Happy New Weird

 

I'm dying of thirst with a drink in my hand Praying for something that I don't understand One foot on the gravel, one foot in the sky Too reckless to live and too careful to die

When the moment has passed With death at the door Will I still look for answers Will I still beg for more? Will I slip into silence or ride with the pain Where only the strange remain-----Robert Hunter (Grateful Dead)

December 29th, 2000.........'Fuck. Fuck! Fuck!! Not the fuck again! Goddamnit! Waking up in county jail and hung the fuck over. Son of a motherfuckin' bitch! I can't believe this shit. Alright, think damnit. What did I do? Aw, fuck. Sabrina. That's right! Different girl but same goddamn reason as before too and this time it was my fault. I remember, now. Christ, I gotta get the fuck outta here and talk to her! Motherfucker!!'

These were the first words to violently erupt in my throbbing head after sluggishly pulling my seemingly 500 pound alcohol ravaged body up off a cold metal jail bench in downtown San Diego. I thought I was out of the mindset but I guess I had one more final act of foolishness before getting it fucking straight. Domestic dispute. Goddamn. That's the kind of shit you see on the Jerry Springer show or imagine happening in some trailer park ghetto in Florida. It's something you get out of your system as a teen, not as a 33 year old who is supposed have his shit together. Once again, I've become a character I've previously made fun of. I looked down at my wrist and noticed a blue band with some numbers and a large "F" marked on it.

"Bro, what's this "F" mean on my wrist?" I asked one of my fellow cell goons.

"Means yer fucked! Means you have a felony. Same difference yo."

"A felony! But I just pushed her and the neighbors called the police!" I pleaded feebly.

"Don't matter yo. You touched her, das it. You'll be doin' a year of programs and shit. O.J. done fucked it up for everybody, yo. You may even get time. Depends on the judge, dog. I mean, you probly be aw-ite. Just don't talk to her when you get out. Dat's when you'll really get fucked!"

"FUCK!!!"

I gave a proper display of angery energy in the cell but it quickly fizzled and transformed into an introverted mental tragedy. It was one of those, "I just ruined my whole fucking life" type depressions. I wanted to die. If I was alone in my cell, I would have cried my ass off so instead, when no one was looking, I let a tear or two out at a time sinking my head into my hands pretending I was tired. Among the obvious fact that I was stuck in jail with no bail, I realized that I had lost my girlfriend I met 8 years before and I had no job, no money, no sleep, no where to live and go to sleep, an evil pulsating bastard bitch of a hangover and no dignity left whatsoever. If I was just here on a drunk and disorderly charge, I would've probably enjoyed the experience in some twisted way that I usually do but losing Sabrina was the clincher. It was too fucking much. So to keep my over-dramatic ass alive with some dull glimmer of hope, I held on to the idea that everything would work out with her. I also did what most any man would do when left with no where else to turn--I called my mommy.

After 18 hours of misery, boredom, and bologna sandwiches, I was finally released after giving up the agreed upon bribe (I believe the system calls it bail) in the amount of $1500 of my moms hard earned money--another slab of guilt I would have to carry indefinitely. The only thing I got out of the deal was some jail sandals that I inadvertantly forgot to give back when getting my street clothes returned to me in the final check out room.

Outside, I waited for my savior and friend, Jason, to pick me up in his truck. My eyes were swollen, my head was beyond hazy, and I remember the blinding light that was reflecting off of metal and glass from the vehicles that were moving around the city. Even the sun was evil. Jason arrived, I told him the details (what I could remember of the details) and we headed to the pier in Ocean Beach.

I remember walking and crying in front of my friend. I also recall something that I'll never forget and it happened right when Jason was saying to me, "Dude. You know how you feel right now, right? That shitty feeling you got right now? How everything looks--the pier, the people on the pier, the water--how it's all negative? Well, man, as bad as you feel now, you know deep down that you'll be looking at this same pier, these same people, this same ocean and you'll be smiling again. So just wait out those feelings and don't act on them right now. You know this is true."

