get lazy

a brief summery of this tuesday morning [in a somewhat list format]

according to this site im an Existentialist with an eating disorder and a drinking problem who, though gorgeous and mature, will inevitably commit suicide by taking too many pills. after i discovered this i put down my copy of The Economist, pushed away my plate full of food, grabbed my drink and went to the bathroom. i admired myself in the mirror of the medicine cabinet before opening it up and grabbing the closest bottle with the softest rattle. taking a handful of whatever was inside, i washed it down with some vodka and thought to myself -its all the same anyway.

unkut keeps digging up the rarest underground hip hop performances on the net. i dont know where they get those tapes, but bless them for sharing.

Saydizzle is turning up the heat. it struck a nerve because that happened to me once at a club in disco, but the girl wasnt as sexy and we almost got caught so there was no happy ending.

i got a phone call and it was a recorded message. i immediately hung up. do those things EVER work?

someone tells me that Tom Cruise has his "girlfriends" sign a confidentiality contract that states they will play his beard and cling to his arm in all public appearances and in return he will raise their status in Hollywood. it wouldnt be surprising. and i guess his over the top performance on Oprah helped solidify the rumor that he is, in fact, a gay. whatever. apparently, so is john travolta. i dont really care either way.

the clouds are breaking above ann arbor. uh oh, looks like stella is getting her groove back.

thank xenoverse for the quick quizzes.

end bit.

Real Replicants Have Curves

ive just made the firm decision that Blade Runner is my absolute favorite movie. and i dont think im the only person thats came to this revelation, as it has reached the golden standard of "cult status" [not that im clear on the definition of 'golden standards' or 'cult status,' mind you], so im not going to explain why it is my favorite, just confirm that it is. it is just fine film making, in most every sense. but i think that aside from the fact that each frame would make a stunning photo, or the thick level of mood and atmosphere accomplished, or the use of colors and the smoky black canvas they are painted upon, or the actual substance to the story, the thing that i most admire is that the hero never becomes a hero. at the end he is just a man with a past and regrets. it takes away the fantastic element, grounding it a bit. turning it from a fable into a story. plus, you get to see some nekid tits and fools be gettin blowd up.

on a side note, its on that channel WGN. where the fuck did WGN come from? i been watching direct tv for 3 years now and i aint never seent no WGN channel before. and its all up in my favorites like it know somebody. shit. but what really annoys me is that its playing my favorite movie and now i feel as if ive been duped into watching another channel. a channel marketing straight to me. they'll probably show commercials chock full of shit i want to buy, with catchy jingles that always leave me saying, "i gotta find that on vinyl." next thing ya know im wearing a spray on cologne in hopes that it will make women wanna fuck me and asking my doctor about this knew, safer, male enhancement pill that will really spice up me and L-drizzles sex life. fuckin tv, always tryin to get up in my pocket.

charging the surf

you would think that having four weeks off of work would be a welcome change in your routine. especially when you have been ordered not to engage in much, if any, activity during that time. you would think that being told you MUST relax for a month would be a daydream come true, an excuse to overindulge in the dull urges of laziness you work so hard to ignore. you would think it'd be a blessing. well it aint. in fact, its kind of boring after a while.

ive been haunting the internet. posting comments on random blogs. furiously searching for inspiring images. stalking the wires, looking for suspense. this would all be fine and dandy if i were trying to find the perfect porno clip to come to, but im just wandering aimlessly, with no clear design at all.

ive been all over the comments section at BC dot C. and i'm not even invested in what im commenting on, just adding my 2 cents for no real reason. but i dont end there. im hitting up the links to the some of the blogs in my list, then hitting up the links in theirs. and im commenting more. im making contact. im leaving friendly sentences and encouraging words to casual strangers in floating haloscan boxes. im telling them that everything will be ok and not to worry about it, that their golden toenails will make them shine, that i had a weird thing like that happen to me once too, that i agree, totally.

really what i want to be doing though, is standing at the decks pushing aril brihka into muddy waters. or pharoah monch into platinum pied pipers. i want to hurt some melodies. i got some funk i wanna get out. but i cant because grabbing the records from my bag will hurt after a while, let alone trying to stand for that long. glory be my spine. i have a gig on the 11th. summer is getting hot. this shit has got to heal and quick.

so im pretty much confined to reading, watching tv, playing video games or the surfing teh intraweb. my books are closed, my tv is on mute, and my consoles are off; lets resume the haunt.

