You'd better turn me loose, You'd better set me free...

Cuz I'm hot, young, running free

A little bit better than I used to be.

Cuz I'm alive!

...I figure if there is ANY acceptable time to start quoting Motley Crue lyrics, now would be it. Your faithful narrator left his trusty job of the last 6 months to embark on a quest of degeneracy, music, sex and drugs. Today, like any other day, is filled with wonder, excitement, and all that other stupid shit that makes life worth living. It's 8:30 am and no, my friends, I am not just about to go to sleep. In fact I am just waking up, enjoying my morning cup of steamy fresh black coffee and smoky harsh cigarette. I have dropped many a tournament buyin in and about town, as my newfound fortunes are tenfold the amount of cash I've had in my possession at any one time. Sandwitches, tacos, burritos, South East Asians, drinks, blah blah blah.

What is on the agenda today? A trip to Redding with some buddies to make a little money, go eat at the In & Out joint, drive a brand new car back over the 299. Hopefully make it back by 5pm as play the $32,000. The truth is today's agenda is like every other day, which is find a nice balance between laziness, socialization, poker, bong rips, a couple hours of guitar jam, a pint or two of beer, and finding the eternal self-discipline to NOT spend a lot of money.

The fun part is I have nothing but free time. I am never in a hurry. I drive the speed limit, I walk at a comfortable pace, and I don't even care about waiting in line at the DMV anymore. Wha-wha-what?!?! Yessir! It's those little things. No longer having to combine cigarettes with music with food with relaxation.

In fact, you can summarize my life into the following statement:

I wear my slippers everywhere I go because I want to be comfortable, I don't give a fuck what other people think, and there's not a chance I'll be running into any obligatory work.

Ironically enough, I am now going to end this blog, not because I want to rush to completion so I can run off and do something else, simply because I can always come back later and pick up this thread. In closing, this has become both the literal and hypothetical thread of my life, where you pull them away to reveal the tapestry that is my life. 

Thank you Star Trek for providing me with such a quotable one-liner!

Dilemmas

I will keep this short, as it is just past 7am and I need to get some sleep.

You'd think someone like me would have no problem telling my boss to take this job and shove it, yet I have this problem of avoiding confrontation at all costs. Right now I am quite literally waiting for him to fire me. Yeah, I sold some 15-year-old bitch a pack of cigarettes who was working for ATF to fuck me, thus handing my boss a nice fine. It's pretty asshole-y to quit without notice when he's relying on me, especially after that. But it's pretty asshole-y to schedule your employees the night before, working them six days a week at just over 40 hours (no overtime pay, not to mention the holidays he doesn't give us extra pay for) at minimum wage. Yet even after writing that, where it seems obvious that I should just quit, I still can't.

Short Thoughts:

Had another nice cash this week. I might buy a car with some winnings, but I'm not sure I want to commit to registration and insurance and gas and the inevitable parking tickets, etc. etc. I'm waiting for my two cases of Viso I ordered last week to arrive. I really need to quit smoking, I smoke more now than I ever have in the past.  I am considering purchasing a standup bass.

Quick Final Note:

I think some of my friends are jealous of my poker successes of late. I expect as much from most of them, as I'm sure a lot of them think they work harder than I do and could use the money much more than I could, but if you're my friend why wouldn't you be happy for me? The pure financial jealousy I can understand, but the spite I do not. The truth is, it's absolutely fucking awesome I have shown profit and success in doing what I love to do, so help me celebrate it by offering congratulations not silence.

Flemmy Orange Goop/Degeneracy as a Profession

I woke up this afternoon with a strange overwealming feeling of sickness. Had I eaten anything strange last night? No, not really, aside from my regular diet of candy, soda and Royal Cookie Capers. Did I get too drunk last night? No; drunk on poker winnings maybe. Drunk on alcohol? No... Perhaps it was the breakpoint from all the cigarettes and bong rips I've been smoking the last few weeks. No, that really wouldn't make much sense either. Regardless, I awoke to a sickening feeling in my stomach. A sharp pain, and I leaned up out of bed. "I'm not really going to puke, am I?" Another sharp pain... "well, I get the feeling that I should go to the bathroom just in case..."

And then I let her spill. Mostly just flemmy orange goop, no real chunks of puke. The dry heaves hurt like a motherfucker. The smell iminating from my mouth made me heave again. Son of a bitch, dry heaves hurt. After a few more heaves I stumbled back to bed and fell asleep with the most god-awful taste in my mouth.

........

