good evening Zak
https://goo.gl/JRgNJC
Zakory Wintersteen
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Saturday, November 5, 2016
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Man With an Idea
Find a Purpose.
John Marks was a man with an idea. This idea, he knew, could change the world. It was about a single $10 bill, and a chance to pay it forward.
Times of oppression, times of mass injustice; these timese where what Marks had to live with, day in and day out. He wasn't the poorest of the poor; he had an apartment, a dog, even a bike, but he wasn't wealthy, or even well off by any means.
Marks took this ten dollar bill, and with the intentions of hope, of perhaps finding some sort of purpose in his life, he wrote on that bill "Find a good use". He took every ten dollar bill he could find and wrote this phrase and many others, hoping that with this, he could find another, one that he had not wrote, somewhere out there, that another had found, and passed it on.
Most ten dollar bills end up in the banks, after a merchant had taken it from a customer, and cashed it into the safe. But perhaps maybe this was a way to keep the money in the hands of the community. He started a blog and website on this idea.
Jake Trenton pulled the 80 American dollars from his back pocket, handing it to the "bean" salesman in return for the 3 grams of weed. Morroco wasn't the place to be fucking around with drugs, but his friends told him it was legit, so he went out on a limb for it. The Middle East was strict on drug abuse, and made sure to make any Americans' life a living hell when they could. Jake found himself surrounded by the police just a few minutes after he took his first hit, down by the market, in an alley way. Damn bean seller snictched on him. Man, shit got crazy, one of the cops may have had an uzi, but who knows. Needless to say, he went to lockup until his court date; having no bail money saved.
John had become somewhat of a habit; he liked to travel never being in one place for too long. He was known to just pick up and leave and be seen only once a year, sometimes never returning. It was just six years ago when he was 17 and wrote his blog and all the ten dollar bills, and now he was in Morroco, just getting in, and looking for the motel, or an inn or something. Where did Americans go to in this country anyway? There had to be a hostel where there were some white faces. He wasn't racist, but lets face it, that's what we're all thinking.
He found an inn, but damn it if he had luck with finding white faces. Hell no, little did he know, he found the local den, a mistranslation on his part in asking for directions. He thought the market lady had looked at him a bit odd like when he had asked her, but shit, his Arabic was as good as his stamina, piss poor. It finally hit him that he was in the wrong place when the turbaned man came up to him with a needle and a spoon.
He took it, and was about to set it down when the door was busted open, letting in the lights from the car flood through the doorway. Five police came rushing in. Hell, one of them may have had an uzi, who knows. Needless to say, John ended up in lockup, with no money for bail.
"John Marks, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The judges gavel slammed down. John was halled off to the hell-pit they call a prison. It was a steel cage, with a concrete building in the center, very primitive.
"Jake Trenton, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The gavel fell down.
The bus to the prison was a simple cargo truck, most likely the same the military used. The cells were just steel pins, with small cots in the corners, conveniently placed right next to the shitter.
"Names Jake."
"John..." He shook the white man's hand, glad to finally see some skin that wasn't charcole.
"Glad to see an American here...Well, you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know."
Later on that night, John Marks needed to take a shit so bad he could taste it! Ever had to shit that bad...we neither have I, but holy fuck that's beyond prairie dogging, man. That's just brutal.
Problem: No toilet paper.
He searched, he looked, he searched high and low, even under the lows. Nothing.
"Here, it's no use here anyway." Jake passed him the ten dollar bill from his pocket, seeing John doing the "I have to take a big shit" dance.
"Man, tha..."
"Just go." Jake cut him off, trying to sleep as his cellmate took his shit. His face was but ten inches from the toilet, and he could hear every healthy plump into the bowl. He could have faced the other way, but that was was facing downhill, and the blood would rush to his head. Imagine that, the choice between a headache and getting the feedback from your cellmate's last meal. If there were ever a depressing moment in a man's life, this is surely it!
In the glimmer of the cold cell's walls, a tourch light filtered through to the toilet bowl. It was Johns throne, his spotlight for the evening. He chuckled.
