Wednesday, June 28, 2006

The Trial Run

The story starts when he is a boy, and he is getting the side of his mouth wiped by his mothers spitty thumb. She is telling him something of importance, something of great relevance about the world that surrounds him, but he isn’t listening so as much as he is just being talked to. He is staring at the sun glinting from the many strands of silver hair poking out from her head. She tells him he looks good, like a fine young man, then she leaves.

On that very day the city is covered in shade.

At first everyone thinks that it is clouds, covering up the sun. But months go by and it seems the clouds never move. And soon they all realize that it is not the clouds covering the sun, but something entirely different.

The boy is left with strangers when the shade hits, but they treat him as if they are his family. He learns to live as if they are his family, and soon his mother is just a mystery from his past.

When the reality dawned on the citizens, that the little city might be in an interminable shadow, many began to leave, panicked; they feared that they would never again see the sun. But the mayor called a large meeting with all the people of the city, the public and the officials and the little boy too, and pleaded for all to stay, to stand firm against the darkness that had descended upon them. He called on the hope of the city, he called on the faith of the city, he called on the loyalty of the city, and all that was the city, to remain in the city. He said the city deserved them, and they deserved the city, and he said it all with such conviction and eloquence that the citizens believed him, and those that had packed their bags unpacked, and those that hadn’t rested easy in their lumpy couches that night.

Soon, the surrounding suburbs began to notice, and then neighboring boroughs began to catch on, that this little city was shrouded in complete shade. First there were murmurings and whispers, then people began to speak openly about it. Then there was a video posted of the shady little town on the internet, and then it became a digital myth. It took a natural course through the media until finally it was on every newspapers front page (except the little cites paper. The little city’s mayor banned any mention of the shade in local papers, as it would just depress its citizens, who were trying so hard to keep a strong, firm hope, that one day the sun would shine on them again).

Then a daring tv journalist went to the town and did an expose on how dark it was in the little city. He told of how the scientist couldn’t figure out why the town was stuck in such a dim light, and how the citizens of the city refused to leave. He spoke of how proud they all were of their dark little city, and how sad it was for the rest of the world to see them so proud.

Eventually the people of the dark little city became used to the shade. They stopped hoping for the sun to come and grew fond of how unique they were in comparison to the rest of the world. The population became pale, and they grew fond of that too. They created their own fashion sense that reflected the blackness of their sky, and a new language developed and it sounded like the music of a buzzing motor engine. They burned the streetlamps 24 hours a day, and the electricity bills skyrocketed. But the people didn’t mind, they absorbed the cost into their lives, they budgeted it out. And the little boy watched the city grow, and he felt the earth still beneath him, and he warmed to it, like one would warm to the hum of traffic and eventually sleep right through noise. And no one really went on vacations out of the city, and no one really went on vacations to it either.

They heard about themselves all across the globe, the natives of the city. They heard about their city from the television and the radio and the internet and all what not. They all knew that it was only they that were covered in shade, and no body else. They all knew that it was only their right. They watched the rest of the planet too, and saw the tv shows and heard the radio stars and watched as the policies were erected and the walls torn down. They listened to people sing about the turning of the world and they read what people wrote about the stars and the sun. They absorbed all the data that was offered to them.

They lived in their dark little city and they loved their dark little city, including the little boy.

Then one day the shade was lifted, and everyone put their hand in front of their eyes to block the burning rays of the sudden sun. The little boy, who was a grown man by then, looked around at everything in the light. He saw the stupidity in their fashion, he heard the infancy in their language. And he stood there alone and watched his shadow, stretched across a lawn of dead grass, tall and defined; endless.

that was just some weird rough draft i found in my folder. it sounded kind of interesting so i figured i'd post it. its sort of radom, like these people. hey, heres is a good label you guys should already know about. if you dont, than now you do. oh, and i was just wondering, do you look like your dog?

Friday, June 23, 2006

Missing Windows

The free drinks were from 10:30-11:30. This was at Pacha, for some party celebrating something or another. Pacha is a club in midtown. It opened about a year ago, or maybe it was two years ago, I cant really remember. What I do remember was that there was much fanfare surrounding the inaugural night. With a lot of press and sidewalk posters and internet buzz circling the opening party. I didn’t go to that either, the opening party that is, but from what I heard it was pretty meh anyway.

I wanted to go tonight though. I had planned on it even.

I planned on getting there at 10. Well prepared for the start of free drink season. A man has to take advantage of the open windows available to him. Especially if they involve escape from blame, a reason to act silly, or free liquor. But a series of events prevented me from going and I ended up in a typical Brooklyn evening: filled to the molars with beer and wine, two thirds of a xanax bar racing through my bloodstream, and watching syndicated episodes of crime dramas on television.

In a way it was all leading up to that anyway.

The first step towards this dismal display of socializing and being an all around man about town, was the 12 hour marathon session with Adobe Indesign I had to endure on Monday night. It lasted from 9pm to 10am and it never stopped in between. See, contrary to popular belief, I am hardly adept at using the com-poot-ter for anything much more than writing and surfing the internet for porn. Sure, I can find some sweet links occasionally, but that doesn’t involve much more than shuffling around my mouse and clicking every now and again. Other than that I’m an idiot behind the keyboard.

So following this lengthy, amphetamine-less night of arduous task, I spent the rest of the day between naps and waking up to check my email. I would refresh a few times then sit back for a second, gathering up in my head just where exactly I was. Then I would take a nap, wake up, then hit refresh again.

I am alive only for the refresh of my inbox. I am connected to everyone in the world. I am only waiting to hear from them.

That night I went on a date with my girlfriend. She bought a new dress. It was tight and black and accented her curves and cleavage. We ate the best goat cheese tortellini ever made and drank wine from glass then a carafe and then a bottle. The waiter had a goatee and didn’t pay much attention to us. We snuck out between meals to smoke cigarettes and joked that we were being so French. We held hands across the table and left a 20% tip and took a cab ride home.

