Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Bottom Heavy

San Francisco is filled with holes. Sometimes they are black and sometimes they are filled with colors but never does it matter because you cant see anything when you are in one either way. They are everywhere too, you have to watch your step and leave a trail of breadcrumbs wherever you go or else you’ll find yourself stuck because they are easy to fall into and a real bitch to climb out of. Almost everyone I know in SF has found himself or herself, at one point or another, in a hole. Some spend a long time in there, some just check it out and make an exit before things get too dark [they always get dark, even if they are beaming a brilliant light when you first get down there, eventually its just a darkness you cant see or think through], some get down there and never want to come out, they say its warm and comfortable and in their hole they don’t have to worry because they know exactly where they are and this certainty is all they ever needed or wanted.

I’m getting ahead of myself though, rambling philosophically, punctuating reality with fantasy, and not clearly unfolding the true message of this post. Its very easy to do that when you’re talking about the holes in San Francisco, because its easy to believe that they are nothing but a page of imagination in your mind. It doesn’t take much to dismiss them as an excuse for your mistakes, a euphemism for your failure, a scapegoat for your sadness, or another reason why you’re weak. It’s not too uncommon to fool yourself into thinking they are traps, set by some cosmic predator or, more accurately, cosmic jester, in order to trip up and confuse the honest path your were meant to follow in life. But they are not and this is the hardest part to accept: these holes, these obstacles and challenges, brutal as they may be, were created by none other than you yourself. The only thing the universe provides is the shovel, it is you that does all the digging.

I could feel the holes from 38 thousand feet in the sky, cruising altitude. I felt the plane bump and shake as the holes beneath sucked out pockets of gravity under the fuselage. I tried to read my book, I tried to watch the viewing entertainment provided by Jetblue, I tried to skim through a magazine, I tried to type on my laptop, but the holes on the ground, the holes in San Francisco, they wouldn’t let me. The plane dipped and shivered once we were above California, I could feel the holes depth below, I could sense that some were for me, they were black and endless and I could hear music coming from deep inside them. The music was good. They were waiting.

It’s a shame I cant paint a detailed portrait of what these holes look like, but in all honesty, they are different for everyone. Some are filled with drugs like crystal meth or heroin, but they don’t even have to be that severe a chemical, they can be weed or alcohol too. Some, like mine, are filled with music and women, but others are just silent and empty. Some have a comfy couch in them and some don’t, some just have a glass table and a television that never shuts off. Some are like quiet neighborhoods where nothing ever happens, some are the rooftops of skyscrapers and they have no guardrails and the wind brushes with violence. Ive heard of some that are dense with love and smiles and sunlight, you can never leave those, and when you try to, that’s when you realize you’re in a hole. You see what I mean, there is no actual design for these holes, so there is no real way to describe them.

I will tell you about the holes I went into when I was in San Francisco later, when I get my thoughts together and when the words inside me unwrap themselves a bit more, when I can actually unfold my ideas and see what they are as opposed to what I think they should be. Right now my mind is exhausted, my blood is running slow and my stomach and chest feel heavy. I’m in another time zone now, I gotta catch up with my watch.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Band Names

I’m going back to disco tomorrow, this time for my brothers graduation. I forget if I’ve told you this already. So much has been going on, its hard to keep up. I’ve been a busy little bee. Busy busy busy. Bzzzzzzzzzz

So I have to pack, which isn’t too hard and shouldn’t take me much longer than it would to say, watch an episode of Seinfeld, but I’ve been putting it off for a while and now its basically what most would call “the last minute.”

I’m not afraid of the last minute, in fact, I do my best work during those final seconds of the last minute. The last minute is only a threat on paper to me, but in reality, its all the time I need. Well, usually.

See, its not just the packing I have to do, which is enough in and of itself. What with all the folding of the shirts and the smelling of the underwear and the stashing of the porn and the hiding of the weed and the unplugging of all the many many dildos. There is plenty more I need to get done as well.

I plan to make a mix cd so that I can listen to some new records while I’m on the plane. I have to print out my SAR and bring it to school so that I can re-enter college in the fall. I have to call a few record labels and let the know contracts are on the way. I have to call someone, anyone in San Francisco and tell them to pick me up at the airport. I have to let the landlord in so that she and some handyman guy can fix our tub. I have to alphabetize all my gangsta rap cd’s. I have to watch Dr. Phil and curse at the television. I have to troll the internet looking for the perfect booty. I have to watch the season finale to Lost. I have to sit there and stare into space. I have to update my blog. Bzzzzzz.

