Petal

She’s coming back tonight. It’s been two whole weeks but it feels like only one because of the way time rushes by these days. Still, I miss the hell out of her and can’t wait until she arrives. I wanted to buy her a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers so that when she opened the door there was something else waiting aside from just me and a messy house and a pile of bills on the dresser, but I cant afford it. I’ve got pockets filled with pride and shame but no money. Nope. None.

Maybe ill buy her one flower, just one, which will only run me a couple of bucks at most, and I can present it to her on a pillow like a royal crown or precious jewels. I can offer it as more than a gift, like a symbol of devotion; I can get down on one knee and hang my head low as if I'm not worthy to look in her eyes. I can have a candle burning behind me, for atmosphere and romanticism. She likes that kind of stuff. I bet if I did that she would drop her bags and squeal like a little girl and pummel me with her body, kissing all over. She would feel like a princess and she should because she is.

I’ve got to clean the house a little though. You could hardly call this dump a palace. The place is covered in the crud and dirt and grime of a man two weeks with no woman, which is nothing you want to walk into unexpectedly. I need to wash the shit from the toilet seats and put the dishes that have been drying for a week and a half back in the cupboards where they belong. I’ve got to throw out all the empty beer bottles, and wipe the cigarette ash from the coffee table. That reminds me, I should light a scented candle, the stink of a lonely man is no easy aroma. Stale ashtrays in the living room, a pile of filthy clothes in the corner, puddles of stickiness perforating the hardwood floors, dirty dishes on the edge of the bed. It’s making me ill just thinking of it, who would want to come home to this pathetic heap?

She would. She is a princess, yes, but one with a crown of cardboard and a wrinkled, borrowed gown. She’ll take a bottle of beer and a hand drawn daisy on a piece of crumpled notebook paper, even if that daisy was missing petals and the colors bled outside the line. She’ll take my gap toothed smile and nappy ass hair, even if her fingers get tangled up in it. She’ll blush when I kiss her on the neck and feel like the most important girl in the world when I tell her I love her. She is a princess, yes, but a princess that would fall for the likes of me, and that’s a different shade of royalty.

I’m dirty, my mind and my body and everything around me, and I have to clean it up a bit before she gets home. It’s only right, it’s only fair. When she walks through that door and throws her arms around my neck and tells me she’s missed me and kisses me and makes me feel like the luckiest chump the earths ever seen I want to feel like I deserve some of that adoration. I don’t want to feel like I’m fooling anybody. Her, me, or the rest of the world. I want to feel like I’m a decent man, a hard drinking, penniless, slightly rank, but decent man.

Carpe Diem

My friend Anngie is in town from San Francisco. She called me last night trying to get me out of the house and onto a subway train headed to queens for this free party on a beach. I was in my sweats and a t-shirt, sprawled out on the couch. I had embraced the laziness of the day, I was already too involved with it. I was hard pressed to get off my ass to take a piss let alone climb into some clothes and cross the boroughs. I made some excuses and said id call her back.

Of course I didn’t. I waited until midnight and sent her a text message saying that I couldn’t find a ride and was sorry. Really I was on the couch watching Soul Plane and drinking a beer. She didn’t text back but I’m sure she already knew I was gonna bail. She’s a clever girl. She knows the score. Sometimes I just can’t be bothered.

Besides, I’d already hung out with her the night before, at a top floor apartment in union square. It was my friend Theo’s parents place, a one bedroom that might as well have had a sign on the door reading: NO ROOM FOR RETURNING CHILDREN. The view took in the scope of the entire west side, at night the buildings looked like shadows with holes of light in them. There was a huge bottle of gin and some ginger ale and tonic. A lively conversation about old school hip hop got every one excited (a small group of artist, record industry folks, magazine cats, and shy friends were the make up of this soiree) and I tried making a point without sloshing my drink on the rug.

We all went up to the roof and gazed at the city and the sky behind it. A few of us smoked cigarettes. Everyone had a drink in their hand. I talked with Anngie and her friend Vanessa and tried to be quick witted and succeeded some of the time, but not all. After a while we all went downstairs to refill our glasses. A few people left and someone put on a cd by a rock band I’d never heard of. I made my drinks strong and was hardly nervous at all. Anngie left after a few hours and she took her friend Vanessa with her, I told her we’d hang out again before she left and I really thought I was telling the truth when I said it.

Last night when she called though, I had already surrendered to wasting the day and night away. I’d done my laundry (which is still in a pile on my bed, where it will sit until I decide to put it away, which probably wont be until the last hour before my girlfriend gets home. Until then ill sleep on the couch), I’d gone to the store to get whatever food I would need (peanut butter, jelly, and wheat bread), I had two horror movies on the coffee table (Saw 2 and Final Destination 3) and a fat sack of weed sitting next to them. I dare something to act as more tempting a seductress. She never even had a chance.

Today the sky is dark and gray, kind of gloomy. It’s raining a little too, so I doubt she calls and wants to get together. I don’t know if I can be bothered today anyway. With weather like this and the way I feel, old and tired, on the verge of sickness, I think I’d rather watch more bad movies and drink water and smoke weed. I just want my apartment to be a womb, i'm not ready to be born yet. I don’t want to face life. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, when the sky is bluer and I know my girlfriend is coming home and the city is open and I feel I have a chance. I just want to put myself back together a bit. I need some time to heal. I’ll see her pretty face again, and make her giggle a few more times. She’s in town for a week or so, I’ll make an effort next time. I promise.

overheard mutterings... you nevermind

i've been called many things by many people, arrogant, fragile, gangly, lazy, dull, dumb, smart, honest, insane and surprisingly stable. a liar, a tease, a stoner, a liberal, a joker, a fraud and a pervert. senseless, sensible, textbook, typical, commonplace and none of the above. they all could be right. i don’t really mind either way.

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i don’t know what kind of person likes noir, but i think im that type of person. i like the gritty poetry of the dialog and the seedy streets its born in, where it seems more romantic and exaggerated and dark and glowing like the cherry on a cigarette shining so bright that it makes everything else look black and white. and all the men are manly but beaten and bruised and all the women are slutty but won’t give it up. everything’s done in an alleyway and all the shots are doubles and nobody gets cancer but they smoke two packs a day. i like things kind of dirty. noir is kind of dirty. the math is easy.