Jake was all like...What the fuck, why is this bitch chuckling?
John then began to examine the ten dollar bill, having nothing else to do as his ass exploded on him. On the font, there was written. "Fuck a purpose, buy some toilet paper"
MUTHERFUCKER!!!!
All his hopes, all his aspirations as a teenager, all concluded by a cell and a piece of bright green toilet paper. But in the end, he saw the beauty...he had changed the world, even for just the night, having saved his own ass, sort of speak. He began chuckling out of control.
Jake turned around in his cot, facing down towards the other end, letting the blood rush to his head. "Fuckin' loonies."
John Marks was a man with an idea. This idea, he knew, could change the world. It was about a single $10 bill, and a chance to pay it forward.
Times of oppression, times of mass injustice; these timese where what Marks had to live with, day in and day out. He wasn't the poorest of the poor; he had an apartment, a dog, even a bike, but he wasn't wealthy, or even well off by any means.
Marks took this ten dollar bill, and with the intentions of hope, of perhaps finding some sort of purpose in his life, he wrote on that bill "Find a good use". He took every ten dollar bill he could find and wrote this phrase and many others, hoping that with this, he could find another, one that he had not wrote, somewhere out there, that another had found, and passed it on.
Most ten dollar bills end up in the banks, after a merchant had taken it from a customer, and cashed it into the safe. But perhaps maybe this was a way to keep the money in the hands of the community. He started a blog and website on this idea.
Jake Trenton pulled the 80 American dollars from his back pocket, handing it to the "bean" salesman in return for the 3 grams of weed. Morroco wasn't the place to be fucking around with drugs, but his friends told him it was legit, so he went out on a limb for it. The Middle East was strict on drug abuse, and made sure to make any Americans' life a living hell when they could. Jake found himself surrounded by the police just a few minutes after he took his first hit, down by the market, in an alley way. Damn bean seller snictched on him. Man, shit got crazy, one of the cops may have had an uzi, but who knows. Needless to say, he went to lockup until his court date; having no bail money saved.
John had become somewhat of a habit; he liked to travel never being in one place for too long. He was known to just pick up and leave and be seen only once a year, sometimes never returning. It was just six years ago when he was 17 and wrote his blog and all the ten dollar bills, and now he was in Morroco, just getting in, and looking for the motel, or an inn or something. Where did Americans go to in this country anyway? There had to be a hostel where there were some white faces. He wasn't racist, but lets face it, that's what we're all thinking.
He found an inn, but damn it if he had luck with finding white faces. Hell no, little did he know, he found the local den, a mistranslation on his part in asking for directions. He thought the market lady had looked at him a bit odd like when he had asked her, but shit, his Arabic was as good as his stamina, piss poor. It finally hit him that he was in the wrong place when the turbaned man came up to him with a needle and a spoon.
He took it, and was about to set it down when the door was busted open, letting in the lights from the car flood through the doorway. Five police came rushing in. Hell, one of them may have had an uzi, who knows. Needless to say, John ended up in lockup, with no money for bail.
"John Marks, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The judges gavel slammed down. John was halled off to the hell-pit they call a prison. It was a steel cage, with a concrete building in the center, very primitive.
"Jake Trenton, on the charges of your sentence, you are hereby sentenced to 5 years, without the possibility of parole." The gavel fell down.
The bus to the prison was a simple cargo truck, most likely the same the military used. The cells were just steel pins, with small cots in the corners, conveniently placed right next to the shitter.
"Names Jake."
"John..." He shook the white man's hand, glad to finally see some skin that wasn't charcole.
"Glad to see an American here...Well, you know what I mean."
"Yeah, I know."
Later on that night, John Marks needed to take a shit so bad he could taste it! Ever had to shit that bad...we neither have I, but holy fuck that's beyond prairie dogging, man. That's just brutal.
Problem: No toilet paper.
He searched, he looked, he searched high and low, even under the lows. Nothing.
"Here, it's no use here anyway." Jake passed him the ten dollar bill from his pocket, seeing John doing the "I have to take a big shit" dance.