At this moment I noticed rainbows forming from the mist of the breaking waves which being on this pier every day for a year I've never seen or more correctly put never chose to see before. Now, I know, to some of you readers (or maybe I'm just speaking for myself) that this may sound a little too happy and gay with the rainbows an' all but when you're down, I mean really fucking down, corny or not, you'll take it. It's funny. When I'm "up", I could be a most cocky and arrogant bastard but when I'm "down" I suddenly become humble like Gandhi and I see beauty all around me.You could spend half your life like I did putting up that front of toughness but if you can't lower your guard and acknowledge insightful moments like this that have such incredible timing and meaning and beauty in whatever darkness you're in, then your struggle and your pain don't mean shit. If you don't feel anything, then you should really worry because it means your too damaged or flat out too fuckin' stupid to the point where you're desensitized to your own priceless emotions. You're not "hard" like you try to tell yourself. You're defeated. I know this.

For me there was a boon, a reward behind the filth of my negativity and this reward was compassion in all its power. There are jewels in life, jewels everywhere but some of these jewels can only be retrieved out of the mud. No where else. Look at it, feel it, smell it and taste it because your dirt is the most valuable thing that you need to own and after an upcoming New Years weekend of total insanity, it took a fucked up and bizzare 2 days of subconscious potent magic before I finally got it.

                           ------------------------

New Years Eve, Dec. 31st, 2000........."Best night of the year it is. Big money out there coach. Big night!" Yea, who the fuck cares you hairy bastard, I thought. Talk shop to somebody else, you cunt. Can't you see I'm fuckin' miserable--or is that why you want the company. Why the fuck are all cabbies dirty and hairy. Damn! I've been driving a cab for 3 fuckin' wacked out years, get the fuck out of my face you burnt out loser. I don't care anymore!

Normally I'd be excited to work on New Years Eve. Shit, a couple of years ago in Portland I made $440 and another $100 or so selling shots of tequila and Captain Morgan's rum out of my cab. I served the shots with one hand and drove the beat up Chevy Caprice with the other, laughing and singing. Not this year though. All my bullshit had caught up with me, fueling my new and improved personal apocalypse. I've had others but this was the big one, the "big night" as my pigsty of a cabbie co-worker proudly stated.

After rotting in the taxi lot for 2 or 3 hours, I was still in line for a yellow cab. I couldn't fucking take it anymore! I was overly absorbed and obsessively focused on losing Sabrina. It was all I could think about. The zombies waiting with me in the cab lot shack were the icing on the cake. I kept torturing myself by comparing their ugliness to her beauty. 'So instead of being in bed with a loving and hot Nubian Princess, I get to be shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of fat, hairy, jaded, cancerous lung infected because they all smoke too goddamn much, lowlife cabbies', I bitched to myself. And who the fuck was I to judge? After all, I was becoming them. Shit, man, I was becoming worse! I might have been able to deal with this whole situation much better had it not been the straw that broke my back in a long series of stacked up failures. My tolerance was spent and my guardian angels were on strike!

I made several calls from the cab lot asking my "detective" friends if Sabrina was willing to talk to me yet. I got my neighbor Andy on the phone.

"Dude, I know you want to hear that she wants to talk to you but she's still upset and pissed and bro don't try to come over here because yesterday there were a lot of cops checking in, back and forth all fuckin' day. When does your no-contact order end?"

"Tuesday, the 2nd. Fuck it! I can't work right now man. Come get me up outta here!"

"Cool. Just come to San Francisco with us man. We're gonna party our asses off an' shit. Just chill out and smoke some bowls on the way up. Patrick's driving and we're picking up Nathan there at the airport. You got to get the fuck out of town, man. Get your mind off it and smoke some dank."

"Partying is the last fuckin' thing I need right now, man, but if I stay here any longer I'm gonna take out this whole fucking lot! I wanna kill these dirty motherfuckers down here!"

"Who?"

"Nevermind, man, I'm just fuckin' losing it. Just come get me but I can't be drinking or doing any other shit right now, alright."

"Uh...ok, just give us like 30 minutes, ok?"

I waited outside the lot and leaned up against a fence that supprted my body upright while I vomited. It was drizzling outside, of course. A rarity for San Diego but given my current state, it would've almost been out of place for it not to be. I threw up not only a collage of undigested food, but chunks of my endless anxiety and searing depression as well. After the food was expelled, came the dry heaves and the tears. If I had a gun on me at that moment, there's no question I would've pointed it at my bald fuckin' head. No question. I was about as miserable as they come. Everything happened in such a poetically fucked up way that it all seemed too impossible to be real. How in God's green earth can everything be so perfectly wrong at precisely the same focused moment. It was the end--no hope, game over.