That morning I woke up with even more to do. I’ve been using the phrase “busier than a busty whore during fleet week” to describe the last few days and I think I’ll use it again:

I’ve been busier than a busty whore during fleet week.

And I mean a really good looking, 36 DD, hips like a day dream, lips like a disaster waiting to happen kinda whore. The kind you ache to pay for.

First there is the other one sheet, the one that just came into fruition. It’s for an album we just signed. An album that may or may not be worth any effort at all. This is the work on top of the work that’s under the work I have to do already. But its got priority because its due tomorrow, and tomorrow is that day that comes yesterday, especially if you’re on the type of clock I’m watching. Shit, I have to catch up even before I’m behind. So this one sheet is due tomorrow and so I have to learn Adobe Indesign yesterday and so I have be on top of everything like a primary color today. God damn. God fucking damn.

This means I had to spend today learning a computer design program. Does this mean my blog template will suddenly gain some sort of miraculous revamp? With a million colors highlighting the many facets of my character, and cleverly placed pictures with various grades of transparency and gradient? No.

This just means I have less time on my hands to be nothing but a man that types words every now and again.

And apparently I should be at this party. I should be milking my free drinks. I should be drunk by now. I should be slurring. But I'm not, and I wont be. And I realized this at midnight tonight, when the free drink specials ended and I wasn’t there.

Big Cheese has excuses for not posting as much as he used to. I, on the other hand, do not. Connie Chung is a train headed straight for a wall. oop! she just ran into it. David Bowie is funkier than you or I will ever be. and for all those wondering, yes i am black and yes this is offensive.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Sweating It Out

I’ve got to stop drinking so much.

This is what I’m thinking as I sit down in the chair that The Labels marketing manager offered me. I've been in a perpetual state of vague inebriation for the past week. I can feel beads of sweat on my forehead, drops of toxin, tickling at my eyelashes. The labels president turns off the air conditioner so we can hear each other speak. The windows stretch to the high loft ceilings, looking out onto the fashion districts streets. With no blinds or curtains to shade us, we are left in the heat.

My stomach turns over. The bowl of cereal I shoved down my throat before I left the house was ill advised. I should have just grabbed a glass of water, smoked a cigarette or two on the way to the train. Milk and wine and Honey Nut cheerios do not do a body well. I can feel every disgusting pore of my body pushing out waste from the night before. My veins feel like they’re struggling to get blood to my muscles and heart, as if they’re clogged, like resin in a pipe.

I’ve got to pull it together.

I think this to myself as I’m throwing in my two cents on why it’s so hard to break a new artist in today’s retail climate. I’m looking around and everyone’s eyes are on me, as if I’m an expert on a panel. As if what I say is wise and knowing; as if I’m well versed in the experience of success. The chair is soft and rocks so loosely I have to lean forward to avoid from falling back. My brain, it isn’t firing on all synapses, but I’m explaining the dollar per unit ratio in co-op programs at big box retailers like Target and Wal-Mart, how they don’t care for new artist with no sales history and essentially make labels pay them to carry their titles. I’m describing the real estate system of Best Buy; how they assign floor space in their stores depending on how much the product creates in revenue. The sunrays lift from the hardwood floors, suffocating the room in hot air.

My thoughts are coughing and choking but the words are spilling from my lips like everything I say is a rehearsed monologue. My chest feels limp and anemic, my ribs frail and my stomach sickly, and I’m discussing Internet marketing campaigns and the relevance of college radio.

What I want more than anything else is to be under the blast of a cold shower. I want to wash away everything that is inside of me. The poisons in my body. The spirits from the night before. But instead I’m listening to my partner justify distribution percentages and watching the eyes of the Label president look placid yet alert and trying to make out what the Labels marketing manager is writing down on a little pad in front of him.

Then I’m looking out the window into the yellow shadows of New York June. Then I’m feeling gas build up in my stomach and trying to quietly let it go and hoping nobody smells it. Then I’m listening to tracks from an unfinished record and honestly telling everyone I think they are good. Then I am taking deep breaths and swallowing over and over and trying to regain control of my fingers, which have started twitching nervously. Then there is a second of silence and everything is still save the rising waves of heat. Then we all shake hands and I ask directions to the bathroom before we leave.

I’ve got to take a moment.

I splash water on my face. Once after I sigh heavily and once again after I look in the mirror and stare into my unshaven face. The water cools and refreshes for a moment. I consider taking a shit then just piss instead. I splash water on my face again and don’t bother to dry it before I leave the restroom. The boys are waiting for me in the hall, next to the elevator. The swelter extends to the elevator ride and on out onto 27th ave. Someone mentions that the meeting went well. Someone else agrees. This label could give us a lot of work, they say. A lot of work. I light up a cigarette.

Christ, I need a drink.

Bob Sagat has always been pretty pimped, I done known that shit since the giddy up. If you havent recognized by now, maybe this little diddy will enlighten yo chump ass.

Saturday, June 17, 2006

Tripping Around the House

I’m always writing my post from the same fucking place. In my office, on my captains seat, smoking a cigarette and staring out the window. Looking at the leaves in the tree on the sidewalk in front of my house. Clocking the neighbors sit on their stoops and talk about their day. Watching the cars find parking and traffic building up and the cars bumping each other and the horns blare. Looking at my dirty floor and my disgusting garbage can. The blanket of ash all over everything. My dead imac. My busted computer desk, covered in small strings of loose tobacco. Matchbooks everywhere. Empty glasses everywhere. Same fucking place. Every fucking time.

[edited for boredome. being boring is, well... boring. so try to stay off boredome, it'll get you nowhere. and eat your greens. remember that kids.]


