Sunday, January 30, 2005

do i make you horny?

there are times when youre just not in the mood.

some common symptoms are: headache. backache. a subtle separation inside, and all surrounding conversation sounds like it is coming from a distant party on another blanket in another park at another picnic far away from you. diarrhea. hysterics. runny nose. nausea. a sudden fascination with commercials, like the one where the old man is breaking down reminiscing about the wife of 60 years he lost to cancer, which for some reason tonight just breaks your heart. a painful desire to listen to records on your headphones. a rush of sentences in your head that dont make any sense and dont make any sense whatsoever. the sensation of being on the verge. upset stomach. limp dick.

sometimes even if you can get it up. you just dont wanna.

youre just not in the mood.

and of course somethings wrong with you. of course. because its not her. its definitely not her. you tell her, -its not you. you tell her over and over and kiss her on the face and neck and tell her she is sexy so sexy and stare at her body and breast and hips and gently caress her thigh and tell her again how sexy she is. that its not her. she says she believes you. you arent sure if you believe her.

you lay there next to her. naked. you study her. you glide your hands over her curves. look into her half sleep eyes. her pretty face. you kiss her. she lets out a small moan.

there are things you are expected to do. actions which define your role. your function.

you wait until she is asleep and leave the bed to wonder what it is thats wrong with you while smoking cigarettes and drinking screwdrivers in another room. you wonder if it is all the smokes and alcohol. you wonder if you watch too much porno. you wonder if its sadness or anger. or nerves. even after all this time. you wonder if its work. if its school. if its worry. if its all the other girls you think about. if its her.

you drink some water. you brush your teeth. you slide into bed and grab hold of her warm body. she pushes back against you. you breathe her in. you squeeze.

sometimes youre just not in the mood.

deal with it.

Friday, January 28, 2005


dude! it is BRICK! [that means cold in brooklynese bitches]

i am coping with it ok. this is my third winter up in this piece, so i got the fat coat, the heavy scarf, crazy beanies and wicked thick gloves in the arsenal. not that any of that shit matters when you get an icy, cheek freezing arctic blast to the face when you roll out in the morning but im getting used to it.

L-Bleezy, on the on the other hand, who is a howley from hawaii and can count only her years in san francisco as 'cold climate experience,' HATES new york winters. she only has encountered two of them [she bailed for one] but new york winters have become her ja rule. her celine dion. her kathy griffin. she DESPISES them. she doesnt understand how people can live in this climate. she ask me all the time -how the FUCK can people live in this climate. yeah, the lza hates the wintah.

the other day we were walking to the subway and she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks, bent over and started intensely studying the sidewalk. im thinking she sees the virgin mary's face in a patch of snow or something because usually there is no way in motherfucking hell she is stopping for ANYTHING when troopin to the train in the am, its too fuckin cold to be stoppin, shit, gotta keep the blood flowin fool, keep steppin. but here she is in 10 degree weather stooped over and staring absolutely fascinated by what she sees. i still dont know what the fuck it is but she better hurry the fuck up cuz its COLD AS A MOTHERFUCK. she reached out her hand and pressed down on the sidewalk.

-oh my god. i think its... i cant believe.. what the... what the fuck there is MOTHERFUCKING ICE ON THE GODDAMN GROUND!! are you fucking kidding me there is ICE on the ground. i am walking on and slipping on ICE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING GROUND IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING CITY.

i looked down. yup. ice. on the motherfucking ground. -huh. i guess the snow melted but..

-yeah before it could fully melt IT FROZE INTO ICE BECAUSE NEW YORK IS SO COLD ITS NOT NATURAL. ITS JUST NOT NATURAL. i would cry but im afraid my tears would freeze onto my face and form little icicles on my chin that would poke and stab me in the neck when i looked down at the ground to see where i am going because i dont want to slip on THE ICE ON THE MOTHERFUCKING GROUND.

she stomped off, slipping a little on the ice then catching herself and looking back at me with a stare that said -if cold weather were a person i would totally plunge a dull blade into its eye socket right now, and you can bet i would twist. i would plunge and twist.

yeah. the Lizzle LOATHES the wizzle.

well its supposed to be in the high 30's for the next week. shit, thats practically frisbee weather!

i think its about time for some starbucks colon bombing action.

Thursday, January 27, 2005


it was boiling hot. all the faces were strange except for one. this cute puerto rican chick named zoe. she is quiet and dark. we took a class together back in '04. i never talked to her then so why should i start now. i dont even pretend we are suddenly close. i nod my head and sit down in the back.

teach walks in and gives us the ol song and dance.

-i will not tolerate lateness. i will not tolerate absences. i dont care if you have a full time job and have trouble getting here. if you think this will be of concern i suggest you find another class. this class's purpose is ACADEMIC. we will be reading the great thinkers of the 19th and 20th century. most students cant keep up with the reading and decide to drop out. if you decide to take this route i suggest you do it soon. i will not slow down the schedule for anyone.

she is trying to scare us, and i dont know about anyone else, but its totally working on me.

ive never entered a class and thought i could get anything less than an A. until now.

granted, i just started school after a 10 year hiatus. [when youre 19 and the intense realization that you want to be a DJ suddenly overwhelms you. and the very idea that having PURPOSE enters your life, its perfectly natural for you to put college low on your priority list. with the records and the drugs and the tunes and the girls and the music and the early morning epiphanies to consider first. at least, such is the logic of jon]

so this is the meat of it. this is why i came back to school. to learn. to get smarter. and im deathly afraid of it. all that arrogance. all those pretentious intellectual musings. will be put on the table. im gonna be found out. they are all gonna see that im a fraud.

ive got to take a business trip in february. and i can assume plans for my annual march in miami get down can eat a piece of shit.

fucking hell.

whatever. whats a challenge, right?

im charging it.

hbo movies

[man that last update was boring. BOAR-RING!]

so i watched the life and death of peter sellers tonight. i've learned a few things from it. lemme list em for ya:

1. when a pretty girl ask if you want a cookie the correct answer is: yes please.

