May

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
-T.S. Eliot "The Waste Land"

Words have never rung truer T.S.. This April has bought the doom of life into fruition with a ferocity reserved only for the blackest days of ones existential burden. ive watched friends collapse under the sorrow of loss, losing their minds in chemical madness. ive seen aged couples, heavy with the intimacy of time gone by, search frantically for suicide notes that were never left, and they eventually stopped looking because with each breath carbon monoxide stole from the dark garage air, there was nothing left of a life to be found. ive listened to pleas for the lord to give just one more day to a gorgeous young grandmother and then the weeping after because cancer trumps god and that, in the end, is that. ive sat on the phone for hours silent and waiting for a close friends fathers lungs to collapse and when they did the crash boomed and echoed like a nuclear bomb went off in the basement and i waited then patiently for the roof of April to cave in on me.

when i hear the lock in the door twist i start and smile and i know she will come straight to my arms and hold me and breathe heavily into my ear and ask how i feel, if im hungry or tired, if i need a drink. i know im shielded with medication and i know that im a shell. i delicate, brittle shell. i can break at any moment. i know i have to remain steady, or that i can fall and shatter into a million pieces. people see this. people treat my like this, so i know.

i was going to write something funny and clever but its the end of April, the cruelest month, and i feel it deserves a somber final entry.

May, im sure, will be filled with laughs.

but just for kicks: poot. i farted.

end bit.

clear skies

ive got to give up smoking.

not for good, but for at least a week and a half. until i get my surgery. i dont know how im gonna do it. the moment i was told i needed to give up the smoke, i immediately needed one. the urge to inhale was overwhelming. a feeling of desperation washed over me. i was literally dying for a cigarette.

so tonight ive deemed my finish line. from here on out the race is over. i gotta give em up before my head hits the pillow. when morning comes, i'll be nicotine free. pink lungs. deep breaths. filled with stamina. all that.

ive been brooding about it, of course. as i am one to do. brood. but ive also kept a sense of humor too, making jokes at the expense of my predicament. for instance, when i tell someone im getting surgery on my spine and they ask, -oh, how long is it going to take? how long will you be in the hospital? i usually respond to this, in a very calm and matter of fact voice -well, the actual operation will take two weeks, but its pretty routine. i should only be in a wheelchair for a couple of years at most and by my mid thirties the doctor says i should be able to play racquetball again. this usually drops their jaws and their eyes swell up with sadness and concern. then i just give em the GOTCHA! look and carry on feeling quite pleased with myself.

i came up with a good one today. a coworker asked -well, what exactly are you getting operated for? to this i promptly replied with the straightest face possible: well, lets just say when i get back to the office, instead of Jon i will prefer to be called Joanna.

in actuality i should be in the hospital for two days and in bed for four weeks. not to bad i guess. but not to funny either.

jesus christ, the things i go through to make it to 30.

we shall overcome

do i have something in my teeth?

we blacks like to take a more impulsive and passionate approach towards murder. we prefer a quick, manic action rather than a methodical and premeditated course. our schemes are sudden and swiftly executed, not strategic and precise. our modus operandi are usually things like the drive by, or the drunken shank, maybe an impromptu pistol whipping or the old fashioned gang up. sure, every now and again we'll get a little advanced on a nigga and have to kidnap fools, or maybe even set some chump up for a major jack. but mostly we just gat each other or get a stab in during a pile up. of course, sometimes we gotta blast some fool in the course of a robbery, or beat some sucka into a coma for stickin his dick in our women. but for the most part, our murder crimes are of the common variety.

white people on the other hand, get creative in their bloodshed. their have been innumerable amount of cases where some cracka has eatin his victim or peeled their skin off or kept the body in his house so he can 'pleasure' it with his magic wand for weeks after they were dead. they have made countless movies on the demented crimes whites have done to society. and it has been widely noted that a large majority of history's most twisted serial killers have been of the Caucasian race. so there you have it. crackas got the frenzied massacre faction of the society pretty sewn up. they got it locked.

