1994

1994. Where were you? What were you doing? Were you just a kid sneaking smokes? Or were you at the same desk you’re at now, wasting time in the usual way?

Were you happy? Were you healthy? Wealthy and wise? Did you have friends and stick by them when the going got rough?

In the spring of 1994 my parents took me out of the state run funny farm and locked me up in my room.

No going out, no telephone. I lay in my bed all day and dreamt of beautiful women coming to my rescue.

And on certain, lucky nights, one did. TRUE climbed the front yard tree and snuck into my window. She brought mixtapes and drugs and thermoses full of brandy. The mixtapes worried me the most. If I listened to my walkman I couldn’t hear my father approaching my bedroom.

He beat me with a pipe if he caught me listening to devil’s music.

Rock N’ Roll was one of our biggest strifes. Ever since I was four, and my parents got saved, anything other than Christian or classical music was banned from the house. I remember pleading with my father to at least allow me to keep the cover of The Beatles’ Magical Mystery Tour album.

I remember clinging to that thing for dear life, and how he yanked it out of my little hands with one brutal tug.

Here’s the church and here’s the steeple, open the roof and here’s all the people.

In that very short spring of 1994, while I was wasting away under the covers, TRUE was in NYC, turning into a street prophet. That’s when the clubs were still open. Cheap and pure E and H kept everyone easy like Sunday morning. TRUE’s “going out” persona was that of a tough, schoolgirl drag king who liked to get nice and suck dick. She also happened to be a lyrical prodigy, freestyling at will, beat or no beat. She was an underage adornment to the citywide party. People of every stripe were saying, “That little girl, she’s deep.”

Every night she was out in the West Village, drinking and rhyming. In the spring of ’94, the evening air was a freshly pealed orange—I took deep gulps of it from my bedroom window. I can’t explain its taste—except that it was new air for a new age. TRUE told me about riding in platinum iced out jeeps with rappers, and the house parties she went to uptown. I was jealous, I won’t lie. She liked to dangle out my window backwards and smoke cigarettes. The streetlights reflected off the trash bags lining the curb. Her knuckles were red and swollen. At the age of 13, she woke up one morning with arthritis in the joints of her hands and feet. It’s been there ever since, but never as bad as it was in that spring of ‘94.

I remember her eyes were slits; I remember the disdainful tone with which she spoke, as though the tale of her own exploits made her bored and repulsed.

Don’t tell anyone, but deep down she’s always been a little guilty about her partying.

She’d rather talk about making art.

For some reason it was important to her that I see her as a fellow prisoner, despite the fact that she did what she wanted and came and went as she pleased:

“My art’s also compartmentalized—locked away and hidden from the world,” she insisted. “Like you I only do it late at night or when you’re sure no one is looking, like some masturbatory act. Man, time is passing us by! We’ve got to bust out, make a path for ourselves—do you want to be like these poor suckers who come from work and sit cowering in front of the TV, hoping against hope in their little innocent dreams that somehow, someway, something magical will still yet occur? Tick-tock, man, tick-fucking-tock!”

Tick-tock, indeed.

losthighways

self indulgent tip

blog-vella

Darlings,

We need some more of this soap opera shit on the web: diary of an adulterer.
I don't know whether to laugh or cry, but I'm wishing I could be eating bon-bons and getting a pedicure while I'm reading it, OK?

marry me, bruce labruce.
in addition to all your other gifts,
being canadian is so hot right now.

just like a movie star

quit your job, dear

then you can stay here at home, beside me

you'll be james dean

i'll be sal mineo, you can hide me

What I really want to say is this: You can count on the fact that I wont give up—never. That nothing and no one will ever force me to my knees. That one day I will repay your brave love. That I will see to it that you dont have to work like a slave anymore. That one day I will make so much money by my own wits that Ill even be able to buy you one of those Burberry coats (even though theyre so last year), a pair of black leather mittens like youve always wanted (your claim being that mittens are warmer than gloves, which makes sense, I suppose), and handcrafted Tods driving shoes, the kind the big time movie stars used to wear when they drove from LA to Vegas.