2. a lonely man is [not just] a blank canvas from which to paint upon.

3. marrying pretty girls to replace the void left by your fat mother only works temporarily, and involves a lot of messy divorces.

4. casually mentioning that you were more affected by the life and death of peter sellers than you were control room just to get a rise out of her [for reasons you dont quite want to justify because you arent sure why you did it] is NOT a good idea and will inevitably lead to a fight.

i start my classes tomorrow. i have a feeling this semesters gonna be rough.

Wednesday, January 26, 2005


today was pretty digestible. im actually in fairly good spirits. go figure. with gloomy tuesday long forgotten, i approach this update with a fresh perspective. such is the emotional rollercoaster ride that my legions of readers must endure.

i got to work and right from the giddy up my friend is sending me a link to some article about irv gotti and some other schmo are turning themselves in to the FBI. Murder Inc [irv's record label] is gonna be shut down real soon. guess the fools been laundering money for some heavy dealer in queens. you know what this means right? no more ja rule records! how fuckin sweet is that?

then i get called into my kinda bosses office. he's bitchin cuz the owner doesnt want to pay for him to go to LA and SF with me next month. he's thinking i should go alone. now its not the going alone that im excited about, because my kinda boss and me are friends so it would have been stellar west coast ho down even if he did tag along [but going alone is mighty sweet too. more room to explore the city with no dead weight], what im excited about is that now i have an excellent angle in gettin a laptop. there is no way id go out there with no laptop. and my kinda boss isnt going to give me HIS for 5 days. nope. i guess its going on the company credit card. i just wonder now if im going to be able to score the powerbook ive had my eye on. [i hope they dont cheap out and get me a crappy compaq or something. that would fist ass]

there was a brief hiccup in this adventure of solace: that was going to the DMV to renew my license. my cali card expired a few months ago and im going to need a valid drivers license to rent a car in LA. well, i get down there with old card and older social security card in my wallet. im just KNOWING this is going to be a breeze. nah. no breeze. no breeze at all. i have to have a birth certificate or passport to renew my shit. god damn. fuck! i have no idea where i could find my birth certificate. i think that burned in a fire or something way back in '88. i knew i should gotten that passport. even though i know im gonna exit the country eventually i never got one. guess i figured it would just one day appear. whatever. so i stomp through the charcoal gray sludge to the post office. [dude, the post office is huge out here. its like, the size of madison square garden. jay z should do a show there.] i get some forms to fill out and bounce. guess the license is gonna have to wait. weak.

so back in the cubicle while im reading this article about how the show Family Guy is gonna be back on tv [uber sweet] i realize that its pretty silent. i need some tunes. i look through my cd collection and what do i find? an old mix i made. 'Heavy Fluid' named in tribute to my old party in the west village: Fluid Exchange [super silly name i know. whatever. eat it bitches]. my first truly eclectic mix. from stevie wonder to radiohead to outkast to jeff mills. seriously crackin tunes.

and now this post will continue its secrecy...

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

its not my day.

from the moment i woke up ive been deeply involved in some weird existential crisis. i woke up to the question 'why?' and its haunted me all day.

i got to work and there is a snarky fax waiting on my desk.

"please take the time to review this request. we do not enjoy refaxing and refaxing our request. thank you"

why the 'tude dude? and why does it affect me?

there is no amount of cigarettes, no amount of coffee, no amount of vodka or scotch or weed or any other chemical cover up that will relieve me of todays dread. no joke. no song. no pretty face. nothing. and i dont know why. but yet that is the question that torments me. why? why? why?

tuesday. tuesday has always been an empty black space in the calander. it is unpredictable and random. tuesday is the one day of the week you enter blind. you have no idea what tuesday will bring. tuesday can be filled with magic one week and plagued with worry the next.

[i remember taking it til tuesday. that was what my friend called it back in the day: taking it til tuesday. start friday and burn right on through until its tuesday morning and you are in the same sweaty clothes on a bed in a downtown hotel room smoking meth with a mexican trannie named Darla. those were dark and dirty, dire days. way behind me, in a different age.]

this tuesday is NOT being polite. this tuesday hates me. it doesnt care that im a record exec or a student or that i can be witty and understanding this tuesday wont notice that i work hard and that im trying that i swear im trying this tuesday isnt my friend it isnt going to squeeze my hand and ask me why im so quiet and if i need to talk its not going to offer any advice or solutions this tuesday doesnt care. about my past or my future. this tuesday doesnt even know who i am. this tuesday sucks but i couldnt tell you why i can only ask and wish that the ghost of monday past would take its hand from my throat so i could stop choking.

Monday, January 24, 2005

6 things and a zorro mask

[after a brief exchange with super cool cyberbombshell blogger friend Saydizzle ive determined i am fine with the previous post and was over reacting because i actually got (gasp) personal. i dealt with it, now you deal with it.]

1. Women do not think its a compliment when you say, "damn girl, if you were a gerbil i would TOTALLY put you up my ass!" they actually get kind of offended. if you find a woman who doesnt get offended by that comment, bound and gag her then lock her in your basement. shes a keeper.

2. its fun to emphasize a statement by adding "the shit" to it. for instance, saying "im gonna ride the shit outta the subway to work," is much more fun than saying, "im gonna take the subway to work." here are some other examples: im gonna type the shit out of this update. im gonna eat the shit outta that bran muffin. im gonna drink the shit outta this coffee. and the obvious and most coveted use of The Shit would be, when excusing yourself to the bathroom, "Im gonna shit the shit outta this shit." try it, its a joy.