p.s. and if you were wondering, yes kids, when i said "i got some funk i wanna get out," i was referring to my need to pass gas.

oh no you dint

some chicks just dont take that kinda shit

Cinematic Paths to Enlightenment

FIght Club was on FX earlier and i watched most of it. its one of those flicks that i liked when i saw it in the theater but immediately forgot upon my exit. i had read the book a year before i saw the movie, so the suspense had already been sucked from it. without the twist, it was just a meditation on the nature of men and their desperate need for validation in life.

in this case they find their validation through violence, and beating the crap out of themselves. they find it like a revelation one dark evening in the basement of a dingy bar with a fist smashing their naked faces apart. each brutal blow an epiphany, each strike another fold in their life opened up inside. each drop of blood, each open wound, revealed the urges they repressed. when half conscious, half alive, tapping out with their last bit of life, they found themselves. they were lucky, ive been beating the crap out of myself for twenty nine years and i aint learned shit.

Gloria Gaynor Got Gypped and a list

keep clicking.

the other day i had an epic session with the TV. it was severe, i aint lyin. i woke up at 10:30 and was on the couch by 10:32, remote in hand, sprawl in full effect. i watched the entire VH1 "Greatest 100 One Hit Wonders" marathon. it was like 6 hours long. i didnt move an inch all the way through it. try to chill like that, tricks.

the marathon itself was kinda anticlimactic. the number 1 Greatest One Hit Wonder of all time turned out to be whoever those two old latin dudes were that made the song "Macarena." what a fuckin gyp. sure, put that song on the list, but how does that beat out "I will Survive" or "It Takes 2"? and where the hell was "I Will Survive" on that countdown anyway? it wasnt in the top ten and i dont remember it in the other top 86 i saw. if there is one artist whos entire career was built upon one song its Gloria Gaynor. i DARE you to name another one of her songs. thats it for her. and its fine, because its a good song that still sounds good today. so bully for Gloria, she gets to rest easy on the spoils of her lone anthem of female empowerment. i aint gonna hate. but c'mon, shes still a One Hit Wonder. where was she on the list, you stupid child molesting perverts at VH1?

"Tainted Love" was number 2. and i forget the other 94 places, but remember some of the songs. one of them, one that i didnt even like when it was out and definitely dont like today, was in my head when i woke up this morning. it was that song "Dont Wanna Fall In Love," by Jane Child. god damn that song creeped me out. maybe it was her white girl cornrows in the video that went down to the back of her knees. or maybe it was that a girl that wore the standard uniform of a "unique" individual [patched up trench coat and a ripped t-shirt with dirty jeans and combat boots. a piercing in her nose that was chained to another in her ear. white girl corn rows. a mohawk] was singing such a bland pop song. it wasnt even a good pop song. it made me kinda queasy when i heard it.


my vagina owns you.

in any case, i woke up and it was in my head. god damn it really chafed my anus too, which was a real bitch because i have a very tender anus that doesnt agree with any sort of chafing. what made it even worse was that i completely knew the lyrics to the chorus. which was the only part of the song in my head. i dont know how i knew the lyrics as i am positive that i would turn any radio station or video channel once the openning bars of that nauseating dissonance came on. yet, i knew the whole chorus as if i had lip synced it at my junior high talent show. god damn you Jane Child for making such a horribly catchy ditty in the late 80's!! god damn you to hell!!!!

***************** *****************

i was just thinking about one hit wonders and thought of a quick ten in hip hop. there are plenty more than ten, what with all the Redhead Kingpins, and Van Full Of Pakistans out there, but ten was quick and i guess the standard amount in a proper list. it makes no sense, but here they are:
Jons Top Ten Hip Hop One Hit Wonders

