peebee and j

My man Young and Hungry sent me this pic.

i love the whole innocent vibe this chick is rocking, as exemplified by her high school haircut

With all her color sucked out, she looks like she's made out of translucent jelly.


(Jesus--what am I on about? Seriously, now. If I don't get laid soon I think it's going to illicit some kind of massive acid flashback that's brewing under the surface, just waiting to happen.)


fucking hell last night feels like a dream to me now...maybe it's because i was tripping on opiated hash. but it was only a little trip--the stuff in fitz's foil pipe was pretty much burnt up by the time i got to it.

i sat between them on the red couch, my feet swinging in the air like the kid i no longer am...

she was beautiful and so was he. it was like sitting next to famous celebrities. i tried to explain it to raymi, how meeting her was like meeting kurt cobain.

"it's just like that, really. i mean, i'm not trying to say that you are like him, like you're crazy and on drugs or something...no, it's not like that, that's not what i'm trying to say."

raymi smiled and nodded her head.

"what i mean, is that i admire you both so much--even though he's dead, you know, i still admire him...you both are so real in your art, i mean, he was so real...shit, what am i saying?"

"don't you think you're putting a lot of expectations on her?" jamie said to me. his eyes were shining.

"no, no," i said, laughing like an idiot. "really i'm saying the exact opposite...i'm saying i admire her so much that i have no expectations...she can just sit there and do nothing and it's great..."

i looked at raymi, my face flushed from having spoken about her in the third person. she looked back at me out of the corner of her eye. then she smiled and nodded again.

"OK," she said. there was a warmth and understanding in her voice that i felt certain i didn't deserve.

at that point there was a lull in the conversation and they reached for their drinks and i closed my eyes, zoning out to the vibe radiating from their bodies and the sounds of the seashore that played on repeat in my head…the crashing waves, the squawking gulls…it was a beach world in there, a piñataland stuffed solid with candy and fun times .

In my head I was ready to bust it wide open…in my head I was ready to grab the mic and tear shit up and show them both that i was everything i said i was...a rebel, a warrior...

(Der Krieger)


But in my body I felt sick… my breathing was labored, as though there was a large weight strapped across my chest.

(it’s a heavy box, a heavy, heavy box…)

I think it was because I had just read the testimony of that 13 yr old kid who got shot by the sniper last year.

The bullet went in through his left armpit and ripped a diagonal path across his entire body—through his lung, his diaphragm, his liver, spleen and pancreas…

I pressed my fingers against my eyelids and tried desperately to get back into character.

"hey look, you can see that girl's underwear," raymi said.

i opened my eyes and looked straight ahead and saw that she was right.

"totally," i said.


meeting of the minds...

i'm supposed to meet raymi tonight. holy shit i'm psyched. it's destiny--and it's been a long time coming...

like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our blog...



TRUE came over. She wanted to talk, but not about anything in particular. Certainly nothing to do with anything that had actually happened.

In other words, she wanted to talk about the blog...

She told me that in the site stats there were hits coming from some literary blog who cited one of my posts and said they were, "are funny and frank and sometimes disturbing."

"They actually said to scroll down and find whatever posts had 'by Fitzcarraldo', at the top" TRUE said.

"Isn't that some shit?" she asked, and I couldn't tell if it was a rhetorical question or an actual one directed at me.

"Tell me," I said, "Is the link generating a good number of hits?"

"Some. Not tons."

"Then it doesn't really matter."

"Well, of course it doesn't matter. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Except that it's funny."

"What is?"

"That a literary blog would link to us. Literature is about books and blogs are about hits. They're two totally different things."

"That's right," TRUE said, as she stole a cigarette from my pack on the table.

"I like blogs," she said, and lit it before I could stop her.

The fabulous Stereolabrat's fabulous Fanta Shokata movie. I like orange Fanta, despite the fact that it has real sugar in it and not the triple fat fructose globules I've come to expect from a soda. Anyway, you too can make a movie, but if yr like me you'll fuck-up the simple-ass, retard-proof instructions one too many times before you give up and go back to decidedly uninteractive pursuits such as taking yr pulse and zoning out to the monitor hum.

"i'll be whatever you want, the bong in this reggae song..."




the drugs don't work

they just make you worse...

cats trophies

TRUE told me that Kid God is going to be a star. I don’t know how she knows this, but I went over and checked out his site and I can dig it.

that’s a heavy box, a heavy, heavy box…

hey. hello. I liked it when she said:

I wanna man who knows how to use his dick like a dildo.

ha! What the fuck, I said, laughing dismissively, while secretly the idea turned me on. whatever it meant.

It was the way she said it—the sound of her voice.

It was the way it felt to be close to her

but being spared having to look her in the eye

In that way it was like a dream or a music video

Like the perfect blue sky was going to fall on us at any second

Which would only make everything better

We were driving

She was behind the wheel

The highway and the terminals shone

(picked clean bone...a puzzle, a completed puzzle)

All of it snapped in place

Snapped into the picture being presented to me

Pressed clean and ready

to be used by the people

out there

(that’s how we refer to you, btw)

You’re the people

out there…

Don't worry, it's not a diss--it isn't anything. Just a simple distinction.

The three of us are the people in here,

While all of you are the people out there.

--except for Jamie, of course.

Jamie Christ.

anyway, it's my turn to tell you i've got one love fer it all,

for all of you out there people

who actually read this shit on the


and have such nice things to say

you guys are why I keep coming back

One love

Like for my man sub\ver\sion.


Tonight I'm wrestling with one, nostalgic, bittersweet love for the people we should be

we could have been healthy and without fear, but the great tide of history has pulled back, and we’re left clinging to life in the puddles.

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know where I’m going.

But this weekend I found out that stealing is like riding a bike, which is good to know.

(this revolution)

keep it simple

don't make any sudden movements

and remember that if you do something right out in front of people

they usually won't see a thing...

i drink till i'm drunk and i smoke till i'm senseless...

