my girlfriend's back

I cant believe she comes back to me. Every time without fail. She comes back to me, jkg, so worthless and dirty and undeserving of her open arms and warm bosom. Such a stupid depraved man she comes back to, an idiot, a lowlife, a criminal. I cant believe how lucky I am. such a lucky fool, to have this woman have me.

jkg the DJ who doesn’t stand behind his decks anymore. Who doesn’t get inspired by his vinyl, no longer gleaming with rhythm and drums and no longer with that moist look in his eyes like each note will make him cry. She comes back to him with his turntables a corpse rotting in the living room in front of the window for all of Brooklyn to see. Ashamed and lazy and sick of trying because he no longer knows who he does it for.

and jkg the producer that gets stuck and frustrated and doesn’t even try to make music anymore because music is too important for him. Because music is holy and religious and he has no spirit. Music means you have something inside that can help cure the world or at least your people or maybe just your neighborhood and he has none of this just a boring still blackness inside that’s silent and blank like a piece of cold dirty metal in a pile of dirt.

She comes back to jkg and the house smells like cigarettes and his breath smells like death and cancer and he has a great novel in him but he wont write it because he doesn’t know enough words. His vocabulary fails him and he could never articulate what he feels or how it affects him. He can never describe the world because his language is limited and dying by the hour and he just drinks wine and smokes more cigarettes and thinks and reflects on what he will never have or be and his novel is in those thoughts. His stories are doomed and even the blood of them slides away through the grates of his mind into the sewer of nothing and never to be told.

And I am jkg and he is arrogant and vain and hides so much. he can only put his head in his hands and shake because his tears are dry and his hands are bloody. The blood of thieves and crimes and betrayal on them and he stinks and drools and snores at night and no woman would ever have him but her. Lea, L-bonita, L-over, L-tinkle, L-stumble, L-giggle, all the names I have given her to hide her from me and who I am, ashamed of what she would see and find. Embarrassed because he is a fake, a character, a quote, a culmination of everything in his past. Stories that make up nothing, that can be forgotten and no one would ever care or know. jkg who holds onto his past and her and these stories because he is disgusting and insignificant without them.

And she comes back to him every time. And every time he breathes such a heavy and sad sigh because he knows she shouldn’t, she should leave him and not return. She should let him go to drown in his past and his stories and his blood and boredom. She should let him disappear in his own filth but she wont. She comes home and smothers him with kisses and wraps her arms around him and her dimple touches his dimple and she whispers in his ear that she missed him so much and I missed you too I did to no end and it hurt and I never want to be away from you again I love you I love you fuck I love you so god damned much!

easy aching Denny

last night i was sitting in front of my laptop, just like i am now, with a c-curve in my spine and staring at the screen as i typed every other word that came into my head. i wasnt writing a post though, i was writing a book review. and it was laborious and i was tired. i needed a drink. i needed to find space. the day had been long and it was around midnight so when the phone rang i knew that was my chance and i snapped shut the laptop and picked up the phone, getting up and headed to the kitchen all in one move.

i only caught a hint of the number; the four one five. san francisco. hella tight. but it was still an unknown. who dat be? oh snap, my boy Denny! what a muthafuckin surprise. this fool, crawling out the woodwork.

Denny's been MIA. i hadnt seen or spoke to him since i trekked east. we'd done plenty of dirt together. from way back in the rave days. the endless night days. the hunched over the decks and marathon sets days. the easy aching days. the disco days. the days of suicide. and to be honest, i never thought i would ever speak to him again.

when i left my beloved disco, it was after the party had ended. the music had gotten boring and tedious and the floor was covered in filth. light was beginning to creep in and the ugliness of everyone had begun to show. the sweat no longer shined, it stuck. the dizzying effects of the lights was making me nauseous. it felt like if i stayed there any longer, i was going to get sick. it was a perfect exit, the timing was remarkable.

