 
# _I Become A Non-Plot_

### The Fray Space Team Electra Tool

#### by Anonymous

AutioPublishing.com

2012-5-1

Copyright (C) 2012 Autio Publishing

##### ISBN: 978-1-61979-148-0

##### All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems and mimeographs, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

##### This novel is a work of non-fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously but not a product of the author's imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is in its entirety.

####### _Special Thanks to Sarah K_

## Contents

  * Chapter 1
  * Chapter 2
  * Chapter 3
  * Chapter 4
  * Chapter 5
  * Chapter 6
  * Chapter 7
  * Chapter 8
  * Chapter 9
  * Chapter 10
  * Chapter 11
  * Chapter 12
  * Chapter 13

## Chapter 1

**H** ere I sit awaiting a psychological evaluation in order to be released from Yavapai County Jail.  Not of my own recognizance, but into 3 years of probation.  I hope I can cut the mental mustard.  I know I'm sane, especially compared to those incarcerated with me, but I'm not so certain the evaluator will see it my way.  Do I deserve this?  No.  Did I ask for it?  Yes.  It is clear to me that I don't fit in here, and I think the other inmates sense it as well, like fresh meat to a predator.  Not in the sexual sense, as that's pretty rare around here.  I can see how I might appear easy to bully.  Regardless, I'm not intimidated even slightly by anyone, guards included.

Every day they bring us toilet paper, yet my cellmates insist upon hoarding it by pulling out the cardboard core as evidence of their need for more, and then hiding the remaining paper like it's some hot commodity.  It's considered contraband to have more than one roll, but everyone keeps extra as if one day the toilet paper will stop coming and they'll have to use their fingers to wipe their ass.  This hustler mentality is exemplified here as they trade any little thing they can get their hands on, like extra food from new inmates who are detoxifying from whatever drug they were hooked on and can't eat, for a candy bar bought from the commissary store or drugs smuggled in through somebody's butt.

I don't know if it's just coincidental, but everybody in my pod is addicted to some chemical substance.  I guess I'm in the drug pod even though the _felony_ marijuana paraphernalia charge is my secondary.  A lot of them were using methamphetamine, which is truly one of the most disgusting drugs ever created.  The rest were popping pills or alcoholic.  Not I of course, though I do struggle with addiction to marijuana.  What a lame thing to be addicted to, right?

When I talk to the other inmates it becomes clear their stories and backgrounds are horrifying compared to mine, and that's just the parts they are willing to share.  Like most everyone else on the planet, I'm sure they have secrets they keep locked down that are just too saddening to confront.  I feel a sense of compassion for these lost souls led astray by their desires, but I do not pity them.  They are where they belong, but shouldn't be blamed for the atrocious environment in which they subsisted that likely exacerbated their arrival here.

I heard some old guy exclaim, "God, please take me to prison!  I don't want to be in jail anymore!"  I made the mistake of asking him what exactly he meant by that.  He began to rattle off for over 20 minutes, Bubba Gump style, all the foods prison had to offer, and then launched into a diatribe contrasting prison life with jail for another 30.  Things like having tobacco products, a much wider variety of snacks that were cheaper, and the ability to get 40 cents an hour sorting laundry offered little consolation in my mind, but I've heard the same reprise from everyone here who has already been sentenced to a stint in the Department of Corrections.

The fact of the matter is that it is mentally harder in county jail.  Well, I guess that's not true because prison is where rape, riots, and murders are much more likely.  I'd be worried about that.  But county jail is a different kind of difficult where nobody knows what the judicial system has planned for them, or they're stuck in limbo waiting for an open cell in an overcrowded prison system.  We're so cooped-up in here, indoors all the time save an hour or two of recreation outside per week, weather permitting.  There is a certain camaraderie between us, but it only shows while we wish well those who get out.

I've yet to see any kind of assault; the people generally get along, forgetting temporarily their prejudices from the outside world.  There are actually a lot of verbal confrontations, now that I think about it, but everybody just lets it blow over instead of trying to settle anything.  We are all damaged goods in one way or another, and I don't seek to separate myself from the lot.  I merely feel my flaws pale in comparison.

So why am I here?  I'm afraid you will have to read many more pages before that will be revealed.  For now, all you need to know is that I'm in here writing this book, and I have 25 days until my release.  That is, of course, if I'm sane in the eyes of the law.  I hope to finish writing by then.  It may not be that great of a book, so sorry about that.  I get very little sleep in my cold cell bunk, and my emotional state is on the downtrodden side.  But at least I'll have time to finish it in here.  On the outside I was a terminal procrastinator, or as some might call it, "Amotivational Syndrome."  Whatever the case, I've got nothing better to do right now.

This should be a labor of love, but the story contained herein is downright sad.

## Chapter 2

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**I** actually wrote the following detail of my family history before I ended up in jail, just before Christmas of 2010.  I had only gotten a few pages down before I spoke with my mom and dad on the phone.  I was merely trying to get a couple names I couldn't remember.  In talking about our family history, they both provided information that conflicts with what they've told me in the past.  This is not out of the ordinary for them.

I'm truly disappointed in the fact that I'll never be sure what my actual family histories are, specifically relating to my grandfathers.  Have I been lied to?  Yes, most certainly.  Are my parents forgetting, or even worse, creating alternate versions of reality in their mind?  Double yes.  Thus, what I end up with is pieced together through my research, and what little information I've gleaned through personal experiences and those of family members.  The main goal of this book to achieve absolute certainty regarding the actual events that took place, but alas, I was not present prior to birth so I can't be held responsible for any factual inaccuracies during this time frame.

As it stands, what you are presented is how I remember my family history, and vague as it may be it's what I know to be true.  Family was rarely mentioned by either of my parents, or any of my family members for that matter, but I've been given enough nuggets of truth over time to have the general idea now, probably more so than most of my kin.  The stories are mind-wrenchingly horrible, yet compelling enough that they must be told.

My great-grandmother Vadnis is the furthest back in my genealogy I can remember having met.  Since I was a small child she lived in a nursing home and suffered greatly from Alzheimer's.  The few times that I spoke with her, she would refer to me as Jimmy, my uncle, pulling from her vestigial memory of a better time.  I had no relationship with this person whatsoever, and her life and death remain a total mystery to me.

One of her daughters, Loretta, married my grandfather, Ernest, whom I am named after.  We never met because he died when my mother was 17.  He had a twin brother named Toivo.  Their parents emigrated from Evijarvi, Finland in 1902, and Ernest and Toivo were born in 1912.  I can't tell you much about Ernest on a personal level, though I'm sure I've been told and fail to recall.  My mother claims he was funny and handsome, but I've seen sketches and photos that appear to tell a different story.  Sadly, he looks a bit like me.

Ernest and Toivo were both heavy drinkers, and this is probably what led to Ernest's divorce with my grandmother, Loretta.

This is all that I knew about good old Ernie until I was about eight, when it was decided that what was left of his belongings would be separated equally between my mother and her two older sisters.  I don't know why I was included in this endeavor being so young, and also considering I had never met him.  I really didn't even know where, or even what they were planning to do until we got there.

After her divorce, Loretta married one James Mitchell.  This is who I always knew as Grandpa Mitch.  He moved into the farm-house on West Sunset Lake Road that now belonged to Loretta, and Ernest had already moved across the street to live on his brother's adjoining farm.  Twenty-some years after his death, we were finally going to go through his belongings which remained as he left them the day he died.

The four of us drove to Iron River, Michigan, and when I realized where we were, I was surprised by the close proximity to the Mitchell's house only because I thought, "Isn't the point of divorcing to get away from the person?  And why hasn't anybody ever mentioned this was here, just down the road for all these years?"

It was nearly mid-summer and the wild grasses had reached colossal heights, so I found it difficult to see the building as we worked our way toward some trees I could see above the horizon.  When we finally made it over the crest of the hill, what stood before me was the most pathetic little shack I've ever seen in my life.  Emotions were running strong as we stepped closer, especially within my aunts.  Barbara had a meltdown, screaming at the shack as we stood next to it.  My other aunt, Charlotte, consoled her for a moment and then came to me and said, "I'm sorry.  You shouldn't be here right now.  Barb is ok, don't worry."

There were no windows, merely square holes in the wall that probably had a screen at one time.  The building itself was barely eight by ten feet, and very few personal affects were visible.  I can only remember a few plates, silverware, a straight razor, and some empty bottles.  There was a bit of squabbling as to who would get what, but everyone worked it out right there in the shed.

Later in life, I asked my mother what exactly the circumstances were behind Ernest's death.  I was told that he was found buried in a snow-bank near the side of the road with head trauma.  When I asked her what the police thought might have happened, she said they never found conclusive evidence of anything, and it remained a mystery.  I guess they assumed he hit his head and froze to death.  To add to the puzzle, Toivo died just over a month later.  It seems as though he had begun drinking for two.  Toivo's gravestone reads "Private, U.S. Army, WWII."

The only story I remember my mother telling me about her father was on his birthday when she was about 9.  She told me she had painstakingly baked a cake for him and was carrying it as she walked the dirt road to his shack.  In her jubilance, she tripped and dropped the cake on the ground, top down.  When she showed up crying with a dirty cake, he was very understanding.  He scraped the dirt encrusted frosting off and ate some.

After asking my mom how he passed, I pretty much forgot about Ernest for almost a decade, but had what I can best describe as a flashback when I first saw the movie Forrest Gump.

With information gleaned over time through various sources, I have come to realize the true nature of Ernest's demise and the circumstances hitherto.  It is purported that Ernest had been abusing his daughters, though my mother insists it never occurred, at least with her.  I can see in her eyes that she's lying to herself.  Not to say I'm certain she was abused, but I am certain she is repressing some memories.  It was with these meager details that I basically guessed who the most likely suspect would be, and was later able to ascertain the true cause of Ernest's death.

My grandfather on my father's side, Wallace, died when my dad was only 15.  He was a horseback police officer in Chicago, and then in Detroit.  He and my grandmother, Anna, also raised Arabian horses and kenneled dogs on their land in Mt. Clemens.  I know that he was a strict disciplinarian, and physically aggressive to an extent which, at the time, might have been considered acceptable, but now would be considered abuse.

My father told me so very little about him, but once mentioned a guy who had shot Wallace in the chest several times with a .22, yet he was still somehow able to give chase and apprehend the shooter.  His ribcage stopped the bullets, and by apprehend I mean 'shoot dead.'

I was also told he was somehow involved with the team that arrested the Purple Gang, and finally he was on duty during the race riots of Detroit in '69.  Though he did not die in the streets, it was amongst the violent throng of protestors that he met his demise.

While on horseback, he was struck by a large glass bottle, but somehow was able to ride to safety.  Perhaps he was aided by fellow officers.  His injuries were serious, but it's likely he would have recovered had it not been for one hospital staff member's overzealous defiance of society's inequality.  Wallace died slowly in a hospital bed, the victim of a singular, silent protestor.

One of the black hospital staff that treated him purposely infected almost every police officer that was brought to that hospital with a debilitating virus, or bacteria of some kind.  I don't know if anyone else died from it.  Criminal charges were pressed against her, and the hospital was sued.  Anna won on both accounts.  She chose not to maintain the home's large property, so it was sold and rarely mentioned.

No matter what conclusion you might derive from this particular story, as well as the events leading to and including the race riots of '69, what killed my grandfather is undoubtedly society's indifference toward the systematic oppression of poor minorities throughout the world.  Whether or not a particular race or creed will be oppressed seems to be based solely on their collective monetary value.  On the exact opposite of the spectrum, if a minority has exceeding wealth they can often command the will of the majority through extortion.

My dad describes his time after his father's passing as feeling deeply troubled, and admits he was running with the wrong crowd.  He told me he modified a toy cap gun to shoot a .22 round, and would bring it to school with him frequently.  He had his first child, Beverly, while still in high school with a classmate whose name I can't remember, though I did meet her once when I was very young.  They were married, and moved to Chicago for a job offer my Dad received after graduating high school.  They also had a son named Dean a couple of years later.

During this time, my dad's brother, Jack, who had been in the Navy during World War II, was working his way through the ranks as a police officer.  Their oldest brother Vern was stationed in Korea working with the K-9 unit.  Jack eventually became chief of police, and then Public Safety Director for Grosse Pointe Farms in Michigan, like the John Cusack film.

The one story I remember about Vern was from his training for the K-9 unit.  Someone once told me that he had to raise and train a dog from weaning to one year old, and then kill it to show that he understood the value of human life over an animal's, or for some other purpose that is lost unto me.  Maybe there was something wrong with his particular dog, like it couldn't stand the smell of bombs or something.  Is any of that true?  Did they really do that, anyone?

Vern had a different father, and I know absolutely nothing of him other than that he became a veterinarian after the war, raised show chickens, and was likely homosexual.  I only came to realize he wasn't my dad's full blood brother during a high school genetics assignment where we mapped the eye colors of our family members.

I argued with my teacher, "What about genetic mutation?  Couldn't that account for any possible deviance from what we know about DNA?"

My dad's first marriage eventually failed, so after the divorce he moved back to Michigan to start taking college classes and began working at Ford as a color-matcher for vinyl interior products.

My mother stayed in her home town, Iron River, Michigan, until she was 17.  Her sister, Barbara, had moved to New York City upon graduation from high school, and my mother followed suit.  She began to date a stockbroker on Wall Street, but ended up moving back to Michigan with Barbara after Ernest died.

Her other sister, Charlotte, was the switchboard operator for the Romeo Police Department, and had married Joe, who was then the Romeo Chief of Police.  All three sisters moved near Romeo, and my Mom was hired by Ford for a secretarial position at the color-matching plant where my dad worked.  Barbara married Buddy from New York, and he also worked for Ford.

My mother says that my dad 'courted her spiritedly.'  After all, he was 13 years her senior and a divorcee with kids.  They got married, and I was born in '79 to much fanfare.  I had a couple defects though.  First, they needed to cut the little thing that holds your tongue to the bottom of your mouth, the frenulum, because my tongue was held down too tight.  You'd think I'd now be able to pull some sick Gene Simmons moves, but no such luck.  And, grossly, I had a varicose seal in my left testicle.  My parents were given the option of surgically fixing it, but there was an infinitesimal possibility that I might become infertile, so my mother insisted that the surgery not be performed.  My dad would have preferred I get it done, but I guess I'm happy they didn't because I would rather a misshapen ball over a non-functioning unit.  Plus, it would have just gotten fucked up again anyhow.

Four years later my parent's divorce was final.  They fought constantly, and my mother swears she suffered spousal abuse.

My mom and I moved to Kingsford, Michigan to live with my grandmother.  When my mother was out working or looking for a job one day, I woke up from a nap and walked in on my grandmother and Mitch having sex on their bed.  I didn't realize what they were doing at the time, but I knew there was something fishy based on their reactions.  She told me, "He was just rubbing my back."

It wasn't until I was much older that I realized what they were doing.  Some people might be emotionally scarred by something like this, but I'm unaffected by it.  I find it funny, and it can't hold a candle to some of the things I've seen.

Loretta eventually died of cancer that spread to her lymph nodes, from what I think was her pancreas, but only after many years of fighting it with every possible treatment.  Mitch worked for the government inspecting potatoes after the war and had fantastic insurance.  This gave her opportunities for new treatments as they became available.  But in the end the cancer won.

Anna died in a period of a day or two in a hospital bed.  I don't remember what actual affliction took her, but I was in the hospital while it was happening.  My dad offered to let me come see her in her final moments, but I decided I'd rather my last memories of her be of the healthy, loving person she was, not the morbid zombie that laid in her hospital bed.  I remember thinking how sadly ironic it was to be sitting in the waiting area and reading the Sunday comics while my grandmother was dying in a room down the hall.

So that's a brief introduction to my family history.  I'm sure I've left out all the good stuff, but there's nothing I can remember that's really that good anyhow.

## Chapter 3

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**D** uring my early childhood, my parents fought about everything down to the finest detail, and from the sound of it the majority of the bickering was regarding me and how I should be raised.  After the divorce, they said, "It's not because of you.  It has nothing to do with you."

I didn't feel responsible in the least, but started to wonder if maybe I was partially to blame after everyone kept trying to reiterate how it wasn't my fault.  It took years to work that out of my system, and by the time I'd removed any personal blame, I matured enough to realize that by circumstance alone, children of divorces often play a role in the reasoning behind getting a divorce.  Technically they were right though, you could have replaced me with any other kid on the planet and the results would have been the same.

I don't remember much of my early life, so my chronology might be out of whack.  I do remember lying on my blanket in the hallway waiting for my parents to wake up every morning.  If Dad had to work that day, he would kiss me and put me back in my bed.

I have 8mm videos from this era, but I can't even remember being there.  The main thing that blocked my memory and shaped my future to come for the worse was so traumatic I repressed it until I was 18.  Now it is the only event from my early childhood that I remember in all its graphic detail.  Pretty much everything else is lost unto me but a toy music box that I still possess.

Not too long before the divorce, I was babysat by my uncle, who is also my godfather.  He and my aunt had 2 sons and one daughter.  I was about three and a half years old, almost the same age as their youngest.  The other two were a couple years older.  The boys and I were naked in the living room in a kiddie pool because it was so hot in the house.

They convinced me to put my mouth on their penises.  I don't know if it was just to experiment as little kids often do, or if it was due to some abuse they had suffered or seen and reflected back onto me.  I did it, to much laughter by everyone; we all thought it was pretty funny.  My uncle walked in, saw us, and was instantly enraged, screaming "So you want to be a faggot, huh?"

I had no idea what I had done wrong, but I knew I was in trouble, and terrified.  He went out of the room for a moment and my female cousin said to me, "Watch out for him, he's really mean."  He came back and put me in his boys' room, then closed the blinds.  I waited, wondering why he was so angry, and now also frightened to be alone.  My uncle entered the room with something covering his face.  I remember thinking, "Why is he hiding his face?  I know who that is."  I smelled alcohol on his breath, but I didn't know what it was.

He picked me up and put me face first into a dresser drawer, closing it partway with my naked backside hanging out, and proceeded to rape me anally.  I remember feeling debilitating pain for an instant, and then nothing.  I blacked out.

I awoke in my own bed, with both of my parents hovering above me looking concerned.  I had slept for almost 17 hours, and they were extremely worried.  My dad insisted something unnatural had happened, and they both implored me to tell them what was wrong.  I may have been threatened by my uncle, either before or after he raped me, that if I told anyone he would kill my parents.  I don't remember exactly, but I knew there was a reason I was scared to tell them.  So I remained silent out of fear.  I couldn't communicate as well as I understood yet, and wondered how to say the words even if I wanted to.

My dad continued to beg and plead with me, because I think deep down he knew what had happened.  After a while, he even went as far as to bring me back to their house to confront my uncle, and I remember being so scared I began to sweat profusely, just as I had during my rape.  I had never sweat before that, and I don't think children that young normally do.

My Father screamed at my uncle, "Look at him, he's sweating like a pig," amongst other things I no longer recall.  My uncle swore nothing had happened, and my parents just gave up.  Eventually I just forgot it happened altogether, which I hear is a common occurrence as a coping mechanism amongst abuse victims.  In the continuing years, my dad would ask me if anyone had ever abused me sexually or otherwise, asking about family and my mother's boyfriends, and finally about my stepfather, Simon.  I didn't understand why he kept asking me these things.  I had blocked out the entire ordeal.

It was shortly after this when my parents began the bitter court battle that was their divorce, and my mother and I moved to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to live with her mom.

My mom got full custody due to the allegations of verbal abuse by my Dad against her.  I can't answer to that, and I wonder how bad it was since I was never told the specifics and don't remember seeing it.  All I know is that he had a violent temper and yelled a lot.  I could hear them arguing as I lay in bed at night.

My mom said I cried for days wanting to see my dad.  Since he had never wronged anyone in my eyes, I still loved him and missed him very much.  My dad paid heftily for lawyers to appeal the decision of full custody for my mom, and it was a couple of years before I actually saw him again.

My mother moved into a low income housing apartment, surviving almost solely on child support payments from my dad, and supplanting her income inconsistently with part time jobs.  She also enrolled in community college to get a Bachelor's degree in something for computers, with which she had no skill or prowess.

When my dad finally won the right to visitation, he drove 10 hours from Washington, Michigan, to Kingsford, Michigan, just for a hug and a few moments of my time.  When I saw him I was in shock.  I'd spoken to him on the phone several times but hadn't seen him in person for quite a while, and his appearance came unannounced.  I guess I was out there with him for a while because my mom came looking for me.  They had words, and judging by their tone of voice it was an exchange of some snide comments.  My dad kissed me goodbye, and then he drove right back home.  He eventually got partial custody, and I would fly into Detroit on holidays and during the summer.

The weather in the Great Lakes region is not exactly great most of the time.  I had several scares on turbo-prop airplanes and jets, like loss of cabin pressure and turbulence so abrupt that I hit my head on the ceiling.  From a really young age I realized the absurdity of having a floatation device and not a parachute on an airplane, and I still cannot fathom the logic.  On the whole I enjoyed flying; the pilots were cool and would give me plastic wing pins, and sometimes explain the controls in the cockpit.

Once, I flew back into Green Bay for my mom to pick me up, but nobody was there when I arrived.  So I called her, my aunt, and my grandmother, but got no answer.  Turns out, she and her sister Char had driven all the way there, shopped for a while, and then drove back home thinking, "Boy, it really feels like we forgot something..."  I waited for so long that the airport almost closed with me fooling around upstairs.  The clerk at the counter was nice enough to take me to her house, where I waited for my mom to drive back to Green Bay again after getting my messages and calling us back in a frantic state.

One trip to my dad's, he took me to an NBA benefit game at the Palace in Auburn Hills.  'Weird Al' was the half-time show, and he killed it.  He hopped out onto the court with one leg behind his head and then cracked his corny jokes.

My flight back to my mom's left the next morning, and on the way to the airport I mentioned to my dad how cool it would be if 'Weird Al' was at the airport too.  I had made the connection that since the basketball game was last night, he probably would be leaving the next morning just like I was.

We always used the outdoor baggage check-in because it was faster, and as soon as we finished, my dad noticed 'Weird Al' standing maybe 20 feet from me.  We quickly walked over to him, and I told him I was a huge fan.  I sang him some parodies I had come up with, a few of which he seemed slightly amused by.  When I asked why he didn't just say ' _Might as well face it you're addicted to drugs_ ' in his remake of Robert Palmer's _Addicted To Love_ entitled _Addicted To Spuds_ , he said it wouldn't work because the theme was too obvious.

He then looked at my dad and said, "Drugs are bad!" in a ridiculous manner.

I asked for his autograph on a baggage ticket, to which he obliged.  I thanked him and we walked away towards my gate.

I stand by the irony of my parody, especially now that I realize the original song is clearly about cocaine.

My mom and dad dated other people and eventually remarried to new partners.  My step-parents are wonderful people as was every step-sibling, though my mother has since divorced once again.

In the low-income apartment building where my mother and I lived for years, there was another woman who was also recently divorced that moved into one of the downstairs units.  She had two daughters that were a few years younger than me, but even so we would still play together sometimes.

One afternoon, they came to me for help with a bully in the apartment building next door who was picking on them.  It was somebody new that we didn't know, and I was a bit scared at what I'd find when I finally met him.  To my amusement, it was just a really little kid.  The older girl practically towered over him, and I was perplexed by their feeling threatened by him in the first place.  I guess they just didn't know how to deal with the situation.

I tried reasoning with him, and encouraged him to play with us instead of attacking.  But the kid was clearly developmentally behind, and I didn't have the time or a degree in psychology to help him.  When we figured out that he was just visiting, it took me dousing his crotch with my squirt gun and making him punch himself in the face a few times to get him to finally leave everybody alone and run away crying for his mommy.  Nobody likes a bully, and I enjoyed my first taste of what I considered valiant heroism.

A few weeks later, the girls came over and played Nintendo with me while our mothers chatted.  For reasons I will never know, while I was playing Ivan Ironman Stewarts Super Off-Road Racing with the older sister, the younger one pulled my pajamas open and put my penis in her mouth.  I think I was about 9 years old, and didn't know much about sexuality.  I had blocked out my assault long ago, but what happened to me might have inspired how I reacted.  Even though I was intently focused on the game, it only took me about 2 milliseconds to realize what I was feeling was abnormal.  I immediately yelped, "What are you doing?" while pushing her away from me.  Initially, it felt as if I had lost all bladder control and was peeing my pants, but I remember thinking how _good_ it felt afterwards and quickly recanted, "Wait! That felt really weird, do it again!"

I completely ignored everything I'd been taught about people touching other people's privates and how nobody was supposed to do it.  Even though I was just a child, she was much younger, 6 years old I'd say.  Although technically she assaulted me, I failed morally and turned into the assailant by asking for it again.  And I knew what I asked was wrong when I did it.  The cycle of violence had already reared its ugly head.

Luckily she didn't, because her older sibling noticed what happened, got angry, and then pulled her sister aside and mumbled, "We're only supposed to do that with daddy."  She spoke as if she didn't want me to hear, but not whispering effectively, and then they argued quietly amongst themselves for a moment.  The whole thing was over in a matter of seconds, and afterward we continued to play video games, as if nothing happened, until it was time for them to leave.

When their mom came to my room to bring them back home, I asked if she would speak to me privately as the girls exited.  She said she was very tired and was going to bed, as were her daughters.  I adapted a very adult mentality at that moment and insisted that she speak to me right then and there.  She agreed, and sat on my bed next to me as I went about discussing the issue that I knew needed to be dealt with.  I did not want to tell her exactly what her daughter had said or done, and I especially didn't want to implicate myself, but I was willing to risk it to protect the girls.  My kid brain struggled to communicate how I knew what her ex-husband had been doing to their daughters.

I don't remember what I said that finally got her to understand, but I knew she got it when she started crying.  I think perhaps deep down she was suspicious in the first place, and I just cracked the case.  Soon afterward the girls never stayed at their dad's on the weekends anymore.  I knew I'd succeeded in protecting them, even though nothing of it was ever spoken to me by the girls or their mother.  In reality, the effect of this event was so profound to me that, even though I had helped them immensely, it felt like they helped me even more.

It felt so good to do the right thing, and much better than the wrong thing.

In school I realized I was pretty smart, which should have made it easy to succeed with minimal effort, but instead I chose to be a constant nuisance to the teachers, and made no attempt to even fake scholastic interest.  I didn't care about my grades or homework, and got detention regularly.  I was not easy to deal with for anyone, and I pretty much did as I chose.  I was totally immune to punishment of any kind.  It was when this behavior began that my mother began consulting my doctor about a diagnosis.  He was nice enough to sell her on the idea of me having Attention Deficit Disorder, which my mom instantly bought into.  It at least offered her a solution.  If I were doing the diagnosis, since I'd read my mom's Intro to Psychology textbook from college, I would have said I was a sociopath with a half-way decent set of morals and PTSD.

As many of us now know, Ritalin, which the U.S. accounts for 85% of world usage, was one of the most widely over-prescribed drugs for years.  It is used for the treatment of ADD with or without hyperactivity amongst other things.  Ritalin has also found itself a decent street trade, as it increases the activity of dopamine, and is therefore pleasurable as a form of upper to the recreational user.  I found it put me in a state of physical and mental lethargy, but only at first, as my child's body tried to understand the effects I was experiencing.  My mind quickly adapted, and I soon felt exactly the same on or off the drug.

I would still get in trouble, and the dosage would increase.  I purposely stopped taking it after about 3 years of being prescribed, without telling anyone.  Nobody noticed.  My dad was adamantly against me taking it in the first place, and actually took me to a doctor, a much better trained and more expensive specialist, who said I was perfectly normal physically and mentally, and that my behavioral issues were not related to a disorder in my brain of any kind.  Regardless, the decision was left up to my mother because she had full custody, and I didn't know any better to object.  I know now that I was far too young to be prescribed any kind of psycho-active medication.  And I also know that doctors are encouraged to dispense specific medications because they get incentives to do so.  They are blinded by money to the obvious conflict of interest.

All I had was a case of heavy apathy, and no drug was going to fix it.  For example: I got a paper route, but failed to deliver some days and didn't collect payments, so I got fired for my total lack of concern soon afterward.

I went to Catechism weekly for years but always questioned some of the logic behind the Catholic religion.  That's an understatement to be honest, I'd been an atheist in spirit without knowing what to call it for years, but affirmed my belief as I learned this term in existential literature like The Stranger by Albert Camus.  Not that I disagreed with the moral set outlined by the modern Vatican, but I realized we were talking about mythology.

I'd like to thank the school librarian during my 6th grade at Woodland Elementary for suggesting Kafka.  It opened a whole new world of thinking to me.  She only offered it because I asked her if she knew any good books by authors that didn't believe in God.  She was hesitant to suggest anything at all since she was Catholic, but caved as any true literary buff should.

But when I told my teacher at the time how much I liked it, but also disappointed that it wasn't directly related to the idea of God, she suggested I try Camus.  Talk about a life-changer.

I had been assessed to be placed in a gifted class with what turned out to be one of the most influential people in my life, the aforementioned teacher.  But even on medication, and with someone I genuinely liked, I could not behave during lessons.  I was constantly talking and trying to be the center of attention, and she responded by sending me out of the classroom and letting me pace the hallway just outside.

One day I was roaming around outside the classroom door when I heard our principal, Mr. Khouly, yelling at someone just around the corner.  I quietly poked my head around to see.  He was holding one of the special education students by the collar of his Iron Maiden jean jacket and slamming him into a locker, all the while yelling, "I told you not to be walking around out here.  Why don't you listen?"

I stepped around the corner and said, "You shouldn't do that."

He dropped the kid, pointed at me and angrily said, "You!  Come here, right now!"

I said, "Nope!" and bolted toward my classroom while he gave chase.  The door slammed open as I ran in and pleaded with my teacher, "Whatever he says don't believe him!  I didn't do anything!  Do not let him take me anywhere."

While I was yelling this, I had grabbed a large pair of scissors from her desk that she calmly convinced me to put back by promising to protect me, just before Mr. Khouly burst into the room screaming, "He needs to come with me _now_!"

She defended me vehemently without the benefit of knowing even the slightest of what had happened.  She told him it was something to be dealt with at a different time.  I could tell that just like me, she didn't really like him either.

The next day he wasn't at school in the morning, and my teacher informed me that he was coming in to apologize during a personal meeting with me.  She was going to be there with my mother, and some school officials.  I was totally uncomfortable having to see him at all, and did not want to accept his apology because I didn't think it would be real.  He had been quite rude with me from the get go, long before he decided to beat up a handicapped kid, as I was in trouble a lot and seeing him frequently.  I never got the impression he had the slightest idea what he was doing as a disciplinarian.  Apparently he was wise enough to only physically abuse kids who weren't emotionally strong enough to seek justice, as he had never tried anything physical with me, although several empty threats had been made in the past.

I was informed that he was not going to work there any longer, so then I started thinking, "Oh crap, I just got this guy fired from a good paying job, and everyone knows he's a child abuser now.  He's going to murder me and my family or something worse."  When he arrived, we were in a small conference room where the superintendent was sitting with some faculty members I didn't recognize.  Mr. Khouly sat down in his douche-bag V-neck sweater with a huge fake smile on his face.

After finishing an apology in his best nice guy routine, I informed everyone that I was uncomfortable being in his presence and felt I needed a restraining order against him to protect myself and my family.  I then stated that it was for those reasons that I did not accept his apology.  He began to try even harder, but I could see right through him.  I cut his little presentation short, and re-stated some of the vulgar threats he had made against me in the privacy of his office, none of which I can't seem to remember now, and then ended it with, "Your words, right?"  The entire room was aghast as he quickly slammed his fist against the table, and then stormed out of the room with a sullen look on his red face.  I hoped I'd never see him again.

I did though, years later at a county fair where he apologized again, this time in what appeared to be a sincere manner, and thanked me for helping him in becoming a better person.  He talked about God for a while, and I was relieved to find my initial reaction to his behavior was actually in both of our best interests.

The 6th grade was a time of many intellectual and emotional changes for me.  I had my first girlfriend, Jenny, though we only went out for a couple weeks and never even so much as kissed.  During this time I realized who I was and what I stood for, so I like to think I became self-aware.  Unfortunately, it has become apparent that I was unaware of one very important thing.

Despite my noble reactions to many situations presented to me, for the most part I still felt sociopathic, and therefore able to choose to do wrong knowingly.  My family relations were tenuous at best due to my complete and utter total lack of concern for most everything.  I was unable to form a relationship of deep meaning or trust with the backwoods hicks in my tiny town.  I could not relate to these people in any way, and during the course of a few years I degraded into a common criminal.  I was routinely shoplifting, stealing bikes, and drinking occasionally by the age of twelve.  My sole hobby was BMX street and trail riding, and I can't tell you how many cheap cranks I bent on deep drops.

My mom's new husband, Simon, was a fantastic role model for me at the time.  He was an atheist; in fact he was the only other atheist I knew.  He also possessed a good set of personal ethics and was a fair disciplinarian.  He always included me, and I respected him more than my own family during the time I lived with him.  But even with a good role model, I still swung into a declining mental state.  I couldn't believe how many things were fucked up and wrong with the world, and how mundane and irrelevant everyone's lives have become.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my mom and my dad, but I couldn't make the mental connection with them that they wanted, nor with any of my family members.

My visits with my dad were fun; it was like going on vacation for me, if only for a few weeks a year.  He had a boat so we'd often go fishing and waterskiing, and then later on we got jet skis.  Walleye is the best tasting fish around, hands down.

One visit during summer break, we were fishing somewhere near Strawberry Island in Lake St. Claire.  On our way back, we were going to cross the shipping channel and realized we were on an intercept course with a giant lake freighter.  As we got closer and closer, I stared in awe of how massive it was.  Most shipping vessels are huge, but this was one of the largest I'd ever seen.  I said, "Look at the size of the wake at the bow."

I don't remember exactly how or why we decided to cut in front of it instead of going behind, but I remember being a little concerned about the idea from the get go.  There we were, on a collision course with this gigantic ship in our 22 foot fishing boat.  When we got within 100 yards, the giant boat blew its horn several times, and I assumed they were advising us against our projected path.  I said something to this effect to my dad, but he didn't appear worried about it.

By the time we were next to the other boat, it was clear we were going to be cutting it close.  I assume my dad misjudged the speed at which the other boat was travelling due to its size.  Our boat dropped into the aforementioned bow wave, and we were stuck in it.  My dad said, "Uh-oh."

I said, "Try to swing all the way from one side to the other to get speed and make it over the lip."  He did, but our momentum stalled right at the crest.  Our boat just hovered for a moment at the top of the wave, and then slowly fell back into the vortex.  We didn't have enough power.  I noticed how close the aft had come to the tip of the freighters bow as we crossed.  I said, "Why aren't they stopping?  Blow your horn!"

I must have looked pretty frightened, and rightly so, because he looked at me with sad defeat in his eyes as he switched on our horn and said, "I don't know.  I'm sorry."  It was like he'd already given up.

I said, "Hold on, you don't have a lifejacket!"  I grabbed his from the cabin and handed it to him.  I steered while he put it on.  He looked at me as though it was a lost cause.  At that moment I knew I was in a better mental state to get us out of this.

My dad was frantic just trying to keep our boat from making contact with the massive metal hull hovering above and behind us.  It was so close I could touch it, and I did.

Prior to crossing, I had already thought of a worst-case scenario, which was in my mind a direct collision resulting in us being pulled beneath the giant ship's hull, and then clobbered to death or chopped in half by one of its giant propellers.  Now I had calculated a variety of plans for the possible outcomes.  If we started capsizing, I'd jump out.  If I got pulled under, hopefully my lifejacket would be buoyant enough to help me get to the surface, but if I was caught in a jet stream I might have to take it off and swim down and to the side.

I said, "Just keep trying to get a running start to get up and over the wave.  Try the other side, maybe it will work better."  He did, but with the same result.

He attempted this several times, and I pushed on the hull behind us to try and give us a little extra force.  My dad saw me go back there and said, "Don't do that, I don't want you to fall in."

I said, "You realize there's a good chance both of us are going overboard, right?  If this boat starts to capsize I'm jumping out.  I don't know about you, but I'm surviving this no matter what.  So just try it again!"

He adjusted the motor's trim to try to get more speed.  Again we hovered for a few seconds at the top, and I yelled, "Once you get to the top, you need to turn into the side of the other boat to get over this wave, and then turn away immediately."  We were riding the wave at just over a 90 degree angle to the freighter at the end of each ascent up the wave.

He yelled back, "We'll crash into it."

"What else are we going to do?"

He tried again, and this time I was pushing with all the strength my little body could muster.  I thought I was keeping the boat from sliding back and contacting the hull behind us, but I was losing ground slowly.

I screamed, "Our propeller is getting really close dad!  Turn into it now or go back and try again."

He said, "Oh shit!  The outboard is touching!"

In actuality, he was feeling our trolling plate attached to the outboard pressed against the boat behind us through the steering wheel.  As the boats inched closer, the angle of ours shifted slightly because we were being pushed, so I started screaming, "Turn!" repeatedly.  My dad did nothing.  I don't know if he was paralyzed with fear, or didn't trust my judgment, so I reacted instinctively.

I was still screaming for him to turn when I heard our propeller lightly scraping against something.  I stopped pushing, and the scraping sound got louder as I jumped to the front of the boat.  I grabbed the steering wheel and turned violently into the boat behind us and hit the throttle lever with my fist as hard as I could.  Part of the plastic casing around it broke, allowing the lever to be pushed just slightly farther forward and giving the engine a tiny bit more throttle.  Our boat shifted wildly as it was pushed sideways, up, and over the wave, and I fell back into the passenger seat as my dad quickly corrected our steering while we bounced off the side of the freighter.

We rejoiced in our lives for a moment, and I then said, "Stay along the side of their hull so they can't see our registration numbers."

He said, "I don't think they care."

I said, "I'm pretty sure you could get in trouble for that."

We could tell we weren't going as fast as usual, so there was definitely something wrong with the propeller.  My dad cried a little bit, and apologized to me for freezing up by saying, "I don't know what happened to me back there.  I'm really proud of you."

I said, "Sorry I broke your throttle lever."

He said, "That's ok, it's just the plastic.  I would have never thought to do that.  I would have figured the whole thing would just break and the engine would stop."

I said, "I didn't think about it, I just acted."

When we pulled the boat out on the trailer, we saw that the propeller was absolutely shredded.  About half of each blade was just gone, and our trolling plate looked like an unskilled origami artist had man-handled it.

## Chapter 4

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**M** y mom and step-father, Simon, bought a house at on Cass Avenue in Kingsford, Michigan.  About a year later, the same neighbor with the 2 daughters from my old apartment building moved 2 houses down from us with her new husband.  My step-brother Pete and I played with the girls pretty infrequently since they weren't into baseball nearly as much as we were.

Pete and I spent vast amounts of time together growing up, and of all my step and half-siblings he's the only one that feels like a real family member.  I feel bad for all the awful, stupid shit I did to him while we were kids.  I do love my brother Dean, but the time we've spent together is so limited, and the age difference is so great that it's hard to relate.  Beverly was always 'Aunty Bev' to me.  She had kids my age, and I played with them when they made the trip down from Traverse City.  She has since passed away in 2009, and the depth of my emotional response astonished me with what little I know of her, and how minimal our time spent together was.

I got yet another paper route that I didn't put much effort into at all.  I'd had almost the same route 3 years earlier you may recall.  For some reason they agreed to hire me back now that I was older, so I tried it again for one more summer.  I lasted a bit longer this time, but eventually I just stopped collecting the payments again and was quite late practically every day.

One of my deliveries was directly across the street from the father of the two young girls he had been molesting.  First I was just suspicious that he was a 'Chester,' but when he told me his name, I was shocked to find he wasn't in jail or dead.  Every time I came by and he was outside, he'd invite me in by offering a multitude of great reasons to eat or drink something he had inside.

He'd say, " _Oh, it's hot out!   Are you thirsty?  Come inside and grab a drink!  How about some cake?_"

I never accepted, and often times he appeared disappointed.

I knew what he wanted, and I wondered how many other poor little kids he'd invited in that were ignorant enough to accept.  I also began to wonder if he knew I was the one who originally found out about what he did to his kids.  Every time he asked I'd get angrier, but I didn't show it and was ever the cordial gentleman with him.  I was playing with his mind to see what he was up to, and if he knew who I was or what I'd done.  After a while, I started carrying a knife with me on my route for safety.  The guy just wouldn't take a hint; I was never going to accept anything he offered, ever.

Whatever the case, he was always yelling my name from across the block, and I decided I'd had enough of his constant irritation.  I gripped my knife so that it was concealed by my wrist as I pedaled my BMX to his yard.  He greeted me with the same fake warmth and as always invited me to come inside.  But this time, he seemed even more fucked up than usual.  I frequently smelled marijuana coming from his house, and I knew it was some kind of drug but wasn't sure what.  By his behavior I got the impression he was taking some form of prescription meds as well.

I guess he could tell I was upset with him, because I sensed a bit of anger in his face when I said no.  The way I said it was fairly rude, and instead of waiting for his response, I told him that I knew why he wanted me to go inside his house and it was never going to happen.  He started to act insulted and defended his virtuosity.  I said, "Listen, I don't need to hear the bullshit.  I see right through you.  I'm a full blown atheist and a sociopath.  I don't care whether you live or die.  You need to pack your shit and get out of town, or I'm going to come into your house and gut you in your sleep."

He got really angry and advanced toward me, saying with gritted teeth, "You little punk!"

At that instant, I ever so nonchalantly scratched my forehead with my hand, revealing the knife.  The blade shimmered in the sunlight, and the look of fear in his eyes was fulfilling to me as I smiled at him intently, still hoping that he would proceed toward me.  Fixated upon his face like a predator to prey, I imagined stabbing through his eye sockets repeatedly, found joy in this, but knew my instincts would send me directly to his throat.  He stopped, his face flushed red with blood, and he taunted, "You really think you can take me?"

I quickly answered, "I'll stab your drunken, drug addled body to death right here in your front yard if you want.  ' _Officer, he touched me!_ '  Get out of town or die.  I'd do it unprovoked, but I'm not sure I can get away with murdering you on your front lawn."

He said, "I'm going to call the police on you, you little motherfucker."

I said, "Do it, half of my family are retired cops.  I'm going to go tell them all about how you groped me just now."  I quickly rode away to finish the route, my senses keenly tuned for anyone following me.  I didn't say a word to anyone, and I never saw him again.

As I turned left onto Westwood Avenue to head home, I saw a police cruiser coming up the hill towards me.  I instinctively knew this was for me, so I stopped and waited.  He turned and pulled up next to me on the wrong side of the street.  I put my bike and paper satchel down, walked to his window and asked, "Did he actually call the police on me?" pointing in the direction of his house.  The way I said it must have looked pretty shocked, because he said, "Yes, why don't you tell me what happened."

I said, "I bet he sounded a little crazy on the phone, didn't he?"

I sensed the officer had a keen intellect when he invited me into his cruiser to talk.

I asked, "So what did he tell you guys?"

The officer replied, "Why don't you tell me first?  That's how it works."

I explained that he'd been inviting me into his house in a suspicious manner for a long time and gave details.  I said, "Even if that was all there was to the story, I'd be scared.  But the truth is, this guy's daughters are my neighbors, and he's never allowed to see them because he was molesting them years ago.  And I know this sounds crazy, but I'm the one who found out about it from one of the girls and told their mother.  This was after they were already divorced, and I've never met him before this paper route, so I don't think he even knows that I'm the guy that figured it out.  I don't understand why he isn't in jail.  What happened there?"

The officer was an astounding example of a human being; he took everything I said as fact.  I think he could see the fear in my eyes.

I said, "You can look all that up and verify it."  I gave the names of all the parties involved so he could write them down.

He said, "You still haven't told me what happened with him just now."

I said, "Well, he called me over to his yard like he always does and offered me some Red Velvet cake.  I said I wasn't interested, and that I knew why he kept inviting me inside.  I told him to stop offering because it wasn't going to happen.  He got mad and advanced towards me while swearing, so I pulled the knife out.  He said he was going to call the cops, so I said, 'That's a great idea!'"