Now, I know others have had it worse (war vets, prisoners, people starving in 3rd world countries, amongst others) and sometimes looking back I feel a little stupid or even guilty for feeling so bad and considering suicide but it's all relative and fuck, man, it was how I felt! I survived. Hell, I should be grateful after all the shit I've been through that I can still feel at all. Like I've said before, being numb to yourself isn't a sign of strength nor does it work, at least not for me. I let it all hang out. It's like an orgasm almost. Fuck it. Fuck it all!

My friends showed up and I was a pathetic wreck. I was all tears, boogers, dried yak and cuss words. Slouched over, I stumbled to the car, opened the door and fell face down onto the back seat.

"Dude, you look fucked! We're here for you brother. What's up!?"

"Everything's all fucked up, Patrick. Just take me over to the apartment. I gotta talk to her. Cops or not I gotta fuckin' talk to her!"

"Adam, that's not a good idea. I know you're not yourself right now and sorry dude but for your own fuckin' good we're kidnapping your ass and getting on highway 5 to Frisco right now, bro!"

"Fuck that! Take me there right fuckin now, dude. I ain't playin'!"

This went on for a bit. I even threatened to beat the shit out of both of them, if I recall. Andy, being a bit meak and scared to death of physical violence was shaky and nervous. Patrick, knowing me a little better, held his ground and bet on me coming to my senses. I ranted and raved, screamed and cried but in the end I realized how foolish and illegal it would've been to try to see Sabrina at that moment. Who knows what could've happened. Patrick was right and so was Andy, as stoned as he was.

Andy. We ended up being enemies a couple months later after he stole some weed from me but what a character. He was in his early-to-mid thirties and a dissertation away from getting his Ph.D. in psychology. He could've actually obtained it at any time, I believe, but then he wouldn't be able to smoke his $2-300 worth of marijuana per week. You know, I've never thought weed was bad or ever a problem for people. In fact it has many therapeutic qualities when done in moderate to even above moderate amounts but after watching Andy's pathetic display of gluttonous inhaling, I began to wonder. He literally smoked about 20-30 bong hits a day that I knew of and this was of the good shit. I've seen him wake up in the morning and within 15-20 seconds flat, snatch the bong from amongst an entourage of pot related paraphernalia on his coffee table and suck down a record breaking hit or five.

When letting out his monster puff, he would make a strange moose call sound, drool and cough up some foreign brown phlegm and continue to hold on to the bong with his dry chapped wrinkled knuckles and clammy palms preparing for the next hit. A giant mound of hocker saturated tissues was a permanent sight in his apartment. He was one gross motherfucker when he smoked! He had some weasel-like characteristics as well. He'd try to use the lame psychological techniques he learned in college to get in peoples heads and to get ugly, disgusting women in bed. On halloween he dressed as a sado-masochistic hillbilly lunatic serial killing gimp--this was the real Andy. Insane.

Patrick, "the coyote", I call him, was born outside of Madison and though donning long hair and a light beard to support his Wisconsin woodsy look, he was definitely too intelligent to be considered any kind of hick from the sticks. He read a lot of books on American Indians and had admired their ways and with this and his good looks, Patrick brought an earthy friendliness with him though he was hardly to be characterized by these traits alone. Patrick was a bit of a shapeshifter--a chameleon, if you will. He could fit in with your common backwoods redneck but he could also fair well in the hipster city scene if he chose. He liked to partner up and focus on one significant other whether it be a close male friend or a female lover. Some of my friends and other people around Patrick tell me they get a feeling of deception off of him or that he may be harboring some kind of selfish hidden agenda that they can't quite pinpoint. I don't know. I guess they didn't appreciate his chameleon-like versatility like I did and seen it as being two-faced. To me, he was confident, honest, and pleasant on a good day but on a bad day or if you were the wrong person, he could be a bit more deceptive, hence the nick-name, "coyote", the sly and cunning coyote.

One quality that I liked about Patrick was that he could hold his booze and drugs properly without losing his base or freaking out. This is an important virtue to have in our modern society. We bonded one night while drinking some of Andy's moonshine (where Andy obtained it in the city, I'll never know). After forcing down several shots, Patrick and I commenced to take turns punching each other in the face for funsies. It was a good laugh until we woke up the next day with sore jaws and hang-overs.