I have been captured by a few songs lately. "The Animal Song" by Grandaddy. Apparently this is their last record so you should go out and buy it. "Relevee" by Delia Gonzalez & Gavin Russom, but particularly the Carl Craig remix. This is what techno remixes aspire to. I think, but what do I know. Then there is this song called "Colossal" by new band-of-the-moment Wolfmother. God damn that song is rocking. They sound like fucking Black Sabbath to the core, but that, as they say, is a good thing.

Thursday, June 15, 2006

Two Second Gaze

There were giggles first. Then an excited yelp and laughter. It was a woman’s voice. A girl’s giggle. A first dates yelp and laugh. I looked out my window, down into the street. All the cars were parked, other than that it looked empty. Then she stumbled into view and she was holding his hand and was pulling so that she wouldn’t fall. She had on a black skirt and I could see her long legs reaching beneath the light from the street lamps bulb. They crossed the street, fumbling at each other playfully. Innocently.

His hand would pull at her shoulder and she would brush him away. Then she would turn and push him away with her hand wide open and her head held back but before she actually shoved him off she would hold him there with her palm on his chest give him a look I could only describe as daring. Then he would stagger backward with a smirk on his face, and they would hold a two second gaze. Then she would double over in laughter and he would stand there staring at her. Then he would walk up and pull at her shoulder again.

She groped in her purse when they got to the bottom of the stoop, looking for her keys or something. He hung back on one of the stair railings and waited in quiet patience. Then they walked up and she opened the door and they both walked in at the same time, getting caught in the door with their shoulders pressed together, like you sometimes see on old sitcoms and maybe even some of the newer, more cliché sitcoms of today. And they both collapsed in laughter at the absurdity of it all, with her falling to the floor first and then him tumbling after.

For a few seconds I couldn’t see them. I could only see the darkness of the foyer and the dim light coming from the hall behind it. Then I saw him rise up, and he had her hand and was pulling her up with him.

That’s when they went into the hall and then up the stairs. I think I saw her fall once and him drop on top of her, and then they both spilled down the stairs and lay there at the bottom, shivering with hysterics. Then they both composed themselves. She turned to look at him for a second and he stood and stared right back into her. Then she ascended the stairs, her hand dropping behind her to lead him along.

I lost sight of them after that. Damn, I bet they had some awesome sex.

Every one should be familiar with the Kraftwerk catalog. It no doubt, has affected your life in some way or another. And yes, I would argue that. Oh, are you a producer/remixer? Well, how about doing some smoking Beastie Boy mash-ups? Here are the a capellas, don't ever say the Boys never gave you nothin. And look, i know you think you are soooo coool, because you read the interweb, but try reading some Kurt Vonnegut books every once in a while. I hear the guys pretty cool.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Wooden Traps

About two weeks ago I went out and got some mouse traps, the glue kind. I would have gotten the old school wooden traps that you seen in cartoons and movies, but I couldn’t bear the thought of cleaning up smashed mouse guts and brain. It grossed me out. I’d much rather watch their tiny little suffocating bodies galvanize and jerk in a square plate of sticky goop as I threw them in the outside trash. It just seems more humane that way.

To bait the traps, I put a dollop of delicious creamy peanut butter in the center of each square. No rodent can refuse the delightful allure of peanut butter, no self-respecting rodent, that is. Then I strategically placed the traps where I knew the mice liked to hang out. Seriously, they have little parties in certain corners and nooks around the house every single night. I have a feeling when do, they talk shit about me. I’m not absolutely certain, but I have a feeling. They’re assholes, these mice. A bunch of tiny, little, non self-respecting, peanut butter hating, motherfucking assholes.

Yeah, they didn’t go for the peanut butter. I knew I should have used bacon, I knew it. But I just couldn’t part with even a fraction of a nibble of my beloved swine delight. Its just too damn precious, no mouse deserves to taste such a sweet delicacy. The little fuckers were lucky I graced them with some PB. I’ll be god damned they get some of my bacon. They’ll have to pry it from my cold, dead, fat, greasy hands. The bastards.

They chase each other around, playing tag or some shit. Dancing around like they’re in a music video. They don’t even care if I’m present anymore. They just do it in the open, like my living rooms a fucking sandbox and all my clutter a god damned jungle gym. They wait until L-shuteye is asleep, they wait until they can hear her slight snore, then they prance around the place as if its their own.

I guess in this situation L-shuteye is the cat, because when shes away, they sure as fuck decide to get their motherfucking play on. Fucking pieces of shit.

So today I see my landlady and she tells me that an exterminator came to the building and planted some cubes of poison and that these cubes of poison are going to finally rid me of my pesky little rodent problem. She said to take out the glue traps that had been set and throw them in the trash. She said that they wouldn’t work, that the exterminator told her to just get rid of them. The mice, she said, were too smart for glue traps.

An eerie sense of déjà vu swept over me. I could have sworn I had stood on that exact same step and looked down at her from that exact same angle and I think the sun even hit my eye in the exact same place and I had to put my hand up to block it in the same exact way as I had done some time before, in the past. In another time. Another time that was happening again. But there I was, talking to my landlady, listening to her tell me how just how incredibly smart the mice were. Again.

It was weird, and for a second I felt like I was living in a vicious cycle. A vicious cycle of inept exterminators and gullible landlady’s and empty glue traps that didn’t work. Of sitcom reruns and empty malt liquor bottles and girls that are like cats and are always gone away. A cycle of suspicious glances at the shadows on the floor, strange sounds coming from behind the closet door under a pile of dirty clothes and mice that were Harvard fucking graduates. A vicious cycle, one that I had to get out of. Just another vicious cycle that I had to escape.

Fucking stupid smart mice asshole punks.

There is only one way I can do it, and I have to get my landlady to understand this: I am gotta get me a cat.

