The Legacy Maker

"I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings. The coming down, is the hardest thing." Tom Petty from "Learning to Fly"

The weekends at the the Asylum are about as cheery as a spastic colon. The nurse doesn't want to be here, the druggist short pours the meds, and I can't stop having hallucinations of Angela Lansbury trying to fellate me. Its not much better during the week, but there is always hope of a weekend escape tot he shore. I remember so vividly the felling of the course sand, the sound of the pounding waves, and the taste of the overly strong margaritas.

In high school we were about twenty minutes from the beach. One, if the only, positives of the City of Smog is its proximity to different climate regions. Mountains, deserts, and the beach are all just a short jaunt away. I've covered some of my mountain adventures, but the beach, at night, with a bonfire, that's true paradise. We had parties that Bacchus would have been proud of often.

One particular summer evening with the mercury failing to dip below the 80 degree mark, we escaped the stuffy city to Huntington Beach to burn some pallets and consume tequila like Montezuma. I have never been known for my ability to say "when" especially in those ever so important alcoholism training years. So when the margaritas started flowing I drank like a camel about to cross the Sahara. Didn't take long for the inhibitions to vanish like Britney's panties.

Well lubed and teenage horny, I trolled around the fire pit looking for a dame with enough booze in her to loosen the old morals but not so much that she would vomit gallons of crushed ice agave on my Chucks. On that night the pickens were slimmer than Nicole Ritchie after a colonic, so it was back to boozing.

Soon I was drunk to the point of Mel Gibson like ranting. Past the philosophical stage, long gone was the humorous portion of the evening, it was danger time. Now, passing out while running at the beach won't hurt you, the sand is soft, and I'm not much of a runner anyway, unless there is an ice cream truck at the curb then I'm damn near Jesse Owens. But if you run down the beach drunk and decide to jump over the orange glowing fire pit, now you have a stunt worthy of Smokey and the Bandit.

What I had in determination was instantly over shadowed by my lack of hops. White men can't jump, not just a chance to see Rosie Perez's boobies, but a motto that I should have lived by. Instead I threw caution to the wind and left the ground thinking that leap would make me a legend. And it did. Not for the grace and dexterity with which I executed said leap, the legacy lie in the landing. How I didn't see Walter sitting on the far side of the s'more baker is still a mystery or a blackout if you want to be a dick about it. What I learned about physics that night stayed with me forever. Large tequila fueled mass flying through the air landing on computer lab award recipients ankle equals a trip to the emergency room for x-rays and a beautiful plaster cast. His ankle snapped like a toothpick dislodging a ham from Oprah's molars. I never drank tequila again, and Walter never again walked without a limp.

Ever do any drunken stunt work? Ever caused an injury due to drunken acrobatics? Ever successful clear the dreaded fire pit of doom?

Dixie Cup of Love: Walter and Jose.

Idiosyncratic Routine

"Fourteen was a gas for me, Spiderman on TV, I would cheer those Superheroes, they were all I wanted to be" Debbie Harry from "Comic Books"

As the nurse medicated me to the brink of Gary Busey level insanity, I tried to use the Jedi mind trick on her. I was hoping she would use a sponge for my bath and give the sand paper the day off. It didn't work, it never does, fuck you George Lucas. As the skin started getting scraped off my shins, I closed my eyes, wished for death, and plotted my revenge on the Star Wars creator.

Telepathic powers would be cooler than Vanilla Ice. Being able to shape the thoughts of other people, to make Jessica Simpson a five day returning champion on Jeopardy, or to turn George W. Bush into an adequate and beloved leader, I mean think about the possibilities. What a power to be in complete control of another human being. Women have this power over men already, which is why they look at us Marvel and DC reading man-boys like we are nothing but protractor carrying, pockets protected nerds. We aren't. We are Geeks. And the thing that will blow your mind like a David Lynch movie is that most of us are damn proud of Geek status. And little by little, the girls are starting to join us.