"Man, tha..."
"Just go." Jake cut him off, trying to sleep as his cellmate took his shit. His face was but ten inches from the toilet, and he could hear every healthy plump into the bowl. He could have faced the other way, but that was was facing downhill, and the blood would rush to his head. Imagine that, the choice between a headache and getting the feedback from your cellmate's last meal. If there were ever a depressing moment in a man's life, this is surely it!
In the glimmer of the cold cell's walls, a tourch light filtered through to the toilet bowl. It was Johns throne, his spotlight for the evening. He chuckled.
Jake was all like...What the fuck, why is this bitch chuckling?
John then began to examine the ten dollar bill, having nothing else to do as his ass exploded on him. On the font, there was written. "Fuck a purpose, buy some toilet paper"
MUTHERFUCKER!!!!
All his hopes, all his aspirations as a teenager, all concluded by a cell and a piece of bright green toilet paper. But in the end, he saw the beauty...he had changed the world, even for just the night, having saved his own ass, sort of speak. He began chuckling out of control.
Jake turned around in his cot, facing down towards the other end, letting the blood rush to his head. "Fuckin' loonies."
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The trail was going to be long and hard, we both knew. We packed out bags with half a flask of Joaquin's Run and an eighth of green herb, a quarter leg of venison and a change of clothes, we set out into the afternoon Sun. From Carver, we set out to make our way on our own, without the need of a roof over our heads or a car to travel in.
We stopped by a restaurant to fill our stomachs with a bite to each. Pork chops and beans. Tasty and filling. We were then ready to travel into the night. We walked down Harrison St to Oregon Hill, smoking from a cherry wood tobacco pipe and chanting about the time ahead of us.
We came to the river and crossed the foot bridge to Belle Isle. I looked back on the times I had crossed this path before. I remembered a friend of mine who took a great journey on that bridge, one that passed him into the afterlife, wherever that may be. May his memory always live in our hearts. It was just around an hour before Sundown when we got to the far side of the isle. The river was down and the rocks were bare. We trekked along the boulders that made up the river bed when it was high water. There, we came to a small niche that held two crust punks.
I can't remember their names, and I am sure now, they probably don't remember ours. But for that time, our paths crossed and our needs were one. We smoked a bowl and drank the pirate piss rum I had packed. After chit chatting, we decided we needed to head to the store for some cigarettes and a bit of munchies.
I have always had a general dislike for the culture of bums. Not that they were hard on their luck...but they tried to be a bum. They chose the lifestyle of a beggar, having no want to do any labor for their keep. They sit on corners and beg for change to buy their beer and cigarettes. Street performers and vagabonds are fine, because they play music, or perform acts for their audience, putting out some sort of effort. Crust punks wantonly beg.
I remember talking to the crust punk on the way to the store. He told me he was 17, and his friend, who was back at our niche still, was 35. I thought to myself man, thirty five. That's a wasted life. He told me that his mother didn't know he was living like he was. I found that he was a good person, he just chose to live free rather than in the system that we have all around us. I agreed with him, but I did not think the way they went about it was at all progression of their ideals.
But he told me that he had hopped a train from California to make it to Richmond for Best Friend's Day. It sounded like an adventure I would enjoy. He told me how he scored food from people and how he got what he needed. I didn't comment to him how I would have gone about things. But I listened to this kid. He poured out his soul on the walk.
After we got back from the store, it was well past dark, and we were trying to get to "secret spot" as they called it. But first, they wanted to tag the trains in the yard that was just around the way from the wooden bridge. We made our way to the train yard. The younger punk was still in control of himself, and stalked into the yard assuredly. The older punk, fat and drunk, stumbled around, yelled at the top of his lungs and staggered the whole way. He was trying to get himself caught.
We tagged a train that night, Alex and I. We learned the meaning of tags, and how certain signs are read by modern day hobos. Tags were personal stories, ever developing, ever evolving. I tagged the train with a well known Mark Twain quote "Don't let schooling interfere with your education." It has stuck with me since I first heard it.
