links open windows


Now that I understand this right, let me take it to the mic. This revolution has just begun.

This isn’t an apology—I already told Sterling I was sorry. So many times it makes even me sick. Like Kurt, I’m just trying to figure out, “…What else can I say? Everyone is gay...”

Keep livin’, keep livin’—Remember the Past, Embrace the Future—but I can’t get this dream out of my head, a nightmare world too slick to be real life, it was an anime transit station, populated with anime people, each with a cool haircut. It’s the first time I’ve had cartoons in my dreams since back when I used to double-dip for breakfast. I think I got it from Sterling’s porno blog link that pissed me off so much. Freud says that most of what happens in our dreams is taken directly from the day’s activities. That explains the anime as a possible dream ingredient, but its actual inclusion—well, it occurred to me that the anime signified my feeling of displacement—the sense that the world belonged to a reality I couldn’t quite grasp. I remember that the anime people were trying to tell me something, motioning like crazy up at the archway over our heads. As I looked up, I heard a hiss and saw a plume of green gas unfurl against the vaulted ceiling. The color was sickeningly bright. It’s all my fault, I thought, as I watched the poor anime people hurriedly brush aside their fashionable bangs and struggle in vain to open previously invisible compartments in the wall. There must have been masks or something in there, I wanted to help them yank it open, but as usual in nightmares, I was rooted to the spot. I watched with sick fascination, as they started gasping for breath and clawing at their faces. Neatly drawn bubbles popped up on their arms as their eyes bulged and they fell to their knees. I was made to understand, by some omnipotent dream narrator—silent but all knowing, like an impulse or a god—that the people could no longer breath and would all soon be dead.

I didn’t know it was a dream. I thought I was dead too, even though I didn’t feel any effects of the gas.

Walking down the road with my little rude gun…

I couldn’t shake the feeling the dream left. I got drunk and walked up the island of Manhattan all the way from the red cage of the Williamsburg bridge pedestrian walkway to the secret laser canyons of midtown, telling myself I was getting it out of my system.

Walking down the road with my little rude gun. Top of my gun, cock it for fun…

There was a message radiating out to me, in the amber streetlights of Grand Central. I was looking for you, Sterling, thinking you might be getting out of work but it was already too late for that. The arched overpass spanning 42nd Street was identical to the one in the dream. I paused—the fireflies swirling in front of my eyes—before I shook my head and pushed against the brass handles on the doors leading into the station. I took long strides down the hall to the main concourse, where the plastic visors on the lamps at the ticket booths were the same green as the anime gas. Fat people passed dragging wheeled suitcases and slurping on Starbucks frappachinos. European teenagers stood in groups, filming the constellations on the domed ceiling with expensive digital video cameras. Just one push and a quick grab and it could be mine. The police officers and the camouflaged National Guard were too busy watching girls pass by. Anything could happen. I looked all around, at shops selling gourmet olive oil and shops selling expensive pens and shops selling golf clubs. They were mostly empty, and the Indian and Hispanic clerks leaned on their elbows against glass desktops, languishing away until the time when they were free. I took note of the glossy magazines in neat rows, the poster-sized advertisements for retro leather jackets, the actors, the actresses and models, famous people posing on beaches and in clubs and in parks—and I knew that the cinematic scene on each and every poorly bound page would someday make picturesque ruins.

The green in the circles of the 4-5-6 subway was the same, as was the new micro fiber shorts in the window of the jogging specialty shop, as were the jumpsuits worn by the cleaning crews sweeping trampled candy wrappers off the floor…train schedules, dirty tissues…leaves from outside…balls of human hair…

Exhausted from my walk, I elbowed my way onto the 5 train. The A/C was on full blast; it seemed too thin after the clammy air in the station—as though all the oxygen had been filtered out. I reeked of booze; the other passengers shot my dirty looks. I felt a tightness in my chest and concentrated on the subway map, staring at the big fat borough of Brooklyn and planning out which bars I’d hit next. This gave me some measure of calm until I realized that the band of green signifying Central Park was again the same…I peered around me, looking for someone suspicious as I gripped the bar so tightly I could smell the metal in my perspiration. My heart was banging in my chest. Not now, I told myself, not here. It wasn’t only the embarrassment of hitting the floor, but the expense. Do you have any idea how much it costs to have some EMT come on the train to slap you awake?