I said something next that makes me wonder now if I subconsciously knew the underlying actuality of my statement.  In what I thought was merely a ploy to not get involved, I said, "Listen, I'm a victim of sexual abuse as a child myself.  I've dealt with it, and he'll be in jail forever.  But I shouldn't have to deal with any more of this kind of crap, I've had enough.  Is this just how life is?  Besides, the whole connection with his kids makes me worry he's going to make his life's goal to murder me or the people I love."

He was clearly saddened by all of this, so I asked if he himself had been a victim of abuse as a child.

He said, "No, but it makes me worried for my children when I hear these kinds of things."

I asked him, "Does this just happen all the time and nobody talks about it or what?

He said, "I think it happens a lot more often than we know about, and that's unfortunate."

I said, "I'm tired of being scared for children I don't even know.  I guarantee if you interview the kids in his neighborhood you'll end up sickened.  Somebody needs to deal with this guy somehow.  You're a cop, so what can you do?"

He said, "Don't worry; I'm going to take care of all of this.  You don't need to do a thing.  Are you ok right now?  Do you need someone to talk to?"

I said, "You have no idea how good it's been just talking to you right now.  It's like a weight has been lifted off my chest."

He asked, "Have you finished your route yet?"

I answered, "Yes."

"Just go home and try to relax.  If you are bothered at all, here is my number.  I suggest you talk to your parents about these kinds of things, or your priest, or anybody you trust if you feel even the least bit upset, and especially if you feel unsafe."

He did say that if for some unforeseeable reason it came down to the wire, I might have to testify in court or at least make a statement.  I was hesitant.  I really didn't want to get involved, but it now appeared I no longer had a choice in the matter.

A week later his house was vacant.  I only realized afterward how risky my actions were.  In hindsight, I believe I could have gotten away with killing him and saying he touched my junk, but I'm not sure how well my psyche would've held up.

By high school I gave even less of a shit about most everything but girls and music.  I did fancy myself a clever writer, and my dream job was to do so professionally.  My performance in school and otherwise reflected this.  I passed my writing and English classes easily, but failed everything I wasn't at least slightly interested in.

I took a typing class freshman year, and could have aced it with my own typing ability, but instead chose to wait for the first person in class to finish the assignment, and then copy their file over the network through a command shell bug I'd found in WordPerfect.  It gave me a backdoor to the root of the server and every other computer in the classroom.  I did a lot of things that involved hacking over the years.

I had the same teacher, Mr. Guy, for a computer programming class two years later, this time with new Macintosh Quadra computers the school purchased.  A few weeks into it I asked him, "I know about several IBM programming languages and their usage, but what exactly is Hypertext used for?"

He said, "To be honest, I'm not really sure.  I just started teaching this class, and I'm still learning the code myself."

I said, "I'm not certain, but it looks really similar to some code I've seen to make web sites.  I think maybe this is a precursor to that."

I turned around to the class and said, "Everybody listen up, this is probably the best thing you could possibly learn about computers for future success in the field.  If you're interested..."

Some of the class heard us talking and said, "What's a web site?"

So I dumbed it down for them and said, "You know, an 'internet screen.'"

I was failing in my drafting course during my first semester, and needed something signed by my parents that I chose not to get during class since it would point out the fact that I was failing.  I was failing so many classes that I was instructed to bring home weekly updates for my parents from all of my teachers.  Simon knew something was amiss when I said the teacher and I both forgot about it, and sent me back to the school to get it.  He said, "Don't come back without it."

This progress report would inevitably describe my failure to complete every single task assigned to me.  It was all hand drafting, but I wanted AutoCAD.

The teacher was already gone by the time I got back to the school, but I heard the band practicing for their performance that night, so I stopped to listen to my former band mates for a while.  I had played percussion in the band during middle school, but was kicked out after I decided to speed up several songs for no reason during a public performance and then popped out of the curtains to tell jokes afterwards.  They let me try again in high school, but I irritated the teacher enough to send me packing within a month.

I was milling around outside the school once the band's Christmas show had begun when I found a wallet with $400 in it outside on the sidewalk.  I brought it to the office to be returned to the owner.  He happened to be a fellow student that I had never met.  It had all of his Christmas money inside, and I gave it back without a second thought.  There was even a short story about me being so darn honest in the paper.

After the show, I waited in a private practice room until everybody left the building, and then had my way with the school.

I first went to the janitorial room which was not only unlocked, but also wide open, and took the master key set which was hanging clearly marked on an open cabinet door.  I went into every room in the school.  I ate Orange Creamsicles from the kitchen.  I wrote defamatory comments on the chalkboards of teachers I didn't like.  I stole a bunch of electronics like Texas Instruments TI-80 calculators and anything else I thought might be valuable.  Since I only lived a few blocks away, I made trips on foot to my garage under the cover of night.

After all my debauchery, I fell asleep just inside one of the side entrances like an moron.  I was planning to stay awake all night, and then go back to my house, but only after Simon left for work so I could take a shower, change my clothes, and then go back to school without him seeing me.  I was planning to do my sleeping during class.  In my slumber, a teacher that I'd never even met came in through the doors, hours before the opening bell, and saw me laying there.  I jumped up and ran away, but was identified as the culprit a few days later.

What really got me in the most trouble though was breaking into a comic book shop a couple months later and taking a bunch of comics and Dungeons & Dragons stuff.  I went in and out with a suitcase back to my house for this 'job' too.

I ended up getting busted when I gave some of the spoils of my conquest to a few friends, and their parents wondered how the hell their broke, idiotic children could have possibly acquired it.

During my actual police interrogation for the act of burglary, I admitted to a plethora of other crimes that only I was aware of, like stolen bikes in my possession and random acts of vandalism that were actually inspired by my friend Dustin.

Originally, I was being interrogated by an officer with a speech impediment, and it was hard to take him seriously.  Another officer walked in, and we immediately recognized each other from my disturbance with the 'Chester.'  As soon as I saw him I fessed up to everything, and judging by the officers' reaction, if it had been for shock value, it worked.  I ended up getting a felony charge for breaking and entering.  My dad convinced the juvenile court that moving to live with him in an effort to better myself would be sufficient to keep me out of juvenile detention.  I moved mid-semester freshman year with one year of probation.

In Romeo's school system it was a 3 year high school, so I was relegated back to middle school as a 9th grader.  I stayed at home for a couple of weeks to acclimate myself per my Dad's request.  My first few days of school were uneventful, and I kept to myself since I was really quite nervous about fitting in at my first ever new school.  And I was a felon facing juvenile hall.

The morning of my 3rd day of school at Romeo, I got a call from the school's office informing me that my bus would be one hour late and should arrive at 8 a.m., and that it was due to a mechanical issue that only my bus had experienced.  I guess they didn't have a backup bus or something.  Seems like something you should have in case of emergency.

It was dark and humid as I waited outside, and I was shocked to see thick black clouds covering the entire sky as thunder crashed in the distance.  The lightning flashed behind the darkness surrounding me, giving the clouds a gorgeous strobe effect, but I did not see or feel a drop of rain.  It was so dark outside it looked like nightfall.  I got on the bus quietly and sat alone.  When the bus stopped in front of the school, I walked up the stairs to the entrance but stopped at the top before entering.  I gazed at the sky in awe and wondered why nobody filing past me found it the least bit interesting.  To me it was shockingly beautiful, and not at all like any weather I'd ever experienced.

Just as I walked into the door to the school, I noticed a particularly attractive female about to exit the building.  I quickly said, "You don't go to school here do you?"

"No, I'm moving," she said.

"Oh, but you did?"

"Yes."

"I just moved a few days ago.  Did you like it here?"

"Not much."

"Right, that's the impression I'm getting.  I was hoping you were a classmate.  You look really cool.  Not like the jerks roaming these halls normally."

An old teacher's assistant came out of a room near us, and told both of us to get back to class.  I informed her that I had not yet been to class due to the fact that my bus had just arrived.  The girl I was talking to explained that she no longer went to school there.

The old lady said, "I'm not falling for that!  Both of you get going!"

I told her that this girl was a member of my family whom I hadn't seen in a long time, and that she was leaving town very shortly.  The teacher's assistant begrudgingly went back into her room.

The cute girl told me her name was Helmsy, and there was some discussion as far as the spelling when I questioned it.

She said, "I just came back to get my records.  I'm going to the Allen Ginsburg School of Poetry in Colorado."

I'd heard the name of that poet from somebody before, but all I knew was that he was part of the beat movement and a friend of Jack Kerouac's.  I've never been too fond of poetry, so I said, "So you're going to learn how to write about hammering baby fetuses to death, eh?"  This was a variation of something said by my English teacher just several days prior, describing how little he cared for poetry.  I remembered what an effect it had on me.  I thought that this was either one of the cleverest, or most idiotic things to say depending on her position regarding Roe v. Wade.  My entire conversation with this girl depended on her not reacting poorly to my singular odd statement.

I think she smiled and might have laughed.  She makes an almost exact duplicate of this remark years later during an interview in The Onion describing that very same school.

The teacher's aide had hung back and listened to our conversation.  She said, "You two aren't related!  Get back to class."

I said loudly, "Lady, I don't care what you think, but if you would please leave us alone for a moment.  Suspend me!  Expel me even, I don't care!  Just go away for a few minutes."  She decided to lose the battle and left us alone, though she might have just sat back and eavesdropped again.

Later in the day she confronted me about my behavior with the vice-principal, but I denied having any recollection of the event.  I said, "I'm sorry, this is only my third day here, you must have confused me with someone else."  This infuriated her.

I was a little surprised by my wild reaction to her simply trying to get me to go to class.

My conversation with the beautiful girl continued, but it now seemed that reality had set in, and she was a little uncomfortable with some kid hitting on her.

I told her I didn't like poetry unless it was set to music, and she explained that she also was in or starting a band called Accelerate Past Me.  I said I thought that was a cool name, and that I was sure she'd love it in Colorado (I'd been there skiing with my dad).

We had talked for what seemed like a long time, maybe 15 minutes.  I explained why I had moved to live with my father, i.e. the felonies.  She told me the name for her band was derived from a comic book.  She said I should look her up if I was ever back in Colorado.  I basically just asked as many questions about her as I could, and tried to keep her talking to me.

I was only 14, but I told her I was 15, and she was clearly older.  I felt that maturity was event based and not time centered.  I'm sure I made that known.  I was trying to clear a path to validation of the logical possibility of me asking her out.  But I wasn't concerned with the time frame; I figured I'd have a better chance in a few years.  Why I thought I'd ever see her again is beyond me.

I maneuvered the conversation towards sex, and said something to the effect that even the most devoutly religious aspire to marry solely for the purpose of lovemaking, whether they realize it or not, because we are genetically programmed to enjoy sex since it promotes the spread of our species.

But when this lead to discussing evolution, and then me telling her that I didn't believe in anything spiritual or mystical and was an absolute skeptic of every God or any supernatural act, she said, "That's too bad."  I could tell she didn't want to talk to me any longer, and she looked outside at the thundering lightning, probably hoping for a quick exit to beat the bad weather.

She initially seemed to like me, even if only in a platonic manner, but at this precise moment in our conversation everything seemed to have turned bad for me.  I knew I was totally losing her interest as a fellow human being.  I thought she was possibly the coolest, hottest, and smartest girl I'd ever met.  In case I ever had the chance to meet her again I decided I would try to make the best first impression I could, but something happened I couldn't have imagined.  Something I still do not understand or even fully believe.  I just call it coincidence, or the blame the weather.

I said, "Well, you have to try something to truly know what it's like, so give me your hand and we'll see if I can get something from you."  She understood that I was asking her to give me something I didn't believe she had, and I don't think she felt like she had anything to give in the first place, but she hesitantly offered her hand to me.  Of course I had the end goal of holding her hand, but I had never met anyone so certain there was 'something else out there' that wasn't a total nut job.  She seemed almost perfect to me, and because of this I was at least intrigued by the idea that she might be right.

When our hands touched, I closed my eyes and saw what I now think was the future.  I saw what appeared to be scenes from my life that I didn't recognize flashing before my eyes, like a dream that my brain couldn't slow down.  It was over in a matter of seconds, and I couldn't consciously remember any of what I saw but the very last vision, as it seemed to resonate and then slowly fade to black.  It ended with a smiley face.  That stupid smiley face you see on T-shirts and stickers.  I was shocked, and tears ran down my face as I spoke to her afterwards.  I didn't believe anything 'spiritual' had happened though, not even for a second, and I passed it off as a graphic hallucination.

I described to her what seemed to have happened in total disbelief, because although I didn't think anything would ever come of that moment, or that I had really experienced anything at all, I was still quite surprised to find out that I was delirious.  I'd never hallucinated before, but I was 100% certain that was exactly what had happened.  But for her, I behaved as though I had found God in her hands.

I told her the impression I got was that there would be great suffering in my life, but I'd be fulfilled in the end.

Right before she left, I told her that regardless of what she thought of me then, or what she perceived in the future, I desperately needed her to remember our meeting because I would be writing a book about nuclear weapons, and for some reason it was imperative that she did not deny what happened to me.  It felt awkward and I didn't know why I said it, but it was just the first thing that came to my mind, I guess.  I thought I subconsciously made it up as something unique for her to remember me by.

I apologized for my behavior before we said goodbye and parted ways.  I distinctly remember thinking as I walked to class that if it had been some sort of grand premonition of my life's experiences, it had ended in a smiley face.  I was very pleased with this, because as far as I was concerned it meant my life story had a happy ending.  So I wiped the tears from my face and went to class.

## Chapter 5

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**I** mostly kept to myself in Romeo's school system because I didn't want to start getting into trouble again.  If people got to know me, I might start showing off again.  I was fairly shy around people I didn't know.  I eventually began to hang out with the freaks that dressed and behaved differently, but were clearly intelligent, and not to be confused with the druggies. _Pro-tip: If you're going to drink and do drugs kids, please, wait until you are in college._

I also co-mingled with the geeks, as my dad had provided a computer for me to play with since I was six years old.  Our first was a TRS-80, aka the Trash 80.  Several upgrades later, we now had a Hewlett-Packard 486DX, and I enjoyed playing MS Flight Simulator and Wing Commander.

It was around the start of the 10th grade that I began frequenting the local BBS scene.  I downloaded music, cracked software, porn, and played online multiplayer turn based text games like L.O.R.D., all at a blazing 56 kilobits per second.  I ported out to the internet through my friend Tom's BBS called The Ozone.  That was a feature most BBS's didn't have, but Tom was technically talented.

One day I was chatting with Tom, and he said he had found some software to make music called Fasttracker 2, which was a virtual sampler and sequencer that was similar to Amiga software I'd seen before at the public access TV station.  I marveled at its complexity, and the XM song files I downloaded from him were impressive.  I spent vast amounts of time learning this software, and my first working song was an industrial remix of Bush's song, _Machine Head_.

I ended up using this software to write about 100 songs and remixes during the course of the next 2 years.  I would sneak down to the basement every night and work using headphones for months.  My dad would come downstairs and catch me once and a while, but for the most part I remained undetected in total silence.

During my time living with my dad, where I was supposed to be bettering myself, I instead reprised my habits of daily shoplifting and behaving with reckless abandon in every aspect of my life.

My friend Jonathan found a backdoor to the root server in our school's Novell network by simply pressing one of the F-keys during the LAN boot sequence.  But it only worked on the computers in the library.  I was amazed by this gaping hole, so we poked around the network for a few minutes.  I typed ' _ver_ ' and was shocked to find they were running an old version of DOS, 3.2.1 something.  I just happened to own a copy of The DOS for Dummies Quick Reference Guide, which was a trade paperback sized reference of DOS commands that was nice enough to point out a feature that some considered a flaw in that particular version.  You could type a ' _del_ ' command from the root of the server that would delete everything on the entire network in one fell swoop.  Shocked by this, I was sure had some sort of security failsafe to protect the data.  I executed the command, and everything from the library card catalogs, to the grades and coursework on every single teacher's PC was gone in a matter of moments.  Jonathan noticed files he had just been looking at were now missing and said, "What the hell did you just do?"

Many years later, I reunited with him for a few beers at his house.  He was disappointed that I got credit for hacking the network.  All I did was delete everything, and it was he who had found the opening.  He said, "Just imagine what we could have done if you hadn't deleted everything.  We could have been changing people's grades or anything we wanted.  You are such an idiot."

I said, "I thought everybody that got prosecuted for hacking was hired by a tech company soon afterward."

My lovely computer teacher Mrs. Garden had to restore everything from a backup, and I was suspended for a week.  My dad had to pay them to reinstall the network and restore the backup.  Luckily, since no criminal charges were pressed, it wasn't considered a violation of my probation.

I had a few girlfriends during my time in Romeo, the first being Allison.  She was sweet and had a good heart but was a bit plain for me.  I was shallow.  There was the rich Italian girl named Lily who was beautiful, but too young.  Then there was the cerebral Jody, who I related to very much, but still felt something was missing on the emotional side.  I briefly dated Cara, who I found to be the most attractive, and probably because she played piano wonderfully.

I once took Cara to a park to go for a walk, and we ended up making out in my Chevy Blazer afterward.  A cop came knocking on the steamed up window after the park's hours of operation.  She was more embarrassed than I was, and it pretty much killed anything I might have had going.

I liked living with my father for the most part, but not actually being around him.  He was a control freak, and I was just coming into my own.  I had a job at Shoppers Market in Shelby stocking shelves, and then managing the dairy department.  I had a car, a 1990 Chevrolet Cavalier Z24.  The hood was crammed with its 3.5 liter engine.  I've even done research on it, but can't find anything about those cars having that engine size.  I only saw one other Cavalier with the same engine, and numerous others with the same exact body but with the smaller 3.1, 3.2, or 3.4 liter, so I wonder if it had been custom ordered from Chevy.  I did so many _f_ unsafe things with it.

Jonathan and I frequented record stores all around the Detroit suburbs.  We would buy a couple CD's while stealing 10 or more.  One day the two of us brought Jody to a record store that I can't remember the name of.  It was some little hole in the wall in Royal Oak.

I noticed a guy holding concert tickets in a blue jumpsuit talking to people as I went in.  I decided I wasn't going to steal anything that day since I wasn't familiar with that record store's security system.  I didn't have any money to spend, so after having looked around I went outside while Jon and Jody continued shopping.  The man in the blue jumpsuit diligently offered me tickets to his show at the State Theater in Detroit.  I asked what type of music it was, and he told me he was a rapper.

I said, "No disrespect, but the white rapper thing is usually pretty weak, with the exception of the Beastie Boys."

He agreed that there were lots of bad white rappers, but insisted he was far beyond any of them.

I asked him for a sample, so he spit a few lines.  I was pretty impressed, but smiled and told him that wasn't really my thing.  I then asked what his name was.  He said 'M&M,' and to his response I began to laugh out loud and exclaimed, "You mean like the candy?"

He said, "Yeah, but it's spelled different."

I asked, "What's your real name?"

When he said it I laughed even harder.  He quickly became angry and got in my face, so I said, "Hey man, I'm only 15!  Beating up a kid won't do much for your street cred."  He backed off as some people exited the record store.

He still really wanted me to go to the show and got cool with me, even after I had laughed at his names.  I sat out there for a few minutes while he offered tickets to passersby.  I didn't know why, but when he and I were alone again, something compelled me to say, "Hey, I don't ever tell anybody about this, but I'm actually psychic, and I can see you with wealth and fame beyond your wildest imagination."  He was unimpressed, but I continued, "What you need to do is find Dr. Dre.  I don't care how you do it.  Storm a party he's at and find him.  When you've exhausted all your resources and you are out of options, go find Dre no matter what the cost, and if you really are as good as you think you are, he will recognize it and help your career.  Life is all about who you know."

He said, "I ran out of options years ago."

He was completely uninterested, and the more I said made him seem even more uncomfortable being around me.  But still I spoke again, "You know what?  No matter what happens, if you become successful it will be with Dr. Dre's support.  And don't you forget him when people start hating."

He just looked at me like I was stupid.

I said, "Hey man I'm not sure where this is coming from, but you can ask my friends when they come out if I've ever claimed to know the future.  As far as everybody else in my life is concerned, I'm just a regular dude.  I may not know how, but I know I'm right."

He was letting people pass by without talking to them, and looked a little dazed.  I was doubtful he took me seriously, but he at least took in what I told him.

I said, "Don't forget this moment, because I'm going to be famous too, but for writing a book about nuclear weapons.  I need people like you to remember me, because my life story is fucking crazy.  The singer for the band Loot will know what I'm talking about.  I'm going to have all kinds of celebrities that know about it, and you're one of them now."

Right on cue my friends came out and I yelled exuberantly, "This crazy fuck thinks I'm psychic!"  Everyone in the area, including my friends, looked at me like I was on drugs.  I tapped my head and said, "I'll see you then," as we walked away and got into Jon's car.

I don't know what compelled me to say those things.  First off, I knew next to nothing about the rap game and the music industry.  And secondly, I was pretty sure I had come to the conclusion that I didn't believe any of what happened when I touched Helmsy's hand.  But I sensed a connection between the two events.

I've always been the type to speak first and think later, but I had never done anything like that before.  It makes sense that I would suggest Dr. Dre, as he was my favorite of the few rappers I knew, mostly because of his production work.  Other than that, I couldn't give you a logical explanation for my behavior.  I was angry with myself for making things up, and worried that I might be mentally illin'.

Several years later I was riding past that same record store with my dad and step-mother, when I noticed a tall male and a pretty dark haired female holding hands.  They both somehow seemed familiar to me as they darted through busy traffic.  It was something about the coordinated white, black, and red clothing they wore that struck me, and I felt I was having what people called deja vu.

I got in trouble for so many things in school that I can't remember much of it.  But I do remember sitting in the detention room adjacent to the front office at Romeo High many times.  There was a collection of every yearbook from the past 50 years in there.  One day I decided to look through all the yearbooks near the timeframe that Helmsy might have graduated.  I had forgotten her name by that point, but when I found her face I was overwhelmed by what emotions I felt.  Like a deep debt of gratitude, for what I wasn't sure.

I felt disturbed by all of it, and questioned my sanity.  I considered it a delusion, and plausible that I was subconsciously trying to create some sort of weird future for myself by making up an interesting story, and only telling it to the people I perceived to be most likely to succeed in life.  For the most part I just shelved the memory along with the yearbook.

My father was a strict guy, and based on how I'd been behaving, he probably was doing the right thing.  But I was less than happy with my home life.  I had little freedom of choice, and I was unwilling to succumb to his request to know my exact location and intent at all times.  My probation having just ended a few months prior, we decided that I would move back to my mom's house again.

Much to my mother's glee, I returned mid-semester in the 11th grade.  My dad refused to let me take my car.  It was under his name, and I had been paying him up until I moved, but hadn't finished paying it off completely.  I still owed about two thousand dollars.  I'd been working at the grocery store since I was 15 just to pay for it.  His withholding of my car made me angry, as I figured I could get a new job and continue to pay him, but he refused and said I could have it back when I graduated, and without giving him what I still owed.

I spent most of my time working on music with the computer that my dad let me bring to my mom's.  I was like Ferris Bueller, I got a computer but would have preferred a car.  I wanted the computer too, but could have easily scrapped something together had he not provided me with one.  It was around this time that I started smoking pot and cigarettes more often, and drinking infrequently.  I also began to write short stories, nothing good though, just like this sentence.

I was still shoplifting almost on a daily basis, and finally I got popped by a grocery store loss prevention guy.  I broke free from his grip and ran, so he called the police and they came out in full force.  I don't know if many other criminals have tried this, but here's a trick that's always seemed to work for me.  If you are running, run in the opposite direction of where you actually want to go, so when they lose visual contact, you can change your direction back towards where you need to go, thus throwing them off the trail.  In this instance though, they had dogs tracking me.  I was shocked at how many officers came out for a pack of Marlboro's, which I had already tossed under a dumpster in the event I was apprehended.  After running a mile or so, I decided to swim through the swampy waters of Crystal Pond to cover my scent.

Before I jumped in, I lit my last cigarette from the pack I already had and took a few drags.  I could hear the dogs getting closer.  I left the cigarette burning on the ground in an attempt to throw them off, and then weaved through cattails into the open water.  It was cold, but my body didn't react as it normally would with my adrenal response in full effect.  I started to swim across, but realized quickly I was not familiar with swimming clothed, and worried that I could get hypothermic and not even realize it until it was too late.  I veered back to the swampy edge.

I emerged shivering in somebodies back-yard, and proceeded to run from the sirens and barking of dogs through people's yards until I got to my house.  Luckily, I ran track at that time and was in pretty good shape, even with my smoking. _Pro-tip: When you're young you can smoke and feel great, but down the road your lungs will be fucked._

When I made it home I was physically and mentally exhausted to the point of nausea.  I told my mom I felt awful and thrown up, so I wanted to take a shower and go to sleep.

I dyed my hair back to black from the blond skunk stripe I'd put in it, took my contacts out, and put my glasses on.

Several hours later the police came to my door inquiring about the incident.  I don't know how they made the connection to me, but it's such a small town that I can imagine I was known for being a criminal.  Hell, maybe I was public enemy number one.  My mom blindly answered, "No officer, it couldn't be my son.  He's been sick in bed all night."

All that for a pack of Marlboros...  Late that night, I went out and walked the 2 miles back to get it from under the dumpster.

I was never too 'popular' as a kid, but I had plenty of friends and was well liked.  Before I moved back to Kingsford, I was dating a girl I worked with at Shoppers Market named Sarah, and I continued to talk to her frequently over the phone.  We were supposed to be in a long distance relationship, but I found out later that she'd been cheating on me.  This didn't really matter much to me because although I didn't cheat on her, I would have at the first opportunity.  I was just really shy when it came to women, and generally waited for them to come to me.

She came across the state by bus to visit me.  She was actually the first girl I ever slept with, and I was pretty bad at it.  She was pretty good, except for the fact that _she lied about being a virgin_.

When her visit was over and it was time to take her back to the bus station at 2 a.m., I drove her there in my step-dad's car, which was a 1991 Ford Thunderbird Super-Coupe that used the supercharged Yamaha V6.  After I kissed her goodbye and started driving away, I figured it was really late on a weekday, so nobody would be out, including the police.  I maxed out at 135 miles an hour on US-2, where the speed limit in town was 35.  I noticed a cop car parked at the only open gas station, and I knew I was in trouble.  I probably should have slowed down right there, but something compelled me to try an escape.

I was surprised how quickly he caught up with me, until I realized I was seeing another one of several cars that had joined the pursuit.  I maintained ridiculously high speeds through town.  When I encountered my first 90 degree turn, I over-steered left, and my right rear wheel lightly rubbed the curb as I drifted around the corner with smoking tires.  I was well ahead of the cruisers that initially started chasing me, but I now had cars from various other agencies, state and local, just behind me.

With better driving and a faster car, I was able to extend the gap between us beyond line of sight, and took a hard right onto an unlit road that would lead me most of the way back to my house.  I accelerated to 120 and killed the engine and lights, coasting by moonlight.  I rolled my windows down and listened as the police used the same strategy of killing their engines in unison to listen for me.  I watched in my rear view mirror as one, then two, then three, then four cars raced past the street I was on.  I thought I was totally in the clear when the last car in the train slammed on his breaks, backed up, and turned to follow me.  I was out of tricks and had nowhere to hide.  So I started the car back up and began driving at the speed limit, as if somebody else in a car exactly like mine might have been doing the speeding.

When he pulled me over, I was ripped out of my seat, thrown to the ground, and handcuffed while the other cruisers rolled up.  I knew my dumb idea wasn't going to work, so after listening to them yell at me for a few minutes, I said, "I had the music so loud I didn't even realize you guys were behind me.  I'm an aspiring race driver, and I am so sorry about this."  They called bullshit.  It was partially true however; Lords of Acid's _The Crablouse_ was cranked.

I said, "Seriously guys, I didn't mean to cause any trouble, once I realized you were chasing me I slowed down and gave up.  Please don't make me lose my license; I need it to race in the SCCA.  Just give me as big of a ticket as possible that won't make me lose my license."  I told them about my brother Dean racing, and how I wanted to follow in his footsteps.  They asked why a race driver would lose control like I did; apparently they had seen the tire tracks leading to where I bumped the curb.  I told them it was because the car was an automatic, and we looked on the tire but found no marks because the impact had been so slight.

To my amazement, they gave me a ticket for 135 mph in a 25 mph zone, which was one point for every 10 miles per hour over the speed limit.  11 out of my 12 points were gone.

They even let me drive back home without calling my parents.  Remember, I was 17, and I thought for sure I was going to jail for reckless endangerment and evading police pursuit.  Months later my mom found out and was mortified, but my step-dad was more pissed about the car being driven like that.  I don't blame him, I loved that car too.

It was around this time that I befriended Mark, and we started working on music together.  I showed him how to use Fasttracker, and he recorded guitar parts for some 'industrial' style beats I made, but nothing ever came of it.

I got bored with life, so Christmas of 1996 I decided to visit Sarah and steal my own car, the Cavalier, back.  My dad had informed me that he and my step-mom would be spending several days in Canada for New Years Eve.  I didn't really think I would get away with it, I was just sending a message based on principal.  At least that's the way I saw it.

I took the bus downstate and spent some time with Sarah and her family.  When it was time to go back, I got a ride from Sarah to my dad's house on the morning of New Years Eve, and then set about stealing my car.  I still had a key to the house, and the car.  But this ended up being more difficult task than I imagined because first off, the car was up on blocks.  Secondly, it had The Club on it.  I got the car off the blocks with the jack, then I made like a 200 point turn, because of The Club, just to get the car into the garage.  I didn't want to be hack-sawing it in broad daylight.  It took hours to cut that damn thing off without damaging the steering wheel, and then I rested easily on New Years Eve.

On New Years Day, I grabbed a couple of bottles of wine that my dad and I had made a couple years earlier, stopped back at Sarah's house to say goodbye, and then I headed North to the Upper Peninsula.  There was practically no one on the streets being it was New Years Day, just like the U2 song.  My trip was going well until about half way through the Lower Peninsula where it began to snow heavily and then quickly turned to blizzard conditions.

I could hardly see where the road was and only going about 25 miles per hour on the highway.  Even at such slow speeds I was sliding around.  It was nightfall by the time I made it to the Mackinaw Bridge.  The visibility had cleared, but black ice now covered the highway.  My gas mileage had been much worse than expected with the snow and slow speeds, and by the time I made it to Manistique, I was almost out of gas and had little money left.  As if God decided aiding me in grand theft auto was a worthwhile endeavor, I came across a single pump gas station in the middle of nowhere.

It was just past midnight and I hadn't seen a soul in hours.  I hoped to maybe find some gas in a container somewhere, and was considering siphoning gas out of somebody else's car.  To my utter astonishment, the pump was active and gas shot out when I squeezed the lever!  I filled my tank to the absolute brim.  Then I went on a spree, digging through garbage looking for any containers to hold gas.  I used a few 2 liter soda containers and some 1 gallon milk jugs I found in the trash.  I wasn't sure if the plastic would degrade and break down from contact with petrol, but I didn't really have any other option.  I headed for home, totally satisfied that I'd had such luck.  Even after loading up with all that extra gas, I had to gas-and-go just outside Iron Mountain to make it all the way home.

Once I made it to my mom's house, within 10 minutes the police arrived with a flat bed truck to haul off my car.  No charges were pressed though, and my dad paid to have the car stored until I graduated.  Only then did he finally give it back to me, and to his credit, did so without me having to pay him the two thousand dollars I still owed.

My father was not without fault.  Great, massive, plate tectonic faults.  Even though he almost killed me unintentionally several times, and did scar me for life with his irate yelling and screaming, I've come to realize he was probably my greatest ally throughout childhood and adolescence.  I learned a lot from him, as he is an intelligent man, but the best answer he gave to any of the questions I had as a child was when I asked him if he thought there was a God.

He answered, "I don't know."

This at least gave me inspiration to look for a better answer.

I really shouldn't have even graduated high school.  I was one and a half credits short, so I appealed to my principal, Mr. Usitalo, "Please don't make me come back here.  I know I'll end up wasting my time and failing a bunch of classes again, only to pass the minimum requirement needed at the very end of the year.  I would just go get my GED, but I wouldn't qualify for certain government grants without a real diploma.  I'm a smart guy; I build my own computers, write songs, and sing & act as well.  I'm a veritable smorgasbord of creativity.  Please have the presence of mind to let me graduate with my class."

He agreed, and by negotiating with the teachers of the classes I was failing in to allow me to do some extra-credit assignments, I graduated second to last on my class roster with a 1.6 grade point average.  Seven out of the eight special education students in my graduating class finished with higher GPA's.

## Chapter 6

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**I** started dating a sophomore named Kristen from Niagara, Wisconsin.  She was the first girl that I really enjoyed sex with, even though we only did it a few times, and she was only the second girl in total for me.  She was gorgeous, sweet, and I liked her very much, but for some reason I cheated on her.  This was the first time I'd ever done such a thing, and didn't know why or how to handle it.  She and Andrea, the other girl I started seeing at the time, eventually confronted me in my bedroom to ask me to pick one over the other.  I picked neither because they both should have decided to dump me, but I still ended up dating Andrea afterwards.

After graduating, I moved into the basement of some friends' house in Spread Eagle, Wisconsin.  It was a nice house on a lake, and I bought a drum set from a friend in Escanaba named Kevin that we played around on with local musician kids.  Mark would come over once and a while and jam the guitar.  My roommates had huge parties almost every weekend, and the result was almost always chaos.  I had been working as a dishwasher at a buffet restaurant in Iron Mountain for $5.35 an hour, but I got fired for not showing up.

Mark suggested I go work with his friend, Bill, on his dairy farm that was a few hours away.  I tried it out, but pulling milk out of shit covered udders on shit covered cows gets old quick.

One morning on the farm, I felt like having some French toast.  But we didn't have any milk, so I went outside to the homogenizer, with which I mistakenly thought I could get a small amount of fresh milk from.  Like an idiot, I unclamped the exit valve at the bottom of the machine, and milk began shooting out like a fire hose.  I tried in vain to plug the hole with my right hand as I searched in the rising milk on the floor for the clamp to seal the machine back up with my left.  When I finally put it back together and stopped the flow, I cleaned the crime scene as best I could, and made French toast with what little milk I had caught in my pitcher before realizing what I'd done.  I figured this might be a good time to leave, so I asked Bill to drive me back home after apologizing for the brevity of my stay.

Months later he came to one of our parties, and asked if he could speak to me in private.  I was already drunk, but he then slipped me some GHB by offering me his drink that was loaded with it.  I only know this because he told me after I began feeling the effects.  He asked me if I'd done something to the milk supply because they came up very short just after I'd left.  I think I told him what happened, because he got really angry, and pulled a knife on me.

I don't remember exactly what happened next, but I'm guessing he hit me to knock me out.  I awoke to him fucking my ass as I laid face down on my bed.  I was dazed and barely conscious.  I felt paralyzed, and then felt an unbearable pain in my groin that made me cry out, "You're killing me!"

I realized he was somehow fucking me through my ass into my scrotum, which I didn't think was physically possible.  He reached around my waist to grasp his own cock within me and quickly came.  As soon as he pulled out, I mustered every ounce of strength I had from what must have been a rush of adrenaline, and elbowed him in the mouth as hard as I could, knocking one of his front teeth out.  He yelled, "You knocked my fucking tooth out!"

I said, "Good...almost even now."

He grabbed a pillow and smothered my head between it and the one I was laying on.  I didn't have the strength to fight him.  Later in life I did research on how I was able to do what I did next, and seemingly the GHB helped save me in one regard.  One of its effects is that it gives users the ability to consciously control their heart rate.  I slowly stopped breathing as if I was suffocating, and my heart rate got slower and slower.  It seemed like a minute between beats when he finally felt for a pulse, found nothing, then gathered his things and left.  I blacked out.

I laid there for almost two days, having flashbacks of what happened to me with my uncle as a little boy.  I'd forgotten for so long, but having it happen again opened everything up in my mind once again, and I never forgot again.  I went several days without seeking medical attention, but I couldn't crap and was in pain.

I began to hallucinate, so I started carrying a butcher knife around and telling my roommates to call my mom.  She soon arrived at my door and hurriedly brought me to a walk-in clinic.  I said I couldn't take a dump because of pain in my ass, so the doctor explained what would cause my injury after examining me.  I denied any recollection of the event.  I was prescribed some antibiotics and went home.  I ended up moving back in with my mom about a month later because I couldn't pay my rent.

I had been dating Andrea for a month and a half when she told me that she was pregnant.  I was shocked because we didn't have sex all that often.  I asked her how long she had known she was pregnant, and she said almost a month.  She explained that she waited to tell me until she knew for sure.  I remembered that just over a week prior she had been drinking heavily, and even at that moment she asked for a beer to calm her nerves.  I told her how inconsiderate I thought that was, and what peril she had put the child in.  I had a scary thought, "I know this kid is doomed no matter what.  It's already too late."

I told her I really didn't think she should drink a beer, or anything alcoholic until the child was born, but if she really, really needed it, she could have one beer.  I figured if she chose to drink it was hopeless, and she did.

She was unapologetic, claiming that what she had done was minor and probably wouldn't affect the child, so I told her to drink as heavily as she possibly could to induce a miscarriage.  This is the worst advice I've ever given anyone, ever.  In my mind she was clearly going to be drinking anyway so what was the difference?  I don't mean to sound aloof in my recollection, but at the time I had little concern for the well-being of others.  I went from actually caring about this person to being unconcerned with whether she lived or died the second that beer touched her lips.  I didn't feel that either of us was ready to raise a child, and I wasn't so sure I was the only possible father.

At first I had suggested a real abortion, but she said her parents would not help pay for it because they were adamantly against the idea from a moral and religious standpoint, and would kick her out if we did it without their permission.  I didn't have a job at that point and was living with my mom.  I'd just been raped, and I didn't have a penny to my name.  I was not in a good mind set.  I can try to justify my reaction in any way, but however you look at it I was wrong.

Shortly after this, my friend Mike invited me to live with him and his brother in Denver.  I jumped at the idea, and for the first time in years I thought of Helmsy.  I told Andrea I'd keep in touch and be back in six months, both of which were fallacies.

## Chapter 7

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**M** arch of 1998, Mike and I headed to Denver in his car, as I had long ago sold mine after it became inoperable.  I fell in love with Colorado as soon as I arrived, and still don't think I would rather be anywhere else.  I also made a conscious decision to not do anything illegal, like shoplifting and grand theft auto.  Not out of some newfound love for humanity, but more to cover my ass as a stranger in a strange land.  Mike's brother, Brandt, was accommodating, and his girlfriend got us jobs at the Paramount Cafe.

It was right at this time that I began my foray into marijuana addiction.  I know weed isn't physically addictive, but anything can be mentally addictive.  It was just so damn freely available in Denver, long before it became legal for medical use.  Mike and I eventually moved out of his brother's apartment into a cheap studio on 17th and Washington Street.

Mike bought us tickets to Loot at Red Rocks for my birthday, so I bought us tickets to Ween at The Ogden for his.  These were our favorite bands, respectively.  When I realized Accelerate Past Me would be opening for Ween, I felt bad because even though he didn't know it, my motivation to buy the tickets was now in my own interest as well.  The Ween show was in May, and I enjoyed it wholly.  At the end of Accelerate Past Me's set, I yelled, "Go Bulldogs!"  She looked to the upper deck where those of us who were still under 21 were forced to sit.

One day, Mike came home from somewhere and mentioned that he had met a girl that he found really attractive.  She was a friend of our neighbor, Serb, and Mike eventually hung out with both of them a few times.  When I finally saw her, she was by herself, so I did not recognize her as the girl that Mike had spoken of.  Attractive as she was, I gushed around her and felt like we had an instant connection.

When Mike and I realized we had been hitting on the same girl, he basically stated that he thought it would be appropriate that he have a chance with her first since he met her before I did.  I contended that we should let her decide.

Of course, it was her decision to begin with, and I was lucky enough win Bryne Dega's favor.  After we hung out many, many times, she let me come to her apartment, but I performed so poorly in bed that I avoided her afterwards.  Like a dick, I just stopped calling her altogether.  In my defense, she was only the fourth girl I ever slept with.  Let's just say I was a late bloomer, and I had really bad inter-personal skills.  When she didn't call me either, I assumed she was no longer interested.

August rolled around, and the Loot concert was now upon us.  Luckily, Mike was still on good terms with me considering the love triangle drama just a few weeks prior.  We rode down the highway in his 80's sky blue Chevy Cavalier while listening to Big Black and smoking some wicked kind.  I was into Loot and Modest Mouse almost exclusively during this time of my life, but Mike had broad tastes and introduced me to many new artists.

We waited what seemed like hours in a long procession of cars winding up the mountainside, until finally parking and entering the amphitheater.

We walked up the stairs, and Mike stopped immediately after we passed the ticket takers to say, "I'm going to see my friend in concessions to find out if he can hook us up.  Where are you going to be?"

I said, "I'll just wait right here."  I looked around at the other people filing up the long stairway at the entrance.  I noticed a man dressed in full drag.  To me this seemed suspicious, but everyone else walked by with little more than a passing glance.  I glared at him for about 30 seconds before I realized I knew who it was.  So I walked over to him and asked, "Have you got a light?"

He said, "Sorry.  Don't smoke."

I said, "Never mind," pulling the lighter I knew I had from my pocket and lighting the cigarette, "I've got one right here.  So what are you doing out here anyway?"

He said, "Just hanging out."

I said, "Trying to score some young pussy or what?"

He didn't say anything, but looked down and appeared to show me his outfit as evidence of his lack of interest in the opposite sex.

I said, "I'm sorry, I just have pretty low standards for most of the people I meet on a daily basis, even successful people such as yourself."

I was trying to hint that I knew who he was, and I was over the top with my body language.  He may have realized this, and just didn't care to acknowledge it, but he didn't show it if that was the case.

I said, "You know, normally I think being gay is icky, so maybe it's just the dress, but I think I could marry you and be happy.  You're not gay though, right?"

He said, "No."

I said, "Thank God."  I paused for a few seconds while he looked around, apparently trying to avoid any more contact with me.  I continued, "I've been trying to hint at it, but I'm not sure if you are catching my drift.  You've been made my friend.  Now please, shake my hand because I'm your biggest fan."  I basically had to grab his hand and force him to shake it.

We just sat there for a second awkwardly.  He said, "That's a cool shirt.  Were you at that tour?"

I said, "No, I just bought it from a record shop.  Do you like Ministry?"

He said, "Of course.  I toured with them for Lollapalooza in '92."

I said, "Seriously though, what the hell are you doing out here?"

He answered, "Just having some fun."

"That's a pretty extensive get-up for someone who's 'Just having some fun.'  Do you play dress up a lot?"

He said, "Sure."

I said, "I've never been to a Loot concert before.  It just seems crazy to me that you'd be standing here like this.  I'm sure you know you're renowned as a recluse.  You can be honest man, I won't tell anybody.  Are you just trying to get laid?"  I would have told everyone.

He said he did things like this once and a while just for kicks, and re-assured me that he had no ulterior motive.

I said, "You know what man?  I am a huge fan, and think you are the best of what's out there right now.  You're so good you could sing about shitting the bed and people would eat it up."

"Why the hell would I sing about that?"

"Everybody shit's the bed, we were all babies once.  I bet you could make it cool somehow.  Let's be honest though, you are fantastic in your own right, but this band would be fine without you.  Anybody with a decent voice could be up there with that band and be a success, and do you know why?"

He nodded his head like he knew the answer but wasn't going to tell.

I said, "Because of Danny.  Everybody who is a real musician knows it, and I'm willing to bet your ego isn't in the way to see it yourself.  Don't get me wrong, the other guys are good too, but you know what I'm talking about."

He agreed that Danny was in fact truly amazing.

"But you are talented in a different way, and I really think you will be regarded as one of, if not the greatest musician of the next century.  But maybe you should do a couple of side projects so you can show your versatility."

I had read an article in The Onion or The Westword several weeks prior that brought to light some rumors circulating regarding his professional and personal life.  I don't remember all of what it said, but it mentioned a side project with one of his roadies and several other famous musicians whose bands had recently broken up, such as James Iha of The Smashing Pumpkins, and a couple members of The Vandals.

It also said something about him moving to Arizona.

Having this knowledge, I said, "You should try to work with James Iha.  I've heard of some other great bands breaking up like the Vandals too."  I basically suggested he do everything I'd read in the article.  He looked a bit astonished, and I don't blame him.