Outside of our hedonistic party friendship, we also liked to hang at a local coffee shop and discuss various schools of knowledge and books that we had in common, particularly the Carlos Castaneda series.

Heading up highway 5 north, I slowly settled down with each passing mile, still nervous and miserable but in control, at least. Patrick and Andy were playing their favorite Grateful Dead cd and I explained to them that just because I enjoyed the "Deadhead" type of drugs doesn't at all mean that I liked the music. In fact, I found it quite boring and couldn't understand how something so bland could be matched up with something so exciting like hallucinogenics.

I kept my options and mind open enough to enjoy a song called, "Terrapin". My friends explained to me that Terrapin was literally a name for a turtle but symbolically is a place or city that is surrounded by a large terrarium bubble similar looking to a turtle's shell. According to them, it was a type of utopia, a place where everything is alright--a place where you reconnect with all your friends after death. The roundness of a turtle shell represents the heavens and the vast universe yet the turtle is also very slow and grounded thus representing the Earth. The turtle is also a symbol of longevity and protection. I appreciated the idea of "Terrapin" and we all agreed to meet there, at least for a moment, after this life was finished.

As soon as we retrieved Nathan from the airport (whose lazy ass took a plane instead of riding with us), the night was on. Nathan, who I met about 9 months previous, was a very cool chinese cat and with his extreme ethnic look, you would have never guessed he was as American as any of us. He had no accent and spoke with a surprisingly deep tone for his small stature. It took Nate a couple months after our initial meeting to want to hang with me as a friend. I assume this was because the first night I met him I told him that I thought he'd look good in a dress and being the Lesbian that I am (trapped in a man's body), I was too big and manly, myself, to look like anything more than a brute in womens' clothing so I was a little jealous. I mean, I wasn't being a smart ass towards him, I just think all orientals look a bit feminine and...well, ok, fine, I was drunk when I said this to him but, shit, the dude had a thin Asian body and high cheekbones, not to mention a little girlie ass that...alright, I was tanked, twisted, perverted and made an ass of myself as usual. It happens to the best of us.

Anyway, I guess I can't blame Nate for being a bit apprehensive. I mean, If you were a man pushing 120 lbs. compared to some 235 lb. big bald guy telling you he thinks you'd look good in a dress, you'd probably shy away too if you were straight. That or run to the fucking hills. (I still think he'd look good in a dress though). Patrick and I had an ongoing joke that if Nathan was a girl or if we had life sentences in prison, we'd both fuck him. Nathan had different ideas and was far from a girl. Women loved him, loved to be around him, and felt free to give him plenty of public attention (they must've been Lesbians too!). Nathan, from my "sober" perspective, was a fun-loving, light-hearted, laid back guy whose ultimate mission in life seemed to be simply to enjoy and experience it with those around him. He was very fluid and could move in and out of many types of personality groupings and became a very welcomed addition and needed spiritual asset to our trip to Northern California...with or without a dress.

In somewhat of a trade for not having any money, I offered to be the designated driver once everyone else got all fucked up. I wanted to stay clean and sober for the trip anyway. My offer was taken by the crew as a giant green light to getting as wasted, baked, fried, drunk and twisted as they possibly could. 4 fools and no rules--as long as I was driving. Bowls of weed were lit at a steadfast rate. As the car filled with pot smoke and laughter we approached the Oakland arena where apparently we were going to see George Clinton & The P-funk Allstars ("Do you wanna get funked up! Everybody get funked up!") along with The Other Ones, which were basically the Grateful Dead minus the late Jerry Garcia. We approached the parking lot and it didn't take but a few minutes for my comrades to hook up with some liquid LSD.

Patrick and Nathan purchased it at a humble price from a friendly hippy who gladly dropped 4 or 5 hits onto each of their tongues. Andy took the last 3 drops and then, feeling shorted, proceeded to suck and chew apart the dropper that the acid came in. I assume he did the most, probably 5 or 6 hits after basically eating the LSD container. Though all three of them claimed the acid was super clean, I still chose to take none. I've taken plenty of acid before but I've never done as much as I saw them do. Apparently if it's liquid L, it's less processed and less likely to contain strychnine therefore the human body can handle it better than when taking it on a paper tab.

