taste

i dont really have much to write about, but i figured i'd still squeeze in a post just for the shits and the giggles and the kicks and what not. i've been pretty busy at work. which i still havent gotten paid from and dont forsee any money for the next few months from but still meander on this risky little road because sometimes thats what you gotta do: just go on. dont stop. dont think too much about it. just move. find yourself moving. forward. whichever way that may be.

i played my friend this psychedelic prog-rock song by early era, pre-new age synthesizer laden blade runner soundtrack Vangelis. he thought it was the biggest slice of cheese shit he'd ever heard in his life. i think its pretty good. i could feel myself in a car on an empty highway going somewhere far, listening to that song and letting my arm hang out the window, catching air with my hand, happy and serene and peaceful. ready for mystery.

he said i had reached new depths of crappiness. that i was becoming a middle age white dude before i reached middle age and even though i'm black. maybe i have. maybe i am.

but i can hear a song and where its place is. when it should be played and heard. i can feel exactly where i would be and the sensations i would go through, when that song sounded like it should.

i can be anywhere. i can be at a party on the middle of the dancefloor or lying in a dirty motel room with a hooker and a hangover. i can be on a beach holding a drink with an umbrella in it, or standing on a corner in the pouring rain. i can be sprawled out on a rug in front of a fire or in a fight in an alley, getting the shit beat out of me. i can be falling in love. i can be breaking up. i can be in flight. i can be anywhere doing anything, and have the perfect song to play.

sometimes i misread a tune, and the saddest song in the world will remind me of the best time i've ever had.

but mostly i can hear the place that the song is. i can dig it for what it is. mostly.

some songs are just crap. crimes against your ears. they should never be played. anywhere. ever. i wouldnt say i was an expert on music, because im not. who really is? but i know when i like a tune. i dont need anyone to tell me whats good, and i dont care if someone thinks a song i like is a large, curdled, turd of jack and gorgozola. i know what sounds good to me. and thats something to be said kids.

anyway, i got the song from this site, which is an excellent source of obscure rock tunes along the same vein.

oh yeah, and this made me laugh. Death metal, ironically enough, is hilarious.

its kinda like when i stumbled across this blog that was bitterly racist, because they had a post trying to explain how they'd found "scientific proof" that nordic women were the best looking women in the world, proof which is immediately debunked by the country of brazil, by the way, and were specifically picking on indian women. posting pictures of various hindu starlets and models in the comments section and shit [of which he had an astonishing count of 437, mostly of bitter white men saying "right on" and "white power" and what not].

anyway, so im reading through all this shit, dumbfounded by the idiocy of it all, because the pictures they were posting of indian women were HOT. and this is where the irony happened. wait for it. wait for it....

eventually i just started trolling his site for pictures of hot indian chicks. i spent HOURS there.

when i got to the final pic i left a comment: "please post more pics of hot indian chicks. i havent come yet"

i dont know how he reacted to that, i havent checked back. but i thought of that episode because of how ironic it is that death metal is funny to me. see, i tied that up neatly didnt i?

i found another funny on the internets, an endless goldmine of funny crap. its a news parody. a funny one. watch it.

i also found some interesting blogs one night while raping snooze's link list. she has some clever friends. which is expected, being the clever gal that she is and all. i'll post them later, when i have even less to say.

Drunken Party Post

There was a big puddle of rum in the middle of the floor. Someone had spilled thier Mojito while collapsing in laughter at a joke that some other person had made. My girlfriend, in a burst of brilliance, wrapped a towel around her body and did a backspin on the mess, cleaning it up and starting an impromptu break dancing competition in the process. I wasn’t there when it happened, but that’s how I heard it went down.

A girl whose name I’d learned then forgotten drunkenly collapsed on my shoulder and neck. Her breath was hot and wet and smelled of sugar and fruit and alcohol. She whispered in my ear sloppily: You have to come and see this. Then she grabbed my arm and began falling back, pulling me with her. I pushed her hand away gently, and focused on the next song to play.

