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THE HUMAN RACE

We would like to think we can plan our lives. That we control a stream of events that will be our lives. We are born, educated, work, settle, produce offspring, and die. But life can never be simplified by any terms. We are blind to our future. We are part of the human race; against time, life, and each other. We know not the obstacles we will have to over come. They are different for us all. What defines us is how fast you can run and if we help our fellow humans, races and religions be damned. We don’t know who will win, or lose but we all can be sure none of us will survive. We came from the birth of a star and 4 billion years from now a star will take back our matter and energy. We can’t know the future, we all wear blind folds.  But, one thing I can be sure of is, I’m going to run my race as a Gentleman does standing tale and running with all I got.  I’m going to run till I have to walk, walk till I have to crawl, and when I can’t do that I’m calling a limo.  Blind fold be damned.  And now a tale.

A few days ago I said I was going on hiatus, as if I’m capable of controlling anything in my life.  I was on my front porch in my down town apartment shirtless and enjoying the sun. I had WWZ to read a frozen bullfrog (lime concentrate 1/3 water and 2/3 ice blended great if you love sour cold drinks as I do) and of course my reds. The day was perfect and I was getting my head ready to do my new job. I sat, read, listened to my oldies (fuck new music) and enjoyed a beautiful day when I’m slapped back to the race by the sound of slapping across the street. The pimp hand was strong that day and it resounded across the street from a neighbor’s front porch. I look up from my book of Zombie awesomeness to see a neighbor trying to lift an unconscious guy into a chair while slapping the crap out of him and saying dude wake up. Now I’m sure you guys have noticed I hang with sinners, not saints and recognize and overdose easily. I quickly grab my rum and coke, decide against bringing my cig and run down stairs to my apartment where my bro is getting bitched out on the phone by his girl. I pop my head in simply say “Emergency follow me now and head across the street.” My bro noticed long ago my life is not boring because I actively search for these situations or they find me and quickly hung up and followed me blindfolded into the human race.
I get to the porch to see the unconscious guy being slapped by his friend. I check his pulse elevated, breathing very slow. I tell my bro set your phone for a three-minute timer. In three minutes I’m concerned about brain damage and we are calling a medic. For three minutes I found another life in my hands. I order the standing one to grab the end of the chair he is in we are moving him inside before we attract more attention. Without any argument we lift him inside. The slapping continues and I tell dude man to calm down. I’m handling this, slap him softer and try some shaking while talking to him he has two minutes to say a sentence or I’m calling medic. (America for the record most people die of overdoses because people are afraid to call medics and get caught with the drugs. What you do is call the medic to the corner of your block saying without giving a name you found an injured man and he needs help. You then carry him in a chair to the corner and watch him from a far if your to fucked up on shit. Say you found him on your way home, you live right there and get out of there. You then run home and move all your drugs out for two weeks in case he talks in the hospital. Now back to my story.  Gentleman never sacrifice life but their own) I order a glass of water and it is quickly poured over the face starting at the forehead. This eventually water boards him and tricks his body to consciousness.  Do not drown your friends! (I AM NOT A DOCTOR AND EXCEPT NO RESPONSIBILITY FOR ANYONE DOING THIS BUT IT’S BETTER THEN NOTHING) It worked, he woke up and I said say a sentence. He replied “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing to me and why am I wet?” Just another day in the human race my friend and I returned to my drinks, zombies, and oldies.

Later that day they came over to my porch and thanked me for taking control of the situation and saving that guy from at least a concussion due to the slapping and possibly death. And the three-minute timer? Finished the race with a minute to spare, I love pressure.
Run your race America, but help out your fellow-man. Be the change you want to see in the world. Gandhi knew his shit.

Long live the writers

Oceans

 

P.S.  If you like that dyslexic half drunk free write try my book.  Monetta was kind enough to remind me since I suck at the sales side of self publishing.  Link follows.