and not like this is new news. comedians have been pointing this out for ages. some make their entire pathetic careers outta such painfully obvious observances. but im just stoned and decided to ramble a bit before i got to my point: there is a new sick demented wacko murder child molester pervert on the scene, and he's black.


damn yo, cant a nigga mass murder in peace!

thats right bitches. we bout to take that away from you too. first basketball. then boxing. then football. then music. then, to much surprise, tennis. then, to even more surprise and shock, golf. now freaky serial killers. ha!

and we are gonna show you how its DONE suckas! you gonna be catchin us elbow deep in a trannies ass while reading ancient latin scriptures and eating the eyeballs of endangered owls. you are gonna find the heads of old chinese women in our freezer with their tongues cut out and strangely benign looks on their faces. you are gonna balk at the sex we had with animals in the basement, and vomit when you smell the decomposing flesh stuffed in between our piss and shit stained mattresses. yup, its gonna be quite a site. you crakas aint SEEN serial killing yet.

i cant wait. im bout to go get some hair relaxer, some barbecue sauce, and a white van with no windows on it tomorrow. thats right bitches. its bouta ta be ON.

just the facts

lets explore the circumstances, shall we?


-i found out friday that i would be needing surgery on my spine. it was unclear just exactly what it was that needed to be done, only that it was a fairly routine operation and that the whole process shouldnt take much longer than two weeks. i, of course, was angling for any other option to the knife, but i saw the xrays, and they dont lie. i mean, im no expert, but from what i could see, in the the large, floppy, negative black and white presented to me, my shit is fucked up. the tedious details i wont bore you with, the bottom line is that im gonna get cut. on my fucking spine. let us pray for steady hands.


-the lab had a gem that ive been saying would complete my life were i ever to get my hands on it. now that i finally have i cant say all the edges have been rounded, but will confidently declare it is the best investment ive made in the '05. the track is "Agent Orange" by Pharaohe Monche. its pretty good in its standard form, with the vocals and all [Pharaohe is still nasty on the mic, droppin that paranoid urban sorta intellectual shit] but its the beat that breaks me up. the shit is just profound. everybody knows those Sa Ra cats have been just criminal lately, but this beat was made in like, 2002, and its still many moons beyond its time. its really too bad that Rawkus was on its last legs when this track came out. it should have been a hands down classic. as it is its only a beatheads treasure and most likely wont see much action at the local Hot Topic. needless to say, after i bought my copy some japanese cat came into the store and scooped up the remaining 28. shit will be on ebay for twenty and up now. happy biddin bitches. [ mp3 link stolen from cocaineblunts.com, dont know the nettiquet (gay word) on this but i guess i should acknowledge them or something]


-my beard is wack. when i let my shit grow out, it comes in all patchy and shit. i got one of those nappy black dude beards that dont look cool unless your playing a guitar or begging for change. seriously, if i start humming the tune to "No Woman, No Cry" while waiting for the subway fools start dropping nickels at my feet. shit, once i made 80 cents waiting for the F train. my beard is that wack. i roll with it though. i dont need no feathered swedish 5 oclock shadow or thick nordic scruff to look cool. i dont need no music video penciled in goatee or s-curled facial treatment to my shit. hell naw, im nappy bitch! now go get my Fender, i need to feed the meter.


the songs that have been my murder lately:

Agent Orange = Pharaohe Monch
We Suck Young Blood - Radiohead
Aphex Twin - Window Licker [Ron Jeremy remix]
La Rumba - Masters At Work
Hell yes - Beck
Someday - Alice Russell
the entire Margo album on Tsk! Tsk! Records

i'll add links later. not like it matters because whos really reading this? still, to play fair, ill add links and even post something of interest. all this later, at another time.