I don’t know how I made it—time stood still, no tick and no tock, but somehow, someway, I made it to Brooklyn. I put my hood on and went straight to my man’s place. Ringing up and banging on the metal door with an open palm while he brought his slow ass down the steps to let me in. Some neighborhood girls walked past while I waited.

“Who’s that kid,” I heard one of them ask.

“I don’t know, some thug…”

I turned their way, dipping my head in the blue streetlight.

“Oh, shit, it’s a girl,” they said, before scurrying off.

… top of my earth, tip of my birth, top of my death, tip of my breast, top of my chest, tip of my guess…

by fitzcarraldo

My mistake! I thought the purpose of this blog was to put our heads together and start get something re-started. While you two are busy backsliding, I'm looking into fresh new ways of getting our product to the people.

Chicken and pot at the drive-thru (has anyone ever heard of this before? it's genius!)

Give folks a little extra at the photo developers...figures it would be Spielberg who figured this one out first.

C'mon, you two kitty-kats make some art so I can get it out there!

by sterling

So I'm back at work now, after taking the morning off to deal with TRUE. I'll tell you, when I got out of the subway at Grand Central and merged into the late lunch rush of people, I felt like I had more in common with the working stiffs than any of the barflies and trustfund hipster kids I'd dealt with in the last 24. The only decent folks I met last night were those black guys at the truck depot in Greenpoint. Otherwise, it was a full-on parade of self-pity and self-delusion. I had to tell the pathetic story of my missing fingers just to coerce some answers out of the creeps at Dick's. Here's my misery, show me yours...and while you're at it, help me find my friend... I'M SO OVER IT I'M SO OVER IT I'M SO OVER IT.

TRUE, I decided in favor of you a long time ago--you're a part of my heart, and I won't dish on your business for all the world to read. I'm pissed off but not that pissed. Just one thing: did that "LIFE IS PAIN" that you carved into your stomach stop bleeding? Hope there wasn't any rust on that Swiss Army.


Sticks and stones break bones, but the gat'll kill you quicker
Especially when I'm drunk off the liquor
Smokin funk by the boxes, packin glocks is
natural to eat you niggaz like chocolates
The funk baby

Dedicated to the fat fuck Fitz.

by fitzcarraldo

Dear Tremulous TRUEBOY and Stridently Sexual Sterling:

I propose that we institute a TRUEBOY level of threat based upon the color-coded meter used by the United States Office of Homeland Security. Of course we'd be obliged to substitute the phrase "terrorist attacks" with "full-blown psychosis". Upon reading the last post by the lovely TRUE (see below), I propose, that like the rest of the country, we are at stage "yellow", which is to say:

Significant risk of terrorist attacks [i.e.,psychosis]. In addition to the previously outlined protective measures, the following steps may be taken:
• Increasing surveillance of critical locations
• Coordinating emergency plans with nearby jurisdictions
• Assessing further refinement of protective measures within the context of the current threat information
• Implementing, as appropriate, contingency and emergency response plans
Source: Homeland Security

Let's make sure we're all on the same page, people! Some may argue that it is imprudent to broadcast my intent to draft a plan of emergency procedures, and in particular to share it specifically with the person to whom it pertains to--TRUEBOY--but as I said, I was basing all of this on the work of the Office of Homeland Security, which makes worldwide broadcasts for ALL to hear/read, at least once a week. If it works for the U.S. Government, than gosh darn it, I'm confident it will work for us.



