Three Forms of Crystal to Get to The Great HIGHway

  
There was too much speed last night between the street racing and the methamphetamine. But I'm not exactly sure the drag racing actually happened although I do have a ruby I stole from some guys earring. I did end up hands and knees on the floor scrubbing with Target-brand Pinesol. That was much, much later after all the lines blurred and disappeared. It was also after a red dot in the shape of a pimple I just had to pop. My friend wasn't too pleased. Who really likes it when a friend obsessively stares at you and suddenly gets up from his seated position on the couch across from you and decides that he has to kiss you and as he is kissing you pops your zit -- the same zit you probably obsessed about in front of the mirror and tried to cover using concealer that made it look cracked and caky instead --  even though you're screaming and pushing him off and your other friends are laughing hysterically? At least I was able to blame it on the speed.

It started at what was supposed to be band rehearsal. We went to our studio off of Taylor and Ellis and were greeted by another band, Crystal Antics, in the hallway. They were taking a smoke break talking about the stupid-ass Supreme Court decision to give corporations people status regarding political contributions. (Quick not: Really? Fucking really? Corporations are not people! I don't care what the law says. If you cut off their head and it doesn't kill them, they are not a person.) Our band mate Nick hates politics and cigarettes, and he was in an awful mood thanks to his boyfriend telling him, right before practice, that he was in fact impotent and that that was the reason they hadn't had sex in over a month. (Little does Nick know that his boyfriend has also been giving blow jobs to a boyish 19 year-old.) The greeting in the hallway was a little too much for him, so he rushed past them up to our studio and unlocked it. I stayed behind talking to Kristal trying to get the dish on a party or something for after rehearsal. She suggested I just hand with them. They were going back to her place to meet her dealer later and there was always a part afterwards. Gallagher, our other band mate, paced back and forth between us until I finally made my way up to our studio.

When I opened the studio door, Nick was on the paisley worn-out Craigslist couch smoking a joint and crying. He was definitely not in the mood for rehearsal, so we skipped the feigning practicing and and just smoked another joint and shared a few beers. I was the only one who actually out my instrument (the keyboard), plugged it in to the monitor and started practicing. Gallagher offered to drive Nick home and spend the night just to make sure he was okay. We lollygagged for about an hour and then Nick and Gallagher left. I went back into the hallway. Kristal was sitting at the top of the stairs smoking a cigarette, so I asked to bum one and lit up. I haven't smoked since I was 22. It felt rebellious.

We discussed the Supreme Court's (or more specifically fucking Justice John Roberts') ruling a little more, but got bored with trashing the USA. There's only so much trash talking you can do until it all becomes as boring and trivial as the fucking trash your talking about. Then our flirting (yes, I should call it what it actually was) turned to drug taking, which raised my spirits for some possible sex that night. Impaired judgment is how I find most of my sex. (It's also how I found crabs and gonorrhea, but that's besides the point.) Kristal grabbed the silver chain around her neck and pulled out a little metal cylinder etched with serpentine patterns. She unscrewed the top and gently pulled up. As the top was lifted a thin spoon was revealed a few small white particles clung to it. Kristal turned the cylinder sideways and slowly inserted the spoon. When it came back out a perfect little mound of cocaine rested on it. She put the spoon to her nose and snorted. Then, she offered me some. Of course I didn't refuse.

A few more snots, and she escorted me back to her studio. Her band mates were doing shots of tequila taking a break for "creativity" and "inspiration". When Kristal walked in it was back to business and everyone went back to their instruments ready to play. I say on their green plaid worn-out Craigslist couch (I think all of the furniture in all of the studios was from Craigslist) and eased in to my high. This was so much better than going home and pacing my bedroom back and forth waiting for sleep. I closed my eyes and listened to their scratchy, fuzzy music.

I must've fallen asleep because I woke up to Kristal bent over kissing me, her band mates in the hallway read to heat out for the night. "You coming with us?" She asked with only her upraised black pencil thin eyebrows and a few bats of her eyelashes. I kissed back in response and stood up.

Everyone piled into Tera's navy windowless child molester van. It was packed with equipment that we sat on top of. About twenty minutes later, we were at Kristal's house in the Sunset. Everyone stumbled out of the back and spilled into the pink two-story that looked like all the other houses on the block except for being the only one that wasn't a shade of gray or tan. It was immaculate and sparkling, a very big contrast to the dump of a studio we all had at the Ellis space. I was eager for more drugs. More intoxication equalled a better change with Kristal.

I pulled out a joint to share with everyone as we sat in her white living room. I have never seen so much white. The walls, couch, television stand, art, coffee table, lampshades, book covers, and bric-a-brac were all various shades of white or opal or chalk. The smoke hung loosely in the air adding more white to the room and gave me something to zone out to. I started counting each particle I could see. I was lost somewhere else entirely and didn't notice that the drug dealer, Aron, had arrived and was collecting money from customers. He was ready to leave when I finally returned to the living room and asked for $50 worth. He pulled out a baggie and threw it on my lap, grabbed my money, and headed out. Everyone stared at their baggie for a few moments until Kristal put on some Album Leaf and brought out razors. That's when everything changed.

Just as Kristal sat back down, I saw it. I don't know why I hadn't seen it previously. It was in plain sight: big, throbbing, red, circular, just left of Kristal's nose. I had to have it in my collection. Suddenly, lines appeared on her coffee table looking as if the table itself created them as the earth creates mountains. As suddenly as they appeared, the disappeared. Our noses a hurricane forceful enough to topple rock. then another line. Another hurricane. Another mountain. Another snort. Until there was one lone ridge on the flat plane. My compulsion and obsession grew with each line until I finally excused myself to the bathroom.

