Oldies but Goodies

I posted three of my writings on my Rampage blog that were previously on Facebook for your reading enjoyment, maaan. I realized after Facebook banned me (and then subsequently reactivated my account) that I gotta diversify my blogs, ninja.

The Wonders of the Road: Experiences in Driving

Sociologists have long known that stoned drivers are safer than their sober counterparts on the road. Researchers demonstrated potheads make better drivers because their paranoia makes them more cautious and the sights of the road are so interesting to them they are forced to slow down to appreciate their surroundings, making impacts far less explosive.

The first time I drove high was just days after getting my car, a now nearly totaled '94 jeep Grand Cherokee. That introductory evening that I slowed down to enjoy the scenery I had smoked two bowls from my Dr. Vaporizer and hallucinated that I was that little green lizard from Bust-A-Move or Puzzle Bobble.

Lights appeared under my eyelids. Color coded signals dictated what kind of dance move I should perform. Standing in my kitchen, I followed those blinking dance lights and stepped wildly, minutely drooling, giggling, and thinking about what masturbating would be like later that night.

The trance ended abruptly when a foreign phone rang and told me I had to be at Sunrise Springs in ten minutes, a decent 30 miles away.

I hopped into my new chariot, Longmire in tow, and was on the highway south minutes later. I reached my cruising speed and relaxed, wondering if not being able to feel my hands would be a detriment to my reaction time.

Suddenly, other cars started to overtake me at ridiculously high speeds. I wondered where those demons could be off to and felt offended that they dare go faster than I. I revved my engine and looked to my spedometer. It displayed: 35 mph. I was in second gear in a 75 mph zone.

Panic set in as I realized I was a cooked goose. I made vulnerable pray for any vicious highway patrolman who knew not the pleasures of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and sexy mex, and knew only of sister killing stoners compelled to masturbate in the same hotel room as their parents.

I forced my foot down, but everything past the knee disappeared in an abyss of tetrahydrocannabinol. I was high. The meaning of nails are toe covers. I shot a furtive glance at Longmire, who let out a yelp, as he saw the car was actually decelerating.

"I can't go any faster!" I said.

"I know, man!" Longmire said as he firmly grasped my shoulder and pointed at the speedometer. "But you have got to try!"

I willed my leg down. The car gained momentum as the little red hand gradually climbed upward to 40 mph, then 45, then 50 mile mph. Longmire held my shoulder and gaped in compassionate disbelief as we sped up incrementally. Finally we were up to speed and I set my cruise control at 55.

"Damn, dude," he sighed. "That was a close one." I muttered that my dashboard looked like a plane's.


I remembered this experience as I was cruising down St. Mike's on Saturday on my way to a post Bat Mitzvah luncheon with the Brownsteins-Klevans. I had just smoked a personal spliff and the day looked wonderful. I passed the Smith's and the McDonald's. There was construction on the road and the guy in that old Mercedes looked like he was higher than I. The sky was without a cloud. The green of trees looked vibrant, clear.

And I remembered just what I would say to Officer Lozano when he pulled me over.

"Officer. . . Doesn't this dashboard look like it belongs on a plane, man?"

Socks: A Primer

For much of the last five years, I have experienced intermittent athlete's foot (tinea pedis). I contracted this foot fungus from the Gaetan Dugas of athlete's foot, Sean Wokker, after wearing his of pair sheepskin moccasins. I mistook the exothermic reaction on my foot for the warmth of luxury, enhanced by the glee of running about stoned in his McMansion wearing another man's moccasins.


I'm aware of the dangers of this impediment and I guard myself against it. No, I don't use Tinactin; my athlete's foot cannot be thwarted by standard means. It requires Lamisil-D. And that shit is expensive.

Changing my socks daily, that's the best defense. Unfortunately, I don't always have fresh socks to wear. I may grab a pair out of the laundry or find a pair from last week on the living room futon. But c'mon, I can only do that for so long.

