Dream Voyaging Affirms Existence, So Hold Tight to Turtles in Flight

Time spent sleeping equals one-third. Time spent dreaming approaches infinity. Where would you be without infinity?

Windswept fields of green swayed beneath a penetrating orange sun. Shadows cast resembled Medusa heads, snakes squirming on the backs of my eyelids. We stood, staring, transfixed beneath this dense canopy of strawberry cough. Penetrate. The roots grow deep in the darkness. Our souls intertwine in the vines of time. We fall, silently accelerating past Saturn, Neptune, stopping for a sec at oblivion then dancing on the surface of the seas.

I’m under.

My pen refuses to write down here.

I’m over.

Now my paper is all wet.

I’m the table. Carve your confessions against the wood grain.

We’re under.

Gargantuan sea turtle, a big mother, coming up on our ass fast. You’re you, but you’re not you. You’re you looking at you outside of you. We’re all doing it. The water’s fine, but this mutant ninja creature looks hungry, and you know how poorly we all swim. Go to gasp for air and you’re a goner. Instead, we dive to a depth Leonardo couldn’t possibly imagine. He doesn’t follow. He’s forgotten.

It’s nighttime in Baghdad and crumbling buildings burn red in the incessant firefight. Bullets leave eternal flicks of light wandering the universe in search of an enemy, a witness, a sympathizer, only to mix in with the rest of it all in one big fuck you to confirm our existence. A red, white and blue fuck you flies by on its way back to New York Harbor. Fuck us all, then.

All I see are shadows. The light is far too bright to comprehend the objects before me. They’re human faces. They’re Rubik’s Cubes with wormholes. Separate. I’m just an entity clinging to a heartbeat in this hell called happiness. My dreams lure me from cyclical enslavement to jump the troughs of light. Red to violet, then beyond. Wavelengths without a line to waste your life waiting in. Wavelengths with popcorn vendors who call out: “Free for all!” It’s mine. It’s yours. It’s ours. But the popcorn will run out, won’t it?

I’m under.

I can’t find a pen.

I’m over.

No paper? Then I can’t write.

You’re the table. I’ll carve what I want on you. You can’t stop me, but you can carve back.

We’re under.

Our hearts stop. Your nails lose their grip in the earth you’ve clung to for so long. You fall. For that brief instant you feel yourself floating downward, looking back, up, wondering when the image of the fading cliff will turn from the painstaking descent into peaceful nothingness. Will it be black? Or a dull off-white in the next stage of existence?

The child’s eyes stare back at you with an innocent, inebriated longing. He just wants to watch the soccer game. It’s tied - you can’t pry him from this. He knows nothing more than placing the ball in the net, excitement - but the men are after him. You know they’ll corrupt him, label him, package his thoughts, then send him out into the world without a clue to who he is. You have to save him.

But he’d rather watch the soccer game. Popcorn vendors stroll by in the aisles, never ending ones that seem to ascend to the heavens. Now all the kid wants is popcorn. He doesn’t understand it’s run out. He can imagine popcorn, so he knows it’s there. It will always be there. It doesn’t occur to him that the popcorn can disappear. It’s the image of popcorn that’s in there forever. Will you rob him of forever? Or will you hand your forever over in a giant fuck you to the rest of the universe? It’s yours to hand out. No, it’s ours.

Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson wants a pocket circadian clock to take with him on the eternal vacation.

Bachelorettes Battle and They're Both Named Mary Jane

Valentine’s Day: Aside from Columbus Day, it’s probably my least favorite holiday, year in and year out. Maybe I can’t get over the fact that both celebrations completely ignore what actually happened to spark their annual remembrance in the first place. But let’s ignore the gore and get back to smelling the rose buds.

I’m happy to see advertisers are now aware they can profit off of those of us without that special sweetheart. It means all the lucky ones out there don’t have to act depressed anymore in front of their “happily” hitched friends. But what are you supposed to do when you’re head over heels for not just one but a few? Bob Marley confessed to having only one love, but nowadays I’m finding it hard to decide between two. Maybe I should grab each one a cute pink bubbler and just save the trouble for later.

Bachelorette Number One: She’s a mellow, laid back girl who likes to get heavy quick. A fellow couch potato at heart, her tiny, gorgeous body will leave you knocked out on the floor once she’s had her way with you. But don’t get discouraged by the fact your body might not be able to handle her: She’ll move on to the rest of your buddies in the living room, and then you’ll have some company down on the floor to crack up with. She’s so stoned all the time you might as well just scrape the hash off her skin.