The four of us made our way back to the footbridge leading back to Oregon Hill from the isle. At the small boat launch, we took a dip into the warm James River. I will forgo details of the two crust punks skinny dipping. The old fat one, however, and this needs mentioning, was a figurehead of obesity. He rolled, he shook, he made the water level rise, he trembled as jello. He was stark naked, and I have never been the same.
The secret spot. It was a mile or so down the tracks from Oregon Hill, leading out to Texas Beach. It was down a ravine, having to slide down to the river banks to get to it. It was a clearing there, where other travelers and vagabonds had made a small niche to suit their needs. They had a fireplace and a bivouac there, wood already stacked a bit.
But the trip to "secret spot" is worth mentioning I feel. To get to it, we started at the Lee Bridge under crofts, where the trains stop to refuel and load their cargo. We waited for one to stop, and then made our way on the adjacent tracks, walking beside it. If you have ever heard a train up close, you will know that the engines are like thunder. They roar. The sound of a train engine is almost as resonate as a sort of opera for me after this. We slid in the shadows of the small train yard there. The older fat crust punk was drunk, and rather obnoxious at this point. He stepped onto the train and entered one of the cars, where the operators had a fridge and a few stores of flares. He snagged a small case of bottled water and six or so flares from the cupboards of the train, like he owned the place, or he was grocery shopping. It was rather amazing, seeing how casual the whole ordeal was for him. He didn't pay a second thought to it at all. He had done this many times, I was certain.
We walked down the tracks more, along this very long train. The fat punk began lighting flares. He tossed them into the air, then into the coal cars of the train. He wondered "Why aren't they lighting?" I found it to be ridiculous. For one, a flare will not light raw coal. For two, if they were to go alight, we would have been fucked. When he lit his third flare, things turned on us. We saw the lights of another train coming down the tracks. It was on our set of tracks. To our left was a wall of the other train, to our right was a ravine and a ditch, which was filled with stagnant water. We only jumped down into the ditch with enough time to spare our lives. The train was inches from our noses. The thunderous noise it produced as it passed was incredible. We smiled, Alex and I. We paid no attention to the crust punks we were with, being in our own adventure world by now. They were merely the guides. We laughed at the danger we had just face.
That night at "secret spot" we cooked venison and at it with our fingers. As modern day hobos, we slept on the hard ground next to the river banks. We watched the city lights in the distance twinkle as we fell asleep. We woke up with the morning fog covering the river.
This is a time in my life I do not think I shall forget. I believe Alex will not forget it either. For those two days, we were hobos. We had a home, but we did not have shelter. We had money, but we could not access it. We had food, and it was primitive.
We stopped by a restaurant to fill our stomachs with a bite to each. Pork chops and beans. Tasty and filling. We were then ready to travel into the night. We walked down Harrison St to Oregon Hill, smoking from a cherry wood tobacco pipe and chanting about the time ahead of us.
We came to the river and crossed the foot bridge to Belle Isle. I looked back on the times I had crossed this path before. I remembered a friend of mine who took a great journey on that bridge, one that passed him into the afterlife, wherever that may be. May his memory always live in our hearts. It was just around an hour before Sundown when we got to the far side of the isle. The river was down and the rocks were bare. We trekked along the boulders that made up the river bed when it was high water. There, we came to a small niche that held two crust punks.
I can't remember their names, and I am sure now, they probably don't remember ours. But for that time, our paths crossed and our needs were one. We smoked a bowl and drank the pirate piss rum I had packed. After chit chatting, we decided we needed to head to the store for some cigarettes and a bit of munchies.
I have always had a general dislike for the culture of bums. Not that they were hard on their luck...but they tried to be a bum. They chose the lifestyle of a beggar, having no want to do any labor for their keep. They sit on corners and beg for change to buy their beer and cigarettes. Street performers and vagabonds are fine, because they play music, or perform acts for their audience, putting out some sort of effort. Crust punks wantonly beg.