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i went to a focus group this evening for an advertising firm. i was a subject. their target market demographic. it was for a popular imported beer, a friend of mine invited me to participate. it paid free pizza, free beer, and $75. i'd have been a fool to pass it up. so i went down there and i ate a slice and drank some beer and answered a few questions with a few other guys while a camera crew recorded us and a light shined in our face. my friend was the moderator, and he did a pretty good job. at one point i made a comment and he said, 'thats a very good point you bring up,' and he wrote something down. i couldnt tell if he said it because he genuinely was impressed with my insight or if it was a clever tactic to encourage more dialog in the group. but it worked either way, so bravo to him. it was easy money and i met a couple cool dudes and shook a couple familiar hands and met a red hot bartender at a newly opened spot at this hidden little bar in the lower east side. its called Home Sweet Home, check it out if youre in the area.

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it seems someone has been really digging deep into my archives lately. every time i check my sitemeter these days there is a visit from the same place that stayed for 20 minutes or more. i don’t know who they are or how they found me but its kind of weird they havent commented. i guess Hermes was right, the small amount of readers i have arent really the participating kind. that makes sense. im not the participating kind either. i usually just read. i suppose if you like this site enough to read through all my archives, youre a little like me, and don’t like to participate much either. fair enough. carry on then.

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some people look weird when they party. this has to be one of the smartest, driest, wittiest, darkest and funniest sites ive ever seen, and a treasure of twisted comedy. i don’t know if they are all the same artist, but its a mad collection. and just because i like to have everybody on the same page, respect this label. now read further.

extra solid

then we went to a party on the lower east side. this was after I had fallen asleep on the couch and after id been woken up by the phone ringing (I said hello and without any greeting whatsoever was instructed to get dressed and to be ready). it was after the ride over the manhattan bridge, where I saw the lights at the top of the empire state building shining white and wondered to myself why there was no colors, and it was after we got to the bar and realized the door was running scams so then hopped in the car and sharp u-turned through traffic into a parking spot on the corner of 4th and avenue B.

we were invited by virginie, a french gal, extra solid, that works for us at the Dangling Carrot. she assist in the the international affairs. virginie (pronounced: ver-gin-NEE) speaks five languages and throws a frisbee like a dart. shes young and brave and quicker than the city. She moved from paris to new york to work for a company with shaky feet and three heads, all delirious. she rocks jeans and running shoes and sometimes skirts and high heels and laughs when we cry about how broke we are. you gotta love her for that, or at least we do.

you could hear the party from half a block away, and it was eight fucking floors above the street. by the time we stepped off the elevator it was like we were in the center of the dance floor at crobar on saturday night. the party was mostly french people who, as described to me in a hush, were from the "financial world," wherever that is. the place was two floors, the upper one with the patio, where the Dj and soundsystem were at, and the lower one where the living room and, more importantly, the bar were at. I mixed myself a rum concoction while on the latter level and made my way up the stairs, to where the music was. drink in hand, pocket full of nicotine, I was ready to make a go at it.

the deck could fit at least 20 people and had a view of the manhattan skyline that would make stars in the sky jealous. I kept having to remind myself that I was in the lower east side, where most bedrooms are boxes and most kitchens are walls attached to them, where most stairs only lead to your front door and most patio decks are really fire escapes. this spot was a palace. a true achievement in downtown living. as darth vader would say: Impressive. Most Impressive. (and then he would slice of your hand with his light saber. he was cold like that).

but the music was an entirely different story, in a galaxy even further away. it was so bad, im not sure i can describe it. this is what it was like, imagine if you hired an ex-rave dj from ibiza (who was now so far burnt from lines, pills, and sunrises that the very bags beneath his eyes could smuggle a kilo of ecstasy from glasgow to atlanta without the feds ever knowing what blew past them) to play at your wedding. well, what I heard that night was the set that he would play.

so here we all were, the only americans at the party, in a circle by the ledge, dancing to a Shakira song (or at least the paul oakenfold remix of one) and really getting sweaty to it. hips are swaying, drinks are sloshing on the floor, its a full on party where the americans are at. but everyone else sat on stools and chairs, drinking their cocktails, speaking into one another's ear. they smoked cigarettes by the Dj booth. they laughed at jokes I couldnt overhear. no one talked to us though. no one introduced themselves to us. they all just clocked us from the corner of their eye, like they were waiting for us to wage war or something.

and to be honest, I was considering it. it had to be the worst dj set I have ever allowed myself to hear. his track selection went like this: bad euro trance song, earth wind and fire wedding song, bad euro trance remix to a madonna song, crappy 80s new wave wedding song, bad euro trance classic anthem (dark dub horror core mix), shitty spanish pop song, cher, in that sequence. and i loved it. we ate up every melody with a ravenous salute. it was so bad, I was shivering in anticipation of what he would play next. would it be a euro trance song, or the euro trance remix to a black eyed peas song? maybe it would be a failed single from a bollywood soundtrack. quite possibly it could be a soft ballad from the compilation starved Dungeons & Dragons inspired soft rock genre. who knew when it came to this guy? he could surprise us all,and play something good. you never knew. thats what was so exciting about it.

so we tolerated the tunes for as long as the well stayed wet, but once it dried, we said our good-byes. on the street a girl danced to music booming from the trunk of cleaned up buick. her hips alone could crush the rooftop of the party we'd just left. I didnt recognize the track, but it sounded like some new york mix tape type shit. raw and grimy and thundering from the streets. it wasnt a radio joint, but it would bump in the club. and this girl moved like she was in the middle of a crowd, dressed in a skirt with high boots and thick eyeliner. I almost walked up and starting getting my grind on behind her. but paul grabbed my arm and shoved me towards the ride. we all had to pile in and go home, it was crazy late.

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instead of reading this you could have been reading Hermes or Tony or The Great Queen Bees or something, but you didnt. chumps. haha. gotcha!