Denny wasnt going anywhere though. he stayed. he had queens on his tip at the end up, pimping their hags out for 2 bump sacks of crystal. he had flexible hours at his job and a work truck he could make runs in. he had late night scrape that would get nasty in the bedroom and pornography and glass pipes for when he wanted to be alone. he had places all around the bay that he could crash at if he needed to lay low for a while. he had a few dozen wife beaters and mad kangol hats.

but he was doomed and he knew it and he would always let everyone else know it even though everyone else already knew.

but i was happy to hear from him and felt good hearing his voice. whatchu been up to dog? oh you know, chillin. no doubt, what else? oh i live in sacramento now, with my old lady. what? sacramento? old lady? how did that happen?

through a code delivered in mumbles i deciphered what went down. he lived with some tweaker in castro valley, got caught up in some friendly ventures with the hells angels, and eventually, as these things happened, shit went a little sour. at around the time that Denny's paranoia had convinced him that the house was being watched by the feds, a few hells angels came to the house to pay Denny a visit.

he had to pack his bags and leave immediately, and was getting encouraged by a few fist and doc martin tips. he stood his ground though. through his logic, all of the little oddjobs he had done around the house had earned him a bed under its roof, and he refused to leave. going for the more proactive approach, the hells angels decide to pack his bags for him, and go to his room to start breaking shit [as is the method of migration for the hells angels]. his room is on the other side of the house, downstairs in the front [aka, the garage], and to everyone's chagrin, Denny's paranoia was on point, because the cops rolled up not two minutes after the the first dresser was turned over.

Denny, seeing his out, goes up to the cops and says the guys were just helping him move. miraculously, the cops let the guys go with a warning. when they all get back upstairs the hells angels are actually willing to talk. after a few beers one of the guys realizes he knows Denny from back in some other lifetime in another bay area suburb. after a few hours of bullshitting and cracking jokes, the guys leave and Denny escapes to bed.

oh yeah, and the whole time this girl was there just kind of hanging around. thats his old lady and thats exactly how he told me she came into the picture.

three days later Denny decides to bolt. he finished tied up some things and headed to sacramento, where there was some drywall work for him. he has been there for a year, he hear his old tweaker roomate was now on house arrest. hes geting bored though, with the lady and the town and is thinking of heading back to disco for a little excitement. at one point in the conversation he said hold on and i heard two deep sniffs and then he came back and made some exasperated moans and gags and said, ok, where was i.

damn i miss my city. true story.

i should probably edit this later. whatever.

power tripping

the way he told me was typical of how he would tell me any trivial bit of information about his personal life. his tone was casual and unassuming. almost dismissive. he said it like he was saying, i saw a repeat of Seinfeld last night, or, i had corn chowder for lunch today. but it wasnt anything like that, and frankly i dont know if i would have rather had him tell me something so incidental and minor. as it is, he breezily mentioned to me, as we hiked to Burritoville for a pile of crap wrapped loosely in a tortilla: you know i got a sex slave right?

right there i could see how microscopic he was trying to make this out to be, as if he was just making sure i was up to speed on his more sexually deviant activities before the conversation veered to more pressing matters, like what to order for lunch. but its clear that you cant just casually mention your sex slave then follow it up with, so you wanna split some nachos? and he knew this, so of course i had to bite.

no, i said, i dont remember you mentioning a sex slave. is this is a new developement? i scanned the menu, are you gonna get guacamole? i was still trying to sound every bit as bored with the subject as he was, which of course frustrated him to shit. half the fun of bringing it up with such a drab and spiritless tone was bomb like drop my jaw was sure to have upon receiving such information. still, he maintained an impassive demeanor, with the kind of professionalism only a seasoned new york queen could afford.

yeah, he said, to both things. i have a sex slave and i want gaucamole. we can split it. the gaucamole, not the sex slave.

i figured as much, i said, matching his unflappable attitude with everything i had. it was tough though, my mind was dizzy with questions. what does one even do with a sex slave? do you keep them locked in the closet, lubed up and ready to go whenever the moment catches your fancy? do they rely on you for just sex, or does the "slave" aspect of the relationship extend to daily duties, like washing the dishes and unclogging the toilet, or do you use your slave for more difficult and tedious task like detailing your car or building Ikea furniture? what about personality in your slave? do you look for one with a good sense of humor? if so, is it normal practice to sit back and enjoy a laugh with your slave, or is that overstepping the bounderies of the slave/master relationship? if i had a slave, i know id like to partake in a pleasant chuckle with them from time to time. maybe thats just me, im a pretty casual cat.

