The song is real but the group is not.

F-1 b/w Pirelli
Paris, France

We wrote this song for a scene in a movie called Sterling Fassbinder. In the scene, a girl named Nora speeds down an American highway in a red Ford Mustang with the top down, blasting Serge Gainsbourg's song of the same name out of a boombox stuck to the dashboard with ducktape. Nora smokes Gitanes and can barely sit still enough to drive. She is the very zenith of dyke style with her freshly washed, dazzling white wifebeater, grey suit trousers, and oversized Tag Heur watch that hangs loosely from her slender wrist. On her face are Cutler & Cross tortoise shell shades with burnt umber lenses that keep her world in perpetual sunset. Her greasy dark blond hair blows all over the place: she is the European playing the part of the classic American drifter. The wind makes her nipples hard. They seem disproportionately large in comparison to her small, hard breasts. F-1 starts playing when Nora pulls over to pick up a girl who will turn out to be Sterling Fassbinder. She is waiting there, in the middle of nowhere with an army green duffel bag--a sleepy, sad boy-dyke under a wide screen expanse of late morning blue sky patched-up with big, fluffy clouds. When they meet everything else becomes interchangeable...they could be on any highway, on any country, on any planet...it wouldn't matter. The stark inevitability of the fuck strips it of all romanticism, leaving behind the hard kernal of animal lust. Nora's broken and heavily (German) accented English is punctuated by bouts of giddy, hysterical laughter. She is trying to explain how she feels like a man with a man's desires and then a woman and then a man again. Not too different from this song, I think."


Dear {insert friend's name here},

i made this iMix 4 u:

belle and Sebastian “i fought in a war”…here’s a mix i made to explain to you where i’m at in this post-9/11 and post-fraudulent historical moment. this long, Night of the Living Un-Ironic that we’ve been suffering through. by putting this song on first, i’m layin out the hope that this highly idealistic and slightly introspective collection of tunes can cut thru the bullshit and give it to you the way it really feels, so u know how i’ve been shakin thru my days and have been too busy fighting the windmills of my mind to call or drop u a line...

straight up, tho--i’m a huge belle and Sebastian fan. gotta love a bunch of pasty, thirty-something scots who write songs from the perspectives of lonely teenagers. i saw them when they played prospect park last year. i bought a tea towel with the band’s name on it. it’s a map of Scotland with icons depicting the major industries in each area. it’s the kind of thing you’d find in a school textbook, which is probably where they got it from...lots of bottles with a W on them and black cows lying down in patches of grass…

massive attack “unfinished sympathy”....this song is totally off-the-hook dramatic—it’s the perfect mix of house melody and hip-hop beats. the toy piano kills me every time…this song always takes me back to the damp, dark year that i lived in england. i used to bring down the house with this when i djed around oxford. i think this group is one of the coolest that ever came out of that country. they’ve got that deep voiced, leather pant swagger like the animals, or the rolling stones in the late sixties, when they danced around on drugs with their shirts open and their skinny white chests out for all the world to see. incidentally, during the gulf war the bbc banned massive attack records because of their name. “You’re the book that I have opened, and now I need to know much more”--it’s crazy that years later the lyrics are more relevant to me than they ever were.

mix master mike “fur coat”… this guy’s on my top ten djs of all time list. absolutely. i so totally sweat how he incorporates his own distinctive style to everything he does—that lurching psych-rock, skate-punk, orange soda, drive-thru movie thang. the way he switches back and forth between beats is hypnotic. mix master mike is from the California in MY MIND. i don’t know if he really is from out there, but his shit’s the very ESSENCE of what i fantasize the west coast to be about. i’ve said it before—sometimes i feel like my future lies out there…i’ll make a new start, with a new name…btw, this is about the point in the mix when you spark up the american beauty, if you haven’t already. ya know—catch a fire, bun a dun, pass the dutchie from the left hand side…whatevs.

my bloody valentine “sometimes”…when i first heard this it was on a cassette i bought used and i thought the tape was fucked up. i was pissed, but something told me not to shut it off and by the time this song came on i realized it was supposed to sound that way. it’s funny because now, nearly ten years later, i’m still listenin to that shit and it’s beyond me to even FATHOM how i could have ever thought anything was wrong. each note sounds perfect to me—perfectly placed, executed and produced, like a miles davis track…

i don’t care who you like or what kind of music yr into--everyone should own the album loveless.