I said he should start a side project with one of his roadies.  He said he was already working on some stuff with one of them, and even mentioned the name A Perfect Circle.

I told him he should consider moving to Arizona.

He said something about the drummer from Primus having suggested that he move to some old mining town in the mountains of Arizona.

I said he should try to make wine, because my dad and I enjoyed doing it.

I said, "I know you wrote _Hooker with a Penis_ because of a real encounter with a fan.  Maybe you could write something about me, except I won't be a jackass."

I mentioned that I was a musician myself, and the discussion shifted toward the recording industry.  I said, "If you want some advice, the music business is going to change a lot, and I can give you a heads up if you are interested."

"How so?" he asked.

"Everybody with a half a mind is going to download music for free off the internet, and nobody's going to buy discs anymore.  Hell, discs will be outdated in 5 years.  Even the dumbasses that pay for music will be using rewriteable cartridges.  Like a Nintendo game but tiny, and with way more storage space."

"How do you know?"

"I've been immersed in technology for so long, I can easily see where things are headed.  Odds are musicians will only get paid for live performances and give their music away for free.  Not the rights to it of course, and that's the way it should be anyhow.  Fuck record companies."

"They won't let that happen."

"There is nothing they, or you, or anybody, can do.  No matter what encrypted protections are created to protect intellectual property, someone like me will always be there to crack it.  Your idea's only real worth is how it can benefit society, so hackers will represent a new level of intellectual freedom, and they'll never get caught because they remain anonymous.

"What right do the producers and artists have to make millions of dollars from a single recording they produce?  It just seems unfair.  And don't get me started on professional athletes.  Society's inequality is too broad, and people make too much money for stupid shit."

"Until it's you that publishes the hit song, then you'll see the other side."

"Me personally?  I'll release everything I ever create for free, but I will charge for public performances.  Nobody is going to buy music when they can get it for free.  And there will be plenty of _real_ artists that will see the purpose of art as the act of creating it and its interpretation by society, not any compensation derived from it."

He asked me, "How are you so sure you are right?"

I said, "To me it just seems obvious and inevitable.  Art, as intellectual property is really just information that should be disseminated for humanity's further enlightenment.  The monetary value assigned to it is meaningless.

"The world is getting contorted by bullshit art and non-information provided by publishers and news organizations owned by corporations and beholden to their advertisers and a mutual quest for monetary gain.  For example, all these idiots are worried about the Y2K bug and have no idea how easily all that will be fixed.  Combine that with people's general fear of the millennial changeover, and the media will have everybody in hysteria.  The irony of this is that it's not even the real millennium.  Do people really think we started counting at year zero?  Even if there were some stupid superstitious connection, it would be at the end of 2001."

He seemed interested in my interpretations, so I kept talking.  I said, "Another great example, but at the opposite end of the spectrum, is Google.  Have you heard of it?"

He had.

I said, "Well, it's just a search engine right?  It was just started up recently by a couple college kids that had a good idea and decided to act on it.  I don't know how they did it, but they made a search-engine that is worlds better than anything else out there.  They saw a need in society and filled it.  I can't tell you how bad the other searches are comparatively, almost worthless."

I told him that I had met the founders once, but that was a bald-faced lie.  He asked me, "What do you play?"

"What do you mean?"

"You said you're a musician."

"Oh right, I don't really play anything for the music I write.  I do techno with sampler/sequencer software on my computer, and I sing."

He asked if I had an email or phone number.  He said, "Maybe I could help you out?"

I thought he was saying this just to get rid of me by making me think he might secretly be a well-meaning person, and not the eccentric recluse everyone thought him to be, and then just never call or write.  I said, "No.  I don't."  I really didn't have a phone number, or internet access to check my email.

He looked at me like I was retarded.  I ignored it and continued, "I actually can play the drums a little bit, and I'm pretty good for what little effort I've put into it.  I could probably just fill in for Danny."

"Yeah, right." he said.

"Ok, yeah.  Maybe someday though?  I may not be able to play his exact rhythms, but I'll bet I could play in time and follow the signature changes."

This was a gross overestimation of my ability.

I said, "I'm probably better suited to be a singer like you.  It's just a lot easier, don't you think?"

He agreed.

I asked if he had ever tried doing anything solo, and he said he did once but thought it was awful.  I said, "You should release every old VHS and crappy recording you've got so people can see how bad you sucked when you first started.  It will inspire people like me who know they suck balls and still keep trying."  I asked him if he was in bands prior to Loot, and he said yes, so I told him to release all of that too, if he still had it.

I then said he should start yet another band called Puscifer.

I said, "You know, like a mix of 'pussy' and 'Lucifer.'  You can have a sexed out devil cat for your logo.  It could also be a play on words like, 'pussy-fur.'  Just stick with the vagina theme and your first album can be, ' _V is for Vagina_ ,' with the hit single _Vagina Mine_.  Come on, that's funny!  And it's interesting on so many different levels.  Then you could have ' _C is for Cunt_ , _T is for_ \--"

He said, "You can't put that on an album."

I said, "Ok, how about _C is for 'Insert Sophomoric Genitalia Reference Here_?'"

I may have laid it on a little thick for him.  He said, "You know that Puscifer was the name of a fictional band, right?"

I said, "What the hell does that even mean?  What's a fictional band?"  I played it off as though I knew nothing about Mr. Show.

He said, "You know, like a fake band name from a book?"

"So you're worried about getting sued because somebody used that name in a book?  And why are you saying it in past tense, as if it no longer exists?"

"Forget it..."

I asked him if he played any instruments.

He said, "Sure."

I said, "Jew's harp doesn't count."

"Then no..."

"I'm going to learn guitar soon.  I know I'm going to be good because all my fingers move independent of each other.  I took lessons when I was a kid, but my hands were too small.  I think I'll be ok now."  I held up my hands to look at them, and moved each finger in sequence.

He asked me, "Have you got a demo?"

I said, "No.  As soon as I make something I actually like, I'll make a demo."

"Well, does your act have a name or what?"

"Not yet, but I was thinking maybe 'Jesus Fucks Angels.'"

He said, "That's an unusable name."

At this point he meandered a few steps away, probably hoping our conversation was over.  I was talking to my absolute favorite singer in the world, someone I looked to as inspiration for my own goals.  I wondered why I'd decided to come across as such a stalker weirdo.  I was in a philosophical mind set, and I wanted to have a conversation of real meaning that he might remember, and interesting enough for me to tell as a story.  He was scanning the horizon and watching the passers-by as I walked up to him again.

I said, "I really do know the future, you know."

He said, "Ok."

I said, "Remember that Google website that I was talking about?  In 10 years, they're going to be one of the biggest companies in the world.  If you are smart you'd invest in Google.  You'll be rewarded for your insight, and they'll be rewarded by consumers that realize they are looking out for society's best interests.  Any company that does so will succeed.  Most companies are just profit machines.  These guys are even going to launch a satellite to give the world a bird's eye view of the whole planet."

He still didn't appear too interested, and I didn't even know where the future talk was coming from.  I didn't think of my previous experiences.

I said, "I didn't read that anywhere, and I don't know why I said it.  Nothing would lead me to believe they have any aspirations to take pictures of Earth from space.  Perhaps somebody has to tell them that before they'll want to do it..."

I stopped and thought for a second, trying to get off this weird tangent I just went off into.  I said, "Listen, I'm not sure what's happening, but I feel like there is a reason for us meeting today, and me talking like this.  I must have something important to say."  Without giving him an opportunity to reply I continued, "Planes are going to fly into buildings, and a lot of people are going to die in the near future."

He said, "What are you talking about?"

I said, "In a few years, hijacked airplanes will fly into buildings somewhere in the U.S."

"The Air Force wouldn't let that happen.  They have resources to counter those kinds of attacks.  They'd just shoot them down."

"You have a lot of faith in our military."

"I did go to West Point."

"Interesting...  I didn't know that.  But I think The Pentagon might even get hit."

He laughed in a manner that I found insulting and said, "Not a chance."

I got angry and yelled, "You just sealed the deal my friend.  Not that what you said is going to cause it to happen, but it forced me to think about it harder, and now I'm sure The Pentagon will be hit by a plane."  As the words left my mouth I was in shock.  I calmed down but kept talking.  I said, "You are absolutely right about the Air Force, but in this instance that will not be the case.  Think about it, are you going to be the one that pulls the trigger on a plane full of passengers because we 'think' they might fly into a building?  That's unprecedented, and we'd have no reason to suspect that as their intention."

He said, 'What even gives you this idea in the first place?"

I said, "Well, think about it.  Hi-jacked airliners are like the most common act of terrorism.  And...you know what?  It just dawned on me, I know exactly why this is going to happen, but you probably won't believe it.  I'm going to tell you anyhow.

"When I was visiting my mom once in Chicago, she took me to Midway for my flight back home.  As we walked up to the security scanners, I remembered she had a large hunting knife in her purse.  She'd forgotten about it, and was oblivious to the safety issue, but I was slightly concerned that she might get in trouble.  I passed through without a problem and waited at the end of the conveyor to get my carry-on.  The security staff were all laughing amongst themselves and carrying on very loudly, so I poked my head around to see the X-ray screen as the blade very slowly, and clear as daylight, scrolled across the screen.  No one but me noticed.  That moment right there is how I know for sure, regardless of whether or not you believe it."

I can't begin to imagine what his thoughts were as he looked at me awkwardly.  He was probably wishing he'd brought a stiletto blade instead of stiletto heels.  It looked like getting away had quickly become a priority.

I said, "I don't know what to tell you man, it's the only thing reasonable I can think of that would back up what I'm saying.  Why I'm here saying any of this to you now, I have no idea.  It's probably that guy that tried to blow up the World Trade Center that sets everything up."

He said, "Osama Bin Laden?"

"Sure.  I don't remember his name, how do you?"

"That's what I remember from the news."

"The truly sad thing is, with clever marketing and theories that play on people's insecurities, the ignorant public will actually believe the U.S. government planned the attack on themselves."

There was a strange pause in our conversation where he just looked at me funny.  I could not fathom why he was still standing there talking to me, or why I no longer made sense to myself even.

I said, "And we're going to have a black U.S. President soon."

He said, "Not gonna happen."

"What are you, racist?"

"No, but most of the country is."

"So there will just never be a black President in The United States?"

"Not in a hundred years."

"Well, I'm here to tell you that you're wrong.  It's only going to be about ten years, in the 2008 race.  And to be specific, he'll be half-black, but that still counts for a civil rights victory as far as I'm concerned."

He had finally reached a breaking point, and angrily said, "Why are you telling me any of this?  What does any of it have to do with me?"

I said, "Typical.  I should have assumed you were self-absorbed.  Why's it got to be about you for you to care?"

He yelled back, "That's not it at all, you are delirious!"

I doubled-back with even more anger, and started yelling, "I don't fucking know, man!  I guess I don't blame you for not believing me, I have no idea what's going on either.  I don't fucking believe in anything.  I'm a die-hard atheist.  I don't believe in ghosts, aliens, monsters, or any other dumbass spiritual-supernatural bullshit, most importantly God.  But I believe in this moment right now, and it bothers me more than it bothers you, trust me.  And for some reason we may never know, you need to believe me right now.  Maybe you should take a fucking step back and re-evaluate what's going on here, and realize you might have something to do with it.  I know we are part of something much bigger and more important than just ourselves, with or without God.  Think about the songs you sing, you were begging for this shit."

He stepped away from me and looked uncomfortable.  When he turned around, he leaned against the railing and looked down to the valley below.

As a joke I brashly said, "So, do you know any half-black politicians?"

He sat there for what seemed like a long time, and slowly turned around and said, "I do."

I said, "Oh yeah?  What's his name?"

He looked scared, and I wondered if my first impression, that he was lying, was wrong.  I thought for sure he was just playing along, and it was now a game for him.

He said, slowly and with resolve, "Barack Hussein Obama."

It almost looked like he was making it up, but his eyes moved to the right indicating that he was trying to remember.  I didn't believe it.

I said, "Hussein?  Like Saddam?  You're joking right?"

"No, I'm serious.  I saw him speak years ago."

"So you're just his number one fan, aren't you?"

"My ex was into politics, I just happen to remember him for some reason."

I yelled, "This is bullshit!  I'm not going to play some stupid mind game with you here.  You aren't going to get rid of me by just stringing me along."

"I don't know what to tell you..."

I turned away and spoke to myself, "Seriously?  God...he sounds like a cross between a terrorist and a ruthless dictator.  I'm having a really hard time believing you here, and furthermore, why are you still talking to me in the first place?  Give me some sort of personal reflection from meeting him to help me believe you."

He said, "I didn't meet him, I just attended his speech.  He joked that even if he wanted to, he couldn't be President because he's black."

I could tell it was a matter of fact by the way he told me.  I put my head in my hands, moaning in mental agony.  I said, "I'm going to give you be benefit of the doubt here and go along with this.  I don't know why, logic usually pervades for me.  But when I apply logic to the illogical situation at hand, what I conclude is that you are supposed to tell him to run for President because I know he can win.  Hillary Clinton was supposed to be President then; she would have beaten John McCain.  I feel bad that neither of them are going to get it now.  McCain is like America's ultimate hero from his time as a POW."

He clearly agreed with me about McCain.

"And Hillary would have meant so much for women's rights.  I loved Primary Colors.  I guess she could run again afterwards.  Blacks have it much worse than women, at least here in America, don't you think?"

"I guess so...  Are you really into political activism or what?"

"Not at all, my aunt gave me that book.  I think I'm just more knowledgeable than your standard human.  Well, I can tell you for sure that if he's not made up, otherwise it's some other different black guy and you are just an asshole, your guy can win.  And because it appears he never intended to run, you will tell him to do so sometime after right now.  When the planes hit, you get in your limo, or your hovercraft, or however it is rock-stars get around, and you find him to personally tell him that God wants him to run for President.  No, that might be too late.  You need to do it before the planes hit, or he might think you're insane."

"He'll think so either way.  Why would I do that?  I don't even know the guy."

"If you do it before the planes hit, he'll only think you're nuts until it happens.  I'm not going to waste my time assuring you that these things will happen, you'll find out soon enough.  You know what?  I'd do this stuff for you, but I'm going to repress this memory for a decade and suffer great mental stress because of it.  You know: _actually going crazy_.  See, people are going to die, and we'll be responsible for not acting whether anybody knows about it or not.  Trust me, any embarrassment you might feel talking about this is dwarfed by the regret of not acting.  Does it really seem that hard for you to contact a public official and make a simple yet profound statement?  Call his office and tell them you want to meet him to make a campaign contribution or something.  You don't even have to actually give him any money; you can be a dick if you want.

"You may not think you are going to do it, but I know you will, even if you only get the gumption after the planes hit.  It's possible he would see the fear in your eyes and know you are for real, especially being that you are a celebrity, and upon observation appear to be of sound mind and body.  Normally I'd be worried some crazy racist might try to assassinate him, but it looks like two rednecks are going to get news coverage for just such an attempt, but they are so inbred and stupid that the public will realize how dumb they themselves would look in doing so.

"But as far as assassination attempts go, I actually do see somebody getting shot in the head, but they survive, and even continue to work in politics.  Finally, a politician with a real excuse: actual brain damage.  God, talk about too soon.  I'm not sure why I thought that would be funny, because it's really going to happen...fuck.

"I can't believe us two ghost white dudes from the Midwest are helping to elect a black President.  We'll be a part of the civil rights movement.  And you're wearing an evening gown."

He looked totally involved just a few moments earlier when he realized he knew who I was talking about, but now that I had asked him to actually do something, it was fleeting.  He looked like he wanted nothing to do with it.  I kept talking anyways.

"The next time you roll through Memphis, take a tour of the National Civil Rights Museum.  When you get to the last room, you'll have a better appreciation for what we're doing here."

"Why don't you just try to stop the planes in the first place?  Or just warn McCain, or whoever ends up President."

"McCain wouldn't believe us, he's too old, and he's been through too much already.  Besides, I only have a rough estimate as to when it will happen.  Nobody would believe me or you, and I'd have nothing to say other than 'Somebody is going to fly planes into buildings somewhere sometime within a few years.'  That's not going to do anybody any good, though you are welcome to try.  I've already resigned to the fact that there is nothing we can do to save them.  And in all likelihood, by saying something about it beforehand, we'll get blamed somehow.  Like it's our fault for giving them the idea..."

He looked visibly shaken, hung his head, and said, "Why couldn't you have found Gregg, he's into this kind of shit."

I said, "Who's Gregg?"

He said, "Neil Hamburger.  He's a comedian.  Ever heard of him?"

I said, "Nope.  Is he a friend of yours?"

He said, "Yeah.  Do you have any idea where is all this coming from?"

I said, "I'm not sure.  I've always thought time travel was possible, and since time is linear you could only go into the future but not back.  For example, cryogenically freezing somebody and then reviving them a few years later, or when you travel at high speeds, time is slower for you than stationary objects.  But I don't think time and space can get warped like people are hoping.  You can't bend time without breaking it.  But this...this just doesn't make any sense to me at all."

I reflected for a moment, and flashed back to meeting Helmsy.

I said, "Oh man, I think I know what's going on.  In my freshman year of high school, by chance I ran into this girl who had already graduated.  We talked for a few minutes before my class.  She seemed to like me, but when I told her I didn't believe in anything spiritual like God or ghosts, she balked.  So I tried to play along and asked her if I could hold her hand to see if I felt anything 'spiritual.'  I was just fucking around, but I saw what I thought was my life flash before my eyes.  Not just the parts that already happened, but all the way to the end.  I pretty much forgot about it and can't remember what I saw if I try, but I think it's because of that moment that I can tell what's going to happen in the future."

"Do you actually see it?"

"No, I just have a thought, and after I say out loud it I know it's true.  I know it's real because my hairs stand up every time I do it.  I've always thought I had a better grasp of what is real and what is not than anybody I've ever met, but this just throws me for a loop.  Say, I just realized we have a bigger problem."

"What?"

"Well, when I met her I also said that I was going to write a book about nuclear weapons.  I'm pretty sure nuclear bombs are going to go off.  I've been thinking about it for years now really, just in following the news."

I felt a rush of emotions flow through me and I started acting even more erratic.  I said, "All of this fits together.  At the end of the Mayan calendar, everyone's expecting this great rebirth and cleansing, but it's _just not going to happen_.  God won't rain hellfire and damnation upon the sinners, and aliens aren't going to come down and harvest our organs.  So humanity will try to make _something_ happen with explosives."

He said, "That date is a major celestial event marking Saturn's ascension.  A lot of people think there will be some kind of natural disaster."

"Oh God, you don't believe in aliens, do you?"

"Of course."

"Ok, I mean that they visit sometimes and do extensive probing."

"I believe it's possible they've been here before."

"You need to take all that other nonsense that people believe and toss it aside.  It's all imaginary.  But what's happening with us right now is real.

"The mystical voodoo associated with the end of the Mayan calendar is bullshit.  The planets and stars were used to calculate time.  That date just marks the end of a calendar, that's it, a restart.  I seriously doubt any of that planetary movement is going to affect gravitational fields or cause a polar shift like some theories I've heard about.

"As far as space is concerned, I am a bit worried about asteroids though.  There's one that's going to come close in like 2020-something, and then back around a few years later.  There's a possibility that it might collide with earth the second time around.  There's going to be a lot of them, because we're only now starting to notice with new technology.  We need to make sure that we don't try to blow them up or change their trajectories with rockets unless we're absolutely certain one will impact, otherwise we're liable to actually cause an impact where we might have been fine otherwise.  I really don't think trying to blow them up is a good idea at all, but I don't know.  I'm not a rocket scientist.

"But if anything happens on December 22nd, or whatever day it actually is..."

He said a date, but I don't remember which.

I said, "I've heard different days from alternate ways of calculating it, and it's anywhere from the 18th to the 22nd from what I remember.  It doesn't matter, because what I'm talking about could be on that day, or any of those days, but it will probably be right afterwards.  I feel like that day symbolizes something other than what we think, like we should have figured it out by then.  Everybody is just putting up with status quo because we think something's going to fix it for us, but it's ours to fix.  People will go mental.  My guess is nothing happens that day, and many people of the world will be disappointed that everybody with the 'wrong' religions wasn't vaporized.  Some people out there will be so disappointed that they'll be willing to try and do it themselves.  If not on that day then soon afterward, there will be a nuclear terrorist attack, probably in Israel, and maybe even in the United States, or both.  My God, Jewish people have the worst luck."

Not that any of the early parts of our conversation made much sense, but by now I had become the conductor of the bat-shit crazy train.  Amandry continued to engage me, apparently unshaken by my utter insanity.

He asked, "So who is planning this?"

I said, "I don't know, but it can't be Obama-"

He cut me off and said, "Osama."

I cursed at myself, "God damn it, I can't even tell them apart!  The _President_ is going to get the _airplane terrorist_ while he's hiding in Pakistan.  Perhaps we should remember that and tell somebody?  My gut tells me it's Iran that wants to nuke Israel the most, but I don't know for sure.  Everybody thinks all these wars are about oil and resources, but really it's all about religion.  If you want to break it down further, there is a finite amount of space on this earth, and we're really fighting for as much room as possible for our particular culture to thrive.  It always has been and will continue unless we change.  Discrimination is a worldwide epidemic.  Oh God, I know what's supposed to happen, and I know why I'm saying this stuff."

"What?"

"Not only do you tell him to run for President, you also have to warn him about the impending nuclear attack.  That's the real reason for asking him to run in the first place.  Have him get the head of the committee for nuclear dis-armament, or whatever it's called, to be his running mate so he's got some informed people backing him up.  But you can't tell them about me.  Well, you can mention me, but I'm going to fade away into oblivion so I don't get erased by the CIA or probed by some scientist in a lab."

I'm a pretty animated speaker to begin with, but now I was on adrenal overdrive, and a few clusters of people watching me had gathered in the area.  One of them walked up to us, and he'd obviously recognized Amandry because he started asking him for his autograph.

He didn't get a chance to finish speaking before I cut him off by yelling loudly, "I'm sorry, do you know this person?  Because I know that you don't!  If you thought you did, you were mistaken, and he doesn't want to talk to you."

The guy got really upset, and was obviously anxious even before I went psycho on him.  He looked like a rattling kettle.  He said, "Why don't you let him decide for himself."  He was speaking of Amandry of course.

I said to him "By all means," and then to Amandry, "Do you want to talk to this guy?"

He replied sheepishly, "I don't know?"

I said, "Come on man, what's the honest answer to that question?"

He said, "Not really, I guess."

I turned to the other guy and said, "And that's the sad truth.  Sorry bud."

I don't remember if he walked away by his own accord or if I beleaguered him with threats and intimidation until finally scaring him away.  I was acting violently angry towards the poor guy from the get go, with very little reasoning for doing so.  To onlookers it might have appeared as though I was having a manic episode, and in fact my entire conversation probably looked as such.  He went back to talk to a couple of his friends that were veering at us as they spoke.

I said, "I know that was harsh.  Normally I'd say you ought to lighten up with the eccentric weirdo bit and open up to the world.  Go fuck some celebrities and get your picture taken.  But most importantly, keep making yourself available to your fans, just like this.  Actually, I can think of safer and more effective ways.  On a different day I would say you should have signed his shit.  I think what you are doing out here in that outfit is hilarious, and I hope you reach out in any manner, but what's happening with me right now is more important.

"So here's what's going to go down.  Planes fly into buildings.  What does 9-1-1 have to do with this?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

I continued, "I think that means it's the biggest emergency ever, and emergency service breaks or something.  Then we waste a shit-ton of money on beefing up airport security instead of the new, real threat which is at the next level, like nuclear.  We'll invade some countries in the Middle East that are arbitrary to the threat at hand.

"Something about swine, I'm not sure what exactly..."

He asked, "What?"

"You know, pigs.  Who knows man, it can't be that important."  I joked, "Or maybe it's Legion from the Bible."

I continued my rant, "The economy is going to take a dump, and we'll act as though it's the worst it could possibly be.

"Several of the Detroit auto companies might tank."

He looked at me like, "Who cares about that?"

I said, "Hey, I'm from Kingsford, home of a Model-T plant, so I love cars.  Give me a break, Motown is awesome.  Oooh, I'm going to have a white BMW M3!"

I was excited about this possibility, because that was my dream ride.

He said, "You love the motor city but will drive a BMW?"

"BMW's are really good cars because they don't make anything else, just cars."

"They make motorcycles."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that.  Cars and motorcycles are basically the same thing, right?"

"And they made prop engines for the Nazi war machine."

"You're killing my dream man, I just want a BMW.  Why is mine a 4-door automatic though?  I must have kids or something...

"So when your guy is president, the economy will be at rock bottom.  He needs to do something.  I don't know what.  Tell him to get the foremost expert on the great depression and do whatever he says.  If they don't act, that's where we're headed, and he'll be blamed for inaction.  Because this situation is so dire, I doubt it can be 'fixed' so to speak, he's merely going to save us from hellish economic suffering.  People won't realize how bad it would have been if nothing was done.

"And there's going to be a massive oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico, the biggest ever in the world.  When that happens, we need to make the oil companies clean it up and keep the government out of it.  I know hydrocarbons leak out of the floor of the ocean all the time, and it's not the end of the world people will make it out to be.

"Let's see, Michael Jackson is going to die right around age 50."

Amandry looked a little disappointed, and concerned.

I said, "What's the big deal?"

He said, "That's not too far off for me."

I said, "He's a frail little twig of a human, you'll be fine.  Do you want to know when...you know?"

He said, "God no!  Are you kidding me?"

I said, "Ok, no, sorry, that's a terrible idea.  Don't worry, I don't know anyhow, but I bet I would have figured it out if I tried.  Who knows, maybe I die before you?  I don't want to know either.  But Jackson is toast, and good riddance."

He looked uncomfortable once more, so I asked, "What are you, president of his fan club?

He defended him by saying, "He's one of the greatest performers that ever lived."

"I just don't see how you can turn a blind eye to pedophilia."

"I'm not, I just think it's possible people are trying to extort his money."

"No dude, that guy is a baby toucher and needs to die, the sooner the better.  I can see it in his eyes.  He'll do an interview _with kids_ years from now, and you'll see it too.  Child sexual abuse is rampant, and that's just what we're aware of.  I know that it happens _far_ more often than we are aware of because nobody wants to talk about it.  You've got experience with that right?"

"Yeah, how about you?"

"My uncle put his thumb in my ass when I was 4."

"At least that's what you think."

I stopped for a second, and something clicked.  I said, "Jesus, you are right.  My mind fabricated that story to present to you something that didn't actually happen in order to mask my psyche from what really happened, which was a brutal rape.  Holy shit."

What he meant as a joke had actually spurred the real memory that I kept buried.  I just kept blocking out memories that I didn't want to think about, and replaced them with something that sounded funny.  I chose to reject reality and substitute my own.  He thought I was fabricating the story, or just trying to make him feel bad.  I reiterated the factuality of my statement but buried the thought as quickly as it appeared.

I said, "It's an epidemic man, and I can't imagine it's any better in other countries.  People are obsessed with sex around the world.  And the children suffer because of it.  But America?  We're like the sport fucking champions of the universe.

"Case in point, there's going to be a singer named Baby Goo-Goo, wait, that doesn't sound right, Baby Gaga maybe?"

He said, "That would make more sense, like _Radio Ga Ga_."

"What's that?"

"The Queen song."

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that one.  It's not really one of my favorites.  But wait a minute, he says goo-goo in it too, right?"

"But it's called _Radio Ga Ga_.  And 'gaga' means something, goo-goo is baby talk."

"The girl's name doesn't really matter, because there will be a plethora of other teeny pop sensations selling sex to kids.  I'm not saying these manufactured celebrities aren't talented, it's just that nobody gives a shit about real art any more.  And in this age of information technology, nothing goes unnoticed.  It's not that people can't find it; it's that they don't care for it.  We're more concerned with the personal lives of celebrities than their actual performances.  And the people they pander to are just as vapid and empty.

"So the news sells this garbage as facts when it's really just an advertisement for itself.  Do you know who has the best news program on television right now?"  I didn't wait for him to answer and continued to ramble, "Jon Stewart.  Reality has gotten so twisted that the best source for real information is a parody news show on a comedy channel.  The guy is brilliant, and also the writers.  They just get it.

"And there's another guy on that show, one of the correspondents that does a deadpan fake Republican.  They really ought to expand their programming and give that guy his own show.  It could be like the opposite of The Daily Show, which clearly has a liberal bias, just by spouting the real beliefs of extreme right wing conservatives.  They'll hardly have to write anything.  What's great about it is that they will still be playing to liberals, but the moderate Republicans with a sense of humor will realize the irony.  I'm serious man; if The Daily Show gets cancelled the entire world will suffer.  You have no idea how important it really is.  And the other show would only benefit us even more.

"But instead, the majority of people will continue to listen to jackasses like Rush Limbaugh.  He's racist and sexist in my opinion.  He's going to try to buy a football team, but he'll fail, just like everything else in life.  Being a bigot is all he'll be remembered for after he's gone."  I laughed.

"I'm pretty conservative, but I think he's pompous."

"So you're Republican?"

He pointed out the best parts of the Republican Party: fiscal responsibility, limited government, and free enterprise.

I said, "I guess any idiot should see the best answer is always going to be a mix of the two.  Neither one can be right about everything.  And there is no right answer, there's only varying degrees of wrong.  I don't know where I stand.  But I do feel like the government is caught up in its own red tape.

"There will be a new political party soon called The Tea Party."  This made me think of the Canadian band with the same moniker.  "You know, like the Boston Tea Party?  They will represent the original freedoms set forth by the founding fathers after revolting against the British.  The most important and interesting part about this party is that it will not have a leader, and decisions within the party will be made via democratic consensus.

"And there is some other radio guy named Glenn who's going to be a part of this somehow."

Amandry claimed to have listened to a guy in Florida named Glenn that did a radio program.  I didn't really believe him.  After all the things I'd been saying, I was sure he probably didn't believe me anymore, but must have found me entertaining.  I wouldn't have believed him if our roles were reversed.  But just in case, I figured I better take him at his word.

I said, "Call him up and let him know what's going on so we can have somebody else in the mix.  Let's have a Tea Party!"

He said, "Doesn't that contradict the whole black President thing?  He's a liberal you know, I just assumed you realized."

I said, "Aw hell, let's let them duke it out and see what happens.  We can't lose if we're playing both sides."

It seemed like he didn't want anything to do with me again.  I just kept going and going for so long he must have thought I was a total flake.

"You could do it as an anonymous caller on the air if they take listener calls."

He was quiet.

I said, "You're not going to do anything I've asked, are you?"

He said, "I don't know."

"Even if it's just one nuclear bomb, it's worth trying to stop.  That could be like a million people dead."

"I'm pretty sure they are not that deadly, even in a highly populated area.  I've heard estimates of around 100,000 casualties for a nuclear bomb."

"Are you considering the radioactive after-effects?  What's your cut-off point for how many people need to die before it's worth it?  I don't even know how many bombs will go off, it could be anywhere from one to global thermonuclear war.  I'll tell you what, if only one plane flies into a building, there will only be one nuke that goes off.  If more than one plane is hijacked, there will be multiple detonations going off at multiple locations, and so many more people will die than you think.  I know that sounds like a stupid way to calculate it, but I said it so it must be real."

I noticed Amandry was now looking over my shoulder, so I turned around to see what he was looking at.  I saw some kid frozen in mid-step looking at us out of the corner of his eye.  I knew he must have heard me talking, so I said to him, "Why are you listening to us?  That's right, people are going to die, now get out of here!  You are no longer welcome at this concert.  Go home."

He looked really frightened as he walked away, and I wondered why he would take anything I was saying seriously.

I asked Amandry, "Did it look like he was on something to you to?"

He said, "No.  Why are you such a jerk?"

"I don't know.  I'm not usually like this.  I think I wanted him to remember what an ass I was instead of what he heard me talking about.  I'm worried he might lapse into some psychosis from what I said.  I can't be worried about one person though; I need to focus on the whole of humanity.  Speaking of which, people don't value their lives as much as they should.  It should be mandated that everybody has access to medical care.  We're almost like a class society where the only the rich can afford to stay alive.  You should tell our future President to make sure everyone gets health care.  I don't know how, but it has to be done.  Whether they realize it or not, this life is the only one we get."

He'd given up even speaking replies by now, and merely shrugged off what I was saying.

I said, "Listen, I don't like the idea of government handouts either, but we've got a nation of people that don't realize the value of their own being.  I'm not even sure if I like the idea of medicine at all.  I'm pretty sure it's just making our species weaker, and sicker long term.  We're devolving.  But where's the compassion in letting people die?"  I felt this was tantamount to what was said about it years later:b " _This is a big fucking deal_."

I just kept going, nothing could stop me now.  I said, "Ok, so we're going to need as many people we can to carry this story.  Celebrities, though.  Nobody will give a shit otherwise.

"You got any famous friends, especially ones that might be interested in stuff like this?"

"Danny Lohner."

"Who's that?"

"From Nine Inch Nails."

"Oh, ok.  That's awesome.  Let's be careful though, don't tell anybody whose psyche might not be able to handle it.  And I was thinking maybe people that are a little better known.  You know any movie stars?"

"Not really"

"Well then, you need to make some friends.  Get the guy that did Independence Day to make a movie about an apocalyptic future 2012, and make sure he puts a book in it that symbolizes my book.  The stories don't even have to correlate, just make it epic, and with a book."

"Roland Emmerich?"

"I know he's not exactly making art films, but I'm looking for mass appeal.  You know who's always seemed like the perfect person to me?  Milla Jovovich.  I guess I'm just basing that mostly by her appearance, and because of _The Fifth Element_."

"She's also a singer."

"Really?  I didn't know that, but that's perfect!  Speaking of actor musicians, you should do something with 30 Seconds to Mars.  It will give them instant credibility where otherwise they might never be taken seriously." _Pro-tip: even at the speed of light, it would take over 3 minutes to get to Mars at its closest to Earth._   It wasn't until January of 2012 that I heard _Edge of The Earth_ for the first time, and it's practically my theme song now.

He said, "Me singing a song with them would barely be noticed."

I said, "You should consider doing some acting yourself.  Have you ever tried it?"

"I've done some comedy, but I'm not that great."

"You are out here in full drag; this is high pressure acting at its hardest."

"You caught on right away."

"Yeah, but I'm fucking psychic!  You need to broaden your appeal to the widest possible set.  We need to be renaissance men.  And let people know it!  Do a documentary on your wine making endeavors, and you can call it Blood Into Wine, like a reverse Jesus.  No acting involved in a documentary."

I didn't really think he was a good actor, but I knew the more people that saw him, especially as an actor since that's essentially a performance of lies, the more likely they would realize he's full of shit if he tried to deny my story.

I said, "You ever do any covers?"

He answered, "Once and a while."

"Well, why don't you cover John Lennon's _Imagine_.  That song has the best message to humanity ever written, period.  In fact, why don't you do an entire cover album with songs that talk about bombs and war?  But you can't have _Silent Running_ by Mike & The Mechanics, because I think I'd sing it better than you.  I'll do that one."

"I don't usually do themes, or anything political."

I said, "Fuck it then, write some country songs.  I'm sure they'd be better than the garbage Nashville puts out.  How about doing some gangsta rap?"

He laughed.

I said, "I just remembered something else.  There's this white rapper that I had a very similar conversation with.  I told him the future, but it was only stuff regarding him."  When I said his rapper name, Amandry claimed to have heard of him, which I thought was another ruse because I'd never heard anything of him since living near Detroit.

He said, "That guy?"

I said, "Yeah, he's from Michigan.  I told him I was going to write a book about nuclear bombs."

"I seriously doubt he remembers you."

"I don't know, but I'm pretty sure he'll remember me.  After all, I told him all about his future musical success and how he could get there."

He rolled his eyes.

I said, "Listen man, I even told him you were somehow involved with my book.  This was like 4 years ago."

"Bullshit."

"Maybe not by name, but as the lead singer for Loot.  If you want some verification before people start dying, find him and ask for yourself.  I guarantee he remembers.  He may not remember the book part or me mentioning you, but he'll remember me telling his future.  This is cool; I'm getting all the prime demographics.

"You know who else I really love?  Modest Mouse, but I'm a little worried about the singer.  I can tell he's more than just a little depressed by his lyrics.  I want him to know there's something else out there, like I now know.  I just feel like I have a connection with his songs, and there is little hope in his desperation.  I have hope now, and I want him to have it too.  You should tell him about me, in fact, try to connect me to him somehow."

I came up with a rough idea for how to do so, but I don't remember it all too clearly.  It basically amounted to a fake story about me stalking the band, and them liking my music after I played it for them.  The story can be found elsewhere; I've read it, and it's pretty strange.  Everyone should hear _The Lonesome Crowded West_ at least once.

I said, "I'm happy to say Trent Reznor seems to do well.  He's going to marry a beautiful Middle Eastern girl.  That's ironic given the whole bomb situation, right?  He's another childhood inspiration for me, and Nine Inch Nails was my favorite band for years."

"He's not really a friend, but like I said, Danny is."

"Well, you should reach out to Trent.  Do some music with him or something, I'm sure it would turn out awesome!  Get the singer from Pantera too, so it ends up really hard."

"This is just ridiculous man."

"If you guys can't work it out to sound good, just lock up the tapes for decades.  I'll mix them.  We can call it Tapeworm, because I'm so skinny I look like I have one slithering around my insides.  Or maybe because I'll just die and the tapes just rot until radioactive worms devour them.  You know what?  I can tell this isn't going to work because I'm never going to get the tapes, unless you give them to me.  Put the sound recordings online somewhere but protected, and I'll try to find them and hack my way in.

"I have another idea!  For his wedding, you should re-record one of the songs that you worked on with him as a gift.  That's a very personal and meaningful gift.  What better way to win his friendship.  I honestly don't know what the fuck I'm talking about right now."

"You're getting way too involved here."

"Incubus is another band I really like.  That would be a great tour lineup, you guys and them."

"No way."

"Well, I know you are going to at least play a festival with them because I'm going to be there, and they are the act before you."

"That's different."

"Whatever the singer guy's name is, he's got interesting enough lyrics that make me think he might be curious about this.  Maybe I'll go scare the shit out of him too.  I get the feeling he'll follow in your footsteps."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I don't know, maybe when you die he'll sing in your absence."

"We've already decided that if any of us dies, the band is finished for good, no exceptions."

"That's actually very sensible.  Maybe he'll do a tribute tour or a cover album.

"Who else can we get to work with you?  There's this British girl who's the same age as me that's going to play in a band with you, but you have to find her first."

"What's her name?"

"I don't know, just go listen to every teenage female musician from England, and you'll be able to tell who I'm talking about.  She's already playing out right now.  Don't wait to find her, you've got to start looking right away, otherwise something bad might happen to her."

He looked at me with morbid curiosity.

I said, "I can't tell what anymore, because you are going to get her to move away from there.  She lives in a crappy neighborhood, and that's the danger.  Apparently there are ghettos in England, I just never thought of it that way.  I always just imagined douche-bags in curly gray wigs sipping tea.  None of that matters because you are going to bring her here, well, to L.A.

"She's dark haired and beautiful, and we'd be a perfect match.  But I'm going to be married to a woman who doesn't believe any of this, and I'll struggle for years to get her to believe me without providing proof.  I could just tell her these things in advance, but I'm not going to remember any of it until it actually happens, or I'll just screw up my memories.  The real issue is that I need someone who'd believe me without proof out of pure love and trust.  So we'll probably get divorced, and I'll want the British girl.  Whatever the case, I have to lead by example and be ok with whatever happens, divorce or not.

"If I can convince my wife I'm a prophet, I can convince the whole world.  If I can't convince her, nobody is going to give me a second thought.  Just make sure the Brit stays away from me; otherwise I won't want to get back with my wife when she realizes I'm not loony.  I think I'd rather do that.  I suppose you could distract me from this whole endeavor if you try to hook me up with her in advance of any of this stuff happening.  Or maybe you should have sex with her so I won't want to later on."

"That's way too young for me."

"Now that I think about it, I'm not sure I'd even be bothered by that.  That might even be like a bonus.

"All of this is ridiculous, and nobody's going to believe any of it.  You know there's a mental illness people have where they make up stories about knowing celebrities?"

I got really upset and grabbed him by his shoulders.  This aggravated him, so I said, "You want to hit me?  Go ahead, I don't fucking care.  I don't care if the world burns to ash; I just know I need to try something, otherwise I'll feel awful."  I was shaking him.

He said, "You're making it difficult to stay balanced."

I forgot he was wearing heels.  I didn't let go, but stopped with the shaking and said, "I'm sorry, but I don't think you realize how important this is."  I was on the verge of crying.  "Man, I need you to feel me, and believe me.  I'm going to make this right somehow.  I'll be honest; I was lying to you earlier about some of the stuff I said, like moving to Arizona and the band members I suggested you work with.  All of that was from an article I read in some paper.  But I know everything I've said by my own accord or otherwise is going to happen.  I'm sorry, I truly am.  I don't want to bring this upon you, but I had to.  Are you going to remember any of this?"  I let go and stepped back.

"I'm pretty bad with short term."

"Don't worry, you may not remember it now, but as things happen, you'll be reminded.  You'll have dreams about it.  Don't ever doubt your memories, because it's going to seem like I said too many things for it to be real.  We've only been standing here for what, 15 minutes right?  But think about how fast I've been talking.  Write down what you can remember now to be extra scared later on.  But at bare minimum, you need to take with you that planes will fly into buildings, there'll be a black President you'll tell to run for office, and how you need to warn him about nuclear terrorism.  If you do everything I asked, like the band names and stupid song ideas, the other meaningless stuff I said, you'll keep me sane, and be known as a hero until the end of time.  It'll also probably keep me from trying to murder you.  If I think you don't care or you've forgotten, I might go off the deep end."

"I don't have a pen."

I said, "Typical.  I'm pretty sure you can find a pen somewhere.  How about this," and then sang, " _But I forgot my pen.   Shit the bed again_."  He didn't look too impressed.  I said, "You should write a whole song about meeting me, like I said earlier.  Make it like a cross between an acid trip and an alien encounter.  You may not feel it now, but that's what today is going to seem like in hindsight.  You can call it _Rosetta Stoned_.  Get it, because I'm so high?"

He asked, "You're high right now?"

"My friend and I smoked like 3 joints on the way up here.  Marijuana is great.  In fact, while we're at it, we should try to legalize it."

He was not against Marijuana, though not a smoker himself, but definitely not interested in my idea.

I said, "Just you watch, it will be legal here in Colorado soon enough.  I may not have anything to do with it, but it's going to happen.  It starts with medical, just like California, but we'll be the first with state-wide legalization for recreational use.  I'll try to say something to the people spearheading the campaign, maybe like a pep talk or something.  God wants it legal!"

"Why do you keep looking up to the sky?"

"I don't know.  Isn't that where messages from God come?  I say God but I can't stress 'His' benevolence enough.  A better description would be something we don't understand, and maybe never will fully.

"You should keep a log of everything that happens that you can remember me saying here first.  Publish a book like me!  You're an amazing lyricist, but have you tried prose?"

"I hate it."

"It doesn't even have to be a book, just write a short recap at least, and publish it only after you die.  But deny, deny, deny while you're alive.  We don't want some whack-job stalking us.  Let's face it, anyone who'll believe this has to be unstable to begin with.  But we need to validate it somehow.  If our stories corroborate, it's at least some kind of evidence, even if only anecdotal.  I can publish under a fake name like Prankster Atom."  I stopped for a second, and realized that was a perfect anagram for my real name.

"Oh man, I just got a reality check to remind me what's happening here is real.  That's an anagram for my name, and I'm not smart enough to come up with an anagram that quickly.  I have to be getting this somehow, not creating it.  I'm not supposed to figure that out until later on."

"The human mind is powerful.  You are totally capable of coming up with that on the fly.  People do it all the time."

I said, "I guess so, but every time I've played with anagrams I have to write it all down and work them out slowly.  And I can tell the title of my first book will be An Incomplete Boo, and my wife will think she picked the name.  I'll just wait for her to suggest it, but I've already said it here, now.  So who really came up with it?  This doesn't make any sense.

