Methdirection

I am not going to tell you how to make meth.

 Honestly, I do appreciate the thousands of hits I have been getting on my normal blog since posting "Methadventures" but really, seriously, I am not telling you exactly how to make it.

Ever.

I will tell you the story of "Torch" as an object lesson.

"Torch" aka Little Bill, Tiny Bitch, NoWanker and Ned, was one of the longest lasting inmates on my crew. He was in for involuntary Manslaughter, plus manufacture and distribution of a controlled substance.

He was a meth-cook. A chemist that graduated from some tech school and went straight into the business of making his own. 

Surprisingly to me, he started out making steroids. But, as he told me, "Those Guys are CRAZY!" so he switched to what he thought was a safer product.

Meth.

He was a font of information, chemical structures, balances, cellular level absorption and on and on. By education and inclination I am an Anthropologist (I know, worthless culture studies) so I really had no Idea what the hell he was talking about.

It seemed incredibly complex and dangerous for a little bit of money.

Thats what I thought until he told me how much he was making in a week. As much as I made in two years.

Oh, before I forget and ramble on, boring you to death, I should describe Torch.

He was skinny, and wasted looking. He had all of his own teeth and some hair. The rest of his face was melted. He tried to grow a beard to hide the ugly, but it came in all patchy and different colors and coarsness. He said that was from the skin grafts. His neck and chin looked like pitted black plastic. With a thin covering of elmers glue over it, making it a little shiny.

The process of making meth includes a lot of flammable steps, one step, I seem to remember reacts violently with oxygen. You know, Air.

He was cooking a batch with two of his friends and someone blundered. Both his friends, and the Lady that lived next door died. He was "Lucky" and just got his face melted off.

He got ten years for each of his buddies and double Life for his neighbor. He said she used to bring them cakes. 

He was resigned to his life. One of the very few inmates I ever met that accepted that he was being punished, and he felt he deserved it. That lady Haunted him every night. He didn't have much in the way of eyelids so sleeping was difficult for him.

One day I saw a piece of his face fall off.

Medical care for inmates, in spite of popular misconception, is neither good, nor free. They had to pay it back. And when you only make a dollar an hour and have to pay the prison 30% of that to cover your meals, skin grafts take a really long time to pay off.

So, a piece of his face fell off. About a 3 inch square piece. I was sickened and alarmed. Everything I knew about everything told me that this was a BAD thing.

Torch was unconcerned.

I approached him, warily. He was lightly rubbing the newly skinless section of his chin and grimacing a bit.

To my unspoken question he replied.

"Oh, its just the plastic working out of my skin. Anybody that cooks meth without the right gear gets it. Little deposits of plastic from the process get absorbed into your skin and the body pushes them out over time. I cooked for a long time"

And, as he scratched another few crunchy bits out of his skin. I left him to his contemplation of past trangressions.

So, I will never tell anyone how to make meth.