cream “badge”…in my mind, this song plays during the crucial scene in the best movie ever, which has yet to be made but includes a Buick Riviera and winding rain-coated, suburban streets, complete with blue streetlights and piles of beautiful, multicolored fake leaves in the gutter…

the song kicks in the exact second the protagonist turns off her headlights and then cuts the engine as she rolls incognito into a gravel covered parking lot, looking this way and that, straining her eyes, tryin to see if there’s anything out there…

interpol “leaf erikson”…brooklyn scenesters, but a serious cut above the rest--and they dress well. i know it’s awfully nostalgic of me, but i prefer my musicians hip. this entire album is brilliant. it was the first thing i listened to that really felt like young new york after 9/11…all that jaded longing that comes after the greatest tragedy of your time leaves you unscathed and strangely unaffected.

the rolling stones “miss you”… “i guess i’m lyin to myself…it’s just you and no one else…” man, mick jagger sounds so incredible when he sings that line…like he’s overcome with longing and he finally can’t take it anymore. he’s stopped his swagger and fallen to his knees.

the walkmen “138th street”… this song is a lament to a long lost friend, and for me, the sentiment extends also to a certain time and group of people…i went to college with these guys and their infamous ex-lead singer, who was the same year as me. back in the day they were jonathan fire*eater, and everyone who knew them knew they were going to be famous. stewart, the lead singer, was especially charismatic. he had that thing—call it a look or a cinematic glow or something. maybe it was the smack, which he couldn’t stop using. i knew some of his friends but not him, not really. they showed me the poetry he banged out on his dirty typewriter (so that the ‘e’s and ‘u’s had ink smeared in their open spaces) and i was too awestruck by what i read to say much more than, ‘hi’. for all his rock star antics, it seemed like he was shy, too—although maybe that’s just me, projecting. he wrote about johnny cash and children in huge, old cars and floating lipstick kisses and southern daughters, jesus and telephone wires…all motifs i intended to steal, as soon as i got far enough away from that school and from him. anyway, jonathan fire*eater were hard at work payin their fuckin dues, going on shitty mini-tours in a van and playing the 3AM slot at the continental, among other dives, until suddenly and unexpectedly the steven spielberg mega-label dreamworks came round and offered them a million dollar contract. they signed, accompanied by a music press hoopla that designated them as the next big thing…a year later they were broken up, the contract and their friendships were in shambles and the album that was to end all albums was only so-so. was it the hype? the money? the pressure to bring it? who knows. like i said, they weren’t my friends. i was just nearby, at the party… a face in the crowd. all i know is that stewart escaped from rehab and left the tristate area for several years, during which time the rest of the band reformed as the walkmen. i think they wrote this song about him.

elliott smith “needle in the hay”…the royal tenenbaums is a great flick and the suicide scene when this song plays is really beautifully filmed. the fact that elliott smith actually killed himself recently (by stabbing himself in the chest) adds a level of poignancy, but when all is said and done you can’t deny that it’s a great song, in and of itself.

the clash “straight to hell”… i tell this story about myself, in which i’m conceived while the clash are playing. i’ve told it so often i almost believe it myself. this was the first clash song i ever heard. to me, it always has been and always will be perfect. not even as a song anymore, but as a way of being—and i’m not talking about the trajectory of literally going straight to hell, although i guess that plays into it too: “Water froze, in the generation. Clear as winter ice. This is your paradise. There ain’t no need fer ya. (There ain’t no need fer ya.)”

earth, wind and fire “that’s the way of the world”…i bought this off an iMix by crystal method. the one dude described it as a beautiful song and it was enough for me…so you see it works, this whole selling individual tracks as parts of a whole. btw, the dude was RIGHT. the song IS beautiful.

portishead “glory box”…this group specialized in making music for films that didn’t exist. it was a bunch of dudes and this patrician looking, straight-haired lady as a lead singer, who belted out songs of love, lust and loss…there was definitely something hot about her looking so repressed and singing so slutty…there are lots of little details on a portishead track—like samples of imperfections in records, or a needle pop used as percussion…

i like when u can get lost in details, as u dream yrself the star on the big screen of yr mind…

