"Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously."
- Hunter Thompson
On this trip, the bar for absurdity was set high from the get go, but the events that transpired over the last three weeks have exceeded Murphy and my's most maniacal expectations. Considering the endeavor's whimsical nature, the unexpected was welcome, beckoned even. Lured as prey and graciously devoured. But where does it take me now? Do the gods expect a fall from grace? Should this beautiful, momentous wave crash in California, drain painfully into the Pacific and suck my newfound metaphysical Glory into the bowels of the perpetually numb? Fuck That. I'm staying on board, riding this westward blowing whim and continuously billowing the sails of my life with unimaginable hilarity and fortuitous adventure. Pushing through these bizarre trials and tribulations has reoriented my Goal from a mere change in circumstance into a complete evolution of Expectation. So the story takes a twist. Will it unfold as a unique tale of invaluable experience and personal growth, or a painful and inevitable demise sparked by my unrealistic stupidity? All I know is I've read Into The Wild and plan to avoid Alaska at all costs.
And so here I am, in the City of Angels and at an impasse. Searching for a job, a home, but ever cognizant of falling too far into the mundane. Excited and mentally prepared to face this unfamiliar West, yet aware of the forming those mechanized habits that tend to draw me, and everyone, everywhere, into an understood life of comfortable expectation. On this note, and since I so far managed to avoid having to dole out too many 75¢ Men's room hand jobs, or having to sleep under the stars with the syringe toting bums of Venice, I'm going to take being mature and realistic about life with about as much apathy as I can muster. In doing so, I plan to take advantage of all and any opportunities which allow me to alter my perception of either the world around me, or the one inside my head. What's the worst that could happen?
Last week, we found some mushrooms. Not in the wild, but from a friend. And these weren't typical mushrooms, they were those deliciously poisonous ones. The kind that in moderation made a glorious ball of warm happiness emanate from your stomach and trickle elation like sands from an hourglass into your skull. And in excess, they took you on a colorful, crazy journey into the awesome, Unknown depths of your mind. We planned to take them and go for a hike that afternoon behind Jack Black's house, where a friend was apparently the production assistant for a porno and had found some good trails (I wish I could make this shit up). It was the perfect recipe to brew up some Weird. But the friend fell through, and we opted to enjoy our treats on the Venice Boardwalk. I ate mine with a bagel crusted pizza, a mind blowing experience in itself and we walked to the boardwalk. Sauntering up towards the famous glowing pier, we waded through a crowd of freaks, tourists, bums, punks, artists, cons, skaters and Venice loons. The feeling was subtle but added a nice bizarre element to the already surreal conglomeration eccentric folk. Californian mountains down the coast were just visible through the L.A. haze and were epically silhouetted, as the sun dipped toward the Pacific.
We diverted onto the beach and sat in a lifeguard stand as sun continued to fall. The dusk induced array of colors and patterns were heightened as we sat without a word, watching the waves roll and crash, unspoken giddiness flowing throughout our bodies. It disappeared all too quickly, our senses began to dull, and we continued on to the pier. Enjoying ourselves but well in control, we climbed barefoot onto a mist breathing, 15 foot tall, concrete dragon head and relaxed, basking in the slivers of strangeness that remained. I watched a fidgety, black homeless man, garbed in a filthy, hole ridden suit, speaking in tongues and hilariously fucking with the most naive tourists. He'd lure them in with quiet rambling and a pathetic stature, seemingly asking for change, only to erupt into a screaming, nonsensical rant of gibberish as soon as they approached. It happened the same each time, they'd grab their children and run, and he'd do it over and over. For some time I watched him, as I sat upon the dragons head, and immensely enjoyed his display of incessant, side splitting lunacy. Especially at the expense of the fanny pack brigade. After an hour, we climbed off of the dragon and walked to a famous LA diner, where apparently the "pregnancy reveal" scene from Knocked Up was filmed. It was a good day.
Then the weekend came around. I woke up Saturday morning, showered and remembering I knew no one and had nothing to do, prepared for a few days of the soul crushing job search. Just as this depressing thought took hold, Nick called. He was on his way to L.A. to pick me up. Change of plans, I was going to Orange County. Unbeknownst to me, another weekend of depravity lie in wait.
Rolling, I walked into the apartment as the unfamiliar effects began to take hold. My shoes felt foreign and uncomfortable, so I yanked them off. Unexpectedly, the bottoms of my feet felt incredible on the cold tiles. Icy jolts of pleasure shot from my heels up through my body until a violent shiver erupted from my shoulders. I stood curling my toes, over and over. Then I felt the heat. Directly across from the door was a small vent, emitting a stream of glorious, never-ending warmth. Entranced, I bounded over and slid down the wall onto the carpet, my back pressed against the erupting vent. I yelled for Bentley, who trotted over and jumped on my lap. He was soft, really soft. Heat permeated every inch of my back and oozed orgasmically throughout the rest of my body. It was a thermodynamic massage from God, and only the beginning.
To Be Continued...