You will drink as much real coffee (enough of that Maxwell House shit) and eat as many hot-out-of-the-oven rolls with real Alsatian honey (from France, mom, trust me its the best) that you desire.

You wont have to pretend: the windows in your new house wont be cracked and the shutters will be freshly painted.

Its blue inside. Theres a pie cooling on the sill.

You ll look forward to seeing your little girl. This time you ll even like my hair.

In the evenings we ll drink sparkling cider by the sea.

destroy evil

Fitzcarraldo's Return...

Guess you picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue...



So punk, darling, so punk...



the windmills in my mind keep turning



I'd love to whip-up for you a brand new experience to call your own



Something sexy, something you're going to miss



A Nosferatu kiss...



I've got an uncontrollable urge...I need to know



Like Morrissey said,

"Why do you come here?

And why do you hang around?"

Random notes scrawled on the back of a weed menu that I nabbed from the fag coffeeshop The Other Side...

...and kept as a souvenir in my pocket through the rain and the sleet until it turned into a flimsy tissue of disintegrating wax and glue:



I’m here in Amsterdam’s city center. More precisely: I’m at a bar, with my head on the bar.

Same old, same old: A spliff…a shot…a pill…the irrefutable beat to which time marches on...

(within me without me)

All those good people rushing around on bikes and trams at 5PM, hurrying home to dinner…I stare into their faces, wanting desperately to know about their lives—the clean, bright Dutch corners where they read their books and hold their children. Suddenly I realize that I haven’t eaten all day and I’m on the verge of passing out. I run into a pita place and tell them to make me one with everything on it, extra spicy, please, and when I bring it to my mouth I’m so hungry that a long string of drool actually lands on the yellow pita bread, like a scene out of the fucking Fly or something.

This bar is so cheesy, I love it. All the cocktails are adorned with psychedelic umbrellas and shiny flags. The synthesizer riff in "The Walk" by The Cure is repeated over and over like some hysterical call to black eyeliner arms.

...triangles, spheres, straight lines...a struggle that signifies the magic number itself, split and then doubled in the sky.

www.trueboy.blogspot.com--a petal scattered retreat where eternal adolescence is lionized and near-obsessive introspection is heralded as an ideal lifestyle choice.

Email me with your address if you want a copy of the zine that the drunk junkies made of my writing as well as other gift goodies (all of them legal, I promise…do you really think I’m in the mood for some heavy duty felony shit?)

Oh, and it’s free, like everything on BRANDTRUEBOY.

Thank-you for your time.

Sincerely,

TRUEBOY.

(The Other Side coffeeshop)

i've got the ladies of the eighties from here to white castle

amber 4ever.

your first toke of the weekend should be treacher.
(if it isn't already)

whatever. i'm going out tonight. gonna find me a little somethin' somethin'. i rather like the german girl, but she's writing a novel, and she also has a job at a video store, so she only has time for an occasional fuck. at least that's what she says. i go along with it. if we really wanted, we could make the time to have something more, but i guess we like our little rough and tumble sessions. Sometimes it's so hurried that we hardly undress. We're all over each other, as soon as we close the door. She pushes me up against the wall, or I fall into the easy chair and pull her onto my lap. For some reason we're very frantic about it. We immediately ram our hands down each other's pants and are unable to take them away, panting on each other's necks like dogs.

One...two...three...four times...quick, in a row. Rat-a-tat-tat-machine gun style fucks.

Yeah, it's great in a way, very clean and athletic. Our bodies fit together nicely. We get the job done, like taking a shower at the gym: quick and utilitarian.

White steam, fresh towels, clear eyes.

I feel like I'm getting my tidy little serving of sex, no strings attached.

But as I get older I'm admitting to myself that I like strings.

I've had enough of masks.

I want the complexity, the drama.