I remember talking to the crust punk on the way to the store. He told me he was 17, and his friend, who was back at our niche still, was 35. I thought to myself man, thirty five. That's a wasted life. He told me that his mother didn't know he was living like he was. I found that he was a good person, he just chose to live free rather than in the system that we have all around us. I agreed with him, but I did not think the way they went about it was at all progression of their ideals.
But he told me that he had hopped a train from California to make it to Richmond for Best Friend's Day. It sounded like an adventure I would enjoy. He told me how he scored food from people and how he got what he needed. I didn't comment to him how I would have gone about things. But I listened to this kid. He poured out his soul on the walk.
After we got back from the store, it was well past dark, and we were trying to get to "secret spot" as they called it. But first, they wanted to tag the trains in the yard that was just around the way from the wooden bridge. We made our way to the train yard. The younger punk was still in control of himself, and stalked into the yard assuredly. The older punk, fat and drunk, stumbled around, yelled at the top of his lungs and staggered the whole way. He was trying to get himself caught.
We tagged a train that night, Alex and I. We learned the meaning of tags, and how certain signs are read by modern day hobos. Tags were personal stories, ever developing, ever evolving. I tagged the train with a well known Mark Twain quote "Don't let schooling interfere with your education." It has stuck with me since I first heard it.
The four of us made our way back to the footbridge leading back to Oregon Hill from the isle. At the small boat launch, we took a dip into the warm James River. I will forgo details of the two crust punks skinny dipping. The old fat one, however, and this needs mentioning, was a figurehead of obesity. He rolled, he shook, he made the water level rise, he trembled as jello. He was stark naked, and I have never been the same.
The secret spot. It was a mile or so down the tracks from Oregon Hill, leading out to Texas Beach. It was down a ravine, having to slide down to the river banks to get to it. It was a clearing there, where other travelers and vagabonds had made a small niche to suit their needs. They had a fireplace and a bivouac there, wood already stacked a bit.
But the trip to "secret spot" is worth mentioning I feel. To get to it, we started at the Lee Bridge under crofts, where the trains stop to refuel and load their cargo. We waited for one to stop, and then made our way on the adjacent tracks, walking beside it. If you have ever heard a train up close, you will know that the engines are like thunder. They roar. The sound of a train engine is almost as resonate as a sort of opera for me after this. We slid in the shadows of the small train yard there. The older fat crust punk was drunk, and rather obnoxious at this point. He stepped onto the train and entered one of the cars, where the operators had a fridge and a few stores of flares. He snagged a small case of bottled water and six or so flares from the cupboards of the train, like he owned the place, or he was grocery shopping. It was rather amazing, seeing how casual the whole ordeal was for him. He didn't pay a second thought to it at all. He had done this many times, I was certain.
We walked down the tracks more, along this very long train. The fat punk began lighting flares. He tossed them into the air, then into the coal cars of the train. He wondered "Why aren't they lighting?" I found it to be ridiculous. For one, a flare will not light raw coal. For two, if they were to go alight, we would have been fucked. When he lit his third flare, things turned on us. We saw the lights of another train coming down the tracks. It was on our set of tracks. To our left was a wall of the other train, to our right was a ravine and a ditch, which was filled with stagnant water. We only jumped down into the ditch with enough time to spare our lives. The train was inches from our noses. The thunderous noise it produced as it passed was incredible. We smiled, Alex and I. We paid no attention to the crust punks we were with, being in our own adventure world by now. They were merely the guides. We laughed at the danger we had just face.
That night at "secret spot" we cooked venison and at it with our fingers. As modern day hobos, we slept on the hard ground next to the river banks. We watched the city lights in the distance twinkle as we fell asleep. We woke up with the morning fog covering the river.
This is a time in my life I do not think I shall forget. I believe Alex will not forget it either. For those two days, we were hobos. We had a home, but we did not have shelter. We had money, but we could not access it. We had food, and it was primitive.
