different.

“Counselor, when are they set to beam aboard?”

“When Jim Beams my hoochie.”

“Fugged' aboud' it”

“Warf, you smell like barf. And you look like it too. Wanna fuck?”

“Counselor, I find you and Data have been screwing too often with my family so...”
Smoke em' if you got em'. But only the varieties that you have come know and love, hand
picked by you to enjoy basking in the goodness of bending over to the ultimate authority, a
loving government as they wish to reveal themselves.

And while we are on the ultimate authority status quo, let's say a thing or two about
higher powers. They are not all they are cracked up to be. They are just higher glimpses of a
reality all too soon to end your weary, bleary eyed daydreams on the sunny river bank where you
skinny dip, jingling and jangling cause you forgot to take your spurs off. Token gifts of
booblicious things in my life. Hell the only tits I have seen for years have been horrible
specimens, and if I had to live and die to see it again, I'd say what the fuck. And probably do it.
But that's just us.

It's me myself and I, and you and what army is gonna move that with a craned neck to
your bedroom you fucking porch monkey creepazoid turtle brained louse of a roommate. I am
shooting for the stars, or at least The Star BAR at ten am every morning when I have money in
my hand and a viable excuse, but it's my life. Do what I'm gonna do til' death do us part.

Growing a beard. Should be long enough when I get all that money I haven't planned how
to spend except for running as far from THE ANSWER as I possibly fucking can. Because the
answer is no-one but no-one and Mr. No One all have the answers so, if you don't like my
sentence structure you can bend over and give me what I have never had.

Take it from a sphincter muscle of extreme quality and vocal appreciation for the speed at
which my neurological impulses control the outer and inner sphincters of my dreams. I should
have completed that sentence with my own asshole doctor, but she's too busy with Hustler to
break out the trick bag for me. And unless she wants to do a skinny girl/fat guy porn flick AND
can line it up for us when I am on some serious absence of nostalgia, methed out, bleak and
weary and wandering around Hollywood looking for a good solid dildo state of mind; well you
know.

The situation is this: You have been wandering around Hollywood for hours trying to
figure out how to score food for the night. You also need smokes, booze and a place to sleep. Let
me tell you, from experience you will find yourself the walking target of many SUV driving
former prison inmates who have the going rate to give you a blow job if you like.

Just beware of the psychotic ones. Not that I ever said “yes” to a single one that wasn't
threatening my life and developing in me a severe distaste for the gay community in general, at
the same time as a closet desire to understand why what I want to do was so fucking enjoyable.
(but left me wanting to take a shower with a brillo pad) But that's just a cross country rape
excursion from another testimonial. Can I get an Amen?

Bitches.
In Eugene, they told me I needed a fag pimp and apparently I was so ready for it I jumped
in the cab and became the tri- sexual I am today. In order of relevance: Ex-fiancees, fags, and
mutts.
“All Rise”

Bread maker, that's what I need. So I can have a wifey therapy/dual diagnosis brothel
with therapeutic dogs. Now that's the shit that I would dream up if I only had the balls to make it
real. Wow.

Whattya know? An epic of epic proportions... Friday The 13th Part 22: Mirage Mansion

Yes, folks that's it. These faggits are cunt cummin action for the spine tingling pooch
smacking cum licker in you. Slice and dice your breakfast and your wifey after giving her the
ass rimming cum job of her out of control sphincter's life. When the horror get's loose, the man in
the mask will make them all into horse food. You know why we made so many of these movies?
Cause we didn't scare

EVERYBODY YET! So get ready, get your pop corn, your cell, and strap on for the ride of your
life!

A Mr. Ed production in association with Warn Her Brothers Films written by Basket Case Jones.

God, I just want one hit. A chart topper, a party popper and a bottle of kiss my ass for all
those who have ever said I would never get anywhere. You know what I mean? Not that you
should be relating to my sick as hell out of touch with anyone but the whore who would never
fuck me bed checker (I am in psyche rehab) I am farting for right now. Wait a minute. Maybe if I
give her a copy of the book I am writing? Maybe if I, ahh cigarette break. Be back in a “Flash
Ahh” second. Yes, I know,

I know sweetheart, but I need a good British fag and I am going to smoke one if I damned well
want to.

Well, fresh in silk Saks T under Nike Golf and shorts with my Adidas whites Sirius Hat
and Chinese Dollar store shades I have made my way through the laundry bin. I'm on the way to
a full closet, although I seem to be cleaning it out at an alarming rate without getting any action.
American Beauty, American Pie, American Psycho or The American?

Today of all days I have to deal with the fact that I only have a total of two months I will
spend in this place with a computer to write and complete the novel idea: a complete manuscript.
Without conning my way through this let me tell you I have no idea what I am getting myself
into here.

Hopefully alotta mula and hula hula to you too.
My friend here says that he will take the filler for the home slice and give me a piece of the

action by converting my PDF to a format compatible for my .odt here so I can turn it into an
STD and really get rolling and read through this shit. Just picking up the TOOLS on Friday with
the money coming back to me from the government I gave the money to. Only I am taking it
back because I am an Indian Giver in the most American governmental politically correct sense
of the word, unless you are just cracking open a fresh one in the oval office. That's referred to as
giving casinos the ultimate authority: a loving rain dance as we understood them. God I want a
drink.

But I have to give credit to both Obama and... Osama all summer long. “You're the
monkey on my back and it's time for you to go... HAMMERED...” the Crue wails on in the
endless loop of the very few selections of enjoyable music to my ears I have on my PC.
I am the most twisted fuck I know, but I can't get twisted or get IT twisted I just have to
twist and shout and let the ladies do their pout for now cause I'm waiting til the cows come home
on 747's to get it in the sack.

What I wouldn't give for two thirty two ouncers of some good 5.9%. Take me home to
the paradise shitty where the grass is blue and the girls are brown and whitty. Oh won't you
please take me home.

Well after a short recess to shit myself, jerk off about a staff member who fits like a
GLOVE and take a bath, I took the time to check out my online status. I went to the drop in
center, where mental patients of shapes and sizes gather to get what they need the way they need
it. For me it was fried coated string cheese, Facebook and realizing that my book is realistically
way too long already but that I am a writing junkie who needs to earn his way into the common
law marriage Bubba will take me for after all my law suits settle. And fuck you too demo of
more to come.

At this point I am very back logged and unsure as to the status of my quotient, so I must
refrain from acting like a jerk any further and tell the abominable tale. The tale of two shitties
and the poop that pursued them to the ends of the ABE area. Of course by the time I am done, I
will have flown the coup and be smoking the dupe, so shoop de shoop doo wop dee doo. With
poop on top.
“Smoka da poop!”

And there you have it folks, asshole doctors. What do THEY know? Assholes.

Of course it's now 7PM. I have just come from The Mental Health help yourself to fat
pieces of shit Drop in Center. There the fat piece of shit in charge told me that he wanted to
prove himself just that and I told him to “have a nice fucking day”. To which he told me to watch
my language. To which I replied “I will, Have a nice FUCKING DAY!” To which HE REPLIED
“In fact don't FUCKING come back!” To which I replied “HAVE A NICE FUCKING DAY!”
And you know what? I will.

Assholes who know that guy better triple up on the double dose of reality, cause he ain't
gonna move anywhere in life sitting on his fat ass being the big guy over a bunch of retarded
people.
Chapter 23:

School

Perhaps I should relate a bit my tale of woe. Wojohowitz which sounds like an old black
woman saying “woah Joel it's” very breathily, which reminds me of my fat piece of shit for
brains mother saying it very breathily as she stands up for every one else in this world but me,
unless I admit complete defeat, give up on life, collect SSI and succumb to being the most
mentally retarded thing she ever met next to my son, whom she will force feed his illness until he
gags on it now that I have told her she will have a gag order if she comes near me. No, wait, she
was doing that ALREADY! Must come fucking natural to the cunt.

So, back to wo Johoel it's “not fair to be so mean...I LOVE YOU!”

Don't talk back in my brain bitch, I know you're ex husband bought himself too much
when he knocked you up, and up to that point he had just been buying a piece of ass by treating
me nice. As soon as named after Chaim Potok's The Chosen red haired Asher came out of your
cunt, he started beating me as hard as he could as often as he could afford the time. Thankfully
you forced him (begrudgingly in sweats and slippers) to take me to football where I excelled in
defense, and I was able to defend myself. Ever wonder why I choked the dog so hard when I
trained her? So she wouldn't actually fucking kill him when he was beating me. He would have
come up with a way to get me out of the house faster than he did. At age eleven I would have
been the notorious former straight A gifted student who trained the dog to attack his adopted
News Anchor father. Notice the capitalization? How about this one: ELEVEN YEAR OLD State
Award Winning Actor and GIFTED STUDENT with no behavioral problems to date.

Ok, then fast forward. I have socially adjusted, but you have rape complex from your past life

and won't let me have normal female relationships. So let's get to about fifteen years of age when
I have about fucking had it with being the blunt end of more emotional abuse than you and he
can dish out because I am big enough to scare him now.

So he starts in on me when I have never said a dirty word in front of anyone in our
“model” upper class household, and he decides once again his career is on the line to be the
family man for KYW and I need a lesson. He starts in on me about never mentioning “tits” or
anything vaguely or otherwise teenager like ever to anyone in his house. That I am sick, and he
will fucking hurt me if I do.

A short time later, never having been asked to mow the lawn I am told that “he gave me
fair notice” and that if I am to be allowed to visit my friends beach house (they are waiting in the
driveway) I have to mow the acre of lawn with the push mower NOW.
Of course, I did what any self respecting teenager would have done and left. He used this
as fair game to charge me rent. And when I worked my ass off and paid it well, it wasn't enough
proof to him that I would succumb to his holy devoutness. So shortly thereafter at age fifteen, I
was told “FUCK

OFF YOU LITTLE SHIT, YOU ARE HOMELESS.”

I managed to maintain well enough, balancing delicately the threatening calls to my
counselors at the High School which saw the truth and supported me. I managed to make it until
bribed, and then of course because I had 15 years left to see the REALITY came back. As soon
as I graduated with my little National Award in Acting (two first place finishes as well), my
writing credentials, in good physical shape, an astounding musician and singer in a band playing
the hottest spots in Philly I was told to “get the fuck out”.

Of course when it came down to it, I had to medicate the pain and was in trouble before
long because I was hurt BAD. Mom and Dad “number one” were there to be happy about their
moral victory because it meant they weren't bad parents, I was a bad son. Current correction,
no... just a no class slob with mental illness which I was BORN with. Do your research assholes.
It either came from both of your abuse, Mom's genes, or both. Both. Well researched.

So of course when it came down to it, I needed help after the summer of caddying at one
of the worlds best courses ever, and came home on Christmas, being a lame duck. Guess what, I
am not lame anymore. That “drug induced psychosis” was not psychosis, it was termed it to
please the family who paid for the therapy so that they could bury me instead admitting what I
was too fucked with a complete nervous breakdown to realize the truth.

You turned me away to be homeless on Christmas Eve. Said “Don't come around here no
more”.

Why has it taken me until age 33 to realize that you are the blood sucking maggots
lacking any morals that you are?

I love that sentence.

So I wandered on from Christmas Eve, and had a nervous breakdown. This is turning into
an all out JAM session here. Mixing conjugations and such...

So Daddy, you filthy faggit, you paid out of your “oh poor you” insurance, and when I
was fresh out of the coma you put me in and helpless dumped in the first available ghetto North
Philly dump you could find for me to die in. But I didn't.

And Mommy was oh so sad, cause she was “concerned... these people are going to help you
Joel...”

What I didn't realize was that where I went was less cutthroat than where I came from, and

they carried weapons. Of course now you do. But if you were to ever pull one on me, I would
slit your throat so fast and deep you wouldn't even blink and you'd be in Hell. Of course I would
end up where you have sent me my whole life, on the run and ultimately in front of a mental
health judge. But that's cause money and power are all that matter in your world, and I don't
matter. Fucking try me. Due to my own inability to realize what immoral pieces of shit you are
and simply stand up and be the man I am becoming now at lightning fast speed, I have learned to
live among those that know how to kill and learned. Don't think I feel any kind of pleasure in the
fact that you might try something so wonderful and desperate when this gets read by the world,
but if you do... out of desperation, then it is because for the first time ever the tables finally got
fucking turned the direction they needed to be turned.
And if you don't like my opinions, as they are just that, opinions, then fucking sue me bitches.

All you ever wanted from me was the ability to be socially fit for your uptight snobby world

anyway so I'm sure all of the TRUTH you sue me over that gets put into print will put plenty of

bang in your social funsies.

But funsies aside, push me pussies cause the people I call my family are people who
haven't been issued a warning not have any contact with me or else be issued legal action on my
behalf. If you haven't gotten that through your thick fucking skulls, then welcome to my world.
Hope it doesn't take you as long as it took me to realize.

I need a drink.I need a joint. Then I need a cigarette. Then I need to have good conversation

with a female. Then I need to get laid.

Then I need a fucking cigarette. Smoke a cigarette and lie some more, these conversations kill. I

don't drive, or cross bridges under my own power, but FUCK IT.

FUCK IT.
FUCK IT.

FUCK IT.

It's the same story the crow told me, it's the only one you know. I miss Shari. If that isn't a
juvenile statement then I don't know what is. It tells me how far from the reality ... no not THE
reality, reality itself I have been for so long.

I haven't the faintest clue what to do with this path, but exactly what I have learned. Take it one

day at a time. I can't break it down any further than that or I take it too far. Having goals is quite
ok, but that's just it. Sometimes I feel so weighed down by the goals.

Right now I am having a mild panic attack brought on by emotions of looking over IT
and smoking too much and too much caffeine. I need to cut out the caffeine and cut way back on
smoking.

As far as IT is concerned, yeah, copyright. Then I figure I don't want it to overshadow

any career I could build in writing, so self publish and sit on it. If I ever have any success, the

message of IT will be quite clear and final. That I steered the course to the good, made

amends, stayed clean and lived on.

I will go to a career fair tomorrow, and hopefully land a career move. The goal on my
resume is: To own and operate a successful Marketing Corporation. It is missing the big picture
as I have it coming down in the new novel I am working on: Going Public. That would be build
it, expand it, take it public and become a lending powerhouse with an Investment Banking Firm I
open to finance my dreams.

Of course the immediate picture is just how it was left in IT. Family hasn't seen any
concrete proof. Still can't see my son. I am getting some hope though. A worker here gave me
bus fare to get to the career fair, and I have a pack of smokes to ease my head through it.

Got my California Unemployment back today. Doubles my income, to a whopping $400
a month now. Of course I should still get food stamps, so that counts for something I guess.
Nothing to be proud of still, and somehow that ironically includes IT.

Watching my roommates get high and fuck off their lives. It is sad. I am going to get a
job. I am to take that tax money and pay off my fines to get my drivers license back. I get the
restoration requirements letter sent today from PENNDOT.
I figure if I can get a sales job making me anywhere near what I was earning in
California, well, anyway. Figure I can pull off the equivalent of $12 an hour. That's $2k minus
taxes a month. Figure I clear $1500, I can save about a grand a month. If I get the job paying out
starting July, that makes about four months to save and move out. I will have my license after the
suspension in September, so figure in October I could take two grand and buy some wheels. That
leaves two grand to move out on November first. The wheels will open up the choices for my
location for the living situation, as I would like to be in a nice place and not settle for anything
less than the ability to safely have Shane come over and spend some quality time.

I am on Step 6 of the snowflake project for Going Public, my first novel (next to the
manuscript all handwritten I dumped in the trash in 2009). Figure another 200 hours, it will be
done. At 20 hours a week, that is two and half months. That means in August I can be looking for
an agent for the copywritten manuscript.

Figure $1510.

$1510

50 BUS

1450

50 CIGARETTES

1400

410 RENT

1000

2000...

Now I start to feel kind of melancholy about how much money I am going to have when I
land the apartment. Then I worry that I will lose the job and end up on the street. Then I wonder
if ending up on the street will end in me freezing to death like I almost did last winter a few
times. Now I feel like having a cigarette, but I am still having anxiety and it won't help any. Now
I want a few puffs on a joint, and know it will help if it's the right strain. Of course then I will
want to loosen up with a little alcohol.

Read that fucking book, Joel. Read IT. Tell yourself. Play the tape to the end. This isn't
the end, it's the beginning. And not the beginning of the end.

And it's not ok to not be in touch with the family who loves you, and it is not that simple
due to status and amends and stigma and etc etc etc but really.
Like A Stranger In Moscow playing in my headphones I feel so sad. I just want to be filled with

that joy that I know. But the only joy that I have filled myself with for years is liquid joy, so be
patient.

Be patient.

May 20th $45 CASH
$20 cigarettes
$25 work bag

$120 every 2 weeks
$240 total
-50 bus pass
$190
-$50 cigarettes

$140 broken into 2 week segments
$70 for two weeks
$35 a week spending cash

5th first check for $200
welfare coming for
$102.50 figure $80 rent

Leaves
$220.00 and
food stamps!

220
50 bus pass
170
$25 cigarettes
145
35 mp3 player
110
INTERNET CONNECTION REST

I just talked to Mom. She told me she may have had a mini stroke on Saturday, and that she spent
the last few days in the hospital. She was at fucking WORK. And she told me, crying the whole
time that she needs me to not be in contact with her for at least thirty days.
I am so sad. At first I felt blamed. I'm sure that stress causes these things, so I am sure I
am blamed. I feel like I just need to go away and leave her family alone. I will never be at the
family gatherings, but I will keep in touch with her. Of course not until 6-9-2011.

I have to feel like maybe she is blaming herself for some of the stuff that has happened to
me or she wouldn't be stressed enough to have a stroke.

I had called to tell her all of the good news I have amassed in the past few days. Namely
that I have an interview tomorrow with Lehigh Country Club for the position of locker room
attendant. Of course it would be mostly afternoons and evenings, so I would have the
opportunity maybe to caddie in the mornings.

I feel like I have this 22 year old twerp for a brother who has to play a power trip all the fucking

time. He is a half brother, and it needed and needs not to be forced down my throat. These roles
in the family were defined to be what they are, named what they are for a purpose. My mother
insists that they are my sister and brother when they are not and never have been, not in Ashers
case since he was a toddler.

So in light of all of these arrogant pricks in my life trying to steal my thunder with the
Mother I grew up around long before they ever came into being, I just fucking lose. And if we
are all not careful, we will all lose our mother.

In the meanwhile I have a crazy attention getting book I have written in IT, which is sure
to kill my mother if it were to ever achieve success. That's what I feel like. I feel like she would
have that final stroke and die if I were to have success with IT. How the fuck do you make that
kind of decision? It is important that the book be published as it IS intact so as to hold the proper
message and have the proper effect. So I guess I do what any sensible person would do, and give
it to God.

I filed this and then had the wonderful thought. Why not use the journey as the rest of the
book? Diary entries are about the best I am going to be doing for the next quite some time, and
get me to the place where I need to be to be able to give the proper message for IT. Don't end IT
with FUCK IT, end IT with the story of how life got better.

For Mom. Who I love so much. I pray that she takes HER doctors advice and takes it
easy. I need more time. More time. Of course, if she dies, I'll probably sell about 400 billion
more copies.

Can't stop crying here. Dinner time. Grace. God, grant me some.

That's it. I'm never gonna make billionaire status with writing for damned sure. Time to
go for it for motherfucking real. Time to start my corporation. Brooks Flow, LLC.
I need start up planning and money. And so it begins.

Figure I get this caddying job tomorrow, as the locker room attendant is OUT for now
due to transportation issues. I move out of here with the tax money and into a room. Get back on
my own, thank God. Nothing too permanent, as caddying is temporary. But a DECENT room
will run.. hold on let me check the paper here.

OK, found the answer. Get the caddy job. That is about $2k total income. Rent at
Hamilton Towers is about $700. Figure I can keep food to $300 a month, that's half of it. Make
my own cigarettes with tubes, get a case. Cigarettes $50 a month.

2000

-700 rent

1300

Food stamps pay most of food

MA pays Risperidone

FUCK the Depakote

1300

-150 alcohol

1150

50 bus pass

1100

-100 phone Boost

1000

-200 food

800

$800

-200 spending

$600 to save a month for 5 months to prepare for Florida
$3000 to make the move

Figure caddie and unemployment May-mid June: $2k

2000

-300 rent

1700

-50 bus pass

1650

-50 cigarettes

-100 spending

1550

-300 lunches

1250 Pay one months rent and deposit at Hamilton
Towers get tax money

-pay off license fine

-get phone

-if you can, get wifi

$3000 for move to Florida

-buy a cheap car

-research places in Miami

Now make yourself feel better about it all.

At $1600 a month times 12 months, you make

Almost $20,000
WAY BETTER THAN YOU HAVE BEEN

Figure November through April in Miami

6 months at
$2k same
budget

6 times $500 month savings (car costs) is

$3000

MOVE BACK and bank it... back to Hamilton Towers.

Over this period of time you have: written a business plan.

Made contacts. Written books.

Now the school thing is nagging at me. Maybe do online classes at my own speed with someone
throughout the course of all of this.

So figure do online classes in business. $2000 plus turning over the car for a grand gets a $3K
car.

Save and milk the car and school.

Repeat.

Went outside and smoked a cigarette. I have got IT!

I am going to go to The Art Institute of Pittsburgh for Web Design as initially planned. So
days on the golf course, nights on the computer. Do two years of caddying in the endless
summer, and schooling.

By the time I have the degree I should have over five grand saved up for my move into a
new career. Get a job as a web designer and go finish my bachelor's in Web Design. Do two
years of working in the field and finishing my Bachelor's and move up in the world.

Work in the field and go to school for my Master's in business with an emphasis on
ecommerce. Move up in the world. End up as an e- commerce strategy manager making six
figure income by the time I am 44 years old at the very worst.
That gives me 21 years to prime retirement age. Do 22 years of working and writing as a
hobby, and retire gracefully with a great portfolio to fill my days with adventures to write about.

Stay away from drugs, and live a normal life. Deal with the Bi-Polar correctly and it
won't cause me to go back to the life I have seen, the bad parts anyway. That means take your
risperidone and see your shrink. Make healthy choices, and be you.

That just seems so freaking good. And so freaking simple. It is just a FACT that I don't
need to have anything in the way of too serious a relationship until after I have my associates
degree. But normal healthy female relationships are possible under those circumstances. Just
don't get caught up, keep your plan.

I just went outside and had a cigarette. I saw the fatal flaw in my plan here. Beer. Leads to
not taking meds. Leads to not listening to doctor. I can maintain medical insurance under a
student plan once I am started. So moving ain't a problem here.

Stay SOBER. How do you stay sober? Attend support meetings. Forget about NA, it's
shoddy and trouble. Take the advice of your first and foremost in your mind counselor, Kim
Oroscz. Stick with the old timers. Go to AA. Start tomorrow. It's that easy. You can build a
network of friends who are in sobriety who are understanding, because there is wisdom in those
rooms. Something you weren't finding in the rooms of NA.

Stay sober, take your meds, work and go to school. Wasn't that easy? And it adds what

would probably be a lot more than $150 a month to your budget. Money to pay for what you

forgot. Toiletries.

Now then, hit the book.

A young protege in marketing gets blackmailed by a woman from his past. Mark

thought he had it all. Risen from the ashes of past riddled with bad memories and bad

associations, he has formed his own marketing firm, HEIRS, LLC from scratch. Leaving

behind careers in industries riddled with dead ends and drugs, namely caddying, and the

restaurant industry, he left to become an artist. Bottoming out into the streets, he built his

sales career one piece at a time until he had the skill set to start off on his own. With a

grand and a grand dream he has built a soon – to – become empire consisting of a network

of Realtors and Auto Dealerships. Now servicing every aspect of modern day marketing
you can imagine, he is poised to take the company public and cash in on all of his dreams.

At a dinner celebrating the firm's rise to the top, and impending future as an investment

banking powerhouse, he receives a phone call.

“Mark, it's Cathy.”

Cathy is a former girlfriend of his from his days long buried as a junkie. She tells

Mark that he is quite an artist still, and that it's time he put his writing and acting skills to

good use. It's time to write a check to cover what he has been neglecting, for all of those he

left behind. She says unless he can come up with nice round number, namely half of the

money the board he oversees will get in two weeks, she will blow the horn. He receives a

multi - media file on his phone with picture of him shooting up, arrest records and last but

not least a birth certificate. She tells him he has a son who he has never paid a dime for the

care of, and that it is over. The phone call ends, and he is left in shock. He leaves the dinner

to find his old mentor and get some advice.

When turns to his old mentor for advice, and is met by the tired admission that this

too can be bought. The mentor suggests that Mark is overreacting and that he use his

resources to investigate before acting. Then the stalking begins, street people, mob

associates, you name it come out of the woodwork to let Mark know he will not get off so

easily. At his Customer Service Center an employee hands him a flash drive that contains

more shocking files. Standing in his office, facing the bay, a call comes in to his phone and

the sniper on the rooftop across from him puts his laser sights all over him. When he leaves

to go to the trolley, he bumps into his old dealer who tells him he looks like he needs a fix,

and hands him some crystal meth. His girlfriends all begin sending him text messages

canceling their dates with him, forwarding nude photos of him they received from his

number. He receives a phone call telling him that data in his backup phone directory has
been stolen and that they can make those texts and phone calls from his number to the

investors if he should so like and create the storm to end all storms. Cathy calls and tells

him that he is investing in his son's future.

He realizes that the money for such an all out assault has to be coming from a

greater source and begins an investigation with one of his executives. They find in the

record books a tie from one of the old marketing plan customers from his street days. A

now successful rap and rock act, he has been shown in photos with Cindy. Digging deep,

they find the ties to the drugs, to the mob, and then the trail goes cold. Until Mark realizes

it is an inside job from one of his own executives. The file was left on his desk by accident,

but contained some pertinent information to a rival marketing firm vying for a lot of the

same business.

Mark arranges to have a backstage pass to one of the rap acts shows, and goes with

an escort on his side. When he arrives, he finds himself confronted by the street scene he

left behind years ago, but with all of the money he has now to go with it. Ears ringing from

his front row vantage point, after having been pointed out by the rap star, he makes his way

backstage. There an old guitarist of his is waiting in the wings. They have small talk, and he

gives the guitarist a note to give to the stage director. The stage director reads the note into

the rappers ear in between songs, and the set is ended. He comes storming off the stage

entourage in tow, ready for action.

Mark pulls out a phone and calls an old connection of his from back in the day. It is a mob

associate in the city where they are standing. He puts the sattelite video phone up for the

rapper to see as he approaches, the don whose turf he stands on. The rapper starts to make

a move with his entourage, but Mark is ready. Taking a transmitter from his pocket and

plugging it in, the video conference is played on the concert screen to the audience. “This
Don Vincente” says the Mafia ringleader to the audience. He narrates the current problem

with the rap star,and then recites his rap sheet. The audience eats it up and starts a riot

that forces the star back onstage. “It's done, the press will be all over this...” Mark slyly

grins as he walks offstage and out the side entrance. On the way to the street, catching a

cab he calls the opposing firm's CEO.

Fueled by the scandalous back stabbing, Mark releases a book written in the days

before his rise from the streets and feeds the story of the scandal to the press. Going public day

comes, and the stock soars in reaction to the multi – faceted approach of the marketing whiz.

The next day, it is in the news that Cindy is suing the rapper for child support, physical abuse

and harassment. The executives at the neighboring firm run for cover as customers bail off

their network and into HEIRS. The backstabbing executive is cut loose to fend for himself.

