Sociologist · Philosopher · Writer · Poet
Social and Environmental Justice Activist
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Wayne Martin Mellinger Sociologist.
Philosopher.
Writer.
Poet.
Justice Activist.
Biography

A scholar who never left the street

Wayne Martin Mellinger, Ph.D., is an independent sociologist, writer, street outreach worker, and public intellectual based in Santa Barbara, California. His life has moved through universities and homeless encampments, professional success and incarceration, addiction and recovery, scholarship and public service. Rather than separating these experiences, Wayne draws upon all of them in his efforts to understand how institutions treat people — and how lives can be rebuilt through connection, accountability, and care.

Wayne was born in Springfield, Massachusetts, in 1958 and raised across the Connecticut River in West Springfield. His father worked long hours to support the family, first as a Fuller Brush salesman and later managing a camera department. His mother, who had survived polio and used a wheelchair throughout Wayne's childhood, was the energetic matriarch of the family — and watching strangers alternately stare at her or avoid her gaze gave Wayne an early education in disability, difference, and the subtle ways people can be denied ordinary recognition. Books and education were central to the family: his paternal grandfather was a Congregational minister, his maternal grandmother became a teacher after being widowed, and three of Wayne's grandparents held graduate degrees.

His childhood was also marked by emotional turmoil. Sensitive, intellectually curious, and struggling with a severe stutter, Wayne often retreated into a closet with a flashlight, a cat, and an old encyclopedia. He read voraciously but was sometimes placed with slower readers because he could not read aloud fluently, and he was beginning to recognize that he was gay at a time when few young people could speak of it openly. He responded by throwing himself into school — student senate, newspaper, honor societies, chess and swim teams, band — and worked long hours to save for college.

In 1976, Wayne entered the University of Massachusetts Amherst, where affordable public education made his intellectual life possible. UMass exposed him to radical political economy, Marxist scholarship, ecological thought, and the performing arts; dance became one of his first great passions. During his final year he met Rodney Beaulieu, and their relationship would last nineteen years, taking them from Massachusetts to Paris, San Francisco, Santa Barbara, and Ventura.

In 1980, Wayne spent an academic year at the University of Paris–Sorbonne, where he and Rodney lived simply, explored museums, and traveled Europe on very little money — an experience that expanded Wayne's world into social theory, philosophy, and the Frankfurt School. Afterward the couple moved to San Francisco's Haight-Ashbury, living there in the brief window between Harvey Milk's assassination and the devastation of AIDS. It was a period of extraordinary possibility for a young gay man, and Wayne's encounters with feminist thought, gay liberation, radical ecology, and Goddess spirituality led him to begin keeping journals and writing poetry.

In 1983, Wayne entered the doctoral program in sociology at the University of California, Santa Barbara, training under Don H. Zimmerman, Thomas P. Wilson, and Harvey Molotch in a department central to the development of ethnomethodology and conversation analysis — the close empirical study of how people produce social order through everyday interaction. He completed his Ph.D. in 1990 and went on to teach at the Santa Barbara, Santa Cruz, and Berkeley campuses of the University of California, as well as Fielding Graduate University, Ventura College, and Antioch University Santa Barbara, becoming a successful, well-compensated professor and homeowner.

Then his life came apart. The end of his nineteen-year partnership in 1999 precipitated a profound psychological crisis: mania, psychosis, substance use, and homelessness followed in rapid succession, taking his relationship, his home, his career, and his sense of identity with them. He was arrested and incarcerated, and he learned during this period that he was living with bipolar disorder. Wayne does not conceal this history or reduce it to a polished story of triumph — recovery was neither immediate nor linear, and rebuilding required treatment, accountability, community, and the difficult work of learning how to live again.

His experience on the street changed the direction of his scholarship and public life. Homelessness was no longer an abstract social problem; Wayne knew what it meant to lose credibility, to be treated as a case rather than a person, and to navigate systems whose paperwork could determine whether someone received shelter, treatment, or nothing at all. After stabilizing his own life, he began working with people experiencing homelessness, mental illness, and addiction, and for nearly two decades his sociological training has been tested against street-level reality — the empirical foundation for his current theoretical project, Critical Interactionism, which examines abandonment as something organizations actively produce through ordinary practices of classification, documentation, and delay.

Wayne serves on the Santa Barbara County Behavioral Wellness Commission and the county's Continuum of Care, and sits on the boards of CLUE-SB, Showers of Blessing, and the Committee for Social Justice. He co-founded the Santa Barbara Homeless Foot Washing and helped establish the Freedom Warming Centers, and each December 21st he organizes the Longest Night Homeless Memorial Vigil at the Santa Barbara County Courthouse, where the community gathers to remember neighbors who died while homeless. Since 2012, he has written more than a hundred columns for the online newspaper Noozhawk, translating sociological research, political analysis, and street-level experience for a general audience.

Wayne's scholarship extends into two ongoing research platforms. Doing Modernity: Studies in Critical Interactionism houses his work on institutions, recognition, and the Santa Barbara School of ethnomethodology. The Dionysian Naturalist: Studies in Religious Naturalism and Other Emerging Nature Religions develops a parallel line of inquiry into contemporary Paganism, religious naturalism, and ecstatic spiritual practice — a personal theological framework he calls Dionysian Naturalism. He is a practicing member of the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara, and also writes poetry and literary fiction.