I looked at my red bloodshot eyes and my dry teeth. Everything in the bathroom was glittery clean and a perfect white. It made my eyes yellow in comparison. My skin looked a sickly green and for a moment I thought I was going to be sick all over the bathroom. A cough/gag brought a little of the beer back into my mouth, and I swallowed it back down. The lingering tasted of bile required some mouth wash which I found neatly tucked under the sink along with the tampons, pads, and a bottle of Plum Punky Color. I turned on the sink and washed my face hoping to forget about Kristal's pimple, but after the water fell back into the sink I saw reflected in the mirror a zit on my face in the exact same spot as Kristal's. When I went to touch the side of my nose, it was smooth. I knew my reflection was taunting me. I had to have Kristal's popped zit. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper and went back to the living room.

She sat there laughing at a joke someone told. I didn't hear the lead in but the punch line as "And that's why ducks quack." The punch line was fucking stupid. It had to have been the copious amounts of intoxicants that made it funny. Even then I didn't et the joke, but I didn't care. As she leaned back in her chair, her long straight purple-black hair, such a stark contrast to all the white, glimmered, and I was momentarily lost in the waves of light as they rippled down her hair. Then, she looked straight at me, the pimple taunting me. It was time to be popped.

The toilet paper already in my hand, I strutted over to Kristal and kissed her. As her tongue met mine, I reached over with my right hand and squeezed. She screamed, "What the fuck!" and slapped me. I kept pressing the toilet paper to her nose. I had to collect every last drop of zit innards. It was going to be mine and mine alone. I clutched her back with my left hand to make sure she wouldn't escape. Her hands started pounding my chest, and a few more slaps struck my cheek. Everyone else laughed maniacally. At least I was good entertainment.

Another friend, Jasmine I think, realized someone else would have to intervene if  was to let go of Kristal, so she grabbed my ears and pulled backwards. I let go instantaneously and tumbled to the ground hitting the edge of the table on the way down. The drugs flew into the air looking like someone just exhaled on a winter's night. A collective gasp echoed as I stared at the toilet paper that now had a large red dot almost covering its entire surface. It was much larger than the zit.

"Martin, what the hell was that for?" Kristal yelled. "You need to get the fuck out of my house. I can almost forgive a zit fetish, but, Jesus, spilling our speed...that's unforgivable."

I couldn't look away from the toilet paper dot. As I stared at it, I was drawn deeper into it -- a very intimate and comforting feeling -- and noticed the dark crimson blood, the light carnation mucous, and the burnt sienna scab. It was a drug better than coke, weed, or speed. The dot grew its familiar fibers, each hair reaching out to me, and I began to fall towards them.

Another slap raced across my face bringing me momentarily back to her living room. I looked up from my toilet paper trying my best to give apologetic eyes.

"Get the FUCK OUT! NOW!"

"I'm sorry," I replied in a hushed voice barely audible. "I'm sorry", and my words were swallowed coming to rest in the pit of my stomach. I knew as I looked around at the angry expressions and sitting on edges of seats that I was no longer welcome in this space. I knew I had to leave. I clutched the dot in my hand feeling the hairs tickle the ridges of my fingerprints, grabbed my jacket, and left. The door slammed behind me, and I hear the house vent gossip and snickers.

I didn't want to go home. Her house was close enough to the ocean that I decided to walk to the Beach. I still held the toilet paper tightly in my hand not wanting to let it go. With each step, I felt the hairs growing and my hand warming. I paid little attention to this feeling focusing instead on the embarrassing events of the evening and disappointed that I wouldn't be getting anywhere with Kristal. I mindlessly pulled the last remaining joint out of my jacket pocked, lit it, and inhaled hoping to forget or at least to stop obsessing.

I don't know if the next series of events really happened. It was like I walked into a dream: the details are murky, unreal, and illogical. The hairs somewhere between Kristal's house and the end of the joint grew to cover my entire body. Although the fog was dense and cold, I was incredibly warm, hot even, as if a fever grew from my belly.

Somehow I found myself in he back seat of a tricked out Honda Civic with neon lime leather interior and a metallic cobalt paint job. The driver was a really, really old black guy with no hair and so many wrinkles he looked like a basset hound. He even had large dangling ears that were stretched from years of wearing what appeared to be heavy silver earrings the width of my thumb and shaped like dragons, their mouths open wide with bright rubies in their throats. We were zipping down the Great Highway so fast I couldn't even make out the ocean on my right. On the left was a bright gold board of a Comet racing us.

I black driver paid not attend to me. It was almost as if I didn't exist and couldn't affect any of my surroundings. I tried to grab the rubies because they were red dots, but there was some repellant force. Every time I reached out they swayed away from me. I still clutched my toilet paper.

The race ended somewhere in Daly City. I know it was somewhere out there because the Ranch 99 Market sign darted pasted us on the left. When we reached our destination, the car screeched to a halt, and I flew into the passenger's seat. Still the wrinkly driver didn't see me. As I tried to turn myself around so my head wasn't underneath the glove compartment, I dropped my red dot, and the driver shouted "What? Who the hell are you and how did you get into my car?"

He saw me. I payed attention only to the rubies, reached out and grabbed one, and picked up the toilet paper off the floor. Without warning, I was surrounded by a twilight pink light that looked as if it was diffused by clouds although I couldn't see any. I also couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. It was the most disorienting space and made me sleepy. I closed my eyes.

When I re-opened them, I was on my hands and knees scrubbing my apartment floor, and the clock read 7:12. My body ached. The floor sparkled. It looked like I had been cleaning for hours. My apartment smelled like pine.