She's just some chick living on the same planet as me

people were crowding outside, smoking cigarettes and gossiping on their cell phones and posing against the wall, as if they were models or something. the cops kept patrolling the corner, circling the block like vultures, but no one was making any trouble, everyone was acting cool. I'd gotten there a few hours before and had been killing time with nicotine, checking my cell phone for missed calls and text messages, posing under the street lamps just like the rest of them. I didnt want to go in because not only was larry not there yet, but I only had about 15 dollars in my wallet and drinks were 6 bucks a piece. thats about two scotch and sodas including tip. I gotta pace my budget these days, shits not like it used to be.

larry was my plus one on the guest list. he told me he'd meet me in the front. said he'd be there before me probably. but like money loaned and sunshine on saturday, I wasnt counting on anything being certain. and I was right, because that fool never came, a couple of minutes after my third rolled smoke he sent me a text bailing out. something about going to a salsa club with some girls he'd met in line at a bar in the city. I shrugged my shoulders and stubbed out my cigarette. then I showed my hand stamp and walked into the club, trying not to look arrogant as I passed by everyone in line.

I ordered my first drink and sucked it down in under two minutes. the bartenders made them weak and I made a mental note to myself not to visit another party there. I talked to a friend of mine, a butterfly that flaps his wings at every party in new york. not a dancefloor goes unstomped by him. not an act goes unseen. not a performance is made without him shaping an opinion on it. not a hand goes unshook. he was hanging out with the editor of a magazine. he introduced us but we'd already met.

-hows your business going? the magazine guy asked, I hear you got some hot shit coming out.

I got the bartenders attention and ordered another drink, he had a tight black tshirt on and his head was bald and he had a tattoo on his neck. -its going good, I said, pretty fucking good.

I didnt feel like talking about business or politics or music or anything. I just wanted another drink and I wanted it quick because most people wont solicit conversation with you if your head is buried in a high ball glass.

I met with the label owner, who was throwing the party. he was standing by the dj booth surrounded by girls in tight tank tops and dudes with dreadlocks. I set a meeting up for an afternoon during the week. we shook hands and said we'd see eachother soon. he looked distracted the whole time, keeping an eye over each of my shoulders, sipping his pint absent mindedly. I didnt ask for drink tickets, I didnt want to stay that long.

I went outside for one more smoke and as I'm rolling it I spot her leaning against a pole, a menthol bent from her lips, the minty smell of cancer hanging in front of her face and neck. she had on all black. black pants. black shoes. black top. black hair. she looked bored and preoccupied, so I asked her for a light.

all around us are people. a guy with long hair pulled back into a pony tail walks a dog that looks too big for him. a thug is getting hassled at the door by a security guard for not being on the list. two white girls lean against a car and one starts telling the other how she told this guy off and the other just keeps saying "word," in agreement, as if her hair got blond in the ghetto. two japanese kids are standing on the corner, one on his cell phone and the other just staring at the sky. he has a camera in a pack slung around his shoulder, hoping, I guess, to sight some celebrities.

she had casual eyes and an easy voice and when she asked why I was there I answered quick and honest like we had known one another forever. I explained my situation calmly. I was there for work. I had to meet with a label. I had to make an appearance. but id rather be home in bed. she laughed at my indifference and it was slow and warm. then when I asked her why she was there she smiled and said, I guess I came to meet you.

young and hungry, she needed a job in the industry. -i'm great at promotions and press relations, she said, you need an assistant? I looked into her to see how serious she was. she had dark eyes and brown skin. she was pretty like a piece of music. a classic album cut. i'll work for pretty much nothing, she added. I paused then asked what nothing was. nothing isnt always nothing for some people. nothing came be pretty much everything. nothing can be the world. but she promised, it could be nothing. maybe a lunch. maybe just some recognition. not much. nothing at all.

she said, are you going back in? and she crushed the butt of her cigarette on the light pole. I threw my hands up in surrender. not me. not tonight. I'm going home. she smiled and shrugged her shoulders. -so what exactly can you do? I asked. what could you assist me in?

I can write, she said proudly, confidently, I can write anything. my eyes widened. oh yeah? I asked, you can write? hell, I said, I write. wanna battle? we can match prose, I joked. her smile grew wider, it was beautiful, like shade on a day of burning heat. I smiled back. -yeah i'll battle you, she said and laughed that laugh. then I laughed and put my hand on her shoulder, innocently. then we laughed some more.

you go inside, I said, take my number, I might have something for you. she pulled out her phone and took it down. i'll call you on monday, she said. dont forget me! I smirked at her, I wouldnt forget her. even though I didnt know her. even though she was just a passing conversation on a friday night. even though she was nothing but some chick living on the same planet as me. I wouldnt forget her, that was for sure. and the next morning, when I woke up, and the sun held high, too late in the afternoon, she was the very first thing I thought of.

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look, just because my girlfriends out of town for a few weeksdont get any ideas. sure, the cats away, bu I love my woman. I adore her. but I flirt a lot and have a special appreciation for attention from pretty girls. so sue me. this post was meh anyway. I'm too drunk to be writing. to make it up to you, here are some goodies. check out there AMAZING crunk covers to radiohead songs. I know I know, it sounds silly on paper, but its awesome on the stereo. also, you should check out the amazing alexander robtinik mixes on this page, the 80's electro disco mix tickles me in places that I wish to be tickled more. and finally, I'm not sure if this is really funny [I could have dont a better job, and did, about 4 years ago] but it is entertaining to say the least. long though. whatever. I liked it, so taste it. is it good to you?

Bro Rape

My collar is dark blue and I got the problems to prove it. Tomorrow is stretching further than forever, man. And it’s dark and black and cold and bitter. There are clouds above those long avenues, which seem to go to the edge of the earth. Especially when you’re looking up from downtown, and you only have enough on your metro card to take you one way. They are crowding in the sky, shading the streets, about to dump freezing rain into the gutters. The city is squeezing me in its fist, and I’m being bled out. Wasted. Fuck, it’s enough to scrape up the loot for a beer and some rolling papers, just so I can sit down and write this.

Here’s the score: I’m poor. Poor as a shit. I’ve got barely any money coming in, and what I do is about to dry up. That comfort zone I’m in, the one that stalls my nerves and eases my panic, the one that lets me sleep, the one that allows me to wake up, its about to vanish. Its about to be gone, another stupid story of the city. It’s gonna end its run. Its gonna be forgotten soon. And I’m still gonna be here, without it, for whatever it is anyway.