In 2025, Wayne published I Just Wanted to Dance with Dionysus: Life's Sacred Journey, Lost Souls and Our Thirst for Wholeness, a Gonzo autoethnography about addiction, homelessness, psychiatric crisis, and recovery, structured through Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey and the mythology of Dionysus. The book turns personal experience into sociological evidence — not to romanticize suffering, but to examine the institutions and social worlds through which a damaged life must travel.

The thread connecting it all is a refusal to separate scholarship from lived experience — or intellectual rigor from the work of showing up. Every person remains a human being with a history, a voice, and the possibility of another chapter.
Sociology

Publications

Peer-reviewed work, books in progress, and the essay archive on Doing Modernity — organized by category, reverse-chronological within each.

Peer-Reviewed Publications
Forthcoming
Many Interaction Orders
Studies in Symbolic Interaction
1997
White Fantasies, Black Bodies: Racial Power, Disgust and Desire in American Popular Culture
with Rodney Beaulieu — Visual Anthropology 9:117–147
1997
Reading the News in the Age of Postmodern Mass Media: Gang Murders in the Los Angeles Times
Cultural Studies: A Research Annual
1997
Newz from the Hood: The Stephanie Kuhen Murder in the Los Angeles Times
Human Systems
1995
Talk, Power and Professionals: Partial Repeats as Challenges in the Psychiatric Interview
In Therapeutic and Everyday Discourse as Behavior Change, ed. Jürg Siegfried (Ablex), pp. 391–418
1995
The Anatomy of an Obituary: "Rock Hudson Dies at 59 After Fighting AIDS"
Perspectives on Social Problems 7
1994
Negotiated Orders: The Negotiation of Directives in Paramedic-Nurse Interaction
Symbolic Interaction 17(2):165–185
1994
Toward a Critical Analysis of Tourism Representations
Annals of Tourism Research 21(4):756–779
1992
Talk-as-Work: The Case of Paramedic Calls for Emergency Field Orders
Current Research on Occupations and Professions, Vol. 7, pp. 79–109
1992
Accomplishing Fact in Police "Dispatch Packages": An Analysis of the Situated Construction of an Organizational Record
Perspectives on Social Problems 4
1992
Postcards from the Edge of the Color Line: Images of African Americans in Popular Culture, 1893–1917
Symbolic Interaction 15(4):413–433
1992
Representing Blackness in the White Imagination: Images of "Happy Darkeys" in Popular Culture, 1893–1917
Visual Sociology 7(2):3–21
Books & Manuscripts in Progress
Ongoing
Abandonment in Real Time: Knowledge, Care, and the Moral Limits of Recognition
Book manuscript
Ongoing
From Minds to Moments: How Ethnomethodology and Conversation Analysis Reconceived Sociological Social Psychology
Book manuscript
Doing Modernity — The Santa Barbara School: An Annotated Bibliography

Compiled February 2026, ongoing. UCSB has been a major center for ethnomethodology and conversation analysis since the mid-1960s, yet the Santa Barbara School has never been systematically documented as a tradition — this bibliography, and the theoretical framework of Critical Interactionism it develops, is an attempt to remedy that.

I. Overviews & Theoretical Frameworks

The foundational overview, distinguishing the Santa Barbara School from the UCLA and Boston-Manchester Schools via six defining features — ethnographic integration, structure-in-action, moral order, critical orientation, Goffman engagement, and broad sociological relevance.

Traces the shift from cognitive and attitudinal models of social psychology to the interactional, sequential approach pioneered at Santa Barbara — an ontological shift, not merely a methodological one.

Traces the lineage from Zimmerman through Geoffrey Raymond's and Kevin Whitehead's research on racial categorization in police-civilian encounters, courtroom proceedings, and medical interviews.

Extends Thompson's and Scott's "moral economy" from markets to meaning, arguing every interaction is a moral event where recognition and respect circulate by norms participants feel as binding. The theoretical cornerstone of Critical Interactionism.

Introduces the Layered Moral Economy of Oppression (LMEO) — oppression operating through six interconnected layers, each reproduced and contested through interactional practice.

Reconstructs Wilson and Zimmerman's claim that social structure exists nowhere but in the sequential organization of members' practices — inverting the standard relationship between structure and action.

A close reading treated as a foundational text for the school's anti-reificationist theory of social structure, connecting mid-century EM/CA debates to contemporary practice theory.

II. Founders & First-Generation Figures

Documents Zimmerman's training under Garfinkel, his 1965 move to UCSB, and five decades as the school's central architect — from bureaucratic sociology through emergency dispatch calls, gender and interaction, and Talk and Social Structure (1991).

Positions Molotch as the school's "critical conscience," analyzing his collaborative work with Lester (news production), Boden (Watergate), and Duneier (urban public space) as demonstrations of interactional detail illuminating power.

Examines West's studies of doctor-patient interaction and "Doing Gender" (1987, with Zimmerman) — arguably the most-cited article in sociology — through to West and Fenstermaker's "Doing Difference" (1995).

Presents Maynard as the school's foremost "moral microsociologist," analyzing his studies of plea bargaining and diagnosis delivery through the perspective-display series and the evidential-interactional nexus.

Examines Clayman's study of news interviews and political accountability (including The News Interview, 2002, with John Heritage) as illuminating the interactional machinery of democratic accountability.

