secret bonds

have you ever masturbated in a bathroom? how about in a bathroom at work? i have. i mean, i trust we all have, havent we? isnt it fairly natural for everyone to have, at some point in time, been in the situation where they could no longer resist the urge for release and quietly retreated to an empty stall for a quick tug of the tube or flip of the bean? its not that serious a crime. a little private pleasuring, no harm done. i ask because a friend of mine divulged to me that he partook in such activities, and he was shocked when i calmly admitted that i too, exercised these notions. as if we were of some exclusive club of closet perverts. like there would be an underground genre of porno, made largely in the netherlands, dedicated to our small society of restroom deviants. why so shocked? i asked, everybody does it.

they do, right?

now dont get all up in arms about it, its not as if i soil the floor of every latrine i visit with a puddle of my unborn babies. no, that isnt the case. its a very rare occasion that i absolutely MUST get off while at an office or, in even rarer cases, on an airplane [oh come on! you know you have thought about it, if not done it yourself]. and its not like im in there having some cracked out marathon masturbation session while a line forms outside the stall. its all very quick and, i swear to you, clean. i wash my hands afterwards. twice. and i go about my business after, feeling much less anxious and much more at ease. i havent done it many times. but ive done it. so there, its all out in the open. take it as you will.

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benji b's show was proper listening this week. you should all check it out. heavy beats, that one.

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there is a concept of family that i have reservations about. this concept is not from a bond by blood or lineage, but born born from a trust between people. It is one that is more intimate than mere friendship, one that stays up late crying into a shot glass with you and always answers the phone when you call. one that promises. promises its time and sympathy and to be silent when you need a moment. promises genuine concern about the minor issues in your life. one that promises not the world, because thats impossible, but themselves, because thats all they have to offer. one that stands witness to your trials, always in your corner, no matter what. one that will take the fall for you, if it has to. one that expects the same in return.

i dont know how i feel about it. sometimes this concept is taken for granted by people. or abused, as it is. used as a trick of manipulation. a preemptive pardon for any emotional duress they may put you through. forcing an inherent forgiveness in the relationship. mercy for all acts, no matter the treachery. i understand that we all have a chosen family, but does this mean i must tolerate all of a persons flaws? must i accept that we have an unshakable bond? that we are, for better or for worse, stuck together? i mean, even blood relatives disown each other. hell, im living proof of that. i dont know. people annoy me. sometimes i just wish they would get off my back.

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and now to roll a spliff, enjoy the rumble of the radio, and let the incense wash my sins.

gettin by with a little help

monday is my friday. thursday is my monday. friday is my tuesday. and today is my sunday. i wish i could say more but its raining outside and ive got no words in me. i do know of a few others that do though.

Shawn post often, and is a good writer. he even accepts submissions, which lends a breath of generosity to his site. i like generous people. i guess thats an obvious thing to say. who doesnt like generous people, right?

speaking of generous people, i discovered DK from a link posted on a blog whose name i forget right now. it was to the Hip Hop Sgt. Peppers album cover he made. he actually recreated the entire album gatefold, from the lyrics and liner notes to the random images of Beatle iconography behind them. the amount of patience and craft was impressive. i let out a heavy exhale as i pored over the detail. i left a comment, a brief string of gratuitous praises and an inquiry on how i could purchase it from him. he sent me an email saying he would send one for free so i sent him back my address. then we had a small exchange, a discussion about loss and value and the city, and he said he would send a package off soon, with some more mixes gratis. he seemed a cool and genuine fellow. plus, his site is a wealth of knowledge on some really great music. check out his new 20 greatest blues album post.

The Kept Woman not only has a great blog name, but is pretty fucking funny. She lives worlds apart from me, which is why i think i like her site so much. clock how she documents being a mother. i am too lazy to write with such enthusiasm.

Poisonous Paragraphs is a really comprehensive hip hop blog focusing on mostly underground and less heralded factions of the genre. His list of the 25 most underrated MC's was what turned me on to him. the fact that he checked Saafir [noting his breakout guest performance on Casual's "Fear Itself," as the MC's jumping off point. which is absolutely true], and Ras Kas [noting his breakout guest performance on the Street Fighter Soundtrack's best track, "Come Widdit," and even posting the industry shaking verse, lyric for lyric], definitely sold me on his knowledge of undergound hip hop. he also writes about films. and i love reading about films. you should bookmark that dude, you know.. if youre into that sorta thing.

Here is a funny picture of Prince fending off a crazed fan. Even while flinching in terror, he still looks sexy and mysterious.