Luckily, I have roommates. Phil has provided me with socks for the last four days. [I would have asked your permission if you had been home.]

(I'd also like to retroactively thank Todd and Colin)

But when Phil ran out of socks after I took that final pair today, I knew it was time: the time to buy more socks.

I've been to a TJ Maxx's before so I figured the one in Allston wouldn't be too different from the one in DeVargas mall.

They weren't that different. The shopper next to me was converting the prices of bowler shirts from dollars to pesos, aloud.

As he converted, I stood awed before the sock rack.

How do you know the sock will fit if you can't try it on?

Don't lie to me. A range 6-12 sock is supposed to accommodate both an eleven year old and someone with a foot the size of six-foot-six Erik Powers? ¡Mentira!

What about thickness? How thick will the sock feel in the shoe? I know the weight of body will certainly press the fabric down making it thinner, but will the fabric bunch with weight exerted?

How loose is the sock? How smooth is the material on my skin?

I quickly tried to examine how many employees were on the floor. Was that Mexican guy wearing all red a Crip, or a salesperson?

I surreptitiously slipped the sock on.

I knew my effort would be stymied by the plastic device keeping the sock attach to the cardboard. Regardless, the trial was fruitful. I could see the sock was bunching at the heel.

I examined the sock rack again. "Irregular." Irregular? What does that mean? Why are they selling irregular socks? Are all the socks irregular? Or is that a Nike Brand? Or is it tailored for someone with a foot like my mother? This confounded me again. I now had to look for defects, impurities, or at least improprieties.

Life used to be easy. White people used to wear Golden Toe. Golden Toe was bought out. They aren't the same anymore. That's what the man at Dillard's told my father.

Can I wear Calvin Klein socks and still feel in touch with my street people?

Can I buy Joseph Abboud and not support terrorism?

When I go back to TJ Maxx to make my return, will I again see those four Mexicans involved in some kind of strange French living situation? Lady, why are you holding his baby and and also kissing his wife?


Things works themselves out. By tomorrow morning, I think Phil will be done with his laundry.

Public Pervert: Cultural Complexities in America

David S. Lewis is a free spirit among many other things: a native of Ohio, a free-lance journalists, an American patriot, and a Navy Veteran.

I was first introduced to Dave summer of 2006-- the Summer of Hitting the Bottle Hard. Tristan's sheets bared the proof.

Dave began introducing his background to me on my front steps after I lost a Hold 'Em tournament. As they say in Rounders, if you don't who the sucker at the table is, it's you.

"So, Dave, you were a sailor?" I said.

"Yeah, until they discharged men– medical leave."

"Oh, shit, my great grandfather was wounded at war too. His comrades dropped an artillery shell on his foot off the Aleutian Islands." I puffed a Dunhill and swooned under the synergistic effects of Tecate and Humboldt's own as we spoke. [I found out later that my great grandfather only became a 'veteran' after Ronald Reagan by executive order made members of the merchant marines so.]

"Oh shit, yeah, something like that happened to me too. I lost one of my balls in an accident."

I coughed a ball of smoke and stared at him incredulously.

His girlfriend, Kendra, nodded affirmatively.

"Yeah, he doesn't have a left fucken' nut."

"No, shit, Dave? You lost your ball?" I grinned uncomfortably. If you're going to lose a nut, you certainly don't want to lose lefty. That's big one. The one that hangs lower.

"Yeah. That's right," he said. Kendra nodded vigorously and I figured who could know better than Kendra. Maybe his mother. . .

"Show him. Dave. Show it to him. Show him your sole nut."

"Dave you're a monotid? Shit, man. I couldn't even tell," I said as I drank beer and peered at the freak.

Monotid is actually the wrong word, but I was drunk, and high.

"Oh yeah, but he functions just fine." Kendra said, smiled, and nodded her head quickly.