3. i dont care how well versed the British are when it comes to old american soul and funk, they do not have a clue what good hip hop is. also, calling your freind "mate" and your cigarettes "fag" is hella gay. [in addition, americans that say "cheers" instead of thanks need to be disemboweled with an unwashed shoe-horn. i dont care if you hear me using british phrases like "the way forward" when reffering to something that is cool and "whats the score" when asking what the situation is. i am much less clueless than you for one, and two, saying "cheers" instead of good-bye or thanks is just stupid and annoying. stop already, YOU ARE NOT BRITISH, i dont care how many Oasis bootlegs you have]

4. im a total biter. there was a time when i would deny that i was bitin your style but the new jon, the jon of the '05, embraces that he bites your shit. if your shit is cool, im BITIN sucka. thats all there is too it. this fool knows what im sayin. i be biting the shit outta that fool. but whatever, cuz jon of the '05 also doesnt care if you bite his shit. go ahead bitches, bite it. i prolly already bitten what your bitin from some other cooler, hipper, more creative chump anyway.

5. if i were a NBA player or an R&B singer, rest assured i would be ass plunging and pissing on the backs of nubile young women around the nation, but i would be smart enough not to video tape it. actually when i think about it again, i would TOTALLY video tape it, who am i kidding?

6. having six things to say is better than five.


Sunday, January 23, 2005

the media

she asked me tonight if i felt guilty. she asked if i felt shame or remorse. apparently my chemical diet doesnt promote a healthy lifestyle, and instead conveys a lack of ethical values. -there was a whole bottle of vodka in the freezer four days ago. a CHEAP bottle. a HUGE JUG. you dont feel that there is anything wrong with the fact that its gone now, that the entire bottle is gone? you dont care?

i looked into the blizzard outside. the first of the year. two feet of soft cold white blankets the street. i think about what she is asking. im twenty nine years old and ive embraced crime and ive embraced suicide and i have worn it like a badge. ive worn it in defense, introducing myself as a lowlife as a pervert as scum and taking the judgment away. stealing it back, that is how i protect myself.

i was born from a brilliant schizophrenic and raised by strangers of the state. i have been homeless. i have starved. i have taken care of myself. i have a beautiful one bedroom at the top of a brownstone in a great neighborhood in new york. my house is toasty warm and safe from the freezing cold outside. i have an enviable position in the field of my choice. i have a few close friends. i have reasons. i came from nothing. i saw the bottom. i have suffered and i have survived. i have plenty of reasons.

and she wants to know if there is even a pang of guilt. of shame. for drinking a bottle of vodka, a bottle that i bought with the sole intention of devouring mercilessly, in less than a week. she wants to know if i feel ugly. she wants to know if i care?

i took a sip of my drink.

-no. i dont.

end of fucking story.

Saturday, January 22, 2005

recent kicks

at the bottom of the glass is a meager sip.

well, not anymore. guess i gotta get a refill... [walking opens freezer opens fridge opens bottle opens carton pours stirs swallows ahhh.]

there thats better.

this cool white south african cat i know snacked me a couple of my recent kicks this afternoon.

so im a clever zombie now. can i nibble on just a wee bit of your brain? not too much, just a small bite.

im at this club and its yesterday night and there is this guy singing punk rock over jungle drums and glitch hop breaks wearing a scottish soccer tee on a stage burning under red hot illuminations and i think to myself -is this what people felt when they first saw rap or punk rock in the east village? this sense of seeing something new and fresh and thats not meant to be sold or marketed. then the guy starts to bore me and i think -no. this dudes just spazzing out and i mistook it for 'art'. whatever spazzy white dude. go on with your herky jerky cyber self. im sure its more than you were doing in Dayton or Louisville or where ever it was you took the bus to get here from.

the next guy [another white guy with bangs 'performing' on a laptop] was pretty good. jimmy edgar [add link when naked]. some new guy. his beats got a little bump to em. i aint hatin. i like him. he plays a weird science nerd techno meets timberland mixed with middle american acid house set that i kinda like.

a pretty girl gets her shirt attached to the velcro of my bag. i joke that that was my plan all along. that its a new technique ive come up with to meet girls. she laughs. her name is christine. my name is jon. we smile. her shirt is apparently mega delicate and made from the hair of infant leprechauns and it takes her about 15 minutes [in which i cant move because if i moved then it might rip her PRECIOUS SHIRT] to separate it from my bag. in that 15 minutes i grow insufferably annoyed because the club is scorching hot and im wearing my big coat and a sweater and holding this stupid bag which i cant move because i might rip that STUPID FUCKING SHIRT if i do. after a while im no longer smiling. finally we get divorced and she disappears into the crowd.

after a few drinks im done. i chat with some faces. clink my drink amongst various glasses. listened to some tunes and then im done. well, im not ENTIRELY done. i mean, i have a few more drinks after i get bored. you never know whats gonna happen if you leave too soon. this guy [link sam] knows what im talking about. i end up throwing in the towel at a pretty early hour. still im crazy late for work the next day.

thats about it. i know, boring update. but im trying to get a little consistent. eat it.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

two heavy screwdrivers into it

im a lazy blogger. bad blogger! bad lazy blogger! bad! [smack!]

my lifes been a renter lately. forgettable dialog. uneven action sequences. but a couple clever cameos and at least one genuinely humorous moment. still, it hasnt been anything you would call "big screen" material. nothing you would want to waste your VALUABLE time on.

the tune in my head is amerie's 'talking about'. its getting major rotation, consuming the airwaves. the drums make me shiver they beat so hard. they crash and roll. crash and roll. it has a little bit of a beyonce flavor that i'll forgive, if for nothing less than because i dont have the courage to hate on it. its too good. its hard soul that beats the dancefloor. insane. check it out. [i'll add links later, when im NAKED]

ive switched from hops to spirits. thats right. you heard me.