Ever

Bother

So many things bother me.
Its an exhausting list really.
I add to it every day, only when I start enjoying the thing that formally bothered me does it get removed from the list.
Typical.
Its just so easy to be bothered.
Cause I am so secure in my own mind.
Those people, Waiting for the elevator in a FOUR story building with their gym bags nonchalantly slung over the shoulder? Who do they think they are fooling?
Why should I care?
Its a difficult thought process. Wondering what my "gym bag' is. What it contains?
Perfectly obvious to anyone who sees me.
Years ago, when I worked for the evil orange empire. I would drive by a section of office buildings every day on my way to the soul sucking box.
There was this truck, an older Nissan hard body with a roof rack. A mountain bike and a kayak nestled firmly in custom designed carriers. Ready at any moment for adventure. It parked in front of one of the big real estate companies. I would tell myself stories about that truck. About this completely cool guy that owned it. The life he led. Money enough to do what he wanted, when he wanted. Slipping away on a whim to hit a trail. Going on extended lunch breaks to float a section.
Man, his grass was green.
He got me through some long days. Thinking about when that guy would be me. Or I would be him. The adventure waiting around every corner, the chances to get the rush of life, fire in my veins.
My own life was so drab. Dull muddled colors seeping together in the bottom tray of watercolor paints. One of those kids that tries to tell themselves that they "like" the color of mixed colors. No bright vibrant yellow, no deep flavorful purple, no crisp green. Just this muddy taint that drips and mucks its merry way. Infecting all the other colors with its misogynistic glaze.
Always though I would find bright spots.
They seemed so brief, fleeting. Mayfly delights.
Life is made up of those pinpricks.
My man-card is on suspension still, from various infractions but I am going to risk the wrath of the mancartel and tell you a not so little secret. I love Musicals.
Not just the trendy popular "Phantom" and "Le Mis" but the old classics. "Camelot" "Kiss me Kate" "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers" "Paint your Wagon" and most all of the others. I really like them. I even know Kathryn Grayson's real name.
My Favorite though, is "Into the Woods"
I have it on my i-pod and on my phone. Both versions, movie and Broadway.
Its a great story, not just the fairy tales, but after. What happens after the happily ever after.
Its pretty much how life is. All of life.
Contained in a lyrical and colorful stage spectacle for entertainment.
I will take my truth wherever I find it, thank you very much.
I am going to quote one line from one song.
"Are you certain what you wish is what you want?"
One very long day, near the end of my eternal shift of misery. This guy came in. Miserable, fat and lonely. Swilling his coffee out of the magical bottomless mug of java, shaking a little with the caffeine. Red eyes and doughy skin, he looked like a grub wearing a suit.
One of those guys that makes everything more difficult by a factor of ten, he followed me around while I pulled his order for him. Little things, the kind of things that the helpless dudes buy at a hardware store because they think that's what the real men do. One of those guys that watches a few too many reality shows and starts to think "HEY! I can do that!" Geez. I may be a neanderthal, but I know my limits. I couldn't program a computer or balance a checkbook or construct a grammatically correct sentence if my life depended on it.
But I can build a house from the ground up.
I know which weights to lift for which body part, I know diets and programs and fitness.
I understand things, and I am curious.
This guy? A lazy, lonely, Bored, Decadent disrespectful dunce.
I pulled his order, small hand tools and various bits and bobs of some home project he was mangling. Hearing the whole time how stupid I was from his point of view, what a dead end my life was, what a waste of everything women were, what a sad sorry state everything, every little thing was in.
He paid, hitting on the cashier, who rolled her eyes and said nothing. He demanded help to load his haul into his truck.
I figured what he really needed was a brick to the back of his head.
Sadly though, they had rules against that sort of thing.
I wheeled his cart out to his truck.
An older Nissan hard body, a kayak and a mountain bike strapped into the rack at the top.
I was stunned into motionlessness.
Grub followed my gaze, fixated on the objects of my years long jealousy.
"Oh, the bolts got all rusty and I have been to busy to cut them to get my stuff down"

Pet Day Part 2

Its taken a month.
26 days or so.
No matter how hard I try I just cant make the rest of pet day sound funny.
It was just too tragical.
The hamster was funny. Especially when Jack started purring and it projectile peed on its owner.
Jacks purr sounds like a broken chainsaw.
The pet little brother was hilarious.
He even had a good repertoire of tricks.
The pretty little cat named Noodle was slightly humorous. Slightly. Very very slightly.
Jack did not care for Noodle. Noodle pretended Jack was a Tasmanian devil.
I felt a little bad when perfect purebred little noodle left a bloody trail of claw marks to the top of its owners head.
Jack laughed.
Really though.
I cant make it sound funny, or happy.
Because it wasn't.
I don't often quote the Bible.
I find it trite.
mostly.
But this seems apt.
What manner of man among you, when his son asks you for a fish? Gives him a stone?
The last child.
Told us all a very long and sad story about how all she ever wanted was a pet.
She listed them all, Horse down to Cockroach.
She also listed all of her parents reasoning, all of which involved money.
Every single reason was money.
Looking at this parent.
All 400 plus pounds of her balanced on a creaking stool.
Money was not really the issue.
The kid was a natural brightsider though.
She ended her lists of woes with a triumphant, "AND THEN! AFTER MANY YEARS, I FINALLY GOT A PET!"
Proudly then, her parent thing flourished from a sack.
A robot.