10. Skeelo - "I wish I was a little bit Taller" - I'm sure you do little guy
9. Candyman - "Knockin' Boots" - Songs that co-opt the popularity of a trendy phrase are lame.
8. Ahmad - "Back in the Day" - this song was kinda gay but ill give it to him for dropping that verse on "Come Widdit" from the Street Fighter soundtrack. plus it was pretty popular in its time.
7. Black Rob - "Whoa" - yeah, one second youre the next Bad Boy star then Whoa, suddenly youre forgotten
6. Craig Mack - "Flava in Ya ear" - i wonder if craig mack and black rob got an apartment together and make it a point to not invite diddy over.
5. Boss - "Deeper" - she flipped that black uhuru sample and almost sounded gangsta for a bit, then gangsta rap started to wane so she went back to school to be an OBGYN.
4. Goodie Mob- "Whos that Looking in my Window" - i dont care how many songs they have that you know all the lyrics to, this is their only hit.
3. MC Breed - "Aint no Future in Your Frontin" - This song would kill the club if fools played it today. and oh yeah, you were wrong, there was some future in it.
2. East Flatbush Project - "Tried By Twelve" - a classic. no arguments, please.
1. Mos Def - "Ms. Fat Booty" - Thats right. Eat it.

i know. list suck ass. but im off work and bored as fuck. you got something better for me to waste my time on?

apartment weather

im bored.

im launched from sleep in the morning. i feel my spine; the lumbar region. you arent supposed to feel the lumbar region of your spine. you shouldnt feel any part of your spine for that matter. it should be one solid grip on your posture. the piller of your mass. you begin with your spine. you should only feel the growth from it. but i feel mine. it feels slightly slippery, and too easy on my weight. it feels wet, and loose. my spine feels like a whores vagina.

it aint supposed to feel like that.

the first thing in my mind, once i come to grips with my frailty, is the strange scenes from my twisted sleep. ive been having some vivid dreams lately. the kind that stick to you when you wake. the ones that haunt you for a day or two after, and they flash into your memory years later too, when your in a further reality, far from the past they came from. these dreams sting too much. they are too rich and honest. too easy to analyze. im think getting sick of them.

so i shake myself awake, hurry into some clothes, and walk up the street to get some coffee. the walk makes my posture feel a bit more assured. i flirt with the barista while i order my red eye but i dont think she notices. whatever -my girls hips will crush your shit bitch, i was just trying to make you blush. i tip her anyway because i know the next time i flirt with her she'll ignore me again and ive kinda grown fond of this imaginary relationship ive created with her. it spices up the boredom, even if it is just another dead routine.

i stroll cautiously back to the palace. the day is nice enough, but i can sense how slow the time struggles by and get prepared for a long day.

i watch some porno. kill some kittens. surf the internet. i smoke too many cigarettes and worry about my health. i play a video game. i watch some more porno. my doorbell rings and i look out he window to see who it is. no one, but i open it wider and lean out a bit. -who is it? some cat looking casual calling himself alex. -wrong doorbell dude. i shut the window and sit down and sigh.

i think i need a drink.

at your service b/w surgical entries vol 2

i love how in new york you can get anything delivered. its as if the city has taken sympathy upon us for having to do so much commuting as it is. once you get caught up in the fury of metropolitan pace, and the demands it makes for your time and your effort and your please can i get a rest, there is no room for running the side missions. the energy is spent, the body gets beat, you cant overheat, you gotta take a break. so this fine cosmopolitan jungle has granted us some pity, and offered up a solution, for a decent price, anything and everything will come to you.

you can get a big mac, some fries, a mcflurry, and the newly christened QPC, formally known as the quarter pounder with cheese [le royal with cheese in amsterdam], wine, groceries [and im talking from the corner bodega, not fresh direct, so you can get cigarettes and 22's of ol' e if you want], any type of food, batteries, hookers [but i guess thats in every city so that kinda doesnt count.], and my personal favorite: drugs.

i mostly get weed through delivery, though i have scored some mushrooms and cocaine too. i know of a guy that has other substances but i gotta call one of my flaky queen friends who is just SO busy being the most FABULOUS bitch on earth that it takes like an entire week for him to even reach out to the substance guy [and i just cant be waitin, if and when i wanna get high, i wanna get high NOW and not an hour, or week for that matter, later], so i usually dont bother with callin him. i'll just wait until we are having some glorious neon night and ill tell him to call the guy right then. that always works, cuz they know they are gonna get high too.

but the weed guys are gravy. and there are so many of them, that you always got a plan B and C. the weight of their sacks [which come in jars or "boxes"] usually dont weigh up. mostly like 2.5 and if youre lucky 3 grams to an eighth. no worries though, it aint bad and there aint much else i can do about it. and it comes to me so in the end, ITS GREAT!


remember high school dude?

i mean, just an hour and a half ago i called some cat and told him where i lived and wished him a good day. dood just hopped in his ride and swooped through with some thick nuggets [thats right nigga, still got some of that cali slang in me, what?] and burnt out within 1 minute. no para. no hassles. no worries. like that: boom. its done, and im blazed.