Of course all this can be done, and will be done. There is all the time in the world between now and when my car comes to pick me up tomorrow morning at 5.30. and I can always update again while I’m in disco.

So in the mean time I’ve been thinking of awesome names for punk bands. Let me know if you like any of them, and if you are in a punk band and decide to use them, that’s fine, just acknowledge you got it from me and we are square.

Awesome names for punk bands:

Bad Guy Wins
Drug Money [or, The Drug Monies]
The Crusty Foreskins
Tub Water
The Rape Fantasies
Crotchety Old Men
Sleepover in Neverland
The Backstreet Boys

There are plenty others but I’ll doll them out like the rare vinyl at a used record store. If you want some more music oriented jibba jabba, check out this site for the newest MP3s on the web, then go and listen to this awesome mash up mix of the Hefty record catalog and crunk rappers. It’s the pure and unadulterated hotness.

Saturday, May 20, 2006

Learning how to Ride

I wanted a bike before I could even ride one, but I guess that’s not out of the ordinary. I mean, not many people go about learning to ride a bike before they ever own one. That’s neither here nor there though, because this isn’t necessarily a story about having a bike, it’s a story about not having one. Actually, when I think about it, its not even a story about not having a bike (which seems kind of cliché when you just put it into words like that, “it’s a story about not having a bike,” just sounds typical doesn’t it?), it’s the story about how I learned to ride a bike, which I guess, doesn’t sound to interesting either, but in any case, is what this story is about.

I was 8 or 9 years old at the time, and lived with a pleasant old couple in a foster home near San Francisco State. The neighborhood there is quiet, and all the houses have lawns, which is rare when you live in a city. The street I lived on stretched only three or four blocks before being crossed on either end by a thoroughfare, and all along it like the legs of a spider spread lanes that led into quaint little cul-de-sacs. Our house was pink, which I never really agreed with, and had a large lawn that sloped from the front door to the street and a great wide backyard that grew apple and plum trees. All the neighbor’s houses were similar (though there were subtle differences in shape, and most were of a more attractive shade than pink), and every one knew where every one else lived, including the foster kid.

That being said, it wasn’t long before I met a kid named Jacob who lived about five doors down from me. He was a little older, maybe 13 or 14, and had a good bit of weight on him, as well as a nice array of acne spread all over his face. I cant really say much more about Jacob, I don’t think I ever went into his house, nor do I remember ever wanting to, and I don’t recall meeting his parents, or any other relatives for that matter either. I can only say that I remember he was sort of shy and nervous and probably sympathetic for me, and that he had a bike, and would let me ride it when I asked.

It could have started out as a one-time thing for him. He sees the foster kid messing around on the street and, feeling generous and maybe a bit lonely, offers to play with him for a bit. After a while he divulges that he has a ten-speed bike and suggest maybe the foster kid learn to ride it to which the foster kid eagerly agrees. He pulls out said bike and props foster kid on it and then holds the bike while foster kid furiously pedals. Then he coast him down the hill, which was a not too steep a grade to be dangerous yet steep enough to gain speed on, and watches as foster kid beams with joy and screams, “I’m riding a bike! I’m riding a bike!” and feels a warmth in his heart he though god only saved for movies. After a few more rides the sun is going down and he tells the foster kid that he has to take the bike and go home now and that he had a lot of fun, then when the foster kid ask him if he can ever ride again he says, “sure, whenever you want to,” and he means it too.

Whatever it was, he didn’t think the kid was ask him to ride his bike every other day, and that’s exactly what I did. Not because I was greedy, or trying to take advantage, but because riding a bike had to be one of the coolest things I had ever experienced, and I wanted to get good enough at it to not only go super fast, but to pop a wheelie too. But I was young and I was learning and Jacob wasn’t always with me, so there were a few messy falls. I not only scraped up my knees and elbows and palms and once, my face, but I put Jacobs bike through the same physical misery.

It wasn’t long before he told me I had broken one of his gears, and not long after that that he told me a brake was busted too. I, of course, could only apologize to this as there wasn’t much an 8 year old foster kid could possibly offer to compensate a broken bike, and he would begrudgingly forgive me, and even more begrudgingly offer up his bike again, the next time I asked (providing he had fixed it). Eventually he told me that his bike was broken beyond repair and I could no longer ride it, that no one, in fact, could ride it, and that I should stop asking him about it because it was partly my fault that it was broken, which, of course, it was. I don’t think I was very surprised, and I thanked him not once, but twice, for ever letting me use it at all, then I went back home and played with something else.