There were two people on the couch speaking in French. A guy and a girl, he looked a bit older than her. She looked too cute for him. Another girl sat on the arm of the sofa, I think her name was Daniella but cant be sure, taking polite sips from a huge tropical cocktail. Two dudes I’d never met before stood next to my closet, quiet and passive, checking out the girl, Daniella… I think, on the arm of the sofa. Laughter came from the office behind me, the smoking room, where people go to sin. The girl whose name I’d forgotten collapsed back on my shoulder, and a friend of mine rushed up to kneel down next to her. The three of our faces were inches away from each other; I could feel the warmth of their sweat.

Dude, you have to see this. L-swizzle is pop locking. She’s killing it back there.

I lined up three bumping hip hop tracks and rose slowly, stumbling back a little, smiling. The hum of conversation rolled under an Outkast track from the Aquemini album, in my opinion, their best.

When it came out, it was a surprising leap in maturity not only for the group, but for hip hop on a whole. The method in which they blended the modern black mans paranoia, vernacular, and general mindset, with the spirit of traditional soul music, was not only brave and ambitious, but magnificently accomplished. In terms of career advancement and pure achievement of talent, I would be bold enough to make this comparison: Aquemini was to OutKast what Ok Computer was to Radiohead.

As we barreled through the house I noticed a cute, slightly overweight girl was sitting sprawled out on my bed; a friend of L-swizzles hovered over her. A guy name Kevin. He was pretty cool, if I remember correctly. His eyes had their targets locked; he looked down on her in full lurking pervert mode. He said something hushed that I couldn’t hear over the music and the cute, chubby girl giggled. The chick whose name I couldn’t remember dragged me past them on to the next room, where the break-off was in mid battle.

It was a dizzying whirl of people and I saw her in the middle, prancing in a circle. Her bandaged hand [she had burnt herself on a hot plate of shrimp kabobs earlier] rose up in the air. Her hot pink dress like disco clinging to her curves. Her face flush and beaming. She had a drink, half full, in the other paw. Her hair was curled against her red cheeks, sticking to her face in the damp heat. She threw her head back and took a deep swig of her drink and then swung it back down, spilling more on the floor than she had down her throat. She laughed and then howled and it was like a white light screaming into all corners of the room and every body dropped their jaw and widened their eyes and gasped, then raised their glasses and screamed along with her.

I stood and stared at her for a second, admiring her loose and clumsy motions, then turned around and headed back to the other room, anxious to tend to my tunes.

I cued up some forgotten pop from the early 90’s and a dude I know from somewhere I forget slid up and asked if I had any weed. I threw my arm over his shoulder and lead him to the office. Three people were already cramped in there, sucking down stogies, browsing through my book collection. A heated discussion on American literature followed a few fat bowls and topped off Mojitos. Someone asked why I was yelling so much and I said it was simply because I was black and drunk and high on xanax in my own god damned house and then asked why they liked to expose what might be a minor character flaw of the host in the middle of his own fucking party. Then they laughed nervously and I handed them a pipe full of weed and said relax, its all fun and games, in a real cool and calm voice, like James Bond would use.

I gave a guy I had met just minutes before my favorite John Fante book and told him to stop yammering on about Kerouac, that there are other authors that have lived and others still living. He folded it and put it in his back pocket and I told him he had better read it or he was a fraud, but I didn’t divulge that I was a fraud already, if he was smart he would have known that and called me on it, instead he promised he would read it as soon as he sobered up.

Later on that night a pretty, black, wanna-be model danced with a stocky white rapper and a hot but creepily muscular lesbian made out with a grad student that had just left his girlfriend. A couple broke up and another met for the first time. Somebody puked in the bathroom sink. When the last person left, freshly corked bottle of wine in their hands, they said to me, Man you guys throw the best fucking parties, and I smiled and delicately shoved them out the door then closed it and locked it and took a deep deep sigh.

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Sometimes I think when the world is watching we all look like idiots. I could be wrong though. Sometimes I see interesting videos with conversation inspiring rants and tripped out music, and I see that people are as confused as I am and feel less lonely in the city. Then I see new UK buzz band videos directed by the legendary Chris Cunningham and realize that I am the city and it just confuses me more.