The stigma attached to the comic book reader, as perpetuated by the Simpson's and The Big Bang Theory is that we are all a bunch of virginic, basement dwelling, social outcasts that cower at the mere mention of boobies. Mmmm, boobies, wait, no, I'm focused. The truth is some of the best writers in the country, in the world, are now or have at one time written funny books. It's not all super mutants with huge pecs and over exaggerated breasts. Mmmm, breasts. There are books that deal with religion, politics, plagues on humanity and almost always in a way that you would never imagine. These writers dealt with the tragedy of 9-11 in amazing, heart breaking fashion. Their books promote tolerance, evoke discussion, and inspire creative thought.

Comic books are basically soap opera with more fascinating characters, better dialogue, and somehow, more realistic story lines. Every year more and more movies based on comics come to a theater near you and I'm not just talking about X-Men and Spiderman. The Tom Hanks gangster flick "The Road to Perdition". Comic Book. The quick bang shoot em up "Sin City". Comic Book. The fantasy adventure tale "Stardust". Comic Book. The quirky indie hit "Ghost World". You guessed it, Comic Book. And no one in these four movies wore spandex, shot lasers from their eyes, or captured an evil super villain in a gigantic web. They were just brilliant stories.

So cut the Geeks some slack. Let them know that you accept their passion, even if you don't understand it completely. Don't mock it as adolescent garbage, because you may end up liking a film only to find out it originally appeared in the vivid colors of a comic book. You never know, but we do.

Do you love the comics? Which are you favorites? Do you have a problem with comic books of the readers of them?

Dixie Cup of Love: Atomic, for getting a brother hooked.

Catching the Red Eye

"So take this moment Mary Jane and be selfish. Worry not about the cars that go by. All that matters Mary Jane is your freedom. Keep warm my dear, keep dry" Alanis Morissette from "Mary Jane"

When the nusre came in for my tidings of comfort and joy I noticed a certain discoloration in her eyes. Not the iris, no those were still Hell spawn red, it was the whites of her eyes that looked less than egg shell, they were, what the giant 64 pack of crayons with the sharpener on the back, would call Salmon. My eyes had been that color on a few occasions and it got me thinking.

We are a country that is trillions of dollars in debt. Trillions. Money is getting wasted faster than Lindsey Lohan after a rehab stint. The war in Iraq is a colossal cash vacuum, but then there is the unwinable war. Not against terrorism, paparazzi, or Donald Trump's hair, it's the war to make America drug free. Don't gasp just yet, I have some interesting, if not semi-hazy, thoughts on the subject.

First of all the idea itself is dumber than Kellie Pickler. This country has never been, nor will it ever be, free of drugs. And I'm not even talking about the big drugs: Alcohol, Tobacco, Caffeine, Prozac, or Viagra. I'm talking about the happy makers, the numbness causers, and the ones that make pretty pictures appear out of thin air. They have been here since before the pilgrims stole the land from the Injuns. So why fight it?

The legalization of marijuana for home use should have happened years ago, right around the time that Dark Side of the Moon came out. Slick Willie Clinton, a noted puffer, should have been the champion of this business, however he got distracted by a woman who didn't even bother to have her clothing dry cleaned. Had he smoked his own cigar, pot could have been available at Kwik-E Mart and taxed. That's right, I would completely support a "Sin" tax on Mary Jane. Increased revenue and less tax payer money spent prosecuting adults who choose to relax, watch movies, eat pizza (there by stimulating the economy), and just being mellow. The problem is that there is no way to do a road side test to determine the amount of glorious THC in ones system while driving. They can't measure how baked you are. If they could, herb would be legal as the lottery.

I don't advocate the legalization of substances that can kill you. An overdose of bong rips leads to a nap, not a dirt nap. So cocaine, meth, heroin, and PCP still would be on the banned substance list. I don't want to endanger folks, I just want to be able to enjoy Bob Marley without fear of losing my job or being hassled by the police.

Some of you out there may think me less glorious because I have, in the past, though not currently, sparked a joint and listened to The Who's Tommy. Some of you may never have tried pot in your life. And then there are those that will say that sticky icky is a gateway drug that it leads people to other drugs. Well, I am not less of a person, I don't judge you for never trying it, and pot is no more a gateway drug than alcohol. Booze kills more people, causes more domestic crime, and leads to more unwanted pregnancy than the green ever will. If pot leads to anything its video game sales, cookie dough production, and calmness.