it was time. i had just gotten paid, and it wasnt a rent check. nah. it was a go for it check. a start a tab at the bar check and take her out to dinner check. its the check you get your porno passwords with. the one you get that gram with. the get the laundry service instead of doing it yourself with check. the enjoy the night with check. the buy a jug of vodka and some oj check.

so thats what i did, and so far its working.

i ordered some cigarettes a while back. from a new spot. one i just stumbled across. i think they are out of canada. ottawa or something else that sounds like the descendant of a beaver. anyway, they are cheap. almost TOO cheap. comes to something like, $1.00 a pack, free shipping. ridiculous. so, this was way back in like, 1998 or something, and im still waiting for my cigarettes. finally i email them and ask politely where the cigarettes i ordered [twenty seven years ago] were. and do you know what these fuckin cigarette peddlin canucks do? they reply with this impatient ass email talking about, -what are you going on aboot ay? as we have tried to inform yoo, the holidays make us crazy moose fisting homo perverts and it SLOWS DOWN THE SHIPPING PROCESS, ay? if you would have just read our website you would know this. now if you doont mind, i have to get back to electro shocking this nice elderly womans clitoris. your smokes will get there, ay? have a good day. sincerely, unimportant character in your life.

this was two weeks ago. i still havent received my cigarettes.

[unsheathing blade.]

whatchu think nigga, im playin?

yeah, so aside from buttering up canadians i got nothin. ive been workin. pimping these melodies. gettin my school shiza in order. i got a class in harlem next semester. that should prove interesting. parade among the history of me. peep how the north did shit. check out a few bars after class maybe. absorb things. find a connection, if there is any. harlem is deep and raging. its rich, it swings. its on tap. so get a glass hookers. pull up a chair.

[i saw this old cat at the bodega today. trying to collect on some lotto winnings. the kid behind the counter refused him though. he was too late, the kid said. forty five days until they expire, the kid said. i cant do nothin for ya, the kid said. the old man stood still, staring. his mouth was silent. then -forty five days?. yup, the kid said, and he threw my cigarettes across the counter. i started to feel sympathy for him, an old sadness began to swell inside of me, but then i rejected the sensation; i couldnt feel sorry for the chump. he fucked up. he should've known. you gotta cash in son. you cant hold your chips. crack it while its cold. get it while its hot. take what you have earned. what are you doing? what are you waiting for? you win the lottery, collect the dough. why are you playing otherwise? no. i couldnt cry for that broken dream. he wasnt a victim. he was a dumbass. its too bad, but what can i do. hey, enjoy the snow buddy.]


Sunday, January 16, 2005

bored black man

all my thoughts are broken.

[i know i know, thats totally goth of me to start with a sentence that sounds like a trent reznor lyric, but i gotta a little of that in me. theres hip hop pool party jon. theres brooding techno dj jon. theres jeans and tshirt witty and sensitive indie rock jon. theres finger snapping cool knit hat sporting funk and soul jon. and there is suburban goth teen jon, who you read here today. eat it bitches.]

ANYWAY.. so, all my thoughts are broken right? and i was sitting here listening to this sisters of mercy album and crying while cutting my thigh with a razor blade when i felt i should write this poem to express my inner conflict. its very dark and mystical. BEWARE!!


the darkness surrounds me
i suffocate in its blackness
all black, choking me
black black
black dark black
black black bliggity black
bliggity bliggity bliggity
black to the black dark black
bliggity bliggity black black black
my parents got divorced

doesnt that poem just BURN INTO YOUR SOUL??? it is so goth it STINGS doesnt it? it took me six hours to write. and i smoked three joints and drank two beers in the process. but i think its ALL worth it. dont you?

jesus christ this blog is going to hell in a handbasket.

end bit.

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

choice cuts

So ive decided that if i were a man that was into jazz. i mean heavily into jazz. the kind of guy that had a saxaphone on the floor in the corner of his studio apartment and smoked loose tabacco like a chiminey and called squares squares and cats cats and punctuated every string of sentences he spoke with, "ya dig?". if i were one of those guys. if i was a jazz guy, then i'd probably be into Be Bop. i say this because im too seasoned and bored with the standards and need more challenge to my music. its gotta be different, its gotta be interesting. its gotta have that perfect mix of soul and intelligence and sadness and rage and its gotta have melody injected with a small dose of protest. Be Bop seemed to encompass this philosophy, but everyone tells me its unlistenable. everyone tells me that you have to BE a jazz musician to understand it. you have to live by the horn and give into each note played and you have to suffer . you have to suffer jazz to understand Be Bop. you cant just listen to it, its unlistenable, ya dig?

well i told a freind of mine, a jazz cat back in disco, to make me a Be Bop cd. -gimme the best Be Bop, i said. -i want the shit that Bird would play when he was feeling pure fire. i want that shit that Dizzy would blow in a basement in harlem at 4am when everyone was juiced on living so we'll see. we'll see if im that guy.

i've been on a soul kick lately. been freakin out over this Old Man Macolm track and of course the newest future shit by Sa Ra. a few more plates and imma make a futuristic soul salad for all my peoples to feast on.

i wonder if when france got all into hip hop during the early 90's they started spelling French with a "PH". haha. phuckin phrenchies.

Monday, January 10, 2005


damn this sundays boondocks kilt it. but of course you cant see what the fuck he's saying cuz the font is too fucking small. DAMN BITCHES, ENLARGE THE FONT!

i see this kinda shit all the time when im draped in two sweaters, a scarf, my large down wintercoat [the hunting model so i can carry all my various cuttin blades], a big ass skully cap [ski mask style just in case i gotta murk some chump for his vanilla soy latte in the morning] and super thick gloves lined with fur from the youngest, cutest, and most endangered animals known [i dont put the thinner, more flexile strangling gloves on till spring, too cold in winter to be chokin suckas, gotta stick with the blade through the chillier months] and im walking to the subway in the morning. some fool will run by me in those skimpy ass track shorts that you only see kenyans in when they are kickin american ass in a marathon. you know, the super thin ones that always show the bottom of your ass cheeks. what the fuck dude, its 35 degrees and you are wearing a silk fuckin nighty. dumbass.

if you can see what hes sayin then you'll know what i mean when i raise the fist and say "right on huey!"

put some sweats on dude, its winter.

and to help you get through your monday, a little giles to provide sweet tunes for what could otherwise be a tedius afternoon.