The messiness of a whole person...a whole woman.

catch myself, make it real

I’m sorry, I couldn’t call. I tried, but I hung up when you said “hello?” I hadn’t planned on doing that, at least not consciously, but I freaked when I heard your voice and it sounded exactly as I’d imagined. OK, not exactly, because no matter how hard you try you can never really hear someone’s voice in your head. Even if you’ve known a person for a thousand years, there’s always something missing when you try to imagine him or her saying something. Fantasies are merely ventriloquist sessions with fancy dummies.

That’s what someone should do, invent sex dolls with strings on the back of their heads, so you could flap their big wet mouths open and closed and have them whisper all the words we all want so badly to hear.

“Hello?” There was emphasis on the question mark: it was vaguely mocking, serving to drive home the truth of the caller’s audaciousness. “Hello? Who the fuck do you think you are, calling me?” But there was also a note of suspicion—you were tentative, perhaps having had a chance when the phone rang to think about how you’d given your number to me, and how maybe that was me calling right now and you don’t really know who I am or what I’m about or what I might want.

As for me, I already explained how this is the thousandth time we’ve met. At least I got as far as writing that your voice was already in my head. There’s some dubbed-out mix with your name on it, a compilation of all my naughty desires and my dirty little memories burned into wax by my brain’s very own phonograph. The house wheel, the one that comes as a factory standard, pre-installed in the sacred studio where all the master tapes are produced. The variations on your “voice” makes up the soundtrack to the movie in my mind, in which I walk across the screen (preferably a drive-in screen, so i can be a giant) and I (closeup) look up and see you (pan right!) standing on white concretesteps, leaning against the doorway with your shades on.

The wind blows. You’re looking out from under your dark bangs. I’m wearing my black Pinhead T-Shirt and a natty green cardigan. The sun dips dramatically behind a cloud.

But not too dramatically. Not to the point where it's stupid and lame.

You lower your shades and we look each other in the eye. In that second, we meet in some strange halfway place, where there’s only half-light and half-thoughts…desires, mainly…colors, urges…music.

An entire future spins out in front of us.

I walk up the steps and take a pack of cigarettes out of my pocket. You’re still holding my gaze, like a hawk or a child.

We’re both pale as Goths.

You’re leering, beautifully. I feel like singing.

Maybe I hung up because in all my scenarios, I never thought your first words to me would be, “Hello”.

I always imagined you’d say, “It’s you.”

OR

“Come here,” as you stretched out your arms to embrace me.

(yeah they really want you they really want you they really do)

raymi

Don't Matter

(lapanse.com)

It's all going to end badly.

Amsterdam

This town's become too small. All the canals have been magically pressed together, so that it seems as though I keep crossing and recrossing the same narrow bridge all day long. People are talking, they're getting to know my story. Every day, a little more falls into place. The TRUEBOY saga unfolds over half pints of Heineken, cheeseplates and Drum tobacco...at damp SnelTram stations and dusty, brightly lit grocery stores. Women in fancy hats wink at me from under fluorescent awnings. When I'm walking the streets I keep my eyes on my hands and try to look bored. I work too hard at it so of course I fail.

Immediate, automatic failure.

Of course the publicity hasn't been entirely involuntary.

I've willingly posed for a few pictures. I've held a drunken audience or two.

But the craziest thing was the zine put together by some alcoholic needleheads.

The entire thing is made up of my insane rants that night in the detox bin.

Those leeches saved all the bits of brown paper bag and seagull adorned toiletpaper that I scrawled upon. They copied down the shit I wrote on the wall, glorifying (among others) Sterling, Raymi, Anti and Jamie.

My ordeal with Fitz is in there too--how he hacked into my shit like a frat boy in a sorority girl's panty drawer...

My half blacked out memories of making speeches and writing furiously apparently had some truth to them after all.

The four page Xerox staple job is a hot commodity in the cafes. Apparently, the baby-faced cop was instrumental in transcribing my bullshit. He placed a high end voice recorder at the edge of the cell.

"Listen to the American cleaning out her head!" you can hear him say in Dutch, in the background.

The kids come up to me in the English bookstore.

"This is some next level writing," they say to me. "You guys have invented a new form of art."