but no, its nothing that tame. the slave is reffered to only as "boy," where as my friend is addressed as "sir," and there are no titles other than those two; it wasnt clear weather or not they even knew each others actual names. his slave rents five star hotel rooms to meet him in. everything on the slaves dime, of course.

so was thinking that my friend just sporadically meets him and fucks him every which way but loose [and, i suppose, that way too] then they go back to their respective homes and watch seinfeld repeats and eat corn chowder. but no. no no no. its much more involved than that. if you are going to have a slave, i guess you gotta put serious effort into exercising the capacity of this dynamic. and from what he told me, they do.

sometimes, my friend explained, he has a bunch of his friends come over and gang bang the slave, stomping him and berating him while he watches and drinks wine. my friend, it turns out, hardly ever has sex with the slave, and just observes as he gets humilated. my friend, obviously, is the uber top and his slave, no duh, is the mega bottom. so while the slave gets sexually shamed and conquered by 2 or three of my friends friends, my friend sits in the corner calling the slave a worthless piece of shit or ignoring him or something. of course, the slave loves it, he said, but it gets kinda boring after a while. yeah, i bet.

anyway, so after he told me all this the only response i could think appropaite was, -wow dude, thats some pretty depraved shit. awesome. and he then gets humble and in all seriousness says, -thanks dude. im going to have him call you next time we get together. i'll have him worship you over the phone. to this i replied, uh... yeah, um... ok.

hey, i dont get that much praise, if i have to go to my friends gay sex slave for some, so be it.

as for me, i'm not into humilating my sexual partner and im not too keen on being humilated myself either. in that sense, i guess im pretty vanilla. sure, tweak my nipples and shove my tongue in your anus, but dont call me an asshole, that just hurts my feelings.

and i was also thinking, if i had a sex slave i would totally let myself go. id get a nice hefty belly, the kind only "sirs" are entitled to. i'd be eating deep fried double bacon sandwiches smothered in maple syrup with chocolate cake batter and peanut butter pancakes. at midnight. then id wash it all down with a tall pint of caramel too, and have some cheese fries and ranch dressing for desert. oh god just typing that made my stomach hurt. ugh.

im wondering though, if the race element [my friend is black, his slave is white] is played up when they are together. the whole thing is already twisted in a naturally perverted way, but is there poetic justice involved? is it even considered? maybe ill ask the slave when he calls to worship me. wow, i cant believe i just came up with something to talk to my friends slave about.

on a side note: j-swift is the producer to one of my favorite albums ever, 1992's Bizarre Ride to the Pharcyde. when i heard that joint i was blown back, i couldnt believe the creativity and depth of the music. it was far more complex and original sounding than most albums before and even after. ive been wondering what j-swifts been up to since, i mean, you cant produce a classic record then fall of the face of the earth? can you? well, apparently, you can. and its not pretty. clock the tv politics. i am definitely checking out this flick.

fake races

I was supposed to go with someone to something somewhere where some fool was performing some sort of shit or another. I cant really remember. it was a like, a month ago.

Anyway, on the way there to wherever it was, I saw a Lipstick Red Lamborghini, vertical door ajar, dipped on the corner in front of a fruit stand. three fine honeys were draped on the hood and lounging in the drivers seat, rockin tight jean shorts and gold fronts, big hoop earrings and serpentine fingernails.

The stereo was knockin this new tony hussle joint. The beat was vibrating the whole fucking block. The volume was illegal, yo. Shit was mental. the apples and pears shivered and fell from the racks, some splatting on the sidewalk upon impact, others rolling down the street into the gutters. the cat sitting by the fruit stand didnt even notice, he was steady peeling an orange, eyes fixed on the ladies.

So im trying to clock their thighs on the sly while I slide down the avenue to where ever it was I was headed, then one of em’s like, -yo, you gotta bone? and at first im thinking shit girl, you done hit a graveyard full of em, then I realize she means a cigarette so I pull the pack from my pocket and tap one out.