Sunday, January 09, 2005

The Rub

so last night after i drank just enough beer, smoked just enough weed, and ate just enough klonopin with one of my comrades to feel quite enough at ease watching this documentary and drifting into a deep black slumber another friend of mine calls asking if i wanna go to The Rub. The Rub is a party at southpaw in brooklyn. ive been to southpaw a few times. the sound is fair enough. i like the light scheme. its dim and even and you can see their thighs and their smiles and you can see where their hands are going but all with a hint of mystery. like everything is painted a quiet shade of magenta. they play good music he said. there will be a lot of pretty girls he said. its your last night before she comes back he said. it will be your last hurrah he added.
the last hurrah.

i had about $20 to my name. no list. we had abused it too much already. we gotta be pedestrian tonight. pay at the door. ok, so thats $10, and $10 left for one drink. not much of a hurrah. but i go anyway. i figure maybe there will be something there for me. maybe ill see that girl with serpentine curves and her lips painted golden and maybe she will kiss me and it'll be like a hallucination. maybe ill meet a promoter and he'll say -you are the dj we have wanted. here is a contract to sign we want you here twice a month. we'll provide the drugs we'll provide the hips and you just play your music and get paid. or maybe the place will be on fire. maybe ill be inspired. there could be something there for me. something i can stumble away with. something i can steal. something. so i decide at the last minute to go. even though i could just as easily disappear into my cave, i decide to go. i decide to have my last hurrah.

well, heres the scene. get to the club. cant get in without a girl. call the girls inside and they arent answering. typical. so when three cute girls walk up to get in i boldly attach me and my comrad to em. another guy we didnt know was solo as well and linked up with the third gal. so we all get in. the guy i didnt know pays the 3 girls admission. well played playboy, im sure that got you some points you can cash in later on in the evening, when the alcohol has loosened the girls up a bit and the groove is hip heavy and late night sex is lurking on the fringes. i cant afford such gentlemanly gestures so just pay the ten spot and i break through the crowd aimed straight for the bar. -scotch and soda with a lime.

i take a quick scan of the joint. he was right. pretty girls. good music. all that. but no fire. we find an open space and im bobbing my head checking out the girls and the guys and smelling sweat and sex and... i think vomit. i finish my drink fast. bob my head a little more, simultaneously get horny and nausea from the smell, and head back to the bar. the dj is playing all classics. it gets boring quick but there are these two hips in front of me that know how to swing so well so fucking well that im hypnotized. the girls with the hips catch me staring and smile. i smile back and try to look knowing. another drink, i decide. i need another drink. i get a drink ticket from the dj. -scotch and soda with a lime, please.

the bartender takes so long he gives it to me free. larry, the comrade ive been referring to, is off on the dancefloor using the ancient mating technique of humping the air furiously in an attempt to attract the female species. i wish him luck, finish my drink and use the drink ticket i was spared to get the next. when i get back to the wall i was blooming from the hips have disappeared and the dj is playing dancehall.

i swallow the scotch and soda, suck on the lime a little. and start working up to leaving. i troll around the club one more time desperate for inspiration, desperate for a reason to have spent that last twenty. there isnt any i realize. just loud music and pretty girls. so i make my exit. i get home, smoke my last spliff and masturbate thinking of thin chicks with thick curves.

some fuckin hurrah.

Friday, January 07, 2005


"i need some chemicals. some kinda of crystallized chemical or chemical in pill form or chemical dried into a powder or even a liquid just gimme SOMETHING cuz fucking christ i deserve it."
-me, at about noon today

the cleaning crew that comes to our office every night and empties our trash cans and refills the paper towel dispenser and windex's the mirror in the bathroom sell sacks of cocaine on the side. our coke addicted accountant told me. they sell small, pedestrian sized sacks of mid grade powder for $50 and even though ive never used this particular feature in their service its nice to know its readily available to me if i were to decide i needed 'a change in attitude' or a 'different outlook on things'.

they are spanish speaking and what english they speak is spoken in broken hushes. its a woman and a guy and they bring their kids. the kids are about 8 and 11 and sometimes they help. they will come by my cubicle and stand patiently until i notice them and hand them my trash can. i wonder how much they get paid. i dont think the woman likes me. i think she was around and i said something loud and in one of those final and condescending tones that i have when im trying to make a point to someone. now she stares at me out of the corner of her eye and its not a 'i want to fuck that guy' stare its more of a 'i want to stab that guy' stare. she always arrives first. and she always looks at me out of the corner of her eye. i think the guy does the coke dealing. but it could be the kids for all i know. little coke dealing kids. wouldnt be the first ones and aint gonna be the last.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

( )

fuckin satanist.

im not going to go into some long Seinfeldian diatribe, but satanist make no sense at all.

take Satan: now, im no expert on santanism or anything, so one must take whatever im going on about with a grain of salt, but my guess is Satan is like, the evilest evil of all evil things. i dont know if Satan is considered a guy thats red with a red beard and a red tail and sharp crooked red horns blooming from his hairy red dome, or if Satan is like, a spirit or a philosophy or this pure cloud of evil [that can take any shape or form and can be like, your VASE or your HANDSOAP and you wouldnt even know why your red roses died or your hands smelled like shit but it would be because of, guess who? Satan]. i dont know WHAT exactly Satan is but i figure Satan is the leader of all Satanist and is pure evil and all that.