Soft Buns

I haven't eaten fast food in the last 5 or 6 years. Well, not counting the occasional value meal while traveling the country or rolling in a fast car through the streets of south beach with the one and only drum clinic. And it wasnt something that just came gradually with age. It was an entirely conscious decision. I forced myself to stop eating it. I quit cold turkey. I just couldn't fuck with that shit anymore.

Its too bad too, because fast food is some tasty ass shit. I can remember taking that first bite of a Jack n the Box patty melt and it always being like, "Welcome to Flavor Country sir, would you like some ranch dressing to dip your curly fries in?"

Why yes.

It was like deep fried evil dipped in sugar. It tasted like sin, almost all of them. I couldn't get enough, for a while I was addicted.

I knew I was addicted pretty quick. It wasn't like realizing you're addicted to drugs. It was much more clearer. See, I readily accepted that I was addicted to fast food, particularly, the Jack n the Box Sourdough Ranch Chicken Sandwich, and just took it as a wonderfully delicious flaw in my character. It wasn't the same with, say, crystal meth or weed. You usually ignore or avoid the fact that your addicted to drugs, it doesn't even occur to you until you notice the depths of depravity you will go to in order to get some. With fast food I immediately checked it and just shrugged my shoulders and said supersize. Extra mayo. With bacon.

But after a while not only was I getting fat, but it got to be a hassle copping the goods. See, if you don't have a car, or have access to a car, at 2 o'clock in the morning its quite a fucking task to score a Western Bacon Cheeseburger.

So I quit that shit like a trick that stole from me.

I still eat burgers and pizza, but no mass produced chain staples like I used to. No carls jr. No burger king. No KFC and definitely no Jack n the Box.

Stupid, scrumptious jack n the box and its mouthwatering grilled to perfection baby molesting burgers.

none of it.

no mas para Juan.

I don't miss it either. Its just some crap I used to do when I was younger. Like play kickball or shoot heroin or call pretty girls then giggle and hang up when they answered. Except I noticed today, that I do like to keep a bag of hamburger buns in my cupboard. Everything seems to taste a little better on a hamburger bun.

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Check out this mash up of Gnarles Barkely and the Notorious B.I.G. And earlier today ESPN Classic was playing an old Basketball game [Bull vs. Lakers 1991 Championship - Game 1] and I noticed, that Michael Jordan fella was pretty darn good! And please peep out Weed Carriers, that shit is classic.

Soda

I had taken a xanax and swallowed an entire 40 by the time I got there. The sky was still fairly young and the heat had let loose its strangle on the air so I slid into some jeans and shoved a pack of rolling tobacco in my pocket then bounced from the house on a sweet evening mission.

According to the DJ it was more packed than usual. Looking at the crowd that didn’t come as a surprise. There were hipsters and hippies. Yuppies and thugs A smattering of professionals, and a pocket of jocks. I collapsed on one of the couches. –Get me a scotch and soda, I barked.

My boy Charles hit the decks. The groupies know him as Fucknasty; don’t ask me how he got the name. A collage of 90’s hip hop makes the room sit down and nod their head. I collect another drink, this time a glass of merlot, then sit down and face the girl next to me. –So what was your name again?

-Tracy, she says, and then looks away towards her friend. I sit there red faced for a moment. Her legs are long and you can see her thigh muscles flex when she bounces the top one, the one thats crossed. She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail and on her neck is a small mole. She switches legs, crossing the other and I pull my shirt from behind me, so I don’t look fat. I feel large and awkward. My moustache is uneven. My beard is patchy. I have a girlfriend. I’m committed. I’m in love. My shoes are to skinny, they don’t match my shirt.

I sweep my finger around the room, -This crowd looks bored. Where are the drugs? She chuckles, unimpressed, then turns to her friend and says something I can’t hear. –They should turn the music down a little, I say, people cant hear each other talking. She smiles and nods, not at me, but her friend, and pulls her hair back behind her ear.

