We were fifteen years old and creating our experience on a daily basis. Most involving the consumption of fist fulls of various drugs of varying effect. Gnashing at the bit desperate to feel the blood of life drip down our chest… But mostly we were just fucking high… Really fucking high. One of our closest friends of the time fancied himself a bit of a modern age Timothy Leary but mostly he was just high… Really fucking high. It was not entirely uncommon for him to call me at any given moment of the day requesting that I come over to his house so that I could closely watch as he swallowed/smoked/snorted some new experimental drug so that he could be sure he didn’t freak out or choke on his own tongue. Granted, a fairly heavy trip for a fifteen-year-old. At one point he had acquired a decent shipment of a new hallucinogen from some Swedish pharmaceutical lab. He described the drug as children’s chewable acid. We were children and we could chew and boy did we ever love acid. Around this time Nickelodeon was having puff-a-palooza marathons which consisted of full weekends of Sid and Marty Croft shows. I’m sure there were legions of kids all over the US dropping acid and taking the ride. We were not about to miss out on this. We locked ourselves in a friend’s bedroom strapped with bag loads of our new drug.  You may be assuming that this story is winding its way towards a good freak out. No, that comes later. Just hang in there.
As a child Mac was a kinetic beast. He rarely sat down and never stopped moving unless he was passed out or had dosed over. So sitting still to watch TV for 8 to 12 hours was quite a request. Needless to say it didn’t happen he was bouncing off the walls, literally. At one point Mac was perched atop the bed marveling at the feel of rice chex in his mouth when he threw himself full force back into the bed. Unfortunately, his head did not make it to the desired destination. The back of his skull made contact with the wall with a sickening crack. Everything froze and he stared at me in disbelief. Now maybe it was the hallucinogen but I’m fairly sure I could see the knot rising on the back of his head like a fucking cartoon. At full size it had grown to the size of a grapefruit. He shook as he daintily felt the new head growing out of the back of his own.
“Oh jesus… Oh fuck… This is bad… Really bad.”
He frantically looked around the room for help or assurance or more drugs. I had Mac turn around so that I could inspect the knot. It was freakish, insane, the largest knot I had EVER seen in my life. We should or could have taken him to the doctor but none of us were in any state to go on that sort of trip. So I did the only thing I could… I lied.
“Oh, shit that’s nothing. I’ve seen way bigger.”
Bullshit.
I slapped a band-aid in his hair and turned toward the TV.
“Shut up. I’m missing Land of the Lost here.”

So it wasn’t until just recently (this year in fact) that I finally jumped on the cellular telephone bandwagon. I had been reticent for a long time to join the cellular fold for a multitude of reasons. I have always felt that if I need to make or receive a phone call I will make sure I am by a phone. I value my time alone highly and I don’t need any of my douche bag friends interrupting a nice relaxing drive on the freeway. No offense to my douche bag friends of course. Above all I absolutely hate being “that guy”. You know the one I’m talking about. The guy in the gas station, super market, dildo supply warehouse, liquor store, et all who is SO damn important, whose time is SO valuable that he cant hang up the phone for two minutes so he can pay for his fourteen inch black rubber phallus. However the one piece of cell phone related culture that drives me up a wall faster than any other is the dreaded fucking headset. It makes me want to knock out every one of your blue teeth with a fucking hammer. It takes a very special kind of self absorbed vapid asshole to walk around with one of those things strapped to your head. If you hold your finger up to me one more time with the intent to inform me that I must wait a moment so that I may blessed with your attention I will break the fucker off and choke you with it. As truly horrifying and nauseating as it can be I choose to walk the earth fully immersed in the world around me. I suggest you try doing the same.

I have come to realize that a precious few things actually inspire and spur me to write. Rain, rage and women. I had two out of three today so I sat down at the ole typin’ machine to do some damage. You see the problem is I can’t just sit down and think, “What really pisses me off?” and let it flow. The blind and burning rage needs to be fresh and organic. It just so happens I was served some free range, cage free, farm fresh rage today while I was at work.

            She came in first. One of the few things that actually makes me like my job… No not a woman. I work at a comic book store. women don’t go to comic book stores, unless they are there because of a guy. Kids are one of the few things that actually make this job enjoyable and I’m not talking about teenagers. Teenagers are horrible loud and mindless automatons who bug the shit out of me. And I’m not talking about babies either. Babies are disgusting, parasitic, eating, shitting, screaming machines. However when it comes down to it I don’t like all kids either. I like the shy ones, the quiet ones who are glad to be there and want to see something different, something that might change their lives, even if they don’t know it. Kids that remind me of a young Jaz Brown make me want to stop and share everything cool that I know and tell them it’s not going to suck forever… Just most of the time. This girl fit the bill. Her father however was blind heartless cock who had know idea that he was raising a little girl who would do anything to get the attention of the opposite sex just because he couldn’t be bothered to get off the fucking phone and act like she was worth it. He was a loud talking dick with a headset jammed in his ear.

            “Yeah well if they don’t get it together down there in administration some heads are going to roll… yeah well, that’s what I told her… Well I cant wait to lay off that little Russian fuck in the mail room.”