I needed to know if I just dreamed everything, so I went over to my dot collection. There on the shelf was the popped pimple dot, and next to it was the ruby.

As I transcribe all of this, I realize I should probably check in to rehab. But that won't happen. The first step on the road to recovery is admitting you have a problem. I'm not going to admit that. Instead, I'll just blame the dots. They make me do these things. they put me in these situations in the first place. I won't claim responsibility. It's not me. I'm not me.

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Buena Vista's Legendary Pink Dots

 
I had to just get out of the apartment and wander today. The dream, my growing collection of red dots, and my wavering sanity complicate my life too much. I want the simplicity of before, when as I walked to work I ignored everything around me. Ignorance was my motto. Now, I walk to work and have to choose to either pass by the mural that started it all of avoid it. Each choice requires thought and comes with consequence. I hate this kind of existence. So I emptied as much as I could out of my mind, opened the door, and let my feet and Echo and the Bunnymen carry me away.

The emptiness didn't last too long. I started thinking about my uncle when I found myself on the top of Potrero Hill. When I was really young, about four, we'd come up here and sit at the top of the hill and stare at downtown. There wasn't much here at the time, and people generally avoided the neighborhood. My uncle loved seeing how the skyline changed. And this was a better view to witness that change than Twin Peaks. I miss those days of quiet observation. There was a certain detachment that could be achieved if you pretended not to care or didn't get emotionally attached to a particular building or patch of grass or tree. If you gave everything the same value, there really wasn't any difference between the new condos going up and the historic home being torn down. One replaced one. Therefore, all is equal.

Now, I know that that isn't real. A condo may be a two and that historic house may have been a one. They weren't equal, and they weren't balanced. Some one or some thing tipped the scales each time, and I am beginning to realize I am one of those tippers. We all are. My red dots keep making me quite aware of this fact.

I continued my wandering by walking down 18th Street and over the 280. It used to be an industrial wasteland whose borders were 280, the Bay, Cesar Chavez (then Army Street), and Townsend. It has been transformed over the last two decades or so and boasts an ever-growing UCSF campus, restaurants, media companies, textile makers, and coffee shops. I think this area is called Dog Patch. I always thought it was called that cause it looked like an overgrown large-ass dog run: full of piss and shit. The old name doesn't match its new flavor, but I guess that underneath all the sugary sweetness of development there is still a taste of bitter shit upon the lips. That kind of stink never goes away no matter how much you pile on top of it.

I'm now sitting sipping coffee in the lower Haight. Seeing all the development depressed me because it continually reminded me of how much my uncle has changed, so I hopped on the 22 and left. I realize I am giving the dream actual credence. I do believe what happened in that dream is real. I do believe that that place actually exists. But what does that mean for me right now as I sit in Cafe La Soliel writing all of this shit down? What can I actually do with it? I know I can visit my uncle in the hospital, but I am unconvinced that that will actually change anything. If he sees yellow squares, how does that change the fact that I see red dots? It doesn't. It may clarify a purpose or reason, but understanding the reason requires action. As I said before, I love living ignorantly. It makes everything simpler.

The man sitting next to me is typing furiously away at email and html code simultaneously. His beautiful reddish brown eyes look up occasionally and stare at me. A quizzical expression -- hunched eyebrows and a narrowing of the pupils -- passes his face every time our eyes meet. What is he thinking? Does he see how lost I am and in return feels lost too? Does he think I am crazy because I hold his stare until he turns away? I am making him uncomfortable. I notice how many more typing mistakes he is making as I stare at him. His feet shift. Does he know I am writing about him? Does he realize that the only reason I can write this right now is because his fingers tap the keyboard? Maybe I am like the red dots: always shaping things from beyond without actually getting involved. Only that's not entirely true. The red dots always compel me to actions. Every fucking time they show up.

I need to get up and wander some more. The man to my right is leaving. I think I'll follow him for a little while. I'll let hum make my decisions without him even knowing. I just need to keep a safe distance. I only want to observe. Watch. Stare. I promise I won't do anything to him. Promise.

***written a number of hours later***

I lied. He was wearing a red dot on the lapel of his jacket. It was a pin for the Legendary Pink Dots. That's how I knew it was one of mine. It was blood red NOT hot pink.

I followed him down to Haight where he took a left. I continued behind him slowing down so he wouldn't notice. Headphones on he ignored almost everything but was at least aware enough to step over the pile of (I think human) shit that I almost stepped in. Every now and again he'd stop and shake his ass rhythmically. It was endearing.

I still hadn't noticed the pin and enjoyed his pace and direction. I found myself liking him. I hadn't actually had sex with a guy since college, but started entertaining the idea for him. He was cute and bubbly. Two things I am not.

He stayed on Haight Street until Buena Vista Park. I knew immediately what he was going to do and thought it would be an excellent opportunity to continue my stalking. One thing I should have known was: when searching for public sex one becomes much more aware of their surroundings. I'm not good at stalking. I have no idea how to remain out of sight.

He saw me as he climbed up a dirt path on the back side of the hill, and he definitely recognized me. He stopped and turned directly at me. I looked away and adjusted my cap. I didn't want to actually talk to him. I wanted to keep the fantasy a little longer. It was going so well.

He approached me looking for other people and smiling just a little. He stumbled on a root or vine or some other debris when I noticed his pin. It was staring at me the same way he stared at me moments before. I knew I needed the dot more than him.