Whatever the case, it was strong as hell because as soon as my friends started to trip I felt an intense contact high. Contact high? With marijuana a contact high seems logically and scientifically possible with the lingering smoke in the air and all but how do you get a contact high with acid? It's kind of like how someone's energy can rub off on you depending on how much you hang together. As far as my situation was concerned, the energy rubbed off on me at an accelerated rate because of the drug in my friends' systems combined with the fact that, due to my present circumstances, my defenses were down leaving me vulnerable to outside energy. Scientifically speaking, for those who need this explanation, let's just say the acid changes your body and mind's electro-magnetic chemical rhythm and this emanates from your person to another person or people around you which, through the air can effect another's rhythm. With my friends surrounding me after ingesting a combined total of 13 or 14 hits, I eventually felt that I was fully tripping--guilt and money free!

As we closed in on the entrance to the arena we were offered some more party favors--marijuana peanut butter cups and goo goo balls, a marshmellow cannabis rice krispy treat. I ate both goodies but not enough to alter my already altered mind. It tasted good though. I was really hungry more than anything. Either way, my mood was strangely surreal, new and unfamiliar. I had entered previously unexplored mental territory. Successfully getting past the gatekeepers we entered the Oakland Arena. My three friends were amazingly balanced for all the drugs they were on. In fact, they seemed more "there". Andy in particular seemed more down to earth and stable (for awhile). Marijuana, beer, LSD, valium and, from out of nowhere, XTC were in their systems. Maybe it was a perfect combination where all the negative aspects of the drugs cancelled themselves out. Who knows. I think it was just the right night.

The energy inside the arena was so ultra-positive that even my spirits began to gradually lift. I was starting to feel a bit like I was missing the party, which was a good sign. Inside the main arena area, The Other Ones were playing. It was a hippy New Years. Besides my fondness of the my magical mushroom experiences, I wasn't really into the hippy or retro-hippy thing. I'd rather smell Mike Tyson's armpits than smell patchoulie. I took more of an interest when George Clinton's group of space funksters took the stage. I especially liked the guy whose only job was to dance around in a diaper on stage and act crazy. I could identify with that. As my friends and the various people around me were entering a drug-induced and otherwise blissful state, I once again began to sink inside myself. 'What did I have to deal with once I got back to San Diego', I thought to my self, 'jail, homelessness, a greyhound bus back to Wisconsin with my head down in failure?' I sank more. I felt I needed forgiveness but not in some lame christian way. I didn't know in what way. I didn't know much of anything at that moment.

I got up and stood in the aisle. I couldn't breathe and I had a pain in my chest and stomach. I still felt that I was tripping and triple checked my brain to make sure I didn't subconsciously take something along the way. I didn't. I just usually would. Then my heart started to hurt more and I thought maybe I was feeling strange because I was about to have a heart attack. Naw. It was just wishful, "poor me" type thinking. As I was standing on the stairs in the aisle, I witnessed my three partners morph, physically and mentally into their own archetypes for the evening. Nathan was hopping up the stairs smiling and twinkling. He turned into a stardust tossing pixie. Boy, if I could only be a small percentage of how happy he was I'd be alright, I thought.

I turned around and looked up the stairs and saw Patrick and Andy stairing at me with giant shit-eating grins on their faces. Patrick's archetype was God. He was wearing shiny blue, metallic-colored leather pants and a white and sky blue sweater. He also had blond hair and blue eyes to add to the affect. Andy was wearing a red and black shirt that had flames designed on it along with dark pants. His hair and his eyes were dark. He was the Devil, of course. They were standing on both sides of the aisle like pillars as I approached, placing myself in the middle of and between them, a few steps lower, awaiting my judgment.

Devil: "Hey, I just noticed somethin, uhugroowaa" (Andy adds a bit of a grunting moan type semi-laugh at the end of his sentences when he gets fucked up). Look at us. It's kinda like I'm the Devil with this flame shirt and shit and Patrick is God with his blue pants and cloud shirt an shit, uhgroowahuhh."

God: "Dude, I was just thinking the same thing! Plus I'm feelin' pretty heavenly right now anyway, heh heh. I'm definitely in the clouds, dog. I feel fucking great!"

"So what the hell am I? What does this make me? I mean, I can't take this shit no more, guys," I pleaded.

Devil: "Well, you're obviously the tormented soul, uuhhohgarouh."

Tormented Soul: "Yea, well I suppose I am, huh. Ok, then motherfucker, (looking up at Patrick) since you're God, forgive me for what happened and clear me of this bullshit. My guardian angels have given up and I can't live like this anymore!"