An adorable cat. A cute, cuddly, sleep in your bed and purr in your lap kind of cat. With a violent distaste for mice and at the very least a degree from Columbia. If you know of any, give me a shout. Cause I need a motherfucking cat like you wouldnt believe.

Im not the only one with mouse problems in new york. But I mean, you totally already had to know that.

Monday, June 12, 2006

every second before sunset

Damn I just put on this old DJ Garth mix cd from way back in 1993. Its called No rest For the Wicked and it’s a fine slice of house music from a fine slice of time. The shutters are open and my hardwood floors look like someone, probably God, spilled a giant glass of sunshine on them. I’m smoking another rolled cigarette and looking out my window and blowing the smoke through the screen into the clear blue Brooklyn afternoon.

I got half a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon on the top of my fridge. I got a James Brown break tearing up the background. I got my bills paid and my bed made and my laundry’s all folded and put away.

I’m going to listen to music and think of wide-open spaces. And tall blades of grass. And lakes with deep bottoms. I’m going to think of trees with limbs that hang down to the ground. And dirt roads that go on forever.

Shit, I’m broke as fuck and unsure of what’s what, but today is just feeling too nice and easy.

Wanna be all easy like me and listen to some old school San francisco house mixes? Check this site out, its a goldmine. Also, if anybody reads this and knows of some good music sites that cover hip hop, please send the links my way. We got a Sadat X record dropping and I want to get some online buzz going. You got any questions just email me.

Saturday, June 10, 2006

Play Through the Pain

I’ve got my foot elevated on the arm of my couch so that the heel is above my heart. This way the blood will flow from it instead of push towards it. See, I’ve got to stop the swelling and I've got to stop the swelling quick. I got another party to hit tonight, and this limp just don’t look pimp.

I twisted it last night on my way home from Prefontaine Paul’s Palace on the Parkway. I tripped down the front steps of an empty synagogue while trying to light a cigarette. It was about midnight but my mind was on dawn.

I was finished. Done. We had reached a verdict. Walking down the street was like being on a small sailboat in the seas of a violent hurricane. I had an epic swerve going and was just trying to make it home.

But I’m jumping forward when I should be flashing back a bit. Twisting my ankle was just the day’s grand prize; there was all the play that lead up to that moment and that’s the most pleasing bit.

At about noon I had gotten out of the shower and had dried myself off. I had drunken a glass of water. I had checked my phone messages. I has taken my laundry to the ‘mat and I had asked the laundry nazi if I could use a couple of the service washers because the public ones were all in use. He had grunted towards washer 2 and 3, and I had loaded my clothes and then went back home. I drafted, edited, and then sent out a few emails and I had replied to a few more. I went back to the ‘mat and switched my clothes to the dryers. I text messaged a few people. I checked my emails for replies. I had went back to the ‘mat and had shoved all my clothes into my bag without folding them. When I got home I dumped then all on my bed and had spread them out so they wouldn’t get wrinkled. I checked my email once more then I had my first glass of wine.

At about 5 o’clock I was in the car with Prefontaine Paul, who was still filled with adrenaline from our run in the morning. Or maybe, now that I think of it, he wasn’t. Maybe he always has that much energy. Maybe that’s what’s so captivating about him. That he has that manic approach towards life, as if he’s always on the edge of something magnificent.

He has the Dabrye record playing. We keep rewinding tracks 3 and 19. We discuss techno and hip hop and Detroit for a while. Then we pull up to Kid Clovers place.

Kid Clover has a place that has two doormen. The elevator was made of glass and the walls in the hallways had high ceilings and the light reflected off of their paint; the lamps themselves were hidden. Every unit had a neon lit strip to the side of the door that bore the address in stark, black letters and numbers. 9D. 9C. 9B. 9A. Some doors had welcome mats in front, but they didn’t say Welcome; they just sat there like a soft, expensive blocks of muted tones. We finally got to his place and rang the bell and Paul noticed that it was a pleasant ring. We could smell the weed even before the door opened. He had on an old t-shirt and an unshaven face with a smile that spread wide across it. He lived on the 9th floor, beneath the penthouse, in a corner three-bedroom condo.

The place was amazing. Like something out of Architectural Digest. He had a view of every single bridge save the George Washington. Brooklyn. Manhattan. Williamsburg. Verrazano. You could even see the Statue of Liberty Standing tall beyond the East River. You could see the Manhattan skyline and how the Empire State stands so strong now above everything else; it towers. You could see the art of the Chrysler Buildings design. You could see the empty back lots of Williamsburg and the abandon auto shops with their autobody graveyards in the back of their garages. And we all talked about how impressive it was and how convenient it all appeared to be and then Kid Clover opened up a bottle of scotch and asked if I wanted it neat or on the rocks.

Eventually Glitzy Guy came over and we started rolling joints. And we were all still reeling from how impressive the place was when I finally said out loud, It’s a portrait! All of it! And Glitzy Guy said back, What do you mean? Its just walls and windows and a couch and a rug

I said no, it’s a portrait. It’s all a portrait. And then I added, because I felt I needed to, because I felt like he didn’t really see what I was saying at all, I added, it’s beautiful. It’s all a beautiful portrait. It’s New York City behind those windows. It is those windows. Its that couch. It's that rug. It’s all just so beautiful, and I’m not being vague here. It truly is a portrait of beauty.

I then finished my scotch and looked at the bottom of the glass to see if I had maybe missed any. Then I put the glass on the marble counter and began to fill it again.

You see, I said, look at how beautiful this all is. And the golden brown scotch really did look striking behind the ice and with the sunset shining off of the glass and all. Then Glitzy Guy looked at me and looked at my drink and sincerely nodded his head. I don’t know if it was truly sincere, but it sure looked like it was. And then he said, Oh. Yeah. I see. Then we clinked glasses and took a sip while staring into each others eyes like the the rules say you're supposed to.

