FYI, SNEERING LADY WHO WANTS TO DO HERRUN IN VERDI, NV: In September, when I was on the 9 San Bruno coming back from Zuckerberg General, I gave a guy a $5 smear of black tar I had brought with me from Colusa County - some horse that had accidentally gotten in a delivery of hash (he had been in town for only three months, knew nobody, and had just missed the methadone clinic, which is at 995 Potrero and closes at 2:30 PM [ed. 1430 PDT] on weekdays.) But I don't cotton to certain old-school (really, Walden House knows wherefrom I write) junky behavior, and have unfriended people on fb for it - people who have been close family acquaintances.
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福
...Wishing all my readers well this day...
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The Way family has donated our bag of candy to this year's TRUNK OR TREAT at the town hall... Looking forward to getting scammed by kids for free prizes!
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If you're feeling generous, click through on ads, and/or check out my Gofundme.com, Venmo.com and PayPal.me links on the right!
The loss of Puerto Rican crops this year is a harsh reminder of a history lesson I remember from going to school in Japan: Rice *is* LIFE! Do please find your favorite Puerto Rico relief effort, and donate what you can! (I know this might distract from my own personal blegs, as not only do I have the Way family's housing issues to consider - my own part in them - I am currently broke and wouldn't mind a little sum'n-sum'n ticked my way on Venmo.com to user William-Way-5. But this first paragraph's for the people put out this hurricane season....)
こめ - "ko-meh" - 米rice
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Note to Mrs. Chris Isaak of the Outer Sunset (Bai Ling, or 白靈): On-trend on the W. Coast FOR HER include silk, skinny denim, light statement jackets, nautical themes, athletica, (for our people) leatherette accessories, and bold patterns.
Dressing the Mister? Slim button-ups (short-sleeve and with a factotum tie is tres happening), light statement jackets (maybe denim or a varsity starter for a young look), dark slim denim (my Han-Yi brand jeans pictured below give you an idea of hue, but I'm 40-somethingay and go for skinny rather than slim), again with the bold patterns, early 2000s dot-com era backpacks and shoulder bags, and again with the nautical themes (keep those docksiders!) All advice courtesy of the bold young men and women who sacrifice so much for their country... AT CROSSROADS TRADING CO., OF COURSE!
Hot Fashion! You are fashion and style!
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(@ #USMC #Mikey): It's been a while since I sent first a letter, then a postcard, to the good people at Quantico; I've heard neither from them (which I would have), nor from you, young Mikey - you should know multiple ways of contacting me by now... But it doesn't mean of course what I'm supposed to think it means; some people really are stupid in their malice - it's a good thing you enlisted and saved their lives thereby. Without both your risk-taking and especially my own, truly volunteered, life-long civilian help, they would have drowned in the fucking rain by now, they're so damn dumb...
But enough about poisonous people and the shit they do to us... I long to live with you, and you can do my pedicures, and I'll squeeze the blackheads on your back; I'll cook good food, and you and your boys can watch those stupid movies and play video games... I want us to run away together to Alameda, or San Diego...
...Or have you taken your papers and walked? I still and will always want you... Find me, and let's work it out!
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I would love for the situation centered around ALL-TOO-CLOSE-IN-PROXIMITY neighbors to be cute as some rom-com starring Johnny Depp and Mary Stuart Masterson, but it's not. These folks are, like, totally "Yikes! Zoinks! Jinkies!" Heebie-jeebies all around, with really offensive hijinks to boot. (Eso es lo que pasa: I'm talking about the brujo and his sneering, heroin-chic, heather leather-and-woodchips, walking-dead wife.)
EMPHATICALLY DISLIKE. Oomph in the emphasis. (Okay, I like the man personally, but I find him untrustworthy and prone to suspect behavior; as for her, my heathenness comes out, and I find myself terribly averse to the living dead - SHE'S A FRICKIN' CORPSE ALREADY! NOT COOL TO HAVE AROUND, AS I AM TRYING TO ENJOY A REAL LIFE HERE, GET MARRIED AND AM ENTITLED! I AM MALE BRIDEZILLA IN THIS!)
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In fourth grade, at the long-demolished-IIRC-due-to-redistricting Woodrow Wilson Elementary in Richmond, California, there was a little blonde girl, Summer. One fine fall day, a bunch of us boys banded together to bully her white-trash ass: we stole a teardrop-shaped, amber-colored hard plastic bauble from her, then kicked it around the asphalt playground - in the process, scratching it up horribly. She cried, and I think it was Sheldon, or Hunter, or I (or maybe even a teacher, or one of the indomidable girl trio of Christina - unlikely - or Leah or Katie... Anyway...) who prevailed upon the rest to go to her and individually apologize once we learned that her dad had made the pretty, precious thing FOR HER EXPRESSLY while incarcerated.
