The Grand (and somewhat bland) Appearance

On the 9th of June, fellow writer Funky Mannequin and I left our home in La Grande, Oregon. The goal was to travel the length of the state and return to Portland (where we first met), and travel we did; through incredible heat, scrotal ticks, the corpses of decaying roadside house-cats, and the backs of vans owned by religious meth-head couples, we pressed onward. However, this story is about none of those things (though you can bet there will be more on such escapades later).

For now, let’s focus on The Grand (and somewhat bland) Appearance.

Upon reentering Portland, Funky and I were greeted by a typhoon of litter and profoundly retarded transit system. The destination was across town (the apartment of a dear friend Garrett), so we got change from a local barkeep and his transvestite girlfriend, seating ourselves at the nearest stop and checking the schedule. It read eight minutes – five minutes later, it read nine.

When the vehicle at last greeted us, it did so with an overweight woman screeching into a speaker-phone and a coughing man who would have shamed victims of the bubonic plague.

We were up to our taints in boozy broads and gutter condoms. We were home indeed.

Once freed of the public access vehicle, we promptly located Garrett’s building and illegally tailed a resident through the safety-locked doors. Instead of the stairs, we took a dangerous-looking elevator up a single story and reached the room in minutes, ushered in by a middle-eastern man bearing a plate of assorted fruits. “For you,” he spoke smoothly, presenting the organized dish of succulent offerings.

We took the juicy gift and rested upon a crimson sofa, breathing in the sheer emptiness of the apartment’s space. “Where’s Garrett?” we asked, slightly unnerved.

“He went to get you,” the man responded, producing a smoke and heading for the balcony.

“Of course.”

Eerie music filled the air. No, there is truly no joke or metaphor to be found here; there was suspenseful music quite literally flooding the room around us, echoing from somewhere within the walls (from which room we did not yet know).

On the coffee table before the couch, a sculpture of a pirate skull glowered at our knees (“I dug that out of the trash!” our friend would soon proclaim with an appropriately dramatic gesture).

When Garrett finally did arrive, he did so with a homeless companion named Jeremy (known to Garrett as “Gregory” for absolutely no reason at all). Jeremy talked about an ideal world on acid, grew offended when asked to play a love song, refused to shower, then gave everybody his filthy, filthy lice (they filled all of the hand towels, so cleaning oneself was deeply counter-productive). Levi cooked us delicious salmon to rectify these things.

That night, we watched a television of static. The channels wouldn’t change unless we were using the remote. When the remote eventually stopped working (no big deal, all of the channels were static anyway), Garrett opened the battery compartment and two small pieces of aluminum foil fell from the device. We were all dumbfounded.

On the television (or rather, within the static on the television), we saw intergalactic travel, spiraling serpents, parting seas, and a vigorously dancing man. The dancing man was so horrendously funny, we all laughed for a good five minutes (five minutes is an absurdly long and painful amount of time when you can only laugh). This television, like the pirate skull, was obtained from a dumpster.

The following day, Funky and Garrett made Jeremy the Louse King collect all of his shit and throw it into a sack, putting him on the bus and taking him to a tax-evading semi-cult otherwise known as The Boneyard (read: Road Trip Through PurgatoryMy Accidental Life As A Full-Time Meth Peddler: Part One, and Bags Of Flesh, Bottles Of Urine – all appropriately titled entries in the world of Boneyard lore).

“It’s a commune of artists,” they misinformed the Louse King.

He looked very worried, as he should have been. When they were traveling via the TriMet streetcar, he spent the ride face-down in his guitar. He knew they were stretching the truth.

When they reached the communal settlement of degenerate scum, the landowner was evicting a local junkie (Fini, Lord of Ice-Cold Milk). All of his greasy belongings had been tossed onto the lawn.

The Louse King was abandoned there, yet to be seen again.

So we made a safe return and lead normal lives, right?

Well, unbeknownst to my shitty little heart, this was but the beginning of a new breed of adventure – an adventure so lethargic, pasty, and unexciting that it would be a crime to shove it all into one post.

In stories to come: handguns, familial alienation, bloody intercourse, parolee sex-changes, cancer, long-lost siblings, and open relationships. Yeah, yeah, don’t get your hopes up.

Garrett, whose face is scribbled out because he doesn't want any photos on the internet because he's fucking insane.

Garrett, whose face is scribbled out because he doesn’t want any photos on the internet because he’s fucking insane.