But after a few more clever comments and a few more expertly rolled joints and a few more glasses of scotch on the rocks and a few more gasp at the view, me and P-dizzle had to make our exit, so after a few hang shakes and hugs and fist bumps and what not, we was out like: boom.

Which brings us back to Prefontaines Palace, where there was vodka and pineapple mix and these chicks from Long Island in town for the weekend. One had a tank top that said in shiny letters MY BOYFRIEND IS OUT OF TOWN, and she had a cute skin color and nice curly hair. I didn’t talk to her much though, just noticed that shirt was kind of weird.

Me and Paulie Park Ranger toked a few more bowls and swallowed a few more cocktails. But after a while it was time to get ghost. So I started walking home, and on the way I stopped in the doorway of a synagogue to block the wind while I tried to light a cigarette. I scratched match after match and eventaully got a flame going. And when i finally got my cigarette lit, and was walking down the steps feeling pretty satisfied with myself, I slipped and twisted my ankle. So here we are, with my foot's elevated above my heart. To keep the swelling down, because got a party to hit tonight. I got to play through the pain.

Jules Winnfield coached a hockey team. Need I say more motherfucka? And if you dont know who Jules Winnfield is, then I suggest you just aint like Fonzie and perhaps its in your best interest that you get with it. Also, apparently I am part of the "blogosphere," according to AOLs music artist page for Jamie Lidell. Which is pretty sweet, because Jamie Lidell is pretty sweet and being pretty sweet, even if its just because I once wrote that a pretty sweet artist was pretty sweet is pretty fucking sweet in and of itself.

Friday, June 09, 2006

Morning run

Today I went for a run in the park. It was my first real bout of exercise in over a year. My legs are feeling it. My ankles are feeling it. My stomach and my heart, they are feeling it.

Paul rang the doorbell at 10.30 am, which is exactly when he said he would ring it and which is exactly why sometimes I just cant get down with punctuality.

I like to take my time with things; I’m real easy like that.

I dragged on some shorts and a t-shirt that I didn’t care about that much and wouldn’t mind if it got those sweaty yellow stains in the armpits that some t-shirts do after a bout of exercise. The sky was clear and the clouds were white and sparse and feathery. There wasn’t much of a breeze, and what one there was was light and gentle. It was running weather. I pulled on my shoes and washed my face. Lets go, I said, and opened the door for him then followed.

We won’t run to hard, he said, but we won’t stop once we start. I agreed and stretched a little before hand. Reaching for my toes. Pulling my foot to my ass and feeling my thighs burn a bit. I sat down and put my feet together so my legs were diamond shaped. I leaned forward and tried to touch my nose to my heel. I lay out, my hands high above my head and my toes pointed forward I breathed in. I breathed out. I breathed in and breathed out again.

About a mile into it I was pretty impressed that my cardiovascular system hadn’t already collapsed. We watched as other runners past us by –who do they think they are, Rocky? - and took deep breaths of the clean air that smelled like grass and dirt and trees and sweat. We made some small talk in between short gasp

Someone got murdered here a few weeks ago.
Really? That would explain all the cops.

The cops were everywhere. Two around every curve. On horses. On bicycles. In golf carts. In cruisers. All patrolling. Patrolling the park.

Yeah. The guy was 50 years old. A black dude. They still haven’t found a motive.
They get the guys that did it?
Damn. Why would all the cops be here during the day though?
It happened in broad daylight.
Oh. Damn.

By the second mile my ankle started getting week. I didn’t say anything though. I didn’t complain. Play through the pain, right? The balls of my feet were getting numb. It was everything I could do not to limp along. I stood straight though. I held fast. But eventually I had to call time out. I had to stretch a little more.

You ok dude?
Yeah man. I’m cool, just need to stretch a little.

We got to the third mile and the cops had placed a mobile surveillance unit van there. A cop stood across from it. Another did circles on his bike between the two. More joggers passed us by. Braggers.

The final stretch is a hill. I made us take a pause before we hit it. I just want to stretch my ankle once more, I said. Paul said take your time. He did jumping jacks and ran in place to keep his heart rate up. I walked to the bottom of the hill and said lets go, then began to climb it without him.

Up until this point my lungs were in good order. My breathing as steady and my pace had stayed on par with it. But by the time I got to the middle of the hill I could feel every last second of the past year and a half swelling inside my bloodstream. My lungs began to reveal their true, murky brown color. My face became flush and red. Sweat dripped down from my neck and chest. My tank was out of gas. But still, I kept pushing along.

Just to that last sign, Paul said, lets do it. He pointed at a green a yellow one that said CARS KEEP TO THE RIGHT. So we picked up the pace. We began to run to the end. A last hurrah. A heroic triumph. My lungs ablaze. My legs and ankles weak and brittle and on their last steps. We reach the bottom and I collapsed on the lawn. Paul stood a while longer, stretching his hamstrings, touching his toes. That felt good, he exclaimed.

I pointed to some trees and shrubbery off in the corner. It’s in the front of the park, but it’s hidden, like a dark alley in the forest. You know what that is right there? I asked. Paul looked up, squinted a little, and shook his head.

That’s where that dude got killed. Broad daylight. 50 years old.

I shut my eyes and let the sun bake into my brain for a second. Paul sat down cross-legged next to me. Two cops rolled by on their ten speed bikes.

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Lunch in Denial

It was raining when I got to the café, I checked inside and Record Label Dood wasn’t there yet so I went outside and stood under an awning and smoked a cigarette. Williamsburg was packed with pedestrian traffic. A madness of umbrellas bobbed down the streets. All the shops were open and I could see customers milling about inside. Browsing through record bins, shuffling through racks of thrift store shirts, waiting in line for their tofu dogs and sweet potato fries.

