Helter Skelter


Helter Skelter by Sir Stanley Spencer (1937)

Life is crazy.  Super crazy—no joke.  I spend my nights working graveyard shifts in order to retain some semblance of healthcare, and I spend my days writing, promoting, reading, and absorbing as much pop culture as Borgly possible.  During the rare occasions that I actually find some shuteye I dream of two things: electric sheep and the one-day that I’ll live abroad as a fulltime writer.  Even if it is just ever so briefly I will feel fulfilled; honestly who knows maybe the path to literary greatness only resides in alcoholism and sadness, but I am going to try my damndest to repave that yellow brick road with moderation and wit. I’m definitely not one to try and rekindle the Beat Generation in some desperate plea to find an ends to a means, but in a world where craziness runs wild like a lost bumble bee in a snow storm I think my odds of running against the grain are at least an even fifty-fifty.  To read about Billy Burroughs maybe be intriguing, but to live the life is another thing all together.

Thus far I’ve been fairly successful.  I’ve finally begun to save for that journey abroad and every minor success seems to be slowly adding together towards a fulltime writing gig.  I’ve built a following from absolutely nothing.  I’ve had complete and utter strangers shred my work as well as provide it with glowing terms of admiration.

We live in such a dichotomous life that it’s heard to believe in the gray at times.  We’re bombarded with this black and white perception of reality, when in fact we all live in a varied gray-space.  For example, when I write I listen to music.  This by itself isn’t all uncommon, but at times I like to curl up and click, clack away like a childish Bull listening to the soft crackle of my record player as the decades gone by lyrics of Sinatra sooth and influence my prose; however, at other times I sit in my study with a Bacardi and cola fervently penning my next chapter of “Jack and the Lilac Butcher” to various hip-hop legends.  This is the just a mere example of the gray that I have created for myself.

We all have it, and it extends far beyond my shallow music example.  It resides within our day-to-day interactions as well as more philosophical ideologies as they pertain to religion and politics.  I’m an agnostic liberal who tries to be a student of all faiths and politics.  I may not agree with everyone all the time, but I will always stay deeply nestled within the French cuff of knowledge—folded nicely away like a cybernetic fly on the virtual wall.

I live in a constant state of flux.  I’m constantly evaluating and re-evaluating every decision I’ve ever made as well as every immediate decision I will make.  I take different angles on all predicaments and try to proceed with the utmost care by jockeying back and forth between caution and impulse.  It’s a rough ride like all of our own personal journeys, but there is one thing that I have learned over the course of twenty some odd years: live for your desires.

So, many people live in this habitual bubble that just slowly dissipates over the years–until it just pops one day.  There is no point in existence if life is lived that way.  Just like the Force, there needs to be balance.  A beam needs to be carefully walked across as you enter every and any situation.  Caution and impulse need to be wed, and the gray needs to be embraced.  Nothing is black and white, and everything that appears to be so—isn’t.  True story.  Look it up.  I read it in a book.

Cheers,

A.R. Schultz

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Reggae Beats & Caribbean Rum


Writers find their muses anywhere they can get.  There are some moments in my life where the creative juices are a flowin’; my mind is like a Jamba Juice and I’m producing smoothies at an alarming rate.  Other times, however, I’m at an absolute loss.  I gape dumbfounded at a blank screen willing myself to write something weighty and worthy of publishing.  Sadly, when I find the ‘right’ words they are, very much, in fact the wrong words, and they are quickly backspaced and my MacBook quickly resumes his staring.

At this juncture, I usually need to step away and relax and then come back to the page with a fresh start.  This is where the Reggae and liquor come into play.  My dad hosts an incredibly popular podcast by the name of “Rastaman Vibrations.”  Truth be told I’ve never delved into the Reggae music scene until my dad began his podcast even though he’s been in love with the music since college.  I wholly regret not diving into the genre sooner, but like a good cliché “better late than never.”  However, I now find that Reggae music has become a regular inspiration in my writings.  It uplifts my spirits and the cleverness in the lyrics ultimately inspires me to lift pen to paper.