Her friend is a gal I know. A girl named Maple. We got flirty one night on cocaine and rum drinks at a house party in Greenpoint on Memorial Day last summer. We touched lips, but didn’t kiss. She had a kangol hat on and also a low cut tank top and she got drunk and cried when I made a joke about cancer she found offensive. I made it up to her on a balcony when we were alone together sharing a cigarette. I apologized sincerely and held her hand and scrutinized her eyes as I did it. She laughed when I didn’t kiss her, but then was silent for a second after, because she knew it wasn’t because I was scared, but because I didn’t want to.

When things started to thin in the bar I ordered one more glass of wine and prepared my exit speeches. I would shake hands, give hugs, say “I’ll see you soon,” and get ghost. Every night is just another, dawn is what really unearths the magic. Who needs a long good bye, we’ll see each other soon enough.

The bartender brings another round. -This one’s on me, she says and we all raise our glasses in salute to her. Tracy pushes hers into the center of the table. –I’m done, she mutters, no more for me. I look at my watch, clocking my curfew coming up. I grab her glass and raise it with my other, -I’ll take it! More for me. Let's all get merry!

I drank them both too, then slammed the glasses on the table when I was done. The bartender turned on the jukebox and The Flaming Lips asked if I realize. Tracy and Maple were talking in low whispers to each other. Fucknasty was packing up his record bag. I stumbled outside and lit up a cigarette. Fuck this shit, I'm going home.

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Enough about me, watch Bob Dylan live and pretend you were there. Then take some handjob lessons, you know you need them.

Old School Angles

I think the cats down at my corner bodega are running numbers. I’m pretty sure of it actually, but I aint got no proof.

They always have fools milling around in the back, behind the dusty cans of cat food and generic brand dish soap. I see them, these old codgers, sitting on stiff table chairs around a fold out card table, growling in Spanish, cursing at a television, or maybe each other. Sometimes I can’t tell. They come out to the front every now and then, to buy another beer or maybe bullshit with the wife of the couple that owns the place. Their clothes are always dirty, thier hands bruised and caloused, like they’ve been working all day on the docks or in the yard. And they treat the place like it’s not a bodega, but a bar, where they can drown their past in alcohol and get some friendly advice in the process.

Sometimes they stand right in front of the counter, yapping like they’re on some kind of fucking stage, holding up the line while I pace with my feet, desperate to get my beer and bounce. I can never understand what they say, because mostly its in Spanish and I flunked Spanish not once, but twice, in high school. But the conversation never seems to be anything more than casual. I imagine they talk about their families, their friends. Who’s had a baby and who died. If TV on the Radio should have chose a different name for their album. If subway sandwiches really are lower in fat. I don’t know what they are saying, but I can’t imagine it is anything more important than what I say to my friends. Still, I could be wrong, they could be figuring it all out right under my nose.

I walked in tonight at my usual time for my usual purchase cause I got my usual flow going, and as soon as I stepped in the door the wife flashed her grin and one of the cats, some old coot at the counter with cheeks burning red under a thick, uneven white beard, stopped talking and looked at me, then looked up at the TV. It was playing Americas Wildest Police Chases.

What’s up papi?

Nada mucho ma.

I went to the beer case, slid it open, and copped my bottles like I had rehearsed the move all day. In the back I peeped two dudes sitting at the table. Another one came out and walked to the counter, screaming an order for a steak sandwich with no onions.

And slap some extra cheese on that sucka, and some hot sauce! Lotsa hot sauce!

I gotchu papi. You want peppers?

He didn’t answer, just went straight to the back. She waved her hand in dismissal. I looked up at the TV and a motorcycle went headfirst into the side of an 18-wheeler truck. The driver slides about 30 feet and slams into a signpost. “I guess that’s the last time this clown is going to take his act on the road,” the announcer says in that condescending tone. I let out a hiss. What a douche bag that announcer is.

