The Big Easy

i never made it down to New Orleans. it was one of the cities on my list of cities too. my list of cities that i want to visit and live in for a bit. the cities i want to suck the culture from, and eat like the people from there and drink like the people from there. i wanted to struggle and work and celebrate like the people from there. i wanted to have a hint of new orleans in me, i wanted to get some of its scent on my neck and clothes. it was a place i longed to be part of.

its always been an important city, a rich city, a city that helped define this nation. im under the impression that modern america, to some extent, begins in New Orleans. its begins in the french quarter where cultures mixed and new languages were formed or on the bank of a swamp where drawls were created telling tales of legend in broken english.

i guess all the history that drew me to it wasnt swept away and drowned in Ms. Katrinas wet wrath. and its still going to be there, in a velvet vest that stinks of whiskey and a ghost in the basement of an old plantation house. its just i realized just how much we would lose if there was no more Big Easy. and just how much the people that lived there have lost already. and how the city is empty save for the disease left from decomposing bodies. and how some people couldnt leave because everything they know and everything they have lived is right there in that city entwined in the fabric of its history and in the music and in the soil and boiling in a pot with some crab and shrimp and cajun seasonings and the surrender to such great loss is like the sun breaking apart before your eyes, or something else thats too impossible to understand.

and i just saw an old man brteak into tears as his home sunk beneath the sea that is now downtown New Orleans and it breaks my heart that it happened and it breaks my heart that there isnt anything i or anyone else can do.

tony had some words about the coverage of this wreckage, which i entirely agree with. i know sometimes my blog leans towards the maudlin at times and the adolecent at others and if i ended it tomorrow not one person would notice or care; but if we woke up one day and Naw'lins wasnt there the whole world would cry and thats simply the truth.

Andy kaufman never once did a Bowie impersonation.

-i had been drinking to much and everything was falling and i couldnt catch anything so i ended up falling too. or at least thats what i think he said, but his lips were puffy and swollen with blood and i think most of his teeth were loose too, so it came out gargled and wet and indecipherable. still, thats what it sounded like he said and it didnt make any sense, because thats not what happened at all.

what happened was he had been kicked in the head by a Mime, and it was an impressive, American Ninja style roundhouse kick too, with a full leg extension and solid face to foot connection. the reason he had gotten kicked was partly my fault, i should at least admit that. well ok, actually it was all my fault.

see, i always picked on this particular mime. he always stood in front of the same statue in Washington Square park and the frustration his face showed when trapped in a glass box or the elation he emoted when pulling himself along an imaginary rope just annoyed the shit out of me. so i would just stand in front of him and ask what it was he was trying to say. -what? i dont understand! what are you saying? i cant hear you! i see youre making faces but i dont understand what your saying! what are you doing? are you supposed to be going down an escalator or something? whats going on? why wont you just talk to me?!?

and so on and so forth. but the thing is, its not as if anyone is particularly fond of mimes so i didnt think i was doing anything out of order. i dont even think mimes like mimes. they even annoy themselves. and they're commonly regarded as losers. the absolute last person you want to interact with. mimes are at the lowest rungs of pedestrian society. im sure this has been documented by sociologis at some point. its fairly obvious that everyone loathes mimes. take this scene for instance:

Scene: High School dance being held in a gymnasium filled with hindreds of teenagers. the only two girls not dancing are one blond and one brunette. the only guys not dancing are one hobo that snuck in from the rain and a mime.

Blond: I get the Hobo!
Brunette: shit!

see, by that brief teleplay you can clearly grasp how despised the mime is by all walks of society. and by all walks of society i mean myself and teenage girls. mimes are an urban nuisance. they are like pigeons accept when you kick at them they dont fly away they just stand there and stare at you with that stupid silent mime look on their face and fake like they are crying or some shit, which makes you want to kick them even more.

so as me and my friend were walking through Washington Square park on the way to the east village to pick up some smack for a sick russian hooker locked in my basement i see the mime standing there and decide to fuck with him a little. the mime though, apparently, had had enough of my shenanigans.

his turned around to me angrily. he didnt say anything per se, but you could tell from the way his face contorted in mock fury and by his sharp, violent gestures that he was pretty fucking pissed off. he ran towards me and jumped up, twisting in the air as his leg spread out into attack mode. surprisingly enough my reactions were pretty good and i ducked. my friend, unfortunately, didnt, and got caught by a stiff mime ankle in the cheek. i guess the mime got pretty excited that he actually connected and gave my friend a few more swift kicks to the face while he was on the ground, not realizing that he was beating down the wrong person. when he realized what he had done, he looked around nervously then fled swift and silently into the park like a doe into the wood. i was left with my friend who was stunned with pain and mumbling how he was drunk how everything was falling and how he was falling too.

not knowing what to do i picked him up and told him what really happened. -nah dude, you arent drunk. your not drunk at all. you just got kicked in the head by a fucking mime! a mime dude!

and then i laughed and laughed. fucking mimes, what a bunch of assholes. i wonder whatever happened to that russian hooker?

Andy Kaufman is alive and has a blog that is dead. Fresh has had enough with the g-unit, and when you arent trying to control your obsession with ms. bees knees, kill your time with some funk 45s.

Blue Pills [aka the time i almost got aids]

i was on the frayed edges of consciousness, lying in a makeshift bed on the floor of mikes bedroom. a blanket for a mattress, a sheet for a blanket, and the floor as a pillow. its was about 1am and the middle of a school week. i was 15 years old.

the phone rang and mike casually answered it. i tried to get comfortable and ignore him but he started getting these jolts of excitement in his tone and then he started hissing in my ear: dude! dude! wake up. its those two girls that came over earlier, they wanna pick us up and go to a motel room!

my sleepy mind scanned to earlier. i remember those two girls. two cute black chicks. one short and thick and one tall and skinny. both had pretty faces and nice, batting eyes. their names were Lanika and Tatiana. and if i remembered correctly, they had come over uninvited and unknown. they had some words with one of the girls that was already at our house and ended up doing something silly like pouring water all over her Honda Civic. come to think of it, we had kicked them out because of that.

now they were calling us at 1am and asking if we wanted to go to a motel room with them.

uh.. yeah. sure.

so they come by a half an hour later in a brand new Lexus and all we breeze to the Econo-lodge. seating arrangments assign me Lanika and we stumble through awkward conversation, trying to figure out who we each other is. we get to the hotel room and there's more meaningless chatter and then some meaningful pauses. eventually they ask if we know where to get some alcohol and thus, the night began.

they give us $50 and the keys to the Lexus. we grab the goods and leave without asking questions. we get in the car and rolling down van ness are quiet and marvel at the city before us. first we hit the club, circling the block blaring Bel Biv Devoe and giving eyes and giving nods looking away shyly and hey whats up yo whats your name and damn girl you are beautiful so fucking beautiful did you know that i swear you really are your gorgeous. and then we stop at a friends house and take a shot of tequila and brag about our fortune and our friend ask who they are and we giggle and say we dont know. then we head to the store where they wont card because they dont care and we cruise back to the hotel beaming under the street lamps glare.

we have sloppy adolescent sex and passout and only the boys came. we wake up at about noon and the girls say we can take the car to school, they have the room for a few days, just bring it back after. Lanika mutters she'll probably be asleep anyway and mike steals a few condoms before he shuts the door.

mike decides to "run some errands" and i get dropped off at school where i just wander the halls bragging to anyone i see, regardless of weather or not they listen, about my cinematic night and how you can still smell it on my clothes. then i go back to mikes after but he isnt there. a few hours pass and i begin to wonder where he is. did that fool go back to the hotel room without me? what the fuck, he better not have! thats just ... well thats just selfish! oh, and if he did go back there, he BEST NOT have brought no other fool! finally, his mother, who i see about as much as a bald eagle, burst into the room.

