[30MAY95]

   Me vs. All the Liars and Cheaters in the World, Including YOU!

                               Ch. 13
 "Return, Foul Shade, To The Hoary Netherworld Which Spawned You!"
                                -or-
          "Destiny Calls, And It's Long Distance Collect"

  I spent the afternoon squatting on my floor, scrying hard.  What
is scrying, you ask (and I *KNOW* you asked)?  It's a form of
clairvoyance; specifically, viewing the future.  Scrying is
traditionally done with a bucket (or other suitable container) of 
water.  Nostradamus was a scryer. He did his predictions with a 
simple bowl of well water.  According to legend, the best scryers
are seventh sons of seventh sons.  Nostra wasn't one, so I reckon
it's OK that I'm not either.  What's truly important is that you
THINK you're a scryer.  Reality is subjective, and will supersedes
all. But I digress.
  All I had handy to scry with was a two liter Dr Pepper bottle
two thirds full of my Secret Blend Kool-Aid (one grape, one cherry,
two pink lemonades, and 3 1/3 cups sugar.  Guess it's no longer
secret).  I could have washed out my only bowl (a 1 quart pyrex
measuring cup), but my Secret Recipe chili (ain't tellin' that one)
had adhered to all interior surfaces like some space-age masonry
cement.  Can't scry in a dirty bowl.  It's distractingly disgusting.
So I squatted there, swishing the Kool-Aid around in the bottle with
my right hand, leaning on my M-16 with my left, just thinking about
nothing.
  Yeah, I have an M-16.  Actually, it's an AR-15, but what's the
difference.  I don't shoot it anymore.  I just clean it every three
or four days.  Don't think I'm some sort of wild-eyed yahoo with
lifetime memberships to both the NRA and the Moody Loners With 
Handguns Politician Assasination Association.  My gun doesn't have a
name, I don't sleep with it, and I only have a three-year NRA
membership.  In fact, I'm thinking of selling my rifle.  Shit, I
paid $650 for it four years ago, and now I can get $1000 for it.  I
guess the assault weapons manufacturing ban had some beneficial side
effects.  But I digress again.
  So I sat and scryed with that bottle of Kool-Aid.  Scrying isn't
ascomplicated as it would seem.  All forms of future-seeing are
essentially the same.  Whatever it is you're doing your seeing with,
it's just a tool.  The idea is to get into a calm state of mind, and
whether you use a water bowl, a crytal ball, or do Tai-Chi
meditation, it all amounts to the same thing.  Once my mind cleared,
I thought about my future.  Your own future is the easiest to tell,
since you have all possible information to extrapolate from, plus
the Self-Fulfilling Prophecy Effect.  What was to be in my future?
Where am I going?  What do I want?
  Before long, it became clear.  I knew I was not destined to go to
college and follow the well-trod path of corporate servitude.  A
degree might come incidentally, but it would never be a primary
goal.  Neither was I destined to become a union tradesman.  Nor a
great leader of conquering armies.  No, my destiny lay elsewhere.
Elsewhere.  I paid particular attention to the WHERE in elsewhere.
Where do I belong? 
  I examined the list of "wheres" I've considered.  Topping the list
is Las Vegas, because that's where I am NOW, and inertia is a VERY
powerful force.  What is there here for me?  Why should I stay?
Friends, naturally, top THAT list.  In the last 17 months I have
acquired many friends.  Well, not MANY, per se, but those few I have
made I consider "quality friends".  I could name names, but I just
KNOW I'd forget someone, and that would offend.  Besides, y'all know
who you are.
  But what else?  The Vampire LARP?  Nah.  I grow weary of it. 
Gambling?  Not even.  Hot summers?  I'll pretend I didn't even HEAR
that.  I could think of no more.  I moved on to the only other
"where" on my list.  Home.  Los Angeles.  (Las Vegas will never be
home, it will only be the "place where my stuff is")
  What exists for me there, thought I. Friends again, of course.  It
would be incorrect (and offensive) to say my friends there are
"better" than those here.  They are qualitatively equal.  I've just
known them longer.  Most of 'em over a decade.  Does that make a
difference?  In some ways I suppose it does.  Is the difference
important?  Not really.  OK, on that point, Vegas and L.A.  are
equal.  What else is there?
  Familiarity.  I'm still essentially a stranger here.  I don't know
my way around here very well.  I don't know anyone I can buy drugs
from.  I can think of five sources in L.A.  off the top of my head.
Then there's the Vegas rave scene, or lack thereof.
  I want to dance to bass heavy music until the sun rises in a state
of chemically induced euphoria.  I've been to only one here in
Vegas, and I left after an hour out of disappointment.  It failed to
compare with even the WORST rave I've attended in L.A. (Halloween
'92, my X wore off early and the acid just made me cranky and
annoyed after that.  I almost convinced myself that it would be OK
to gouge the eyes out of everyone in the place).  I want to feel the
fiery adrenaline rush of rythm-heavy techno, the warm grooviness of
melodic house, and the cool friendliness of ambient.  I want to sit
in pleasant "relaxation" rooms and discuss weird philosophy with
total strangers.  I want to play casual games of touchy-feely with
pretty girls in dim corners.  I want to feel the camaraderie of 200
people around me enjoying the same music.  I want someone to
accidentally step on my foot and say "sorry", and I reply "S'ok
man", because he really was sorry and I truly didn't mind.  I miss
it all immensely.
  I want to spend ten hours with my friends, all of us just sitting
around drawing.  Or go to the Rainbow on a Saturday and see Lemmy.
Or snort speed and smoke five packs of cigarettes and talk a mile a
minute about vampires, computers, or the necessary evil of
girlfriends.  Or just sitting on Venice beach laughing at the
freaks, while they look at us and do the same.
  I want to talk to my mother, who's not only as crazy as I am, but
the same KIND of crazy (but not the same WAYS).  I want to talk to
my sister, who's like me, but skilled in music instead of writing.
I want to talk to my brother, who's turned into a skate-punk
scam-master and con artist.  I want to talk to my dad, who's a suit
wearing type-A personality, but knows all manner of interesting
electrical engineering things to talk about.  I want to talk to my
dog, who can actually understand spoken language.  I really miss my
dog.
  My scrying was done.  I had come to the obvious conclusion.  I
cannot stay.  I called my friend with the truck.  I cannot stay. I 
told him to be in front of my apartment June 30th.  I cannot stay.

  I cannot stay.
  My future is there.
  (My dog is there too)