"That book is going to be rubbish anyways because I write it in an attempt to make everyone think I actually am crazy.  That in itself is crazy.  Why don't I just tell everyone the truth in advance?"

"You might already be losing it..."

"You may be right, but now I know why I'm hiding.  I don't want to get blamed for everything that happens.  So I'll publish my second book, which will be much better, just before the possible nuclear attack.  I'm giving up on every calamitous thing I've said but that one, because it's the worst of the lot by far.  People will revere my books, almost like a Bible, but not until many years after it is published.  I'm going to live my life as a form of art.

"I'm just going to be straight up with you man, I was sent here from a distant place."

"Where?"

"I'm an alien."

"Really?"

"No, I just really want you to believe in me.  But now I'm confusing things even more.  I'm exactly the same as you and everybody else on this planet.  There is nothing that makes me any different.  But, I will acknowledge that I used to sit on my bed and meditatively try to beam out into the vastness of space that if something else was out there, it must realize how wildly off-base all of our interpretations are, and I gladly offered my services as a conduit.

"I think we need to take these current prophets off of their pedestals, or at least stop taking everything so literally.  Yes, they are amazing and had a deep connection with the universe, but they are not the be all and end all.  The basic tenets of all the major religions are good, and I agree with the beliefs of the Christian faith.  But life changes and our understanding develops.

"I'm pretty sure there had to be a mistranslation somewhere down the line.  The Bible is just stories that give an outdated explanation for something that is real, but beyond explanation.  We are as eternal as the everlasting universe, but it is illusory.  When you die, you are finished as an individual, but we are still together as one.  People need to grasp the mathematical concept that the infinite universe which makes up everything is all just one thing in and of itself, and we are all connected and a part of it.

"We can search to find this root of this one thing, but we'll never find it.  We can break everything down into 2 or more possibilities to decide which is a better description, and move on to try to solve the next level of the puzzle, but we can never have the one definitive answer to everything, like a unified field theory.  It's elusive.  The best we can do is to see our place in the puzzle."

I was positively wired, bouncing around, and flailing my arms around while I talked.

I said, "This is stuff I don't even know yet, I'm only 19.  I swear my life is just like _Slaughterhouse Five_."

He said he hadn't read it.

I said, "They made a movie, and it was interesting for being so old, but I haven't actually read the book myself.  Vonnegut is probably my favorite writer though."

I started talking about numerology and something about 11 being heaven, and 12 being hell.  I still don't know what I meant by that.

I said, "Nostradamus doesn't have shit on me, I'm giving you very specific things here.  Everybody else who's claimed to do this before me is lying.  Total bullshit, any seemingly true predictions they made are purely coincidences.  And I've got so much more to share from up here." pointing to my head.

I continued, "These nuclear bombs are just the first big problem.  After that I feel heat.  The world is getting hotter, and it's going to be a much faster change than scientists are expecting.  The polar ice caps are going to start melting, and if we don't change something they're just going to be gone after a while, and the polar bears will be toast sooner than later.  The heat will surprisingly trigger a colossal ice age afterwards, but now I'm talking way off in the distant future.

"If the polar bears perish, we're soon to follow.  You should do a song for the polar bears.  I just think they are cool animals...I guess they are also literally cool."

He said, "Polar bears are amazing animals..."

I said, "I'll try to spark some concern online with message boards and chat rooms."

Everyone in the area was staring at us.

I said, "Man, it's going to be 10 years or more, probably 12 before we meet again, and I'm going to be wearing this same shirt."

"We don't have to be like that..."

I cut him off and contended, "So if I try to talk to you again, you'll be fine with it?"

"Sure."

"I think it's for the better that we keep a distance for a while, trust me.  I'm going to be fucked in the head for a long time, and I worry I might try to hurt you if we don't wait.  I'm serious, I don't know what this is going to do to me.  I might just walk up to you and blow your brains out or something because I've gone mad.  Just wait, and I'll come find you in a decade or so."

Mike walked up to us, so we went silent.  Amandry started looking around at the people that were watching us.  Mike, said, "Hey, what's going on?"

I said, "Hey, I was just talking to this, uh, person...what's your name again?"

Amandry paused for just a second too long, and then answered, "Harry Merkin."

I said, "Harry?  I thought you might go with something more like Chocolate Thunder Pussy."

I said to Mike, "I just figured you might like to meet him, he's a pretty important person.  A true _showman_..." and made odd gestures and did a little dance, trying to convey who we were speaking to without giving it away.

Mike looked at me like I might have a head injury, and asked, "Why is everybody watching us?"

I said loudly, "Did you not just see that dancing?  Besides, this sexy transvestite is standing by us."  I then turned to Amandry, who had taken a few steps away to the railing again, and said, "I think your cover's blown buddy."  He looked around apprehensively, and it appeared to me that there were a bunch of people just hovering around watching him.

I took it upon myself to yell, "And no, I will not have sex with you for money!"  He looked at me, clearly embarrassed and wondering why the fuck I'd done it, and slowly started backing towards the exit.  I gestured to him with my hands, and spoke to him quietly as Mike and I walked up the stairs, "Write it down."

Mike must have thought I'd lost it.  The first thing he asked was, "What was that all about?"

I said, "Dude, that was the singer."

He said, "No it wasn't.  And even if it was, why would you say something like that?"

I gushed, "Can you believe it?  The whole time you were gone I was talking to him."

He said, "That was just some cross-dresser."

I looked away from him and said, "You'll see when he comes out on stage."

He handed me a yellow bracelet, so I excitedly asked him, "What is this for?"

"It's a handicapped bracelet." he said.

"But we're not handicapped." I said.

He said, "It doesn't matter.  My friend said they do this all the time.  With these we should be able to sit front row."

"Are you fucking kidding me?  Oh my God.  Thank you.  How did you pull this off?" I asked him in wonder.

He answered, "All I did was ask for a favor."

I was ecstatic.

I walked around for a bit to check out the crowd.

I ran into both of the guys that interrupted my rant with Amandry.  I apologized to the first, and explained that I was trying to keep Amandry outside with the crowd after I'd found him out because he didn't like signing autographs or being bothered by overzealous fans.  He was still upset at first, but calmed down and mistook my bullshit as factual.

The second guy saw me as he was making his way back up the stairs to his seat, and he made great efforts to avoid me by averting his direction.

I said, "Hey man, I'm really sorry about that earlier.  You are obviously welcome to stay.  I went a little crazy back there."

He said, "Is there a bomb here?"  I realized he only had a vague idea of what I had been talking about.

I was relieved and said, "No!  Not at all.  I'm sorry if I gave you that impression.  I was talking about something from a totally different time, so just forget about it.  That guy in the dress was the lead singer for Loot though!"

"Really?"

"Yeah.  Isn't that awesome?"

He said he was there to see the Melvins.

We talked for a little bit, and he told me he was from Massachusetts, into graphic design, and taking classes at Oxford.  I was immediately impressed.

I said, "Well, you're probably going to end up using that degree for internet businesses.  The future of commerce is online."

He said, "That's what they tell us."

I said, "You know, I've got this idea for you.  Who's to say you wouldn't have come up with it on your own, but here goes anyway.  People are going to go nuts for social websites where everybody shares their pictures and stories and stuff.  There's going to be a big one called Faceplace, or something with 'face' in it.  I think it should be Facebook because 'book' gives it a sense of realism, like an autobiography.  Anyway, when that comes out and gets big, you need to start your own, but it will be a little different.  You must limit the number of characters per message to 140 characters, or whatever the maximum allowed text message length is.  You know what I'm talking about, right, those pagers with the keyboards?"

He said, "Yeah."

"I think it's actually 160 characters, but you might want to send some extra information like the username or something in those leftover 20 characters.  Well, everybody's phone is going to have that text feature included in the very near future.  And we'll prefer to use that than actually speak to people because we're turning into vapid, empty shells of human beings.  Anyhow, this makes your site perfectly suited to post messages and keep up to date when you are out on the town.  I've even got a name idea, Twitter.  The birds in the tree gave me the idea.  Say, you're probably a Celtics fan, right?  You can make a bird as your logo, and call him 'Larry' bird."

He said he thought it was interesting, and that he had a close friend who was really into software engineering.

"It may only be for celebrities and rich people that can afford those kinds of phones for a while, but everybody will have one soon enough."

I don't know if he was placating me out of concern for my mental state, but he seemed like a cool guy, and about the same age.

"This idea is yours man, I'm giving it to you.  I'll never do anything with it, and I don't expect anything in return, except for one thing.  When the time comes, you need to acknowledge that this moment took place.  That's all I'll ever ask of you.

I hope it works out, just don't turn out to be some corporate, money sucking douche-bag, ok?"

He promised he wouldn't.

I asked, "What's your name, man?"

After he told me I said, "I'm never going to remember that.  Have you got a nickname?"

"Biz."

"Perfect!  That's easy to remember, and aptly suited.  How did that come about?"

He was too embarrassed to say it.

I implored him by suggesting he be more assertive and self-confident.  He explained it was from a mispronunciation he made in saying his own name as a small child.

We shook hands and said goodbye, and then I finally made my way to my seat.  The handicapped section was a large roped off area that encompassed the first three rows of house right.

It was gorgeous outside, and less than half the seats had filled by the time the opening act, the Melvins, took the stage.  I had only heard of them.  I was pretty disappointed, as were the rest of the audience.  This became evident about half-way into the set when the water bottles started raining down on stage.

At some point around this time I noticed a cute blonde girl sitting next to me on the other side of the yellow dividing rope.  I introduced myself and we shared our mutual distaste for the Melvins, while still acknowledging their talent and ability.  We chatted idly for a moment.  I would have hit on her, but there was a guy next to her that she was with, and I wasn't sure what their relationship was.

A few people that actually were handicapped sat down in the front and second rows, but only about 5 people in total ended up sharing 300 square feet of handicapped seating.  I chose to sit in the third row out of respect for any actual handicapped people that might have joined us.

I'm not sure if The Melvins cut their set short due to the rude fans, but when they finished, there was a long break before Loot finally made their way onto the stage.

It was dark by then, and when Amandry walked on stage the cheering erupted to a deafening level.  He looked in my direction so I waved to him, and he appeared to look away awkwardly.  They were amazing, but the sound from front row was a bit much for my ears.  The only other concert I'd ever sat that close to the stage at was Dolly Parton at Pine Knob in Michigan.  I didn't bring earplugs, though Mike suggested it.  Eventually my ears got used to the audio being cranked to 11.

After the first song, a new girl had made her way down the rows to end up sitting between me and the blonde girl.  I don't know how she made it through the crowd since everyone was standing pressed together like sardines.  When I noticed her, she looked irritated that she was getting pushed a bit by everyone thrashing violently around her.  I offered to let her sit on my side of the rope, but she was hesitant because she didn't want to get kicked out.  I pulled the yellow bracelet off my wrist, without breaking it, and gave it to her.  I had long sleeves so I wasn't worried about anybody noticing my bracelet was gone.

Only a few minutes later, a security guard came up to us and asked to see our bracelets.  I said, "Look man, I gave her my bracelet because she got here too late to get hers."  The guy was unconcerned with our dilemma and asked her to leave, so I said, "Listen, if anyone's going to leave it'll be me.  Man, I'm the drummer's cousin from Michigan.  How do you think we got these bracelets anyhow?  Do we appear handicapped in any way?  Can you see how beautiful this girl is?  We know the entire band.  Just look, Amandry is looking over here wondering what's going on."  I noticed he had been eyeing us from onstage, so when the security guy turned around to look at him, I waved to get his attention again.  He did look, but just shrugged his shoulders and held his hands at his sides in the universal ' _I don't know?_ ' gesture.

The guard turned back to me and said, "Come on, let's go."

I got angry and started yelling, "He doesn't know what _you_ are doing.  That's fine, but somebody other than me is going to be pissed.  Just look man!" as I stood up and pointed to Amandry.  The guard looked to the stage once again, and in a moment that felt like I had Yoda's force, I nodded my head slowly and stared at Amandry thinking, "Just nod your God-damned head, jackass," and to my amazement he nodded his head in return.

Her name was Canida, and she asked what I had said to security.

I said, "I know the band."

"How?" she said.

I said, "Through the drummer's cousin from Michigan."

The three of us sat and enjoyed the rest of the show in comfort.  Between the final song of their set and an encore, Canida hesitantly gave me her phone number when I asked for it.  We waited while the band dicked around on stage before finally playing again.  About a minute before the last song ended, Mike and I got up and started walking to the car.  We realized the song was just about over, and people were going to start filing out of the exits en masse.  We decided to run as fast as we could back to his car to beat the traffic.

As we made our way down the stairs and to the asphalt roadway behind the stage, somebody yelled, "Hey, come back!"

I replied, "No way, I've got to work in the morning."  At 10 o'clock.

With both of us still running, Mike asked me, "Who are you talking to?"

I said, "I don't even know."  I just thought in case it was for me I should reply.

I didn't have much to say on the ride home.  I was lost in what had happened before the show.  I felt like a God, but I knew nobody would ever believe me for a second.

In the next few days I sat down to write about the day I met Helmsy, and not a word of anything else.  I lost Canida's number in the wash.  She had shushed me a few times when I tried to sing along, so I wasn't disappointed.  If I had been out of tune I could understand.

## Chapter 8

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**A** fter what I think was only a couple months, I was waiting for my former coworkers Ay-J and Kium to finish their shifts.  I had been fired from the Paramount Cafe for not showing up several times.  Mike was kicking me out of the apartment after I failed to procure rent money, so I was going to temporarily stay with Ay-J and Kium, who afterwards invited me to move in with them long term.  We were planning on moving my things out of Mike's place that night.

While I sat in one of the booths with Mike, I noticed a stunning dark haired beauty a few rows down that was glancing at me in regular intervals.  I've never been the greatest looking guy, so this seemed suspect immediately.  I thought about it for a minute and pondered the possibility she might actually be looking for _me_ in particular.  The first thing that came to mind was the British girl I mentioned to Amandry, as she was the only person I could think of.  I realized this was ridiculous, and perhaps I was more intrigued by the fact that she was so uniquely beautiful.

She called me over to her booth with her finger, but I nodded my head no and called her over to ours in the same manner.  She got up and walked out of the restaurant, only to stand just outside the exit.

I told my friends I was going to wait for them outside.  When I started walking out the door, she saw me and turned to walk a little further down the street into the median between the bus lanes.  We continued to stare at each other as I lit another cigarette and stood where she had been previously.  She walked just a little further away, and I again stopped where she last stood.  It was like a bad silent film.  We both tried to wave each other over, neither of us budging.

I said, "I'm scared."

She said, "Don't be.  I won't bite...hard."

I eventually walked up to her.  I've never had a problem talking to girls, but I was uncomfortable with this particular situation because of who I thought she was.

I was doing my best to scare her away with my odd antics.  I figured the creepier I acted without her running away, the more I knew her attention towards me was unnatural.  I would have been disappointed if I scared her away, but also a bit relieved.

Upon closer examination, she was absolutely fabulous, and beaming with radiant beauty.  I don't remember what either of us said at first.  We didn't really say much in total.

I said, "What's your name?"

She said, "Cinara."

I said, "I've never heard that name before.  I knew a Corrine.  Is that your given name?"

I don't remember what she said.  It was just too much for me to take in, and my mind swirled trying to find an explanation for this encounter that seemed all too unrealistic.

It took a while before I finally picked up on some of her British slang.

My heart felt like I just main-lined cocaine.

I said, "I knew it was you!  Were you faking an accent?"

She must have been, because I have a good ear for that sort of thing.  She said it just came out that way sometimes when she was around Americans.

Shocked, I said, "You came here from England for me?"

She said, "I moved to LA, and then came here on a trip.  Today is my last day in Denver."

Nothing I'd foretold had happened yet, so my mind reeled trying to figure out why Amandry would have such faith in me, and why she would have such faith in him.  As the great Homer said, "Faith is what you have in things that don't exist."  Their awesomeness was for real.

I said, "Is he here?"

She gave me some weird non-answer that basically amounted to, "Yes, if by 'here' you mean on this planet."  She did not properly declare his proximity relative to us.

I have such a hard time remembering this conversation.  It's like a dream, or as it felt at the time, a portal that opened up into another dimension that would have taken me to a completely different path in life.  I worried that everything I thought I knew would never happen if I went there.  And I was uncomfortable that I was now effectively in an arranged marriage.  Even though it was I who set it up in the first place, my instincts told me to rebel.  But mostly I felt inept and inadequate.  I could never fulfill this girl who was so clearly out of my league.  But I was attracted to the idea, and to her.

We held hands and she asked, "Can you feel that?"

I said I wasn't sure what I felt.

I said, "I'm usually romantic and dramatic, but I am at a loss for words right now.  I'm speechless.  I feel foolish because I'm dressed ridiculously and unkempt."  I was wearing a white t-shirt with big poofy white pants and a black coat.  Think MC Hammer.

She asked me in what ways I was romantic, so I told her I'd give her the biggest pearl necklace ever.

She didn't get it, which is probably a good thing, considering.  She looked disappointed, and said, "Buying me _things_ won't win my heart."

I laughed and said, "I'm sorry, maybe that's not used in the U.K. yet.  Just ask your friends what it means because I'm too embarrassed to say it now.  It has nothing to do with actual pearls.  It's okay to not know what I'm talking about.  That's actually a really good thing..."

I moved towards her slowly until I finally pressed my forehead into hers, put my arms around her.  We stood together eye to eye.

I grabbed her bum, but only after seeking approval, and yelped, "Now I feel it!"

I thought of Bryne, who I had just started hanging out with again, so I mentioned her to Cinara.

She seemed unconcerned.

I ignored Bryne for a long time, but felt guilty for it because I genuinely liked her.  Mike was even more upset with me for getting the girl, and then just letting her fall to the wayside.  When Bryne and I ran into each other again, I thought she might still have feelings for me.

I said, "I don't know, this doesn't feel right.  I want to live my life and see what happens."

She said, "That's ok.  Just don't have any kids."

I said, "Well, we might as well forget it then because it's too late."

She asked, "You have a kid?"

I said, "I did, but he died already."

I didn't know if he was dead, or even had been born, but based on the timeframe he would have been a newborn.  I'd blocked the memory, but now it had jarred back.  To this day I don't know how long he lived, what his name was, or any of what his life and death were like.

I lied because I knew what was inevitable, and wouldn't admit to what a shameful person I was for running from it.  The moment she told me not to have a kid with somebody else, as if I didn't feel inadequate already, I knew I wasn't good enough, and inevitably could never fulfill her.  But that didn't mean I didn't want to know her.

She said, "We won't count that.  So no _more_ kids then."

I said, "I'm still allowed to have sex though, right?"

She said, "Of course."

I joked, "Maybe you could be a lesbian for a while."

I told her I would come find her, and she wondered how I would be able to locate her without any direction but her name.  I said I could probably just dial a random number and ring her right up.

I asked to hear her sing, and she was phenomenal.  I sang something for her off-tune and with crappy meter, and told her to make a song out of it.

Mike had come out and was on the corner watching us.  I had basically re-stolen the girl he still wanted, and now I was playing grab-ass with some new floozy.

We sat in silence and continued to hold hands.  Ay-J and Kium came out and yelled for me to follow them to their car with Mike.  The winds were so fierce that it made my confusion seem even more dizzying.  My friends yelled to me saying it was time to go, and I shouted back, "Just a second!"

She begged me to stay.  I should have wanted it more.  I would have stayed with her forever.

I said I had to go, so she said, "Aren't you at least going to kiss me goodbye?"

I said, "I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

Mike was still watching, so I figured he would mention all of this to Bryne.  But I was more worried about ending up derelict, and Cinara ruing the day she met me, let alone kissed me.

She kissed me.  God she was amazing.

I tried to say goodbye, but still she wouldn't let go, her grip tightening on my wrists as I pulled away.  When I finally broke free, I ran away almost in a pratfall due to the icy ground below me.

I'd been watching her closely while we spoke, and I noticed every once and a while she glanced over to the sidewalk near the corner in front of Marlowe's.  I had a feeling Amandry was there to make sure I didn't try to murder her or something.

Knowing this, when I got to the approximate location where I thought he might be standing, I came to an abrupt stop without looking in that direction, and slowly turned and walked towards what appeared to be an older man in a trench coat.  He silently watched me until we were face to face.

What I saw was Amandry in full makeup designed to make him look like a much older person.  It looked like he had a gun in the pocket of his trench coat, or that's the feeling I got at least.

I screamed, "Pull the trigger!  Fucking do it!"

Cinara let out, "No!" in the most blood-curdling scream I've ever heard in my life.  It was so startling that Amandry and I both jerked our heads in her direction.

When I turned my attention back toward Amandry, he was visibly shaken, and I could now see the barrel of the pistol pushing the fabric of his coat outward.

I said, "Do it, you can run!  Nobody will catch you!  I'm assaulting you, you mother-fucker!"

There were people walking around us that stopped and probably wondered what was going on.

I gave him the finger with both hands and said, "You're not cut out for this shit.  You could have saved yourself a lot of trouble."

I ran to my friends that had since given up on waiting for me, and were backing out of the parking space when I opened the door and jumped in their moving car.

Ay-J said, "We almost left you behind.  I can't believe you made it in the car."

Kium asked who the girl was.

I said, "I don't know, that was really strange.  She seemed really normal at first, and then all of a sudden it was like she was a hooker or something."

Kium said, "Ew, you're going to have herpes now."

I said, "She was far too attractive to be a prostitute.  Maybe she was just nymphomaniacal."

Kium said, "Either way..."

When I said I knew the future and all the weird things I thought would happen, I didn't really believe it myself.  Mostly it I thought it was a scapegoat to skip out on my pregnant girlfriend, and basically not give a shit about what I did throughout life on a situation by situation basis, so long as I had the ' _greater_ ' good in mind.  I thought, "Wouldn't it be some amazing coincidence if my instincts were right?"

I got the impression that Amandry found me very interesting after getting to know me, but I never thought he would act on anything I said without seeing some kind of proof.  The gravity of the situation, what with thousands of people dying and possibly millions later on, combined with the thought of my abandoned child, is probably what caused me to repress this and most of the related memories aforementioned.

Within a few months, I retained even less than the bare minimum I had expected of Amandry: that planes would fly into buildings, there would be a black President, and then finally there would be nuclear terrorism.  I completely forgot any connection I might have to the events, or even any connection between them other than that I said it.

As these and other things I had spoken of started to happen, only then did I realize the correlations.

When I first met Ay-J and Kium, they considered themselves heroin users, not addicts.  But I could see where they were headed.  Ay-J had a book that rated the power of psychoactive drugs on a scaled system.  According to this book, the most powerful trip you could have was by injecting liquid Ketamine intramuscularly.  Per Ay-J's request, I got him some from a neighbor of Mike's who was a Veterinarian, and also, on an unrelated note, introduced me to the bands 16 Horsepower and Slim Cessna's Auto Club.

Ay-J opted to be the babysitter, while Kium and I volunteered to be guinea pigs.  I shot 100 milliliters of pure liquid K, which is chemically similar to PCP, into my arm.  Kium got a bit less, as we calculated the dosage by weight.  I looked around the room for a few minutes, and then blacked out.  I awoke many hours to find myself projectile vomiting across the bathroom floor and walls.

Only after writing this part of the book all these years later do I now remember what happened that day.  K is a powerful anesthetic, but I can connect the foggy, twisted memories I've been having to an actual event in reality.  Ay-J stripped Kium and I naked, and then coerced us into having sex while he watched, and then raped me as part of the same process.  I remember my butt felt weird when I woke up, but it didn't hurt so I thought maybe it was a side effect or something.  He must have a tiny penis.

Kium and I couldn't remember anything from our drug trip, most notably our sexual encounter.  Regardless, I had always found Kium attractive.  Knowing little as I did of personal relationships and life in general, I decided that trying to break them up might stop them from using.  We kissed a couple of times, and it was not without feeling, at least for me.  My diabolical scheme obviously wasn't going to work, especially after I explained my plan to save her from the drugs.  This incited her to immediately tell Ay-J about us.  They quickly kicked me out, and refused to give me back my computer with every song I'd ever written on it.  I had no backup copies, and later brought a police officer up for a civil escort.  But since Ay-J claimed the computer was his and I had no proof otherwise, there was little I could do.  I now consider the possibility that I subconsciously knew I had sex with her and it affected my decisions.  It is possible that I'm just trying to find justification for the marginally amoral person that I was.

Mike felt bad for me when I told him what happened, and convinced his neighbor, and our friend, Serb, to let me stay with him temporarily.  Serb worked at Wax Trax, and got a copy of Eminem's first major label LP on vinyl which, at the time, hadn't hit the radio yet in Denver.  He played it for me, and I was impressed.  But when he told me the name, I grabbed the album cover and my jaw dropped.  I read the fine print and thought, "Holy shit, did that really work?"  It could be just a coincidence I guess.  I wonder, but we'd have to ask him.

I got a job across the street from my apartment at Dante Bichette's Sports Grill and Roadhouse, and ended up living with Serb longer than initially planned because it was so conveniently close to my workplace.

Because I lived with Serb who was friends with Bryne, she was around again, and I couldn't resist the urge to hit on her.  She at least let me be her friend.  But after hanging out a few times and regaining her trust, I didn't call her for several weeks, so she began to wonder.

On Valentine's Day in 1999, I was hanging out at the Paramount Cafe.  The bartenders were feeding me and some of the staff shots, and I got sloppy drunk.  I decided I should show up at her house, even though I'd blown her off.  First though, I stopped at 7-11 to get a Valentine's gift.  I was thinking candy when I went in, but when I saw a pair of black panties with pink hearts in a box that said 7-11 on it and I was sold.  Oh, thank heaven!

When I rolled up to her loft on my BMX, I was shocked to see my neighbor Jonah when I looked inside the window.  I paced around angrily outside for a few minutes, my drunken head trying to calculate my next move.  I remember dancing around and throwing punches into the air like Rocky warming up for a brawl.  Jonah was a strange fellow, but always nice to me, and I was more concerned with the fact that Bryne was interested in such a weirdo than his interest in her.

Before I was able to discern exactly how I felt, the door opened and they both were startled to see me standing there.  He was embarrassed and apologetic when I asked, "What the hell is this?"  Bryne explained that since I hadn't spoken to her in weeks, when Jonah invited her to dinner she gladly accepted.  Jonah claimed he had no idea she and I ever dated, and I still didn't know what I thought.

Jonah quickly left, and Bryne invited me inside.  I gave her the 7-11 brand panties, and she was unimpressed by me or the lame gift.  I professed a deep and profound love for her and then passed out on her floor, throwing up on it shortly thereafter.

I wasn't aware of what happened until she informed me when I awoke, still on the floor the next morning.

I was really weird around her.  I thought it funny to peer at her over the bathroom wall while she showered once.  It wasn't peeping tom style, as I was purposely obvious so that she would see me.  It was still a creepy thing to do and startled her.  I generally try to push as many buttons as possible.

On a previous occasion, the phone rang at her bedside and I immediately grabbed it and screamed, "What the fuck do you want?"  It was her mom, who was at the time a detective in Parker, and now works for a federal agency.  Neither of them thought it was funny.

I had already been spending much of my time writing music, but now my determination had increased in planning for a future of fame and fortune I hoped lay ahead of me.  I also felt like music would be an excellent vessel to communicate to people that I'm multi-talented, and not some deranged manifesto writer.  You'd think I might have practiced some writing.

I decided to start teaching myself to skateboard on my 20th birthday.  It was something I'd had no luck with as a kid, and therefore given up.  I thought it a good idea to try all the things I'd failed at in the past, and continue to learn everything available on the planet.

I played around with other people's guitars, and eventually got one of my own.  My mom had bought me an electric guitar when I was 9, and she got me lessons from a friend of hers.  I complained that it hurt my hands, and I figured it was because they were too small.  I explained this to my mother, and stopped going soon after starting.  I did learn how to tune a guitar to standard E, and also drop D tuning.  I had that guitar for years, but I rarely touched it and don't recall what happened to it.

One morning, Mike and I decided to go to the Ben & Jerry's store downtown and get some ice cream.  It was like 9 a.m., so we must have been really high to want ice cream that early.  We walked through Lodo, and there was very little pedestrian traffic.  A couple blocks from our destination, I noticed 2 guys walking towards us that looked familiar to me.  It took a second, but I recognized them as Trey & Matt of South Park fame.

The show had only been airing for a about a year, but we were fans from episode one.  Mike was engrossed in foreign and art films, and I liked most of them.  One of which was Cannibal: The Musical.

I looked over at Mike to see if he noticed, but his face said nothing.  So I decided to start walking a little funny.  I put a spring in my step, and swung my arms in an animated manner.  To my giddy satisfaction, Trey and Matt started picking up their pace and swinging their arms side by side in unison.  They were clearly inspired by my purposefully silly walk.

I took it to the next level, positively bouncing, and with giant, overtly fake strides and a gleaming smile on my face.  Not to be outdone, they hooked their arms together and started skipping while bobbing their heads back and forth.  Our mode of transport became increasingly ridiculous the closer we got, and by the time we'd crossed paths, everyone but Mike looked like there was something seriously wrong with them.  I turned to Mike, who didn't even seem slightly fazed by any of this, and said, "Where were you on that, man?"

I turned back to them and yelled, "Keep it relevant!"

They yelled back, "You know it!"

I said to Mike, "Those where the guys that make South Park, how could you not recognize them?"

He seemed doubtful for a second, until he realized that would explain their peculiar behavior.

My roommate Serb was into trance music and drugs.  I had taken one hit of paper acid before, and thought the effect was incredible.  We found a guy who was selling gel-tabs, which are about 5 times as potent compared to what I'd taken previously.  I bought 5, and like an idiot took them all at once.  I tripped so hard that when Mike came over, I was certain he was the one and only Jolly Green Giant, and thought my Minute Maid Orange Juice bottle contained an alternate universe.  Thinking back, I'm pretty sure Mike actually was dressed as the Jolly Green Giant just to fuck with me.

I can't discern what was real and what was hallucination from most of that night.  I do remember Bryne stopping by, and me clinging to her and begging for help in figuring out what was going on.  She knew exactly what was happening.  All my friends, most of whom were also her friend, were in on an elaborate ploy to inform me of what a shithead I was for ignoring her all the time.  I hadn't called her since hurling on her floor.  I felt like a total mess.  The whole night everybody had been fucking with me in my induced state, and it made me start thinking about the future.  But l never mentioned anything about it, even on drugs.  I just felt inept and inadequate.

I apologized to her then and again afterwards, and eventually she accepted that I was just emotionally retarded.  We hung out a few times afterwards, and I still thought there was some kind of imbalanced chemistry between us.

I could not sleep that night, and I was still tripping the next morning at work.  I was the only waiter that morning, and I took orders from the folks that had come in right when we opened.  I went back to send the orders to the kitchen but couldn't remember a thing anybody had said to me.  I never needed to write things down before, but should have considered doing so in this instance.  With magical timing, Mike and Serb came to the restaurant to make sure I was alright.  I told my manager that I had a serious personal problem to deal with and went home.

I began working at Vino Vino, which was one of two other adjoining restaurants run by the same company that owned Dante Bichette's.  They all shared one large kitchen area.  I started dating one of my co-workers.

When I told Bryne I was seeing someone, and she was upset because it was apparent I'd been trying to win her back.  Even though I'd been such an ass in the past, she still cared about me.  And it's not like I didn't care about her, I was just a self-absorbed fuck-head.  I never meant to hurt her.  I felt that I was definitely bad news and would only continue to damage her in the long run.

The girl I was seeing ended up pregnant and had an abortion.  I was against it, but knew it was her decision to make.  I suggested we raise the child together or separated, whichever was better for her.  She said she was not interested, and I was disappointed by her decision.  She was a lot older, though she didn't look it, and much wiser.  That was the end of our short relationship.

Mike invited two girls over to my place while Serb was away, a co-worker of his named Neli, and her friend, Kat.  We walked around town in the wake of the Avalanche loss in the Western Conference Finals, thinking people might be rioting as had happened in the past.  No such luck.  Apparently public violence is only cool when your team wins.

The girls had brought a bottle of booze, so we went back to the apartment to start drinking.  I thought Kat was perfectly gorgeous, and I think Mike was definitely attracted to Neli, even though we both tried to play it smooth.  Neli brought a picture album, and was showing it to us when I noticed a girl that looked very familiar.  It took a few minutes, but I realized it was Canida.  I made her pull the picture book out again to verify it with Mike.

He had no idea.

Canida was just a random friend of Neli's.  This was astonishing to me, but nobody else in the room found it the least bit interesting.  Not surprising, but it was a total reawakening for me.  I'd kept those thoughts buried in my psyche, but now reality seemed to be reminding me.  Suddenly I felt like I couldn't get away from it if I tried.  Sure, I still thought I was destined for greatness of some kind, but the other stuff like people dying, I just inclined to keep buried.

I was hitting on Kat hard, and I think she liked me based on the fact that she was sitting on my lap.  We were a bit tossed, and as I ran my hand across her stomach I experienced something I never had before, and never since.  I had a premature ejaculation.  It's so embarrassing, but in my defense, Kat was absolutely straddling my junk.  And she smelled really good.

I tried to pass it of as if nothing had happened, and Kat was oblivious.  But Neli looked right at my face and somehow knew what was up.  She jumped up and said something like, "You just came didn't you?"

I denied it.  She said, "Your face is all red, you are lying!  Come on Kat, let's go!"

Kat got up looking shocked.  I said, "Kat, it's not what you think!  I'm sorry, call me!"  This was ridiculous because I don't recall giving her my number.  Neli dragged her out into the hallway and slammed the door closed.  I never saw Kat again, but I did see Neli about a month or two later.

She was still working at the Mayan Theater with Mike, and when I came to meet up with him after work, I saw her in her car with another girl who I assumed was Kat.  They were turning out of the Walgreens parking lot next to The Mayan as I was walking down the sidewalk.  I'm not sure what compelled me to do what I did next, but it was probably because it was easier that trying to explain that what happened with Kat was involuntary.  The way I saw it, Neli embarrassed me and ruined my chances with a girl I was clearly attracted to.

I knew they wouldn't recognize me because I had grown a beard and had my glasses on, so I ran up to the passenger window and started violently pounding against it while screaming gibberish at the top of my lungs.  The poor girl in the passenger seat, who was not Kat as it turned out, looked like she was going to die of a heart attack, as did Neli, who floored it and peeled out going the wrong way onto Broadway to get away from me.  I laughed so hard, while the people around me watched and wondered what the hell just happened.  Mike saw the whole thing from a distance and was quite angry.

Serb, Mike, and I decided to go to St. Mark's coffee house on 17th Avenue a few weeks later.  This was the only time I've ever been there.  There was a woman sitting at a table across from ours, and she struck me as someone I should recognize.  I couldn't put my finger on it.  After a couple cups of coffee, I realized it was Helmsy.  I couldn't remember her name, but like a bolt of electricity shooting through me I blurted out, "Accelerate Past Me."  She looked up in my direction.

I stepped over to her and said, "You told me to look you up if I ever came to Colorado."

She said, "Where do I know you from?"

I lied and said, "I don't remember, I'm sorry.  But I know you told me to look you up."  The awkward silence that followed bothered me enough to force me back into my seat.  I stared uncomfortably for a few minutes until my glare became too much for her to handle, and she left the establishment altogether.

Another guy from my high school in Kingsford, Nick, had moved to Denver before me and Mike.  I barely knew him from back home, but we quickly became friends upon meeting up in Colorado.  All three of us decided to get an apartment together.

We moved into a condo at 14th and Pearl Street, an area sometimes called 'crack alley.'  One day I saw police cruiser roll up to some guy on the corner.  He threw something shiny on the ground before the officer could see it.  He was arrested and taken away, so I went down to find what he had tossed.  It was, of course, a crack pipe.  I brought it back upstairs to examine it.  I took one hit off of it and instantly got a headache.  That is the sum of my life's experience with crack-cocaine.  I did spontaneous things like that all the time, and anything for gag value.

For a while I was a bike courier downtown with Nick, who got me the job.  It was great fun, and I felt cool doing it.  Then people started getting hit by cars and dying, and I myself had a few too many brushes with busses, so I switched to duplicating blueprints and other architectural documents in the office.

Mike and I had made ourselves fake Michigan ID's long prior, which was actually quite easy considering Michigan still issued a laminated paper license.  I rarely went to bars, but I did enjoy going to The Park Tavern occasionally.  It was the first bar I ever drank in.  It's mentioned so many times in this book that I'm just going to refer to it as The Park.

It was around this time that I started writing songs for guitar, and recording them with my new computer, an AMD K6 III.  I used different software called Mad Tracker, which was pretty much a newer, nicer version of Fasttracker, to do sample based sequences.

Nick, Mike, and I decided to go our separate ways after our lease ended, so I rented a different apartment from a friend of ours named Adam.  It was a tiny studio at 17th and Grant Street.

One night, Nick, Adam, a friend of Adam's named Brian, and I went to a party in the suburbs somewhere.  The party ended up being pretty lame, so we all decided to leave.  Adam and Nick both called shotgun for the ride home in Brian's little Mazda truck.  Being as drunk as they were, they started fighting over it.  Even though I didn't care, I wanted to leave, and it was decided that we would pull Adam, who had made his way into the cabin, out of the passenger seat.  I knew this logic was stupid, but we weren't leaving until somehow this issue got settled.  We were all too drunk to think properly, and Nick wasn't willing to ride in the bed of the pickup with me.  I didn't care of course; I would have ridden home on the hood.

After the three of us pulled on Adam's various limbs until we finally got him out, he stormed off saying he was going to walk home.  The rest of us got in the truck, and I was dropped off at home.

I was asleep in my bed that night when I awoke to keys rattling against my door.  I jumped up and opened it, only to find Adam holding a rock the size of my head above his.  I tried to calm him down, but he threw it at me.  Apparently, he blamed me for his woes, or perhaps I was the just the most easily accessible to attack.  I caught the rock, and tried to calm him down yet again, but he was in crazy drunk mode and would not relent.  When he came at me, I threw the rock back at him, catching him squarely in the gut.  He fell backwards, and I tried to close the door, but he blocked it with his foot.

He was able to get up and back in, so he started to attack me violently.  He seemed even more drunk than when we were at the party, whereas I had sobered up, and because of this I was easily able to keep him off me.  I held him at bay for a while, until he grabbed my guitar and started breaking strings, then tried smashing it against the floor.  That was too much for me.  I ripped the guitar out of his hands and slammed him across the side of his head with it.  Blood spattered against the off-white walls as he fell to the ground.  Don't worry, the guitar was fine.

I ran into the hall and upstairs to hide on the next floor above me.  Within a matter of seconds, he was up again and running down the exit stairs looking for me, leaving a trail of blood behind him.  I went back down to my apartment and barricaded my door.  I fell asleep with the rock sitting on my bloody carpet.

Mike had moved into a house on 17th and Gilpin Street with a bunch of musicians comprising a band they called X Sigma, and they practiced in the basement.  Mike made plans to travel Germany, so I took his place on that lease after my debacle with Adam.  I didn't feel too comfortable subletting from him any longer.

X Sigma wasn't all that great, but I practiced my recording techniques and jammed with them frequently.  Several of the guys had issues with alcohol, and the police were called regularly due to noise violations.

Soon after moving in, I realized Canida and Neli just so happened to live together on the same block as me.  Neli and several of their other roommates played in a band called Unsound.  Neli played violin and sang, Kirc was the drummer, and Howard filled in on hand drums and other various instruments.  My roommate Robin, the singer from X Sigma, eventually became Unsound's bass player.  The guitarist for Unsound, Garter, ran an open-mic night at The Park and several other bars, so I'd go perform and help him set up regularly.  Garter would give me free drink tokens for my efforts, and smoked weed with me just because he was cool.  His girlfriend, Faidre, was the passenger in Neli's car when I was banging on its window, and she also lived there and was in the band.

I was a shady asshole on stage most of the time.  I remember a talent scout being in the audience one day.  He started taking notes during my set, so I stopped mid-song and yelled, "What the hell are you writing about me?  I don't need to be judged.  Get the fuck out of here!"

He yelled back, "I've never been so insulted in my life.  You, sir, are a dickhead."  He got up and left immediately after that.  Every musician in the room wanted to choke me to death.  I still don't know why I did it, I must have wanted to fail _really badly_ if I was going to fail at all.

Mike came back from Germany after 6 months, and I ended up staying on his neighbors' couch; they were a bunch of guys from upstate New York.  I was jobless at the time, and would sustain myself with the giant bags of old food the Einstein's Bagels down the street would throw out every couple days.  I was smoking tons of weed, and one of my new roommates was a DJ, so we got high and worked on beats together.  They let me stay for free in a room in their basement that had a dirt floor, the water heater, and a furnace in it.

The neighborhood had a big Halloween party, and Mike invited Bryne.  Of course, I started hitting on her again.  Mike was probably thinking, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Afterwards, we spent some time together, but then I told her I had to go away forever.  I said I would surely bring her suffering, and gave her a vague version of what happened at Red Rocks, and how I was going to go crazy.  I wasn't sure if she believed me, though she said she did.  I finally broke her stoic demeanor.  Bryne is an amazing person, and I feel awful for how I behaved, _over and over_.

Unsound had a show at the Gothic Theater opening for Accelerate Past Me.  This was because Ron, Neli's boyfriend, was Accelerate Past Me's drummer for a period of time, so he got them the gig.  I was excited to see Helmsy again, and exuberant at sound check.  I sat with a few people and listened to the three songs they played.  She was like a vision on stage, and even if I hadn't met her I would've assuredly been a fan.

Unsound did their sound check next, and I watched them as well.  They weren't nearly as impressive, but I always enjoyed their performances.

When show time finally came later that night, I sat near the stage at a table with my roommate's wife and her friend.  Accelerate Past Me had a huge local following at the time, so the place was packed.  A beautiful blonde girl named Allie sat next to me with some guy she described as her boyfriend, who made no attempt to introduce himself.  Within 15 minutes of Unsound's set he left.

Allie seemed impressed that everyone she was sitting with knew the band.  She appeared quite drunk, and perhaps angry with her boyfriend for ditching her.  I got the feeling she was flirting with me.  I was smitten for a second, until I realized she probably only expressed interest because she was wasted.

The next act to perform was a group of poets, and by the time they had begun, Allie passed out on my lap.  It made me uncomfortable, as anyone who happened to walk by, such as her boyfriend, might think it looked a bit odd.  I asked for a general consensus from the table on what I should do.  It was decided that we should tell security.  I got up, balanced her on two chairs, and went to the box office to let them know about the situation.

Some old guy walked with me to our table, grabbed her under the shoulders, and started dragging her away.  I followed them to the lobby, where he tripped and dropped her limp body to the floor.  He got mad at me as if I'd been watching him too hard, and it somehow made him drop her.  I had already asked if he needed help, but of course he said no.  He found an ID in her purse, and determined she wasn't even 21.

She was sitting propped against the wall, so I bent down to her face and said, "Don't worry.  You are going to be fine.  This is probably good for you."

She mumbled something incoherent.

Just before I walked away I said, "And your boyfriend sucks.  Where the hell did he go anyway?"

When the poets were done, I went backstage to hang out with Unsound and friends.

Kirc had brought a giant jug of liquor to share, and they were hanging out with the poets.  I got wasted with them, and spent the remainder of the concert backstage.  I was purposely waiting for Helmsy to show up afterward.  For some reason, the same jackass security guy that dropped Allie came in and started asking for identification.  It was ridiculous, because he really only wanted to get my information.  I could tell by the fact that he skipped everyone in the room and walked directly to me.  I was insulted, so I told him I didn't like him and started leaving.  It was more like being dragged out by Garter and Faidre.

Upon exiting the backstage area, we were standing stage right when I saw Helmsy gathering up some cables.  I started walking towards her yelling drunkenly, "Have you got a light?"  Garter pulled me away and whisked me back to my house, where I passed out instantly.

I never asked Canida if she remembered that we sat next to each other during the Loot concert in '98, and I wondered if she knew.  She could have been playing it off as though she had forgotten, which was exactly what I was doing.  When it appeared she was testing me to see if I knew by sitting me down on her couch and playing the CD from _Salival_ , which had a live track from the night we sat together, I pretended to have an epiphany and suddenly remember.  We sat quietly for a moment after talking to each other in a manner that Howard, who was sitting on the chair adjacent to us, could not follow.