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A PRAYER TO ATLAS

Well America it has been a crazy year. From a few drunken rants to a self published book and over 11,000 disciples. What a ride. However this self publish road is a hard one to walk alone. Atlas may have shrugged it by now, but I won’t. I will be taking a little time off writing to focus on the money and the publishing side of my new enterprise. Just got a new LEGAL job working with theatre lights to bank roll a small business loan to pay for proper advertising, editors, and such. So a prayer goes out to me, to play my hand right once again. Against the odds and the world. Just the way I like it. Sailing on the palm of God waiting for the bitch slap.

And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
But please don’t cry, just know that I have made these tales for you
And if I die before I wake I pray the lord my soul to take
‘Cause I’m ready for a funeral.

See you around America thanks for reading and check back in once in a while to see what happens.

LONG LIVE THE WRITERS

OCEANS

And if you want new tales to read during my hiatus buy my book. You didn’t think the entire tale of my life would be on the blog did ya? Link below

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/product-reviews/1484829794/ref=cm_cr_dp_qt_see_all_top?ie=UTF8&showViewpoints=1&sortBy=byRankDescending

 

Kid Cudi The Prayer

My heart thump not from being nervous
Sometimes I’m thinking God made me special here on purpose
So all the while ’til I’m gone make my words important so
If I slip away, if I die today the last thing you remember won’t
Be about some apple bottom jeans with the boots with the fur
Baby how I dream of being free since my birth
Cursed but the demons I confronted would disperse
Have you ever heard of some shit so real
Beyond from the heart, from the soul you can feel

And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
But please don’t cry, just know that I have made these songs for you
And if I die before I wake I pray the lord my soul to take
‘Cause I’m ready for a funeral

My mind runs I can never catch it even if I got a head start
God please help me I am feeling so alone way
I don’t need to worry ’cause I know the world’ll feel this nigga
Blessing in disguise but I am not hiding who I am open your eyes bro
If I ever met you, I appreciate the love yo
Girls that I dated, it’s ok I am not mad yo
Unless you stabbed me in the heart, no love ho, this shit is so ill
Play it back from the top if you recognize real

And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
But please don’t cry, just know that I have made these songs for you
And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
‘Cause I’m ready for a funeral
And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
So please don’t cry, just know that I have made these songs for you
And if I die before I wake, I pray the lord my soul to take
‘Cause I’m ready for a funeral (I’m ready for a funeral, I’m ready for a funeral)

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT

One new years my bro is in town and I took it upon myself to show him a good time.  This is my bro from a different mo and we have been finding trouble since 2nd grade.  I guess more accurately I have found the trouble and talked him into following me into it.  God bless him, if I did it he was right behind me since the great raptor hunt of 94.  That’s right America our seven year old asses having just seen Jurassic Park were convinced a Raptor was lurking in my woods.  Armed to the teeth with a BB gun and compound bow we hunted it for days even trying to bait it with dog food.  We were unsuccessful however we did find a missing great dane however I’m still convinced that was not was I saw hunting us in those dark woods.

So back to new years, him being from my small town and me being the one who escaped to the big city I wanted to show him the life of lights on the streets and pavement under our feet.  Our first stop was to watch the ball raise.  In my city like New York we have a ball ceremony however ours raises and is impossible to see when it’s at the top contributing to our seven year in a row incorrect, and late countdown.  God bless a criminal city but the education here is staggering.  Any who unlike the thousands of people in the streets I have to make the night my own, by climbing onto a roof next to the ball raising with two bottles of bubbly.  A minor trespassing possibly considered breaking and entering to some judges, but with all the crime I have committed that slap on the wrist stuff looks like the kiddy ride to a carrier fighter pilot.