She bags up the brew and I hand her a few bills. The old fool is still standing to the side of the counter; he hasn’t looked at me once, just stared at the television. The wife hands me my change and eyes the lurking coot impatiently. He hands her a folded piece of paper, on one side, the top side i can see, are two long collumns of numbers. She scans the page quickly then nods her head and slips the paper somewhere behind the cash register. The old fool walks off, toward the back. I start making my way out.

You should get yourself a sandwich sometime. They good!

She cackles and her huge tits shake in harmony. I smile back at her.

Maybe I will ma, keep em hot for me.

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Where are they now? Jag & Redd|Egg & Style & especially Zaida. Its like they have fallen off the face of the earth. Another mystery. Cest la vie. While we are mourn their absense lets have some fun eh? Anybody up for a little Hard Gay? if not, then I have the goldmine just for you, an archive of 80's videos. So Whip it!

Shaping Up

I can feel the longer blades pricking at my ankles as a run through the grass, top speed. In pursuit. I catch the first one and see the second hovering a few yards away, nearly behind me, just inside my peripherals. I dart towards it, snagging it mid air and falling to the ground. It’s soft and damp and I lay there a second, breathing heavily.

The sun is hidden somewhere in the sky but the heat pours mercilessly upon the park. A group of men play a game of soccer above me, a family of four fly a kite beneath. I watch the heavens, now one big cloud, shift slowly over us. I take a deep breath and rise. I throw the first disc and it soars upward, to the right, then hangs in the air for a soft landing. I spear the other out, about 6 feet from where the first one will land. He yanks the first one down then fumbles the other, letting it bounce from his palm before his fingers could clutch it. I see his head drop, shoulders slump. He falls to the field, beginning the first of 5 push-ups.

So close! I yell, then scan the rolling hills of Prospect Park. There is a makeshift baseball game going and a couple lying together, in one another’s arms, asleep on a blanket near by. A little league team is perched on one knee, thanking god I suppose, for supporting them during game they are about to play. A lone black man fly’s a kite shaped like a Dragonfly. Paul launches the first disc towards me. A magnificent floater sweeping to me from afar. A passing man stops to watch.

I gauge the direction of the second one before I yank the first one from the air. He lost control during release and it flutters to the left of me, still within my range of speed. Drops of sweat dance down my forehead to my neck and shoulders. The clouds part and sunbeams blaze my retinas. A mosquito buzzes past my earlobe. I’m racing forward, arm stretched out, wondering if the passing man still watches. I grip the edge of the disc mid stride, and then feel it crumble in my fingers like a dry clump of sand, falling to the ground as I collapse forward past it.

My chest heaves, I stare at the grass and the spots of soil under it. Paul screams at me, You almost had it! I cast an eye toward him, then see the passing man walking further behind him, beyond our game, away. I spill to the ground, placing my arms straight beneath me. I inhale deeply, then push up. I whisper to myself: One.

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Everyone has a myspace page. It doesnt matter if you are dead or if youre alive. Its crazy, how connected we all are these days. Almost creepy when you think about it.

Head in the Bowl

Sometimes I get a little crude. I dip my head in the muck and gargle, I squat over a spinning fan and shit. I do it all in jest though, an innocent ribbing, trying to get a rise. Its tasteless and adolescent, sure, but it makes me laugh. Anyone that takes offense at what I said can fuck off. And they can tell me to fuck off too. I don’t care.

Yesterday Alex and I were joking around on IM…

[OMG! LOLROFLMAO!!!! A/S/L? PIX PLEAZ]

...and later on in the evening, as I was chasing Frisbees in prospect park under Brooklyn dusk with my good friend Paul, I thought back on our chat and giggled. But there were still a few points left up in the air. Why DO cam whores call all the perverts bb? Who decided to call that porno “Rim My Gape,” and why didn’t anyone point out, before the cover art went to print, that the name had no ring to it? How can I make AIDS jokes and live with myself, and how can I make AIDS even funnier?

The truth is, there is no answer to those mysteries, but I still felt there was more they could offer. So I wrote an email.