now i couldnt do that shit in disco. hell nah. i would always have to call some guy who would never answer the phone. wait for him to call back [because i would always just have to hope he would call back, it was all i had: hope, that he would call back, i would lie to people with faux optimism -no, chill out dude. he ALWAYS calls back, i would promise. but i was never sure, just hoping. still, sometimes you have to manipulate order within your crowd]. then when he or she would call back, 5 hours later with some excuse that they were at a homies house and their dog started puking so they had to take it to the vet or something], they then explain to you that "they are home now and you can come over." so you gotta take a long ass trip burdened with jones in tow, to some filthy stoner dump that smells like old food, spilt beer and bong water, make the most awkward and impatient drug exchange ever [after that wait and then the travel over there, any social discourse is entirely out of order], then trek all the way back to the castle before you get stoned. that shit is WACK.

but not in the nyc. so hells yeah bitches, im BAKED [more cali twang fo dat ass eat].

even though i probably shouldnt be smoking much yet. meh.

********************** ********************

everynight like clockwork at 1 am the women in the room next to me would start screaming bloody murder. the first night i thought she was literally dying. he voice was horse and desperate and he pleas came out in more of a howl than a scream. HEEEEELP MEE!!!! HEEEEEEEEEELLLLLPPP MEEE NOOOOOOOOOWWWW!!!!!! it was a horror. i envisioned blood splattering about the room. a broken leg hanging precariously from the bed. a blood soaked hospital gown. a heart squeezing shut. but nah. she was just anxious. depressed. filled with paranoia. slight schizophrenia, a know the tone well, they finally sedated her by 3 am. i only slept an hour that night, and only when i had enough painkillers to put me out for a bit.

the next night was the same and so was the next. like clockwork, this woman was murdered every single night at 1am. i became to look forward to it by the last night i was there. it was comforting, hearing her demand to be cured. like someone was voicing this agony we all felt. i dont think one patient complained. not even her dying roomate.

surgical entries vol 1.

everything they tell you is a lie. there is no upside to getting surgery. the drugs become a burden. the nurses act annoyed. the food is starchy and bland. the bed bends at the wrong angles.


before i went under, as i lay on the gurney facing the bright whiteness of the hospital sky, i was stunned for a second by the irony. i was on the gurney waiting for the anesthesiologist to come and put me down, and there was a frenzy of blue and green in my peripherals. doctors and surgeons and assistants of all sorts. all there to fix the problem. all there to inject the cure. and i had never felt sicker before in my life. i had never felt more ill. there i was, surrounded by medical practitioners the sensation of disease had never been stronger. this irony never got clever.

{when i awoke, blurry images i recognized to be the cute nurse that questioned me before i hit the gurney, and later on after the second or third start to conciousness, the neurosurgeon that performed the operation, came up to me and said something like "you did great jonathan, everything came out fine. you did good." i can only remember thinking, "why do they keep telling ME that i did good? i didnt do nuthin but lay there and get cut. THEY should be the ones receiving praise," then nodding out again into a deep, narcoleptic sleep.}

******************** *********************

the recovery room is filled with victims on their last leg. an old man that wont wake up to piss in a bottle. an even older lady that refuses to breathe. a fat chick that cant feel her feet. a middle aged sucker who's IV makes his hand throb in pain. my nurse assures me that im awake. i tell her im in pain with all the strength i can muster. it comes out a horse whisper.

she gives me a shot of morphine. i whisper that i need more. she gives me another shot. i hiss my confusion. i dont feel a thing. she ask what i expected to feel. i say different than i did before she gave me the morphine. she says give it some time then walks over to another patient. this is the hospital.

******************** ********************

i get to my room and they supply me with some Demerol. i flop and turn as much as possible under the heat of my greatest high. the feeling is as if pleasure exploded inside you, and it burns you asleep and you love it. much more intense then the mission street tar i booted in disco. much cleaner and more potent. i nap in its fires, finally under a decent spell.