Lately, I’ve been listening to Damian Marley’s “Welcome 2 Jamrock” and Superheavy’s eponymous album.  Due to the immeasurable talent of A.R. Rahman, Superheavy not only encompasses wonderful Reggae tones it also has some splendid Indian beats.  And, at the moment I’m listening to Ky-Mani Marley’s “Rub-a-Dub Soldier,” and even though my words may not be the most poetic or cohesive at least the block in the path of this writer has been momentarily shattered.

At other moments, even the most melodic and heart-wrenching tunes can’t crack my block, and something more heavy duty is required.  As cliché as it sounds liquor does help a writer write.  I would, of course, never recommend this to anyone (for obvious reasons), but for me the lowering of inhibitions, caused by inebriation, bequeaths a certain loquaciousness for me.  I feel more true to self, and thus my inner thoughts, whether profound or not, find their way to my quill.  Personally, I prefer rum– Bacardi or Sailor Jerry’s.  It’s what I like to call my ‘safe liquor’ because sadly everyone has that one alcohol that makes you mope…and that’s no bueno for a writer.  I’ve talked with other artists who use a similar method, but instead of a mixed drink they may have a glass of Moscato or a Guinness to loosen those pesky threads.

Nevertheless, everyone has their methods– some more iniquitous than others, such as myself, but for curiosities sake what do you do when writer’s block strikes?  Do you have an outlet or a method that cracks this common ailment?

Liquid Courage Makes Me Right Better


Preface:  In a semi-drunken stupor I decided to plop down and ‘write’.  Now, this can be a very bad combination and one that I have never truly tried before, but the result in my case was a piece that is oddly personal, radically different than my usual style, and very reminiscent of a strung out feline after reading the entirety of Hunter S. Thompson‘s work.  It doesn’t look so hot, he’s deeply philosophical, and your never quite sure where this cat ‘fits’ into it all.

Essentially I wrote a different part of this collection on four separate days, in four separate sittings, with four different brands of liquor.  They all intertwine and one reference usually leads to the other whether it be a pop culture reference or merely a play on words.  Hopefully you’ll enjoy this odd amalgamation of rants as much I did writing them.

Liquid Courage Makes Me Right Better

Suck that reality.  I just surreal lifed your ass, and you didn’t even bat an eye.  Stick that in it your eye like Wesley Snipes after eatin’ a rat burger.  Ever hear of Aldous?  Nah…only Hurley would ever stay fat when Lost.  Apparently he found plenty of burgers on the set till Weezer hit him up for a cover shoot.  Beverly Hills….please…isn’t that where the fuckin’ hillbillies come from, anyhow?  Why’d you want to hit that?  Fake hair, fake tits, fake smile…might as well be Sarah Palin’s hometown.  Fake all over, not worth a dime, and damn sure to either be eaten be a crazed badger contaminated by the oil soaked debt of an Alaskan publicity whore.

Speaking of which where’s that Lohan…trapped in the jaws of another outraged parent?  Cracked and strung out?  Teaching sisters how and what not to be?  What was it Uncle Ben said?  With great power, comes great responsibility.  I’m still confused whether he said that after or before he made his rice bowls, but either way Panda’s up late and he’s got Skinemax.  So sink your teeth into that blood sausage because those fangs ain’t going to retract them fuckin’ selves.  Again, back to tits, may not be fake but they’re still there to tantalize because who else would care besides a True Blood.  Sure beats a Crypt, because that Keeper is an old bastard…and trust me he was dirty.

Not quite as dirty as Pigpen, but damn would he give Charlie a run for his football.  I’d love to fuckin’ Spin this City half past two just to see two men run around lookin’ for the other half.  Speaking of a hard twist I just knocked the “A” outta that Honda bitch and now it’s hung up by a cord.  Still lookin’ better than my Protégé, but that sad bastard got cubed.  Couldn’t afford to raise it the forth, but boy did I try.  Like a bat outta hell I hit that brake like a pair of cubes hittin’ an avenged glass of Bacardi.  Once the sun fell behind those mountains that Friday the liquid courage was repurposed, rebuilt for a proverbial mind fuck.  To forget Sarah Marshall?  Nah, to forget the days’ events.  Who wants to remember, who wants to forget?