I had some intensely sexual dreams during those two hours of napping. Delusionally bizzarely intensely sexual. I woke up pissed off that I was dreaming in a bed occupied only by myself. I considered playing the $200 no-limit hold em turbo tournament before going to work, but I'd already dropped over $600 staking my friend in the FTOPS this past week with a zero percent return on investment, so I wasn't feeling too much like gambling.

I pulled out another $1,000 a couple days ago, furthering my confidence that I just might be able to do this for a living. The way I see it, if I can basically get myself an average paycheck every two weeks withdrawn while not letting my bankroll fluctuate too much, I should have more than enough to support myself 100% from pure gambling winnings. I would call myself a break-even player who bides his time waiting for a big cash. In the past month I've had six four-figure payouts, including two over $4,000. Obviously when you take into account buyins this is nowhere near a 100% ROI profit, but I'm finally ranked after two years as an overall winning player, in the top 99 percentile of worldwide players online. Compare that to my 44 percentile in 2007, I would say I made a vast improvement in my game.

........

This Tuesday, November 18th marks the 30 year anniversery of the Jonestown Massacre in Guyana. Most cable news networks have been airing specials on it this past week. The CNN special was well done, except I hated the chick who was hosting and interviewing. MSNBC's was a little better. It was nice because they wern't both a rehash of eachother's broadcast. Almost as though the two networks had consulted eachother during production, CNN covered some aspects that MSNBC neglected and vice-versa.

The account that stood out the most in my mind was listening to a survivor describe watching his wife holding their infant son in her arms as one of Jones' guards injected cynaide into the toddler's mouth as the wife stood there sobbing, not long after drinking the kool-aid herself, and how he held the both of them as they died in his arms. Yikes!

I've always found the absolute corruption of power and the blind willingness of followers like sheep fascinating. It's like most people are if not eagar at least very willing to surrender their own willpower and decision making to the so-called "greater good". The cable news specials on Jonestown taught me nothing I didn't already know, but they were still fascinating to watch.

I am very thankful that with the Congressman came an NBC news team from New York to document not only Leo Ryan and Co's trip to Guyana but the immediate aftermath. The footage is vast and impressive. Amazing to see a thousand people laughing and dancing and singing in happiness and joy knowing that just hours after the footage was taken they would all be dead.

The most iconic of the footage is a still photograph of the aftermath. Jim Jones' corpse sprawled out on a table in the middle of the pavallion, dead from a gunshot to the head, surrounded by hundreds of his faithful followers decomposing bodies. Above the pavillion hangs a sign that reads, "Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it"

As I have been known to rant, rave, and blog about The People's Temple and Jonestown in the past I am not particually eagar to continue on, but you can probably expect a more fleshed out entry on Tuesday to mark the anniversery hopefully with some choice footage as well.

Be well, friends.
.Benjamin

Que Grande

Que Grande, Que Grande

You might say it was just my luck

That you decided to move that loving truck

All the way down to 7th and I

Que Grande, Que Grande

You gave me lunch every day

And you seldom made me actually pay

I shall miss you till the day I die

Que Grande, Que Grande

Your adobada was the best

To hell with all the rest

I watch you leave with a sigh

Que Grande, Que Grande

Come back to me soon

Or your business shall be doomed

And you will see the tears I cry

Quick 'n Dirty, Short 'n Sweet

Haven't posted on here for a while, which is a shame because I really started to enjoy doing it.  Well, the past month has been pretty hectic in a rather boring sort of way.  The Boss went out of town for almost all of September, thusly I had to work something like 22 days straight. My free time I spent, shockingly, playing online poker.  I think my tournament game is really great now, and I'm running super hot. I've cashed for almost $10,000 in the past two weeks, and have a check en route for $5000 at the moment.  It makes me think this might be the perfect time to actually give it a shot.  I've never won much money and been able to keep it, and the fact that I've done so well is really reassuring. Need to talk it over with the folks first.  Might have to be a big grown up boy and move out if I want to try and accomplish this for a living.  Not sure if I'm ready to have the responsibilities of rent and bills and such while poker would be my only source of income just yet.  Anyway it gives me lots to think about, and I'm trying to be really, really patient with it.  I hope I have more to write about soon, hopefully more good news!

We'll Be High and Dry

***DISCLAIMER: While you probably cannot tell by simply reading my text, at the time of this writing if I close my eyes, the room is spinning, and if I keep them open too long, well, the room starts to spin, too.  Luckily I cushioned all that nasty Sailor Jerry's, Great White and Mirror Pond with a greasy slice of pepperoni-bell pepper pizza from APD, so I don't think the vomitations are coming quite yet.