Outside I’m talking shit

Outside I walk with a funny hitch

But it’s only a fake limp

Cos I’m a pretend gimp

And inside it’s always the same

Doing battle with my real name

Panic pure, pulse taking

I’ve got five on it

And my promises are breaking

While I try to remember what TRUEBOY should have already known:

That deep inside, my cover’s always blown…

(keep yr head up, stacey)


Tonight I picked up a trashy piece of ass and took him out for steak and single malt. It was my way of toasting the autumn.

The Season of the Witch.

I felt happier than I had in days, despite the fact that the restaurant was filled to the rafters with small-time, small-dick suits and their stupid boobjob miami bitches. The fact was that it felt good to go out and spend some money. The place I spent it in hardly mattered. Well, maybe not “hardly”, but it certainly didn’t matter very much. I was fine as long as there was expensive whiskey. Everything, absolutely EVERYTHING is made better by expensive whiskey. That, and a leather backed chair for my soon-to-be boytoy to sprawl improperly in. The steakhouse was tacky, but it certainly wasn’t cheap. I got a secret thrill when I thought of the size of the check and how by paying for it I was going to effectively purchase my boytoy, several times over. Every so often, I reached into my jacket and gently caressed the fat roll in my breast pocket—the perfect tip of my manicured nail just barely brushing the billfold. .

(that’s right, bitches--that’s how I get my kicks…I spell it out here so that you may judge)

“I really come alive in this weather,” I said, shivering with tipsiness beneath my brand new, mint green cashmere jumper.

My soon-to-be boytoy rolled his eyes and rested his chin on his hand.

“Who gives a fuck?” he said, batting his lashes.

“Darling, when you look as good as I do…” I said, sucking back the rest of my drink before continuing:

“Nearly everyone ends up giving a fuck--sooner or later.”

I laughed and slammed down my glass, pretending, for a second, that I was a proud member of some ancient race of people, long revered for their music and their poetry as well as their abilities at fucking and drinking. I stretched my legs out under the table and shoved them between those of my boytoy’s. All night, I’d been dying to feel his thick wool pants.

The muscles in his thighs jumped when we touched.

For a split second, he cracked an unrehearsed smile that pegged him as the horny little kid he really was. It flashed darkly across his poker face like a blown fuse on a brilliantly false Vegas marquee.

(come on in there are good times at this place, and this most be the place, because there’s no other place but this)

“Please,” I said, looking him deep in the eye, “don’t try to be so cool and reserved on my account.”

I clamped both my legs around one of his and gave a hard squeeze.

“I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself, darling,” I said, as I pressed down with all my (not inconsiderable) might, my thigh muscles tense and hard while I breathed in and out of my nose and attempted to keep the expression on my face as impassive and emotionless as possible.

Despite my efforts, my soon-to-be boytoy managed to do the same--regarding me steadily, without so much as a flicker to disrupt the stone cold calm of his fine, gypsy visage.

(He told me his accent was Austrian—oh, please! He must have mistaken me for one of your run-of-the-mill, dumb-as-a-post Americans. Lord knows the closest he got to being an Austrian was when his mama had him out begging in the streets of Salzburg, a broken tambourine in his hand and a submissive smile on his chapped lips)

“That’s much better,” I said, gritting my teeth and letting him go.

“I like someone who knows how to play. It’s a dying art, you know.”

My soon-to-be boytoy went completely into character.

“Je-sus,” he said, rubbing his head. Something I’d noticed he did a lot.

“Listen,” he said, his voice turning low. “Do you have any drugs, or what?”

“Oh, I’ve got drugs, alright. The woman who was staying in my bed is a drug dealer.”

“Yes,” he hissed, flicking at his bangs.

“This infamous woman who was staying in your bed while you slept on the couch.”


“How does that go again? I think you should explain it to me again.”

“Let’s get cigars first. I know this place...”

“She stayed with you for how long…two weeks?”

“Yes. Now what of it?”

“I don’t know, you tell me.”

“I shouldn't have mentioned it. There’s nothing to tell. She’s my best friend. We used to fuck, but we don’t anymore.”

“And you’re gay.”


"You're sure?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake..."

“And she’s straight.”

“I think so.”

“She might not be!”

“Who’s to really say, darling?”

“Well I don’t know,” he said, pulling at his bangs some more. His expression was one of genuine concern, whether for me or for his hair, I couldn't tell.

“Someone should,” he said. “I mean, after a certain point you have to figure out what you are and stick to it.”

“Says who?” I pushed back my chair and felt for my cigarettes.

“I’m going outside,” I said.

“You act as though it’s all so normal.”

"Who the fuck are you to talk about what’s normal? Have you forgotten that you’re a faggot? Don't get fooled by some silly sitcom or some law in Canada. You traded in any stock in normality a looong time ago, cupcake.”

I stuck the cigarette in my mouth and headed for the swinging saloon style brass doors.

I know it sounds strange, but I felt even happier than I had before.

I wish I could explain but I can't so whatever.



cathy does blacks.


sharpeworld index

How does that song go?

"Night suits me fine... Morning suits me fine..."

I think the two of them took off. TRUE came back here and grabbed a sweater and her boots. She looked good--dressed all in black, with her black nylon hood pulled over her black on black Yankees hat. She stood pensively in the center of the room--like a monk or a performance artist.

"I'm taking off for a few," she said, finally.

I nodded and lit a cigarette.

"Are you pissed?" she asked.

"This may or may not be the right decision," I said, like an idiot.

"I haven't made any decisions," she said. "Nothing has been decided."

"Here are your keys," she said, making a big show of hanging the keys back up on their nail.

"Can I call you later?"

She never asks that--she hates the phone.

"Anytime," I said, as unexpected, tears sprung up in my eyes.

I tried to laugh it off.