That year for my birthday I got my own bike, a dark red one that had thick, out door style tires. I would take it and ride down the street then back up again then back down the street. I got up enough courage a few times to pedal down into one of the cul-de-sacs where a lot of the neighborhood kids would go to ride. It had a huge sundial in the center of it and everyone would hop on and off its curb. They made fun of my bike one time though, saying it was generic and poor looking. I didn’t go back down there much after that.

One night Mary, my foster mother, called to me saying some one was at the door. When I answered I saw it was Jacob and he had on the same hat he always wore and it was pulled deep to his eyebrows, probably to cover up a recent acne outbreak on his forehead. He looked nervous as usual, with his usual twitching and stammering, but there was something else I couldn’t place it at the time, but recognize now as a mixture of anger, annoyance and frustration. When he spoke it was curt and hushed, and his sentences were clipped, as if he had a hard time spitting them out. He asked if he could use my bike to go to the store, then he added, “Since I can’t use mine cause its broke.” I said sure and led him around back to where it was, he hopped on and sped off without saying so much as good bye.

A few hours later he returned the bike, bringing it to the front door and ringing the bell again instead of just leaving it around back where he got it. There was a sweet scent of relief on his sweat and I could see he had reached some comfort that earlier had been missing. He thanked me a few times and left, that was the lat time I ever saw him. the next day I went to ride my bike and the spokes were bent and twisted, my back tire was flat and the frame was all scratched up. I leaned the bike back up against the wall and went inside to watch tv instead.

I knew Jacob had crippled my ride, it was obvious, but I didn’t do anything about it. Even back then I realized that I had it better than him, and that’s taking into account that I was a poor minority from a broken home. I knew he didn’t have much else to do with his time other than spend it with an 8 year old kid, which is pretty sad, even to an 8 year old kid. I also knew that he was lonely, and that he didn’t really have many things to play with other than his bike. Jacob was not only pissed that I had busted up his bike, but that I’d stopped asking him to play with me after I got my own. I figured it was fair, that I deserved what he had done, so I never complained. Still, I wonder sometimes who would have taught me how to ride a bike had he not been around.


You have seen Conan the Barbarian, you’ve witnessed Conan the Destroyer, but have you ever peeped the new and improved Conan the Raver? You should.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006


We got two more visitors this morning, friends of L-dimples from back in the disco era. They arrived at 7 while I was still asleep and pulled out the sofa bed and crashed until noon. They brought what looks like their entire wardrobe, judging by the amount of suitcases on the living room floor. They are her very best friends and they call themselves The Pretties, the three of them, L-dimples included.

In San Francisco [that’s the disco era for those not in the know] they did everything together, burning through their early 20’s on the coattails of methamphetamine, clubs, sex and mojito’s. They would indulge in expensive dinners at hip, trendy restaurants and dish about the city and the life of single women in it. Just like that show, you know the one.

They leaned on each other and cried with one another and were always there when good times were to be had. They fell in love together and broke up together and got pregnant and then held hands in the waiting room of the abortion clinic together. They made sure to scold each other and warn each other and say he isn’t good enough for you honey when it was right to say such a thing. Which it always is, because he is never good enough for you honey and I doubt he ever will be. They joined up with other cliques because all the other cliques wanted them to join and they would watch as the cliques imploded in jealously and drugs and the only thing left standing would be them with a cigarette and a half filled high ball glass asking if the waiter was gonna take their order soon.

Then L-dimples moved to the Big Apple and The Pretties were weakened by distance. Thousands of miles prevented them from cleverly summing up the cracks and flaws of our human condition over martini glasses and Pan-Asian cuisine. There was phone and email but you cant see someone blush through an email and you can’t see a look of nervous anticipation on their face while talking on the phone. The sex and the alcohol and the wit were still there but they can only make the potion work when they’re all in the same room together. Without the third girls presence the magic is of no effect. It was due time for a reunion.

I’ll stand on the sidelines for this one. It’s The Pretties world and I just occupy it. Tomorrow they are off to the Hamptons for the weekend where fine wine and the poolside will join up to create adventure. The forth girl staying with us isn’t one of The Pretties, so she has to hold it down with me here in Brooklyn. Still, tonight its gonna be all us five, the four girls and me. I swear there is so much estrogen in this house I’m going to start ovulating soon.


