designer junkie death threats

this blog has become a parody of itself. a caricature of what i intended it NOT to be.

"oh yeah, and when i was a kid. i TOTALLY liked michael jackson!"

pfft.

my back has been killing me and i got to finish applying Thomas Kuhns philosophy of scientific paradigms to two short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez and an excerpt from the autobiography of a very smart Indian woman named Santha something or other. my back feels like it is ripping itself from the hips, tearing down my entire left side and i gotta revise a Darwinist application and a short story i have to read in front of people. i cant even feel my foot, its like my foot is asleep, and the pain is sharp and fixed upon my back and hips. i go to the doctor and get painkillers. i go to the doctors and get electrical jolts shot into my foot and leg. i go to the doctors to get more painkillers. these papers are due thursday and my lower back might have a pinched nerve. my back is on fire and i go to the doctors for something to control the inflammation in my lower disk. she hates doctors and blames it on me that i even have to go. because i dont take care of myself because i never did and never do and because i wont listen to her and if i would just listen to her- i go to the doctors tomorrow to get an MRI because my back has told me over and over again that i have to do something. i have to make a change. it tells me with each shot from the bottom of my spine down through my clenched glutes and tensed up hamstrings and even further down to my indifferent calf and the foot i cant feel anymore. it tells me. my back tells me to get shit corrected. that if i dont it will hurt me forever.

i would hate this blog more, if most of my hate weren't reserved for my back.

could be all that hate for my back which makes my back hurt in the first place.

oh the irony. the stupid. fuckin. irony.

this blog chafes. im not even gonna post any pictures. eat it bitches.

Another Part of Me [hee hee]

i was reading a post a friend of mine put up [whom i will not link because im not sure she wants to be revealed yet] that was praising the Off The Wall album by our good buddy Michael Jackson and it got me harking back.

when i was 8 years old i absolutely WORSHIPPED michael jackson. he was the end all be all of existence for me. i was profoundly interested in just about anything that he was involved with. i couldnt afford all his various jacket designs [though i did strut to school wearing a makeshift Beat It knockoff that my mom scored from goodwill. unlike the real Beat It jacket, mine only had like, 4 zippers and was black instead of red. still i was proud of that bitch] but i did have just about any other paraphernalia that bore his likeness.

i know i had a poster and a folder with his "Human Nature" pose on it [thats the one wear he was in the yellow cashmere vest and from what i remember even a little 5 o'clock shadow that made him look manlier than he ever did or would again]. the folder was especially cool cuz i got to bust that out in class everyday to the other students awestruck oooh's and ahhh's.

then there was the pre-pepsi commercial picture book. with images from his videos, backstage at Neverland, and random shots from his many promotional appearances. they would have little tidbits of insider info under each picture that said things like "Michael in his sequined Naval outfit at the AMA's. He took home 8 awards that night." or "Michael liked to play pranks on John Landis while on the set of the Thriller video. Here he leaves peanut butter on his directors chair" it was like i was getting inside michaels life. you know, seeing the REAL michael.

i had other MJ artifacts as well, a thriller doll [but just the regular mike, not the werewolf or zombie version], a fake diamond glove, and of course all his records.


i usually took off the mic
before i put it up my butt
but i left on the glove, of course.

i also would zealously watch ANYTHING that he was in. whether it be a commercial, a 20 minute 3D movie at disneyland, a guest spot on a tv show, or even just presenting at some boring political event. i HAD to see it. hell, i even would watch shows were some character on the show would pretend to be him. i watched Silver Spoons just because i knew that eventually Ricky Schroader or that black dude that ended up on Fresh Prince of Bel Air would do a backslide or something and kick their leg in the air all MJ style. i watched Kids Incorporated [remember Kids Incorporated] just because i figured that they would inevitably do a MJ cover [they did, it was Beat It, and it ROCKED!!!].