public enemy “by the time i get to Arizona”… chuck d once said that hip-hop was a certain feeling—an expression of the angst one has at being born onto the so-called “wrong” team of life. this ‘hip-hop feeling’ wasn’t limited only to rap. according to him, nirvana was just as much hip-hop as public enemy—both groups were raw and in yr face and unapologetic. it made an impression on me, when I heard him say that, and although i agree with him about that feeling, “by the time i get to arizona” IS the kind of hip-hop track that makes you realize just how incredibly ELECTRIFYING the form can be when presented at its PUREST level. beat is for yoko ono, beat is for sonny bono, but “by the time i get to Arizona” is one of those songs that a certain segment of the population remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing when they first heard it. i was on the highway in new jersey, in the back seat of this guy’s car, stuffed like sardines with other people from my high school. it was winter, we had on puffy jackets and the windows were fogged. i remember he had a digital speedometer and the dashboard glowed blue green as he pumped this through his thousand dollar system (which was a fuck lot of money when yr 15 and broke)…i’ve always been a PE fan but DAMN. talk about music that makes yr nipples hard—how about that break down in the middle with the chorus of screaming and the dark, subterranean beats?…shit, PE’s producers weren’t called the bomb squad for nothin’…we drove thru back roads and projects, and i wrote the name i used then in big bubble letters on the window…a short while later there was the mtv video that got banned, cuz it depicted the members of the group acting out an assassination on the governor of Arizona.

crosby, stills, nash and young “ohio”…as a little girl i loved to listen to music with my father up in the attic that was his office. it was one of my favorite things to do. records, 8-track and cassettes—he had the whole set-up. he was a big fan of these four guys, but at the time i didn’t really connect with any of their music except this song. it’s an angry reaction to how the police murderously opened fire on a crowd of kent state college students protesting the vietnam war. four people were killed and others were wounded. i remember lying on my back and looking up at the wood rafters with the line, “ten soldiers and nixon coming, we’re finally on our own” turning over and over in my head…

“they were just kids,” my father said, which made me wonder, because i thought i was just a kid.

were the police going to shoot me too?

the hives “die, all right!”…nyc punk rock from sweden-- “too messed up to even mess around…we seem so alive, but when it comes to death we’re gonna die, all right! we’re gonna die! we’re gonna die! but not...right…NOW!”

nada surf “hi speed soul”…i want to “all skate” to this.

beck “paper tiger”…the story is that beck’s girl broke up with him and threw him into a soul searching depression, the result of which was this album, sea change. some people thought that he lost his game and wussed out, but i think it’s the best thing he ever did. maybe it’s because i was never a huge fan of his other stuff. that stoner, space cadet wit of his always got on my nerves-- although i did like some of the jams he put out with the dust brothers. but this is different…sea change is filled with tracks like this one, a big mural of a song, painted with bright, cinematic colors. the style recalls the 60’s pastiche of the first song of the mix--belle and Sebastian’s “i fought in a war”…which nearly brings us full circle…

that’s right. in the TRUEBOY world every ending is a beginning…especially when all u have to do is press play again…

i like the idea of making iMixes that fit on CDs, so folks can burn them for friends. there were two extra songs that weren’t in the iTunes database but are included on certain handmade hardcopies that i may get around to making, complete with one-off, painfully artsy covers.

thank-u for reading/listening.





Winter Blues @ Ground Zero

today as i made my way through the crowd in the world trade center path station, i noticed a woman in front of me wearing a woolen skirt with the kind of plaid, Burburry's kind of pattern that you see everywhere, white tights and brand new, bright red lace-up shoes. i knew they were new because there was a patch of blood smeared above her left heel, and she was hobbling along as if in pain. man. did that ever bring me DOWN. there she was, a short, middle-aged, middle-class working woman trying her best to look nice, having picked up the skirt at a sale at The Crap or Bananna Republic, where she weeded through the micro-sized, youth obsessed fashion, trying to find something suitable for work that was maybe even a little flatterring, and she was wearing it today with the new tights and the new shoes because there was going to be one of those horrible, evening-before-a-holiday office parties and she was tired of sitting off to the side like she was an invisible wet noodle. no sir--not her, no more... her horoscope was good, she was using a new shampoo and that mysterious red zig-zag in her eye had all but cleared up...

she was going to get as close as she could to beautiful.

and there she was--her mouth stretched tight with pain while she contemplated the steep steps leading up to the street, where the sound of traffic mingled with salvation army bells and the sing-song calls of the guys giving away the freebie morning papers printed with an ink so cheap it got all over your hands in a matter of seconds.




I turned and saw that the girl was standing on the curb as the cab went off without her.

“Why didn’t you get in the cab?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” she said, smiling coyly and taking step towards me. “Didn’t want to.”