Where are you, Sterling? I've been looking for you since yesterday. I need to talk. I've got those fireflies in front of my eyes again, and you know what that means. I've gone back and forth on the L, checking out all the usual cafes and front stoops on Grand Street. Nothing. Those pierced girls in the out-of-style UFO pants hadn't seen you 'since forever'. Smelling their grape soda breath made me thirsty for a beer--an overpriced one, so I headed back up the L to Bedford Ave.

The lights on the train played tricks with me--I swore I saw you on the crowded stairways leading out of the station. But when I got up above ground you were no where to be seen. Nevertheless, I had a sudden sense of purpose as I stood looking for you in front of the busted, tagged-up public phones. Mirage or not, I savored my bit of hope. I hooked my thumbs in my belt loops as I peered this way and that, my hair and the trash and the dangling lines with the receivers torn off all blowing in the same direction. I glanced around the heavy curtains that insulated the front door of the L Café. Inside, the olive skinned Italian girl who reminded me of my first girl fuck was playing Nirvana for her two tables. I gave her my hey, okay look. On one side of the room there was a sleepy straight couple in hooded college sweatshirts and on the other a serious looking fat guy sketching a beautiful blonde with long veiny arms. She looked like a heroin addict or a modern dancer. All four people were completely absorbed in each other and didn’t notice me craning through the curtains like the head coming through the barn door on Picasso’s Guernica. I closed my eyes and saw an afterimage of blue veins: following that I saw the Nevermind baby in the pool, forever swimming after a dollar. Suddenly I didn’t feel like checking out the heated garden behind the kitchen, as was originally my plan. Maybe you were there, Sterling, reading “Savage Love” in a dingy, left over copy of The Voice and feeling avant-garde, but I couldn‘t be bothered with maneuvering past all those empty, lopsided little tables. Truth be told I was a little out of sorts. My breathing felt mechanical and my head felt woozy. The fireflies had grown in number. I stepped back outside and breathed deeply but silently until I recovered enough to walk the couple of blocks down to the shiny hall of the renovated girdle factory. Now it’s got a plastic sign over it that says “Mini-Mall”. I passed the bookstore with the cats and the plastic covered art and design tomes. I took a whiff of the peony and patchouli scented air inside the Tokyo style frock-shop and paused, unbearably light with Klonopin dulled regret beside the now vacant and locked store that used to sell Hip-hop toys, Belgian comics, and expensive Taschen gag books. There was some Japanese porn in there if you knew where to look, but what am I telling you that for--you probably bought the last of it, ya big... I went around the corner and ducked into other shops, where yeasty smelling boys and girls with meticulous bed-head wrapped $100 silkscreen t-shirts, antique lunchboxes, ironically designed patent leather change purses and other necessities in non-corporate, handmade paper. They carefully tied their parcels together with pashmina yarn and decorated them with twigs, glitter and brightly colored Himalayan beads. I ruffled through the neatly folded piles of extra small clothes and dug my fingernails into the twenty-dollar scented candles. Everything was sweet and casual and pleasantly pricey, but the crack in the dressing room mirror and the dead bug corpses gathered in the retro ceiling light fixtures seemed to belie the possibility of something swift and Godlike and deadly happening in the next second.

I looked for you on streets draped over with slanting afternoon sunlight. The air was crisp and cold--some early-late Fall shit. I put my hood on and leaned the crown of my head forward, like a boxer. I don’t know what I wanted from you, I just need to talk, or sleep or something. I went into another cafe and wrote on the bathroom walls with my pink pantone pen. I’m so excited, I can’t wait, to see you there went in a slight arch over the toilet paper dispenser. I’m so horny, but that’s o.k., my will is good…went to the left of the lime spotted sink.

Call me, OK? Ain't no love in the city.


What the fuck, Sterling? I guess in cyberspace you can fully live out your lifelong dream of being a 13 year old skater boy.

Hey, well I have cartoons, too, you guys. I've got cred as a web loser without a life. I like this guy, he fakes on the David Rhees "Get Your War On" shit. He fakes it so real, he's beyond fake. There's no ownership on the web--no more pretending for us!

