Vaccinated

 

The streets of La La Land gleamed in the autumnal sun. It reminded me of one of those vivid nightmares Paxil users experience– a world lovingly cloaked in yellow fear. But this was no nightmare, and the feeling in the air was anything but pleasant as I drove down the avenue headed for Walmart for the entire street was blocked off by the electric company at work on the lines, so I had to do some slick negotiating to get my ass out of there.

Arriving at Walmart I realized a new power had taken hold; a power of time-travel, supported by modern-day medicine. Within the confines of the pharmacy, a pale-faced pharmacist in a crisp white lab coat presided over a pseudo-religious altar of vials containing the latest Covid drug; Moderna Spike Vax 306F34B.

“We have here the most potent Moderna drugs known to man,” he said, looking me square in the eye. “Which arm would like it injected into?”

His voice had the tone of one long accustomed to the grave implications of such a decision: a right arm for protection, a left for pleasure and gain. I chose the latter, without hesitation.

“Right on!” I replied, knowing that the injection of Moderna into my left arm may be the only thing standing between me and a hellish night in La La Land. He nodded approvingly and I felt his needle sink into my bone. The sensation was fleeting and unusually pleasurable, like a splash of 30 weight motor oil on a sweltering summer day.

When I returned home, I lit some incense to mark the occasion with an air of serenity. Little did I know that what lay ahead for La La Land would be far from tranquil– it was a journey that would both test my resolve and remind me of the power of modern medicine.

‘Well, it’s not your typical rolling adventure out here in L.A., let me tell you that much. I pull up to my abode, and sure enough, somebody thought they’d go ahead and make a mountain out of a molehill; my drive was completely closed off by some sort of construction work. I wasn’t in the mood to fight it, so I skulked about a bit until I found an opening to slip through, then took off on foot with my mongrel beast, heading straight for the nearest park.

Our five hours at the park came and went, and I felt no worse for wear, no wicked fever or dry heaves. Truly a blessing. As night began to settle in, I washed it all down with a healthy dose of vitamins, some Krill oil, and plenty of good ol’ H2O. Just another day in LaLa Land, nothing to write home about. At least no one was getting killed… this time.

Morning

 

The air was thick and wet in Los Angeles this Saturday morning. The sun had yet to rise, but still the city was buzzing, getting ready to come alive. I had ventured out to the compound at the crack of dawn, half expecting to be surprised by a gang of itinerants camped at the entrance. Though, I suppose I should feel lucky that I wasn’t. I’d managed to get my pressure reading, turn on the security system, and was now free to do whatever I pleased.

Video gaming was calling my name as I drifted away from the compound parking lot and headed home. I was looking forward to a lengthy stint of exploration and adventure. Starfield on the Xbox X is my drug of choice, and then I thought about running the Red Mile once more and perhaps I could convince Mei to marry me but I don’t think it’s in her algorithm to do so.

But, I couldn’t commit to one plan or another: my coffee was calling, too. Espresso, I thought, the perfect companion for such a solo Saturday. I had to concede that I was trying to put off my balcony vigil, scanning the morning horizon for something to define my day ahead. But I wasn’t naive; I knew exactly what I was looking for: a sign of the freedom I’d fought to find since I first arrived in this city. I’d done a lot of thinking over the past few months, wandering through the desert wastes in my quest to find it, but for now I was content to just sit and drink my coffee.

Any day spent seeking adventure, exploring alleys and avenues I’ve never seen, is certainly a day worth living in my book.

The Red Mile

Today was a cool one in Los Angeles. The air felt a bit different and we all knew what that meant – the original season of SoCal had begun. As me and my loyal four legged beast companion set out for a walk, an attractive young lady passed by. Exuding style and grace, her poise disapproved our presence and showed her overall distaste of men making small talk. As if she expected us to hop in the abyss of an awkward conversation that swallows all respect and common sense. For what it’s worth, neither me or my beast paid her any mind as we scurried to get our walk in.