There is something so beautiful, so eternal, so innocent about taking the classic trot from the downtown Arcata area back home to my parents house in the wee hours of the morning.  That 25-30 minute walk (depending on the inebriation) I have taken literally hundreds of times in my life. I've done it drunk off my ass; sober as the Pope; frying my mind away on some LSD; coked out of my mind; stoned as can be. I've taken that walk with old friends long past; with random girls I've brought home; with complete and utter strangers; with one of my girl friends on a drunken impulsive whim (yes that was GIRL FRIENDS, two words, as in female friends, you asshole).

I know all the short cuts; all of the connecting routes; every possible way to get from Point A to Point B.  Take the Sunset shortcut from the Plaza to home? Sure! How bout straight down Alliance through Bloomfield? Okay! Maybe LK Wood blvd for a change? Why not?! I have walked this path so many times I could, and have, gotten myself home with my eyes closed in an unconscious daze.

Walking through the neighborhoods is quite honestly, both figurative and literally, a walk down memory lane.  Every other house or apartment I remember at some point going into to drink a beer, smoke a bowl, or play fucking video games.  Every other house at some point or another has thrown a huge party that I attended.  Memories so clear of some notable conversation or moment at some specific street corner it is as through I relive the experience each time I pass.

Dropping doses of LSD on sushi at some girls birthday party at one house; making out with two girls at the same time because one of them wanted a cigarette from me; planning a trip to San Francisco to see Lou Reed at 4am the day before the concert spun outta our minds; damn near coming to fisticuffs with my best friend over a girl; drinking Ancient Age under the bridge; drinking beer down on the train tracks; drinking, drinking, drinking... drinking.

Walking home in this state is timeless.  It's like each time I do it, I'm not walking alone, yet with myself all the other thousands of times I've done it, and all the potentially thousands of times I will continue to do it.  Living in Portland, the one thing I really missed - and could hardly wait to someday do again - was take this walk.  There is so much history, so many memories, both good ones and bad ones, that come from the walk; it's like reliving my entire life in 30 minutes.  I vividly remember specific nights and exactly how I felt at the time; I remember crossing Foster Rd on Alliance some years ago and I remember EXACTLY what I was thinking at the time - not something I want to tell you now, but it was very memorable and I don't think I will ever forget. Perhaps one day when we get to know eachother better I will tell you what I was thinking about who and why...

When I walk the streets, the town is all mine.  I see my history - my entire being of existence, as I look around.  They're not just specific memories, it is my life.  Who I am or who I will become is molded during these walks. In truth it is the only time that I feel I really come alive.  And it isn't just myself alive, it is everything: the plants, the stray cats (great band by the way!), the cars that whiz by, the man who installed the STOP sign at that one intersection eight years prior, the fellow drunkards that I pass, that shining little star and the millions that progressively grow more and more dim... it is no coincidence that all this is there in the moment. It's something that I've created. Not only is Arcata mine, but all of California. The McCain-Obama election is mine. The terrorists supposedly in Iran are all mine. Cornwallace's surrender at Yorktown was my doing. Why? Because if I wasn't right here, right now, in the moment, they would exist NOWHERE.

The world really does revolve around you. And not you, specifically, but an individual human being, because without that one person, everything from the colony of ants living under my house to the sun burning in the sky to the Big Bang all those (10 x n^googolplex) years ago CEASES TO EXIST. And why? Because without us, the individual living in the here and now, there is NOTHING. If we were to die, the Universe and everything in it dies with us. Get it? These things exist only because they exist within ourselves; if we surrendered that existence, what would happen? That's what the fucking Scientologists do: they surrender all reason and truth to the point where they no longer are alive, they are just mindless automatons apart of the same collective, because they sacrifice not only their individuality but their entire existence because they just can't live with all the decisions themselves.

And so maybe in the moment the last thing I would want to do is spend 30 minutes stumbling home, but once the trek begins it evolves into something so much more then just a walk. It becomes not only a walk down my teenage years, but a walk towards my future, and a walk inside my soul. And the final destination is the same every time: paradise. The utmost comfort in the Universe; a fluffed pillow, comfy matress, and utter peace of mind, body and soul upon drifting into unconsciousness. And if sometimes that paradise comes with alcohol poisoning, acid-induced mental paranoia, marijuana-caused insomnia, or simply a toilet bowl full of puke, well, so much the better.

Dream on my brothers and sisters.

Burr v Hamilton : Duel of the Millennium

July 11th, 1804 marked the infamous conclusion of the most notorious political feuds in American history. Vice-President Aaron Burr and Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton had hated eachother for years.  Stemming from the Senate race in 1791, Burr, a Democratic-Republican, won the Senate seat from Hamilton's father-in-law Philip Schuyler (a Federalist). There Burr served as Senator until the election of 1800, when he was one of a handful of Democratic-Republicans running for the Presidency.  One of his party rivals was Thomas Jefferson.