After a short pause, I said, "So...should we go to your room and have sex?"

She shushed me again, and Howard looked at me like, "Why the hell did you ever think that might work?"

Several weeks prior, Howard and I were walking back from a show somewhere when two crack-head looking guys started following us and calling him a nigger.  I whispered to him, "Don't worry, I've got this handled."  I had a broken bone in my right foot, a full leg cast and crutches, and I was carrying my guitar in its case.  Howard had his guitar and a dijeridoo, as well as a large African drum.  We continued to walk with them launching racial epithets until we reached a lighted corner, where I turned around and started screaming, "You mother-fuckers!  What's your fucking problem?"  They both quickly pulled knives.  I gave my guitar to Howard and said, "Hold this for me."  I dropped my crutches and pulled a Phillips head screwdriver out of my pocket while yelling, "Oh yeah?  I got a screwdriver, let's go you fucking pussies."  They laughed and pointed out my cast, to which I answered by pounding it against a tree beside me and saying, "It's just something else to fuck you up with."

Someone yelled from their apartment window telling us to shut-up.  I thought to myself, "What the fuck is wrong with this person?  Why aren't they going to call the police for me?"  So I turned my verbal onslaught upon the guy that we just woke up by screaming into the night sky, "Fuck you!  These crack-heads are trying to mug me!  Why don't you call the fucking cops so they can clean up the bodies."  He yelled back that he was sorry and didn't have a phone.

The muggers advanced on me slightly with Howard remaining stone silent and still.  I began yelling all kinds of shit, like how a puncture wound is much more dangerous than a clean stab, and things like, "My girlfriend will just stitch me up real good at Denver General, but your diseased, drug addled bodies will die slowly from infection.  Or you'll just die right here on this street, tonight."  No such person existed, and I wondered where I came up with it.

I started calling them some of the names they were using, but as soon as I said it I felt uncomfortable.  Howard still didn't react.  I'm not sure why I thought they would be offended by that.  I finally got them to go away by screaming that if they wanted to live, they needed to walk on by.

What began as a ploy to save myself had manifested into an actual desire to kill these men.  I was throbbing with all the chemicals my body produces in certain stressful situations.

They looked frightened, and only made it about 100 feet away before a police cruiser quickly stopped next to us.  I explained what happened, and they whipped down the street to grab the two would be muggers.  It turned out the guy in the apartment was lying about not having a phone and had called the police.  I thanked the general direction in which his voice was coming from, and he even went so far as to file the police report so that Howard and I could walk home and get some rest.  I was shaking from mental over exertion, and of course Howard and I had been drinking and smoking weed all night.

During the walk home we talked about what happened, and it seemed Howard was impressed by my actions.  His interpretation of the night's events showed me that he had something worth sharing with the world.  On the walk back, I briefly told him that I was the most powerful psychic ever, and that he could be like an apostle with me if he wanted to.  I also suggested he go to Ireland, where I'd heard the Black Irish were respected.  I also said he could move to Germany because I thought his music would be more appreciated there.  I always knew that he was a marvelous musician and would eventually find success doing so.  Ich liebe The Mighty Howard.

I spent many more nights doing the open-mic night at The Park with Garter.  I also spent what he felt was an inordinate amount of time with his girlfriend, Faidre, who played violin wonderfully.

The first time I met her, well, aside from banging on Neli's car window, because I don't think that qualifies as an introduction, was at The Park during my second open-mic night ever.  When we finished packing up and it was time to go home, she drove me home in her white Ford Escort going the wrong way on one-way streets for most of the trip.  I had a pretty good feeling she'd had too much to drink to be driving even before we got in the car, but like an idiot I just decided to go along for the ride.  She ignored every red light but one, and I even had to grab the steering wheel once to avoid hitting a parked car, and then grabbed the emergency brake as we went whipping into the parking space in front of their apartment.  We arrived safely, amazingly, and upon exiting the vehicle Faidre said, "I should not have driven."

I said, "I'm sorry for letting you drive, too.  But man that was a rush!"  It was a few minutes before Garter got there; we had saved a lot of time by ignoring every possible traffic law.

I always felt like I had a strong connection with both of them, but Garter thought my intentions with Faidre were sexual in nature.  I said, "Of course I would, she's fantastic!  But I have morals."  I had no amorous motives, and I genuinely liked the both of them as friends.

Unsound had a show at the Soiled Dove, and they invited me to come on the guest list.  It was at this show that I met Vincent.  He was a photographer, and taking some shots of the bands.  He was just doing it for fun, or perhaps getting paid by one of the other bands, I don't remember exactly.  He was standing next to me at the foot of the stage while the Unsound was breaking down their gear.  He asked me about them, and I told him the small bit of their history that I knew.  He was clearly interested in Faidre, and I told him that the guitar player was her boyfriend.  But I also mentioned that I could see him with her in the future.  I said I was psychic, that I didn't think she was going to be with Garter forever.  I suggested he wait for them to break up, and that I thought he might be good for her.

I said, "Just keep coming to her shows.  It's only stalking if you know she doesn't like you.  If it's meant to be, eventually something will happen."

## Chapter 9

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**G** arter and I were sitting on his couch one day watching the news after a few bong hits.  I can't remember which channel was on, but the announcer said that they had a report of a possible terrorist threat.  The reporter was in studio live, and he began to describe several scenarios, including a terrorist attack involving hijacked planes being flown into buildings.  I could see the fear in his eyes as the sweat began to form upon his brow.  He expressed deep concern that everyone was ignoring his claims.  I could tell he knew something was going to happen, but he didn't know exactly what or when.  As soon as I heard it, I was sure he was absolutely right about the planes.  He even gave it a timeframe, which gave me a better timeframe for what I already knew would happen.

I acted as though there was nothing uniquely interesting about the story, but I did discuss the topic of terrorism with Garter for a few minutes afterward.

I sat on that couch for several hours, lost in my own mind as the Simpsons played.  I felt like I should say or do something, but I didn't know what, and I was paralyzed with fear and THC.  Once again the reminder that people were going to die, and there was nothing I could do about it, was permeating my conscience.

Slowly, everyone had returned home with a few extra friends.  I can't remember who all was there for sure, but I'm pretty sure it was Marc and Alex.

I know for certain Ron was there, because as I stood and walked to the front door yelling, "Excuse me!  I need everyone's attention right now!"  Ron continued to talk and I yelled at him saying, "Ron, I know you are so much smarter and such a better person than me, but you need to shut the fuck up for a minute, okay?"  He didn't react so well to that, so I then threatened to beat the shit out of anyone that didn't want to listen.  Luckily, nobody was feeling froggy that night, so I began, "Perhaps you are wondering what spurred me to begin this tirade?"

I have to admit that during this period of time, I was hearing voices once and a while, but never presumed it was a precursor to schizophrenia as one might suspect.  The voices stopped long ago, and I think malnutrition and a lack of sleep triggered it.  I was always broke, my only source of income was selling items that I found while dumpster diving, and mostly living off the goodwill of others.  Usually, the voices were like a faint moaning or someone yelling, "Hey!"  Nobody was telling me to kill or anything like that, or anything that really made any sense at all.  This was only once in a while, monthly at most for a couple of years.  After it stopped happening I was relieved.  But in this instance, right before I decided to stand up and speak, I heard voices in some Middle Eastern language, and for me this was a trigger for me to react.  I'd never hallucinated anything like that before, so in my mind it was without a doubt a sign related to a future terrorist attack.

I'd been sitting there stewing for hours with the gravity of my predilection weighing more and more heavily, frightened to be reminded that I might have been right that day at Red Rocks.  But I'd come to the conclusion that nobody would give my story any merit or even remember it, so I should keep it to myself rather than risk losing my friends.  But as far as I was concerned, the voices were telling me to speak.  As you might gather, I went to extreme measures and was totally willing to lose every single one of them as friends to make one point.

I said, "Everybody listen carefully, and remember this moment in time."  I said that I knew for a fact that planes were going to fly into buildings within 6 months, lots of people would die, and that it would change America, or possibly even the whole world.  I told them I'd known it for almost 2 years because I was psychic, and that Amandry Naeken was the only other person I'd told.  I'm sure I said some other unintelligible stuff, but it's lost unto me.  I was adamant that anyone who thought I might be involved in any terrorist act would be wrong, and I'd kill any or all of them if they tried to implicate me.

Their silent look of disbelief was my signal that I'd overstayed my welcome, so I stepped out the door into the night.  Faidre and Garter both came out to see if I was alright.  He said, "You know...we were watching the same news report..."

I said, "I'll never mention this again, and I completely understand if you guys want me to just go away forever.  But that was for real."

After questioning me a bit more, Garter went back inside, convinced that it had only been a temporary loss of my mind.  I begged Faidre to write what I said down in her diary if she kept one, or do whatever it took to remember it.

That was the first time I mentioned a word of it to anyone since telling Bryne.

A few people joked about it the next time I saw them, but it was pretty much forgotten and never mentioned again after that.

One night I went over to the Unsound house because I was locked out of my own, as I never had a key the entire time I lived there.  Nobody answered.  I had been out drinking and needed to pee, so I walked around back to do it in the alley.  I noticed Neli's bedroom light on and the blinds open, and when I stepped closer to look inside, I saw Ron and Neli doing it.  I was only looking because I wondered why they didn't answer the door if somebody was home.  I decided this was a good place to pee.  I couldn't really see anything, but still found it highly entertaining.

Since seeing each other again, Neli hadn't brought up the whole 'Kat thing' to me, but Faidre once asked me, "So, did you like...rape somebody or something?"  I explained my side of the story to Faidre and nobody ever mentioned it to me again.  I sure as hell wasn't going to bring it up.

I realized when I started peeing that perhaps being outside her window while she had sex might not present me in a very good light, especially given our history.

All of a sudden, Ron jumped up to the window and looked directly at me.  I ran away with my dick in hand, tinkling on myself a little in transit before I could put it away, and then hid in the darkness until one of my roommates came home.

I didn't see Neli or Ron for a few days, but several of her roommates grilled me the next day to find out if it was me.  I denied vehemently.  Garter and Faidre actually sat me down to do an interrogation with a desk lamp.  They could have hooked me to a lie detector and I would have passed, because _I knew_ I wasn't a peeping tom.  But Ron knew it was me, and everybody else presumed so.

Ok, not my finest moment, I realize.  If Ron hadn't seen me I probably would have told Neli the next day how I saw them bonking through the window, and suggest they close the blinds in the future.  As punishment I give everyone permission to call me "Peeing Tom" at your discretion.

I'd actually seen people having sex through a window once before.  In my first apartment with Mike in Denver, one of the units in the building had a window that opened above the rear stairway.  When I exited the building one day, I heard people going at it.  So as I stepped down the stairs, I looked through the blowing curtains hanging in the wide open window to see my neighbors in a coital embrace.  My jaw was agape, and to my surprise the guy waved me in.  I ran away.  I made a conscious effort to use the front entrance if at all possible from then on.

The New Yorkers I lived with were a wild bunch, and everything you can imagine was going on at that house.  These people, who I had very little in common with and who had the loosest moral set of anyone I knew, would eventually become my closest friends and benefactors in times of need.

One of them left for college overseas, and several others moved back to New York.  Those that remained were 2 brothers, and they moved to a new apartment, so I began to live in Garter's practice space beneath Electronica at Colfax and Fillmore.  I stayed there for months, and skated downtown to play guitar on the 16th Street Mall daily.  I pulled some valuable shit from the trash and traded it with Garter for credit towards rent for the space.

I hauled in a full size upright Magic Genie organ with a dolly.  I made it down the stairs and into the doorway, but got trapped until Garter came the next day and helped me move it the rest of the way in.  I also found a Carvin amp head with a faux speedometer mounted in it, and a sealed original pressing of the Allman Brothers first live album.

One night I was leaving The Park with Neli, only because she was giving me a ride home, when I almost walked right past Cinara.  I stopped abruptly and said, "What the hell are you doing here?"  Neli had already walked out the door, but watched us through the window

Cinara acted surprised to see me.

I said, "Bullshit."

She denied having any prior knowledge of me being there and claimed she was there visiting friends.

I said, "Oh, you came to all the way to Denver to see your friends.  Are you fucking these friends?"

She said, "No."

"Then why would you come all the way out here?"

"I've got good friends here in Denver."

I said, "Who do you think you are talking to?  I know you are here to see me."

She swore she didn't plan it that way.

I said, "Whether you are consciously aware of it or not, I'm the real reason you came to Denver.  This has become an obsession for you, hasn't it?  It's unnatural to feel what you feel for me.  You don't even know me."

It hurts to write this.  I was such an asshole.  I asked her which guy she planned to take home from the bar.

I said, "Who knows, maybe I'll marry that girl that walked out before me.  She's like the opposite of you."  She was the exact opposite, in that she was blond and didn't like me very much.  I was just saying anything to hurt Cinara, and I don't know why.

I finally realized how badly I hurt her feelings and said, "Is this what you want?  I'm going fucking crazy, and trust me, you do not want to be around for it.  I'm sorry, but I promise this is the last time I break your heart."

I remember walking out the door thinking that she'd surely lose interest after that psychotic breach.  That's what I meant about breaking her heart, as the years passed I hoped she'd no longer care anymore.  I was yelling and visibly angry with her for wanting to love me.  Infinite fuck.

Neli asked me, "Who was that?"

I said, "She's this British singer named Cinara.  She's going to be wildly famous.  But don't worry.  You are just as talented as she is."

She said, "How do you know her?"

I said, "I kissed her once on the 16th Street Mall."

"Well, I could tell just by watching that you were being an asshole to her.  You shouldn't talk to people like that."

"It's complicated, but you are right."

"There's nothing complicated about it, especially with a girl."

One night as I lay sleeping, I had a dream about an old man with a mole in a rocking chair.  Faidre woke me at about 9:30 that morning.  She opened the door and frantically said, "Something's happened!"  She didn't have to say what it was.  I knew exactly what was going on just by the look on her face.  We drove to The Park and had a beer while the buildings collapsed.  It was September 11th, and I didn't take it well.

When she dropped me back off at the practice space, I started sobbing.  I hadn't cried in so long that it actually felt good.  I rambled on about how the last thing I thought was going to happen was nuclear terrorism, and how nobody was going to believe me.  For the most part she seemed unaffected by any of it, and consoled me without judgment.  I told her to just try to forget about it if it bothered her.

One Tuesday night at The Park's open-mic, I noticed a girl who seemed to be upset sitting at a table directly in front of the stage.  Her demeanor appeared to be varying degrees of sullen, bitter, and angry by facial expressions alone.  After a while, I decided to go talk to her and see why she was so distraught.  I thought perhaps it was the performers, who I didn't think were _that_ bad.

I introduced myself and asked what her name was.  She told me her name was Gabby.  I said, "G _abbey Road_ ," like The Beatles album.

She rudely replied, "Oh, like I've never heard that before," as if this was my amateur pick up line and I'd gone wrong by being a mindless fuckshit.  The fact of the matter is I didn't usually hit on girls that look like they might start swinging, I mean punching, and my only reason for speaking to her was out of concern for her mental well-being.

I said, "I'm sorry, I'm not trying to hit on you or bother you.  You just looked really pissed off, so I thought I might see if I could cheer you up in some way."

Oddly, she opened up a bit and started telling me about her night.  She said she was there with her boyfriend who shouldn't have been drinking anyhow, given his kidney problems.  She was under 21, and in college somewhere in Gunnison.  She said she didn't even want to be at the bar in the first place and, wanted to leave.  I mistook Gunnison for Greeley, and commented that I've heard it was a shithole.  She disagreed, and I didn't want to argue about a place I knew next to nothing about, and I'm glad I didn't because I would have looked pretty stupid considering I'd never actually been to either place and was geographically about 250 miles off target.

She was clearly intoxicated, and judging by the thinly veiled spite and malice behind everything she said, I really didn't want to argue with her about anything.  I tried lightening her spirit by joking around and talking smack about all the performers we'd seen that night, all to no avail.  She seemed to get angrier the more I talked to her, and I followed suit eventually.  I said, "Well, your boyfriend is a dipshit for drinking, and you are just as dumb for dating him."

She told me she didn't care what I thought, so I asked her if she cared what anybody thought ever.  Her reply was basically that she was only concerned with God's opinion.  I told her there was no God.  That was the final straw for her, and she stormed away.

A while later she was back at a different table in front of the stage, this time with 2 guys.  I assumed one of them was her renal failure of a boyfriend.  I tried not to make eye contact with her, but when I walked by her to adjust one of the mic-stands, she looked at me and asked the 2 guys sitting with her, "Do you believe in God?"  The guys looked at each other for a split second, and eventually said quite un-emphatically, "Sure."

I asked her which one was her boyfriend and she said she'd just met both of them.  Maybe it was her boyfriend and his friend and she was just fucking with me, I'll never know.  They didn't appear to be regular church goers in my opinion, so when she said she was going to get a ride home with them, I was a bit worried for her safety.

I said, "There is no way they are going to give you a ride to Gunnison.  They are going to rape you and murder you, God or not."

She said, "No it's not like that, my mom's house is in Arvada."

I told her I didn't think it was a safe move regardless, and I volunteered Garter to give her a ride with me in order to be safer.  Garter and I were well known amongst the people at that bar, employee and patron alike, so it just seemed safer to me.  He walked by and I asked him if it would be ok.

He said, "Where is it?"

I said, "Arvada."

I could tell he only agreed because he thought I was trying to get laid.

She said, "I don't need your ride.  You are just mad because you got shot down, and jealous because I'm leaving with somebody else."  This was so not the case.  I mean, sure, she was attractive enough, until she opened her mouth.  Granted, if she looked like a goat I probably never would have talked to her in the first place.

So I said, "That is so not the case, but do you have any sisters?"  I was just trying to piss her off.  She told me her sister was too good for me, that she was going to college in Denver, and would never date a bum musician like me.

I said, "That would be just my luck, ending up with you in my family."  She started to walk away when the two guys she was sitting with motioned that they were now leaving.

Something started churning in my mind.  I yelled to her as she left with the 2 tattooed guys, "Someday I'm going to be married to your sister, I just know it!  Just you wait and see!  I'll bang her nice and hard for you."  She probably took this as me egging her on, which it was, but it was also a profound revelation for me.  As was the fact that poor Gabby could very well be raped on the way to her grave that night.

Along with the 3 open-mic nights that Garter ran, I branched out to many others around town like Cricket on The Hill and The Mercury Cafe, always performing poorly.  Nothing interesting ever seemed to happen anywhere other than The Park.

I saw an attractive blonde in heart shaped sunglasses intently watching me there one day, so I dedicated a song to her because she appeared to be the only one listening.  Afterwards, she was still sitting there alone in a booth, so I sat down with her and tried to hit on her.  She said her name was Rose, and it was her birthday.  She mentioned something about going to hang out with her friends and their neighbors, 'The New York Boys,' and I intrinsically knew she was talking about my former roommates.  She didn't remember their names to corroborate with my intuition, but I compelled her to bring me with her and see if I was right.

After the bar closed we went down to their house and hung out.  Sure enough the New Yorkers greeted me warmly.  After partying with them that night, they ended up inviting me to move in again.

I was at The Park for yet another open-mic night sitting with 3 girls, one of whom was my former neighbor from when I lived with Mike.  She had no recollection of me.  They invited me to their place after the bar closed, and we went to their apartment building and hung out on its roof.  We drank some more, and my former neighbor and another one of the girls began making out with each other.  Lucky for me, the remaining girl seemed heterosexual, and the most attractive of the lot.  I ended up sleeping with her.

This was the only time I ever went home with someone I didn't know and had sex with them.  Afterward, we were asleep in her bed when some guy, who I recognized later as an employee at The Park, got into bed with us and proceeded to spoon me.  I reacted like Steve Martin in Planes, Trains, and Automobiles, and he drunkenly mumbled something unintelligible in reply.  He had no idea who, or what sex I was, and perhaps where he was.  Instead of leaving, I still spent the night there on the floor, mostly out of curiosity, but also to mess with their minds.  In the morning, she was like, "Why are you still here?  What the hell is wrong with you?"

I didn't see her again for a month or so, as I didn't have her number, and in actuality I wasn't really too keen on seeing her again after the guy crawled in bed with us.  I'm fairly certain he was her on-again/off-again boyfriend.

Garter had been trying to get a second band going with members of The Hate Fuck Trio and himself.  He had broken up with Faidre, and I think everyone in the band sensed it was on its way out.  Brian, or Sparky, as he was introduced to me, was the singer in the new band.  I think Garter played guitar and I don't remember if there was even a bass player.  Tim played drums, and also for The Hate Fuck Trio at the time, although he was not a founding member.  I just watched and fooled around on the organ.

One day the guys were giving Sparky shit for wanting to get with his girlfriend's best friend.  And to make matters more difficult, the girls had a pact that they would never date the same guy ever.  Period.  Something clicked in my head, and I somehow knew that I was going to be married to the girl he was talking about, but years in the future.  I had never met her, or even seen or heard of her before, but somehow I just knew.

I pulled Sparky into the hallway at a stopping point in practice and tried to explain this to him.  We were both a bit drunk, and I worried he might not remember me saying it.  I was adamant about him needing to remember because he could help to save my marriage to someone I didn't know, that hadn't even happened yet.  I knew in the future she wouldn't believe me when I told her my life story, which had _much_ more unbelievable shit in it.  I insisted that he punch me in the face.  I'm not sure what inspired that, but I guess I thought he would remember punching somebody in the face simply because they asked him.  He didn't want to.  I also said that he should just stick with his current girlfriend, because she was probably good for him.  I didn't want him banging my future wife did I?  He went back to practice as though nothing had happened.

A couple months later, the girl I had a one night stand with sat down at my table in front of the stage at The Park Tavern with a stern look on her face.  She explained that she was pregnant, and that I might be the father.  I told her that I somehow intrinsically knew that I was the father, regardless of what the circumstances were behind the pregnancy.  I went on to explain that I could see the future, I was supposed to marry someone else, and that I would surely screw up her and her kid's life if I acted as the father.  I said, "Let's be realistic, I'm practically homeless and I'm a dumpster-diving pothead with PTSD from 9/11, what can I possibly bring to the table?"

I don't know how much of what I said she actually heard because the music was pretty loud.  She stormed off angrily, and rightly so.  Her reaction might have been worse if she heard everything.  I didn't see her again for years, and just buried the memory like I did with everything else I couldn't deal with.

A few weeks later, this girl saw me sitting at the bar as I waited for Tim, the drummer for Hate Fuck Trio, to finish his bartending shift.  I hadn't even noticed her until she came up to me as she was leaving and said, "I've never done this before, but you just look really cool.  This is my number."  She handed me a folded piece of paper, and I smiled and thanked her as she walked away.  I knew this girl meant something to me somehow, and when Tim said he recognized her as one of Sparky's friends, right then I knew exactly who she was.  But I felt it was too soon, what with the other girl being pregnant and all.  I was considering straightening out my life and being a father, so I said, "Fuck destiny," and crumpled the paper and threw it away.

Joey said, "Why did you do that?  That was awesome!  It's never happened to me before."

We left the bar right after that and made our way to the practice space underneath Electronica.  I played all of my songs with Tim jamming along.  Joey played bass on the first couple, but claimed he couldn't keep up and just watched the rest.  I've never played with a better drummer.  I hoped we could do it again and maybe play some shows, but it never materialized.  I told Tim I'd come back and pay him good money to drum for me if I ever made anything of myself.

Faidre worked at the Tattered Cover on the 16th Street Mall and would find me playing guitar in front of Ross sometimes to hang out during her lunch break.  She almost always paid for mine.  I had always felt really close to her, but valued her friendship even more because I saw her as the one person I could actually talk to about the crazy shit in my head.  I talked to her about the future all the time, and although she didn't seem too interested, she would at least listen.  I stayed away from the parts where people die.  I felt solace in the fact that even if I died right then and there, she would remember what I did and be able to verify at least a shred of it.

The truth is, after she and Garter broke up, I started thinking about Faidre romantically.  But after 9/11, I was head over heels in love.  I was close with Garter though, and I didn't want to ruin my friendship with either of them.  The real issue was that I didn't think she would ever go for me, especially considering my trash digging, street walking state.

After a while, her dad actually sought me out while I played guitar on the sidewalk.  He asked that I no longer communicate with her because I was causing her mental anguish in some way.  To his surprise, I said that although I was deeply hurt by this, I had her best interests in mind and trusted his judgment considering he was her father.  He thought I was messing with his mind.  I stopped going to see her, and she stopped coming to see me.

My roommates eventually got me a job at Fat Jack's, where two of them worked.  I delivered subs to Modest Mouse once at The Fillmore.

Since I had a steady income, I stopped going downtown to play guitar altogether.

During the time I was living with the New York boys on Corona Street, I noticed two girls that tended to walk past our house quite often while I was playing guitar on the front porch.  It took months of them walking by both together, and individually, before I finally recognized these girls as Andrea, my old girlfriend, and Laura, a girl I graduated with from Kingsford High.  When I said Andrea's name once as she walked by, she looked but did not reply.  But they continued to pass by and give me dirty looks almost every day.  It became almost a daily occurrence.  I pointed them out to one of my roommates, explaining the real story, to his horror, and describing them as stalkers from my home town.  He thought it was just as odd as I did.

One night we were having a huge party and the two girls were making their rounds again.  I decided to act.  I was with about 30 people standing on both our porch and in our front yard.  I jumped onto the sidewalk in front of them and screamed, "Listen here!  I don't care what your goal is.  I don't care what happened to you, or your baby.  You were an alcoholic.  You put that kid at risk before I even knew you were pregnant, and now you find it convenient to blame me for what happened.  And fuck you Laura.  I don't know what your problem is, I always considered you to be pretty intelligent.  What are you, lesbians now?  Fuck off, and if I ever see you again, I'll have you arrested for stalking and harassment.  All these people are my witnesses."

My party friends were watching and wondering out loud, "What is going on over there?"

Laura had a look of shock and anger, and Andrea began to cry.  Andrea was about to say something to me, but I cut her off and said, "I don't care.  Perhaps if you had approached me in a different manner I might feel differently.  I mean, are you even sure the kid is mine?  Did he even look like me?"

Andrea said yes, so I said she owed it to me to at least show me a picture.  I looked at it for a moment.  I said, "Let me guess, he was born one month premature, but at a normal weight?  That looks exactly like somebody we both know: Brandon.  Didn't you sleep with him a couple times before you started dating me again?"

She started crying again.

I screamed, "I've been tortured all this time, and you came here to torture me some more, and the kid probably wasn't even mine!"  I hadn't thought of it in years.

I went on to tell them about being psychic, and how I knew all of this from the get go.  I also told them about how I was going to write books, and they would be included.

Laura said she was a writer, and would write a book about me.  Like a rebuttal.

I said, "Nobody is ever going to buy your shit book.  I know you, and I know your writing sucks ass.  You better just change your names and fade away."

They walked away, never to be seen again.  Don't think I don't suffer from this or feel bad for her and the poor child, I just don't feel it necessary to indulge you with my personal trauma from the matter.

Even though we had a lot of parties, I wasn't a crazy partyer by nature.  I didn't care much for anything but smoking weed and making music, and I blocked out pretty much every other aspect of my life which I didn't find satisfactory at the time.  We had huge parties, sometimes with two bands playing simultaneously in each half of our duplex.  We had tear gas shot through our locked windows by the police once, and a different time I got paraphernalia charges for a bong because I was always less fucked up than everyone else, and therefore in charge of talking to the police.

Hela, who was a friend of ours, invited her friends that were in a band over to one of our parties.  I was playing guitar on the front porch with a bunch of people smoking cigarettes and weed.  Everyone but the members of their band eventually filed back inside.  It was only about a minute before I realized a few were of them were watching me intently.  I stopped and asked them, "Did you guys like that?  Am I any good?"

One of them said they liked something about it, so I said, "Feel free to steal it."

He said, "I might."

We skipped the small talk, and I found out their name was I Hate Kate.

I asked the singer to sing something for me and was impressed enough to assure him that he was at least better than I was.

I said, "You know what?  I've heard you guys before, and I really think you're going to make it big.  I'm actually a psychic, and I wish I could say that's what makes me think so because then I'd be certain of it, but it's my gut this time."

They asked how I knew I was psychic, so I gave them a short breakdown of my having met Amandry.

We started talking the philosophy of the matter, I mentioned how being an atheist was a contradiction to being psychic.  The singer said he was atheist as well, so I suggested that he keep a keen eye on my story to relay the atheist viewpoint, but to focus on religion as being the real problem and not the idea of something unexplained.  I don't know, I don't really remember much because I was pretty drunk and high, but they go by Darling Thieves now, and they fucking rock.  Check out the song, _Ignore The Whisper_ , it's my favorite.

I was depressed.  I was ignoring the stress of my pregnant one night stand, a dead child from my teenage years that may or may not have been mine, thousands of people dying by hijacked planes, and future nuclear terrorist attacks.

I thought maybe once this new kid was born, they'd realize I was the father and everything would work out.  I was also ok with the idea of the child growing up with a surrogate father.  Or maybe this was just somebody else's kid, and I was wrong _just this once_.  I didn't see her at The Park, or anywhere else, for a long time.

I got fired from Fat Jack's and thought I should go visit my mom.  Not to talk to her about any of these things, I've tried that and it doesn't connect for me at least.  I just thought I needed a change.  In a sense it was like I was running away from another kid, back to where I ran from the first one.  I took a Greyhound bus to Iron Mountain, Michigan, where my mom picked me up and brought me to Iron River, where she then lived.  I worked at Brule Mountain, predominantly in the ski shop, while taking care of many other matters of business like horses and shit, literally.

My uncle Jimmy sold me a sweet Mazda 323 for 600 dollars.  I stayed with my mom for a while, and then in a basement apartment Jimmy rented me for one month, until I realized I was wasting away in a dying town.  It was nice spending time with my former step-brother David who was a new father himself, but I felt I had to go back to Denver to make something of myself and maybe find my kid.

When I got back, I was re-hired at Fat Jack's as a delivery driver.  I eventually moved into my own basement apartment in the same building where the New York boys stayed.  There were 4 girls that lived above me.  As time progressed I got to know the girls pretty well.  Tina showed me her 3rd nipple.  It looked like a little birth mark, but when I touched it, she and I both reacted as though it were a nipple.

A few weeks later, I was drinking with Tina on the front porch.  Somehow we ended up in my bedroom.  I say somehow because I don't remember, and because she seemed out of my league.  She was beautiful, and I was incredibly attracted to her, but I lost consciousness after we started making out.  Turns out that she was 'orally stimulating' me, and for some reason I'll never understand I punched her directly in the eye.  I have never been into sadism, so I must have thought I was getting raped or something.  She ran upstairs and I passed out.

I was not in my right mind obviously, and I didn't remember what I'd done until the next day when she had a black eye, and even then her roommates basically had to tell me what happened.  I say basically because they prodded me to see what I remembered until finally I had a nightmarish and vague recollection of it.  I think my punching her in the face might have been due to my sexual assaults from the past.  I don't know, I really can't remember what I was thinking since I practically blacked out drunk, but I still feel guilty.  I really liked her too.  She was still pleasant with me after I apologized.

Believe it or not, _I'm actually leaving some stories about dicks in mouths out_ , because there's already far too many as it stands.

Tina eventually moved out, and another girl moved into her room.  I can't remember her name, but I had sex with her on an underinflated air mattress, and I was terrible.  I remember questioning myself, "Perhaps I shouldn't have sex with just about anyone willing?"  Her ex-boyfriend had asked me to try to seduce her if she was planning on doing it with somebody else while he was out of town.  He was still infatuated with her, and this was his brilliant master plan we enacted.  I went along with it because I walked through any door people opened for me, plus, I didn't think she would go for me in the first place.  She was very good looking and had tattoos all over.

When she told me she was never getting back together with him, and interested in another guy, I told her about our little 'plan.'

She said, "Well, we might as well just get to it then..."

When Jordan, the alpha-girl of the building, suggested we check out the benefits package a few weeks later, I backpedaled on my plans to avoid meaningless sex.  I enjoyed it thoroughly, but noticed a small lump in one of her breasts.  When we were finished, I pointed it out to her and said, "Maybe that's why that one is bigger than the other, just like my balls."  She acted like she never noticed that they were different sizes, her breasts or my balls, which in either respect is not all that surprising because neither were all that obvious.  I was upset that she seemed even less concerned with the lump.  I had to show her where it was and convince her that it could possibly be malignant.

Years later she moved across the street from Fat Jack's, and would come in from time to time.  She was always very sweet.  During these visits, I came to feel that she had chosen to live across from my work just to reconnect with me.  I had only recently started dating somebody, and rudely told Jordan that there was never a chance for us because of how she treated me when we were neighbors.

We had been a pain in each other's ass while we lived in the same building.  The landlord had entrusted her with collecting rent, and basically being vice-landlord for a small discount on her apartment.  After not paying one month, I got an eviction notice, but I refused to leave due to the landlord's total disregard for the rights of tenants.  Jordan and I argued because she wanted me to leave right away, and I told her I was exercising my rights as a renter.  I kept imploring her to look at the greater picture and see the fundamental rights and wrongs that existed in the world.  I knew the landlord was going to try to keep my security deposit because I was prematurely ending the lease, so I chose to let her keep it and tried to stay in the apartment as long as possible.  I figured if I stayed at least 30 days, I didn't lose anything.  I'd done it several times with different leases.

In retaliation, the landlord had my front door removed one day while I was at work, so I hung thick plastic sheeting like you find in the refrigerated areas of breweries and grocery stores.  I was able to stay for almost two months before 3 large guys, presumably her nephews from Wyoming, cornered me in my apartment and pinned me down.  The biggest guy held me after I stopped struggling, while the others hauled out what they thought were my belongings, but was in actuality the garbage I planned to leave behind.  I'd already moved the things I wanted out.  They were throwing away my garbage for me, and I found it very funny.  The landlord came in and took my toothbrush from the bathroom.  She said she was keeping it as DNA evidence.  I laughed and asked her if she wanted some mitochondrial DNA as well.  Nobody got it.

When she walked through the kitchen there was a clear plexiglass shelf that had fallen on the floor, and she, being the dumb, soulless wretch she was, didn't see it.  I even warned her to look out, but instead she blindly toppled helplessly to the floor, and then moaned in agony as one of the guys helped her up.  I laughed again.  When they let me go in the yard, they were egging me on to fight them.  I called them pussies and went on my way.

After the fact, I realized that somehow I'd forgotten to pack my Ministry shirt, and I assumed they threw it away.  I looked in the dumpsters in my alley, but none of my stuff was in any of them.  I figured they packed it in a truck and dumped it somewhere else so I couldn't find it.  This bothered me.  I thought, "How is Amandry going to recognize me if I don't have the shirt anymore?"

I had a few friends that let me randomly crash at their houses for a while.  I just wandered around each day until I found someone who'd let me stay the night.  If I couldn't find somebody, I just slept in my car.  That is, until it was repossessed by the city for parking violations.  I had been fired again from Fat Jack's and worked a few part time jobs, but Fat Jack's re-hired me for the second time shortly afterwards.  I stayed with the New Yorkers again for a few months at a new place on Franklin Street.  After working a while, I bought an '81 Toyota minivan for $400.

I was living in the van and working at Fat Jack's when I ran into Adam, and old friend of the X Sigma members.  He was riding down Colfax on his bike when I flagged him down.  This was not "Throw a Rock at Your Face" Adam, in case there is any confusion.  He said he was out looking for work, and I went with him to his house to smoke some weed.  He and his roommates offered to let me stay with them for a while.  When their lease ended shortly thereafter, Adam and I decided to rent a place together.

I switched back to delivering the food again, so I bought a red '87 BMW 325ES.  This was a car that initially one of the New Yorkers bought from Chris, the singer in a band called Synthetic, and I then purchased it from him because he wasn't any good at driving a manual transmission.  I loved that car and I drove it like a maniac.  It had a few upgrades like the cam and air intake.  I snapped the engine off its mounts several times from accidentally catching air.

Adam was a crazy drunk, but great fun and a true friend.  He was working at PF Chang's when he served a group of girls that wanted to meet up at the Rock Bottom Brewery after his shift ended.  He called me and asked what I was doing just as I was getting off work.  He described the scenario as being around 3 able bodied females that were drinking alcohol, one of which, Leighton, he staked a claim on.  When I arrived, I was immediately impressed by their appearances, but Leighton was clearly the most physically attractive in the group.  No wonder he picked her.  Perhaps it is her South American heritage that makes her distinct, but I easily remembered her from simply having driven past her while she walked down the sidewalk.  I told her this.

We introduced ourselves and I treated the conversation like a dating game, asking mostly questions regarding philosophical beliefs and social issues.  I completely ignored Adam's claiming of Leigh for his empire.  The one question posed that I described as the kicker was, "Do you believe in God?"

Girl number one was a Christian, then Leigh started saying something like, "I have my own spiritual beliefs..." and continued to rattle on.

After a few seconds, I cut her off by saying, "--which has no basis in reality."

I turned and looked at girl number three and said, "How about you?"

After thinking for a second, she said, "I'd have to say agnostic."

I said, "And that's the correct answer."

Of the girls I was most impressed by number 3, or Lara as I had come to learn, and she also struck me as vaguely familiar.  When the subject turned to music and I expressed my involvement in the 'scene', Leighton mentioned that they were friends with The Hate Fuck Trio, and that she used to date the guitarist.

It felt like lightning had struck me through my skull.  Everything came together in that moment when I realized Lara was my predicted future wife.  I flashed back to my encounter with Sparky, and then getting her number at the bar.  I even remembered driving next to each other on 13th Avenue as we both turned onto Broadway.  I only looked over at her Saturn because it had holes in the side of it, and she smiled at me.  I didn't know this would be my wife just by looking at her, but I still felt that this was the person I would have married even if I never had any kind of psychic premonition.

I saw her with a newfound interest.  I started to sweat a little bit, nervous that I might somehow fuck it up.

I wondered if Sparky would be jealous.

When she excused herself, like a puppy dog I asked if I could accompany her to what I guessed was the bathroom in exactly as awkward a manner you might imagine.  Luckily she liked me.

## Chapter 10

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**L** ara sounded hesitant on the phone when I asked her out again, and she made it appear that she had something going on every day of the week, ad infinitum.  Turns out she practically did with school and work, but still she agreed to find the time to go out with me about a week later.  We started dating regularly shortly thereafter.  I felt something strangely comforting, like I was finally on the right path.

But that didn't last long, and our relationship became tumultuous without warning.  I felt she was too possessive, and she thought I didn't respect her wishes.  We fought about things like me going to the bars after work and not calling her.  In hindsight I realize I was pretty fucked in the head and probably to blame for most of our troubles.  I never cheated on her though, but I thought about it.

One of the times I spent the night at Lara's apartment, when we came back to my house in the morning, we found Adam strewn across the floor in his underwear, and on top of thousands of shards of broken wood.  The wood had been an artist's table I'd found in the trash and restored.  He shot his 9mm through it, and consequently through the wall, and then decided to smash it to bits to destroy the evidence of gun play.  When he awoke, hammer still in hand, he was unintelligible.

A few weeks later, he and I decided to shoot ceramic bowls in the back yard at six in the morning.  We lived directly across the street from a church, and people were arriving to the sound of gunshots.  We saw the police come whipping in from 2 different directions and darted inside.  I laid in a pile of dirty laundry on the floor of my bedroom, and he hid in his bedroom.  Apparently the battering ram was called and news helicopters were circling above us for a moment.  The police saw me through my window and thought I was possibly a dead body.

They eventually left, and it seemed so unlikely to us.  They were unable to get a warrant I guess, but I'm not sure why.  We stayed inside for a good portion of the day, until Adam poked his head out the front door for about 15 seconds.  Within 5 minutes most of the police were back.  I was on the toilet when they came in and yelled, "Come out with your hands up, and don't flush it."  So what did I do?  I stood up, pulled my pants up, and flushed the toilet.

He came in real quick with his gun drawn so I held my hands up and said, "Sorry man, force of habit.  It was just poop.  Look, some of it didn't go down!"  He didn't have to look, and I think judging by the smell he was absolutely certain of what I'd been doing.

Why we decided to shoot plates is beyond me, but I am sure it was his idea.  I was just too drunk to realize how wrong what we were doing was.  They arrested him on the spot.  After he was released, we looked and saw that one of the bullets had gone into a neighboring basement apartment window, and then through at least one of its walls.  That was probably me, as I'm not a great shot with handguns.  His argument in court was that he was being kept up all night by the squirrels and was tryin' to get 'em.

So I moved in with Lara.  I was really happy to do so, and her little apartment on 14th and Pennsylvania brings back fond memories of crack-heads getting tazered and hookers getting fucked in the night.  She had been using birth control and we also used condoms most of the time just to be safe, but we found out she was pregnant about 8 months after we started dating.

I was so happy to find out I was going to be a father.  Ever since seeing my step-brother Pete with his kid, I knew I wanted to have kids.  I know I'd pretty much run the gamut on things that could go wrong with pregnancy, but I thought this was a good idea even if Lara and I weren't sure we wanted to be together long term.

The way she presented her pregnancy to me was as such: "I'm pregnant, and you are obviously the father.  I'm keeping this baby with or without you.  Abortion is not an option."  I thought that eliminating the standard discussion of options such as abortion and adoption was antagonistic, and should at least be explored for posterity's sake.

This was the first glaring example of how our relationship was failing.  All she remembers is me getting angry with her.  All I remember is her desire for absolute control of every situation by disregarding any opposition I might have.  I asked, "What if the doctors are certain it would be deformed or handicapped in some way?"

Lara said, "I guess it depends on what exactly is wrong, but I'd probably still keep it."

What she saw as me taunting her was in reality me just trying to logically explain my point with deductive reasoning.  She was mad at me for forcing her to have this 'discussion' with me.  Later in life she told me that her father had convinced her to get an abortion once in the past.  I think this might explain her defiance in these matters.  I guess I would have felt the same.

I was invited to dinner with her family to break the news.  When the announcement was made, Gabby instantly started crying and told everyone I was a bad human being, and that Lara shouldn't be with me.  I thought this was odd because she had only been in my presence for a couple of hours total.  I didn't realize who Gabby was at the time, it took almost a year before I even remembered that night many years ago when we first met.  I was happy to see her when I had this epiphany, regardless of her reaction.  I've mentioned it to her on several occasions, but she still claims she does not remember any of it.  If you asked her, I'm almost certain she'd tell you I'm just disturbed.  That, my friends, is a repressed memory.

A few weeks later, I was walking to work down Marion Street towards Fat Jack's when I noticed a young boy with dark hair and a birthday hat sitting on the patio of the Irish Snug.  My hair stood on end across my entire body and an unexplainable sensation encompassed me.  As I walked closer I realized how much he looked like me, and I knew that he was my lost son.  Then I noticed the girl from my one night stand standing a few feet from him.  I think she recognized me too, because she looked odd when she caught my eye.  I walked past them without making contact out of fear.

I'm not sure if his birthday party with all his friends and family was a good time to make an appearance. _Hey, guess what kid?   I'm your real dad.  Wait, nobody knows about me?  You've already got a dad?_

Upset with my decision in hindsight, I contacted the landlord where she had lived who was nice enough to give me her name after I explained my situation.  I tried to find her, but was unsuccessful, and I've now forgotten even her name.  I'm not sure if forgotten is the right word, maybe I should say repressed.  So if there is a kid out there who had his 3rd birthday party at the Irish Snug sometime around 2004 or 2005, I'm looking for you and I'm not too hard to find.  I really want to find you.  I don't have much to offer yet, but I'm working on some stuff.  He was only 3 years old, and I could see by the way that he looked at me that he knew I meant something to him, somehow.

All these things happening to me made me want to talk to Faidre.  I wasn't exactly sure I was choosing the right path in life with Lara.  Faidre was the last person I _really_ cared about before Lara, and the only person I was ever able to talk to about personal issues, including those involving psychic premonitions.  When I went to visit her at The Tattered Cover where she worked, she saw me and went pale.

I said, "Hey, what's up!  How have you been?"

She said, "I'm sorry, but I'm not supposed to talk to you anymore."

I was shocked.  I didn't remember my conversation with her dad, and even still wasn't reminded.