Characters:

Major:

Mark: CEO Owner of HEIRS, LLC

Cindy: Girlfriend of Rap Artist “Tinny”

Tinny: Rap Artist

Elizabeth: Board Member HEIRS, Mark's romantic involvement and co-investigator

Darren: Executive inside HEIRS involved in conspiracy

Don Vincente: Mafia leader
Edgar: Mark's mentor

Alfredo: Mark's first

partner

Minor:

Slim: drug dealer slides Mark Meth

Cap: sniper

Fizzy: tech criminal

Richard: Opposing firms CEO

Mark: CEO Owner of HEIRS, LLC

Mark is the driving force behind the story, the hero. He goes from hiding his past in the
beginning of the story, to acknowledging and using it as an inspirational story.

A start up businessman of his own right, Mark has built a business from the ground up,
starting with very little funds. He began from a homeless shelter, and has amassed a network of
Realtors and Auto Dealers who use his marketing firm. The firm has raised capital to expand the
business, and Mark is poised to take the firm public to complete the final stages of his
transformation. His goal is to expand into Investment Banking, and to use his network of
Realtors and Car Dealers to become a lending powerhouse.

Mark was a former drug addict, pursuing the life of an artist. He used to live, to get by
through the highs and lows of a failing writer/actor/musician. Mark is well studied and has a
penchant for high class women with taste, though he is more of a homebody. His aversion to
flying was not an obstacle to his success, and the business was built in spite of it. He has built
around him a team of executives, slowly hand picked through the ranks of the different levels of
the organization as it expanded.

Mark is unmarried with no children, though he has had so many bad relationships through
his past life that he wonders how many abortions are out there. It had never really occurred to
him that someone would hide a child from him until reached an acceptable level of success and
then come after him.

He relocated to avoid the family that stigmatized him in his hometown and when visiting
there avoids them. He has contact with some members, but remains away from them due to the
fact that he cannot live down the weight of his past and what he feels will ultimately shame him,
even in the position which he has achieved.

Darren:

Darren was hired from another firm into the executive sales team raising capital to
expand HEIRS into call centers. He was hand picked from a team of experts who obviously
loved his glowing resume' and the fact that he represented the demographic most missing in the
HEIRS team. Darren is an African American male from a southern background who ran from
trouble in small town Arkansas to become a college success, and the salesman the son of a
southern baptist preacher should be.

Darren goes from the spited in his own self esteem issues overachiever trying to bring
down his boos to win a spot as a partner in the competing firm to exposed and seeking
psychiatric help at the end.

Darren enters the story at the celebratory dinner where he is being offered a spot on the
board of the Investment Banking Firm. He has been offered what he has already put in place by
the opposition's plan to take down Mark. He gets bullied into staying in the deal with threats of
exposure, and continues on the treacherous path he has created for himself.

Darren was salesman of the year, raising over two point two million dollars in capital for
HEIRS almost single handedly while coaching his upper level managers behind the front lines of
the network. An overachiever his whole life, he is impatient and begins an affair with a married
local politician. As soon as the scandalous activity begins, he begins cracking up and taking
prescription downers to an extreme.

He has a past history in the gay community, and when he threatens to back out again,

threatening pictures and hotel camera videos surface along with records from a vacation with

his former roommate, a well known New York City fag. The politician with whom he is having

the affair receives the same information, and breaks off the relationship. To say the least, Darren

reaps what he sows.
Cindy: Girlfriend of Rap Artist “Tinny”

Cindy is the girlfriend of Rap artist “Tinny”. She is a drug addict with many talents.
While supporting herself as a porn-movie industry star she ran into the rapper, and it became lust
at first bite. Over the course of the story she transforms from the long abused and cowering
addict and heavy drinker into the trying to recover victim of the abuse she has fallen to.

Cindy was a friend to Mark during his days on the street. At one point they became a
couple, frequenting local shows for Mark to sit in and perform. They scraped up enough to start
their own sort of speak-easy and lived in it for awhile. It became a hotspot until they had a falling
out over the drug use and whether the people who frequented were due to her vast connections.
She is a social butterfly with undying whit and a light sense of humor, but vicious when backed
into a corner.

Cindy has a five year old child which was born during a time in her life just prior to meeting

Mark. During their brief affair, she never told Mark of the child growing inside of her, and she
harbors a sort of bitterness that he was never man enough to stand aside and do the work he
promised. She feels that with his talent, it was his responsibility to build a career out of his
artistic talents, writing, acting and music.

Cindy has had an ongoing relationship with Tinny since they met shortly before Mark
arrived on the scene. Tinny and she had shared a house in the south side of Bethlehem,
Pennsylvania which had led to contacts for him, and he had left for his budding career. She
began doing videos of she and Tinny engaged in sexual acts in that house, and used them as
leverage after her affair with Mark to get into the porn industry after the birth of her son, Shade.

Cindy is a bad mother, pawning her son off to anyone who will take him at any point in

time to relieve her of the hand she feels she was unfairly dealt in light of the career she should be

having. She blames the conception of her son on the circumstances she fell into due to the family

which would not stand behind her.

Elizabeth: Board Member HEIRS, Mark's romantic involvement and co-investigator

Liz, as she likes to be called goes from HEIRS Board Member to heiress of Darren's spot
on the Investment Firm Board. She is a very well educated small town girl from Michigan, with
a Masters from U of M in Ann Arbor. She earns her place by carrying Mark with her
investigations and obvious education about the goings on within the company.
A romantic relationship springs up between Mark and Elizabeth which does result in
some steamy sex scenes, and banter about sexual harassment. She earns her place however, and
given both the option to bow out or join Mark as equals in the new venture, she chooses to stay.

She is a sexy brunette, likes to drink, but not too much. Just enough to be one of the guys.

Loves baseball and is a die hard Detroit Tigers fan, often quoting the Alice Cooper song, I Love
America. She is probably the most honest and hard working, loveable character in the story with
her love for simple pleasures.

Daughter of two Michigan politicians, she grew up on the farm until she left for
community college in a neighboring city. After a year at a state school, she attended Michigan
State in Ypsilanti, until she and her fiancee graduated. They broke up when he cheated on her,
and she decided to stay on in Ann Arbor and get a Master's at U of M.

She is the author of a nationally syndicated blog, running favorite amongst many
heavyweight politicians and bankers. She holds the keys to the press box whenever it comes time
to make the proverbial shit hit the fan, and she has no fear of unlocking the bank vault and laying
it to waste.

Sharp tongued to those in opposition, but slow on the draw for the purpose of softening
her image, she often gets overlooked for the positions that she is capable of , and this turn of
events in fact, she decides are the workings of the powers that be which her parents always
talked about in the days growing up in Michigan.

Tinny: Rap Artist

Tinny has had a rough career, built from the bottom up. Rising from the streets of
Philadelphia, he earned the nickname “Tinny” for both the nasal voice he uses when “spitting” at
high speed and for the fact that it was rumored that he had no heart. He used the nickname as a
backbone for the theme of his first album, The Tin Man and came to be the rap artist Tinny. His
main focus is always on what it took for him to rise off of the streets.

Tinny had been homeless in Los Angeles for some time when he flew home to the Lehigh
Valley to get some rest. He got into drugs, and found a landlord who would put up with it while
he set up a studio in his house. Using what he learned in Venice while digging through trash
cans, Tinny begins to record and promote his own shows online and in nearby New York. He
avoids Philadelphia, which is strangling him, because it is where he came from. Then came along
Cindy.
With Cindy along as the social butterfly for his local gigs, Tinny was soon hitting the hot
spots and leaving them begging for more. She would bring along all of her friends, pack the club
and before he knew it, Tinny was getting offers from labels. But when his label finally cut a deal
for the rights to the already recorded college radio hit-single with the arrangement to cut his next
album with their promotion, he took the money and ran.

Tinny, though from the streets had done his homework and through the boosting of his
single had sold other numbers for movies and television to finance a clothing line. After
recording his new album and making it to the Billboards, Tinny tried to sell his story, but ran
short with the part of Cindy.

He needed someone to warm up the movie studio executives, and finalize the meeting
arrangements.

The record company didn't like his script, and refused to help.

Bringing Cindy back on board, he desperately tries to get an audience with studio

executives, but is finding himself falling short. He wants the money to boost his clothing line, as

he has overspent his royalties already. Then he gets an offer he can't refuse to take down his old

runner, Mark. Using his money for the criminal work, he makes a deal that if the take down is

successful, a competing

Investment Firm with HEIRS will get his movie bought and financed.

Afterward:

There are no easy answers

Except but to trust

Our Father, who Art in Heaven

Mine who is in Heaven is with me Every Day

And it is by His Guidance

I Will Find my Recovery
Every second of every minute of every day

So for this I do Pray

For you

Pamela G. Ahearn

The Ahearn Agency, Inc.
2021 Pine St.
New Orleans, LA 70118

Dear Ms. Ahearn,

My based on true events thriller novel proves that while most humans have one life, I have nine.
The book is a catwalk through nine near – death experiences I have been through and the person
who came through it all, the ever entertaining main character – OZENOZ. It has all of the daring
literary style of a Brett Easton Ellis, with grit and dialogue a la Elmore Leonard.

OZENOZ is at the height of his blogging career when suddenly a Pakistani Terrorist attack
shakes him up, and makes him leave home, a crystal methamphetamine palace, without ever
looking back. He flees to Los Angeles, where he meets head on with some of the toughest times
he has ever faced, and the toughest hoods.

Throughout the course of his travels he is shot at, poisoned, has a hair raising ride through the
Lincoln Tunnel on a stolen bicycle, and all the while he believes he is being set up to be framed
for a terrorist sniper. As he fights for his life, and his freedom to find the truth, all the while he is
chasing Hollywood and his true aspiration to become an entertainer.

Filled with all of the creatures of the night, and scare – raisers you can imagine in places that
would otherwise seem like tourist traps, and an intriguing love story at the midway point,
OZENOZ leads us down a path of redemption with each sweep of the odds. The finality of the
book is realized as he finds that even jail eludes him when he steers a true course. (Thus the title:
Black and White)

I hope you can find a place amongst your other titles for this wonderful excursion that I truly
lived, and live for. I am also writing a screenplay version, and producing the first and twelve year
long awaited album: OZENOZ: ONE to supplement my career in entertainment. Check me out at
http://www.ozenoz.com.

I have included a sample: the first three chapters. Thank you for considering OZENOZ: Black
and White.

Sincerely,

“ozenoz”

Chapter One

It was an evening of dismay which led to my terrorizing a whole hundred and twenty – five of
my regular blog viewers. For the first time in my life, I had bought the dealers stuff, and what
came after was the royal flush.

In way over my head at the onset of this whole creature fascination with crystal
methamphetamine, I was unprepared for the paranoids to come after me. How fateful my father’s
words, which just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they are not after you. Somebody
certainly was, the alarming thing was what they were after me for.

As I approached the chair where I sat the long and lonely night’s blogging away my exploits to
the joy of my select audience, the Droid let out a lonely beep. It was out of juice, as usual and
hooked onto the local Wi-Fi connection we had in the house.

In David’s room, I heard the clicking of a mouse. He was unaware of what the hell I or my blog
had been up to. To him, it was innocent and simple, a boy and his toy. Not this meth addict.

I was charged for the night knowing I had my own supply to continue on for as long as I wanted.
I was feeling in good spirits, although temperamental that my adopted father’s replies as of late
had been reflective of my status and not my work ethic. It was like pulling teeth to get the old
man to say that you could have a future though, and lately he had done that.
Picking up the Droid, I opened up my blogger application and checked on my hits. There was a
strange occurrence. There was a single hit in Saudi Arabia in the capital, certainly not anywhere
that could be insignificant. This was undoubtedly the influence of my former roommate I thought
to myself slyly, the bum. His family owned more than six hundred million dollars in real estate
there.

I remembered meeting his father, as resilient of a man for his ancient age as I could have
imagined. Showing little signs of jet lag or ill temperament from his long travel itinerary from
the past few days, he had given me without hesitation a beautiful Turkish prayer rug with the
symbol for Mecca on it. He did it so gracefully and tactfully, his mannerism making me feel as if
he felt he was inviting an innocent child to an inner sanctum he cherished. Then he grinned, and
started in on his visit with his son, and I was moved to make my exit.

Jaulid had been a fool, but I had always thought at least he knew he was playing the fool. It was
senseless to think that as such a wealthy heir to a massive fortune he would not have a major life
change coming when “the family jewels” so to speak became his. You could tell though, that he
was genuine in his concern for the shortcomings he had, and their effects on his family. It was
relieving to see that his father did not share his sentiment on the seriousness of these things, and
he seemed to look at his eyes and see back into a time where Jaulid played the fool as a small
child. He smiled a simple and knowing, happy grin.

These things passed through my mind as I studied the stats page of my blogger account for
ayersbrooks.com. It was December second of two thousand and eleven and the mood tonight for
my blog emanating from my aching frontal lobes was one to tackle a more serious and
impending subject. The state of world affairs as viewed by a public vastly unawares, or plain
ignorant better yet of the level of attention they could receive via the new networks subtle
programming nuances. As well as the level of surveillance and lack of privacy it would induce
on their lives. The irony wasn’t a jest, but a boast, one that I would soon see in its true balance.
The balance was not in my favor.

Aki, the resident stray black cat purred and rubbed her hindquarters on my legs. She was a good
cat, one that had all the qualities of having been our kitten, though she had abandoned her
owners just down the street. The woman who owned her was infuriated, aghast that the cat had
chosen to leave her loving home to be with us. On her regular visits, she more often than not just
seemed sad. Something in her eyes though betrayed that she felt that Aki was doing this deed to
do something for us. As though this sleek black cat had come to accompany us on a journey of
sorts that was transpiring on her home turf.

She was free to come and go as she pleased, but as of late she had taken to lounging in my bed.
The house was your typical North Park/ City Heights boarding home but yet it had a very special
air to it. The residents who lived at this house, though their lives were sordid and uncouth all
seemed to echo with the timeless quality of the rarer characters in the world. She fit in with us,
and she knew it.

“Hey Aki,” I scratched her ears and up under her chin as she made signs that she wanted to sit on
my lap. She was tense, and seemed to be needier than usual tonight. Coming from Aki, this was
most likely not a good sign.

John, our beloved roommate and the purveyor of all things against regular bathing had recently
passed on. Regular bathing, hell the guy hadn’t had a bath or a shower since any of the residents
could remember, and some had been there for many years.

I hit the back button on the blogger app to take me to the new posts section to where I could
begin, nervously, my nightly observed exploits.

“You see John around, Aki?” I asked her playfully.

She seemed to visibly shudder, glancing at what used to be his door adjacent from the living
room where I perched to catch a better Wi-Fi signal.

There was a theory amongst the residents that there was an angel among us that had attracted Aki
to the house. Later, in my morbid and strung out state I conversed with that angel. It was the
angel of death who was staying on with us for a while. And he was not to be tampered with
lightly or handled with a lack of welcome.

Always having been a firm believer in the paranormal and all kinds of things being possible on
parallel planes of existence, I had experienced first – hand the ghosts of this house.

One night I had performed an electronic voice phenomena session with my phone to try and
capture the incessant ramblings of the old man who had died in my room. Later, when I listened
to the recording, the old coot had come through loud and clear.

“Oh, he needs his laxative! Ha! Ha!” as he cracked nonstop puns about on my drug induced
bowel problems.

But when I pushed him to talk about his regrets about the living and dying the way he had done
in that house, he had become hostile.

“Out! Out! I want you out of my fucking room!”

Later his mood had become somber. Days later after John had joined his ranks (the deceased)
wandering the halls I had witnessed what I think was that very same old coot, passing on and
going home finally.

The blog opened a new post as I observed the mouse in the corner of the room skittering past
Aki’s unrelenting eyes toward the safety of the kitchen.
Perhaps the cat just liked her meals alive, or close to. There was plenty of that type of fare
around here.

The cursor blinked on a fresh entry into my blog. It had become a popular item with a very select
audience in Spring Valley recently, and I had some very devoted visitors. They were eating it up,
but it had begun to concern me.

Over the past few days, certain pages in the blog had been altered without my doing. I worried
that if the tampering went too far, the far too honest and very sensitive topics, meth to name one,
would be fucked with and misconstrued.

The thought kind of creeped me out. This stuff had me hooked, and I knew it. What had begun as
a summertime fling with getting on and jerking off had become a daily reprieve. These days with
it, I felt pathetic and vulnerable to forces beyond my control, yet without it I felt drab, dreary,
and useless.

I patted the one hundred dollar bag of crystal in my pocket, and plodded an audible “oh well, “as
I prepared to dive into ayersbrooks.com.

I checked once more to see the current number of viewers I had. It was at twenty at this very
moment. They were direct hits too, so this was prime audience. This was a good thing. Not that I
ever expected to make any money from the pay per click advertising or anyone wanting to
advertise on such a diversely moody template. It was the grand idea of playing to an audience
that led me to believe that perhaps the books and scripts I was working on, and at a furious pace,
would sell.

What I remember of the initial blog entry that night is that it was of a kind of regal air about how
the events surrounding my life pointed to an inevitable thawing of the cold that was my life. It
was poignant, and went so far as to relate my influences and their occasional appearances on my
networks as they gave me a heads up. The entry being done, I took to my usual bad habit of the
proof-read-after-publication method. What I found became on an all-night ordeal. Hell, an all
week ordeal. One that would change my life and the way in which I view it forever.

The blog seemed to have errors that I hadn’t made.

“I specifically remember spell checking that!”

Then suddenly something gripped the pit of my stomach as I saw it. There were whole sentences
altered, manipulated to make me look the loon. This would not do, not at all.

I opened the entry and began to fix the errors that were in it from the draft made on my
application.

Aki was in the kitchen, chasing the tiny sounds of chattering inside of the sink.
As I published the entry for the second time, she mimicked my anxiety with a loud slam into the
cupboard where the instigators lay hidden.

I could tell immediately that the blog was not right when I checked it. This time I had a sense
that someone, and not something was actually behind this. The alterations were precise
trimmings in my language, reminiscent of the way my adopted father used to edit my pieces.
This was a very unsettling happenstance. This would not do, not do at all.

A bead of sweat broke out on my brow, and the unheated December boarding home suddenly
seemed to be ablaze.

A memory flashed in my mind of that day back in October when I had overdosed. I had an
unrelenting panic attack where my heart had raced well past legal limits, and a constant sense as
if it were going to explode.

When that subsided, I went into David’s room and fell asleep. It was a hazy, fitful sleep. In a
foggy vision I saw David and Alex come over me, making jokes about leaving because I was
going to die. At the time, it seemed quite serious to me.

I remember it seeming as if time sped up, and the room was empty, just David’s slump form on
the other twin bed in the room across from me. From down the hallway, and at the same time in
the window over my beleaguered Bunkie’s laptop I had scavenged the money for on his birthday
a blinding white light flash tore into my vision. It in fact whited out the entire room and its
contents.

It was exactly as if a nuclear bomb had gone off. I was dreaming, but my eyes were open. As I
looked at the wall in the hall just outside the doorway next to my head, it morphed and inky
charring blackness spread over it. It appeared to be sifting faded and almost imperceptible heat
signatures but the intensity of the spread was as black as deep space. In synchronicity that was in
precision timing two events occurred. From the spreading char a silhouetted and netlike form
took shape forming a sort of chrysalis clear globe with latitude and longitude lines across it. As it
grew an evil face emerged from it, its eyes bulging with blank white soulless eyes. It bulged from
the wall, and I thought for sure it would escape and swallow our existence with an uncaring and
fatal broad stroke as its eyes saw no more. At this moment I leapt from the bed as the deafening
roar of the shockwave slammed into us, and the walls as I sprung visibly shook. I tore out of the
door somehow still screaming at the top of my lungs until I reached the living room. There the
room was suddenly bathed in a crimson red and my lungs seemed to stop working. For a full
thirty seconds I stood desperately trying to recapture the ability to take air into my lungs as the
blackness that was now my vision faded the image of the living room back into sight. I must
have stood there for a while not knowing what to do, but before I knew it Alex was there leading
me back into David’s room in the embarrassed hush of an orderly ushering his senile patient to
return things to peace.
It was the deepest experience I would have of what I had walked myself into with my continued
behavior that foreshadowed what unbeknownst to me was occurring right now.

I published the new and frustratingly changed version of the entry. Little did I know this was a
process that would continue for the next three hours.

It started as a farce, as though the changes were meant to make fun of me. Then I noticed that the
spacing was altered where there were obvious phrases that could be inserted. Somehow I was
agreeing every time that the final product was better. Somehow I was agreeing every time that
the final product was better. Yet every time I hit the button, the page was published amended.

Finally in an exalting shift of emotion, I came to the somewhat scary realization that this shit was
real. The blog had begun to insert key phrases from great works in history as if they were part of
a sophisticated library in this virus. But what I was seeing was so fucking sophisticated that it
seemed as if a person themselves were examining my writings in real time and altering them.
There was no discernible pause or delay as I hit the publish button, it was instantaneous. Some
part of me began to identify with this entity whomever or whatever it was as “the editor”.

I remember writing these sentences.

“This is the most widely known secret. I am being groomed for something in the tradition of the
great leaders in history.”

The thought of what I was being groomed for crossed my mind, and I realized something larger
than just OZENOZ was at hand. This was more effort than I has seen put into what to my
bewildered mind seemed to be a direct message that reminded me of the strange state that had
overcome me just prior to the tragic attacks of September eleventh. Someone in the Middle East
was up to something more than devious on this night, and for some reason I was being made a
victim of it.

As the next and final hour unfolded, I became aware that I was under an obvious watchful eye in
the local area on my blog speaking about meth while currently pocketing a baggie containing
almost a hundred dollars’ worth. I was instantly alarmed, all the bells and whistles went off in my
head that this shit was going to bring the roof down on me.

I took the bag directly to the back bathroom and flushed it. Damned near ninety bucks down the
drain. No, a hundred, I corrected myself.

The final hour was the most intense and the most painful in its human aspect. The paragraphs
that I and who I was now referring to as “the editor” had made had just become what was one of
the greatest pieces I had ever written. I hit the publish button, and the piece appeared with
paragraphs missing, rearranged and altered yet threading somehow a completely alternate and
comprehensible piece.
The article now read that I was a saddened and determined killer, who was making his way to
take out those that opposed me. And I had hit publish to a live readership now taking in those
very sentiments. This was dozens of alterations in from the first drafted copy. It was also the
beginning of the slow deterioration and virtual collapse of any thread of logic in the article. To
the watchful eye in the sky I prayed openly now that these terrorists were not openly and
personally monitoring me as “the editor” lost interest with nothing more of drastic value to say
on the subject.

Sitting and remembering the rows apoun rows of white crosses lining the beach at The Santa
Monica Pier, I sadly had to agree with what was being said on a grander scale. I was indeed part
of a society that had launched a mass genocide of people who were simply working for a better
way. Sad that the threatening and internationally disagreed on weapons usage decisions caused
by the panicked moves of a very select few in the failing Islamic Government could fail to serve
it’s people so totally.

That is when the fear hit me. Were they trying to recruit me? Were they setting me up to frame
me? What else were they up to and did the god- forsaken know it alls’ who must be all over my
blog for drug reasons know what was happening here?

The answer had come to me all at once, and I felt as though I were going to throw up. My
intuition lit up an inner meditation that connected me to a very Middle Eastern sixth sense of
being. It was refreshing at first, but it was not Saudi Arabia.

Random bits of data that I had looked over in the account and their addresses ran through my
mind, and I somehow had a feeling it was Pakistan. One of those things that I had looked over in
the account and its addresses ran through my mind, and I somehow had a feeling it was Pakistan.
One of those things where our brains are sometimes quicker on subtler points than meth riddled
brains, and had put two and two together for me while still allowing me to understand. Pakistan
was a nuclear threat.

As my temple throbbed under the strain, the chanting of a distant village filled my sixth sense.
They were praying for guidance in a desperate time.

There was a man who came to aid my vision. He was not so old in his stature, but ancient with
the weight of responsibility I saw he had. I saw him outside of a small richly decorated cave. He
was sending a rider on a white horse to reconnaissance something he seemed to be implying was
an internal controversy face was weathered with mortal worry, though it seemed more for the
shimmering and ever present spirit of his noble deceased father who was with him in his time of
trouble.
To my surprise, he turned to face me directly. He spoke another language, and a nearby servant
of about forty years of age and ghastly homosexual almost in his meagerness took up the
translation after being briefly consoled by their leader.
"This night we ride to the palace." the translation was slightly delayed.
"I fear we will be too late."
I shook my head in dismay and what was a rising anger welled up. This is when the man's
nobility shone through for the first time in a brightness of calm clarity.
"You are our brother."
He pointed to the corner of the stoned dwelling to a small satellite rigged laptop were a young
and eager looking militia man sat in his slightly green desert fatigues engaged in playing
solitaire. He grinned at the scene in an overly earnest and excited manner as if to say "Now?"
For a minute I took on the disbelief of the deep meditative transmission I was receiving. I was
reminded of the quote I had read in the New York Times from the Indian Intelligence Agency
"Human Intelligence is the most important kind of intelligence."
Just a brief reminder of how elite and true and alone many of the top true believers live their
individual paths.
What was coming to me, in light of what I had just sweated over in my blog was as real as could
possibly be imagined it was a reminder to keep my whit and intellect intact and not go running
through the street in a panic.
Perhaps that's just what this was. Just emotional shock from the intense and frightening meddling
that I had just undergone as my very innermost sentiments were attacked as though public
domain. As though I had just received a formal invitation to become a terrorist threat myself as
my words framed out with precision and scary intellect.
I saw the wise sage look up and frown into the distance. He began to shout, but it was as though
he was calling out for peace. It was then that I realized the graveness of the situation for them.
He pointed with a single bony finger into the distance where a dust cloud was forming, and a
single tear tore from his right eye, spilling onto his cheek. More welled up in his eyes, and he
briefly gathered himself and spoke. Once again in another tongue. The servant nearby took up
the translation again.
"I am what you call a king amongst my people." He laughed a worried and humble comedic
laugh.
"Sometimes I make hard decisions."
With a sudden vicious movement he ran in a way that seemed so violent he ran in a way that
seemed so violent and almost chiding his nature to restrain the militia tech who had been at the
laptop.
The militia man began to speak in excited tones to him, and the servant moved to remind him to
whom he spoke. He was pointing excitedly at camera's that were all over the cave interior. He
was implying that I didn't understand some kind of technology that was enabling our little chat.
But the seriousness of his condition rapidly diminished him until it seemed he would all but
collapse.
They were attacking us. Of this much I was now completely certain. From the looks of things it
had caused an internal controversy amongst the leaders of fairly close communities and they
were now fighting each other as well. In a time when no one wanted violence, they threatened
now even each other over what had been done, I empathized. Little did I understand the severity
of the plans being implemented.
For the first time I saw perhaps what had been the cause of the premature attack not being
averted as this momentarily wise looking sage laughed a wicked laugh which turned every
feature of his face into the dark scintillations of a madman. He immediately faced me.
"That is why you must die, he laughed again as the calmness returned to his face and he finished
his sentence "...in time. Our brother."