God: "I know and yes, you are forgiven my son."

Tormented Soul: "And you, ya rotten bastard. Stop making me do stupid shit or at least ease up on the temptations! Can you do that?"

Devil: "Well, normally when I grant a favor I usually need a soul in return but since it's New Years and I'm pretty fucked up and all, I guess I can ease up a little.....caught me on a good day you lucky fucker, ehewuuguueuh!"

Tormented Soul: "Alright then, I think I'll have a beer to celebrate."

I grabbed a beer--my first and only beer of the evening and sat back down in my seat. I noticed my chest felt normal again but my stomach had gotten worse. Our God meets the Devil moment made me feel better but I still wasn't out of the water. Something else needed to happen. Something personal. I had lost all sense of time but someone mentioned that midnite was approaching. That's right. It was New Year's Eve and we have that count down thing to do, I realized.

I then noticed the bands on stage were replaced by a theatrical gymnastic circus act. It was impressive to say the least. I remember colorful jesters hanging from the ceiling doing some kind of airborne dance to very cool music while some man on the floor was twirling a giant neon transparent cube frame.

Midnite was closing in and an amazing acrobat entered the show. Suspended from a rope attached to the arena ceiling, his display of aerial gymnastics were beyond my comprehension. He perfomed slow, controlled choreographed motions sometimes leaving himself completely parallel to the floor and perpendicular to the rope. He danced in the air without a mistake or a grimace--a humanoid symbolic of total perfection, in muscle and grace. He looked naked but he wasn't. His skin was powdered white along with whatever white briefs he was wearing. As a matter of fact he looked like a much better version of myself. He was bald and built like me but his aura was clean and tight. In my eyes, he symbolized the potential of my soul. Where I wanted to be and where I was at this moment..........."10".......were very polarized ..........."9"...........It tore me up inside ..........."8"..........to realize what I could be .........."7"..........but not be even close.........."6".........Aargh, my stomach!........."5".........my life, my stomach......."4"........god, I'm sick of it hurting......."3!"........sick of it all!....."2!!"...........sick of myself..."1!!!"

"HAPPY NEW YEARS!!!

New Year's Day, Jan. 1st, 2001.........White Balloons! Hundreds maybe even thousands of them fell from the ceiling and onto the crowd. I watched the white spheres glide downward as I clutched my stomach and moaned. The people on the arena floor began to ignite their lighters, exploding the balloons one by one as they came within flames reach.

And then something awesome happened! With the first few pops, my stomach jolted and released something! As the popping increased the pain in my stomach decreased. My empty wrenching stomach began to refill with vitality in direct proportion to every balloon that disappeared. They were like little positive energy balls disappearing and then reappearring in my stomach!

The logical and analytical part of my brain would've rejected what was happening and had it been at normal power levels, it would have done just this. My soul was allowed to breathe, for once, since my cerebral cortex was on a forced vacation. With the last pop of the last balloon my stomach, my body, my mind, everything became settled and clear!

Some strange ritual just happened and I wasn't even remotely aware of it until now. Now! For the first time in a long time, I was so "right now". I had a deep soulful hope and a certainty that I was ok, have always been ok, and will always be ok. I then had the epiphony that without what happened (jail, the break-up, the destitution, the pain, the confusion), I would not have just experienced what I needed to experience. I required to be almost completely destroyed in order to begin rebuilding myself. This is not the first time I had to "readjust" this way. Not everyone must learn like this in order to gain balance--only those who are as stubborn and as self-righteous as myself.

I was beat. The party in the arena would continue throughout the night but not for me. I left my friends and went to the car to rest and for the first time in days, I fell fast asleep. The sun was just about to come up when my sweet slumber was shortened with a bang on the window by an odd looking character.

"Hi."

"Who the fuck are you?" I said, not quite sure if the person looking at me was a guy or a girl. I thought getting the name would answer this question.

"Did you have fun tonight? Why were you in the car and not with your friends? Are you sad? You don't look so good."

"I don't look so good because I ain't so happy right now. What's your name?" I still couldn't tell if it was a boy or girl. Either way, he or she wasn't very attractive.

"I'm Happy!"

"That's nice. I'm unhappy. Now are you gonna tell me your name or not."

"My name is 'Happy'. What's yours? You look familiar."