Witness a new level of beat boxing then enjoy the first official Salute To Weed Carriers awards. After that tell me if you like the new Roots track [I do] then try to enjoy some sun.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

All the Rest of It

It was the doorbell buzzing that got me out of bed, but I’m pretty sure I was awake when it rang. The night before I’d been having nightmares. Jay came in and dumped his bag on the floor and put his suitcase in the corner. He looked fit and energetic, skin clean and hair trimmed and teeth that beamed white behind his smile. We stood facing each other and letting the silence settle for a second. Then I reached out and embraced him and could feel his hard chest against mine and then cursed myself silently; I need to work out more often. I obsessed over it quick and privately.

I’m a soft, flabby bastard. It wouldn’t hurt to do some push-ups ya know? It’s not like I work or go to school or meditate or sleep or do anything at all for that matter. I’m sure I can spare 20 minutes out of my hectic schedule of writing emails and reading emails and smoking weed and watching porno to do a sit up or a Pilates tape or maybe just a few calf stretches. Its pathetic, I just sit there. I hardly even change from my pajamas until after a normal workday would be over and done. I’m two slices of bacon away from dumping my girlfriend, putting up a profile at and watching syndicated episodes of “Family Feud” all day. Christ. Someone pass me the peanut butter.

Then we got on the subway and went to Williamsburg. We ate an omelet at a diner that looked like a trailer on the outside but had three floors and a patio when you really took notice. The waiter looked like a movie star and he wore peach plaid pants that only went down to his shins then flared out like bell-bottoms above his pointy brown leather boots. The place was empty except for one other waiter, a girl, who looked like an extra from Flashdance. We got our own booth and talked about the music they played. It was old soul and doo-wop from whatever era it was the diner stayed stuck in. I thought it was timeless and catchy and it provide a good soundtrack to breakfast with a friend.

We went to a few record stores but didn’t buy anything, then we went to a few clothing stores and left empty handed from those too. Eventually we went to a friend of his apartment that over looked the Williamsburg bridge and had a private elevator. There was a balcony that only fit two people and gave me vertigo when I smoked a cigarette. He also had a large bedroom and a back patio and a stainless steel refrigerator and when I asked him how much was rent he politely divulged that I couldn’t afford it and offered me a glass of water or tea. I declined but really, when I think back, I could have taken that glass of water. I fiddled with my belt buckle and made nervous jokes of which dude laughed at just about all and when Jay muttered Hey we should probably make our way to the city I threw on my shades and said, -Lets go.

We went to the lower east side and cruised all the boutiques and I bought a few designer shirts for the right price, tax-free. We got bored and went to a bar where we traded rounds of scotch and soda. Another friend of his showed up and then my L-boogie. We all chased a few more back and then I went outside for a smoke, L-boogie in tow. Outside with his girlfriend was Kiefer Sutherland and we tried not to point, then we grabbed everyone else and brought them all outside and collectively gawked clumsily. Then we went to a restaurant and ordered two carafes of red wine and calamari and steak and seared tuna. We gawked at Mike Meyers and giggled and blushed and when the check came I didn’t have to pay a dime.

The next day we all went to the Yankees game where they lost but Posada hit a sweet home run. It started to rain but then the clouds got shy and we all drank lager and ate hot dogs in a slow warm wind. There was no relish in Yankee stadium. What’s the deal with that? We all speculated that maybe it was Babe Ruth, another curse left in his wake.

Maybe he didn’t like relish. Maybe he found his mother or father in a compromising position with a pickle, and banned any pickle related condiment from being served in the park. Maybe it was the smell of relish that he loathed, maybe it reminded him of an old aunt that died when he was a child, an aunt who smelled of pickles on account of a cream she had to use for her blood circulation, an aunt that liked to make young Babe smell her finger after she was finished in the bathroom, an aunt who never had children yet insisted on breast feeding when she babysat, even though Babe was 12 years old, an aunt that he would always remember yet wanted so deeply and desperately to forget, so he forbid the one sweet, pickled delicacy that would remind him of her from the park. Or maybe we just didn’t find the right vendor, who knows, but it was weird.