This entire scene overtook all my senses as the calamity of the man of knightly stature riding the
white steed returned at a full gallop to the mouth of the cave. The whole focus of my vision was
shifted to a small cluster of people. It was a poor and thrown together militia. Without looking at
me this time, the king spoke.
"You see, we did not wish for any of this. Who wishes for..." he trailed off and a cold shudder
overtook my entire spinal column reaching to the very extremities of my limbs. I was were of the
powerful ancestral paranormal presence in the room of his father.
For the first time since returning to my room, bathed in its’ red iridescent glow from the heat
bulb lighting my open closet, I spoke.
"Holy shit!"
Suddenly I had the picture in my mind of the imminent danger.
For a few weeks now I had been writing a very light humored and entertaining book on the
extensive knowledge I gathered over the years of independent study on physics theory.
Specifically my intuition that the formula and minor containment problems for Fission had been
worked out (and promptly confiscated and classified) the previous winter. This was shit that
could level an entire sector of the solar system when I say "small time". Very useful in
application when say fifty years now we are to find a way to regulate the release of the unbridled
power contained in the deadly regulate biological secret used to contain it.
On a much more basic level, I had over the past decade come to the conclusion that for purposes
of containing uncontrolled weapons technology, which the diffusion problems with the crystals
that were supposed to be happening with Holographic Data Storage were a cover up. Made
indubitably obvious by slow advances in 3-D special effects programming, the crystals could
read the data so long ago I had read about from The University of California Berkeley research
done.
According to what I had been daydreaming about considering the trajectories of our formerly
chaos theory driven satellites, there would be an inherent clash in the data computations some
very sensitive not so space junk.
In my mind, I saw our sun rising over a satellite extending its wings readying for a movement. Its
front almost but not quite discernible lighted grid indicators began to show some kind of activity
as well. It was then that I pictured what it was holding. A nuclear warhead was attached to the
convex base of the satellite now repositioning. It seemed to be a diffusing signal from a foreign
satellite of another design it was reacting to. The Cyber Attack was harnessing one of our own
nukes to attack us. My vision sharply shifted back to the cave, now the subject of my desolate
and isolated agony over what I couldn't convince myself was real.
"Fuck this."
My instincts lit up, and began to take the only action I could think of. I began to launch into a
lengthy explanation for any overly concerned neighbors who happened in our little ghetto hood
to be overhearing my discourse.
"Ok, here we go. Oh fuck, I think I am gonna puke. First off my blog was just attacked by some
of the most sophisticated programming I have ever witnessed. When I say hackers, I mean those
people are ghetto fabulous techno junkies. Forgive the reference. I mean, whoever is listening to
this shit was reading what I was typing in REAL MOTHERFUCKING TIME, or something. I
don't know. Both."
The urgency of the situation struck me head on as I saw the missile begin its course towards
Southern California moving over the Earth's horizon from near South East Asia in my mind’s
eye.
"Ok, neighborly people's here I am about to bug out. Let me first tell you what I am doing.
During the Gulf War I read about how our satellites could hear a cricket from outer space in the
Philadelphia Inquirer. Common knowledge.'
I began to sing the soothing lyrics of the Phish tune I had so loyally clung to as I had witnessed
what I felt was the birth of the Fission Physics Theories equations completion while in
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. I had been studying in the catacombs and various annals and annexes
of the Lehigh University Graduate Libraries.
How fondly I had held respect for our prior major World Wars when viewing the now revealed
rows of sky lit and intricately stained glass windows in the rooftops there that were once covered
to hide them from becoming targets to B-2 bombers.
I had loved those fragile and ancient collections of hard to access sacred government materials.
For weeks on end I had traded notes, leaving a hundred or more pages of notes on different
topics from the journals of our governments most highly valued and carefully guarded activities.
From the nuclear regulation changes begun in the nineteen sixties in their giant coffee table like
volumes covering through George W. Bush's newly released policies to the sensitive fault lines
that had so obviously lain along the continental shelf of the Gulf Coast where the recent pipeline
break and oil disaster had occurred.
The halls of history they were these libraries, and I reveled in the thrill of the attention I could so
openly bask I with the class prepping professors who so quickly took interest in my scattered
research. At first they were respectful, then excited and earnest as I was allowed to attend what
would be my minor studies classes there. And then assort of controlled and deep exchange of
emotional communications was exchanged as we laid out some of the original documents of our
ancestors records and we honored a current passing and very highly guarded moment in history.
One that will be guarded for decades to come.
I had very simply pointed out to the observatory that some very misunderstood physicists and
astronomers had been openly for a decade blogging about the events yet to come on March
eleventh of this coming year of that fateful year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Eleven. There
was a predicted planetary alignment within our solar system which happens only once in a
number comparable to the speed at which light travels. Except in hundreds of thousands of years,
in case you are around that long.
These scientists had concluded a polar shift in the Earth's axis so complete and later in their
calculations almost indiscernibly quick would happen. At last comments, they had been noted as
mumbling to themselves that no one could tell what would happen, probably nothing.
All of these things I laid out in my notes of the fault lines and continental plate maps in their
comforting and quiet dusty immensity. The winter they let me know I was indeed the scholar I
had set out to become.
"I am just a satellite. High above the atmosphere! Bouncing everything you say to, someone who
was MEANT TO HEAR..."
Now people I am about to do something very scary sounding and kind of schizo here. But these
audio's which are picked up by the satellites blanketing the Earth have a key word sensitive
program they are plugged into. I am about to make sure that the right people know what I am
seeing is going on here tonight by getting their attention. Ok here we go people, road flares!"
I immediately raised and deepened the tone of my voice and began to rattle off every word in my
vernacular that I could think of that would symbolize a terroristic threat all at once."
"Bomb! Nuclear warhead! Attack! Jihad! I will kill President Obama of the United States and all
of those Democratic insurgents over my Islamic people!"
As I continued on for the next few minutes I became increasingly embarrassed as I realized the
early morning had indeed prior come and my friendly corn rowed hoodie clad hoodlum chum of
a discerning whit neighbor was narrowly examining my antics across the walk from his window.
Finally I felt sure, almost as if several others who were already I some sort of calm but yet
controlled panic of action had entered the room.
"I'm sure you were aware of this, now that I hope I have your attention, but I am not sure you
were aware of some things I know. I know some sort of Cyber Attack is happening right now. I
know how you can backtrack more easily and find the key to uncovering their I.P. addresses and
mobile satellite linkups or whatever the fuck. Ok point being, check out the logs and history of
the three hundred or so publishing’s of the last article I wrote on ayersbrooks.com. "
I spelled it out for them.
" I had a direct hit from Saudi Arabia which seems to have been carrying a diverted signal. If you
don't believe me ask Ahmed Senussi my former roommate in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. His
grandfather was the last King of Libya, Idris Al Senussi."
I repeated the same urgent message until I was sure that it would be checked on and then issued a
small but earnest and meager "Thank You. And God Bless America. May we all survive this shit
boys and girls, because I think they are trying to harness one of our nukes. Make it look like
some sort of programming error."
My sixth sense was that whoever the hell was listening at this point was getting as big of a
relieving laugh about how fucking nuts I was sounding as my big ass hoodie clad hood rat
neighbor.
I promptly shut up, and went into a shy and diffused but concerned silence.
A few hours of concerned fiddling with what seemed to be inconsequential works of writing in
my room, I felt something change. In my inner sanctum, a resolution to the conflict welled up in
me. I turned on the Droid, and it opened immediately to a new unpublished entry data form page.
I hadn't even tried to start the application since completely exiting it very properly.
The tears flowed as I felt the knowing growing pains. The journey I had yet to find out, had only
begun. There were villagers praying fervently in the village. Little did I know the sacrifices they
were making to save North America. Later, the news would reflect the Palace Invasion and the
turn of power, but not so far the crisis which never happened.

Chapter 2:

"Change. Yeah I guess we could all use a little change sometimes. I ain't got a problem with what
any of y'all homeboys do to try and get up outta the hood. I ain't mad at ya. I got nothing but love
for ya."
"Fuck you. You fucking prick."
It was January and I was habitat: outdoors. Prior to this I had been living in the Los Angeles
Emergency Winter Shelter program set up by LAHSA at the National Guard Armory off of
Federal and Wilshire. A room full of cots and smelly feet that would let you drop off to sleep
between the hours of midnight and five in the morning on any given night. Chow and showers if
you were privy, and a television to fight over what we all were missing. Money and drama at the
full expense of the hottest blonde deaf and dumb to all but numb over what wouldn't come all
over the pillow that thrilled her manila. Envelopes of dough and hoods to overthrow, they shake
you down and set you up at the door every night if your identification ain't right. Believe you me,
I went through five LAHSA I.D.'s as they were useful of sorts to open up accounts to check
cashing clerks who were sports. You can get a membership there if someone knows enough
about you to make them aware. What happened to my Pennsylvania Driver's License? It went in
the hands of someone a month before unplanned out of the 7th and Colorado trash can man's
plans.
The cost of not taking care of your responsibilities as someone educated to a P.H.D., throw in a
little crystal methamphetamine, and the C.I.A. will take your accounts apart at the seams. I was
excommunicated from the phone, the bank account, the email, the Facebook, the blogger, the
domain name host, the twitter, the c - names wouldn't save, the music wouldn't take, my beats
were dumped when they were made and my rap was getting better all the time. Living life as a
hoodlum in the cash cow, now that's for real. Makes for real fucking scary adventures down a
road you don't survive unless you fight to prove that time never comes back.
The first and only thing on the left side of the equation that's thesis is Fission (prior to the ten
thousand in computation) is one symbol, the mathematical symbol for change.
It takes a little while to get use to the notion that when the payphone rings as you walk by it, you
can answer. It takes even longer to get used to the notion that they may actually know who they
are talking to. I will never get used to the notion that they know what I stole, whose it was, and I
haven't the slightest explanation as to why this is formatted the way it is. It isn't formatted the
way or the byways of my imagination in the slightest prose I could superimpose. The imposition
of the inquisition that was at my door wasn't going to write away my blues for the ruse that I
wasn't no longer amused to hear every day.

Translation: The people being protected were of utmost importance. Not to mention the opinions
of the people who were surrounding me in my habitat so to speak were not of the slightest bit of
variable factors. These are the fucking stars of the universe, the people who run the entertainment
industry who I was mixing and mingling with. I have no shirt, shoes, decent ripped jeans, or
money to replace them with at this point mind you, and the way in which it affected me was
thrilling in the face of Stephen Spielberg's white haired uncle of an ass producer as he faced me
on the beach every day for the week I had no guts to write.

"If you write it Joel, we will sell the hell out of it."

I had the official Venice Beach bum blues at the behest of the best whom I was amazed were
some of the most fortunate unfortunates to have been making history all the while under the
noses of the public that so greatly ignored their financial needs. True genius breeds us to make
the best stuff ever while not having the gall to sell it? I have to say this is the most amazing and
humbling aspect of my motherfucking journey. But all that is much later on down the line.

Down the lines after lines after the times I unwind spending the fine rhymes on people unwilling
to pay for what was amusingly free every day. To cultivate a sense of artistic poetry I had to
experience the perfectly just unjust cost of the growing pains of a fanatical wisdom that underlies
the simplest things. It is your time when it is your time, and if you are going to make it out as a
writer, then for God’s sake you have to write it down. Writing it down on a collection of trash
and paper bits, I tried my hand at many things in strange fits.

Sand castles that once were mermaids became obstacles to the change from the artist who didn't
want it after spending the day singing Bob Marley on the bench at Sunset and Ocean Front
"Have no fear for Fission energy, because none of them can stop a da times..."

I had it simple because I was in a band. But I chose to be very unaware of the band on which I
was trading, because I felt that meets were not going to be needed and my needs were not going
to be met. I have no clue how to tell you, but I hate the Dodgers and I love the Mets, but I do
love America.
The America I was finding at the behest of the Venice Beach local scene were a stranger than
fiction crew of talent who wandered in and out mostly unbelieving of what we were all capable
of. Some were capable of murder and drugs, some would rob you of your very heart and fly it off
in a chill cooler to the transplant donor they sold it off to the tune of forty thousand on an insider
trade. Don’t quote me on that, I might get made.

You can do business there. But it's how business gets done that determines whether you live or
die from day to day. You can drown in your sorrows until the end of time. Or you can pick up a
couple of thousand dropping a fine line on a crew who may just buy what you are selling that
day. I once tried to sell the artwork from some driftwood about the book I had just completed
about OZENOZ in spot two oh two for four million dollars. I think the man passing by may have
had a thought about it that was quite serious, due to the video footage of the mixture I was
making in the jar next to my homemade bed with the metal steering wheel placed on a block of
concrete I had stolen from the yard of the patio down the way. Unfinished and put in concrete I
would be soon, I thought to myself as I hid the twelve killer strains in the basket covered in ivy
that to my best of threats was not going to be exterminated from my fucking spot right there on
the wall. It was my absolute right to have nothing at all said about what was not doing any harm.
It was in fact contained in a jar as well. I leaned hard on my knowledge of Native Americans
who had jarred up their buds and put them in the sun for months at a time with the alcohol filling
it to make a sweet kind of mixture that after sitting in the dark for more months than I had would
trip you to your wig. Wig out not when they yell six up, they meant they are coming to make sure
you are in check. But the rules are not something they have to really put in, heck. This is not
Hollywood people, this is not walking a fine line. This where the best come to find themselves
and learn to unwind. Unwind and find the time gone nickeled and dimed was all a stupid waste,
cause once they get a taste of what you truly can do, if you prove it. It's off to the lovely zoo, the
circus isn't in town, and it is the town of Freaks who love to be them and shows who cycle
freedom in its truest of sense.

All under the watchful eye of the most widely viewed cameras you could ever find.
Documenting the things for the lovely and fortunate few who live there at the beach on the days
you aren't far and few. I love those days of pain and torture spent there under the sand. It wasn't
just under the watchful eyes of the man, but under the fitful gaze of a dreamer’s starlit gaze to
make the reels unwind and find the dime that will take away nickeled and dime.

“IT’s a book, not a nook and cranny device” I would complain to my wonderful neighbor who
came out to her porch every day to feed me bagged breakfasts “, so why can’t I sell IT? IT’s
online!”

She just smiled and nodded. People are the greatest, and a friend in need, is a friend indeed.

If you can't stand a camera, better get indoors in your own home, they are everywhere. Not that
the eye in the sky can't see through with infrared too. And if, just if you really piss them off, yes
people we really do have laser cannons which have been made public record of the cool shit of
war, which will vaporize a man, or an Afghan warlord.

“What they are asking me to do in order break up the fuzz?”

My head sometimes cut loose on some incessant ramblings like that of a man gone completely
insane by his scenario.

I guess maybe there is no such thing as change necessary when the last words out of the free
payphone are, "Don't call us, we'll call you."
And don't even try explaining what is going on with you to anyone. They either:

1.) don’t want to know.
2.) Get very scared.
3.) Have been there and laugh at you.
4.) Act as if you don't exist.
5.) Make an immediate report to some amused emergency response operator.
6.) The payphone rings again.

You aren't unlucky, and there is no one telling you to be there now. But unfortunately you begin
to learn that you already are. You'll see what I mean.
Its homeland securities and someone in an office monitoring the bus terminal camera's in a room.
No big mystical thing, but that my friend would give away the end. That is something you the
reader, have yet to earn as well as me. The ends that didn’t justify the means but gave the means
to justify in bold print.

The object of the game is to stay alive and make as much money as you can without taking it out
on other people. Kind of like the object being the fatal goal of the game that really in the end
does not matter, only in theory because you never know if you are going to make it to the end. If
you make it to the end, then you are absolutely incapable of then right choices at that point
because what you have obtained isn't the choice of anyone but yourself to the correct audience of
sorts.

The corrections officers of our government police forces choice would most likely look past
what you have done and the rest is fiction. That is the attitude you have to have about it if you
are faced with a line of questioning hoods who have some sort of jealousy over your take, but in
the end the legitimacy of your take is the actionable offense of no one.
If you do it right. The other actionable offense if you do it right is the art of telling the whole
truth in front of the authorities without speaking out the names or description or location of any
offending parties. Everyone is in the game for their own good or bad and if you are just evil
enough to be playing then you are:
7. Not lazy enough to get caught.
8. Not eaten alive by the first gang member who thinks you are cool.
9. Not killed by the last stick-up kid who you are stopped by.
10. In the heat of the moment able to leap tall dunes in a single bound.
11. The saint you started off as, but a little bit richer.
12. Capable of the honest to God truth, but incapable of the right truth at the wrong time.

I only have three bars in mind as I tell the fitful truth of the men whom I encountered who have
the toughest job of all. Putting aside their convictions about the right and wrong for the safety of
others as they consume all that is legal in the god aboding night club of their choice. The
doorman is responsible for all of the things that go down if they happen, and his very testicles
depend on being able to Homo erectus eject us as he sees fit at the drop of his very talented
doorman hat. The second is the woman he is protecting. I observed several of these creatures as I
walked who would have been the most incredible bodyguards to those with investment portfolios
in the game of investment banking abroad. The third is the actual investor.

You have to take on the creative aspect of these things as you engage yourself in the art of lying
to these people about the type of money you have, and where it comes from. The type of money
you have is a funny kind of question. Is it liquid? It has to be a solid bowel movement to get it
out of you and it has to be to the greatest degree of solitude with which you have the greatest
degree of timeless farce like quality in your transgressed requiem of its parting of ways with your
neighbor. These statements would earn you a solid and familial quality which isn't going to have
the requisite addendum if you’re that close to the globe trotters of the world who just don't
happen to know that Harlem is the most honest hood in the east, and Venice the west.

The actual truth is that most honest hood is the one that you are in at that very moment. If the
gross and mean value of the product you are carrying are worth their weight in the pocket of
someone else for survival, then don't be afraid to liquidate what you have in the form of a
friendly gesture. Yes, give it the hell away for free. Absolutely nothing is more caring and
creative than the real person who receives it realizing that you must be of the rich sort of
homeless sort. It grazes them through several reactions. It grazes them through the reaction that I
have felt is the right one as well, that it is none of their god damn business. If it wasn't for the
solitude of the freedom you have freely moved yourself into, you would be absolutely in danger
of offending the law, but the law most often if you are smart is where it came from.
I learned very early on that the law is capable of busting someone and keeping for safety and
the person’s property rights. Just not more than half of the time if you are in a bad scenario to
begin with. Which, if you are faced with a cop, it’s a scenario alright. If they we are incapable all
of these supposed someone else’s personal property being stored if they were to keep it all, then
what are they to do with it? They have to leave some of the stuff out of the storage for evidence,
because the jails are so overcrowded, quite often the charges won't stick for very long anyway.
So on completion of the bust, the police are leaving behind the stolen property lying in the streets
where the bust took place. The insurance is covered by the insurance company and the shop
keeper is reimbursed.

The goods are delivered often times to be used by the force of circus animals who are
spending their Homo erectus energy being the most extraordinary they can be. If they haven't the
name for themselves to buy it for themselves, it can readily be acquired through a transgression
of parting of ways. Of course there is always the possibility that some of these people that don't
know how to mark their personal property for their acts are leaving their stuff and have it
pilfered. I do believe involuntarily I participated in a bit of both.
One particular night I gathered a Titleist Golf Bag, an antique pillow, and a dust mop for my
head. I looked sort of akin to the way in which Nikki Manaj looked when her Twitter account
grew from 210 followers to over two million in a small amount of time. It takes an unusual
wisdom to handle the circumstances she encountered when a non- bot granted her the life of a
bot in a bodacious and unbelievable sweep of the players club.
But things like this are earned by an underground that is very unforgiving of the things they
choose to be, and very forgiving of the numbers they choose for you to see. If you play the game,
then you have win at all costs the convictions of the public via the undeterred language of love:
persistence even through the straights of hell. The unmoving and uncharacteristic all-pervading
wisdom that shines through the players who succeed is that they do not take their time lightly.
They are very willing to take on a risk, but not take a risk that damages others livelihoods. This is
a rule I very nearly paid for with my life.
One night while walking off the hallowed streets I came on a cigar. It was labeled pom-pom
by the cigar manufacturer. It was not going to be the freshest of smokes if I had my way, saving
it all night thinking that to unwrap it would be my fresh maker after a night of all night
scavenging. In the meantime I have to say that the facts are not inconsequential, they are just not
widely known and controversial. They are what I want them to be in the meantime since I have
to wait for my social networking to escape from its martyrdom.
What you learn on the streets is what they teach in boot camp. What you learn in boot camp is
inconsequential unless you take care of your shoes. And whatever you do, take care of your
shoes. It isn't enough to take care of them, you need to worship them as they are the best
evidence that you will survive it when you have to walk from sixth and Spring Street in
downtown back to your spot on the Venice "bored walk." Which is why they all come. Come as
you are, as you were, as I want you to be my friends. Come one and come all, just don't come
down the chimney before the present is bought because the fact of the matter is that you have to
return the gifts in requiem if momma is just a little girl to your babies left behind. Don't ask me
what the meaning of all that is, IT’s my last book.
I went to the bored walk in the style and fashion that I chose to be necessary. With the attitude
that I had as much right as the "kids" who had been living on the streets rather than the
emergency shelter. We who would live in the emergency shelter were looked on as a weaker and
clueless sort of breed. It was a very little known fact that what I was preparing for was an
unconvincing effort at being accommodated to limitless travel. Touring is something that brings
about the wrongs to the rights of you being searched at will by the airport security who may or
may not have a homeland securities bug up their ass about your act. Also here is dealing with the
drug scene, which I had begun to say an adamant "NO." to. I had even preached enthusiastically
and very loudly as I danced my way through the streets a new and poignant saying that was
catchy and simple "Just No. Just Know" shaking my head at the first, and tapping it at the
second. I wanted it clear that I was against illicit drugs, tough from experience. This ironically
was a source of untapped chi for me, as I pissed off every doper and dealer around with my rap
star quality dance with my no tolerance policy on anything not legal to consume.
I was attending self - help groups for the coffee. I was being told about my ability to drop in
on the manual that was its leading source of direction, and yet the people I encountered were
quite puzzled by my attitude that the very source of my disgust was the systematic approach at
stealing each and every one of their freedoms via inside politics. I became very heavily involved
in being an outspoken bigot of sorts, who was often due to his non - drug sprees of three, four
and five days awake while wandering hundreds of miles through the streets served coffee and
refreshments like the purveyor of Eminem's Recovery album himself. OZENOZ knew his shit,
and was hated and gossiped about for it, but I tell you what, it got the attention I wanted. Of
course this shit was affecting our sales, you ignoramus. I had no sales, whatsoever!
I haven't the slightest clue as to what it was that brought about the revelation in me that I was
somehow learning about freedom from the laws that were keeping me from doing things that at
times could protect me from the situations I was placed in, but it was a tough moral adjustment.
One that did not sit well with those who had to sit through my tough guy dialogue's about the
way in which I am perceiving the act that has yet to blossom.
My kid brother, if you can call a man in his early twenties who is art owner of a music studio in
Philadelphia, seems to think that OZENOZ is a part of my alter ego that comes out when I am
jammed up. He is absolutely and completely correct in believing so, as OZENOZ is the part I
turn to when I need to act on things or in a manner which disagrees with my very core beliefs of
being a gentle and soft hippy like leftist. I just hate being told that if a man were to pull a gun on
me that I couldn't kill him without persecution. In my belief, as well as it seems the most highly
respected individuals with badges and stripes understand that that isn't my choice, it is the law.
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. As long as you put away the regrets and
hold no long term silly grudges. The upturned nose of society is on the systematic approach that
if your dirt is on the table, you need not speak of it. The pressure is to bury it and the acts you
have done under the weight of a guilt ridden truth that unfortunately you are required to not
speak of out of the supposed a clue for the feelings of others. Fucking bullshit con artists
who have been robbed and beat down the thugs have paid with their lives in prison to learn the
lesson that if you speak once to an authority untrue about something you had the right to do, you
have little chance of speaking again and having it be in their plans to forgive. As if the
confessions of the killer who would have had on you for dinner would come off the grave and
save your ass, if it weren’t for the fact Jesus already did. And I mean it, he really did.
He lives in eternity. Every second is billions of them for him as he turns every leaf he feels will
right the world in every place at once. He is all pervading and can produce miracles. Every day
they happen, every day.

Chapter Three:

“Fuck me in the goat ass…”

“I would if ya weren’t so dirty,” the comedic “kick me in the ass for a buck” sign holder
replied back to me.

“”You better wash your ass with that dollar,” I quipped.

The baggy jeaned bare – chested long blonde haired youth with the furry chest began
rubbing a bill on his butt.

“Peace, peace…”

Hey, somebody want a piece?!” he shouted gracefully. He then proceeded to run over to a
cute blonde passer-bye and hug her, wagging the sign and his ass.

“How about you, home slice?!” he shouted gracefully.

Further down the blocks of down the blocks of the bored walk, I came apoun the Freaks.

“That’s right step right up ladies and gentlemen!” the man with the microphone coming
up onto a loudspeaker behind him at the entrance to the establishment used his best M.C. circus
ringleader voice.

“See the two headed snake,” he continued on as I saw curious passers-by peering into the
white plastic food storage container partly filled with water on the table in front of him, “the
monkey boy!” his list went on and on.

Night was falling, and the crowd was beginning to thin. Being the dead of winter, night
came early.

I found myself walking further in my five dollar flip flops and jeans and hoodie toward
Santa Monica and the pier. I was very restless, and had no intentions of sleep this night. It had
been over a month since I had touched a drink or a drug, like that Atmosphere song says “I’m
just your next door neighbor, work-in hard at trying to stay sober!”
The first few days had seemed like weeks, and the first few weeks like months. I was in
more physical pain than I had ever endured during them, and learning the ropes of something
new. There was a certain flair and a knack for separation of your circumstance to establishing
success in the business. The Los Angeles streets scared the hell out of me, and I had only begun
this journey.

I was working and walking about like never before. My weight had gone from two
hundred and thirty – five to one hundred and eighty – five in just over a month and a half. I was
well on my way to being in the best shape of my life, out of dogged determination. That winter it
is fair to say I walked off more than a quarter of a pound a day just getting to meals.

“Hey, I’m Ayers Brooks, Ozenoz man! Spit at ya for a buck?!”

The khaki and surf t- shirt clad tall thin man thin man with the short blonde hair in the
glasses gave me a concerned look. The backdrop of the setting sun over the Pacific was over his
shoulder, and I could see he didn’t know I meant “rap.”

“Get away!” he muttered and turned back to his conversation with short pony – tailed
brunette beside him.

“I didn’t spit on you!” I yelled back, looking zany.

“But I could!”

I went down the entire stretch between that section of beach to goers as no – man’s land
and the pier working like this tirelessly to try and come up with something for some midnight
sustenance.

I would not resort, as some, to picking from trash bins. There was a lot of food to be had
for free around in the course of the day, you just had to work at getting to it. While working at
getting work, and getting clean, and staying clean, and safe.

I was living the life of a homeless urchin, scared to death that the Hollywood serial killer was
going to get to me in my sleep. He was wandering the city was killing off the homeless. In my
passionate and paranoid panic, I had shouted to all in front of Small World Books in front of a lot
of video tapers’ that I indeed would hunt and kill him. Didn’t do my fears any good at night.

I was unsure of where to go, what my scavenge route for the night should be, so I
followed Colorado due east turning on the street leading to my two P.M. soul food cheeseburger
joint. From there I went down to Pico and banged a right. I sighed. It was going to be a long
night.

An unopened bottle of spring water stood on the wall of the bridge and I swished with joy
my first sustenance since Venice Beach, which I was almost back to again. Technically I was in
Santa Monica but was headed back that direction. There was reason to think I would be safe, as I
followed the fading light of a Santa Monica Police cruiser as it passed me, headed south as well.

I had walked as far East as downtown and the Fashion and Financial Districts in one night and
back. These deep, dark downtown streets were filled with closed shops, and dark alleyways.
During the day traffic jostled along interspersed with carriers on bicycles and sparse but involved
pedestrians.

One night I saw a homing pigeon who was trained to fly up into and under the closed and
locked gate of this shop. These inner walkways and were a mystery to me. One that glared at me
with intent of sucking me into a dark underbelly that reeked forth with a furiousness. This was
not a safe place.

A series of three police cruisers came speeding by me and I was alerted to see if the
action was close. The boys were headed to some kind of bust up ahead. I had little idea what was
going to come of the busts this night for me.

The way it works, I figured, is this. A robbery or looting occurs in the streets. Say a
storefront smash – and – grab goes down and the police catch the thief. The store is going to be
reimbursed by insurance, the loot is over piling in the evidence rooms, and the police don’t want
it. The stolen property is either just dropped right then and there or relocated as was in my case
this night to the artisans who would do it well.