I Heart the Intraweb Thingy!

ive been in quite a mood lately but i found a couple links that cheered me up. i bet they put a smile on your face and wide enough you would think a finger was in your anus as you were busting a load.

the first i got from somethingawful.com [a group of funny white dudes that run a humour site. i know i know, i think everybody is white, and sometimes i might be wrong, but this time i am POSITIVE that this site is ran by a bunch of very clever yet very pasty internet geeks with nordic lineage]. the joke is making "jokes" literal and sustituting the end with reality instead of a punchline. hilarity shall ensue. for instance:

What do you get when you're gay?

Made fun of.

see? hahahah. oh you didnt like that one, well how about this:

A blonde girl walks into the local dry cleaners. She places a garment on the counter. "I'll be back tomorrow afternoon to pick up my dress." she says.

"Come again?" says the clerk, cupping his ear.

"I said 'I'LL BE BACK TOMORROW AFTERNOON TO PICK UP MY DRESS'," says the girl, this time louder.

oh man, thats rich.

but the second link i got is the real sunshine in my day. apparently Vida's cellphone got hacked and all the pics she has on it were posted on the internet. why, you ask, did Vida have pictures of her naked on her cell phone? well, when you look like Vida i believe it is your god given duty to strip whenever there is any sort of image capturing device in the vicinity.

regardless, here is the link to the page that will leave your wrist aching with pleasure.

its all about ass hacking in the '05.

the hole

i was limping back through brooklyn on my way towards the palace. it was right at the edge of evening, before black poisons the street with night and i was just far enough away to decide i needed a drink in me if i really wanted to make it home. there was no way i was gonna be able to drag myself through the street any further without a couple shots of Black to keep me company along the path.


it was a blank building, generic and nondescript, with a black wooden door and small dark windows that bled red from the corners but kept you blind from what was inside. it didnt have a name or an address. it was like brick secret in the middle of the city and only those with the ugliest urges could even discover it existed. it was like a nothing and nowhere for nobody, the perfect escape. i almost walked past it but a bitter cold wind pushed me towards the door and before i knew anything else i was inside on a stool and i was feeling much warmer than before.

the bartender had short hair, died blood red and curly. she had on thin black glasses and behind them her eyes were a fragile light brown. i was immediately in love with her. -gimme a shot of Black, i said. it appeared and disappeared and before i could ask for another it was already in front of me again. yeah, i was definitely in love with this girl. her face was soft but steely as if she was just holding herself together. as if at any moment she would break into pieces. -you sad? i asked. -you look sad. she poured me another shot then turned around to tend to another chump at the other end of the bar.

i couldnt see where he sat, the chump. it was dark as all hell over on that end, for a second i was terrified she was never going to come back, for a second i thought she had entered the far end of doom and they were going to cut and scratch and beat her until she was nothing but a battered and bruised mess of a beautiful woman. a pile of scars and wounds and fresh soft scabs. but she came back and i sucked down the Black as quick as i could so she would come over to me and pour another shot.


from the mirror behind the bar, i could see what was going on. the whole place was a filthy mess, even through the dim, murky lighting you could see the scum hanging in the air everywhere. you tasted and breathed it. it covered every surface of the hole we were in, except for the beautiful bartender, who's sad eyes said she was stuck there forever, and the mirror, which was strangly enough, crystal clear.

in the reflection was a couple, and i think they were arguing, or they could have been professing their love for each other. empty drink glasses littered the table they sat at. one of them, i couldnt tell if it was the girl or the guy, knocked a glass to the floor and it shattered but no one made a move to clean it up or even acknowledge it was broken. they just let the chards sit there dangerously glittering under the hot red neon that burned from somewhere in the bar but from where i couldnt tell.

their movements were violent but not erratic, thats why i couldnt tell whether they were fighting or fondling. he could have been strangling her, or her him. i heard the yelps and the hushed demands but i only saw it in the reflecton of the mirror. i didnt turn around to see what was really happening. if i turned around that meant i had to face what was there and i didnt want to. it was happening behind me, in a reflection. i didnt even have to believe it if i didnt want to. i was sure if i turned around they wouldnt be there anyway.