From: jonsaid@gmail.com
To: Alex@dontoutmyaddy.com
Subject: In Conclusion…

Dear Alex,

I'm in the kitchen with lea and she’s digging in the freezer, smiling
wildly, telling me she has a surprise. Its mad hot on that end of the
house because we got the air conditioner on the other side, near the
bed and the tv, where we spend most of our time. I already know what the surprise is, she's experienced a vocal hankering for them the past few days: Klondike bars. But I still smile and clap like a greedy little kid when she pulls them out cause I know that’s what she really
wants [even more than the actual treats, maybe] and I like to keep my bb happy.

On a side note: they weren’t really Klondike Bars, they were some hippy dark chocolate organic shit. Taste the same though, it’s just more expensive.

Then she asks the question. And it’s the only question that could be
asked really, now that I think about it. In this situation, in that
hot kitchen where sweat was everywhere, on the walls and on our skin and on the pots and pans in the sink, what other inquiry could be
uttered, what topic proposed, but: What would you do for a Klondike
Bar?

In that sing songy voice, from the commercial.

I sprang to action, ceasing the opportunity. "I'd sell my mother into slavery!"

She eyed me, smirking, "what?"

"I'd rape a small amphibian!" I yelled. She chuckled but stared at me
curiously.

Though I wanted to say, "I'd rim my Fathers gape!" I thought that
might be to racy for the crowd, not being "in on the joke," might make that sound a little awkward.

And then I got it, the coup de grace. I paused dramatically, then
threw my head back in triumph.

"I'D GET THE AIDS!!!!"

Then I snatched the hippy late night candy fix from her hand and tore
into the box with my teeth, snarling and frothing at the mouth, eating it all in 24 monstrous bites. The vanilla ice cream, the dark
chocolate outer covering, the stick, the cardboard, and her fingers.


your friend,

-jon

I know, its cheap. Posting a letter that I wrote last night? That’s cheating, without a doubt. But this post is disposable, like a porno clip after the second blast. So eat it, tricks.

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Check out this hipster humor. Some of it is spot on. I think. I dont know. Ask the guy at Last Nights Party. Whoa, if this doesnt make you want to get clean than damn, you a dirty motherfucker!

Early Monday Push Out

This week I've decided to post every day. Not because I have so many readers bugging me to update, nor do I have much to actually say. But I figure if I start the day trying to formulate sentences in my head than the rest of the day will fall easily into place. Its sort of like waking up and sticking my finger down my throat, expelling all that’s left of the previous night and starting anew, only not as painful on the throat and less of a mess to clean up.

Lets just go into some recent top news stories:

Zidane totally lost his shit with only 3 minutes left in the world cup.
I don’t know how this happened. Throughout the entire Cup Zindane was a model of experience and composure, but in the final frame of the final match, he unraveled and attacked some dudes chest with his head. Now don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty fucking core, to head butt someone in the chest. I mean, who even thinks of doing that? But it definitely cost the French their chances at getting the trophy, and ended his career on a sour, and completely baffling, note. The consensus around my pad is that the Italian guy said some wicked shit about his mother. Couple that with the frustration of missing a nearly perfect header into the goal, and you got yourself a bald head ramming straight into your sternum. Hey, you try being Zidane for a while.

A Scanner Darkly is released in theaters
A Scanner Darkly is probably my favorite Phillip K Dick novel, and I was intrigued to see how Richard Linklater would handle the material. I didn’t think the director, a visionary in his own right, would fuck up the book. He has a good track record working with actors and has a pretty keen eye for off kilter narrative [see: Slacker]. But there were certain aspects of the book that I was curious on how they would be translated into film. The first thing that springs to mind is the mask the main character wears, that scramble his face to become a thousand faces at once, and no face at all. I guess the film is done in the same style animation that Linklater's film Waking Life used, so that takes care of that. Keanu Reeves plays the main guy, which could be a hit or miss decision, but I’m still going to see it in theaters anyway.

George Bush said something stupid in front of a large crowd of people
I haven’t seen any specific reports on this, but it doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure it happened, I mean, that’s what G Dub does right?

