la isla bonita

now i know how anti and raymi felt when they ran away from the world and battered the hatches of their hotel room and refused to let anything but glorious hot tub water touch their rock star skin. the three of us are here in puerto rico total fuckin whirlwind style at the el san juan hootchie mama hotel (room 311--call, send flowers) courtesy of fitz and fitz's daddy and novartis one of the biggest asshole pharmaceuticals in the world and i'm so cool because even though they're footing the bill and i have nothing to do with their cancer conference and i'm riding high on their free xanax i can't even be fucked to spell their name. norvatus, norvartis--yourfarttits? whatev party people every day is like labor day. i'm waiting on a quarter pound, sterling is shriveled to a prune and fitz almost got arrested for opening a bottle of stoli on the plane.

hope all's good in the hood ate some mofongo last night and compounded with the three thousand coco locos that i drank i'm about to shit my pants.

staring into the void is good but being pretty vacant is better. big shout to stacey g.

jamie you were in my dream.

Tiger, tiger, burning bright,
In the forest of the night,
Can you hand me your lighter?



i have a thing for christopher walken

Sometimes I catch something shining in the corner of my eye, but when I turn to look it's gone.

I wonder

Does Death walk with me?

Am I ready to die?

Is my final instant lounging lasciviously around the corner in a badly cut suit?

Is it on a packed bus or subway car, waiting to smear me across a tunnel?

It'd be fresh if my guts patterned out like bubble letters.

Still, I'd rather have 6 rounds pumped into my chest, making me do a jittery hot foot dance.

Some Parkinson's shaking shit without the Parkinson's.

My big fear is that in my last moments I'll suddenly take myself too seriously.

It would be a blessing to look a little retarded--not too retarded, though.

Just enough for me to crack a smile through the pain.

A twisted, shit-eating grin.



Now you're all gone you've got your makeup on and you're not coming back...

broken social scene

I started the weekend early, as is my custom. Friday was Sterling’s birthday, after all. By the end of our sushi lunch I’d already knocked back enough saki to be completely over the top, sweating bullets and slurring words. I demanded that Sterling get in a cab and come with me to Sax. We walked through the freezing, wood-paneled rooms until we got to the Cartier dealer in the back. A bald fag and two model types looked down their noses as we sank into the thick carpeting. It was dark, but the glass display cases were lit up nice and bright.

“Which one do you want?” I asked Sterling. She laughed.

“OK, let’s take a look,” she peered down at the watches, humoring me.

“It’s so much different than in a magazine,” she said. “You can see the way the numbers are raised on the face.”

She sauntered over to the next display, observing the watches as if she were in a museum instead of a store.

“Look at the red jewels in the dials—how classy is that? It's all about old school Hollywood.”

“Yeah but those are all steel,” I said, pulling on her arm.

“Over here you’ve got your white gold and platinum. Take a look at these. Check out the new tanks.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sterling said, exchanging glances with the security guard. His neck was the size of her waist.

“Look, TRUE, you’ve proven your point.”

“What? I haven’t proven anything…it’s your birthday.”

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“What’s that have to do with anything?” I asked, feeling around in my pocket for my wad of cash. Of course it wasn’t going to be enough. The big bills were folded over the outside. It really looked like something—something impressive and bad ass--but inside it was filled with fives and ones.

I’m so fucking sick of fives and ones…



iMike

The Rhythm, The Rebel

Happy Birthday Sterling!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mad shout to the first of my peoples, my O.C.G. (Original Crazy Girl) from back in the day. You're still the hardest, smartest ho on the block--I can't wait to give you your birthday bitch-slaps.

(it cannot express...words i manifest)

All my people in the place with style and grace...pop the sparkling lemonade and put on your deepest soul mix...

wha wha

RESPECT DUE

i wanna use your brain, i wanna go insane

shabba

afraid of americans--david bowie and sonic youth @ d.b.'s 50th b-day party

Vic Chesnutt is a drunken brother, a rock n’ roll savior who discovered the true message of his music after he wrapped his car around a tree on an easter morning long ago in Athens, Georgia, and consequently ended up in a wheelchair, paralyzed for life. That’s not to say that his songs are filled with any of that victim’s silver lining shit. His stuff’s about action/reaction—it’s about Russian roulette and being covered with the tar of your own history on the magic day that the answers to all your wishes float down from the sky like brilliant white feathers.