-mikes been arrested! they found him in a stolen car! what do you know about this?

right. i think i told her i didnt know. thats just a guess.

so it turns out that these two girls were actually named like, Sharon and Tracy or something [i knew there wasnt no Lanika's in Marin] and had just jumped into a running car on the way to school that morning and drove off. it was winter, i guess some fool was warming up his Lexus before he drove to work and got his shit jacked. so Sharon/Tatiana and Tracy/Lanika drive to the city and proceed to mug old ladies for money. get that? they mugged old ladies for money. then they ended up hitting the jackpot when they merked this old Russian for $800. hence the hotel room and alcohol loot.

a week or so passes and we get another phone call, this time at a reasonable hour. its Sharon, calling collect to apologize from the juvenile detention center. mike is chit chatting with her, laughing and still trying to figure out just who she is. then he holds the phone away from his mouth a bit and casually drops this bomb on me: oh dude, Lanika got AIDS. you should go get tested.

awesome.

next day we cut school to head down to the free clinic, mikes there for support, im there to find out if ive got the mothafuckin AIDS. the waiting room to this spot is an entirely different post, so ill just cut to the chase. i got checked for everything and came up clean, mike tested for everything and came out with a prescription of blue pills that would clear his shit up in about a week. we never heard from or saw Lanika/Tracy or Tatiana/Sharon again.

this post is longer than your mamas clit. and thats hella fucking long yo.

me vs. the cockroach

i was coming from the kitchen with a fresh glass of pinot, heading for the couch and the remote control, when i saw it on the upper left hand corner of the bedrooms open doors.

it looked to be about four or five inches long and had huge, spastic wings. its antennas swung heavily from its huge, curious head. it lumbered along the edge of the door frame. it jerked and slipped then caught itself and i gasped like a tween girl. it was easily the biggest fucking cockroach i had ever seen in my life.

HOLY FUCKING OH MY SHIT MY HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK!!!

i stumbled back absolutely strangled with horror but i held my wine steady remembering our priorities. -well, this is it, i thought, -my worst fear is going to come true, and that monstrous... disease of a creature is going to leap across the room and begin eating me alive. well, at least i didnt break the last wine glass in that little stumble back there. at least i wont die being remembered as THAT asshole. i braced myself for the attack [which essentially translates to: i clenched my butt cheeks and whimpered].

and in comes L-bonita to save the day, Time Out mag in hand, rolled up execution style. i leave the room while she goes to work on the roach, too squeamish to witness the carnage surely to ensue. shes got a handle on some big ass roaches though, from what she tells me about growing up in Hawaii, the roaches there are like the size of hot wheel cars and they just kind of mill around and smoke weed and shit. she could be fucking with me about that last bit, but the way she got at that roach on our door im leaning towards trusting her on it.

that motherfucker wasnt gonna get thwacked once and keel over though. hell nah son, this is brooklyn! the roaches aint punks in this spot. they gangsta, you get it? they'll run your wallet you dont watcha back. im serious chump dont smile. my cousin got merked by some roaches in Greenpoint, kids in a wheelchair now, only 17 years old, its a damn shame.

i hear slaps and stomping. i wince at every curse word and groan at every bang. suddenly its quiet and for a second i thought i had lost her to the roach, and that now not only did i have no girlfriend, but a flesh hungry cockroach was in the next room. just as i was about to run to the kitchen and grab a knife and another glass of wine the L-inator comes back into the room, where i am and the monster isnt.

-it crawled into the closet, she said. i hit it ten times she said. ten times. it wouldn't die she said. it wouldn't stop trying to run away and she kept hitting it and she thinks she even stomped it once but it didn't die and finally it crawled into the closet. it crawled. and now its behind our clothes and shoes and boxes and shoes and sweaters and boots and its in our boots and its hatching a million more in our boots.

told you. gangsta.

ive had roaches as a kid. growing up in a top floor flat on oak street in the fillmore. and in a hotel room on o'farrell in the tenderloin. and in another flat on pine and in another one on ellis. roaches were everywhere in san francisco, but they were small and manageable. they would die if you sprayed them with raid and were only a really small squish on the bottom of your shoe.

but the roaches here? they dine on the roaches in san francisco. they use them as ammunition when they're hunting bigger game. it would take like, fifteen san francisco roaches to even fill the belly of a brooklyn roach. they are that much bigger. these are the kind of roaches that you dont call the exterminator to take care of, you call the fuckin police. im just sayin...

i got a big ass cockroach in my closet and its freaking me the fuck out.

The Power Exchange

So i was thinking about the goddess bunny the other day. what the fuck was that all about? from what i understand the creepy lil tap dancing zombie person in the video is a trannie that survived polio as a child, and now she is a cult celebrity in the Los Angeles underground drag scene. typical, thats soooo LA.

[takes a drag from his cigarette. exhales.]

i remember this one time, back in the day, on the kind of night you drank cheap vodka straight from the bottle and let the meth do the rest, in a downtown alley at 3am with two friends, one of which i forget, killing time before heading to a sex club. none of us had ever been but with all the chemicals rushing through our blood, daring us to win, we were bursting for it.

the friend i remember was a madman. the guy was up for anything. he had all the rage and confidence of a scrawny suburban kid loose on the city. his name was james and the fool was a cannon. he was a loser drug dealer with dreams that were never quite as big as his addiction. he wasnt quick witted but he was pretty smart, still sometimes his dull conversation, littered with nervous giggles at all the wrong beats, got annoying. but he was the kinda guy you could ignore and he wouldnt get offended. which made mooching drugs off of him a tolerable task.

the other kid, like i said, i forget. i think it was this dude named jack. another small time e and speed dealer we knew. but i could be wrong. everybody from the suburbs looks the same.

anyway we got to the sex club and it was a minor disappointment. there were only trannies there. but we were already there and had paid to get in so only made sense that we explore things, plus, speed makes you horny, and suddenly validates any methods to achieve orgasm. but we just sort of walked around, young and curious, high on drugs. i think james got a hand job, i walked around and sort of gave everyone strange looks but was too afraid to do anything, and the other guy got in a four way gang band with 3 "ladies" and some androgynous person wearing surgical scrubs. it was a night to remember.

no goddess bunny though. thank the LORD im from san francisco and not LA. but still, i guess that would have kinda been awesome. i mean, how often am i gonna get solicited by a polio surviving trannie? a herpe having trannie maybe. a diabetes maintaining trannie, possibly. a 4 time clap case vaccinating trannie, definitely. but a polio surviving trannie, never.

nah, i would have been scarred. probably never did drugs again, and that would have been the REAL tragedy.

oh snap, i found this on the internet today. its shit your pants funny, so you better eat a big meal before you watch the clip if you want to make the poo worth it! man, i actually read the teleplay to that skit and hurt my stomach laughing. its a fucking goldmine.

and come on yall, Common just wants to brush Kanyes hair without people calling him gay. is that asking too much?

my brother Mike [the black one]

He dresses like a caricature of who he wants to be. His clothes are loud and exaggerated, leather trench coats that scrape the ground and velvet Fedora’s tipped to the side. Absurdly oversized sports jerseys that hang loosely from his wiry frame, wide jeans squeezed onto his waist by a leather belt with two or three extra holes in it. the holes were most likely punched in with a kitchen knife and can more accurately be described as slits, and the excess denim they hold up looks gratuitous and comical, but no one dares laugh.

Underneath this farcical costume is a 6 foot tall specimen of a man. Thin yet muscular at the same time, nobody would contest his strength. He has big, almost pouty lips, a thin nose, and dark brown eyes. He manicures his facial hair in a way that proposes conversation, with complex sideburn shapes and angles jetting from the top of his head and various shades of hair coloring his chin and neck. His high cheek bones suggest the European blood in his veins but his golden complexion and raving afro decide that ultimately he is Black.