Here’s the quick:  those that know nothing…like a group of tea partyers?  To drunk, strung out, and hypocritical to realize that they’re a staggerin’ mob of stupidity all amassed to show the world that Americans are dumbasses.  They’re like a rave gone awry.  A 12-grain not worth the dollar bill used to harvest that crop.  New Zealand is looking more and more promising, but who the fuck wants to voyage to a land filled with Hobbits?  Pete better come out of that Warehouse soon because whose gonna save us now, Sully?  That blue monster sure looks like a certain cookie muncher to me, but who am I to judge?  Oh, wait like most other Americans I’ll take a moment to conserve intelligence and judge that muncher like they do.   Those that enjoy the drapes that match the carpet don’t clean just like a crazed Sheen because truthfully who wants to steam clean that bitch? Certainly not Bert, and certainly not Ernie, because when those two elope all New Yorkers will stand and shout.  That might get the stain out, but Johnson & Johnson might have a Danon Fit.

What’s that old saying?  When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?  Fuck that.  Hand ‘em back ask for limes…better yet squirt that shit in life’s eye, mug ‘em for oranges and make a screwdriver because if you don’t you’re going to get nailed.  Back to the gays…Michael J. Fox better chase that Delorean because once we hit the past we’re going to wish we went Back to the Future.

Ever chase that rabbit down the hole?  I did once and I ended up in snow covered field holding wilted roses asking for a slut that couldn’t give a shit.  Who lusts for a half-way houser?  One who cracks a crooked smile like a vulture defining “muffin top” to an Oxford scholar.  I more respect for a fucking clergymen with paddle. You bet his robes glisten with that off white hue that Ozzies out, “molester!,” because how else could he trick himself into being religious?  Like a doppelganger named Alice looking through the glass just pondering, waiting to mug that one sap that grabs the pamphlet from that tie-wearin’, bicycle ridin’ conversion machine.  Grouped, only to be bussed in n’ out of the residential.  With a chip on their shoulder, and a mission from God they eat up the ignorance like it were salsa.  But, just like a rotten watermelon the salsa’s fake and chunky like the cheese all in a sad, subversive effort to warn the normals that there is something a foot.

Full circle, I wore that white rabbit’s foot like a talisman to ward off evil.  Only Bruce Cambell and Stephen King could write in that chainsaw wieldin’ bastard and make it reach the pop culture warehouse.  Brian better be scribin’ because Peter’s escaped his Warehouse and needs his partner in crime.  Only the Greeks would beat that Griffin till he bleeds.  Fucked and drunk they fondle themselves just reach the present with a legen-wait for it-dary status inscribed upon their medallions and our history books.  Barney would tighten his tie turn around slap the nearest conversion machine, sucker punch the purple creeper who calls himself a dinosaur, and ask Ted to just get married already because his story’s getting’ old…quick.  Bob Sagat better find his career because who’s going to remember a Fullhouse when all of the twin’s poker chips are wrapped up in diet pills and Coke?

Mario’s the only doctor I get my pills from and even his door slide, reads, “plumber.”  No wonder Princess Peach wears that chastity belt…what woman wouldn’t?  He’s a mustachioed plumber with a deep tie to the Catholic church and even his hands are covered in more blood than Bowser’s.  Deep soaked in crimson, he’s pierced the hide of the lizard named Luigi.  Only R.A. Salvatore could write that dragon tale and have it be forgotten in a catalogue of realms.  Once again I’ll strike back like the Empire, and say fuck the hardships, fuck the supposed truths, fuck their way of life.  I’ll fix the corruption, we’ll fix the corruption because I am damn tired of corporations and politicians getting’ their personal fix from my wallet.  They fuckin’ grab for my idea again I’ll let a miscellaneous three letter acronym and their committee sitttin’, foot tappin’ proverts have it like Vader’s wrath on Endor and a force choke to the throat of corruption.  It’s damn hard to spew hate when you can’t breath.