            They were in the store for about a half and hour and he was on the phone the whole time. Something would strike the young girl, excite her, light the flame under her heart and he just couldn’t be bothered. It made me want to tell her that it was going to be ok, that she could come live at the store. I did not do that however. What I did do was walk over and talk to her because her father was obviously talking to someone FAR more important about things that just absolutely COULD NOT WAIT. It took her a few moments but soon enough we were talking about what kind of art she liked, what sort of covers looked interesting and what a horrible douche her father was… Well maybe not that last part.

            I suppose the moral here is: HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE and show some interest in your daughters life otherwise Ill be seeing her in “Tight Young Virgins 12” in ten years.

I don’t know how common it is amongst you “normals” out there but I have had and inexplicably high number of jobs for less than two days. I’ve never been fired from a job in that little amount of time. Every time I just walked away and never came back. They were all the kind of job I couldn’t possibly subject myself to for any amount of money. The kind of work no sane person could stand for any more than 16 hours. However because these jobs we’re so hellacious they are amongst my favorites. Allow me to regale you with the story of the worst job I ever had. It’s far and away the best job I’ve ever had.

I was seventeen years old I had just mad the incredibly wise decision to drop out of high school and I needed income. Grass doesn’t pay for itself you know. I was flipping through the paper looking for the perfect job when I saw it. It was an ad from a home audio company. It seemed too good to be true. They were looking for young men with a cursory knowledge of electronics for the installation of home audio equipment. They we’re willing to pay 15 dollars an hour to said individuals. I called Jeff who was also a high school drop out with no future and told him about the ad. We both agreed we were the right men for the job. We drove out to their warehouse for an interview. The office in front was starkly decorated almost as if they had just moved in. As far as job interviews go it was a breeze. We talked with boss for a few minutes.

“You guys know anything about home audio equipment?”

“Sure. We’re musicians.”

“You guys like people?”

I lied,

“Oh yeah.”

“Well you guys get the job. Be here tomorrow at seven thirty.”

Jeff and I drove home and celebrated by getting real damn high on that grass that doesn’t pay for it self. I picked Jeff up at seven the next morning and we drove out to our first day as well paid home audio installation experts. We parked around back and walked into the warehouse. What awaited us was amazing. There were probably about twenty guys running around jacked off on cheap dirty methanphetamines. Metallica’s Ride The Lightning was blasting from a stereo as they loaded speakers into a fleet of vans and minivans. Once the vans were all loaded we were split into teams of two. Each rookie was paired up with an “old pro” that would show us the ropes. My “pro” was Scott. He looked like Chris Penn with Jack Burton’s hair and was wound up like a meth fueled top.

“Alright bud! Let’s do this!”

We hopped in the van and we we’re off… Well kinda.

“Hey bud! I gotta make a stop first! You don’t mind do you!?”

“No I d…”

“Don’t answer that! Its doesn’t really matter if you mind does it!? HA HA HA!”

We stopped at shitty hotel near by and he jumped out of the van and ran inside. I listened to the radio. This was 96’ so that would probably put that god awful Cranberry’s song on while I waited for my “bud” to rail up in his hotel room. About ten minutes later Scott came twitching out of his hotel room rubbing his nose as if he was afraid it would jump off his face.

“Alright Bud! Let’s fucking rock!”

He cranked up the stereo and we pulled out of the parking lot with Linger pouring from the windows of our filthy little minivan.

“So… Where’s our first stop?” I asked assuming we would be making our way to a house where we would install speakers for a nice middle aged couple who would feed us cookies and lemonade.

“Where’s the Mexicans in this town!?”

“…What?”

“The Mexicans! Where are the Mexicans!?”

“…I… Uh… Well there are Hispanic people all over Sacramento.”

“Well where do they like to hang out!?”

“I don’t… I gue…”

“Shit this looks good!”

He wheeled the van into the parking lot of Tower Records and pulled up next to a young guy who was getting into his car.

“Hey bud! Hey bud!”

Then began a pauseless diatribe which almost sounded rehearsed.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment? Check it out bud! Look man me and my buddy here work for Apex Audio we we’re doing an install around the corner and our boss accidentally loaded an extra pair of speakers into the van. Where’s that invoice Jaz.”

This is where I learned the extent of my job for the rest of the day. It was my duty to produce the false paper work when my “bud” feigned not knowing where it went.

“Shit here it is! Check this out man! We were supposed to get four speakers but the guys in the warehouse fucked up and loaded up six! Here’s the deal bro these speakers are real fucking high quality! These things sell for fucking 1500 dollars each! Jaz! Where’s that brochure!?”

At this point I would produce a laminated brochure which clearly stated that these speakers we’re “really nice”.

“Check it out bud! Nobody knows we got these extra speakers I could sell em to you for dirt fucking cheap! Shit man I could give em to you for 600 bucks I mean fuck my boss right?! HA HA HA”

That was it. We did this all day. We never even stopped to eat. However “bud” did drink three or four bottles of Pepto Bismol. Some folks actually bought into this painfully transparent scam and threw down upwards of 800 dollars per speaker. How can one resist a deal THAT good!? One poor soul actually bought one speaker for 500 dollars.