The next set of things are all a bit of a haze. I somehow made it home, and I'm writing this at my desk. I have a very large welt at the crown of my head and it itches like a mother fucker. My palms are ripped up bleeding through my bandages which makes writing uncomfortable and a little messy. The Legendary Pink Dots pin is sitting in my collection on the bookshelf.

I remember running down the hill towards him screaming something. I think he tried turning around but instead twisted the root or vine around his ankle which made him fall. I tripped over his feet landing on top of him after my head his a branch. He hit me as I grabbed for his pin declaring it mine.

"This is for a pin?" He asked shocked and bewildered.

"It's mine!" And I ripped it of his jacked also tearing off a small piece of the denim.

He pushed me off him and started running away from me. I think i sufficiently scared him from ever coming back to Buena Vista Park. I just sat there looking at the pin and watching the tiny red fibers grow and dance. There is such a comfort in the life of the red dots. They make me happier than I've ever ben. I know I can't ever stop collecting them. And as much as I hate how they make me question and see complexity and complicate my life the moment of discovery is exhilarating. It is better than any high I have ever experienced. I need more.

I have absolutely no memory from after he ran away and right before I started writing all of this down. I think lump on my head came from the tree branch, but I am not sure how my palms got so scratched up or how they ended up with bandages on them. I just found myself sitting at my desk blank paper and navy pen laid out before me. It is now night -- late night -- and the pin is among my other dots.

I didn't want to find a dot today. I actually set out hoping not to find one, but find one I did. I cannot ignore them. It will not go away. For now, I will just ride the thrill of discovery. It feel too good. I will not connect them. My uncle will have to live in my dreams.

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Yellow Squares

  
I had another dream last night. This one was about my uncle, and I couldn't escape the asylum. He's not as crazy as I thought, but crazier. I understand why he's there, and if the things keep going the way the are in my life this dream is my future. I won't escape.

I fell asleep on the couch. The darkness of slumber gave way to the forests of dreams. I approached the mental ward on foot emerging from those forests. Surrounding the brick and concrete building was a large, manicured square. The freshly trimmed bushes and potted annuals indicated this was a place of wealth. The absence of feeling screamed insane asylum. I began wondering why I was here when I noticed a large red dot painted on the front door. In the middle of that dot was a one inch by one inch yellow square. Although not exactly like all the other dots, I knew I arrived.

The white (what I assumed to be marble) stairs welcomed me with glittering cleanliness. Their smooth, polished surface was felt underfoot even though I was wearing thick soled black boots. The steel handrail was sharply cold, and the flower bins that decorated the sides of the stairs were a little inhumanly manicured. Everything was perfect, crisp, idyllic like it stepped out of some 1950s movie. I put my hand on the door readying myself to push it open, hesitant because I was sure what was on the inside was not nearly as perfect as what was on the outside. I didn't want to leave the comfort of alien order. My hand trembling, I pushed. The door was locked.

I felt the thin raised edge of the red circle painted on the door between my thumb and forefinger. I followed it all the way around its circumference, and, when I reached my starting place, the yellow square in the center popped open. I peered inside, and all I saw was white: a bright blinding brilliance that burned the brown of my eyes.

I pushed myself away from the door and still only saw white. As my vision returned, I was no longer standing at the top of the marble stairs. I was inside the massive brick and concrete building with uniformed escorts gripping my biceps.

A dull voice projected from some tinny speaker far away ordered commands. "Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is only a remnant of fear, and fear is useless. You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoked to. Patients must keep all  body parts to themselves. There is no escape. Head straight down the hall. Remain calm. The guards will guide you. Panic is..."

My vision still blurry, I couldn't make out anything other than my two bald guards. One was tall, slender feminine with painted eyebrows and pink lips. Her hands pinched and my skin beneath her grip ached. The other was all tall and slender. His large black bushy eyebrows and hairy stubby fingers read masculine, and his grip was loose but forceful. There could be no escape. Panicked, I released control and dropped all my weight. Their grips tightened, and they dragged me across the floor.

"You are here for your own safety. You will not speak unless spoken to. Patients must keep all body parts to themselves. There is no escape..."

It felt like I walked/was dragged down a straight corridor for hours. I was afraid that the movement would never end, and I started getting motion sickness. The two escorts never changed. They just looked straight ahead paying no attention to me. Queasiness finally controlled my stomach, and I started throwing up. The escorts ignored me. Strings of vomit and spittle decorated my clothes like a Jackson Pollock, which I now noticed was an insane-asylum-white straight jacket.

"You have arrived," said the tinny voice.

The escorts changed their position. The feminine one grabbed my feet; the masculine one grabbed me under my arm pits. They swung me back and forth.

"Now," commanded the speaker, and the escorts let go. I flew through the air and landed with a hard smack on my back on a cold concrete floor.

Another bright flash of white raced across my eyes, a click of a door closing briefly echoed, and I was surrounded in blackness that no sound or light could enter or escape. I fell asleep in what I perceived was a corner.

"Hello...Martin? Martin is that you? Wake up. Wake up!"

The urgency of his low whispered voice reached my ears, and I shot awake. It was still pitch black, but somewhere a long distance away on my right hand side was the faint yellow outline of a one inch by one inch square.

"Hurry Martin. I don't have much time or energy. Move. Move now! They are coming back. It is not your time yet. They are going to send you back, but I must speak with you first. Run. Run now!"

The voice was coming from the faint outline. I started making my way towards it squirming like a worm. There was something familial about the voice, and I needed to know from whom it came.

"Faster Martin! Quick. Quick!"

I wiggled myself to standing and started running. The small square grew to a large door. Behind me, I started hearing heels on tiles. I quickened my pace. As another door opened behind me, I jumped through the square and emerged in a small cube of which all the walls were dirt. A man in his forties with peppery hair sat with legs crossed in front of me smiling.