What do you think folks? Am I stoned or am I on to something?

Dixie Cup of Love: I'm in love with Mary Jane.

Blowing an O-ring

"So what made you think, that he couldn't find a door in the morning? When he found that bed so easily in the dark?" Cute Is What We Aim For from "The Fourth Drink Instinct"

The poor wretched skank looked like she had been used in a disgustingly naughty way as she handed my pills over. It made sense that the nurse would be some throw away one night stand for some beer bellied desk jockey down at the pub. She stank of desperation, wore it like a socialite wears Channel. The top notes giving way to an undercurrent of self loathing and a weak will. What an easy mark.

On a view occasions I have been devious enough to hornswoggle a drunken damsel into letting me deposit some DNA within hours of meeting her. And I appreciate her willingness and graciousness. Granted, that most of the time it's a male centric adventure. If we know that we aren't going to see a woman again do you really think we care if she gets her O-ring blown? Wham Bamm Thank You Ma'am is all about us. And sometimes that's just what needs to be done. But on a few blue moon "very special" episodes, it was mutually beneficial.

I met a longtime friend at a not so popular night spot in the seedier section of The O.C. one evening when I was right around the quarter century mark. She was older than I by a few years, not quite a cougar, but seasoned. She had worked with my mother and we met when mumsy took me to a watering hole for my 21st. Rhonda. Sweet Rhonda. I never thought we would end up making the beast this two backs, nor could I have ever imagined that it would be three.

Upon arriving at the not-so-hot spot, Rhonda introduced me to her gal pal, Nicole. First thing I notice about her is she is the polar opposite of my family friend. Where Rhonda was thick, curvy, and top heavy just the way I love em, Nicole was quite slender, blonde, and a devil in a b-cup, but she was stunning, beautiful, the kind of gal I never thought possible being that my shape is more pearish.

As drinks were consumed at Hemingway levels Rhonda and I took a trip on the light fantastic, a slow number. As we danced she kissed my neck. That was all it took for me to know that the walk back to the table was going to be one of embarrassment. Did it matter? Not in the least. After our tangled tango, Rhonda ran interference blocking the view of my rigid appendage as best she could, we arrived at the table to find Nicole missing. We were going to send a search party but we ended out making out instead. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. After a passion kiss that seemed to involve more fluid exchange than a transfusion, I came up for air. I ordered another round of drinks as Nicole returned. Seeing that I would be in good hands, though I'm still not sure if she knew it would be literal, Rhonda excused herself to the ladies room.

Nicole wasted no time mentioning that the kiss between Rhonda and I looked amazingly hot. I blushed, not knowing that she had been watching. That was her trigger. She sprang like a clock spring. I was worried that Rhonda, who I was Fairly certain was going to give me the deluxe prize package, would see this and the deal would be blown. Luckily, nothing of the sort happened. Rhonda returned and the rest of the evening was polite on all accounts.

Rhonda had to drop Nicole off before we headed back to her place. I offered to follow them in my car. At a red light I could have sworn that I saw the two of them lean together and kiss. Surely it was the rum playing tricks on me. Then, and trust me I will never forget the feeling of this moment, Rhonda pulled her car into the parking lot of a hotel. Jackpot!

I played it as cool as I could with blood rushing far from my brain. Parking I walked to them and asked if everything was okay with her car. Rhonda took me by the shoulders, looked me right in the eye, and said the words that forever ring in my ears: "You're about to have a fantasy come true." 7-7-7!

What happened in that hotel room, well, it's not polite to talk about such things. Your imaginations are quite capable of drawing the picture. But I will say this, there was so much contact, so much raw energy, that everyone was fulfilled.

Have any good one night stand experiences? Any bad ones? Any randy threesome stories?

Dixie Cup of Love: The hotel clerk that nodded at me in a very knowing way.

Gandhi Flakes

"Down on my knees, but not to pray, Hit so hard across the skull, it buckled my legs. They told me I had hell to pay, I came, I came too close to heaven, Had nothing to say for myself, I had to walk away" Alkaline Trio from "Fall Victim"

As the dose of equilibrium bringers started to take their serenity inducing toll I saw the color of the nurses eyes change from Montana sky blue to shitty Pittsburgh gray. It could have been the caustic cocktail of pills but I thought, maybe it was a miracle. Granted, it was no water to wine grand finale, but it was better than finding an image of Gandhi on a potato chip. Do you really think a food product would be the vessel of Gandhi's manifestation?