Next Up: The Gland Incoherence
And Then: The Unplanned Interference
And Eventually Someday: Seven Sinks And The Bridge Of Despair
And Then Eventually Someday Somehow After All That: 260 Miles: The Borderline Homoerotic Tales Of Traveling Way Too Far On Foot And Getting Ticks On Your Nutsack

A Slice of Nazi at 5 AM

It’s 5 in the morning and this got me all sorts of fired up:

Jeremiah True screencap

Jeremiah True ended up being disrespectful and kind of an ass, but his initial thoughts/ideas were objective and absolutely necessary to bring up in, I don’t know, the thought-challenging environment that college is supposed to be. Who says only women can be raped? Who says men don’t ever get forced into unwanted sex? Who says rape is OK? I sincerely hope that it’s just a case of the negative people speaking the loudest, because it’s this kind of ignorance that is fucking us over. That and folks who don’t believe in vaccinating their kids. Go live on a remote island for a few hundred years and grow a shell and become old and lovable or something. You’re giving me forehead wrinkles.

In fact, I turned you into a Menkampf post. Congratulations; you’re all Nazis!

My first menkampf post!

A Cautionary Ramble Concerning Scientology

Scientology is an elusive and bizarre “religion”. It has been the center of numerous controversies and scandals and is notable for its fervent and aggressive struggle to maintain its precarious public image. Most people who know of the “church” are aware it was founded by one L. Ron Hubbard and that it is followed by a great many celebrities, yet there is an unfortunate abundance of frankly horrifying and disturbing pieces to this confused organization that are important to be aware of.

Scientology has received a fair amount of attention in the media due to its outlandish propaganda and celebrity influence. Some of this coverage has been objective and some has been negative. Most media accounts are sensationalized and provide little information that actually protects people. This is why I feel it is worth my time to write this article, because people are being hurt by this organization and if I am able to inform anyone about things that can save them from any harm then I have done a worthy thing.

Scientology is centered around an intentionally vague and confusing spiritual belief system. It is not based on the explicit worship of a god, rather it is intent on the development of some abstract spiritual body and mind which all people possess. They claim all sorts of strange things about how our lives are affected by this spiritual body and offer means to achieve some twisted sort of enlightenment. They claim that their means of spiritual cultivation is based on legitimate scientific fact. Really it is based entirely on the pseudo psychological ramblings of L. Ron Hubbard as found in his many published books, essays and presentations. The foremost work in this ill-conceived collection is Dianetics. This book lays out Hubbard’s fundamental views of human nature and psychology. It suggests many farcical methods to improve oneself, of these the principal method is something called “auditing”.

Auditing is a warped form of religious confession, it involves the participant voicing things they are ashamed of or that are embarrassing or secret while connected to a device called and “e-meter”. These fanciful devices supposedly measure some sort of spiritual energy field. In all actuality it simply measures the electrical resistance between two low voltage conductors and the participant’s skin. The important thing to take note of with this auditing practice is the sensitive nature of the material is requires participants to discuss. It has been revealed by escaped members of the church that auditing sessions are secretly recorded and kept in a vast archive of individual’s most secret secrets. This is used to blackmail members who are uncooperative or who attempt to leave or expose the true nature of the church. This is only one of the more obvious measures the church takes to preserve itself and subjugate its members. This also stifles any legitimate information or insight being exposed from within the church.

It is easy enough to avoid directly involving oneself with the religious/spiritual aspects of scientology but that is only one facet of an immense extortionary establishment. There are countless scientology run operations claiming to offer all sorts of services from communication classes to financial accounting. All of these fronts will go to immense lengths to pressure you into turning over as much money as they can. If someone is offering a “free self help seminar” or some such similar program, class, session or group experience it is wise to question and act with caution especially before offering personal information and signing any documents or agreeing to any payments. Once you are in their space they will employ merciless psychological tactics to damage your judgement and create a sense of obligation and unworthiness. In another sense they will attempt to condition you to be predisposed to their bidding and will.

These claims may seem dramatic and unnecessarily condemnatory, I can only assure you of my conviction in all that I have said. I am not attempting to entertain, only to warn anyone who may come across this unfortunate cult. I encourage everyone to do some research and read the testimonies of those who have escaped scientology. One glance at  scientology’s official website and you should be able to appreciate the absurd nature of their organization. Please operate with sensible caution and protect others by warning them to stay clear of scientology and their related schemes. Let there be no more suffering at the hands of this delusional institution.

Stay the fuck away

Stay the fuck away.

Road Trip Through Purgatory (or, My Accidental Life As A Full-Time Meth Peddler: Part Two)

Behind “The Boneyard” (a tax evading semi-cult, named after the unearthing of animal bones from below their back lawn), there is a massive hole in the ground.