"How sentimental." Meanwhile, inside, I was thinking, omygod what the fuck they aren't asking me along i can't believe it...

"Maybe it's that time of the month," she said, trying to laugh.

...after everything i did for you, including letting you take over my bedroom for nearly two weeks--it's just up and out without an explanation..?

"Maybe," I said, my voice as flat as a dime.

"Don't get Sterling in trouble," I called out, as she slouched over to the front door and undid the locks.

"It's bad enough that two-thirds of us doesn't have a job, no need to make that a perfect score--wouldn't you agree?"

TRUE smiled and took a baby banana from the fruit bowl.

"I wanted to tell you that I think you know how make everything beautiful," she said, softly. She was looking down that the floor.

"Bye," she whispered, and before I could order my thoughts she pulled the door open, slid out and was gone.


backmasking coke machine

sterling was the one who first came up with the idea to search google and google image using the kind of fucked up phrases that i find in the sitemeter referrals. i go fishing with a tangle of words hanging limply from the hook of my browser, hoping for a bite.

"pass the dutchy", "loose and lascivious", "deep ocean nightmare"...i comb the periphery of the web, creating my own index by posting the pics that i find (although perhaps find isn't the right word, as they were never really lost, and i was never really looking for them because i didn't know they existed) and filling in the gap between different worlds and different understandings. for instance, those jurk storr pics of the white guy with the lollipops came from some finnish popstar's site that i found by searching google image for "drugstore dream". once i translated the page into english i learned that he was a eurovision finalist and these were the behind the scenes from his latest video shoot. i never, in a million years would have come across the site by looking for it, but now the two of us are linked by the symmantic web, where the search-er becomes the search-ee in the electronic blink of a google bot's eye...

i google therefore i am.


it's like some borges' Tlön, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius shit. check that short story out, party people. it's about a parallel universe in which metaphors are facts and facts are metaphors. here's a quote:

One of the schools in Tlön has reached the point of denying time. It reasons that the present is undefined, that the future has no other reality than as present hope, that past is no more than present memory . . . Another maintains that the universe is comparable to those code systems in which not all the symbols have meaning, and in which only that which happens every three hundredth night is true.

borges was definitely on some magical south american next level shit. me, i've got to puff weed to get real deep like that.



when are you coming home? i'll pick you up from the airport. i'll leave the apartment and go outside and everything.



From this distance i am able to coolly observe the dry husks of my emotions.



hello. calling all cars. i am in seattle, on business, if you can believe it. staying in a jr. suite...so there's room to meet and greet...jesus, even the tips i give are comped. my, my, my, how times change. i was last here seven years ago, on the slithery snail tail end of a drunken binge that took me all the way up the pacific coast. (you got to get up to get-get down) it's cold and rainy and dark, like i remember. but that's really all i remember. the rest are just flashes: the freeway at night, tall glasses of beer, drive-thrus and jack-in-the-box...wide laughing faces suffused with an orange light. in my mind it's tangled up with berlin, another city i was only half-conscious for. i know that technically speaking, the two places couldn't be more dissimilar but in each one i happened to form a dangerous alliance with a big girl with big hands, both of whom said they were in love with me--one while she leaned forward drunkenly and burned a hole in my polyester shirt and the other while she meticulously carved her initials into the soft flesh of my stomach with the sharp and dirty corner of a copper sheet.

TE ...the scar's still there, barely. i wish i knew what the letters stood for...theresa something, i think.

in my mind they've come to mean "the end".

i was so fucked up, so desperate with self-hatred. i offered my body to any half-assed artist to do with what they wanted...

coming back now feels like i'm returning to the scene of the crime. i know i've changed, but the question is, how much? perhaps i'm like pioneer square, where new facades cover ancient, crumbling edifices. i feel like i've stepped into a dirty mirror world in which the past and the present float around each other like ghosts. i'm the lost and lonely scientist, painstakingly chipping away at the excess rock that surrounds the fossilized moment of some poor, dumb creature's death. only in this case, the creature is myself.

and the more i chip away, the more rock there is...




Poor little pussycat.

Happy household friend who we love so much.

Maybe they should use a paper cutter, like I did.

Clean and flat. That's how they described my wounds at the hospital.

"Regrowth" is definitely not an option.


This morning I put on my red pants in honor of the fallen challengers. It was early—everything was very quiet. The heat hadn’t even started its clank-boom concerto in the pipes yet. I looked out the window and saw that Brooklyn was lit up pink and gray.

Then I did something I haven’t done in almost two weeks:

I went put on a paint splattered sweatshirt and went outside.

I didn’t go far. Just out the front door and down the first couple of steps. I could smell the cold radiating off the metal railing. I lit a cigarette and allowed myself to be hypnotized by ground-up glass glistening in the asphalt.

I asked myself all the big questions.

What do I want?

What’s in it for me?

Where was my next fat bag coming from?

A whiny voice pulled me out of my reverie:

“Hey Lady.”

I looked down and saw a kid in a blue hooded sweatshirt, standing at the foot of the steps. He had a brown face and a pink nose. His eyes were among the brightest I’d ever seen.

“Got an extra smoke?”

“Pfff,” I waved him away.

“C’mon,” he said, his voice cracking.

“OK, whatever,” I said and held one out to him.

“Al-right!” he said, and made his way up the steps. His enormous jeans made it difficult—the crotch was nearly to his knees. I noticed that he wore a Yankees hat under his hood. He took the cigarette and put it in the corner of his mouth, where it stuck out awkwardly.

“You watch the game?” I asked, as I lit it for him.

“Of course!” he said, his eyes widening and nearly blinding me. He took a long, thoughtful drag and exhaled all over the place.

“You like baseball, miss?”

He couldn’t have been more than 14.

“Hell yeah,” I said. “Yankees all the way, man.”

He chuckled and brushed a flake of ash off his thigh. There was a pattern of bleached white circles on his jeans, in accordance to the latest style.