It’s about discovering your favorite poet in the footnotes of a stolen anthology.

It’s about stringing your guitar with nylon strings because you don’t have enough sensation left in your hand to strum regular ones and realizing that the resulting sound is the one you were always searching for...

There are means and ways for everything under the sun, party people. You can get high if you want to. You can hide if you want to…no one’s stopping you.

I’ve got plenty of fake names if you want one.

Always remember that it’s not what you wish for-- it’s whether or not you still bother to wish at all.

RABBIT BOX

By Vic Chesnutt—from the album, Little


While I was still in elementary school I discovered Daddy's tools
And amassed a small pile of scrap lumber
And I built a rabbit box;
Set it facing north but caught a possum and a kitten both of which were a bitch to set free
Cause I thought they were going to bite me
But we all three escaped safely
Once I took my single shotgun put on some camouflage
Hid in the neighbor's pasture by the cow pond
Finally after a long time a bunch of doves flew by and landed in a huddle on the power line
So I aimed with an eagle eye and fired but it was two pigeons that fell like bean bags into the
weeds well they sure looked like doves to me.

Fever Anthem Rhyme

(…that November, is a time which I must put out of my mind…)




THE PHARMACY IS FULL OF CLEAN GLASS AND POPPERS
HIS COCK TASTES LIKE SALT WATER

LYING SANDS
CURSED VILLAS
WHERE DO I COME TO LIGHT?

(PLATINUM CINEMATIC HEIGHTS)

3 FEET HIGH AND RISIN
A SHADOWY BLUR ON YOUR HORIZON
I GET BOSSY LIKE STADIUM ROCK
QUICK AND CRUNCHY; POP AND LOCK
I WANT THE POWER AND THE GLORY
NO MORE BEING IN BANDS THAT ARE JUST IMAGINARY
LIKE SOPHISTIFUCK
OR THAT GUY IN AMSTERDAM WITH THE DUCK
HARDCORE ISOLATED HEROES, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
CAN YOU SEE ME RUNNING ACROSS YOUR YARD IN BORROWED CLOTHES?
BLOOD STREAMING OUT OF MY UNPIERCED NOSE?
I’M HERE TO DO BIZ-NESS.
I DON’T CARE HOW RESPECTABLE MY SHIT IS.
I’LL MAKE IT FOR AN AUDIENCE OF ONE
HE’LL BE A FORTUNATE SON
TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN
OR ELSE GRAB THE MIC AND RAP FOR REAL

(do you think you can hold on when the beat is so strong?)

I’LL SPARK A JAM CRACKER IN THE BOTTLENECK
TAKE YOU TO A POCKET SIZE NATION
INTRODUCE YOU TO THE TENNIS SWEATER SET
WHO SPEAK IN A VOCAB YOU HAVEN’T HEARD YET

UNTIL YOU REALIZE YOU’RE ALL A PART OF THE CONFABULATION
OF STARS AND FOXY BAR WHORES AND—
(TRICK, PLEASE!)
ADDRESS ME BY MY CORRECT APPELLATION
TRUEBOY, THE T STANDS FOR DIGITIZED
I FLOW STATION TO STATION
WITH A WORD TO THE WISE
A REGISTERED MEMBER OF THE SILENT POET NATION
I WISH I WASN’T IN OUR SHOES
WE LOOK WEST FOR THE LANGUAGE WE USE
DOGGIE THIS, DOGGIE THAT, CALIFORNIA INNOVATION
LIKE THE CHILI PEPPERS
AND A ONE HITTER STUFFED WITH THE CHRONIC
ALL MY RHYMES ARE ELECTRONIC
SENT OUT IN MORSE CODE
DOWN THE OPEN VALLEY ROAD
TO A DRUGGED COWBOY ON A PINTO HORSE
WHO HAS AN OFFICE BACK ON PARK AVENUE, OF COURSE