“These speakers are so fucking good that one speaker sounds like four! You don’t even really need two of em!”

Some people tried to work their way out of the situation.

“Sorry man I don’t have any cash on me.”

“No prob bud! Where do you bank at!? We’ll follow you!”

At which point I would take the wheel of the van and “bud” would jump into the victim’s car uninvited and we would drive to the bank to get some cash to buy some “great speakers”.

I later found out the reason for “bud’s” affinity for Hispanic folks.

“Mira Mira! Amigo!”

He was a bilingual con man.

We drove around all day forcing “great speakers” on unsuspecting victims for a little extra cash. Cause “Fuck my boss right!?”

We actually sold every single speaker in the van that day. Jeff and his pro apparently didn’t do so good. They had actually driven all the way to San Francisco in an attempt to unload the “extra speakers” but didn’t sell one.

Jeff and I left that afternoon and never came back. When we got home I took a shower to wash off the filth of shame. We sat down and smoked some grass which still wasn’t paying for itself. As we relaxed on the couch a news report came on the TV warning viewers of a group of con men who had been working all over California selling speakers that didn’t even work out of the back of vans.

Every now and then I’ll be walking out of a record store and I’ll get stopped by a couple of guys in a van.

“Hey bud! You like stereo equipment!?”

By the age of eighteen I had consumed an ungodly amount of drugs. It not as if I left the house on a daily basis with an implicit desire to seek out and experience strange and exciting new kicks. The fact of the matter is that drugs most often found their way to me. Granted I did by choice immerse myself in situations where drugs seemed to be the common currency.

            While harder drugs and hallucinogens were save for the most special occasions. My daily stock and trade was marijuana. I often wonder how without jobs we managed to satiate our near unquenchable desire for grass. When cash was low however we had our methods. During our time at the Cattle Club we devised a hideous and effective little con for the procurement of marijuana. On a night when we found ourselves lacking in incendiaries we would head out to the back patio to find our mark. Grass smokers are painfully easy to spot. The most effective way to keep your dope smoking covert is to keep it entirely out in the open. No square would expect a doper to have the audacity to just stand there smoking grass. Would he? In the desperation to make it appear as if they’re not up the anything most folks may as well raise a bright red flag emblazoned with the words ‘We’re smoking dope over here!’. Huddled together in small groups, heads alternately bent down with faces awash in amber flickering light it’s as if they’re begging to be caught.

            Once we had a confirmed visual ID phase two of the plan would go into effect. We would casually walk back into the club leaving the dopers secure in the belief that we were clueless of their actions. Within moment of our departure two of The Cattle Clubs finest would purposefully descend upon them. Being the incredibly friendly bouncers that they were captured pot heads were often let go with a stern warning. However, they never left with their grass. That was ours, a well earned payment for helping to maintain law and order.

            When my father wasn’t dealing with live stock invading our house he was often busied with the logistics of home surgery. It seemed as if my Dad always had some kind of strange growth popping up on his neck or back. Being the man that he was he rarely chose to spend the money to have it handled properly. I would be in my room reading or playing video games on my Commodore 64 when the call would come in.

            “Jaz! Come here. I need your help!”

            I learned to dread the horrible phrase “I need your help”. Those four words most often meant that I would spend the rest of the day watching while my Dad swore at a broken lawnmower that would never work again or I would be asked to perform some gross and nauseating task that no child should ever be subject to.  I would begrudgingly walk into the bathroom to find him standing there with a flashlight, a couple of mirrors and some towels.

            “You see this thing here!?” he would say pointing to the back of his neck.

            There just under flesh would be some strange growth at least the size of an eraser. He would calmly explain that I, his only son would have to remove it for him because no matter how he angled the mirrors he just could see it properly. His request was always followed by a great amount of reluctance on my part. After which I would finally break down and take the dirty and dull X-acto knife that he had been trying to force into my hand. He would bend his head down over the sink and hand me a rag.

            “Just cut that fucking thing out of there!”

            Perhaps it was because I was never provided with the proper tools but I was always amazed at how resilient human flesh is to slicing. After a few tenuous passes he would insist that it didn’t hurt and that I needed to push harder. I would force the tip of the blade into his flesh cutting a deep gouge into his neck. At which point a white or yellowish mass would breach the crimson gash crowing as if his neck were giving birth to a cartilaginous blob. He’d slap a band aid over the hole in his neck and spend the next half hour to an hour inspecting whatever it was I had removed from his body.

            “Would you look at this fucking thing!” he would say as he pushed it toward my mothers face for closer inspection.

            “Throw that thing a-way!”  She would demand thoroughly disgusted.

            But he never did. All the odd pieces of gristle and viscera that came out of his body ended up in a mason jar that he kept in his truck. Perhaps he kept it there to show off to his co workers.

            “My boy cut this out of me last night!”

            “No anesthetic. No stitches. No nothin’!”

I’m sure they would the would turn and tell him to get that disgusting shit out of their faces because they were trying to eat and that he was just as bizarre as the day is long.