not much to say. only that the dvd of jackie brown that my sister brought me from barcelona so many years ago doesn't work on the dvd players here. fucken region 1/region 2 incompatablitity.
i was just discussing with timemachine how i can't wait until the meth epidemic hits the northeastern u.s. partly out of spite (payback for the devastation of the black psyche brought by the crack explosion of the 80s and 90s) and partly because i want in.
so how fitting it is that i should stumble upon a nameless gentleman at the bus depot on my way back in from new york last weekend (yes, that same weekend spent raging out with timemachine, ruminating over the impending wave of pestilence) who indeed lived the quintessential street thunder lifetime.
now a trucker, our hero grew up in green bay, lived in a commune in oregon getting high and fucking loose hippie twat as a teen, only to move to hawaii at the behest of his drug addict girlfriend. living there, tending bar, trying to keep his lady under control, his typical morning consisted of surfing at dawn and putting a dent in the $10 grocery bag of weed given to him by the north shore locals. real kamaaina shit. respekt.
after an incident involving his girlfriend dosing him with acid while at work (and the nightmarish trip that ensued), the relationship started to unravel, and following her death a short time later, he moved back to the mainland.
back to the midwest. the heartbeat of amurrica.
michigan specifically. now this would be the part of the story that gets my underthings all wet, what with the perpetuation of the street thunder fantasy and all.
so our nameless trucker moved back to michigan and got in with a tough crowd. the pagans to be precise. and everyone knows that nothing, i mean absolutely nothing, can stop a motorcycle gang. the cops? in the words of an unknown klansmen: "but who will protect the cops?"
imagine, if you will, my doe-eyed wunderment at the sounds of these stories of prospecting and motorcycle-bound drive-bys and methamphetamine manufacture and prostituting runaways. fucken wax ecstatic!
but alas, the lure of stability over chaos and the fear of getting murked led him away from the street scene and back into the arms of the american dream. a tax-paying, child-raising, wedding band-wearing benefit II society.
but from what i'm reading timemachine (and anyone else who's in for a bit of the old hyperviolence), these pagans could be our gateway into fulfilling the prophecy.
"The Pagans make and distribute most of the methamphetamine and PCP in the northeastern U.S. - about $15 million-worth a year. They have their own chemists and laboratories, which supply dealers in Connecticut, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Virginia, Maryland, and Ohio. They also deal in cocaine, marijuana and killerweed (Parsley sprinkled with PCP)."
hey wait a minute?! new jersey, new york, maryland, motorcycles, narcotics, parsley? that's us, innit?
what the fuck are we waitin for?!
jesus h! this song used to be really near and dear to my heart you guys. kinda cutesy even. play it for cool people at work maybe and get a laugh. all that's fucked up after seeing this video though. one look at uncle howie shooting up and it's like fuck, the addict's life, in my face, for real this time. i almost can't even pay attention to the lyrics with all this dope drama going on in the background. and the fucking vintage camcorder aesthetic (you know, the shit the size of a samsonite, vhs tapes, shoulder mounted, goofy as fuck?) adds to the griminess tenfold.
if ONDCP were smart/effective/tuned in at all, a. they'd stop trying to get kids to stop/never start smoking weed, and b. they'd launch their new front with this video as their all-star PSA.
one look at this shit and all the gateway drug stuff is instantly validated.
"no kid grows up saying, i wanna be a junkie," proclaims mr. voiceover.
yeah, well, make it visceral uncle sam. introduce the kids to uncle howie. haha. to a real fucking maniac and not some drama major asshole from connecticutt but no, as usual, the war on drugs wastes our time, cash, and resources pussyfooting around the issue.
bottom line, stop wasting my money you fucks.
"you don't know the meaning of beasting out unless you've snorted a drug off a bathroom floor."
for the past few years, this maxim had gone unedited, my sole defense against a generation that seems to think that weed is a hard drug (it fucking grows in the dirt, and if a little kid can blaze and not die or become violently ill, it's disqualified in my view) or that drinking a six pack of beer is binge drinking or "getting wasted." unless you've put yourself either on the brink of death, in treatment, or on your hands and knees trying to salvage your night after a bit of clumsiness, shut the fuck up.
but alas, an auxilliary to the mini-manifesto.
"You don't know the meaning of scumbaggery until you've fucked a guy's wife."
parlaying a former co-worker into an adulterous liaison was something i'd shied away from at first, but i'm really quite dichotomous (see previous post about rehab: "What More Can I Say..."). a few weeks of conscientious trepidation erased in a synapse-quick flash of horniness and a salacious want for something desperately depraved. what can i say? it's all quite biological. and besides, i'm a low-life. but not a regretful low-life mind you. shit was primo, puro, tubular even. a dream sequence played out in the suburban fuckfields. hope her husband had a good time in dallas, because i had a pretty good time in his wife.
reckless, yes. fearless, yes. godless, yes.
the soldiers of Street Thunder embrace this uncanny, hellish lifestyle. we pursue that which makes us happy and makes other people feel like shit, that which raises eyebrows and increases disdain for our tribe. we love the hate.
instant gratification's the trip my friends, 'more good times' being both our morals and our ethics. a flag flying in the face all that is pompous and proper and accepted.
surely, this isn't the end children. oh no. just the humble start of a beautiful nightmarish joyride that'll inspire future generations of vandals, philanderers, users, geniuses, and aficionados to greatness. there's many amendments to be made to this Constitution of these Rage Out States. oh yes. just give us some time. time's all we have.
an exchange:
Paul: we can drink street thunder lemonade, which is taking the nation by storm by the way
Kasai: oh yeah? ingredients?
Paul: pint glass with 2 shots everclear, lemonade, sugar and a lemon wedge
Kasai: delicious!