Returning back home reeking of heat and sweat, we fired up the Xbox and embarked on Starfield, conquering Porrima III’s Red Mile. Despite our heroics, the only reward was a hearty pat on the back. Life goes on, they say. I then made the gravity jump to the Volii system and touched down on the planet Neon. Here I purchased a basic shipping crate for a modest price in which I now call home.

Tomorrow, believe it or not, will be another day in Los Angeles.

Sunday

Life is too short for anything else.

It was a Sunday morning in Los Angeles and I was ready to attempt to keep my sanity. Instead of waking up to sunshine and peaceful outdoor runs with my dog, I opened the door to find the sky pouring wet rain and a rose bush determined to make a meal out of my flesh. I shut the door and headed to the car, my dog barely noticing the weather as he hung his head out the window of the car.

Even though my arm was caked in thick blood, I decided to drive around the neighborhood streets for a bit. As we made our way around, we past by the local drug dealer, a long time fixture in these parts, with hair of electric blonde and cars that cost more than my life. I eventually realized that there was a better purpose of my day than getting infected by flesh eating bacteria. So I re-worked the plan and headed inside, cleaned and bandaged my wound, and got a steaming cup of caffeine for the inevitable. Then it was time to revamp the shit storm of a website I created all those years ago. Feeling drowsy but determined, I forced myself to focus so I can finally transform my masterpiece into a recognizable format.

As I pounded away at the Power Computer, I took a glance at the dismal electric bill taunting me from the corner of the room — seven-hundred dollars for one month? Los Angeles is one expensive town to inhabit and my AC had most certainly not done me any favours. I decided it was probably time to drink up, and consume some serious amounts of caffeine to reach a different, higher state of mind.

It’s only Sunday and I can already feel the financial obligations of life. $700 for the electric bill – and for what? Searing heat and no vacation to escape to? That’s when it really hits you: Life is too short to be anything less than yourself. It’s not all dynamic shades of unparalleled freedom however. I sit here mumbling some incantations and watching the gleaming rain pour from my windowpanes. The uncontrollable warmth of the sun begins to infiltrate my abode, and my electric bill is subject to the oppressive force. Time to drink coffee, perhaps I can take my already tenuous strength of spirit to a new height.

Devoid of traditional reassurances, I continue my day trying to revamp an old domain for the sake of creative liberation. This task had lingered unfinished in my backlog for several years. Chunks of software and defunct blogs, rambles of unimagined potential… it was time for the alchemical working to begin. But just as soon as it had started, the aching remembrance of my wound tugged at my mind. I wondered – how long will it take to heal? How will this affect my future endeavors? Time falls like rain, and I fall for the poetic lift. And soon I was engrossed in a void of all-encompassing chaos. A Monday would come soon enough.

Saturday

Things are bleak here in the city of Angels. Everywhere you look, you can see the visible signs of poverty and destitution; homeless people defecating on public property, drug dealers and dope fiends in local parks, and no one adhering to posted traffic laws–it’s anarchy and mayhem. One must navigate carefully, because if not you risk the danger of being a con artist’s mark or worse. Drugs and alcohol are almost required in order to blend in, along with a certain appearance of infirmity, this keeps the vultures off your back. So, I buy a bottle of whiskey and a pack of cigarettes and commence to walk the streets in an intentional stupor, fueling myself with drugs and alcohol to keep myself from looking like a healthy victim.

Yes, it’s a blazing hot day again here in Los Angeles, but if you’re not getting accosted by criminals in the streets, then you’re fair game for the religious cults’ propaganda and their false doctrine. Too bad if you’re not one of the 144,000, but you can find your way in if you knock on a few doors each week and try to convert the newbie marks.

I’m waking up now, coming to life from a dream and entering into a much more nightmarish reality, but it’s a reality I can and have learned to live with. There is a certain kind of beauty in the madness, and it’s something that I embrace, because it’s the only way I can survive. I deal with the darkness by converting it into light, and soon enough I’m playing my part in the grand scheme of things, and that’s how I live and survive in this cutthroat city.