Take a breath, drown in that pool with your sycophantic bitches in tow, because who the hell is going bring that ship back into harbor? To hell with that I say! Purgatory better open their gates because that’s the only group of neutrals that you’ll be able to shift in gear…to twist, to corrupt, into a malleable bastard that knows nothing, but does everything. A back to build a nation upon, a back to break as a greedy, fat cat politician line their clouds and pockets with silver. Better hire a strung out metallurgist because that’s the only way they’ll be able to cook their crack on their silver spoons. Fork it. Spoonin’ is overrated, because sadly enough there’s always a little spoon, and odds are you’ll be it. How’s it feel to be groped and grabbed by a fat fuck filled to his nostrils with caviar? As he cuddles you, robbin’ your pockets while you ‘sleep’ wide eyed and frightened starin’ up at the debt ceiling just hoping it’ll be over soon. Or, give yourself a break and break that fat fuck’s legs. Roll outta that down stuffed bed reach under the frame, grab that four by and end this shit tonight. Screw the second of August, beat that fat fuck to death, roll his fat ass back to China and let them settle their debts with a corpse, and hit the hay; sleep dreamin’ the American dream.

 

“Vaginas R Us”


This week marks the beginning of my vacation and so nevertheless I have been taking it quite easy these past few days.  Nothin’ harsh, nothin’ extraneous is my current motto.  So, this morning I plopped my lazy ass down upon the couch to watch the newest “Colbert Report” on my now regrettable subscription to HuluPlus with a big bowl of “Lucky Munch.” (I’m too poor to afford the ‘Charms’ part, so I only get the ‘Munch’…after all I am a writer.)

As the episode of the “Colbert Report” began to buffer for the next four-and-a-half hours I snagged my laptop and began reading some of the morning’s headlines as I dove into my “Lucky Munch.”  First couple of headlines were ‘meh’ at best, but the third one down caught my eye.

Colbert makes too much money, and thus can afford actual "Lucky Charms."

“Crazed Ferret Molests Duchovny, Takes Gorilla as Hostage”

“Shit!” is all that came to mind.  Within a couple of Google searches I had the whole picture laid out.  Here is the information that I could gather from the intertubes.  Some sections of the web were blocked with blowup dolls, but I was able to gather what I needed to know about my retarded ferret and his shenanigans.  Here is a brief synopsis of the events:

Apparently, Hanz made it L.A. without incident.  No crashed Protégé, no pedestrians struck by a poorly insured Ferret driving erratically down the California state highway.  But, once they reached L.A. the shit really hit the fan quick.  High RPMs everything.  “Airplane” had nothing on the events that Malicious and Mopey traveled through that evening.  Malicious the Gorilla took off and hit several strip clubs in a drunken stupor before setting up his ‘nest’ at the classy “Vaginas R Us” strip club in L.A.  He then proceeded to get even more wasted and lets just say a 300-lb strip club bouncer does not stand a chance against a 600-lb silverback drunk off his ass with a wad of ones and a will to stay.

Yes, there is an actual "Vaginas R Us" in L.A.

Mopey, however, decided to ask Mr. Duchovny immediately about his script idea and with the help of the cast of “Big Bang Theory” was able to ascertain where David Duchovny’s house resided in the Hills with the promise to ‘get’ Walowitz a woman (Ah, gotta love Google Maps & Street View).  Nevertheless, Hanz, the Mopey Ferret, ended up scaling a 20-foot retaining wall and crawled into bed with David Duchovny and his mistress clutching a worn and battered script written in the ancient scrawl of ferret.  Needless to say when David reached over in the night and grabbed something unexpected and hairy Hanz and David equally flipped out.  Hanz began beating David with his script while David ran for the phone.  Long story short Hanz’s little butt cheeks were pumpin’ in the L.A. heat as a swarm of personal body guards chased after him.