"Your name is 'Happy'? Ok, Happy. My name is Scott. How are you doing. I'm sorry I was rude." I don't know why but I gave 'Happy' my legal birth name.

"Well, Scott, how about we go through "Scott's Valley" and go to "Happy Valley"!"

"Yea........right." Get away from me, I thought.

"No, I'm serious. I live in "Happy Valley". You have to go through "Scott's Valley" to get there. I need a ride home."

I ignored her as I watched my 3 friends approach the car. I then noticed that we were the only car left in the entire parking lot. My friends took great pride in this. All that remained was a street cleaning truck, a shitload of garbage on the concrete, and us twisted idiots--oh, yes and of course, 'Happy'.

"Only the strange remain motherfucker! Only the strange remain, uhhuoogrwuhh!", grunted one wasted, drooling fuck of an Andy.

"Wake up designated driver. We ain't done yet!"

"Alright, you wacked out bastards! Wherever the hell you want to go, I'll take you. I don't give a shit!"

"Hey have you met 'Happy'? He....uh, she....uh...Happy needs a ride home. S'that cool bro? She lives in Santa Cruz," said Nathan.

"Yea, man, might as well. Why not. I ain't got no where else to go." I really don't, I thought. I'm homeless, really. Well, Nathan's letting me stay with him for awhile but.....homeless? Hmm. For the first time in my life I liked that word. It sounded ok. It sounded like freedom. What an "I don't give a shit" life--homeless! Fuck, I must be tired, I rethought.

So off to Santa Cruz I go, subjected to a pavement glaring sunrise, Andy's booze breath and Happy's annoying gibberish. Happy must've thought he/she was artistic, "weird", and cool by talking in nonsensical random words. I wasn't impressed until Happy told me he/she remembered me in a past life in Egypt where we were both part of some Celestial Temple of some kind or another--It was hard to understand her in between her nonsense. Why does Egypt always come up when I'm on or near hallucinogenics! It never fails and I never plan it. At that moment, to my amazement, I spotted a sign that said, "Scott's Valley"! Damn! I thought the he-bitch was speaking metaphorically.

"I told you, you had to go through Scott's Valley," Happy bitched.

After an hour or more, Happy then decided to take us through a labrynth of winding, mountainous roads in the boonies somewhere. We were all beginning to decide that Happy was quite psychotic and lived nowhere. A verbal battle insued and I threatened to kick her/his ass out of the car.

"I liked you better in Egypt! Just let me out here!"

"Good fucking riddens you psycho, freaky, nonsensical................holy shit, you guys! Look!" As Happy ran out the door and pranced away forever we all looked up at the sign that we dropped Happy off under and the sign bluntly read, "Welcome to Happy Valley"! Amazing but not over. The string of sychronicities had one more for the finale. A few minutes earlier, through the random chatter of Happy, my friends were asking me how I was going to deal with the courts and if I was forsure going to jail. I told them that unless there's some kind of divine intervention or some way we could change the laws of the universe, then I'm going to go to jail at least for a little while. After Happy walked off and disappeared, we took a right into some random drive-way in order to turn around to head back to the highway. We looked up and saw another sign ..............................THE MYSTERY SPOT!!

Santa Cruz's Sensational Wonder in Wonderland ..."Within the Mystery Spot the laws of physics do not apply. It appears as though every law of gravitation has gone haywire, turned topsy-turvy and just doesn't make sense. Some unseen magnetism or phenomenon........", as stated in the brochure we collected. We had "accidentally" entered a rare vortex of physics where in an area of about 150 feet in diameter, there exists an exception to natural laws! I've heard of a few places like this on Earth and I know there's only a very small number of them. Acid or no acid, we all agreed that this was a most incredible coincidence/ sychronicity or whatever you may call it.

It was Magic with a capitol M and we all felt our journey was not without a gift. We decided that we had found something equivalent to Alladin's Lamp so we proceeded to each make a wish and share a warm can of budweiser, dumping a little bit on the ground as a gift to the gods of weirdness. Unbeknownst to my friends and myself, until this moment our weekend's ritual was concealed from us. Our foolish decadence was now showered with an assemblage of meaning. The ritual was a total success and I had dodged my fate and avoided tragedy once again. We were the perfect four--Patrick as Air, Andy as Fire, Nathan as Water, and myself, keeping everything stable being the designated driver and what not, as Earth. Happy was the 5th element--the Unknowable Spirit. To date, we still don't know if that freakshow was a fucking guy or a fucking girl! It pisses me off. Anyway, only the strange remain and we were off to L.A. Bowls, bowls, and more bowls. Fuckin' bowls!

