happy birthday, raymi

you gave me blog food and i ate it,

you fake it more real than i fake it

young but not dumb shit gets complicated,

high but not dry no time to reiterate it

my birthday wish is dollars to light yr stove

may birthday ish give you powers to fight the mother lode

of haters who are going nowhere fast--

small town taters who wish they were smackin that ass

lovely as it is in those tight blue jeans,

i dig it how you slip through a scene

come out the other side and create yr own space,

photoshop a self portrait and put stars on yr face

and on the floor like the hollywood walk--

fuck other bloggers their shit is just talk

raymi the minx is one site i read close,

can't front--i ride her brastrap

like butter rides toast

she's what's happenin

i'm just the host

now go give her props cuz she is the MOST.



pix

Enfin on respire

you wanna know something? of course you do. well i'll tell you: i got my name when i dropped a single on my friend young and hungry's label. it was called houseboy records. he created it just after he moved into his girlfriend's studio apt and quit his day job. it wasn't a real label. i mean, it almost was. it had artists and musicians and master copies and sorta contracts but nothing ever came of it. commerically speaking.

the first album, "houseboy records 5th anniversary special" sold like four CDs at Other Music. it was this whole piece of art--the two of us made up different bands and personalities, album names and song titles for his various homemade fruity loop tracks. i wrote the liner notes.

i remember some of it: there was a band from Japan who were obsessed with Joy Division. one of them stood on an ice block and hung himself while he was high on smack. we had a scottish band called 'drunk and white'. all these little stories relating to this weird, dark electronic music. apparently it was one guy from like, denmark, who bought all four copies.

anyway, my track wasn't on that CD.

i never really made it to CD. i'm lost somewhere on a tiny little tape. some camera footage too--of me with a forty. rocking out to my self-penned jam La Sonique. chain smoking.

anyway i just liked the name TRUEBOY. i could see it as a nameplate. on a chain or whatever.

it went with my stylo. wearing my hat backwards and rolling with the guys but having big tits and an ass. fuck that shit i was down for whatever.

that's back when i used to suck cock like it was my job.

anyway,

that's how i got my name.

young and hungry had some hard times and headed west to california.

i don't think he uses that name anymore.

actually i don't know what he uses. he might be dead for all i know

yo money yo money yo money

i'm gonna be pissed-off and knocked-up. that's how it's all gonna end. i can feel it.

I had bananas for breakfast

you had bananas for breakfast

he, she, it had bananas for breakfast…


all that yellow turning brown in our guts at the same time

even while we’re having this conversation

telling each other how hungry we are for lunch





stacey

ghetto of the mind

whats up motherfuckers?

I’ve got one thing to say:

fuck fassbinder.


and fuck that headshrinker too. man I’m marchin in there tonight and telling him he dropped the ball. he isn’t my friend. he isn’t even some droopy eyed dried-up lush at the bar putting up with me spilling my guts, patiently waiting until I’m done showing my wounds so he can show me his. the only reason scrawny doc dude is gonna hang in there is cuz I’m paying him. and that’s a cold comfort, if it’s a comfort at all.

and love. pfffff. I doubt I really used that word. I like what Andy Warhol said--when you say you love someone or something it really means you want to BE that person or that thing.

"for example", he said, "I love plastic idols."

well, I love the world trade center.












aurore

yesssssss death to sitemeter!

I don’t do the technosnotti thang either.

it’s pretty simple, pimples: if you don’t speak up, I don’t know you’re here.

that said, fuk a comment


hi ciance

let's put our heads together

and start a new country



i've got a half ounce of real estate

right here in my bag


you spit whiskey

and play the part of the president


while i'll sit still

and play the part of the document under glass.

originally I was going to have rotating coverstars for the front page of the new site. I asked bing to be the first one but she was too busy making power moves in hong kong. i had this idea of her getting thugged out and posing as Chingy…I think it would have been hot. still can be. will be. although i came up with a new cover concept for now. whatever.



chingy



bingy

i’m bubbling over with ideas...come with me if you want to live, fer real. I’ll put you to work. or I can do it all on my lonesome…it’s like that babes in toyland song from back in the day, “Sometimes All I Really Need Is My Finger.” yep.

good god I’m gassy today



i started a buzznet account.

torn together

in other world news, it turns out that stereolabrat shares my jeff goldblum fetish. ugly sexy is the new black, party people. you heard it here first.