i must confess that i dont care about Satan. whatever or whoever Satan may be. to me, there is no Satan. simple. sure there is guilt and remorse and temptation and sadness and hurt and death and loss and all things tragic that we must suffer. and worse yet, we have developed a written language from which to share this horror for future generations to grieve over as they ache through their own similar trial. still, this is only the nature of things, nothing and no one causes it. Satan is but an idea and evil is essentially a word. from these are born, satanist..

what im wondering is why do satanist have goatees and whats up with the gong?

i can imagine the photographer taking the picture:

ok, the chick with the devil hand sign in the air, you are ROCKIN GIRL!!! go on with ya satanist self! (hit me up later on the celly, we'll totally fuck.) but step a little to the left cause youre kinda blocking the gong. yo, dunny in the middle, the green on the inside of your evil velvet cape is totally showing. we are trying to create a dark black aesthetic here ok? DARK. BLACK. got it? close the cape, and the fact that your beret is GRAY instead of BLACK is totally already ruining the doomy mood were trying to build. c'mon dude. quit being such an unenthusiastic handjob here. if not for me, for Satan. ok? ok. little wimpy latino looking guy, youre doing good. keep it up. i FEEL the submissive goth worship vibe youre emoting with that drippy praying pose. stay just like THAT. alright, now everybody on three.. one... two... three ... HAIL SATAN!

i am POSITIVE that when the original idea of Satan was created it did not involve a beret or a gong. a cape, maybe. a chick with the devil sign in the air, totally. but a beret and a gong? im suspect.

this is all just silly.

end bit.

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

$:GUY in terrycloth:$

damn. im almost out of xanax.

on the december 17th, 2004, i was prescribed 120 pills of .5 mg of xanax. now i have 4.


and just when i was on the CUSP of addiction too. oh well.

it seems some hippie cat i know back in disco says he has a GUY in brooklyn that can get some serious psychodelics at some hilarious prices. yeah right, we'll see. getting a good GUY is like finding a twenty dollar bill in your laundry basket.
rarely happens.
but we'll see.

if it comes through ill take a trip to SoBe. thats slut slang for South Beach, Miami. one of my main soldiers lives there. him with the height and his wife with the hips. got a nice little one bedroom right in the center of it all [which is, as nobody will ever learn, where i always want to be]. two blocks to the shops. three blocks to the marquee. four blocks to the beach. perfect. too bad its in Miami.
if this GUY lets me score ill take a flight down south and soak in the cosmetics. that is, ill be in SoBe on white sand with a drink in my hand and my sunglasses on. that is, if the GUY lets me score.

oh shit. my boy just called. today he had a doctor take a knife and SLICE HIS EYEBALL WHILE HE WAS AWAKE.

i gotta hear this...


ok, so i guess he has a patch now. one of the medical ones, with the gauze and the white tape or whatever. of course he'll get a pirate patch later. one with a diamond encrusted 14k gold dollar sign on it. i think sean jean or Roc-a-wear makes some. or he can get a bootleg jammy on canal. in any case, he should get one made of terrycloth, cuz only playboys wear terrycloth.

damn. they had to stick a needle in his shit. even the doctor was grossed out. ugh.

pretty fucking sweet dude.

first a needle, then a blade. all to his naked eyeball.

oh hey, i think i just found a new way to coerce my boss into giving me a raise. neat!

yanging ass haters

see. thats what im talking about. fools always gotta be hatin. why you gotta hate fools? is it my fault yo skanky ass mama got all loosey goosey on 'ludes and let some fool plant his chump ass seed on her ass crack in the early 70's? is it my fault that chump ass seed dripped down her ass crack into her flappin ass vaginal lips and unfortunately, through some freak biological eventuality, she got preggers and had you? is that my fault bitchez? hells naw. so why you gotta be hatin? and why you always gotsta be talking yang? yang yang yang. thats all i hear from you suckas. yang.

hey jon, can you find out if yang did that yang yet and get yang to me?

mr. g, this is yang of Yang & Yang associates, we have a yang thats overdue and we were wondering if you were planning to yang this yang.

whaddup yo, i just got some yang and imma bout to go yang and yang my yang.

damn son, thats some yanging ass yang!

hatin ass fools talkin all their fuckin yang. im sick of it. god damn. you guys are lucky im lazy and forgot my anti-yang weapons back in the disco era cuz if i had em there would be the blood of hatin yang talkin fools splattered across every fuckin wall in new york city by now. yang blood everywhere. and poo. cuz of course i would have to take the fattest, chunkiest dump on every hatin yang talker i came across [this would entail a substantial increase of fiber in my diet but i would take most any preperation i had to in order to ensure that when my anti-yang blade hit their yang pumping jugular vein, their face was already covered in my healthy, fiber riddled shit].

like this guy i ask this fool if he can tell me how to put pictures up on this gay ass blog and hes like -read the faq dude. im all, oh, read the faq? you want me to read the faq? ok, i'll read the faq, but first how about I READ YOUR FACE WITH THIS MUTHAFUCKIN KNIFE BITCH!! jab. twist. jab. twist.

shoo. just for that imma post another pic.

Wah De Tah Yangers

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

first crack

what if i put i picture of a chicks SUPER FAT ass right ....


no. i cant because i gotta go through a bunch of stupid CRAP in order to post pictures up here.

god damn. fucking stupid crap.

hold on. let me go through this fucking crap.....




there ya go. spread some of that on your toast and eat it.

chinatown softcore

im 29 years old but for some reason [maybe because i started school again] these ancient memories of my childhood keep resurfacing. they all seem to prove one thing: im pretty much a porno freak and have been one for quite some time. maybe its because i was raised in san francisco, and have its seedy side in my blood. maybe its because my mother was a bisexual schizophrenic and i have loose philosophies regarding sex and love [in one of my most masculine characteristics, i seperate the two easily. even if i am having sex with someone i love, the actual act is an exercise in pleasure, not emotions]. maybe im just your average modern pervert. that seems reasonable doesnt it?

take this episode for example:

When I was a much younger kid, probably 12 or 13 years old. I used to go down to Chinatown in San Francisco and watch asian movies at this small, dank Chinese movie theater. Most of the flicks were softcore porn. At least in my adolecent eye they seemed to be. The old ladies at the door seemed indifferent as to why some obviousl underage black kid was interested in films where the dialog was in all Mandarin or Cantonese and they didn’t bother checking my ID before letting me in.