The sky turned purple like in a music video. The street was watching us—invisible cameras dangled in the air over our heads, there were microphones tucked in the streetlights, waiting for one of us to emit the next sound. Instead we just stood there, staring at each other. It touched my heart to have heard the note of concern in her voice—and to see her there, her pretty neck craned forward as she clutched her woefully trendy handmade handbag. I tried to think of something worthwhile to say.

Just then Fitz pulled up in the Peugeot. The light was on inside, turning the car into a bright little bubble of home, filled with scarves and magazines, clothing and CDs.

“I’ve got to go,” I said.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, as I quickly slid in the back. I noticed that he was wearing TRUE’s bright yellow windbreaker. The hood was too small for him. It was pulled tightly over the back half of his head. His five o’clock shadow was darker than usual.

Beside him, TRUE rubbed her face and laughed hysterically.

I threw one last look to the girl. She regarded the car coolly, and then opened her bag and took out a cigarette.

“Does the lil lady need a lift?” Fitz asked, affecting a British accent.

“No. She’s fine. Just go,” I said.

We shot forward and were at top speed in what seemed like seconds.

“Hey,” I shouted above the music. It was “Two of Us”, by The Beatles. TRUE shot me a look and proceeded to turn the volume up as far as it would go. She shouted a long, changing the lyrics to “Three of Us”:

Three of us riding nowhere
Spending someone’s
Hard earned pay
Three of us Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home!

“So. How are you feeling, Sterling?” It was a question she only asked me when she was drunk. Otherwise, she seemed to forget that I had human feelings.

“Why don’t you tell me?” I said. “I thought you were the big time prophet.”

“Yeah, as if,” she said, quietly.

“Oops, wrong way!” Fitz called out, as he pulled over abruptly and turned the car around. We were on Portobello Road. For a minute the world stopped moving and I could make out the details. Outside the cobblestones glistened like cupcakes. The thought crossed my mind that I could get out, now, and by doing so perhaps persuade the two of them to follow. We were back at top speed before I could do anything. TRUE shoved in a cassette. The car filled with the vacuum flush symphony of garbled tape.

“It’s messed up, TRUE, take it out,” I shouted above the din.

“Hey! you can totally hear both sides at once!” TRUE exclaimed.

“Who is that, Michael Jackson?” Fitz cackled.

“Fuck you!” TRUE told him, in between hiccups of laughter.

She clapped him on the shoulder and turned and to look back at me.

“Don’t mind him, he’s really pissed. Ha. Pissed. See, I’m learning the native language already,” she confided to me. One side of her face was bathed in passing light. The other was covered in darkness.

“Oh yeah?” I said. “Well I think you’re not too far behind!” I had to shout over the noise, which I hate because it makes me sound aggressive.

“What was that?” TRUE shouted back.



I was about to reach forward and grab her neck when suddenly a solemnly played organ replaced the screeching sounds.

“Oh yea of little faith,” she said. A beat began from under the organ, deep and clear. It had the requisite high-hats and incessant build-up of a house track. Whatever had been wrong with the tape was fixed. TRUE stuck a long white Dunhill Green in her mouth. She used to hate all menthols with a passion, but that was before she came to England and discovered Dunhills.

“Gotta light?” she asked me, although she knew full well that I didn’t smoke anymore.

I remember the triumphant sound in her voice, the, “I-told-you-so-why-don’t-you-ever-want-to-believe-me?” sing song tone.

At that moment I hated her more than anyone in the world.

Suddenly, the car jerked violently to the right. TRUE was rocked back and forth in her seat. The expression on her face was that of someone being rudely awakened. I looked over her shoulder and saw the bright glow of a traffic triangle as it filled the bottom half of the windshield. The car made an awful lurch as we came over a curb, and it registered to me that we were about to hit the divider.

"Oh, God!" I heard someone yell. Everything was completely detached in that moment, like watching TV on heroin. I was floating over the scene. It might even have been me who said it.

In the next second there was a loud crunch, followed by an immense thud that threw everything forward.

I remember thinking very clearly that I needed to watch out for my teeth.

fucking hell oh please oh NO!!

I was catupulted into the back of TRUE's seat. The right side of my face smacked into the metal frame of the head rest. The part where you adjust the height of the cushion. Then, just as violently, I was whipped back, my tailbone striking against something hard and unyielding. A liquid splashed around the inside of the car that I immediately recognized as blood.

It was on my arms, which were lying on my lap, straight and white and dead as doll arms.

I shut off for a second. When I came back the car doors were open. Something on the dashboard was chiming but other than that it was very quiet.