One guy was in a café window across the street, facing out, painting on a canvass. Another guy was on the other side of the street, picking up his dogs poo with a plastic bag turned inside out like a glove on his hand. I wonder if the guy in the café window was painting a portrait of the guy picking up the dog poo. Then I wonder when the hell Record label Dood is going to show up. Then I check my watch and sigh in exasperation.

The rain is falling soft but heavy. Record Industry Dood walks up under an umbrella and opens the door, half smiling, half nervous. I had already clocked where we would sit and I slide in my side of the booth professionally, as if this is always where I do business. A waitress comes and takes the dirty dishes from our table. Someone had a scone and a coffee earlier but I guess they weren’t hungry or were in a rush because most of the scone is left and the coffee cup is still half full.

I take off my backpack and jacket and lay them in the bench next to me. He lays his jacket on top of mine. The waitress never returns but she takes glances at us while she’s clearing tables. After a minute we get the picture and get up to order from the counter. I leave my jacket and bag but grab my phone and wallet just in case.

My mind is as foggy and as gray as the sky. Last night I tied one on real nice. Drinks were free because I was with the band. Whatever that means. I took half a xanax and ate a large slice of cheese at 1am. I mixed Rum and Coke with Scotch and Soda and malt liquor and a sly grin. The performances were good. Some were better than others. I forget the rest. I guess they bored me.

I saw this old friend that I want to do some work with and as I was screaming in his ear how great it was to see him I spilled Newcastle Ale all over the arm of his Denim jacket. I saw this French girl that I think is solid people and I gave her air kisses on the side of each cheek. I frowned at the bartender when she charged my friend with a drink and she gave the following round to us for free. I left her a good tip and ducked out at 3 because sometimes enough is enough.

Record Label Dood orders a pot pie and I order a ham and cheese sandwich. As I’m reaching for my wallet he puts his hand on my forearm and says, “No. I got it,” then he looks down to the floor and shakes his head as if he’s ashamed I even attempted to pay. I shrug my shoulders and walk back to the booth.

We go through a typical array of topics. How great dance music was ten years ago. How the club scene in New York just isn’t the same. He has heard of a new gay club that is supposed to be good. Its not a meat market, he says, and they play good music. It’s named Mr. Black. I say thats a clever name, I should check it out, I’ll bring my girlfriend.

Then he is telling me about a compilation he wants to put out. A compilation of his singles catalog. He is saying that he wants to move up from singles and start putting out full-length cd’s. He is saying he thinks its time. He’s telling me he thinks he’s ready.

I take a large swig of ice water. I begin to explain to him our model. I describe the potentials and limitations of our operation. I divulge the details on how easy it is for us to lose money. How safe we have to be in order to succeed. How young we are in this business. How knowledgeable we are in this business. I reveal the mission of our business. I clarify to him how we pick and choose the labels we will work with. I break down the aspects we are looking for in a partner. I politely deflate the idea of us bringing on his project. But I don’t hide that I’m interested. “We are always looking for good music,” I say

He nods his head quietly. He stirs the ice in his soda. I can tell he regrets paying for my lunch

Is anyone going to mix it? Who is the biggest artist on your roster? You should have a name to attach to it. An identity to define it. Consumers need this kind of thing. I tell him all this. I tell him that he can’t just put out a compilation of records from a label nobody knows of. And if you do, you can’t put it in the Compilation section of a record store. That’s just like killing it. It’ll be stillborn. A release thats dead upon birth.

That’s the graveyard of record stores, the compilation section. I tell him this.

He looks up to me and smiles. He looks at his watch then out the window behind me. My plate is empty, his only half cleaned. I tell him to send me a cd. I say I’ll email him my address. He says no problem and slides into his coat, he is standing up by now. I get up and put my jacket and backpack on. It is still raining outside. Williamsburg is still buzzing with twentysomethings in tight pants and shaggy bangs huddling under colorful umbrellas.

“Well”, I say, “I’ll talk to you soon. Don't forget to send that cd.” He nods then we shake hands. “Thanks for lunch,” I add. I walk out into the rain with my hood over my head. I can hear the subway train rumbling beneath, a siren sound to go home.

Ms. Bees Knees is catching on to the hyphy movement. Being from the Bay, you cant deny that shit. You should tell her a secret. It'll be cathartic. Also, it sounds like Snooze went partying and tied one on real nice. All her shits missing. Someone please find it for her.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Chemical Lethargy

My head is falling back and my eyelids are heavy like pull down shades made from lead. When I yawn my mouth stretches so wide and open that if my mother saw me she would tell me to shut it or else I would start catching flies. My hands are moving slow, just like my thoughts and my blood and my heartbeat. I’m a pile of sludge right now, or maybe I’m not the sludge but a dead body being dragged through it.

Nothing is moving me faster, not two cups of coffee. Not an apple or a banana. Not 15 minutes of stretching, which is supposed to get my circulation going. Not the doorbell or the ringing phone. Not even the looming threat of time expiring. I’m just lumbering forward, eyes half open and closed, breathing slow and pushing, brain still and quiet. If I were to collapse to the floor I would lay there on its hardwood in a deathly calm, thinking about what was going on in the world and if the wind was blowing and how hard it blew.

I woke up this morning at about noon. My girlfriend was already at work, but I remembered she kept kicking me at five in the morning because I was snoring too loud. I offered to move to the living room couch so that she could get a few good hours rest but she said no just lay on your side then she put her arm around me and squeezed up to my back and a few seconds later I could hear her snoring too.

I ordered some drugs online. At one of those pharmaceutical sites you always ignore the spam from. This wasn’t from a spam though, I just googled it. I got a bottle of 30 xanax bars. I split them in half so they wont make me pass out and I can enjoy the high. I hate drugs that make me nod. Heroin, opium, Dilaudid. All time erasers. Thieves. That shits not fun to me, I like to feel more involved with chemicals. I like to be part of the party, not just a witness to it.