I would sit and watch bad dramas, none in English mind you, waiting anxiously for a sex scene. They would have triple features and some Saturdays I'd spend all day there, waiting for a nipple or an ass crack or some bush to appear on screen. Most of the movies were of the "cop that lost his wife and must accept that while some other chick [who has feelings for the guy] comforts him and eventually through the act of fucking this comfort sponge silly he gets over his dead wife and kills a bad guy along the way" vein. I didn’t even care that I couldn’t understand what they were saying, nor that what of the plot I could figure out seemed weak and cliché, or even that the acting was bad, I just wanted to see some hot Chinese fuckin, and I did, once or sometimes twice a flick.

This was before I discovered the joy that is called Masturbation ["partying" to some] so most of the time it was just 6 hours of me, a 12 year old kid, watching Hong Kong B movies in a largely empty movie theater. I did this almost every weekend during the time I lived in this grouphome off of 32 ave in the Richmond district. one weekend while trying to duck out to my little private Asian softcore session one of the other group home kids a Samoan tagger named Tasi [we eventually became best friends], obviously feeling lonely, asked to tag along. I reluctantly agreed but instead of taking him to the movie theater we went to Pier 39 and played video games. I never told him what I originally had planned on doing, and the next weekend when I went to the spot the theater had closed and even though I checked the next few weekends it never opened up again.

Sucks cuz the last movie they were playing looked like it had alot of tit in it.

getting to know kenny bloggins

So this smokin hot blogger chick linked me to her blog. which still gets 50 hits a day without her even adding anything to it. She's mega cool from what i've read, but i get a feeling that the drama llama shadows her ass a bit. i guess when youre a smarty arty hottie its inevitable that youre gonna get into some frequent fracas. doesnt burn to me though. go ahead girl. live that shit.

one too many xaney naps and guess who was an hour and a half late to work?

This has to be the coolest word I’ve heard in a while:

1. little girls that wear tight low cut jeans and belly shirts like Brittany Spears "Check out those prostitots over there. What ya think . . . are they 11? 12?"

Refer to: for more secret teen codes such as:

all up in the kool-aid
1. in someones business. "Thats between me and Pedro -dont be all up in the Kool-aid!"

Thats all. now get up out my kool-aid foo

1. n. (derived from fool) a friend. Whasup foo?" 2. an insulting name for someone. "What you lookin' at foo?"

i added that last bit cuz i just wanted to post more crap. eat it.

Monday, January 03, 2005

be kissin teeth

shoo. i always gotta be stoned n shit. like im some sorta stupid head or suntin. if you saw how much i be smokin you be like, 'DANG!' for real, its fucked up homie. i always gotta be smokin the weed n shit. always gotsta be gettin my trees or clockin my sacks or scoopin my herb or scoring my grass. i mean, i be just layin there, smokin weed and being like, 'what?' and shruggin like im some.. i dunno.. super weed smokin mackdaddy or suntin. shoo. i needs to be going to ITS and gettin me a degree in electritionry or suntin. thats what i NEEDS to be doin. shoo. not just sittin here cherrying up these shrubs. why i cant be doin nuttin smart like that? DAMN FOOL!! WHY DONT I STOP BEING SO STOOPID!!! SHOOO!!!! im sayin doe, for real. i always gotta be smokin some spliff or bong or can or apple or gravity bong or corncob or tampax or suntin. DAAAAANNNG!!! i always gotsta be doin SUNTIN.
shoo. i best ta chill. or imma be dumb.
watch. from doin this. imma be hella dumb. shoo.
{jerks neck side to side like an egyption robot]

makeshift evenings

i got home about an hour ago. took the F to the D to the M to brooklyn and popped by the corner bodega to pick up a few duece duece's of ol e before i crashed the palace. swallowed a couple xanax almost immediatly after i opened the door. didnt even wait to down em with the brew, just sipped the left over scotch and soda sitting wasted on my coffee table. i rolled and then i smoked a spliff. cracked a 22 and waited to see what would happen next.
nothing yet.
i bet the evening gets lucid. ill be swaying between inspiration and a comfy couch. each thought will be a gentle explosion and ill start. ill start. ill start i swear ill start. the rain will galvanize me into action. each car swishing past my window will add to the dialog. oh yeah. im gonna start.
ill start alright.


ok. this punk ass is trying to teach me how to hyperlink. lets see if it worked.

shit.. imma put an ass up there too. just cuz.. you know... i like asses [apparently, so does every other guy in america. asses are the new black].

shit. cant put up no pics. lame ass blogger shiza

cubicle biz

yeah im back up in the saddle. after all that holiday sleaze im returned behind the desk. jon is the name, pimping records is the game. now get out on that track bitch! and dont try to come back at me with no short stack, cuz then i'll hafta cutcha! [but you know you my number one girl, right? thats why im so hard on ya, cuz you my number 1. you gotta be the BEST, dig? now get my hair rollers ho, im hittin the club tonight].

damn i need to learn how to hyperlink on this shiza. and to put up pictures. crazy pictures. pictures of couples fighting in the street or homeless people passed out in an elevator. pictures of cracked walls and cracked minds and cracks in the sidewalk for you to hop over [unless you couldnt give a shit about youre mamas back]. pictures of cuts and bruises and scrapes and scars. pictures of fools living it up and pictures of fools dying. pictures so dark you cant tell where my background begins and the image ends. pictures of black and pictures of white. pictures that shine like a bright red hatred.