******************** ********************

i gotta pee. i gotta pee and its midnight and i cant move an inch. it hurts to move at all. there is no way i can get up and go to the bathroom so i panic for a second, my dilemma washing over me, then suddenly- i dont have to pee anymore.

i lean up for a peak to see if maybe i havent gone in my bed when - OH FUCK!! WHAT THE... i have a tube in my dick. a tube going straight up my bladder. i tiny tube going UP MY MOTHERFUCKING DICK!!!

i panic again, then stop as the pain from the TUBE IN MY DICK shoots through me. i lay back down and accept that if i didnt have a tube in my dick i would be a flopping high crippled sitting in his own urine. this is only somewhat comforting as now every motion i make seems to cause a stir in my nether regions. and this stir dont feel pleasant. it feels more like having a machete wielding psycho living in the pouch above my genitals suddenly woken up while sleepwalking.

so i stay perfectly still for the first 12 hours or so until the nurse come and rips what i have now learned is called a Foley out of my penis. and like she promised, it didnt hurt coming out, but it burned like hell for 20 minutes after. more painkillers were in order, as well as a glass of water and a brief moment of intense sobbing.

******************** **********************

and that is about all i feel up for transcribing tonight. maybe ill relay more about that episode later. then again, maybe i wont. [note the last Judy Blume reference. Judy Blume Fever, catch it!]

******************** **********************

The Nurse Laws

do not eat anything after 10pm.

bring an overnight bag.

you will be wearing a hospital gown.

do not drink anything after 10pm.

arrive at the hospital at 6am.

your surgery is at 7.30am.

please, do not be late.

there is a furious whirring swelling inside of me like an engine too hot thats on the verge. i eat two slices of pizza and my hands still shake. i avoid the painkillers right now because i want a reason before i go down that alley and that, my friends, is very out of character.

i let the phone ring, afraid of their concern. i dont hit reply and dont check my messages.

im waiting. im waiting till my hands dont shake. im waiting for the whirring to slow into its normal, steady hum. im waiting for a thesis to come to me. im waiting for a reason to support. im watching the hours on the clock and waiting until i have to go and arrive on time with my overnight bag and empty stomach and climb into my hospital gown. i am waiting to lay back and breathe and countdown slowly from 10. i am waiting to awaken when this is all over.

i lean forward as if that will ease the sickness. i lay back as if that will quicken my repair. i realize nothing works and im waiting to be fixed.

the hardest part was accepting the cost of damage and then the wait until im whole.

i think i'll take those painkillers now.

Nicotine Reveries 2 b/w The Greatest Story Ever Told

hoe's be lovin dem Forty O's yo

so last nights dreams were only kinda vivid and not very interesting at all. to tell the truth, the patch has provided some pretty tame nighttime illusions in comparison to the ones ive remembered when i was smoking.

last nights air castle involved a lesbian chick in a class of mine that ive never spoken to once, save maybe a grunt in acknowledgement when we shared the same elevator. shes pretty butch. a definite top. black with short hair always hidden by a hat. always in jeans and boots. always a friendly scowl on her face.

in the dream we were at a store having a debate on which malt liquor to get. i dont know where we were going, but i imagine we were gonna be there for a while considering we had the foresight to bring refreshments.

and thats about all. weak, huh? stupid patch. you suck patch. if you arent going to completely relieve me of my nicotine urges [which you decidely DONT] than at least provide me with some blog fodder. fucking stupid patch.

but i have more. ive been meaning to post this story about Source magazine for a while now. its an interview with Reginald C. Dennis, who was the Music Editor at Source magazine during its hey day, when it was considered the 'bible' of hip hop. its one of the most interesting pieces ive read in a LONG time. i couldnt put it down [i printed it out and read it non stop from beginning to end from the moment i got it forwarded to me, and lemme tell ya, its kinda long for an interview]. it's filled with wicked hip hop moments from the genres 'golden era' of the early 90's. From why the beef started between Deathrow and Bad Boy to the surprisingly gully moves Benzino made in order to become 'co-owner' of the mag. the latter episode which inevitably lead to what was once Hip Hops greatest monthly offering to the trite piece of crap it is today.

i remember being 19 years old and reading the issue in which Reginald Dennis declared he was no longer going to be editor of the magazine. at the time i thought two things: 1) that he was an idiot for leaving what was obviously the best and most cutting edge magazine in circulation and 2) that there was definitely going to be some changes made to my favorite poop literature upon his departure, and even though I thought him leaving was an illadvised decision, I knew that these changes were not going to be for the better.

well, I was right and wrong, the interview reveals that not only was the magazine in rapid decline by the time that he left and it was actually in his BEST interest to leave its hallowed pages, but that at the time it was truly the most important publication on the racks.