the most embarrassing thing i remember doing is going to school and telling everybody that he was my UNCLE. i even had a picture in my wallet of him that i took from a magazine but passed along as having been taken by my "aunt." it never occurred to me that if Michael Jackson was my uncle, than that meant my mother was his sister, and janet was my aunt, and jermaine was my uncle. i dont think it occurred to anyone else too because no one called me on it. and if they would have i coulda just stuck to my story. how they gonna prove mike aint my uncle? huh? prove it bitches!

i cant believe i used to tell people michael jackson was my uncle. thats hella gay.

but man, i used to LOVE THE SHIT out of Michael Jackson.

but now his freaky ways have caught up to him. not saying he did anything wrong, and not saying he didnt. but i mean, he is such a freak, even if he did NOTHING out of order, it would just look like he did. he's painted himself with that brush. with the FREAKY WIERDO PERVERT brush. and even if he didnt do anything to that kid [or 'those' kids] it sure as fuck looks like he WOULD.

but im not here to pass judgment on mike. it'll play out like its going to regardless of what i think. but im wondering about his music.

no matter what happens, are people going to be able to listen to "Billie Jean" the same? Has "Ben" taken on knew meaning? well, that songs about a dead rat so maybe it should have prove more of a warning of things to come in the first place but what about "The Way You Make Me Feel" or "Baby Be Mine"? is it weird hearing mike sing about anything even remotely sexual these days?

well, not really for me. i mean, i still think his musics pretty awesome. hes still groovy and has a good voice and when i hear certain songs i still get chills. no, im not gonna give up on his music just yet. im still on his sidse. im still all, mama say mama saw mamakusa.

but i dont WORSHIP him anymore [well, KINDA dont worship].


these are my uncles feet.
they are so nimble!

grounded

you are not here.


So no Miami.

flying standby sucks. we didnt even consider that it was easter weekend until the last second, and by then our bags were packed and we were in a car on the way to La Gaurdia. there were about ten people ahead of us that had been waiting for standby seats since 4.30 in the morning. thats 3 flights they missed before ours. we waited for one flight, didnt make it on and called it right there. oh well, fuck it. guess we aint going to the beach, lets go back to the city for breakfast.

weak. no sun. no fun. no mojito's in the sand.

luckily the doc came around and kicked me down some pain killers. i just woke up from a deep nod. been doped up all day. cant keep my eyes open. itching all over. i look like a genuine mission district junkie. still, id rather look like a dope fiend in south beach for a weekend, and im sure brooklyn would like a break from me as well.

fuckin easter. stupid christ rising. why couldnt he rise in may? im not flying standby in may. pfft. stupid selfish jesus.

im gonna snack some more painkillers. wake me when we are far from home.

Spam Burgers

So this guy left me a comment on my last post that said, simply: New blog! Come see! then left his blog address.

now of course i checked out his blog. and he seemed to come across as a guy that had something to say. like a guy that had a serious statement to make. this guy has started a blog, and he has an argument. its not an entirely political argument, at least thats from what i could gather in the first few paragraphs i read, but he recognized the two party system and vaguely affiliated himself to one side [the left, but i wasnt entirely sure of this before i finally got bored and checked to see if this punk had anything interesting or funny to waste my time away with]. he had a lot to say on his first post. all kindsa grand plans and strategies on just how he was going to unveil his manifesto to the world. but all colored with blue and red. like, that was his entire argument: that there was a difference between blue and red.

i commend him on making an effort and exercising his political democracy, thats for sure. i aint hatin. get your rights on!

i had a Dream! that you all read my blog!

but whats up with the self promoting blogger spam? i mean. is that normal? is that how you make "blogger friends,"? is that how a "blogger cmmunity" gets started? i havent really figured out how people get other people to read theirs. i mean, i never even noticed that blogs were all, hollywood until my boy started bloggin back in '04.