Friday, April 16, 2010
I've Always Been Crazy
I've always been one step over the hill. One foot on solid ground, the other standing in my grave. There's been many a moment that my foothold has shifted, and I didn't think I'd make it out alive. Some of those time, I think I was too out of it or drunk to really care of the significance of the situation.
In Half Moon Bay, California, 2006, I was a youth of 15, doing what most 15 year olds did. I was getting into trouble with my buddy, Val. (And Val, I love ya man.) My parents had bought a bag of wine that came in a large box and had a nozzle on it. Val and I filled up a Gatorade bottle full of this stuff to hold our drunk over for the day. We started our bike trip at noon on our BMX bikes, heading out to the cliffs that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.
We met up with this kid named Paul, who was a bit older than Val and I, but acted a year younger. Val was 16 at the time. Paul had short hair and a punk attitude. A typical rebellious youth who had something to prove and nothing to gain. He would later become a meth addict like so many people I knew there. It's a sad tale to see only a skeleton of someone you had once known very well. The hollow eyes of yesterdays gone by as the nightlife has taken its toll on their bodies.
Paul and Val and I ended up drunk by 2 in the afternoon. We also had rolled up a few joints filled with Salvia Divinorium, which grew everywhere in that area. If you go to the cliffs above Mavericks, California today, I am sure you will still be able to find the sweet tasting herb that does so much to your mind.
After we picked some Salvia and had a swagger, we drunkenly rode our bikes off to the southern cliffs of Half Moon Bay, which were parched and cracked from the erosion of the waves and seismic activity. We must of looked like the mess we were too, boy. The three of us all had on black eyeliner and red lipstick, having just gotten into the "I'm a rebel and I wanna raid momma's make-up drawer" stage of life. We parked ourselves there, laying down our bikes and lit up a Salvia joint.
After a hit or two, my mind was twisted. I pulled out a Confederate hat, and a rebel flag. I put on the cap and wore the flag as a cape. I got up on my bike (a Haro Dirt BMX) and took off, turning around to get a good head start on this jump I had talked myself into as I was getting my drunk on and stoned. It was a 4 or 5 foot gap, which went straight down to the beach below, around 50 feet. Wearing my regalia and make-up like a drunken fool, I blasted over the jump like superman. Val videoed it. I made the jump!
After that initial jump, spending that time in the air being able to see the beach below me, my heart raced. I wanted more. I was intoxicated enough to not be able to understand that below me was certain death if I had missed even a split second of the gap. I raced toward the gap and took the jump a second time. Time itself stood still. I saw the waves break on the beach as I looked to my left, I saw the trees to my right, the gap below me as I passed over it, seemingly in slow motion. My front tire touched the hard dirt on the far side of the gap. I was safe. My mind never knew the danger.
My friends cheered, as though I had just cleared the Grand Canyon. I left them to take a piss while they were rolling a joint. Paul was better at it than Val, who had only recently started smoking Salvia. I walked across the cliff top a few hundred feet out of sight of the main road and unzipped my fly. I whipped my cock out and took a long hard piss, filled with wine and bile. While Val and Paul were rolling the joint, I got hit with a back-wind that threw me over the cliff. Where I was standing, the incline was graded just enough that I rolled down most of the way, minus the 5 foot drop off at the bottom. I landed on the hard compacted sand on the beach below me. My body was sore, my mind was sobered.
Val and Paul stood high above me on the cliffs, passing a joint between the two of them and laughed. "DUDE! How the fuck'd you get down there?!" Val yelled.
"The trail down is about a mile that way!" I yelled up and pointed up north along the beach.
"Fuck dude!" He yelled back. "Get up here and smoke the joint with us."
This is a true story, and can be verified by both Paul and Val, though they tell it slightly different I am sure. The video of my heroic jump can no longer be seen, because the phones they were taken on have long since passed onto the land phones go to when they are dropped in toilet bowls or smashed on concrete.
I've always been crazy, and both feet were in my coffin that day. Little did I know then, that was only one instance of many, where I was insane within my mind, and I took life by the horns.
I feel as though I am a lost outlaw, just getting by in society. One of the last of a dying breed. An old cowboy at heart. And I dedicate this tale and the others like it to that ideal.