Of course my bro is the respectable one.  He teaches your kids America, God bless the public school system.  He was not sure of this roof climb, due to the possible 20 foot fall getting up there, and the booze already influencing our balance.  It had been years since I had seen him but like we were 7 again hunting the raptor I climbed first showing him the way and after a few adolescent taunts his drunk ass was climbing.  The problem was going around the chimney due to a barbed wire fence on the roof keeping people off.  I almost fell.  Last thoughts to cross my mind.  Fall back first hugging the bottle to protect it.  Will want to get drunk after I lose all feeling in my legs.  Before I ask bro to beat me to death with the empty bottle since I wont be able to use Sir Gordon Johnson on hot ladies ever again  Because you got to have goals America.

The roof climbed, bottles primed, we await the countdown.  Looking at the smile on his face as he looked down on all the people and the people cheering up at us, I could see why people deal with my ass.  Sure I’m rough around the edges and a mixture of archer, barney stinson, and hunter S.  But, I show people how to live and have been called every name but boring and monotonous.  Live every day like it was your last.  One day it will be.  The countdown begins, the ball raises, and the corks fly into the crowd below us.  Drunk, cheering, feeling like Gods atop our tower of bubbles we were happy.  Right up till that cop car entered our Korbel realm.

When the party was winding down the cops show up to help clear the drunks from the streets.  Convinced we were atop Olympus drinking with Zeus we did not notice that cop car emerging from Hades’s ninth ring.  Virgil what the fuck?  Drunk bastard.  Suddenly me and my bro snap out of our drunken chants.  We see a cop car next to the girls we are shouting at and a chill creeps up our spine.  Yes your honor I was drunk on that roof and I loved it!  The cops sees the girls looking up, follows suit, and sees us.  Feeling the tremble in the force of my bro I silently whisper “own it and raise your glass with me to the cop”, as I mentally plan an o shit run off the roof plan B.  My bro reverting back to 7 says nothing, stands up straight, and raises his glass with me to the cop woman.  She smiles, waves and drives on.  What a country.  My bro turns to me speechlessly asking “how in the fuck?”  I look at him and say bro I’m a criminal run and they chase you raise your glass and stand tall…  We look like we own the building.  Look like your supposed to be there and cops ignore you.  Yes officer this is my T.V..  Yes officer this weed is medicinal.  Yes officer I was drunkenly sledding on this hill using an art museum sign as a sled, I own this place.  Well at least plan B worked on the sledding one.

Drunk enough to barley walk but not drunk enough to land a controlled fall we hit the bars with the mortals.  Our souls baptized in champagne of Olympus.

Long Live the Writers

Oceans

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11,000 FOLLOWERS FUCK YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

America I want to thank you for giving a retired drug dealer and master of mistakes a voice. I can’t thank you enough for the 2,900 wonderful comments, over 80,000 views, countless reblogs, sexting and urging me to write my book. Its been a long first year, over 100 posts and now 11,000 disciples. I can’t say how grateful I am so I will show you. I always believed actions were louder then words anyway. My book PLAYING YOUR HAND RIGHT: SHOWING AMERICA HOW TO LIVE is about life, love, sex, crime, and when she breaks your nose during sex. I wanted to make America laugh and maybe class the world up a notch.
During this year I have gotten countless questions on how I got so many disciples. To say thanks for following and buying books I’m going to give you my opinion on how to blog. FOR FREE. Although I wouldn’t mind if you bought a copy of my book.   http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

Layout
My blog is clean and neat. No widgits, gidgits, gadgits, esoteric nonsense or the other techno babble I will never understand. When I was at art school I had a great professor who really got into the psychology of web design and I listened close. First always use a white or subtle yellow as background it is the easiest on the readers eyes. No moving images, white font on black or the other A.D.D. options, they make the text hard to read and tire the readers eyes faster making them unable to read more then twenty min. I want people to come to my blog and read my writing not check the weather it’s distracting to the reader. K.I.S.S. Keep It Simple Stupid is my message on layout. Get rid of all the background and extra crap. We are bloggers not web designers. But we can learn a thing or two from them.