"It worked," he whispered followed by the thud of a door slamming shut. "We only have a few moments, Martin, and there is a lot I must tell you."

He suddenly looked both older and younger. It was as if his being oscillated between a teenage boy and an old man causing the image before me to look like it was in its forties.

"This is real, Martin. What is happening is real. Remember that. If you forget everything else I tell you, remember that. This IS real. This place DOES exist."

Then it came to me: he was my uncle. He didn't look like I remembered him, but my only memories were from when I was a boy and he was in his twenties.  Shortly thereafter, he was locked up. I hadn't seen him since.

"Martin. I need your help. I need you to do something back in the other world for me. I need you to visit me in the hospital, but first you need to know something. Something other than this is real. Do you understand?"

I refused to believe this was real. I closed my eyes and plugged my ears with my index fingers. I didn't want to believe what was happening to me. If it was real, it meant my dots were real, and there was and is comfort in pretending its all make believe. While it doesn't exactly excuse my actions in this world, it does make them more of a joke. If the dots are real, it means I have to do something. I'm comfortable doing nothing. It's how I manage living.

He slapped me and spat in my face. "Martin! We don't have time for your shit. Listen. This is incredibly important."

A loud booming pounding erupted behind me.

"They are getting closer. Now pay attention."

My uncle began drawing shapes on the dirt floor with his finger. They were a mish mash of symbols some of which I recognized as corporate logos. There was Apple, Nike, Shell, and the CBS eye followed by a triangle, square, and finally a large circle that appeared red to me. It was the only color in the entire cell. Something moved me, and I lurched forward. Catching my balance, I threw out my hand, and it landed on the red dot.

"NO!" Screamed my uncle, and I started falling through it. "Do not trust anyone, Martin. They are coming for you. Remember: THIS IS REAL!!!"

He continued yelling at me, but his voice became mute as I continued falling.

I woke up panicked and sweating with vomit covering my face and my pants wet from having pissed. The weird thing is the piss formed a perfect square on my couch, and all the remnants of my stomach that were now all over my face were perfect red circles. I collected every last bit of vomit in a tupperware container and flipped the couch cushion.

I made my way to bed, but didn't want to sleep. I was terrified to see my uncle again, so I sat up and wrote the dream down.

I am not going to visit him. Well...at least not yet. I don't want confirmation that what is happening is real. Denial is a wonderful place to live.

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Aborted Raspberry Cottage Cheese

  
So I've given up completely on timeline and order. Fuck it. Too much happens betwen writing these posts by hand and typing them. Whether it is more fucking red dots or life or going on tour with the band ( I did not see a single red dot outside of San Francisco). I also am unsure of the order of things now too. I have posts written on napkins stuck in my desk drawer, random connections (Did you know that the red dots can work as a portal? I recently found myself doing speed at Kristal's house and ended up drag racing down the Great Highway. See...speed and then I was speeding.) scribbled on the back of receipts, memories jotted down in notebooks, and it certainly doesn't help that I don't write dates on anything and that all the drugs and alcohol (I have started drinking even more now that I see these dots) erase time. Thus, I am now here compelled to write the story of the weekend down, type it up, and confuse anyone who is actually reading this. (Thank god no one actually reads it or I'd be more worried.)

For those of you just joining me, let me outline the story so far:

I am going crazy or maybe I am saner than most. All I know is I see red dots. They appear and don't go away. I have to collect them. Have to. It has led to almost being thrown out of a Vietnamese restaurant because I had to (at least try to) pry a Hello Kitty tile off their bathroom wall, wrestling Sandra O. Noshi-Di'nt to the ground at Trannyshack Star Search for that fucking ring, stealing heirloom Christmas ornaments from a good friend, and popping people's zits. I've met Allison Lohman in my dreams, which was as real as walking this earth, and included bringing a red dot back from dreamland. I found out my uncle really did end up in the mental ward for a somewhat similar condition. Only his were yellow squares. I believe these red dots do mean something. I just still don't know what. It's been almost four or five months since I started seeing them. Sometimes I see many in a week. Sometimes I can go weeks without seeing them.

That wraps up the story so far. Hope you're still reading and following along. It is confusing. Hell. I'm living it, and I can't make sense of shit.

Which now brings me to this weekend.

I need to preface this with: I'm not entirely sure this really happened. It seems just too fucked up to have, but I'm sure if fif. I do have the red dots next to me as I write this: a jar of rotting cottage cheese.

I wasn't going to go to Some Thing's Mr. David presents...Project Runtover on Friday night because I've kinda been banned (self imposed mind you) from drag show after that fiasco with Sandra, but a friend was going, and she called me begging me to accompany her. I reluctantly said yes only because I was hopeful for some 'benefits' later on. Luckily, she's aspiring faux queen Dee Vine, so she thought my fucking take down of Team Toxic Tits was funny.

The theme was Alexander McQueen meets maternity chic. Basic set up is Project Runway. Designers have models who perform in an outfit constructed using whatever they're given by hosts VivvyAnne ForeverMore and Tim Gumm plus whatever the contestents themselves have brought. It's a mad dash of horror.

Everything was going fine until the whiskey gingers mixed with the vodka cranberries right before the performers took stage. The room started spinning ('right round like a record baby'), and I made my way to the bathroom and proceeded to throw up. Imagine the bathroom after I left. Now hold that image for a moment. It is important to the story.