“I gotta say I almost had a heart attack last night.”

“Me too,” I said, “That was one helluva game.”

“Hell, yeah,” he said.

We sat silently, smoking and watching the sky turn colors.

“You going to school,” I asked.

“Um, yeah,” he said, uncertainly.

“Off you go then,” I said, flicking away the rest of my cigarette.

“OK,” he said, “Thanks for the smoke.”

“Shit gives you headaches,” I told him. “You should stick to weed.”

He gave a nervous laugh and looked to either side of him.

“Why? You got some, miss?”

“I wish, little man,” I said.

He shrugged and gave me a wave.

“And another thing,” I said, as I stood up and got ready to go back inside.

“There’s no such thing in this world as an ‘extra cigarette’. It doesn’t exist. You got that?”

“Got it,” he said.



big shouts to all real new yorkers....worldwide

What a pity

Your committee

Can’t hold a candle to my city

We’re so pretty,

Ass and titties

The home of Biggie

And P. Diddy

(fuckyeah, fuckyeah)



Some may think it’s masochistic, but I’ve grown to love my shifts at the jurk storr...

I can’t lie—I like to dish it out. But I also like to take it.

Send me a back door delivery, party people—I’ll be ready to sign for it, everytime.

I’ve always got a pen on me—ask Jamie.

Just click right there where it says “comment” and give it to me good.

Give it to me two times, give it to me with only your first name, with a made-up name, with no name…

(use me abuse me dress me up in stussi)

(oh, baby I like it raw)

Give me your pain and your suffering and your white guilt and your date rape fantasies and your lies and your bad dreams and your coming downs and your cranking ups and your failed ambitions and your hate and your day job hell and your erectile dysfunction and your overweight boyfriend and your ice queen girlfriend and your losing baseball team and your LACK OF FAME AND IMMORTALITY

just please don’t hold back don’t front don’t stop

scroll down…look me in the eyes…

remember, i asked for it.


Well, I don’t know…you get to a point where you just don’t care anymore what happens…you keep walking forward because that’s the way the crowd is going, but your heart isn’t in it. I used to think it was the kind of dull ache that was relegated to coming off a high, but I know better now.

You don’t need anything—you can fall with a clean head.

I got off the subway at 42nd Street and 8th Avenue, clutching the letter in my hand. The stairs leading up to the street were covered with trash and flattened pieces of popcorn and oily green puddles.

I felt the wind even before I made it to the top, damp and insistent on fucking-up my hair. My bangs are finally long enough for me to gel them back, when I feel like taking the time--which isn’t very often, but today I did and in two seconds flat the time I spent turned into wasted time.

Meanwhile, out on the street there was no time to lose. Everyone had taken their rightful place.

There was the shoeshine guy with his bloated face, telling everyone who passed good morning, whether they heard him or not. There was the tragic youth in his ripped black jeans, smoking a cigarette and checking out my shoes. There were the religious Jewish guys holding mysterious green stalks in their hands and trying to get regular Jewish guys in suits to stop and pray with them. There were the school kids from France looking like school kids from France as they took digital photos of the neon sign across the street advertising 25 cent Peep Shows.

Don’t let them tell you it’s all Disney, mon amis, I thought, in that funny way I have of pretending that others can hear my thoughts.

There’s still plenty of naughtiness left…

Plenty of places to disappear between the cracks and forget what day it is…

I read the marijuana reform flyers taped to blackened windows, I looked up at the lights, I scanned the news tickers, I laughed at the HSBC 30 second flash commercials, I made eye contact with a pretty foreign girl who must have been freezing in her shorts and flip-flops that showed off her tan feet.

I turned without thinking and walked over to a payphone and placed the letter on the metal shelf where long ago they used to put phonebooks. Then I picked up the receiver and put in two quarters.

Next to me, a guy in an orange windbreaker was screaming to someone about having to earn his respect before he gives it.

I took a deep breath and dialed the number. It was impossible to say whether she would answer or not. I stood there while the phone rang and tried not to think..

The voicemail clicked in without any greeting. I give her shit about it but really I think it’s cool.

“TRUE, it’s me…listen, I don’t know what to say to you anymore, I don’t know how to explain how I feel, so I put it in a letter. It’s here, squeezed into the back shelf of a phone booth. Folded yellow pages. You’ll have to come outside to get it. You’ll have to come down here and find out for yourself.”

I hung up and listened to the quarters plunk into place. I stepped back and rubbed my forehead. Everything was right there in those pages, everything that I felt but was too scared to say. I turned and walked away. I felt good, like a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.

I was all the way on the east side before I realized that I never mentioned where the phone booth was.



i'm sorry but fuck me ever putting up a paypal icon, man. i don't want anyone out there scrounging around so i can feel like i'm making something out of this whole blog thing.

the way i look at it, if dollars were to flow, we should be paying our readers, and not the other way around...

i'm serious, yo. you guys came around when I needed you most. I started this site as little more than a bulletin board—a convenient spot for the three of us to post info and brainstorm about possible art projects. Given our collective history of peace and harmony and pleasant dispositions, I figured that even if we happened to not be on speaking terms, we could still communicate and get shit done through our blog.

(I hate that word too, but what can you do? It’s a fucking phenomenon that is what it is what it is.)

Little did I know that the means of communication would itself become the art…

Little did I know that other people would get into our rants and ramblings, dropping comments and emails to let us know they UNDERSTAND.

People from all over the world…a lot of them poor and lonely and fucked in the head, just like me.

Do you have any idea how priceless a little understanding is, party people?

Especially when you didn’t expect any—when in fact, you were pretty sure there wasn’t another drop that could be wrung from the scrunched-up sponge of the world…

I’ll tell you it’s worth more than all the proverbial tea in proverbial China.

…More than all the stars in the sky, you guys have no fucking idea what you mean to me...