i got another shot. the bartender poured it for me slowly, like she was measuring very carefully just how much she was allowed to give. -loosen up beautiful. its only a little poison, i can handle it. she cracked a smile at this, but didnt tip the bottle any further. i swallowed the Black, left some cash on the bar and got up to leave but she grabbed my wrist. -wait. dont go.

her voice was frail and broken and desperate and filled with so much pain and heartache i choked from the sweet scent of it. she looked me hard in the eye and with the hand that didnt have my arm she poured another shot. -have another. dont go just yet. please.

i sat back down and in the reflection of the mirror the couple behind me were gone, the table was there but the man no longer whispered and the woman no longer shushed and the broken glass no longer sparkled from the floor. what was left in the reflection was just darkness and a memory and the bartender and me.

The Pope is Dead

some secrets are meant to be kept and the world will go on a better place unenlightened to them. some secrets need to be revealed or quite possibly the world could end.

sometimes when you walk through the door and you hang up your jacket and you go over to give her a hug and to kiss her neck she holds you a little longer than usual and ask if anything is wrong. she is gentle and lets you take a moment before answering -nothing. and she looks you in the eyes and you promise, nothing is wrong. and you smile and she smiles says ok and buries her head into your chest.

Byron Crawford Mentioned My Blog [no homo]

well, in his comments section anyway. jokes on me right?

damn. try to big up a nigga and thats what happens. guess i did slip on the race thing though [apparently he's hispanic]. meh. what kills me is that he says i didnt get the whole [no homo] thing. i mean sure thats pretty funny, saying [no homo] after every sentence that can be remotely conceived as straight faggot. but isnt being that paranoid about your sexuality the joke? i mean, if you REALLY have to lay the disclaimer of [no homo] immediately following any sort of decent appraisal of another man, then youre probably pretty gay, and being ferociously closeted about it i might add. so closeted that you feel obligated to declare you are decidedly NOT GAY every time you say say something that can be even slightly misconstrued as homo [i.e. "i dont fuck with cats like that anymore (no homo)].

see, im just assuming hes not gay. and that he's just making fun the closeted homos that have to say that kinda crap to remind anyone who might be listening that they are SO NOT GAY [i.e. cam'ron. whom im pretty sure he got the phrase from, and many other posters in his comments section agree

with me on that.]. so thats the joke right? hes not that insecure with his sexuality, hes just making fun of the fools that are.

and i get that. at least, thats what i got. maybe i didnt get it at all. maybe im off the mark.

regardless, so instead of playing the [no homo] card, i decided to play the SUPER HOMO card. i mean, its kinda the same joke, just exactly opposite. instead of being NOT homo, im HELLA homo. see, its funny because im not gay. oh well. guess that one got lost on the audience. meh.

i guess in a way, its perfectly reasonable that i got clowned a lil. i mean, that site works within the medium of hating. thats like its sole art. the art of hating. so its makes sense that i would just get hated on. and in a way, thats kinda cool... i guess. i mean, i read that fool for more reasons for just the cleverly phrased hating [the top 5 gulliest moments in hip hop springs to mind], but we all know, the hatin takes center stage. its the headliner at the show. no doubt. so im proud that i got kinda dissed in the comment section.

Byron Crawford, youve made my day [mad homo]

im such a fag

i've used the term "break my heart" at least once in my last three post.


i cant really link anything on this mac. and being that i mostly update from my mac, the thrill i have to offer is limited. basically you're stuck with me and whatever random images googles image search can provide. oh yeah, and whatever words i happen to string together.


music is my dead libido.