See, I have a job. Well, I have a business. But my business has no money. No money at all. Oh sure, we have money coming in. From Japan in yen. From London in Pounds. From Germany in Euros. From America in cents. But it’s not here. It’s not in my pocket. It’s not opening a tab at a bar. It’s not doing my laundry. It’s taking its time, pacing itself. Making me wait. Being coy. But it’ll arrive, I just hope its not too late.

And when is too late? Is it when I start selling rare, precious records on eBay? Is it when I start turning tricks on casual encounters? Is it when I pass out from not eating, or when my lights go off? Fucking hell, what am I supposed to do? I can hustle up some djing gigs, but that shit doesn’t pay. Id make a couple hundred bucks a month at most, and that aint even gonna settle my malt liquor bill. I cant get a full time job because I technically already have a full time job and I cant take time away from that, plus I have school to start at the end of the month, so even a part time job seems an uneven reach. I got slim options and time and space don’t give a shit about my problems. I gotta make something happen though, and I gotta make it happen soon.

And that’s how it goes, right? You get pushed in a corner and you fight your way out. You grow. You evolve. Things happen.

I'm going to be on a diving board someday, with my feet hanging over the edge and my toes touching the water. I'm going to be sick of champagne, and leave my plate untouched. I'm going to lend people money, and I'm not going to ask for it back.

But I’m in a room and it has four walls. [They all have pretty paintings hanging on them. They aren’t the same size though, so it’s not uniform. They each have their own class. Their own definition. Four walls and four pretty paintings. I gotta go and take one of those paintings. And if I cant talk the wall out of giving it to me, I’m gonna steal it.] And I’m in the corner, and I have to find my way out. There has to be a door here somewhere, right?

Holy shit that was a tangent! In any case, something has to give. The city. The world, or me. And I have too many bills to pay to give in now, so I have to make some moves.

If you have any suggestions, holla.

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This is the funniest thing i've seen in a while bro, you should check it out. oh, and i like this band. they are my friends brothers band. i kinda know them so you know... i can get you into their gigs for free. wanna cyber?

embracing insanity

i didnt know snooze personally. i had never met her, had never spoken to her, had never traded any emails with her. i forget how i discovered her site, but the day i did i subscribed to her entries, i was immiediately fed her words to my bloglines, so that i could pore over every sentence as they were published. ive got a button on my task bar for just such a thing, it reads, simply: OBSESS.

i have no idea what it was she had written, that would engage me so completely i would, in the make believe world of ones and zeroes, commit to her on sight. It was probably something that was honest and vulnerable and ticklish too. because thats what her site was. naked, in a way. i dont remember, i have to admit. but whatever it was she wrote, i guess i wanted to see it again. and again. and again, i guess.

shes gone though, and she took all her past with her. now she is a small, two sentence paragraph on a boring white background with splashes of orange and some gray words on the side. i didnt know her and its weird but its like shes taken herself from me, this woman ive never had. i had that old familiar hole sink inside of me, loss, when she said good bye.

and im not trying to be creepy. im not falling psycho. writing poems about her on the wall. carving her name in a tree a thousand miles from any tree she'll ever see. nah, its not like that at all. but its weird man, since she's been gone, i've felt lonelier. and i know the score, shes just a pleasant person i met on the internet. it's only, she was cool, man. she was super cool. and now shes gone. she's just a memory and its like her blog is a tombstone, and im reading it and saying to myself, 'how did this happen?'

Damaged Goods

She was tall, almost as tall as me, at least in heels she was. And her hair was dyed and streaked, so you couldn’t tell what her natural colors were; it hung in a bob, displaying her long neck. Her tits were huge and her cleavage stretched down low into the bottom of her v-neck sweater, like an invitation or a warning, depending on how you saw it. She had on tight jeans, which clung to her little ass like a marquee, and I stared at her and what was playing out before me, as she paraded around the club.

Mike told me, between shots and bottles, that she was alone and eager. A give-a-way. A free agent. A lady with no take. I ignored him though, eyes spinning in the scene, and asked for more drink tickets, pronto. He slid me a few and dissolved into the crowd. Mingling through the veins of the social. I sat still in a room full of strangers, smoking my cigarette, thinking about her jeans, and how they stuck to her hips and ass like a desperate kid begging for attention.

I had to meet her. Sure, she was damaged goods, an easy target. A whore for eyes, for compliments, for drinks. But she had a sloppy swagger that I recognized as my own, weak and wounded, aching for some sweet talk. I just had to walk up to her and look into her eyes and then tell her she was beautiful, and we would be forever, or at least for the night. It was up to me to make a move.

So I did.

And we were outside standing against a wall when she leaned up hard against my chest and asked is I had some flame. I took out my lighter and scraped up some fire and touched the tip of her cigarette with it. Even before the first plume of smoke had drifted down from her mouth and floated up to the sky the words, I want to spend the night with you, had spilled out onto the sidewalk and the street, which was filling up with anxious club regulars, mapping out their next destination. Everybody was a witness.


We hopped in her ride, a borrowed luxury car, typical transportation for a beauty with no clues. We screeched and swerved and hurled along the streets, to a house in the hills of Oakland. She drove like a maniac, changing lanes with drunken fury, flipping off the sparse traffic and zooming through the freeway as if the car would turn into a pumpkin at the top of the hour. We got to the house which wasn’t hers and wasn’t mine but the door was unlocked so we went on in, collapsing through the door as if we were late for a meeting.

She took her shirt off. I used to dance at the Hustler Club, she said. I looked over her body and said back, I bet you did. That place was always too expensive for me, so I never went. I chose to frequent the smaller, dingier strip joints, where the floors were sticky and girls smelled of liquor and the back room went unpatrolled by security guards. The dancers were weathered and desperate and knew the score. It made me more comfortable giving them money. The exchange seemed more even.

This girl was high priced. Spoiled. Her high heels could cover my rent. Her wardrobe could pay off my debt. She had a flat belly and thick, curvy hips. Her skin was olive, so her bruises more hidden, and her arms were tight, yet soft, and feminine. Her massive tits stood firm and perky, and she let her hands glide over them as I stared. She had the same eyes as all the strippers I’d met though, sad and defeated, proud and fragile. Hungry. Manic. Lonely.