During the times, The Party nominee would not appoint someone to run as his Vice-President as is the case today.  Rather, back then each elector was allowed two votes to cast as to who should headline their party in the Presidential election.  The nominee who recieved the most votes from his party would run for President, and the one who recieved the second-most votes ran on the ticket as Vice-President.

Jefferson and Burr were the two frontrunners in the primary season for the nomination on the Democratic-Republican party ticket.  When it came time to vote, the party fell deadlocked with an equal amount of votes to both Jefferson and Burr.  In case of electoral deadlock the tiebreaker is always sent to the House of Representatives, which at the time was majority-controlled by the Federalists.

Alexander Hamilton, the sitting Secretary of the Treasury and himself a Federalist, knew his Party's animosity toward Jefferson would ultimately lead them to choose Burr as the ticket leader and Jefferson as Vice-President. Therefore, out of resentment of the Senate election nine years previous, Hamilton used all the influence he had in Congress to pursuade the Federalists into appointing Jefferson President and Burr Vice-President in the tie-breaker.

He succeeded, and the Democratic-Republicans took the White House for the first time.  Though throughout the 36 Congressional elections as to who the ticket-leader would be and the general election campaigning, Burr's indifference and haphazardness estranged Jefferson and come the 1804 re-election campaign, he dropped Burr as his Vice-Presidential nominee.  In the mean time, the 12th Amendment to the Constitution had been ratified to avoid the same disastrous confusion regarding electors' allowed two unspecified votes for President (nowadays electors still get two votes, but they are specific to President and Vice-President)

Burr, aware that Jefferson was dropping him from the ticket, started campaigning for a Gubernatorial run in New York for the 1804 elections.  Running as an Independent rather than on his traditional Democratic-Republican platform, Burr found himself up against New York State Attorney General and fellow Democratic-Republican Morgan Lewis.  Hamilton, once aware of this, vigorously campaigned against Burr, writing multiple articles in the New York Times bashing Burr and supporting Lewis for the office.  Again, Hamilton's cunning proved successful, as Lewis beat Burr in the general election for the Governor's seat of New York.

The last straw in their bitter rivalry was a letter written by Charles Cooper, a Democratic-Republican who had attended a dinner party featuring Hamilton, conveying all the harsh words Hamilton had spoke in regards to Burr.  The letter, originally written to Hamilton's father-in-law and current New York Senator Philip Schuyler, made its way into Burr's hands via a leaked publication in The New York Times.  Aaron Burr sent a formal challenge to Alexander Hamilton, who accepted.

In issuing a duel challenge to an opponent, the challenger does so for feeling that his honor has been unjustly taken by the challenged, in an attempt to regain their honor.  The general rules for dueling state that the challenger may discontinue the duel if he feels his honor has been returned, or the challenged surrenders and thus honors the challenger by dishonoring himself. Duels can be to first blood, or to the death.  Some are fought after each party, backs facing each-other, take an even number of steps before turning and firing.  Others are done with both parties a far distance from each-other, in which they take turns firing a single shot. Burr and Hamilton agreed on the latter. 

Each dueler brings with them a "second", whose task it is to make sure both parties are on level fields and that neither fires prematurely.  Burr's was William van Ness; Hamilton's was Judge Nathaniel Pendleton.  Both agreed to travel via rowboat from Manhattan to a specific spot in New Jersey on the morning of July 11th, 1804.  Hamilton, being the accepted challenger as per dueling rules, chose the duel formations.  Arranged so that either second would not be legally accountable, the duel was conducted with the seconds looking away as to claim plausible deniability.

After one of the seconds announces "present", the duel began, with Hamilton taking the first shot.  Custom during a duel is the act of 'deloping' in which the duelist fires a shot at the ground before his opponent's feet, as a sign of courageous and respectful surrender for reasons of avoiding murder or acknowledgment of a superior skilled opponent.  Hamilton's shot missed Burr completely, flying far above his head.  Burr, seeing the shot fired in his direction and hearing the bullet flying past, in turn mortally shot Hamilton.  After being taken by Judge Pendleton to a house off the Manhattan shore, Hamilton died the next day.

Burr was charged with murder in both New York and New Jersey, but was acquitted in both instances. After fleeing to South Carolina, he returned to Washington D.C. a few months later to finish the remainder of his term as Vice-President.  His political career tarnished beyond salvageability, Burr went into a self-imposed exile to Europe before finally returning to New York some years prior to his death in 1836.  The famous incident was the main catalyst for the nationwide outlaw of dueling.  And perhaps the most earth-shattering result of the duel was the effective destruction of the Federalist party, as after the death of George Washington a few years prior, Hamilton was the only strong leader left in an otherwise fledgling party.  Without Hamilton's charisma, the Party soon ceased to exist.

