20130417

Talking to dogs



         Like most teenagers growing up in central California I “experimented” with drugs like Marijuana and Magic mushrooms. I’ll never forget the first time I did “shrooms” It was the summer of 2007 and I was at my buddy Jeremy’s house who lived about a country mile around the corner from my parents’ house. It was a normal Tuesday morning and I was chilling with my bro rusty and a few other people smoking a doobie and one of the guys there named “terry” asked me if I wanted to try some California gold cap mushrooms. With all honesty I admit that I was afraid to try something like that, but after a few more drags from the aforementioned joint I sifted through the baggie that I paid 20$ for and asked “well, how the fuck do I take these?” Terry explains that I eat them. DUH, right? A mouthful of what tasted like pumpkin seeds and cow excrement later we settle on the couch and start watching Grandmas boy (my first out of 5 attempts to watch that fucken movie).
                If you have ever done a drug in your life or have seen a Cheech and Chong movie than you will understand this convo: 

                Me: Duuuudddeeee there Is soooo many fucken colors in this room. This movie is like, the funniest thing I have ever seen in my entire life. Ooohhhhh shitttttt I think that the shrooms are starting to kick in, also, it feels like I am doing flying through space time on this couch. 

                Terry: hahaha yeahhh, I think that they are starting to kick in.

                I lost track of time/space after that moment, I say “time/space” because I can’t recall any kind of time line and the special implications of normal reality where lost to me. My next clear memory is me, watching Grandmas boy and getting a call from my dad saying/ yelling in his Mexican accent that “Your brother’s dog got hit by that bitch lady around the corner, and I need you to get your fucken ass home and bury it. NOW!” 

                Yep yep yep, it is as bad as it sounds. The feeling I got is what I imagine most people get when they know they are FUCKED and getting pulled over by the cops during a felony incident, like having a literal trunk full of meth or being a black guy in an all-white 1960s GA bar. I don’t know what the fuck I said to my pops but I am pretty sure that it was similar to “Uhhgghhh yea………………….ok…………….I’ll be home soon…..ok……..yea….not up to anything really….just hanging out with my friends…..yea…..no, yea……….” 

                So, for some reason I thought that smoking another J would help, accordingly I finish another one and watch some more Grandmas boy with my dudes and even though only about 10 minutes have passed, it feels like 5 hours and I imagine my dad waiting on the porch for me with a shovel in his hand and our dead Australian Shepard puppy and my little brother crying over it and the fact that the sun is 92,960,000 miles away from earth and it will be setting into our beautiful western coast soon. I shoot up off of the couch and say some jumbled goodbyes and head out on the 1.4 miles of country road towards home. it was like I stepped into an old Mickey Mouse cartoon and all of the trees were waving at me and the 30 billion fucken flowers on the way home were ecstatic to see me walk by, and I was equally as happy to see them, hysterically laughing as I passed by.

Despite the fact that I was on my way to bury a dead puppy, there was no amount of evil in the world that could turn my drug induced euphoria upside down. I felt like god made every color in the rainbow just for my eyes, and revealed unto me the truth about life, death and everything after it on that walk home.  If you’re ever in Galt, California take a walk down Live oak road headed towards McFarland st, its fucken magical. On said road there is an Asian family with what looks like a small goat farm with a Great Pyrenees dog guarding it. 

If you are under the influence of a psychedelic drug, you will probably think that he wants to chat about how awesome life as a giant dog is but this is not the case, EVER. Do NOT ever stop and chat with a strange dog, EVER, about anything. After my hangout with the Great Pyrenees I continue my trek home to take care of my bury-the dead-puppy chore and arrive home. I see mooches limp corpse laying at the edge of our driveway, with what looks like a neon orange fluid oozing out of her mouth. I don’t even go inside but instead go around back and grab a wheel barrel and shovel; about 20 minutes of admiring how beautiful the corn fields behind my house looked, I finally attempt my original task. 