The inside of his car looks like the aftermath of a tornado or hurricane. One could easily assume that he lived out of it simply judging by the wardrobe that was strewn about the backseat and trunk. The mess doesn’t end there; every inch of the floor is littered with his legacy. empty beer bottles, various car parts and motor oil cans, the occasional scrap of paper with some random bit of information on it [a girls phone number, directions to a club, an address, a love note], food containers, condom wrappers, hygiene supplies, hair products, books and newspaper articles, a wide array of club flyers and R&B cd’s. it is an accomplishment even climbing into the passenger seat and just forget about sitting in the back. the gas tank is always on E but the engine never stops running and weather or not it is one of his long cruisers of the 70’s era or a small modern compact he is borrowing from one of his girlfriends, the same blizzard of his existence will be the result.

To say he is a big personality would be an understatement, his charm is nothing less than thunderous. He speaks furiously and is exceptionally articulate, so his arguments and conversation can be persuasive and almost overwhelming. When we were in high school, while drinking beer at lunch, laughing and getting drunk, he would be finishing homework or writing a paper. I don’t believe he has ever gotten any grade under a B. Still, academics were never the highest priority for him, his sights lie solely on the opposite gender. And his lust for women is only matched by their lust for him.

When we met in San Francisco both at 14 years old, he balked at the affairs I had with girls outside of our race. His southern upbringing couldn’t grasp my liberal approach towards dating. After more than ten years of living in San Francisco though, he has essentially no discriminations towards any race, size, or creed of the women he dates. seriously, that cat will hump anything. Its safe to say he has adapted pretty easily to his environment, yet all the while, staying the course and preserving his natural character.

He enters each situation with dangerous abandon, and his idea of consequence is subject to how confident he feels at any given time. I’ve witnessed him talk his way from under the barrel of a gun more than once, but I worry that one day it’ll be that same charm to pull the trigger. A literary analogy I used to use for our relationship is that he is Dean Moriarty to my Sal Paradise, but that was never really accurate. I don’t observe and live vicariously through him. He would never have allowed such a passive friend to share his youth with. that would have been too simple.

yeah, thats a crazy motherfucker but i love him, my brother mike.

oh yeah, and radiohead has a new blog but its not as clever as the beesknees. and where in the world has sam been?

Ravers vs The Swat Team

a rave got busted some time over the weekend. that link goes to a video that captured how it went down. they say they heard the helicopters first but couldnt tell if it was real. then the swat team rushed in and they realized the party was over.

watching that video i see a dj was in the middle of a jungle set when the armed team stormed the decks and turned the music off. man, kids love their jungle. when i was in my early 20s i hit jungle parties all the time. the music was still fresh and exciting and seemed to change every week. there was this war time fashion about it. with the parties being fiercely underground and the cute chicks in their tight camo baby tee's and crushing adidas shell toes murdering the floor. and there was a wild fury in the music too. perforating the era in with explosive tunes that would change things for what we thought would be ever.

but this wasnt a jungle party, sorry for that tangent, im kinda stoned. anyway, this was a rave. a bunch of kids that want to dance all night to fast music. i went to a lot of raves too, so i know the score. yeah there are drugs of course. and probably some ill advised sexual contact. someone might OD. someone might lose their wallet. someone might see an old friend. someone might kick the bucket. hey, its a night out. a lot of things can happen.

and yeah yeah yeah, we want to protect the kids and all that crap. sure. im all for kids not dying or getting the clap when there still in their teens. i dont want to see little billy in tears puking blood because he took three hits of ecstasy cut with baby laxative and drank two 40s of colt 45, thats not cool. but billy should be drinking water if hes taking ecstasy anyway. still, no one wants to face young michelle when she realizes that B-Rock, whom she went down on behind a speaker at a rave last weekend, gave her the herp, if for no other reason than because the sore on her lip looks gross. ewww, cover that up ho!

but even though we want to keep these kids out of harms way, they are going to get that young rage out of them some how. weather it be selling their anus for prada bags or writing pornographic game mods or randomly slapping old people in the head, they are gonna get they party on. and unless its with other kids its gonna be with old men or expensive rubber "life partners," so you better pray the kids are doing it with other kids.

and even still, did they really need to bring the swat team in? and did they have to beat that one kid down, even if his incessant glowstick twirling was totally annoying? couldnt they have just called everyones parents? well i guess thats asking a little much, but you know if everyones parents showed up the party would be dead in like, one hundredth of a second. all those middle age folks, some in their suits, some in their pajamas, pushing through the crowd aimlessly asking where Sarah and Tony and Darren and Shaquay is? it would be like suddenly being attacked by a horde of zombies and one of them is your mom. yeah, you'd probably hope if she found you she just ate your brains right there.

but the swat was a little excessive. jeez, why did they decided to bring in a fucking armed and military trained personnel to disassemble a bunch of pilled up teenagers? maybe like, jenna bush was there or something. she probably did some speed and let some dude fingerbang her. well no, she was just about to do that when the fuckin swat team showed up. god damn, shes thinking, i fucking hate my father! preach on sista [you still wanna fingerbang?]

iCon vs. Copywrite

word along the underground hip hop wires is that at some point during scribble jam this rapper named Copywrite got his jaw tapped by another rapper named iCon. sources divulge that Copywrite, known for his braggadocios rhymes that proclaim him mentally, as well as physically, superior to most other rappers, has seen his clocked rocked on numerous occasions, most notably a recent altercation with 5'4" rapper Bow Wow that left him dazed and mumbling on the way to St. Vincent hospital in New York. i guess that iCon knocked this Copywrite cat cold the fuck out on the stage at scribble jam, and that now Copywrites career is pretty much done. even though i was there, i must have missed it. maybe i was taking a piss or smoking a cigarette or something.

************

but i was there in the wood and my eyes were wide open and it was raining from the sky and all the trees were raining too.

it was a different crowd than mine. an entirely different scene. there were 4 couples, three with kids, a single mother with her kid, two other single men and a young lesbian couple who smoked weed that i tried to bond with but the top said she was buddhist so sharply i realized there wouldnt be time. there were 7 dogs. there were four kids, ages 2 to 5 [5 and 1/2].

and it was raining and it was clean and the moist air opened up my smoke stained sinuses. the ground was so wet that no one wanted to walk through it, so everyone stayed in the one room cabin and tried to fine the space in which to enjoy themselves.

[it had been a long friday night. a long bus trip to boston. a long wait at the bar. a long time before they called last call. a long way from home. a long time alone. a long friday night indeed.

and i woke up early to drive with a stranger to maine. she was nice. i made small talk. i was charming. i was polite and opinionated and had a wealth of interesting topics to discuss. the precious beauty of driving across the country. the autobiography of Gabriel Garcia Marquez. the farm she was raised on. horror movies. the weather. eyes.

but when we got to the cabin it was raining and everyone was inside. there was only two familiar faces and thats really only one. there was small nervous talk and i sat down and tried to read a little. then i began to feel rude so i stopped. the 5 year old ask me if i want to play a puzzle and his mother tells him to leave me alone and then she smiles at me apologetically and i feel cursed and lonely and out of place.]

my friend keeps asking if im having a good time i dont look like im having a good time it sucks that its raining i know are you sure youre ok? and i assure her i am and i wipe my sweaty palms on the thick chair cushions and excuse myself for a cigarette. a cigarette turns into a spliff.

