Forget the Acid Flashbacks, It's in the Pudding

So there I am, in lower Manhattan, coming out of a weird sort of meeting concerning the Rockefeller Drug Laws, and how to repeal them. Lots of interesting folks there, I even got a chance to meet Jack Cole of L.E.A.P. Yeah, work related ish. The meeting left me feeling all fucked up.

Rode Chupecabra down there, mission given to deliver "No More Drug War" stickers. Almost got blind-sided by the police along the way, tried to tag his car with a sticker, but he burned off before I could put the slap down.

Reminds me: once I'm off this paper, I'm going back to hooliganism. Stickers and utter contempt for the state. Well, let me fix that: continued contempt for the state. Mixed with a little bit of fear, because they are indeed out to get me. Not personally, of course, they're impersonally out to get everyone. It's what states do, just ask the Palestinians. States are kinda like Chupecabra: wanting to destroy individuals, just on a larger scale.

Chupecabra is my bike. It has a habit of hurting individuals, if not myself, then random strangers. At least it hasn't hurt one of my friends... but this might be in its infernal future. I just don't know. Friends: steer clear of Chupecabra, he ain't no good.

Totally fucking sidetracked. So, Chupecabra takes me to this venue, local union 339 or something like that. I'm bad with certain numbers. Locked up and chillin', I help myself to some yams, some salmon, and finish off with some banana pudding.

Let me backtrack: walking into this place was fucking creepy. It looked like a goddamn detention center, thick metal doors, with that thin slice of safety glass to view in and out of, stone walls, the whole nine yards. I was totally ill-at-ease, while my brother blithely led me down the corridors. Not fucking fun. Good thing I trust him, or I would have broke into a run in the opposite direction.

Anyways, there's another aside here: I worked at a dairy, and part of that process meant a lot of shit got diverted... we made banana pudding. Using the cream I would process. I also made ghetto-prison-ice-cream on the side, but this is a different story, but a funny one - in prison, I really was "the ice cream man." I would make all kinds of flavors, and fuck with the other prisoners with it. My flavors would go from the regular chocolate, vanilla, and so forth, to Frenchy Fluff (lemon french vanilla), Choco-Loco (a really rich mocha), and the favorite, but never ordered by name, "Deez Nutz" (a peanut butter and maple syrup ice cream). What can I say? When you're the ice cream man, you can get away with just about anything.

But, I was talking about the pudding. Banana pudding, and it tasted exactly like the ish they were serving at this event. So I'm sitting in a place that reminds me of prison, eating food that reminds me of prison, and talking to an ex-cop, who still carries a bit of the "cop" demeanor.

Can you say, flashback?

It wasn't the LSD, it was the fucking pudding that did me in.

Can't take it with you.

So they say. Yet everyone keeps collecting. Though these days, it appears we're collecting debts, to accompany the things that own us.

I feel like I have nothing to say. Mainly because through some miracle (or there truly is a god, and he's evidently done pissing on my fuckin' parade) I haven't had any major impacts with various objects, including but not limited to car doors, cars in general, FedEx or UPS trucks, or the occasional pedestrian.

It could also be that I've managed to learn how to navigate these faulty streets like an old pro...

Then again, it could be that I've finally named my bike: ChupeCabra. A.K.A. Sucks Goats, for those of you that aren't Spanish-inclined, like myself. I actually don't know for sure that's what it means, since my Spanish is worse than my driving. I do think Chupe means suck, or all them piezas back in prison were telling people to do something else with their dicks. Which, might be the case, how the fuck would I know? I mean, hell, that's why I didn't get any pictogram shit stenciled into my flesh - I'd be afraid that some vicious translator would paste "stupid fucking jew" in chinese for the tat artist, instead of "counter culture warrior" or whatever.

Nothing worse than having "stupid fucking jew" tatted anywhere on your body, since the little dirty secret is that jews aren't supposed to get tats in the first place. But I'm totally digressing from where I was going (like I ever know that particular piece of trivia).

So I cut my hair, and donated it to Locks of Love, under the name of DPA. I did this for two reasons: one, I really do believe in trying to help out, and two, I find it funny to think that DPA will be, in all likelihood, the first nonprofit organization to donate hair to Locks of Love. Aren't legal fictitions weird? I think so, but these days, I'm not paid to think, I'm paid to perform menial tasks that are required in the fight against the war on drugs.

I know, you're all crying a goddamn river. All three of you. I feel surly tonight, hence the exasperated tone of this blog.

The sad part is that I miss the accidents. I wasn't getting flats when I was in accidents. The accidents have been replaced by a weird tendency for my bike to suck metal objects into the tires. To date, I've got two staples (yes, fucking staples) and two nails (one miniscule, without a head, the other more of a thumbtack). That's been the past three weeks. It's gotten to the point where I can fix a flat in under five minutes now, which is great, considering I'm supposed to let the fucking rubber cement dry for five before applying the patch in the first place.

And yes, I've finally accepted the fact that I totally fucked up. When I hit that pedestrian, I really should have gotten her number, hulking menace at her side be damned. What's a little injury, without a little sumpin' on the side, right?

My Life Has Descended Into Executive Directed Hell

So, many of you have been wondering...

"Where the fuck is Malakkar and his boring-ass blogs?"

Yeah, I know, for the three of you that actually have been paying attention, I've been about as amusing as watching grass grow. Or the latest season of reality shows. What can I say?

I could say that I haven't had time, which would be true. I'm actually fucking off to get this done, but hell, I'm tired of working through my lunch hour.

So here we go:

Malakkar's a free man, relatively speaking. It's not a coincidence that I haven't blogged heavily in the past two weeks, your's truly is no longer on home confinement. Not that I'm going out that much, but it does mean that my computer gets a lot less usage, and I'm sure the internet porn traffic industry has notice a recent recession that matches the economy. Advertisers are certainly demanding heads roll... there's a sick joke in there somewhere.

So... in the spirit of bringing you some more tales, it's time to start dipping into the history files, and talking about the things I've been relatively shy about, because I was still under the thumb of the prison authority, even though I wasn't in an actual prison.

1st off: I'm tired of drug treatment. More to the point, I'm tired of pretending to be an addict, so that I could get into the drug treatment program, so that I could get 9 months off of my sentence. The fucked up part of this program is that if you have a dirty UA (that's what they call it to "distinguish" the humiliating act of collecting someone else's pee, and lend it something akin to "credibility" rather than the utter ridiculous nature of it), you get kicked out of the program.

What happens in practice is that all the real drug addicts get kicked out of treatment, and don't get any time off, and all the fakers (like yours' truly) graduate the program, and get time reduced from their sentences. This is another classic example of the federal government having the law of unintended consequences striking home.

So did I fake a drug addiction, and travel from Lompoc, California to Cumberland, Maryland merely to get a measly 9 months reduced from my sentence? Fuck yes I did, and anyone who doesn't do the same is a sucker. Best acting class of my life. Spent 15 months as a fake drug addict, and had 'em all fooled.

Fuck Brad Pitt, fuck Daniel Day Lewis, I got you chumps beat in spades when it comes to acting. Of course, they're rich, famous, and good looking, so I'm sure they could care less about my little rant here.

But I am saying, "Hollywood, if I could ever find myself standing L.A. for more than a few days at a time, here I come!"