TV on the Radio release their new record
A friend of mine was trying to tell me he thought that TOTR was going to be the next Radiohead. Not that they would sound like our favorite English quintet, but they take a very atmospheric approach to songwriting and are trying to push the boundaries of rock. Plus they released an EP titled OK Calculator [according to Pitchfork], which is kinda like saying, "Hello indie rock fans, were the boutique version of your most beloved band. Please notice me.” I saw them live at the Brooklyn Free Concert Series a week or so ago, and yes, they were truly amazing. Did I want to have their babies? No. Did they make me cry from the sheer power of their rock? No. Did I make a note to myself to buy their album, Return to Cookie Mountain, as soon as it dropped? Yes.

I’m sure there are plenty more headlines for me to plunder through, but I’m stopping this here. No reason for me to blow my proverbial wad on Monday. Shit, the weeks just began; I gotta pace my shit out.

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Ouch! That looks like it hurt. If you are like me than you were pretty into the Transformers cartoon as a kid. Well, they are making a live action movie of the show and it is being directed by [ugh, it hurts me t say this] Michael Bay. Check out the trailer here, I guess Mr. Bay is pretty good at making big things get blowed up, so I'm hoping it wont be horrid. The trailer looks cool, dontcha think? Hey, are you an old ass swinger? Do you like watching your partner get boned by strangers? than this site is for you! Godspeed you swinging old fool!

Clocking Change

I got a watch.

It’s silver and gold; my brother gave it to me. It wasn’t a gift so much as a hand-me-down, but I take what I can get, I’m not too picky. We were in a restaurant when I slipped it around my wrist and clicked close the clasp for the very first time. We clinked wine glasses and said cheers then I shyly added a thank you and took a long hard gulp. I looked at the time and squinted at the dates and turned the outer dial and stared as the hands crawled across the face of it. I imagined each tick was for me. Every second now my own. Time was finally on my side.

It wasn’t until the next morning that I noticed it. The changes it had invented. The modifications it had made. The watch had sparked a superstition in me; it had created a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

[I’ve been trying not to update lately; writing has become my bully. An uncertainty looms beneath each key on my laptop. The string of words that a sentence assembles pull and unravel the distress inside, like a coil of alarm squeezing my intestines. I go to type and fear curls up in my throat. To unfold these impressions with any sort of forced wordplay, dexterous or otherwise, would be to poke and prod at a wasp nest or open a window during a hailstorm.]

I take it off when I’m in the shower. I take it off before I go to bed. If I wake up with it or get it wet, the delicate chemistry that composes the day is altered and distorted, ruined. So I switch up the combination. Maybe if I get it wet again, the shape f the day will return to a favorable form. Maybe if I sleep with it twice the invisible curse is lifted. I become haunted by time. Every moment from I have lived and every moment I will live burdens upon my head and shoulders and I fight with every cell in my body the urge to collapse under the weight of it.

Then there is what I do with the watch on and what I do with the watch off.

Time loosens with it off. I play Frisbee, watch porno, smoke cigarette after cigarette and look out into the city waiting for my live to come home. I watch television. I listen to music. I play records. I stare into space.

With it on I reply to emails, answer the phone, make calls, make appointments, get to appointments on time, sometimes 5 minutes early. I work through processes. I keep files. I create spreadsheets. I brainstorm.

Then I wake up one day and I work half the day furiously then I glance at my wrist and see it naked and cold, timeless. Shit. Now what have a constructed? A fortress of wonder and bewilderment. A bastion of dilemma. I have disturbed the constitution of the afternoon, surely to weaken the evening. I’m paralyzed in between ticks. The rest of the day incalculable.

So now what do I do? Do I put the watch on, in hopes of saving patterns left in the fabric of today? Or do I leave the watch off, letting the cycle of unease play itself out until tomorrow morning?

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Fun for the kids: Check out Rock and Roll confidentials Hall of Douchebags for about 4 hours of hilarity. Then watch Thom York being interviewed about the making of his new album, The Eraser.