Yes, it’s a typical Saturday in Los Angeles and I have to admit, even though I find it ordinary, I live and move and breathe in this nightmarish reality. Hobbling through, I use the same precautions as the day before and unfortunately will again tomorrow. It’s a dangerous and unpredictable existence, but it’s the one I call home.

Dad

I hear the faint sound of traffic rushing through the air as I sit here, my Maximus Colossal beer in hand. I let the beer wash over me and my memories of my father’s passing on 16 August 2018 flood my mind. I can’t help but remember how perfect 3:33pm was as the time he left us; in many ways it’s become a symbol of his passing and his spirit will remain for eternity at that time.

I take a loud sip of my beer and smile as I remember my father saying how crazy he thought Los Angeles was. He always referred to it as “La La Land”. There’s something special about this place. Even on days like this – scorching hot and humid – I can still find a moment of peace.

The sun is setting and I know it’s time for me to make my way downstairs and grab one last Maximus Colossal. I know I should feel some sort of guilt or shame for here I am, drinking and feeling no remorse. But I honestly don’t. It’s all too easy to throw myself over to the waves and see where they take me.

I stand and make my way to the door, ready to embrace whatever happens next. It might be good, might be bad, but I’m here and now and I’m ready to take it on. This ain’t no poem, no lyrical speech – it’s me, on a hot Friday night in La La Land. Waiting for whatever the future holds.

Xbox

Here I am, stuck in a city choking on the smog filled streets that birthed me. Nothing but strip malls and mid-90s architecture set the mood for a dank experience the hallmark of which follows me like a sixth sense no matter how hard I try to stay away. The asshole who lives behind me and only knows how to communicate via cursing and shouts only adds to my exasperation. I know he’s doing something illegal, but I’ll let him slide, if he ever seriously crosses me I’ll be sure to see that he’s busted.

The fire department down the street is the evidence that seals the deal in this no-win situation. They took it upon themselves to steal my company’s own fire hydrant and do what, sell it for scrap? If that isn’t utter irony I don’t know what is. It’s these types of situations that embody the type of world in which we live now. But every so often something appears in the corner of my vision that makes all this bullshit worth it. Whether its still being alive after barreling down the 710 corridor during rush hour, or when I’m good and drunk I’m hopscotching from one side of the street to the other like some sort of modern day Magellan as I march myself to the local Walmart. That’s what life’s all about for me, it all evens out eventually.

But then again, I wasn’t surprised when my Xbox Series X was pushed back yet again! After an already long wait of ten days, I was looking forward to finally receiving it today only to be disappointed once more. This isn’t even including considerations that one makes while day dreaming, like, is my Xbox sitting in some college frat house being used as an ashtray? Or perhaps in the hands of a Colombian drug cartel and is being used as a case for which to smuggle narcotics? Innocently delivered?! No, that can’t be, I can’t imagine my postal worker double-duty’ing as a drug mule.

Still the week wait looms and I’m stuck wondering just what my Xbox is doing now. Is it really coming on the 12th of September when they said it would? I don’t know, but until then I will have to content myself with the awareness that life’s a bitch and pass the time however I can. That, my friend, is reality.

Withdrawal

 

As I roamed around the hazy neon avenues and blazing metropolis of Los Angeles in the early days of the turn of the century, I was aware of the fact that I had been diagnosed as schizophrenic. I knew however that while some folks in the medical profession might have labeled me as such, such diagnosis was arbitrary and actually pretty useless. Subsequently I was prescribed a myriad of drugs to help keep my mental state stable and even regulate certain body functions; everything from mood altering medicine to a hefty dose of hallucinogens that were a licorice-scented joy.

This drug-induced state was often slightly agreeable, as I was able to drift off into chemically-induced trances and dream-like states of being. For me, it was like a mini-vacation from reality, and this mental escapism was something that I welcomed like an old friend time and time again.