They call us on the phone

They call us all alone

They call us where we roam

They call us when we're home

They call us up to par

They call us in our cars

They call us in the bars

They call us superstars!

They call us...



...i don't know, TRUE... call me a sucker, but isn't what makes beauty BEAUTY the fact that it loves to hide?


I’m having a hard time sitting at the computer.

Maybe it’s the monitor, its awful buzz.

It makes me close my eyes and imagine dark shapes in the sky, circling.

You never know what you’re going to find on the internet.

You never know what you’re going to end up making.

Or who you’re going to turn into.

Maybe one day I woke up and took some acid and thought,

I could be anyone.

I could be missing two fingers

That I cut off myself to get out of a Timothy Christian school

I could be an ex-junky, a high school dropout

Who used to shoot straight into the stumps.


Or maybe one day I woke up and took some acid and thought,

Fuck it, I know how I’m going to get out of this place

I'll do something to make sure I never get sent back to that bible thumping hell hole again...

Desperate times call for desperate actions


This afternoon I ran home

And hid alone in the dark

I hunkered down and folded silver wrappers into tiny, tight squares

And I rubbed my bare feet together under the covers

(the windows were wide open letting in the perfect autumn breeze for the perfect autumn sweater.)

I waved the paper thin remote in the air and listened to vaguely evangelical reggae music

Then The Smiths and then The Clash.

And some other things that I don't remember.

And some of “Things Done Changed”

Which is old school Biggie Smalls.

During which I nodded off and had a dream.

A nightmare, in which bombs rained down in time to the beat

(machine gun funk)

And the city blew into pieces and rushed past my window

Like a parade on ecstasy or a super-imposed digitized backdrop.

Except there was a glitch in the program:

Which caused it to zoom-in all the way

Turning tiny bits of glass and concrete and plastic

Into flying billboards

Even the wall-to-wall carpeting

That covered the office floors and had decades’ worth of ground-in dirt

Was shown floating past

Annihilated, exploded

A galaxy of purple fuzz,

That spun lazily.

The end we always knew would come

Was magnified and airborne.

All of it.

And yet when I rubbed my eyes and opened them again, slowly

I could see the momentary glimmer of the satellite heart

beating at the center

Of each individual piece.

don't fuck with gay people...

...unless you want to be stabbed in the back with a screwdriver...

...while your family watches from the car.

hips like cindarella

must be havin that good shame

talkin sweet about nothin

cookie i think you're TAME



i'm listening to the pixies. they're among my faves, so you know i'm feeling good.

i'd like to live in the pixies' california. those white washed video backgrounds and loud guitars seem like home to me. i want a fucked-up frank black expression on my face. i want to feel like a foreigner in my own country and sing about dirty fucks with all kinds of spanish words thrown in.

in a pixies's california i'd wear a pink bandana and point a sawed-off shotgun as my whores gathered round, awestruck as i proclaimed this is it, "this is how it ends, daddy-o," and fired two shots into the horizon.

and the cameras would roll...

and the pan would flash,

against the desert sky.


and so is kinki.

and so is


riot act

yo. put your comments back. you had em up for a hot minute. i've things i'd like to say to you, man.

you too. and fuck whoever was stalking you and posing like you in other people's comments. the comment-spammer (love the phrase, though). listen, most comment freeware lets you check IP addresses. the for fee shit definitely should--if it doesn't i don't know what the fuck you're paying for, but OK. you just give us the address(es) and we will find the person(s). i mean, we do this shit for kicks ANYWAY. sterling is an IT guru for fuck's sake. (ha! nerd!) she knows every trick in the book.

i'll fucking kick the very real and non-cyber identity ass of anyone who comes up in my piece, or the pieces of anyone listed on the left. or right if you use mozilla. ha. sike. (champagne bub-bel-lin, causing mad troub-el-in...) jim, you've got to tell them to fucking fuck off or they'll be persecuted. that's right. no, i didn't mean prosecuted. i don't care who you are or where you live. i've got peoples world over and i've kicked the asses of losers for less than the shit that went on during that moxie.nu vs. moxiepop debacle. those fucking moxie.nu/ dawn/weiss/ reading, self-righteous, anonymous idiots made a girl lose her FUCKING JOB. or maybe it was even one of the afforementioned bloggers who did it--who the fuck knows? there should have been a much bigger deal made, but the reason the internet didn't run to moxiepop's defense is because she's a pudgy republican girl with junior high-esque dyed red hair and big tits, while moxie.nu is the supposed embodiement of the consummate educated californian, albeit still with the requisite blond hair and slim figure. she has elfin features that in photos are generally half-obscured by her hair or by shadow, which makes me suspicious that she might be misshapen.

the whole thing is such bullshit it's hard to believe, even now. moxie pop (who was here and is now over here, btw) was accused by moxie.nu of stealing her name/identity. of course, moxie is not really her legal name, nor is it a registered trademark belonging to her. it is however, a trademark belonging to a 1930s soft drink. the drink must have provided a good deal of pep, because the noun "moxie" came to mean courage, determination, and know-how.

if anyone should have been upset about the use of "moxie", it should be the person who owns the "moxie" trademark. actually, there wouldn't be any real reason for them to be upset--all they'd have to do is call their lawyer. i didn't go to law school, but i don't think the trial would be a long one.

it's the same thing as if I had the cocacola. nu blog and then got pissed off when someone else started the cocacolapop blog. that's how retarded it was. then you have to throw in the fact that moxiepop had never even heard of moxie.nu, who is so used to her sycophants sucking on her cyber teets that she was apparently unable to fathom the possibility of someone having not stumbled across her inflated internet ego and proceded to accuse the startled conservative of lying.