A better world to describe this malady is cryptorchidism. Dave S. Lewis the Cryptorchid. Crypto meaning hidden and orchid meaning testical. Beautiful, isn't it?

"Okay, I'll show you, Max."

"Okay," I said. I was curious.

What would only one nut look like? Would the nutsack be smooth? Would the surgery–– the amputation–– have left him hairless? Would excess skin exist where the teste should be? Would his nut be like the nuts I envisaged having after rubbing Ben Gay on the, only to later a take a shower with all my clothes on, howling in ball curdling pain, at the tender age of 16?

"Oh yeah," Kendra said as David. S Lewis Independent Journalist readied, fiddled, and then took his right nut out.

Ta-dah.

"You fucking liar!" I screamed. "You just took one out! You have two nuts!" I hovered a mere foot away from his groin, crouched down, intently squinting at one half of his existing and visible testicles, pointing my Dunhill at the goods.

"You're a fucking idiot, Max," Kendra said and laughed.

"I was actually discharged because I was pissing, shitting, and vomiting blood caused by a real nasty little ulcer," said the Independent Journalist.





Dave taught me a good trick. This is a good trick to know. Showing people a sole nut is funny. I told Jillian's 13-year old cousin about this good trick during a Chinese-food lunch and he seemed to believe me.

One evening, I thought I would let Phil, my roommate, enjoy this good fun and removed one nut from a hole in my jeans. (These naturally occuring holes are cause by my burly highs rubbing energetically against my bicycle seat.) Just ask Haley, she knows about my thighs.

I walked in to his room, ball dangly freely in warm forced air, and began.

"Phil, did you pay the electricity bill?"

"No," he said and looked up at me and then looked back to YouTube. "I can't pay yet– you owe me the money."

"Oh." I looked down to make sure my nut exposed itself in all of its splendour. The teste relaxed sheepishly on the inside of my right thigh outside of my pants. Pink skin contrasted against dark blue jeans. I yanked on it a little more, benefitting from the natural elasticity of my ball sack.

I clapped my hands. "Would you like to play Halo?"

"Yes," he said.

I sat across from him on the futon. legs splayed, killing opponents and looking at him pensively, nut still proffered.

Nothing.

I stood while the next game loaded and swayed rhytimcally to "Burning Down The House" playing from my room. My nut, a natural pendulum, swinging from the hole.

Nothing.

"Phil, is my controller dying?" I said as I perched the controller upon my lap, inches from my teste.

"No, man," he said without looking. "I just charged it."

I brought him a glass of water and held the glass like a lens infront of my nut.

I placed my leg on the coffee table and tied my shoe, brushing my ball with my elbow.

I practiced calisthenics excitedly next to the TV.

After 45 minutes, he had failed to respond.

We must ask several questions about Phil:
Is he blind?
Is he gay?
Is he a pervert?
Is he without the knowledge of testes or the scrotum?
Did Phil think that my nut must have haphazardly escaped from my jeans and I was the one who failed to note? And he did not want to ashame me by telling me of the escapee?


I may never know–– I'm just glad my best friend enjoyed that spherical flesh as we videochatted earlier yesterday afternoon.

Piss Happens: Lessons from the Grand Master Sean Wokker

As the body ages, mishaps increase. The body slows, muscles atrophy, tissues degrade. I've found that my limbs fall asleep with ease these days. An awkward position at my desk will leave my foot tingling needles-and-pins for a minute. It's a shame I don't how to masturbate with my foot.

I haven't been a stranger to certain accidents. My buddy in high school Sean Wokker, the product of a man and an alcoholic she-bear, frequently used to piss himself. Through his battled-proven self urinations, I came to recognize the symptoms, treatments, and develop decent prognoses.

"Oh, fuck yeah, Sean is def going to piss himself tonight!" Shouts of glee and horror.