Scottish Techno b/w Regina King is Dead

tonight it was a scottish techno party at cielo. the music hadnt gotten incredibly inpiring, but was decent enough for me to stay a few hours. Free scottish spirits helped a bit too.

there is no such thing as a functioning addict. there are those into one chemical, and those that enjoy them all. i fall within with category of the latter. i choose anything which will help me change where ever i am at at the time. i dont care what the molecules create, as long as they lift me from my current space. this could be a problem. then again, it couldnt. i moderate. i pick and choose.

is there such thing as a functioning addict? is there such a person that believes that it isnt the particular high they want, but actually just the high they achieve, regardless of what may induce it. i search for it, and so do many others, and we feel because we dont rely on one particular chemical, then we are fine. we are safe from desperation. sure, i dont care what gets me high, just that im high. nothing has me under its thumb. there is no leash attached to this neck. but is this the same thing as being dedicated to one chemicle? am i an addict? a functioning addict. is there such a thing as me?

i am aching for danger. im need some peril. i feel like im trapped in a soft padded room. i want out. something has to give, i cant be on the verge [of tears? of collapse? of what?] forever. i just gotta break from this. somehow. and get back inside myself.

ok. im becoming whiny bitch. ill stop now.

Regina King Update: i think im over her, although the scene will haunt me. it provides such internal probing. it struck a chord in me. i dont know why. it was a nasty old emotional chord. its left me in a delicate space. if you were curious, it is the scene that starts with ray in the bathroom with fatboy getting his share of the score, and ends with the live improvisation. that naturalness of it. the sick genius of it. it broke my heart.

ok. im done whining. from this point on. im here for you. not me.

this entire post was written with the aid of Glenlivich scotch. thanks glen. you rock.

end bit.

Chemicle Mix Ups b/w Who is Regina King

the Radiologist called my numerologist late friday night to give him the result of my MRI. apparently a 'significant' disk is not being agreeable. there is a 50/50 chance they might have to cut open my back. it seems the hour was late enough to warrant concern. i guess operating on someone's spine is a serious procedure. this last weekend i surrendered to being a slave to the nature of things. in the end thats all i can really do.

sunday was thick with gloom. i couldn't escape it. unimportance haunted me, from the void buried inside my being. i reached it and stayed there the entire day. from noon till midnight. i was suffocated by it. and it came suddenly, the moment i awoke, like a trapdoor had buckled beneath me the instant i opened my eyes and the collar was already strapped around my neck. i didn't eat, i didn't speak, i wondered in and out of the house. searching for a reason. an out. another trapdoor

steel trapdoors lock you in
for an indefinite amount
of time. your lone chance
of escape is screaming for help.

i mentioned going on an escape. me alone. in the house, with the aid of some hippie instruments, which i had hoped would make the music to lift me from this cell. ol girl didn't approve. she thought it was childish. she would not support it. she WOULD NOT. i don't even think i wanted to do the tabs, i just wanted to see how she would react if i proposed the the idea. i didn't get the right reaction, and i know i still could have done it. she wouldn't have stopped me, but the weight on my head would have ruined the escape. i would have never completely gotten away.

so i abandon my psychedelic exploits and try to get away through ulterior routs. i have valium. vicodin. kolonopins. and even steroids for my back inflammation. but even copious amounts of this and that and half a gallon of vodka didn't work. sometimes you truly are just stuck. and thats the bottom line.

not to say everyone feels this way. at least not once or twice a month, and with no significant tragedy to spark off such an existential plight. its me. im whining again, because you are here, black space in the digital solar system, for me to purge upon. all my words, like a faint cluster of stars in the vast reaches of cyberspace. no one will never notice. and thats whats so perfect about it. thats where it all makes sense.

Regina King Update: so ive watched the scene maybe five more times now. it breaks my heart every time. i cant really tell if im in love with Regina King, her character Margie, or the whole scene, with the lust and the moment and the junk and the genius and the desperation underneath it all. ill have to watch it a few more times. then maybe ill have an answer.