i go back inside. my stomach turns over in its self and ask why i hadnt eaten since the morning before. my hands are sweating furiously, i try not to make eye contact and scan the table for my book. the room is buzzing in a thousand different octaves. cards are shuffling and recipes are being confessed. someone starts pouring tequila shots and some people are turning them down and im trying to tell someone in my most scholarly voice about a sad documentary i saw about a hijacking in brazil. the noise rises into a dull riot and i start to get paranoid about my breath and my dirty jeans and the mood is a blur and someone ask me if ive seen their daughter and someone else ask me what i did last night and before i can answer the 4 year old ask me where he can find toads and if i wanted to help him find some toads.

i froze up in front of that kid. paralyzed by all my past and all my future and right then everything was collapsing inside and i didnt know where i was or why i was there or where i was going and i was stuck on the verge of tears and tired and stoned and every cell in my body felt sensitive and all i could think was dont start crying in front of this kid dont you fucking dare start crying in front of this kid. im having a minor breakdown and its probably because of the weed or the lack of sleep. i wipe my palms on the thick chair cushions and take a swig of my beer and the kid leaves before i say anything. i slide off the chair onto the floor and put a pillow on my face and take a nap.

at night i slept in the master bedroom while everyone else pitched tents under the rain. the next day the sun came out and i swam in the river. every other kid had left except the one that wanted to find toads. so i took him down a grassy path and we found one and he took it home in a plastic container with holes punched into the top.

camping is for chumps

The woods are scary. period.

at least for a guy like me, who was raised in the center of the city, surrounded by bricks and asphalt and dodging cars against red lights. the woods are too quiet, too open, too empty. they make an urban cat like me feel vulnerable and naked, like im bait or prey. like im in the perfect situation to be hunted.

see, i need crackheads and traffic and sirens blaring through the sky. i need a broken phone on the corner and some chump asking for change. i need witnesses all around me [well, most of the time, sometimes no witness is a good witness]. i need to know where the shady neighborhood is. i need to know what a sound is when i hear it and i need to know which direction it came from.

i need the internet and my cellphone. i need a place to buy cigarettes 24 hours a day. i need a subway to take my drunken ass home and if i get lost, i need to be in a place where if i run into someone its not totally weird and awkward because there isnt anyone else for miles. i need to have it all right before my eyes, not hidden under a rock or behind a tree.

the city is right there in front of you. see that guy over there? he's crazy, you can tell by the way he mutters scriptures into that banana. and that lady coming this way, shes in a rush and needs to get to work. that guy is a heroin addict. that guy is a bootleg DVD dealer. that store is closed. that street is one way. its all right there, you cant miss it.

but in the woods you never know. its no wonder that movie Blair Witch Project scared the shit out of me. man, you come from the city and you think that kinda shit can happen. shits wild and uncontrolled in the woods. you might get murked by a bear or a mountain lion, or worse, some crazy machete weilding hillbilly rocking bloody overalls and a banjo. for real real, not for play play. the woods dont be messin yo.

yeah well i guess i better knuckle up then cuz imma be all up in the forest this weekend. hope i dont get mauled by a pack of angry deer or nuthin'.

eminem cant handle his drugs and this is creepier than Demi Moores hairy poon and kanye is sick of people calling him gay.

im getting old

who wants a glass of white wine? i got a big ass jug yo.

im not going out tonight. at least i dont think i am. im not really in the mode to do anything. even swimming is slowly being erased from my list. i dont want to do anything. im just not in the space to make an effort. i guess what im saying is that im making a conscious decision to be lazy. fuck it.

what irks me about the choice ive made is that it reminds me that im getting older. and even though ive embraced the fact that im no longer young, that the days of suicide have passed me by, i still cant help but remember that restlessness, that urge to do things, to experience, to be more than just alive. the venom of youth haunts me, and im only 29.

and what reminds me of that venom is the fact that at times, most times, id much rather sit and think and ponder the circumstances than go out and forget what ever it is that happened. id prefer to reflect upon whats going on at the moment, instead of wonder whats going to happen next. its as if ive decided to admire the paintings along lifes long hallway as opposed to race through it to see how fast i could go.

and thats a rather privileged stance to take, dont you think? at least sometimes thats the argument that wakes me. its not as if i made a specific appointment with death once i made it to 28. its not as if there was a threshold i crossed that allowed me breath for another 50 years. who am i to assume i have a long road ahead of me,? there can be a dead end around any bend, fate could be at any corner. i have no idea where my navigation will lead, i just figure ill get where im supposed to be eventually.

which is why im irked when i take the lazy option. its as if im zoning out behind the wheel instead of pushing the gas and going somewhere. ive chosen to not do anything and its like ive giving into the boring routine of excitement. like every thing's typical and i would much rather explore moments of uninterest or profound spaces of silence. as if doing nothing at all quenches me. and this, my friends, is is the real venom; complacency.

and so just as im bored with instances of interest, im am disenchanted with hours of stillness. which is why ive decided that tomorrow im going to accept the invitation to go up to Maine and camp with some friends in the tall quiet woods. we are going to drink wine and barbecue and watch and laugh as the dogs chase rodents. its going to be fun and exciting and the reflection will be eternal. its going to save my inspiration.

and thats what im lacking right now: inspiration.

on another note:

people like to honk a lot in New York. its like another form of communication here. with their horns they tell you the lights green or that you have a really nice ass or to fuck off because they had a terrible day. people honk their love and frustration and anger and celebration. they honk a warning, they honk threat. they honk sometimes just because they want to honk. motherfuckas love to honk in this piece, for real.

Demi Moore has a huge bush

just take a gander at its magnificence.

its an absolutely SPECTACULAR bush. one that helps add character to the sex symbols of its era. bushes were big in the 80's, and take that in every sense of the word.

chicks had mad bush back then. no doubt.

but Demi's, whoa shit! thats a bush to end all bushes! its as if she never trimmed once because she felt her pubic hair was a source of strength! like there was something fucking religious about it. damn! i mean, thats a fine pelt!

what was Bruce thinking? Ashton you dog!

the site i got the pic from, which is a pretty entertaining site by the way, referred to it as looking like "giving birth to a black bear cub."

and even though i dance the line between praise and mockery, i must admit im glad that by the time i started mowing poon the bush era had pretty much ended. they just went out of fashion one day. it happened sometime in the mid 80s. probably as a reaction to Demi Moores ill advised photo shoot the week earlier.

this post is musty.

Ex Girlfriend # 1 Nicole

so yesterday i got an email from a girlfriend i had while living in the great suburb of Fremont, California. i guess you could say she was my first love, or at least she was the first girl that i ever felt would murder me if she left. i was 16 at the time.

she had this chola gangster chick thing about her that i was kinda into at the time. she was a mexican/italian breed. one of those girls that wore too much make up and was amazing in bed. one of those ride or die girlfriends, that would jump in on a fight throwing fist and elbows for her man if he was in danger. she wouldnt stand there and scream for help, she would kick testicles and scratch eyes. she was at your side for good and forever and that loyalty had a profound affect on me at that age. eventually that same feirce loyalty became possesive and i had to break the chains and go do my own thing.

she had a kid right before i got with her, named Malina and fathered by some gangster that was in jail by the time she was born. i pretty much played the role and wasnt really shy from it, but eventually i knew i wouldnt be with nicole forever, so never got too attached. i hope that didnt give Malina any insecurity issues; sometimes i worry and feel bad about it.

towards the end she cheated on me with some kid in louisiana, but by then we were in such separate worlds that there wasnt enough effort in me to get hurt by it. it seemed more she did it just to tell me she did it, not because she innocently gave herself to another man, which would have been far more crushing in my opinion.

so it has been about 5 years since i talked to her. the email was literally out of the blue. she lives in a house deep in the suburbs, has three kids, and the domestic life she always yearned for. its funny how our lives are so different now, from those days having sex in the back of a car at the drive in, those days of fast food and cutting classes and wondering things for the first time. those days of suburban fury, and wanting so bad to be someone else.

i decided to post my reply to her just to do it, because it sort of catches everyone up on what the score is in my life. plus i figured id make a tribute post to her. she was a pretty down chick and my life wouldnt be the same had she not at one point broke my heart.

be well, Nikki

Hi Nicole,

Its really good to hear from you. I was just thinking of you recently.