As I continued my journey through the streets of Los Angeles, or wherever I stumbled, I was comforted knowing that many of its inhabitants, myself included, were medicating themselves madly and blindly in order to fight the psychological beast. There was a certain freedom found in the unknown, a resilience that carried me through to the other side of consciousness wherein I had full reign to explore the depths of my own paranoia and insanity. It seemed only natural that I was in the same position, on the same level as so many of those around me. After all, who was I to argue against the fact that most of the greater Los Angeles basin shared a similar diagnosis?

As I schlepped through the aisles of the local grocery and department stores, I hardly felt like I was shopping. It was almost like I had stepped into a parallel universe. I miss the endless summer days spent in the aisles of the local Target and Walmart stores, not knowing that I was about to discover an entirely new dimension. Much aimless wandering through the neon lit aisles with the muzak churning in the background. It was during this time that I somehow found myself befriended by an online group of Hackers residing in the Financial District of Lower Manhattan of New York City.  These were people who were heavily into the drug culture and they readily took me in as a kindred spirit and fellow Psychonaut. I found myself immersed into a subculture that revolved around the dark world of hacking, and the hypnotic hallucinogenic substances which littered the underbelly of society. Though I had no understanding of the intricacies of the so-called tech, I soon found myself inducted into a brotherhood of like-minded individuals that inhabited cyberspace like a secret society.

We all shared a common bond and discussed the minutiae of the hacker community with a fervor that only undertaking psychedelic journeys with obscure plants and chemicals could highlight. From the golden fins of opium to the sacred nectar of ayahuasca, our conversations revolved around out-of-this-world substances. Experiences could be had and shared on a deep level, bonding us together in a unique and almost mystic way. We filled the hours with deep and intense conversations about hacking 1024-bit encryption systems while discussing the latest psychedelic substances found in the jungles of far off countries.

Having been entombed to the depths of a drug induced coma for three long years, I knew it was high time to find an unorthodox means of recovery. This particular group of ‘friends’ had recommended a peculiar solution: Lock myself in a dark room with a bottle of Bacardi and I would prevail. Although I took the advice with a red flag, I was determined to make it work…

I thus set out to find myself a group of meddlesome construction workers to disturb my peaceful abode. After a few days of fruitless searching, I eventually met a fine bunch of Southeast Asian men who proved to be the perfect choice for roof replacement.

My plan was simple; Beyond the entry to my attic sat a dark room I could easily quarantine myself in, and through the pandemonium caused by the construction noise I could actively begin to overcome my addiction.

The first few days of this beautiful journey were no bed of roses. The cacophony of pounding roofs and loud fast-talking foreigners acted as a catalyst for my withdrawals, vibrating my brain with amplified hallucinogenic auditory experiences. It was the most intense feeling I had ever experienced, much worse than coming off Heroin I was told.

Never the less, through patience and determination I’ve made it out alive. I’ve kicked that drug habit with those peculiar means of recovery and I’m now a proud survivor. All I can say is: Never underestimate the power of the darkroom, a bottle of Bacardi, and a loud foreign workforce.

Body Cam

 

The morning sun casts long streaks of light through the city of Los Angeles, a hot and hazy oasis that is always buzzing with life. I am already feeling alive and ready to face the day. I’m semi-retired these days, so I don’t feel in any great hurry.

Today I’m trying out my police body cam, so I head towards a park not too far away. I take my trusty dog for a run, and attempt to dodge the ducks and errant human excrement. Everywhere I look the beauty of nature is fighting back against the relentless urban sprawl.

I strap on my police body cam, trying desperately not to imagine the horrific things it could have caught on its lens, and make my way through the park. The sun is beating down on me in a way that only the Los Angeles sun can, a feeling of simmering intensity that just can’t be replicated anywhere else.

I decide to head into a nearby neighborhood. As I stroll down the street I glance at the poor souls preparing to head off to work. Truly they are a slave to the system. Ahead I hear a man screaming in his house, but I choose to pay it no mind and keep on walking.