[ and even then i didnt know he was really a blogger, i thought maybe he just blogged on the weekends, or when he was at parties or some after school get together with a bunch of friends. but after a while i could tell, he was hardcore into it. he was addicted to blog. he was blogging every day. every night. it wasnt long after that i started blogging as well.]

but hes been trapped in the matrix since Zero gave One its first hickey, so it made sense he would have created some sort of digital identity. still, i found out from his blog from HIM. i KNOW him. he didnt just leave me a comment alerting me of his new blog. it was more natural than that. it was normal

but i mean what dude did, well that was kinda spammy. and im like:
can you believe this shit? this nigga done straight SPAMMED my ass with his semi political blog!

can i get more politics in my spam burger?

but its cool. imma let it slide. i mean, maybe he read some stupid rant a made about god and thought to himself -this is the kinda guy that i want to be reading my blog. the kinda guy that doesnt think the lord is talking to him. a guy that needs someone to show him the light, the true and righteous way. so you see, im an easy target. im practically ACHING for direction. i mean hell, doesnt my blog clearly state 'i cant find my argument.'?

nah, im kidding. ive had a lot to drink. i was just swaying with my words. you know, as if language was a sea, and i was sailing it, with a net dragging from the back, grabbing any letters it could catch.

shit ive written alot. i cant NOT post this.

god damn i suck at being a blogger. maybe i should start spamming people.

pfft.

a fleeting idea

the lord never talks to me. never once has the lord intervened when i was making a bad decision or gave me a sign that would point me towards the right one. the lord has never guided me. he has never made my life a difference.

of course, followers of the lord would beg to differ. im sure to them there have been many obvious signals that our savior has offered in order to ensure my path has proven righteous. take the handcuffs for instance, had they not been clamped down upon my wrist while a cop beat me senseless how else would i have would i have realized the power of injustice? and air bubbles, if they had not creeped into my friend seans last injection then his heart wouldnt have stopped during his last heroin taste. the good lord leaves many signs for me to heed, these followers would attest, i just choose to ignore them.

and maybe i do. i still swig liquor in the back of strange alleyways when i feel its most convenient and if someone offered me the spike im sure i wouldnt turn down a little taste just for kicks [to say i did it again, that i still wasnt afraid]. my hands grow terribly idle, which everybody knows is the devils work. if my neighbors wife would allow, i would totally covet her, and in my opinion suicide can sometimes be a reasonable out. so maybe they would be right. maybe i DO choose not to heed the signs given by our great holy savior. maybe that is why the lord never talks to me.

meh. whatever.

The Pedestrains

LA was a strange place. that last trip was the first actual visit i've made there. i mean, if you dont count going to disneyland with an old girlfriend or stop over flights at LAX. no, on this trip i think i absorbed a little. i got a taste of what went down in the city. a small taste. but a taste. hotels and rental cars aside, i saw the night. and the morning. and the money. and the game. but this particular scene haunts me.

at a red light there was this little white girl who was about 9 or maybe 10. her face was smudged and sweaty and her hair hadnt been brushed in so long it was practically in dreads. she had a dirty white skirt that flared out like a tutu. a tshirt. and a purple hooded sweater. her father, who i noticed first, was in a pair of filthy white overalls, a sweaty tee, and held a paper bag under his arm. it looked wet at the bottom, like it was gonna break open at any second. in his other hand he had a cigarette and after each inhale from it he would mutter then yell then mutter again. she screamed at him, -Daddy! Come on, lets go! and dragged him a bit until he began to follow. she walked ahead of him quickly to other side of the crosswalk and didnt even look back until she was on the other side where she turned and stared and waited until he made it across. before he did the light turned green and we stepped on the gas.

he muttered all the time. and it drove the little girl crazy. and when he yelled, it would make her scared. every moment was shattered glass, and with a single breath could fall to pieces. crossing the street was the worst, because she could never know if he would make it. the cars in LA ruled the road and pedestrians were sudden obstacles, unfortunate casualties. there was no medications that could make the streetlights safe. at least when they were inside, the only danger was himself. that was a danger she had some control over.