the whole thing got immensely ugly at that point, with attacks launched from both sides. i'll spare you the whole sick story suffice to say that in the end, the army of moxieminions marched into pink slip victory, goose-stepping and chanting california uber alles and we are all individuals... hold-up. i'm being too harsh, doth protest? yes, ok. perhaps their hearts were filled with only good intentions as they faxed their slanders to moxiepop's boss. (that's right, party people, i'm being for real). i guess they figured that since their mascot once got canned, it was only correct and desirable (for larger purposes of symmetry, you see) that moxiepop also get the ax. maybe they think that's what "moxie" means! "she who gets fired".

anyway, the icing on the poop cake is that during all of this, the moxie.nu automotons also decided to fuck with jim treacher and ultrab. like, what's your damage, heather? i'm sorry but it's pretty clear that jim and keith write circles around moxie.nu. they had both been online friends of hers, too. they weren't being disloyal--they just fucking disagreed with what a bitch she was. they wanted her to apologize. oh, but nein! we are all individuals! we're the spiritual denziens of the decidedly non democratic state of the blogosphere. don't you know we were on channel 13! the internet is getting us a job! we're going to have careers! maybe even working for arnie! did you know that translated literally his last name means "black nigger"! that's just a little 411 for you! isn't that what blogs are all about! coming up with crunchy tidbits and sucking teet! you must attack those who disagree with the false beauty and false vulnerability of the falsely (and most likely, illegally named) "moxie".

and god forbid you use the same false and illegal name and refuse to give it up when demanded to do so. heil! jetz! we'll really make you pay then, mother fucker.

anyway, the whole thing just undulates endless hilarity. like how the moxieminions stepped to kool keith and tried to say he wrote like he was in junior high and school marm-ing him about not using "correct" grammar, as though that somehow made him undeducated. helllloooo...stupid white people. ultrab is on some next level. wake up and smell the new millennium. my homie's a fucking blog of note and you're just...anonymous?

(ha! fuck. the boogie down bottom of that pipe must have had something else in it for me to flameout on irrelevant shit such as this, but whatev.)

it's saturday, yes saturday...chillin on my back cuz it's saturday...

go yanks.


EDIT: 10/12

the comment spammer is not the same as the comment poser/stalker. the spammer is an actual spammer (funny that) who leaves links in comment boxes to sites hawking various merchandise. sorry for the mix-up, and thanks to jim for clearing it up.

p.s. i am a girl--at least that's what the genitalia seems to imply.

p.p.s. love it.



I've said it before and I'll say it again: the good thing about short-term memory loss is you remember whatever it was, eventually...

A while back, Kenneth Cowan asked me if I liked the British rapper Mike Skinner, AKA The Streets. I meant to answer him that I do, but I forgot.

Like any folk music, hip-hop is time and place specific. It's got to be from the heart to make your head nod. Like Guru from Gangstarr said, "It's mostly the voice." The thing about the British rap that I heard pre-The Streets, was that they were all trying to inflect their voices with American accents, which was lame. You've got to represent who you are, where you are. The French can do it. The Japanese can do it too, rocking the mic in well-ironed duds. And now the Brits seem to be catching on, slowly but surely.

Keep your fucked up, lower class cockney accents, party people. We want to close our eyes and see the gaps where your teeth should be.

Mike Skinner raps about going down slow, drinking too much brandy in council flats with the thunder echoing outside. He nails that dank mournfulness that can only be England.

It doesn't matter the music, when someone's for real I always know because my titties get hard. Werd.

It's like with Nirvana--I still walk around with permanent headlights when Kurt's on my headphones.

No wonder Chuck D. said Nirvana was hip-hop too.

(Beats are for Sonny Bono, Beats are for Yoko Ono)

um, there was something else i wanted to say....shit...

(quick switchin lanes and jumpin on planes and)

oh well.


for the benefit of mr. kite...

...there will be a show tonight on trampoline...

i'm the blur in the photgraph, the splotch on the canvas that turns into a face the more you stare at it.

i fake it so real i am beyond fake.

my style's like goiing bananas...like losing your language

my style's like listening to a copy of a copy of a bootleg CD. the warble has a life of its own. it slices through the air like a light saber--all smoke and mirrors and special effects. it's the sound of things falling apart--of digital entities losing their shape like elastic panties...

ineffable america

i'm battering the hatches and eating doritos for breakfast, waiting for my negative behavioral training to take hold.

(well, boys and girls, i can see bobby and jamie and stacey and keith and do you know want to know something extra special? each one of them wiped the floor with big media's pock-marked, spider vein laced ASS today...)

TRUE dogs do this shit even without a paycheck


sterling fassbinder says: it’s a beautiful day, sweetheart

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: yep.

sterling fassbinder says: an orange, early autumn light is turning everything blue and green.

sterling fassbinder says: it’s like a super eight film, I swear

sterling fassbinder says: you should come out and see it

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I don’t know, man

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I can’t deal with those midtown lasers

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: have I told you that I think there’s an infection in the sac holding my heart?

sterling fassbinder says: you don’t have to come here

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: it’s like the heart is in a giant testicle

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: my tooth hurt before but now it doesn’t and I think it traveled down there

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: it can do that you know

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: why is it that I learn more from one hour of the discovery channel then I did in all of high school combined?

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I wish I could prick my heart with a pin and let out all the puss

sterling fassbinder says: I’m leaving work in a few minutes, let me see you

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I don’t know

sterling fassbinder says: you can’t just stay locked up, alone inside forever

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: fitz is here

sterling fassbinder says: yeah, but you only come out of his room when he’s not around.

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: living inside, living inside

sterling fassbinder says: how long do you plan on hijacking his bedroom?

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: in this near wild heaven!