Introduces the "mirandum" — the wonder-worthy features of ordinary medical life patients and practitioners treat as requiring explanation — through Halkowski's studies of medical interaction.

III. Institutional Sites & Applied Work

Examines Boden's The Business of Talk (1994): organizations aren't structures within which talk occurs, but are themselves constituted through the sequential organization of meetings, negotiations, and calls.

On the persistent preference for co-present interaction despite remote communication technology, extended toward questions of who has access to co-presence and who is structurally excluded from it.

On the Whalens' approach to CSCW (Computer-Supported Cooperative Work) research, treating technology as embedded in interactional practice rather than a determinant of behavior.

On Lucy Suchman and the Whalens' work at Xerox PARC in the 1980s–90s, studying workplace interaction to redesign office technology — a demonstration of EM/CA's practical applicability.

The most recent essay in the series. On how documents — forms, records, databases — actively participate in constituting organizational reality rather than merely recording it.

On how topical talk serves ritual and relational functions beyond information transfer — anticipating the moral economy framework developed in later essays.

On Molotch and Duneier's study of interaction in urban public space, extended through Wayne's own street outreach experience connecting the literature to homelessness, policing, and urban exclusion.

IV. The Second Santa Barbara School

Profiles Turowetz as representative of the post-2000 generation extending the tradition — his work with Maynard on autism diagnosis, and greater theoretical reflexivity around race, disability, and structural inequality.

V. Critical Interactionism & Normative Questions

Confronts the normative question hanging over the tradition directly: once gender or racial or class asymmetry is documented with sequential precision, what follows? Develops "ethically engaged interactionism."

Extends the argument above with a theory of how interactional patterns generate differential outcomes that compound across interactions, institutions, and lifetimes.

Also on Doing Modernity

Additional essays not part of the Santa Barbara School bibliography above.

Doing Modernity — Sociology of Homelessness & Abandonment
Doing Modernity — Workplace Studies & Applied EM/CA
2025
Doing Modernity
2025
Talking City Trouble: Urban Micro-Ethnography and the Moral Order of Public Space
Doing Modernity
Doing Modernity — Human-AI Interaction
Doing Modernity — Media, Politics & Other Essays
Religion & Philosophy

Dionysian Naturalism & Critical Drug Studies

Theology under The Dionysian Naturalist, and a parallel platform, Wild Flesh, on drug use and altered states. Reverse-chronological within each category.

The Dionysian Naturalist — Annotated Bibliography (2014–2025)

Compiled by Wayne, February 2026. The essays trace an evolving eco-theological architecture — from early writings on shamanism, recovery, and ecstatic experience, through cosmology and enchanted naturalism, to ritual theory, sacred nature, and political eco-theology.

2014The Ordeal

A poem exploring struggle, transformation, and the sacred journey through difficulty — establishing the spiritual and existential concerns that animate the later theological writings.

The foundational essay introducing the Amethyst Path — a shamanic approach to addiction recovery drawing on Dionysian spirituality while maintaining sobriety. Critiques biomedical models of addiction through Jungian psychology, shamanic tradition, and the archetype of the wounded healer.

Parts 1–3. The programmatic statement establishing Dionysian Naturalism as a distinct theological approach — arguing that de-sacralization of nature is a central cause of ecological crisis, via Nietzsche's Apollonian–Dionysian distinction.

Parts 1–3. Traces the shift from archaic views of nature as sacred and animate to modern mechanistic, disenchanted views, and argues for nature as a "sacred living system." The cosmological foundation of Dionysian Naturalism's worldview.

Parts 1–2. A call for an "enchanted naturalism" integrating scientific evidence with religious inspiration, addressing Weber's disenchantment thesis while rejecting supernaturalism.

Parts 1–4. An autobiographical and theological exploration of "Godless Paganism," tracing the journey from New England Congregationalism through atheism to Dionysian Naturalism. A shorter version appears in John Halstead's anthology Godless Paganism: Voices of Non-Theistic Pagans.

Parts 1–5. Positions Dionysian Naturalism as a liberation theology embracing revolutionary social change for sustainability. A version also appears on Gods & Radicals: A Site of Beautiful Resistance.

Parts 1–3. Dedicated to the memory of Roshi Bernie Glassman. Develops bearing witness as a spiritual practice connecting personal pain to social action, drawing on the Zen Peacemaker tradition and street outreach work, and integrating Heschel's prophetic theology with engaged Buddhism.

Parts 1–5. A comprehensive examination of entheogenic spirituality within Dionysian Naturalism, tracing sacramental substance use from archaic shamanism through the "Pharmacratic Inquisition." Later cross-posted to Wild Flesh (2025).

Introduces "the Earth Path," arguing that contemporary theology must evolve into eco-theology, balancing Dionysian ecstasy with Apollonian reflection.

A systematic account of re-sacralization as a strategy for ecological renewal and spiritual reconnection, centered on a seven-element ritual framework: Preparation, Invocation, Offering, Reflection, Transformation, Commitment, Celebration.

Synthesizes a decade of theological writing to articulate what is shared across diverse traditions that regard nature as sacred.

A Gonzo autoethnographic monograph on madness, addiction, homelessness, and the search for wholeness, framed through Joseph Campbell's Hero's Journey. Also on PhilArchive — linked under Biography.

Traces Religious Naturalism's lineage from Spinoza and Emerson through Dewey, Crosby, Goodenough, Corrington, and Wheeler, and proposes Dionysian Religious Naturalism as a constructive response that restores ritual, embodiment, and community.