Historians tend to argue about who really fired the first shot.  Either Hamilton deloped to Burr, or Hamilton's airball shot was in response to being shot himself by Burr, the only thing that is agreed upon was the time between the two shots fired, generally believed to be between two and there seconds.

Interesting is how civilized a formal duel to the death between two enemies really was, and while Burr was shunned for the practice (no doubt losing what honor remained in his attempt to regain that very honor!) he suffered no legal retaliation.  Consider it in context: just more than two hundred years ago the Secretary of the Treasury accepted the challenge of his arch-rival, the sitting Vice-President, in a duel to the death.  Now consider the same situation in a contemporary setting.  It's hard to imagine either perpetrator able to "quietly flee to South Carolina."

Also of note are the individuals involved in the duel and their resulting place in history - the Vice-President, man who "won" his honor back by killing the Treasurer, more or less faded into historical obscurity, remembered mostly for the duel, while his arch-rival, the "loser" who died, is the one we all know and remember.  Perhaps sometimes the initial victor isn't always the winner.  Next time you have a $10 bill, take a look at it and know what I mean.

Smoking a Joint With My Pal Willie Nelson

I could ramble on and on about how lucky I am to have seen some of my favorite musical artists live in concert.  And that's exactly what I'm going to do here today.

The first real concert I ever went to was freshman year of High School at whatever used to be Mazottis on the Plaza downtown Arcata.  It was Dick Dale, the King of Surf Guitar. And it rocked. I remembered at the time I was failing math, and we'd just gotten our mid-term report card, which was a nice assortment of D's and F's.  The teacher, an uberbitch by the name of Ms Walsh, told us we'd get extra credit if our parents signed off our report cards.  So that night I had Dick Dale sign my F report card.  Dammit I wish I still had that report card...

And it was a great concert. I don't think I'd ever heard music that loud before. I remembered loving the way the floor resonated the heavy bass, and the reverb was cranked up so loud that it was piercing my skull, but the riffs were so badass; I loved it!

For my 17th birthday (maybe 16th), I went with my friend Devon down to San Francisco to see Joe Strummer and the Mescaleros at the Fillmore. This concert I will never forget.  From the opening number "Cool'n'Out" to his closing encore of the Ramones' classic "Blitzkrieg Bop", I was in a state of ecstasy. Hearing classic Clash tunes like "Rudie Can't Fail", "Police and Thieves", "Bankrobber", "White Man in Hammersmith Palais", and even "Rock the Casbah" from the man who originally wrote and sung them was amazing. Such good showmanship, and an amazingly talented backing band. After the show he even hung out outside to chum it up with his fans. What an amazing person. Just a few months later he died of a heart attack, so it is with bittersweet content that I was able to see him perform live before he passed on. RIP Joe, you've always been an inspiration to me, and no single figure in music has ever influenced me as much as you.

For my 18th birthday my sister and I met up again in the Bay Area, this time in Mountain View for the "Area2" concert, featuring David Bowie and Moby (not to mention Blue Man Group and Busta Rhymes; what an eclectic lineup!). I like Moby, and I've always respected his music, even if he is a douchebag. Suffice it to say, David Bowie was the real reason I went. Moby was just a bonus.

Bowie, opening his set with his classic "Ashes to Ashes", was amazing in concert, all through "Ziggy Stardust" as the closing number.  Assorted somewhere in between we had "Let's Dance", "Changes", "I'm Afriad of Americans", "The Man Who Sold The World", and more if I could only remember them.  My only real problem with the show was it was in the Shoreline Amphitheater which is about as impersonal as seeing a show at Shea Stadium or Madison Square Garden.  And unfortunately I didn't learn my lesson that time, as a few years later I saw another stadium show. More on that soon...

Then there was a trip up to Portland (pre-relocation) to see The Reverend Horton Heat at the Roseland with my buddy Jay.  This show was a little hazy... I remember the Rev doing classics like "Psychobilly Freakout", "Bales of Cocaine", "Big Red Rocket of Love", and "It's Martini Time", but I also remember feeling a little bit disappointed by his live show.  That's not to say I won't see him when he comes to HSU next February - quite the contrary, expect to see me there! It was just a little less energetic than you might expect after listening to his frantic, maniacal rockabilly for so many years. It was still an awesome show - The Reverend is an amazing guitarist and has great stage presence.  It was worth the price of admission just to see his flaming Gretch and awesome three-piece red suit.