Why are we always looking for miracles? It makes about as such sense as a New Kids on the Block reunion. Every so often I see a filler story on the nightly news about a gaggle of simple minded ewe milling about in some Kansas guys front law because the proud owner of Dorothy's childhood home claims to have found an image of the Virgin Mary on a Saltine. The mob of hopeless wonder seekers wait for a momentary glimpse of the allegedly holy cracker with candles burning, chants being chanted, and vigil's being erected. They camp, pray, and tell the local reporters how they once found a Frosted Flake that looked like Elvis, but the awful people at Kellogg's had filed a lawsuit keeping them mum on the King shaped breakfast flake. It's the epitome of silliness.

Looking for a miracle is like asking a eunuch about sex. There are no answers in it for you, just more questions. I understand that in time of great despair we all hope that there is a magic cure for whatever ails us, a potion that will make everything better. The lottery ticket with all six numbers or the phone call from the Governor two seconds before your scheduled execution. The odds of these pixie dust fantasies coming true about are about the same as a black hole being found under the front seat of your sedan. Sure it happens, just not to you. Sorry to be the one to burst your bubble.

So I think we should stop looking. We collectively take a blood oath, Mafia style, that we will no longer spend any effort hoping for a vision or message from the Almighty. Because if you are apt to believe in a higher being that controls everything on this world, then maybe the Deity has a little more on his plate then spending time answering your prayers about a baseball games outcome, or your deepest wish that socks are on sale at Wal-Mart. Instead why not make an effort to save enough cash for some full priced stockings. Then if they are on sale, it's a miracle.

I have wanted to be a writer, a paid, that's my job, writer since I can remember, but up until today I've always hoped that it would fall into my lap, like Cherry Pie in a Warrant video. No real effort, just, boom, pie. It's not going to. Work will be required. I will have to face rejection and obstacles bigger than the Eliminator on American Gladiators (version 1). I'm going to have to make it happen. That's the new goal. And I am going to attain it. I will, of course, keep you up to date on my progress from time to time.

What goals would you like to work towards achieving in the next year?

Dixie Cup of Love: Those that can.

Madonna Whore

"If little by little you stop loving me, I shall stop loving you, Little by little, If suddenly you forget me, Do not look for me, For I shall already have forgotten you" Madonna from "If You Forget Me"

There was something different about the nurse as she brought the mornings go-go, not cry-cry, capsules. Initially I was perplexed, on a how the hell did Kathie Lee Gifford get back on television level, but determination and a keen eye led to the answer. She changed her make-up, less of her normal Santa Monica Boulevard transvestite plastering. It was down right demure. Though I found it jarring at first site, there was no reason she couldn't get herself a make over, good for her, the dirty slut.

When it comes to re-invention there is one true master. The Kobra Kai sensei of the new look. The Tiger Woods of freshness. The David Copperfield of self delusion. Madonna. Say what you will about her music, you can't discount her chameleon like ability to change persona's. And most of us have our favorite version, and the ones we detest like Zucchini.

The Original Madonna - This is my personal favorite. Chunky, thick, wildly sexy rolling around on the floor in a dirty wedding dress Madonna. The Like A Virgin years. Plastic bracelets and mesh clothing. The red lips, visible lingerie, and tussled hair was enough to bring men and boys of all ages to redwood like erectness.

The Breathless Madonna - The campiness of the live action Warren Beatty "Dick Tracy" featured a 20's inspired Madonna wearing one of the greatest cinematic dresses this side of Jessica Rabbit. A black see through peek a boo number that placed this colorfully brilliant film on my all time favorite "Bad Movie" list.

The Religious Madonna - No, not the mother of Jeebus, now I'm talking about the brunette years. When the ultra sexy "Like A Prayer" video hit the airwaves we caught our first glimpse of a non-blonde diva. It was around this period that I started to realize the brilliancy of her economic plan. Keep changing the look, keep changing the merchandise.

