thieves

i just posted a pretty coherant post but blogger stole it. thieves.

the gist of it was me making a joke about how i was in the locker room showers at the YMCA, taking a quick one after my work out [i went on a very long, sophistcated diatribe on my philoshopies on working out. a range of topics were addressed, including but not limited to: vanity, the lack of soap provided in the showers, the tiny, perverted steam room, ass pubes, stank balls, and finally, the physical act of "working out."] and how in the shower next to me, was another man taking a shower, go fucking figure, right?

so anyway i am soaping myself off, one step out of the showers stream as to achieve maximum soup sudsiness, when i realize that there is one part of my body that im neglecting. and there was no way i could reach it. for some reason this irked me all to hell. it was the absolute final straw and i was not going to tolerate the uncleanliness of one pore on my body. i had to do something.

so i mustered up courage from every cell on in my body and asked the butt naked man standing under the next shower head, in my most tender and apologetic voice: hey bro, you think you can get my back?

haha. nah. i didnt do that, but it would have been an excellent, and profoundly hilarious, blog post if i had. but instead you get this recycled joke, and not even a good one at that. get oh well, ya get what ya pay for. eat it, tricks.

a new age

after i got home tonight, disappointed that my ipod's battery had died on the walk from the subway to the front door, leaving the last few blocks of that minor jaunt crazed in sounds of tires flushing past the avenue, i flipped open my 80 gigabyte powerbook and launched a browser with intentions to post in my blog. first i had to turn down my plasma television, but i was quite fond of the particular episode of "Golden Girls" that was on-

(you know, the one where Dorthey's friend comes to stay with them and the girls realize that not only is she gay, but falling in love with Rose. zany senior citizen shenanigans ensue, and even though the hot, leathery, old lady lesbo action was left on the cutting room floor, we are treated to a tender finale in which Rose accepts her acquaintances preference for pensioner poon, but delicately declines the doddering dyke, leaving the relationship open to a simple trusting friendship. seeing this as her only opportunity to stay close to Rose's haggard hump-hatch, the senile old queer relents to the feeble offer. with this they all laugh and hug and everybody is richer for the experience. it is geriatric magic.)

-so instead of turning the volume down i hit pause on the tivo. i take the power cord from L-geekness's laptop (an ibook. the only laptop that looks disposable. im serious, it looks like when you open it up it should have picture buttons instead of a keyboard. it looks like a Fisher-Price laptop. or a laptop you would win at the carnival. or get free when you open up a credit account at the belt buckle stud stand in the mall) and plug it into mine. her ipod's fully charged so i jack mine into the power strip on the floor near the xbox console. then i sit back and start perusing the wires, reading the headlines as they are made.

im so modern.

and my phone is too! were you to ask me, -jon, where did you get your phone? well i would have to reply with a thunderous, - THE FUTURE!!! yes, i have joined the technological age (i dont count computers, they are so 90's!) and gotten a PDA cell phone. oh? you inquire, - and what does PDA stand for? well dont ask me, what do i look like, some kind of scientist? it could stand for Pee Down Armpits or Pluck Delicious Apples. shit, it could mean Pinch Da Anus for all i know, but its hella dope and fancy looking, so i know its got to be good!

like, i can text message now, and i love it. text messaging is more fun than fellating bacon. its the only way i want to communicate now. never again will i use my vocal chords to interact with people over the phone. its all digital words on a tiny handheld screen from this point forward. all my "happy birthdays", or "sorry about your grandmass", or "congratulations its a babys", or "too bad about that rashes" are gonna be via text message from here on out. thats it. fuck talking. talking's for chumps. retro chumps. get with the '06 dude, no one talks with their mouth these days.

but i got a little too excited with my sudden leap in technological advancement. i bought a ring tone. its not that i dont like ringtones, i mean, they are very NOW and NECESSARY, but i just chose the first song i kind of like, and now, because i paid two whole earth dollars for it, i am determined to keep it as my chosen alert. so every time someone calls a crappy digital keyboard rendition of the song "Oh," by Ciara plays and i my cheeks grow red like a tweeny little girl.