David shocked after grabbing Hanz's....

Oddly enough Malicious was being chased at about the same moment by the ‘L.A. Bouncer Union’ (Unionized after the great stripper riots of the 90’s) after Malicious severely injured the “Vaginas R Us” bouncer by viciously tossing him into the stripper pole after he tried to take the drink out of Malicious’ paw.  Malicious staggering because of his drunkenness and Hanz because of the realization that he just beat his idol with a script they both headed to the Protegé.  They ended up reaching the Protégé at about the same time and screeched out of the city with as much urgency as a penguin looking for flight…both would frantically, and for good reason.

Malicious the Gorilla's expression while drunk, running, and passed out in the Protege's trunk.

The headline and video snapshot of my Protégé with a crazed ferret behind the wheel was taken by the L.A. police department, but miraculously enough Mopey and Malicious got away without being caught and no further instances.

Hanz behind the wheel of the Protege with Malicious passed out in the trunk.

Honestly how would you prosecute a gorilla and a ferret anyhow, plus who escapes in a ’93 Protégé?  I doubt the cops would have assumed that one…I sure as hell wouldn’t have!

In conclusion, Mopey made it back to Spokane in one piece.  He dropped Malicious off at Brad’s (they share a special bond, and since Celeste and I have moved out they’ve grown quite close.  Texting and whatnot), crashed my Protégé (fuckin’ A…again!)  at the corner, and passed out in the liquor fridge clutching his now bloodied script and a bottle of Bacardi.  I hope to God Hanz doesn’t try to clone David Duchovny now…at the very least he’ll probably try and sell David Duchovny’s DNA on eBay or something stupid.

The Protegé after he crashed it...

Back to the Past, Part II


Not quite as dirty as Pigpen, but damn would he give Charlie a run for his football.  I’d love to fuckin’ Spin this City half past two just to see two men run around lookin’ for the other half.  Speaking of a hard twist I just knocked the “A” outta that Honda bitch and now it’s hung up by a cord.  Still lookin’ better than my Protégé, but that sad bastard got cubed.  Couldn’t afford to raise it the forth, but boy did I try.  Like a bat outta hell I hit that brake like a pair of cubes hittin’ an avenged glass of Bacardi.  Once the sun fell behind those mountains that Friday the liquid courage was repurposed, rebuilt for a proverbial mind fuck.  To forget Sarah Marshall?  Nah, to forget the days’ events.  Who wants to remember, who wants to forget?

Here’s the quick:  those that know nothing…like a group of tea partyers?  To drunk, strung out, and hypocritical to realize that they’re a staggerin’ mob of stupidity all amassed to show the world that Americans are dumbasses.  They’re like a rave gone awry.  A 12-grain not worth the dollar bill used to harvest that crop.  New Zealand is looking more and more promising, but who the fuck wants to voyage to a land filled with Hobbits?  Pete better come out of that Warehouse soon because whose gonna save us now, Sully?  That blue monster sure looks like a certain cookie muncher to me, but who am I to judge?  Oh, wait like most other Americans I’ll take a moment to conserve intelligence and judge that muncher like they do.   Those that enjoy the drapes that match the carpet don’t clean just like a crazed Sheen because truthfully who wants to steam clean that bitch? Certainly not Bert, and certainly not Ernie, because when those two elope all New Yorkers will stand and shout.  That might get the stain out, but Johnson & Johnson might have a Danon Fit.

What’s that old saying?  When life hands you lemons, make lemonade?  Fuck that.  Hand ‘em back ask for limes…better yet squirt that shit in life’s eye, mug ‘em for oranges and make a screwdriver because if you don’t you’re going to get nailed.  Back to the gays…Michael J. Fox better chase that Delorean because once we hit the past we’re going to wish we went Back to the Future.

 

Life Hands You Limes...Wear 'Em