GO AHEAD, I’M LISTENIN
TELL ME WHAT A BITCH I’VE BEEN
YOU DON’T LIKE THE WAY I TALK
I MOVE WITH THAT FUNNY HITCH IN MY WALK
LIKE I MIGHT REACH FOR A GUN
JUAN WAYNE, A FAKE NAME
I’M A CHARACTER OUT OF BESTSELLER
THAT NEVER CAME
BUT WE’RE STILL WAITING FOR
ALL YOU HOLLYWOOD MOVIE WHORES
WHO TURNED INTO BRITTLE BONE BORES
RIGHT THERE ON THE CAPITOL FLOOR
STILL DREAMING OF SILVERY SHORES
AND TALL SLIDING GLASS DOORS
OUTSIDE, THE AIR IS ELECTRIFIED
EVERY SQUARE INCH OF IT ALIVE
WITH UNSPOKEN URGES
LIGHTING UP THE SPACE BETWEEN BILLY BLUE AND BOBBY BLOOM
WHO WILL NOT FUCK NOW BUT WILL FUCK SOON
AS SOON AS THE AUDIENCE FINISHES ITS DINNER AND PURGES

(and you give yourself away and you give yourself away)

I’M THE NEW WAVE
SCENEMAKER
BIG MONEY
RUMPSHAKER
WHEN I’M NIGHTCLUBBING, BRIGHT WHITE CLUBBING
OH ISN’T IT WILD?
HONEYCHILD?
WE BEAT THE POWER PRIMETIME TEAM
LEGENDS IN OUR D&G JEANS…

(AND TO THINK
YOU ONLY GAVE INTO ME ON A HUNCH
LISTEN:
I DON’T NEED NO COOK, GIRL
I NEED LUNCH)

Night falls like a grand piano.

(dude!) It was fucking awesome: yesteday, I got to direct traffic for thirty minutes on 75th and Madison, right outside the Whitney. Me—all red and shit behind my Persols. Whatever. I wielded some pent-up authority, it was cool. Except for the assholes who zipped past when my back was turned, nearly clipping my butt cheeks with their lame-ass Saturns and Intrepids. Hello? There’s a blackout; why the fuck you need to be in such a rush? What the hell--are you some kind of out of towner pussy hitting the panic button?

If I was a cop I would have shot out their tires. Luckily there were only a few of them.

The hot air from the busses sucked, too. Literally. It snuffed the air from your lungs like when you pull too hard on a cigarette.

I made a graceful exit as soon as I caught blue flashers out of the corner of my eye, preferring not to be introduced to my relief. I watched from down the block as the cops lit red flares on the intersection and started waving the cars around with exaggerated, hi-speed movements. Needless to say, my technique had been much more chill.

I was fascinated by the red flares. I stared at them, slackjawed, until they burnt images on my eyelids. There was still light when they were lit, but it was fading fast, as the relentless sour sting of the summer sun gave way to the cooling sweetness of night. Made me think of eating blackberries out in the country. NYC had a real night--without streetlights, without faces. The white glow of t-shirts and laminated menu cards gradually dimmed, like the fiery centers of the individual pieces in a pile of coal.

Port Authority was like a rock concert, hot and smelly. The super-sized presence of Times Square loomed darkly over our heads like a nightmare. The crooked clock in front of the Hilton was frozen at 4:13. People drank Bud tallboys in the middle of the street.

My phone didn’t work. There was that specific kick I get when no one I know has any idea where I am. I tried to avoid the crowds. I walked around quiet, respectful.

I hung out with some Indian intellectuals in Bryant Park, I talked politics with a pastey Brit wearing a Mickey Mantle T-shirt. Someone gave me half an egg sandwich. It was warm and soggy. I headed uptown where the bus floated like a ghost ship down avenues yawning with darkness. It would have been fresh if someone had put up some funhouse mirrors along the side of the road. Here and there were the flares again, transfixing me. We passed bodegas that flickered with
candlelight and guys in doorags waiting in a long line that stretched down the sidewalk. Some of the Spanish restaurants started cooking outside by spotlight intensity of a truck’s highbeams.

Man, I want a truck.

A truck is definitely on the list of the things I want in this world.

A second turntable is another.

(give me, Leonard Cohen afterworld)

So is a leather bra.

(I know a guy in Hungary who will make me one for, like, ten bucks.)

I want to be polite, like I was last night in the face of overwhelming politeness from others.

Everything was so peaceful last night.

(shhhhhhhhhhh)

I want the floating green lights to always be there when I close my eyes.

Shit, baby. This city gives me mad hope.



i'm honored, sweetheart.

i'm honored TWO TIME.

That early morning moment on the subway platform when the bruises start showing up under the flourescents.