So you had a 3rd huh? Congrats. But the broken pelvic bone sounds painful, hope you feel ok. it makes me feel good to know that Malina is doing so well and is such a great role model for her younger sisters [all girls!]. and it sounds like she inherited her mothers feet. She sounds great, even though good charlotte kinda sucks.

Im doing pretty good. still working for the same record company. Trying to stay on the cutting edge of music. writing and reading and burning through new york city. I had spinal surgery a few months ago, and it was a horrific experience to say the least. But im basically healed now, or at least im healing, it seems im always healing. I guess we all are in a way.

I started back to school. After a 10 year hiatus I decided it was time. now im in the middle of a 5 year commitment but I don’t think im afraid of it. I plan on getting a liberal arts degree, then getting my masters in something useless like literature or what not.

I still live with my girlfriend. Her and Will do NOT get along. When he came to stay at the palace for a while he ended up getting the boot after a hot one. Such is life I guess, will and I are of a strange ilk that live on another diet than everyone else. She couldn’t take having two of us to handle. One had to go, it was will. Its no worries though, just a story to tell at dinner parties over wine. Shes now visiting her mom in san Francisco, so I have the house to myself. Its like a wide open breath of air and im sleeping on both sides of the bed for a while.

The nights are still long. The mornings still dreadful. Im still the same person, just older. Keep in touch, love to you and yours. And next time put you in the pictures too! even though your daughters are beautiful and can hold up a frame on their own.

-jon

sick day

this morning i called in sick because my back was feeling tight and awkward and i got nervous and suddenly wasnt up for working. actually i emailed, for fear that someone would answer the phone if i called and i would have to sound as well as feel wounded, which i wasnt really up for either.

when i got back out of bed i drank some water and stretched and then went to the smoking room and rolled a spliff. i always feel guilty when i call in sick. even when i am sick. so i checked my email to see if anyone replied. nope.

i do this pilates tape thats designed for back strengthening. i feel like a dumbass for doing the tape and id be a dumbass for not doing it. twelve minutes later the session was done and as i got off my yoga mat i tried to shake off the fear of feeling feminine. i dont have any room for that.

i pop in this DVD of this bad horror flick called "Wrong Turn." its set in the mountains of west virginia and well, you can guess whats gonna happen in a horror movie set in the mountains of west virginia. yep, thats right. murderous hillbillies with a hankering for human flesh! oh, and with barbecue sauce and ranch, cuz you know hillbillies love they ranch. there was a few creepy scenes, and few gruesome deaths [the choked with barb wire in the mouth death was pretty sweet] and the girl and the guy survive in the end. i suppose it could have been worse,

then i checked my email. then i went to the corner gourmet health food market. bought some grub for the belly. came home and smoked another spliff. checked my email. surfed the intraweb.

what a boring post. i can be a real fucking bore sometimes. haha. eat it with ranch bitches.

scribble jism

my chest is heaving weakly, probably from all the smoking ive done in the past few days. ive sucked down a few packs too fast and now each breath is a trial. my body feels like its being squeezed and every inhale is a burden. when i stretch my arms up and yawn it feels a little better. like an early morning in the middle of the night.

im thinking back to the rapper that won the MC battle at scribble jam this weekend. he was young and australian and he called himself Justice. his freestyles were more clever than the rest, so he took home the ten thousand dollar prize. he was really good, that i will not argue, but when his final opponent said the only time i fuck up is when your girlfriends on top i thought he should have won the contest.

and im thinking of how it began to thunderstorm for a couple hours and how everyone pulled their tables back under their booths and then went and stood out under the warm rain.

and im thinking of how the three cats from Chicago that were hustling their hip hop cd's in the booth next to me were mad cool. how they were nice and professional but starving at the same time. how they deserved every dollar they earned and how they watched my booth when i had to bounce to get more beer or take a piss. how they insisted everyone listen to their cd before they bought it. how they wore the tshirts to their own album and repped Black Reign to the fullest.

and im worrying about my health and im worrying about my spine and im worrying about my weight and im worrying about my job. im worrying about my vanity and im worrying about my relationship and im worrying about school and my student loan. im worrying about my fading youth and my lack of spirituality and im worrying about my future and whether or not its coming too fast or not at all.

and im thinking of how empty my house is and how it would feel living alone in new york.

nothing special

the hotel room was small and nothing special. there was no fridge filled with overpriced bags of cashews and tiny, travel sized bottles of Johnny Walker Black, and no menu for room service on the faux mahogany desk. what there was was a bible, two beds, and a tv that didnt get very good reception, probably due to the thunderstorms, of which there were three. we weren't too bothered with where we slept though, we had a rented mustang and places to go. there was a city to be explored and streets to litter and a person i had promised to be.

i dont know if i was ever that person or not. i dont know if i ever cared to be. i tried to be charming, to various degrees of success. i tried to be confident, and think i fooled a few people into believing it. i tried to be a presence, and hope maybe i was. i tried to do my job, and figure either i did or i didnt and thats what it is and will have to be.

there was interaction, people were met. cards were exchanged and dap was given. shakeyface got too drunk and had to take a nap a few times, i held it down with a bottomless bottle of beer until the night quit.

its strange, after sitting behind a booth for a certain amount of hours, you start to feel like a carnie, as if you belong there, and are one of the many organs that keep the festival alive. you start to believe that if you packed up and left, the show would end and the lights would turn up. the magic would leave and you would be left with nothing but a dirty, empty parking lot. it becomes too sad and defeated, the thought of leaving. so the booth stayed open until the carnival closed. thats how we did it in the 'nati.

lots of cats gave me demos and i tried to feign interest and give support. im not trying to knock the hustle. im sure some are good and most are not but i wont pass judgment until i hear them. at least thats what i believe i do or at least thats what i would like them to believe i do.

some performances were good. some were boring. ill describe all that later, if im in the mood.

the only time i was struck by character was when i noticed how many pimp clothing shops there were in downtown Cincinnati. there were at least five in a four block radius. all the clothes displayed in their windows reflected the many shades of the pimp lifestyle. there was the casual, pimp at a barbecue, lime green silk shirt with crazy abstract floral patterns sewn all over it. there was the professional, classy and discreet double breasted pimp suit for that high class player that deals exclusively with traveling business men and doesnt want to come across as too far removed from the upper crust lifestyle. there was the street corner night stalking explosive color pimp outfit, for those with finger waves and doo rags that wanna look fly while smacking a ho. and there were your classic snakeskin vest and crushed velvet slippers pimp uniforms that we see in the movies.

i was tempted to buy a hat and then figured the irony was too transparent and dead. so i just watched the clothes sparkle in the windows and wondered why i hadnt seen the people who were buying these clothes. i wondered where the pimps were and i asked myself what i would do if i saw this side of Cincinnati, the side of vices and secrets; the desperate scene. if i would lurk and observe or if i would resist my inner urges. i thought of how i could get out of the hotel room if the seedy side revealed itself and i wanted to get down. i made a plan to escape and see the city that emerged at night. but after a while i realized it was just paranoia and lust on my brain, and that i was better off drinking beer in my hotel room.

thursday in cincinnati

ive wondered what it is that cincinnati has to offer. ive wondered what it is that every one else has but is theirs. what kind of culture brews here? who are these people? whats seperates them from the rest? what makes this cincinatti, and not any place else?

a lot of cities have their own modus operandi, their own process. it's what makes a city particular, how it defines the location its set in. lots of cities have it.