BTW it's funnier when you're high. (And what do you know about Stoner Rock anyway, Sterling, ya big physically fit self idolizing weekend wifebeater wearing--oh, sorry, you call it a boybeater--9-5 wage slave. I wish I had a doll made in your image--I'd use that shit as a pincushion, ya big making the blog all slimey and stupid and what not.)

by sterling

Tonight I’m feelin it. I’m doin that before-you-go-out-jerk-off. It gives me that sex vibe for the club. I pull down my Guess, rub my titties and imagine a room full of Asian chicks. The walls are covered in silver foil and there are gigantic pillows strewn about covered in custom made purple shag cases. It’s all about my American biceps, and Serge Gainsbourg playing on the Bose. I want my Colour Café CD but I can’t find it and I don’t have time to look, hobbling around as I am with my hands halfway down my legs. I go to the radio instead, and put the dildo to work to “Rumblin’ Man” by Ironboss. Once I’m good and going, the throbbing more and more pronounced, I stop and go to one of my favorite anime porn sites. Look at that girl with the purple hair, how her eyes are drooping down, straining a bit, almost like she’s taking a shit as the overanxious gang member in the burgundy doo-rag rams his (we imagine) huge, anime cock up her tight little asshole, just like the ad says. There’s discomfort mixed with underlying strains of pleasure in her eyes as he squeezes his dick in—it’s completely smooth and without distinction, in true anime style. His friends stand around him, rooting him on, mouths open wide like muppets. They aren’t going to wait for him to finish—they’re going to rip open their Velcro track pants and hurriedly stick their hard cocks into any hole they can find on her. One of them comes around and sticks it in her mouth, grabbing a handful of purple locks in his four finger fist. The other one waits, rubbing himself until we can see teardrops of pearl colored cum dropping off the head of his swollen cock. They turn the girl around, and she climbs on top of him, taking him in her pussy while the original gangster, the leader in the burgundy doo-rag, resumes with pounding her asshole. It’s a double-dick see-saw, a hole for every cock, everything seamless—without wrinkles.

by fitzcarraldo


The battle between Christian deity Jesus Christ and Islamic deity Allah heated up this week as both tried to outdo each other with miracles. In Naples, Italy, a sellout crowd packed the cathedral to watch Saint Gennaro's powdered blood turn to liquid, Reuters reported Sept. 19. The fourth-century saint's blood is kept in a glass vial, and it has allegedly liquefied twice yearly ever since, on Sept. 19 and the first Saturday of May. (Whenever the blood doesn't transform, various horrors can be expected to hit Naples.) Meanwhile in Borneo, a housewife has discovered an egg with the words "There is no god but Allah," the Borneo Bulletin reported today. The paper says another miracle egg was found earlier this month, with the word Allah "naturally embedded on the egg's shell."


Cheers Dears.

Audio Ex-Lax

by fitzcarraldo

I was terribly constipated since Sunday, and yesterday I had enough, and went on-line to search for a cure. I'd tried coffee, I'd tried chocolate--being deathly afraid of actual laxative, I perused homeopathic sites, looking for something natural and kind to grease the unhappy hole. "Help," I emailed, "my throat closes even at the thought of taking something that promises to make me shit. My neurosis is such that I'm certain I'll soil myself within thirty seconds." After ascertaining that I did, indeed want to have a successful 'movement'--just not an uncontrollable one--and that, citing "religious reasons" I was absolutely incapable of purchasing something called Smooth Move--they reluctantly sent me the following link, with instructions to listen to it three times through. "By the third time, you'll have lost the world without gaining a soil, engaged as you will be in a happily productive, yet completely manageable crap." And you know what--they were right! Why didn't I think of it! Of course! Synth strings from Moby! Audio Ex-Lax!