Tags and Categories
This is one of the most unused easy things to do for us bloggers. An old web design trick is make the spiders work for you. We call spiders the search engine programs and they are designed to find key words your searching for. Using the Tags and categories is an easy way to get more traffic. Will this get you 11,000 followers? No but it will get you two more every day and if your a good writer those two will tell two and is spreads. First and for most add “sex” to your tags and categories. Sex is the most searched for term in the internet and word press will even make you laugh by telling you what funny dirty thing people search for. Here is what my site brought in today “tight hand and sex, lighting farts on fire, sxe amerka, sex live in america” Makes me giggle every day what it says. So with sex find 20 other categories your writing falls under and post in them. I have a list I just copy and paste into the tags section no matter what I have written about. Well, lets face it, most of my writing is about sex, drugs, boats and crime anyway. If you cant think of any here is my list to get you started you just copy and paste into the tag section (Antares 44 I, blog award, boats, Busted, cancer, car accident, car break down, Cars, change, children, Cocaine, college, Cops, crime, Dad, Death, Drinking, Drug Dealing, Family, Father, funny, growing up, hash, humor, inspiring, journey, Life, Playing Your Hand Right, quest, robbers, robbery, Sailing, Sex, sex toys, strip clubs, Suicide, Survival, SWAT, Taylor Oceans, Uncategorized, Valentines Day, Weed) These tags are vital when your starting out but now I rarely use categories anymore although I should. So no more posting in only uncategorized America, noob mistake make the spiders work for you. I hate the bastards and they scare the crap out of me but in the digital world spiders are my friends.

Haters
Yes America the world is full of haters the key is to ignore them. Do not fight back they are not worth your time, will never change, and all your doing is dropping to their level. I know that sounds like something you tell a four year old but this is a digital world. If someone said this shit to my face I would have them knee capped while I stand over them laughing, smoking and drinking rum. Since you can’t beat their ass just trash the comments. I receive about one a month. Some person who has spent there entire life is the suburbs and believe they know everything without any real word experience. I get the drug dealers are trash, kid killers, and poster children for abortion once a month. I’m sure I attract more then your average blogger given the controversial topics and my background, but simply put. You will never make everyone happy and like you so give up now, be yourself. Raise your rum and say :To all those who wish us well cheers. To all the rest may you burn in hell.” Just accept that some people will not like your writing and would love to make you quit. Now let me tell you a tale. After the first two months of my blogging I got a hater. He commented on every post and trashed me. He told people not to follow me, and plenty of other garbage. I posted his comments with my rebuttal. I then made the mistake of not checking on my blog for three days. In that three days I had trashed all the work I had done. It took me 2 months to get my first 200 followers and I went back to 50 in three days. America did not like my rebuttal. I deleted it, his comments and basically started from scratch again. That was the first wall I had to put my head through to keep this blog going and it will not be the last. Don’t waste your time with the haters and trolls, just delete, ignore, have a cig, rum and coke, and maybe some good hard fucking. Write more the next day. Sometimes you have to go away to come back.  We are here to write not, argue with America.

Content
Far be it from me to tell you what to write. You want to write about scifi, cars, politics, what ever go for it, but give the people what they want. What they want in those categories I have no idea I write about crime and fucking. I write about me unpolished and you guys clearly eat up the shit where I hold nothing back, and tell it like it really happened. Many times I want to keep some of myself or my failures out of my writing and portray myself as Don Won on Viagra. However when I get the rum in me and tell it how it is you guys love it. I hold nothing back and expect nothing in return. But I wouldn’t mind if you bought my book.

So that is my quick class on blog success. Keep your format simple, use spiders, be yourself and ignore the haters. Don’t like it kiss my ass its free. But I’m here to show you how to live and I figured I might show some of you a trick or two about blogging.  We all need a little help from time to time.