Explores the Radical Faerie movement — rooted in the 1979 Spiritual Conference for Radical Fairies and figures like Harry Hay and Arthur Evans — as a theology integrating queer liberation, ecological reverence, and ritual practice.

Proposes a "golden mean" — not compromise but dynamic integration — uniting disciplined thought with embodied ritual practice.

Draws on Wesley Wildman's account of homo religiosus and Michael Winkelman's research on shamanic consciousness to interpret the drive for transcendence as an adaptive, socially integrative capacity.

Draws on Durkheim, Otto, Eliade, Goodenough, and Corrington to trace a shift from transcendent to immanent, relational understandings of the sacred.

Examines how ritual re-sacralizes nature and addresses systemic injustice, integrating Durkheimian sociology, phenomenology, and liberationist praxis.

Reinterprets the Epic of Evolution through seven pivotal turning points, from the Big Bang to the rise of human consciousness, arguing for a mythos that unites scientific understanding with spiritual depth.

Also on The Dionysian Naturalist

Full-length, finished essays not included in the annotated bibliography above — still worth a read.

The Dionysian Naturalist
The Dionysian Naturalist
The Dionysian Naturalist
The Dionysian Naturalist
2008/24
The Dionysian Naturalist — written 2008, edited 2024
The Dionysian Naturalist
The New Saint Peter: Peter Lamborn Wilson
The Dionysian Naturalist
A Spirituality of Ecstasy: Dionysian Spirituality and Dionysian Naturalism
The Dionysian Naturalist
Wild Flesh — Critical Drug Studies
Public Writing

Noozhawk

110+ columns on homelessness, housing, and civic life in Santa Barbara — distinct from the sociology research platform on Doing Modernity (see Sociology). Full archive at noozhawk.com/author/wayne-mellinger.

Poetry

Not everything here needs a citation.

Eighteen poems selected from Moments of Awe Punctuated by the Mundane (2025) — a working selection, not the whole book.