Only today do I realize he had crafted her, at great risk to his few liberties and privileges, a blade; he gifted it to his little girl (perhaps by proxy, through the mom or other family) to use it as a weapon should some sonofabitch mess with her (we are talking '84 or '85.)
But of course, all she knew was that it was something beautiful her jailbird dad had created for his baby girl - she did not at all immediately see in it something to ARM herself in some - heaven forfend - MERCENARY fashion. Nor did I, for that matter, until this very writing today, and I've always loved blades and cutting edges [FULL DISCLOSURE: I was raised by a former sailor who was a staunch Second Amendment Dad.]
My point is, it just goes to show you about certain "evil voices" - voices I've perceived and the source of which, communicated with - and the occasional philosophy behind them: that poor character comes from impoverished stock.
Original painting from 2012 or '13 (BY YOURS TRULY); acrylic, gold leaf, and rhinestones on birch board - probably destroyed by Tenderloin Neighborhood Development Corporation during my criminal displacement by Donald Falk, Nicole Grays, et alia after October 2014 - called "junk" or "trash" by Nicole, in point of fact....
....Not to mention, a lesser lotus on white paper (the characters reading, "Respect for those who came before; compassion for those who come after"):
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"From the deepest, darkest mud grows the most beautiful lotus."
I am not pirate Jenny, nor am I yet proven good enough to be a Marine Corporal's wife...
I am not a cactus, but I have been likened to one by medical professionals...
I am not Peruvian nor am I Bangladeshi, but I am not a rag purveyor (btw, my genius falls short: men and women have put their lives and deaths into these garments, which are years old, and are stained BAR besides -- how do I honor them? Please advise...)
I am not a Swedish fag/wag...
(Thank god I am not dead kamakiri-san, or the future heroin addict this abysmal thing resembles...)
I pretty much called it at 5:30 AM this morning, though clearly I have no business doing so... At 40 years old, no less! I should be doing better in many aspects of life...
I live in an area populated by people who need painkillers or who (seldom, I'm sure) use heroin. These are, according to Redding first responders on the news, approximately $80 per dose IIRC. I myself am listed as having had Narcan training with the City and County of San Francisco, and can procure a box of them at least once a year...
They are Carpuject cartridges, injectible (similar to the EpiPen.) If an opiate user has darkened in color, and has become non-responsive, one of these can be used to save his or her life. (Bear in mind, of course, that the person to whom it is administered comes out of it in withdrawal -- not terribly pleasant!) Anyway, I'm offering these for free to anybody who contacts me for one (mum's the word -- your business is your own.) I'll try to always carry at least one on me when I'm out and about... Feel free to approach me and talk to me about them...
I like how this petition's authors hope to gin up opposition to the opening of a homeless shelter by mentioning that it's to be in a "residential neighborhood" (virtually every neighborhood is -- except maybe most of the financial district) with "3 schools nearby," as though homelessness and children are mutually exclusive phenomena (and don't we love the dark implications inherent in the mention of homeless people and hoodlums in close enough proximity to each other?)
(Besides, the whole point of parents' raising their kids in the Mission is so that they can freak the fuck out when the fruit of their loins aren't home by the time BART closes; a body can still procure a decent brick of black tar for $5 a mere 10 blocks away if ever there's a real need for a fix; and the Eula's right up 16th, with suspicious staff hiding behind cages, and hardcore pornography playing in every bedbug-ridden room... Vive la difference!)
[ED NOTE: The Eula may no longer be in business, FYI...]
Original photography/artwork by William Way -- but loosey, goosey: feel free to snatch and pass around all you want; wouldn't mind credit if you can, tho'...
I know I risk sounding like some Cebu Sally on her bomb-bearing moped, but...
Dear Philippines: I have this hunch -- yes, just a hunch -- that instituting pogrom against people who use drugs (and let's face it: isn't it always just against 'certain' people who use drugs? But I digress...) is not going to turn out well for anybody. Moreover, the least you could have done was run this policy proposal by, say, any archbishop. Or fuck, even a nun...
(Also, could somebody please remind Duterte that Hitler was one of the most massive tweakers in history, slamming five times a day. And in point of fact, his evil life did end due to Allies bombing his bunker -- no, smart-asses, not because his high was too good...)
Any enterprising, vicious attorney out there who might think of styling himself or herself the antonym of San Francisco's Jonathan Bornstein? Now that things are getting more straightened out in my life, I'm looking back and seeing the need for a sort of reckoning on my behalf. Not just getting that eviction off of my record to ease my way into new housing when my name gets drawn in the next few months, but I'm talking a possible palms-up, full-on litigious retaliation: harassment, discrimination, defamation of character, emotional damages, theft, assault, and wrongful eviction for starters... Really looking into TNDC's horrible behavior towards me, especially during my last year at the Alexander. Justice! (E-mail william.robert.way@gmail.com if you've got a good lead...)