Oh wait, actually, that’s not what happened. my bad.

What really happened was i bought a bottle of wine on the way home from work and when I got to the house rolled a spliff before opening it. I watched some tv, checked out some porno, and started thinking about how when I was a kid an entire show could be based around the car.

all you needed was a cool car, some feathered hair, loose road laws, and hella gasoline; this was the recipe for a hit show.

The Dukes of Hazard had the General Lee, which was efficient in reeking havoc among the citizens of Hazard County, transporting Uncle Jesse’s illegal commie moonshine, and jumping ravines.

Magnum P.I had the Ferrari, which seemed to only come in handy when he needed to impress chicks. of course, it always came through in that situation, but usually had carburetor problems when an actual private investigating emergency arose. I suspect it was jealous of all the airtime TC’s helicopter got, so sabatoged itself. Ferraris have been known to have large but fragile egos.

Hardcastle and McCormick had their little freaky Delorean dealio. That piece of shit had the remarkable ability to change lanes on the freeway by driving under the bed of an 18 wheel semi, and that was about it. Whoop dee fucking doo.

Knight Rider had, you know, Knight Rider. aka, K.I.TT. Which was like the money shot of cars in The Car Show era. It had an oil slick feature, a beer holder, and an Atari console built into it. i dont know if they never featured it on the show, but it also had a built in vagina slot to slip your penis in when you got stuck in traffic or hit a red light. Knight Rider was awesome.

shouts to straight banging for turning me on to the tony hussle tune, and this guy for knowing more about tv show cars than me.

Unglued

i dont remember her name. and i barely remember what she looked like. What I remember is she was white and she told me she was a lawyer. she wore a brown pant suit and said to call her if i thought my mom couldnt take care of me anymore. her tone was low and professional, and i instantly realized she was treating me like an adult. she was offering me a service should i need it. i put her card in my back pocket with my bus pass and my free lunch card and told her i would if i did. i didnt even look at it, i could barely look up at her. her tone wasnt cold or unsympathetic but serious and businesslike and when i called three days later she didnt sound surprised at all to be hearing the voice of an eleven year old boy asking to be taken from his mother and put into a foster home, she just told me in that same serious and business like tone to pack what i needed and that i would be picked up in the morning.

it wouldnt be the first time i was in a foster home. i was in and out of them constantly throughout childhood. There had been plenty. there was the old black couples place in the upper middle class neighborhood by SF State, with the house a pale pink color I never agreed with and a big backyard that was bare and boring. and there was the super old lady that introduced me to chopped up hot dogs in mac 'n cheese and had cable tv and one time she fell asleep early and i got my first little baby hard on while watching the movie porky's. yeah, there were plenty, but at eleven, you dont go to foster homes. you go to group homes.

houses of five troubled kids with no symbolic parental unit. Just a rotating door of counselors whose chief duty it was to make sure that no one killed themselves or any one else. You had chores to do and were wise to hide the things you held most precious, but other than that the group homes were cool. it was good to be around a bunch of kids that understood your circumstance. it was comforting. It almost made having a broken mother easy to deal with, like it was normal even.

But thats not why i choose to go there. not even the half of it. i choose to go there because i was done. I was finished. i was eleven years old and i was getting sick.

thats what i called it. sick. my mother was clinically schizophrenic and when she would have her episodes, sporadically losing her grip on sanity, thats how I explained it. thats what i said she was: sick. and i was sick of it.

i was sick of the filthy house that I could never invite my friends to. I was sick of the dishes caked in scum and the stains in the carpet and on the walls and the overflowing ashtrays that never ever moved. I was sick of eating eggs because it was the only thing I knew how to cook. i was sick of not going to school just because i didnt have to. i was sick of kids whispering when they passed and teachers looking concerned and psychologist asking me what it was i saw. I was sick of worrying about the rent and the phone and the power. I was sick of reminding her to take her medicine and to lock the door and turn off the oven. I was sick of not wanting to be at home. i was eleven years old and i was sick. i was done. i was finished.