I’m writing this on a super thin titanium laptop that sterling snagged for me from her nine to fiver. I’m deep in the Bryant Park hot spot, listening to ambient techno and staring between the skyscrapers in front of me at the blue ones off in the distance. As I sit here the sky shifts and the sun burns off some of that blue, but my Persols keep the overall movie glow firmly in place…

if you want you can come and find me. you out there. come right now to the center of the park and don’t forget to bring it.



anti



as he ran over to me i thought, stab me, please, but i didn't REALLY think it.



it was just like how i wanted to jump on the tracks but i didn't REALLY want to, that was 3 years ago...



Then you think of all the things that you'd have liked to have been
That you might have been,
If you had...more...TIME...



we have all these really different things in common



yr hungry...i'm starving...



are you awake?

are we here together?



(the hum of the AC filled the hotel room)

*got to got to know got to got to know got to got to know got to got to know*

one love, madrid

from nyc




if you were in The City on september 11th it's hard not to feel a special kinship with other places decimated by terrorism.

man, just thinking back on that feeling of being totally unsettled--of being unsure and struck through to your core with a violence-induced exhaustion...

sleep was fucked up

people filled tables in restaurants and barely said a word to one another

everyone's head was filled with the images from TV

(you drank and smoked, you smoked and drank)

the headaches...The Cough

(the one some people still have)

the low simmering anger

the spanish aren't holding it in like we did, party people.

i don't know what it was, but we turned into sleepwalkers who couldn't wake up.

we just couldn't get over the shock of it all.

(we were attacked...AMERICA!...how can that be...how can someone hate us so much...was it because we were so rich? what the fuck had we DONE?)

we kicked our legs like a turtle on its back

we showed the whole world our flabby, unprotected belly

we got stupidly introspective and in typical, christian style wondered if we didn't somehow deserve what had happened

we didn't demand answers like the spanish are doing.

taking to the streets!

they're blaming their government for not protecting them.

and i'm sorry but that's what it comes down to

what the fuck else is the government there for?

why am i paying taxes?

i don't think it was so my president would fly the hell out of there supersonic style in airforce one as soon as the shit hit the fan.

to the americans reading this

(especially my fellow new yorkers)

how come we didn't take to the streets and demand to know who was running the country that morning?

our president was AWOL

the vice president and them were in the bomb shelter

who was actually on the scene, running the show commander-in-chief style?

we give all these props to that tyrant giuliani

just because he didn't run on out of there like everyone else

he actually did the job he got elected for

and so we're like, wow, way to go, man you're a hero

we forgive you all the crap you did

and the way you ran this city into the ground emotionally and financially

thank god mike's here to pull us out of the hole you dug.

(ground zero indeed, motherfucker.)

i'm not going to praise you.

i don't know who i'm going to praise

i feel like the praise is issued to humanity itself in the form of tireless rescue workers and ordinary citizens giving blood and time and tears

i feel like whatever i say is just empty words and it's time to go out and do something.

here at BRANDTRUEBOY we believe it's time to take action

it's time to demand the capture of those cowards who attack innocent citizens

as the practical implication of their ideals

i AM NOT one of those idiotic liberals

who believes, "yeah, well, everyone is ENTITLED to their own ideas"

no man, sorry. yr not.

a person should be allowed to peacefully express whatever they want

but as soon as their ideas include the necessity of exterminating or subjugating another group of people

then those ideals are just not OK

even as a means to an end

religious or otherwise

fuck that. if you come up into our piece with that

then you and you're ideas are going to get flattened.

it's like how we've gotta let the klu klux klan march in rallies

but we sure as hell don't let them get away with burning crosses.

like, i'm sorry i just don't think it's OK or that i have to honor your culture if you believe women are little more than property and treat them accordingly.

why do certain liberals say, well that's their culture and we need to be sensitive to it but when it came to apartheid they were all up in arms, demanding south africa to change?

how do they get the nerve to pick and choose and then blame others for doing the same thing?

why do we blame our government for acting in its own self-interest (like every other government on the face of this planet) when what we should be blaming them for is doing such a fuck-up job of it?

why aren't we out there MAKING NOISE about the failure of all those republicrats who allowed us to be attacked and then made us go to war after having the audacity to lie about the reasons?

who chipped away at our rights at home under the guise of keeping us safe, while admitting just yesterday that "hardly anything" has been done to protect" our rail system, which is perhaps the most exposed and likely target of the next al queda attack?

what the fuck is the point of keeping 13 and 14 yr old kids in prison in cuba for a year without charging them for shit when you leave your train tracks sitting there like big, fat, yellow ducks?