In Half Moon Bay, California, 2006, I was a youth of 15, doing what most 15 year olds did. I was getting into trouble with my buddy, Val. (And Val, I love ya man.) My parents had bought a bag of wine that came in a large box and had a nozzle on it. Val and I filled up a Gatorade bottle full of this stuff to hold our drunk over for the day. We started our bike trip at noon on our BMX bikes, heading out to the cliffs that overlooked the Pacific Ocean.
We met up with this kid named Paul, who was a bit older than Val and I, but acted a year younger. Val was 16 at the time. Paul had short hair and a punk attitude. A typical rebellious youth who had something to prove and nothing to gain. He would later become a meth addict like so many people I knew there. It's a sad tale to see only a skeleton of someone you had once known very well. The hollow eyes of yesterdays gone by as the nightlife has taken its toll on their bodies.
Paul and Val and I ended up drunk by 2 in the afternoon. We also had rolled up a few joints filled with Salvia Divinorium, which grew everywhere in that area. If you go to the cliffs above Mavericks, California today, I am sure you will still be able to find the sweet tasting herb that does so much to your mind.
After we picked some Salvia and had a swagger, we drunkenly rode our bikes off to the southern cliffs of Half Moon Bay, which were parched and cracked from the erosion of the waves and seismic activity. We must of looked like the mess we were too, boy. The three of us all had on black eyeliner and red lipstick, having just gotten into the "I'm a rebel and I wanna raid momma's make-up drawer" stage of life. We parked ourselves there, laying down our bikes and lit up a Salvia joint.
After a hit or two, my mind was twisted. I pulled out a Confederate hat, and a rebel flag. I put on the cap and wore the flag as a cape. I got up on my bike (a Haro Dirt BMX) and took off, turning around to get a good head start on this jump I had talked myself into as I was getting my drunk on and stoned. It was a 4 or 5 foot gap, which went straight down to the beach below, around 50 feet. Wearing my regalia and make-up like a drunken fool, I blasted over the jump like superman. Val videoed it. I made the jump!
After that initial jump, spending that time in the air being able to see the beach below me, my heart raced. I wanted more. I was intoxicated enough to not be able to understand that below me was certain death if I had missed even a split second of the gap. I raced toward the gap and took the jump a second time. Time itself stood still. I saw the waves break on the beach as I looked to my left, I saw the trees to my right, the gap below me as I passed over it, seemingly in slow motion. My front tire touched the hard dirt on the far side of the gap. I was safe. My mind never knew the danger.
My friends cheered, as though I had just cleared the Grand Canyon. I left them to take a piss while they were rolling a joint. Paul was better at it than Val, who had only recently started smoking Salvia. I walked across the cliff top a few hundred feet out of sight of the main road and unzipped my fly. I whipped my cock out and took a long hard piss, filled with wine and bile. While Val and Paul were rolling the joint, I got hit with a back-wind that threw me over the cliff. Where I was standing, the incline was graded just enough that I rolled down most of the way, minus the 5 foot drop off at the bottom. I landed on the hard compacted sand on the beach below me. My body was sore, my mind was sobered.
Val and Paul stood high above me on the cliffs, passing a joint between the two of them and laughed. "DUDE! How the fuck'd you get down there?!" Val yelled.
"The trail down is about a mile that way!" I yelled up and pointed up north along the beach.
"Fuck dude!" He yelled back. "Get up here and smoke the joint with us."
This is a true story, and can be verified by both Paul and Val, though they tell it slightly different I am sure. The video of my heroic jump can no longer be seen, because the phones they were taken on have long since passed onto the land phones go to when they are dropped in toilet bowls or smashed on concrete.
I've always been crazy, and both feet were in my coffin that day. Little did I know then, that was only one instance of many, where I was insane within my mind, and I took life by the horns.
I feel as though I am a lost outlaw, just getting by in society. One of the last of a dying breed. An old cowboy at heart. And I dedicate this tale and the others like it to that ideal.
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