"Okay girl? I mean, I had no choice but to stop partying when every fucking time I was on one, the hills had eyes, and those eyes were wearing liquid eyeliner. And on top of that, they were gloating because I couldn't get any..."
He throws his jacket and laptop bag on the couch. "You pick up that teen? I need to get high."
"You know it. Stuff's in the stash next to the hash. Bubble's on the coffee table. It's a bit floral, but not bug-spray."
He casually fidgets through his pockets for a pick. She always prefers butane, but he's convinced a Bic wielded correctly makes the dope last longer.
"What's it like? Dick-in-the-dirt? We gonna be fucking for hours?"
"Maybe for a bit. Kind of a Harriet the Spy high, for me. Try it. You might want to do some blogging on media analysis, or let off some indignant steam for the way they're always doing that sweet gay kid over in California..."
How convoluted, how Rube Goldbergian, how matrix-like. Rather, what about a string of convictions? That sounds so much prettier, like a string of pearls -- a lovely, pearl necklace. Aw.
Great news, everybody: I will no longer be reprising my lead in Miss Tina Productions' FIELD OF SCREAMS ([STAGY, PSYCHOSIS-LIKE VOICEOVER WHISPER]: "If you shoot him, they will come...")
"I believe that the moment is near when by a procedure of active paranoiac thought, it will be possible to systematize confusion and contribute to the total discrediting of the world of reality." -Salvador Dalí
My latest foray into exploring program while partying (and therefore mixing business with pleasure) was reminiscent of Britt Ekland in WICKER MAN, flopping against the wall naked in some sort of sexy, sinister pagan rite. Still no luck getting to those gunman on the other side, though. Maybe I was too obviously manipulative...
I come from a tradition, the rules of which include: hydrate or die, sleep is not the enemy, eat or else, you can always add to but never take away from, they can't really hurt you, and pull it together when others are falling out. Over the last few decades, I've done pretty well at observing said rules, and they've saved my life and my sanity. Still, my origins mean I've had occasional run-ins I've thought are too bad with those (particularly medical professionals and cops) whose rules include catch, hold and release; partition (fences make good neighbors); and never let on that you hear voices. An unfortunate friction, and a gap I've always wished I could bridge... Ah, tristesse!
P.S. I admit I've always felt a bit of resentment that neither the DEA, SFPD's vice division, nor other authorities inclined towards shitty, immature behavior ever created false profiles for yours truly on methy hook-up sites for the sake of defamation. I really could have used a little edge to my goody two-shoes reputation. Where's the love, guys?
P.P.S. I never did figure out the point of all those pocket lasers and wide-angle, telescopic shots. Why are you waiting for me to be ready for my close-up?
P.P.P.S. I never did follow up on precisely what emerged when Frankie and company worked me over in order to open the gates of hell a few years back. Let's hope it was nothing more than an exhausted Virgil towing Dante and Beatrix to an ice cream shop downtown.
P.P.P.S. Hey Naomi, sorry about the ROSEMARY'S BABY joke. One shouldn't make that reference to pregnant tweakers.
P.P.P.P.S. Overall, I've got to say my verdict at this point is, "Awful program, Frankie: nobody likes to look at splatter."
After years of wondering why anyone would be angry at me for getting high on meth, I just realized how remiss I had been: I was supposed to go out and meet my aspiring tormentors while wearing sackcloth and a beatific look on my face. I completely failed them and myself, and I'm so ashamed. Not only were they angry, they were probably also terribly sad and crestfallen. I wonder if I can ever make it up to them...
It's really true what they say -- drugs will ruin your life. They certainly put a kink or two in my planned martyrdom. Sorry Opus Dei! I'll do what I can to make amends...
I would create a Tinder profile, but it seems my job title, "Apparent Victim With A Twist" isn't "hot," and won't get me laid.
(Of course, it's still better than the poorly paid -- except in awkward sex, regrettable drugs, showily patriotic lip service, and hollow thanks -- position of "Ex-Marine," right guys?)
Thank you, SFGate, for another display of journalistic ineptitude, the contents of which give me every reason to be appalled at humanity and the myriad ways it can fail itself...
The sentence: Spiritual death by humiliation and degradation.
(Ironically, it wasn't exactly a speedy trial.)
(Also, was I supposed to keep quiet because everyone else involved was ashamed of their behavior? That is asking a bit much...)
So anyway, I'm wondering if it wouldn't have been better had my sheepish, inarticulate, and only tentatively righteously indignant accusers just put a dunce cap on my head, placed me naked and backwards on the back of a donkey, herded me past distracted and baffled onlookers down Eddy Street, until I reached where today's American iteration of Savonarola and the weepers whined at me for a few hours about my culpability regarding their disgusting sins. It definitely would have driven the point, if there was any, home.
And then I could go back to being a scheming, gold-digging hussy on the make for her next unintelligent psychopathic victim.