I don’t get opportunities like this often, so I sprang into action. I slammed open the cupboards in a frenzy for alcohol. I had to live up to this moment; my nerves couldn’t get the best of me. I’m not the smoothest operator when it comes to women, though I can turn on the charm if I got a good chemical balance going. I found some rum and poured two glasses, doubles, neat, then walked over to where she was.

It didn’t take long to get her pants off. She slid out of them within minutes, as if it was habitual. I had my tongue in her mouth and my hands where sliding and gripping all over her body. I undid my belt, fumbling with my jeans. I leaned into her but held my arms up a little, so I wouldn’t be too heavy. She groped for my dick, pulling at it violently. I pulled back, still flaccid, embarrassed, and kept my mouth searching her face and neck. I jerked myself furiously, willing with every cell in my body to get hard. To get excited. To be able to seal this deal.

Panic was setting in. Her eyes were no longer closed; she was looking at me, no longer feigning ecstasy, and more projecting confusion. I lunged at her face, swallowing her tongue, hands and fingers probing at her slightly damp vagina. I tried to use some of her juices to lube me up. God damnit, I thought, this could NOT be happening. I climbed down her body and started licking her lips and swirling around her clit, still pulling at my dick like a madman. She was bald down there, which didnt surprise me. It seems all girls are these days. She moaned and started to writhe around and grab at my nappy afro and squeeze her legs on my head. I got limper with each second. Cursed.

After my jaw begins to grow stiff and my cock starts to chafe, I raise up from between her thighs and say, I need a drink.

She looks at me, her eyes bored and knowing. Then waves me away when I offer to refill her glass. I go back to the kitchen and pour another shot of rum and then look at myself in the reflection of the microwave. My penis is shriveled and limp, puny and pathetic, but my eyes are wide and excited. Wild. I rail up a line of speed then snort it without a straw, shoving my face onto the plate and plugging a nostril with one finger, inhaling deeply. I wince from the burn and gag from the drip and a tear squeezes from my eye. I down my shot and say to the microwave, Its gonna be a long ass night, then laugh.

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that post wasnt really that good but i felt like writing something and thats just what came out. i'll probably write something really soon just to push that one down a bit. in the mean time, check out this list of the top 100 music videos according to pitchfork. Where are you supposed to watch videos these days anyway? not Mtv, thats for sure. do you really have to go online?

Colored Socks

I was gonna post about my love of horror movies. And I started that post, but it got muddled in adjectives. So it let it sit still, and settle itself.

Then I was gonna write about rolling on a gurney down the hospital corridor to an operating room, where doctors with mask on once cut into my spine. I had already written about this once before, just not in depth, like I would have liked to. Still, I didn’t want to retread on old topics, so dumped the idea.

Then I thought maybe I could write about tonight, and the hip hop party I need to attend. How it’s a political move, and how I hate these kinds of things. How I hoped there would be free drinks, how I hoped i didnt have to stay too long. It seemed petty though, when i condisdered it later, fingers on the keyboard, working out the cadence. I might still write about it, but many, many hours from now; when I'm in a more objectionable mood.

I almost began a post about my penchant for colored socks these days, and how white tube socks feel strange and awkward to me, even though I wore them all the way up until a few years ago. I was going to explore the relation of that sudden transformation in wardrobe to how I’ve aged, or even, more simply, observe how vain and fashionable I’ve become, to where if I'm to cross my legs I want even my ankles to have a sharp spark of character to anyone who might be looking. But I decided instead that that was boring, so I scrapped the idea. Dismissing it completely.

I was going to post about the time a started on Saturday night with two lines of speed and a a few pints of Guinness Stout, and how that went on through to Monday, when I kissed a girl grinding on amphetamine and then later kissed a guy high on ecstasy. And how it didn’t end until Wednesday night, and I how I didn’t realize this until Thursday morning. But I wasn’t in the mood to relive my past, so I decided to save that entry for a later date.

I thought of ranting about cell phones that double as walkie-talkies, and in particular an episode on a bus one night while crossing from one side of Brooklyn to the other. A girl was holding an insufferably mundane conversation about the size of her jeans and the skimpy portions of fast food drumsticks and a guy that owed her money and a birthday party she was glad she missed, all on the walkie-talkie feature of her cell phone. So everyone on the bus had to hear her loud, excruciatingly boring, garbled conversation, and stew, while annoyed to no end. And how no one did anything to shut her up, they just sat there staring forward, waiting for their stop. Then I figured even thinking about it irritated me, so why attempt to memorialize in draft? It wouldn’t be any good as words floating around on the internet, just as it wasn’t in real life.

Then I saw a clip of Morningwood performing on Letterman, and was inspired to write about the front woman of the band, Chantel, and how she expired any hopes I had of finding an original rock singer on Rock Star Supernova. She had a thunderous presence, and seemed to effortlessly sweat rock in every jerky hip swivel she made. She had an uncontrolled fire, a shitty display of art, and a swagger that would topple large financial headquarters. Then I realized the music was too immediate, and that it wouldn’t last one month in rotation, so I decided to listen to “Gigantic,” by the Pixies instead.

Finally, at some point, I decided to just write something no matter what it was, even if it was about post I didn’t write at all. And so I did, and this is what you get. It’s all I have, so you’ll have to spread it all over your toast, up into every corner, thinning out the middle a bit, and then eat it. Hope it taste good. Enjoy.

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So yeah. This clip stars Batman, Abraham Lincoln, The Power rangers, George Bush, Godzilla, Aaron Carter, and too many more to name. Its called "The Ultimate Orgy of Homosexuality" and it lives up to its name and then some. If you dont watch it, a baby unicorn will ram its horn up your ass. I know, at first it sounds kinda cute, but after a while, it hurts like hell. Trust me.

sleepy limbs

I find it incredibly easy to not do something. I don’t need to have any arguments or excuses, I can just not do it without any reason at all.

I just leave it be. I let it sit.

Sit little duty. Sit.

It’s not so much as a lack of energy, an example of laziness, or an act of procrastination. It’s more like a talent. I can have something to do. Something simple, maybe even enjoyable, and I just don’t do it.

Sometimes I do other things instead, like right now I’m writing this post, and sometimes I read a book or listen to music, but mostly I just sit there and absorb silence, or rather the sounds that make up my silence.