right here

in los angeles the drives were long and spooky. everything was further than i thought it would be. you wind down the street listening to the radio and the DJ plays the same songs over and over again but you dont bother to tune into another station because after a while you kind of start to like them. i didnt use my turn signal much, it wasnt neccessary. its always just a right then a left then a hypnotizing stretch from point A to point B and then you are there. through beverly hills under the large, imposing trees and into bel air casing all the mansions. suddenly youre in torrance at a restaurant under the freeway selling some records over chicken caesar salads. then youre back on that freeway that changes into sunset boulevard then bleeds into hollywood all easy like.

i had a non smoking hotel room but i sucked em down anyway. rolled spliff after spliff and ordered room service, even drank the five dollar cans of heinekin in the fridge. at night the room would begin to stink from the mud of dead cigarettes at the bottom of all those empty beer bottles, so i hid my weed and dumped the ashes then let the cleaning ladies at it every afternoon. hotel rooms, they're like self healing wounds.

i cruised the boulevards one night. sunset. santa monica. hollywood and beverly. but there was nothing too sleazy, a few fake fantasies and a crackhead or two, but pretty tame otherwise, so called it a night after i clocked a few miles. i avoided the bars, knowing that after a day of whoring i wouldnt be able to bear the inane chatter of anxious strangers and i was afraid of the clubs because from the outside they looked haunted, with a thick, serpentine line of ghost waiting to get in. i just wasnt up for it, i wanted to be invisible, so i slid back to base after a nervous recon to smoked cigarettes and wonder where the trannies found their fix.

in san francisco the scene stayed the same as it ever was. everything fit loosely and the burritos were wet. i went back to ancient times then straight to the future all in one grind. i drank cold stoli on the rocks and this guy i was talking to kept referring to himself as a genius and then saying only another genius such as myself could recognize that. then he would do a line and i would do a line and i would forget what he was saying so he would repeat it all over again.

mike was in the corner with this cute sassy white girl that thought trust funds came with street cred and wore a camo bandana on her head like a badge. when the sun rose it was just me and him all hopped up on dialog confessing our love for one another and embarrassed but bold like we thought men should be. and we told each other that we were brothers forever again and again and again and when the cocaine and beer went dry he bounced out to his baby mama's house in his other baby mama's ride.

everything i am was there. i was gone for a minute. in another time in another city in another life that i lead.

and with one magnificent arc in the sky, i was transported back to where i belonged.

crazy ring tones.

my cell phones always the first to go. no wait, thats not true. my ATM card is usually the first to go, then my cell phone. every time i come to san francisco, its the same story. i lose something. i leave something behind. if its not my ATM card or my cell phone, which it usually is, its something else. a hat. a charger. a book. something.

i bring it on though; i invite it. i let my mind forget. i stop standing gaurd. i allow things to slide, i let myself be cool with things. no sweat dude, its all good. just be easy, shits taken care of. i get high and circulate. i let the city swalllow me, cell phone and all.

but i just got some new digs. the treo 650. red carpet shit. it got all kinds of bluetoothing video camming photo shooting text messaging file emailing hot synching computer shit makes your teeth look whiter and your wit extra quick. obviously im not letting that one out of my sight, so i think its only appropiate that we take a moment of silence and tip our 40 oz. for what will inevitably be, the loss of yet another one of my ATM cards.





o' dull blue mastercard, with the fading expiration date and unreliable availablity of sufficient funds, we hardly knew ye'... but we had a good run buddy, lets make this last night worth it.

im freshly baked from some medicinal shit. apparently san francisco is going through a golden age of weed. there are cafes and everything. i did a few lines earlier. drank a beer or two. chewed some gum.

my brotther mike [the black one] is about to swoop us up to go out. we are going to get into its veins tonight. maybe ill figure out what it all means. maybe i wont. either way, i better not lose my new cell phone.

catching up

you get around family and find yourself alone. You surround yourself with them so that you can escape. Suddenly the space you have created for yourself is defined. There is room for you to move. To breathe. To listen to your thoughts and examine where you are.

The house is large but modest. They just redecorated, so the living room is now a “visiting room.” Its where I type right now, while im visiting. The front room is now an entertainment room and there is a large plasma HDTV is a retro wooden shelf unit that is at the center of the room. The carpeting is new, shag, and not wall to wall. Its patterns reflect whatever color scheme is in any given particular room. The bathrooms stayed the same, guess they were perfect as is.