"That's correct, Sir! Buy me a steak and chicken dinner and I'll tell you all about it. The epic tale of Tony Pierce...the poetic pop culture stylings of Jim Treacher...it's all there...just a click a way..."

I'm making my own copies of the zine, in case any of you are interested...

That we allow some violence to prove us rebaptizable...

I woke up with a little German girl in the early afternoon. We had breakfast by the window so we could watch the snow. "They're exaggerating so much on the TV. They make it like some kind of Godzilla--a snow tornado!" I laughed and cleaned the dishes--feeling good to be inside with warm water splashing over my hands.

A few hours later, the feeling of hopeful tranquility had grown tiresome, so I went out for an orange juice.

I trudged through the snow in my old man's parka with a scarf over my face.

I was crossing (with some difficulty) the unplowed street in front of the polish deli, when suddenly the silence struck me.

I stopped and looked up at the blue streetlights. Above their movie set glow, objects flew silently through the sky.

There was the rush of the wind, and as I really listened--a far off ringing.

Like all the car alarms on Maiden Lane on that morning.

I remember how the origin of the eerie, melancholic sound was completely incomprehensible to me for several minutes while I crawled in circles on the debris-strewn street, dirt filling up all the openings in my face.

"Where am I? What happened? What's that sound? That hideous computerized whine?"

I had to know--I needed the first domino to place on the path back to my thoughts.

My thoughts, my darling thoughts--all I wanted in the whole world was to have a single sane string of things that I knew.

Finally I realized that all the flashing yellow lights were blinkers...that some of the cars parked along the street had turned on in the crash.

"The cars, the cars," I thought, suddenly triumphant. If I could figure that out, then I was on top of it.

The cars were crushed; the cars had stopped working.

The snow swirls in front of me--travelling in moving, everchanging mounds...

...a gathering hush...

a command without reason...

a fucking neverending magic trick of some now you see it now you don't shit, like when the ashes shot out from where the Towers stood.

raymi and laura

Nothing left of life but a pair of glassy eyes

Yerbluetoy: we have no memory of flyers in the night.

Trixietreat: ?

Yerbluetoy: pixies

Trixietreat: god, do we agree on any music?

Yerbluetoy: yes. Iggy Pop.

Trixietreat: yes, that’s one.

Yerbluetoy: yeah, but c’mon, how could you not like the pixies?

Yerbluetoy: is she weird is she white? Is she promised to the night?

Trixietreat: fat guys don’t do it for me. Sorry.

Yerbluetoy: why? You always claim to be a hedonist.

Yerbluetoy: and eating is a way of self-pleasuring.

Trixietreat: and pleasuring others. Remember when I made you that roast?

Trixietreat: you’d been living off of balance bars and green tea.

Yerbluetoy: melted balance bars

Yerbluetoy: that’s when I was having a hard time swallowing food that wasn’t packaged..



Trixietreat: especially meat.

Yerbluetoy: it was a real thing. You saw me. I’d literally start gagging.

Trixietreat: so I decided to help you get over it by making something that I knew you couldn’t resist.

Yerbluetoy: you got me drunk first.

Trixietreat: extremely drunk. In the middle of the afternoon. It was fun.



Yerbluetoy: Yeah. G&Ts.

Trixietreat: when the meal was ready you ate it all. The pink and juicy meat, covered in brown gravy. The spicy boiled potatoes—the bright orange carrots. Warm nut bread…sea salt and sweet butter…Italian mineral water…

Yerbluetoy: ok, let’s talk about something else.

Trixietreat: you enjoy so well. Its a real talent—how deeply you pleasure in things…



Trixietreat: hello?

Trixietreat: this thing on?

Yerbluetoy: but what I really like is to watch.

Trixietreat: good point.

Trixietreat: you have the most intense eyes

Trixietreat: like blue lasers—even when yr high.

Trixietreat: yr eyes have the power to transform a person, just by deciding to watch them.

Trixietreat: by deciding to take an interest.