Levi and I sat at the edge of this ditch, kicking loose dirt from its edge, earth and rock tumbling down to the pit’s bottom. The sun was hot and blinding, searing our backs through tee-shirts and thin jackets, drying the mud beneath our worn shoes.

“This is gonna be an underground greenhouse,” Levi told me, sipping from the brim of a black coffee, his long hair dangling over his face. “I’ve been doing all the fucking work though. Ripped a hole right down the ass of my favorite striped pants.”

“It looks like a mass grave,” I told him.

Rotating to look at me, Levi squinted through the blaring sunlight and shrugged, then nodded thoughtfully. “Huh. Fini should be here soon.”

As though waiting on a cue, the infamous Fini emerged from the cluttered house behind us, jarringly slender with the stature of a retarded hunchback. His smelly jacket blew in the late springtime breeze, eyes sunken to the back of his rotten brain and peering through inflamed rings of sleepless drug abuse. Slight winds carried trash and dust across the inconceivably filthy property, blowing against the legs of his undersized jeans, tight and childlike on his sickening chicken legs. Taking a long drag of a hand-rolled cigarette, he blew smoke into his own face and grunted, “Alright kids, let’s hit the road. Just a couple hours, right? I’ll get you the camping gear and we’ll all be set.”

Complying without question, my companion and I signed ourselves onto the most nightmarish trek that would ever grace our shitty lives.

“Garrett keeps asking about camping gear,” Levi informed me as we approached a small car. “He gave me a list and shit. Like, a color-coded document that’s all bulleted and fancy and shit. I don’t know, this guy says he’ll hook us up for free. He seems good for it, long as we come along and help him bring stuff back.”

Opening the hind-passenger door, Fini reached in for a small cooler, then shut the vehicle before we could enter it.

“Oh, not this car,” he told us. “We’re taking that one.” Pointing a scummy fingernail down the driveway, he drew our sight to a white, nearly windowless van, screws and nails jutting from its chipping sides. “You dudes can sit in the back on the way out. I rigged up some seats and shelves and all that, so you’ll have an alright time.” Laughing lightly under his breath, he wiped his nose with the side of a greasy fist.

Upon entering this automobile, the unfamiliar fellow slammed his cooler down and removed the plastic lid, hunger brewing in his beady little pupils. With shaking hands, he dipped his palms into the small box and produced a single bottle of milk, covered in frost and chilled water. With but one fluid motion, he wrenched the cap from its container and latched his mouth over the brim, sucking with famished aggression. “God damn,” he hooted as the flagon unlatched from his nasty lips. “There’s nothing better than ice-cold milk!”

Tossing it at Levi, he juddered with uncontrollable passion. “Ice-cold milk,” he announced again. “Really, you have to try it.”

Shrugging with absolute apathy, Levi lifted the frothy beverage and sipped a bit down. “Yeah, it’s pretty good,” he said.

“Pretty good?” Fini retrieved it, passing the drink to me. “Ice-cold milk,” he said.

“It’s lactose,” the words slipped almost nervously through my teeth. “I can’t drink milk, man.”

Deeply offended, Fini pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows, taking another hard swig before returning it to the cooler. “Whatever, dude.”

[Editor’s Addition: Mood Music for the ensuing smut-fest.]

Then, without warning, the world caved in on itself and we were cast into the proverbial fires of a very real Hell. It all happened so unbelievably fast – one moment, we were standing at the side of a crumbling-home-turned-cult-residence; the next moment, we were huddled down in the back of a strange junkie’s hazardous van, nail-riddled shelves lurching with every slight turn, tobacco smoke filling the airless space as we pressed a foam slate across the hind window to “prevent being seen.”

Emily (Fini’s girl) sat in the withered passenger seat, every inch and orifice of her body (visibly) perforated by some form of steel rod or ball, arguing with her partner over every line that oozed across his mindlessly flapping tongue. When we reached the toll-bridge into Washington, she had to take the wheel in his place, the crusty felon hiding in back with us because the entire state wanted him on charges of “avoiding a parking ticket” (widespread and repeated possession, production, and distribution of Class 1 Narcotics). Immediately after reaching our first destination (one of many, as we were soon to discover), we were forced to endure five hours in waiting while Fini dealt methamphetamines to a disabled woman and downloaded an unfathomably shitty phone application (“Asphalt 8” he boyishly chortled at us as he reentered the van, chucking his sticky smartphone into our laps). Emily had thrown us twenty bucks to spend on food, but not even delicious and pricey sandwiches could ease the discomfort of her boyfriend’s vile antics.