by sterling

I think we know this girl. The one who liked to fuck outside. Remember, TRUE the three of us listened to Philip Glass together. She was also into Kronos Quartet and smearing prunes and blueberries across her teeth, laughing like an idiot in the mirror at the purple and blue stains. Read this cutesy yet oddly eloquent eulogy to a gold fish. Typical. That stringy-haired chick from Ann Arbor. We used to chain smoke out by the reservoir. She ripped out the pages of her datebook so we could play that writing game--the one in which one person writes a couple of lines and folds the paper in such a way that the other person can only see the last bit of what was written. Then they have to write something that continues it. She liked the game because it showed off her skills. Good for her, I was into it. I'll talk about whatever and drink sugary coffee out of a thermos; I'll leave my car at home and ride a rusted chrome 3-speed and pretend like I care about the Latin names of plants. I gave her permission to rewrite the story of how I lost those two fingers in the first person. What do I care if it means I get to suck on a girl's swollen lips and smell her skin up close. I remember that this one always smelled like trees.


My people are you with me, where you at?

The blog is back, I am not. No homeward bound for me. I've got my titantium infared laptop powered by the sun itself. It's featherweight, like my flow. It's skinny like Fitz is fat. OK, so it's not really mine. That's what those Brooklyn kids get for sporting the retro rides--an Oldsmobile with pop-up locks, easy-peasy japanesy. There was Krispy Kum on the back seat in the shape of an exclamation--fuckin impatient trust-fund baby. So watcha got for me? I’m in the bar, with my head on the bar. I feel a cold one comin on, sittin here watchin the door swing open and shut. My high hasn’t kicked in yet. The licorice taste of the pill is on the back of my tongue. My legs still feel like mine.

by fitzcarraldo

Well, thank heavens for little TRUEBOY. I find it quite charming that you care enough about this venture to cross my t's and dot my i's. Certainly a change for you: usually it's just sparking j's, correct?

Yes, I did indulge a bit last night, sorry to say. Stopped in at Enid's before closing. I'm grown attached to that Beck's Dark. Ryan was bartending, so I was too embarassed to stay long. Of course they didn't have any Beck's Dark at the bodega so I bought a bottle of Gordon's instead. I still had some fruit left over from our brunch so I experimented with the Gingria. I'm happy to report that I reached a perfect balance between the red wine and the gin. I think the key is to allow the normal sangria to sit for a few hours before adding the gin. Of course this is just a theory, as I couldn't wait that long. Regardless of the chemistry being correct, one sip and all was well. The gin merely enhances the taste of the wine without overpowering it.

No, you aren't a talking head, although you have the same wide, staring eyes as David Bryne in his coke fueled youth. I'm not asking either you or Sterling to suddenly morph into pundits. Lord knows, I'm beyond asking either of you for anything productive. I just couldn't stand the heavy-handedness, the artsy-fartsy tone. Is it too much to ask you two to be cogent, even for a few minutes? All of this obtuse pretension. Navel gazing. Who can take it?

There are real things happening, my Sweets. Last night I watched the Israeli army detonate a 1300 pound car bomb on CNBC. 1300 pounds--not a typo, I assure you. In the black and white darkness of the desert night it was difficult to get a real sense of the spatial range of the damage, but by the way everything shook and the sand was flung up in the air, and nearby plants were simply annihilated--a flash and then they're gone sort of thing--it was clear that this was a super serious weapon. Had the bombers made it into Israel (they were stopped in the West Bank and escaped on foot from their cars--one had a bomb in it and the other was for the getaway, apparently) and managed to detonate the bomb in a city, the damage would have been immense. Enough " change the political landscape in a moment". Searched the news today and this amazing near miss is hardly mentioned, except by the Washington Post. An article about a bomb, however doesn't quite make the same impression as a film of one going off, even if its taken at night and grainy like an old home movie.

What's going to happen to Israel if we go into Iraq? The whole world stands against us and our puffed up, platitude spouting Prez. And meanwhile the American public, numbed by a series of indistinct terror alerts which have been used to grant seemingly unlimited power to the Executive branch of "their" government, quietly acquiesce, clutching their memorial 9/11 coffee books and flipping through the channels for the latest heart wrenching victim story.