Yerbluetoy: bullshit. I took an interest in you but it didn’t change you at all

Trixietreat: of course i changed.

Yerbluetoy: you didn’t come with me. I told you it would be good for you to see the world, but you said no.

Yerbluetoy: it’s not like you were learning anything in that stupid school.

Trixietreat: I wanted to come but I can’t leave my sister.

Yerbluetoy: oh, give me a break.



Trixietreat: she needs me.

Yerbluetoy: you’re twelve! She’s 22.

Trixietreat: 23. she turned 23 on Thursday.

Yerbluetoy: oh, shit. Tell her I say happy birthday.

Trixietreat: whatever. She knows you don’t mean it.

Yerbluetoy: of course I do, why would you say something like that?

Yerbluetoy: I love your sister.

Trixietreat: no you don’t. you used her for a little while and told her you were making a movie when really you were just entertaining yourself and fighting your interior boredom.



Yerbluetoy: I am making a movie

Trixietreat: you have no plans to actually finish anything.

Trixietreat: we all fell for it. Me too.

Trixietreat: maybe I fell for it most of all, but not for the reasons that people will think I did.

Yerbluetoy: I’m making a movie. I’m shooting some of it in Europe, that’s all.

Yerbluetoy: it’s called having different SCENES.

Yerbluetoy: so get over it.

Trixietreat: we put you up. My sister bleached her hair. You could have at least told us the plan.

Yerbluetoy: so I didn’t. so what? I’m the director. I’m making you into stars. Anyway she looks better this way.

Trixietreat: you ripped all the sleeves off her shirts.

Yerbluetoy: well, exactly. It’s Arizona. She’s playing the part of Sterling Fassbinder. Sterling would never wear sleeves in the fucking desert.

Yerbluetoy: admit it: you love the scene where your sister’s racing down the lonely highway in a Ford Mustang, top down, song of the same name by Serge Gainsbourg blasting on the radio (“Paco Rabonne!”) the wind making ripples in her drugstore blonde hair, shades on in the middle of the night, braless, nipples erect, grease stained T-shirt billowing out behind her…

Trixietreat: is that what the real Sterling is like?

Yerbluetoy: nope

Yerbluetoy: she doesn’t have the mustang anymore. It got impounded.

Trixietreat: I mean is she that fierce? That free?

Yerbluetoy: I don’t know. That’s the thing, I want your sister to bring out all the broken hearted parts of Sterling. That tough guy act is only an act.

Yerbluetoy: there’s something desperate about her

Trixietreat: I like tough guy acts.

Trixietreat: I like them better on girls than on boys.



Trixietreat: that’s why I like it when you get into yr directorial role…I like when you point the camera at me and tell me what to do.

Yerbluetoy: like that time in the bathroom.

Trixietreat: the black and white one upstairs. where we first met.



Yerbluetoy: it was all your idea.

Trixietreat: plenty of girls my age don’t know what a clit is.

Trixietreat: they don’t know what’s on their very own bodies.

Trixietreat: no one talks to them and they find things and think its something wrong.

Yerbluetoy: so there you are on the toilet, talking to the camera about how you found a blister down there.

Trixietreat: then I lean over and sterilize a needle with a match.

Yerbluetoy: at that point I was already freaking out.

Trixietreat: you didn’t act like it…you just got on your knees on the bathroom floor.

Trixietreat: you zoomed in, snapping on your gum.

Trixietreat: I pulled my lips apart and pressed on my little pink clit with my thumb.

Yerbluetoy: “There it is!” you said, in the sweetest little voice.

Trixietreat: I want to sound a little excited.

Yerbluetoy: Like a kid on a cereal commercial.

Trixietreat: my character’s doing the right thing—she’s going to remove the imperfection—the puss-filled sickness.

Trixietreat: I brought the needle down swiftly.

Yerbluetoy: Hot Quaker fucking oats!

Trixietreat: lol.

Yerbluetoy: you pierced it straight across—I couldn’t believe it

Yerbluetoy: I braced myself--expecting the blood to come shooting out.