Sweating and wobbly, I emerged and felt my way back to the theater. The first performer was up there dressed as an African goddess - tall, dark, dressed in bold black and white print, holding a rod taller than her 7' frame. As I stood there watching her, I started smelling this weird raspberry smell from the drag queen standing next to me. I'd be kind if I said her 'outfit' looked like a kindergartner made it for some in-school craft project for the developmentally delayed. You might be able to call it art, but it certainly wasn't fashionable. Nor was it functional. Small pieces kept falling off as she stood there.

A few more performances and then Team Tork, which later turned out to be Team Toxic Tits, was called to the stage. The queen with the funky sour raspberry smell and wire hanger tiara sauntered to the stage as La Roux's "In for the Kill" started playing. At first, she looked innocent in that train wreck of an outfit. Then, as the chorus started, she revealed a hammer and started pounding the shit out of her pregnant belly. (Justin Bond tweeted: At Project Runtway in SF. Its a maternity theme - who knew coat hangers were so in this season. Lots of designers getting the hook.) When that didn't aboth anything, she moved on to pussy punching herself with a ceramic crucifix on the next chorus. She didn't know a single lyric or have a real garment. In fact, the garment deteriorated as quickly my momentary soberness after having thrown up.

The crucifix was thrown against the concrete wall and splintered everywhere. Nothing seemed to work, so she took off her wire coat hanger tiara and unwound it. It worked. And the next thing that happened sobered me up so quickly: she pulled out a black baby doll covered in this fucking disgusting red chunky mixture from out of a bag between her legs and started licking it. All I saw were red dots. I had to have them. All of them.

Luckily, I had a moment of clarity: it would be a bad idea to repeat to her what I did to Sandra. That moment was enough. The song ended, and I didn't bum rush the stage and tackle her to the ground.

The rest of the show passed in a haze. I stared at the remnants of aborted doll fetus on stage. I had to have every last piece, but I realized I could collect them after the show. I waited patiently counting and breathing deeply so I wouldn't vomit on the person in front of me.

The models were called back to the stage for judges' critiques. Team Toxic Tits placed fifth, and their queen held the baby doll in her arms. It was too much. I had to have it. Immediately. It was covered in red dots. How could it not be mine?

I rushed the stage and struggled to pry it from her arms. She said something about it being rescued from Haiti; I wanted to rescue it from her. She wouldn't care for it nearly as well as I would. Hell. She fucking aborted it! It was rightfull mine. The dots said so.

The next thing I know (let me just say VivvyAnne was very gracious - I wasn't thrown out) I am in the lobby being pinned down by Dee and a big hairy man in town for what I assume to be IBR, the doll is in the garbage can, and Team Toxic Tit's model is standing over me wearing only see through mesh underwear three sizes too small, black fishnets that cut into her thighs, and gray heels. I was screaming, but I don't remember what. It probably had something to do with red dots or saving the baby or just other drunken exclamations of fuck. Dee kept telling me to stop screaming and breathe.

I calmed down at least externally and regained public composure. I apologized to the model for ruiing her moment in the spotlight. She smiled and thanked me for making the evening even more memorable than a baby doll covered in cottage cheese and raspberry jello.

That's when it hit me. These weren't the same kind of red dots as the ones I'd previously seen. Everyone could see thee dots because they were in fact real. My face flushed, and all I wanted to do was go home.

I convinced everyone I was fine, and I asked Dee to grab my jacket. The big burly man went to go find his friends. The model walked to the bathroom (the one I threw up in). I was alone in the lobby sitting next to the garbage can. Just then the distinctive smell of raspberry cottage cheese reached my nose and ignited my need to have the red dots. I quickly pulled the cover of the garbage can and found a plastic bag filled with my treasure. I grabbed it and stuffed it into my underwear. Red gelatinous liquid started running down my legs. I was happy I wore black pants.

Dee drove me home. I kissed her good night hoping for more but aware of the growing mess between my legs, so I thanked her for taking care of me and made my way to my apartment.

I spent the remainder of the night scraping every last piece of cottage cheese ad jello from my thighs into a glass jar that now sits in my fridge rotting (except for right now. It is sitting next to me inspiring me to type). It looks like a living science experiment bubbling and oozing red dots. Remember that image I asked you to keep in your mind? Well this looks ever more disgusting.

The next morning I woke up my head throbbing, the room spinning, everything around me a horrible mess. In my attempt to save all the red dots, I managed to get the concoction all over myself, so red hand prints, foot prints, butt marks, and smears decorate my once clean apartment making it look like some bad 1980's performance artist exploded. I'm leaving all of the mess because I see red dots growing out of the stains. These are the same ones I've been collecting. They are the fibrous kind.

Like I said, I am going mad. By my madness makes sense to me.

Until next time...Happy red dot hunting!

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The Urban Legend of the Dog Eating Peanut Butter Off Her Vag

  
Wow! That's all I really can muster right now. Fucking WOW! I've just woken up from a crazy ass dream that included chocolate dildos, banana condoms, and peanut butter-flavored lube. Intense and weird. The only other thing I can remember is the ground beneath my feet falling away. It was like that special effect in The Matrix when Neo's getting trained in the white room. Do you remember that? He was standing in that empty space and then shelves of guns fell like water from somewhere above and appeared as solid, concrete objects around him. This was that in reverse. Only it wasn't guns and it wasn't a white room.

I was on stage at the DNA lounge ready to perform, floating dildos all around me when the black stage fell away. It was like it turned into a millions of tiny squares and each square fell into a void somewhere below me. I twas suspended there momentarily and looked down. The void was a rolling sea of red dots. As I finally made out the dots, I started falling.

