In this special investigative report, Hella Deep Background takes a look at an oft-cited but little-understood demographic of San Diego society – The Bro.  Sure, we all know about his douchey Hollister t-shirts, brotein bars, and fist-pumps, but what’s it really like for the Nabroleon Bronaparte’s of this world?

To find out, Hella Deep Background spent twelve weeks in the glib and garb of the archetypal Pacific Beach C-3PBro under the assumed identity of Chaduranga – Broga instructor by day, Jager-guzzling womanizer by night.

PACIFIC BEACH – “Alright brodhisattvas, we’re going to close out this session with some back-strengthening exercises,” I said to my class of three.  “If it’s in your practice, bro ahead and push back into Double Complete Rainbro.”

It was my first Broga session at a rented studio space off the main drag of Garnet Avenue.  I was nervous, suddenly self-conscious about the character I’d been formulating for over a year in order the break into the inner-sanctum of the Bro elite.  Could they see through my rouse?  Was it obvious I abhorred the Coors Light we all chugged as part of the tadasana “Tap the Rockies” Mountain Pose?  Would this colossal undertaking sink before it had even left the harbor?  Surely, only time would tell.

Your Humble Narrator in the guise of Chaduranga.

An intrepid Broto Baggins in my own right, I had set out to unveil the occult soul of Brociety by simple observation and reporting.  I had assumed all the evidence would be right there, begging to be released from an odious den of half-empty beer cans, dirty laundry stench, and Carmen Elektra posters.  Like the great Truman Cabrote before me, I accosted my subjects in cold blood.

As luck would have it, I was quickly accepted into the social circles of my students Brock, Connor, and Brad, and in no time I was reveling with the best of them – bumping chests and slamming nachos to televised football games, rocking keg stands, slapping high fives, and having unspeakable encounters with women of dubious integrity.

The setting was rife for exposé, but what I ultimately found was an utterly repulsive, unnerving, and intoxicating shame.

For, while at first it all seemed like a crude joke, an altogether alien notion soon began to pepper my incisive psyche.  A few weeks of stern boozing, lecherous behavior of the most ill-advised nature, and general fuck-offery had begun to affect my proper senses.  Something strange had happened to me over the course of my investigation.  In a purely pagan breach of journalistic protocol, I had unwittingly sacrificed my objective aloofness for belligerent participation and even – dare I say it now? – delight.

You see, whilst the Uptown hipsterati silently suffer in the self-imposed prison of too-tight jeans, veganism, and tedious musical affinities, the Brohemian lives a rich life of carnal pleasures, unrestrained by ephemeral fads and spineless ideologies.  Were he alive today, J.P. Donlevy would herald the Bro as the only truly living creature amongst the sapiens – a brotype of futureman whose only conscience is an insatiable lust for bitches and intoxicants set to the background drone of shitty three-chord pop punk anthems and bad pick-up lines.

And I, it appeared, was becoming one of them.

Does everything, indeed, as the great Russian philosopher P.D. Ouspenky posited in his largely overlooked 1913 masterpiece Tertium Organum, eventually become the opposite of itself?

I came to fear the worst.

Was I really just playing the part when I howled for another Keystone, hollered at State Beckies from Brad’s F-150, and slapped my Bros on the ass with a redemptive proclamation of  “no homo”?  Was I only faking mirth at having Iced Brock three times in one evening?  Did I actually enjoy the blackout coitus with Corrine, who shuns brophylactics?  Was it all a bad joke?  Or was it my former self that was the farce?

A hermetic circle of sorts was making itself known to me.  I had set out to expose the heart of the Bro, but could it be that I would ultimately be doomed to expose the Bro in my own heart?

No, stop.  This is madness.  Pull yourself out of it, man!  Before it’s too late.  The psychosomatic liver damage and venereal diseases would be appearing in no time.  Then the lifted truck, the inexplicable knack for Skin Industries and Famous Stars and Straps garments.  The Upside-down Visor.

Perhaps it had all gone too far.

These thoughts plagued me over the course of my investigation.  Meanwhile, The further I traveled down the rabbit hole, the more polarized my identities became.  Chaduranga took on a life of his own, asserting his right to blast cocaine and New Found Glory until dawn five nights a week.