Over the course of the next blocks I became aware that there seemed to be a constant
presence of police all the way into the Venice Beach Area. I walked Lincoln to Rose and turned
right towards the beach on Rose. When I got to the bored walk, it was stock piled with not only
the usual performers’ belongings, but large piles of brand new looted merchandise.

After collecting, hurriedly mind you, what probably amounted to about fifty thousand
dollars or so worth of merchandise, I began my long journey out of the area. I got from my sixth
sense a feeling that this booty was becoming well known and coveted, that I should hide. I began
discarding things I didn’t want in the back alleyways, trying to dissuade things. A good hearted
and not over – greedy claimant was more likely to retain his goods.

At one point, I had picked up a fresh unopened cigar, a miniature, and I planned on
smoking it when I came to a complete rest. Emerging from the alleyways, and making my way
back to the intersection of Rose and Lincoln, I found myself shortcutting through the gas station
parking lot.

He was riding a red motor powered Mo- ped that sputtered as he sat at rest. A black
hoodie, green paint fatigue splattered fatigue over were peeled back to reveal his leather Native
American waist sack that held his delivering Indica marijuana. He had on dark blue jeans over
leather Prada boots, and he wheeled up to me as I he fingered his pouch.
I shuffled my palmed Pom- Pom cigar, twiddling it nervously between my fingers.

“I see you found my Pom- Pom nigger!” he said.

I looked into the eyes of this now what must have only only been an eighteen year old
just becoming a man, his dark lidded brown straight rimmed cap shadowing his bony face and
announced “No, I found my Pom- Pom nigga’!”

He watched the dark eyes of the man grow large, and then he squinted a seedy squint and
pumped the gas on his left. Two UCLA student pedestrians in their sweatshirts who also
happened to be at this early bird hour scrambled to the right to get out of his way as he wheeled
around.

As soon as he was facing east, he reached up under the rear of his coat, and pulled and
unsilenced twenty – two.

“Holy shit!” I screamed and my heart exploded as I raced around the sign that read the
mornings’ petrol fuel prices.

I ran into the well lit expanse that was the neighboring grocery store parking lot and as I
turned, saw the man hot on my heels. He was raising the gun and drew up just over my right
shoulder as he popped off a shot.

“Pop! Pop!” two exploded into the air as he pulled wide of my side.

I spied a tinted windowed Mercedes Benz that was made for my best bullet bearing cover.
I hoped it wouldn’t be bearing more of his as I sprinted around the car to the southwest facing the
rear of the vehicle diagonal of his position in the front.

He wheeled to the front, all the while testing his aim and trying to figure a way to get at
me. He spun a quick move to my side of the vehicle as I skittered behind the trunk to the
opposite diagonal side of him again. He made a mean face and began to come at me from the
other side, then changed his mind.

I watched helplessly in sight as he motored back into the wells of the gas station, and up
towards the clerks station. I heard the gun recoiling two more times. I didn’t know this man. I
didn’t know his intent.

“Pop! Pop!”

If those sounds I heard were the exploding skulls of innocent bystanders, we were all in
trouble. I raced back to the petrol prices sign and past.

He was coming straight at me, fiddling with the nozzle of the gun.
I ran to the back of the nearest utility light pole located between the fuels sign and the
building. It had a breaker switch on it, and as he lined up his moped and faced me, I palmed it
nervously.

I saw the man change gun hands, and to this day wonder if a silencer was ensued in the
interim on my run and that he took a few. He certainly had skills. I didn’t try and kill the lights. I
threw the Pom- Pom at his feet and yelled, “You can have it!”

As I exhaustedly, heart pacing, started to walk in plain view of that man going north on
Lincoln, I counted the shots in my head. Was that gun full? I felt that he should have three left
counting the one in the chamber. I resigned to the fact that he was appeased. He needed the Pom
– Pom to wrap some Indica for pain. Somehow I knew we had achieved peace. No more piece.

As wandered the Ocean Front Walk near no man’s land that night, I was confronted with
many issues. What if this man had a small child to take care of? Why should I hold a grudge
when nothing harmful happened to me at all? If anything I felt I was just taught a very timely
lesson in life that would bear its’ weight on my decisions as I chose a path ahead of me that
reeked of danger. In my mind, I thanked his toddler for forgiving me, and his mother as well.
And I moved on with my bad self.

Its emitted, and admitted. You can quit it I am seriously fucking crazy.

Once apoun a time I built a dream that when I grew up I would be a fierce warrior in several
different realms. I just didn't know which door to open first. What you are about to experience is
my life, not a dream, but a reality in the making.

I have come into just a tiny little bit of money.

On the morning I wake up and have that money I will take my happy ass downtown to the
place that I compare most to the place I was going to live in in Los Angeles. This is one of those
places that start as a springboard for people with little or no money and alot of potential.

It has a private theater. It has a banquet cooking facility for when you want to have alot of
guests, like say, your new employees of the month in the humble company that just netted so
much. It has floor to ceiling wifi and a high ceiling. It has a bathroom and shower not far from
the simple guitar that I will use to play the songs and send the demo I make on the laptop I also
get later that morning with a cheap interface and the keyboard I will use to control the midi for
OZENOZ: ONE.

In the meantime I will be planning on my own small stove and microwave a frontal assault on
my meat and potatoes woman. This is February 14th, 2013.
I will get a queen size bed which takes up too much of the room for cheap. Don't worry we
still have in the thousands.

I am going to buy an account with ATnT, and a TOKTUMI account which I can assign my
phone system in my best John Casablancas Talent Agency representative voice it's numbers and
representatives. Those representatives will number over 500 employees from the money I spend
on the hiring fair for The Ayers Brooks Group, LLC which I have just formed.

We have check by fax, TRINITY CREDIT CARD PROCESSING from CPay or you can meet
me for lunch with your Video Media Consultant to discuss your new multiple sequence opening
for your website. Let's open with your web listing getting on the up and up first, ok? How? Well,
dial extension 22 and you can speak to our Social Media Consultant who is handling the jump
start of your social media world getting in order. Yes, yes, that includes Facebook.

Damn, we still have money? Yes, and we still will at the end of the week when the Account
Executives we hired via the web portal I just built with the software I purchased for both client
web use and our launchpad just show what popped up in their browser some credit. But don't
worry, that's the backup on the Sales Team Leaders who are in the phone directory at
1800UPTOYOU who are motivating the in person 1099er's from that chunk of the sale they get
from driving our numbers up.

So, how's your Valentine's Day looking? Mine is gonna be a massacre. Bloody Mary's and
new blood on the table while I wonder if my guys are gonna make it if I turn my phone off for a
few hours.

$4,732.10 tax return.

Acer Aspire- $500.

$4,200 left.

Studio 15 Apartment- $1400

$2,800 left.

Legal Zoom Forms LLC- $200

$2,600 left.

Adobe Dreamweaver- $400

$2200 left.
Queen Bed - $250

$1950 left.

Comforter and accessories- $150

$1800 left

Starting a business from my own pad.

Priceless.

The rest is easy.

It is really this easy.

Then I take the laptop, and build a HELL of a website.

Taking for instance my competitors website:

http://www.toprankpros.com

Well, I build a HUGE website displaying all that I can do for clients. WEb design, SEO,
social media, text messaging advertising, 1800 numbers, a HUGE list of all of the things I have
learned over working for 38 different companies.

Using this website, I begin to market the company. How? By doing all of the things we are
offering to people as a service for OURSELVES.

In the midst of doing all of this, I press a couple of suits. It's getting close to mid February
now and I have booked a City College room that seats over a hundred for five sessions in the
next two weeks. For about a hundred bucks a session, they will provide the room, the seats, the
dry erase board, a projector and all afternoon. This means the bittersweet symphony known as
my sales force is about to begin.

We have ayersbrooks.com. We have the LLC formed. We have the bank account with Chase
to recieve funds. I have started a credit card merchant processing account and a fax.com account.
I have a TOKTUMI phone system set up, and I have purchased a good 1800 number for the
company. Facebook is running our ads, we are search engine optimized and well listed
everywhere. Our web designs are CUTTING EDGE because I have ordered bulk a few video
cameras which have been used with the most recent video sequencing programs to create an
almost 3-D opener for your website of your location. Ten cameras take the scene, and the
sequencer switches through them in the round, much like the processing originated in The
Matrix.
Hello, my name is Joel Brooks and I am the reason you are all here. First, let me get the good
news out of the way, "You are hired".

If you have made it through our screening process in responding to the ad, filling out the
email application and the telephone interview process to schedule you to get here, I forgot to tell
you "You are good."

First things first, how much will you get paid? Let me tell you this company has a motto, a
slogan of sorts and it is the whole shebang. "ITS UP TO YOU!"

You want to make six figures this year? We can get you there! You will go from our top
producers to a Sales Team Leader with a percentage of your own little company to a National
Sales Manager looking to expand our physical locations with your own office under the
umbrella. This is a company geared toward the self starter, so if you can't picture yourself on a
company cruise getting ready to write yourself a fifty thousand dollar bonus check for Christmas
next year to use in starting your own office with the reps you have groomed, then get lost, NOW.

I don't see anyone leaving.

First off, I am way beyond the paperwork piling up here, so let's electronically sign all of the
contracts and go over this on the overhead while we talk: MONEY. Get on your cell phone and
get into your email please. If you can't do this now, I want you to know we have a computer here
at the front of the room where you can do this at the end.

Let's talk turkeys. You say you need money? There is no reason that before the day is over I
can't be filing your direct deposit forms with the bank so you can get paid the day after a sale and
cutting your first check for the big number one. AND WHEN I SAY THE BIG NUMBER ONE,
I MEAN YOU. Do the footwork.

OUTSOURCE.

"IT'S UP TO YOU"

How big does The Ayers Brooks Group get? It's up to me.

This is amazing stuff. How big does all of this get? Here is the amazing part. It gets HUGE!
Why? Because I want it to. Because I planted the seed and it can make an orchard, not just a tree.

I spend lately going through this strange dance with my fiancee where I am telling her, I am
sorry I am so poor, and more than that the lasting thing that is coming, I am sorry I AM GOING
TO BE TOO RICH.

When you are too poor you have all kinds of things which are problems created by being too
poor. The same sort of thing happens when you get alot of money. She tells me, "Worry about it
when it happens." She cracks me up.
It is going to happen soon, and it is not going to happen too soon. Why? One word.
Outsource.

Let's say this coming February I hire four hundred sales people and they "SUPRISE!" keep up
with the joneses and we make 160 sales. Now I've got the opposite problem. We've started with
next to nothing, and still have next to nothing. Now it's time to dig in and get REALLY DOWN
TO WORK.

I've got $160,000 in sales for the month of March. Half of it is gone, because I have paid my
sales people. That leaves $80,000 to make 160 websites, and FAST! How? We need MORE
PEOPLE! That simple. There are people out there who want to make money, so I just need to
find them.

At this point we will retain about a quarter of those clients for the next month paying their
$399 monthly fee for SEO, Social Networking, Pay Per Click, and online REPUTATION
BUILDING service so that is 40 times $400. 16 and one, two , three zeroes in REPEAT
BUSINESS. $16,000 to pay the salaries of the web design and tech crew I am bringing on for
doing April's work. Figure we need about twenty, so I'd better get started! It's ok I've got about
$60,000 to pay the salaries to make those 160 websites too. I am probably in bad need of some
H.R. here , so let's cut off about $10K for that too. Don't worry, that figure we sold for March
gets BIGGER in April. Why? I hired more sales people.

200 sales people in Pheonix on Monday. 200 sales people in Las Vegas on Tuesday. 200 sales
people in San Francisco on Wednesday. 200 sales people in Los Angeles on Thursday. I am
beginning to learn why the days of the week are capitalized. Cause you can capitalize on every
one. I've got three hundred and twenty thousand dollars in sales planned for my new crew from
the last four days and it is only just getting to be the weekend! I need a weekend from hiring and
firing and organizing and managing and flying all over the west coast with all of this money in
my expense account, so we will be back to hiring in San Diego on Friday. Then I can spend
Saturday and Sunday doing Rosalee's favorite hobby with her: SHOPPING.

So wait. How big can this get. It's up to me. Because as we state in the company motto: how
big can your business get? ITS UP TO YOU!

Now here's the fun part. We are busy flying around hiring people in person, making sales,
delegating responsibility and producing some happy customers. So what do we want to do? Here
is where it gets REAL. See now I have a tech crew who can go to work on my website and build
us a database to work from. Here we make sales training videos, a web portal to hire on these
1099 sales force people online and get them there without having to fly around the country. Well,
not for the same reason. Because now we have to do something else here.

We take some of all of that money from networking and open two physical locations to take
care of the customers we have. We make this thing run from an office. There we have customer
service, client retention, techs and web designers, and guess what? More sales people. Sales
people who call from an inside sales position, and sales people who are on a different pay
structure who are going door to door doing business to business sales.

At this point I am just having fun running the company.

Figure every sale is $999. $100 of that is mine. Every monthly client is $399. $40 of that is
mine.

Can we say 160 sales in March. $16,000. Forty of those are retained. $1600. How's April
looking?

I am proud and bragging about all of this before it even happens because I have been working
on learning how to RUN IT, how to BUILD IT, how to MAKE THE PRODUCT, how to SELL
IT MYSELF for YEARS!!!

One Percenters.

I've got $1800 left to get started. That is if I spend all that money on a bigger bed and
comforter set. So let's say, I am thrifty (I am) and get it all for cheaper. So I've got $2000 to start
my own business.

First off I need to get a phone that matches my girls phone. One that can handle all of the
tasks I am about to assign to it.

So I take $125 for the deposit for Verizon and spend the $50 on the Droid Razr M and open
up my mobile world.

Now we are talking. So I've got access to all the apps in the world I need for my business.
First off, I need a phone system. I get TOKTUMI Pro for $150 for the year and set up my phone
systems. Where we at? Well, with taxes included I am at about $1650.

We are off and running. I have built a huge web site to showcase all that our company can do,
and have formed the LLC. Time to hit the go button. I will renew my domain names at
GoDaddy.com for the year for about $25. $1625.

Now we have a published website, a phone system with a 1-800 number, and a company
formed. We have dropped that initial $2000 in the bank to get our business account with Wells
Fargo. This enables me to handle many things. Payroll, incoming money and all kinds of other
perks.

So now I go over to City College and book the room for that seats a hundred for five sessions
in February to March. This will run me about five hundred dollars and gives me the attention of
five hundred people I have to find for about twenty hours. Life is good. Now I have to find the
people. This takes craigslist. It's about $25 an ad to run a help wanted ad on craigslist. I figure I
want two a week for a month, so this is going to cost me $200.

So after doing all of the work to get the people to sell the product we still have around $1000.

Life is good. Why don't we plug in the numbers at one percent right about here?

With good turnout, I have four hundred sales people I am going to be able to hire. That fifth
day is for managers and web designers, graphic artists and photographers. Four hundred sales
people. If one percent of them makes their goal, which is five sales in a month equal to $2500 in
commissions for them then we have twenty sales for the month of March. This makes the I.T.
department $6000 to make twenty websites. This makes another $2000 to funnel back into the
business to hire another round or ten of sales people. This is another thousand sales people
bringing our one percent figure to 70 sales for the month of April. The first four hundred just
made me $2000. I paid rent, ate well and got ready for the next big figure. At one percent making
five sales, I just made $7000 for my pocket in April.

LIFE IS GOOD...

How big can your business get?

IT'S UP TO YOU!!!

So here we are.

The business hires more people than I can shake a fist at. I have more money than I know
what to do with. I have built the infrastructure of the company to where it is practically running
itself. There are a number of things which are going to come into play.

I want to expand. I have what, several thousand customers who I have created advertising for.
Now we have several physical locations with sales people, customer service and we are always
working to corner the most out of this market. In order to do so, we need to expand our business
AGAIN.

We are doing SEO, Social Networking, Mobile Ads, 1800 numbers and phone systems, Web
Design, Online Reputation building in general. How much further can we go?

It's December again and now I have hiring fairs in twelve cities two days a week bringing in a
couple of thousand in fresh sales people every week. The best are hired into a physical location
where they meet and are groomed to make those sales. Some are getting hourly and making
outbound sales calls. There are twenty seven point five million in small business potential
customers and I want us to get our one percent of that every year.
Imagine that. The Ayers Brooks Group. Just imagine every year we corner another one
percent of that one percent. That is 27.5 million at one percent is 275 thousand customers at one
percent is 2,750 thousand customers a year. That is $2,750,000 in business a year.

We are looking pretty good in my kids piggy banks right about now.

If you really want to know, after a year having reached that $2.75 million, my cut is ten
percent still. Hmm. Thirty five and making about two hundred and seventy five thousand a year
ain't looking so bad. I will be there. Will you?

Maybe I should take a month or two out of the year to write books. Get into acting. Write and
produce some music for an old rap act I call OZENOZ and send it into production. I am pretty
good at business, you know.

I am thinking about making my own network. Take my customer base and use it to sell the
commercial time. They are already our customers, and we have made the commercials already
for them. Let's just use that for say, this much at that slot on our channel.

Programming? There are a thousand different programs waiting to be bought up and put into
production.

LIFE IS GOOD.

HOW BIG CAN YOUR BUSINESS GET?

IT'S UP TO YOU!

$2,750,000

What do you do when you have 2.75 million dollars to make 2,750 websites?

You make it so you can corner a WHOLE one percent of the market in the following year.

Figure it takes your average programmer three days to make the website. You are paying them
$35K a year with benefits. Their goal for each month is to make 10 websites. I need to be able to
churn out 200 a month, so this means I need twenty web designers. That is about seven hundred
thousand dollars of the money. Half has already paid the sales force, so we have about seven
hundred thousand left. That pays the rent, paid for the equipment, and having a small army of
customer service reps who are also doing upselling. Figure half a dozen customer service reps at
ten bucks an hour forty hours a week increasing revenue to the tune of $120K. We've got about
six hundred thousand. I've got H.R. doing things for the office. This takes a chunk. And I have to
support one or two regional sales offices to keep things moving with some of this. Our National
Sales Reps are getting their piece of 1.375 million directing our Regional Team Leaders who are
both getting their piece by running their regional sales office, who are giving part of their piece
to the Team Leads who are managing the sales force in groups of ten. All get a piece of each sale
by helping their fellows to make sales.

The amount of times I have to do the math for that 2.75 million dollars to happen depends on
how many reps it takes to get 2,750 sales. With a $999 ticket, it should be about five sales per
month per sales person who retains their job. And their will be rock stars who do more, and those
who don't. Spreading 2,750 evenly over twelve months makes for 230 sales per month. 230 sales
per month divided by five per sales person is 46 good sales people doing their job. Figure at
about six percent of 1099ers I hire doing that it means hire several thousand people. EASY. Do it
across a number of cities, with a number of management teams hired by reinvesting the money in
their salaries!

I love the numbers games we can do here.

Of course you know as we started this way, I still have alot of independent contractors who
don't report to an office. Tens of thousands of them. They make their money.

Lets say I ALSO have offices in NY, LA, SF, SD, DC, Portland, Seattle, Boston, Miami, and
Detroit. That is ten offices with fifty suited up 1099ers to hit the field every day to make sales.
Their sales support their office. Their training gets better numbers. So out of those 500 1099ers I
get 250 sales a month. Those that didn't make their numbers, don't get paid and so don't cost us
much. And this is just the door to door business to business people.

I also have am inside sales position to which I have hired people and am running a tight ship.
This racquet is bringing in with it's thirty sales people another 120 sales a month and making
more money than the 1099ers paying HOURLY!!! Of course not if you count all the benefits and
office costs and perks.

How many more of those offices should I open? We are at 370 sales per month, or 4,400 a
year or $4,400,000 in sales not counting repeat monthly business. I am sitting fat now making
almost half a million a year.

I remember when I came up for the slogan for the company. I was getting some business
cards printed up with my new fiancee and I asked her "What should I get on them?" She said "It's
up to you!"

How big can your business get?

IT'S UP TO YOU!!!

Checklist.

Things I need to do to get my business rolling and start making money:

1.) Build the website
a. HOME

1. 1-800 number (TOKTUMI)

2. ayersbrooks.com email addresses

b. SERVICES

1.Search Engine Optimization

2.Web Design

3. Pay Per Click

4. Online Reputation Building (part of 1)

5. Social Media Marketing

6. Mobile Websites

7. Video Marketing

c. COMPANY

d. CONTACT

2.) HIRE THE PEOPLE

a. Starter packets

1.1099 agreement

2.Company Information

b.Management Tier

1. Profit Sharing agreement

2. Team Lead Responsibilities

c. Web Development Team

1. 1099 agreement

2.Employee Status Contingency Contract

d. Human Resources

1. 1099 production agreement
2. Employee Status Contingency Contract

3. HIT THE GROUND RUNNING

Let's get excited people!

Let's do the numbers here. That is to say, let's get excited!

When I was with The Virtual Lending Source my ticket was $1000. I talked all day to GM's of
car dealerships and made five sales a month. Half of that money was mine! That is $2,500. That
is to say I was making $30K a year in commissions!

I will make that with The Ayers Brooks Group. Because you see with each sale you make, I
don't make that much. I want to make what YOU ARE MAKING! So while my sales people are
out selling, what am I going to be doing? Being a sales team leader by leading the way with
sales!

Half of that money will be mine for doing what you are doing. No fair? Well, look at it this
way:

You can be a Team Lead. If you are a Team Leader, you get 5% of the sale each of your team
members makes. If your team members make their quota of five sales per month, and you have
ten good team members that is fifty sales at $1000 per sale. That is $50K at five percent you get
that month. That is another $2500 you get for just motivating your team members to get that
sale! That means you just made $5,000 this month, or the equivalent of $60K in yearly
commissions. That is what a Sales Team Leader should be making!

Now say you excel and build that team to twenty members all doing at least half of that quota.
You are making more than 60 sales as a team, which is in your pocket already. And now you are
eligible to be a Regional Team Leader. This means we are going to front you the money to start
an office somewhere. You just have to pick out the furniture, your own H.R. and take what of
your team you can as Team Leaders themselves to build the new office in say: Atlanta! Don't
worry, as a Regional Team Leader you are now going to move more into the role of a boss-
person. But as a Regional Team Leader you will be training Team Leads to train new people so
you will still be in the field. With an office of a hundred sales people, you will be taking a full
two percent of the entire office. A hundred sales people making 3 sales each average at two
percent is $6000 a month. Plus you will be making your own sales at $2500 a month, plus taking
care of your team at $2500 a month. This comes to $11,000 a month, or the equivalent of $132K
a year in commissions. Picture this about a year out from joining the company.

Last, but not least you can be the National Sales Manager. This position comes when you
have helped to build an office which opens two more offices. You will get your pick of where to
go, and you will now just be the boss. You will retain your 5% of your team, but it will now slide
into just your team being defined as your office. That is to say with a hundred employees,
making an average of 3 sales a month you will get $15K a month just for being the boss. You
have the option here of investing in the company in a number of ways. There will be company
bonuses for both Regional and National levels. Both will earn well into the six figure mark for
different jobs.

The National Sales Manager will be responsible for the Regional Team Leaders and the
organization of H.R., hiring and firing and of organizing the expansion into a new office. The
Regional Team leader will be trained to be a National Sales Manager and will be responsible for
converting his Team into Regional Leaders as well as training Team Leads. It is quite possibly
the hardest position in the company, as it grooms you to become a part owner in the company.
Team Leads will take care of their ten to thirty people and those people will take care of their
numbers!

It all begins with a simple hiring fair for my people.

To begin with I will be bringing on board:

1.)400 sales people

2.)10 Team Leaders

3.)3 Web Designers

4.)2 H.R. People

All of these people will only make money when the company does, so there is no question of
the outflow of cash being more than the inflow.

Figure we have got 55% of the sale to the Account Executive and the Team Lead. At this point
there are smaller figures in sales so no Regional or National. That leaves $450 of the sale to build
the site and run the company. $300 goes to the web designer for the site. $50 goes to H.R. and to
paying for a new hiring fair. $100 goes to dough re- ME!

The big question here is how many sales can my initial Team Leads generate out of their
people?!

Ahhh... I love numbers...
Joel Brooks
1425 C Street
San Diego, CA 92101
joelayersbrooks@live.com
(619)241-6247

I have written a full length comedy screenplay entitled “Telemarketers”. The full
manuscript is available on request. You can also view the manuscript for the screenplay, and my
other works at my web site, listed above.
The screenplay is a ridiculous look into the final day of a Compton, CA telemarketing
office. It follows the marketers as they work their way through a list of varied and wary clients
who range from the awkwardly named Yu Yo to the pitiably named Stu Pidasso and Mike Hunt
to the unreal calling of a man whose name is God by a poor soul who is on hallucinogenic
mushrooms. The office is a mix of renegade twenty something’s hired via a medical marijuana
dispensary. The owners of the dispensary have been using the office as a front to launder money
from the weed collective. As we sort our way through the hilarious day of the underpaid and
sarcastic to save their selves suffering workers, we find that the jig is up for the owners, and the
Fed’s are on their way. There is a cool million plus up for grabs, and some leftover pot of course,
and as the day winds on the stash grows hot on the list of the few who know it to exist. This
script is a comedy that will bust your guts all over the sales room floor with its nonstop whit and
melodrama and it’s cold, calculating attempt to shock you at every opportunity.
I have spent many a day on sales room floors of call centers. This comedy is a collection
of experiences, odd names of clients I have really called, and some of the riff raff that comes
with working at a minimum wage base salary job pay rate. Ten years in the planning, the comedy
in this script is so nonstop that it guarantees to please every palate at some turn of the vernacular.
Very fine intellectual discourses I have had while taking a leak at the washroom urinal put aside,
it is mindless fun for those who would have their pun on the rare side and still mooing. You will
laugh until the cows come home to be made into your quarter pounder, Please, allow me to
assure you there is something for everyone to find fun in Telemarketers.
I look forward to hearing from you as to your thoughts and vision for my pride and joy as
she stands to this date. If only all of my dates stood so well. Thank you for your consideration in
this matter.
Most Sincerely Yours,

Joel Brooks

P.S. I have also included my highly offensive fully stage blocked thirty minute stand up
routine, if you find you have the time for a lonely rated “R” stand up comedian. No worries.

Condom Nation Telemarketers Script:

- Hello this is Mike Hunt calling from “Condom Nation” and the question is “…are you
the owner?”
- That’s what she said
- Seriously, I am calling because something tells me you need condoms. Take it from the
best in the business, it is time for you and your crew to get busy. Mike Hunt has a
condom with your name on it. That’s me, Michael Hunt. Condom Nation.
- Want to know who is covering their customers weenies? People like: Peter Schwartz,
Dick Footlong, Ritchie Richards. I will even tell you, Stuart Pidasso. Yeah, that’s right,
Stu Pidasso is one of my clients
- The condoms will say (business name) right on the rubber!
- Come on, tell me you want to lay out an easy customer, tell them to get FUCKED and
give it to them at some point every day! I have some, they say “Mike Hunt” right on the
rubber! You want one of those!
- I’m not hitting on you, I swear. Not that I wouldn’t, but you need a lot of Condom Nation
protection before we talk turkey.
- OK, do you want: Ribbed, Unribbed, One Rib of Adam, Two for the Jib, Sweet and Sexy
Sailor, You’re Too Twisted, Take My Jit Seed and Shove It, Flavored, Unflavored, Savory
Wedding Night Tips, Thrust Alone From the Hips, If You Do That I Will Lose My Shit,
You Have a Nice Ass and At Least One Tit, Hoover Dam Resevoir Tipped, Versions For
the Smaller Dick, Different Colors, Spermicide Blocking The Mother’s, Easy Riders,
Butt Fuckers, Strut Walkers, Sure to Get Sucked Suckers, Cum Again, All Pleasure, and
IF YOU’RE NOT SURE, we got a CHART for Dick’s to MEASURE! Which kinds
would you like us to send? We have great packages! We’ve got you’re package ready!
- I know I cover the whole DICK THING adequately. So give me your shipping address
and we are OFF LIKE A PROM DRESS! Like Mary Poppins on Dick Van Dyke! Get
prepared, protect your penises!
- How old are your customers, anyway? Can they still get them wet you think? Do you
nthink they need some LUBE TOO? We have Jiggolo Jelly too!
- I hope I’m not coming at you greasy. Just trying to get you in bed with us! What is your
call?
- Is this an ok time for you? Do we need to make this proposition later? I will cum your
direction, and give you a demo. So what time do you want that DEMO at?
- Alright, listen, you have been GREAT! Fucking the right way! I need to get it up with
you! Next time we will. I will send you a nice little free package with all the Nut Butter,
and Sexy Solutions. Condom Nation! Get FUCKED! Condom Nation! Get FUCKED!
Condom Nation! Get Fucked!