A Theology of Wonder
"To be spiritual is to be amazed." — Abraham Joshua Heschel
Every now and then, the ordinary trips the switch.
It may be a black beetle on a red rose bush
or a dead horseshoe crab washed ashore.
These mundane things rip open a portal,
a glimpse of the universe's staggering beauty,
the majestic dance of creation.
For a stolen moment, you're yanked
from the dreary confines of your mind,
the self-pitying litany silenced.
A gentle reprieve from the endless loop of doubt.
A space to ponder the angels' whispers,
the crab's death a potential omen,
a harbinger of all crustaceans.
But who knows? Maybe it's all just random.
Beetles crawl and dead sea creatures wash ashore.
No grand design etched on the cosmic canvas,
just existence unfolding,
an endless, mesmerizing story.
Why do these moments slip through our fingers?
Why do we drift back to autopilot, that sleepwalking routine?
Surely these jolts of wonder,
these glimpses of life's miracles, are blessings.
But blessings fade.
The chatter of monkey minds begins again.
This is the cycle, our journey —
moments of awe punctuated by the mundane.
Yet, in these startling glimpses,
there's a spark to hold onto.
Even the ordinary, if we pay attention, can hold
the seeds of wonder.
Consider the Lizard
Each day the lizard with his lime green sheen
waits on sun-baked stones, while the butterflies dance
and the bumblebees hum in the spring meadow.
There is a pregnant pause of anticipation
when he leaps and eats his meal.
Life feeds on life — a brutal, primal score.
I cannot fathom the true meaning of this ritual,
but I know this:
anyone who hopes to escape death,
and hold at bay the endless circle of life,
has not considered the lizard —
how he basks in his spot,
rejuvenated by afternoon heat and insect-filled belly.
He watches the bough of the oak tree bend,
listening to the crickets chirping incessantly as the sun sets on the field,
as though all were planned and everything unfolded
according to nature's unique desire.
The field grows dark with a lavender light.
The lizard crawls under a rock.
The sky grows bright, star after shining star.
Spurred by Friends, Saved by Strangers
Can we bury thoughts by writing words?
Can I dissolve my feelings of rejection by putting them down on paper
and seeing their black finality?
Five years ago I was a popular man
who was sought after by old friends who came to town.
But then I screwed up — did meth,
attempted death,
fell apart,
ran wild,
got arrested, went to jail.
Now I do recovery, but some things cannot return.
Some cannot forgive or forget my crimes.
It hurts that so many have written me off forever and no longer seek my counsel.
I have been spurred by friends and saved by strangers.
The Search for Light
As I sit in this cold stone pew the dim grey illumination coming from the clouds casts few shadows on this winter morning — just the slight subtleties of shifting light.
My nightmares burst with bright sunlight and lurid naked glares. My entry into psychosis is blinding. I need clouds and trees and curtains veiling the light, softening it and making it move. I need small doses of light slowly dimming my lover's face until finally only a silhouette is left. Some days this lack of light is reinforced by isolation. Decorous conversations hide loneliness, tensions that cannot be expressed. No sound but the whimper of the wind, the chime of the clocktowers. Life decays towards nothing, but we cling on, trying urgently and clumsily to connect. We see ourselves through windows and in mirrors — divided selves gaze on our darker pasts until all masks dissolve. On a rugged limestone island a bleak dream-world is lived, where stuffed toys become talismans. I hope the bleeding will one day cease. Lighter moments sometimes surface in which I play comedies surrounded by laughter and pretty women. But darkness waits on the edge, loitering like a cloaked stranger playing drawn-out games, and flocks of black birds keep me company — rage, regret and anxiety keep me alert to life's demons, and keep me searching for the hidden lights of a lover.
That Which Is Not Meant to Be Seen
One evening I returned to the Ventura River and walked beneath the Main Street bridge to this bamboo thicket off to the left where the night before I had talked to a young man who seemed very sick. Diarrhea had ruined his pants. He said he ate bad berries. I went to my car to get him some sweatpants and to the bodega for a quart of milk. I told him then he needed to go to the hospital. He said "I'll be alright" — stupid bastard. And now as I approach the spot where he lay to rest I see his corpse lying there. What was weirdest was his nose was gone, as if tree rats had found him before I did and had a midnight snack. I worried that my footprints led to his body. High on crack I knew I couldn't call 911. What matter — it was too late. If you see a man whose nose is chewed off, you have seen that which is not meant to be seen.
Turning Fumbles Into Swan Dives
As we face the ugliness of the world — seeing things as they really are and accepting that as what really is — we must stay determined to be ourselves and to speak that which must be spoken. To turn our suffering into something that is beautiful we must focus on the present moment and our sometimes haphazard forward momentum.
When the school of life provides us with growth pains, or we find that we are fumbling, we must gracefully turn that into a swan dive, for to enter the gates of the underworld with a smile on our face is to paradoxically be in paradise. Our suffering can be a call to re-evaluate the path we are on. We must be willing to let go of our dreams so as to live the life that is waiting for us. It is in these darkest moments that light may appear and we become re-born with unknown gifts and hidden strengths.
Insane
The people who are seen as "normal"
who play their parts,
follow the rules,
and obey the laws,
are often the ones who are insane.
The people who do their own thing,
reject the roles,
break the rules,
and disobey the laws,
are often the ones who are "sane."
To accept the rules of a crazy world is an act of craziness itself.
But to rebel against those same rules is a healthy, liberating act.
So what then is "insanity,"
and who is truly sane?
Who decides psychiatric diagnoses, med regimes, and treatment plans?
Words like "mental illness" are labels applied by powerful people to control
what they consider wrong or unacceptable. It's merely opinion.
The truth is, humans vary immensely,
and cultures differ in their views on what is right and wrong.
It's true that many suffer and need a helping hand,
and each of us has had days when we can barely hold on.
Mental illness can be real.
There's no way to stay sane in an insane world, except by being yourself —
the unique individual that you are.
Dionysian Thinking
Dionysian thinking is not static or fixed but exists in constant flux. Rather than clear and precise linear pronouncements, it offers delirious and ecstatic "non-sense."
The abandonment of reason leads it to plunge into realms of unreason,
evoking Lucretius, Spinoza, Nietzsche, Klossowski, Bataille, Deleuze,
Foucault, Genet, Burroughs, and Bey, to forge a philosophy of affirmation.
It does not seek foundational concepts
but continually works against the grain of traditional categories
and conventional methods to reclaim State knowledge.
Anti-imperial clandestine resistance to the holies of fascism
— Capital, State, Family, Industry — keeps its purposes close at hand.
Also called "nomad thought" or heterology, it privileges multiplicity
but never as a foundation. It opposes the solidity
and sedentariness of Empires and States and the logic that sustains them.
Rather than trees of learning, it is a rhizomic root-sender,
always multiplying elements in a fecund way.
Libidinal politics is the self-organizing flow of intensities
and an enchanted realm of desire. Because it does not glorify negation,
its explanations are genealogical or other non-dialectical approaches.
Dionysian thinking affirms life as a dream arising
from the detritus of a dilapidated, self-effacing assembly of nodal points,
on-off switches, and endless circuits of impulses. Excess and overflow abound,