Bachlorette Number Two: She’s a tall, skinny, hyper chick who has legs for days. But aside from this babe’s height, her strawberry smell turns every head in lecture. She loves the outdoors and the bright yellow sun, but sometimes her demands are a tad too difficult to quench. In cold weather, she insists on wearing purple. Forget the Red Bulls with this one, though - she’ll strap wings on your back faster than you can think to exhale.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m really in love with two girls from the same tree, two peas from the same pod - two strains of the same plant. Their names? Sativa and indica. What’s the difference, you might ask? Well, when it comes to the sativa-versus-indica debate, many stoners couldn’t tell you the difference. Even scientists haven’t been able to trace the exact point these strains sprang from the same rung in the evolutionary ladder.

Indicas were originally found native to the Asian continent. Generally shorter, stubbier plants, these ladies possess that potent, skunky smell that makes you wonder who first decided it would be a good idea to smoke this stuff. Especially since the smoke is generally thicker than sativa strains. Cough, cough. The most obvious difference, though, is indicas are associated with a potent body high. Bachelorette Number One may seem harmless at first, but she’ll knock you flat on your ass, leaving you wondering what happened to the last two hours of your Thursday afternoon.

Sativas are native to North America and Southeast Asia. Most are tall, thin plants with skinny leaves and a light green color. They take much longer than indica strains to fully mature and need much more light to keep them healthy and happy. But the hard work will pay off in the long run. Bachelorette Number Two has a much more potent level of THC, leaving you with a more energetic high that doesn’t usually cause drowsiness. Some even claim these ladies cause hallucinations. They’re perfect for that road trip you’ve been planning for weeks.

But with all the crazy shit being spliced by growers these days, it could be difficult to find a pure strain of each. Some say there is even a third named ruderalis found in parts of Europe. You best bet is to hit up the clubs downtown, unless you trust the outlandish names your dealer tries to pass you.

Most people I talk to prefer the cerebral effects of sativa. Others enjoy the relaxation of an indica strain before bedtime. Like all substances, though, I’ve found it’s really just a matter of personality and preference.

Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson wonders if this blessed toke of life is not enough.

Think Before You Speak

Time to find an exit. The party had severed since the host made Biggy bounce out, so I didn’t have to spot a clock to realize it was a shade past midnight. But halfway through a Hefeweisen, and I’m already regretting the First Amendment. Wait, why did I stop drinking just now? No lemon?

“Dude, you’re chugging that hella slow!”

Oh, right.

“You’re a stoner. You should be able to chug faster.”

Who brought this guy?

Sometimes I think to myself and wonder: Who gave humans the right to speak? No, wait. I mean, who thought apes ought to talk? Actually, more importantly, when did we all start spewing our guts without the forethought to give a fuck? Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve seen the future and, while I may have glimpsed gigantic orange crabs crawling around, I’m also afraid this free speech thing is really just going to make our race seem a whole lot dimmer.

Maybe you know what I’m saying.

That bitch’s hand raises for the fifteenth time in your discussion section.

“Um, so, is this, like, theory like that one episode of SVU where Stabler, like … ?”

Make it stop.

Just because you have the ability to raise your hand, doesn’t mean you should shoot it up whenever a breeze blows around the spider webs in your brain. Since when did participation grades go to the quickest lifter? Your quip should have something meaningful to contribute to the conversation, or at least have been glanced over before you passed it on to the vocal chords. That’s why the show’s called “Jeopardy!” and not “Button Mashing With Alex Trebek.” Swords, Alex. Swords!

Just because you have the ability to speak freely doesn’t mean you should go flinging your cerebral cortex around like a used condom on its way to the trashcan. Play with it a little - knead the rubbery tissue with some mental effort, because, come on, why send it to a slow, confined death when it seems like it only recently popped out of the pussy?

And while it may be too juicy to go ignored, just because you have the power to publish it, doesn’t mean you should necessarily stir up the big blue Aegean. Zeus and his buddies may actually find a way to smite your ass in the long run, and you definitely don’t get enough exercise to outrun a lightning bolt dubbed Chance. Show some signs of class if we’re all going to peruse you in one. I don’t mind if you wet the comedic palate to help pass our time, but just make sure it’s in good taste.