lets just take it from the musical aspect, because thats what is most greatly reflected in my eyes.

memphis and new orleans have their own history, their own culture, as does seattle and chicago. nebraska and austin have manifested an ideal of their own; even st. louis and kansas city have stories to tell. and why bother with the big guns, SF, LA, and NY have proved their mettle to numerous generations.

but what about here? what is it thats unique about the 'nati?

as far as i can tell, nothing. their is a decent skyline, an art museam, nd a kinkos thats open till at least midnight. im at a hotel in the center of downtown and the streets are largly empty. oh, theyre also are wet from the rain earlier, so when a car does pass by, the wheels make a squishing sound on the asphalt.

squiiiishhhhh.

we went to this art show earlier. their were DJ's, and break dancers [and yes sam, most of them where white], and some of the artist. they were selling alcohol so i had a few glasses of white wine. there were a couple cute girls, most of them were really good dancers, and where getting all up in the cirle on the dance floor in from of the DJ booth.

i think thats why they were so cute. they could cut a fiberglass rug with those moves. damn they were good.

and the art was pretty good too. i think. but i dont think im that good of a judge when it comes to visual art. in any case, there was this video playing that looked as if the filmakers just filmed a wall in a loft and let a bunch of graffiti artist take turns taking down what one did and putting up another. like a rotating canvas without ego. all in high speed, set to psychedelic funk and hip hop. it was clever, to say the least.

but that ended. and we went and got some alcohol and went up to our hotel room. after two glasses of wine i decided to see if that kinkos was still open. and it was. so im here. writing nothing much.

ghetto gowns

so tomorrow i fly to Cincinnati for Scribble Jam and some underground hip hop in the heartland. its this 3 day festival showcasing where a bunch of rap artist most people havent heard of yet get their chance to shine. i told sam to meet me there with a six pack, a joint, and a bottle of pills but he declined saying -why would i want to go see a bunch of white boys breakdance?

fair enough.

its gonna be an affair of backpacks, sports caps and teenage angst and i hafta sit behind a booth, pushing our roster. two of our artist are headlining so ive gotta help set up an autograph signing too. of course meeting people and bullshitting over a beer is the main focus of the trip. im not alone either, shakeyface is coming with. he even said hes gonna set up his studio in the hotel room, maybe the next "Dark Side of the Moon" will be made in the hotel room of a downtown Best Western in the midwest.

L-breezy leaves tomorrow too. she going back to Cali, not to dissimilar from how LL did it back in the 80's. shes going to be soaking up the sun, having her some fun and passing all the cars on the way. with the movement of the wind and the back wheels spin and she pops in the cassette and presses play. lucky girl. i wish i could be there with her, hands on her waist, lips on her stomach, listening to the waves break and crash. that would be awesome.

but alas, i will be in fabulous kinkynasty. i'll be annoyed by the kids, drinking beer after beer, announcing my hellos with gusto. i gotta work up the courage to be delightful company for a weekend and i gotta do it by tomorrow morning. damn, thats a long weekend, thats a lot of courage i gotta work up.

im sure i'll meet some nice and talented people. and Diplo's playing thursday night so that could be something to post about.
not that i gauge how fulfilling an event is on weather or not i post about it, but you know, if its really BAD i'll post about it too. if its just meh, then i wont waste my time transcribing it.

who am i kidding? i probably would regardless, what the hell else am i gonna go on about?

anyway, when i get back L-tanline will still be sipping on margaritas by the pool, so i'll have the house to myself, and you know what that means... peanut butter and bacon sandwiches while watching porno on the "big" screen. [surfer hands]

oh, and sleeping alone. and no one here to get my jokes, or put their head on my chest, or kiss me on the neck and ask me whats the matter? no one here to tell me jokes about R. Kelly, which are really good and always put me in stitches, or to lay there on the bed and stretch their arm out and say -do i look sexy? the whole time knowing she does and just wants me to say it and i always do, because she is, shes hella sexy. but shes not gonna be here. its just gonna be me.

and the skippy. and the bacon. and all the rest of it.

oh yeah, and kids on the 2 train wearing t-shirts that hang below their knees.

lets pray cinci delivers on some hot ghettoness

anon

i got my first anonymous comment yesterday. that means someone read this blog that i didnt know and that what i wrote inspired them to engage me in dialog! yes! it is a new day, friends. i have broken through the bubble and am now part of the great cyber-metropolis! no longer am i unnoticed on the world wide web, now im ignored! you want to see what the anonymous commenter left? check it out:

Rap does not suck! Obviously, u r a tard for thinking that.
I mean come on.

oh the joys of the internet.

but i really wish that commenter would have left a name or something. im not asking for a site or an email address, but just a title from which to refer to them as. Leon from Goodland, Kansas did. [bravo Leon! respect due. i hope to see your words again. they are awesome!] but where the anonymous posters name would be it just said, "What?!?" and i can only assume that is not the name they were christened but part of the wonderfully literate comment they left. who ever though of just using the letter 'u' instead of 'you' and 'r' instead of 'are'? thats so clever! wow!

and its not that i dont understand why one would remain anonymous, especially when they are leaving unfavorable or disagreeable comments. i guess its perfectly natural for some people to cower when they speak their mind. i mean, there are conditions from which some people are raised that dont condone such confrontational behavior, and still there are other conditions in which people were discouraged to protest. and yet still there are others cases which people dont want to argue, or get into any kind of debate, but just to throw their opinion in the air and hope someone hears it.

i understand, i hardly encourage confrontation. i choose to feel no need for it. if its necessary, its necessary, but i really hope its not, and i dont step up to it, but then again, i try not to back down either.

not saying i dont back down, but i try not to.

see, sometimes its hard to voice your stand on things. sometimes it takes a lot of courage. sometimes its all you can do just to say it, let alone let everyone know you said the words, and it takes a certain strength just to feel significant in that sense. i understand this and empathize with the anonymous poster.

so i wont condemn those that post anonymously, just be annoyed by them. they are the pestering voices in your head, the kid on the plane that wont shut up. they have knew fandangled ways of transcribing pronouns and rub it in your face every chance they get. anonymous posters, although not the most welcome crew to the party, are at the party nonetheless.

and im just going to stop writing about anonymous posters. im sure they dont waste this much time on me.

rap music sucks

thats right. i said it. rap sucks. and you know why it sucks? because it fuckin sucks! thats why.

i grew up on rap. been listening to it since day one. the first song i ever remember telling my mom i wanted was "Rappers Delight," by the Sugarhill Gang. it sounds cliche but its the truth. i think i was 2 or 3 years old at the time and remember liking when he said the line "fly in the air with his pantyhose." for some reason that was the funniest shit in the world to me. im sure the catchy bassline and drum loop that didnt change for the entirety of the song, which i think is about 45 minutes long, and encouraged me to do that little bobbing dance that toddlers do helped shape my opinion a little too.

but the fact is, from the giddy up, the get go, the starting gun, ive been listening to rap [or hip hop, whatever]. i mean, ive always listened to pop music too, and my mom had a fair fascination with Stevie Wonder and Pink Floyd, so i got pretty in tune with that side of music as well, but it was hip hop that was in heavy rotation when i started wholly defining my taste in music.

i listened to the low frequency stations, way left on the dial, that gave me my first taste of RUN DMC, Rakim, EPMD, Too Short, and every other seminole hip hop figure from the musics inception. i was bumping cassette tapes made by the thugs in my neighborhood long before NWA hit the scene and "gangster rap" became a genre. i was listening to the shit in 89-90 when it got stale and niggas was rocking loafers and doing coon dances for the masses. i was well versed by the time the renaissance hit in 92-93 and kids these days think thats when hip hop started. shit, i was a dj by the time they heard their first record.

