When's The Last Time You Heard A Funky Diabetic?

The blue Pacific and the green Tasman come together here, violently butting up against each other forever, struggling not against each other but against Order. Eventually, their battle will shift, but not because one of them wins. The Natural Order will bring an end to their fight, long after humans are gone from here.

You know how we do it for the World Cup, meeting in pubs to watch our boys at 8 in the fuck morning? Yeah, it's like that for the All Blacks' EXHIBITION GAMES.

The Country With A Thin Soul, that's what you could call this place. Morals and Ideals are awash in a frothing sea of easy living and controlled drug use. I suppose there must be someone, somewhere on this island concerning themselves with the Proper Life, but I'm not exactly sure where they live. Perhaps south. As Dave told us, don't go east. And if you do, make sure you have a gun. Forget all that though, tell the story. Ah yes, this society, their lives defined by recreation, nobody having any substantial amount of money, yet bathroom attendants willing to plunk down 150 dollars to jump out of a German plane sold at cutrate discount at a WWII auction over farmland with a chute that may or may not go when it counts. Hell, why not? You're going to get your fix, you better ratchet it up and tuck your nuts in.

The national fear seems to be running out of things to push experience to the max. Self-medicating by way of the life-death continuum. The natural crossover being the ultimate rush, the goal. They're not crashing planes into towers, but only because someone else needs to use the plane when they're done.

I'm an outsider here, but I was an outsider at home, so the only difference is the color of the currency. They're as welcoming as they can be, as usually I'm just standing between them and their own sensory addiction. Yesterday I had a thermal mineral bath from a hole in the ground run by a group of Koreans who spoke absolutely no english. Hand signs only, please. I felt better there than I did at Subway. It's hard to fuck up hand signs, but when someone fakes their way through english, you end up with turkey. And you don't want turkey.

You look into that ocean, that nothingness, and there's nothing to look back, so there must be no one watching it, and everything must be nothing. But you know that there is something, someone has to be observing it, something has to draw you here and keep your gaze. Nothing has a hard time conversing with you. Nothing cannot speak. So why when we throw a rock into nothing, does it not hurt nothing? No, something's there. It's just too goddamned massive to contemplate. Our language can't describe it. So whether we're here for that or not, it doesn't matter. There's nothing to figure out. Again, we're back at the experience, the rush, the neurons going all cock hammer and jibber jabber. Ah, never mind all that. It's just local talk.

So the fight wages on, the same gas that brought this magma to the top heats the water I sit in. And god damn, that's the ticket right there. No kids allowed in this pool, and the no smoking sign has been turned off. Walk along the path, turn the corner, we're going somewhere.

Off the cliff, the razor's edge, the mortal coil. Slough it off.

You Don't Understand My Plight

All an actor has is his instincts. If you know anything about me you know I'm not an actor, which makes my own personal instincts a whole other matter.

"Are you an actor?"

As I said, no, but I had to answer this question for a second time at a local "Irish" bar. Times is rough and I sat, solo (my attorney was in jail, located in a town I couldn't even spell, never mind pronounce. His communiqué didn't shed light on anything other than a mule was involved: the animal kind). So this is what I've become? Slingin' back Malibu while NOT in Malibu, looking for good times?

Well, the first two hours had yielded nothing despite a crowd which all seemed to already know each other. I wasn't sure if I was stepping in to some other realm, that the reason I was ignored (save from the bartender) was that I didn't belong. And I was about to leave (as I finished some Jim Beam...remorse was setting in) as I was somehow dragged into a conversation about how getting married wasn't for them. At least, these two girls and one guy. This man claimed to have been a farmer for 10 years before coming to LA. He said it with pride, but later drunk ramblings lead him to admit he collected chicken eggs. Hmmm, not one in the same. Such admissions of truth lead these two ladies to me (they both had 10 years on me, supposedly). Despite having their guard up (insert NBA analogy) almost so high I could barely get to know them, the convo flowed. Nice folks, just drinkin, shootin the shit, talking LA. This is what I was after. And naturally, it came as quittin' time arrived. As we left out the back door, I heard surprising news as to why it was so hard to open.

"Yeah, it's locked. A lot of crime around here."

Uh...

There's no way around this god damned climb. We're talking upward skiing, no poles, nothing but grit. And these are the options. I've got a long way to go. But there are alternatives. And no, I won't use any. You don't like the James Beam, brown shades, or these pants...you might as well move on.