i'm sorry. yes, i'm pissed. i'm going to have to go now and walk around the block with a bop. i'm going to listen to some hip-hop and smoke some la la la so that the rhymes lift off and levitate over the beats. i'm going to imagine what it would be like if all the young people stood up and said fuck you and your polls and your censorship and your hissy fit over janet jackson's titty and your moral high-horse crapola and your money going to anti-aging drugs when little kids are dying of cancer and your greed and failure and stench of war and racism and homophobia--all of you who grew up divided, with your culture and their culture, your food and their food--right there in the same goddamn country. you and all your sad sack academy award winning movies and your viagra and over produced, deep meaning ballads and your pathetic po-mo ad campaigns and your good intentions turned flaccid like the no cholesterol, no taste soy cheese in your fridge. we're coming it's our turn we're sick of your shit

the beat is over.

im not a smoker i just blaze a lot

back in 95 when I was living in merry ole england I got into a fight with a drunken prick who tried to front like, goodness gracious, yesss, I swear by the queen’s crotch hairpiece that we brits do indeed know how to rap. I was like, oh yeah? really? who amongst thouests knowsest how to drop lyrical bombz? you know, proper-like. the stereo MCs get yrself get yrself get yrself connected? OK yeah that dude rocked the anorexic look pretty freaky deaky but por favor. that was some whiteboy call and response to old soul records, you could hardly call it RAPPING. the problem, I informed my beer breath mate, was that all those brit crews tried to sound American. they studied our slang and intonation and played it back to us, but this time that shit didn’t work. they had no understanding that unlike rock n’roll hip-hop is folk music—it’s rooted to a specific time and place. oh for fuck’s sake, he slurred, don’t give me that “from the heart and being real” shite that you Americans are so hung up on. nah, nah, quothe, I, its not about authenticity. I agree that’s some bogus bullshit on the part of my compatriots. what I’m talking about is proximity. hip-hop demands a certain closeness. somewhere between the intimacy of fucking and the claustrophobia of the clink. hip-hop is about making music out of the language you hear every day, on the street where you live.

I could tell that I was convincing (not to mention charming as hell) but like I said, dude was a drunken prick. a drunken oxy-foxy prick on top of that, with his school scarf wrapped proudly around his neck and his brideshead reshitted coif bouncing boyishly in his beady eyes. I swear you could never tell who was gay in that school, they all drank with their pinkies out they all crossed their legs and even their undershirts were ironed. anyway he went on about class and accents and tried to get me to say some lines from pulp fiction and when I finally relented, muttering “royale with cheese” he doubled over like it was the funniest shit he’d ever heard.

oh, what a funny place. he said. your America.

whatever, I said.

not bad for a former colony, he said.

man, you must be really drunk to say that shit like you’re PROUD.

right, right, right, he said or something like that. I was sick of his crap and only hanging around for the free rounds.

what’s the lowliest accent in england? I asked him

there are several, he said, although I doubt you could tell the difference.

how about cockney? I asked

well right. that’s pretty low.

and distinct, I said. even a dumb American like myself knows what it is.

yes, he said…and?

and so mark my words…you’ll know that the golden age of british rap has begun when a rapper comes up slingin in cockney. yes. that’s what it will take.

cockney! he said, almost spitting out his drink. you’re batty! that will never happen.

mark my words, I said.

royale with cheese, he said, chuckling

awww fek off, I said.

…9 years later, I am REDEEMED…

dizzee rascal

rocks the cockney straight up and down

mf played his first U.S. show in Brooklyn

on the 40th anniversary of the beatles invasion

coincidence? prophecy?

neo-one-and-only?

all I’m gonna say is oy.

oy, motherfuckers.

now praise jah

and pass that shit



the real ish

when you've got yr favorite bands and aren't afraid to say them

i went a little further before i fell to my hands and knees.

my Persols must be cracked on the side

because little blasts of sparkling white light dazzled in my left eye

like there was a scratch in the lens

that UV shit.

oh god i’m having a hard time, i told the earth.

the earth was damp

i can't get anything done, i whined

and i have a million eggs in a million baskets.

take a look at what i'm doing, the earth said

I leaned forward and got a closer look

at little lilacs so brand new they looked like plastic cake decorations.

The petals curved inwards with youthful ache.

It had to be youth: there wasn’t a wrinkle or a crease on them.

Perfectly Formed.

Tragic.

There was a nakedness to the yellow burst in the center that made me look away, if such an absurd reaction can be believed.