Ive been drunk and stoned almost the whole time. Every now and again I’ll snack a xanax from my brothers stash then check out some of the newly downladed porno clips on his laptop. Hes all into homemade amateur now and he has a pretty healthy collection. That’s always fun for a minute, but being that im at my moms place, I doubt the zipper goes down and the hand towel wipes anything up but accidentally spilled beer.

We all have an understanding here. im on mylaptop, trying to make sense of my surroundings, my brother is reading the autobiography of a first year law student, and my mom has a john grisham paperback spread open on her lap. Aside from cracks and snaps of my clothes tumbling in the the dryer, there is not a sound to be heard. Its beautiful.

supper in the goldmine

dinner was a bust. But I suspected as much. My mother thought it would be fun, that we could all enjoy ourselves as a family and it would be an easy time together, a pleasurable experience, especially if in front of us was a plate of foood and two bottles of wine to loosen the mood. Me, my brother, my mom and her husband. Not that we all don’t get along, but like most things, it can get fragile between us all.

It was an somewhat upscale restaurant in town. [That’s what she called it, “town.” Five blocks buried within the redwoods. A few neon lights and illuminating closed signs hanging in the doors of empty mom and pop shops. A whole two exits off the major freeway passing through, if you blink you might miss it.] I had the sliced marinated steak, two glasses of zinfandel and a couple more of a nice cabernet from 2001. It was all so so, except maybe the wine.

The wine. the wine let free some demons, and after a few passive aggressive comments and some even more passive aggressive silences, eyes were searching the room the tables the lamps in the corner above the hanging plants. Conversation was monosyllabic. Yes. No. maybe. Kinda. I don’t know. Sure. Thanks. I took two cigarette breaks and watched the city, sorry, the “town”, be still in early evening. It was cold and a didn’t bring my big coat. Who brings a big coat to California? Assholes, that’s who. So a braved the chill and when I got back to the table and realized the wine bottles were dry I asked when we’d get the check and hidden beneath the tablecloth, drummed my thigh with my fingers. I read somewhere that you can break down society into two distinct types of people: good drunks and bad drunks. It didn’t take me long to figure out I was stuck in a restaurant with the latter group.

welcome to Gold Country

There is a different kind of traffic up here. its not fueled by gas and it doesn’t stop and go. its patient. It waits. It heaves big breaths of space and silence. Its in the trees. It hides.

My mothers backyard, here in Placerville, California, the city where gold was discovered, is about 3 acres radius behind her one story house. there is a large wooden deck, which her husband built himself 7 or 8 years ago, when they first bought the house. a stone walkway runs from the back of the house to the deck, and from the middle of it splits left, leading to the hot tub. Me and my brother usually wait until everyone has gone to bed, roll a spliff, then go outside to sit in the hot tub and stare at the stars in the clear black sky. There are often so many you can spell out your name with them, like a cosmic autograph on the universe. I know that sounds dumb and sentimental, but its true. if you are ever under the night and see a billion lights, try finding your name in them, its like seeing you face done up in glitter on gods favorite tshirt.

i took a walk around the property, dont below the deck, where no one ever really goes. There is a shed with a riding lawnmower. That sits next to another shed with things like shovels and saws and hoses and wheelbarrows. These are at the bottom of the grassy hill will extends from the back of the house, the large wooden deck is at the top of it, with some patio furniture and a industrial size barbecue grill. Looking beyond the shed, into a valley and up another grassy hill peppered with oak trees, is someone elses property, the next door neighbors, I suppose. There I saw two sheep, grazing in the grass, their wool was thick and warm looking. I wondered if the neighbors were going to shave it. My guess is they probably will.

I saw a family of deer. Or maybe they weren’t related and were just friends, hanging out on a Saturday night, eating flowers and shit. They looked sort of young, teenagers maybe, and weren’t startled when we pulled up in the car with the high beams in their eyes. They just kinda sat there and stared at us, then when we got out of the car and they saw we hadn’t brought any beer to the party, got up and shuffled off, annoyed that we had busted in on their scene. Whatever dude, fucking teenage deer. Ungrateful pricks.