When we got home I was drunk and the television couldnt sober me. Someone fed me a beer then a joint and I lit the cigarette on my own. We called a car service and the line was busy, then we called it again and it was busy still more. We watched a funny clip on the internet, then we called the car again. This time it rang and they answered and five minutes later we heard the horn honking. Jay grabbed his bags and said thanks and started dragging his things downstairs. I went to get my coat and as I was leaving remembered I had forgot my cigarettes so I went back to get them then doubled back to the dooor but by the time I got outside he had climbed in his ride and exited. I didnt even get to say good bye.


If you want to be ice cool you’ll you clock this scribbling I found on some notes from a different kitchen, they’ll give you the score on grime and the Americas, then you’ll check out this new album from thom york of radiohead, and you’ll have a glass of wine.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

No Tourist Please

I woke up early today to let a friend in the house. he just arrived from Portland and is going to be staying with us a few days. That means there is a full house, every soft surface has got a stake claimed to it. I sense a toilet paper shortage in the future.

We’ll probably go to the city later, check out a few record stores in the village, maybe get a pair of jeans in SOHO. Its what you do when people come to nyc for a weekend. Then you go to dinner then you go out for drinks. The whole time you hope that magic strikes and there will be a shining moment that makes the trip grand and real and most importantly, significant. Maybe you’ll see an amazing show on a crowded street corner or find yourself at a private party in a penthouse with views of the Hudson. Maybe you’ll wind up in bed with a beautiful stranger or maybe facing the barrel of a gun or an old forgotten friend or something. Maybe your cabbie will sell you drugs. Maybe he’ll just share some with you. That would be memorable either way you looked at it.

What you don’t want to do is pay twenty bucks to go to the top of the Empire State Building, and you don’t want to spend too much time in Times Square. Stay away from Midtown and don’t even bother with seeing the Statue of Liberty. Those are forgettable ventures that will only jog your memory when you see the pictures afterwards, otherwise they will be cataloged, with memories of other, equally mundane exercises, in the back of your mind with the grocery receipts and waiting room visits and stupid boring crap like that. They will not sit with you, they will not inspire you, you will not tell your friends about them when you get back home.

He’s a smart enough guy though, and he’s been to New York before, so I don’t expect to get any request to see ground zero or some shit. We’ll hit the town, paint it a pleasant shade of magenta (red is to aggressive) and then thank each other for the experience after. It’ll be fun, like an episode of Scrubs.


The New York Metro made a list of the most influential New Yorkers in music and Ultragrrl made the cut. I bet she’ll be at the Erol Alkan gig tonight at the Tribeca Grand, I hear Mylo is supposed to show too.

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

breaking the day.

Yesterday was just another day in a long string of days from my past. I woke up and squinted at the sun. I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water, then I drank it then I took a piss. My mouth was dry and bitter. I saw a glass of wine on the counter, half filled from the night before, and I gazed at it for a second and thought about the morning and the afternoon. Then I picked it up and chugged it down and it washed the taste of shit from my mouth. It was warm chardonnay. A squirrel jumped on my fire escape and started scratching at the window screen. I cursed at it and it ran away and I cursed a little more then farted then laughed. The house was empty, just like it is now.

But that was Monday, yesterday, things were different then.

Yesterday I felt both lazy and restless. I woke up that way: bored and impatient, like an empty excitement rattled in my stomach. I felt the wind in the leaves and the stillness of the sun and the sidewalk and the people that walked along it. It charged me and exhausted me; it confused all my will. I lost confidence and felt pathetic but didn’t care that I did. I was indifferent. I was anxious. Things had to be done but I just couldn’t remember what.

Yesterday when I went to check my email and realized that I hadn’t got anything important my body fell limp and I yawned and closed my eyes and asked the universe what I should do. As usual, the universe didn’t answer. Then I went and had another cigarette and stared out the window at the school kids playing dodge ball in the yard across the street. This one kid got beamed in the face pretty hard and he fell to the ground. Then he got up and marched up to the kid that threw it and stared at him or talked to him, I couldn’t see, and the other kids stood around and watched. Then they all broke apart and started playing dodge ball again. The kid that got hit in the face dramatically held one hand over his eye while playing the rest of the game with only the other hand.

It was around noon then so I rolled a spliff and I saw a little folded piece of paper in my paraphernalia box. It was from Friday night. I had forgotten about it. An underground techno party at a loft in Brooklyn with a big rooftop and a makeshift bar. I left pretty early, at 3am or so. The little package only got touched once that night. I unfolded it slowly and when it was opened my eyes groaned and my throat closed up and I gagged a little. Most of it was still there.