While on the subject of the Roseland, there were many other bands I saw perform there. Ironically, most of them I saw when I was visiting Portland. I think I only saw one show in the two-plus years I lived there. The first was The Hives, which I shouldn't even have to explain as being an amazingly fun and energetic live show. Quite possibly the most *fun* I ever had at a show.  Any band that performs kick-ass rock while stage diving and sissor-kicking has gotta get good props in my book.  It was also quite possibly the "highest" I've ever felt after seeing a live performance.

Then there was Belle and Sebastian, also at the Roseland, maybe two years later (?).  And I have to say I enjoyed that concert more than any other.  Such a fantastic musical ensemble, and great charisma on stage.  In fact, my only gripe about the show was the people in the audience.  I remember thinking it was almost like a joke... "I haven't seen this many hipsters outside of a Belle and Sebastian concert... oh wait." But it was a terrific setlist, playing almost half of the songs off their first (and best) two albums, "Tigermilk" and "If You're Feeling Sinister".

Also worth a quick note was The Eagles of Death Metal at the Roseland.  While they were just the opening act for Joan Jett, all we really cared about seeing were the Eagles.  I remember Throw Rag was opening too, but we missed them.  I'd seen Throw Rag open for Flogging Molly at HSU a few years back, and they completely stole the show from Flogging Molly.  The only time the opening band ended up upstaging the headliner.  Throw Rag, for the record, is also opening for The Reverend Horton Heat playing at HSU early next year. Cha-ching!!

A few years back for my 20th (I think) birthday, I flew out to Chicago to spend a couple weeks with my old friend Max. Megadeth was playing Gigantour with Dream Theater and Anthrax, so obviously I made sure my vacation coincided with the tour dates.  Needless to say, Megadeth kicked some serious fucking ass!  Pyrotechnics up the wazoo and guitar solos once every five seconds, it was awesome!  Quite the polar opposite of seeing Belle and Sebastian in a small venue.  It was right after they'd released "The System Has Failed", which was hailed as Dave Mustaine and Megadeth's comeback album, so they opened the set with "Blackmail the Universe".  From that all the way through to the third encore of "Peace Sells" I was in metal heaven.

But let us not forget about the lesson I thought I'd learned after seeing David Bowie - stadium shows aren't nearly as fun!  If I could only see Megadeth at a nice small venue, like the Roseland, it would be the perfect gig.... So last September, while still living in Portland, being the trendy fuck that I am, drinking my frappachino, smoking a cigarette and reading the Wilamette Weekly, low and behold what do I see - "MEGADETH - LIVE AT THE ROSELAND - SEPTEMBER 10TH". Oh...my...God!!!

Going to the gig might've ultimately gotten me fired (for the first time) from Uhaul (no-call no-show from being drunk, hungover, and so sore I could barely move the next day), but I didn't matter. For those 17 or 18 songs that Megadeth played, by God nothing else mattered (Metallica reference fully intended).  From "Sleepwalker" to "Take No Prisoners" to "In My Darkest Hour" to "Hanger 18" to "Tornado of Souls" to "Wake Up Dead" to "Holy Wars"... oh my Lordy-Lord live music simply doesn't get more aggressive, dangerous and fun.  Punk-rock moshpits are like a toddler in daycare compared to the ultra-aggression of the pit at a Megadeth show.  Within ten seconds of the opening number I knew I had to take my glasses off, cuz they were already starting to fly.  At one point, during "Washington is Next" I believe, I turned to the guy next to me, who was holding his face in his hand, blood pouring out of his nose, kneeling down.  Because mosh pits are rarely about pure violence, they're about letting aggression out.  Whenever somebody falls over, a host of people go to pick him back up.  I made eye contact with the bleeding guy, and we both just started laughing and ramming into eachother.  It was a thing of beauty.  What a show!

And so here I sit, on the clock at work as always, reminiscing about all these past shows because tomorrow I am going to my first concert since that wonderful night last September.  Though again speaking of polar opposites, this one is about as far removed from the thrash of Megadeth as possible - we are speaking about the Willie Nelson show down in Piercy.  My father's band, The Delta Nationals, scored the spot for the opening act, which got me not only free tickets but a backstage pass.  I have infinite respect for Willie, as he is one of the few old-timer country boys that I really enjoy (along with The Man in Black, of course, and Hank Williams Sr.)

But more than anything else, I just want to meet him.  And smoke a joint with him.  And maybe update my MySpace profile with a picture of me and Willie.  And shake his hand, and bullshit with him for just a minute or two.  Maybe strum a chord or two on his acoustic guitar. Ask him if his Ben & Jerry's ice-cream flavor really is made of hashish and shredded tax returns.