I asked her why, and she told me that someone said I was a bad influence.  I was hurt, but I cared about her so much I didn't think twice before apologizing, saying goodbye, and walking away for what I assumed would be forever.

Lara and I rented a house at 42nd and Alcott Street in the Federal Heights.  It was a beautiful home with a nice fenced yard for her two dogs, Pete and Mickey.  I still worked at Fat Jack's, and would sometimes go to the bar after work.  I worked till 3 a.m. on the weekends.  My devotion to her was true, but she still worried and wanted to be with me as much as possible, especially since she was pregnant and thereby in an increasingly emotional state.

It was right around this time that I first told Lara about meeting Helmsy and Amandry.  I didn't remember a whole lot of the pieces at the time, but focused on telling her about the things that had already happened.  She didn't believe me at all.  What she first took as a passing moment of mental manifestation slowly turned into a total lack of faith in my sanity, with absolutely no reciprocation from her in regard to validation of the facts.  I degenerated to an emotional state filled with rage and hurt, and I felt trapped.

Granted, I reacted poorly, and her concerns were not for the fact that I thought nuclear bombs could possibly kill millions of people, it was that I reacted so angrily to her not believing me.  I had anger management issues.  I was angry that I couldn't tell her because she wouldn't believe me, and then once I told her, I was angry that she didn't.  Granted, I didn't get mad the first time I told her and she took it as me having mental issues.  I tried so hard to remember and find out new things for the future, and I told her much of what I knew.  She would always forget, or call it a coincidence.

I had recorded a few songs at my apartment with Adam that turned out poorly, so I set up shop again in our new basement to record again.  Lara sang backup vocals on a few songs while pregnant.  I basically forced her to do it.  She wasn't really interested in my music.

We continued to fight regularly, but my affections for her barely waned.  My hurt stemmed from a lifetime of abuse, and an inability to share my life story out of fear of ridicule or condemnation which could lead to a total loss of her, and my unborn child.  So I was stuck pretending to be somebody else, and it was not good for my mental health.  I'd finally given my heart to somebody, and now felt an extreme dependence upon her for emotional support.

One night we had a pretty explosive argument, culminating in me breaking something.  So I left in an attempt to cool off.  I didn't know where I was going, but I was driving toward downtown.

I ended up at the old practice space where I used to live, and where I talked to Sparky.  I still had the key to the front door, and when I walked in a band was playing a entrancing song.  I sat there in the hallway and listened until it was over.  They played the same song again, so I listened once more, and finally knocked on their door upon its completion.  The singer, Ascia, opened the door and greeted me kindly.  I said, "I don't want to bother you guys.  But I had to tell you I think that was some of the best music I've ever heard from a local band, perhaps some of the best music I've ever heard in general."

They were thankful of my praise, and one of them asked me what specifically I liked about it.  I told them I'd known a guy that was suicidal, and instead of telling him life is worth living no matter what the cost, I weighed the benefits and detriments of his non-existence.  I was saddened by the memory, because I believed him to be dead by suicide at the time.  However, I seemed to forgot that I also told him how to switch his identity, and now know that he's just fine, at least the last I've heard.  He was facing jail time for bullshit drug charges.

I said to the band, "The real best answer is that life is worth living no matter what, and even if you hate the person, just lie and tell them they are loved just to keep them alive.  Because this life is the only one we get."  I then asked, "What exactly is it you are saying during the chorus?"

He spoke the lines, and I said, "You should sing, ' _How to say a lie_ ' for one of the choruses, because you gotta lie sometimes to save a life."

Ascia reacted like those were exactly the words he had been looking for, but the rest of the band argued that it was improper grammar.

I asked them if they were signed to a label, and they said yes.  I asked who, and when they said Atlantic Records, I realized I was talking to people who would one day be famous.

I asked what the label was doing for them as far as marketing, and they said, "Not enough."

I suggested they go talk to the 'higher-ups' and tell them they were ready for the big time, and if they weren't given more attention, to try to get a better label like Sony to buy them out.  I said, "Everybody should get some really expensive sunglasses and wear them into the office when you talk to them.  Give them the impression that you are high rollers.  I don't care if it's pitch black outside, wear the sunglasses."  I told them I knew they had the talent to make it big, but I also explained that I had an advantage that helped me know their success was immanent.  Yes, verbomaniacs, that's the right word.

I told them I was a psychic, and that I could see in the near future they would be incredibly successful.  They asked how I knew I was psychic.  I gave them a bereft version of my encounter with Amandry, and it appeared they concluded I was mentally defective.  I hadn't thought about it for a while, and all I could remember for certain was that there would be a black President, and then a nuclear attack.  I left it as vague as that because that's all I really remembered.  I had no recollection of any connection between Amandry and the President, and I felt like I was the last bastion of hope to save lives.  I had only recently remembered anything about a black President when I heard on the news that he entered the race very early, and made no connection to myself other than that I said it would happen.  Luckily, Amandry remembered _everything_ , and nobody's fate ever rested upon me, because I'm not the greatest when it comes to actually doing things.  I have grandiose ideas, but lack motivation.

The drummer made some jokes that felt like they were at my expense.  It made the band laugh, and then they made a few comments to each other for a moment.  I sat down and held my head and pondered, "How can I make them believe me?"  I felt like I had nothing.  I was upset and got extremely angry about it, yelling, "Alright you guys.  You may think I'm a lunatic or whatever, but listen up because I'm going to tell you the future.  You'll have to shit yourselves later."  And perhaps borne out of pure furious rage over people not believing something deeply personal and important to me, I began to speak without knowing what I was going to say.  I'd done it numerous times before, but never had made an attempt to do it at will.

It had been a while since I told the future, and I felt a bit rusty.  In the past, I always started by saying something that seemed like pure fabrication.  It somehow begins to take shape in my mind almost as if I'm creating the world in front of me, and feeling like I'm somehow in control of the future.  But I know that's not true.  It's just not possible.  It may feel like I'm writing the history books of the future, but I know I'm just reading an advance copy.

I said I knew they had been together as a band for a long time due to my having heard of their name, Thy Fear, several years prior.  They told me they started playing together in high school.  They had an extra member practicing with them who was behind a keyboard.  He was apparently not an actual member of the band.

I said, "Somebody in here is gay.  Which one of you is homosexual?"

Everybody was awkwardly silent for a moment.  Ascia motioned toward the keyboardist with his eyes, so I looked at him and he timidly said, "I'm gay."  And the rest of the band quickly started muttering various permutations of, "Oh really?  I didn't know that.  Wow."  These utterances were all completely lacked any believability whatsoever.  Ascia rolled his eyes.

I said something like, "Being gay is ok.  Be proud, let it be known.  Don't be ashamed."  He said he just tended to keep his personal life private, and I apologized by saying, "I'm sorry. I don't know why the fuck I'm doing this anyways.  But I can assure you guys I'm not crazy."  They were most assuredly not convinced.

I started talking about a girl they went to high school with.  I described her as a girl with a boy's name, and that she was a model.

They all said, "Quinn" in unison.

I described her as being taller than me, and wondered out loud how she could possibly be a model with such height.  They described that she wasn't some kind of high fashion model, but that she had done some modeling as a kid.

I said, "This whole story I've been telling you and even this moment right now are going to cause me great stress in the future.  I see myself in a mental hospital with your friend Quinn.  She slits her wrist because her boyfriend cheats on her."

Their total lack of concern for Quinn's welfare was not shocking to me.  First off, they probably assumed I was a lunatic, and secondly, they seemed to be incredibly self-absorbed people that wouldn't be concerned in the slightest to hear about it after it happened.  I got angry and tried to point out how shallow they sounded by their lack of pity.  They explained that I had to meet the girl to know why they weren't all that worried.

I said, "That is just a cruel thing to say, regardless of how you feel towards a person.  Did we not go over this just a few minutes ago?  Think about your song lyrics, guys.  I'm going to clue you in on a few things that you obviously don't give a shit about.  The fact of the matter is that everything I'm saying here is absolutely true and will without a doubt take place.  If I know that somebody is possibly going to try to kill themselves, one would presume I should take action to help the person.  If you can take yourself into a place where you understand that what I'm saying is real pre-cognition and not a lucky guess, you are forced to re-evaluate the decision making process.  Let us say we try to stop her from slitting her wrist by befriending her, and try to be her confidant.  Or maybe since I said it was because her boyfriend was cheating on her, we could catch him in the act, and then bring the information to her support group of family and friends to broach the subject with her.  I know it's ridiculous to assume that magically I know what she'll do, and I don't even know how I've come to that conclusion.  But I've done it once before, and I didn't take any heed of my own warnings with devastating results, so I've learned to accept that what I say is fact without knowing why.

"When you take into account the infinite possibilities, it's impossible to assume I was just that smart and my brain was able to figure it out.  I have to assume I was given this information somehow.  In fact, I think I'm being given everything I'm saying right now.  I've been an atheist my whole life, but I feel like God is sending me messages.  I guess it makes sense, who better to send a message to than an atheist?  From what I remember in church, God fucking loves irony.

"I've never met this girl, yet it feels like I already know her, but you can think what you want.  I also don't have the power to calculate what my actions will cause in the future.  Perhaps I try to help her and then she ends up blowing her brains out instead.  Did I help then?  Just because you think I'm retarded doesn't mean we shouldn't do anything to help her.  It's because there is nothing we can do with full knowledge that it won't impact her even more negatively.  As far as I can tell, she just slits one wrist and has minor nerve damage.  Why don't you guys talk amongst yourselves and try to pretend you give a shit for a minute.  Try to make it look like you might actually have a shred of compassion so it might quell my urge to choke you out."

To my surprise they really did huddle together and whispered to each other.  During this time I took a moment to speak with Ascia, who hadn't joined the huddle, privately.  I said, "These guys don't care and probably never will.  But I can see something in you that makes me believe you are wise enough to see that I am for real.  So I'll give you a little nugget that you can keep with you forever.  As stupid and insignificant as it may seem, it's all I have to tell you right now.  Michael Jackson will die right around his 51st birthday.  I know, it sounds stupid right?  When it happens, there will be all kinds of hype about it regarding whether or not foul play was involved.  I realize I could presumably plan the murder of the most famous musician in the world, but I just don't see it happening.  I'm not that smart, and I don't and will not ever have the resources to pull off a master plan like that.  But honestly, I could care less if he gets murdered; the guy is sick and should die for it anyways.  What are you thinking about all this right now?"

I don't remember what his reply was, but I think it was some variation of stupefaction.

I said, "You should write that down."

He said, "Ok, I will."

I was clearly upset that he didn't start writing right at that moment.  I said, "Is that your songbook there?"  I gestured towards a book that clearly had lyrics written on it.  I said, "Write it down please."  He quickly picked up the notebook and began writing in the margins.  I didn't read what it said, but I saw a "5" on it so I figured that was good enough.

I said, "This is all going to be in a book that I will write years from now.  Amandry might write one also, but he probably won't release it until he's dead.  I'm going to try to change the entire world.  Every single thing that is wrong with life will be addressed.  You should write a song about me, but don't do it with these guys.  Do it with some other people, and keep it hush-hush.  Do you have any family members that sing?"

He said yes.

I said, "I'm sure you can trust them to keep it on the down-low."

By this time, the other band members had settled down and were talking amongst themselves without taking notice of my conversation with Ascia.  The guitarist stopped me and asked, "Are you sure nothing will happen but slight nerve damage?"

I said, "As far as I can tell, yes.  So I'm going to use this situation as a test to try to prove something to you right now.  We're not going to do anything about Quinn.  We will never talk about her again, and everything I've said will happen _will_ happen.  I'll be in the mental hospital with her for a while."  They stopped me to ask how long, and I said, "Probably like a month or so," and they all cringed and said, "Ugh."

I kind of felt like they were with me at that moment, but they were probably just playing along.  I kept going because I thought at least Ascia was still taking note.  I continued, "So when it happens, that is proof that I'm for real, and that by doing nothing, the other things I've said will come true.  I do this with the hope that you might realize inaction on our part in the future will cause so many people to die, and the world to change in such negative ways.  So just leave her be, and watch for yourselves."

I went on to discuss that there was somebody else they knew that would be at the mental hospital with me, an employee.  I described her as a young Asian girl.  They immediately knew who I was talking about, and said it was probably the little sister of a kid they knew in High School.  I thought they were fucking with me, because my description was so vague.  But they were adamant that they knew who I was talking about, so I ignored my instincts.

I reiterated how important all of this was even though I knew damn well it wasn't going to do me any good.  I told Ascia that no matter what happened, he should deny any and all of it.  I also asked him if he had a girlfriend, and if she would believe him if he told her this story.  He said he was married and that she would probably believe him.

I said to the band, which had now turned their attention to me once again, "You guys will have a chance to ask Amandry if I'm for real.  You'll be playing the Mile High Music Festival together."

One of the band members said they knew someone on the committee that chose the acts for that event.

I said, "Make sure they book Loot.  Tell them to dump all their money into Loot and all the other acts can just suck it."  I suggested they try to get Incubus too, and have them play immediately before Loot on the same stage.

I reflected for a moment, and then said, "You know what?  There are a bunch of other bands from this area that are going to go big.  This is really great for Denver's music scene.  You guys know the Flobots?  I was just listening to their song, _Handlebars_ , on the radio.  That's a definite top 40 hit right there.  When you guys make it big, you should invest in them because that song is golden."

They said they were familiar with band and liked the song.  I went on to say, "And there's One Republic down in Colorado Springs."  Someone from the band said they had some affiliation with them through a friend.

I continued, "And the 3OH3!, they're from Boulder right?  I'll bet they make you guys look like saints.  Thank God I didn't run into them down here..."

They all seemed a little high strung and anxious for me to go.  I said, "What more do you want?  How about this?  Your album will be the 12th or 13th highest grossing money maker when it finally hits.  Ok, now I'll leave you guys alone."

They all gave me shit like, "Are you kidding?  Come on, you should be able to tell if it's 12th or 13th."

So I tried to fuck with them right back with, "Well, I don't know how well Green Day's album is going to do that year."

One of them said, "Oh, is Green Day putting out a new album?"

I said, "I don't fucking know, I'm fucking with you like you are with me.  Why don't you put your money where your mouth is?  I'll bet you 10,000 dollars that everything I've said here happens."  I said it directly to the drummer, who appeared to be the most vocal about his disbelief.  There was some discussion about the fact that none of us had $10,000 to bet in the first place.

I ended with, "Whatever, you guys, I really did love the music and I appreciate your listening to me."  And with that I walked out the door.

I waited a few moments to listen if anything was said about me after I left, but they were cautious not to, or maybe they had the couth to know I might be uncouth and eavesdropping.  I was about to leave when I realized I was certain they would be 12th on Billboard's list of top money making albums, so I walked back and opened their door to say, "Just so you know, it's going to be 12th.  You all really seemed like you wanted to know, so..."  And then I left for good.  As I got in my car, I felt reinvigorated by my renewed sense of purpose in life.

When I got home Lara was half asleep in bed.  I apologized to her, and we laid in bed holding each other tightly.  She said she needed to sleep, so I asked her if she wanted me to tell her a bedtime story.  She thought that was a great idea, so I began expounding my exploits from the night, but she fell asleep within the first few minutes.

Lara was 8 months pregnant when I proposed to her.  It was on Valentine's Day, which I knew was cliched, but I could tell she was about to pop any minute.  I bought my mom's wedding ring for $500.  I paid little compared to what it was worth.  We went to Dave and Buster's for some video games.  She wanted to do something I found fun for Valentine's Day.  I should have picked something more romantic.

During dinner, I told Lara I had to use the bathroom, but instead went to the room that had the prizes that you trade your tickets in for.  I sized up the kid at the counter and figured he looked responsible enough.  I asked him if he'd hold the ring for me and then offer it to Lara when we came in.  He was more than happy to, and I thanked him.  I think I gave him a $20 too.  I had the ring with me so I was planning to ask, but I can't remember if I came up with this idea before or after arriving.

When we used up all of our game credits, Lara said, "Maybe we should save our tickets to get something better next time."  We didn't have many at all really.

I said, "Well, let's just look at what they've got."

When we walked to the counter with our tickets, he quickly offered her the ring and said, "Tonight we have something special for the lady!"  He even made a nice gesture with his hands, like the price is right girls showcasing a new car.

Lara glanced at it quickly and said, "It's probably some cheap costume jewelry."  The guy behind the counter and I looked at each other dismayed.

She moved on, whereas I stayed with the ring and said to her, "You know, this actually looks like a pretty nice ring."  She hesitated, so I asked her to come back and look at it again.  She held the ring in its case, and her face became flushed.  I took the ring out of the case and put it on her hand and asked if she'd marry me.  She cried and said yes.

Later, when we were talking about it, she complained that I didn't get down on one knee.  I didn't mean anything by it, I just felt weak in the knees to begin with because I was so nervous.  Besides, I thought getting on one knee was for people too boring to come up with a creative proposal.

Lara and I had broken up and gotten back together several times, and we never had a formal wedding, but decided to declare common-law marriage when our son was born.  She claimed she didn't need a wedding at first, but then she dreamed of a barefoot beach paradise wedding, something I wish I could have provided.  I was busy being worried about insane sounding fears.

Only a few days after proposing, our son was born.  He was one month premature.  The night before, I was working on this stupid Gateway computer with my friend and coworker, Stu.  He had a paper that he had to write the next day, so I offered to fix it for him.  His motherboard was fried, and I was putting a new one in for him.  Many computer manufacturers at that time made it difficult to upgrade with custom designed cases.  I had a hell of a time getting a replacement motherboard in it.  I ended up having to bash a bunch of the rear panel out with a hammer so the ports could be accessed.  It was around 4 a.m. when I finished, and Lara woke up to me bashing the case.  She came downstairs and told me she was bleeding.  I said, "There's no way you are in labor!"  Stu said he could find his own way home while Lara and I went to the hospital.  I couldn't hang at the hospital, as I was so tired from not sleeping at all.  So I went back home after a while and took a nap.

My son was an amazing bundle of human joy.  Right after he came out, the nurse told me they had to check his blood oxygen levels because he was premature.  I told Lara so she would know what was going on, but it just frightened her.  All was well in the end, and the long trail of visitors were thoroughly impressed.

When I was back at the house taking a nap, I tore it up in a fit looking for weed, my cigarettes, and a lighter.  I never found any of it.  This was more symbolic of a mental breakdown than a need to find something.  The weight of the two different people I was trying to be was taking me down.  I thought, "How's my kid going to have a life if we're just going to be obliterated in a thermo-nuclear holocaust?"  Lara was ashamed to bring our new child into such a messy house.  I thought it was fitting, as I knew what lay ahead.  Her parents cleaned up for us before we got home.

He was a very good infant, and quite easy to care for compared to others I've seen.  Lara was absolutely determined that I was unfit to watch my kid alone, which enraged me.  She made this decision long before he was born, and in my opinion before I gave her a real reason to think so in the first place.  Even if she was right, isn't the solution to leave me?  Not send my kid to her mother's every single time she leaves.  I had extreme animosity toward Lara and her Mother for this, and I resent the fact that I've been considered a broken, failed, idiotic person by them from day one.

That's the picture Lara presented to them.  Any interaction they've actually had with me would never lead them to believe any such things about my personality.  I may have been a fuckup for the majority of my life, but I'm capable of brilliantly good things, and people should never underestimate me.  The real problem was that I had inherited my dad's propensity to scream and yell, except in my instance I felt I actually had a good reason.  I was perfectly capable of restraining myself, but that would require divorcing Lara and moving on, and I didn't want to be blamed for giving up on her if she realized I wasn't crazy later on down the road.

I fought with Lara about things that we disagreed upon because it affected me or my kid.  She may not have been wrong in the eyes of society, but on the broad philosophical scope she was inherently wrong about a lot of things.  There wasn't anybody else on the planet that I gave a fuck about what they thought or how they acted, because they weren't raising my kid.  About six months later it was magically okay in her mind for me to care for him by myself.  Apparently, that first six months would have been too hard for my feeble mind.

If you look at my court records it would appear that I'm an unfit parent though.  I got arrested for domestic abuse more than once, first for looking at pictures of dead babies on Rotten.com when Lara was still pregnant and trying to argue with me about something.  I was just tired of fighting, and when she kept bothering me after I said I wanted to stop talking for a while, I loaded it up the old web browser for some casual perusing.

My lawyer wanted to take the case to court because, although it was obviously a fucked up thing to do, it didn't seem illegal to either of us.  I pled guilty, and Lara ended up testifying on my behalf.  I got a deferred sentence with 1 year of probation.

The second time, she just compiled all the nasty, screaming stuff I did over the years and got a restraining order.  Both times my friends from New York bailed me out.

Everybody, including my family, has always portrayed me as somehow 'dysfunctional' or 'troubled.'  My mother tried to afflict me with her own hypochondria in looking for solutions for my ADD, 'depression,' 'anxiety,' or whatever mental illness suited what I was in trouble for at the time.  The truth is, until I met Lara I was under very little mental duress.  If I had a problem, I just forgot it.  Now I was forced to confront my issues, because I couldn't just forget about my kid.  I wasn't about to lose another one, and I was just trying to do the right thing.

I was hanging out with some friends one night when I decided to stop at Nicolo's Pizza for a slice.  When I walked in, I immediately sensed some serious negative energy.  The pretty girl behind the counter, Amy, was pleasant but seemed anxious, and people were arguing with each other in the kitchen area.  I was overtly nice to her in an attempt to lift the mood.  Plus, flirting is pretty much the only form of communication I'm capable of with the opposite sex.  Then I said, "Did something sad happen in here or what?  Somebody died?"

Someone came up from the back answered, "No."

So I said, "I don't know what's going on with you guys, but you need to lighten up a little bit." as I put a five dollar tip in their jar.

He got angry and started arguing with me, telling me to mind my own business.  I said, "You are my business.  I am in your business."

He said, "I don't own it."

I said, "Listen man, I'm not here to give you shit or have a flame war.  It's just that I got a bad vibe from everyone back there today.  I just want a piece of fucking pizza.  I don't care how shitty it is to work here, your lives can't all be that bad.  Get over it and get along."  I was putting money in the tip jar as I spoke, dollar after dollar.

It looked like the guy I was arguing with wanted to fight me.  I said, "Come on then!  I won't even fight back, you'll go to jail, and lose your job.  The best part is you won't even hurt me because you're weak."

He re-evaluated the situation.  I said, "I'm not some dickhead that files complaints, and I normally don't give a shit what the service is like.  I just thought you all looked so fucking sad that you might want to lighten up a little bit.  You'll make more money."  I stopped putting money in the tip jar after about 15 bucks.

They were still dicks after all of that, but Amy had just been quietly watching all of us.  So I said, "I'm going to get a job here.  And if you act like this around me I'll have you all fired."

A different employee who had been listening but had yet to speak said, "I'll make sure you never get hired."

I quickly replied, "You won't remember me, nor will you remember this conversation.  I don't even want your stupid pizza anymore."

I walked out the front door, and Amy followed me.  She stopped me and said, "I'm sorry, that was my boyfriend.  He's really the jealous type."

I said, "Which one?"  Neither of them looked good enough for her.

It was the one who wanted to fight.  I said, "I'd be jealous too if I had a girl like you and I looked like him.  I'm not judging, and I'm sorry if I upset you or anyone else in there.  I was just trying to help."

Amy gave me a hug and went back inside, and I went to Benny Blanco's.

Ron would come into Fat Jack's once and a while for a sub, and I'd usually hook him up.  We were never really even friends, but we still had mutual friends.  After a while, he came in saying he had just broken up with Neli, and wanted to know if it was me who was outside his window.  You remember, the 'Peeing Tom.'  He said he didn't care if it was or not, and he just wanted to know the truth.  I think I sheepishly denied it once more, but he pressured me into explaining myself because he knew it was me.

I said, "Yes, it was me, but you need to hear my explanation for it and why I didn't admit to it in the first place."

He exclaimed, "I knew it was you!" and looked as if he was going to walk out.

I said, "Hold on, let me explain myself."

He said, "You don't need to explain anything.  She looked good didn't she?"

I held up the large knife used to prepare the sub loafs, just for effect, and said sternly, "Yes, she did from what little I could see, but you need to listen to me right now."  I explained that I was not looking for people to spy on that night, and that I was simply walking around the house to see if anyone was home so I didn't have to pee in the alley.  I said, "When I saw you guys, I simply had to stop.  It was not a sexual thing.  I'm not some kind of peeping tom, when you saw me I was peeing."

He said, "That's why the ground was so wet...ugh."

I went on to say, "As far as me denying it, I did that because I've got this huge plan where I'm trying to stop nuclear terrorism in the future, and it requires that I be considered sane and free of mental defect."  I think I also told him about Kat.

I talked about my meeting Amandry and what I said to him.  I reminded him of the screaming freak out I had at Unsound's house.  I told him about meeting Helmsy, and he reminded me that he knew her from when he was Accelerate Past Me's drummer.

I said that one day in the future he would be opening for Loot, and I would be sitting front row.  I said, "Just don't show up.  If I see you there living my dream, not at all worried about what I've just told you, I will fucking snap.  I'll jump security and stab you to death."  I held up the blade once again.

I had told Thy Fear not to mention that it was I who had suggested him for the drum coaching position.  After this conversation with Ron, I wondered if they had let Schrodinger's cat out of the box.

It was soon afterward that I was fired from Fat Jack's for arriving late for my shifts all the time, so I needed a new job.  I didn't try to look very hard, and I told Lara I had been hired by Nicolo's Pizza before I even applied there.  When I went in to turn in my application, the owner hired me on the spot.  Nobody appeared to remember me, and when I broached the subject with a couple of the employees, few remembered having seen me come in prior to working there, and none remembered that night.  I never asked Amy, but some of the things she said in our casual interactions made me think she remembered.  I never experienced any work dynamic like the upsetting one I'd seen years ago.  They must have just been having a particularly bad day.  Nicolo's food is still fantastic, and they've recently remodeled to include a bar.

For a short time, Tanner worked there with me, and I went to a few shows to see his band, Across Tundras.  For some reason I decided to tell him about Helmsy, Amandry, and Ascia during one shift we worked together.  To my surprise, he reacted exactly as I thought people should.  He said it sounded ridiculous, but to think I made it up seemed even more ridiculous to him.  Only a few other people have responded in this manner, aside from those that were given direct evidence.

One day while delivering some pizza, I was pulled over for running a red light at 13th and Franklin Street.  I immediately argued with the officer that it was clearly yellow when I passed underneath.  He asked me for my license and registration, and then noted that he smelled weed.

I said, "I don't smell anything."  I had maybe a gram of weed in my center console.  Before he walked back to his car to check my record, I alluded that I might work for a government agency.  I never said specifically that I was an undercover cop, but I somehow managed impress upon him that this was the case.  I can't recall what I said, and I think because as soon as I said it and he was out of view, I started shaking with fear and got tunnel vision.  I felt like I was on a natural chemical overdose.

I waited, scared to death at what might happen next.  Perhaps impersonating a government agent was a bad idea.  I had no idea why the hell I tried something like that.  I am quite familiar with officers of the law, and I know how to best interact with them.  This was definitely not a good course of action.  I was confident that although I may have hinted at it, but knew that I never specifically said anything to that accord.

He came back to the car and asked me, "What color is it today?"

I said, "Orange -- I mean Amber."

He quickly pulled his gun on me and screamed, "Step out of the vehicle!  You're under arrest for impersonating a police officer!"

I exclaimed, "Are you fucking crazy?  Put the gun down there's a bunch of kids in the line of fire!"  He hadn't noticed a few parents and a large number of kids playing on a playground directly behind me, so he lowered his weapon as I got out of my car.

I went on to tell him, "I never claimed to be a cop.  I'm NSA man.  I don't know why I said orange because I meant the Amber Alert that's on right now."  I had no idea Amber Alert was originally named so for Amber Hagerman, a 9-year-old child who was abducted and murdered in Arlington, Texas in 1996.  I thought it had something to do with colors.  Luckily, it appeared he didn't know this as well.  A young girl in Aurora had been abducted that day, and it was all over the news.  I explained that I thought he was talking about her.

I said, "Listen man, did you know that the United States at any given time has about 300 psychics on payroll?"

I went on to tell him that I worked directly for John McCain, and that if I were arrested for anything I'd quickly see the charges dropped.  I pulled my bag of weed out of the center console and dangled it in front of him, "Look, here's my weed.  You want some?  I'm going to a weed tasting right now with local growers.  Weed has little to do with terrorism, but it gets me to the big boys dealing in other substances."  He sat there dumfounded as I went on to say that the next President would be McCain or some black guy.  Keep in mind this is in like 2005.  I said I was looking for drug dealers that supported terrorist organizations, and asked him if he wanted to make detective.  I knew that you could be promoted to detective faster in Denver compared to a lot of other cities.

He looked eager and said, "Yes."

So I told him I had a tip for him.  He pulled out his notepad, just like they do in the movies, so I described a massive warehouse full of drugs that I knew of and told him who was running the operation.

I said, "I'm not interested in them, they aren't terrorists."

Shortly thereafter he was in The Denver Post for one of the largest busts in Denver history.  Needless to say, he let me go, and I often wonder how I ever pulled that off.

I read in the news that Amandry was making a documentary about his winery, and only then remembered it as being my idea.  I was doing some research, trying to find more information on the film, when I stumbled across a forum that stated Amandry was somehow related to Eric from Tim & Eric Awesome Show Great Job.

Something compelled me to go to the T&E website and send them a message.  I drank an entire bottle of Caduceus wine in the process of writing it.  I was almost certain nobody would ever read it, but still I tried hard to make it funny and interesting enough to take note of just in case.

It basically said, in much more cryptic terms, "Hey!  Your pal Amandry is making a documentary about his winemaking business.  I suggested he do it years ago, the wine and the movie.  Sorry to bother, but I'm worried his film will be terribly unfunny.  I was thinking you could help add some hilarity to it.  I'm sure he won't mind, and if he gives you any trouble, just show him this email, and tell him you know me.  It'll scare him into doing it.  Don't worry; it's not really that big of a deal, just the fate of humankind as we know it resting on your shoulders."

I provided some plot ideas that were worked into the movie.  Tim and Eric interviewing Amandry was my idea, and either the line, "What kind of _tool_ do you use to make wine?" and its variation in the director's cut were also my ideas.  That is actually the sole addition to the director's cut, per my request.  The Keanu Reeves bit was my idea.  I also suggested that when they say, "literally hundreds of wine," that they keep the word 'wine' singular.  I don't remember why, it wasn't funny in the movie, and I don't think it was in the email either.  The scene with him sitting on the toilet was also my idea.

I wrote, "Make sure you are holding a copy of this letter in your hand when you film the scenes, that way I'll remember that I helped write it."

The concept was that first off, I was at least getting involved again, even if in the most obscure, distant manner possible, and secondly, to help everyone see that I was not some angry, fear mongering asshole, but a normal person with a good sense of humor.  I figured this documentary might be people's only chance to see that.

I might have said more, but I don't remember what.  My email account got shut down after a long period of disuse, and so the email was lost.  I barely remember any details, and only after seeing the movie did I recall having written anything.

I ended the message with a postscript about an idea for a skit for their TV show.  It was the basic outline for their _Mancierge_ skit, and I said it was of the utmost importance that they get Fred Willard to play the part, but not by name.  I think I just listed a variety of roles he's played.  I knew it probably wouldn't end up being a very funny skit, but I still crack up every time I see it because I know the back-story.

Kudos to Tim & Eric for their impressive insight that led them to valiantly act upon my ridiculous message.  It's shocking to me that it didn't just get deleted.  By the way, " _Just kidding!_ "  About the fate of the humanity part.

I spent a lot of time with my son during this time.  He was quick to learn his ABC's and 123's.  Just before his second birthday, he was playing Grand Theft Auto, _San Andreas_.  It's a great game for a toddler, right?  Don't judge me.  He loved cars, and that game is super fun.  It's not like I was teaching him how to pick up hookers, he was just crashing into shit.  What I'm trying to say is that he was damn smart for a toddler.  I tended to stress math fundamentals, like addition and subtraction, which he grasped so easily.  Lara worked more with language skills and understanding the alphabet.  Words cannot express the joy I experience with my son.

I suggested we buy a house to Lara.  I considered it an investment, and also thought it would provide a sense of stability.  She was game, and we looked at many houses before settling on one on Wilson Court in Westminster.  I knew when I saw it that it was in the worst condition of those we looked at.  It was built in 1925 on the land where the founder of Westminster first settled.  I was just sick of looking at houses, and the location was directly between Denver and Boulder.  Besides, I figured I'd be rich and famous in a few years, and could just buy a new house then.  This was the first time since moving to Colorado that I'd lived outside of Denver city limits.  It had a .41 acre yard, but the house was only 950 square feet inside.  We signed one of those fancy ARM's everybody was talking about a few years later.

It was a constant source of turmoil throughout our stay there.  The worst problem was that the foundation repeatedly shifted due to bentonite clay in the soil, and an extremely high water table.  Every time we filled the cracks in the walls, a few months later new ones appeared.  The doors didn't close right, the basement was crumbling before our eyes, and the neighborhood sucked.  I had little concern for all these problems, but Lara complained about it repeatedly.

She and I continued to fight throughout our entire relationship, and we broke up and got back together so many times it's ridiculous.  Sometimes I'd move out and stay with friends, sometimes just wander around like a vagabond.  Lara claims my anger issues were the root of our problems.  Me?  I claimed it was because she didn't believe any of my stories as the root of my anger.

Yeah, I got mad about her decisions regarding my unborn child, and then as he grew, her complete and total control over my time spent with him.  Yeah, I got really angry, and I broke some things out of rage.  Do I feel bad for it?  Probably not as much as I should.  I feel like I had every right to be irate.  If I can't watch my kid or have any say as to what's best for him, of course I'm going to blow my top.  But if you asked Lara, I was just wrong about everything, and she was right and there was no reason to discuss it or have any contention.  Sure, I was probably wrong about some things, maybe even wrong more often than right, and it's good to have a strong sense of what is right for your kids, but parenting is not a dictatorship.

We tried individual and couples counseling.  The first woman we met with said I was crazy and a bad human being.  This was right after I first told Lara that I knew the future, and this was discussed in our therapy session.  I sure as hell wasn't going to mention anything that sounded even slightly outside of the realm of logical possibility ever again.  In my experiences with this sort of thing, most people don't seem to give any merit to ending a ridiculous statement with, "Of course it could all just be some amazingly unlikely coincidence..."  By believing that statement alone, it proves I'm not the crazy fuck some people make me out to be.

I started to worry that this story would be just the ammunition Lara would need to keep me from my kids forever, which was a common threat from her.  One thing I never understood was why she kept me around if she thought I was mentally ill.  I just assumed there was a part of her that believed me, but buried somewhere deep inside her.  I was wrong though; spiritually she had devolved into full-on atheism, following my lead probably.  She was losing faith as I was gaining it.  We really did like each other's company when things were good, so it's not surprising that we both overlooked the bad, over and over.

I have issues with self-control and being overly dramatic, I'll admit.  But most of what I believe falls within societal norms.  The big arguments arose when I could not provide the verification for the few things that I _know_ to be true in my life.  Keep in mind, my anger and aggression is reserved for people that I care about.  I am completely meek and meager when it comes to my interactions with co-workers, friends and family, and even unknown people attacking me in social situations.  I was only concerned with what Lara thought because it would reflect upon my child.  She was the only person on the planet who I actually cared about what they thought.  And that's a sad reflection, because I really could care less what my own mother and father think or feel.

We took a vacation to Michigan, driving all the way there and then across Michigan from my mom's to my dad's.

While we were at my mom's trailer, Mitch, my grandfather stopped by for a visit.  He was getting old, and would soon be in a nursing home.  I had the feeling this was the last time I'd ever see him.

While Lara and my mother were doing something in another room, Mitch and I talked all about his life.  How he worked in an iron-ore mine in Iron River, and then served in the Korean War.

Something clicked inside me that made me think of Ernest.  If this wasn't the last time I saw him it might be the last time he was mentally capable of remembering or even comprehending what I wanted to know.

After a short pause in conversation I said, "Mitch, I have one thing I wanted to talk to you about that you might not want to remember."

He asked, "Is it about Loretta?"

I reeled inside, feeling awful for him, and awful for what I was about to do.  I said, "No, not her specifically, and I can't imagine how sad that is for you."

It was so disheartening to see his face wrenched with emotion.  He said, "I still think about her all the time."

It was time.  I said, "Mitch, I know what happened with you and Ernest."

He looked confused and said, "Who?"

I said, "Loretta's first husband."

He said, "What about him?"

I looked at him intently, and carefully said, "I know what happened, Mitch."  I didn't really know what happened, but I had a pretty good idea.

After looking down for a few seconds, he looked at me and said, "What are you going to do, send me to prison?  Go ahead."

I said, "God no Mitch!  You probably did a good thing in some strange way."

I stood up, and he did the same.  As I walked over to him he looked apprehensive.  I held out my arms and we hugged for the last time.

I didn't ask him if he found out about the abuse, or if he just hated the guy.  Maybe he just liked murdering.  I didn't want to know any more.

When Lara and my mother came back into the room I pulled Lara aside and told her that I'd just had the craziest conversation ever.  My heart was racing and wanted to tell her, but waited for Mitch and my mom to not be around.

Soon after our trip, I met a friend of my wife's sister-in-law at a birthday party for one of the kids.  Her husband's family owned a software company, and they hired me to do tech support.  I already knew quite a bit about programming, but my knowledge had ended at Pascal years ago.  Though I'd given up hacking and pretty much shunned technology in general for a long time, I still knew more than most people.  I learned a lot more working with them, most importantly SQL.

Their family was from Pakistan, so one day I sat down with the boss and asked him, "So do you think Osama is in Pakistan?"

He said, "I don't know, man."

I said, "I just thought maybe you heard the word on the street back in the homeland."

"People are talking about him, but nobody knows where he is."

"Do you think there are people in Pakistan that know where he is?"

"Probably..."

"If you knew would you give up his location?" I asked.

He erupted into laughter and said, "Of course I would!  That's millions of dollars man!  Besides, what kind of an asshole are you?  Am I not a real American, or what?"

He wasn't really upset with me, and we both laughed for a minute.  It surprised me that I didn't know about the 25 million dollar reward.  I figured there was some kind of monetary compensation, but never imagined anything that superfluous.  I should have focused more attention on that.

After having separated with Lara for a short while, we got back together and actually discussed having another child.  It didn't take long for our discussions to become a reality.  We hoped for a girl and even picked names.

When we went in for her 2 month checkup, we were devastated to learn we had lost the child.  We both cried, but I tried to stay positive.  The doctors had prescribed something to quicken the process, and Lara was eager to get it over with.  She took the meds that night.

I awoke in the middle of the night to her moaning in agony while lying in a pool of blood on our bathroom floor.  I asked if she was ok and if she needed to go to the hospital, but she said she wasn't sure.  She sounded almost unintelligible.  She didn't really understand the severity of the situation, and it took me a minute to wake up and realize how much blood she had lost.  I quickly gathered her up and brought her to the hospital.

For a split-second, I thought about what would have happened if I hadn't woken up, or if I were to just go to back to sleep.  I was horrified at the idea, and thought it good that I would never do something like that, but bad that I might think about my own wife in such a manner.  Then I realized that moment might be what I'd been worried about when I kept warning her she might die giving birth to her second child.

I was worried when the doctors described the danger she was in.  Lara was a fighter and I knew she'd be okay.  How did I know?  Maybe you haven't been paying attention, but I think it's pretty obvious I have a remarkable intuition.  And don't ever count out the power of positive thinking.

Lara recovered quickly, both physically and emotionally, as did I, though I know it was much less of a loss for me, as I didn't almost die in the process, nor did I carry anything inside me.

She still could not grasp what was going on with me.  Her attitude towards all of this may be best described by an email response to something I sent her during one of our separations:

_I have never ruled out the possibility that something terrible could very likely befall us in 2012.   I understand that this is very important to you, and I have never meant to discount you or your feelings.  I just can't live my life in fear of something that may (or even probably, as the case may be) happen that is beyond my control.  I think if I knew for certain I had an expiration date, I would do everything in my power to make the most of everything I had until that time came.  I don't know if that is as good as a straight up "I believe you" or not, but I need to be as honest with you as I possibly can._

_The last thing I want to do is cause you pain or be cruel, so please understand that what I am about to say is not intended to be malicious.   I do love and care about you deeply, and would hate to see bad things happen to you.  I know I have told you this before, but my God, you need help.  You need professional help.  As bad as I want to help you and as hard as I have tried in the past, it is not fair for you to ask me to try and save you from yourself.  I am obviously not capable.  There are people who do this for a living all the time, who have resources that are open to you, who will not judge you, and have the capacity to help you deal with things in a way that doesn't send you off the deep end.  You are covered under my insurance to go and seek counseling, and they can give you a whole list of people to try until you find someone who you feel comfortable opening up to.  PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE, I am begging you.  You need this so much.  You need to take the steps necessary by and for yourself.  You are so, so very worth it.  It's not going to get better overnight, and certainly not on its own, but it can't even begin to get better until you do something about it.  The number for Magellan Health is on the back of your insurance card, or you can look it up online._

_I know you said you have been talking to your friends about some things, but I worry that you don't have enough support to get you through this.   At this stage, it's not appropriate for us to try and lean on each other.  I know we have always been there for each other, and one day we probably will be again.  At this stage, though, we are two broken people who need time and space to fix ourselves as individuals.  I know you probably don't share my opinion on this subject, and that's fine, but I wish you could see it.  Have you talked to your mom at all about this?  I think if she knew what you were going through right now, she would be very worried about you, and I don't doubt that she would do anything in her power to help you through this.  I am really lucky to have a lot of emotional support right now, and that's the only thing keeping me from complete collapse.  I know you don't typically discuss these things with other people, but it might make you feel a lot better to talk about it with people you trust._

_You asked me in your letter why I would think you would give up everything you had over something if you didn't believe it was real and important.   Do you think I would?  Do you think I would leave behind the life I have been trying to build and separate my sons from their father or myself from the person I have so much invested in if I didn't think it was absolutely vital to all of our survival?  I couldn't bear to watch our kids grow up and struggle with these kinds of things, and that is what will happen if they are brought up in this environment.  It is incredibly sad to have to walk out on love, but it is sadder still to stay and trap two innocent children in a prison of fear, uncertainty and dysfunction._

_Please text me when you get off tonight. I know you don't have much control of when you get out of there, but maybe they will be understanding and let you leave at a decent hour._

Personal tragedies tend to bring people together, and it did so for us, if only fleeting.  I made several attempts at bettering myself in Lara's eyes.

It was during Barrack Obama's run for presidency that I started seeing a psychiatrist, Dr. George, in an attempt to stop smoking.  He said I was perfectly healthy mentally, but I didn't mention anything about the psychic stuff to him.  First, he prescribed me Wellbutrin, but it gave me explosive diarrhea.  No joke.  Then I tried Chantix, but neither of them seemed to help much with the cigarettes.  I'm completely against all psychoactive medications except in severe cases of dysfunction, but I was willing to try anything to quit smoking.

I was having dreams about Obama, and when I remembered that Amandry was supposed to tell him to run for President, and then to warn him about nuclear terrorism, I was sure I'd lost it completely.  The way I remembered it, I just thought I said something about there being a black President, not that I got him to run in the first place.  I started worrying that I might have made the whole thing up, and none of it was real.

We decided to try for another child.  I had high hopes for the prospect of a new family member, and everything started right on schedule.  I worked hard at trying to fix up the house, specifically getting the third bedroom ready.

When I found out Loot and Thy Fear would both be playing the Mile High Music Festival in 2009, I thought the fates had aligned and somebody somewhere might give a crap.  It raised my mood when I saw an interview with Thy Fear on the cable access channel in Denver, during which Ascia said something to the effect of, "This concert is special."  The rest of the band looked uncomfortable as the words came out of his mouth.

I remembered what I had told them years prior, and wondered when the bad parts of what I'd said would start.  I thought this could be my chance to reconnect with Ascia for a good round of "I told you so."  I paid $400 for a VIP ticket for myself, and a regular ticket for Lara.  We were living together but not really together at the time of my purchase, and she wasn't even sure she would be able to go with me.  The festival was only 2 weeks after her projected due date.