so i had decided i was leaving and it was morning and the usual fog hung above the San Francisco. i packed everything i needed; my clothes and a book. she was awake, at the other end of the house, in the kitchen. it was early, but i already knew she would be awake. she never slept when she was sick.

i remember i smelled bug spray and winced, i hated the smell of bug spray. It smelled like disease and poison or a crippled house that never got cleaned. its foul odor grew stronger and stronger as i walked towards the back of the flat and by the time i reached where she was, where she sat in her robe, staring at the stove and smoking a cigarette, the acrid stench of RAID was palpable. I could almost taste it. it loomed above the thousands upon thousands of dead cockroaches she had massacred the night before. She had gotten behind the refrigerator, i could tell. that’s were all the nest were and if you got back there real good you could maybe get most of them, for a little while at least. They would all crawl from behind the fridge and die. If you did it at night by the time morning came the entire white tile of the kitchen floor would be a horror of little brown carcasses. And that’s what the floor looked like that morning.

she said, noticing me and smiling and eyes widening at my arrival, -well, you are awake early. I lowered my head and took a breath and gagged from the stink. it was a school day so i should have been awake at that time anyway but she hadn’t noticed. i told her i was leaving and that i had a car waiting and that i wouldnt be coming back for a while. her short plump body jerked for a second, as if galvanized by logic, and i became terrified. She was going to hold onto me. she was going to tell me to stay. She was going to smile warmly and tell me that she was ok and she had taken her medicine already and that she had a job interview that day and that I should get ready for school. She was going to keep me. she wasn’t going to let me go. I braced myself for it but then she slumped back, eyed the fridge with the same empty curiosity she looked at everything with those days, and delivered the perfect out: she simply said "Oh."

the doorbell rung and she was still staring into the kitchen mess when i told her i had to go. in a moment of brief maternal gentleness she asked me to call her and tell her where i was when I got there. then she reached out and hugged me tight and violently, squeezing me until i had to push her away. I swallowed back tears and sickness and the urge to say goodbye and I grabbed my bag and headed downstairs.

the lady in the pantsuit wasnt in the car that picked me up, it was just some guy. he looked sober and it wasnt a cop car so i didnt care. it was a big station wagon and the guy asked how i was and i said I was ok and added that i didnt need any help with my stuff when he reached for it. i got into the backseat so that I could be next to my bag and before we pulled off i looked up to the third floor window but no one looked back, not her, not even her ghost.

I knew she was somewhere in there though, probably in the bathroom washing pills down her throat so she could enter the day or maybe get some sleep. probably still sitting in the kitchen smoking a cigarette with that unglued stare and her naked feet surrounded by dead roaches. I couldn’t tell for sure because as we drove off and the third floor disappeared behind a hill the last thing I saw in the window was the blue gray reflection of the city’s morning sky.

enough with this. read this author & check out some old school jungle

believe the hype

new york is getting colder. ive taken my sweaters out of the closet, ive pulled the a/c from the window. i put all my shorts in this large black storage container we got specifically for storing out of season clothes. this is new. we never had out of season clothes in san francisco's perpetual autumn. so we never had to buy an out of season clothes stortage container. thats an east coast thing.

when it starts to get cold my muscles tighten. they clench up, as if trying to hide from the chill. sometimes when i get home from the outside i notice that my shoulders are stiff and tense, and as the warmth loosens them the ache from squeezing all day lingers and it feels like i got a work out.

we took out the big down comforter that my friend chuck sent me last winter. he had stolen it from his job at Marshell Fields in Chicago, where he was a warehouse manager or something. it keeps us toasty all night, making it hard to climb from bed each morning. my girlfriend got a classy duvet cover and now our bed looks like something from a better homes magazine. it fit our queen size perfectly. thanks chuck.

in other news: ive really gotten into the band Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. all my hipster freinds groan when i sing their praises. you are a victim of hype, they say, its all the press. but i genuinely think they are pretty good. maybe i am just believing the hype. maybe they suck and i cant tell yet. whatever, i'll enjoy them until im enlightened i guess.

i found a thread in a forum that list a lot of hip hop rumours. interesting, sometimes funny stuff like "Big Pun clocked Jay Z in the head with a bottle of rum at a concert one time," and "Nas doesnt work with Pete Rock anymore because Pete was fucking his girlfriend [or sister]" i dont know whats true and what isnt, some definitely were, some were questionable. ill find and post it later.