I was immediately reminded—the darkness, the muffled chirps of alarms sputtering from the flattened cars. Only this time I could breathe the air.

"C'mon, time for a hotel," I heard Fitz telling me. I looked up and saw that there was a gash across his forehead, from which a thick band of blood was slowly oozing forth.

TRUE was hunched over in the passenger seat. I couldn’t see her face.

“Baby, you’re going to have to get up,” Fitz said to me.

“What?” I said.

“We can’t stay here.”

“What?” I said again. He started to explain, slowly, carefully—something about the police, but I refused to pay attention to what he was saying. All I cared about was TRUE.

Her face...I couldn't see her face... Suddenly, I feared the worst...

"Hey, hey..." I called out to her. My voice sounded funny, like I was falling backwards and hearing myself from faraway.

Suddenly TRUE straightened up and to my relief and embarrassment she exhaled a puff of smoke in my direction.

"I found a lighter, " she said, smiling cheerfully as though nothing had happened.

As far as I could tell, there wasn't a mark on her.



what i'd REALLY like is a little carpeted storefront with a person seated at a wooden desk with a brown Formika top (the old school kind that has little, "Meet the Jetsons" designs spinning around in there) who looks like one of the three of us. perhaps they are one of us, it's hard to say...there's a gigantic neon clock on the white plaster wall and not a computer in sight. the person at the desk has a typewriter. or an adding machine. or a fashion magazine and a nail file.

or perhaps instead there's an ancient, rusted cash register that looks like something that was dragged out of the bottom of the ocean and unceremoniously dropped onto the desk. there is no way it would ever function, even if there was something in the store that one could actually buy.

there are some shirts hanging on a small metal rack, but each one of them is different and none of them look particularly NEW and besides, there aren't any tags on anything.

retro hip-hop plays from 2 huge, stark white speakerboxes that hang from the ceiling like communist intercoms.

there is a fat white phone on the Formika. it's something from the late 80s, with a long, curly cord that may or may not be tangled. occasionally it rings an incredibly jarring and ridiculous ring. the actor has to maintain a strict aura of officiousness as they answer, "Hello, BRANDTRUEBOY?"

or maybe it should be, "Hello. BRANDTRUEBOY."

or perhaps just,


i dunno. i've still gotta work some of this shit out.

i'm especially interested in the actress who will play the part of TRUE. i think i'm gonna stop by when it's her shift, fer sere.

maybe she won't mind if i sometimes chill out there for a bit

smoking a cigarette and reading a comic book

bringing her a coffee...

(light and sweet)

and talking in familiar tones

about familiar things...

i can be THAT customer

the kind i always secretly wanted to be...the one who's in with the cool kids who work at the store

the one who gets to hang out, no questions asked, and is first in line when the free shit gets doled out.

the customer all the other customers love to hate--

that's who i want to be.

come on down to the store...u can buy some more more more...come on down to the store...u can buy some more more MORE

shit this thing keeps ringing.

jamie's coming home.


Escalade, September 10, 2001

The cool thing about how TRUE, Sterling and I worked out these interwoven stories of our past is that each bit can stand on its own. So you should be able to hop on the story train at any stop and still get where you're goin! of course perhaps you ?WANT the whole enchilada. the full monty. the whole SICK bidness. so i've provided the other parts, if you're didn't catch them a couple of weeks ago and you're interested...

oh yes--i nearly forgot! the overarching name of the piece is "3 car crashes with 3 people in 3 months" and, as the title suggests it takes place over a three month period between July and October of 2001.
part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4:
We picked up Sterling in Times Square, where she materialized out of the crowd like Moses.

After checking both sides of the street, TRUE deemed it safe to open the door. I sunk back in my seat and made eye contact with Sterling. She looked pooped from her temp gig downtown. We exchanged concerned looks.

Meanwhile, her presence seemed to galvanize TRUE, who leaned over with the weighted sock wrapped tightly around her hand.

“It’s so fucking on,” TRUE told her.

Sterling nodded coolly and adjusted her Steelers skully. The corporate glow of Times Square flashed across her freckled cheeks.

“I don’t know why you made me come all the way up here if we’re just going to go back to Brooklyn.”

“Too risky to pick you up down there,” TRUE said, as she nodded her head vigorously to the beat of the Pixies song that filled the car.

“Times Square is anonymous.”

“What!” Sterling said. “Do you have any idea how crowded it is around this time in front of those goddamn towers? You could have picked me up on a horse and no one would have looked twice.”