The rattlesnakes are sleeping, so we let the kitty out at night. But he doesn’t leave for long, he knows if he does, the bobcats will get him eventually.

los angeles dailies no. 1

Things ive peeped since i arrived in LA:

Marilyn Monroe high on cocaine before the orgy. Head thrown back, mouth parted open, beaming for the camera.

Another waterfall sliding down a pane of glass into a pool made of designer stone. Some asshole in a tight silk button up telling this wide eyed chick in a Wisconsin University sweatshirt that his uncle had one just like it at his house in Santa Monica.

this Mexican dude leaning on the counter at the Pink Dot, getting Marlboro Reds and orange juice then some generic Viagra as an impulse buy.

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

im in my hotel at noon and watching jerry springer, a few have things stuck out in the 15 minutes its been on



1) the ding ding ding sound when people start to fight. 



2) two girls were fighting over this one dude [who looked like he owned a
 minitruck], both blond, skanky hoes i would totally bone if given the chance. anyway, the dude is telling his ex girlfriend that he no longer wants her, that
 its over between them, and that she needs to accept this. he points to the other girl [the new girlfriend] and says, "i want to be with her now." new girlfriend promptly responds to this by lifting her shirt and shaking her
boobies all girls-gone-wild style. it was awesome.



3) this one guy explaining to his wife that he has been cheating on her with her brother. he emphasizes that he is no longer attracted to her, and that it will never work. she replies to this insightful bit of information with: well how can you not think i look good but think my brother looks good? he patiently tells her that it is because she is a woman, and he is no longer attracted to women, but has instead a fond preference for men, specifically their cock. she counters this logic with: how you gonna be a
 redneck and be gay at the same time? he had no answer for that one.



4) at one point the crowd started chanting, in their infamous chant rhythm, YOU
 ARE GAY! YOU ARE GAY! but not to the gay dude, to the minitruck dude. minitruck 
dude took off his shirt so he was bare chested and challenged to fight the entire audience. The security guards stopped that little riot from getting out of hand by placing their palms firmly on minitruck dudes naked chest and slowly shaking their head. it was a very zen moment. If yoda were a jerry springer security guard, I imagine that’s how he would enforce the rules. In any case, i thought it was weird they would chant "you are gay," i mean,
thats kinda offensive, don’t ya think?


the trip

The car serviced picked me up at 10:15 and I was at the airport by 11. My flight wasn’t until noon so I got a breakfast sandwich and some apple juice and tried making eye contact with people. Im not sure if this is ever a well thought out idea, as a matter of fact its probably going to spark up a situation of sorts one of these days, but I always do it when im bored and in large public places like concerts or beaches or airports, it’s a curious gauge, how long a stranger will hold your gaze. I don’t know what it measures, but if I can get someone to hold a stare until one of us breaks into smile [and at times inevitably, frown] its like ive scored a point. A simple victory to highlight the hour. no one really bit today though, except I did catch this old fat guy playing the game with me, I didn’t let him win though, I avoided his eyes, hiding behind my ipod. I was protected by Arcade Fire and Jay Z, Modest Mouse and Aphex twin. Fuck you fatty, stare at someone else.

wine and cheese

So last night we went to a friend’s house, a couple we know, for dinner. It was a very mature plan, they cook the dinner, we bring the wine, topics as wide ranging as television to feminist literature are discussed, then we say goodnight and leave for home at a reasonable hour. And for the most part this arrangement came to fruition in a very precise manner save a few minor derailments, which should have been expected by me as well as you, because lets face it, I wouldn’t be mentioning it otherwise.

When we got there all was good. Their loft near Carroll Gardens was impressive and spacious. The music selection was hip and cutting edge, and leaked into the room in a soft, unobtrusive volume. L-peepers noticed the dvd set to Lost, and that got a spirited conversation going, as all of us have just recently discovered the show and are absolutely obsessed with it. The wine was plentiful; the aromas of dinner were thick and inviting, the lighting was soft and easy, just beyond a candles gentle illumination, but without any of the distracting flickering.

But it was during dinner that things almost went off course.

Let me first explain to you that my friends husband is French. Very French. I mean, this guy is THE guy that you think of when you think of a French guy. He is never without a cigarette hanging from his frowning mouth, ever. It is rare that he is without a cup in his hand, filled with either wine, coffee, or ashes. He has a nihilistic oulok on life, seeing it as a long series of empty hours, each one bleaker than the one before. One time, an outdoor summer celebration we were all at, he climbed into the pool and began wading around, WITH HIS CIGARETTE STILL IN HIS MOUTH. No lie. That’s how French he is. I rather like the guy.