TELEMARKETERS

By Joel Brooks
Character List

Ted Grimes- Supervisor

Tick- telemarketer

Slim- telemarketer

Little Timmy- telemarketer

Steve Kidman- telemarketer

Whitman- telemarketer

John- telemarketer

Al Dean- telemarketer

Mark- telemarketer

Tao- telemarketer

Carlos- telemarketer

Larry- telemarketer

Yu Yo- customer

God- customer
Dick- telemarketer

Joe- telemarketer

Mary- telemarketer

Joy- telemarketer

Allie- telemarketer

Trip- female telemarketer

Cat- female telemarketer

Jim Staples- I.R.S. Auditor

Chip Long- Marijuana dispensary owner

Sonny Cheeba- Marijuana dispensary owner

GTA #1- Grand Theft Auto #1

GTA #2- Grand Theft Auto #2

COMPTON, CA - Telemarketing Office – SALES ROOM FLOOR- Friday 11:45 AM

Tick- It’s a process
Ted- With you everything’s a process. Processed cheese, processed laxatives, and the process

server who made you shit yourself this morning.

Tick- Oh that’s a real quip, Ted, bring my marriage into this.

Ted- Not to mention your incontinence. And Tick, that’s divorce, not marriage, and I imagine

how you got your nickname. How many is it now, five?

Tick- Fucking lawn jockey.

Ted- Prick.

Tick- Love you too.

Ted- Alright, back to the phones!

Tick- Hole!
Slim- Jerk off!

Little Timmy- Not yet, but I’m creating a hole in my pants right now for that purpose!

Ted- That bad on the sales?

Little Timmy- Bad AYASS!

Ted- Had too much bad ass already, I’ll pass. But if you sell out, and sell short, you’ll skip the

celly you had last week for parole violation.

Slim- Yeah. Smelly celly.

Steve- How many times do you think my dog can get laid before getting knocked up?

Slim- Hold on, I got a call!

Whitman- Nine to the square root.

Steve- Root, really?

Whitman- True to life. Those are the calculated odds. Oh here comes my call. Hello, is Michael

Hunt there? Yes, is this Mike Hunt? Sorry about that sir, no I didn’t mean… well then, enjoy

your day too! Another happy hanguper, what a fucking life huh?
Ted- Hey John, I just thought I’d tell you it IS NOT kosher to have your dildo’s shipped to the

office.

John- Yo, mofo! These johns is expensive! Nothing but the finest!

Ted- But the sun doesn’t shine on my office door when I’ve got stuff in front of it that goes

where the sun don’t shine John! Next time you get the day off!

John- Go home and play with my new toys then.

Ted (to himself)- Fucking sicko’s

OUTSIDE IN THE HALLWAY WHERE A LINE HAS FORMED

Mark- Is this the check line?

Tao- Last I checked.

Mark – Thanks. Hey, did you see the boss around?

Tao- Yeah, he’s that guy with the Bermuda shorts and the bad tupee.

Mark- Are you sure this is the check line?

Tao- Last I checked.
Mark- Well, when’s the last time you saw somebody leave with a check?

Tao- No, man. They’re not giving out checks HERE, just vouchers.

Mark- (angrily) Vouchers? Aww, that’s bullshit. Alright man, I’m gonna ask you one last time, IS

THIS THE CHECK LINE?

SALES FLOOR ON THE PHONES

Carlos- Yo man, I am telling you! Just don’t cuss em out before you hang up! Do that straight

from the BEGINNING BRO!

Larry- Listen Maam, I have to make A THOUSAND FUCKING phone calls a day! I don’t need

your shit! (hanging up the phone)

Ted- Take the day off!

Larry- What with my BAD CHECK?!

Ted – With your BAD SELF!

Larry- Come ON, you don’t think that was a REAL phone call?!
Ted- I don’t care if it was fake. I don’t care if you rifled through your mothers panty drawer this

morning to get your lunch money, TAKE THE DAY OFF!

ACROSS THE ROOM

Slim- Hi, is this Tri Cao? Oh it is? Hey, where’s the beef?!

(COWORKERS LAUGHING)

Little Timmy- Get it where’s the beef? Yo, I called that lady!

Slim- Tri Cao? Oh sorry. T-R-I C-A-O is that how you pronounce it ma’am?

Caller- What?

Carlos-Hey there, babe! I have got a condom with your name on it! I am not letting you go

without breaking out the condoms with me, so forget about hanging it up. You’re too sweet, and

with your name all over them, how can we ever get fucked on getting in business? Believe you

me, these condoms are just what the doctor ordered. They say your business on them and they

have your number, and it’s just what you want your clients to be seeing as they get ready to have

safe sex. You can tell them when their leaving to get fucked, and mean it, and not offend. Isn’t

that what we all we to tell the biggest dick of the day? “Hey buddy, get fucked…” And then hand

them a condom.
ACROSS THE ROOM

Ted- You remember Dick, don’t get down on the customers. (snickers and someone echoing “he

said you remember DICK!”) And you remember, Dick, you interrupted their busy day (more

laughing) And Dick, their not customers if they hang up.

AT ANOTHER DESK

Carlos- Hi, is this Yu Yo? I mean is this Yu? Mr. Yo, have I got a deal for you , yo! You are Yu

right?

Yu Yo- Yes, this Yu.

Carlos- Thanks Yu. Just wanted to make sure. Didn’t want to be talking to someone who’s not

YU YO, if YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN?!

Yu Yo- Yu know…

Carlos- Hold on, not yet, Mr…Yo.
Yu Yo- IS THIS THE FUCKING CONDOM COMPANY?!

Carlos- Aww, Yu. We have got condom with your name on it. You can tell all your customers

when they are leaving the cleaners, they need not go to the cleaners so much and hand them a

condom with your number. You remember me? We talked this morning. You remember me.

Yu Yo- FUCKING TELL YOU NO CALL!

Carlos- You wanted to call me?

Yu Yo- You are me?

Carlos- Still me. Can’t talk for you Mr…Yo although I’ll try. This is Carlos from Telecom

International. I just wanted to tell you just how great things are looking for you. But apparently

my close is off like a prom dress.

Yu Yo- You are naked? You have a condom? Are you crazy? For Yu YO?

Carlos- No for you!

Yu Yo- But if you give Yu a deal now, Yu cannot get special offer, right?

Carlos- Mr… Yo… I can NEVER GET THE SPECIAL DEAL! (singing) Don’t you let that deal

go down, oh no. (stops) I hate to tell you Yu Yo, but there is no SPECIAL OFFER. Atleast not

from me. Hey, Yu, is your wife around?

Yu Yo- No SPECIAL OFFER?! You say this morning this be good for YO FAMILY!

Carlos- For my family?

Yu Yo- No, FOR YO FAMILY!
Carlos- For MY family?

Yu Yo- YO FAMILY!

Carlos- How could I have a special offer for anyone’s family when there is no special offer! I’M

SORRY Mr. Yo, we are just not communicating well. I’m just trying to tell you to tell all of your

customers to get fucked and hand them a condom. That’s all.

Yu Yo- You get fucked! Get fucked, my ass, homo! You sell those condoms to my wife last

month. They break and customer say to me he get woman knocked up. You go to hell!

Carlos- I already live there.

(CLICK AS YU YO HANGS UP)

Carlos (to himself)- Right. Thank you YU YO! (laughing)

AT ANOTHER GROUP OF DESKS NEARBY

Dick- Yo, Gary! Check this out, this chick is HAVING SEX and has me on hold!

Joe- No way man, put it on speakerphone!
Dick- She IS NOT having sex.

Joe- You ain’t got laid in awhile huh?

Dick- Last night, if you must know.

Joe- T.M.I. brother! Mary- Jean again?!

Dick- You know it.

Joe- God, she’s such a whore! Why my fucking stepmother can’t close her legs is beyond me.

Especially I mean, with YOU?! No offense.

Dick- None taken.

Joe- Out of curiosity Dick, does she douche? I mean I don’t want to be smelling your offspring

over my morning cereal.

Dick- Not right away.

Joe- Does make the fishy taste easier to take. You should tell her.

Dick- Oh yeah, right! What am I supposed to say, Joe? Hey Mary Jean! How ‘bout you douche

once in awhile? That’ll go over real well.

Joe- Thank god she’s not flesh and blood.

Dick- I wouldn’t be so sure about the blood.

Joe- You’re sick.

Dick- No, but I wish I was. I think I’ve got a vacation day left.
LOUDSPEAKER IN THE OFFICE: Attention people. For those of you who were issued a green

check, please report to the lunchroom. Red checks and brown checks report to the smoking

room. In twenty minutes people. Twenty. Thank you.

Slim- What’s with the fucking colored checks?

Little Timmy- What did he say about green checks?

Carlos- Fucked if I know.

Slim- The fucking smoking room?

Little Timmy- They open that shit again?

Carlos- Yeah, I’m surprised, ever since they caught Tao smoking a joint in there last week. And

during TRAINING of all times. In the next room, WITH THE DOOR OPEN! What a dumbfuck.

Little Timmy- Ahh, he smokes pinners anyway.

Slim- What’s a pinner?

Carlos- Magnitude of a pin.

Slim- Okay.

Little Timmy- Hey, are you holding out on me?

Slim- If you want pot, I may be your man!
Little Timmy- How much?

Slim- Dime, quarter, nickels are free to first timers.

Little Timmy- I’ll take a free nickel!

Slim- Smoking room, ten.

Carlos- You think we are ever going to get our money?

Slim- Relative ma boy, relative.

Carlos- Bull shit, relative.

Whitman- I figure it this way. If they got the offshore accounts filled with our salaries before our

report made it to the F.B.I. to put a freeze on it, no.

Slim- We called the F.B.I. on this shit?

Whitman- Yeah, I reported it on the citizens F.B.I. contact page and got a call.

Little Timmy- Meanwhile the REAL female body inspectors are holding our dough in Bermuda

somewhere.

Carlos- Son of a bitch.

Slim- Yeah, bitches. Lots of em. Doggy style, one leg up, two legs up, bitches! From behind,

from the side, in my ride, bitches!

Ted (walking by)- Take it from the virgin. Will you stop with the two bit stand up, and try and

sell some leader board logo legend brand condoms for crying out loud?
Slim- Hey, will you stop! Roll wit it homey! Take the kid gloves off!

Whitman- Hey, you think, I can get my minimum wage from the snack machine if I tip it hard

enough.

John- Nigger, shit. I’m still living with my granny! I gots to get PAID!

Whitman- How is granny?

John- She’s aight. Old.

Whitman- Still thinking about knocking her off?

John- Nah, she cancelled the insurance.

Whitman- Still eating ten year old nasal decongestants for kicks? That shit really get you off?

John- Yo nigga’, shut UP! I’m not in the mood. Phatty be good.

Whitman- Are you commenting on my figure?

John – Yo nigga’, just get on getting me a joint and shut up!

Whitman- Don’t tell me to shut up, that hurts my feelings.

John- Shut UP! PLEASE!

Whitman- You shouldn’t use the “N” word so much either.

John- What, you want me to call you CRACKER?

Carlos- Man, you supply one joint last week and now all of the sudden you’re all high and

mighty?!
John- Not high yet, but gonna be mighty in a few.

Carlos- In a few?

John – Shit man. What the hell do you think I was eatin? Dunkin Hynes with no grime put in

time? I mean ooey gooey til my fingers was chewie ooey!

Carlos- Yo, you are grime. You save me some?

John- What?

Carlos- DID YOU SAVE ME SOME?

John- What?

Carlos- Nevermind.

John- You a fucking brownie poacher or something man?

Carlos- I wish.

John- The sooner the better, cause you uptight. Makin my boxer shorts ride up! Yo, your so anal

even your DOG won’t go to the john when you’re done with the flush for like fucking days!

Whitman- That’s disgusting.

ACROSS THE ROOM
(back to Dick and Joe)

Joe- Come on Dick, hang up man! I am telling you she IS NOT HAVING SEX!

Dick- Yo, I want my paycheck cashed out like, now!

Joe- I can’t find mine. Think I’m colorblind.

Dick – Oh man. Back on speakerphone! Listen now! It’s getting good!

Joe- So you really think we’re going to get paid?

Dick- I dream of genie! Here she cums! Here she cums!

(sounds of a woman screaming out in orgasm come from the speakerphone)

Joe- I think she just had a triple fucking orgasm.

Dick- Should we dial 9-11 again and phone in a bomb threat?

Joe- Will you shut UP! They’re still at it!

Dick- Pervert.

Joe- You started it.

Dick- That shit was INTENSE! Think she’s on drugs?

Joe- I want some of what she got!
Dick – Sick fuck.

Joe- Fag.

Dick- Hey, don’t say that. It hurts.

Joe- Hurts your boyfriends’ ass in the morning.

Dick – Blow me.

Joe- I don’t think so. You’d like that. How’d you get your name anyway, Dick?

Dick- Aww come ON man. That was low. You know I called a guy named Richard Dick last

week though and it made me think.

Joe- That triple orgasm made ME THINK!

BOUNDING ACROSS THE ROOM COMES CARLOS

Carlos- The wonderful thing about niggers! A niggers a wonderful thing! Their tops are made of

the rubber! Their bottoms are made of the springs! Their bouncy, flouncy, trouncy, flouncy, fun-

fun- fun- fun - fun! I tell you the truly wonderful thing about niggers is I’m the only one! I’m

THE ONLY ONE!
John- What are you saying, you got ups?!

Slim- Shut up Carlos,. Yo, I WISH you were the only nigger.

Carlos- (coughing and laughing and singing) Guess who’s black? Guess who’s black? Guess

who’s black? Guess who’s black? My lungs!

A FLURRY OF CRUMPLED UP PAPERS FLIES AT SLIM

Whitman- You have bad sense of humor, man. That was truly fun. Youtubeable. Classic.

Slim- Get OVER it.

Carlos- (singing again) Dick – dick- dick- da- dick- dick – dick- DICKALODEON! Hey, you got

the over under on the Jets game, Ted?

Ted- No, some bum stole my sports page on the train.

Carlos- Bums. What you gonna do?

Ted- Enact a new law calling for the eradication of all homeless people.

Carlos- He was homeless? How do you know?

Ted – He blew his nose on it.

Carlos- Maybe he just wanted to ensure keeping it, man.

Ted – Hope he gets bird flu.
Carlos- I don’t. He was awful close to you this morning. You need to get a car, man. I’ve had

three colds this winter all from you.

Ted- How about you give me a ride?

Carlos- How about I give your girlfriend a ride?

Ted- She’s not that way. Not even with me.

Carlos- That’s cause you don’t have a car, idiot.

Ted- Shut up. (pauses) Really, you think the reason I can’t get laid is cause I don’t have a car? I

mean honestly if you think about it, are we really gonna get it on in the car all that much?

Carlos- I would. She’s hot. Needs to get laid. Fuck her. That simple.

Ted- Huh. Deep thoughts with the man with no sales on the board last week.

Carlos- Hey, I was out sick man. Fucking cold.

Ted- That’s what you get for not giving me a ride.

Carlos- When you move out of that ghetto you are in, I will give you a ride. Until I can be sure

my spinners and I are going to get out intact, no ride.

Ted- Fuck man, that’s cold. We’re a good hood.

Carlos- A good HOOD?!

Ted- Get a life.

Carlos- Get a car.
Ted- Fuck you.

Carlos- Fuck your girlfriend.

Slim- He’ll keep trying, but until he’s buying he is going to remain UNLAID!

Carlos- Terribly tragic. Horrific. Disastrous. Such a hottie.

Ted –Hey, will you guys shut up about MY GIRLFRIEND?!

Slim- Not anytime soon man. Just like your getting laid plans.

Ted- OK, why has EVERYONE IN THIS ROW BEEN ON HOLD FOR THE CALL QUEUE

FOR FIVE MINUTES?! Don’t make me baby sit you! We need to take off our closes and sell

some condoms. Condom nation!

Carlos- (mockingly) Can I get a RIDE?!

SLIM IMMEDIATELY EJECTS FROM HIS SEAT AND RUNS FOR THE DOOR

COMPTON-CA- TELECOM INTERNATIONAL - SMOKING ROOM – Friday
Little Timmy- What took you so long, that check thing is gonna happen soon!

Slim- Anyway. Check that shit. This shit is dope. Gives you hope. No more mope. Or soap on a

rope.

Little Timmy- Shut up and give me the bag!

Slim- Relax, ma mayan! You’ve got to remember you are FLYIN FOR FREE THIS TIME! Smell

that shit! Taste that shit! Savor the smoke. It ain’t no joke. Make you feel not broke.

Little Timmy- Just give me the bag.

Slim- OK, but remember, come back for more and you pay. And man, you’ll be back.

Little Timmy- I gotta get back to work, Ted’s been up my ass all morning.

Slim- Ted’s constipated I think. Heard him doing what sounded like giving birth to a large baby

in the bathroom this morning.

Little Timmy- That was entirely too much information.

Slim- That’s what I said. Groanin like he was a humpback whale or something.

Little Timmy- Maybe we should tell him to take lamaz classes for his bowel movements.

Slim- I hear he does yoga already.

Little Timmy- Yo, why do you always end up saying stupid shit LIKE THAT? Are you high like

motherfucking ROUND THE CLOCK?! Beware of the red eyed stare my man!

Slim- Get a clue. I just gave you dope.
Little Timmy- You are STUPID!

Slim- Stupider by the minute when I’m talking to you. Yo, give me the weed back!

(grabs the bag and starts pulling on it, causing a tug of war)

Slim- GIVE !ME! THE! WEED! BACK!

Just as Ted enters the room the bag busts all over the room floor.

Slim- It wasn’t me.

(walks out)

Little Timmy- Me either.

(walks out)

Ted- I need to go to the Grand Caymans. My turn.

HE EXAMINES THE WEED UNDER HIS FEET. PICKS UP SOME AND SNIFFS IT.

MAKES A FACE. LOOKS AROUND.

Ted- When are you gonna stop dealing DIRT, SLIM?!

TED SCOOPS UP THE WEED AND THROWS IT IN THE TRASH. HE RETURNS TO HIS

OFFICE TO MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT.

LOUDSPEAKER SHOWN - Okay people! Put them on hold. It’s time.
THE SALES ROOM FLOOR IS SHOWN AS ALL OF THE WORKERS BEGIN TO

ABANDON THEIR DESKS AND SHUFFLE OUT OF THE ROOM TO THEIR RESPECTIVE

COLORED CHECKS MEETINGS.

LAGGING BEHIND ARE A FEW

COMPTON, CA - TELECOM INTERNATIONAL – SALES ROOM FLOOR –

Carlos- FAQ! Put it in the queue! Cue it up! Put it behind the cue ball! Q- tip? Q and A! P’s and

Q’s!

Mark- Shut up!

Carlos- Well, EXCUSE!

Mark- Dude, your poor.

Carlos- Yeah, whats your point?

Mark- No man, I mean like, you’re REALLY POOR!

Carlos- Yeah, and so what?

Mark- No man, I mean you’re totally broke and shit.

Carlos- You’re really starting to get to me.
Mark- Good, it should. I mean, there’s no hope for you. No way out. Lost cause.

Caller #!-(to Mark) Hello?

Mark – I suggest suicide.

Caller #1- You suggest what?

Mark- Uhh, suicide.

Caller #2 (to Carlos)- Hello?

Carlos- Really, you want me to off myself?

Caller #2- Don’t off yourself, just quit calling me!

Carlos- Fuck you!

Mark- You off yourself first, and I will follow.

Carlos- Man, I ALWAYS GO FIRST!

Caller#2- Who the hell IS THIS?!

Mark – The easy stupid human response would be to get it over with. But you always gotta go

die hard. Like that time you had John give you a blow job so you would know if you were

bisexual. I still say he’s your best bet for marriage, by the way.

Caller#1- Die mother fuckers. I hope you all die.

Carlos- I must admit that was pretty gay.

Mark- But yet you say your not.
Carlos- If I’m so poor, how about you give me a loan?

Mark – What? Do you have a hot date with John?

Carlos- Ooh, low BLOW!

Mark- Bad choice of words.

Ted- Hey! Hey! Hey! Let’s get to the meeting folks!

Carlos- That’s not fair.

Ted- Nobody ever said life was gonna be fair.

Mark- He did.

Ted- Well, fuck him.

Mark- He’s not cute enough. But John thinks so.

Ted- John thinks everyone is cute. And he’s got fancy tri colored dildo’s in wholesale numbers

being delivered to my office door. Any advice?

Mark – Other than run for your life?

Carlos- Yeah, but he does give a mean blow job.

Mark- Aww, T.M.I. man!

Carlos- Nah, actually I couldn’t get it up.

Mark- Hear you never can. But you know what they say man. If at first you don’t succeed, try,

try again!
Ted- Guys, guys, guys! Meeting! NOW!

COMPTON – CA - TELECOM INTERNATIONAL LUNCHROOM/SMOKING ROOM-

THE LUNCHROOM IS SHOWN, THERE IS A FOOD FIGHT GOING ON.

THE SMOKING ROOM IS SHOWN, IT IS IN A DENSE, THICK FOG OF SMOKE. ALL OF

THE EMPLOYEES ARE HUDDLED IN THEIR CHEAP PLASTIC ELEMENTARY SCHOOL

SIZED SEATS IN THEIR RESPECTIVE MEETING ROOMS.

SMOKING ROOM

Ted – Alright people, listen up I have a lot to say and I’m sure you all wanna know why we

haven’t gotten paid. Thank you for smoking, I can’t afford a pack of my own right now.

Little Timmy- Ted, you never HAVE bought pack of your own. My kids are eating off of welfare

because you smoke all of my packs all day, everyday.

Ted- I am a bum for short. Thank you, Tim. And please remember to blow in this direction.
Little Timmy- You got that right. It blows in that direction.

Ted- As I am sure you all know, our company has changed hands due to an unexpected payroll

accounts transaction which the F.B.I. is investigating. Chuck and Lawrence, our beloved owners

have declined comment and have fled the country. Luckily, they have been stupid enough to flee

to Bermuda with our wages and will face extradition after their wasting away in Margaritaville.

Whitman- Correction. When our weed dealing NEW OWNERSHIP files the charges THEN

THEY WILL FACE EXPEDITED EXTRADITION. But I am afraid until then we are all eating

hood rats with cheese.

Ted- I’ll have mine rare. Thanks Whitman for the update. Enough of the smelly finger pointing,

no offense John, but I know we all with at least one exception hate to take it up the ass. We

should all finish pulling up our boot straps and stand tall. We are outfitting more and more

people with rubbers without reward. Risk, rate, rubber, rolodex, r and r already, reward! I for one

am proud of you all.

Little Timmy- How come you can say ass and I can’t?

Ted- Because I make the rules. Because I rule. Because at least for now Tim, you don’t. Clear

enough?

Little Timmy- Yo, just TRY and ask me for another cigarette!

Ted- Not until after the meeting, Timothy. Now people if you are in this room, you have received

either a red check or a brown check. In an effort to be more timely about making good on your

pay with the funds as of yet still unavailable from our new ownership, these checks have been

made of value as rewards vouchers usable in two ways. Simply put, you can cash them, and be
moved to part time next week, or you can choose from an online catalogue of product or

products for which they can be redeemed. The color of the check indicates the color of the

catalogue from which you will be choosing, as the inventory is limited.

A HAND RAISES IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM AND BEGINS WAVING BACK AND

FORTH

Ted- Yes, Mr. life himself.

Tao- That’s Tao thanks. No pun. Sorry, but I smell shit. Either Mark let off another world record

silent killer that went wet, or you just told me I could trade my check for weed!

Ted- At no point in time did I say weed, Tao.

Tao- You said “PRODUCT”. And our new owners are medical club owners. I’m not

complaining, I’m just SAYIN’! I have a red check. Does that mean Panama Red?

Whitman- Ted, it WOULD only make sense that the available inventory from our new ownership

is the leftovers after their dispensary was shut down last week.

Ted- Once again with the timely poignant news, thank you Whitman. For those of you don’t

know what that meant, I have a dictionary. No, our new owners are not going to leave you high.

But they won’t leave you dry either. I can’t honestly say I have had the time to peruse the entire

contents of the catalogues personally yet. Because unlike you people, I have a life. Just trust and

believe they won’t leave you high and dry.
Tao- Mark’s ASS isn’t dry.

(laughter and people holding their noses)

Ted- Enough of the fart humor stuff, this is new temporary company policy and you should be

taking this on the serious side of things. With that said, I will let you go to lunch. Please report

back to the phones after a half hour break. Any more questions not involving Mark’s ass can be

brought to my office.

Little Timmy- You said ass AGAIN! You got some kind of ASS comment for EVERYTHING

NOW and I can’t even say it once or I get the day off?!

Ted- Shut up and give me a cigarette.

Little Timmy- Eat my shorts.

Ted- Ok, shorts will do.

Little Timmy- You got some nerve, Ted.

Ted- Ok, last drag. Let’s go.

Little Timmy- What colored check YOU get Ted? Is your cashable without a demotion? Cause I

might need a loan if you bum another cigarette.

(he flings a cigarette from out of his pack at Ted)

Ted- That’s none of your business Little Timmy, and I still say you are smoking my cigarette

now. Please? I hate public speaking. Need the extra nicotine.

Little Timmy flicks his cigarette at the wall.
Little Timmy- Asshole.

LITTLE TIMMY LEAVES THE ROOM, BEING THE LAST ONE TO DO SO.TED WALKS

TO THE DOOR AND PEERS THROUGH THE GLASS DOWN THE HALL BOTH WAYS.

HE PULLS A FLASK FROM OUT OF HIS LEFT REAR POCKET AND TAKES A HUGE

SWIG OFF OF IT. HE THEN HEADS FOR THE LUNCHROOM DOOR, AND HIS NEXT

MEETING.

TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- LUNCHROOM -

TED WALKS INTO THE LUNCHROOM AND FINDS HIMSELF IN A DENSE FOG OF

SMOKE IN HERE AS WELL. HE TRIPS OVER SOME TRASH LEFT OVER FROM THE

FOOD FIGHT AND TAKES IN THE SCENE FOR A MOMENT.
Ted- Please put your cigarettes out before the smoke alarms trip a fire alarm and we are all left

waiting outside for the remainder of what could be our lunch break for fear of losing our hearing!

Not that any of you CAN hear from what I can tell up to this point anyway.

Tao- Why the negative commentary and disinterested slander? Not interested in inspiring your

employee force when you have to take public transit yourself from the poverty level wages? You

gonna get us paid before we all end up homeless like that bum who stole your newspaper this

morning?

Ted- Wow. Word gets around. No, IN REALITY TAO, it’s because I have to deal with negative

and disinterested slanderous zealots out to steal every roll of toilet paper from the employee

restroom in an effort to make my hemorrhoids permanent. And make scarce valuable pages of

discarded US magazines left for our entertainment.

Tao- Oh , in that case no problem. If I were wiping my ass on the stars I would be depressed too.

Painful loss of hope for your jerk off collection.

Carlos- Yeah, sorry about the sticky ones Ted. Guess you didn’t get the memo.