Yesterday I learned that you can find out how to freebase cocaine on the internet. Then I found out that freebasing cocaine isn’t all that great and sort of hurts and sometimes makes you choke. Then it came to my attention that it’s a precarious method that waste most of your coke and doesn’t even get you as high. Then I tried it out for myself and realized all I’d been taught was true. it’s a good thing I don’t like cocaine or I might have been pissed, as it is though, good riddance.

Then I rolled another spliff and aimlessly surfed the internet. Then I rolled another spliff and aimlessly surfed the internet some more. Eventually I just watched some porno, as that was where it had been heading the whole time, then I just sat there feeling lonely and bothered. The phone rang once but I didn’t answer it and then got annoyed they didn’t leave a message. At about three I decided I need a beer and walked to the store and got one. Then I walked back home and turned on the television and let images think for me. By five I was drunk and getting hungry. By six I had a hangover.

Yesterday at around eight o’clock L-sunray called. I told her I was tired and had a headache and I wanted to rent a movie and eat Mexican for dinner. She said awww and asked if I was ok. I said yeah but she knows she always knows its like a fucking super power with her and that’s why I love her but sometimes its like I’m trapped and cant fully escape how I feel. She asked why I was tired and I said I dunno I think I slept wrong and she accepted this which was a relief to me because the last thing you want to tell your girlfriend when you are thirty years old and unemployed is that you are drunk and stoned and coming down from an afternoon of experiments with cocaine freebasing. She said she’d be home soon and not to order without her and I said ok and finished off my beer.

I got a text message from Charles, the contract is done, we should sign it this week. I am now a partner in a company. I text back woo hoo and he text back congratulations. I made a joke about how we should get an office in Tribeca or Soho and diamond pendants of our company logo to hang from the gold chains on our neck. He said maybe we should buy a yacht or jet skis and I asked why would we ever want to leave our indoor pool, he agreed and said that now we will only get the highest quality transsexual hookers and I said without a doubt I was getting a boner just thinking about it. he laughed and I laughed and we both breathed a big sigh of relief.

When L-sunray got home she climbed on top of me and rubbed my head and giggled when I kissed her neck. -My stereo is broken, she said, it won’t turn on. I bit her on the ear and said back, -I got something that will “turn on your stereo”, and I made the air quote sign with my eyebrows and she giggled again. –I’m serious, she said. I told her I would look at it, I said it would be a project of mine. -I don’t know how to fix stereos, but I’ll look at it, I said. She hugged my neck and asked if I would really do it and I said sure. She said if I fixed it I would be her hero and I said well consider it fixed because you are looking at a bona fide Ace and then I looked up to space so she could get a good profile shot of my heroic bone structure.

That was yesterday. Monday. Today is entirely different.


There is a war going on, a war on open toed sandals,something must be done. The good citizens of Straight Bangin, Crunk and Disorderly, and even the honorable Ms. Bees Knees, have taken up the good fight. Will you?

Saturday, May 06, 2006

Weekend Reveries

Its a nice day. I think I might enjoy a little bit of the sunshine before it goes away. But I figured I'd share some day dreams before I made the exit.

I found this gorgeous video the other day. It has a sense of magic about it, no?

The other day a friend of mine called. She wanted to have an E party. I said sure, just give me the time and date, but still it seemed a curious invitation. Not that I was suspicious of her motives, shes a sound gal, but what age is this that my 30 something friends are gearing up to throw E parties? When did they become exciting again?

This got me thinking, what’s with this new ecstasy generation? Is it the same one as the last, a mere break in one of the many waves of nostalgia we surf? Or is it all new, but just the same as it ever was?

I found the common ground to be, what else, but music. There is the “ecstasy drenched techno” of James Holden and Trentemoller in the european electronic and maybe more importantly, privileged, side of the spectrum, to the hypnotic mechanical crunches of the bay areas hiffy scene, comprised almost entirely of poor American blacks.

Everybody is hip to it, its all the rage. Ecstasy is back, or at least its good again. Weird.

That is all. Carry on.

Friday, May 05, 2006

Laundry Nazi

I have a feeling the Laundromat guy doesn’t like me. It’s in his eyes, I can tell. He’s short and Asian, Chinese or Korean maybe, and always wears the same thing: khaki's and a corduroy button up, beige and blue. Everyday. I’d gauge his age as middling; he’s got crows feet, but no gray hair, and he takes ten or fifteen cigarette breaks a day. I know because I see him when I’m walking past, on my way to the city or on my way to the bodega or maybe just on my way away like, to space or to the moon or to heaven or some shit. The mat’s only a few doors down, in the direction of all the subways, so I always have to go past him to go anywhere.