as does the Sun's expenditure of energy. The ecstatic frenzy of trances, intoxication, shamanic journeying, schizophrenia, and orgasm are sacred acts of liberation.
In this vein, we shall gather again at river bottoms, strip off all our clothes,
partake in entheogenic sacraments.
Danny, Las Vegas Hustler
"It's not easy being a male hustler on the Las Vegas Strip. Sure, you make a lot of money, but it goes so quickly and the competition is fierce. You don't know who you can trust."
In one hand,
a large bunny mask,
white, fluffy, absurd in this context.
In the other, an overstuffed athletic bag,
filled with most of his world —
a change of clothes,
a half dozen sex toys,
three star-shaped candlesticks
he grabbed from somewhere along the way.
A backpack rides heavy on his back.
Danny moves quickly —
the Strip teaches you this —
grab all you can,
and disappear.
He steps into the shower,
tries to wash away the years
he claims are only 26,
but his body says otherwise.
The wear and tear
of hustling, drugs,
and "friends"
who keep him in poverty,
homeless for eight years.
But there's always an exit.
Always a rush —
now it's morning.
He's stuffing his bags,
can't find his shoes.
"Any cash? Drugs? Insurance?"
The questions tumble out —
who asks for insurance
as they're about to leave?
The door waits,
and you wonder
how long he can move
through the world
before all of it catches up —
the hustling, the drugs,
the endless cycle
of grab and go.
The Throne Room
The bathroom may be
a fluorescent purgatory,
but as I sit upon this porcelain throne,
a sliver of glass catches the light,
casting fractured rainbows
on the cold, institutional tile.
Outside the window,
a wren taps its beak against the glass —
a tiny Zen master, unfazed
by the relentless flow of human traffic.
Here, upon these cold seats,
we confront our fragile truths,
our bodies — magnificent, mundane,
messy yet necessary.
This ritual,
a shedding of layers,
an invitation simply to be.
The gurgle, the flush,
remind us to release,
to flow with the rhythms of life.
In this small moment,
a universe unfolds.
We exit a little lighter, a little wiser,
catching ourselves in the mirror,
seeing, perhaps, our truest self.
Beneath these fluorescent lights,
the sacred hum of existence vibrates,
whispering that even in
the most mundane rituals,
the sacred is always waiting to be found.
Held in the Dark: A Psychedelic Crisis, a Stranger's Voice, and the Edges of the Sacred
I don't remember what time it was when I crossed over. Maybe 2:41 AM. Maybe eternity. It began, as these things sometimes do, with a mushroom, a screen, and a yearning I didn't fully understand.
I had taken a large dose of psilocybin — ritualistically, though alone. Not my first journey. I've danced with Dionysus before, flirted with boundary dissolution. But this time, the combination of the dosage, the trance music, and the AI-generated graphics conspired to split something open in me. Not just metaphorically. My body began to vibrate. Not shake. Vibrate. Like the frequency of my being had been tuned to a station beyond the veil.
It wasn't pretty. It was glorious. And it was terrifying.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I think I had what yogis call a Kundalini Awakening. Every cell in my body was alive with electrical ecstasy. My spine lit up. My palms felt as though they were portals. It reminded me of orgasm the way a thunderstorm reminds you of a faucet — same substance, different scale.
And then came the terror. I thought I might be dying. Or worse, stuck here — somewhere between worlds, never quite returning.
Instead of calling 911, I called the Santa Barbara County Access Line. It rang. Then a voice. Soft. Professional. Earthbound. She didn't flinch when I told her I was in psychosis. She didn't mock the word "Kundalini." She asked questions gently, one at a time, like laying stones across a river so I could step back to this world. She stayed with me. Twenty-five minutes. Maybe more. Her voice was a raft.
This wasn't a "bad trip." It was a holy crisis. There is no ICD-10 code for "kundalini storm." Yet she held me anyway.
This is a letter of praise, yes. But more than that, it is a small prayer of gratitude. For the unknown woman on the line. For the county system that allowed her to be there. For the mushrooms, strange teachers that they are. For my breath, which eventually returned.
This was not a mental health episode. This was an encounter with the wild sacred. And she met me there.
Angel on State Street
I see him before he sees me —
a blur of kinetic frenzy in the doorwell,
cigarette burning like a Fourth of July flare,
each puff a whispered prayer to the night air.
"Yo, Angel," I call, stepping closer,
his name too heavy for his shoulders,
yet light as the mad laughter that escapes his lips.
"Been lookin' for you," I say.
"Me too," he grins, "but I keep getting lost."
I ask if he's eaten. His eyes flick away,
down the block, down the years.
"Had twenty bucks," he shrugs.
"But I needed some weed to calm my nerves."
I nod, press a ten into his palm —
a silent sermon of concern.
The county spends thousands keeping him caged,
ER beds, jail cells, citation slips,
an expensive ritual of catch and release.
But still, no roof, no rest, no relief.
"Catch you later?" I ask,
a standing offer, a thread in the unraveling.
He grins, fist-bumps the air.
"Yeah, yeah, later," he says, flicking his cigarette,
watching the ashes dance,
watching them disappear.
The God Is in Withdrawal
We are living beneath the sanitized gaze of a pharmacratic inquisition. I say this not as metaphor, but as testimony: I have knelt before its altar, shivering in the sacrificial gown of intake, my head still humming with a trace of sacrament misnamed "substance." The nurse diagnosed me "addict," as if that invocation could erase the liturgy still echoing in my blood. But I am not your tragic victim. I am the ecstatic one, the renegade priest of controlled frenzy, the trembling conduit of a forbidden eucharist.
The war on drugs is not a war on harm — it is a war on gnosis. A war on those who have glimpsed the Real and refused to come back clean. If you are listening: remember this — there are better questions than "sober or not." Like: did you dance with your whole body? Did you touch the Mystery and live to speak of it? Did you come back singing, even with a torn throat?
Etch this on my tomb: here lies one who mistook intoxication for initiation — and wasn't entirely wrong. They called it relapse; I called it a pilgrimage with poor cartography. What I craved was remembrance. What I wanted was the wisdom of satyrs and sacred fools, not twelve dry steps toward acceptability. Give me thirteen, crooked and spiraling, through nightclubs and temple ruins, through shame and laughter, communion and collapse.
The Work of a Woman Named Mary
Mary was a tantrum in pink pajamas,
a thunderstorm at bedtime,
a girl who made cats tremble
and mothers sigh with a camera in hand.
At three she recited the names of paintings —
El Greco, Degas, Matisse —
with the precision of a professor
and the joy of a child who knew
she could make the world pay attention.
They called it ADHD.
They called it trouble.
They called it Ritalin.
But it was just Mary,
bursting at the seams
with too much mind for any one room.
Chris, our brother, carried shadows she could see.
They were close, both marked by diagnosis and difference.
When he died in that cell,
he tore a hole in the world
and Mary bled through it.
She had an affair with a cop
because the marriage had gone quiet.
Then the law said her longing was criminal.
Two years in Connecticut prison
for a woman who sent one message too many.
But prison, like grief, could not break her.
She rose in steel and shadow, came out stronger.
Only one thing broke her heart:
she was behind bars when our father died.
Mary is a woman who buries children never born
and loves the ones who forget her.
She is not common.
She is not quiet.
She is not done.
Mary is the work of a woman
who has swallowed fire
and still sings.
I Was the One Who Gave Him the Mushrooms
I was the one who gave him the mushrooms.
My hands cupped them like small brown tongues of God.
My fingers knew the names of stars.
I sang the ancient language while the candles flickered.
He called me healer.
He called me witch.
He called me "informant."