I admit, it's too much to deal with. Screw it, let's throw in the towel and make this blog a blissful, spaced-out refuge from any real thought. We can leave that task in Moby's capable, soft-skinned hands. (Hey, I know--I touched them, remember?) Anyone who waxes poetic about how we're all made of stars is the kind of intellectual heavyweight I know better than to cross thought sabers with.



I can smell you from here, Fitz, you drunk ass. I just went through and corrected the thousands of typos in your post. Let me guess, Chimay Bleu and two packs of Rothmans? Sounds like that kind of night. Do us all a favor and take that nappy white linen suit that you passed out in to the dry cleaners, you sweat stained mother fucker.

Re: How Lame Does It Get? and the Andrew Sullivan 'meta-blog'--I'm not a talking head, chillymost, I only listen to them. Fear of Music, baby! Now if you'll excuse me I've got some tags to put up.

How Lame Does It Get?

by fitzcarraldo

What's the story, chicas? You two fuck-ups don't even know how to blog properly. Typical. Before you accuse me of being fascist, let's remember where the form=function arguments began in the past. And you label me the haughty post-structuralist. I hate to break it to you, my Sweets, but merely paying lip service to a form is at the (un) essence of each of those post-whatevers you both hold in such contempt. Here you go, signing up for some freeware on a pedestrian site so you can self publish along with the masses, while completely disregarding the established rules of the game. Blogging centers around the notion of a web-hosted conversation about current events, political debates, and/or an exchange of opinions and research about an agreed upon (read: clearly delineated) topic. If you gals are more interested in having a free-form vent with an artsy--and might I add, a painfully earnest twist--than maybe you'd be better off with a good old fashioned web site. No other bloggers are going to be interested in this crap. And you're kidding yourself if you think anyone who isn't already indulging in their own blog will be reading this. Even Andrew Sullivan, the Grand Puba of Blogging was unable (over the course of three days) to find any real legitimacy for blogs outside the form itself. He goes on and on about the merits of being free from big media, but as this is being said in the forum of big media (namely, on one of the signature sites of our favorite anti-trust, Microsoft) the whole thing is a bit ridiculous. Nonetheless, he keeps to Blogger vogue by providing lots of links to "interesting" Blogs. That's something you two should give a try. A blog is nothing if it isn't a useful one stop shopping site for fun links. At any rate, check out Andrew Sullivan'smeta-blog on Slate. Who knows, maybe we can actually have a discussion about it in true blogger style.

It just makes me a bit ill with dejavu as it seems clear that neither of you have learned anything from our rise and fall in the art world.

OOps I have to run. More on this and other matters soon..Goodnight Ladies!

Freak Like A Mutiny


I came in the do
I said it before
I'll never let the mic magnetize me no mo


Hey, man it's not like that. I ride the trains, and the city buses, and the funicular, and whatever other modes of public transportation strike my fancy. TRUEBOY is of the people. With or without panic attacks. I pop two Klonopin and I'm good to go. The sedative effect of the Klonopin is such that I enjoy the stream of my thoughts completely untethered from any system of moral checks and balances. There isn’t that cramping in the gut--the irrational, yet deeply ingrained fear of Instant Karma. With my arms folded and my eyes low--I look not at people, but through them. There's something Ancient Greek and slightly murderous about the primacy I give to sensations. They are real: raw and fleeting, like the other day I got lost in the yellow lights flashing outside the train car and the air blasting on the back of my calves and the Cds spinning on the plaid uniform covered laps of the school girls across from me. A red plastic bag from Virgin was hooked around an idiot yuppie's fat thumb. I'd been watching him for awhile and wondering about what was inside. After teasing me with a casual peek, he decided to fully unsheath the CD, gently edging it out of the bag as though it was something alive, but delicate enough to die at any second. His eyes turned glassy with pleasure as he held his purchase out before him. I strained to make out the cover and eventually saw that it was the Strokes, Is This It? He tore off the shrink wrap in slow motion, like an ant tearing apart a bug. He picked and ripped, dropping the plastic shards back into the red bag, rocking back and forth on his heels. I closed my eyes and pictured the waves above me as the train hurtled beneath the East River. I imagined all sorts of evil things about him, just for fun. Meanwhile, in my headphones Belle and Sebastian sang “There is misery, in everything I see, and all the people on t.v. after tea when life begins again, they’ll be happier than me…”

by sterling

I'll tell you, having a job is definitely strange--but not in the ways I expected.