**************************************************************************************************

I recently went to send my friend Robert off the night before he drove back to school in California. I arrived late at his place, preparing for the evening with some heavy beers and some light reading at my place.

Robert lives in a sprawling manse and I had to bumbled my way around his compound to find him and friends. I finally heard the group and wandered over to his rooftop patio.

"Hello, old chap." I must have said.

"Good to see you, Rampage." His body snapped to attention. "Do you have cigarettes?"

"Aw, shit, I left them in my car. I'll be back."

I tripped my way through the darkness, admiring the brisk yet beautiful Santa Fe evening. I grabbed my rolling tobacco from the center console of my car and then trekked back through the estate. Yet by now, my beers had caught up with me. I pondered to myself if I should relieve myself inside Robert's home, but then thought better of it. If I couldn't find my way across his backyard, how could I ever find a place to piss within the complex? I didn't want to half to shake a leg onto one of his living room ferns out of desperation. Additionally, the prospect of bumping into Robert's parents didn't attract me; the last time I saw the septuagenarian pair Robert and I had just smoked a marijuana cigarette, possibly inside his house, and had imbibed several beers. Robert's parents sent him to a reformatory boarding school a week or two later.

So, I strolled off into some moonlight bushes. The star clarity in Santa Fe is a marvel, but not the right locus of attention when one is taking a leak.

"Fuck!" i yelped as my bag of tobacco slipped from my grasp and slid under my arc of urine. "No, no, no!"

I acted decisively, redirected my stream, choked off the flow, and went for my shag. I snagged the tobacco and then took pause, feeling a sensation, a warm sensation, not entirely unpleasant, but foreboding of certain unpleasantness.

"No, no, no, no!" The sensation spread growing over my boxers, my thigh. "Oh, god daaamn."

I figured maybe I could just pass this off, just cope and return to socializng. C'mon, we've all felt a little tinkle and then have proceeded to go about our business, no? Never a little wetness in the underwear and the some classwork? I know girls do it all the time especially in third world countries where TP plays more prominence in cargo cults then in the private parlor.

But when I felt the hot stream snake down my ankle and on to the top of my sock, I knew the gig was up. There was no playing this off. "Oh no, you guys. Heh heh. I spilled some Tecate. . . It smells of piss you say? Heh heh, that's why they call it Mexican piss beer, right? . . . No, that's not right?"

"Robert! Robert!" I listened to Robert gayly laugh and converse with his companions. "Robert, I have to go for a sec! I'll be back!" He couldn't hear me from my position in his woods. "Fuck it."

I moved quickly but with a gait that optimized speed and distance from the stinging acid moisture. I wondered if the lemon liquid would be soothing for the ingrown hairs on my thighs.

I whipped out of Robert's driveway and gassed it home. Luckily, I live in the neighborhood. I entered my driveway and saw lights on in my house. The entire fam was home. This one, I was loathe to explain; it was certainly too early in the even to be piss-drunken and piss-drunken driving as well. That should always come after eleven o'clock. I peered through the kitchen window and saw my little sister reading at the table, positioned just before the entrance to the living room and my own domain.

"Hi, Max." She said as she read her book. We're a literary family.

I side shuffled like a blackfaced minstrel around her, reflexively forced into jazz hands as I went by.

"Uh, hey!"

Within a minute or two I was rounding my sister again. I eyed her analytically. Did she see? Had she noticed that I had changed jeans for no apparent reason? Or had the reason been all too apparent? Had she sidelonged glanced the spill? Fucking boozehound brother of mine. Would she tell my father, her mother? Maxy pissed himself last night, I saw him, I saw it all over his pants! Heavens would have it, my sister failed to eye me at all. Thank hormones for adolescence apathy and that ever-engrossing Harry Potter.

I returned to Robert's twenty minutes later after I had initially left for the Bali Shag or Bugler.

"Man, what the hell took you so long?" Robert said.

I sighed and then smiled.

"Wouldn't you like a cigarette?"