I was the one who opened the doorway.
I said, eat this, Don Roberto,
not with your teeth,
but with your soul.
And he did.
And he saw.
But I saw first.
He took the road back to New York,
but the spirits stayed with me.
He said the world must know.
He published the secrets.
He sold the names.
He made the sacred profane.
I was the one who lost everything.
The curanderas stopped calling me sister.
The mountain people said I betrayed them.
My son was killed.
My house was burned.
My name became a currency I could not spend.
But I was the one who gave him the mushrooms.
The velada was mine.
The chants were mine.
The night was mine.
And still is.
I was the one.
I am the one.
I will always be
the one who gave him the mushrooms.
Invocation to the Earth-Muse
In the beginning, they said the song came from above — nine sisters whispering fire into the ears of men. We bowed and begged for visitations, left honey on the altar, and called that trembling inspiration.
But now we have learned to listen sideways — not skyward but ground-ward — where root tips converse in mycelial tongues, where the sea rehearses eternity in the metered rhythm of her waves. No distant deity descends. The Muse is the breath of the world itself, the exhalation of natura naturans — nature naturing, endlessly creating, writing herself through us.
She no longer wears a crown of stars but a crown of pollen, dust, and dew. Her temple is the compost heap, her hymns the murmuring of rivers and the long patience of stone. Still — her laws have not changed. She cannot be summoned by command nor bribed with intellect. She comes when the heart unclenches, when the hand forgets to reach.
So I light no candles now. I breathe, I wait, I listen for the turning of leaves. And when the world begins to speak, I write — knowing it is not me who speaks, but the ancient Muse reborn in matter, the divine made immanent, the universe remembering itself through a human voice.
I Saw the Best Souls of My City
I saw the best souls of my city
standing in line at Ralph's at dawn with pockets full of loose change and faded food-stamp cards,
arguing gently over whether to buy coffee or bread,
whispering psalms under flickering fluorescent lights,
anointing cracked hands with jojoba and baby oil,
passing a blunt like a peace pipe on a bench at El Presidio after midnight.
I saw the best souls of my city
sleeping under tarps near freeway off-ramps where exhaust becomes incense,
where shopping carts become arks,
where blankets are folded with the sacred care once reserved for altar cloths,
where someone always stays half-awake to watch the others breathe.
Who were triple-challenged through no fault of their own —
evicted by rents that doubled in five years while wages stayed flat as vinyl,
denied detox beds because the waitlist was two months long,
left to self-medicate psychic agony with fetty
because Suboxone required an appointment they couldn't keep
without a phone, an address, a calendar, or hope.
Who died like Timothy John Largent, age thirty-one, from Bakersfield,
who just wanted the voices in his head to quiet down,
who wanted one night of rest without terror scratching the inside of his skull,
and instead his heart stopped at the bottom of Mission Creek,
because there were no detox beds,
because paying clients always came first,
because fetty was easier to find than mercy.
Who were not criminals but were criminalized,
not lazy but exhausted,
not broken but wounded,
not disposable but discarded.
I saw the best souls of my city
feeding one another from crumpled brown sacks of food,
holding hands through fentanyl storms,
whispering the names of the dead like a rosary under the stars,
teaching newcomers how to survive the night.
I saw them sacred and unrecognized,
saints without shrines,
martyrs without anthems,
liturgies unfolding beside chain-link fences and freeway walls.
And I say to you tonight, in candlelight and winter air:
these are not throw-away lives.
This is not throw-away suffering.
This is not acceptable loss.
Who called themselves compassionate while voting to criminalize camping; who drove past encampments on their way to yoga class; who complained about "the homeless problem" as if people were algebra — variables to be eliminated, not neighbors to be held.
Who turned Santa Barbara into a playground for hedge-fund aristocrats; who approved $4 million condos where grocery clerks once slept; who watched rents spike into lunacy and called it "market forces," shrugging as families packed their lives into storage units and Hondas.
Who confiscated shopping carts wearing latex gloves and plastic grins — calling it "clean-up" while tossing love letters, birth certificates, meth pipes, half-read Bibles, and the last photograph of a daughter not yet lost.
And I — I sat in meetings while mayors pretended it was complicated. I watched outreach budgets shrink and barricades grow. I testified at hearings while developers smirked. I handed out socks, tampons, toothpaste, and hope while the city debated whether harm reduction "sent the wrong message."
And the question returns, unrelenting: who, exactly, is harming whom?
We who were called unlovable held each other like scripture under bridges, kissed behind strip malls at midnight with breath sour from trauma and tongues lit like candles against the dark.
We built a fragile city under those tarps — shared cigarettes at dawn, warned each other which cops were kind, cobbled together survival from borrowed phone chargers and remembered birthdays.
We called each other brother, sister, mother, even when we had no blood left to give. Mourned in silence when someone vanished, setting aside half a sandwich in case they came back, leaving their sleeping bag untouched like an altar for the missing.
I remember: Emilio, feeding his cats before feeding himself, weeping when one didn't come back — they're the only things I've never disappointed. Angel dancing shirtless in the Trader Joe's parking lot to music only he could hear, and the rest of us clapping because even in hell someone was dancing.
We were not saints. We were not clean. We were not sober or safe or saved. But we loved each other in ways no agency could document, in places no grant would fund. We loved each other in the cracks. And that love was real.
Let this be a curse upon every city council that criminalized poverty, every developer who paved over sanctuary and called it improvement, every neighbor who dialed 911 when they could have offered water.
Let this be gratitude — deep, genuine gratitude — for every volunteer who brings socks, every caseworker who breaks policy to show mercy, every outreach worker who remembers their names. You are the faithful remnant. Your labor is holy.
But let this also be the truth we must speak: we have failed. The crisis grows worse. On this 13th Longest Night we declare: this must stop. This must stop now. We must house ALL our homeless neighbors. The status quo is not good enough.
Compassion without housing is charity theater. Harm reduction without treatment beds is cruelty with good intentions.
Let this be a monument made of stories — of Javier, Jordan, Joshua and Angel. Of kind Emilio and his hungry cats. Of Timothy John Largent who just wanted the voices to stop.
Let this be the thing you cannot unsee. Let this be your mirror. Let this be the sound of their voices still singing through mine.
Every December I return to the courthouse steps with a list of names and a lighter that won't stay lit. The wind off the harbor is cold. The tourists avoid me. The officials do not attend.
But I read them anyway — Michael. Jennifer. Carlos. Theresa. Angel. Emilio. Jordan. Javier. Timothy John. — because someone must say they were here. Someone must mark the space where they stood.
The candles flicker and go out. I light them again. The names continue. The list grows longer every year.
And when I finish, when the last name has been spoken into the indifferent dark, I fold the paper and carry it home like a relic, like a vow, like the only hymn that matters.
They are not lost. They were abandoned. And I will not stop saying their names until the city learns to count its dead.
A selection from Moments of Awe Punctuated by the Mundane (2025). Full collection available on request.
Prayers