If you are in New York tonight

Listening Party at the Kodak One Gallery| 102 Wooster st. in Soho
Genorously brought to you by Wax Poetics Magazine, Sound In Color, Kindred Spirits, BBE and Studio Distribution.
featuring DJ's:

Rich Medina [in my opinion, the foremost DJ working New York]
DJ Scribe [from Raw Fusion, best left field Hip Hop club on the planet]
OP! [from BBE my man killing the floor with the forward thinking soul and R&B]
Shakeyface [one of my main soldiers who brings the space funk for the space funk junkies]

the music should be good. no great. no, insane, nothing less than inspiring, if not hip shattering. you should go if youre into that sort of thing...

forced entry

im having trouble finding things to post about, even though there are a million things that are on my mind. when i think about it, i should have no problem just banging out whatever is in my head at any given time, seeing as thats basically what i do anyway. but recently the publish button seems out of reach. everything seems trifling and insignificant.

ive started a few different post, but they dont go anywhere. whats wierd is that im not usually determined to actually "say" something on this site, and have tended to post whatever the fuck at any given time. i mean, i clearly state in the sub header that "i cant find my argument," yet recently, the empty prose im accustomed to has been unsatisfying and sometimes, downright bad. take this recent saved draft:

he doesnt remember the 70's much. just flashes of discovery. he remembers living with his grandmother in new jersey and seeing fireflys for the first time one humid, summer evening. then he remembers leaving there. he remembers living with his mother in a san francisco apartment and dancing to rick james on a bright, pacific afternoon. he remembers going to the corner store and buying her cigarettes and that they only cost $0.85.* he remembers falling asleep while she watched saturday night live on a tiny black and white tv.

the 80's are much clearer. from there its easier to measure the distance between here and now. it was breakdancing and foster homes. michael jackson and graffiti. tagging on walls and snatching purses. getting in fights and getting beat up. it was tardy passes and having crushes. feeling hungry and finding food. living on hip hop and not even knowing it. finding the sex in r&b. these were years in thrift store clothes before thrift store clothes were cool. the years most taken for granted. he remembers these years, but he doesnt think of them much.

*this was the 70's. i wasnt even five and i could buy cigarettes for my mother.

see, where was that even going? well, logically it seems to be heading towards the present and maybe even the future [though ive covered that ground already], but for what? i think the only reason i saved it was because i liked the fact it had a footnote. other than that it is a meaningless series of syllables, a simple exercise in meter. a waste of my time and yours.

its not funny or inspired. its not incredibly insightful or profound, nor is it very trashy and shallow. its more just a forced entry, an eventually forgotten post. a dead link on a website that no one has noticed yet.

i guess im just trying to appear "not boring" when actually sometimes i am. whatevs. im boring at times. so fucking sue me.

oh yeah, i forget what that poem in the image above says. if anyone can read french, please email or post a comment of the translation.

netflizzle

ive been thinking about cutting off my netflix account. its not that i dont think its a remarkable service, on the contrary, i sing its praises and have been since i learned it existed. being a movie hound as well as an occasional hermit, its services complimented my lifestyle perfectly. as a matter of fact, the only time i ever seriously considered investing in a company's stock was when i found out that netflix was going public. i advised everyone i know about it, -it would be a wise decision to get in on this from the ground floor, i said, -i have a feeling this companies going places.

but i have to get rid of my account. i just dont use it as much as i should, and mathematically, it just doesn't make sense anymore. i try to watch all the movies in my queue, but can hardly make a dent. i just dont have the time. between school, work, my girlfriend and tivo, netflix has just taken a backseat. sure, we have movies at the house, but do we watch them? no, they sit there, collecting dust, mocking us.