The hum of an air conditioner. Radios blaring from the trunks of cars. A plane flying overhead. The buzz of many different conversations. The street being smashed. Curse words and accusations. 50 cent. Gnarles Barkley. Traffic. Sirens.

I listen by tuning it out. And I stare at the wall or the floor or my hands, which are sometimes wet and clammy. I watch the sheen of sweat at my fingertips swell and slide into my palm. I watch my hands prune, aging before my eyes.

I sometimes wait. For what I'm not sure. Maybe a phone call or an email or a text message. Maybe for the mail to be delivered. Maybe until the last minute. Maybe until I think it’s an appropriate time to have a cocktail.

I sit there staring at my hands and waiting, but honestly I don’t think I care if anything arrives. I’m just waiting so that I have a modicum of purpose while I do nothing. Nothing at all.

I bet if I let go of the waiting I’ll reach some kind of zen-like enlightenment. I’ll find comfort in the blank canvass that is my existence. I’ll be free from stress, worry, and age. The burdens of engagement will unlock their vicious grip from my precious, precious hours of emptiness.

That would really bug my girlfriend though.

In fact, it would probably annoy New York City on a whole.

Which, in turn, would annoy me, and totally ruin my zen-like vibe.

I know I have things to get done, and I know they eventually will get done, but I’m not doing them, not now anyway. I’ll get to them though. Get off my back. Sheesh.

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i've added some new people to my link list. I didnt even asked to be linked back either, they just seemed kind of cool so i added them. what? Sweaty Blistered Sneaker Toe has a lot of amazing pictures and some pretty words to accompany them, lest they get lonely. The Daily Dump is written by this young, confident New York dood with a pretty wicked sense of humour. The Chronicle of Wasted Time is one of those "most excellent" sites held down by some clever gal in Colorado. Shes a good writer too. Visit them all, be impressed. I'd say they were all way superior to this site. speaking of, I think im gonna spruce this site up with some html noodling. Yeah, thats what i'll do. I'll make it look really fancy, its gonna be awesome. [if you've read this entire post you'll realize that is a bold faced lie. hows it taste?]

A Minor Emergency

Her forehead was hot. Burning up. Her tiny head was limp and lolled to the sides, swaying back and forth like it was too heavy for her neck. Her face was red and sweaty. She didn’t respond when Erin spoke to her, who was almost screaming in her ear, while we sat in the back of a cab on the way to the hospital.

I just sat there silent and calm. Keeping a close eye on her heaving chest, her closed eyes, and her mouth hanging open, weak and exhausted. Erin pinched her side and she jolted up, in a grimace, her eyes still closed. The response was merely instinctual. She crumbled back into her mother’s chest, whimpering, then silent again.

We have a sick baby back here; Erin said firmly, politely, could you go a little faster? The cab driver shrugged and gestured towards the red light, then returned to his phone call.

I had never seen her like this. She was always calm. Curious. Resilient. She has a deep sympathy for the human condition, and accepted it, flaws and all. She is quick witted with a genuine intelligence that penetrates through words straight on to ideas and feelings, and has a complex beauty, stunning on the outside and heartbreaking on the in. She could throw a good Frisbee, climb a tree, dance all night on ecstasy, and could let petty things go yet still stand her ground when her morals or rational was challenged. She could cut hair. Surf. Engage in intellectual conversation. She can cook a mean macaroni and cheese, and always made enough for everyone. She has a warm, hearty laugh that can cut through tension and make a whole room feel easy.

Once we stayed up all night drinking wine while Isaac, her husband, was out of town. We confessed our past and opened up our wounds and when the sun finally rose we sat there scarred and naked and with a deep unspoken love and respect that seemed more ancient than earth. There was a bravery we shared. And a cowardice too.

But her face had changed since I last saw her. Concern and worry hung at the ends of her eyes. Her laughs, still warm and genuine, were few and far between. And usually muffled, so as not to wake the kids.

Her beautiful kids. Their beautiful children. One under 6 months old, the other just turned 2. Both girls. It was the latter falling into unconscious in the back of the cab. It was the latter with a history of illness. It was the latter she held in her arms, rocking on her lap, kissing on her forehead, eyes darting at the street signs to see how much closer we were.

She asks, How much further is it, and the driver doesn’t answer. I lean forward. Ay. Where’s the hospital at? She’s sick. I point to Reya, the little girl. The driver still doesn’t answer, he just makes a left.

One time me, her and her husband, who I met her through, and who I’m equally as close and intimate with, stayed up for 3 days on ecstasy and speed, and at the end of the bender we sat in their car as the dawn broke into day and discussed movies and pop singers and giggled and smirked and made sly eyes at one another for hours and hours until we had to move the car.

In the emergency room she had regained consciousness, and was talking low and shyly to her mother, in her ear. I stood a few feet away and waited until I was needed. The doctor had to take her temperature and Erin elected she do it, as Reya was nervous and scared and didn’t want the nurse sticking anything in her ass. Even if it was the most accurate method. I went and got some snacks from the vending machine. We all ate crackers and trail mix together behind the hospital room curtain and I read her a book and Erin sat back and smiled and watched us. I excused myself and called Isaac to tell him things were ok. That we would be coming home soon.

She blushed and said thank you and I gave her a hug. I could feel her shaking in my embrace and I squeezed harder, trying to keep her still. Calm. Resilient. She pulled away and we looked at each other and I smiled in what I hope was a reassuring manner, and even if it didn’t show I knew she understood what I was going for, and she smiled back and leaned back into me. We stood there for a minute, slightly restored.

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Darth vader was funnier than you know. Check out this outtake from Empire Strikes Back. That Vader was a card!

The Hard Sell

I knew who it was when I saw the area code and I knew I shouldn’t have answered but I did anyway.

I haven’t spoken to her, or heard her voice, in at least 5 years or so. She was an ex-girlfriend of two years. My high school sweetheart, I met her in senior year. We broke up a few years after graduation, but she wasn’t the type to just move on with her life. She kept a part of you in her clutches until she decided it was over. Man, it was hell breaking up with that broad.

I don’t remember when the last time I saw her was. If I’m correct, it would have been when she came over my house late one night about 8 years ago, with only one thing on her mind. I was tempted man, so tempted. This girl was a magician in the sack, and looked the part to boot. Hips and tits that men would start wars for. Lips and eyes and hands that would murder you. She was almost undeniable. But I escaped her that night. I beat the magic. I knew what that temptation would reward me with. Insanity.