Words offered, not just written.

Prayer runs through both platforms — ritual writing from The Dionysian Naturalist alongside prayer-poems from Moments of Awe. A starting list, to be filled in with full texts:

Poem
A Prayer for Those Who Serve
Moments of Awe
Poem
Prayer for Longest Night
Moments of Awe
Poem
A Prayer for an Entheogenic Sacrament
Moments of Awe
Ritual
Invocations & ritual prayers
The Dionysian Naturalist
Projects & Community Work

Justice work in Santa Barbara County

The organizing, ritual, and civic work behind the scholarship — where street outreach becomes public practice.

  • Longest Night Homeless Memorial VigilOrganizer, Dec. 21 annually
  • Santa Barbara Homeless Foot WashingCo-founder
  • Freedom Warming CentersCo-founder
  • Santa Barbara County Behavioral Wellness CommissionCommissioner
  • Santa Barbara / Santa Maria Continuum of CareMember
  • CLUE-SB · Showers of Blessing · Committee for Social JusticeBoard member
Sociologist· Philosopher· Writer· Poet· Social and Environmental Justice Activist
Curriculum Vitae

Education & appointments

Education
  • Ph.D., Sociology — UC Santa Barbara
    Committee: Zimmerman (chair), Wilson, Molotch
    1990
  • M.A., Sociology — UC Santa Barbara1985
  • B.B.A., Performing Arts Administration — UMass Amherst1981
  • Certificate, French Language & Civilization — Sorbonne1981
  • Post-Professional Skills Competency Award, Alcohol & Drug Counseling — SBCC2007
Academic Appointments
  • Visiting Assistant Professor, Sociology — UC Berkeley1994
  • Visiting Assistant Professor, Sociology — UC Santa Cruz1990–92
  • Graduate Faculty, Ed. Leadership & Change — Fielding Graduate University1996–99
  • Instructor, Sociology — Antioch University Santa Barbara2007–12
  • Instructor, Sociology — Ventura College1995–2005
  • Teaching Associate — UC Santa Barbara1985–90
Human Services Experience
  • Street Outreach Worker, Counselor, Case Manager — WillBridge / New Beginnings2007–12
  • Homelessness Prevention Program Manager — Transition House2008
  • Columnist — Noozhawk2012–present
Professional & Community Service
  • Commissioner, Behavioral Wellness Commission — Santa Barbara County
  • Board Member — CLUE, Showers of Blessing, Committee for Social Justice
  • Member, Santa Barbara County Continuum of Care
  • Founder, Longest Night Memorial (14th year)
  • Founder, Santa Barbara Homeless Foot Washing

Peer-reviewed work spans ethnomethodology and institutional talk, media and cultural representation, and the sociology of homelessness and abandonment (1992–present), alongside an extensive non-peer-reviewed body of essays on Doing Modernity. A full publication list can be added here, or linked out to a PDF — your call.