Most importantly, I look forward to adding his name to my ever-growing eclectic list, which some day soon I hope includes the likes of Iggy Pop, The Ventures, and Bob Dylan.

Benjamin.

All Play and No Work Makes Benjamin a Fatass

Before I moved back to my hometown of Arcata from Portland, I knew that without much effort I could get a job at my local gas station/UHaul dealer (read previous post for more info on that monstrosity). I've been coming here since I was a little kid, and had actually been offered a job BEFORE I'd moved to Portland.  I'd always thought the gas station gig would be my dream dead-end job, as I called it.  The reason I didn't take it the first time around was the owner, my boss, had been selling my underage self beer and alcohol for over two years.  If I were to become employed, well I'm sure he would've figured it out in no time.

Fast forward about one year.  My first visit back to Arcata, I was already feeling homesick and seriously considering moving back.  So my first trip into the gas station here, I mucked it up with the owner, telling him how I ran a Uhaul center up in Portland, and that if I ever moved back he should give me a job.  He told me if I came back, come and talk to him and he'd find something for me.

Count it! Step one was already completed: I had a job lined up if I ever decided to move back. Obviously I also had a house to stay in (the parents) as well. When I finally decided to come back, I went and talked to the owner and got a job on the spot. It was beautiful, especially in a place like Arcata where the demand for jobs far outweighs the supply.

I knew what I was getting myself into in the first place. I knew it was a dead-end, minimum wage job, but that was what I wanted. I wanted a job that gave me the least amount of responsibility possible. As long as I was punctual and didn't call in sick too much, how could I possibly lose this job? I literally stand behind a counter for either six or eight hours a day, chumming it up with customers (which I am amazingly good at, read my Goebbels-inspired propaganda). I even bring in my laptop to surf the internet, and my guitar to work on new tunes I'm figuring out or writing. 

For the record, I am actually writing this very entry here at work, and I'm getting paid for every second of it. excersize

The problem is, now over two months into this job, I'm starting to miss the days of actually ACCOMPLISHING something when I'm at so-called "work". Not to mention myself being short on will power and being surrounded by soda, chips, candy, RedBulls, even the delicious Que Grande taco truck across the street, I can feel the pounds adding up. 

Not that I give two shits about how much I weigh, how I look or how unhealthy I am (average pack of cigarettes smoked in a shift: 1.2). I still feel almost guilty about it sometimes. Sleeping for 12 hours a day, "working" at a "job" where I eat candy and drink soda all day, and all the exercise I get is walking the block-and-a-half from home to work and back at night.

However, I cannot complain. For this is exactly what I wanted in a dead-end job. I don't like hard work, and I like soda! And I LOVE taking seventy-eight cigarette breaks a night. Not to mention the abundance of marijuana I am "tipped" every day. I actually weighed it all out a couple nights ago, and I have been "tipped" almost two full ounces. Mama-mia!

Those damn Salmon House kids and their fucking Brass Monkeys.

U-Haul, Your Moving Adventure

I've worked for U-Haul longer than any other employer in my life. Starting at a Center up in Portland, within a year I was runing the place and knew the many facets to the Company. One of the deciding factors in my move back to Arcata was the simplicity in getting a job. So now I work for the Gas 4 Less / Arcata Uhaul dealer.

U-Haul has been around for over 60 years. Starting out of his father-in-law's garage, L.S. Shoen built the first fleet of Uhaul trailers and franchised them out to local gas stations for in-town rentals. Slowly he built his empire, sending customers one-way to their destination with a free trailer in exchange for attempting to set up new dealers out-of-state. Within a few years he had indepedant dealers from Portland, Oregon all the way to Portland, Maine.

L.S. Shoen also had a complicated family life, including getting married six different times (twice to the same woman) and having a total of 13 children. UHaul was his legacy to give to his children, intrusting them all with certain percentages of the Company. In the end he left himself less than 3% control when his two middle-aged sons, Mark and Edward "Joe", manipulated the rest of the family in turning control over to them.

When Mark and Joe took over, their first order of business was to strip their father of all retirement and health benefits. They then split the shares in such a way as to cut off the rest of their siblings from voting control. After hiring their college frat buddies, Joe named himself CEO and Chairman of the Board, while Mark retained Vice-President status.

L.S. reunited the rest of his children in attempt to wrestle control of his company back from his sons. When that failed, they attempted litigation. After years in court, the Judge finally decreed that Joe Shoen had acted with malice and awarded the rest of the family over $1 billion in damages to be paid by Uhaul, Mark and Joe, and the Uhaul holding company of Amerco. This caused the Amerco bankruptcy in the late 90s, although Uhaul did come out intact.