I guess there is an exchange that has to be made. For all that sexual brilliance, there must be some lunacy. And this girl had that by the barrel. It wasn’t all imagined either, she had some honest to goodness drama in her life. Let me break down some key episodes in this gals on going soap opera:

-When I met her she had just broken up with her boyfriend of a few years, 2 months into our relationship she tells me she’s 3 months pregnant with his kid. Of course we break up so she can try to work things out with him, and of course they don’t work out. He goes to jail a month before his kid is born and me, being the young, sex starved teen that I am, jump right back in the sack with her when he’s gone, even playing daddy to the kid because that’s the kind of sap I am. This boyfriend was a serious headache. He was, as most dangerous criminals are, terribly jealous and swore to everyone he met that he would rip my head off were he to ever see me (which he totally could have done). It was lucky for my cowardly ass that he was, as most dangerous criminals are, always in jail, or else I’d probably be, you know, without head.

-When she was 19 years old she found out through some slip of the tongue from a family member [don’t ask] , that her father was not her real father. Her mother, who had died when she was 12 (very sad, I know. And I empathize with the whole motherless void thing. What made it worse was she died on my birthday and so every yearly celebration of my birth would always end up a tearful eulogy for her lost mom until she fell asleep in my arms. Yay!) So being the person she is, she gets the Oprah detectives (seriously, she got their name and number from an Oprah commercial) and has them track down her real father.

-The detectives miraculously found him living in a trailer near the swamps of Louisiana. He had a wife and 3 kids. She went down to visit them and met some kid whom she promptly cheated on me with. She told me this 2 days after she got back and cried while she did it. Then she got mad at me because I wasn’t crying and told me I must not truly love her, that all this time I had lied. Then she called me an asshole and hung up on me.

-After the whole infidelity thing I decide this is my perfect out of the relationship so tell her its over. She says, and I quote, “no it’s not” and prepares to go back to Louisiana for I guess one more teen scream. Some shit goes down that when explained to me later on seemed very vague and nonsensical. Nonetheless, it got her booted out of her father’s house and told she was never to be seen again. So much for family reunions.

I could go on and on, seriously. This girl was a well of dramatic affairs, and her delightful poon was the literal opening. So I resisted her the night she came over, and I never saw her again. There were a few phone calls and some email correspondence, but I kept communication to a minimum, if any at all.

Until tonight.

See, about a week ago I got an email from her. A spam (which, if you knew her, would seem a very typical way she would reach out to you. Almost everything this girl does conflicts with my moral and philosophical views. She cant even write a real email, it has to be spam). She has some sort of business and she was offering to buy old cell phones for cash. I playfully replied back asking her what she did with the old phones, if she melted them down and made little unicorn figurines with the spare parts, or built bigger and better phones that transformed into robots with screens on their chest showing tivoed episodes of Seinfeld. I guess she caught my phone number in my email signature and decided that instead of replying back via cyberspace, she would give me a call instead.

And I knew it was her when I saw the area code, and I answered it anyway.

Here is the kicker, instead of saying hi and asking how my life was going, she instantly launches into the cash for dead cell phones proposal. It turns out that she has to find out a bit about your discarded phones, and then she will tell you how much they are worth. You get the full amount in credit at her store, for new cell phone accessories and what not, or you only get half the amount in cash. I gave her the scoop on my situation: cash is best for me now; I don’t care how little it is. I’m broke, ya dig? Then she asks me what kind of phone I have.

-Oh.. uh… I have a Treo phone. It’s about 6 months old.

She grunted an approval, -you know we have a lot of great Treo accessories. Great covers for the screen and some holders that clip to your belt.

I was silent for a second, then she went on.

-Those are expensive phones, and it’s just silly to pay so much for a phone and then not get a protective cover for it. We have a lot of different colors at some really great prices.

I was stunned. Was she pitching me on going for trade? I haven’t spoken to this girl in years and when I finally do she gives me a fucking pitch, one which would make her, at best, $50 in sales. I can’t believe the depths this girl irks me at. Even when she isn’t trying to seduce me into her web of personal turmoil, she was annoying me with sales pitches. Christ! The nerve!

I kinda mumbled that I was busy, and to email me the questions. The whole time we were on the phone a baby was crying in the background. I could feel pressure from her life, burdens and anxiety with every breath into the receiver. A relief washed over me, relief that I wasn’t with her right then, even if it meant sacrificing desperate, cock worshiping blowjobs and the occasional toe numbing orgasm. It’s a small price to pay for slight peace and sanity.

So she tells me she’ll email the questions and then pressures me into giving her a day when its best she make a follow-up call, which is like asking me which night would be best to have a nightmare. I told her Thursday, but I think ill let my voicemail get it.

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Im not a great writer, but nobody has given this blog a scathing review yet, so i'm gonna assume i can keep writing whatever i want however poorly i please and no one will give a rats ass about it. And you know you wish you lived in new york when there are parties like this going on. shit looks like the cats meow, right?

Rock Star Supernova Wrap Up

I know, its totally tween of me to follow up a tired, hope for suicide drunk on sadness cry for attention post with a stupid, reality tv gullible like the rest of them inkless body post, but I’m flawed and harmless, so sue me. I have to say, no matter what anyone else believes, that the show Rock star Supernova has kept me completely satisfied this season.

I know what you’re thinking: so Jon, you mean you weren’t “thoroughly fulfilled” with last season? And by saying that you’re mocking me because that would mean I would have to admit that I watched last season too [which I did, you hipster douchebag], which isn’t even the point. What I’m saying is that I like watching people try to be rockers, and I feel I'm a pretty good judge at who is and who isn’t, which involves me somewhat with the show. I get annoyed when people I like get kicked off [which hasn’t happened yet, all the people that got the boot so far have been assrashes by a mile], and I get excited when a person I like gives a great performance. And really, it’s all about the performances.

See, these so called Rockers need to balance between a fine line of showing who they truly are and being the person that’s right for the band [who are a bunch of older, though extremely talented and proven rockers in their own right]. To be honest, I think this is quite a feat. I mean, if I felt I needed to be the singer of a band, I’d want the connection we had together to be organic. I’d want to build a sound with a band. I’d want the band to be unique, to make a statement. I wouldn’t want to simply be a voice, a vocal performance and nothing much else. I’d want to be in a band, not a band with a singer.