I was at home, broke, and working on the house when I started screaming at Lara over the phone for no reason.  She was on her way to work, and not interested in dealing with my psychotic episode.

I said, "If you don't come home right now I'm going to blow my brains out with a shotgun!"  Although I knew I wasn't really going to kill myself, I was behaving even more erratic than usual.  In hindsight, I've come to realize this was an effect of the Chantix, or at least that's my excuse.

Smartly, Lara didn't leave her work, and the police quickly arrived in force.  I denied having any such conversation with her, but the officers played a recording Lara made of my second phone call to her.  It was me ranting a description of the act and the resulting despair she would feel afterward in detail, so recanted and said, "You know what?  Sounds like I really do need some help."

Something had clicked in the back of my mind, and I knew I was going to take my trip to the mental hospital, just as I had described years earlier.  Suddenly, I began to look forward to the idea.

I stayed the rest of the night at St. Anthony's North, because the psychiatric nurse on duty determined I had manic tendencies.  I was unimpressed by her diagnosis and disagreed vehemently.  She said that since my wife worked at St. Anthony's Central, she would try to get me into a good mental health facility.

I was taken via ambulance in the early hours of the morning to Highland Hills, a really nice place as far as mental hospitals go.  When Fred, a 20 something Asian guy, checked me in, he was pleasant and quite understanding of my mental state.

It was May 17th, 2009.  I would call it a full blown manic episode.  The first thing I said to another staffer, John, when asked what brought me there, was that I thought millions of people were going to die in nuclear explosions, and I might be the only person that was trying to stop it.  The medical records say I said, "I was the only one that could stop it."  Close enough, right?  I probably should have kept this story to myself, but I was determined to speak my mind.  I'm sure he thought I was crazy, but hey, that's his job.

If they wanted crazy they were going to get fucking crazy, even though staff at a mental hospital would seemingly be least likely to believe me of anyone on the planet.  Another staff member, whose name I do not remember, took over the intake process after Fred had me strip to my skivvies to check for contraband.

Upon getting to know this guy I realized he was absolutely devoid of personality, or at least made it appear as such to avoid interpersonal communication with the patients (or possibly just me), but not an unlikeable fellow just the same.

I was in shock for the first day as I met many of the patients.  The first guy I talked to was a DU student named Alex who took LSD.  When brought in by his concerned parents, he failed the intake aptitude test that determines whether or not you're sane.  Later, when I told him about my story, I think he actually believed me.  It felt slightly reassuring at the time.

When his family came to visit him with his girlfriend, I remembered seeing all of them get out of a car at a gas station they were all at a few weeks earlier.  This was funny to both of us, even though none of them remembered seeing me.

I was waiting to see a doctor for evaluation, and by 10 p.m. the next day I finally met him.

He asked what my story was, so I told him, "Ok, I don't know where you stand in a spiritual sense, so you probably won't believe me, but this is what has happened.  I've had something truly supernatural shit happen to me and no one believes it.  I'm a lifelong atheist so this is a total departure for me.  I've given evidence of being precognizant to my wife and other people, but everybody has for some reason either forgotten, or has an excuse to not believe.  The effects of this are that I have lost stability to the point of insanity, and do need help.  But first you must consider the possibility that events that have taken place in my life are what have driven me here, and not the seemingly obvious opposite."

He then asked me what these events were, and I explained briefly.  He offered little assurance of his desire to think outside the box.  So I asked him what he thought my diagnosis was, and he said he thought I was manic.  I said, "Ok, so I'm basically fucked."

I imagined an instant diagnosis of Bi-Polar with massive prescriptions attached.  But he shocked me when he said he was intrigued by my story.  He said that if I could verify even a shred of the information given, he would give the story much more clout.

So after that I set about trying to get ahold of Thy Fear, some of whom ordered food from Fat Jack's once and a while.  I begged Lara to go talk to my former co-worker and friend from Fat Jack's, Jon from Achille Lauro, to see if he could help me contact them.

The doctor also disclosed that the final decision on my diagnosis and treatment was not up to him, that I was at the mercy of one Dr. Barren.  He just had to determine whether or not I should stay there, not what was wrong with me.  He checked the yes box.

It was going to be several days before I was to meet my new doctor, but since I already knew my stay was going to be lengthy, I asked some of the staff for a good deal of advice.  They suspected an average stay of around seven to ten days, but I knew better.  I was informed that I was allowed to refuse medication, so long as the court didn't intervene.  They also said I had a right to an attorney, whom I promptly contacted, but was disheartened by the fact that it would be at least two weeks before I could have a hearing to decide my fate.  The court probably would have said I was crazy, and needed to stay and be on drugs anyhow.  I would then be required by law to take whatever medication was prescribed, even _after_ I'd left the hospital.

Really I just needed someone to talk to who might believe me.  What better people than patients at a mental hospital?  I told everybody my craziest stories: staff, patients, and even the cooks.  I told them all to go to the Mile High Music Festival, where Thy Fear and Loot were headlining.  The first doctor I talked with said he would be there.  Most of the staff feigned interest, while others simply laughed.  I appreciated every one of them listening to me though.

When I finally met _my_ doctor and one of the social workers, I was surprised when the diagnosis was elevated to full blown Bi-Polar disorder.  I thought that was pretty ridiculous for them to come to that conclusion prior to, or within 5 minutes of having met me.  I could see psychotic, sociopathic, or schizophrenic, but not Bi-Polar.  That was too weak for me.  This was determined from observations by the staff and my family.  My mom was kind enough to make me out as this deeply troubled kid from birth.  Thanks a lot Mom, real helpful.  Dr. Barren gave a description of behavior common to Bi-Polar patients, to which I responded, "Then everybody is Bi-Polar, right?"  I think I was correct to a certain degree.

She replied, "This meeting is over."

As I stormed out of the office I said to myself loudly, "Completely fucking fucked."

The next day Fred came up to me and said, "Hey, I know you are refusing medication and everything, but we ordered some for you anyway because we hoped you might reconsider."

At this point I was really hating it there, and felt like I should do anything in order to get out, especially given that I'd learned there was no way they could require me to take the medication after I left the hospital, unless I tried to fight it and it became court ordered.  So I said, "Alright Fred, I don't know what it is, but for some reason I'm really trusting you right now.  I'm going to need to know exactly what I'm taking, what the effect is, and what the side effects are."

He looked befuddled, and I was disappointed because I expected him to know a bit more offhand, or even just a shred.  But he knew nothing of the drug other than it was third generation anti-psychotic.  I forgot that even the brightest minds in the world that are working to produce pharmaceuticals are still using guesswork, so this must be sort of like the trickledown effect.  He came back with a big book of pills, and we read the information about Geodon.

It, like most drugs, has been found to have multiple beneficial effects.  The name was designed to imply 'down (don) to earth (geo)' referring to the goals of the medication.  I was to be taking it for Bi-Polar Manic Depressive Syndrome.

Ziprasidone, the chemical name, is indicated for the treatment of acute manic or mixed episodes associated with bipolar disorder, with or without psychotic features.  A manic episode is a distinct period of abnormally and persistently elevated, expansive, or irritable mood.  A mixed episode is characterized by the criteria for a manic episode in conjunction with those for a major depressive episode, such as depressed mood, and loss of interest or pleasure in nearly all activities.

The efficacy of ziprasidone in acute mania was established in 2 placebo-controlled, double-blind, 3-week studies in patients meeting DSM-IV criteria for Bipolar I Disorder who currently displayed an acute manic or mixed episode with or without psychotic features.

The effectiveness of ziprasidone for longer-term use and for prophylactic use in mania has not been systematically evaluated in controlled clinical trials.  Therefore, physicians who elect to use ziprasidone for extended periods should periodically re-evaluate the long-term risks and benefits of the drug for the individual patient.

Oral ziprasidone should be administered at an initial daily dose of 40 mg BID with food.  The dose should then be increased to 60 mg or 80 mg BID on the second day of treatment and subsequently adjusted on the basis of toleration and efficacy within the range 40-80 mg BID.  In the flexible-dose clinical trials, the mean daily dose administered was approximately 120 mg.

There is no body of evidence available from controlled trials to guide a clinician in the longer-term management of a patient who improves during treatment of mania with ziprasidone.  While it is generally agreed that pharmacological treatment beyond an acute response in mania is desirable, both for maintenance of the initial response and for prevention of new manic episodes, there are no systematically obtained data to support the use of ziprasidone in such longer-term treatment.

This is what I agreed to take.  I logicized this with Fred by saying, "I've taken almost every recreational drug there is, what harm could it do?"  Boy was I ignorant.  Now I see why people like to pop pills, because that chemical shit is way more powerful and long lasting than any bong hit.

They started me at two 40mg pills, one in the morning and one at night.  The first morning after I took the pill was splendid, and I was thinking this was going to be a cakewalk since I hadn't felt a single effect.  So I began pressing myself by the next day with aerobic activity (basketball) and handstands to force blood to my brain.  I felt okay even as the first effects started showing up the next night.  I had great difficulty sleeping, but thought this was a small price to pay for freedom.

The next morning I was fine again, but just before lunch I quickly became fucked.  Like spinning vertigo mixed with some sort of hybrid long-lasting cocaine.  I was having a hard time focusing on anything around me, and felt like I needed to lie down.  I persevered through lunch, which was about 40 minutes, and finally went to my bed and fell asleep.  I don't know if you would qualify it as sleep, or something akin to forcing myself unconscious because I thought my brain was going to die.  Three hours later I woke up and found out what the drug did to me.

This is the clinical description of akathisia: a movement disorder characterized by a feeling of inner restlessness and a compelling need to be in constant motion, as well as by actions such as rocking while standing or sitting, lifting the feet as if marching on the spot, and crossing and uncrossing the legs while sitting. People with akathisia are unable to sit or keep still, complain of restlessness, fidget, rock from foot to foot, and pace.

I also felt a slight detriment to my reflexive and calculative abilities, but no other ill effects.  I was a little concerned, considering I was trying to prove to them that I wasn't manic and was now programmed by this drug to behave in exactly such a manner.  I still knew I would be okay in the long run.  I've always fancied myself a clever actor and considered it a challenge.

The next day the same spell came over me right before lunch, so I stayed in my room and slept.  That day when I spoke with Dr. Barren again, I thanked her for trying to make me sane and all, but thought that maybe I needed to get off the medication because it was a mental mind-fuck for several hours daily.  She advised that I no longer take it in the morning, and to take the full 80mg at night.  I said thank you, and apologized for storming out of the room the last time.  She also prescribed Flexoril for my calf, which was incredibly tense and forcing me to limp slightly.  This was a new side-effect of the Geodon.

Both the dosage change and the Flexoril helped, and I was feeling better.  I was restless, wanted to get the hell out, and drugged out of my fucking mind, but better.  My dad had been in contact with me throughout my stay, but when I asked him to provide a statement contrary to my mom and Lara's for the doctors, he was hesitant.  I said, "I really need you to have my back here Dad, I've got nobody else that will help.  You just need to tell them you've always considered me a sane person, and that shouldn't be a stretch for you."

He said he didn't think he could help me, so I hung up the phone. _Pro-tip: When your children tell you they don't have anyone to turn to, help them out._   I don't care what my kid tells me, I'll back him up until I know otherwise.

It's not like I ever told anybody any of these stories before.  Up until this, they should have assumed I was fairly normal, and not even remotely delusional.  But alas, my parents are spiritually ignorant and self-absorbed, just like most everyone else on the planet.  Not telling them did me no good, I should have let them think I was insane from the get go.

The staff said I might be released near the end of that week, which was only 4 days away, and I was elated by this.  I started trying to have some fun.  Alex had helped another patient, Jeremy, write a children's book called Frank and the Hotdog, which I still haven't had the time to publish, but intend to when the situation presents itself.  I really just need a motivated artist.  I drank a lot of hot tea while I played board and card games of all sorts.  The confinement was difficult, but nothing compared to jail, where I'd spent several days in the past.

My doctor told me several meetings later that the staff felt I was behaving manically again.  This was obviously because I was happy to know I was going to be leaving, and it must've shown.  It was decided that my dosage be increased to 120mg to make me even more sane.  And it was also decided that I needed to stay longer.  I think this decision was made after realizing I had good insurance.  I begged them to reconsider, and that I didn't think either was necessary, but was willing to do whatever it took to get me out.  The side effects increased from the dosage change, so the mid-day shuffles would occur where I just could not stop moving or focus on anything but forcing myself to sleep.  I guess I'm not as good of a performance artist as I thought I'd be on anti-psychotics.

I gathered a semblance of control again, and 12 days into my stay I was sent to Unit 2, which was described as a step-down unit.  The patients and staff there were much mellower.  Nobody in that area was having a breakdown and being strapped to a table for sedation.

There was a group session where we talked about Walt Disney, and it inspired me to copyright my books properly.  We had another one where we talked about music, and I learned about the band Joy Division.  That's not a very joyful story there.

I was impressed by how good the people working there were at their jobs.  I met some other patients and staff that I liked a lot in Unit 2, and these included Quinn and the Asian staff member.

Meeting Quinn was like a horror movie for me.  Sure, I was already in a mental hospital, just as I had said I would, but seeing her brought my situation to a much more personal level.  I first noticed her in line at the cafeteria.  She was clearly the most attractive patient in the hospital, so when I caught sight of her my jaw dropped.  I could tell instantly this was the girl Thy Fear knew.  I pointed her out to Kyle, a friend I'd made who was by my perception the most likeable person in there, and he also recognized her beauty.

She affirmed my suspicions by mentioning Thy Fear in conversation when I began talking about Denver bands in an attempt to get her to do just so.

I took notice of the scar on her wrist and pointed it out to say, "It looks so real."

She said, "It is real."

I said, "I know, I meant like, _real_ real.  Or, like, real painful."

Part of me wanted her to be in on some secret scheme to trick me into thinking I was telling the future, when in fact everyone around me was just doing what I said would happen.  I have that feeling all the time, even now.  It was just a flesh wound, and she wasn't depressed.  It was all just some big game for everybody to play at my expense.  Fat chance I guess.

She went on to tell me the doctors said she had some nerve damage, and that was why she was drawing with crayons all the time.  I thought that was a bad idea, because to me it seemed she might be better off resting until it was fully healed, but I'm no doctor.  We talked many times throughout my stay and exchanged emails addresses when I left.

After I got out, I sent her an email saying hello, and she replied that she was on Mackinac Island with some family.  I never corresponded with her again.  What the fuck do I tell her? _Oh, by the way Quinn, I made you into some kind of interstellar litmus test to prove that bombs really will go off if your multi-platinum selling musician schoolmates don't do something to try and stop it.   Turns out we didn't even need to do it.  Thanks anyway though, you've been helpful!_  I don't mean to diminish her in any way, and she really was helpful.  She helped me remember that I'm not actually crazy in the slightest, and that every reaction and behavior I've exhibited is perfectly natural given my situation.  Quinn is a good person, and I hope she does well in life.

At the last meeting I had with my doctor and social worker, they asked about my predictions, and I said, "I thought I had a vision.  That was it.  I don't see what the difference is between now and when I first got here.  Even then I said it could just be a coincidence."  There was a long pause after I spoke, so I gave them the shrugged shoulders.  I was eventually discharged with a functioning level of 63 out of 100 possible points.  My brain got a D minus.  The guy that discharged me was cool though.

He said, "Don't worry, that's just due to your whole psychic prediction thing."  I think it was exactly that moment I became absolutely certain I wasn't crazy, whether anybody else realized it or not.

When I got the news that I was cleared to leave, I called one of the New Yorkers to come pick me up.  It was during lunch when he arrived, and I waited in the cafeteria with the Asian counselor beforehand.  She and I sat at a table together.  I knew she was the girl I talked about by the way she reacted when she overheard me talking about Thy Fear to Fred.  I just intrinsically knew.  Plus, she was the only Asian female that worked there, so that gave me a serious advantage.

I knew I was getting out in a matter of minutes, and I knew that she was cool and wouldn't try to keep me there unless I did something really bad.  So I said, "Listen, I wasn't going to say anything to you, but with you sitting here with me as I'm leaving I can't help but think this happened for a reason.  So I'm going to share something with you that might blow your mind, okay?"

She said, "Sure, as long as you aren't going to say something that will get you in trouble."

I said, "Ok, so 5 years ago or so I told the band members of Thy Fear that I would be in a mental hospital, and that I'd see you there."

She said, "I know those guys!"

I said, "Yes, I know, through your brother."

She said, "How did you know I had a brother?"  She was aghast, as personal information about the staff is kept tight lipped.

I suggested to her that I could have easily guessed, and she looked relieved.  But then I said, "But I didn't guess.  Thy Fear mentioned you, and also him, to me, because I said someone they knew would be working at the hospital while I was there.  How they could have known it would be you is a mystery even to me.  But nothing's shocking to me anymore.  I also said that girl," pointing to Quinn, "would be in here with us."

She said, "She went to high school with them."

I said, "Yeah, I know that...  Listen, this story is so vastly complex that I couldn't even begin to scratch the surface here with you now, so make sure you buy my book and hopefully it can help explain it for you if you're interested."  I told her the planned title of my first book, An Incomplete Boo, of which I had only written a few pages, and that was in back in 1998.  But I knew that I was going to finish it as soon as I got out.  The call was made over the radio that my ride was there, so I said goodbye to everyone and left.

Throughout this whole ordeal, I couldn't make myself mad at any of the staff, even though I knew most of them were totally assured that I was some kind of freak.  I'd get angry for a moment sometimes, but then realize they are all such incredible examples of human beings, and are all trying to heal anyone who wants or needs help in any way they can.  This is not a glamorous job, and they sure as hell aren't in it for the money.

The patients were some of the most spirited people I've ever met; so full of life, but bottled up.  It made me appreciate that my psychosis was something that could be reversed, and it was here that I realized that I needed to work some things out in order to help myself because nobody else could help me.  So again, thank you everyone at Highland Hills, and I hope you are fulfilled in your giving back to society.

Do me one favor though, if anybody else comes in saying that they've had a psychic prediction that involves millions of people dying, and they think that's what has created their bout with sanity, don't believe them.  They are lying.  I, of course, was not, but what are the odds of this happening again, right?  Oh, and you might want to realize that at least half of the patients you see drink and/or do drugs frequently.  Consider eliminating that before you include additional pharmaceuticals when, truthfully, you don't really know the long term effects and/or interactions with their current addictions.  Most likely, if they get off whatever garbage they're using, their mental health should improve vastly from that alone.

Alex called me a few days after I got out and asked, "Hey, are you really publishing a book and buying me a car?"  I had told him I was making him VP of Autio Publishing amongst other things, all of which were true.  All in good time, pal.  I ensured him that everything I said would eventually come to fruition.  I was glad when he then doubted my story about nuclear terrorism.  This was a sign that the effect of the LSD was totally gone.

## Chapter 11

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**A** fter my hospital stay, I moved into one of the New Yorker's basement.  I worked on my book diligently, and my employer was nice enough to keep me on staff.  After a while, Lara let me move back in.  It was short lived though, and I quickly had to move back out into an apartment on 38th Avenue, this time with plans to open an art gallery.  A girlfriend of one of the New Yorker's supplied me with some of her artwork to display.

Lara and I filed for divorce.

I wrote everything after Chapter 1 from An Incomplete Boo in 45 days, all the while working full time, and on call 24/7.

Lara was mature enough to let me watch our oldest son, but an infant was, of course, too little for her to let me care for him alone, in case you've forgotten Lara and her six month rule for me watching the kids. _If they are younger than six months, I pop their heads off.   It's an uncontrollable urge, and I feel bad for all the baby heads I've severed_.  It was for the best in this instance, however, as I didn't even have a crib for him.  So I didn't contest when he stayed with his grandmother.

We were separated when he was born, but Lara let me come to the birth just days after getting out of the mental hospital.

This is me sitting in the hospital room, just minutes before getting everything set up, talking about psychic predictions: " _Lara, look at me, I'm begging you on the day of our son's birth!   Please believe me!  When I tell you things, you can trust it is real and true.  Why would I bring this shit up now if it wasn't important?_"  We reconciled yet again after our new son was born, perhaps we were inspired by him, but it was more likely the result of her post-partum depression.  We continued to live separately for a while.

We went to the Mile High Music Fest, and Leigh was there with some friends.  Lara and I brought our oldest for the first day of the festival.  The VIP ticket got me directly in front of the stage, discounted food, and free Vitamin Water.  It did not, however, get me back stage.  I spent most of the day just enjoying the shows.  I'd say the best performance by far was Incubus.

I actually crossed paths with Brandon, their singer, a few hours before his set when he exited the backstage area to get a slice of pizza.  We almost walked into each other as we both rounded a blind corner, and I said in an overly dramatic manner, " _Excuse me!_ "  Imagine Steve Martin saying it.

By the way, Steve Martin is an early icon for me, as you might have guessed.  My father had _A Wild And Crazy Guy_ on vinyl, which I found most enthralling.

Anyhow, Brandon smiled, so I'm pretty sure he got the backwards reference to his song, _Pardon Me_.  And that was it.  Maybe I should have told him about the possibility of global thermonuclear devastation.  He came all the way to Denver, and all he got was a mention in this stupid book.

I noticed an area of fencing in the general admission area that had been placed over a ditch with long grass.  I knew I could easily slide under it and have access to the actual back stage area.  When Loot's set was almost finished, it was nightfall so I easily slipped under unnoticed.  I waited alone in a white tent next to the stage that had a couch in it.  Heavy winds were blowing, and the tent walls swayed high into the air.

I waited a bit longer, and then made my way underneath the stage, actually walking directly past the security guard and making idle chit-chat with him.  I waited for the band to walk down the stairs in front of me.  I had a copy of my book I'd been carrying around with me all day ready to give to Amandry.

Out of nowhere, he ran off the stage at full speed, and then down the stairs and into the open door of a car that quickly peeled off.  I was only about 10 feet from him and could have tackled him if my reflexes were fast enough.  If I'd known how quick it was going to be I could have planned differently, but I had no time to react.  The rest of the band casually walked their way out of my sight.

The next evening, Thy Fear played on the same stage, so I pulled my same break-in move under the fence.  They all exited the stage together after their performance, and I was right next to them as they walked down the stairs.  I could have stopped them easily, but security might have jumped me depending on the band's reaction.  I should have at least given them the book.  But I decided I didn't have anything important to say, and feared any kind of arrest or prosecution.  I kind of regret not having said at least, "Hey, great show!" or, "Gimme my ten thousand dollars you cock-faces."

I was disillusioned once again, unable to contact any of them, and thinking that they were unconcerned with me, neigh, the world.  I was even a bad stalker.  I guess I was actually a _really_ good stalker, but I had no follow through.

I tried to focus on work, as I had started doing tech support for a hotel internet and video streaming company.  I worked with some very cool people there, most notably Mount.  We had a lot of downtime, so Mount and I would talk about all kinds of things.  When I gave him a copy of my book, he read it in one night.  The next day, I was the only one in the office, and I was sleeping at my desk.  I had been dreaming about inauguration day.  In it, I saw Barack, and a host of other smiling government officials outside.

Mount came in for the morning shift with James, another co-worker, and started talking to me about the book.  Somehow the conversation took a weird shift.  Apparently, he and James had tripped mushrooms before he read it, and Mount said they kept seeing the same numbers, 120, and 1617 over and over the whole night.  I immediately knew exactly what it meant, January 20th at 4:17 p.m.

I said, "That's a date and time, and it's inauguration day."

I knew this was more than just a coincidence, because I had no idea what date inauguration day fell on, and I didn't even know what month it was in.  But I said it, so I knew it was right.  I quickly Googled it with both of them hovering over my shoulders.  This was the closest I'd ever gotten to a sign that I didn't come up with myself, so I just accepted it as the most likely date for a terrorist attack.  It fit in with everything I'd said in the past, and what I'd been thinking about in my dream just minutes prior.

I said to Mount, "It wouldn't matter if you made up that number just trying to fuck with me, it would still end up being real."

The company hired a total dumb-fuck to be our new boss, so I just stopped doing anything until they finally fired me a few weeks later.  I worked the graveyard shift, so I'd show up and just fall asleep until the phone inevitably rang.  If I was feeling chipper I'd help them out.

I got hired by another company that did tech support for various companies and government agencies.  I didn't like that job either.  I could have enjoyed any of these jobs, but I was going crazy instead, and needed to focus my attention to the things I kept avoiding.

On January 20th, 2009 I brought Lara to a live performance by Tim & Eric, with Neil Hamburger opening at The Ogden.  I had been communicating with Neil for a while on MySpace about his unhealthy obsession with Frank Sinatra Jr., but stopped because I began to doubt he was method acting.  I started to think he really was that nutsy guy we see on stage.  I had also been sending Tim and Eric messages from Twitter to let them know I was coming, and also to imply that I might be crazy and try to kill them.  I couldn't help myself; I still had a strong desire to fuck with people.  Have a sense of humor people, _it's just murder_.  I thought the show was hilarious, and Lara enjoyed it as well.

During the show, I noticed both Tim & Eric glance at me awkwardly several times, and wondered if they knew who I was.  I was wearing a hat with my pen name on it, so the possibility isn't too far-fetched.

In November of 2009, I had a meet-and-greet ticket to Puscifer at the Paramount Theater in Denver.  When I bought the ticket, I went online looking for a replacement Ministry shirt.  I couldn't find it anywhere, nor could I find even a reference to its graphic of a mosquito with a hypodermic for a stinger.  In desperation, I sent a message to the admin of a Ministry fansite.  Within hours, he had found the shirt on EBay and emailed me the link.  It was a sale for 2 shirts, the Ministry one, and a Korn one.  I bought them instantly.  When they arrived in the mail, I realized that I had once owned the same Korn shirt as well but rarely wore it, and after looking over the Ministry shirt, I realized it was _my shirt that I lost_.  It had the same white paint stain and hole in the side, and the Korn shirt must have been with the other stuff my landlord disposed of.  Somehow they ended up on EBay.

When the concert date came and I was in the Paramount Theater, I waited to be last in line so I could milk as much time out of Amandry as possible.  Oddly enough, I ran into Cliff, a fellow patient at the mental hospital with me before the show, and we caught up while I waited in a line of about 20 people.  When it was my turn to go into the private area, I said to Frank, Amandry's security guard, "Get ready for a reaction like you've never seen before."  He looked a bit concerned, but let me go in anyway.

As soon as I walked in, I said to Amandry, "Hey, remember me?"

He said, "No."

I said, "You don't remember the shirt even?" pointing to my tee.

He looked confused and answered, "No."

I muttered, "I can't believe you don't remember the shirt.  I was sure you'd remember me if I wore it."  Then I said, louder, "Didn't you tell me you were at a show during this tour, or something like that?"

He replied, "I toured with them for Lollapalooza in '92."

I said, "Oh yeah, that's it.  That kinda worries me.  Like, what else did I get wrong?  Are you sure you have no recollection of us meeting before?"

He asked, "I meet a lot of people.  Where were we?"

I said, "At Red Rocks in 1998, something really interesting happened when we met."

He said he didn't recall anything in particular.  I was getting a little irritated, and then realized he might be blocking it out subconsciously.

I said, "I'd go into detail, but I don't know this guy here," pointing at Frank, "and I don't like sounding crazy."

Amandry said of Frank, "He's cool don't worry."

I said, "How long have you known him?"

He said, "I don't know, maybe six months."

I said, "Yeah, that's not good enough," and then looked at Frank and said, "Sorry, nothing against you man."

Frank looked at me and shrugged his shoulders like, ' _I don't give a shit._ '  Amandry recanted by saying, "I've actually known him for years."

I asked, "Oh yeah?  How many?"

He answered, "Two or three."

I said, "Well, maybe you shouldn't have lied, because now I don't know what to believe."  I paused for a moment while everyone was silent, and then said, "Isn't there one person you've met that you'd really like to meet again from your past?  You _should_ know who I am."  At that point they both started to rush me like they were going to take me down.

I put my hands out in defense and said, "Whoa!" repeatedly.  Luckily they stopped.  I said, "I'm no threat to anybody.  I hate to think what kind of people you have to deal with.  What was that for?"  I was particularly frightened by the thought of being pummeled by them.  I didn't know for certain, but I imagined Frank was pretty good at his job, and I already knew Amandry was into martial arts.

They didn't answer.  I said, "Ok, let me write it down for you."  I grabbed a piece of paper, and he handed me a Sharpie he'd been using to sign copies of _V is for Vagina_.  I hesitated, not even sure what the hell to write down.  I was spiraling out of control, and losing my mind in front of the one person I should be able to talk to without him thinking I'm crazy.  And yet here he was, thinking I'm crazy right along with me.

I hesitated before writing, and for the life of me I can't remember if I wrote '2012,' 'terrorism,' or their combination.  My hand was shaking.  I said, "I hate doing this shit.  I really don't like looking like a lunatic."

I could tell he had realized who I was by his eyes when he read the note, and before I could say anything he quietly spoke some words I had been looking for, " _Oh shit_."

I said, "Now you remember!  I think you can tell, I haven't held up nearly as well as I thought I would.  Don't worry, I'm not going to kill myself, but I might start killing other people.  Present company excluded."  I was mostly joking, but as Shakespeare once wrote, "Jesters do oft prove prophets."

I asked him, "I really have just one question for you.  Did you do what I asked you?"

He asked, "What do you mean?"

I said, "I asked you to do one thing for me...that's not true.  I asked for a ton of nonsense, but I said only one thing was absolutely necessary.  I feel like I'm 99% sure you did, but I just need to hear you say it."

He answered quietly, "Yes."  His voice wavered slightly as he spoke.

I said, "Normally I'd think you are lying because your voice cracked, but I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt considering the circumstances.  That being the case, I think we're going to be just fine"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I already know when it's supposed to happen: January 20th, at 4:17 p.m., but we don't need to do anything because of you."

"This January?"

"No, sorry, I'm pretty sure it's 2013."

"How did you come up with that date?"

"Well, I know this might sound ridiculous.  But a friend of mine took some mushrooms..."

Amandry sighed, and I took that as skepticism.  I said, "I understand, that diminishes the believability, but don't shoot my idea down just because psycho-actives are involved."

"No, it's not that at all, I'm just shocked.  Go ahead."

"So anyhow, he took mushrooms and then read my book, and the next day he told me he kept seeing the same numbers over and over, 1201617.  I was having a dream about the Presidential inauguration right before seeing him, and I immediately made the connection that he was seeing a date and time.  I did what I said I would do and so did you.  Obama's probably got a handle on it, but we might want to get him that info to be safe."

He asked me what I'd done.

I told him about my first book.  I said, "It was written to make people think I'm crazy.  The next one shows my intellect in its true light.  I brought a copy, but this guy wouldn't let me take it in with me."

He said, "Only one?"

I said, "Who else would want to read this crap."

He looked confused, so I was confused.  I said, "Is there somebody else here that knows about me?  Don't worry, I'm totally cool with you telling people, it's just kind of frightening to think about it."

He said, "Forget it."

I said, "No way man, what's going on."

He wouldn't budge.

I said, "Oh, you must mean Cinara!  I forgot about her for a minute there."  Although I didn't remember meeting her, I did remember talking about her.

I read a few news articles about Puscifer before this concert, and it mentioned her name.  I did a little research and found out she was British, so I concluded she must be the one.  I looked at a few pictures and thought to myself, "There's no way she'd go for me."

You would think that looking at pictures of her and reading her name might have revived some memory of our having met, but no such luck.  I was really uncomfortable experiencing what I felt was an unhealthy attraction to a celebrity that I thought I'd never met, and merely because I mentioned her over a decade ago.

He said, "How could you just forget?"

I said, "I've forgotten lots of stuff, but it eventually comes back to me.  I didn't know if you told her anything about it.  I didn't even know who she was up until recently.  I should have known I suppose; I would have brought two copies."

The look of surprise on his face was enough for me to know I was being left out of the loop somehow.  I said, "Don't withhold from me.  This isn't fair.  You'll send me into psychosis trying to figure it out."

I started freaking out, and he and Frank looked like they might want to take me down again, so he finally said, "You two have met before, that's all."

I started crying.  I felt like part of me was missing.  I was familiar with lost time, but never for anything that I'd deem a 'good' memory.  I sarcastically said, "Did I rape her or something?"  I couldn't remember.

He said, "What the hell are you talking about?  Are you a rapist?"

I said, "No.  I can't understand why I blocked it out unless something horrible happened.  Did we have sex and I was so bad I blocked the memory?"

He said, "No.  What's with the sexual stuff?"

I said, "I don't know why I keep talking about sex.  I'm a little out of it right now."  It looked like he was going to tell me what happened, but I interjected, "No!  Wait.  I want to remember on my own.  Was she, like, waiting for me all this time?"

He said, "I'm not supposed to tell you."

I said, "Are you fucking kidding me?  You need to talk right now..."

He said, "It depends.  Do you have any kids?"

I said, "Yeah, two boys."

He said, "Then no."

I said, "I'm not going to apologize for my kids, that's ridiculous.  Tell her if it's any consolation I have no say in their lives, and I'm practically a non-entity to them and their mother.  No, don't tell her that...whatever.  I fucked up didn't I?"

He and Frank both agreed.

I then asked, "So do you want to help me out or what?"

He asked what I wanted.

I should have said, "Can we just talk about the impending nuclear threat over tea and crumpets?  I was kind of wondering what your take is on what happened to me back then.  Maybe give the old ball and chain a call."  I had about a hundred questions, but wasn't comfortable saying it in front of Frank.  So instead I asked, "I don't know, can you make my car payment for me?  I'm fucking broke.  I can't afford anything, I'm going to have child support to pay soon, and I can barely pay my bills."

He asked how much my car payment was, and I said 200 dollars.  They thought that wasn't too bad.  It seemed he and Frank were going to go through my finances with me, so I went along, "It's for a 1997 M3, so it's a pretty good car for the payment."  They agreed.

I was having this ridiculous conversation that was so blase with them.  Never mind the fact that we all knew damn well nobody was going to make my car payment for me, and I wasn't even really worried about my financial situation.  I really wanted him to call Lara and tell her I'm not nuts.  I said, "How about a job at your winery, or some help with a record or book deal.  I'll take whatever you got."  He looked perplexed and I don't remember what he said.  I think I basically forced him into saying he would help me out.

I asked how I might be able to contact him, and he said wasn't sure.  I said, "I'll just come to your house and knock on your door."  I figured that way there wouldn't be any phone or email records of our contact.

He said, "I'd have you arrested for trespassing."

I said, "Really, why?"

He smugly answered, "That's just the way I am."

"But you know me?" I pleaded.

He said, "Doesn't matter."

"I get no special consideration, even considering our situation?"

"Nope."

"But you don't hate me, right?"

"No."

I was perplexed.  Why would someone be like that, to me of all people?  If I had initially gone to his house and knocked on the door instead of paying $250 for this stupid meet-and-greet ticket, I probably would have gotten at least a ticket for trespassing.  Did he not care about me at all?  If our roles were reversed I imagine I'd be a bit more understanding.  So I thought to myself, "All right, let's slay him with sadness."  I had no ammunition with this guy.  He obviously didn't think I was as safe as I know myself to be.  I didn't want to be his BFF, and I'm not so sure we'd even get along.  He's pretty weird even by my standards.  All I could do now was try to make him feel bad for threatening to have me arrested.

Instead of saying, "Hey man, to have someone you know arrested for knocking on your door is seems illogical," I said, "Maybe I should do that!  By going to jail, I'd be forced to sober up, and I could take that time to write the next book.  It would be hard for me to be distracted in jail.  That's a good idea actually."  This was all very true, and it threw him for a loop.  Basically, if you open a door, I'm going to walk through it regardless of what's on the other side.

I concluded that it would benefit him by making my story all the less credible, thus keeping him clear of public interest in the matter.  I realized that he wasn't actually my friend right at the moment he wouldn't bend even slightly for me coming to his house, but I still sensed a mutual respect between us.

I asked him if his girlfriend was privy to my story, because I didn't want to frighten anybody in the process, and he said yes.  I reflected to myself out loud, "Your girl believes you, Ascia's girl believes him, why the hell won't mine?"  Amandry asked what I had said, and I replied, "I guess she believes you because you have been successful in life, whereas I have not."

He asked me what I needed to 'sober up' from, so I told him marijuana and Vicodin.  I didn't want to seem like a pussy being addicted only to marijuana, so I made up another addiction.  He didn't seem too concerned.  I said, "When I get released from jail perhaps you could give me a ride to my car or something?"

He said no.

I said, "Well, are you at least going to help me out afterwards?"

He said, "Sure."

All I really need is for him to not sue me for this book.

I was planning my future in my mind, thinking about how long it would realistically take me to write this book.  I went on a rant about how I would need more and more time to finish.  I can't remember how long I said.  I calculated 32 days in jail before I got released on probation.  Another 30 days to edit the book.  I vaguely remember adding time for different possibilities in the future, like trying to get my wife to like me again, or for divorce proceedings that would otherwise be imminent.  I said to wait at least 90 days after I get out so the divorce will be final.  That way, I wouldn't be able to just go down to the courthouse and stop it if she started believing me because she now had proof of some kind.  I really didn't want to get back together with her unless she believed me by her own accord.  In my mind I ended up publishing it sometime at the end of 2011.  I assured them it would be done by January 20th of 2012 to give everybody at least one year of advance warning.

Regardless of when I said the book would be finished, I was adamant that he was to wait for it before doing anything for me or communicating.  Otherwise, I'd be liable to not write it at all.

I remember saying, "Hey, you can call your next album _Conditions of My Parole_.  If you say probation it might be too obvious.  That is, if you still want to continue the theme of me picking your album titles."

He was concerned that if I got arrested for stalking him I would be unable to contact him.  I said, "I'm not worried, even slightly.  Don't be a pussy.  Nobody is going to care.  Unless you call the police, how is anybody going to know?"  He'll arrest me for knocking on his door, but he's worried about that.

Then I said, "Hey, can you help me keep my driver's license, I'm looking at losing it for speeding tickets."

He asked me, "How am I supposed to help you with that?"

I said, "I guess _you_ can't help me per se, but you know someone who could."

He said he didn't know anyone who could possibly help me.

I said, "Yes you do."

He said, "Who?"

I said, "You know exactly one person that could help me."

I can't remember what he said but it seemed like he was thinking, "Really?  You want me to bother him about that?"

I was just testing the waters to see if he had any kind of relationship with Obama, or if he really ever communicated with him in the first place.

He said, "Why don't you just slow down."

I blamed my car for the tickets since it looked expensive and fast, but I know I was driving too fast for the eyes of the law.  It felt like a good time to leave, so I said, "Alright, well, I guess I'll see you later," like I was walking away from something I just broke and left on the floor at Wal-Mart.

He said, "Wait," and offered me a copy of _V is for Vagina_ , so I stopped abruptly.

I said I already had a copy, but he pointed out that this would be a signed one.  I quickly agreed that I would be remiss without it, so he signed it and handed it to me.  He shook my hand, and afterward I said, mostly to be a dick since I was still pissed about the door knocking thing, "Not to be impolite, but in my opinion this album is absolutely un-listenable."  I instantly felt bad because he looked offended, so I quickly rolled into, "But I absolutely love the new one."

He asked where I had heard it, so my brain had to come up with someplace other than the bit-torrent I may or may not have used.

So I said, "From your website of course."  They both looked at me oddly, knowing that I was obviously lying because of the sarcastic way I said it.  I then said, "Don't act like you didn't know this was going to happen, I told you 10 years ago this was how it would be with music online.  And it's a good thing."  I started to leave again, saying, "I'll see you this summer at Red Rocks, I'll be sitting front row."

He said, "How could you possibly know about that?"

I said, "I guessed.  Oh, hey, one more thing.  When is Blood Into Wine showing again?  How about you have a screening of it in Jerome and I'll bring my wife?  My dad went on vacation there once and said it was great."  He hesitantly agreed.

I said, "Hey, I read you are touring Australia soon with Loot, right?"  He said yes, so I told him to be careful because it might be a little scary.

He asked, "Why?"

I said, "The weather.  It's still going to be raining when you get there.  Don't worry, you'll be fine, but I wouldn't make it an annual thing you do in that area, it's going to be chaos in the South Pacific around that time next year, or perhaps the next year after, I can't really tell."  This appeared to spark his interest, so he asked for more details.  I thought about it and said, "I don't know, I think it's a tsunami."

Amandry said, "What's that?" and glanced at Frank, who also apparently also didn't remember, or was probably too concerned with Amandry's mental health to care.  I sat there dumbfounded.  I had just said the word 'tsunami,' and I know I knew what it meant at some point, but I was surprised to have used it without actually having on reference what it actually meant at that particular moment.  If anyone had been watching, we looked like a pretty stupid bunch for the 20 seconds we sat there trying to remember what a tsunami was.  I finally said, "You know, tidal waves."

I said, "If you haven't been to Hawaii, you might want to make a visit before then.  And if you have friends that live in Japan, tell them to move away or at least stay off the coastline.  But I'm not exactly sure if it's next year, or the year after that.  Maybe you should mention this to somebody?  You know, warn them about it?"

"What am I supposed to do?" he pleaded.

I said, "I don't know, don't worry about it.  It's only like 10,000 people."

"What?"

"That die.  You know what?  You should check to see if they have some kind of early warning detection system in place."

"Why don't you do it?"

"Man, I can barely keep my life together.  Besides, who's going to listen to me?  Nobody will give a shit what I think.  Forget about it, I can tell they have a system in place because I'm going to check on Google when I get home tonight, and 10,000 dead is with everything functioning properly.  Don't stress it man, there is nothing we can do.  What are we supposed to say?  ' _Everyone must evacuate the entire South Pacific for 2 years!   God told me._'  I'm going to be sitting in that damned jail when this happens, but I'll get to watch it on the news.  This seems strange to me, everything I've known before this was man-made."

He said, "What about the comet?"

"Oh, you mean the asteroid?  That's only because we know it's coming."  I should have put two and two together at this point and realized that I had presented failed logic, because if I knew the future, I should know regardless of causation.  I don't know.  I'm still having a hard time figuring out what's going on with all this future talk.

I was a little out of sorts considering I'd just started soothsaying again for the second time in front of the same person, who also happened to be a multi-platinum selling singer.  I leaned on the edge of the high table where Amandry was sitting and said, "I still got it, don't I?  I was worried the drugs from when I was in the mental hospital might have killed something up there," pointing at my head, "but I think I'm golden."

He asked me how long I'd been in the hospital like he was disappointed, so I said, "A month."  It surprised me how similar his reaction was to when I said it to Thy Fear long before it had even happened.  Seriously, mental hospitals are not that bad.  There's nothing to be ashamed of if you end up in one.  From what I've read, one in four people suffers mental illness at some point in life.

I asked him how much he thought I could get for the signed copy of _V is Vagina_ on EBay.  He had no idea.  I never seem to run out of dick things to say.  I reiterated that I would see him at his concert this summer and said goodbye.  As I walked out of the small curtained area they had used for the meet-and-greet, Frank walked with me all the way back to the exit leading to the lobby.  He asked me, "What was that all about?"

"I'm sorry man, I don't know if I really want to talk to you about it.  Nothing against you, but, I just don't know you.  You look kinda skeezy with your slick hair and buttoned down clothes.  You could be just this awful person for all I know."

He pleaded that he was in fact a good person.

I said, "If he," referring to Amandry, "is really your friend, he'll tell you about it.  If he won't tell you, he's not really your friend."

I asked Frank if he was ex-military because he looked the part, and he answered, "Yes."  I asked what he did, and he said, "I was a Cook."

I said, "Ok, sure, maybe when you started.  Don't give me any bullshit man.  You were an army cook, and then you started doing security for celebrities.  Please, spare me; I have military in my family.  What did you do?"

He rattled off an impressive list of credentials, so I felt like he was probably high ranking.  He also mentioned doing charitable work in foreign countries.  I said, "Ok, I'll deal.  What I was talking about back there relates to a possible nuclear terrorist threat."

He said something like, "Oh God."

I said, "You know what?  Maybe you should re-enlist.  You could be my direct line of communication with Obama."  I was just fucking around at that point; I think the drinks from before the show were starting to kick in.  Frank looked even more perplexed.  We shook hands and said goodbye, and then I went to the lobby to get another beer.