A simple blog entry cannot do justice to the amazing story of greed, intimidation, and murder of Mark and especially Joe Shoen on their way into power. And yes, I did throw murder in there, but a transient was convicted of the crimes. As much as I hate my "boss" Joe Shoen, I have to give him credit for a few things, most notably to be a good businessman you have to be cut-throat and unflinching.

A couple times he was planning to come and visit the centers I had been working at, but after finding out so much dirt about our CEO I specifically reqeusted the days off. I'd just read an unflattering portrait of my boss, one of the richest and most corrupt businessman in modern times, and now I'm supposed to suck up to him and kiss his ass? No, I don't think so. If anything, I was going to ask him if he really was going to kill "the Bitch" stepmom that one night he waited in the shadows of her bedroom with a handgun. Or maybe about the time that him and Harry deShong blackmailed a former co-worker at gunpoint in front of his family.

Not to say you shouldn't use Uhaul, after all they are the cheapest and most convenient of all the DIY-movers. Many people have bad experiences with them, most regarding falty equipment, poor customer service, or unhonored reservations. These I won't defend.

I really shouldn't've started this blog about Uhaul, cuz theres so much more to write but laziness on my part means I won't ever finish it. So, oh well...

My Propaganda Would Impress Doctor Goebbels

One of my favorite television shows growing up had to be Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. It was one of the first shows I watched that featuring long-running story arcs and ensemble cast of characters. The power in the show, however, had to be the consistently top-notch writing and characterization of these 30+ characters. The apex of those characters, in my humble opinion, must be one Elim Garak.

A Cardassian born into the power family of Enabrin Tain, Garak quickly worked up the ranks of Cardassia's intelligence agency - The Obsidian Order.  At a young age he learned the power of the lie and, more importantly, the power of the truth that no one knows. In one of his lunch dates with Doctor Bashir (which were always an arena of lies and deception), when asked why he consistently lies, Garak responds, "Well, the truth is usually just an excuse for lack of imagination."

Over the years I have taken that quote and made it my own. While not trying to emulate my fictional friend Garak, I do see the methods to his madness. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction, but a lie is always more entertaining. At least for directionless automatons such as myself. When presented with even the most simplistic of questions, for example, "what did you do today?", a lie is always infinitely more interesting than the truth.

I have a shit job at a gas station, where I sell cigarettes, beer and gas to the hippies and drunks of Arcata. I've gotten to know the customers somewhat well over the last few months, and with my amazing ability to get along with just about everyone on the planet my customers are no different.

I have seeded myself out in bits and pieces to all my customers wth whom I regularly shoot the shit.  Each one has heard a different story about me. Some I've told the truth to, but most of them I lie to make them feel more comfortable and make me seem like one of their brethren. If you step into my store with jeans, a denim jacket, and a "Member of the Savage Nation" hat I'm going to tell you about my time living in Coos Bay, Oregon, where I worked as a mechanic at a service station. If you're one of the hippies, well, I was born and raised here, and I only got this gas station job because my trimming job fell through. And if you're a hipster, well, I'll probably tell you the truth, except that I love Bright Eyes and Saves The Day.

Today has been the most "real" day with the customers because for the first time I wore my Megadeth - Rust In Peace t-shirt (of which I'm sure I'll write a blog entry on at some point), and to my surprise a good quarter of the customers have started some thrash-related discussion with me, whether it be about the time one of them ran into Marty Friedman in the mall, or how insane the guitar work on Hanger 18 is.

Because genuine enthusiasm is so hard to differentiate from my white lies or even my full blown delusions, nobody REALLY knows me. I'm not saying that in your typical angst-ridden "nobody understands me!" sort of way, I'm saying that because everyone who thinks they know me just knows what I want them to think they know about me. Understand? I don't really care if you do or don't, because anyone reading this probably already knows the REAL me, at least the parts I want them to know about.

So why such a complex web of lies? Well, it's like Garak said, "Lying is like any other skill, and if you want to maintain it at a level of excellence you must practice." It's so maybe when somebody I do care about asks me what I've been doing, I will have a better answer than just, "eh, same old shit." Because, after all, it's always going to be the same old shit.

The Devirginization of an Internet Blogger

They told me everyone was doing it. They told me if I wanted to be "cool" I had to participate. They told me it was fun and painless. They were wrong.

So now, here I am, stuck here, writing futile blogs that nobody is ever going to read. This could be my last entry, or it could be the first of hundreds. Who knows. I'll probably blog about everything from random thoughts to music to daily events to political issues to historical biographies to downright lies. It will be your job to sort through the entries and find the truth. 

Later today I might write a full entry, but it could take a while. After all, the six hours that I will be at work has to be passed somehow, right?

Benjamin