And this is where the show surprises me. The performances really do skate that fine line. There is some fine talent in this group. To the point where some of them I feel should just say fuck off Supernova I’m starting my own gig. I guarantee they would be bigger than Supernova would ever be. And really, what kind of band name is Supernova? Why don’t you just call yourselves High School Educated? Oh, I guess that’s because it would actually be edgy and cool if you did. That’s right, I can be a douchebag too.

Anyway, on to the wrap up, I’m going to list them by order of shoesize:

Dana Andrews: She got kicked off tonight but I figured I’d list her anyway, as a last hurrah of sorts. She actually did a kicking elimination song, it was House of the Rising Sun, which I think is by Zeppelin, but could be wrong. I was on the fence about her most of the time, she was a little too innocent, but eventually she grew on me. She had this whole “about to let loose THE ROCK" vibe about her, like at any minute she was going to get addicted to cocaine and whisky and start singing about how men keep raping her while she’s asleep. Maybe not that harsh, but at least get a good raspy blues voice going. She got kicked off though; they said she had a lot to learn, which she did. Good luck girly, and don’t get any tattoos on your face, that’s not hardcore, its ugly.

Dilana: She is actually my personal favorite. She has a low, growling voice that is at once sexy and intimidating. She has freaked all of her songs, especially a rendition of Johnny Cash’s, “Ring of Fire,” which was mesmerizing. She exemplifes what i mean by being true to yourself while being good for the band. She needs no improvement. She’s hot, has loads of soul and personality, and I think she should win, hands down.

Jill Goila: She should be singing in a bar in Sacramento.

Josh Logan: He should be singing in a bar in San Jose.

Lukas Rossi: or as he is known around my house, “Skunk Head,” bugs the shit out of me. Maybe it’s his arrogance, which isn’t such a bad thing, but it isn’t flattering on him. He just doesn’t come across as authentic, or at least I haven’t seen it. He just seems like a carbon copy of a thousand rock stars to me. Maybe he’ll be singing in a bar in LA someday. Hey, that doesn’t sound too bad, does it buddy?

Magni: that name is kinda gladiatorish. Magni. That’s a good name for a cock. Behold! MAGNI! I don’t give a shit either way about this guy. He’s ok, I guess. If he wins I’d think Supernova sucked immediately, and they would have to win me over with their music, which is pretty much impossible.

Patrice Pike: man, this chick bores the hell out of me. I mean, she’s cool and all, and she gave a great performance of Radiohead’s “My Iron Lung,” which made me feel funny things inside, but other than that she is kinda meh on all levels. See ya at the bus stop lady.

Ryan Star: Ok, first of all your name is gayer than Magni and Liberace’s combined. Plus you kinda bug with your stupid I just woke up hairdo, but you gave a brilliant performance of REM’s “Losing My Religion” so I kinda lost a lot of hate for you. It was amazing. Still, your name sucks (wasnt a chick from American idol named Ryan Star?). In any case, eat it.

Storm Large: I have to say Storm Large is the worst stage name ever, unless of course you’re a stripper in Tampa or maybe a porn star specializing in the “tornado fetish” genre, but here’s the egg on my face: it’s her real name! Man, a name can really affect the way I see a person. Even before I know them. I guess I'm kinda a namist. Go figure! Anyhow, at first I didn’t like her, because of her name, but after a few performances and some video my girlfriend found on youtube of her playing with her original band, I have to confess that she is extremely talented and I wouldn’t be mad if she won. She is pretty fucking rockin, and even though she has the look of a screen starlet, she gets down and dirty, which is key in a rock band. That being said, bravo Storm, even though you have a shitty name, I still like you. And I’m a namist!

Toby Rand: yeah I guess this guy's ok. Whatever. I've ultimately grown tired of his gruff, masculine schtick. Its like a pansy Billy Idol thing. The guy from the Killers pulls it off, but we dont need another one of him.

Zayra Alvarez: This chick is the real deal. An amazing performer, sexy as hell, and a sort of Karen O meets Bjork thing going on with her vocals. She has that Spanish accent and that punk rock fire. She should not be in Supernova, but she should be in somebody. If there is any body on this list that I know would be a brilliant rock star, it is she. I would pay money to see her. She sort of rules the school.

Well thats about it for this weeks crappy mind wasting ad free television post. I hope you learned something, and if you didnt, then read a book.

Close Calls: A Totally Emo Post

I was supposed to die in the back of a car, sitting bitch on the Bay Bridge headed towards Oakland at dawn, when the driver coughed out two young lungs of weed smoke and said, Man that acid is really kicking in now.

I was supposed to die on a bus in San Francisco’s Diamond Heights from a bullet wound to the gut because I wouldn’t give up my jacket.

I was supposed to die in an alley by the hands of an angry cop, handcuffed and alone, on my knees with my eyes closed. Praying.

I was supposed to die in a prostitute’s hotel room, surrounded by cigarette butts and condoms, with my pants down to my ankles and passed out on GHB.

I was supposed to die at night in my bedroom with my door closed and no one was supposed to notice until the next afternoon.

I was supposed to die in a Chrysler Infiniti (or maybe it was a Dodge) somewhere off the road in the middle of Coalinga, California surrounded by a concentration of slaughterhouses, a shattered windshield, and the smell of shit.

I was supposed to die falling from a cliff while climbing mountains near the beaches of sunny San Diego.

I was supposed to die at an outdoor rave in 1994, to the drum of techno music high on acid, speed and heroine, when my face crushed against a rock while collapsing from a nitrous hit.

I was supposed to die that night on Broadway, beaten to death by a gang of Samoans, trying to show off for these girls that I swear to this day winked at me while driving by.

I was supposed to die a thousand times, but I didn’t, I don’t know why. Well, maybe I did and I just don’t remember, I guess it really doesn’t matter then, forget I even said it.

I’m only bringing all this up because I felt down today, and sometimes it just makes sense to see that what you have right now is not only all your flaws but also a half empty glass of wine and a laptop and some quiet and there is no reason to make a big deal of it, just enjoy. You’re not dead yet, but there’s always tomorrow.