1.19.2003

Yesterday I saw the world in blues and greens.


(Raymond Pettibon)

I’m listening to a Morrissey mix CD and smoking a spliff from the pothead 19 yr old I’ve been fucking since Friday. He’s Californian, in NY by way of SUNY Purchase. He drove down here for a party in his new Lincoln jeep. He got it from his stepfather, who’s one of the biggest weed guys on the west coast. This kid gets bricks of what he refers to as “mad fresh trees” wrapped up in aluminum and sent from Humboldt County via private jet and messenger. Yesterday, we smoked his purple threaded stuff, had sex and ordered in. Ladies, I’m relieved for my sake to report that this one’s a lot of fun—he politely talks his head off, non-stop, even when he’s got his dick up my ass. Believe me, it’s no thing—I think it’s cute the way he prattles on about the cold weather and his friends and the schools he’s gone to and a waterfall that he used to get high at in California. A lot about California, actually, about how much he misses LA, where he grew up. He was driving around the downtown and playing with the big boys at 14. His main people are out there. An important turning point was when he and his mom lost their house in the earthquake—the walls just fell in around them. It’s a miracle they weren’t killed. It was completely absurd at the same time that it was horrific: the grandfather clock in the living room shot across the floor and out their kitchen window, where it tumbled head first into the pool. “You can’t underestimate nature,” quothe the pothead, as he bit lustily into a cholesterol challenge bacon egg sandwich from Garden Grill (extra bacon, extra butter). He and his mom lived in their car for a while. That was when he vowed to make something out of himself—for her sake, if for no one else’s. Girl, give me a mama’s boy any day of the week. They’re so considerate, immediately offering to get you a glass of water and cigarettes after they fuck you down to a quivering pulp. He’s a dancer, so you know he looks good. By late yesterday afternoon, I’d smoked so much of his shit that I was paranoid. I was sweating it out over Solitaire on his bb. The kid noticed how pale I was and gave me the keys to the jeep so I could get some fresh air. Is he a keeper or what? The only thing he asked was for me not to touch the settings on his system. I clicked the key chain and “turned” on the ignition from a block away. I hopped in, closed the door with a satisfying click and leaned back to survey the scene for a sec in my Ray Bans. The dash was so tight it was practically empty, yet even without any dials the leather seat still managed to retain the vibe of a cockpit. I thought, maybe if I drop hints I’ll get him to buy me some metal. I’ve decided that I need some new bling. Iced-out platinum, perfect for the gray woolen days of winter. I’ve got the cash, but you ladies know that jewelry is the kind of thing that’s infinitely better when a well-endowed hunk buys it for you. So I decided to come up with a plan for dropping the suggestions—a blue print for hint handling that had to do with Kiehl’s thick Rose moisturizing lotion and a hand job. (Yes, I did just say ‘thick rose’). I turned up the volume and took off. It was a blindingly bright day but inside the jeep it was nice and dark, with perfect climate control so I could cruise in just my suit jacket, with my shirt unbuttoned around the neck and a Gauloise Blonde in my hand. I rolled up to lights and gunned it like a prince. This is Brooklyn, baby. Fags gets paid over here. I kept my fucktoy’s radio at 105.1 and checked in my mirrors as hooded men huddled in front of bodegas, smoking and making deals. Children in puffy jackets crossed intersections holding their parents hands. Other smaller ones sat still in bright triple goose down bundles, pushed around by teenagers in used, scratched-up prams. The sky was a perfect blue dome that was pulled upwards to a single point, like a baroque cathedral or a billowing circus tent.

I really like fucking this boy. For starts he’s always half-hard to begin with. I like watching him walk around the apartment in just his striped tube socks. He can’t sit still; he’s always turning a pirouette or stretching out his hamstring or something. At first I thought it was the whole dancer thing but now I think maybe it’s because he’s nervous. When we’re making out he often takes cigarette breaks. Things will really start to get going and he’ll tell me, “stop, hold-on” while he jumps up to have a smoke. I keep my hand around my cock while he hunches over the ashtray. I’m hypnotized by the muscles on his back—they’re like moving white marble in the half-light. I tell myself that what I’m looking at, what I’m beholden to is nothing less than the key shot—the genesis-- for a thousand movies that haven’t yet been made.

On his right shoulder is a blue-green tattoo of a pair of hands clasped in prayer. On his left shoulder are the same hands holding a gun.