In any case, I was rather surprised they came so quick. I ordered them on Saturday and they arrived on Monday. I didn’t even think mail traveled that fast.

I got a lot to say about music and life and sex and pornography and space and time and lying drunk in the street but I have to get ready to leave pretty soon so that will have to wait until tomorrow.

I’m going to a happy hour then a club. There I will see people I only sort of know but will act like we've been best friends forever. I will drink a lot and try not to make a fool of myself. I will listen to music and nod my head and if at some point the night is injected with energy I will dance a little. I’m sure a lot of cigarettes will be smoked, and ill put a few peoples number into my cell phone and promise them I’ll call them later.

Probably some cute girl will catch my eye and I’ll imagine kissing her neck and squeezing her ass and fucking her from behind and her saying yes yes more harder. Probably some good looking guy will ask me a question and I’ll sit silent for a second before answering then instantly regret what I said. I'll probably by a few people drinks. I’ll probably get a few free drinks of my own. The lights will be swirling and the clouds in the sky will be sneering above me. I’ll drop and break a glass on the floor and the bartender will kick me out. Ill try to share a cab with somebody home.

I’ll have more stories, more tales of risk and incident coming soon. I have plenty of them in the arsenal, and I’m adding more and more as each hour slides by and I get more settled in my ways.

But really what you should be watching, as opposed to this silly string of words before you, is one of the greatest hip hop performance ever, and it’s on Arsenio Hall no less! Also, being as its 6-6-06, its fitting that Slayer would declare it their day. Really, it does seem typical, right? Speaking of metal, did you know they had metal on the Death Star?

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Edgy Cult Shit

I’m watching a movie right now and in it James Woods is putting his hand in his stomach. He looks pretty uncomfortable doing it, but that seems about right. Oh, now his gun is growing some kind of metal tentacles that are either burrowing into, or slithering out of, his bloody arm. Now everything looks ok with him and he’s walking around some sort of office with a shady look on his face. Something’s about to go down.

Oop! I was right. He just shot somebody. Damn, that was crazy! Now some chick is helping him escape out of a crowded office as if no one saw him do it, which looks dumb because everyone is just staring at him with that Holy Shit You Just Shot That Dude look on their face as he walks by. Now he’s on the street and everyone is acting normal and he just ducked into an empty alley. It looks like he got away. Guess her plan worked.

I think this movie was made in the 80’s. Only a few things give it away though. The one black dude I’ve seen had a pretty dated haircut. If its one thing that will always define whatever decade we are in, it’s our haircuts. Fools can’t be rocking no played out shit. And definitely not in the movies, that’s fo’ sho. This dude had a kind of weird afro mullet shag thing going on, and I haven’t seen that shit since I was a kid. Another thing that gives away that its from the 80’s is that its James Woods and he hasn’t been in a movie this weird and creepy since he was way younger and was riskier in the roles he choose. As a matter of fact, he looks like he’s in his late Twenties or early Thirties, so I guess that gives it away right there. Oh well, there’s 30 seconds of your life you wont have back. My bad.

Holy shit, it ended with James Woods shooting himself in the head with his freaky half arm half gun have alien tentacle hand. I know that doesn’t sound possible because how can there be three halves right? But that’s the thing dude! This movie was so weird and bizarre it was beyond mathematical impossibility. It was like an Orchid that smelled like shit and tasted like pumpkin pie. It’s called Videodrome. I think it was directed by David Cronenberg.

I never saw it when it came out. But it looks like the kind of movie I would have. I grew up watching creepy, mine bending shit. My mother used to take me to those kinds of flicks when I was a kid. She was a single mom that didn’t have extra baby sitter money so when she wanted to see a movie I had to tag along. That was ok though, for every boring Shogun I slept through there was a Blade Runner to open my eyes. Actually, to tell the truth, most of the movies were pretty good, and even though I didn’t understand them then, I appreciated the visceral experience they swept me through.

I was terrified yet enthralled with the nightmare that was The Shining. I was shocked and repulsed at the ultra-violence of A Clockwork Orange. I was confused and excited by the hysteria in Sleeper. I was bored with Zardoz. The Wall turned my stomach (though the music was good).

This was all long before I embraced the innocent wonder of Bambi or Dumbo or Charlotte’s Web or whatever, I didn’t start watching children’s flicks until I was seven or eight years old. When I finally did, I dove head first into them and, aside from the Star Wars trilogy and Raiders of the Lost Arc, didn’t watch anything but animated movies for a few years. Still though, I had a place in my heart for the edgy cult flick before I knew what a flick fucking was.

In any case, now that movie Orgazmo is on and it’s a movie about porn but they aren’t showing tits. What the fuck is that all about?


Hey, have you ever wondered what it felt like to stick sharp, furry objects into your ear? Well, now is the time to satisfy that curiosity once and for all! I hereby curse you all with: Paris Hilton Singing.

Friday, June 02, 2006

Bronze These Shoes

Its raining here in New York and its about god damn time. The sky has been ready to burst for hours, I swear, its looked like the belly of a cow about to be slaughtered, like you could just take a large samurai sword and sweep it through the air above your head and the guts of all the universe would dump down onto you and get all in your hair. The anticipation was insufferable. I was paralyzed with indecision. Should I go to the store now? What if it rains when I’m out there? Should I bring an umbrella? I don’t want to be that ass walking down the street with an umbrella when it’s not raining. What a bunch of douche bags those guys are. But I need some cigarettes and rolling papers. I need some fresh air. Its so god damn hot in my house I just need to get outside for a sec!