Like the fabled Dr. Jekyll, I had created a monster which threatened to absolve me entirely.

By week twelve I’d lost it completely.  Broga class devolved into rowdy binge drinking sessions with little to no spiritual activity.  Were it a game of Oregon Trail, our dharmic feast would have been running meager to scare.  The assignment itself became a foggy lost memory.  I had reached rock brottom.

Then – what’s this? – a flash of light.  A recognition.  Ah, there you are ole boy!  A sliver of the old self shining through.  The bicycling journalist who would totally wear a Three One G shirt if he had one.  The affable partier who wishes everyday was Burning Man and has a soft spot for girls who put their finger in your mouth when you yawn.  Your Humble Narrator was back!

But alas, the toxic, schizoid fog began to take hold again, and the last conscious words I uttered were both a blessing and a resignation to my fellow brogis.

“The Coors Light that shines within me honors the Coors Light that shines within you,” I said, humming the first lines to some shitty Pennywise jam.  “Brahmaste.”


GASLAMP – Legendary U.K. dubstep producer Rusko played a free show at Red Circle Lounge last night to a full house.  Although the venue was at maximum capacity by 10 p.m., nearly half of the audience had to be evacuated on stretchers within an hour due to freak-out related injuries.  33 heads combusted when the bass dropped, and at least 21 spines were dislocated by enamored dancers who popped and dropped but forgot to lock.  Another 42 patrons incinerated altogether in Pabst-flavored explosions on the dancefloor.

“The personal explosions were probably painless if not orgiastic,” says blowthefuckuptologist Dr. Bernie M. Moobschlocker.  “My guess is they were instantly transported to 2012 on the backs of benevolent winged serpents.  That or an alternate reality where people have room-temperature Big Macs for pets instead of cats and dogs.  But probably 2012.”

Urban shaman Ned McDougal speculates that the combusted heads, too, have gone the way of Mayan prophesy.

“That killer sub-bass actually creates a rift in the space-time continuum,” says McDougal, who says he’s lucky to have escaped the spectacle unscathed.  “I suspect Mescalito held me in present time so that I might help guide the rest of the human race towards the singularity at the end of time as we know it.”

McDougal recommends potent psychedelics and ultra loud bass so that we all might get this bitch on the road and transcend the third density already.

Carne Asade nachos better than brussel sprouts, Science says

Carne Asade nachos better than brussel sprouts, Science says

UTC – Mexican food is the shit, and may be a holistic cure for June Gloom, new studies reveal.

“Experiments on lab chihuahuas show that guacamole actually binds with dopamine receptors in the brain,” says leading burritologist Howie H. Manfield at UCSD’s Tacocology Lab.  “With taco shops as ubiquitous as King Stahlman matchbooks, San Diegans are totally in luck.”

Manfield says his experiments have identified several other compounds in Mexican food that contribute to a healthy psyche, including tacodine, quesocaine, sourcreamium, various chipotloids, and polloasadic acid 25.

“We thought about isolating the active agents to be sold as over-the-counter supplements,” Manfield says.  “But that would be retarded.”

Hella Deep Background recommends El Zarape fish tacos, Lucha Libre Surf & Turf burritos, and Santana’s Achiote chicken tacos as a part of your daily health food regiment.

LOGAN HEIGHTS – A stray Belgian Tervuren or something reportedly intercepted a tourist wandering through Southeast San Diego yesterday  afternoon and herded the bewildered man to some of the sweetest spots in town, sources say.

Vinnie Cook, a vacationing bail bondsman from Phoenix, says he was asking an elderly gentleman at Memorial Park for directions to the In-N-Out  Burger when the charismatic canine approached him with a knowing grin and said, “dude, follow me,” in that special unspoken way which only a weathered street mutt can.

“We watched ships in the harbor, ate pizza in Little Italy, and got stone drunk at Cherrybomb,”  Cook relates.  “He made sure I smuggled in a Coke, to water down the all-business cocktails.”

Cook and the canine then grabbed some 40s at a South Park 7-11 and hit up a rad roof spot, where they chain-smoked and talked about their ex-wives and baseball and shit.

The dapper dog never did mention his name, but Cook says he remembers him as Scooter.  “I’ve always wanted  a dog named Scooter,” a choked-up Cook says.  “It’s just a really awesome name.”