I eventually make it back through the park, and cross the bridge into the safety of the bike path. Each step taken slowly but surely brings me closer to my vehicle. My dog scampers along beside me, sniffing at the various stains and odors that make up the noxious bouquet of the LA streets. We take our time, and I keep one eye on the horizon, the other scanning our surroundings for signs of trouble. Eventually, we wind our way back to the car and drive off, leaving LA to its troubles and uncertainty.

Night

I lie here on my back, the cool and comforting cotton of my sheets and the white noise of my air purifier just one arm-length away, both lulling me to sleep. But here I am, wide awake and acutely aware of the blue neon glow in the corner of my room, a reminder that another day approaches.

This day will be epic in its own way, with massive consumption of caffeinated beverages and protein shakes to fuel my body and get me through the trials of the day ahead. I can almost smell the apocalypse in the air, and it’s up to me to make sure I remain healthy enough to stand tall in its presence if it ever arrives. 

As part of this endeavor, I plan to don my police style body cam in public places tomorrow. I will document the experience for posterity, as well as provide a thorough report on the daily happenings of the life of an individual living during these times. But for now, I think it’s time to get some sleep. So, good night and good luck.

Vaccination

Ah, Walmart: the artery of American life, and sometimes, of death.

So today I made my annual pilgrimage to Walmart in order to get my flu shot. I was greeted by an attractive pharmacist (who, I noted, seemed to be close to my own age of 60 years). She handed me a clipboard and questionairre and told me to fill it out. I quickly filled out the questionnaire, made some small talk with the attractive pharmacist (all the while marveling at the fact that she seemed to be my age, or close to it). I was asked if I ever experienced any adverse effects from a flu shot, and I lied when I said no — I figured my body was already so full of alcohol and other chemicals, adding another vaccine couldn’t make that much of a difference.

I was instructed to find a seat and wait to be called. I settled in to wait my turn. Next to me sat an elderly gent, somewhere in the neighborhood of 106 years of age. He made odd grunting noises and spoke some kind of ancient, indecipherable language to himself while I stayed quiet, staring straight ahead at the shelves of compression socks and orthotics.

The attractive pharmacist eventually called my name and told me to enter behind a mobile privacy wall, in doing so I stepped into the bizarre landscape beyond it. After asking which arm I’d like to be injected with the vaccine — I opted for the left — she soon had the needle in my arm. While pumping the life saving elixir into my arm she asked me what my race was and I quickly answered, well used to this kind of question by now. She then suggested that I might want to consider getting a shingles vaccine too — yet another sign of the aging process that one has to bear.

With a newfound feeling of health and well-being, I made my departure. As I navigated my way out of the store, a strange commotion at the front entrance caught my attention. All I heard was a woman scolding a man, telling him “I never want to see you in this store again!” He was pleading with her, apologizing profusely at learning his Walmart privileges had just been eternally revoked. No doubt he will find himself being forced to forage through the second-hand aisles of thrift stores and dollar marts, they will have to do until he can wheedle his way back into Walmart’s good graces.

And so, I made good my escape and am now home, writing this blog entry. It’s been a productive morning.

Multiverse

The following tale began on 4 September, the year of our Lord 2023.

‘Well, here I sit, alone in my bungalow at 11:30 in the morning. I’m feeling something strange that can’t be diminished with a bowlful of cigarettes and bland food. I succumbed to the temptation of a bottle of Kentucky Straight Whiskey and a few of those pills I got from a doctor in Reno.

By 4 PM I had consumed enough of the devil’s brew to put half the state of West Virginia to sleep. I decided to embark on a nocturnal mission of entertainment, watching ‘Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas’, ‘Idle Hands’, and the excellent ‘Wild Palms’ television series. In between binging on all these goodies, I sent a few text messages to my pal i0pti0n and shared some video clips via the multiverse.