ok, i know i sound CRAZY old right now, with the "kids these days" attitude and what not, but im a little frustrated right now and im gonna use my extensive knowledge and vast experience to pull rank on these bitches. what?

rap music sucks.

at least this year it does. i saw two post today recapping the five best hip hop albums of the year. and you know what, they had a hard time doing it. both had to preface their list with some kind of disclaimer saying "the hip hop records this year sucked but im gonna do this shit anyway" kinda statement. and the list they did come up with had albums that were mediocre at best.

im not even gonna waste my time linking the sites or sharing their list. it aint worth it. besides this isnt about their list being bad. its not about them at all. its about rap music.

and rap music sucks.

im sure it will get better, its just going through a phase. kinda like it did in 89-90. you know, the loafer era. except this time instead of fancy silk shirts and r&b hooks its shiny denim coats and r&b hooks. fools done traded in their high top fades for spinners and their back up dancers in hammer pants for video hoes in thongs. but its still the same. it aint new jack, but its jacked.

shit needs to get good soon though. the yin yang twins smell like shit, common is a boring pretentious nuisance, fuck that pseudo-intellectual emo white boy shit, and dont even get me started on all the crap coming out of new york right now. rap better knuckle up and start dropping bombs, because if it doesnt than... well, i'll be pretty damn annoyed.

fuckin rap music. fuckin sucks.

oh. and if you were thinking, well what the fuck jon! what are you listening to if you think your so cool? huh? what does your big bad brain think is "worthy" of our ears you rap hating prick? well, let me list my 5 of the year [all genres]:

Roisin Murphy - "Ruby Blue"
The Arcade Fire - "Funeral"
Platinum Pied Pipers - "Triple P"
MIA and Diplo - "Piracy Funds Terrorism"
Me & Yomama - "Can I at Least Stick in the Tip"

i would ad links but you know... FUCK RAP!

disco lights

you know, every time i go to 'create a new post' blogger ask me to log in. and every time i log in i click the little "remember me" box. yet it never remembers me. blogger is a fucking asshole.

but thats neither here nor there. i mean, you get what you pay for, right?

anyway, i was perusing my memories on the way back from the pool and the laps and the what not, when a passing headlights strobe like flicker jarred a scene from a few months ago.

me and L-tinkle were going out to meet a close friend of ours for drinks and a show. our friend is the manager of this singer/artist/disco sensation named xavier. it was xaviers show we were going to.

we met up early at this burger joint in the east village. it was me, L-tinkle, our friend the manager, xavier, and xaviers publicist, whos names escapes me now. we had a bite, a few drinks, and took the party up the street, where a friend was working the door for this fag party. the spot was called "The Boys Room," but i think its now closed and has reopened as "The Anus." in any case, we got in for free and it was open bar until midnight; and if you know the score, thats the way forward.

we get our wrist bands and march through the velvet curtains. the place is, predictably, packed with guys. there are two dudes in bikini shorts go-go dancing on the bar. only half the crowd are wearing shirts, and two thirds are wearing cowboy hats. the back wall is covered with flattened gay porno video cassette boxes. one of the tapes had obviously made it into the VCR that fed every television set in the bar. it seemed that naked men were everywhere.

i make my way to the bar and get a couple drinks for me and L-sober. the place was gay, but it wasnt uncomfotable, cruising crowd, if im not taking or receiving i dont belong here gay. it was just a fag party. me and L-sweet checked the temperature and it was cool. the dark corners were still, drinks were in everyones hands, it was fine.

and me having raced the disco scene and her being just a plain hag, felt confident in our safety. we lived in san francisco, we know what it looks like when its messy, and it wasnt messy yet. it was still early. there were still times to be had.

so we swallow a few there and head to the show. the scene is electro clash, with a lot of glam thrown in. when i realized the picture i thought to myself so this is where all the club kids went. there was make up and androgyny, a disco ball and glitter. it was kind of exciting. i think i squealed at one point.

as im ordering more drinks i see El-flirty talking to this guy. i can see from her body language that she doesnt know him. lots of nervous swaying and the over eager head nod. i bring the drinks over and she introduces us. just as i figure, some straight guy desperately clinging on to any female he sees in hopes that he doesnt get into an intriguing conversation with a gay.

i hand her her drink and walk away. i can see she needs the attention of a guy hitting on her and i allow it. i give it to her. she deserves it. who am i to prevent her happiness? im not a jealous guy. i know she wont leave me. not for another guy. not for one night. and if she did it would be in class. not in front of my face. this i know, so i dont worry.

she comes back over and tells me what i assumed. we drink some more and watch xavier and he gives it his all, putting on an excellent show. we leave.

and of course, headed to another gay bar. this one called "The Cock." the gays are clever with their bar names. not like us blacks can contest to anything, im sure somewhere out there is a bar called "Bling Bling." regardless, the cock has a bathroom with absolutely no doors and its facing the dance floor. classic.

so at the bar is a dj and a bunch of queens dancing. the vibe is nice, but getting anxious. the Dj is playing typical new york club house. dark with vocals and build ups that let you know when your supposed to be peaking. a girl is singing over the music. its someone i know. this cute black chick i flirt with when im out sometimes.

she comes up to me with a look in her eye. we get into an intense discussion involving race and mixed relationships. we agree on somethings and concede on others. the conversation gets steadily heated. L-visable has disappeared with her drink. the crowd is sweaty and crammed. we start talking about flings and sex and sex with each other. L-whiff is no where to be found, i search over the room and dont see her anywhere. cute black chick says that if she could she would take me into the bathroom and fuck me right there. then she thinks again and says, well maybe not THAT bathroom.

i take a sip of my drink and explain to her that right then i want nothing more than to fuck her silly or be fucked silly but i think im being really disrespectful to my girlfriend, being that she is there and all, and i should try to find her.

cute black chick agrees. i give her a hug and she lets me feel her ass, then i turn around a L-presto is right there. i give her a hug and grab her ass as well, just to make it even. she ask who i was taking to and i tell her. she ask if i know she wants to fuck me and i tell her i do. then i say, but im not gonna fuck her baby, and kiss her forehead. she says you better not and pouts a little.

and then, just to own the situation, i introduce the two. they shook hands in embarrassment, then i said good bye and lead L-magenta outside and hailed a cab. on the way home she tells me she saw that straight guy she was flirting with at the show while at the cock. she said he was weird and she thinks hes gay and then she snuggled up against me and moaned herself to sleep.

i thought to myself, i swear -that had to be the one of the most homo, while simultaneously being one of the most hetero, nights i've ever had. i smoked my last cigarette and flicked the butt onto the manhattan bridge. i forget what time it was.