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I don’t believe in the sun

sterling fassbinder says: you get kicks from making me worry, don’t you

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: why doesn’t it shine down on everyone?

sterling fassbinder says: i’m like a beetle on the end of your pin

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I told you if I had a pin I’d use it on myself

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: jesus you don’t listen

sterling fassbinder says: stuck, squirming

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: exactly man

sterling fassbinder says: stop saying man

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I want to live in the tube of a crashing wave

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: from one of those sixties surf movies where everyone’s so skinny

sterling fassbinder says: I’m telling you it’s a movie right now, outside

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: sorry, but going outside is so over

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I want to live on an abstract plain

sterling fassbinder says: you type too fast

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: you type too slow

sterling fassbinder says: i'm missing two fingers!

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: i've got yards of flow


i'll take the super-deluxe, please...with the manifesto mix

Stencil 'repetitive beats' across the storefronts, over and over...

Find a brand new way of saying 'fuck the world' and you'll have enough money to buy the top floor of a midtown skyscraper.

I swear, party people, we need more, more, more MORE if we're going to take it.

This is no time to relax--despite how much scotch you've been guzzling.

Fuck those paypal wannabe hack sites with their lame "about" blurbs and obligatory big blog links.

Yes, I fucking judge those lawyers and freelancers and washed-up dot-com babies and their lame-ass pedestrian blogs.

They think they've got it all figured out with their perfect punctuation and their spellcheck and their hundreds of thousands of hits, but they're forgetting one crucial fact as they round the corner for home:

The Internet is for Losers



Just another Sunday, lying around, grimy as fuck. You know it’s bad when I’ve stopped showering. It means either the drugs have run out or the shit has hit the fan or both, as is the case now.

My hair is sticking out in oily stalks. My fingers smell like scalp from scratching my head all day. This time of the year is murder on my arthritis. If you saw my fists you’d think I’d been in a fight. The skin over my joints burns red and swollen. I can barely turn my neck and it feels like there’s a copper wire pulled tight between my shoulders.

I’m holed up in Fitz’s bedroom, with the door closed. I took the chair out from under the knob when I realized he had no intention of disturbing me. I can hear him now, humming to himself in the kitchen as he shuffles back and forth from pantry to stovetop in his four-dollar Fordam Road house slippers. He’s been communicating with me via beautiful handwritten notes on thick, official looking stationary that are shot under the door like missives from the State Department. “I’m making macchiatos, shall I leave one by the door, darling?” and “There are several NetFlix in an envelope on my desk. I’m sure you’ll find the selections ghastly, but all the same please help yourself. The DVD remote is somewhere…” I decorate the notes with sketches I’ve made of people on TV and slide them back out, hoping they make him smile.

Sterling’s come by too. Twice. She and Fitz sat in the living room and spoke in hushed tones of which I couldn’t make out a word. It must be an established fact that I’m not receiving visitors, as I waited but she didn’t try and knock on the door. I sat there with (half) the money I owed her folded up in my hand, debating on whether or not I should slide it into the hallway. I knew that’s not what she came for, but still. I wanted to do something right, something to make up for all the trouble I caused. I’m constantly ashamed at how much raw, unadulterated friendship is thrown my way. I’m like a vat of acid, sizzling up the good will of others before it can make a splash.

The gray autumn light and music from cars passing out on the street and the overall sober dilemma of not knowing what to do with myself takes me back to the first years of high school, when I was still such a nerd that I’d get stomach aches on Sunday nights just thinking of school the next morning. I’m sitting here with the desk lamp on, running Google image searches on “lascivious” and “yellow toilet” and “cum on cheek”. I’m like a vampire with the results—taking what I need and sucking the life out of it. Renaming, repackaging…making lies out of truth and designs out of the lies…

I’m trying to create steam from a single grain of salt, just like that DJ Shadow song.

Peace to all my peoples out there who are scraping at their pipes and not answering their phones.

My day one AND my day two prop list peoples…

Your husband/boyfriend/girlfriend/wife/baby mama/trifling whore might put you down to your fucked-up face and your job might be slowly torturing you while they work to make you’re position redundant and your ride might make all these funny sounds instead of starting up, and the bus might not slow down for you and dinner is always the same lame shit and the porn site stole your money and you spilled sauce on your only pair of nice pants and every day you get a little older and a little more trapped but to me you’re a hero, to me you’re the Bestest in the Westest, the fucking next wave due any second to crash down on all those unsuspecting culture vulture motherfuckers…

Fucking Conde Nast cameltoe sportin bitches.


jacob lawrence

The black girl ran her long, peach colored nail down my cheek. I noticed that the tips were complimented with a painted white ribbon and a cluster of rhinestones.

“Little gold fuzz,” she cooed.

“You know that you’ve got your skin covered with the softest gold fuzz, you can barely see it—only in certain light.”

She turned my face from side to side, her nails scratching gently against my skin.

“Oh, but when it gets you just right you look like Marilyn! You know, that's what gave her that glow when she was on film--tiny hairs on her face caught and held the light.”

I raised my eyebrows suspiciously and leaned over to get my cigarette out of the ashtray. They were playing Fannypack. I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I desperately wanted a beer. The smell of it permeated the room, where wood paneling had recently been put in. The mantelpiece, which used to be old and wooden, had been torn out and replaced with a block of hideous formika. Large antique mirrors and mounted heads of deer and buffalo hung on the walls in a vain attempt to resemble a so-called “rec room” or “den” from a suburban house in late sixties, California.

The "secret" uptown bar was a little like the Brady Bunch set but trying, retardedly, to be lesbian and cool.

They could change this place all they wanted, I knew what it was like before.

I know what it looks like underneath.

It's a backdrop that's cauterized across my brain.

I kept telling myself to get up and get out but I remained glued to my seat.

“Why don’t you drink,” the black girl asked.

“Because I’m not any good at it.”

“You? Psssh, c’mon. I bet you’re good at everything.”

“No, not that.”

The front door opened, briefly letting in a wide blue square of the outside afternoon. It fell across the wall and the floor like a brilliant movie before disappearing when the door slammed shut.

I was doing some kind of stroll down memory lane of what it was like to be permanently fucked-up, 24/7.