Alligators are FUN

Nothing ever turns out the way I expected. I suspect that this is either because I expect the impossible and/or I am Gods designated one man comedy show.

A short example would be spray foam insulation.

Everyone else in the world presses the top and the foam comes out.

I had a can explode in my face and almost kill me.

This is irony.

http://colneyhatch.blogspot.com/2009/06/foam-of-death.html

It was also hilarious.

Irony.

I just remembered something.

It is a little Irony and a lot of stupidity.

You see, I lived in the south for a few years. They have alligators there. I have since learned that to alligators, we (You, humans) are nothing more or less then food.

I knew this then, but I don’t think you ever really KNOW this until some animal has tried to eat you.

Its humbling.

A friend of mine and his father owned an alligator farm.  The theory was, to raise alligators for their skins and meat. The practice was, they couldint get the right permits to sell the hides and steaks so they were just feeding them until they did.

They asked me  ”ifn I warnted to gos and feed them gators”

Of COURSE I did. Shazam! Feeding Gators! How cool is that?

It sucked.

I had no idea that in order to feed the Gators we would first have to get the gator-chow.

It comes prepackaged with feathers.

Dead Chickens.

I drove a 1 ton dump truck to 20 different farms, Egg farms, to gather up and load all of the chickens that had died that week.

A one week dead chicken that has been steaming in Alabama July for a week is an olfactory joy. If you are a rabid mentally unstable red tick coon hound.

To all other sentinent creatures it smells.

Bad.

Then off to the gator farm to feed the livestock.

Simple process, you dump the chickens and chuck them to the gators.

Did you know that when Gators get fed a lot they get big? I mean like really big? I guess an average gator is right around 8-9 feet long, these old boys were pushing twelve. They would hiss and snap and pop those chickens the way you or I would pop a grape. It was something I should probably tell my therapist about. If I had one.

Once the frenzy was over the owner, smiling wide enough that I could see his tooth, asked me If I would do just one more thing, since I was already there?

Sure. I mean, no problem Cleetus! Or whatever his name was.

He asked me ifn (is that really a word?) I would drive round the whole 12 acres and see ifn (crap) I could spot any dead gators. You gots to gets the skins offn em pretty gol-durned quick. I guess.

So, me and the kid (thats what they all called him, I am not sure ifn his name was “Kid” or he was just the youngest? he was about 45)

drove off to seek dead gators. I really wanted to find one. I had seen live gators, now I wanted to see a dead one.

Truth be told, I really wanted to touch one. I dont know why, I was very curious in my 20s.

And lo….. WE FOUND ONE! I was so excited! The kid was too, even though he didnt even blink, or smile, or move, or even glance at the dead Gator. I KNEW he was excited. Who wouldint be?!?!?

I knew it was dead because its fore legs and head were under water and its rear legs and tail were stretched up on the bank.

I watched it for 15 minutes. It didnt move, no bubbles, not a twitch. It was dead.

So I went to touch its tail.

Perfect chance, and every boys dream, touch a dead gator tail.

Just one second, what in the HELL was wrong with me?

ok.

Like I was saying, perfect chance.

I had it all planned out, I was going to saunter on down, bend, touch its tail, have the Kid snap a picture for proof and saunter back.

easy peasy.

this is the ironic part.

That stupid chicken eating reptilian ass-dodger was faking.

Faking. as in, not dead.

I bent down to touch its tail and a very small part of my brain screamed “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING!!!!”

That part of my brain picked up a rock and threw it at the Gators head.

We, that part of my Brain and I, were watching the rock slowly drift through the swamp water to the gators head

and

Its jaws snapped one inch from my face.

That fast.

I jumped straight back and straight up and landed on the hood of the car.

The Gator threw itself into the water and began to thrash and roll in a circle.

I think it thought it had got me.

I sat, very quietly and contemplated the irony of the situation.

The Kid, laconic and stoic, and I thought;  Mute.

Laughed so Hard I think he did himself an injury.

Tis ironic.