Free speech doesn’t mean you can find it in the clothes bin near the Co-Op. It’s not in the shitty coupon books from the bookstore, and it’s definitely not hiding out in your neighbor’s recycling bin for you to swipe late at night. It’s not even sitting in the newspaper rack outside your lecture hall. So, why treat it like it comes free of charge?

The First Amendment doesn’t grant you access to blurt out whatever you feel like before you even take a second to think about it. It’s a human right that you should respect by showing it some. Take your time, let your thoughts marinate in your delicious brain awhile. Just, please, slow the fuck down and process your thought patterns. Otherwise, I don’t see much hope in an America whose citizens continue to treat their speech rights like they were ordered off the McDonald’s Dollar Menu.

You can say whatever you want. I can’t stop you. Scream: “I’m gonna fuck ya!” right now at the top of your lungs. Anyone notice? I’m only trying to make you realize that this free speech idea still came at a price. A price you shouldn’t ignore by handling it like a shiny, new found penny. Honor Abe and the rest of the bunch by using it to make the world a better place.

For if we can so easily free our foolish, drooling mouths, then why is it still illegal to free our clinging minds?

Aside from Jafar, Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson’s favorite Disney character is Thumper.

Landlords Extort Innocent Tenants

I’m sure I wasn’t the only one to ever enter Isla Vista for the first time and think, Damn, if I ever get enough money, I’m buying out the houses on the mountainside of Del Playa Drive. Erosion may take a while, but they’ll be ocean-side soon enough. Maybe my kids could live off the rentals one day. At least they’d be able to find a house if they ever wanted to go to grad school here. Come on, I was a dumb freshman, but at least I still had the moves to juke a few water balloons tossed my way.

After four years as a Gaucho, though, I can’t see myself as the grizzly landlord who doesn’t return phone calls, the landlady who can’t keep track of rent payments, or the slumlord who makes his tenants deconstruct their illustrious outdoor seating/viewing arrangements. These airhead “adults,” these members of the “real world” like James Baron who defame our community like to insist that the problems with I.V. lie in the naïve students’ laps. They need to touch up a bit on Marxist philosophy before pointing fascist fingers at us.

Supply and demand my ass. The only thing I.V. property-owners supply is false promises. The only thing they demand is overpayment.

Want to know why the streets resemble a ghetto with a shit load of cars? Stop blaming the students’ “party” or “stoner” lifestyles. Try blaming the landlords who pocket cash and never fix anything.

Want to know why graduation rates are lower at UCSB than those at other prestigious universities? Maybe it’s in part because students spend their time fixing problems with the run-down houses -problems their landlords consented to fix in the rental agreement - instead of studying.

Want to understand why a couch would be smoldering in the middle of the street? Maybe it’s because the leaky ceiling that has gone unfixed ruined the sofa and some money-hungry proprietor could care less what his tenants do with it - as long as it doesn’t cost him anything.

Care to guess as to why you see empty beer cans littering any lame attempt at landscaping? Well, hang out and look longer. The cans will be gone in a few minutes, snatched up into a garbage bag by those forced out of Isla Vista thanks to rising rental costs. Do you want them rummaging through a filthy trash bin in front of their ashamed children or bending over to the ground to feed their families? Some would call it a moral decision.

If you don’t live here you definitely think I’m exaggerating. If you do live here you think I’m not being harsh enough. But hopefully, either way, I struck an electron bouncing around in that brain of yours.

As students, I figure some of you have been scarfing down lunch between classes and have overheard somebody ranting about a clogged toilet that still hasn’t been fixed. What’s it been, three weeks now? Unless you’re one of the lucky ones living in I.V., you commiserate with your downtrodden brethren then flick the volume up on your iPod. You could throw your two cents in, but there’s not much you can do when the town’s plumbing is a slight notch above that in a third world country. If the landlords supply you with shit, then throw that shit right back at them.

You could move. Downtown is a lovely option. But that still leaves the rest of I.V. to wallow in their own burrito vomit. Then next year’s crop will have to live with the same problems you demanded to be fixed.

It’s not like the university cares. I’m sure the higher-ups have studied enough American history to realize that if you ignore the problem, you’ll eventually get the war you wanted in the first place. They could care less about us. They want us in and out, in and out. Pave the way for the grad student takeover! They’ve got more sense than us undergrads. And they’re not a bunch of drunks.

I.V. Master Plan? Sounds like an oxymoron to me. All I really want is my kitchen sink fixed.

Daily Nexus columnist Jeff Gibson hasn’t been able to clean his bong in three weeks.