I woke up to something crashing panicked. My bed was drenched, almost as if I pissed myself, and the covers were thrown all over the floor. I got up, went to my desk, and started writing all of this down fearing I'd forget it in the morning. Well...I guess it is morning technically. It is 4am, but you know what I mean.

I haven't checked out what broke. I probably should. Be right back.

I'm back. Isn't it weird how time passes so differently in writing. It took me about nine minutes to finally find what was broken, ad only one sentence to convey that. Totally a random and unrelated topic, but it does seem like life is only a dream once it's on paper.

It was a red shot glass I left sitting on the edge of the sink in the bathroom. I didn't think to look their because the sound was shattering glass, and I don't remember putting the shot glass in the bathroom. I must've taken another shot of tequila when I got home last night from our gig at The Eagle. Here is the really bizarre thing: all of the shattered glass pieces were in perfect circles. There were hundreds of them all over the floor, under the tub, in the tube, on top of the toilet seat. The entire blue bathroom was speckled with red glass dots. I feel as if my dream exploded in my bathroom.

I'm really unnerved. I hate the way shattered glass reverberates through your bones. It always reminds me of the time I broke a bottle of mineral water when I was a kid. When it hit the concrete, it burst. A small sliver found its way to the artery right beneath the knee cap and nicked it. Blood started flowing and soon my entire right leg was painted blood red and a large pool formed beneath my feet. I screams so loudly (I fucking HATE blood) my mom rushed out all panicked. She lost her balance as she ran into the garage slipping on all of the blood and sliced her hand wide open as she tried to grab the edge of the steel work bench. Blood poured from her hand and mixed with the quickly growing puddle on the floor. Luckily, our nurse neighbor was home, heard the ruckus, and came over. A couple of stitches later and both my mom and I were fine.

The image of the giant puddle of blood, the one I had to clean up after we got back from the emergency room, is the image that rushes to my mind whenever glass breaks. The glass dots look like a thousand droplets of blood covering the entire bathroom. I don't want to clean it up. In fact, I'm going to ignore it and go back to sleep.

The copious amount of tequila I shot last night is finally catching up with me. My head is beginning to pound. Four Advil, a tall glass of cold water, and sleep is what I need. I can clean it up tomorrow.

p.s. I had to sleep on the couch because my bed was just too wet. I had another weird ream. Do you remember that dumb urban legend when we were kids about the woman who was caught being eaten out by her dog? In it, she calls in sick to work which sets off alarm bells for some reason at work. Her boss gets worried about her and decides to check things out. He heads to her home only to find the front door unlocked. He enters and doesn't see her, so he heads to her bedroom to see if she is sleeping. He is mortified when he gets to her bedroom and see a jar of peanut butter next to her bed and her dog licking something off her vag, a look of ecstasy on her face. Well...that was my weird dream. Only I had it twice. The first time I was the boss. The second  time I was the dog. I can't get the taste of peanut butter off my tongue.

And...I did clean up the bathroom. It took almost an hour to get all the glass picked up. I kept all the pieces.

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December 1, 2009

   
I'm starting to type up old journal entries. The world is getting crazier for me, especially in 2010. The red dots are taking over, and I am having a difficult time distinguishing this world from the next. In fact, it sometimes seems that there are many different worlds and the red dots are portals to other places. But I am getting ahead of myself. I must try and put this in chronological order. 


This entry was written in my journal on December 1, 2009. 

****
I went to a holiday party last night. It had a large Christmas tree, an abundance of sushi, and a chocolate fountain with a variety of treats for your dipping pleasure. It ended horribly. It was a complete misunderstanding. Yes, I am the one who cause it, but I swear it was the dots that made me do it. (God do I sound crazier than ever.)

The party was at Ann's in Oakland. She has it every year, and I have attended a few. Mostly it's people I can't stand, but I go for her. We always end up in her back yard sneaking puffs of joints and a couple of lines. I'm her one friend (can I really be called a friend now?) that knows she still does drugs. Maybe I'm her only friend that does them, but I don't believe that. Most people are closet druggies. I gave up caring years ago.

So...red dots. I saw one last night. It was on, or more precisely it was, a ceramic globe ornament. I had to have it. Ann thought differently.

I didn't notice it right away, but once I did I couldn't ignore it no matter how much I tried. It was on the front of the Christmas tree up near the star. It was the lone red ball among many silver and green ornaments. I wouldn't have seen it, but another guest pointed it out. She loved how whiny it was. I recognized it as a red dot because of the same tiny fibers rising from its surface.

I reached out and touched it and felt the cool ceramic underneath my fingertips. I knew I had to somehow take this ornament home. It was electric.

I meandered the party a little more trying to engage in some sort of interesting conversation, but mostly stuck on conversations about teaching and education. As I never went to college, let alone barely graduated high school (thank god for summer school badminton class) and hated almost every single teacher that ever tried to teach me something, I had very little to contribute other than, "Yeah" and "Uh Huh" and, this one is my favorite, "Wow! That is interesting." Teachers never notice when you're not really paying attention as long as you acknowledge them every once in a while. The same goes for conversations outside of the classroom.

Soon enough, I was back in their living room sitting between the fireplace and the tree string at it like a psycho watched their prey from the shadows. The woman who pointed the red ornament out - I think her name was Dorothy or Dottie  but should have been Ditzy - was sitting across from me.

"I love Christmas. It's my favorite time of the year: the music, the presents, the chocolate, the decorations, the wrapping paper. I love it all. I especially love the sales. Don't you just love this time of year? I get all giddy."

She kept rambling on in her high pitched squeal pretending that I was actually paying attention.