Close Call b/w I'm in love with Regina King

its saturday and its pouring down rain in brooklyn right? and ive gone through like, every single episode in my tivo list waitin for my dog larry's ass to holla so we can burn some trees and play some records and get down on the playstation for a wee bit but after about 4 hours i've given up on this fool. this day has been called. and i aint got nuthin left to do. its only 5pm.

so i decide to reach out to my boy Dubba from disco. i heard he had been going to N/A meetings and had to hear the score about this. i mean, me and Dubba go way far back. back to when oprah was fat and easy e was fuckin crackhead hookers in the ass bareback. i could see him leavin alone certain chemicles, but to get into the N/A scene you gotta give it ALL up. even beer. and if i know Dubba at all, he aint givin up no beer.

so i get him on the horn and he breaks it down to me: seems he had a little episode that got him shook. this lead to the moral heebie jeebies and he decided to check out the square scene. well, like i figured, he couldnt give up the sauce, so he couldnt get down. but this episode he went through, lemme tell it to ya:

so its st patty's day. he is drunk as funk at some bar in the mission. its after 2 cuz the bars have poured their last shot and shut their doors [i know, california drinking laws fist ass. 2am? pfft] and ol Dubbs decides its time to take a trip to the tenderloin to pick up some of that dirty shit [sometime Dubba gets down like that, i aint gonna hate. who hasnt?].

now Dubbs is white and not of the most fit frame, but like i said earlier, hes drunk as shit and his mind is made up so he goes to the seedier section of san francisco to score him some rock. fuck what ya heard, this cat was on a mission.

he meets up with this one crackhead and gets his shit. now it should be noted that most crackheads kinda stick together, so conversation will most likely ensue during a purchase or a deal, and this conversation usually involves smoking crack. the dealer dude is like -yo, i got this girl upstairs that will let us smoke rock in her room and fuck her for $40. and of course Dubbs is down cuz at this point in the evening the idea of smoking crack with a strange man and his hooker friend in a cramped downtown hotel room seems like paydirt.

so they get up to the room. get they anti-social drug puff on, do the dirty three thing, and are just about to light up again when all of a sudden mad fools start knockin on the door tryin to get up in on their space. turns out this was a popular crackwhore whom all the rockstars loved to kick it with. oh yeah, she was also a heroin addict that had to boot up before she blew Dubba silly.

next thing ya know there are five fools in a tiny ass hotel room and Dubbs is getting the feeling hes bouta get jacked. too many crackheads in one room = trouble. lemme tell ya. so he starts plottin his exit and finds the perfect out when some fool wants to "take him to the ATM" to get some money for guess what? more CRACK. Dubbs hands him an expired credit card but gives the real pin number in hopes that he will bounce to the ATM in which Dubbs will then pull a -oh yeah, i forgot something in my car, and bone the fuck out move.

but ya boy with the expired credit card goes and comes back mad fast, even before Dubbs can execute his masterful plan. damn, crackheads be quick! and of course dude is trippin cuz there wasnt any money to be had [not like he woulda came back if there was any]. so hes kinda bitchin but W is too fucked to even listen. hes off his head high and just needs to find a cab home. hes sick of the crack scene at this point. too shady [i know, when ISNT it shady.] but just as hes about to get up and straight walk out mid conversation without saying bye like a person going to the bathroom that KNOWS they are about to puke some other crackhead fool walks into the room and starts yelling at the entire crackhead lot of em. Dubbs doesnt know who the fuck he is yelling at, but gets it in his head that it him. this is when Crackhead #1, the initial dealer dude, says to Dubbs, all nonchalant like -come on dog. lets bounce. and grabs Dubbs arm to leave the room, but Crackhead #2, the guy that bust in the room, pulls out a gun and starts waving it around.