I swear, what the Source said at that time was LAW. they were the only magazine that covered the albums we were listening to. no other rag gave a shit about Outkast when they first dropped. no other magazine was covering the emergence of the Wu, and there was DEFINITELY no other periodical that was educating fools on what Hip Hop's crucial influences were [i.e. Rakim's flow changing the way cats would spit, KRS One and BDP's severely important first albums, Public Enemy and the Bomb Squads downright historical noise].

and the story is entertaining as hell, I swear, they should make that shit into a movie. I highly suggest that if you have spare time you reads part One, Two, and Three of the gully ass saga to one of Hip Hop's most storied publications. it is also an education on the rise [and inevitable fall] of what could arguably be called an empire built on a passion for music that not many people gave a shit about. [note, scroll down on the page a little to get the the story]

and respect due to www.HipHopDX.com for getting the interview.

im audi 5000, kinda like LL Cool J was in 1987 but you know, without the kangol.

end bit.

breathing and its stupid results

i think i just told a friend that might have lost her lover that her pain would eventually subside. and i dont know if this was right.

i felt i should offer something in form of support though. i felt, as a friend, it was part of my weight to alleviate some of her pain in the meager form of "words of encouragement." so i told her that things would shape up. i told her the feeling would pass. not in those particular words, but something of the sort.

but to be honest and bare and candid, i cant really say that this is always the case. sometimes the pain doesnt dissolve into the past. sometimes it cracks and fractures your spirit and leaves you a ruptured shell of who you were. it breaks and spills inside and you are flooded with a misery of stains that wont wash away. sometimes it haunts you, mostly it haunts you, and cages you and you are possessed by it; you are a slave to it. sometimes it buries itself inside of you like a grave.

and only time can liberate you from its grasp. only time can cure you of its ache.

she is strong though, and has the surviving spirit of one who has survived the war of essence. the battles of breath. she will definitely get through this, but i cant help but feel i lied. because i know, i know what it feels like. loss.

loss, the simple child of love and death. our friend and confidant. our lover. our relative. without it, we would never find what we are searching for.

what i should have said was "im sorry you are going through this and if there is anything i can say or do, limited as i am to this cold electronic interaction, just let me know. even if its a joke. even if its a venomous rant. even if that means doing nothing at all," but instead i chose to offer what i considered advice. i choose to go with arrogance, as if i knew what it was she felt. this was petty on my part. but i will accept that sometimes i am petty and small. i will admit that i am a deeply flawed man with good intentions but a retarded sense of responsibility. im not above realizing this.

i am sad for her. and thats where she surpasses me emotionally. she is fearless and strong. and she has fire and anger. she will handle this much better than i could ever imagine to. she is the truth and thats the dope. she is profoundly aware of who she is, and thats why she will triumph over this episode.

and she also had a third party, a truly evil element, poisoning the hours of her day. she had a villain. a nemesis. a spy and a slanderer. a person that was toxic, gently murdering her content. this person, this third party, was an infection she could not escape. and that makes the hurt all the more worthless.

i hope that third party, that adversary, cries and weeps and gets buried in their resentment.

but mostly i just want my friend to be ok. cuz pain and loss are wack. and thats the truth homie.

Nicotine Reveries

i heart your sexy scar

so i started the patch yesterday. Weird thing, the patch. for some reason [i didnt look up why] it inspires very vivid dreams. i had heard of this little phenomenon from two other people but dismissed it as chemical consequences since they werent on just "the patch" when they told me. but the literature that accompanies the box they came in confirmed these strange rumors. right there in the 'How To Use The Patch' section it clearly lays the disclaimer: When using this product, if you have vivid dreams or other sleep disturbances, you may remove the patch at bedtime and apply a new one in the morning.

to be honest with you that was the best news yet about the patch in my opinion. vivid dreams are somewhat extraordinary and always waken me with the sensation that i have been experienced something of importance.

last night was my first night on the patch. lets tour my dreams [i think ill make that my next few post theme, if the theory sticks and i remember my nighttime illusions]:

so me and L-evator are at this mansion and it is the wrap party for some music video from some artist my company has put out. i know this only because half my co-workers were there and everyone was clinking champagne and congratulating themselves on a job well done. the mansion wasnt like, epic, Daddy Sawbucks proportions, but it was definitely on a huge plot of land and had a ridiculous amount of rooms as well as a huge pool and deck. Think any Jay-Z video from the late 90's.