in the rearview mirror he finds his way beside her. she grabs his arm and pulls him down and they sit on the sidewalk side by side. another magical moment on Sunset boulevard.

image heavy

what do i want to extend this time around?


im a flake. a big flake. im not what you would call a 'flaky' person. no. i make it to where i need to be [most of the time. if its of interest], and i cling to the fringes of where i want to be. but if im not required to attend, if my presence isnt absolutely necessary, then i might just not show up. i'll flake. and i dont really have a problem with flaking. i have a problem with "flakes," but the act of flaking i can totally get down with. i mean, sometimes you just dont wanna go. as white people these days are fond of saying, 'dont hate the playa, hate the game.'



my tolerance has gotten ridiculous. two rum and cokes, three vodka oj's, 4 spliffs, two blunts, and a couple valium, and i still cant go to sleep. im not even messy. its not even like im an ass. im just kinda high. i got kind of a buzz. im not gonna vomit. im not gonna pass out. im not desperately horny. im not hyper creative. i cant feel any urges. i cant find that verge. there isnt any danger. its almost boring.


work is wheelin and dealin. school is burning through me. nothing changed there.


she might leave me in the 06. says she needs to go back to school. wants to be a physical therapist. says she cant afford an east coast education, that cali campuses got he best deals. she did her research. her academic wheelin and dealin. she has a fat place in disco, rent free. backyard with a pond. fully furnished with a seventeen inch flat screen monitor to boot. its a cake deal. i support her on it. i think its something she should do. i think she should be happy. i think she shouldnt feel as lonely as she does. i think she is a brilliant and marvelous person. i love her and hope for her happiness. i need her and hope she is always there. i can only imagine the hole she will leave. and the inevitable collapse. but it is just the nature of things. i can only wish her the best.

Dang!, these jeans makin my buttplug itch!

we go down to miami next weekend. shes coming this time. sorta scares me. you know... WORLDS COLLIDING. man! i mean, what goes on in miami, stays in miami [well, actually that just applies to vegas, but you can lend that adage to most any tropical city that has crazy hot chicks with fat thick asses parading the street], right? well not this time dude. nah, miami is coming with a security escort this time around. so, no funny stuff buddy! i dont want any of your tricks! pfft. ah well. shes a lotta fun, guess ill have to kick it with the lizzle. at least shes funny as fuck and lets me stick it in her when i want.

is my eyeliner smudgy?

oh yeah. and my boy fuckin posted before i could even link his site to my blog. what a bitch ass! after i wrote all that shit about him not postin for ages. makin me look all stupid. shoo. next time i see him imma slap the shit outta his cheek. watch. its gonna sting like fuck too.

Gone Fishing

so my boy isnt postin lately. it aint like he aint there, cuz he is. he most definitely is. he just dont feel like postin. its just not on the agenda. and fair enough. i can agree with that position. its not always that we gather the sensation to emote. sometimes we just feel boring. like we have nothing to offer. dull. negative. like we have decided to just waste. just waste space. and so its reasonable that he wouldnt post. he is there, of course. he is [as Descartes would attest]. he just isnt postin. and sometimes when one doesnt really have anything to say, or cant quite put what he wants to say into words just yet, then it is in perfect order to hold off on posting. it is only the polite thing to do.

nothing wrong with that dude. you still my main soldier. dont post. its cool with me.

unless, of course, youre stoned. then you just post whatever the fuck.

but thats just the thing, dear reader.

he blames his sudden lapse in creative output on the great green leaf. if you read the post that he has left up there for the past Seventeen Years, than you will see the proof. In the very first paragraph he point his lazy, stoned finger at the innocent bud of a magical plant. why? why dude? why use dank as your scapegoat?

thats just cold bro. cold.

whats the dank done done to you? oh sure, you got all happy one night and made out with a pretty hot trannie, and of course lets not forget the champagne enema at jimmys bachelor party. those wear wild sessions and i will be the first to admit, you were pretty fuckin baked on some skunk ass nuggets. but those were separate instances, and you were pretty drunk as well. those cold brown Newcastles didnt drink themselves. so come on, can you really blame the weed?

nah dude. you cant. you gotta face it. you gotta eat it. you gotta SMOKE IT DUDE!!! i mean, it cant be doing ya that bad...

all im sayin is: you got it made. you got a dump in the midwest. a cake gig pushin buttons. and a chick on your team that knits scarfs and shit. post something already. no body is waiting, so nows the perfect time.

if you dont, i will. and i ran outta things to say with this post here.