as ive mentioned W aint the biggest player on the field, so he just puts on the burners and bolts from the room. past the gun and the crack and the smack and the hooker and the pipes and the 'heads and down five flights of stairs into the lukewarm 4am that is san francisco night. and he keeps on running. cuttin corners. against traffic. with traffic. duckin behind trees and dumpsters and shit, and when he finally turns around to see if hes escaped motherfuckin Crackhead #2 is a block behind him still, panting and waving a gun in his hand. jesus christ, this rockstar had some determination! i mean, say what you will about crackheads, but they have no problem running long distances [as long as there is some potential crack in it of course].

anyway, Crackhead #2 is hollerin at Dubbs something about "it was all a misunderstanding" and "come on back, we'll party" but Dubba aint fallin for it. he keeps his distance, finds himself a cab, and heads back to the crilla happy hes still breathing. of course the next few days he thought he had 'reached the point' and needed some help so he went to a few meetings and we all know now how that turned out. he asked if i had any valium to send him. i told him to just sit next to the mailbox and eventually it would come. dumbass.

man, its raining in brooklyn but its storming in disco. only in the sucka free can that type of shit still go down.

on another note: i just watched the movie Ray and there is a scene in it that kills me everytime i see it [ive watched the movie once, but the scene five times]. its when they are in the studio doing the song "Night time is the Right Time" and Regina King's character goes into the 'BAAYBAAAAAY!' part and she has so much hunger and lust in her eyes which are glued on Ray the entire time shes singing. right then she is so desperate for him and her heart is just breaking for him and its so sweaty and intimate and intense... i kinda have a crush on Regina King now.

My Mistake

so i guess dude really isnt a white guy. hes black. my bad black dude.

[us brothas gotta stick togetha ya know, even if we dont read each others blogs]

ugh. its friday. i gotta get some trees, some time alone, and some tunes in my head. im done with this week. and this week, im sure, is done with me as well.


3rd place: my arm is tired, do we still have to stick together?
1st place: YES! NOW KEEP YO ARM UP NIGGA!
white guy: er... should i put my arm up too?

Byron Crawford is ruining my life

so before i tear into this i just want to add the disclaimer that im no longer gonna post any more whiny ass bullshit on this faggotronic blog. no more cryin about how stupid or sad i feel. no more bullshit bout the ol lady. no more crap period. [that is a bold faced lie and we all know it].

anyway, let me start by saying i dont read many blogs. there are a few, which i'll list for you below, in a very generous fashion, but usually i dont really give a fuckin rats ass about a single thing most bloggers have to say. like there is this guy. who everyone seems to be freakin about. like, all my homies [in cyberland, which in of itself is kinda strange] is on his tip. and these are people i respect! they all think he is, how do you zey in de american, zey "bomb?" so i inevitably went to check him out and he just seemed to be some white dude in LA. i mean, he didnt come off as offensive or stupid, he could actually be a pretty swell guy. i just didnt care. see, being a heterosexual male from san francisco, and now living in brooklyn, by rule, i just dont care for white guys in LA. i dont even put enough energy into it to NOT LIKE them. i just dont care. and when i read his shit i got that same feeling i get whenever someone mentions a white guy from LA. meh. but he seems to be the ruler of bloggerverse and all the shorties wanna lick his dick. whatever.

and he is the only one i culd think of off the top of my head [bravo white guy from LA. you stood above the rest. i guess, in the end, you win. [and that was said in a TOTALLY gay way], so im just gonna say that most blogs i have read are people whining about feelings they wish they had. they are just bored and looking for attention [kinda like me] and want someone to say "yes i understand." there is nothing wrong with this, im just not tryin to waste my time reading it. hell, id rather write crap than read it. i thought that was the way it was supposed to be done. apparently, there is a whole other art to blogging. and its one i trust. see, its best if you write something that people might want to READ.

so as i was moving along to before i went on that semi tangent because im in a complete vicodin haze and just puffed tuff on a splizzle, i read maybe, 5 blogs in all. and with all of them i have a somewhat personal connection because in some way i have already known or grown to kinda know [by way of the internet] them personally.