so the whole joint is catered and with fancy lobster snacks and tiny, pricey quiches and all other sort of munchies that only the rich munch on when they are celebrating some event that will inevitably make them all richer. in other words, i was trying to take advantage of the situation. but the thing is, everytime one of the catering waiters would pass by with a tray all the food would be gone and just the crumbs would be left on the platter. this kept happening; everytime i reached for some eats i would be a little too late and be left with an empty hand, as well as mouth and tummy.

eventually i gave up on it and started to mingle, L-dweez was off somewhere mingling so i was on the solo when i bumped into this chick Rachel that used to work in our publicity department [she got fired about a year ago but in my dream, apparently she was still on the payroll]. Now Rachel is a real cute jewish chick that i instantly bonded with [in 'real' life] over out shared love of detroit techno, so it was a pleasant surprise seeing her at the party. we start flirting a bit, as we have always done, when suddenly L-dweez walks up to us, obviously bored with the mingling scene.
i introduce the two and L-train quickly picks up on the mutual attraction me and Rachel have for eachother, and promptly give her an icy greeting and claims that we have to go.

-fine. i say. hug Rachel goodbye [partly because i wanted to hold her for a bit and partly to piss of L-greeny] and we make our way out of the party to a bus that supposedly is going to transport everyone home [i guess the mansion was far out of the way and so a bus was in order to take all the guest back to their respective home environments].

Then, and this is where it gets a little surreal, Tina Fey is at the party, sporting a white robe which im assuming covered up a bathing suit [it was a hot day and im sure whatever video we were shooting involved a pool scene]. instantly i realize she is the clown/dork of the party that everyone make a fun of but also admires because she makes more and better fun of herself. she piles on the bus and sits in a seat directly in front of me and L-skeez. as the bus pulls of she sits up and turns around to us with a large fake goatee on her chin and, stroking it like an evil mastermind says "good evening my darlings, have you seen my beard brush?"

of course me and the lza start laughing hysterically, as does tina and thats when i woke up.

it should be said that when i did wake i had a deep crush on Rachel and a slight admiration for Tina Fey's sense of humor. this is no surprise i get a crush on a different girl every other week. but never before has a joke translated so well in my dreams.

i think Tina should do that bit on SNL's weekend update. it might make that show just a tiny bit funnier.

the Doc be droppin bombs on em


this stupid bird sat out of my window mocking
me all night smoking his stupid menthol cigarettes.

so this morning i was on the 6 [yup, just like j-lo] going to the upper east side for a sleepy pre-op examination. damn, i havent been anyplace at 8.30 in the morning since i worked that crappy cafe job back in disco. that had to be like, '96 or some shit. whatever, everything checked out ok. though im sure they are going to find some xanex, weed, and maybe some amphetamines in my blood or urine and am curious as to whether or not the doc's gonna call me on it. im not too worried about if he does or not, as long as i still get some severe dope to ease the pain when i get outta the hospital.

next tuesday. may 10th. i'll be fixed. i finally be fuckin fixed.

no more deeply concerned looks in their eyes. no how are you feeling or can i get that for you. no sad tones with a wooden smiles and a wince when i flop down on the couch. starting May 10th im no longer gonna be the eggshell they tip toe over, the bush they dance around. im no longer gonna be this ticking time bomb ready to blow. im no longer gonna be, as Gabriel Garcia Marquez would put it, "a cataclysm in repose."

im gonna be repaired, mended, sorted out. and you know what that means right? thats right chicas, daddy's hittin it from the back!

[ya know, ive never felt comfortable calling myself 'daddy' to a girl im going to have sex with, and the few times girls have volunteered the title to me while in the midst of the act ive rolled pretty well with it, getting off on it just as much as they do. but usually i dont refer to myself as 'daddy' to girls im about to penetrate. its kinda creepy so i leave it up to them. but you know, i was in character and i did it right there. so whatevs, eat daddy's shit bitches.]

oh yeah, the man with the accent and the white coat and the notepad. the one of many who doesnt understand the craft of delivering a joke or creating an even vaguely comfortable atmosphere in his office, he also laid another small explosive on me this morning: i cant drink any alcohol.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!?!?