To put in perspective his relationship with my one and only L-bubbles, when they first met he explained to her, with grave solemnity and a cigarette in his mouth, that exercise was stupid. I think he went so far as to say, between blowing thick clouds of nicotine smoke in her face, “health was a passing fad, and a silly one at that.”

Now, you have to realize that exercise and health are top priorities in my L-crunches life, she does teach pilates for a living, mind you. So to actually say this to her set the precedent on all future conversations between the two. He would say something completely absurd, and she would look at him as if he was ridiculous. I think there is a respect she has for him for even thinking, let alone having the courage to say, such preposterous ideas. I think she just figured that it was cute and entertaining. Afterall when you here these things come from his mouth in such a heavy French accent, you cant help but chuckle a little inside.

Well last night he really laid one out for us at the table. After dessert, and an a few cigarettes and sips of cognac, he declared, in all seriousness, that there was no such thing as maternal instinct prior to the 1930’s. He said this in front of two women, both 30 years old and probably experiencing a longing for a child more intensely than any other moment in their lives, and he said it with the same nonchalance one would reserve for statements such as “kittens are cute when they are sleeping” or “this sandwich is tasty, but needs more bacon.” Saying this at this table is almost as bad as saying that the holocaust was a hoax at, well, at this table. You can only imagine how it one went over.

No wine glasses were smashed, no hair was pulled, the arms of sweaters were not ripped off in fury, blood was not shed and eyeballs were not poked. But voices were raised and heads shook in disbelief. Tones were taken and shock was expressed. After a while I just threw my hands up and accepted that he had read some articles and decided that they were correct. I could not come up with any other reason for him making such a ridiculous statement. I mean sure, some aspects of motherly love are learned, and there have been many occasion where mothers have been disturbingly cruel to their children, even some anomalies where a mother has killed her child. But maternal instinct not being natural? Id like you to say that to a bear while you run away with her cub, I’ll be hiding in the bushes.

In any case, we all kissed goodnight and expressed gratitude and appreciation for one another. They are good people, as is he, the frenchie. And they let us borrow their Office DVD so that’s a point for them. I like the French, and so does L-boombox. Sometimes you know, they are just a little bizarre.

saint me

go ahead, tell me. I can keep a secret. confess your sins. describe your desires. reveal the temptations that make you weak and ashamed. tell me what hurts you and what makes you sick inside. divulge to me the evils that lurk in your thoughts. I wont tell a soul, I promise.

because I've been there in that strange room doing strange things with strange persons. with cracked lips and my mouth bone dry. pungent and foul, sweat in every corner and crevice of my body like a shiny disease. desperate and aching and anxious for more. I've been paranoid and violent and looking for blood. and soft and cowardly and too sad to move. I've been paralyzed by just how pathetic I am and worn arrogance like a bright red hatred. I've been rude and aloof and didnt even notice. I've lied and looked people in the eye and said I was a the truth and I didnt even care if they believed me because at the time I really thought I was. I've been stupid. very stupid. we all have.

there is no pure person, and the closest you get to one is not a person who is pure, but a person who recognizes the malignant portions of their appetite and attempts to curb them. the person who appreciates what is wrong, but doesnt partake in its privilege. show me a person who is pure good and ill show you a mirror and then cut up lines on it, then ill offer you money for sexual favors and be quite cheap about it.

I've stolen. I stole a video game when I was a kid, just a middle school bastard with something to prove. I stole some candy when I was even younger than that, an elementary punk that had some dumb ideas. I stole money from my mothers purse, even though she didnt have any to spare, then I cried I was hungry and made her shovel up some more, then I probably stole that, I cant remember. I've stolen peoples youth, but I dont really count that, because they put it out there for me to have. I have stolen the spotlight though, and I feel kinda bad about it, but whatever. I've stolen a girls heart, but then she forgot it was gone so I gave it back, then I tried to steal it again.

I've stolen ideas. plenty of 'em. I'm stealing this one right now.