NORTH PARK – Some dude was struttin’ so tough down 30th near University Ave. this afternoon that a hecka tight bass line followed him everywhere he went, witnesses reported.

“Home boy was ballin’ like Mr. T,” said Haylie Basch, 25, who was drinking a cup of coffee when dude cruised by.  “I mean, muthafucka was truckin’!  The cosmos would have been plain stupid not to have kicked out the jams.”

“The only other time I saw something like this was when Rick James was still with us,” said street musician Bobby Reynolds, 53.

The little-understood phenomena, called Cosmiphonjambolosis, is extremely rare and often occurs in conjunction with St. Elmo’s Fire, Scientists say.

“We received no reports of St. Elmo’s Fire, or ‘ball lighting,’ today,” said Cosmiphonjambologist Mickey H. Krupp.  “But so what?  That jam was tight!”

Scientists are currently refining a technique for capturing Cosmic Strut Jams using high-powered lasers and so-called “Star Wars” satellite technology.  Krupp hopes to inaugurate an online Cosmiphonjambology radio station by late summer.

“We all have a jam inside of us.  But you’ve got to silence the mind to hear it,” said Krupp.  “You’ve got to be a baller.”

Witnesses said Harper was giggling like a school girl as he snapped photos on his mobile phone.

UNIVERSITY HEIGHTS – 27-year-old Greg Harper alleged that a ladybug landed on his leg while he was reading a book at the Trolley Barn Park around noon today.

“At first I thought it was a spider,” said Harper, a graphic designer, “and I hate spiders.  When I realized it was a ladybug, I chilled out and the bug cruised up my calf […] It really tickled!”

The ladybug (also known as the ladybird) is part of the beetle family.

“Eventually I couldn’t take it any longer,” Harper continued.  “I put my hand down and the ladybug crawled up on my finger.  It excreted some foul-smelling yellow stuff onto my thumb, turned around, ate it, and flew away.”

Scientists say that the yellow substance Harper encountered was blood, which ladybugs excrete as a defense mechanism.

KENSINGTON – A barista at a cozy Kensington cafe allegedly called every body “sweetie” and “hun”  as she distributed  hot cups of coffee today.

“It was really unexpected,” said fifteen-year-old Todd LeDuff, who was still grinning wildly from the encounter.  “The day started out kind of sucky, but then the chic behind the counter hit me like a bolt of lightning to the face!”

“She’s such a dear,” said regular Doris Fletchers, 83.  “She’s like one endless hug!”

Scientists are currently studying the effects of Barista Maybelle Suthers’ unbelievably good vibes on her beverages.  Research has shown that her coffee is about 30% bomber than the local mean.  Other data suggests that Suthers’ regulars live on average 15-20 years longer than patrons of the nearby Starbucks.

“That leering beast Starbucks across the street doesn’t stand a chance,” economist Larry Lowenstein conjectured via email.  “They simply can’t match the ineffable warm-fuzzy feeling one gets from barista extraordinaire Maybelle.”

Suthers has been working at various coffee houses for almost eight years and calls it her “dream job.”

“I’ve always loved cappuccinos and the people who drink them,” a radiant Suthers reported.  “These people are like family to me.  It’s really wonderful, really magical.  Know what I mean, hun?”

BALBOA PARK – A man in his late 20’s was seen practicing Kung Fu beneath a cottonwood tree on the west side of Balboa Park around 2 p.m.  Witnesses said he really kicked ass, demonstrating intense self-control, bitchin’ Chinese fan tricks, and a deep kinetic yen of both poetry and subtle cosmic principles.

“Shit was like Bruce Lee and shit,” noted jogger Leon McKraddy, 33.

The Sunshine Ninja, as six-year-old Beth Sanderson called him, reportedly wore toe boots and a black t-shirt bearing the name of a metal band which nobody has ever heard of.

“It was totally awesome,” said transient Charles Kaye, 20.  “Here I was thinking cartwheels were the thing, but, I mean, cha!”

Kaye called the Sunshine Ninja an “obvious preverberation from the future” and “the man!  Not ‘The Man’, man, but, you know, the man!”

Around 2:51 p.m., the Sunshine Ninja was heard to mutter something about “those fucking pirates” before vanishing entirely in a puff of smoke.