first the cigarette, which it was still never completely explained to as just why i have to quit smoking before the operation but i am going along with it because you know, they got like 12 years of school and a few degrees on me and apparently they are fairly well versed in the art of medicine and know these kinds of things. but now the drink too? jesus christ doc, give me something to help slip through these last fractured hours before the scalpel splits the skin.

this is gonna be tough. i went ahead and got the patch but have yet to fasten it to my skin, and i have no idea how im gonna get through the evening without my problem solving elixer in hand.
i hope i dont become one of those sober and succesful types that wear pleated khaki's and have a hammock in the backyard which i INSIST that everyone lay in for "at least a minute" when they visit me at my smoke and alcohol free summer home on the coast of the jersey shore. that would be lame, and my friends would be boring.

god i need a cigarette.

holy shit i can link people now

as most of you, or actually one of you know, i suck at the internet. no really. i do. but with a little help i finally figured out how to link people. brilliant! right?

anyway, i linked the cats who i haunt on the daily, but im sure im forgetting a few. if you ever accidentally stumble across my blog and are like "what the fuck? why aint that fool linking me?" then shoot me a comment telling me to link you. ill probably tell you to eat a dick but its worth a shot anyway.

and if you know someone who i should link [not like me linking anyone is worth a rats fucking ass but whatever] then drop me a hint. or a line. or whatever.

too big to fit it in

i feel like that comic character Ziggy. you know, the inevitable loser with the cloud of rain perpetually hanging above his head. except i'm black and tall and much easier on the eyes. still, like that fool, nothing seems to be going my way. everything is just out of reach. lately im that guy that gets 5 of the seven lotto numbers. the guy that wins free tickets to a concert of a band he doesnt particularly care for. the guy that pays for the porno password only to find out the movie format doesnt work on his computer. and there i am, dick in hand, defeated once again.

like this couch i bought. oh man, its a gorgeous couch. GORGEOUS. nice shade of beige. seven feet long. deep and comfy with huge pillows and soft armrest [the kind you can sit on when you want to give that "im not really trying to hang around for long" impression]. this couch just begs for you to lay on it and patiently wait for something to come along and entertain you in your leisure. yes, this couch is the shiznit.

L-water found it on craigslist at an insane bargain. so i took some measurements of our doorways, asked for the dimensions of the couch, did some calculating in my head [which, as we all know by know, is huge and filled with facts and trivia that would put punks like carl sagan and steven hawkin to shame] and figured it was a go. we were getting a new couch. one we desperately needed seeing as the futon we have been using since we moved to new york is on its very last leg. its literally scraping the hardwood floors. its like your sitting on the letter V. the futon is done, we've had some good times on the futon. some awesome sex, some killer naps, and hours upon hours of sweet sweet laziness. but it was old and decrepit, and like that senile family member who's stories of WWII you know longer find interesting, we gotta put the old horse down.

so we go to the east village, check out the couch, acknowledge its utter beauty, and i call up some movers [three asian cats with a big ass moving truck]. me and L-bleezy get to sit in the back of the van with the couch on the way which was pretty cool though since my back is fucked up we couldnt take advantage of the impossibly rare situation we were in and have crazed monkey sex in the darkness of our bumpy ride home.

so we get home and the movers, who were quite efficient i might add, take our grand, glorious couch up the one flight of our brownstone and try to squeeze it into the door to our living room. they try lengthwise. width wise. over the railing. through the woods. to grandmothers house they went but all to no avail. they couldnt get it into the door. now mind you i HAD TAKEN MEASUREMENTS so its not all my idiocy that created this horrible conundrum. because you see, they could get it into my other door, in to the room that ISNT my livingroom. see, that part i got right. its just they couldnt fit it down the hall and into the other door, which leads to the room the big and beautiful beige couch is supposed to be in.

so im like: FUCK! and they put the couch into the other room, which isnt the room its supposed to be in, but at least its in my house. me and L-gringa try every possible way [taking into consideration that if i try to lift shit too heavy i might just permanently fuck my back into irreversible submission with only 9 days before the operation which should relieve me of any further back pains for good [fingers crossed] but it just doesnt happen. its a fucking geometric impossibility. in other words: FUCK!

so now im just another one of those chumps thats gonna put up his couch on craiglist whining that he doesnt really want to sell it but unfortunately it "cant fit into my apartment".

fuckin stupid couch.

stupid beautiful comfy piece of shit couch.

looking so pretty and inviting, making want to lay on it.

fucking couch.

god damn.