Eventually I did go out and I did get smokes and papers and right when I sat down to type up this post the sky opened up and I can see its guts sliding in the gutters. It’s warm though. Nay, it’s fucking hot. So no one is using umbrellas anyway. They are all just waking along, pretending they don’t notice they’re dripping wet. It looks curious, seeing everyone strolling through the pouring rain, getting soaked all the way to the bone and still only moving along at a leisurely pace. They act like they have feathers. Like the water just slides off their backs. They think they’re ducks. Quack quack!

Man its pouring good. Not like back in San Francisco, where the rain just fell clumsily from the clouds and would only last until you reached your house then the sun would come out and there would be a rainbow over Mission Street. I never felt like I was experiencing the rain there, only that I was getting wet. It was never passionate and desperate, it never felt like it had been unleashed on us like a crazed prisoner of the sky, like its doing now. It was always more sophisticated and had a pretension of finesse about it. Like it was just doing its job and couldn’t be bothered with you. Its like the rain was to PC in San Francisco.

You remember the analogy you heard as a kid, that when it was raining that meant God was crying? Well, right now in New York it looks like God just found out his boss was ass boning his wife and got fired for walking in on them doing it. Conversely, when it rains in San Francisco its as if God is watching a very special episode of Highway to Heaven that’s making him feel emotional but he doesn’t want to get all girly in front of St. Peter so he’s trying to maintain his composure.

I love a good rain. But you already knew that. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel good inside. I especially like the rains in New York and Miami. Those are brutal; believe it. They are also warm, and when they let go you can feel them in all your pores, in your hair and on your neck. I’m not just talking the palpable aspect of rain, but the entire atmosphere it provides. The gloom in the sky. The damp, gray sweat in the air. It’s like the rain swallows the city whole, and you just happen to be in it. It’s awesome, like being in a David Fincher movie.

I am running to a bar in the west village to meet a friend of mine I aint seen in a while. He’s pretty cool, gets a little too excited about cocaine and big mainstream clubs though, but whatever. To each his own. Some people like to find that one moment, that brief time in their life, where things seemed perfect and nothing could surpass the feeling it gave them. Everything was looking up. Tomorrow was going to be beautiful. Go ahead and bronze that time, put it on your mantle piece to stare at it and reminisce like its baby shoes or an urn or a high school basketball trophy. Some one has to remember.

Me though, well I’ll just enjoy myself walking in the rain to meet you wherever you are at.


Help this dood get random with UK mic phenom Lady Sov, and peep out his videos. They're funny. Also, if you werent at Coachella and are a fan of Daft Punk, check out the set they played, you'll go mental.

Thursday, June 01, 2006

More on the Holes

So what was I going on about? Oh yeah, the holes in San Francisco.

They are everywhere, in most neighborhoods, and anybody can fall into them, although its mostly the younger and poorer that usually do. When one gets older they can spot the holes easier, so avoiding them isn’t as much a task, and one has money, as most people know, they can buys their way out of most any hole. It’s this privilege that explains why rich kids so eagerly jump into the holes; it’s an adventure for them, a story to share at dinner parties later. It’s unfortunate I don’t more rich people, then maybe the holes wouldn’t be such an issue with me.

See, I’m not too worried about finding myself in one. As a matter of fact I dive into holes whenever I get the chance. I like the scars they leave; I’m kind of twisted like that. Plus, I don’t really have the stomach to handle being in the hole too long, so always climb back out after I reach a limit of the amount of darkness and space I can suffer in. plus, all my holes are the same, and everything gets boring after a while. Maybe its because I’m a coward and touching the bottom of a hole frightens me too much [you are always falling when you’re in a hole, and the bottom is down there and eventually you’ll hit it], maybe I recognize my youth, my meager means, and become afraid.

I have one friend right now that’s deep in a hole. Captain Careless isn’t even trying to climb out either. I’m not sure if he has always been this way, but when I met him, Captain Careless was more like Corporal Cool Cat. He knew everyone in the scene, had tried, and kicked, every drug, and would travel the world with his girlfriend in the tradition of most successful international businessmen. He avoided holes like herpes, and was pretty good at it too, staying thousands of feet in the sky, looking down and smiling, drinking nice wine, real easy like.

But he’s so far sunk down a hole these days, I can’t even see him beyond the darkness. It’s the spike this time, sucking him through the syringe like the hole’s just the tip of a long, thin needle. He was hiding in the city, in his hole. He wouldn’t answer the phone or check his messages, so I could never get a hold of him. When I did his voice was low and raspy, a weak mutter that lifted to a desperate growl when provoked for volume. Everything about him, every moment about him, was stuck in a murky tar. Probably surrounded by burned out spoons and empty vodka bottles, Captain Careless is, as his name may imply, a mess. His hole went so far down I couldn’t reach him.

Then there is Fertile Furley. That guy needs his tubes tied for real. He just had his third kid the day before I arrived [and even though he is in no position to take care of one, let alone three kids, I could tell he was sort of proud] but he’d been submerged in his hole since long before that. His hole is draped in youth, but gravity begs to differ what’s inside. Cocaine, pornography, the barrel of a gun, that’s what’s inside his hole. His nights go on forever, the curtains are always drawn. His television doesn’t stop changing channels. He barely ever washes his clothes. He is one of my closest friends, and I hold his hand no matter how deep he goes, but from across the country I can only assume that one day he’s going to realize he’s lost, surrounded by mirrors all reflecting black, and that he no longer lives in the city, but in one of the city’s many holes.

Ill go on and on about the hole I went into later, right now I have to work to do [I know! I’m working now! How exciting is that?]


I’ve got some more music for you, peep these free Dangerdoom downloads from Adult Swim [bottom of page], and you must listen to Jay Scarlett’s mixes, they are the newest and freshest of all the cutting edge joints of today, well, all the ones on the more soul and urban tip. Honestly, that guys giving Giles Peterson a run for his money.
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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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