"How the fuck can you guys smoke that much weed! Unbelievable!"

"Hey! That reminds me. I think we should smoke a bowl! Eeyuhhhahauuhgoo." Goddamn was Andy a wreck. He drank from Santa Cruz to L.A. and was still drinking and carrying on. The others were keeping pace but Andy was out of control. Psychologist?! Fuck. Hope not mine.

After getting pissed at Andy and his pukey beer stench, I told him that he was smelly and insane and needed to move to the other end of the passenger seat and out of my face. He grunted, giggled, slouched over and said,

"You know, you're actually right. Who you see right now is actually who I am. I'm insane. It's the only time I feel normal--when I'm insane, uuhgroohuooh! Now I think we should smoke another bowl!"

I forgave him or at least was more able to tolerate him as we approached Hollywood. Our first stop was the Greek Observatory.We checked it out, took a few deep breaths of fresh smog into our lungs and headed to the bars.

Everything was smooth as silk and clicking for us in Hollyweird. Nothing could touch us. Our momentum was too righteous. At the "Frolic Room", I made a call to Sabrina's neighbors (my ex-neighbors) and got good news. She was willing to talk to me. I was happy but not surprised. After what happened I already knew things would work out. I felt awesome and 100 pounds lighter than a few days ago.We galavanted around town, hopping from bar to bar and couldn't help but feel at ease wherever we ended up. Constant bowl packing of good ol' marijuana was the ongoing backdrop of the evening. Apparently my friends thought that marijuana had been made legal after I had become officially ordained as designated driver. Talk about a contact high!

The car was filled with smoke to the point where it actually became a safety hazard to my driving visibility. For that moment and for the entire evening the reality of law enforcement did not exist and if it did we were immune to it.

The last destination that I treated my friends to before ending our weekend of madness was Club 7969 formerly the infamous "Peanuts". It was basically a transexual/ transvestite whore house. Supposed straight men would go there looking for a chic with a dick. The club was filled with business men in suits and various shapes and sizes of exotic she-males.

Andy and I visited Peanuts on a previous Monday but it was a new site for Patrick and Nathan. It took them awhile to accept the fact that some of the hot women that they were turned on by were actually men .....well .....actually had penises. Patrick got a little freaked out and ended up talking to some regular gay men. I think he wanted to keep it separate as in, "ok, gay is here and straight is here and don't be mixin' shit!" The crossover confused him. Nathan found it amusing and said he'd gladly let a hot one blow him as long as she kept her clothes on and I didn't tell nobody. As far as I'm concerned, my history speaks for itself.

Now, Andy.....well, Andy was like a kid in a candy store! After dancing for about 2 hours with the local androgynous folk, the three of us, excluding Andy, had simultaneously hit our hell raising limit. With sixty some odd hours of straight debauchery combined with almost zero sleep, we were more than ready to leave, but the lecherous Andrew was nowhere to be found. While waiting for Andy outside the club, we witnessed a motley array of tranny hookers leaving with their evening's trick. Finally, our sociopathic cohort had appeared.

"Where the fuck were you!?" We all bitched.

"I just had to say my goodbyes," Andy said in a serious and careful tone which mean't there was something he did that he didn't think we'd approve of. Whatever he was trying to hide was all over his face in the form of lipstick smacks and glitter, not to mention his open zipper. Not a surprise for us though, par for the course and fuck it, we thought, we're outta here and we got our man so zip up your fuckin' pants comrade cuz we're goin' home--as soon as we smoke this one last bowl o' chronic! Bowls..............heh.........fuckin' bowls..............

My partners in crime were fast asleep and I was alone at the wheel driving in the hypnotic and placid darkness. I was glad everyone was finally out. It was so quiet and I was so grateful to be at ease. It felt nice to come back to myself--to come back to serenity. My eyes were getting heavy but my soul was light as I hummed the notes and whispered the only words I could remember from a new song that I had just heard in my recent torment..................

"Terrapin - I can't figure out.

Terrapin - if it's an end or the beginning.

Terrapin - but the train's got its brakes on and the whistle is screaming:

TERRAPIN!"

AA

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