It's the commute that's messing with me. I miss my drop-top; I feel like I'm back to square one, ridin' the train again. It's so hot outside but when you get in the car the A/C takes your breath away. That said, sometimes I get into it--the hardship and retro vibe--you should try it, TRUE. Brings you back to the days...There's the feeling of going somewhere, more so than in a car. I felt like I was somehow solving my problems. The rush and the jerk and the lights flashing outside. It made me think of sex, watching strangers lurch back and forth uncontrollably. Especially the women with their handbags in their laps.

Despite my vow, I've gotten to know a girl at work. She's fresh out of college--lives on the Island and works in Midtown and that's all she knows in the whole world, bless her. We ended up walking in the same direction after running into each other outside at lunch. We passed a hair and nails place--you'd love it, TRUE, they've got all these plastic dummy hands on the window sill, showcasing the various manicures you can get. I admitted that this wasn't my real hair color, but then I got nervous and told her I was naturally a red head. Poor thing actually believed it!

"You used to have red hair?" she asked me, on the corner of 42nd and Lex, as city bus after city bus cut close turns in front of us, heading to points east.

"I used to be many different things," I answered, as an ad for Ricki Lake was replaced by an ad for Club Med and then an ad for new, leaner pork chops.



Early this morning...Far above the Earth: “The Day Shift” goes to work. It made me sick to my stomach to feel those angels watching over me. I was on my cell, trying to find a car to take my ass to Jersey, where I could disappear into the graffiti adorned Palisades. I was sick of looking at myself from the outside. In one moment I was laid out neat and clean like a snapshot and in the next I was as mysterious as a black hole. Lately, I feel two distinct personalities in my head--as though someone ran a red-hot wire down my brain, severing certain important connections.

Take me down from the ridge where the summer ends, and watch the city spread out just like a jet's flame. I've got a secret for you, I cut your angel in two--I left her bleeding and soaked it with a dry sponge.

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

I had the driver pull over on a winding suburban street that was utterly without distinction, an aluminum sided domicile depot--one of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of tree-lined wastelands in this country today. I took a snapshot of a 25 mph Speed Limit sign. It was white with the usual authoritative black lettering, and was affixed to a green metal post. Behind it was a wooden telephone pole and behind that was a hunched Cypress tree. I tried to capture the progression from the man-made to the natural. Nearby there was a fence threaded with shiny green vinyl that grabbed my attention. Little girls in jean shorts were riding scooters and talking to one another on walkie-talkies. "What the fuck? What the fuck?" they said when they saw me taking pictures. They wore outfits of meticulously matched off the shoulder blouses, jeans and Capri pants from Old Navy, Gap and Abercrombie and Finch. It was clear though, from the signals radiating off their pouting little asses and super-glossy hair that what they really wanted was Prada and Gucci. I ducked back into my ride as they ran over to report me to the naïve and blissfully spaced out thirty-something mother keeping watch on a porch. Folded arms, no history of pain upon her face. I think it’s safe to say she doesn't know anyone who died from a gun shot or drugs.

…don't bring that stuff to bed…you've got to fall with a clear head…

I wanted to take pictures, lots of instant pictures. Of everything and nothing…the morning was very clear.

A change of speed, a change of style. In the back seat I carefully unfolded the crisp copy of today’s news and read my review: “Everything’s still in the red, it’s a very violent mix. …wood, switchblade knives, and tangled cords—they’re tough, chic and fabulously prescient.”

Search WWW Search

Weblog Commenting by Powered by Blogger Pro™