When we do finally finish he retires to the kitchen table in my smoking jacket. He takes hits off the one-hitter and draws maps. He starts by sketching the outline of a continent on a blank piece of paper. Then he sets about filling in the countries, capitals, disputed borders and principalities. He does everything from Africa to India to Nassau County. A quick look at them and they seem pretty accurate to me. A typical map occupies him for about ten minutes, more or less. It’s the activity he’s capable of sustaining longest, which is perhaps why he does it over and over…

I’ve got to go but first I want to say something. TRUE, you should know that I think Sterling is pissed off for real this time. She won’t even talk to me. I bumped into Young & Hungry at Café Pick Me-Up and he said she wasn’t exactly pleased about her past getting the spotlight treatment on this blog. As a side note, Y&H treated me like he didn’t want to touch me with a ten-foot pole. Guilt by association—a ridiculous thing, but there you have it. Ridiculous sentiments tend to pop up when people are deeply hurt. It was a right dastardly thing to do, T, but of course you know that. She didn’t return my calls and I didn’t see her until Friday, when I spotted her at Subtonic. She was on the phone off in the corner, beige Kangol pulled over her left eye. That’s the hat she spilled the lime green paint on in the house on Long Island, unintentionally turning it into a piece of modern art. She smiled at something the person on the phone said, and the bar light caught her gold cap and made it sparkle. Despite everything she’s more a star than ever. She felt me looking and looked up—our eyes locked. She snapped her phone shut and coolly looked away. I received a sudden blast of misery broadcast directly from her brain into mine. When I recovered I tried to make my way over to her but she beat me out the door and disappeared onto the ice-covered streets.

Someone called me later on, telling me she was at a house party in Brooklyn. I took a car to Flatbush Ave, and found her in the back room of a railroad apartment, grinding up against a muscle bound black girl with long legs and short orange braids. Both of them had their shirts off—their bra straps had slipped down their glistening shoulders. A dark, dubbed out mix of Jay-Z and Beyonce’s “Bonnie and Clyde” played and ostensibly they were dancing but actually they were merely stumbling around while they shoved their hands down each other’s pants. I found myself frozen under the archway—the red gel in the spinning party light made the place feel like it was moving—as though we’d come off the cinderblock foundation and were hurtling forward in space. A Puerto Rican guy put a plastic cup of beer in my hand and slapped me on the shoulder so that half of it was immediately spilled on my shoes. Good thing I hadn’t worn the Ballys. I noticed that most of the men in the swirling room were staring intently at Sterling and the girl—some of them were even openly rubbing their crotches. I decided to find something stronger than the beer so I nonchalantly drifted through the rest of the place. People were getting busy in every corner. I ended up doing a few bumps out on the fire escape. It was out there that I met the pothead, who was dangling upside down off one of the ladder rungs. He pulled himself up when he saw my French cigarettes and we’ve been together every hour since.

The last time I saw Sterling she was having her picture taken while getting her titties sucked by two plane Jane white girls. Knowing Sterling’s luck they were probably NYU sorority chicks with even drunker boyfriends somewhere nearby. Sterling, of course, doesn’t drink. She was doing all of this stone cold sober. I tilted my head and stared at her face that was frozen either in ecstasy or pain—I couldn’t tell which. Thankfully, the red light was off. The photographer (a bald and pierced dyke) had turned on an Ikea desk lamp, lending an officious air to the proceedings. I left shortly after.

Perhaps it’s for the best that I haven’t spoke to her. I really don’t know what to say. Sterling posted this thing once where she went on about my parents, but this was different, because you knew she’d be upset by it whereas I could give a shit. You and her used to be best friends. If this is all because of what happened between you and I, then really, I just don’t understand…

Anyway, on a more cheering note, I saw Glenn Reynolds on the Media Matters bit about blogging. Girl, can I get a wit-ness? PBS invited some other, boring blog people I’d never heard of before, but their only point was to prove that the Blogfather, Sir Instapundit, was in a class by himself. He was amazing. The producers made this set where the blogger sat by him or her self upon a small raised stage with a blacked-out silhouette of a table and an open laptop. There was a light pointed from the floor upon the blogger’s face and projections of text flashing “randomly” upon a screen in the background. I guess this was meant to convey the rush of high speed, rapid-fire under-the-radar communication. The soundtrack was some creepy vocoder mumbling that reminded me of the tune from A Nightmare on Elm Street, sung just slightly off pitch by girls jumping rope in slow motion: “One, two, Freddie’s coming for you, Three, Four, better lock your door, Five, Six, get your crucifix…” All this cheap “Tom Foolery” (as my father would say) worked against the other bloggers. They looked like green room dorks from high school—the kind who wore high waters and never got laid. But not Glenn Reynolds. I swear, as soon as he come on I was riveted, simply riveted to the point where I couldn’t have gotten up from the futon if I tried. He spoke in a clear, even monotone—his eyes were wide and didn’t seem to blink. The lights and flashing text made me think of Darth Vader when he’s sitting in his little black egg in The Empire Strikes Back. It was that whole sexy-kinda-evil vibe. I felt like he could move things with his mind. He was the intergalactic dark hero rising up from the smoke and ash of the conflict between the so-called Left and the so-called Right. He was here to lead us to another way—a philosophical, thought-provoking, question-asking way. A way of deliberation but not cowardice. A way of facts and figures and reason. For a moment, while I was watching, Glenn Reynolds became the promise of the Internet itself, the information superhighway, where anybody with a PC and a connection could begin the task of collecting information.

The gathering of knowledge: episteme.

One of the fucking best blog product names, “Instapundit”.



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