Mexican Wrestling, Ellen, & An Old Jew

"There's always something to write about."
"What are you gonna do, then?
I pointed at my bottle and picked it up.
"How are you gonna make it?" he asked.
"Seems like I've heard that question all my life."

Ham On Rye -Charles Bukowski

A strong, non watered down Makers Mark and a potent batch of pineapple express fought valiantly against the motivation I mustered. I finally clicked off of Facebook. There were no more notifications. I needed to write, no excuses. For motivation I bought a wireless keyboard for my iPad, but it is broken. The y is switched with the z and most of the punctuation are switched with umlauts. What the fuck - not even a question mark. I've been torn about what to write for this post, and what to write about for the blog in general. It started on an unexpected high with days of road tripping and nights of incessant bourbon chugging and bluegrass listening. Nate accidentally brought a black whore back to our room for Christ's sake. Compared to that level of unfathomable ridiculousness, what I've been doing in LA has seemed unexciting and too boring to write about. But thats just pessimistic bullshit. Now that I have a little money and some options, I can set myself in the right direction. This blog is a fairly accurate representation of my life's status, and it has been floundering. In search of a direction, and partially inspired by having just read Bukowski's Ham On Rye, I figured I could start calling myself a writer, and well, actually pursue writing. Obviously that means continuing this blog indefinitely, but perhaps I may even try my hand at writing a screenplay. How hard can it be? Curious about it, and having never read one before, I bought and read the screenplay for Lincoln. My suspicions, of course, proved be true, as it seemed about as hard to write as a children's picture book.

I never called myself a writer. Even the decision to keep track of this journey was an afterthought. In December all I knew was that my friends and I drank in unpredictable excess, we were going to Vegas and I had the opportunity to string the inevitable decadence into a blog. Events transpired, absurdity ensued and despite my uncertainty, I managed to piece it all together in a fairly sensical manner. Now I'm in Los fucking Angeles, the practical epicenter of writing culture and opportunity in the United States. Calling myself a writer seems a logical step. An initial worry, though, especially with a cache of potential travel money, was my uncertainty that I could find enough to write about here. Then I remembered something I wrote in a previous post;

"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." -The Impasse

So I decided to stop being a negative bitch and find some shit to do, some weird, funny shit. Using Google, I quickly found a list of ways to explore some of the most ridiculous things that L.A. has to offer. It includes a violent women's roller derby, free prophetic readings at the Pasadena International House of Prayer, a Mexican wrestling circus with nudity and midgets (announced by Drew Carey and Fred Armison), a nightclub called the California Institute of Abnormal Arts described as "equal parts bad acid trip and carnival sideshow of atrocity," a massive 90's mashup party, a drive in theater that plays The Goonies, the L. Ron Hubbard Scientology exhibition, an lhilarious Mexican drag show, and so on... Theres even a bar, only 2 miles away, that has fucking turtlez races on Thursday nights.

To spite my inevitable indecisiveness and bad attitude about having no good writing material, I am dedicated from this point on to visiting at least one of these ridiculous places or events per week. This means, beside from working, looking for a car and saving, all of which are basically fucking terrible, Im going to use my time embracing LA's oddities and filling my literary coffers with some great, bizarre material. In search of consistency, I can now just describe the absurd thing I visited and include any of the good nitty gritty life shit thats worth mentioning. For example, I haven't yet mentioned how last Wednesday I worked at a farmers market in Burbank, on a fake street at Warner Bro's Studios; and next week, Ellen, who films her show at the studio, is coming down to the market to do a segment. So in a funny twist, I may get to be on the Ellen show.

I also got my marijuana card. Last week I skated down to Venice Boardwalk and was persuaded by unshaven hippy in bright green scrubs. He assured me the process was simple. After showing me to a decrepit, sandy floored back room, I met a droopy old Jewish doctor, who I had to convince of my ailments. He looked like the deflated teen from the anti drug commercials. It didn't take much convincing. Then I followed green scrubs on his longboard farther down the boardwalk. We stopped at a second place and I went in alone. A thickly accented, large breasted Eastern European woman asked me for forty dollars and handed me a "doctor approved certification". She was seedy, but pleasant enough. I followed a the hippy down the street to yet another building where a friendly old black man sat guard, at the bottom of some stairs. Getting the nod, I walked up. Before I knew it, was basking in the admittedly semi-erotic glory of my first legitimate herbal medicine.

The next post I will have definite certifiable absurdity report.

From the Bowels of Moderate Poverty.