“Better to meet away from where you work…that way it lessens the chance of being spotted by someone who knows you.”

“Hmm,” Sterling said. I thought about how out of everyone in the car, she had the most to lose, legally speaking, that was.

“So we’re really doing this?” she said. Our eyes met again, in the rear view mirror.

“Of course, what the fuck did you think? After what happened!”

“I still don’t understand. Fitz told me some punk bitch jumped you? Grabbed you and felt you up? Where were you, exactly?”

TRUE sighed and rubbed her face.

“Here’s what happened: I was walking home, on Graham about to turn on to Bayard, when suddenly it began to pour. I had to run back into the shadow of the BQE, where it was cold as hell and there was the rushing echo of the cars overhead. I got soaked. My cigarette turned into a soggy mess.

I stood there, practicing a couple of rhymes, trying to think about what I wanted from the day…you know, whatever. The rain tapered a bit, like an invisible curtain had been pulled through it, and then all at once it stopped, as quickly as it had started. I waited a few seconds before continuing on my way.

That’s when I head the footsteps.

‘Hey, can I bum a smoke?’

I turned and saw a good looking, slim teenage guy with shoulder length brown hair. I-talian, I guessed, from the neighborhood.

‘OK,’ I said, or ‘Sure’, or something like that, and I dug one out of my pack and gave it to him. We made eye contact. He seemed happy and harmless. Young and dumb, that sort of thing.

Actually, he didn’t call it a ‘smoke’, he called it a ‘stoogie’. Yeah.

Anyway, he asked if he could get a light, too. I started rummaging through my bag, where I had just dropped my lighter. I remember hurrying because it felt like it might start raining again any second. As I had my head bent, he leaned over and ran a finger over my right tit. It was totally matter of fact, like, no big deal. I looked up and literally just watched it happen. My shirt was soaked so everything was super well-defined. He had no trouble finding the nipple and pressing down on it, like it was a buzzer on a door or some shit like that.

I looked at his face and he had this stupid, ugly, lustful expression…it was like, I don’t’ know....hungry…”

TRUE turned and looked out the tinted window. We were on the bridge, rolling along toward Brooklyn at a slow but steady pace with the rest of the rush hour traffic. Beneath us the water was flat and gray, like a dull linoleum floor.

I couldn’t see her face, but there was a flutter of excitement in my stomach as I could tell that she was upset.

“I had that fucked up dream feeling as he pushed me back against the black metal fence that’s there along the sidewalk and fully felt me up. His hands went up and down. His face was close to mine. There was a mole beneath his right eye.

I kept asking myself if this was really happening, or whether I was having some kind of flashback. That constant questioning shit is fucked because it made me stand there, zoned out and unable to move. He made these sounds, ‘mmmm, mmmm,’ like he was eating something extra good, you know what I’m saying? Right there in broad daylight, with cars passing on McGuinness. How fucked up is that?”

“How did you get away?” Sterling asked. Her voice was wound hard and tight.

“I don’t know, I just snapped out of it. That’s like, the worst part. It wasn’t as if he had a gun or whatever. He didn’t even have me in a tight grip. All it took was for me to wake up and realize, yeah, this shit is really real and step aside. I said, ‘what the fuck?’ and his eyes turned wide and he bolted.”

“Motherfucker,” Sterling muttered. The traffic had come to a standstill. I reached over and put my hand on TRUE’s shoulder. I felt proud of my nails. They were buffed and clean and shined like 20 carats without the help of a single drop of polish.

“He treated me like…I don’t know. It’s crazy. I realized that he has no idea who I am.”

“That’s for sure,” Sterling chimed in.

“All he had was a plan. A shitty little plan to walk over and get some.”

“I don’t think it was a plan specific to you,” I said. “He’s a straight teenage boy. All he can think about are ass and titties.”

“Give me a break,” TRUE said. She tightened the top of the sock around her knuckles. Beneath her palm the weighted toe hung heavily like a disease, the white cotton fabric pockmarked with quarters.

“He knew when he came up to me that he was going to grab my tits. Motherfucker pegged me for a sitting duck!”

“What difference does it make what he knew? Punks jump up to get beat down.” Sterling said. She again tugged on the edges of her Steelers’ skully and nodded her head to an imaginary beat.

“So what, now—you know where this piece of shit lives?”

“No,” TRUE said.

“His name?”


“What the fuck?” Sterling said, “How are we going to find him?”

TRUE handed her the printout.