Susan as Herself is just that, i suppose. i dont know her that well so ill have to take her word for it. She rants about all kinds of things. read some of em. they are witty and honest and very there in chicago and with what is going on at that moment.

this may be the funniest thing i have ever seen. but i might be wrong. whatevs.

ill try to link all these on the sidebar soon. but right now i cant be bothered with it. maybe later. always maybe later.

the here and now

first we'll get into the here and the now.

i just lit a stick of incense so that it would cover up the smell of cigarette smoke. the cigarette smoke reeks and it crawls through the house and the bedroom and up her nose when i walk through it. and i always walk through it. to the kitchen for some grub or to the bathroom to take a piss or to the sink to wash my mouth of the stink from all the cigarettes. she hates the stink and hates waking up to it. so im trying to eliminate the stink by lighting a stick of incense, thus, i am in the process of keeping everybody happy. she is snoring soring softly while the gentle aroma of brooklyn corner jamaican magic burns and wafts through the house, and by now you have deduced that i am smoking a cigarette. that, my friends, is the end of the here and now.

ok. im too tired to get into the then and there, but what does it matter? we've already covered our bases.

more tomorrow.

at the end, will this have all been some stupid cry for attention?

at the corner of my desk is a jury summons. it is one sheet of paper folded into a letter shaped affair, with a large pink stripe racing across the front bearing the bold white legend, IMPORTANT: JURY SUMMONS ENCLOSED.

she just throws them out. -ill say i never got it, she says, then she adds, -if i have to. and we never mention it again. its just another part of a history forgotten. a thing that happened that you dont remember what.

i get mine and i call the county clerk and i ask when i should be there and if maybe i can reschedule. i say i work odd hours and i say im in school and i say i just had surgery and i say but if i really need to though, ill be there, no problem. i try to play it as if im on their side, and it pains me to not make it. the receptionist on the other end has heard it all before though, and i can hear her staring into space as i give my weak excuses. she doesnt know who i am and she doesnt care to. if im there im there. if im not im on the list of people who were not there. either way, i can do what i will. there is another call coming in and its equally as important. good bye.

so now im due to hit the courthouse. now i have an actual meeting for me to wait. i would skip it. i would forget it, like her. but i figure it is just part of modern society. it is my place to be eligible for jury duty. i work. i pay taxes. it confirms my station in life to be acknowledged by the state. some of us arent. some of us are the ghost that haunt the streets; the words that are spoken and not written down. some of us are just memories that no one wants to bring up. some of us dont matter to the rest of us. and the rest of us, well, They want our vote.

thing is, if i have to be there, its got to be at 8:30 am. i dont even know when 8:30 am is. i thought it was some mythological time from way back in the future. what even goes on at 8:30? is that when they change the adverts on the subway? is it when the hybrid cars get filled with gas? who walks the streets at 8:30 am? are they pleasant? are they grumpy? is it even safe?

so i gotta come up with another one for the people. i good one. one they can trust.

one less drunk. less tired. less tonight.

more tomorrow.

oh. and i have a shitload of new links to add. cool people with cool things to add to your already too cool lives. cool stuff. for reals.

welcome home

Sup yall, lets see what comes out drunken and thick into the night.

i spent my free hours working. So it goes these days. I helped organize an artist in store*, which was wild and successful. The artist, Mr. V, had a warm and comfortable stage presence. It was a very casual, conversational performance. After a short DJ set, he then played snippets from the album, sharing small stories (of what his mood was when it was made, of what inspired the session, of the people that he molded the album from) before each song. I was impressed. For the last song he asked the store to turn up all the house lights, to burn the place as hot as they could go, then dropped his signature house cut and let the crowd release. Virgin Megastore Union Square, for about 15 seconds, had transformed its café into a Body & Soul party. It was one of those moments. rare and unforgettable and undeniably new york city. Fuckin phenomenal. We sold about 30 cds. Everyone was happy with it.

the next day was spent doing average, ordinary, work at home shit. Check email. Send email. Set chat to available. Chat with coworker. Chat with friend. Chat with label. Check email. Call someone. Leave a message. Answer phone. Ignore call. Watch porno. Check email. Chat with friend. Call someone. Leave a message.

That night was the actual release party. it was at Cielo and it was a fucking zoo. I sloshed half my martini on the crowd just trying to get from the bar to the smoking patio. I saw a DJ friend I hadn’t spoken too in a while. We talked about records that weren’t yet released and club spaces that were dead, filled with ghost. I bought him a drink and got myself another. I don’t remember much after that.

Now its late and I just got back from the bar. my head is filled with many things, but they aren’t words. not tonight.

I've got to go to bed.

I should be in bed right now.

I should be sleeping.

i think i will.