The Waif Madonna - I have no idea what album or time period it was, but my once voluptuous virgin whore was no. Replaced by a buff, incredibly thin, but sassy broad tough enough to bite off Mike Tyson's ear. Of all the versions, this one ranks as my second least favorite. For Godsake, eat a cheeseburger, no one wants to look at your ribcage, we want the boobies back.

The Kaballah Madonna - Even the biggest of icons occasionally blow and O-Ring. Pop stars and religion mix about as well as Danny Bonaduce and any illegal substance known to man or beast. As the spotlight started to fade she used a stupid bracelet to turn the halogens back up to 11. I would have cried for her, if I'd have given a crap about her by this time.

The Brit - Number one Worst Madonna of All Time. Guy Ritchie can make a great flick, but his wives bullshit British accent needs to land on the cutting room floor. Am I wrong or wasn't she from Michigan? Madge has got to go, and if history is any indication, its just a matter of time.

What's your favorite Madonna?

Dixie Cup of Love: Material Girl Madonna.

The Appropriate Elixir

"Face down in the gutter, won't admit defeat though his clothes are soiled and black. He's a big strong man with a child's mind, don't you take his booze away." Dropkick Murphys from "Barroom Hero"

HAHAHA, I escaped again. That nurse has her back turned for two seconds, and I'm scaling the walls. Surely, she won't be able to find me this time.

Last night, I had to go back. I had to see if my first night at the bar was some sort of Lynchian mistake. Was my last encounter an aberration of deviance? The answer to this mystery came to me in the form of a wandering appendage.

Karen was soused, visibly intoxicated, no question in the minds of the tavern populace that she was an easy mark. Seeing that I was there for a singular purpose, that being to drown my blue funk, I was receptive to the rants of a juiced up gal with a nice rack. As the grog shop was overly crowded, due to the college basketball playoffs, I gave her a moment to lean on the bar, instead she chose to lean on me. Now, meeting someone for the first time, whether they be inebriated or not, a handshake is the common greeting, not for Karen. She wanted to shake hands with Little Mike and the Twins. And did so with vigor. Shocked by this I was about to ask if she was friends with Ashley, the three fingered hooker from my last visit, when Karen decided that I wasn't the cup of tea she was looking for. For a moment a wave of inadequacy flushed over me. But then I noticed that Karen was performing the same routine on all the gents in the area. She was going for quantity not quality. More power to her. I shook my head in disbelief and sipped on my Captain and Coke. The dearth of happiness was fading faster than the Tar Heels hopes of a National Championship.

One of the weirdest things about drinking in the Bible belt is that Sunday is a dry day. Can't buy, nor sell alcohol. So as the clock turned up towards midnight, last call was announced. I was shocked. Surely they let the bars finish their evening at the normal 2am. I was informed that God's decree was law, no booze on the Sabbath. I was beside myself, how could I get these blues to die if I was no longer allowed to feed them the appropriate elixir? That's when an angel appeared before me. Bree. Though I had been served by her all night and noticed that she bore a striking resemblance to Sarah Silverman, we had not spoke more than ordering drinks and cash exchanges. Apparently, I tipped well, as is my policy with bartenders and waitresses. She instructed me to head to the pool room while handing me a fresh cocktail, there I would receive further instructions. This was the adventure that I had been craving. The pool room was nearly empty but for a loud Irishman and a couple of hoods from Boston. Listening to the battle of the accent's was a roll on the floor. As the three of them debated the merits of the cans on a girl whose name I never caught, another large man with a voice of gravel, entered the area, Bree followed. The man proclaimed that he would give up fishing for a night in the sack with her. This seemed to impress the verbally challenged dwellers. Bree brought the man over to me and I was introduced to Marty, bar owner. He welcomed me, said that usually this sort of thing didn't happen, but tonight he was locking the doors for a little after party which Bree had recommended I attend.

We drank til 2:30. We talked about Ashley, the hooker, and another customer who was kicked out of the bar earlier for giving lap dances. She was pulling her shirt over guys heads and slapping her tits against their faces like bongos. I'm telling you this bar is the greatest.

The blues are hibernating now.

Dixie Cup of Love: Bree.