I have scrappily swum back out of the bowels of moderate poverty. Shit got slightly bad for a brief, terrifying First World moment. I even had to cut out, much to my to chagrin, Second Breakfasts and Elevenses. Apparently not the Lord of the Rings references though. First let me describe in detail some more of my life's circumstances. While hovering just above pennilessness, I got the job at the farmers market stand. Unfortunately, I have only been given work "training" the past three Sunday's and earned less than minimum wage each day. Alas, I was assured that more hours and opportunities would come, so I waited with patience, yet unease. At the moment I don't have to worry about rent, which is quite convenient. I do however, have to worry about scrounging the occasional meal. Though I have enjoyed the ample time to do nothing, only making fifty dollars, one day per week, over a span of three weeks, isn't exactly sustainable. The main and only thing that's kept me alive is a reserve of insurance money we received a few years ago after I totaled my car. My folks held onto this reserve and in times of desperation would trickle some down to me. They know that I needed to save it for a new car and are well aware that I tend to decimate money with stupid and consistent, reckless abandon. As a result, I could pretty much only afford to spend any of it on gas and groceries. If not for the glory and convenience of two dollar Charles Shaw Cabernet, "Two Buck Chuck", I almost would've had a hellish, accidental sobriety forced upon me. I needed something to hold me over while I waited for more work/money and chalked the cheap, delicious wine up to the classy equivalent of a PBR 40 oz.

Then just the other day, something incredible happened, my parents in their non sarcastically, never-ending wisdom, came to the realization that giving me all of the insurance money at once was a good idea. About 3.7k. Elated at the new plan to let me be an adult and such, I immediately rushed to the bank to cash out three thousand in one dollar bills and am writing this post as I sit naked upon the summit of One Dollar Mountain, brazenly chugging Goldschläger, and smoking a joint rolled from a hundred dollar bill. While I revel in this newfound, near infinite wealth, I have not forgotten the hardships and humbling conditions, which I barely survived just days ago. I shudder thinking back on the single day I endured when I couldn't afford to eat out, a wretched hell I could not ever relive. Thus, I intend to use this money was as much sanity and semi-frugality as I can muster. First order of business? Cash in these freshly soiled one dollar bills for a plane ticket to Costa Rica to pick up some real, homegrown coffee and say hi to a few old friends. With whatever's left after my coffee run, I suppose I'll look into the whole car thing. Then, overwhelmed, I'll probably just buy a bike and some peyote and ride out to the desert, bat country. Out there, as I pedal around all alone, unbalanced and seeking guidance, I trust the induced Native American spirits of the desert will impart to me the true destiny of the remaining money. But in my gullible, spiritual despair, I'll have bought the cheapest peyote I could find, called "Red Mans Greed", and the Visions will probably just guide me to a roulette table at the closest Indian casino, those manipulative spirit bastards. Then after losing the entirety of my bank account at said roulette table, I will shamefully pedal back out of the desert toward L.A. in financial and psychological tatters.

Runyan Canyon, in the hills above LA.

Well, that's at least one way this whole money scenario could play out... In reality, I'm just enjoying the staggering convenience of the situation and legitimately considering my now vast array of options. Needless to say, the Holy and Never-Ending Glorioussness of this unexpected acquisition of wealth, and inconveniently attached responsibility, shan't and won't ever get to my head.

One Does Not Simply Walk Into Mordor.

I said two Wednesdays ago that I would put my next post up in a day or two. Well, that was a miserable failure. There's no excuse, other than the fact I'm a psychopath and when I have just that one thing to accomplish it spawns a Mordor-esque psychological barrier that takes weeks of hellish adventure, and the loss of some good friends to overcome. I guess I made it. Many things have occurred, so if you're a fan of moderate brevity, you're in luck. Let's go back two weekends ago to the night after I'd been hiking in Topanga.

I arrived home from Topanga in a good mood and was ready to succumb to another night of watching Netflix in the nude. Then a friend of Nick's called, who I had met the weekend before, and asked if I wanted to drink. I was of course, down. He gave me a lift, spotted me a bottle of wild turkey 101 and we went back to his apartment to drink with his girlfriend. Long story short, I tried taking a prescription painkiller, which when paired with a whole pint of bourbon, resulted in incessant and unchecked ranting arguments till dawn, followed by 13 hours of frighteningly refreshing hibernation sleep. I woke up at 7 the next night, briefly enraged at the people who I thought were being loud as shit before the sun had risen, and realized that it had already come and gone. Disconcerted by this information, I demanded a ride home and tried to cope with the horrific, unsettling disorientation. Well, no more painkillers for me. Early the next morning (Sunday) I had an interview at a Farmers Market stand and then planned to meet my cousin to drive down to a mini-family reunion, somewhere in the desert. I arrived back at my aunts and was worried I'd be up all night, considering my freshly fucked sleep schedule, but I passed back out around midnight and managed to rise again at 7.