*an in store is when the artist performs live at a retail location. It is usually for a short bit of time and with limited sound equipment, just a taste to give direct consumers, in hopes that they will then immediately buy the album. The store usually will buy in about 200 copies of the album for an instore event. The hopes are they will sell at least half of them, or else it isn’t worth the time.

split decision

the day started pleasant enough. i woke up in the early afternoon and the house was silent and empty. the sun was pouring onto the wooden floors. the glare, though sharp, was warm and bearable. i put on a sweater and some sunglasses, and in my pajamas went to the store and bought a half gallon of milk and a jug of apple juice.

i watched a movie and was pleased with the end. then i watched a sitcom but forget how it ended. maybe ill watch it again. then i took a nap. when i woke she was home. we hugged for a while. the first time in days.

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i went and watched the big fight at a friends house. there were about 10 of us men, huddled in a living room drinking beers and hollering at the television all at once. use your left! wheres the hook? see? hes scared! look at him, hes confused, he doesnt know what to do, hes about to piss his fucking pants! your insane, his jaw is a rock! youre a fool, his jaw is glass! watch, you'll see. yeah you will. everyone was drunk. some of us like fools. i chimed in when i could. cursing a ref or groaning at the timing of what could have been the perfect combination, but i kept most of my thoughts to myself and just watched them. the guys. watched them live this small moment and wondered where we all were in life. wondered what dreams we had screamed and what series of slow dull failures we could reflect upon. i wondered and the liquor grew quick and warm in my stomach. then mayweather won in a split decision and we all cleaned up and cleared out. the house was very neat when we left. as if we were never there.

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everyone is exhausted, including me. at the bar we hustle with weary eyes. smiles wide and shoulders slumped. i break a glass and ignore it, the sound crashes loud and clear and there is a small gasp that is lost in the vacuum of music and conversation. the fans whirring overhead. i pause and throw back a shot of whiskey. there is a small scuffle between two regulars at the end of the bar. both of them are drunk but one is more afraid of the other. there is cold hush, and then the regular that was less afraid leaves the bar. there is a hint of strut in his walk. no one mentions it when he leaves, they just go back to their drinks and talk about the Mets game.

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i hate what this blog has become. but when i think about it, maybe i just hate that im the kind of person who would contribute to a blog i wouldnt read. the kind of blog i would find too shy and personal. boring and meaningless. not even worth hating, but hated anyway. then: maybe this blog is just the faucet from which the hate pours from. maybe its me that i hate. maybe im hating myself for being a person that hates himself. man, thats a shitload of hate. whole lotta hate in this blog. i fucking hate that.

friday

i woke up late again. this time at 12.30. when i sat up in bed and looked over at the clock, the heavy film of sleep still thick on my eyes and skin, i cursed. fuck! i have start getting up earlier.

it makes it tough when you dont get home until 3.30 am. still buzzing from the aimless conversations, the experimental martini's, the silent judgements of strangers ill probably never see again. i get home and unwind, no matter how late it is. staring into space or at the computer screen, absorbing the night and the morning. trying not to worry about anything for a brief moment before i go to sleep. i take an hour or so sitting in the quiet. i usually crawl into bed at 5 am. sometimes later. i promise myself ill get up at a reasonable hour but i break promises to myself all the time.

tomorrow i have a full day off though. i want to let the heat pour into me. i will take a bike ride maybe. possibly stop in the park and lay down for a bit, looking up into the sky and thinking about things.

me and my girlfriend are going through a rough patch.

thats what we call it, a "rough patch." but we dont refer to it often, so we dont call it anything much.

we might take a break. whatever a break is. a split between time. a division of worlds. but we dont know yet, the tangle of confusion that is love and commitement has kept us knotted up, sad and hurt and fearful. we hold eachother at night, or i hold her while she sleeps, and we let the hours do their work. we let the universe figure it out for us. passive and unbelieving. its a dull ache. we dont even know what to call each other anymore. the loving nicknames we have created for one another now carry a mournful tone when said. honey is no longer so sweet. baby is now just condescending. buns is cold and tasteless. our real names too strict and formal.

she says im too private, which i am, but that im so proud of it. so simple and determined, to escape into my head, away from her and all the rest of it. what do you do on your computer? what is so important? what do you write? why? i dont do anything, i say. i write about the things i think i know. and then i just stare at the floor and see nothing. meaningless wood and dust. i wonder what to say. i never know what to say. dont you think im sexy? you never even look at me, i never see you. her curves are gorgeous. slow and defined. so beautiful. her bangs make her eyes a mystery. her lips pout out in sex and anger. i look around. the house is a mess. we havent had the time to clean it. shit.

im a fool.