I sat front row next to a girl named Mandy, who was the blonde that sat next to me when we saw Loot at Red Rocks in 1998, before Canida worked her way between us.  I thought this was highly ironic, and I could remember her clear as day once she mentioned being there.

When Puscifer was about half way through their set, I held my book onstage and highlighted its presence with my hands.  The bassist, Matt, was looking at me and pointed to it.  Without saying anything I knew he was asking if I had written it.  I nodded my head, and slid the book across the stage to him.  He was looking through it when he noticed a cd was inside.  It was a shitty demo I'd made.  I mimed crumpling garbage and throwing it away.  Cinara took notice of our little pantomime conversation, and looked at the book as well.

A little later, she looked at me that implied she was impressed I had scored a girl like Mandy.  I was being really friendly and flirting with Mandy, but that's how I always behave around the opposite sex, regardless of my motive.  I tried to react like I wasn't really hitting on her, and pointed to my ring finger as if I was married, knowing I wasn't wearing it.  I started feeling around in my pockets jokingly, and then shrugged my shoulders and held my hands out in dismay.

Cinara smiled.

This was such a surreal moment for me.  Lara had filed for divorce just a month or so prior, and we only recently reconciled again.  I did not have high hopes for the relationship, and was feeling more like Lara was an option.  But I didn't want to cheat on her, and I didn't want to give up.  But my eyes had been magnetized towards Cinara from the moment she stepped on stage.  I wasn't expecting anything to happen between us, it was just nice to think about.  Nor did I think anything would happen with Mandy, though by flirting with her I think I subconsciously wanted to see if Cinara still harbored any trace feelings of jealously.  I couldn't remember, but I knew something interesting must have happened if she was communicating with me at all.

While the band played, I sat down and held my head in my hands trying to remember what had happened between us so many years ago.  It finally came to me that we met just outside the theater we were in.

She saw the look of shock on my face, and I touched my index fingers together to signify kissing.  I didn't remember most of what happened, but I at least remembered the kiss.  And then I remembered screaming at Amandry, so I made a gun shape with my hand.

After the show, which was stellar, Mandy, her sister, and I went to have some drinks at the Paramount Cafe.  Afterwards, I went and stood where Cinara and I kissed.  I still didn't remember much else.

I drank so heavily that night I could barely remember what I'd said to Amandry, and vice-versa.  But I was a lot less worried about the future now that I was convinced Obama knew what was going on.

As time passed, I forgot about Cinara again.  As crazy as it sounds, I still remembered talking about her at Red Rocks, but nothing else.  The mind works in mysterious ways.

After Lara and I dropped the motion for dissolution of marriage, I eventually moved back in with her.  I know it must seem ridiculous, right?  Why would she keep taking me back?  To this day I don't know, but I do know I needed her more than anyone in the world, well, except my kids of course.  And I'm sure she cared about me, but sometimes love just ain't enough.  I think she felt similarly, and perhaps she was only compelled to keep me around out of pity for my dependence upon her.  She was my sole confidant, but she still didn't believe a word I said.  Also, knowing that she could kick me to the curb at any time probably made it easier to take me back over and over.  I'm sure she was swayed by the best interests of our children as well.  They love me dearly just as I do them.

Since I'd moved back in with Lara, I enjoyed spending some time with my new son, but I was unprepared for how colicky he would be.  Our first had been so good his whole life that we neglected to prepare ourselves for a second child of a different nature.  He was equal parts love and screaming.  I love him to death, and feel awful that he isn't getting to spend the time with me that his brother did when he was a toddler.

Lara and I kept fighting about everything.  I was hyper-critical of every aspect of her being, not due to an actual concern most of the time, but out disgust and contempt for her not acknowledging that I was a good, sane person, let alone her lack of support in what had now become my life's purpose.  So we still fought about absurd shit that failed to deal with the true issues at hand.

I tried reconnecting with many of the people in this story via Facebook.  I had a couple drinks at 3 Kings Tavern with Garter.  He showed me the copy of my first book that I gave him in a glass display case, surrounded by antique knick-knacks and other oddities, opened to a page with his name on it.

I begged my wife to verify my story with the people I'd found on Facebook, and I eventually had to force Lara to sit down and type a message to Faidre and a few other people.

Even if they had backed me up 100%, I don't think Lara would have believed me anyhow.  She is a skeptic in the purest form, which is a lot like me.  That was always one of the things that I liked about her the most.  When I first met her, she described herself as undecided with regards to spiritual beliefs.  For a while she considered herself an atheist, but by this time she was leaning towards believing in something, but what something was, neither of us knew.  I don't think she has put much thought into it.  I think I've put more thought into what she believes than she has herself.

Faidre warmly replied to our message, so Lara and I met her and her husband, Vincent, at City O' City for drinks.  When we sat down with them, it was incredibly awkward for me.  But I was relieved that she didn't appear to remember our last conversation.

And then there was Vincent.  I seriously doubted he would remember me.  I didn't want to say anything about any of it.  I figured maybe she'd forgotten, and that's why she now felt comfortable talking to me again.  God only knows if years ago I'd sent her spiraling into a depression or something, and didn't want to do so again.  But I did ask her what she remembered from that time, and it was like a blank palette for her.

I was disappointed to say the least, but not in her.  I had given myself so few witnesses and such little to work with that when I finally sat down and tried to explain it to Lara, it just came out like nonsense, with nobody to substantiate any of it.  I had no way to wrap it up into any kind of cohesive structure.  Lara contended timeframes, and I have to admit I might be wrong about some of that.  Even so, I'd told her things that she herself should have seen were impossible to know beforehand.  But I had then come to realize that there was always something that makes people forget, or simply not care and explain it away as a coincidence or hallucination.

It was great to see Faidre again, but I wondered if Vincent and Lara weren't at least a bit uncomfortable with us talking over them while they sat quietly in the background most of the time.  When we all got up to leave, Vincent said, "It was nice meeting you again."  And I can imagine he possibly meant, "I've already said nice to meet you, so, again, nice to meet you."  But in the back of my mind I thought he might remember me from years ago, so just in case I said, "At least somebody remembers."  And he looked at me awkwardly, probably because what I said had no correlation to the dialogue already in progress.

I bought two front row tickets to Loot at Red Rocks in the summer of 2009, just as I had said I would, and brought Lara with me.  I forgot just how muddled the sound is front row at Red Rocks, just a wall of rhythmic noise.  But it was still fun.  Amandry had two guns strapped to his chest, and I couldn't help but think they were real, and for me.  I swore to Lara that Ron was going to be there with the opening act, Haven Down, but remembered on the way to the concert that it was likely that he wouldn't show up at all.  I mentioned it to Lara.

Just as planned, he was a no-show.  I didn't have any scheme to murder him if he had, I would have been disappointed though.  What seemed most odd to me was that there was nobody to take his place, and an unused keyboard on a stand sat unused throughout their set.  When the band finished playing, I walked a few feet forward to the singer, and asked him where Ron was.

He said, "Who?"

I said, "You know, Ron, the keyboardist?"  I was a bit dumbfounded by the fact that he didn't realize who Ron was considering they'd been together throughout the tour.

He said, "Oh, he couldn't make it."

I said, "Well.  Interesting.  I'm an old friend and I just wanted to give him a copy of this book."  He looked at me like I was Mark David Chapman.  I smiled and walked away.

I also had purchased tickets to the second night's show in the 58th row, and the sound was excellent there.  I brought Garter to that performance, and he joked the whole time that I was going to get taken down by security for trying to attack Amandry, and then he'd have to walk home.  The second show had a different opening act, so there was no chance of seeing Ron.

I should have been writing the book, but instead I started working on some different music things, mostly doing covers and remixes of songs I found pleasant.  I also tried to pick songs that were relevant to my story, either by their lyrics or by artist.  Nobody gives a shit about it, even the respective artists from whom I garnished no rights to their music.

I was disappointed that Amandry hadn't acknowledged my unique position in life to Lara, but I never lost hope.  I found out that he was screening Blood Into Wine in Jerome on August 8th, 2010.  It was one year to the day after I published my first book, and smack dab between the anniversaries of the two nuclear attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, Japan, in 1954.  We sat on shitty metal chairs in the Jerome performance hall with a pull down screen and a couple of speakers.  The movie as a whole was great, but without the parts I conceived it might have been a real bore.  I mean, the documentary part is really informative and well displayed, but making wine looks fucking boring.  Don't let it freeze, don't let it burn, now hurry up and wait for it.

All the comedic parts killed with the audience, and everybody was laughing heartily.  I couldn't help but turn around and look at them a few times, and it felt good.  After the movie, Amandry, the director, and a producer each took questions.  A few people asked their questions, and I raised my hand until he finally picked me.  I stood up.  I was wearing a t-shirt with my book's cover on it, so he quickly realized who I was and said, "Oh no," while he rolled his eyes so hard his head moved right along with them.

I said, "Don't worry man," and then to the guy that was passing around the microphone, "I don't think I need a mic, I'm pretty loud as it is."  I turned back to Amandry and said, "Are you guys hiring?  Can you get me a job?  That looks like a lot of fun!"  The crowd erupted into laughter, which surprised me because I didn't think I was that funny.  Amandry looked at me and raised his head as though he might nod his head yes, and did so, but instead said, "No," slowly and with force.  The audience laughed heartily once again.

I sat back down, and told Lara to raise her hand.  She said she didn't know what to ask him.  I said, "Seriously?  You can't think of anything?" as sarcastically as possible.

She finally did raise her hand near the last few questions.  Who knows what she would have asked.  I think I told her to ask him if he thought I was crazy.  He didn't call on her, probably because he could tell she was with me, or perhaps because her feeble attempt to raise her hand was so sheepish.  She looked like she had tennis elbow, or maybe tendonitis, and just like the kid in school who wants to look like they are participating but really does not want to be called on.

After the screening, we had a beer at 15 Quince with another couple.  I noticed one of the producers walking to his SUV, so I stopped him to give him a copy of my first book.  He accepted it graciously, and I'm sure it's holding up dust somewhere.

After that we went to Caduceus Cellars tasting room and sampled a lot of wines.  I met some weird girl that had been sitting next to me during the screening, during which she asked Amandry if she could bless the Lord Ganesh statue, or whatever it was gracing the door of the tasting room.

Lara and I walked up the street to the Puscifer store, but it was closed, so I left some posters and a copy of my book in front of the door.  We drove around a bit, looking for something more to do, but since we were done drinking and it was already getting dark, the town had pretty much shut down.

I started talking about Amandry's reaction to seeing me, and Lara didn't recall anything out of the ordinary in with our interactions.  I couldn't believe that I was still in the same position.  She didn't believe me, and Amandry didn't seem to want to help me prove it to her.  I didn't get that perhaps he was looking out for my best interests.  I started arguing with her about it, and decided to get out of the car and walk the rest of the way back to the hotel, while she went and got dinner at some Italian restaurant.

While she sat and ate dinner, I began packing, as I had decided we were going back to Denver that night.  I called her repeatedly telling her to hurry up, and by the time she got back I had packed all the things.  I said it was time to go back home.  She did not want to leave just yet, but I told her we had to without giving a reason.  She got her stuff packed and into the car.  We started arguing about who was going to drive, and finally I gave up and said, "Fine, just give me the keys."  I was talking about the keys to the hotel room, but she thought I meant the car keys.

She said no, so I just ripped them out of the ignition, and her hand as it were.  When I walked to the front desk and gave them the room keys, Lara called the police.

When I got back and saw her on the phone, I knew who she was calling and said, "You are an idiot."

We sat and waited for them.  They gave us breathalyzers, and both of us blew zeros.  They told us to separate for the night and then head home in the morning.

She was going to sleep in the car, but I called her and convinced her to come back to the hotel room.  In bed, I held her tightly and begged for her to believe I wasn't crazy.  I began to cry, just feeling so sorry for myself, and she did as well.  For her, it might have been for different reasons.

The next day we stopped at the Grand Canyon, and I was in awe of its majesty.  Lara was walking down a path that if she were to fall, it would have meant certain death.  I remember thinking, "If she falls, I'm going to jail for murder."  I told her this, and she found it a lot funnier than I did.

On the drive back, we had a frank discussion about the horrible state of our relationship.  Not that it was any more broken than usual; it had just finally begun to sink in that she was never going to believe me.  I could also tell there was someone else Lara was interested in romantically, and I let her know my feelings on the subject.

I said, "You know what?  Act on it.  Because I won't until you do, no matter how bad I want to."  I just knew that something was gone with her.  I was familiar with this emptiness, as something had been gone from me for much longer.  I just never chose to seek love elsewhere out of common decency.

I never gave up trying to point out little clues that might stimulate the fabled pineal gland in her, but got nothing.  I was supposed to move out, but instead I worked on music and pretended to look for a job.  I was just lost and wondering what the hell I was going to do.  I knew I had to write a book, but it felt like an impossible task to wrap these weird little vignettes into some sort of cohesive story.  I had no explanation, no clearly defined purpose, and no conclusion.  I started writing the parts about my grandfathers, and then just fizzled out.

My tax returns were coming early in 2011, and I knew it was time to make a trip back to Arizona.  I was sending weird messages from Twitter, and getting obscure, vague replies that lead me to believe Amandry, and possibly even Cinara were paying attention and trying to communicate subversively.

I used Google Earth to pinpoint an exact location for Amandry's house.  But no address was listed, just the latitude and longitude.

I was highly stressed about my future divorce that I was single handedly causing.  My bank account had been frozen due to lack of payment on a loan I'd gotten when I moved out and wrote my first book.  My wages were also being garnished from each paycheck.  I was broke and my relationship was in a hopeless state.  All I had to look forward to was the idea that maybe, just maybe, Amandry might help me.  Or just send me to jail.  Either way I needed a change.

The day before I left for Jerome, Lara's mother served me with divorce paperwork.  The timing made it difficult for me to file a response being that I was going to be out of state for at least a week, never mind that I might be in jail for over a month.

To save money, I decided to sleep in my car at the Dead Horse Ranch State Park, lot #111.  It was only $15 a day and had a public shower.  My first day in town, I just focused on getting settled and walked around the park a bit.

The next day, I went to Jerome and bought a T-shirt for Lara at the Puscifer store.  I had a few drinks at The Steam Room and went to bed.

I couldn't believe how apprehensive I was about going to his house.  Knowing what was going to happen made it even scarier.  I went to Caduceus tasting room and spoke with his fiance.  I didn't even try to talk to her, she came down to me from an office perched on the open second level.  I was just looking at some pomegranate jelly, and she asked me if I had any questions.

I said, "Is the pomegranate in this grown here in Jerome?"

She said yes.

I said, "Interesting.  I thought it was a tropical fruit."

She rattled off a bunch of numerical data regarding the proper conditions for growing pomegranate, and I said, "Well, apparently I know nothing about my favorite fruit."  This was obviously a smart woman, so I was surprised that she seemed unaware of who I was.

Afterward, I overheard her talking to the staff about 'keeping an eye out' for suspicious activity.  I figured, " _Let's save these folks some trouble._ "  So I paid for my jelly, and just before I walked out the door I stopped and said, "Oh, and congratulations by the way."

She said, "For what?"

I said, "The ring.  It's gorgeous."

She said, "Thank you."

I said, "I overheard you talking earlier, and...I just thought I'd make it easy for you."  And then I left.  I was trying to act scary, but I had a big smile on my face, and she just smiled back at me.

It appeared they really went full-blast into the whole 'stalking arrest' plan.  I parked in his driveway and waited.  I waited for someone to pull up, or leave, or mow their dirt and whatever else people in Arizona do with their yards.  I sat there thinking I should go knock on the door but didn't have the balls.  So I wrote a note explaining my situation briefly, and described what I really desired from him, a simple phone call to my wife.  I wrote it in a manner that could easily be interpreted as the ranting of a lunatic, and I was drunk, so I might have taken it over the top.  It never occurred to me that Lara probably would not even answer a call from out of state; she just assumes a number she doesn't know is not important.  I wish I still had a copy of the note because I thought it was funny, all I have now are anecdotes from the police report.

Before I could even do anything with it, the police rolled up and asked for my license, insurance, and registration.  All I could procure was the license.  They asked me if I knew where I was parked, and I said, "Yeah, right here."  I pointed to my car.

So they asked, "What are you doing here?"

I said, "I stopped because I had the strongest signal for my satellite internet."  They knew damn well I was full of shit, and told me, "Leave this area and don't come back."

I said, "You got it."

They drove away, and when they couldn't see me any longer, I took the note and left it on the ground near their walkway.

Hours passed, and I got bored waiting for the police to find me.  I'd left my location in the note, down to the lot number, so I was wondering if they even found it.  It was dark by now, so I drove back to Amandry's neighborhood and parked a little ways away from his house.  I walked in the dark to his driveway, saw the note still on the ground, and picked it up and placed it under the windshield wiper of his Crown Vic.

I grabbed some liquor from the bar/liquor store up the street and headed back to my campsite.  I drank half the bottle, and smoked my last bowl.

The police came to me in my car about an hour and a half later.

**_Verde Valley Justice Court_**

_Release Questionnaire_

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_Defendant has repeatedly used social media to contact victim requesting meeting.   Defendant drove from Colorado to victim's home in Jerome and parked on clearly posted property.  Police were called and defendant was warned on 2/24/11 to stay away from victim.  Defendant returned to victim's residence and left a lengthy written communication on victim's vehicle that included inferences of "death" "being crazy" and again requesting victim to contact him "barring any unforeseen tragedy such as me going on a killing spree." _

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**_Cottonwood Police Department_**

_Deputy Report_

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_On 2/24/11 at about 2130 hours, I assisted Jerome Officers in locating a male subject in Dead Horse State Park.   We found a vehicle matching the subjects in the campground on the north side of the park, and contacted him sleeping in his car.  I remained on scene while Officers Lionberger and Harris conducted their investigation.  After taking Him into custody, they were securing his possessions in his car when offices Harris found a "roach clip."  I also observed in a pocket low on the driver side front door a bottle of "Ten High" whiskey, and a blue bottle with two pills in it.  I pointed them out to Officers Harris and Lionberger, and Kramer said the pills were vicodin._

_At Officer Harris 's request, K-9 Officer Shilling responded and conducted a free air sniff on the vehicle.  After a positive alert by the dog, I assisted with the search of the vehicle.  I found a small metal container in the center console that appeared to have a residue inside.  After the search I assisted in securing the property in the vehicle.  This ended my involvement in this incident._

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_Deputy Report #2_

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_On 02/24/11 I responded to assist Jerome PD at Dead Horse Ranch State Park in Cottonwood, AZ.   Upon arrival I was contacted by Jerome PD who informed me throughout their investigation they believed there was possible drug activity which involved the vehicle owned by the subject they took into custody.  Jerome PD asked if I was willing to conduct a free air sniff with my K-9 partner Rio._

_I deployed Rio on the white BMW 4 door sedan at the drier side rear quarter panel.   I observed a distinct change in behavior as Rio moved around the vehicle at the passenger side rear door.  Rio exhibited a final response alert on the passenger side rear door of the vehicle. _

_Jerome PD informed me a search of the vehicle revealed marijuana shake on the floor board and multiple items of drug paraphernalia.   Jerome stated the subject they had in custody informed them he frequently smokes marijuana and there would probably be some marijuana leafs on the floor board of his car on the passenger side.  This ends my involvement in this case. _

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**_Jerome Police Department_**

_Narrative Report_

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_On 2/24/11 at about 1610 hours I was dispatched regarding a suspicious vehicle outside the residence of CENSORED.   Upon arrival Officer Harris and I found him sitting in the driver's seat of a White 1997 BMW, Colorado License number CENSORED.  The car was parked facing East with the engine off.  The car was parked on the West Side of the entrance of the residence._

_Upon contact, he stated that "It was the only place he could find to get a good signal for his computer".  He was advised that he was trespassing on private property and that the owners wanted him to leave.  I asked if there was any other reason why he was parked at this location and he stated that there was not.  He was advised to leave the property which he did at that time.  He was checked for wants and warrants with dispatch which came back negative._

_At approximately 2115 hours Officer Harris received a phone call from the home owner Amandry 's fiancee.  She said that at approximately 2030 hours she and her fiancee arrived back home.  They found that he had returned back to their property and left a large poster.  The poster was a hand written letter left on the windshield of their Crown Vic.  This car was parked in their driveway. _

_She asked to meet and deliver the poster and discuss what could be done about the 2nd trespass.   We met with her at the parking area located in the 800 block of Hampshire.  The wording of the letter had one sentence stating "such as me going on a crack head killing spree".  There also were a few comments that he had made about not being crazy.  He also said that he was a bad stalker.  She was advised that we would attempt to locate him and arrest him for trespassing. _

_We drove to Cottonwood PD to find out if there had been any additional contacts with this subject in the area.   It was discovered that Cottonwood PD had a Domestic Call about him 2010.  Then we went to Dead horse State park.  He stated he was camping there during the first contact.  We were accompanied by Officer C. Combs #624 Cottonwood P.D.  Ofc. Combs found him at a camping site.  He was asked if he had returned to the property in Jerome after we gave him a trespass warning.  He stated that he had not been back there.  When asked about the poster, he stated that he did in fact leave it, but denied going back to leave it.  He states that he left it before leaving after our contact.  I asked him why he lied to me about why he was parked on private property earlier.  He then admitted that he did lie earlier._

_Ofc. Harris asked him a few times about the time period of the note he left.   He kept saying he wrote it out before he left.  He went on to say he put it on the ground under rocks.  Ofc. Harris then called the victim and was asking about the times they were out walking the dogs or leaving for dinner.  He wanted to verify if the note could have been left earlier.  She said that she kept looking in the area for any signs that he had returned and did not find any until they came back after dinner.  She also said that the note was not under rocks but was under the wiper blade of the driver side of their car.  They left for dinner at about 7:15 pm and returned about 8:35 pm. _

_While asking about the items outside his vehicle Ofc. Harris noticed a hemostat with a burnt residue in plain view.   This was located on the floorboard behind the driver's seat.  Ofc. Harris stated, "What's that a roach clip?" and he said, "Yes it's a roach clip and I am a heavy pot smoker, everybody in Colorado smokes pot"._

_He was then arrested for trespassing.   He was read his Miranda Rights where he stated that he understood but had nothing further to say about the trespassing. _

_At that point we had a discussion with Ofc. C Combs about requesting a canine from cottonwood P.D.   With the amount of items in his car we felt that a canine could find any drugs if there were any.  Canine Ofc. C. Shilling #622 of Cottonwood P.D. was dispatched to our location with his dog.  Upon arrival the canine began checking the vehicle.  The dog hit strongly on the passenger side front and rear doors of the vehicle.  A search was then conducted of the vehicle.  Further drug paraphernalia and an open container of Sour Mash Whiskey were discovered.  The additional paraphernalia included a small round silver colored container with a small amount of unknown white residue was found by Ofc. Combs. _

_A small scale was found in the same area as the hemostat under some cloths on the floorboard.   Rolling papers, open container of whisky and a green pill container with no prescription label was found.  This was in the driver's side door panel.  A single unidentified white pill was found on the passenger side rear floor board._

_The vehicle was locked and left on scene and he was transported to the YCSO Jail Camp Verde for booking._

_On 2/25/11 Chief Allen Muma reviewed the victim 's witness statement indicating that he had attempted numerous contacts with the victims.  She also indicated that he had been posting on Twitter.com under the name "Prankster Atom."  Prankster Atom was used as his signature on the poster "INEDIBLE" left behind at Amandry's residence.  In her statement she says Amandry asked her to phone the police because he was posting to twitter.com that he followed her back to their residence at 103 Dundee Avenue. _

_A review of the Twitter.com posting and printed internet copy of the activity based upon what was posted under the pseudonym Prankster Atom.   Statements below show direct comments that include: _

_-Feb. 24th 2001 at 5:08 PM, I thought you two were sending me subliminal messages or something. I can 't get ahold of Amandry for the life of me.  Am I nuts?_

_-Thursday, February 24, 2011 at 4:49:03 PM, In case you don 't hate me my phone number is 720-432-2012_

_-Thursday, February 24, 2011 at 4:46:43 PM, I parked next to your house again for 20 minutes and the cops came.   No insurance, no registration, lying through my teeth.  No tix._

_-Thursday, February 24, 2011 at 2:49:30 PM I just met your wife.   A perfect Human.  I'm at 150% weirded out.  I went to cauduceas cause she tweeted, then congratulated her._

_-February 24, 2011 at 2:13:22 PM Where R U?   I'm at your house._

_-Thursday, February 24, 2011 at 1:37:21, why is this so hard?   I've driven past your house like 10 times.  Worst stalker ever.  I don't have the balls to knock.  I'm parking._

_On Friday, February 25th, 2011 I reviewed the report on this incident and after speaking to the victims involved I felt it appropriate to amend the charges currently being applied to the suspect in this case._

_The victim told me that the suspect had been tweeting(social network) his activity throughout the day that this occurred, even stating that the police had contacted him and warned him to stay away and that he would surely be arrested for his activities._

_The poster that was left on Victim Amandry 's vehicle contained information that would lead a reasonable person to fear for their safety including the mention of "crack head killing spree".  I contacted the Yavapai County Jail and advised them that I was completing the paperwork to add additional charges of stalking and harassment to the suspect. _

The residue in the pill container was cigarette ash.

## Chapter 12

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**T** here is a park billed as an African safari adventure with its entrance literally 50 feet from Yavapai County Jail.  I don't know anything about it, but I doubt the animals are caged like I was.  I hope not for their sake.  I do, however, like the concept of anybody trying an escape having to navigate around lions and through the desert, though I'm not sure this was planned.

The people in my pod were calm and quiet, but there are numerous other pods that I could see with some seriously high strung inmates.  Mine was filled mostly with drug offenders, but also a few immigrants that were nabbed by ICE officers.  Google Arizona's immigration law if you are not familiar.  Everybody that came in with a Marijuana charge, 20 pounds or 2 grams, got probation and was released fairly quickly unless they had a serious criminal record.

I consider these folks I stayed there with a brutish lot, some more than others.  I was smart enough to scare off any threats with a bit of posturing and a few swears, but if anything were to have escalated, I'd have probably just let them pummel me out of fear that I'd get more charges and extend my stay.  I felt bad for the people stuck in there with me.  They were uneducated, and drug addicted; chewed up and spit back out by the penal system instead of getting the rehab, counseling, and education they really need.  Realistically though, this is only a small segment of the total population.  Camp Verde's jail houses around 700 inmates at full capacity.  During my stay it was holding about 550 people.  If you consider this is now the sole jail for the entirety of Yavapai County, the numbers aren't really that bad.

Some of the folks had good intentions to rehabilitate; we had a prayer circle with about 7 of us every night.  But even the requests they made of their Lord and Savior tended to be self-centered.  And aside from those few moments of lip service each night, they appeared to be, for the most part, morally abject.

The really ignorant ones, whose main word of choice appears to be 'fuck,' walked in circles around the pod all day like zoo animals.  The smarter folks read a lot, and played board or card games.  I just can't imagine doing as much time, as some of them had been in there for over a year, without growing weary of such endeavors.  I spent most of my time writing, and the rest in meditative soul searching.  They watched a lot of TV, which I could hardly bear for more than ten minutes without being disgusted.  If they had better taste in entertainment I might have enjoyed it.

To make a phone call, the recipient is charged three dollars just to connect, then 89 cents each minute.  Most people can't even remember the phone numbers of loved ones and friends due to the advent of the cell phone.  There is no way to receive calls either, except from your lawyer, and that's a rarity.

The guards seemed just as trapped as the inmates.  None appeared happy, or the slightest bit concerned for the welfare of the people they govern.  In fact, it appeared the incarcerated were in better spirits than their jailors.  I can't imagine they went home with a feeling of satisfaction by working there.  Seriously, does anybody ever desire to be a prison guard?  Most of us locked up have something to look forward to at least: getting out.

There are some who have suffered much worse conditions, such as Maricopa's jail, who are happy to simply be away from there.  Most people that rolled through pleaded guilty, not that many of them actually aren't.  The public defenders are there to convince the client to take the plea bargain, if they don't, more cases would go to trial, and the courts would get bottlenecked from the increased demand.  If everyone were to plead not guilty, very few accused would get the right to receive a speedy trial, and theoretically the rest would have to be released.  At least that's the idea I heard from several people.  That would be awful, because only a handful of them seemed safe enough to be outside in my mind.  Most appear to be psychopaths, or sociopaths like I used to be.

We were awoken at 4:30 a.m. for breakfast.  The foods were as follows: always a piece of bread, and every other day oatmeal or cream of wheat.  Wednesdays were scrambled eggs and sausage, and every other day alternated between 2 hardboiled eggs, and peanut butter and jelly.  The only thing that tasted as intended was the PB & J, everything else was close to inedible.  From what I've heard from other inmates who've done time elsewhere, the food was actually quite good comparatively.

We got locked back in our cells at 5 a.m. until 8 a.m., when the corrections officers came to each room to do a head count.  Only a couple people got up that early, those who can't sleep and decided to go read the USA Today.  The pod rule was no noise before 10 am, and if this was ignored there were problems.  Around 9 a.m., a couple more people would start walking around the common area, so I calculated the speed and number of laps that people do in a day.  The walkers tend to walk 10-15 miles per day by my approximation.  It's usually around this time that I'd get up and start writing in the common area, until some dipshit starts talking to me about things I care nothing of.  Then I'd get up and go back to my cell to write or think.

Medications were dispersed between 9 a.m. and 10 a.m. every day for those who took it.  Lunch was served at 11 a.m. and always just as bad as or worse than breakfast.  From 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. was active time, with people playing games, making phone calls, and watching TV.  In my pod, they watched Marcus Welby, MD, followed by E True Hollywood story, then Jerry Springer, then Are You Smarter than a 5th Grader, then Don't Forget the Lyrics, then The New Adventures of Old Christine, and finally, Real Housewives of New Jersey just before the news, to which nobody paid attention.  Then we ate our foul dinners.

Dinner was often a mix of leftovers from the previous days.  Most people traded the things they didn't like, and bet food in poker games even though it's prohibited.  The lucky ones that were arrested with money on them, or have someone outside mailing in checks, could buy commissary items like candy and Ramen Noodles.  Of course there was no way to cook the noodles; they just had to soak in tepid water until they softened.  You could also get sundries like shampoo and lotion.  The only things the jail provided us with were food, clothes, a toothbrush and paste, a comb, bar soap, and a roof over my head.

The jail charges inmates 2 dollars a day, so people went quickly into the red.  Any money that was sent in for them goes to pay any debt accrued before inmates could touch it.  We got locked down again at 6:30 p.m. for another head count, and let back out again afterwards.  From then until 10 p.m. it's the same crap, TV and games, or walking in circles.  On Sundays and Wednesdays, we were given a shitty single blade straight razor, and thereby got locked down early to shave.  Lights went out at ten, but technically they are just dimmed, and then it repeats.

I thought that being in jail might make for some interesting stories, but it just fucking sucks.

Before I finally got my psychological evaluation, I had to wait for hours at a facility in Prescott.  I was given a sack lunch and had a TV to watch.  I was alone, so I could actually choose the channel for myself.  I was shocked when I flipped through the channels to see waves demolishing the landscape below them.  I found it interesting that I could have totally missed this happening while in jail if I hadn't been moved to this new location for my psych evaluation.  It would have been more reruns of syndicated crap and then lights out.  The lights are actually dimmed, for accuracy's sake.

It interested me that scientists and reporters were so worried about Hawaii.  I started thinking to myself, "Maybe this is why I thought Hawaii was going to get hit too, because I saw this on the news.  And maybe they are only worried about it because of what I said?"  I was pondering this infinite loop for a moment when I was alerted by the guards that it was time to see the psychiatrist.

I tempted fate by telling my evaluator that I wrote a book called, "The Telemetry of _The_ Lost Carapace."  I passed the examination however, and my lawyer had wonderful things to say about me in court.

I was released on March 29th, 2011.

While I was in jail, I called my mom, dad, Lara, and friends collect many times.  Only my parents answered.  My mom pretty much saved me, and funded my entire trip back to Denver.  My dad was so disappointed he degraded into insults and depravation.  Sorry dad, I had no time to explain that I came to jail purposefully in an attempt to enlighten the planet, have a nice life.  Not that he would understand anyhow.

The impound lot was going to charge me over $700 for holding my car by the time I got out, so I released my M3 and all the property in it to a kid I met in jail via a notarized letter I wrote.  My mom paid the fees already accrued and made the arrangements with him when he was released after only a few days inside.

During discharge from jail, they let you make a couple phone calls if you need to.  I called several numbers the guy who had my car gave me trying to get ahold of him.  I talked to his dad, who was no help.  So I just figured I'd wing it and walk to the nearest payphone.

It was 7 miles to Camp Verde, and when I arrived and finally got ahold of the kid, he said he had dropped it off at the jail with the keys in it.  So I had to walk all the way back to the jail parking lot.

I made it back to Denver safely.

## Chapter 13

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**S** ince returning, I've been doing political canvassing.  The work is intermittent, so in the gaps I've been continuing to write and edit this book.  Most of the time, I've been procrastinating.

I have a million things swirling around in my head that sidetrack me.  I still think about my kid that I don't know how to find, and how I still have so little to offer if I found him.  I wonder sometimes if millions of people are still going to die in nuclear explosions.  I'm pretty sure my dad is dying, but when I tried to call him, my step-mom hangs up on me.  It's a shame that he will probably never know how amazing his son really was.  It's not only that he'll never get a chance to read the book, it's that he'd never care for it.  My mom loves me dearly, but I don't see her grasping the full depth and breadth of this story.

I'm sure you've noticed I haven't mentioned my parents or extended family very often.  I pretty much ignored them my entire life, and continue to do so.  I only feel a little bad about it.  I love them, but my parents were not exactly the greatest people, and I have plenty of stories that were left out to prove it.  My mom sends me messages on Facebook all the time, and I rarely reply or answer her calls.  I just don't know how to relate, and nor does she no matter how hard she tries.

I think of how little time I get to spend with my kids that I can find.  Well, I don't know the exact address, but I know the area where they live.  This is because her other sister Kelsington owns the house and doesn't want me to come there, ever.  This is my fault because I said, "You know, you and every one of your family members waffles about me over and over.  You need to get a grip and decide whether I'm crazy or not.  Make that decision and act accordingly.  I'll respect you more for it."  I do.

Lara's still rad for letting me take the kids out when I can, but she still doesn't give what I have to say any merit when it comes to parenting.  And she definitely doesn't believe any of the things I tell her.  I don't mind anymore, and given our situation she's being cautiously optimistic the way I see it.

Our house sold on a short sale, but we stopped making payments on the mortgage over a year ago.  So we saved some money in that sense.  My M3 got repossessed, as did Lara's car.  Lawyers are after us for a multitude of debts.  I can't afford to function properly.  It would be really helpful if this book sold.

I'm barely concerned with my probation, failing drug tests, and not making a single payment towards my fees.  I've failed enough drug tests to be in violation of my probation, and I'm probably going to jail anywhere from 90 days to 2 years for it.  My probation officer sent the notice of violation to Arizona, but they have yet to respond.  Honestly, I don't fucking care anymore.  I'm pretty sure I can make it on the lam for the rest of my life without a problem.  I consider it a fun little challenge.  I've been too busy obsessing over finishing this stupid book, so I can say, "Good riddance!" and move on.

After having written a majority of the experiences in my life that seemed pertinent, much of which with a rubber 'no-stab' pen, it doesn't seem nearly as interesting or amazing as I had imagined it might.  I could have come up with a much more entertaining life and a better me.  Even so, notwithstanding the general public ever learning of me, this was still a tale that had to be told any way you look at it.  Everything and everyone around me pushes me to write it, no matter how hard I fight it.

Of all my friends in this book, I only asked one person if I could publish stories with them in it, Faidre.  Well that's not completely true.  Throughout the years, I've gotten verbal agreements from most everyone in here, and I guess I asked her after I'd already written it.  But hey, at least I asked.  When I finished my final draft, I sent her the parts that she was in, though it turns out I missed a few small sections, including what I'm writing right now.  And the part where I was in love with her.

In classic Faidre form, she was gung-ho, and even said that it would be just fine for me to use her real name.  If she only knew what she was getting into.  But she added that on 9/11 she watched the news with her father before leaving for her psych class, which was cancelled of course.  That was it.  Class was cancelled and nothing after that.  I haven't replied yet, but I'm tempted to say, "Whatever you do, just don't think about what you did after leaving psych class."  I probably just won't say anything, but I'm fairly certain she's going to read this eventually.

She's in a stellar band now called Bare Bones, please make sure you check them out.

While I'm giving shout outs, I'd like to thank Tyler Perry and Oprah for inspiring me to write about my sexual assaults.  And special thanks to Tori Amos, who initially inspired me to do so, but I forgot about it until I was nearly finished writing everything down.

I felt disappointed with the final draft, as it was certainly not the masterpiece I envisioned.  It isn't the sparse, strained dialogue of every character but my own, or the total lack of descriptive elements that bothered me the most though.  It seemed like I was still missing something from the back of my mind.  Days passed while I revised the text, and slowly what seemed to be a distant dream started to take form as a real memory.  I can't believe I forgot about Cinara, again.  I am an imbecile.

I started writing her in.  Then I considered leaving her out altogether and deleted it all, but I worried it might seem more like a dis than me trying to respect her privacy.  So I went back and wrote her in again.

Any sane man would conclude it's just not in the cards for us, and I _really_ don't like the idea of being obsessed with another celebrity for the next decade.  But my instincts tell me she is curious.

After I began writing her in the second time, I realized that I might never see her again.  That being the case, if our first meeting is the only good memory I'll ever have of her in my presence, I'm keeping much of it for myself.

I may sound a little desperate, but I'm hopeful I can be happy with any one of a number of women.  Girls seem to like me, which is surprising for a skinny bald guy with glasses.    But Cinara's the one I want the most-est. My desperation lies in finding someone who loves me for what I really am, and she's a sure bet.

I don't think I would get back together with Lara, even if by some miracle she decided to believe me.  Not that she's even an option, but I still care about her deeply.  I feel awful that I dragged her into this whole debacle when she just wanted a regular life, but I'm pleased with the end result which is our two brilliant children.

All I really ever wanted was somebody to talk to about this story.  I have no idea what I want to do with my life after this.  I feel like I don't know anything anymore.  I had hoped by finishing this book I'd feel some sort of majestic cleansing, but I just feel the same.  I do enjoy the uncertainty the future now holds for me.  I never really thought any of it was a sure bet until I saw it happen, but through time I learned better.  And now there's nothing looming over me anymore, imagined or real.

I've thrown enough wrenches in the cogs by now to make it very difficult to tell what lies ahead.  But I can still easily theorize.

The folks at CERN, also known as the Large Hadron Collider, are going to announce evidence of the Higgs-Boson particle.  This search for knowledge is paramount, but we are too quick to accept our findings as fact.  And I warn you, there is no consummate formula that explains everything.  Everything we learn is just a better explanation for something that we will never fully understand.  And that's okay.

I can assure you that nothing cataclysmic will happen at the end of the Mayan calendar.  If anything at all is to happen, it will have to be a man-made event.  No hellfire and damnation, polar or plate tectonic shifts, or any kind of alien convergence, but I could see some jackasses rioting and looting, maybe.

I don't think nuclear bombs will go off any time soon, at least not the ones that I envisioned 13 years ago.  When I said it first I figured the odds at 50/50, but now I'm at 99 to 1 against.  But the threat is always there, and people are currently working to employ nuclear terrorism against religion.  To kill in the name of _any_ religion is an affront to all religions.  These actions are now masked by a political front.  It's not a matter of luck in finding them and stopping it; it's just a matter of time.

There will be some close calls with asteroids.  It's in the cards that eventually we could be obliterated by one.  This is one of a few things out of our control that might destroy most life on earth that we can be aware of in advance, and possibly even avert.  Our ability to do so depends on the level of technological innovation we have achieved by the time we are aware of any such imminent collision.  Planning to blow it up in space does not seem to be an effective solution, a la Armageddon.  Whether or not we're even around to bear witness is our responsibility.

The Earth will eventually become inhospitable, regardless of our actions.  What role we play in its demise or conservation is our decision as individuals.  Low lying land will become submerged, and after that, the atmospheric conditions will deteriorate to the point where we must stay underground.  I'm talking not talking thousands of years from now; I'm talking hundreds if we don't straighten out our current environmental issues while we still can.

The sun will burn out, blow up, or start sucking sooner or later, either before or after a Gamma Ray obliterates life in our solar system.  And the entire Milky Way will eventually be devoured by a black hole, or something even more devastating we have yet to hypothesize.  And after that, the universe will probably either keep expanding forever into the infinite distance, or collapse upon itself in a violent recycling.

If there is anything beyond our universe, that it is part of a larger multiverse, it might be beyond the realm of understanding for all who inhabit it.  And we may never make contact with life from anywhere but here on earth, but that doesn't mean it isn't out there.  Logic would presume that the most likely place to find life would be near places already known to have it.  I like to think that if conditions exist to support life and it's not there, it will be eventually.

I'm more concerned with maintaining it here on earth.

Knowing all of these limitations before us, we must never stop fighting against any odds to make that leap beyond the impossible, and believe that everything is worth trying, even if only out of instinctual self-preservation.  The pursuit of knowledge and understanding is what will take us to new places, mentally and physically, even if our solutions just reveal new questions.  And when we come to a situation that appears impossible to overcome, maybe, just maybe, we'll get lucky and trip the light fantastic.

I'd like to say I have some sort of conclusion to help you understand why I went through all of this.  I'm so hopelessly lost myself I don't dare give you any direction.  I don't have the knowledge or understanding to decipher, on a spiritual or intellectual level, the events that led me to believe I could change the future for the better.  And I don't have the answer to any of life's questions.  This book is no Bible, and aside from proper grammar and spelling, it offers little assurance of my sound mental state by the text presented.

It doesn't help that I told most of the people involved to deny everything.  This was to protect me, my friends, and family.  I don't care anymore, deny, affirm, or ignore, I've planned for every possibility.  But if anybody tries to sue me, or cause any detriment to me or anybody I care about in any way, remember: I truly believe this book is a message from God, or as I like to call it, "That which we do not understand," and therefore standard rules do not apply.  Due to this, I also have a strong belief in Karma because I can easily live with the consequences of my actions.

I hoped an implicit goal had been dictated to me, like the many religious stories I grew up hearing, so I could have a plan in place to achieve it.  But I guess I've always been such a fan of existentialism, which simply poses the question of existence, it's fitting that I've been given an open ended invitation for everyone to look further down the rabbit hole.  All I can present you with is what I've experienced, and let you form your own conclusions.

As time goes on, philosophical and theological theories will sound more and more like a lot of unintelligible connections between words, terms, and phrases by someone trying to justify a belief system that gets more and more complicated, with the end goal becoming more and more unreachable the harder they try.

The only underlying tenet in this story is that the current explanations of reality need to be re-evaluated to account for my experiences.  The world can try to decide what happened with me and why, and I guarantee it will give everyone a deeper insight into existence.

I hope this story reverberates with the echo of a long distant psychic explosion, as this is my last chance to like myself.  Otherwise, I ruined my life, and when I die it will be like I was never here.  I'll be forgotten.

I am too late to save the many lives taken from the events I've known in advance, and I was too early to be a historian.  I've abdicated responsibility from the world, all victims, hurt, and hopeful at once.

My self-imposed isolation has been oppressive.  I ready myself to reach forward and mix with past and present.

So much is gone that once I could not live without, and yet I do live somehow, and even sometimes think hopefully of tomorrow.  Life goes on.  Love gets lost and stays that way, but at least I've got beautiful memories.  I can't regret.  After all, I thought I had important things to do.

Everything is fine until a familiar face appears.

I remember the carelessness of young girls before life becomes a harness.

My theory is that there are other things going on in the world that will divert me.  It has worked in the past.  I look for the first time at the faces around me, as they watch TV and waste their time on phones, on their way to sell things, or see things, or do whatever they see fit with the rest of their lives.  I envy that.  So I've decided to imitate them for a while.

I've lost more, and long ago.  Everything under the sun looks brighter, as if I hadn't really looked in a while, and I intend to live for more of the nameless joys of this sweet life unto the mystery of death, knowing how utterly amazing it all is, and that somehow, sometimes, things are just as they should be.