[yeah right]

the Standard

it was warm. that much i can vouch for.

san fran provided the usual drugs. usual smiles. usual pretties doing the usual things. ive noticed their is a rather large community of bad artist in san francisco. i always thought they just hadnt made it yet, i realize now they just dont have much talent. nice people though. quick to pass you a joint, give you a lift, and laugh at your jokes even if they dont get em.

getting my cool new hat stolen off the counter of a record store didnt start the trip off in an agreeable fashion, but getting my laptop stolen from the back of my brothers charcoal grey jeep wrangler really put the poison into my plans.

easy come. easy go. fuckin disco.

hollywood was easy. sunset boulevard at 70 degrees. nice lookin white chicks with ok asses in tight jeans and small, flimsey shirts hanging from their necks. my hotel was hip. had that future lighting to it. you know, like a big white wall with a blue light behind it to give the entire place that mystery vibe. lots of wannna be maybe soon to be actors. lots of white people high on cocaine. lots of pricey button up shirts with hip, flaring collars. lots of sweet martinis left half drunk. lots of cars. loads of cars.

went down to san diego to visit my precious two. we got high on valium and wine and stayed up talking until 4am. we gave eachother big long hard hugs before i left. i promised id see them in the summer. im hoping thats the case.

going to maimi in a few weeks. gotta cook up some hyper reality.

now i gotta do work. more work. and some more.

more later.

on a jet plane

damn. my back hurts.

shits been doggin me for years now. every now and again it just gets weak. it aint that bad this time. i mean, i can walk and shit. i can try to sit up straight. if push came to shove i could fight alright. if push came to shove i could run too. been times i could hardly move. just a small notion and i spasm to the floor. it gets rough homie. no lie. but this time it aint so bad.

went to the professional anyway. i leave tomorrow. west coast action for the next week. plane departs late afternoon, plane lands early evening. straight to the get down just like i planned it.

the old man wouldnt part with any painkillers though. said that they wouldnt "solve" my problem, and i needed to do some stretching.

[he also came over and stood behind me and proceeded to give me a rather aggressive and sorta awkward shoulder massage. i mean, dude was seriously puttin a straight knuckle hurtin to my shit. i whimpered a few times and was THIS CLOSE to saying, in the gayest, most fragile voice -not so hard. which woulda really put the smack down on any comfortable conversations we may eventually have had in the future.he finished before i did though, and then he goes on to say that i may be stressed out. that mayeb ive been working too much. im like -no DOY dude! hey guess what else, im BLACK. yeah totally dude! im of the negroid persuasion. seriously! then he says it might be emotional and that maybe im conflicted or somthing and im like whatever that may be the case but it doesnt matter in the end because you arent going to give me any painkillers anyway. and thats what i had gotten up an hour early to come meet your ass for. chump.]

that was kinda disappointing. still he made up for it, and i snatched a script for some classic sedatives. Roche Valium. 60 hits of that designer shit. nice one doc. my hats off to you. way to salvage the patient/doctor relationship there. ill be seeing you in a few months.

so im off. got a couple days in the sucka free then headin down to LA for a few more forced smiles. nothing much to paint for ya there. just another free meal on sunset boulevard. a hotel room to smoke cigarettes in. and the freeway.

but ill be asleep on the plane. a deep sleep. heh heh. and im a fuckin chainsaw dude. thats right. welcome to jetblue bitches.


later skater.