Ted- Carlos and Tao, you are both fired and I am calling the police to report your indecency. I am

sure you will find much more agreeable company at the county jail. Moving on people I am

here…

Tao- To tell us our cash is monopolized and our checks the monopoly money and our real pay

never to be seen or heard from again! Right?

Ted- Tao, why are you here? Weren’t you in the last meeting?
Tao- I got two checks and four vouchers because I took vacation time last month while working

and never collected. And besides, I need another smoke.

Ted- Put it out, Tao. And get out. Ask Mary, Susan, Allie, Trip or Cat what happened here and

leave me alone until at least next quarter break. In fact, just take a half hour lunch on the clock

and GO HOME at last quarter break. Honestly, I feel bad for you.

Tao- You still suck. But I accept your invitation. But why I gotta ask did you just name every

lady in the company and no guys? Why I gotta ask one of the corner cut afternoon shift only ho

bitches about my pay?

Ted- Because you might get lucky. Their good too. That’s life, Tao, simple. Now get out!

Tao- With pleasure.

Cat- That was sexist.

Ted- No, it was SEXY, but only after lunch.

Cat- I’m filing for sexual harassment.

Ted- Good luck. You might not want to ask the guys on the beach in Bermuda for your winnings.

And also when did you learn to write enough English to file a complaint, Cat?

Allie- I hope this about getting paid and less about getting laid. Or laid off. Any kind of laid.

Cat- Yo, I’m gonna lay an egg if he talks to me like that again. And crack it over his geeky little

bald supervisor head!
Ted- In that case, I hope we all get some kind of letting go of getting any kind of laid a lot easier

too . Alright, I will keep this simple. If you are here you were issued a green check. This means

you can indeed cash your check for do- re- mi. The highly disputed new company policy we are

about to ask you not to lynch mob me for announcing is about the vouchers you were issued with

your checks. Our new owners, lacking the immediately available funds to pay you top producers

your commissions have devised another plan. Might I add for all of you who think we are any

kind of divided on the ladies, they ARE ALL top producers. Just a sexy little tidbit for all of you.

Cat- Yo, I hope you end up in jail with Tao and Carlos and get freaking raped like your doing us!

Mary- Sexist!

Ted- Call me what you want, I’m not a rapist, raper, or rapee any time soon. Your vouchers have

web addresses on them which will take you to available product or products you can redeem

them for from an online catalogue. Now without further ado, go to lunch! Half an hour, back on

the phones! Thanks people. And if you have any questions, I’ll be sucking my flask dry until

12:45 behind my desk.

Cat- Alcoholic!

Ted- Yes, but quitting is for quitters!

COMPTON, CA - TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- MENSROOM –
WHITMAN AND CARLOS ARE STANDING AND URINATING IN STALLS NEXT TO

EACH OTHER. THEY ARE STARING AT THE WALL |BLANKLY, BOTH.

Carlos- Are we on the clock? Cause I didn’t clock out.

Whitman- Absolutely irrelevant at this scale. You do know, time is man’s invention. Sixty

arcseconds, sixty seconds, and sixty minutes comprising a reality we have boxed ourselves into.

So we can punch clocks and accumulate possessions.

Carlos- Are you telling me that the number of the beast is time?

Whitman- You are observant. Six, six, six. But, no. However it’s long ranging effects could be

for you. It is limiting to the spectrum of perception one can have on the wonderful and intricately

synchronistic quantum mechanics if you must be basic in the order of the known universe.

Carlos- Wow, man. You just deep spaced my ass.

Whitman- There is the expanding universe. Beyond that constantly exponentially expanding

universe making us ever more and more insignificant in single effect in an effort to retain unity is

the unmanifested. One can peer, or even step into the unmanifested, or the planes of nonexistence

in deep transcendant states and observe life altering course corrections. Like extending your life

span for instance by detaching attachment to your status as a reality observer.

Carlos- I’m observing my piss right now. Kinda yellow.

Whitman- Drink plenty of water.

Carlos- That’s what my Mom says. Thought it was just cause I never flush the toilet.
Whitman- When it’s time to flush, you’ll flush.

WHITMAN FLUSHES THE URINAL AND BEGINS TO WASH HIS HANDS IN THE SINK.

Whitman- Just have faith. Everything you need is in natural harmonious existence in the here and

now. Take for instance that water you need. It is in abundant supply right here. Just don’t get

down on yourself. People fuck up. We are meant to. But the persistence of the illusion of time

will scar the imagination if you allow it to.

Carlos- (washing his hands without flushing) I must say this has been the most informative piss I

have ever taken. But I have to admit, I don’t completely understand.

Whitman- Nobody does. Never will.

Carlos- No, I think I was just concentrating on my penis.

Whitman- That was the whole point! See, YOU GOT IT!

Carlos- Really?

Whitman- Yeppers!

Carlos- Thanks Whit.

Whitman- Anytime.
Carlos- You’re not kidding, anytime. Until later, brother. My dick has run dry and my mouth too.

Got a cigarette I can bum?

Whitman- You amaze me Carlos. Very zen realization. Notice how you managed to think like a

dick so naturally?

Carlos- Fine, then. I will roll up some I got. Hedge it, flip it, lick it, stick it, light it, smoke it.

Whitman-VERY zen. Continuous observation of what your penis should do. Say it again?

Carlos- No.

Whitman- For a cigarette?

Carlos- Hedge it, flip it, lick it, stick it, light it, smoke it!

Whitman- Sounds like my sex life in under five seconds!

Carlos- Yo, from what Mary told me, your WHOLE SEX LIFE IS under five seconds!

Whitman- I’m leaving now. Better to be pissed off than pissed on.

Carlos- That’s NOT WHAT MARY SAID!

THEY BOTH WALK OUT.

COMPTON, CA - TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- OUTSIDE PARKING LOT-
WHITMAN WALKS OUTSIDE AND JOINS A SMALL CROWD WAITING.

Whitman- Screenplays, and the people who butcher them. And self help books that I don’t need

to read. Another lunchbreak being afraid my poor writers ass lunch money is going to be robbed

in Compton.

Dick- By who, Trip or Cat? They are the only ones going down for dough at lunch. Other than

making that deal you are SAFE brother. Trust me, they both have way too many teeth. I was

chafed for week.

Slim- Chances are slim to none, and I’m leaving town.

Dick- Yeah, Slim don’t be a dick.

Whitman- You either, Dick.

Dick- As usual, I am unsure of how to take you Whitman. But I will give you a pass.

Whitman- Spare me the pass, you wouldn’t want my ass, I’ve got gas!

Slim- Yo, that was gross. You gonna go rap don’t be gay. You’ll catch aids faster than E-Z-E.

Dick- If I’m there you ain’t fucked Whit. I’m clean. Wanna go around back?

Whitman- You are sick, Dick.

Dick- And slick for a trick. That’s what my Momma always said.

Whitman- Before or after you impressed her johns?
Dick- Refer to my prior statement, Whit. And quit it.

Steve- With a name like Dick, you really get DICKED, huh?

Dick- That’s a big ten four. Eat me.

Joy- Hey where’d the fish taco stand go? Health code inspectors again?

Dick- Susan, please don’t refer to me as the dick who told you, but yes. Health Code DICKS.

Joy- We got dicked, Dick.

Whitman- Actually, you are all gonna die at this, but they found maggots in his fish broth. THIS

MORNING. Unfortunately after my own purchase and consumption.

Slim- Maggot breath.

Whitman- Yes, but it was just all good protein

Slim- Mmm. Protein. I wanna get fifty cent jacked.

Allie- Then leave your wallet in your cubicle again, Slim. Lowest desk rake and take I ever

found. But Fiddy is Fiddy. And quit talking about sucking dick. Your making me lose my

appetite. And wonder how our flavored condoms are.

Carlos- Yeah. We’ve got lubed, unlubed, ribbed, unribbed, one rib of adam and two for the jib,

your too twisted, take my jit seed and shove it, flavored, unflavored, savory wedding night tips,

thrust alone from the hips, if you do that I’ll lose my shit, you have a nice ass and atleast one tit,

Hoover Dam Reservoir tipped, versions for the smaller dick, different colors, different virus

killing kinds for paranoid mothers, pleasure building, and we promise you just that…buildings
of pleasure. And if they’re not sure what kind, we’ve got a chart, for their dick to measure. So

whatt’ya say? Buying condoms today?

Joy- Anybody want to come over to my grammies and play Mario Kart? She is down the block

and just made some very special medicinal bake brownies!

TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY WALK AROUND THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING WAVING

AT A VERY CONFUSED LOOKING CAT WHO IS IN BETWEEN THEM.

Tao- Waving at a Cat! But I don’t see a cat! Blind as a bat! Take that, cat! I spat!

Little Timmy- Yo those shrooms kicked inQUICK!

Cat- Tao and Little Timmy, sitting in a tree. T-R-I-P-P-I-N-G! Not very O.G. YOU RE-RE’s.

TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY CRACK UP AND THEN OPENLY STOP, STARING AT A

CLOUD IN THE SKY.

Cat- LOSERS! (singing) Trip on! Trip off! Trip on, trip off! The trippers!

SHE CLAPS TWICE.

TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY MAKE FOR THE ICE CREAM TRUCK PULLING INTO THE

PARKING LOT.
(approaching the group)

Cat- All they need is some day- glow paint and some fucking Grateful Dead and we’ll have the

summer of love around here.

Tick- Yeah, fucking hippies. Fuck Tao. Shrooms again?

Cat- I suppose he can’t help it. Bad upbringing.

Tick- That’s life. I still say fuck him. That shit is just stupid. Only time I ever tried it, only thing

I could do was stare at my ex like she was the Mona Lisa or something. AND THEN when she

tried to fuck me, I could not FOR THE LIFE OF ME get it up!

Allie- Impotency can be signs of deeper emotional scars, you know, Tick.

Tick- Yeah, our divorce made no sense to me. Until after that.

Allie- That bad huh?

Tick- The fucking bitch told her entire philosophy class. ON THE LOUDSPEAKER!

Allie- Fuck her.

Tick- If I couldn’t then, what makes you think I would or could now?

Allie- Damn dude, it’s just an expression!

Slim- Probably couldn’t. (cracking up)
Tick- So was “impotent loser” when she said it over the intercom but I didn’t take offense. I was

tripping man. TRIPPING!

Trip- At least you didn’t have such a bug out you got nicknamed for life for your trip. That’s my

story for another lunch time though.

Slim- Thanks for sharing trip. Keeping coming back. It works if your worth it.

Al Dean- I hope you saved all of your vouchers for me, because I am buying them at full product

pricing value. Cash, peeps. Take it from the catalogue lists on Amazon.

Allie- Get lost Al. Nobody wants your damned boogie picking, better than everyone, snot rot

assailing rants on our “tragic loser woes”.

Tao- Yeah, take it easy on Timmy and me. We ain’t tripping on you, we just want Al Dean to

leave us without bugging us out when we’re on. So bug out! Al –Dean!

Little Timmy- Bugs suck.

Whitman- You’re telling me. Fucking fly larvae in my fish broth.

Al Dean – Yes Tim, bugs suck. That’s why I had the taco shop shut down this morning.

Whitman- Couldn’t you have done it before first quarter break? Do you ever do anything right?

Tao- Yo, Al YOU ARE A MAGGOT! What do you have against family?

Al- Well I may be a maggot, but now I’m not a cannibal.

Little Timmy- Ya fucking short lived, slimy, spawning larvae.
Tao- Fucking terrorist! Who names their kid Al Dean anyway? Career aspirations born into your

name to terrorize everyone in your path not living by your rules?

Al Dean- Troubled by indecision? Yes and no.

Whitman- What?!

Slim- I’m not troubled by anything but your face man. Is it hurting you? Cause it’s killing me!

Al Dean – Tell it to the judge.

Slim- Oh right and who is that gonna be Al? Do you believe in Satan Al Dean? Cause I’m

beginning to believe you are him.

Al Dean – Not Satan. Although I do dig his work in your life.

Slim- Fuck off loser.

Al Dean- Slim, the chances of me “fucking off” right now are guaranteed. It’s lunch break.

Tao- Well do it someplace else. I am tripping and you are killing it you walking oxymoron.

Slim- No, really, LEAVE. You fucking pussy. You are a terrorist. Buy out our checks MY ASS!

Tao- I don’t know but right now his head looks like a giant piñata that I’m about to hack open.

Slim- Look out, he’s actually tripping! Fuck man, I sold him the shrooms. Last kid I saw take

that many ended up climbing into bed naked with his parents when he peaked. I’m telling you

Al, don’t fuck around with Tao right now!

Al- Who gives a damn if he’s tripping? Maybe it’ll make his girlfriend actually look attractive

for once. One blessed visual bonus hallucination for Tao.
Tao- Al I don’t have a girlfriend. Don’t you know that I am gay? I’ve been hard up for this

serious an ass fucking as you just offered for a month now!

Al – Glad to be of service.

Tao- (making a jerking off motion and laughing) Just make sure to hit me with the reach around!

Al- The only reach around you are going to get is when I reach around and slap you upside your

silly, tripping, sweaty, ugly, fat, sun scarred, fat, ugly head!

Tao- Don’t try it. I’ll be raking up all of your candy brains before you get anywhere near, Mr.

piñata!

Al – You are starting to scare me. Your pupils even took over the whites of your eyes. Jesus

Christ. Your gonna work like that?

Little Timmy- Your pupils are HUGE!

Tao- And so is yo’ momma!

Little Timmy- Yo, get this one. Al’s so ugly when he was born the doctor slapped his momma!

Al- There was no doctor. I was born in a taxi.

Tao- What’d they do with the afterbirth?

Al- Served it as the special in my mother’s fucking hippy ass café the following weekend. That’s

why I don’t like you Tao. You turned out like one of them. Chewing the fat, and my afterbirth.

Slim- Yeah, bitches. Lots of em. Doggy style, one leg up, two legs up, bitches! From behind,

from the side, in my ride, bitches!
LITTLE TIMMY BUSTS INTO A FREESTYLE RAP AS TAO BUSTS OUT A BEAT ON THE

NEARBY WALL AND WINDOW PANE.

Little Timmy- Got my nines, got my fines, got my wines and my dimes and my times served up

with the lines that I dust on the crimes. My last done rhymes are laying to waste in trying, untied,

prying, tongue fried tripping brains yours laid to waste. When yo momma’s baby gets a taste!

Lunchtime ruse, bitches on the loose, getting obtuse, gonna call it in the truce fore the nine gets

jacked, busted and swaggered, pulled and cock sure busted and jaggered. Oh baby I’m coming

hard and coming fast when you wet my whistle and laid my ass out for sport I had nothing short

of deeds to do in doing you!

TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY HIGH FIVE ONE ANOTHER AND SWITCH UP, TIM ON THE

BEATS NOW.

Tao- You got done in before rin – tin- tin canned the seven deadly sins coming down on your cop

with your head in a vice? Yo nigga’ , your head in a trap? Sorry that stuck, chuck long trucked

skater fuck lost your buck on the wasted ruckus oh suckas! Amused that you hid it at twiddle dee

dee… when you get it done in and through you get done in at my twenty two pieces of the

trigger figure, I’ll let the bigger nigger figure it out. One in the sky, my American pie, so don’t

spout. Forties and nines and Timmy’s got the times we ain’t lost, we just fine!
TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY HIGH FIVE AGAIN.

Slim- Yeah, bitches. Lots of ‘em. Doggy style, one leg up, two legs up, bitches! From behind,

from the side, in my ride, bitches!

Tao- Yo that’s sick and all but we heard you the first time. Bitches is us. Your jamming up my

“flojo” bro.

Slim- Sorry bitches. Hard bitches you is. Trip on tripper. That’s your biz.

Allie- (singing) Trip on! Trip off! Trip on, trip off, the tripper! (CLAPS TWICE)

Tao- Stop clapping, you’re bugging me out!

Little Timmy- If it’s a bug you are seeking, you may want to seek out the preliminary analysis on

whether or not we meet our match from the Dean of mean and green! It’s obscene what he’s

offering to us for our checks! It’s like win, take or lose he’s gonna go with it in the ruse! I say

we fucking jump him!

Allie- Trip on! Trip off! Trip on! Trip off! The tripper! (she claps twice)

Tao- Yeah, Al Dean. You got it coming. And going. We aint going nowhere til we find out how

you figured out how to cash in on those checks long before we ever got em!
Al- It’s simple. You all have one place to go. Home. I have many places to go. Where ever I may

roam I see the checks getting paid out at the pace of all twenty I may get in and bought. It’s all as

simple as who has got the patience to wait for the coming rewards from the web site which has

been constructed for our very own rewards take if we will allow for the shipping and handling! If

you look, my boys, there is a lot more to be had than there was for your simple funds in green

backs. These boys want to cover their losses, and they ain’t put to shame as the new bosses!

Whitman- If they wanted so badly to make up for their losses, they would have backed us all out

the door at the same time. They have this untimely whit, may I say, that they may make off with

another day all that they could have before their dispensary was put to weigh by the authorities

of another day. They are shipping out the goods themselves from a back room product room

which hasn’t met with the Feds and we have yet to be met with the fallout of the reds and greens

and browns of the check cashing clowns that ship us off all that product or products we have yet

to be promised by way of our pay- pal lacking accounts that have us hunting like hounds!

Mary- I want to come out on top, for one, so Al Dean, if you are willing to take the risk, here is

my two week paycheck up for grabs by the whisk. If you can give me seventy- five percent, I am

in on it, and all over bent. I need cash my man, and if you can front it for the bump we can order

in less than mount in it for the next few weeks of kissing my sweet cheeks devoid of cash, I’m in

for a deal with your ass!

Al- You got sixty six point six my fine discerning animal of dismay. Number of the beast, as

money is the root of all evil. Nothing you are going to get from there is going to sell out cash for

it in that way. I will give you sixty six point six, for a full two thirds you get cash for what you

would never see if you let it go past this week on your ass.
Mary- You got a deal, Al. I got a check for nine thirty seven and some change. What’s that get

me, and when can you hand me cash for the small strange?

Al- I got six hundred now, and the rest tomorrow when we meet back here. Regardless of

Telecom International being present here, I will meet you here at 12:20PM tomorrow to hand off

the rest. I have checked the backers on this shit, and I have the stacks lined up to give both you

and me legit closure on this agreement. You’re check is good as gold. (he pulls out six hundreds

and hands them to Mary, in exchange for her check) Anybody else wanna make out for the

bought they don’t want to go it alone on for the product they can have good as gold with little old

me right now?

Timmy- It’s emitted, admitted, taken backward, refitted, admitted the shame you acquitted me

sane, to release the remitted. Like an idea, this crime, Give me six up, Tao, the line. Spinning

faded and hated, delegated, degraded, the tainted love you created, infiltrated and made it easy to

be what I made it, and shit I paid it the time. Should have been you killer, fine, but you turn

water to wine. So with this mic, will I find. That it’s time, time, time, for the left behind. For ugly

tore up bitches on my useless dime. She packed up my belongings that ho, and left em on the

corner for the po’, to pick me up, see what I’m saying? Guess I got fucked! One last time!

TAO AND LITTLE TIMMY HIGH FIVE.

Al- The only way to put it gracefully would be to put it in time with your useless rhyme

scheming two time done leaning on the off from the front gleaming my ways to the front lines of

the new store. In fact what I have in store…

Steve- If you have it now, Al, I’ll take it. Two thirds of nothing is the way I figure it. Could be

the only way up for my lonely ass date tonight. I got this cafe barista who pulls off my morning
pint with a double shot to the Guiness head every morning to promise me to a date tonight. She

finds it funny. I want espresso taken to beer from the drunks table across the way every morning

before making my way. She’s a hottie but I don’t know if she’ll pay. Barista’s make minimum

wage and that place isn’t flush on tips if you must be adjust to the thrust of the gusto away, must

blow to be on play every morning that way.

Mary- You get espresso in a Guinness? Waste of a fucking life. Waste of a beer. What’s that taste

like?

Steve- Like two to the head with the key in the ignition. She starts you up, and puts you to rest

all at the same time. It’s good for the soul. And the hops and barley are good for the immune

system from what I hear. Keeps me coming back for more, that’s all I can say. And it looks like a

coffee in my mug if I get pulled over on the way!

Mary- You get pulled over, and they are going to smell that shit. Besides which, what coffee has

a head on it? You’ve got that clear tall mug, I’ve seen it. Made for iced coffee through a straw it

was.

Slim- He has nothing to worry about. He is ten blocks from here when he makes the turn off to

not run further down and head for serious business. Cops around here aren’t interested in the

morning commute. They are looking to get off at eight and pack their night shifted asses in gear

at the local pub before freaking their wives sending off the kids to school. Bunch of sorry assed

losers at that hour who couldn’t make a bust for their badges if they had it in fits and patches!

Coffee and donuts and a curbside hookers treat for their local beat, sidling up to make ends meet

with a blown stop sign with a D.U.I. ain’t in the cards for you and I! Shit in Compton they know

that before the sun comes up, you best be playing pop top jokers wild on the LAPD’S table at the
corner store before you score your coke and smack and score to the open sin tax allowance they

put on the curb, it’s nothing to waste, they got bigger things in taste they are looking for around

this hood, none of them swore to put their lives on the line for a finer crime than they could get

tried and tasted in less than ten and it’s just a wasted hood rat making his cheese, they don’t even

sneeze at ya round these parts if ya please! You can do what ya like, how ya like, when ya like,

with whom you like, for what ya like, in how much ya like in spades before they get out and pay

you in spades. LAPD ain’t wasting their days in Compton nickels and dimes and espresso

Guinness crimes, Mary, Mary, light and airy. Give me what I want it’s scary. I want hairy, fairly

and barely warily gone scarily and hairy of the dog for my espresso shots on the hog. It’s nice to

know you all aint just seeming uptight in there on the phones. You really is.

Whitman- So, Trip. Where exactly did your name come from? I want the inside scoop.

Trip- If you really must know, it was before I graduated High School. Some friends and I went

camping to Big Bear and we stayed in a really rustic old log cabin. We had decided to trip our

faces off to celebrate our senior week having finally come. I was trying it for the first time.

Slim- Didn’t you end up in jail for like streaking the resort?

Trip- Don’t ruin it. So as the locals were enjoying some man made spring skiing, we were all

faced, with the dilemma as to what our prank should be. We decided that we would strip naked in

the resort bathrooms and streak the place out to our car, where we would getaway.

Whitman- Oh, no. Trip. Did you?

Trip- Fell and busted my leg. There I am butt ass naked and howling in the middle of the lodge,

and tripping my brains off, with my femur jutting out at a sick angle from my butt ass naked
hips. It needed pins it was so bad. I was caught. I tripped. And had to let the paramedics know I

was tripping. Some kids from my class happened to be there, and the pictures got around. I’ve

been known as Trip ever since.

Slim- See ya next fall! I saw the pics, they were a ball! You have a cute coochie, Trip.

Trip- Shit,that’s nothing. There was the time my ex took hundreds of naked photos of me and

posted them to an online amateur porn forum. My fucking Dad was a member, and found them is

how I found out.

Whitman- Did you get them taken down?

Trip- I had to hire a hood hacker to bust into the account, as my ex had moved to Denver and I

couldn’t track him down, or get a legitimate response from the company either. Yeah, we got

them down and I got my revenge. I opened a domain name under his name at dot com and posted

all the videos I had of him taking it up the ass with a dildo on it. Sick fucking fetish he had that

annoyed the hell out of me. Never got taken down. Stayed up there for the entire year I payed for

the domain name for. Got good search engine coverage under his name too. He’s a Ski- Tech,

and I cannot imagine what a ruffle that put in his machismo to have him taking up the rear for all

to see. Best of all, I edited myself out of all of the tapes. Can’t tell if he’s with a guy nor not. Rat

bastard.

Whitman- Well, Trip. I must say that was not the story I was expecting. I was expecting “lost in

Vegas” or something of the lot. But that takes the cake. Did you get arrested?

Trip- No, but I had to wait for the ambulance in cuffs because they were scared of me trying

something else crazy. Said I was a danger to myself and others. It was all I had to keep myself
out of the fucking mental ward after the surgery. Luckily one of my friends took the rap for the

LSD and said I had been pranked and I got off light.

Whitman- Did your friends get away on their streak?

Trip- They all got away but me. Showed up about forty- five minutes later dressed to the nines

getting ready to go to a rave to see me off into the ambulance. I miss my girls. After that day, we

never really got the time again, and they all went off to college after long working summers. It’s

so lonely without my girls. But I’ve still got the nickname, that has followed me ever since.

Whitman- There is a certain quality to your story of revenge on your ex as well. It’s a timeless

lesson that pervades. That over time, people may shit on us. But time wounds all heels.

Slim- And Trips wounds heal well.

Whitman- But time does wound all heels. Especially shit heels, unfortunately for the Dean over

there. Very funny stuff. I like my comedy salty with a taste of ridiculous. Thanks, Trip.

Allie- Trip on! Trip off! Trip on! Trip off! The tripper! (she claps twice)
COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL – PARKING LOT-

A silver and black SUV pulls into the rear parking lot. There is a sign that reads “No Parking In

Rear”. The windows go down and thick, billowing clouds of smoke roll out of them.

Sonny- See? No parking in rear. They won’t be doing the bust here. We ain’t taking it up the rear

here.

Chip- That’s what she said.

Sonny- Bullshit. That slut takes it any which way but loose.

Chip- Unfortunately, yes and no.

Sonny- If Jim Staples, I.R.S. Auditor shows up here we can kiss our virginity goodbye.

Chip- That’s what I’m worried about.

Sonny- What, that it’ll be love at first sight?

Chip- Fuck you. I just can’t believe they haven’t connected the dots yet.

Sonny- If there any dots left to connect, let’s burn em while were here.

Chip- We can’t smoke ALL that bud!
Sonny- Yes we can, and don’t call me bud.

Chip- Fuck I’m stoned. Which sativa was that?

Sonny- Train Wreck. Casey Jones you’d better watch your speed.

Chip- Why, did I leave some here last time?

Sonny- Always new you were on something more than our customers could believe was product.

Fucking tweaker.

Chip- Better than sex, and makes that pretty interesting too.

Sonny- Not what I heard.

Chip- What did you hear?

Sonny- Never mind this is making me fucking sick, let’s get inside!

COMPTON, CA- TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- TED’S OFFICE –

Ted- What are you guys doing here? I thought we weren’t due to clean house until Saturday,

TOMORROW when the crew isn’t around.

Sonny- You know, you get your multi - million dollar gold mine of business flushed down the

fucking toilet by the Feds all at once, but they don’t find the goodie bag at the other side and you

start to get paranoid.
Ted- That’s the pot. Cheeb.

Sonny- Exactly, Ted. Exactly. And this is your ‘Cheeb’ warning.

Chip- Jesus my feet stink.

Ted- So wash them for once, Mr. “Long”. Short for long time no shower. Your feets not all.

Sonny- It’s his woman. She leaves the scent on him, and he thinks it’s nice.

Ted- On his feet?

Chip- You know it. She calls it a PEDI- cure for my ailing corns.

Ted- That’s fucking sick.

Sonny- The pediblow is what I call it.

Ted- So that’s her breath?

Chip- The pediblow?

Ted- Your corns? Did you say your corns?

Sonny- No.

Chip- Good for you.

Ted- Wait she does this to BOTH of you?

Sonny- No.

Chip- Good for you. Pedi-blows sometimes blow.
Sonny- Christ give him the blow by blow why don’t you?

Chip- First she washes them just so you know. That’s every other night if you must know, and…

Ted- Yeah right. Maybe every third Thursday.

Sonny- Every second. Every second.

Ted- Every second what?

Chip- Seconds away from blowing my wedding night I said it to her. I was high and then very

dry.

Ted- I don’t get it.

Chip- Neither do I anymore.

Sonny- He means he couldn’t get it up. Left her high and dry on their wedding night.