Accidentally on Purpose
The last secret to my success was this post. Accidentally on Purpose was a post I wrote that went viral hitting 965 views in one day. Now you can use all the tricks of the trade. My B.S. and all the other crap they are trying to sell you on the internet on how to blog right. But what it comes down to is turning heads. I have never done anything by following the rules and I’m not about to start now. Grammar, social norms, and doubters can suck it, I live, fuck and write my way. Find out what the people want out of your writing and give it to them. Do they want to feel secure, enlightened, ashamed, passionate or informed? Give the people what they want and they will stay, read, and follow. The categories, tags, format, and other shit only get them to walk in. You writing must make them stay.

Now for your reading pleasure here is accidently on purpose the post that America made me write a book after reading.

ACCIDENTALLY ON PURPOSE
So one night, I invited a fuck buddy to come by for a night of kinky adulterism. I thought I was cool with all forms of sex till I met this chick. First she tried to finger my ass while blowing me. Not cool ladies. I felt a finger go from fondling balls to my no-no spot. After I removed my fingernails from the ceiling and climbed down, she explained to me that she had banged every guy she had been with. And I don’t mean bang in the good way. I told her not this horse. Line one found.
During another night of sexual shenanigans, she asked me to cut her with a dinner knife. Well, as well as she could ask through a ball gag while she was tied up in the entryway. I thought that would look great; the cops come in, see me with a dinner knife, woman tied up, death by thousand cuts, and boom: head shot. Thoughts of me being gunned down wearing nothing but a condom and holding a magic wand in one hand and a knife in the other was not exactly my kind of night. Also, the sight of blood makes me lightheaded and completely de-rected. Line two discovered.
During one night of sexcapades, I couldn’t recall which; we were having some drinks before the roll playing began. She would come in, bringing her bag of whatever hotness she would wear that night. We would catch up, have a few drinks, she would go change in the bedroom, I would set up that night’s fun, and it was on. Well, during one of these drinking and catching up chats we had a little bit more than usual to drink. I have a bar in my apartment and I was behind it pouring champagne far too fast. We were talking, joking, having a good time, let’s face it ladies, I’m charming. I go to my fridge, get the third bottle of champagne, pull off the foil, wire, aim and fire.
Being the son of a chef and restaurant owner, I am normally one with the cork, but I try to refrain from firing one off in my apartment. You see, I’m a half-assed Buddhist and have a nice Buddha shrine in my living room. Buddha is cool with everything except being shot in the face with a cork and shattered on the floor. I call myself a half-assed Buddhist because I love Karma, but I treat my body like an amusement park not a temple; hence half-assed.
So, there I am in my kitchen, hotness at the bar, with a bottle in my hand and off goes the cork. Trying to impress her, I figure I will shoot the cork down my apartment and pour her a glass. In my haste, I didn’t aim properly and the cork hits the wall across the room. I have both my hands on the bottle when I realize the cork has ricochet off the wall and is coming straight for my eye at the speed of sound. I wondered what the trip to the hospital would be like. Yes, Doctor, I shot myself, but in my emotional throws, my suicide was foiled because instead of a gun I used a bottle of bubbly. How many times have I laughed at the warning labels on champagne bottles and the funny pictures of cartoons hitting themselves with a cork? Is it possible to have sex with a cork in my eye? I figured she would be a little turned off.
There I was, the “Master” trying to pour a glass of champagne for the “Slave” and the dip shit “Master” is going to blind himself with a cork. Premature corkulation. Why couldn’t my parents have said, “Be careful with the bottle of champagne, you’ll shoot your eye out?” I was great with the BB gun. The cork is getting closer to my face and now she is realizing I’m about to be Kennedy-ed. Forget the magic bullet, look at this fucking cork. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her cover her mouth getting ready to laugh, scream, sympathize, however this turns out.
Suddenly, I realize time has stopped. I look at my dog and a drop of drool is floating in the air below him frozen in time. A hummingbird is flying outside the window and its wings are still.
All these thoughts and sights overwhelmed me, yet I couldn’t react to the damn cork about to head shot me. Frozen in time, unable to move, I awaited my inevitable corky fate. Time began again and the cork closed in on its target. I braced for the impact of my masochistic bottle opening, when out of the corner of my eye I see a hand. Moving faster than a fat kid running down an ice cream truck, this hand rises to protect my face. I realize it’s my hand moving and I’m drunker than I thought. I have somehow caught the cork.
Staring at my hand, like a kid who just caught his first fly ball, completely amazed by my subconscious drunken reflexes, I turn to her. She is sitting on the bar stool staring at me as if I have just cured cancer, while climbing Everest to save her from the abominable snowman. Wet. She couldn’t believe it. Had I done this on purpose or accident, she thought to herself. Is my “Master” really this good? Not sure what to do, I came to a sudden conclusion. I handed her the cork with all my misplaced bravado and simply said. “You like my new trick?” And it was on.