“I was able to take a picture as he ran away,” she said, triumphantly.

“What!” Sterling said. She turned the paper over to see if there was something more. She stared uncomprehendingly at the paper and shot me a desperate look.

“Your camera is garbage. This is all we have to go on?” she said, incredulously. “Are you guys crazy?”

“Ha!” TRUE shouted. “How genteel of you to pose the question in the plural!”

“Genteel has nothing to do with it. He’s the one who’s driving us there...to this mysterious neverneverland.”

“Oh, yes,” I said, as I reached for a cigarette. “I may be driving, but I’m certainly not the one behind the wheel.”

“Oh, now I get it, Fitz. You’re completely stoned…no wonder...” she gave me a look like she wanted to spit in my face. “So this is all a bunch of bullshit? Well, you know. Maybe I had better things to do tonight.”

“I resent that. This isn’t some kind of act.”

“What do you mean? How the hell are you going to find him?”

“With the picture.”

“The picture is a zoomed-in, Photoshopped nightmare. You can’t see anything.”

“Yes I can. I can see it all.”

“TRUE…,” I started, wanting to add my two cents, but I was immediately disarmed by the low, reasonable tone to my voice that I forgot what it was I wanted to say.

“Do you still have the camera on you,” Sterling asked. “Then at least we can look at the picture raw.”

“No. But fuck that. I’m going to find him, you guys,” TRUE said. She leaned against the door with the window all the way down. We were moving, picking up speed as we exited off the bridge and into South Williamsburg. The white dome of La Puenta passed over her shoulders like the Capitol.

“With our without you doubting fucking Thomases.”

I felt her looking at me. I took the Ray Bans out of my front breast pocket and slid them onto my face.

“I’m ready, baby,” I muttered. “You know I’m with you.”

“Yes. Fine. We’re all with you,” Sterling said. “But seriously. How are you going to find him?” Her voice turned softer, as though she were pleading with some secret sense of logic. “I mean…,” her voice trailed off and she looked at me, wanting answers, I suppose. I opened my mouth but nothing came out.

I was giving up and going with it.

“It’s simple.” TRUE, said, as she sat back down and lit a Winston.

“We’re going to use publicity to smoke him out.”

the deputy


this is how to blog

im wearing the same pants i wore the last time we fucked.

ohmygod u made me feel so good.

u made me want to fall fast asleep...


and so we all huddled together in the room, drinking 40s and listening to palace. cat's blues--with will oldham howling, and if i could have a clue what justice is, it would be more than i deserve! and at that moment someone pulled open the closet to reveal an american flag draped over the inside of the door...our host staggered over and calmly lit the bottom corner of red and white stripes on fire with his zippo.

at first it only smoldered, but then long orange flames leapt up the flag, heading for the ceiling. everyone was yelling and smashing their beer bottles against the wall.

"I hate u hipster assholes!" i screamed, as the room swirled with orange and yellow carnival lite. no one heard me over the incessant BLEET of the smoke detector.

no one except sterling, that is.

she pressed her hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear:

"i've got yr back."

then she grabbed my hand and led me to safety.



mama said canuck u out!

yo, i'm sorry to hear about yr heart...having had cardiological issues myself, i know you must be goin thru some shit right now. listen, tho, i found this great new product: Vegannaise. it's not made out of eggs and it has zero cholesterol and I SWEAR ON WHATEVER YA GOT that this shit tastes BETTER than most real mayonnaise. is that badge or what? Vegannaise fakes it so real it is beyond FAKE. that could be an ad! tack on the bit..."just like yr moms" and i think it might even sell in the g. hell, the first health food store opened in harlem a couple of months ago...(and by having ONE store harlem has more than in the entire state of indiana).

so you never know...

after i tried a tiny taste of Vegannaise i was like, super-psyched. plus i was high so you KNOW i slathered that shit on THICK--'happy mayo days are here again', style. it was funny though--when i took a bite, it was a little much. literally--the taste was great but i wasn't used to a sandwich being so wet.

six months ago, when the doc told me i better flip the script, i didn't really know how i was gonna manage, but now i can't even remember how half that shit tasted and i could really care less.

that's something i've been figurin on recently:

it turns out that i don't always want what i think i want, but i keep on after it anyway cuz i'm a creature of habit

i carve my name

i have to stop lecturing myself all the time and try listening instead.