And as the North-Western rain came pouring down, my thoughts could only shift back to those frail few words, muttered so simply by Fini before we departed from The Boneyard. “A couple hours,” the putrid lie echoed like an ominous premonition through my aching head.

A couple hours. A couple hours. A couple hours.

A couple hours turned into five, which turned into eight, which turned into twelve-and-a-half. That’s right, over twelve fucking hours were we made to endure this travesty of a “road trip.”

And it only spiraled down from here.

Posing with one of Fini's hand-rolled cigarettes. Approximately two hours on the road.

Posing with one of Fini’s hand-rolled cigarettes. Approximately two hours on the road.

Next up: Seven Sinks And The Bridge Of Despair (My Accidental Life As A Full-Time Meth Peddler: Part Three)

My Accidental Life As A Full-Time Meth Peddler: Part One

After walking approximately seventy miles, I reached the Portland city limits. My legs were on fire and my conscience was beginning to fade, fourteen consecutive hours of travel weighing upon the many more spent without sleep. And yet, here I was at last, lost at the edge of my hometown with sixty dollars to my name and a ratty crust of hair plastered across my cheeks. Selecting a random block, my legs began to throb in its general direction, moving against all odds to keep me alive.

Countless buildings passed before another human presence was identified, some young woman sitting on the curb outside of a convenience store, a frighteningly large cigar burning between her skeletal fingers. Seemingly oblivious to my disgustingly disheveled appearance, she glumly informed me that she was a clerk on break, imprisoned in a graveyard shift to pay for a trashy apartment. When asked where one could find a place to sleep, she haphazardly pointed her stogie and proposed we have sex together; greasy, pained, and filled to the brim with undischarged fecal matter, I declined. She then offered to sell me acid, ignoring my awkward dismissal. After declining once more, I bid her farewell and my travels continued.

Soon enough, a filthy motel crossed my path, something cheap enough to rob me of all cash and house me for the following six hours (it was made very clear that I had to vacate by eleven o’clock). Crumpling into a mattress that reeked of adultery and well-fed scabies, I plugged my cell phone into the nearest outlet and proceeded to sweat my body-weight overnight. In no time, the light of noon was upon me and I fell sprawling from the mattress, taking a two-minute shower and drying off with a hand towel (the full-sized towels provided were all stained in copious amounts of shit). Tugging my clothes back on, I gathered my meager belongings and hit the road again. Within hours, I had reunited with my friend Levi.

The plan was to stay a night at The Boneyard (a tax-evading, independently operated semi-cult), later gathering supplies from a disturbingly gaunt man named Fini (unbeknownst to us, a narcotics dealer) before setting out on a group expedition to Eastern Oregon.

“The guys are kind of weird,” he notified me on the bus ride there.

Upon entering the strangely inconspicuous residence, I was greeted by its homeowner, a middle-aged man with frazzled hair pulled into a frayed ponytail. He held a hand-rolled cigarette and discussed his life as a digital effects artist, voice becoming comically gruff when he spoke while exhaling. “What genres do you like?” he asked me.

“Just about anything,” I told him, “as long as it’s not too bogged down with action scenes. I usually like a little bit of meaning.”

“I find meaning in action movies,” he told me, slowly crushing his cigarette against the tabletop with smoke billowing out from his nose. “Meaning in the violence.”

As if on cue, a large man came lumbering into the room with a plastic cup of beer splashing about in his fist. Immediately, an argument sparked over whether or not Vikings adorned their helmets with horns. “I am a fucking Viking,” he boomed drunkenly. “I know this shit.”

After a wry and condescending remark, the homeowner grinned and exited to the kitchen, dismissing his friend entirely. Directly following this departure, the Viking threw his arms out to the sides, twisting them in random directions and stomping his feet, screeching indistinguishable sounds at the top of his lungs with eyeballs protruding and tongue flapping around outside of his mouth. Then, just as spontaneously as he had begun, he came to a sudden halt.

“You know what I mean?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I told him, giving a thumbs-up.

“Alright,” he grinned, leaving the room.

Calmly turning to me, Levi lifted an empty mug. “Do you want some coffee?” he asked me, utterly unfazed by what we had just witnessed. “We can wait out back for Fini to get here. I’ve got to show you this hole they’ve been digging.”

Nothing could prepare me for the events that followed.

First week back in town with Jolly Oswald and Funky Mannequin.

First week back in town with Jolly Oswald and Funky Mannequin.