He doesn’t look me in the eye when I ask for change. Just today I did a few loads, and when I went up and handed him my six dollars for change he just snatched it quick and dumped a handful of silver in my hand. Fool didn’t bother looking up, he just stared at the tiny Tide detergent boxes, then the quarters, then the bills I forked over, and that’s it. It wasn’t like he was distracted neither, and just moving out of natural habit or reaction. No, it was as if he didn’t want to look at me, as if it gave him great pains to even acknowledge that I stood there. Like I was some sort of curse or nightmare that if you ignored would go away.

And forget about asking him for additional change. Christ that would be like asking him to cut off a toe. When I had to break another buck because the dryer, apparently in cahoots with the evil Laundromat dude, decided that drying my colors was too taxing a task and put forth an effort the equivalent of an ant farting on only select fibers (wow that was a stupid simile), his face practically broke down in a fit of exasperation. I might as well have not asked to break a dollar, but his wiry little legs instead.

Its not just when I’m at the ‘mat too. He takes the opportunity to silently abhor me any chance he gets. Those times I walk past him while he’s sucking down a stick of nicotine, on my way to wherever to do whatever with god knows who, he doesn’t look at me in the eye, but sneers at me with his shoulders. It’s a subtle, biting gesture that I can tell he wants me to notice, and it hits me softly; a small movement, like I was reaching out to him for forgiveness or sympathy and he was quietly turning away with scorn. What an asshole.

What really gets me is that he treats L-swivel like a goddamn mafia don. She can’t break his fucking window without getting a thank you gift basket. Its like he owes her money, the way that douche bag fawns all at her heels. Not that I mind him treating my lady like a princess, but doesn’t even a hint of that respect extend to her lowly lover? I guess not according to Laundromat dude or the laws that govern his fortress of soap and spin cycles. Nope, to him I’m a piece of shit, and a really chunky, peanut filled, annoying one at that.

Whatever. I mean, really, why do I need his validation? He just runs the neighborhood Laundromat, its not like he owns the corner bodega (oh man, being on the wrong side of the bodega guy is like living above a pizza parlor during an Arizona summer while lactose intolerant and suffering from yet another herpes outbreak, or being in a sleeping bag with your grandfather. you pick). Let him adore my girlfriend and loathe yours truly. I don’t care. As a matter of fact, I’m going to get my change one dollar at a time in five minute increments and just “hang out” for a few hours next time I do a bag of dirty duds. That’s right, the Laundromat dude and me are going to get to know each other. We are going to spend some quality time figuring out one another’s angles. I might even flirt with his wife. Heh heh. Yeah, she’s got a huge, sagging, old Asian lady ass too. Shit, come to think of it, I’m going to start soiling my clothes now.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Awkward Laundry Moment

Yesterday I had a meeting at the Ecko offices. Let me tell you, that joint is insane. Three stories in a huge brick building right smack dab in the middle of Chelsea. We met on the showroom floor, where all the gear is displayed, and just had the sit down in their massive waiting area. Big leather chairs surrounded by flat screen tvs playing their recent runway shows, urban hits blasting on the overhead, model subway cars bombed in graffiti cleverly placed at every corner. There was a skylight that shot up from street level in the center of the building, so the entire floor wrapped around in a square shape. On one of the walls there was a giant shelf and on those shelves were large glass jars filled with a variety of candy. It was pretty fucking sweet.

So we are all seated on these cushy leather numbers, the four of us (my two partners and I plus the Ecko guy we were meeting), facing each other, talking. Between us is a large mahogany looking coffee table littered with music and industry magazines, we are in the front of the room, the first thing you see when you get off the elevator, after the desk with the secretary in it. Models and staff are coming and going but you cant tell who is which because they all look hyper fashionable. There was electricity in the room; the meeting itself was going excellent.

At one point I decide that I want a drink and ask if anyone else needs one before I get up to go to the fridge, which was a huge steel wall unit on the other side of the room, next to the jars of candy. I grabbed a couple waters and headed back, feeling pretty good about the meeting and flipping my bottle into the air and catching it with one hand as I strolled across the room. I guess there was a lull in conversation because when I got up to them they were all looking at me. Nonplussed and cruising like the super cool dude I am, I just stop and toss a bottle to Kevin, that’s when Charles points at my shoe.