(But that’s how we roll, party people…i’m shy around flowers and talking shit to squirrels)

A Rock N' Roll Fortune cookie:

“We needed a little violence, to make us rebaptizable.”

(incidentally, there was also a hair

thin and black

baked into the cookie itself…)


From: "TRUEBOY Theone"
To: grahamstacey6x@xxxxx.com
Subject: RE: u got any music suggestions?
Date: Sat, 06 Mar 2004 17:30:10 +0000

yes, so

what i'm listening to--

the rapture, the clash

the 3 mixes i made for everyone (that are ready to be sent i just have to send them)

aphex twin

dizee rascal, air

miles davis, yo la tengo, the cure

hole (live through this)

the buzzcocks

lou reed, seefeel, the pixies, the 6ths

iggy and the stooges, calexico, interpol

broken social scene

jonathan*fireater (or wherever the fuck you put that asterix)

lotte lenya

mozart

le tigre, kate bush, the beat

liz phair (solamente exile in guyville)

tricky, the prodigy

black sabbath, Die Vantastichen Vier, missy elliott, fannypack, jay-z, dangermouse

jason's (sublog) "mix.submag.ca"

103.1 online (guilty)

103.5, 97.1, 98.7 (real new york)

fmu.

93.9 npr

88.3 jazz 88


{belch}

can of diet coke

hsssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

infantilize me.

it’s not often I delete a post but I had something up here about how made-up people are better than real people “because they don’t ever go away” and I had a picture of my stuffed dog Macro, the one I mentioned in the last post, and I read over what I wrote and thought ‘what the fuck that’s not really what I think’. real people are always better, even if some of them are more evil to you than you could ever have imagined and they hurt you in ways that you will never get over…they are better because they can be your friend and hold you and tell you the things you need to hear whereas fake people are only ever an echo of your own voice coming back to you from across the abyss.

TRUEBOY: getting the biggest high possible.

i fake it so real i am beyond fake...

except when i don't

one love, jamie.



edit: it occurred to me that the sight of my childhood toy might make one or two of you smile so i included Macro as a link.

satans laundromat

…then we went, to Times Square
and ever since i’ve been hanging round there…

The first time I was in Times Square I remember my father said, “You’ve never seen anything like THIS before,” and there I was, impossibly small with my stuffed dog, Macro and my cherry lollipop. Looking up; spellbound. I don’t remember what it was that I saw, how it was that the place first appeared to me, but I do remember being so distracted that I let my lolli fall against Macro where it became stuck, and I—alarmed--gave it a tug, pulling off a patch of synthetic brown “hair” and being sent reeling from the effort. I fell backwards into a wonderfully soft wall, a warm, alive wall topped with an immaculate piling of blonde hair and wrapped in a shiny, full-length black fur coat. So shiny in fact, that it glistened in the theater lights, and gave off flashes as bright as aluminum.

Whoever it was, our collision barely broke her stride. It all happened so fast—a New York minute, as it were. I remember the sudden horror and hilarity of realizing that the lolli was out of my hand and traveling on its own down the street, red as a stop sign on the back of that rich bitch’s coat.

It was a statement—regardless of the lack of conscious intent, I like to think of it as my first real interaction with the crowds and lights and marquees and pickpockets and break dancers and shimmering penthouse suites that make up Times Square.

The unrelenting white light from the electronic billboards...the Saturnalia promise of a midnight sun…

I still have that poor old stuffed dog called Macro.

I can still get his nose to squeak, if I squeeze it a certain way.

And he still has a bald patch the size of a quarter on his back.

“Do I dare disturb the universe?” I think, as I feel the spot with my thumb.

no, see, I’m not anti-authoritarian. just when it comes to blogs. which is why I have one. if you want rules then make love to yr day job. work hard. climb the ladder to success. go ahead. I’ll be on the escalator. if yr going to be boring and take yrself way too seriously at least make some money at it. why do it here where there’s not a cent to be had? I swear, man, you are so old and tired it's painful. you should think about trying to have some fun. whatever that means to you. have yr site fuck itself in front of a mirror. proliferate. spawn blog crews that spawn off other blog crews until you’ve got whole galaxies of shining stars, linked together like a chain reaction. each site with only one reader. who never comments. use technology to make relationships shaped like pentagons, octagons fucking parallellalellagrams. burn holes, switch styles. divide yr sensibilities, and yr attention span. if you still have one.

stand up proud. be like me. second rate, third generation.

the end of the family line.