"pieces"

i put off writing that press release again. its somewhat overwhelming, the fact that this, what i write, determines to a certain degree how much the album sells. if it doesnt sell alot than my friend, who owns the label the record is coming out on and who put up all the money for making it, might never be able to put out another record again.

i would be stealing his future; kidnapping his dream. that wouldnt be cool dude.

this is a labor of love for him. a few years in the making. the basic concept of the album, or project, as i will refer to it as from here on out, is built upon the work of this jazz cat from chicago. he incorporates african rhythms into his music, making this deep, heavy, drum laden jazz. its spare, with wide breaths of space, but that just makes each note more important. still, sometimes it gets a little tedious, the tracks are ten minute long "pieces."

but thats where my friend Josh made it his own, he got a group of cutting edge producers to remix the aforementioned "pieces." and these guys are on the edge of the "cutting edge." Henrik Schwarz, IG Culture, Osunlade, Charles Webster. these guys names perk up the ear of only the most discerning listener. Schwartz with his psychedelic dub techno, Osulade with his soulful afro house, IG with his stomping broken beat. they all fit within the scope of the tunes this cat is making. this is a collage of electronic music genius molesting the notes of ancient jazz. its not a new concept, but Josh put a new level of depth in it.

thing is, its so deep it takes a while to get absorbed into it. and truth be told it get boring at times. not that i cant make it sound fresh but sometimes i wonder if my genuine enthusiasm comes out when i write. im sure it does, and if thats the case this press release might not have the umph this record needs in order to get heard by all the right listeners [i.e. sell many copies].

i guess no one really cares about this, but its what was on my mind when i sat down and got stoned and took a sip of my drink and opened up safari and went to create new post in my bookmarks. ill go ahead and marinate on this project, and eventually get something decent to the label. they'll consider it satisfactory and ill not hear about it again. then maybe ill post some fine asses. or something.

ring tones

damn i done switched poisons again. im letting the screwdriver twist into my liver. fuck that malt liquor crap, shit'll get you chunky.

and i was pounding them bottles on the daily, not letting one drop touch anything other than my waiting tongue. fuck the dead homies, what have they done for me lately? the empty bottles that began to clutter my office, with the last few piss colored sips pooled at the bottom like an undefeated sign of resilience, started to close in on me though. a constant reminder of my sickness. i had to clean that shit up just to get my head straight. i had to change shit around so that i left less clues too. so i got rid of the bottle factor, and got myself some vodka and orange juice. now it'll just be the pint glasses that pepper the apartment, and if i wash and use the same glass, ill even minimize that factor.

man, niggas be up outside my window hollerin on the celly like they up in the club. shit be gettin on my nerves. and its not because im mad at fools gettin all loud outside the crilla, cuz i know ive been that nigga some nights [waking mufuckas up, gettin embarrassed when they make a big show of closing their windows], but damn yo, if i hear some loud ass cussin outside my spot and i peep out the window all sly tryin to investigate, there better been some drama going down! i dont wanna see no chump arguing with his girlfriend, or worse yet, his MAMA! damn dog, take that shit to crown heights, this park slope nigga!

and while im on the subject, and in the mood to bitch, what the fuck is up with these fools using their cell phone like a walkie talkie? man, imma cut the earlobe off the next punk i see holding their cell phone two inches from their face listening to the garbled nonsense of some other chump coming out the cell phone "speaker." FOOL ITS A CELL PHONE!!! what the fuck you gonna hold the phone inches from your face for and not just put that shit up to your ear? i swear!

really, like anyone else gives a rats fucking bacteria riddled shit about the conversation you are having with rico up in westchester. fool aint talkin bout nuthin anyway. and its not like the sound is clear enough to hear what the fuck hes saying unless you have the shit right up to your ear regardless. did he like 'Must Love Dogs' or did he think it lacked character development? did his grandmother finish baking the banana bread before CSI Miami came on or did she have a stroke? is his girlfriend pregnant or just fat? i dont know, i couldnt tell. it wasnt clear enough. well maybe next time you should PUT THE FUCKIN PHONE NEXT TO YOUR EAR and i wont have to worry about it! fucking swamp ass funny smelling crackhead lips havin...

dude. gay country. gay. country! finally the two worlds meet! i mean, there are a lot of country dudes i think might be full on flaming, but i can never tell because wearing ascots, tight jeans, and shits without sleeves may be gay, but its also pretty county. this guy though, i have no doubt in my mind that he tongue tickles testicles and FUCKIN LOVES IT. ive got a lot of gay friends, and i dont think one of them has ever admitted to liking country music. but this guy, hes like billy ray cyrus and kevin spacey all wrapped in one scrumdiddliumptios pair of wranglers. and check out how he has a song called 'Lazy Mexican." haha. faggot.

and as a bonus [both of these links courtesy the drum clinic] gay rap parodies! [some hilarity involved]

anyway, its hot. mad hot. crazy hot. stupid hot. caliente. muy caliente. loco caliente even. fools got sweat on their toes, on their eyelids, on their knees. for real, i aint lyin. i think im gonna go slip into my all mesh outfit, eat a bowl of chocolate ice cream and watch Room Raiders. that or roll a spliff and have another drink.

green light

i got to work on time today. well, if 20 minutes late is on time. i hit the cubicle sack and open up my email while setting my coffee down and shoving my bag under the desk. i do it all in one efficient motion and dont even reflect on the routine until later tonight when i got home and started typing that second sentence. i quickly scan the subject headings. spam spam spam party invite spam reply reply spam reply spam party invite spam spam and i dont bother scrolling down to see what else because i am sure its nothing special.

i check my site meter looking for real black love because zaida told me it would be there but i dont see it. i notice that someone is spelunking my archives. i wonder if they'll find what they're looking for and take a sip of my coffee. three more emails drop in, the phone rings and the caller ID says its from chicago. i remember i have to write a release sheet for this album coming out overseas. an IM pops up on my desktop. i ignore it and pick up the phone and sigh and realize the day has begin.

i forgot to tell you something about that party saturday night. at one point doug, the other Dj i played with, has a heavy thumping dancehall vibe going. the crowd, who wasnt shy but took their time letting the liquor warm their veins, started shuffling their feet on the makeshift dancefloor that had been cleared out for their ease. after a while disco squawks were in the air and a loose soul clap was going. the crowd parted to form a human hallway and the walls began to dance down it. all faces beamed in the release. big girls shimmied, queens sashayed, sexy chicks did club tricks and everybody smiled and let it go. the entire room throbbed beneath the sweltering glare of the big red lights that hovered in the corners. i looked at doug and he looked at me and i smiled and turned to L-getty and clinked wine glasses. i forgot to tell you it was a good party.

i took care of the tedious task today, avoiding most conversation and keeping email correspondence to an economic two or three sentences per. i flirt with a girl over chat. i mail some shit out. i hold off on writing the release sheet because im nervous. im nervous it wont be good. that it will make this record fail. and that because of this i'll lose my taste for writing. i left half an hour early and took care of some school shit. i got a 40 oz on the way home.

i get home and i roll a spliff and crack my brew. the internet gets boring and im not in the mood for tv. i decide to post about the soul train line at saturdays party but get caught up watching thick latin chicks act slutty for 30 seconds at a time. i peruse the wires to distract my libido and maybe get some inspiration but nothing seems as interesting as a brazilian wax buy the pool. i light a cigarette and take a huge swig of my brew and think to myself fuck it, imma whoop that trick.

end bit.

arty party

saturday i grab my records and head to a party somewhere in brooklyn. i take her with me because i can feel more at ease while uncomfortable with her there than i can coming home to her if she wasnt.

its a party just to have a party is what were told when we arrive. its at a large loft ive never been to thrown by a guy i dont know. im doing a favor for a friend. filling in with a buddy. i set my records down and ask where the alcohol is. she stays in tow but is playing low pro. like things are easier if i dont even know shes there.

the place is essentially one large canvas. paintings and poetry etched straight into the walls. different color lights bathe the hardwood floor. musical instruments line the halls and hang from the ceiling. soundproof curtains cover the windows and a wall in front of one of the bedrooms is dedicated to public graffiti. there was no order to anything and it felt very natural and comforting, this casual lack of regard.

a movie played that had something to do with young boys at a private school beating another young boy until he bled and there was some not so subtle homoerotic subtext and a guy sharpening pencils and then it ended. the band played a 20 minute set of original music that sounded to be stoned goth funk and i thought maybe i was seeing something special but couldnt tell because sometimes i just cant tell these days. they played another movie which her and i ducked out during. and we smoked cigarettes and held hands shyly.

i played some funk and they said i really added an element to the party then gave me some money i wasnt expecting. i told him i liked his band and he gave me a cd single. she left before i did and when i got home she was on the couch asleep. i kissed her forehead and filled another glass with wine. she stirred and moaned and turned to her side and it was sunday morning at 4am.