“What’s that dude?”

I looked down. Well what do we have here?

You ever get in a situation where you wish with every fiber of your being, every shred of your faith, every moment of your existence, that a lightening bolt will strike you down to a pile of ash and whatever happened right before you were hit would be eclipsed by the sheer absurdity and magnificence of your sudden fate?

Right there, in the fancy ass Ecko offices, in front of everyone in the meeting including the secretary and two male models who were passing by, magnified by Charles accusatory index finger and the untimely break of silence in between songs on the overhead, a LONG ASS DIRTY SOCK was dragging from the bottom of my pants.

I couldn’t fucking believe it. I guess it had been stuffed in my pants since the last time I had taken them off and I just hadn’t noticed it when I pulled them on in the morning. What was even worse is the sock was visibly dirty, as I had worn them on the hardwood floors, scuffling around for hours, before I slid them off. It was a longer one too, and a light gray color, so the dirt really stood out on them. If I had taken a few more steps, it would have just sat there in the middle of the floor before someone finally asked what the fuck a dirty sock was doing just lying on the ground.

It seemed everything went silent and all of New York went still. I blushed and we all laughed and Kevin said, “Wow. That was an awkward laundry moment.” Indeed kevin, indeed. As discreetly as I could [which wasn’t very] I bent over, balled up the sock, and quickly sat down, shoving it into my bag. The rest of the meeting went without a hitch, but I’ll never forget those 5 seconds of ego crushing disaster. That shit was classic.

Monday, May 01, 2006

Condescending Footnotes

I got a new weed dealer dood. He just left. He’s pretty cool I guess; made his first delivery today and showed up only one hour late. He didn’t even call when he got to the block, just rang the doorbell like he had been here a million times before. Cat took the subway over, which I thought was kinda weird (Hey weed dealer dood, join the TODAY. How you gonna crawl around the city slanging sacks on the train? That’s just unprofessional. Get a bucket,* for chrissakes). He had some proper weight for a decent price though, and was pleasant enough, as far as strangers go. We talked a little about different grades of weed, and writing, and how great Tivo is. Now that I think of it, he was pretty cool, I look forward to providing him with my hard earned money in exchange for his fat sacks of dank.

Earlier I had a meeting with a label. Before that I just sorta sat around tinkering on the internet. Oh yeah, and I took a shower. And I ate a few pieces of rolled up lunchmeat. I had a glass of coffee before that. Before that I was asleep.

The sun put a hard shine on New York City today and by the time I got to Washington Square I had to take my jacket off. Charles had already stripped down to his tshirt, sleeves cut off Alabama trucker style. I noticed the large stars tattooed on his shoulder were not only identical, but also perfectly symmetrical, and quietly complimented whoever did his work. Kevin was already there in a thin leather jacket and Prada shades. I knew they were Prada because I thought they looked kinda weird and clocked the metal label on the side that bore the legend. It was a beautiful afternoon and students crowded the park and the we all choose to have our meeting outside and the ice cream vendors made a killing.

Everything went swell. We got the rough draft to a dope record and the bulletpoints** aint even added yet. Everyone was on the same page. I bummed a cigarette and took some notes while smoking it. We started the meeting in the shade, but eventually that got chilly, so we moved it out to the open under the clear warm azure of the sky. That’s where we ended it too. It was pretty fucking sweet.

In other news:

- Steven Colbert has balls like a church. His speech at the White House Correspondence dinner has bumped him up from my dog to my hero (next to Tom Sizemore, of course).

-Super Soaker is finally getting kids under 15 hip to bukkake. Is that legal? Am I a pervert for even asking that?

- Radiohead are doing a North American tour of just smaller venues. They say they will play mostly new songs. Tickets start at $360, so start giving handjobs now, you might have enough to go.

*Bucketn. slang: 1. Car. Automobile. Popularized in the late 1980’s by gangster rap group NWA.

**Bulletpointsn. slang. (commonly used in the record industry): 1. The highlights of a record, i.e. exceptional songs or performances. 2. The well-known players involved in the making of a record, i.e. an acclaimed producer or guest appearance by well-known artist. 3. Examples of the money sunk into a project. Usually a cheap way to attract retailers to an album.
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:gray matters: by jkg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
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