After all this excess, my unnaturally intoxicated state found me passed out in a pool of sweat, only to be awoken soon after by the most damned annoying sound of tinnitus reverberating in my right ear. It was so alarming that I struggled to find rest again that night. The chirping was still there in the morning, so I tried to flush my ear using various chemical solutions and semi-purified water. To no avail.

But, I soon found myself on the other side of the fitful night and by the grace of God I’m relieved to report that the asphyxiating sound of the chirping has subsided. I’ve learnt a valuable lesson here, to never go back to my devil-may-care hedonism and reliance on the cleansing effects of booze and prescription meds. If there’s a moral here, it’s that there are always lessons to be learnt – no matter how hard it seems at the time.’

The Purchase

 

Medication

My mind is blurred, I’m into my sixth 9% beer and I’m starting to feel the effects of the alcohol now. Right on, I want to say something before I drift deeper into my drunken state.

What I want to say is that it’s ok to have moments like this, moments where you’re feeling a bit “wiped”. These moments can be a great way to let go of the day-to-day stressors that often weigh us down. The alcohol can be a great way to retreat into yourself and take a break from the expectations of the world, allowing you to reflect and gain deeper insight into your thoughts and feelings.

Bash

Ahhh, the familiar vibe of late night computer bashing. Here I am, seated at my desk in my late-night routine, hungover yet still energized by the rush of getting creative while the clock hands speed by. Although this is a fairly common occurrence, there is something pretty special that happens during these moments at night.

On this particular evening, I am half-way through writing my next great blog entry (This one!), driven by the promise of one of those breakthrough moments bloggers barely ever dare to imagine. I’m in the zone, powered by a mingling dosage of coffee and the soft, melodic jazz that emanates from somewhere in my room – a well-orchestrated duo of tunes and caffeine setting the pace to an otherwise uneventful night.

Outside my window, the darkness of the night sky reigns supreme, broken only by the occasional subtle glow from the street lamps, softening the otherwise pitch black sheen of the world around me. The faint hum of distant cars is a blaring reminder of the vibrant city life beyond my solace.

The Power Computer hums beside me, the loyal sidekick accompanying me into the deep reaches of night. I slowly sip my coffee, feeling the rush of caffeine kick in. I refocus, setting to work on the blog entry currently at task. I type away furiously, the satisfying clicks of my mechanical keyboard providing a reassuring rhythm to my writing. Reaffirming clicks as I hammer away at the keys in pursuit of the next breakthrough.

This routine of typing away while listening to jazz softly playing is my way of creativity. Struggling through the night while my brain adjusts to being hungover, I eventually craft my words together. I’ll sleep on this and post it in the morning, a new day and perhaps something worth writing about…

Speak

I have nothing intelligent to say. Nothing of any importance outside of catering to my own vanity.

curiosity//< I have no idea how or why that word is there, it shall remain.

Before I made my entry today I gave consideration to my current state:

By acknowledging the reality of my limited knowledge and understanding and examining whether my shortcomings should rule out a willingness to speak/write. Deciding that it is still worthwhile to speak up even without intelligent things to say.

Yesterday, I totally pushed the boundaries with my wild night of drinking: I sucked down a six pack of Maximus Colossal Beer and one bottle of wine while watching Weekend at Bernie’s on TV. As my buzz increased, my thoughts turned to an ex-girlfriend from high school and I considered sending her an invite on Facebook to tell her that my parents have passed away (not the right time, I know). Just then, I got a call from the fire department informing me that one of the hydrants in my service area had been wiped out and that they had it with them at the fire station. Not willing to waste a buzz, I grabbed my dog and we took a trip down the street to survey the damage, all the while feeling fairly heavily intoxicated – right on!

Once at the scene I found what used to be a hydrant was nothing more than a hole in the ground. As for the friend invite, my courage to reconnect was rejected and I was blocked. Now I must figure how to retrieve a 500 pound Hydrant from the fire station without injuring myself, damaging my vehicle or creating a gravitational well capable of sucking me into another dimension…