I've never physically murdered someone, but I've wanted to. and I wanted them to suffer, in front of a thousand people. I've thought of smashing someones head open with a baseball bat. but then got kinda sick because that was so gory, and decided I wanted to stab them in the neck instead. I've wanted people to get murdered, because I thought that was what they deserved, and further, what they wanted. I've even watched someone murder themselves, and wanted to join along.

I've felt superior to people, as if I'm more enlightened than them. I've felt that some thoughts didnt matter, and werent worth my time. I've considered people less than me, like I'm some kind of big shot or something.

I've taking things to far. I've done some crystal at night, and the next morning some ketamine. then, because I was still awake, I went to freebase cocaine and then took some xanex. when that wore off I did some more speed and trolled the seedy areas for a low priced hooker. but then I couldnt come because of all the drugs, so I smoked some crack instead. after that it was morning so I went home and booted some tar while watching tv. then I fell asleep wishing nothing ever ended.

I could go on, but I'm not the one thats confessing. let it be you this time. I will take on your sins. let them burden me. I absolve you. I forgive you. I find you pure again. I will keep your secrets. I promise. because I, my friends, am a saint.

lets roll

2005 kind of sucked. i mean, aside from just the natural disasters that provided nightmares the world throughout, the realization that our idiotic commander in chief is set to ruin another 4 years finally sunk in and Arrested development got canceled.

and thats just the tip of the iceberg: people died and people didnt die. some fools got rashes and others got cold sores. women got pregnant and men left them to raise the child alone. really horrible music was created and then committed to compact disk. then millions of tone deaf teenagers bought it at a big chain stores that also sold hunting apparel and lunchables. Dame Dash had a tv show and jamie foxx made an r&b record. Fiction was once again declared dead, but again, nobody noticed. Journalism was exposed as corrupt, and its lone sheriff blew his head off without leaving a note. i stubbed my toe, twice, and had to get spinal surgery. drugs got boring and drinks became expensive and the stink of nicotine lost its warmth and the afternoon became just another few hours of sunlight.

but all thats in our past. i forgive 2005. it was just another year to remember. another year to have behind me. i have the scars to prove i was there, to remind me that i was in it. and i have another year ahead, or at least another day ahead, or at least a few more hours ahead, to get things together in my head, to take a deep breath, to adjust my halo, and move forward.

jon 1.1

And it was a typical night indeed. Even though we were ushering in the new year, the sky stayed the same color. No midnight theatrics here, just a crowded room and some drunk chick on the stage with a mic in her hand.

She had a pink dress on, it was strappy and looked satin, and a small pot belly and short hair. She started the countdown at twenty instead of ten. By eight everyone was bored and the 2006 came in with a limp hurrah. The bottle of champagne in her hand said different. It sloshed and swerved in the blooming celebration.

I want some weed, I thought.

L-Chapelle was on the roof, shuffling in the sludge of this afternoons snow. The last snow of 2005. The years final, flaccid effort of weather. It didn’t stick though, it melted as soon as it hit the pavement. Its legacy but a few white blankets on few forgotten cars, and some sludge on a williamsburg rooftop.

This is boring, we agree, and march towards the door. I got distracted and checked out the band for a couple numbers. Some early 80s outfit, synths and drums and some beuaty in a long sweater dress with a red studded belt and a voice like low fat gravy. a few people sang along, in drunken slurs and howls. I got hot and tired and stepped out before it got interesting, if it ever did at all.

We head to another loft, one with fewer people. There are chips but the dips at the bottom of the bowl. Some cute asian girl with no curves but nice tits takes our jackets and points to the champagne. Only five people are dancing, all guys, all loose. L-smiles starts to flirt and I hit the tostidos. Eventually we get bored with the ipod shuffle and make our exit into the street.

Some car stops, thirty bones to park slope. nah fuck that we’ll take our chances. two minutes later a cab swoops us up and its fifteen dollars cheaper so we pile in and hit the palace.

Shes got one thing on her mind. I smoke a spliff and crawl in the sack. We fuck and come and then she ask if i want to ever have kids. Sure why not some day maybe. Her eyes close and she smiles and starts breathing real heavy. I decide I should write for a bit and think, this is it, the new year. More special than the last but not by much so far, and grab my laptop for the first time in '06.