I was visiting the scene of the crime.

The girl frowned and bit her bottom lip as she adjusted her long silver scarf. It went well with her shaved head.

“Then let me ask you something,” she said, flashing a perfect row of white teeth. It was possible she wasn't from the city after all.

(daddy always managed to get the money, somehow)

“What the fuck are you doing out here?”

She was no longer lovey-dovey. Her tone had become hard and matter of fact.

“I’m not sure,” I said, which was the truth.

“I think I’m trying to feel far away from everything.”

I moved closer and pressed myself against her. She tried to keep a poker face, but when I lifted my head I saw her eyelids flutter.

“Paint it Black”, came on.

I keep hearing that song everywhere I go, I swear.


(hey yo)

Spark the brain in the morning

With the building

To be born…

Cadillac needs space to roll

Where we’re headed for she don’t know…

Desire simultaneously anchors you to the here and now

And allows you to float off into the big fake, untagged space above

Where there are no consequences

And everything has that digital glow:

the joy of giving in and letting go...

csquat NYC

I like to imagine the opening titles, flashing across the screen in a half-translucent utilitarian font, like the kind on old fabric labels, laid over a shot of me, lonely, trembling under boom mikes, my hair tousled just the right amount.

the music would have to be something sinister, a dj set overture, something that vibrates the dolby bass and buzzes teeth in the theater...i play it over and over in my head...it's what i do when i should be mastubating



Last night, I walked home the same way.

Straight across 10th street, from first to eighth avenue.

Eess side, wesssssside.

I found myself imagining that you were nearby, following me again in the dark. I even turned around suddenly a couple of times, yanking off my headphones and listening intently, like a twisted mop of an animal sitting up on its hunches. Were you out there, somewhere, between the lights? Watching me, looking out?

What if I called your name?

(would it matter which one?)

Would you come out under the blue streetlight

And tell me what you wanted

Or continue stalking

Like the kind of fucked-up freak you used to be?

Why didn’t you talk to me?

Why did you let me go into that bar?

(why was my son allowed into the machine rooms?)


Sometimes I just want you to make it stop. I know you understand that urge of mine—that need to be alone, away even from my own thoughts—but then you do nothing to facilitate it.

You don’t even try.


You were always my friend

You were never defeated

You were never second best

You’re the one I’ve chosen to throw the mask in my face.

(I’m the boy)

The fruit from summer is overripe.

(who’s learned to enjoy)

But all I’m having is toast.



and the fires only bronze, they do not burn

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: what do you mean?

sterling fassbinder says: what do you mean what do you mean

sterling fassbinder says: I told you

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I don’t believe you

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: you would have said something

sterling fassbinder says: well, i guess you don’t know me as well as you thought

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: then you have issues.

sterling fassbinder says: duh

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: fer real, man

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: yr a fucking stalker!!!

sterling fassbinder says: only from a certain perspective

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: that’s so lame, sweetheart

sterling fassbinder says: you wouldn’t talk to me

sterling fassbinder says: you put on the site where you were going for the movie thing

sterling fassbinder says: with young and hungry, who was my friend first, btw

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: so?

sterling fassbinder says: sooooo…

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: it wasn’t an open invitation

sterling fassbinder says: o yeah?

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: are you trying to be sarcastic

sterling fassbinder says: no

sterling fassbinder says: I’m sick of all your secret rules

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: ?

sterling fassbinder says: I’m sick of trying to figure out what’s real and what’s not

sterling fassbinder says: you’re all about the slight of hand—smoke and mirrors

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: wtf I don’t understand you

sterling fassbinder says: according to you everyone was supposed to just ignore the part where you said where you were going to be

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: who’s everyone?

sterling fassbinder says: that you were going to be in tompkins sq park wearing red pants

sterling fassbinder says: c’mon it was so fucking OBVIOUS that you wanted someone to show up

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: if I wanted to see you I would have asked you to come

sterling fassbinder says: wtf is right

sterling fassbinder says: thx for that

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: for what

sterling fassbinder says: the positive stroke, man

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: I can’t believe this

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: you just admitted you were stalking me and you want positive strokes

sterling fassbinder says: I want something, that’s right

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: what

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: stop fucking around

sterling fassbinder says: c’mon lets get on the phone already

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: no

yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says: you know how much I hate the sound of my voice


soooo stylistic

i liked that the face mouth eyes part of me was in monochrome.

it was the purest, most innocuous shade of lavender you could imagine

washing over me in a perfectly blended band

of magic light and grim indifference

i made a pretty picture

spilling my coffee and walking into a mailbox while everyone around me was
fucked-up neat and clean and perfect, like the tablets themselves.

(...and if i could have a clue what justice is

it would be more than i deserve...)

I love women. No, scratch that. I luuuuuv women. As in adore. As in I always have and I always will. I am proud to say that I am an honorary member of S.C.U.M., darlings. I firmly believe that the male gender is being phased out, as is evidenced by disintegrating Y chromosomes, erectile dysfunction and the Dave Matthews Band. The day is coming when women will be able to reproduce on their own, using a variety of methods. "Women’s intuition" will be known, simply, as knowledge. “That time of the month” will be known as "mandatory time off".

Before we take our final curtain call (exit stage left) we men will be reduced to pack mules and organ donors. Oh, yes. Evolution, darlings. Deal with it.

And when that fated day comes, I only hope that the descendents of TRUE and Sterling will peruse their handed down scrapbooks and look upon me fondly.

I hope they'll know that I loved their Grandmas dearly and would have done anything in the world for them.

I hope they know that the three of us truly loved one another, despite the occasional bad times of tears and despair and slamming of phones.

We loved each other in the neon midnight aura of our wildest dreams, despite whatever the grim gray morning brought our way.

We loved each other like sisters

Despite my testicles and enormous foot long cock.

i'd totally marry katie