I still try to catch the cork when no one is around…
I’m never even close.

As always if you like that take a peak at my book Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How to Live and read what America has said about it.  http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans

AMERICA YOU ROCK

America I want to say thanks.  I started this blog a year ago for God knows why.  Maybe just to be heard.  To see if America would listen to a retired drug dealer and master of mistakes.  A year later I have 10,994 followers, and with the pushing of America I wrote my first book of my tales.  You have given me a 4.7 out of 5 rating on Amazon.com and over 2,000 wonderful comments on my blog.  I just want to say thanks for listening to my tales America and buying my book.  Us self published drunken rantists need all the help we can get.  So thank you America, and feel free to keep the emails, comments, FB chats, and all the other techno crap coming.  I’m here to help, entertain, teach, and show America how to live.  My email is playingyourhandright@gmail.com

Follows is an email I received about my book.  Thanks for buying my book PLAYING YOUR HAND RIGHT: SHOWING AMERICA HOW TO LIVE  and giving hope to someone with nothing in his hand.  But sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand.

If you haven’t heard of Taylor Oceans, it’s about time you do.

I first came across Oceans on WordPress and after reading nearly every one of his blog posts I knew I needed to hear more of the ex-drug dealer’s crazy life stories. From loosing his eyebrows trying to stash his paraphernalia in a fire to getting kicked out of college by the SWAT team, he has never taken the easy path. And we are lucky enough that he has decided to share his stories, and his journey to becoming a gentleman, in a book.  He tells his tales with an incredibly refreshing voice that anybody will love, whether you are well read or not. He’s like Tucker Max, but better with women. You might cringe, you’ll definitely laugh but either way you won’t be able to put his book down.

If you want to take a chance on my book a link to Amazon follows

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans

And Remember…  It’s nice to be important but more important to be nice.

Showing America How to Live by Taylor Oceans

taylor oceans:

America new book reviewer in town. Play nice and maybe she will do your book too. But what can I say the ladies love me.

Originally posted on Books For Your Thoughts:

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

This serves as the first completed book in my personal endeavor to commit to active, daily, reading of full books, novels, and short stories. Taylor Ocean’s is fitting because finding and engaging with him on WordPress was what sparked within me the need to do this very same thing: purposefully read. Immediately proceeding his admonishment to “read this/my book”, I started a literal “To Read” list on paper. A tangible list, not one ethereal started with the words “I’ll put it on my To Read list” but an actual physical list.

So without further adieu, a review of Taylor Ocean’s “Playing Your Hand Right: Showing America How To Live”:

I picked this book up through my Nook Reader on my tablet. I don’t have a Nook, nor a Kindle, and this whole electronic reading thing is awfully new to me. But amazingly enough, it’s very easy and after just…