oh yeah, and pictures of beautiful women. beautiful ones. the nasty ones.

the kind that make your dick go limp they are so hot. the kind that taste like jolly ranchers when you kiss them and when you pull away a faint pleasent scent hangs there in between your nose and her neck and its not too strong like a perfume but soft and faint like she had taken a shower three or four hours before your lips even met.

or they can just be skanky scabby chicks with nicorette breath and dandruff. whatever. pictures of the city. pictures of the burbs. pictures dude. dont you get it yet?

ugh. i just read in an article that courtney love was sick trying to kick XANAX. fucking whore. how did your dumbass get addicted to xanax and how come its SO DAMN HARD to kick. jesus. i just went through 120 pills over the last two weaks and do you hear me whining about the shakes or the sick. NAH BITCH! shit, gettin me all angry n shit. bouta go take a xaney just to calm my ass down...

Sunday, January 02, 2005


damn im already back. bet you wont see me for a while though. not like you are anybody but nobody, still at least nobodys listening. got the trees so right now the forest is burning. BURN BABY BURN!. shit. i got loose tobacco and crazy bamboo's to back me up.

so i was just about to switch on the simpsons. because it delivers, especially when there is nothing else to do[fuck trying to find that angle. fuck that spot on shit. fuck that shit and bury it in rambling. a slow and serpetine rambling]. when i thought of this one unique episode way back when......

so im like 11 years old right? im on the corner in the middle of the city. the dirtiest, seediest, maddest middle of the city. its san franciso and its the tenderloin and its 1986 and in 1986 the center of the tenderloin was crackin for real. corner liquer stores [bodegas for you yorkers] with porno peep booths and atari video games. candy and crack pipes. what do you want, now n laters or a glass 4"? trannies patroling the perverts, crackheads patrolin the dealers. dealers patrolin the street. cops somewhere patrolin something but no where near the corner im standing. i got one foot up on the wall. one foot flat on the cement. posing like a dealer but really trying to sneak a peek at the porno. im gettin my spy on too, mind you. i got my eye on the trades. im checking the score. one dealer, the one i leant closest too, had to be at least a year younger than me. he kept his crack in his nutsack [a practice long gone from the game since it was too risky when getting patted down] and serviced about two 'heads every ten minutes. most were just your average raggedy destroyed by the system and addicted to the doom black crackhead types but there were some that were different. i saw this one cat walk up with his eyes all darting, shifty and nervous. he looked out of place. from a safe neighborhood. middle class. black cat. dressed conservative yet trendy. jeans. adidas sneakers. clean denim coat. baseball cap. his head faced the ground. the kid asked what he wanted and, catching a bit of warning, who he wanted it for. the ball cap muttered something about his friend. the kid handed him two rocks, collected some loot, and leaned back against the wall.
then some crackhead bitch gets up in my face.
'you a cop?'
i looked around. was this lady talking to me? do i even look OLD enough to be a cop? jesus christ im 11!
'No.' i answered. she looked me up and down then smiled and said with her eyes aimed right into mine: 'oh. ok. you kinda look like one though.' then she walked away towards a small cluster of crackheads on the opposite corner. i heard her say, when she got close enough to them and with a wave of her hand: 'he aint nobody. he just a pervert.'
i shrugged. the kid next to me told some freind of histhat walked up to him, a plump chick in her mid teens [hair all did. jeans outfit all creased] that in 30 minutes hed have enough to go to Great America, and that they could get on all the rides. he added 'but first, i gotta sell the rest of these,' and reached into his crotch then pulled out a damp few squares of toilet paper which when unfolded revealed three small yellow chunks of crack rock.
i stood on the wall for a little while longer, not more than 15 minutes though becaue the kid started eyeing me and i could tell he felt some warning.
i meant no harm and changed locations. eventually dusk came and i headed back home. it didnt occur to me until just now how absolutly absurd it was for that chick to think i was a cop, when CLEARLY i was a pervert.
fuckin crackheads.

number 2

this is day 2. i already put a post and fucked it off perusing other crap before publishing it. fucking hell. i had my coffee. large with a shot, 4 sugars and milk. got it from the hippe coffe spot up the street, the one thats practically a nursery during the afternoon and a laptop convention in the evening [free wireless]. got my cafe card stamped. 6 more and i get a free jumpstart. the fairest of children gave me a ring, head fully surrendered to this monster filtered dico house remake of an old michael jackson tune. i HAD to hear it. it would be affirming. like a sudden solution washing over me. it would make me shake it and shake it and when it was done i would collapse back and say whoa and then please oh please play it once again. i still aint heard it. doubt i ever will. but if i do hear this song. if i ever do. my brain better burst in celebration and the jovial bits of blood that stain the walls containing this great explosion will stiffin and crust and stay cemented in memorandum of this one magnificent event of a bootleg. the fair one and his delicate booty whip of a wife were off to see a new movie by some clever young auteur that is making a serious attempt to elevate cinema. they invited me but the theater was way on lincoln road. thats about 1500 miles from park slope, under a clear blue azure where the palm trees lean back from the great atlantic swash. where the scent of designer perfume hangs above the avenue, hiding the stink of immigrant labor and the neon signs burning VACANCY onto the street. the cars only seat 3 and they all got drop tops. the girls get curves early. they round out into women and twist the world into their young universe before gravity pulls it all away. for an easy 300 you can sweat heavy with them. but ill get to that later. so they are off to a movie and i cant go, i wish i could but i cant. if i did and the movie didnt prove to be the masterwork promised, then that easy hour would be too tempting. shit, if imma see a crappy movie, i better at least get a happy ending.
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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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