No Hands

I don’t know much about soccer, heretofore referred to as futbol, but I can get into any sport as a great event. Like, I don’t really watch the NBA, but come playoffs I'm picking my teams to win it all. Same goes for baseball too. And though I’m not the biggest football fan, I am a San Francisco native and did grow up during the mighty dynasty of the 49ers, so I try to watch some of their games for support, and always hope that they win the superbowl. But other than that, I’m pretty “meh” about competitive sports. Hockey bores me. Boxing is too brutal. And unless you catch me in a particularly curious mind, golf and tennis might as well be like listening to a senate hearing on audio cassette.

But I tell you, during this world cup, I haven’t missed a match.

Its not like I’m suddenly a jock or, to be more rousing and dangerous, a hooligan. No, I leave those duties up to L-pompom, who relishes in the role. (Come the playoffs of ANY sport, this woman is on the couch eyes wider than wide, ignoring the world, screaming at the television set, demanding another beer ASAP]. It’s just that there seems to be a grander scheme at work when its countries playing other countries. There is pride at stake. Loyalty at stake. There are a million different sets of eyes all looking into the sky and praying that their team wins. It’s almost overwhelming. You can feel an entire hemisphere weep when their team is eliminated. You sense the tides rise from an elation felt across the oceans when another team advances. There is a great spirit in the world cup. It still baffles me that it’s taken so long for America to receive it.

Not to say I’m suddenly an expert, or even been down from the get go. Shit I’m fairly new to this myself. Still…

I’ll admit, I had a bit of preparation. I have some relatives in Virginia, two cousins. 18 and 12. Both are avid futbal fans. They hipped me to the standings in the premiership [top three rotates between Manchester United, Arsenal, and Chelsea.] and tipped me off to the player to watch: Thierry Henry (AKA ON-ree!). According to them, the best player, or at least most exciting, in the world.

I couldn’t pick the team he was on though, not just because they liked him. I had to make a firm decision on which squad I would support on my own. I had to have a team to follow and look after. I wanted to captain my own ship, and I was ready to go down with it. I wanted my faith to be authentic, not borrowed.

So I went by the country that had, in my opinion, the best literary output. This meant my choices to be in the finals were USA and France. Then in the semis the two aforementioned teams plus England and Columbia. The round of 16 should include Ireland, Russia, Scotland, then maybe Germany and Spain and whoever the fuck else. Maybe Italy. Maybe Mexico. Whatever.

I went for all the African teams too, but knew it would have set me up for sure heartache were I to commit to supporting them, so I just rooted when they played and sighed when they lost and got on with the rest of it, letting the past be the past.

I wanted Brazil to win but only because I have a tender spot for their women. That’s an entirely different sport though…

And well wouldn’t you have it. Not only did France advance to the semi’s, beating Brazil in a shocker, but the great Thierry Henry is part of their squad, The USA, as assumed, didn’t even get to the round of 16. England lost in a nail biter to Portugal, who I don’t really care about at all. I don’t even know if Columbia, Ireland, or Russia made it in the tournament. And does Scotland even have a team?

So it hinges on France now. GOOOOOOO Camus!

On a side note, according to a conversation I had earlier with someone that just returned from the world cup, there is a huge wave of German national pride that swells in a colossal roar whenever the team gets on the field. This would be expected, seeing as how the cup is being hosted by Germany, but underlining their celebration are faint hints of the last time the Germans embraced nationalism, which stings the hearts of the liberal leaning population of the country. It conjures up images of past eras, where national pride in Germany equaled an unqualified sense of supremacy. I guess I can understand that. The shame that is. Some sores take generations to heal.

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I stumbled across this interesting blog written by a clever waiter. I'm not the first though, considering the amount of comments he gets. Hey, do you like Star Wars? Well then you will LOVE this. And these interesting bits of trivia will surely add a deft edge to your end of the conversation at the next dinner party you attend. Oh, check out this interview with Jamie Lidell on D*I*R*T*Y digital culture, and peep their mix page too, there's some definite heat to burn up your eardrums.