I woke up Sunday morning in a daze and drove to a place called the Larchmount Farmers Market, right down the street from Paramount Studios, and met an acquaintance of my aunts to interview for a job. I didn't know much going in, but the short, fast talking, Italian man who I met and interviewed with was hiring for an Italian food company that made fresh pestos and pastas. I ended up helping run the stand all morning and even got to meet one of the guys from Kiss, who apparently is a regular there. Before I left, I was assured a job as a logistical manager, basically to help this company run their 18 farmers market stands and was told I'd be eased into the position. Hurrah, potential progress. I left around noon and drove to meet my flamboyantly gay cousin Mark, who lives right off Sunset Blvd, and who my Dad affectionately refers to as "Peach". My dad had one brother who was about 10 years older than him, and thus I have a bunch of much older cousins out in California who all have careers and such, one of whom is Mark. It was his siblings and their families that we would be spending the afternoon with. I hadn't seen him in a decade, except via Facebook, and met him outside his West Hollywood apartment that afternoon. I'm a big fan of Mark; he is rambunctiously outspoken, intelligent, straightforward and hilarious. We had a few minutes to spare and went into his apartment, where he immediately handed me a rice Krispy treat. It had M&M's and smelled like an Evergreen tree. A Canna-Krispy Treat. He warned me of it's potency and advised I only eat a little bit. I hadn't planned to get baked, especially since I'm naturally awkward enough around semi-random relatives, but said "Fuck it" and ate half. "It's gonna take a while to take affect," said Mark, "In the meantime, here's this," he said, handing me his bong. 'Good Mother of Jah', I thought to myself, as I indulged much more heavily than I knew I should have. So we smoked, watched football for a few minutes and then left to drive an hour south to meet my other cousins. Needless to say I was absolutely fried.

We arrived and I went through "The Extremely Stereotypical Series of Greetings With Moderately Unfamiliar Relatives Process". During which, I experienced the inevitable stoners conundrum; I knew that I'd be fine by simply embracing the buzz, but quickly became paranoid they knew I was high, which invariably made me overcompensate in my attempts at normalcy and ultimately turned me into a stuttering, nonsensical Helen Keller noise machine. Regardless, I managed to reasonably converse with the group of relatives throughout the afternoon and into the evening, putting all of my efforts into not completely losing my shit. I'm sure I seemed normal enough, but can't attest to how sane I actually appeared because my memory is tainted by the irrational logic of a high person. In my mind, everything I did and said seemed perfectly rational and reasonable. Although in hindsight, inhaling chips and salsa with every other breath of air I took, may have been a dead giveaway. Also, I ate the other half of the rice crispy treat midway through the visit, which prolonged my battle to continue conveying some moderate sanity. It ended up being a good time though, as we mostly watched football and ate a delicious spaghetti dinner. I just tried to keep my attention from drifting and my comments as minimally psychotic as possible. Around 8 that night Mark and I headed back LA, just as my thc buzz was finally beginning to fade.

That was two weeks ago and to be perfectly honest, nothing of particular interest has happened since then. Content with my improved employment situation, and generally feeling like less of a piece of shit, I procrastinated away a lot of my weekdays on Reddit and Netflix. After putting up my last post, like I said, I fought an uphill battle against my motivation, for no sensible reason, and have started, stopped, written, and rewritten this damn post about 25 times. Last weekend I worked again for my "training" day, but it only took about 5 minutes to learn the complex inner workings of a stand at a Farmers Market, and I quickly settled into the grind. I made jack shit in terms of money, but did get to leave with an armload of the leftover pasta and pesto, and a bunch of leftover baked goods from stand next us. The owner of the bakery stand was large, gay British man who told me he "could listen to my Southern accent all day long", kept giving me more bread and cakes, and offered me a temporary job. I would almost have been offended at the blatant objectification if it hadn't been so unexpected, absurd and side splittingly hilarious. Definitely worth my overall semi-discomfort from the interaction.

The past week I discovered my cousins longboard and spent the days riding down to the beach, exploring Venice and Santa Monica. Despite being generally alone, skating down to Venice Boardwalk and people watching as I rolled amidst the hordes of trinket peddlers, musclemen, junkies and tourists, will certainly be a fond and surreal memory. In the weeks ahead, as I continue to search for a car, fun, apartment and additional job, this cash flow ought to provide some new opportunities for excitement. With my and your slight entertainment as my semi high priority, I will indulge each opportunity with as much bourbon fueled decadence as I can mentally and physically muster.