                I am sure that this pup only weighed about 40 pounds at the time but when I tried to put her in the wheel barrel it honestly felt like I was trying to lift a fucken engine block up. The whole time it looked like she was still alive, with that terrified look dogs get in their eyes when they are scared or about to be punished. This is what most people would classify as the downward spiral of my trip, which is a pretty accurate description since everything from this point wasn’t exactly living inside a rainbow like the last 6 hours was. I finally heave her into the wheel barrel and cart her off to our field which I planned to bury her in. Once we are in the center of the field I start to shovel into the concrete like soil of our field when in what seems is 20 seconds the sun instantly lowers from a solid 3 PM in summer to instant sunset, accompanied with an eerie fog. I dig her a shallow 4 foot grave and toss her already stiff body into the ground, due to lack of planning I realize that I probably should have piled up the dirt instead of literally showering it everywhere. I awkwardly dig another hole to supplement her needed cover dirt and realize that I don’t have anything to use as a grave marker. Luckily for me the week prior I had to uproot some Aloe vera plants in our yard and throw them in the field where I buried Mooch. “well, looks like this is it dog…go with god..” 

To this day I am still hoping that all of the sun dropping and instant fog thing was just a byproduct of my minds imagination, the other explanation is that I somehow completed a “evil dead” type ritual without knowing and now the dogs spirit is roaming the land, doing things like causing ghost piss in the house and chewing on hoses.

20130409

Crazy superstitious


My superstitious nature is outlandish, even by Gypsy standards. For example:


1)      I believe heads up pennies are good luck, especially 1977 ones.
2)      The absolute avoidance of the number 13
3)      Wishing for shit to myself on 11:11
4)      Black cats
5)      Crossing the path of owls
6)      Weird things occur between 0300 and 0400
7)      The # 7 is lucky
8)      And of course four leaf clovers are good luck

I am starting to think that my behavior is what some psychiatric professionals would refer to as “obsessive”. If I see a penny on the ground I HAVE TO FUCKING look at if It is heads up and will stop dead in my tracks just to pick it up; you can picture what happens if I come across more than one penny at a time. As for the last time I ignored the number 13 I got a room on the 13th floor at the Hilton in Austin and ended the night with several heavily armed APD cops knocking at my hotel door and dragging myself and an Army buddy out of our rooms( but that’s another story). Since then I don’t even pump gas at a #13 pump nor have my radio set to 26 because somehow that must be double the bad luck, right? And you can bet your buns that I have a penny super glued to my desk with "Rub me for good luck" scrawled next to it. Maybe when I get the much needed psychiatric help one day my therapist will explain to me why I am obsessed with trying to get the universe to roll its dice in my favor. Hahaha i just realized that i am fitting the exact definition of insanity with doing the same thing over and over again and expecting something different to happen.

Tigers don't have fists



I am not really sure what brought along the topic of “I’m pretty sure I can kill a tiger with my bare hands” but it has been an ongoing argument my wife and I have had for some time now. Well, actually I am pretty sure that it was 1 part supplement induced levels of testosterone, and 1 part Scotch and coke combined with the media choking “Life of Pi” commercials down my retinas 30 times a minute. I have never, nor will never watch the movie, but I assume after seeing the skinny Arab dude stuck in the spacial sea equivalent of a floating porta-potty that he dies gruesomely from the tiger. This exchange between the wife and I sparked this gem of a conversation 

“ FUCK THAT STRIPEY TONY THE TIGER LOOK ALIKE! Pretty fucken sure that I could fuck that tiger up with my bare hands. Yep. Literally I could punch it to death, or at least take it out with a solid roundhouse to his tiger jugular.”


“Sebastian, no. Tigers weigh like 300 pounds and would rip your face off if it saw you.”

“A) I am more than certain that a full grown male tiger weighs around 600 pounds. B) Tigers don’t have fists. C) My strategy is pretty solid, which would include hiding in a tree until his bright orange ass walks by and I latch onto his back and bash it in the head with my tomahawk and in its confused state I deliver a killing blow to its furry fucken face, “Norris style”.
                
         Apparently she saw some holes in my strategy and stated “facts” like tigers are flexible and would scratch me off its back easier than an albino getting a sunburn, or that hitting it with a tomahawk doesn’t count as killing it with my “bare hands”. I dismiss her evidence as a lack of faith in my manliness and walk around the living room shirtless with my Scotch on the rocks, letting out obnoxious grunts and whip out my compound bow to deliver some street justice to the neighborhood squirrels. Ten minutes and a broken arrow later, I come back in with my manliness levels refreshed, just in time to see that stupid fucking commercial of that dildo stuck in a boat with a tiger, and thinking that “yep, I would FUCK. THAT. TIGER. UP.”