anyway, my t-dot bloodclot, now that you have to lay off the sauce you and raymi should be down for whatever. she's goin dry too. oh i know it's none of my bidness, and that for all i know the two of you got beef right now, but this here is my site and it happens to be all about ME and my extended-play phantasies (i've got another site that's about me and my militia)...so if i want u and raymi to be cool, then u and raymi will be cool, and if i want my entire proplist to be living the life of rockstars without the music, than gosh darn it, i'm gonna treat each one of those bloggers on the left like they're the famous folks they deserve to be. and if i want to be a secret superhero who flies around my mind in my invisible jet and occasionally gets out to stare down the one and only wesssside batman, masked face to masked face--then i'm gonna do EXACTLY that.

there we are: pledging honor among thieves. the barest hint of a smile on each of our lips as we raise our arms and press our gilded, magic-spouting rings together.

thundercats, ho!

yeah so i hope it all works out fer ya, tyranny. incidentally, what did the doc say about puffin? mine didn't say a word, which led me to assume that i could keep on with my girlie smokes.

t-dot, t-dot

wtf is it called that, anyway?

wow. the Word spell check wants to change blogspot to bloodspot.

deep, huh?

...shit. i just read over this post.

i think i'm losing it.


open yr heart to me

we went out to the intersection

and walked until the sidewalk turned dark

i looked up and saw that the cheap, plastic, ne0-modern streetlights had been smashed to bits

plunging the alley into total darkness.

this must be the place, i said, as i looked in to try and see if anyone was there.

headlights passed overhead

playing patterns on the overpass

like tiny bits of film

it's time, i said

come rain or shine

solice or swollen lips

cut to us making love

that's how i called it in the dream

you were on top of me and raining kisses on my cheeks

"whatever it was you said,"

you said.

and i was about to tell you i didn't understand

but i woke up instead.


my idea of PHUN


the first thing i wanted to do was go out and incite a street riot,

but the first thing we have to do

is open our minds.

it was the internet who came out and voted, party people

it was that howard dean, smoked-out vibe

it was blogs and the daily show

it's the knowledge that even if yr the number one faggot freak

and all alone in yr shithole town,

there are places not so far away

where there are others just like you.

in the next four years it's time to build on that concept

we have to celebrate all the shit that makes us different from them

everything they'd like to pave over...

it's time to be in it for the spinach

it's time to bum rush the show

slay them with our love

(not to mention our BEATS)

all their beats, r belong to us!


Four Years

"i don't know", i said to TRUE. "I think your plan puts us in danger of further diluting ourselves."

"oh i'm deluded already," she said, her voice suddenly turning serious.

"absolutely...very much so."

"no, not deluded--DILLUTED. you know, like played out. i think it's already a little fucked up to have TWO sites. plus, you have blue pill out there, somewhere... and now, instead of making the dot com a literary site--like we said we were--we're just setting sail with all those stories HERE, on blogspot and switching up the new URL to be a business site? what the hell? a business site? what business?"



"you asked, 'what business?' well, that's the business. BRANDTRUEBOY."

"it's just a name."

"no--it's also a brand. a brand is more than its name...like the coca-cola logo. it's more than the sum of its parts...kinda like the three of us, don't you think?"

"'us'? I don't now what 'us' is anymore."

"that's OK, " TRUE said. she smiled a sweet, tired smile and leaned her head against the window.

"you don't have to know."

"oh yeah?" i said, laughing and patting my pockets for a cigarette.

"for a while there you said you'd never smoke again," she pointed out.

"hey listen," i said. "it's been a long night."

she tossed me a camel.

"i'm only ever tired when i know i'm not going to get to rest for a while. it's like magic. if i know i can sleep whenever i want, then suddenly i'm not tired anymore."

"OK," I said. As usual, TRUE had the window wide open. i cupped my hand around the end of the cigarette and lit it.

"well, that's the key to surviving a long night. especially when you're lost and alone and so tired that you ache."

"what's the key?" i said, wishing i had a camera to take a picture of her by the window, with her cigarette and her eyes and the stack of spy novels in the corner behind her...

the white strands of smoke and the way she kept blinking...

"you have to imagine that sleep is right around the corner--that the next thing you know you'll be waking up."

"hmmm," i said, as though i understood.

"one thing you gotta keep in mind...," she said, before trailing off as she became distracted by flicking through the songs on my iPod. for the first time i noticed the tell-tale white wire hanging from the spot in her hair where her ear must have been buried.

no wonder she kept mishearing me.

"anyway. keep your head up, girlie-girl," she said, finally, a little too loud.

"Someday soon all of this will be picturesque ruins."