View original 196 more words

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RISE TOGETHER

America Fight to rise. Fight for yourselves, Fight for each other. Fight for your families, fight for your homes, and fight for your sweet hearts. Everyday is a battle. A battle for survival. A battle to be yourself. What do you want your lives to be? What are your dreams? What are your goals in this life? That is what you must fight for. Damn the doubters and the sycophants. Be yourselves. Stand tall and proud of who you are and the mistakes you have made. We are all different on this world. Do you realize how amazing that is? We all want different things, eat different things, look different and love different things. We worship different things and speak different languages. But what we all have in common is that we all have a dream. To be a writer, to be a doctor, to be a mountain climber, to be a sailor, to invent, to sing, to dance to fight.
Fight for your dreams. But remember we rise together. Fight for your dreams, to help your family rise. Fight for your dreams to make yourself rise. Fight for your dreams to make your sweet hearts rise. Fight for your dreams to make your home rise. Fight for redemption to see the world around you rise. Fight for the rise.

America today get one step closer to your dreams. That is one step closer to the rise.

Thanks for helping me rise to 10,900 followers in a year America. Thanks for helping my book rise. I’m fighting hard to rise are you?

Long Live the Writers

Oceans

THANKS AMERICA

America I want to say thanks.  I started this blog a year ago for God knows why.  Maybe just to be heard.  To see if America would listen to a retired drug dealer and master of mistakes.  A year later I have 10,900 followers, and with the pushing of America I wrote my first book of my tales.  You have given me a 4.7 out of 5 rating on Amazon.com and over 2,000 wonderful comments on my blog.  I just want to say thanks for listening to my tales America and buying my book.  Us self published drunken rantists need all the help we can get.  So thank you America, and feel free to keep the emails, comments, FB chats, and all the other techno crap coming.  I’m here to help, entertain, teach, and show America how to live.  My email is playingyourhandright@gmail.com

Follows is an email I received this weekend.  Thanks for buying my book PLAYING YOUR HAND RIGHT: SHOWING AMERICA HOW TO LIVE  and giving hope to someone with nothing in his hand.  But sometimes nothing can be a pretty cool hand. 

If you want to take a chance on my book a link to Amazon follows

http://www.amazon.com/Playing-Your-Hand-Right-Showing/dp/1484829794/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1385767769&sr=8-1&keywords=playing+your+hand+right

 

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans

And Remember…  It’s nice to be important but more important to be nice.  

 

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A PIECE OF SLATE

America we have no idea what the road holds for us. I’ve been up, down, rich, poor, together and alone. And what have I learned? It’s about the journey not the destination. You can’t fight change. You not getting any younger and your days are numbered. We want to think our lives will be perfectly linear from birth to death devoid of problems. I’m going to work this job, raise my kids, retire, get old and die. Or at least most of us. But I’m different America. I think every day is precious. You never know when that drive by is going to get you. That drunk driver is going to smash you. The doctor gives you the bad news. Or a piece of slate falls off a roof and kills you. When I was in High school I was walking to the library and a piece of slate falls off the roof plummeting four stories and smashes it’s ten pound razor sharp ass right next to me. I mean inches from my head America. I realized then we have a lot less control then we think over our fate. I saved a piece of that slate tile to remind me to live every day to the full. To live my dreams with no regrets and always say why not instead of why. Don’t be so busy making a living you forget to make a life America. Some day that piece of slate is going to hit you. And all that will be left… Our tales.

Long Live the Writers

Oceans

WHEN STONERS FLY

America rewind my life tape back ten years to senior year of High School.  I’m 18 and the Activities Vice President of my school.  I decided to run for student body VP while at dinner with my Dad.  Being sent to boarding school it wasn’t uncommon for parents to be sympathetic and take you out to dinner to save you from the terrible food of dorm every now and then.  We were having a very nice penne chicken Alfredo with salted garlic ham cubes.  I still use the recipe try it.  We were cowing of this dank pasta and I sit up and say I think I’m going to run for VP.  Supportive as always Dad replies “Sure you can, when is the election.”  A quick glimpse at my none existence watch and I say “O about sixteen hours.”  Dad chuckles knowing the procrastinator in me all to well and says “Well I guess you can try, but don’t get your hopes up.”