Ted- Why is it when you guys are around suddenly my life seems so much better than I used to

view it.

Chip- That’s a nice thing to say.

Sonny- Your mental.

Ted- I’m mental. I’m mental. I’m meant to tool for you and you call me mental.

Sonny- Your cheesier than Chip’s feet.

Ted- If you hang around much longer, the crew’s gonna be here. Lunch won’t cover what we

have to do.
Chip- The fuck you know about what we have to do? You work for us. Don’t forget it.

Ted- It’s all in my mind. It’s all in my mind. It’s all in my mind.

Chip- Alright, it’s in your mind already.

Sonny- Ted, got the keys to the janitors closet. It’s not all in my mind. Give me the keys.

Ted- I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. Follow me.

Sonny- With pleasure. I need a smoke soon. Real soon. You too. Right now. Let’s go.

COMPTON-CA-TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- JANITOR’S CLOSET-

Sonny- Jesus, we keep the bucket in here? I thought we had Steve Kidman on still. Doesn’t he

need a bucket to puke in when his morning drink wears off?

Ted- I carry a flask now.

Sonny- Good thinking.

Ted- I ask my Doctor, he says I may not need the shot. Do I need the shot? Or do I not need the

shot? That has two meanings I am gonna leave it right there.
Chip- What, the weed?

Ted- No, the bucket asshole. Yes, the weed.

Chip- Did you say asshole?

Sonny- He said asshole.

Chip- You want to fucking die? You know how much that bail costs?

Ted- (taking a drink off the flask)What, your bond when you kill me?

Sonny- No, the weed asshole.

Ted- Don’t call it weed, that’s an insult.

Chip- Is too! Is too!

Sonny- Is not.

Chip- Is too.

Sonny- Is not.

Chip- Is too times a thousand.

Sonny- Fucking infinity, douche bag!

Ted- It’s all in my mind. It’s all my mind. It’s all in my mind.

Sonny- It’s all about to be in your mind. Did I ever tell you about C.I.A. mind control? I have

been reading a lot about it, and you know what? It fucking works. I’m more stoned than ever.

Ted- That’s the first funny thing I have ever heard you say.
Sonny- Is not.

Chip- Is too.

Sonny- Is not.

Chip- Is too, you tutu wearing grub!

Sonny- Not, not, not, you two timing fucking scrub !

Chip- Do I fucking stutter?

Sonny- Well, when your takin a leak at the urinal…

Ted- Maybe it’s not all in my mind.

Chip- It’s not. We are here. For the weed. And the cash. And I need that smoke soon, so can we

hurry up?

Sonny- I’m gonna get a dog. I’m gonna name him Shadow, but I’m only going to call him Dad.

It’s five O’clock somewhere. I need a drink. And so does the dog.

Chip- (grabbing the flask out of Ted’s hands) Who’s your Daddy, who’s your Daddy, who’s your

Daddy?

Sonny- (being passed the flask) Love the flask, Ted.

Ted- Ted. Ted. Ted. Did you just call me Ted? You wanna fucking die? You’ll refer to me as Mr.

Grimes when you are drinking on me, thank you.

Sonny- Ok Ted Grimes.
Ted- Brain fart.

Sonny- What the fuck you call me?

Ted- Grey matter I think heard a splatter. Brain fart. I said brain fart.

COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- BACK PARKING LOT-

Ted is shown nursing a black eye with an ice pack. Sonny and Chip are gazing at their bales of

weed in the back of the SUV. Ted pulls out a giant fly agaric mushroom, pulls a hunk off the cap

and starts to wander around the parking lot. Sonny and chip roll up a HUGE joint out of tissue

paper, and light it up. Then Ted comes running past.

CUT MUSIC.

Three LAPD Patrol cars come pulling into the parking lot. They surround Sonny and Chip, who

are cold busted. A crowd of the telemarketers coming back from lunch gathers at the corner to
watch their owners getting arrested. The cops take the weed bales, and the joint and put Sonny

and Chip into cuffs and place them in two separate patrol cars.

The cop cars pull of, and the crowd of twenty plus telemarketers watching from the front lot,

bust into the back parking lot.

Slim- They left it right here! It’s all Government property, everything left! Including us, all you

G- cleft! We are all done in!

Mary- I got the spinners. My Honda would look bad in those if they fit. (she grabs a tire iron

from Susan and heads for the SUV tires, and begins pulling at them)

Joy- I got a hanger, let’s see if we can’t get into the inside! They’ve got to have a system in there

worth mooching! I get her open, I got dibs on the woofer’s, I gots my auntie’s car to get’s paid!

SUSAN UNFOLDS A WIRE HANGER, AND BEGINS FISHING FOR THE LOCKS IN THE

SUV.

Tao- Did you see that shit? They didn’t even bother to read them their rights! They were so

busted it wasn’t even in their sights to be getting out any time any way any time soon for any pay

any day in any way for any stay they be in sway for the time they do today is backed in us in

pay! We got it made in spades, ladies and gents! This Mercedes SUV is all ours today! Where we

want to cruise to, to play?

JOY BUSTS OPEN THE DRIVER SIDE DOOR WITH THE HANGER, AND BEGINS TO

WORK ON THE STEREO IN THE DASHBOARD. SHE UNLOCKS THE DOORS AND THE

DOORS ARE OPENED BY SLIM, LITTLE TIMMY AND TAO WHO BEGIN TO WORK ON

GETTING OUT THE REST OF THE SYSTEM.
Trip- This is a trip beyond trips, Trip.

Tao- Quit talking to yourself, girlfriend.

JOY PULLS FREE THE STEREO WITH A SCREWDRIVER AND WALKS BY WITH THE

CONSOLE, PLACING IT IN HER BAG.

LITTLE TIMMY POPS OPEN THE DOORS ON EITHER SIDE OF THE BACK SEAT’S AND

PULLS FREE THE SPEAKERS IMBEDDED IN THEM, HE STUFF THEM INTO HIS

BACKBACK.

STEVE AND MARK PULL THE WOOFER AND TWEETERS FROM OUT OF THE TRUNK,

AND BEGIN RUNNING THEM TO THEIR CARS.

SLIM PULLS OUT HIS PHONE.

Slim- Strip shop, this is copper top. I got an unclaimed soon to be impounded dead lame

Mercedes SUV waiting for the LAPD. You can get on it, but it’s gonna cost you. I want ten

percent of the rollback gate. She’s neat and trim and busted and this is Slim. You want in?

Strip Shop- Where’s it at Slim?

Slim-Telecom International.

Strip Shop- Be there in five.

Slim- That’s good. Cash only please, boys.

Strip Shop- You know it Slim ease. Ease down off it, we’ll be there in a few. Just don’t spook

easy or we gonna take it to you. Got that copper top?
Slim- I don’t spook, cook, or tell the truth lest it be the ways in which I gets paid for the laid to

waste paid to taste girl in baste and traced to laced with tongue in cheek with my selling chic.

You got me done? I got it for the run. I’ll be waiting, and soon be ill fating for the none to last

system I gots to blast. Dashboards toast boys, none to roast. She’s just for coast to coast parts for

the toast of that one I brought in last week. Atleast I don’t have to drive this one. That’s less fun

for the big pun on the run with the sun crum and strum bun cruiser loser in the two sir panda

made it to the sand man plays it. I’m full of whit and spit, and not making any sense. Get here

quick, with dollars and sense. Aight?!

GTA #1- You got it Slim. Be there in three. In the neighborhood, you see?

Slim- It’s around back. I will be here waiting.

GTA #1- With bells on ma man. You da man!

Slim- You know it.

Whitman- Did you see the very fine species of fungus that Ted was hording around back just

before the beat patrol came and went? A very fine statement of purpose I thought. The fly agaric

mushroom, vision quest of the agaric warrior seeking a higher truth before the time he is to move

on. I never knew Ted had it in him. But I have a feeling, we are going to know he has it in him

real soon. Very potent. Very poisonous. Eat a wet one and face your biggest fears.

Slim- Yo, did you just say eat a wet one and face your biggest fears? I’ve been meaning to tell

him that all day.

Carlos- Yeah, hey Ted! Eat a wet one and face your biggest fears!

Trip- Fuck man. You guys are too much.
Whitman- Ancient agaric warriors were said to possess the strength of ten men on their journeys

through these astral realms which were intermingling with our reality and altering it in mind

bending and Earth shattering often deceiving and symbolic powerful ways. The course of a

warrior as sought by his own path is his own to choose as he sees fit, and if he sees fit at the time

in which the path presents itself on the quest or trip which he alone can journey on that day. If

the path leads to certain death, what better way than to meet it than with the vision of the Gods?

The discernment of the line between the reality observed and the actual events which transpire

can lead to permanent choices which will forever alter the course of the spiritual warrior on his

way home to the outer regions where he must find and make his own. I wish him luck on his

fierce move today. Never knew he had it in him.

Mary- Yeah I always kinda saw him as a geeky bald headed man with dentures and no life. I

don’t what to think about this warrior shit.

Slim- Eat a wet one and face your biggest fears Ted! Way to go you fucking forty year old virgin!

THE GTA’S PULL UP IN A HONDA CIVIC, TRICKED OUT TO THE RIMS.

Slim- Hey GTA’s! Make my day in a Grand Theft Auto way! You made it under a minute!

GTA#1- GTA number one and GTA number two! Number one is that the ride?

GTA#2- Dude, I came with you. Why you asking me?

GTA #1- What is this Star Trek? Counselor, the aliens in this neighborhood are likely to revolt if

we just move in on their home planet.
GTA#2- Nah, they don’t know what fucking planet they are from around here anyway. They are

all on Deep Space Nine long before this time!

GTA#1-So, back to business. As I asked before numb nuts here went all Captain James T. on our

asses. Number one, is that the ride?

Slim- Unless I’m your number two!

GTA #2- Alright!

Slim- Bout how much you think you’ll get?

GTA #1- 700

Slim- Eh hem. For the call boys?

GTA#1- Break him off 70. Can you get her fired up number two? I’m gonna number two in my

pants if you do.

GTA#2- In that case, depends is the way to go. Depends all the way. Depends all day. Depends

on your ass. Depends on what you ask.

GTA#1- Alright I get the fucking diaper joke already. Just get her started.

GTA#2- All we need is just a little a patience and some remote emergency roadside assistance.

GTA#1- This shit is too easy.

GTA#2- Got it made in the shade, or we’d never get paid.

GTA#1- You sure you want to make the call? Don’t you just want to hottie her up?
GTA#2- If I were keeping her, she’d be hottied all right. All night long. This baby is a sweet ride.

Slim who’s was this?

Slim- Sonny Cheeba and Chip Long. Think it was officially Chip’s ride, but he made Sonny

drive it all the time.

GTA#1- No shit. Them dopers took in that much on that bit?

Slim- You know it.

(The car fires up as GTA #2 steps back away from the drivers side)

GTA#2- You taking her to play chopsticks number one or me?

GTA#1- Play chopsticks he says. Yeah, you can drive her home. Boss says he’s happier with me

in a car registered to me since I caught that ticket last week down the block from the gates. Last

thing we want is the gate to roll back and my ticket show up on the beat chump who catches a

glimpse of that Jeep Grand in front of us being made to spares for the boss’s wares. Sometimes I

think their too fast on the disassembly.

GTA #2-Hell ya, Doctor! They don’t play. It is down to back orders already separated into the

parts within fifteen flat, or the boss’ll have your arse!

GTA#1- Slim, thanks again. We are gonna split now. Keep in touch.

Slim- Later boys. Anytime. Sorry no extras on the system. Couldn’t keep the fucking hounds off

her while we waited.

GTA#1-No biggie. If I get another system, I’m gonna have to open my own shop or some shit

anyway. And I don’t have time for that.
Slim- Nother day, nother dollar.

GTA#2- You know it!

GTA#1- Later!

GTA#2- Peace out homeboy! Good show!

Slim- You know it!

COMPTON- CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- SALES FLOOR-

Slim pulls up to a cubicle and dumps what looks to be about an ounce of some cheap weed on

the desk. He pulls out a pack of papers and a rolling machine, and begins to de-seed and de-stem

the weed.

Slim- Dollar joints! Not bad bones, and they get you stoned! What the fuck, it’s only a buck!

Carlos- I’ll take two and a half.

Slim- I can’t give you a HALF a bone brother.

Carlos- How many times do I have to tell you that woody I had this morning was from Mary!

Half a bone, and just not from you, you fucking faggit!

Slim- No, bone and joint doctor idiot.
Carlos- You ain’t no doctor. And I don’t need medical. What do I need medical for? You gonna

give it up anyway?

Slim- Just shut up and give me the money.

Carlos- You are rude! Rude! Rude!

Slim- I’ve been misconstrued! It’s fucking lewd! It’s crude! I need food!

Carlos- Well, here’s two bucks for the snack machine.

Slim- Did you see that? Our new ownership getting dragged off in the paddy wagon back there?

Carlos- Did you see all that mary jane? I’m in love with mary jane. She’s ma main thang!

Slim (joining in) she makes me have a fun! She makes my heart sing!

Steve- (joining in) And when I’m feeling low! She comes as no surprise! Turns me on with her

lovin! Takes me to paradiiiii…..

Slim- You buyin? Dollar joints?

Steve- Fuck yeah!Can’t afford the dispensary since we took the pay cut. I could use some good

Mexican brown.

Slim- No smack, Steve, sorry.

Carlos- Hurry up! I gotta go smoke this in the mens room before Ted takes his after lunch dump.

Slim- Like clockwork, that man’s bowels.

Steve- It’s all that damned whisky he guts down from his flask all day, I swear.
Slim- Here you go, Carlos, two bones for two bones.

Carlos- I think I’m gay in the turn of the century way.

Slim- Which century?

Steve- Yeah, man easy does it. That could be misconstrued as sexual harassment.

Slim- Which century?

Carlos- No comment. But I’m gonna go party like it’s nineteen ninety nine.

Slim- Symbols and their legacies. Hits and hotties. Hooters and holidays. Horn dogs and the

Hamburgler.

Carlos- Leave the damn Hamburgler out of it! He was fucking set up by the fry guys all day

long!

Steve- I’d like to fry, guy. I’ll take four and a half, Slim.

Slim- What’s with everyone and wanting halves? You want the other half saved for tomorrow?

Steve- Not my other half. The only thing worth saving with her is the pre-nuptual termination.

Slim- You had a fucking prenuptial? What is she rich?

Steve- No, I am. But my trust fund doesn’t mature and pay out til I’m forty. Til over the hill do

us part was my mistake if I didn’t get her John Hancock off my spoils. It’s ok, I don’t think she

thinks we’re gonna last that long anyway.

Slim- How old are you now?
Steve- Getting older by the second. I can’t wait for my midlife crisis! I’ve been working up to it

forever.

Slim- Damn, dude. What a stroke of luck. All my parents ever gave me was a knapsack to pack

my shit when I turned eighteen and a pat on the back when I was choking.

Steve- Yeah, no this isn’t my parents. This is from my grandparents. They got in on the ground

floor of Apple back in the day. I’m a third generation Mac Daddy.

Slim- Apples bomb. Too bad about Jobs.

Steve- Too bad about our job, huh dude? How much longer you think they are gonna keep this

joint open?

Slim- Dollar joints! Dollar joints! What the fuck, it’s only a buck! Fuck man, I dunno.

THEY BOTH STARE OFF INTO SPACE…

Joy, Allie, Cat, Trip and Mary are gathered around a back cubicle, where they have hooked in an

Xbox and are playing Grand Theft Auto.

Allie- Shit bitch, I got five says we don’t even make it the day here!

Cat- I’ll take that bet. Worst I can do is win yet another five off your sorry ass!

Joy- Slime noodled again!

Cat- What the fuck is a slime noodle besides my boyfriends dick after he cums?

Susan- It’s from a card game. Means you got to it first.

Cat- What card game is that? Poker Fagioli?!
Allie- Black Bean and Noodle Jack?

Allie- Solitaire and String Bean?

Trip- Yo, I don’t know but you all are making me hungry. Let’s go to the casino for dinner!

Joy- We should go on a spree just like this fucking game. Just fucking us girls. Go nuts and take

down the underground.

Mary- Yo, that would be so bad! I wouldn’t have to kiss your ass for a ride in the afternoons

anymore! What kind of ride should I slide into?

Allie- Get a Benz. Nothing but the best for Mary, Mary, quite contrary.

Mary- At least you stopped calling me hairy Mary.

Allie- Well, you finally waxed your goatee.

Joy- The Mary, Mary quite contrary billy goats gruff wasn’t so tough.

Trip- Yo, did you see the fucking weed come out of that truck when the five- oh was here!?

Cat- I did. Holy shit, what a fucking waste! You know at least one of those cops grabbed a

handful before it went to evidence.

Trip- I don’t doubt it.

Joy- Probably smoked some in the patrol car on the way in to county. Just to piss off Cheeb and

Chip.

Trip- You believe a guy named Sonny “CHEEBA” actually owned a dispensary. What kind of

fucking prime time bullshit is that?!
Allie- Yo, are we logged in on the call queue? Cause I don’t want to miss out on getting my

hours.

Mary- Yeah, I logged us all in and just let it cycle. Most of those pricks been called five or six

times today already anyway. Just a bunch of happy hangupers.

Joy- I just checked my headset and call times. Yep, I have had forty- three calls all ranging from

thirty seconds to a minute. Just long enough for them to answer and hang up. To tell you the

truth, with the thousand a day we make, the stats are pretty easy to fudge from here.

Trip- When’s the last time you got a sale? I got one first thing this afternoon. Four thousand

Hoover Dam Reservoir Tipped to a book store in the hood. Mad commission on that, biatch!

Cat- Should we really be doing this? I mean what if this isn’t the end of the road for Telecom

International? I don’t want to lose my job over some video game bullshit.

Mary- Ted ain’t gonna do SHIT! We haven’t been paid in like forever anyway, is that legal?

Trip- I think I’m gonna go out back and see if them damn coppers dropped any of the evidence.

Cat- You think?

Allie- All I know is them two were lit up! Did you see that fucking joint they were smoking?

Like Cheech and Chong or some shit!

Larry, Mark, and Tick are against the wall on the side of the room, rolling dice and flipping bills.

The cash keeps dancing and the dice keep rolling.

Larry- Snake eyes. Pretty lady.
Mark- (singing) Fuck me a lady, tonight! Fuck me a lady, tonight! Fuck, if you’ve ever been a

lady to begin with. Fuck me a lady, tonight!

Tick- Roll em, roll em, roll em snake eyes, roll em, roll em, roll em!

Larry- That’s right, snake eyes. Bitch, I am on the LOOSE!

Mark- Early one morning, late one night, two dead bitches got up to fight. Tit to tit, they backed

each other, out the door and killed each other. A deaf fucking pig heard the riot and came and

made those dead bitches quiet.

Larry- Your up. You wanna switch up the dice?

Mark- Yeah, right. Wish I had some loaded dice. I’m so in debt my head’s in a vice.

Tick- And if you don’t throw soon, I’m gonna take your money for delay of game.

Mark- Right, right. Throw, throw. Ugh! Fuck! Nothing!

Tick- That puts me in the lead with the most in tow. How many more times boys do I get to

throw?

Larry- Wait a minute, where’d the five on my stack go?

Tick- Made change, living large. Paying debts off from the bar. Come on babies! Come to poppa!

Larry- Did I say you could change me out?! Don’t be touching my stack, jack. Now gimme it

back ‘fore I get whack!

Tick- Read em and weep! They are falling my way all day!

Mark- What a jerk off. Beginners luck. Double up Tick?
WHITMAN SITS DOWN AT HIS CUBICLE, AND PULLS OUT A BOTTLE OF SCOTCH

FROM HIS BAG AND A ROCKS GLASS. HE POURS HIMSELF A DRINK.

Whitman- Neat. Very neat. This day would not be complete without my discreet triple malt,

twenty years aged. I have to say, I have to make a course correction after this. What a better way

to clear the cobwebs, and strengthen and warm the heart for what is next around the curve? Sharp

curve ahead, my friends. That’s what the sign reads today. Sharp curve ahead.

Joe- Can I have some?

Whitman- No.

Joe- Please?

Whitman- No.

Joe- I’ll be your best friend.

Whitman- At that cost, you may as well skip to the enemies list, Joe.

Joe- So, you gonna go talk to Ted about all this shit? Somebodies gotta go in there and represent

us. You have the most sales, consistently. Besides Allie, Trip or Cat.

Whitman- Or Mary.

Joe- Yeah, can’t forget your favorite.

Whitman- Something about Mary.
Joe- Great flick. Specially when he catches his dick…

Whitman- You would pick that moment over all others.

Joe- Franks and beans!

Whitman- Frankly just being is good enough for right now. Just being, Joe. Hey Joe, heard you

shot your woman down.

Joe- You heard wrong.

Whitman- Never mind. It’s all a matter of reference to the proper point and then, my friend I will

skip this joint.

Joe- What are you gonna do Whit?

Whitman- Say two plus makes four and tell Ted in about five that if he wants out alive, I get paid

before he lays us out on the slate.

Joe- Think he’ll go for it.

Whitman- Joe, armed with what I’ve seen, I don’t think he has a choice.

COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- SALES ROOM FLOOR/TEDS OFFICE-

WHITMAN WALKS ACROSS THE OFFICE AND ENTERS TED’S OFFICE DOOR.

Ted- Is that scotch?
Whitman- You know it.

Ted- Before you let me have it, let me have it with the scotch.

Whitman- You are gonna need it.

HE POURS TED A DRINK WITH A SECOND GLASS HE HELD BEHIND HIS BACK.

Ted- Exactly how much do you think the office needs to be paid off entirely?

Whitman- Didn’t do the math on it either, Ted. But all you are gonna have to worry about is me.

Nobody else knows.

Ted- Knows what?

Whitman- Come on, Ted. This place was the front for the dispensary. Our hiring lists came from

customers there entirely. One email of a resume, and presto! No interview, show up at nine am

three months ago and we have a full office ready to roll up some fake big numbers and squeeze

the fat cash out of Sonny and Chips. It’s too bad that the deal with our backing credit card

company fell through on the get go with the office already rolling due to their impatience and

paranoia, or the feds might never have put two and two together.

Ted- I am puzzled. Impressed, but puzzled.

Whitman- Puzzled about what, Ted? The dispensary was shut down in a raid by Federal Agents

well over a week ago. It was all over the papers. Part of the county wide crackdown on how

many dispensaries there are in a certain locale, it was called. But there was word about the future

stories to come about what was really going on in the boiler rooms that got them in way over
their head. They were double dutch action fucking everybody they did business with Ted. Couple

of fucking grade “a” smugglers who didn’t know how to go legit.

Ted- Hold on, I’ll be back. Wait right here. In want hear about this. And save me some more

scotch.

COMPTON-CA- TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- SALES ROOM FLOOR -

AMIDST A SEA OF CHAOS, TWO TELEMARKETERS REMAIN SITTING AND TAKING

PHONE CALLS. JOHN, AND LITTLE TIMMY ARE SIDE BY SIDE.

John- Yo, you Stu Pidasso?

Caller- Who the hell wants to know?

John- With a name like Stu Pidasso, everybody wants to know!

Caller- You aren’t making any sense. What are you selling?

John- I guess it ain’t just a name. I’m not selling anything. This is the county clerk’s office. I just

wanted to know where you want this morning’s filing to be delivered to?
Caller- I didn’t file shit. Are you serious?

John- Please watch your language, Stu Pidasso.

Caller- Uh, Stuart, please.

John- I prefer to call you Stu Pidasso, thank you very much.

Caller- Yeah, ha ha! Very funny! Heard about it all the way through school, and aren’t you

special?

John- Hey, don’t feel bad. My parent’s named me after their nickname for the toilet.

Caller- Your name is Crapper?

John- John. My name is John.

Caller- Sorry, John.

John- That’s ok. Whenever my Dad goes to take a poop, he still calls it dropping the kids off at

the pool. We don’t have to understand them. Just pity their old age and shortcomings.

Caller- So, what’s this filing?

John- Stu Pidasso. I will be getting to that in a moment.

Caller- Milk it already.

John- Did you just say milk it already? How am I supposed to take a comment like that? Do you

want this filing to be timely or not? There’s a bug in my mouse.

Caller- You have a pet mouse? Pet mice are weird. He has bugs?
John- Out of left field Stu Pidasso. Kinda scary, though huh? Almost as creepy as the creepers on

your grandmothers coochie when she’s licking my boot cheese.

Caller- Fuck man, I just checked my caller I.D. You really had me going too. Telecom

International? Where are you guys located at? Can I speak to your manager?

John- Stoooooooooooooooooooopid Asssssssssshooooooole!

HE HANGS UP ON THE CALLER.

LITTLE TIMMY’S SCREEN LIGHTS UP WITH THE NEXT CALLER ON THE LINE. THE

NAME OF THE CUSTOMER IS GOD, GOD, GOD.

Little Timmy- Woah. Hello? Hello?

God- Yes, hello?

Little Timmy- Oh wow. Is this God?

God- Yes, this is God.

Little Timmy- Nobody has ever said that to me before. God, I have a lot to talk to you about.

God- Can you make it quick? My lunch is in the microwave.

Ted (from across the room)- Tim! Stick to the script!

Little Timmy- Is this really God?

God- Well, let me put it to you this simple. I was born God. I was made God at birth. The big

bang. The whole shebang comes down to it, that’s what my driver’s license says. So, if we could

get past the whole name thing, maybe you could let me know what you’re calling for?
Little Timmy- I have an offer to extend God credit.

God- You’re not one of those Jesus freaks are you?

Little Timmy- Oh, God no! What you think I am?

God- Don’t get me wrong, I do believe the son of God leaves no stone unturned. But son, with

my whole name stigma, what else was I gonna name my son?

Little Timmy- I thought Joseph and Mary named Jesus.

God- Yeah, the one from Alaska. Not my kid.

Little Timmy- From Alaska?

God- He comes to me one day for advice. Name, Jesus, mother’s name, Mary, Father is Joseph

Christianson, a pastor from Anchorage. Says in Jesus name amen been getting to him. I told him

not to use the name in vain, but keep it real. He starts screaming Jesus at me and thinks it’s

funny. The screaming Jesus. Sounds like a kid’s toy from a grade B horror flick.

Little Timmy- I have to tell you God, I haven’t been good.

God- You don’t have to tell me.

Little Timmy- What, you know?

God- Let’s just say you call me Mr. God from here on out, ok son?

Little Timmy- Wow. But God, Mr. God. I haven’t told you yet.

God- Your tripping son. Just tripping.
Little Timmy- Holy shit! It’s you! I’m going to hell!

God- No, son. You are in hell. I couldn’t do what you do. And I am Mr. God.

Little Timmy- Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

LITTLE TIMMY OVERTURNS THE TERMINAL IN FRONT OF HIM, SMASHING IT ON

THE FLOOR. HE RIPS HIS HEADSET OFF AND BASHES IT ON JOHN’S HEAD. JOHN

SLAP BOXES HIM FOR A MOMENT, THEN GIVES UP AS TIM RUNS DOWN THE AISLE

SCREAMING AND SMASHING COMPUTER TERMINALS.

THE SCREEN CUTS TO BLACK AND FLASHES THE TEXT “20 MIN LATER…”

LITTLE TIMMY IS SHOWN IN A STRAIGHT JACKET, BEING CARTED OUT ON A

STRETCHER BY PARAMEDICS

COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- TED’S OFFICE-

TED REENTERS THE OFFICE WITH A CONCERNED LOOK ON HIS FACE. WHITMAN

IS SITTING IN THE SAME SPOT \AS BEFORE, PICKING HIS TEETH WITH A

TOOTHPICK.
Ted- I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this short, Mr. Whits.

Whitman- I’m afraid you are going to have a cut me a check before you do. Before this

mushrooms, if you know what I mean?