Blue flowers.

i wear my sunglasses at night
i wear my sunglasses at night
i wear my sunglasses at night
so i can so ican



like every other language hip-hop was the most fun when it was new, and we were still learning it.

you must learn!

the thing about little kids and is that they get the whole thing right away. it all seems very natural for them to be stomping and kicking in time to the beat. bling looks good on them too.


we're just babies, we're just babies, man...

confusion=sex

wup.

Subversion is on some straight-up heavy-duty, party people.

i found the site on raymi’s comments the other day when I was strolling around, spaced-out and vaguely anxious from lack of weed.

Graham Stacey or Stacey Graham? Sunburned cock or limpn’lazy girly locks?

My momma told me to never trust anyone with two first names. Werd mama, werd.

Subversion is the dirty version private blog of a known, public blogger. I don’t know which one and I don’t really care. Well, that’s a lie—I was curious enough to google the name on the email addy left on the comment, which brought up a poopdex link which is how I found the Stacey Graham site. Sorta similar stylo...Note it is on the same domain as Subversion.

But whatever. I like masks. I honor them. If one of you knows who it really is, then email me on it, but don’t announce it here.

I read the site from beginning to end and every single word rang true, he/she/it is a red-eyed angel with crooked wings and the sky is a bell; I want to blast a bullet through the top, just like in that U2 song. I thought, could it be? My new partner? My angle, my shill, my fellow counterfeiter cranking out hundred dollar bills?

My back is in knots too, man.

I’ve got the panic pure and hardly anything good left.

Whatev. It’s Friday. Fuck me gently with a chainsaw and smoke if you got em.

the midas touch?

yo. this gray and balmy afternoon-after-a-serious-drunk has got me amped-up, flashin two middle fingers to the world i'm fucking cranked-up, relishing the bitter aftertaste of the happy pill i just swallowed and counting the minutes on my tag heur.

1-2-3-4...the news of the day just floats off the stands.

it's like the beginning of ready to die when biggie's says, i've got big plans, nigga...BIG plans...

i'm on some batman and robin, bang, bing POW!

If shit is gonna happen it better happen NOW...

(Run a carbon black test on my jaw, and you will find its all been said before.)

Like everyone else I went to school and studied the usual things. Like everyone else, I tried to think of something to do after graduation. Then I had a dream in which I finally saw the light. There was a voice speaking strongly. "You are a princess," it said, "you are not meant to work, not now, not ever."


another jules (not the tranny i was fucking in england)

I’m just one of those people who likes to get high.

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say hello to the nite

cry little sister

Turn up your speakers and don't ever let them tell you that i don't love you.

Billy Joel

It’s just like that song, “There’s something going on here and you don’t know what it is,” except I couldn’t be fucked to find out. I was coming down and it was all I could do to concentrate so that I didn’t choke on the wad of melted cheese in my French Onion Soup.

I went outside for a smoke and ended up walking a couple of blocks. On ninth avenue the queens scratched their crotches as white paneled, refrigerated meat trucks backed slowly into garages lit insanely bright with fluorescent light. Broad shouldered men in long white jackets stood off to the side, smoking and sweating as they waited to get splattered with blood. Billy Joel played on a transistor radio. Everything seemed obvious and scripted. Objects had a movie glow. Maybe it’s because so many movies had been filmed there. Undersides were revealed. Even the graffiti on the sides of buildings was illuminated.

There was a relentless ache in my gut and ancient indie rock melodies in my head. I stepped gingerly over puddles filled with the rainbow swirls of animal and car grease. I passed the chattering lines waiting to get into clubs and the next thing I knew I was on 13th street, wondering how I got so far from Fleurant. I wondered why I never knew where the fuck I was going.

I was always zoning out on something. Why this need to keep my mind racing? I twisted my hands and stared up at the sky.

I’ve forgotten what’s good in people.

I need a new partner.

A streetlight sputtered to life a few feet away, revealing a punk girl sitting beneath it Indian style, her head slumped and her shoulders hunched. Half-sleeping, I thought, having done it myself. There was a plastic cup in front of her feet. I walked over and stuck a couple of bills in it. She didn’t look up, although I saw the flicker of her eyes blinking. She stared intently at the sidewalk. It occurred to me that maybe she was crying.

She had a cardboard sign beside her. Along with some other stuff it said, I need $35 to get a place to stay for the night, please help me get off the street. I looked back at the cup. It was already late and so far I was the only one to put anything in it. Thirty-five dollars wasn’t that much money, but my feet were already moving.

I knew what should happen, but it wasn’t going to be me.


kid god