"I love Santa Claus. I took my niece to get her picture taken with him at the Westfield mall last weekend. It cost $40 for this small picture. At first, I thought it was expensive, but it is Christmas, so you just overlook how pricey it is and pay it anyway. I kept one picture and gave the other to my niece. She's eight and still believes in Santa. Isn't that just so cute? I mean really it's adorable, right? I have the picture in my wallet. Do you want to see it? I'm sure you do. No one dislikes Christmas parties, especially if you go to a holiday party."

She pulled the picture out of her oversized wallet that was in an oversized purse that was the same color of that tacky metallic green wrapping paper you find at Wallgreens, and she handed it to me. I didn't even look at it and said, "Boy, she's cute. Great picture." And I handed it back.

"I know! Don't you love her Christmas tree and candy cane tights?" And she just kept on talking.

I was ready to get up and move seats when a friend of hers asked her if she wanted another cocktail. She said sure, but that "only I can make the drink I like. Really it's not a comment on you. I'm just picky." And she got up and went into the kitchen with her friend.

I thought this was as good of a time as any to grab the ornament and throw it into my shirt pocket. It wasn't that large, and my shirt was bulky. I looked around the room to make sure no one was looking and then snatched it off the tree. As I was about to put it in my pocket, Ann entered the living room and saw what I was doing.

"What the hell!" She screamed at me. Everyone turned to look.

My face turned the color of the the ornament in my hand. "Oh...this. God. Sorry. I just wanted to see it. It's a beautiful color. I must've mindlessly been putting it in my pocket rather than on the tree," I replied lying. "Really sorry." And I started to put it back on the tree. Something, however, stopped me. It was like someone clutched my wrist and prevented me from putting it on the tree.

"Martin," she said, "I'm sure it's not a coincidence that you're about to take the most expensive ornament on the tree."

"Really? It's this one? It's so small. I just like the color. I swear."

"Come on, Martin. This isn't the first time you've stolen something from me."

All the guests started shifting in their seats. A couple who was near the front window got up and headed back to the kitchen.

"Ann. PLease. Not here and not right now. It was a mistake. See. I'm putting it back on the tree," and I went to put the ornament back near the star when my hand stopped again. It just wouldn't let me put it back, and I knew immediately the situation was about to get worse.

"You're a horrible liar, Martin. I don't want to listen to any of your excuses. Remember the last time this happened?"

I was hoping she wouldn't actually say what happened out loud. She was definitely way more forgiving than she needed to be.

I had stolen her mother's heirloom ring and sold it to a pawn shop so I could get some money for speed. The agreement we reached was I had to buy the ring back and if it ever happened again our friendship would be permanently over. I got the ring back and all was good. I knew this looked absolutely awful and unforgiveable.

"I'm sorry, Ann. I really am. This really isn't what it looks like. I can explain. Just not right now in front of everyone." I was begging by this point, and everyone that was in the front room had moved to the back room.

"So...I was just thinking to myself, 'This is going to be a GREAT Christmas since my parents will be visiting from Iowa, and my niece will get to spend it with her grandparents' when I remembered..." Ditzy was still rambling on when she came back into the living room and saw Ann ripping the ornament from my hand.

"Oh. My. God! What is going on here?" Her loud proclamation distracted both Ann and me and in that brief moment the ornament crumbled into hundreds of tiny pieces.

"Get out!" Screamed Ann. "Get the fuck out of my house! Get out now!!"

"Ann..." I said quietly.

"I don't want to hear it! Get the fuck out!"

I quickly got up and grabbed my coat off the coat rack. I looked at the broken pieces on the ground. Ann was staring at me, her face the color of a setting sun. "Get out now! Get out! Get out! Get out!!!"

I left. I heard her crying as I closed the door.

I walked the few blocks to BART and hopped on the train back to San Francisco. As I was sitting there reflecting on everything that happened and trying to figure out how I could apologize to Ann, I realized that our friendship was irrevocably over. I was sad.

I went drinking when I got back to The City trying to forget the fight and the red dot. The drinking helped. I forgot for about two hours, and then something unexpected happened. As I was getting ready for bed, a small perfectly circular piece of the ornament fell out of my shirt pocket. Somehow, amidst the struggle, a piece of it found its way back to my apartment. This couldn't have just been a coincidence, so I put it among my collection. Then, I passed out on the bed.

I woke up this morning with a horrible hangover (Thank god I have today off.) and an urgent need to write down my story. So...here i am. Story told. Head pounding.

I'm thinking I may start putting some of this online. Well...at least the parts related to the red dots. Who knows? Maybe someone else sees them too. All I know is I am seeming crazier and crazier every day, and I have to do something to find the connections between these things in order to gain a little sanity. Maybe someone out there can find that connection before I can.

Yup...I'm going to put this online. If you're out there and reading this, do you have any insights? Please help! I can't do this on my own.

P.s. Still haven't visited uncle.

***

There you have it. I am putting all this online. It really is taking a lot longer than I thought. I HATE typing more than anything. Hence, the "I write everything by hand first". 

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December 27, 2009

Alright friends. I know. I know. I have been horrible at updating you all about Red Dots. My apologies. I have been swamped with work during the holidays, and our band is practicing almost three times a week.

Just to note: I write everything by hand, and then I have to type it all on to this site. Totally sucks for you, but it is the only way I can record the stories. This means that I have a number of stories to tell you, but they're not in the computer. I will do my best to type them up this week for your reading pleasure.

There is one story about what I did at Trannyshack Star Search that you don't want to miss. Sandra O Noshi-Di'nt was definitely not happy. Just stay tuned. I promise I will get to it. Really, I do.

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