Ted- Cut you a check? Mushrooms? What mushrooms?

Whitman- The entire trip your on, Ted. Yes, a check. That’s correct sir.

Ted- Or else what?

Whitman- Or else I immediately get on the phone with my Fed friends and let them know that

there is both more money and more weed right here under their noses. Have a nice trip, Ted. See

ya next Fall. And not for a conjugal visit either there buddy. So stop looking at me like I’m about

to get fucked.

Ted- I was afraid you were going to say that.

Whitman- I’m not sure you need to be debating anything in the trip your taking this afternoon

Ted. It’s a one way ticket with an unknown destination. Could even wind up dead or just dead

even over it. If word were to get out.

Ted- Did you say word?

Whitman- Yes, I said word. In the beginning, there was the word. And the word was with Timmy.

And so was God a couple of seconds ago. I suggest you find God for me, Ted. Cause I have that

sale in the bag. What do you have in the bag, Ted? Do you really want to hear about the

mushrooming? Or should I call a higher power? It’s up to you.
Ted- I don’t like your tone, Mr. Whitman. I’ve always known there was something to the way

you stand out that was going to play a part I wouldn’t like. Please fucking clarify, Whitman.

Whitman- Ok, I will be nice. Yes, Ted. Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you. If your

young and start out with as much as you’ve got sitting around here somewhere. I can’t imagine

what a rush you must be in to get all of this shit out the door and on down the road. It isn’t pretty,

making me look like a fool like you have so far. I am owed exactly two thousand , one hundred

and seventy four dollars. Now, am I going to make this easier for you, or a long run for the same

fate as Chip and Sonny Cheeba? It’s that simple, Ted.

Ted- (turning very red) I don’t owe you a red cent. This company fell short on that damned

promise for me too. If anything, I should be telling you how unfortunate it is that you are fired

from this moment on, and good luck with your fantastic daydreams about whatever.

Whitman- Ted, let me do a free word association thing with you. Money. You say?

Ted- No Whit.

Whitman- Very good. Now let’s try “easy money”.

Ted- I don’t think you are getting me.

Whitman- Ahh, ahh, ahh?! Let’s not get hasty. Suppose I say, well. Mexico?

Ted- (angrily) I say I don’t like your tone!

Whitman- I could get a little more persuasive, if you like Ted. Let me read this little disclaimer I

wrote on my phone to send out immediately to the F.B.I. if you so wish it.

Ted- Ugh! I can’t believe this shit!
Whitman- To who this most definitely concerns. As an employee of…

Ted- You are fired! Get out! Now!

Whitman- That’s where you get it wrong, Ted. I already sent this e-mail. It’s on a time release

send program locked away in one of my many accounts. I can turn it around and send it to no

one after all, or in twenty minutes, long before you have gotten clear it will go to the F.B.I., the

LAPD, the I.R.S, and the C.I.A. as well as several notables I picked out on their political journey

to cleaning up the much needed legalization of marijuana. So Ted, I would think very seriously

about this.

Ted- How much?

Whitman- Two thousand, one hundred and seventy four dollars.

Ted- Is my name on that shit?

Whitman- At the moment, Ted. Yes, it is. God as my word. And I’m not referring to the fuck in

Atlanta Tim called a few minutes back. Word is bond, Ted. I want what I deserve.

Ted- Fine. But if I hear that one word of any of this spread to any one at all, I am canceling this

check immediately. And I am not admitting to having any of what you say, but how would that

make me look if I am the boss around here? So, Mr. Whitman I will cut you a check from my

personal account.

TED PULLS OPEN A DRAWER OF HIS DESK AND PULLS HIS CHECKBOOK FROM IT.

Whitman- That’s a big time favor to all of us, Mr. Grimes.
Ted- Consider yourself lucky, and silent. I am writing the check post-dated for tomorrow to give

me time in case you double cross. Tomorrow, you keep your word, you have your pay.

Whitman- (reaching across to receive the check Ted is holding out) Not lucky, my friend. Just

damned good.

Ted- You actually were top producer the whole way through. Good luck with the rest of your

career.

Whitman- My career has been cut short. I finally got an agent reading my writing. I am taking

this money and celebrating. It’s been lovely Ted, but I have some very important people to meet

over a late lunch.

Ted- Can you leave the scotch?

Whitman- Sure, thing, Ted. Sure thing. It gets easier big guy. With what I figured you’ve got

somewhere hidden very near, I am sure, A LOT easier.

Ted- Enough?

Whitman- (Glancing at his check, and giving it a small kiss) Enough.

Ted- Don’t bother coming back around.

Whitman (standing to leave) Don’t have to tell me twice.

Ted- Or even once I’m guessing.

THEY SHAKE HANDS, AND WHITMAN MAKES HIS EXIT.
COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- TED’S OFFICE-

THE PHONE RINGS IN TED’S OFFICE AS HE CLOSES THE DOOR ON WHITMAN. HE

ANSWERS THE PHONE.

Ted- Telecom International, this is Ted Grimes! How can I be of service?

Jim Staples- Yes, Ted. This is Jim Staples calling you from The Internal Revenue Service. I was

told that you were the one left over there to contact.

Ted(nervously)- Yes, Mr. Staples.

Jim- Yes, Ted, I’m afraid I have to tell you that after an extended visit with the owners of your

company, we have indeed decided to immediately take possession of all company assets and

equipment. I am coming over there personally in a little while this afternoon to post the notices

and lock up.

Ted- Oh God! You can’t be serious!

Jim- I have been accused of that. Your owners, even more serious.
Ted- Am I out of a job?

Jim- Are you serious? Have you been listening to me, Mr. Grimes? We are taking possession

immediately of ALL company assets and equipment, and closing the office this afternoon. I

expect you to be ready with the office cleared of all employees and their personal effects,

including you. Expect me very shortly.

Ted- Well, how long do I have?

Jim- To be honest Ted, just until after I complete my lunch out here in Venice Beach. Had to take

in some of the tourist attractions while I’m around, you know? Took the Venice Beach Walking

Tour.

Ted- I guess I will get them all out of here now, then. How bad is it, Mr. Staples?

Jim- The office will not be reopening, Ted. This phone call to be honest, was just a courtesy to

both you and myself to make things run a lot smoother. Please follow my instructions and leave

all of the companies records and such as they are. Both Sonny Cheeba and Chip Long have

exonerated you from any fault, but if I see any evidence of tampering I assure you I will launch a

more in- depth investigation as to the role you have been playing there, Mr. Grimes.

Ted- So everything is to be locked up tonight for good?

Jim- Within the week we will be removing the equipment for sale at auction for recovering our

losses and at that time we will also remove all of the remaining records and such. Now, if you

excuse me, I have some very lovely locals to attend to while I complete my lunch.

Ted- Thanks I guess. So let me get this straight, I am NOT under investigation right now?
Jim- Seeing as you were not named by anyone within the extensive organization we have been

investigating for the past few weeks, no Mr. Grimes at this point I only wish you luck in your

future endeavors. Should we deem otherwise after further examination, we will most certainly let

you know.

Ted- Oh, thank God!

Jim- No, thank the U.S. Government.

Ted- Ok, let me go get all of my employees out of here. I will be ready for you.

Jim- Absolutely, Mr. Grimes. See you soon.

Ted- Yes, thank you. Goodbye.

Jim- Goodbye.

COMPTON, CA – TELECOM INTERNATIONAL- SALES ROOM FLOOR-

TED COMES ON OVER THE LOUDSPEAKER-

Loudspeaker- Attention all employees. This office was just notified by the I.R.S. that they are

coming immediately to take possession of all assets and equipment. This is not a temporary

thing. I am afraid, we are all out of a job, people’s. Please immediately begin clearing all of your
personal effects and leave the building. For anyone who has any questions, feel free to come to

my office and ask. Thank you, and for God’s sake! Stop smoking weed on the Sales Room Floor!

Slim- (taking a puff off a joint) Yeah right. Make me, Ted head.

John- Dead ahead, my niggers! We goin down the long road to freedom now! Shit I can’t wait

for one!

Carlos- Stoned to the bone, out of a throne, jonesing for home, and swiggin alone! (he takes a

swig off a bottle of booze they have been passing around)

DICK PROMPLY THROWS UP ALL OVER THE DESK NEXT TO SLIM.

Slim- Nasty motherfucker.

Joe- Shit, Dick! Shit!

John- He ain’t the only one. Yeah, shit, Dick. Shit. I been dizzy since hearing my check’s gone

bad.

Tick- Fuck it. Let them government fucks clean it up! Like they are gonna clean up with all of

our pay we will never see!

Mark- Pass the shit, already, before Dick gets at it again. I don’t need secondhand chunks.

Slim- Yeah, you are a Dick, Dick. That’s fo’ sure.

Dick- (slurring his words) Fucking- A- right! Fucking – A -right! When I was a kid my mom

only shopped at Dick’s Sporting Goods! And now Dick needs to be sporting his goods and going

back to Mommas!
Mark- You still live with your Mom?

Dick- Yeah, fuck her. She lives with me.

Tick- Sounds like a pretty rocky relationship if you go home from work like THIS!

Dick- Nah. She will fucking a- write me a big fat fucking check for the missing wages. She

already promised. Says I deserve- hic! It – hic! Up. (he promptly begins to throw up on Tick’s

hand, placed on his shoulder)

Tick- I don’t know whether to hit him or ask him if I can move in.

Mark- Yeah, you could probably move in on Dick’s mom. She’s about a deuce, deuce and a half.

And I hear you’re single now, huh Tick? Got served the papers this morning?

Tick- Yeah. Fuck her. She’s been fucking around on me since we STARTED and I just could

never catch the bitch. Too god- damned smart. Way too smart.

Slim- Take a hit, Tick. Soothes the soul, this shit.

Tick- Ahh fuck it, Slim. Pass the shit.

Carlos- I am gonna head straight out of here and go to a twelve step meeting. Get this, SEX

ADDICTS ANONYMOUS! Holy shit am I getting laid tonight or what? Easy pickings! Any you

guys want to come?

Tick- Count me in, Carlos. Count me in.
Mark- Hi, my name is Mark and I’m a sex addict. In fact I have a hard on right now. I can’t stop

thinking about getting it on with a few of you and hope you will ask for my digits after. Thanks

for letting me share. And oh yeah, I’m good!

Slim- Fuck, that came off real slick Mark. You done this before?

Joe- I should send Dick and my fucking stepmother to do that shit! They are getting it on when

the old man’s at home now. He’s like passed out in the easy chair in the living room and they are

going at it in the back bedroom.

Carlos- The more the merrier! Is she hot?!

Joe- How should I know? I’m not a fucking sex addict of any kind. I don’t look at anybody with

the status name of mom in it like that to even evaluate.

Slim- Oh, that’s bullshit. You can still tell, man. I mean you see her every day. Give us a one to

ten on the body. What’s she rate?

Joe- If you count the thunder thighs, the bloated botox lips, the flabby tits down to her waist, and

the nonexistent butt, you may have a perfect seven.

Dick- See? You’d fuck her!

Joe- Already have. That’s my story at the meeting anyway. Prove’s I’m not just looking for an

easy lay. What time does this shit start anyway, Carlos?

Carlos- It’s a men’s meeting fellows. Guys only. Until you have like six months, they won’t let

you in any of the mixed meetings. This however fellas, is my third month, and I have been

promised they may take time off for good behavior.
Dick- Fucking fag!

Carlos- Anonymity is the spiritual foundation of all of our affairs, ever reminding us we should

look to our leaders as a shining light on the pathways of righteousness and sex. Peace, I mean,

PEACE!

Dick- What’d I say? Guys sex meetings.

Carlos- Last week a guy relapsed and I got to see all of his private video collection. Guy had

taped like two hundred different women doing the nasty! All kinds! Skinny, athletic, stocky,

short, tall, petite, big boned. But the real kicker is when he showed me the tranny videos.

Brought em home and surprise inside, it’s a cocksucker of an evening lest your bisexual. That

didn’t come out right. But it was some sick shit! He had like five cameras on these bitches.

Dick- Fucking fag. I need a smoke. Gimme a rolley, Carlos.

Slim- Dick, hit this, it will help your stomach.

MARK KNOCKS THE JOINT OUT OF SLIMS HAND.

Mark- The fuck it will. He’s riding home with me. And not without a trash bag already. Give him

that and it will be spin city and my car all shitty and down to the nitty gritty with a sponge

cleaning regurgitated taco meat out of my fucking seats!

Dick- I love you guys.

Carlos- Fucking fag. Fucking Dick got sick, and needs his prick to get a lick before he gets the

stick.

Dick- I love you, Carlos.
Carlos- Keep coming back, Dick. It works if your worth it.

AL DEAN IS SHOWN SITTING AT A DESK WITH HEADSET ON. THE AUDIO FROM

THE HEADSET, COMES INTO FOCUS AND IT IS THE GIRL HAVING SEX, STILL, WITH

HER BOYFRIEND.

MARY, JOY, ALLIE, TRIP AND CAT ARE STILL PLAYING X-BOX IN THE BACK OF THE

ROOM. TAO, STEVE AND LARRY WALK UP ON THEM IN A GROUP.

Steve- How many of you girls want to get laid tonight?

Mary- Cash only business.

Joel- More than one? That costs more.

Cat- You chicks is fucking nasty.

Tao- We’re just trippin, Trip. We just want a “thank God we’re free at last SOME kind of orgy!”

Larry- Besides, Allie, you owe me for the date we went on a few months back. I still feel like

got played for Laker’s tickets.

Allie- Got played my ass! You spilled every beer you had all over my jersey!

Larry- I was saving some for later! All those hot two’s I thought for sure I was getting something

at the end. Like hot two’s. I would have licked it off, if you’d have let me.
Allie- It wasn’t even my jersey, you moron. I had to get it cleaned before I gave it back to my

cuz!

Steve- Is your cuz hot?

Cat- If you’re gay, maybe. He’s about six three, two hundred with the cutest freckles!

Tao- So you, plus ten inches, minus the tits, plus the freckles. You been holding out on John?

Mary- Like I said, cash only business. I have time at eight and ten. But you gotta supply the

room.

Steve- Eight and ten? Just out of curiosity, how much is it for a crack at Mary’s hairy unsitely

crack these days, miss I’m in biz?

Mary- Depends on what you want, Mr. Kidman. You bookin, or just lookin?

Trip- Bitch, you best be playin!

Tao- Give me missionary straight, condoms and lace, and a little bit of bondage at eight.

Mary- That will be three fifty.

Tao- Shit I only have three. (he pulls out three singles) One, two, three, There you go, see you at

eight! I’ll bring the other fifty!

Joy- I think she meant three HUNDRED and fifty, Tao.

Tao- Hundred? From what I surmise there aint that kind of thunder between those thighs, and in

this guise I’d realize I been surprised with another kind of ties for one oversized, underprized

enterprise that just these eyes are never gonna need at that ticket price!
Trip- You think you’re slick don’t you? You think that the world is just gonna bend over cause

you’re Doctor Seuss or some shit!

Tao- You’re mean.

Cat- And out of green. So cough it up, loverboy. That’s the rate. Don’t be late. That’s another

eight.

Steve- You charge a late fee? What about if you get knocked up? Is that an extra late fee?

Mary- Oh yeah, and you gotta bring the condoms and spermicidal lubricant.

Tao- Just stocked up on them when I made my trip back east. Stopped at a place on South Street

in Philadelphia. Condom Nation!

Trip- You sound like Yosemite Sam. Condemnation!

Tao- Where else could you get a thousand condoms for a hundred and fifty bucks?

Joy- How about at that strip mall that just opened across town. Only three stores, Dicks, BJ’s and

Siemens.

Steve- Yeah. So be a sport, buy in bulk and get a new bed all at once! Mary Jane Lane!

Tao- I got this lube with a picture of a pussy on the front. They want to make SURE you know

where to use it at. It’s spermicidal lubricant for the illiterate.

Joy- What’s this? A pussy on the front?

Tao- Yeah, how about it Mary, I got a pussy on the front?

Mary- In your dreams.
Tao- In my wet dreams.

Mary- So cash out with me and we’ll spend the rest of our dismal looking work day doing more

than foreplay!

Joy- Mary’s not serious, guys. She’s just seeing if she can get a rise out y’all.

Larry- I got a rise in my pants.

Tao- All rise! The honorable dick presiding!

Mary- Honorable dick. I’ll be the judge of that. (she kisses Tao and grabs his crotch)

Trip- I think I’m gonna be sick.

Steve- Oh that’s nice. I guess that’s a freebie.

Mary- See what three bucks can buy, loverboy? Imagine what three fifty would do?

Tao- You taste like gefilte fish.

Trip- What the fuck is gefilte fish?

Cat- That shit that Jews eat out of jars around the menorah.

Mary kisses Tao again.

Tao- Not that I mind or anything.

TED COMES OUT OF HIS OFFICE AT THE FRONT OF THE ROOM.
Ted- People! I said get your stuff and get out! What are you waiting for? Any other day you are

racing to get out of here! Today I can’t get you to leave! You aren’t getting paid for this! It’s

done! It’s over! They are on their way to shut the doors for good and I need you out of here!

(he grabs a joint out of Slims hand and takes a hit, and holding his breath continues) Now, get!

OUT!

Slim- Ted, you want more, I got dollar joints!

Ted- Why would I pay to get high, when I’m getting mine right now?

Carlos- Hey, don’t bogart that joint, there Teddy! Pass to the left to the left, right?! Left!

Ted- (passing the joint) Don’t make me get prehistoric on all your asses! Pack em up peeps!

Carlos- Their coming to take us away, hee hee, hoo hoo, ha ha to the funny farm!

Ted- Hey, you two! Mary, Tao! Quit making out and take it elsewhere!

SLIM PASSES THE LIQUOR BOTTLE TO TED, WHO TAKES A SWIG OFF OF IT.

Ted- What is this chunky shit in here?

Dick- Sorry about that.

Carlos- Yeah Dick blew chunks earlier.

Ted- Since when do we have an employee named Chunks? Unless you were talking about

yourself, Carlos. In which case you have some foul chunky cum, son!

Carlos- Chunks and John sitting in a tree. Taking it up the hiney see? First comes Chunks, then

comes John, then comes the long clean up for the jiz mopper, son!
Ted- That’s nasty Carlos. You’re fired. For being indecent.

TED CROSSES THE ROOM AND PULLS OUT A BULLHORN.

Ted- Out! Everybody get your stuff and get out! I want this place clear of all of you in two

minutes! Tao, Mary. You’re making me sick. Steve, Larry, get on it now! Ladies, pack up the X-

Box! Everybody! OUT! NOW! I’ll be in my office. In two minutes I want each of you to check

out as you leave! Now!

TED RETURNS TO HIS OFFICE, AND SITS DOWN, KICKS HIS FEET UP ON THE DESK.

HE PULLS OUT THE REST OF THE FLY AGARIC MUSHROOM AND DEVOURS IT

WITH A SWIG OFF OF HIS FLASK.

CUT TO BLACK: TEXT ON SCREEN: “TEN MINUTES LATER”

THE EMPLOYEES ARE SHOWN FILING OUT SINGLE FILE, PAST TED’S DOORWAY.

Tick- Good game

Ted- Good game, Tick.

Slim- Good game.

Ted- Good game.

Steve Kidman- Good game

Ted- Good game.

John- Good game. Fuck you.
Ted- In your dreams. Good game.

Mark- Yeah fuck you.

Ted- Good game. Fuck you.

Carlos- Smell ya later.

Ted- Always the hater. Good game.

Larry- Good game.

Ted- Good game.

Dick- Fuck you.

Ted- Right back at ya’ Dick! Get dicked, Dick! Good game!

Joe- Good game.

Ted- Good game.

Mary- Good game. You got my number, Ted.

Ted- Good game, Mary. I won’t use it. But yeah, you got game. Good game.

Joy- Good game.\

Ted- Good game.

Allie- Good game. I’ll never fuck you.

Ted – Thank God. Good and lame. Good game, I mean.
Trip- Good game.

Ted- Good game.

Cat- Good game.

Ted- Good game, Trip. Trip on tripper!

Al Dean- Did I ever tell you…

Ted- Leave Al! Now! Good game everybody! Now stay out! Til way past curfew! Ted’s orders!

Tao- They’re all gone. I checked the building. Is it time yet?

Ted- Here’s what I want you to do.

TED PULLS FOUR CANVASS DUFFLE BAGS OUT OF THE CABINET IN THE BACK

THE OFFICE. HE UNZIPS ONE.

Ted- One point six million in Benny’s my dear life. Four twenty K apiece. Tao, we are in the

mula good buddy. Got that hotel in Belize lined up?

Tao- We are go. Berg says it is the hottest spot to lay low there ever was.

Ted- So here’s the scoop. I.R.S. will be here any minute. You go lay low with the cash and the

dope in the janitor’s closet. When he leaves, I’ll come bail us out and we sail away into the

sunset.

Tao- The fucking janitors closet?

Ted- You wanna play, you gotta pay.
Tao- (grabbing the cash) I’m on it. Or in it. Shit this is heavy.

Ted- (singing) We’re in the money! We’re in the money!

THEY WALK TO THE JANITOR’S CLOSET AND CLOSE AND LOCK TAO IN.

FROM BEHIND THE CLOSED DOOR…

Tao- Shit, it smells like puke and dank in here!

Ted- And dank puke too. And green backs. I’ll be back Mr. Life!

THE OFFICE FRONT DOOR BELL ANNOUNCES THE ARRIVAL OF A VISITOR.

TED WALKS BACK INTO THE OFFICE TO GREET JIM STAPLES, I.R.S. AUDITOR.

Jim- We all clear in here?

Ted- Just got the last of the lot out the door a few minutes ago.

Jim- Jim Staples, I.R.S…

Ted- I assumed.

Jim- I have the padlocks out front and some chains to secure the premise. I’ll be needing your

keys as well. I assume you are Ted?

Ted- I am.

Jim- Just let me do a quick walkthrough and make sure everything is clear, and we will make our

exit together.
Ted- There’s not much to see. A lunchroom, a smoking room, two restrooms, the sales floor and

my office.

Jim- Just the same, I want in person confirmation.

Ted- I will be waiting.

Jim- Thanks for your cooperation, I will be right back.

JIM IS SHOWN CLEARING ALL OF THE ROOMS AS EMPTY. HE PAUSES IN FRONT OF

THE JANITORS CLOSET AND JIGGLES THE DOORKNOB, AND MOVES ON. HE

RETURNS TO TED IN THE SALES ROOM.

Jim- All clear.

Ted- Just let me grab my briefcase, and we can go.

Jim- Certainly. I will take your keys now as well, if it’s all the same.

Ted- (handing over a set of keys)- I’m gonna miss this place.

Jim- May I remind you, it could be a lot worse.

THEY MOVE TO THE FRONT DOOR, WHERE JIM SECURES THE DOORS WITH

CHAINS AND A PADLOCK. HE POSTS THE OFFICIAL NOTICE OF CLOSURE AND

SEIZURE OF PROPERTY BY THE U.S. GOVERNMENT ON THE DOOR. THEY SHAKE

HANDS.

Jim- Thank you Ted. I will keep you posted on the goings on of our investigation. But at this

point, you are just the victim so far as we are concerned.
Ted- Thank you, Mr. Staples.

Jim- Much obliged.

THEY BOTH CLIMB INTO THEIR CARS, JIM HIS, AND TED, TAO’S AND PULL OFF.

CUT TO BLACK: TEXT ON SCREEN: “Five minutes later”

TED IS SHOWN PULLING BACK INTO THE OFFICE. HE PARKS AROUND BACK, AND

GOES TO THE FIRE DOOR EXIT, PULLS A SPARE KEY OUT AND UNLOCKS IT.

Ted- (to himself) Damn, I must be tripping! Fucking mushroom. I need water.

HE STUMBLES AROUND THE HALLWAY TO THE RESTROOM, GAGGING.

Ted on reentering the office after the I.R.S. auditor shuts things down, returns to the restroom

where he finds that the water has already been shut off. He is having problems from the fly

agaric mushroom that he ate. He desperately needs water. He opens the toilet, and finds that

someone, in fact several people have not flushed. He then goes and kneels in front of the urinal.

It is very yellow, he notices just before dipping his hands in.

Ted- God damned Carlos!

He slides over to the next urinal and begins to splash his face and his tongue very liberally. He

gags quite a bit, and then sticks his whole face in the urinal and begins to noisily slop water

directly into his mouth. His dentures fall out and he desperately grabs for them and the side of

the urinal, and he accidentally flushes them down, and they become partially lodged between the

mint and the hole. He tries at first with his hands, then kicking it with his feet, until he stubs his

toe. He then gets back down on all fours and pulls it out with his mouth. Satisfied, he applies

new glue to the denture top and reinserts it before leaving the restroom.
TED OPENS THE JANITORS CLOSET TO FIND IT EMPTY.

Ted- Fucking Tao! I will find you.

Tao (from down the hall) You won’t have to look far!

TED ENTERS THE LUNCHROOM WHERE HE FINDS TAO SMOKING A JOINT FROM

THE STASH AND SURROUNDED BY A SMASHED SNACK MACHINE, EMPTIED OF

SNACKS SURROUNDING HIM NOW.

Tao- What? I got hungry!

Ted- Let’s get the fuck out of here, bro!

Tao- You tripping?

Ted- Are you?

BOTH BUST UP LAUGHING.

Tao- Yeah, brough.

Ted- And how. Thought I told you to leave at first break

Tao- Well I’m leaving now aren’t I?

Ted- Never to return

Tao- Are you really tripping man?

Ted- What do you think?

Tao- Are you ready?
Ted- Never been more!

Tao-Where to today?

Ted- Somewhere real far south my man

Tao- You’ve gone south

Ted- Not like this

(showing the cash and bails)

THEY MAKE THEIR EXIT, AND PACK TAO’S CAR TRUNK WITH THE WEED AND

CASH

Tao- (pulling out) Let’s pick up some brews bro. I need an easy down to this up.

Ted- Woohoo!

Tao- What time you think we can be in Rosarito?

Ted- After I buy a car, in cash, and pick up my girl, I figure I should be losing my virginity and

drowning in sex on the beach by dinner!

Tao- Yo, I got twenty says she still won’t give it up

Ted- Not to you.

Tao- Think they’ll come after us for the dough when they get out?

Ted- Yeah in like 25 years or so.

Tao- By that time you may have gotten laid.
Ted- Laid, paid and in the shade my man. Laid paid and in the shade.

They pull off and seconds later, Whitman shows up and retrieves a stashed small bag of cash

from the bushes.

The computer terminal inside is shown, still on with a caller on the line. It’s the chick having sex

with her boyfriend. The audio screams with the sounds of another orgasm.

Cut to black with TEXT: “TELEMARKETERS”

The End

Sunday, June 15, 2014

Telemarketers "Episode One"

Condom Nation- Sales Room Floor- Beverly Hills, CA - 9:15 AM

Steve- Ever since we moved from Compton to Whitman's office, Allie, you have looked so

depressed. Are you ok?
Allie- No. Take me to the pound.

John- Take her to the pound. She mutters.

Steve- Allie, why are you crying?

Allie- It's my dog.

Steve- What happened? Oh no, don't tell me...

Allie- Yeah, he's gone.

Carlos- (singing) He's gone, and nothing's gonnna bring him back! He's gone!

Allie- Shove it spic and span.

Steve- Easy there, girl. Tell me about it.
Allie- Well, you know my three year old sister, Bell?

Steve- Yeah, what happened?

Allie- She gave my eight week old Rottweiller a bath. She did it without asking, Mom was in

the kitchen making brownies...

Carlos- Special bake!

Allie- So anyway, she decided she can dry the dog off faster. She sticks him the microwave on

high for twenty minutes.

Steve- She NUKED HIM?!

Carlos- (SINGING) Nuke a pup! Nuke a pup! Hear him pop! Poppy POWER!