The next day I break into the school office and print off four color copies of my election banner.  “If you want parties like this vote Taylor Oceans for Activities VP”  with a picture of a rave under it.  I moved them around campus, had them pencil my name onto the voting cards, and I never even got to give a speech.  Won it by three votes, losing in the first counting, fuck yeah!  Which gets us closer to the plane.

Now as Activities VP you plan the prom and all other “mixers” (being a mostly guy boarding school they shipped in women from our all girls sister school once a week so we don’t turn gay)  and as the drama tech guy I knew how to work all the lights and wire just about anything.  Hey, at boarding school you have to do a winter sport.  Wresting, the sport of ear pads, rashes and tights… Hell No.  Basketball, yeah kiss my ass I’m short and blew my knee in soccer two years prior.  And drama, the only sport the girls could do in the winter aside from girls basketball.  Dear diary jackpot.  If my lighting booth could talk.  Any who, as VP, I wanted to have an illegal rave on campus, have 100 girls shipped in, no chaperons, and my high school, boarding school, blue balls in the middle of it.  I did, even built me and friends a VIP section.  First politician in history to keep his word.  I would have been thrown out of school, but I bet they couldn’t because then it would be public that a student conned them into not only catering his illegal rave, but endangered the sister school.  My school would have never been able to have a mixer again.  It worked, with a few other extortions and creative language.

This brings us to the plane.  During the preparation phase of the rave I got off campus to go pick up the six foot black lights for the rave.  Go hard or go home America ever seen what 14 six foot black lights can do?  While driving back to campus me and my partner in crime pass an air field and I blurt out I want to fly a plane.  “He says want to I’m a pilot?”  As always “Do pigs lie in shit?” is mine  Using his pilots licence, the rest of the money I embezzled from the school, a huge insurance policy and the lax regulations of this back country airfield, yes we rented a P.O.S. Cessna (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cessna_172).  While fueling the plane I notice the tricycle landing gear is so light it moves when kicked, my go cart had bigger tires, the doors are so thin I bet I could fuck a hole in it,  the walls are made of the same material holding our beer that weekend, and the interior looks like something they thought was ugly in 1970.  A flying, tacky, death trap to put nicely, but I figure who wants to die in bed.  During take off the piece of crap sounded like it was going to fall apart and I really regretted getting my partner in crime, now my pilot high with me.  Suddenly we are airborne like a fat metal turkey.  The view was amazing and we decided to tour the county.  We flew over campus, the highway, and when we got over the river my buddy says ok find something to put in your hand like a pen.  I find a screw driver and say now what?  He says “I’m going to dive the plane and when I say now spin the screwdriver in the air it will float.”  Not sure how to spell the sound of a plane going down but that sound zooooooom.  The plane is diving, I’m screaming profanities and he shouts spin it.  Such mind shattering awesomeness!  Weightlessness! The fear is gone, the sounds, the doubts, the emotions, my entire life has vanished from my mind.  All I can focus on is a screwdriver floating in front of me.  Suck it apple guy, gravity is my play thing today bitch.  Transfixed by the daunting defiance of gravity our stoned asses fail to realize we are plummeting to the river from 5,000 feet at about 200 miles an hour.  Simultaneously we both look past the screwdriver and see the river about to screw me and my driver.  Profanities, as we both grab the sticks and pull back as we are eye level with sail boats.  Twenty feet.  That is what we got to.  20 god damn feet off the river as low as sail boat masts.

Our buzz fully gone, and pants properly soiled, we decide to return to the safety of the ground.  He tried to teach me how to land but with no head wind he needed to take it in.  Love those single runway airstrips.  He had to crab the plane to slow us down for landing.  This is basically Tokyo drift in a fucking beer can with a tricycle under it.  50 feet off the runway im looking at the runway through the side window, and just before touch down he turned the plane straight and nailed the landing.  And that’s what happens when stoners fly.

Long Live the Writers

Taylor Oceans