like there is this video bimbo who ive known since the disco era. i mean, me and this cat go back to dirty speed in the lower haight and fag parties on monday at 6am. we done been around the block together. he even lived with me for a hot one. shit, his ol lady is practically my bitch! oh i mean, hes all sensetive and if you strike a cord he'll disappear for like, a year, but hes one of my main soldiers and in the end and i can count on him to at least be somewhere near where i want him to be [and if you were wondering, yes. by "in the end" i meant his cock up my ass]. i know the score with him. i read his shit just cuz, you know, i be wantin to see what he got to say. that and we are totally gay for eachother.

and then there is saydizzle. shes like, a lyrical genius. oh you aint know? yeah she'll spit fire on ya. she hooked me up with gmail just on GP. i mean, i emailed her outta no where [sizzla gave me the blog addy] askin if she can hook a nigga up wit some of that future shit and low and behold she totally did! props out to a hot ass MILF that will just lace you like that. so of course i check in with what she be talkin bout [and damn son, she be layin it thick sometimes]. i mean, shes cool, kinda like meself. lil emotional, but chicks will be like that. and so will guys, by the way.

and thats really about it. i mean, every now and again i check out this dude because hes boys with my boy, seems kinda normal, and smokes weed. and i check out this chica because shes like, simply sizzles bff or something and is always getting linked and when i finally read her she said something about looking like halle berry and eve and so i keep checking back just in case she talks about getting it in the VIP entrance or something. and then there is this bitch. who writes so good it makes me want to eat my own anus [i have no idea what that means]. shes like, the funniest dry cleaner ive ever read. and there are some funny ass dry cleaners! where does she find the time to write all that hilarious bullshit when shes dry cleaning peoples clothes all day. guess thats what you call dedication. its been said dry cleaners have a lot of that.

but then there are other guys. like him. that dude is like, shit your pants funny [he lives in utah and if you dont got 8 wives, play for the jazz, or run a church you BETTER be funny or else im comin to cutcha, either that or im not reading your blog]. i mean, hes so funny i went through his ARCHIVES to read what he had to say. and thats really going in it, thats practically spelunking. i straight spelunked his ass! and he has like, eleventy billion readers. which he should, mind you. because he writes what someone may actually want to READ.

but he only updates every so often [weekly maybe]. Byron Crawford on the other hand, updates like once, maybe twice a day. and dude not only talks about shit i wanna read, he is actually pretty clever and funny. i mean, addictively [made up word] clever and funny. since the sizzle stick turned me on to him. i actually lost alot of time i should have been doing homework [and watching tv and playing records and doing other stupid waste of time shit] reading his lame ass album reviews and pondering his musings on Kanye West. dude straight cracks me up. and he writes all kinds of stupid shit i wanna waste time on. the fool writes episode guides to the fuckin Real World for chrissakes! shit, ill be damned if i watch em, but ill read someone rip em apart piece by piece fo sho! and he writes about a whole other load of crap too [can you believe i found out about Johnny Cocheran dying through that fool?]. and his comments are outrageous. these fools get all scientifical and shit. they practically turn the comments into a forum.

and heres the kicker: i suspect he writes half those comments himself. under different guises with different points of view. of course, i dont really believe its just one guy. in fact, i think they actually mention there are 'correspondents'. but supposedly one dude is writing a bulk of the shit and he is a black dude not too long out of college. whatevs i dont believe any of that blongna [im bring that back]. i think its just a bunch of smart white dudes with one or two black dudes on the team, [one of which started the site].

anyway, i been readin the fool non stop like hes my secret gay lover and im waiting for him to mention our lil trist. ive seriously been up late reading this fool go on about how cam'ron is gay and ashley simpson is lame and ghost face last album was the biggity for hours. its getting so that i am not getting anything accomplished, and its all because he writes about shit i wanna read. so from now on, dear reader [all 2 of you], im gonna try to not be so selfish and entertain a little. no more crappity crap. its all on the level from here on out.

[haha. yeah right. lick my sores bitches]

end bit.