to make our netflix account work for us we have to watch about 5 movies a month. that evens out the amount we pay for the service assuming video rentals are about $4.25 a pop. this sounds easy until you get that one french new wave flick that you really have to be in the mood to watch. and you just let it sit there, waiting for the desire to catch you. eventually its been three months and every time you think of Truffaut or Goddard you want to stab yourself in the eye. after a while you just send it back, unwatched and ashamed, so that you can get Bad Boys 2 because you heard hella shit gets blowd up in it. and you put the french new wave flick back in your queue and swear that next to you are TOTALLY gonna watch it.

every now and then you watch a movie that you have wanted to watch for ages, and it satisfies you in every way. that happened yesterday when we got Rize, a documentary about Krumping in south central LA. i think i might write a more in depth review of it for this blog later tonight, but if i dont get around to that let me just say that i was blown back by this film and think if anyone is reading this they should check it out. it was so good im rethinking my position on canceling netflix, if i can see a movie that good once a month, even if it cost me $20, then its worth it.

p.s., this post was the first one written on my powerbook. whats up with mac's not having all the blogger shortcuts that a PC does?

oh, you aint know?

because i cant think of a proper post, but am trying to get consistent and post every other day [at least], this update will be brought to you in bullet point format. it highlights some facets of my sparkling yet enigmatic character. and now, for some things you might not have known:

• i like to confess to strangers. and friends. and people i meet while smoking a cigarette on the back porch of a party.
• i like horror movies, even though they scare me. the next one im afraid to see is Cannibal Holocaust and when i think about watching it my stomach gets tied in knots.
• no matter how much sleep i get, im still severely tired in the morning.
• even though i have a remarkable charm in person, i am much more honest and sincere in email form.
• i am haunted by my past and sometimes fear it will suffocate my future.
• when im silent and staring into space, usually i am thinking of words to describe what im feeling or mixing two records together in my head.
• i have a high standard of humor and have been known to stop hanging out with people because they arent witty enough.
• i wont touch a girl if she doesnt invite me to. so playing hard to get doesnt really work with me bitches.
• the most important reason im in love with L-chuckles is because she is one of the funniest girls i have ever met, but i dont tell her this, i tell her its because she's got a nice rack.
• i worry about keeping my weight down more often as i get older, and think this is vain and shallow and sort of hate myself for it. but whatever, no fatties please.
• i have never been in a threesome with two girls, and dont really find it to be a fantasy of mine either. im much happier giving all my attention to one woman.
  
• i suck at scrabble, yet love the game.
  
• im a good basketball player but dont play that often because i dont want to fit into a typical stereotype thrust upon me by society. this self righteousness probably prevented me from being a rich and famous NBA player that could have retired at 33.
  
• my favorite number, for some reason, is 19.
  
• i want everything i do to be perfect. the best. this makes me hesitate to do a lot of things for fear it wont be as good as i want it to be, and probably limits what i can accomplish.
  
• i'm a cat person. i like dogs and all, but when it comes down to it, i like the kitties more.
  
• sometimes porno or pharmaceutical spam will work on me and ill click it. what can i say, im a sucker for drugs and whores.
• talking babies creep me out. so do animal hybrids.
• when i was a kid and would play the game M.A.S.H., i never picked mansion because it seemed boring and typical. i always picked apartment.
• i am a cinema geek and troll the internet searching for info about yet to be released movies. i also try to see one or two movies [in the theater] a month, time permitting of course.
• ive been told i have a cute butt, and tend to agree.
• even though im annoyed by panhandlers, i have a deep sympathetic sorrow inside for their situation, and always try to share my change even if i know they're gonna buy crack with it. hey, you gotta get your crack somehow.
• i like big butts and i can not lie, even though you other suckas might deny, that when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waste and a big round thing in your face, you get sprung.
  
• im not gay, but didnt know this for sure until i tried to have a gay experience and didnt like it. it was just too hairy and not soft enough and well, it kinda grossed me out. oh well. guess this just means im all yours ladies.
  

and that raps this chapter of, "oh, you aint know?" with me: jon. tune in the day after tomorrow for a special episode of "damn dog, yo breath stank!" and be sure to catch the two part weekend edition of "man, my ass itches!" i hope you have a wonderful evening, and as the british say, ta!