Yerbluetoy: then you told me, all matter-of-factly, how you’d done this before.

Trixietreat: plenty of times. duh.



miss liberty phonecards

TIME OUT!

(Wait a minute)

Who's got the mic that rocks the party?

Ultra B's got the mic that rocks the party.

(What you got? What you want?)

If his shit isn't working then you have to go to his other shit.

(What'd you say to him? Jaguar iced-out beats...)

Hey man, I think your banner's too deep

(hold your cranium)

maybe IEs timing out...too many bits to cash

i mean cache

(you be the cash and I'll be the cache)



cuz I'm still feeling you on a fast connection, goat.

checkacheckacheckachecka


(kool keith)

This one goes out to all my nyc peoples across the water:

Listen to the snow,

Listen to the snow,

Listen to the snow...

(and miles to go before I sleep)

Three is the magic number

(slower.net)

It's all about 3.

Ever since I can remember all the really good and bad things in my life have come in threes.

My twin brother died when we were three.

I have three fingers on my right hand, having cut the pinky and ring finger off on a paper cutter in my christian high school.

They said I was crazy and locked me up in a state run funny farm, where they gave me drugs that made my veins turn inside out and come out of my body like snakes. I'd wake up screaming on my cot, covered with my own veins like blue spaghetti.

The attendants pretended not to see it. They strapped me down just like in the movies.

I was there for three months.

Meanwhile, I became a legend at my old school. Three other kids, losers all, cut off their fingers in solidarity. They also used the paper cutter.

I've gotten used to not having those fingers. For example, when I take off my new-fangled glove, I've got the perfect tool for finger fucking. Just the right amount--and I don't have to worry about bending the other two back.

Anyway...

Three years ago I lived in England and totalled three cars in three months.

An old ass Austin.

A brand new Peugeot.

And a Ford hatchback which was unfortunately a company car, the owner of which was not with us.

Each time there were three of us in the car:

TRUEBOY

Fitzcarraldo

and me, Sterling Fassbinder.

The last time, we were drunk on beer and Greek liquor. We were singing crazily along with the radio as we raced down Ladbroke Grove. I remember the street lights passing in slow motion. Flourescent egg yolks: tremulous and glowing...I could smell the gasoline burning but we weren't getting anywhere.

The song was "Two of Us", by the Beatles. Only we changed it 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

I was in the back and TRUE was in the passenger seat and Fitz was driving, as usual. Thank God the streets were empty because we were all over them. The last thing I remember before we hit the divider was TRUE turning back to ask me for a light. That's when she smoked the Dunhill greens. The only menthols I could ever stand. Over her shoulder I saw the bright glow of the traffic triangle filling up the bottom half of the windshield.

"Oh, God!" I heard someone yell. I still don't know who. 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 moment 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, fitz...

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. A liquid splashed around the inside of the car that I immediately recognized as blood.

It was all over 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.

"C'mon, time for a hotel," Fitz was telling me. His eye was black and oozing.

I looked around and TRUE was hunched over beside him. For a second I couldn't see her face.

Her beautiful, angel face. Suddenly, I feared the worst...

"Hey, hey..." I called out, my voice weighted with concern.

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

"I found a lighter, " she said, wobbling about, uncertainly.

There wasn't a mark on her.

I fucking suck at IM. My brain’s all dyslexic and I can’t type quickly without making a ton of mistakes. It’s embarrassing. Like anything I suck at, I try and steer clear of it. But since I left Arizona and came to Amsterdam, that little 12 yr old whore cunt genius, (I gave her the name, “Trixie”) has been emailing me every day, begging me to IM with her. I wrote back, long rambling messages that I thought would satisfy her but she wasn’t having it. I even called her once, getting about 8 minutes in there before the card ran out, but she started in with the pleas the very next day. Apparently, she has friends all over the world that she keeps in contact with this way. By her own definition, she’s a master at the form. Whatever, it’s in two parts. I fixed some of the more glaring fuck-ups with spelling and whatnot. Here’s the first “transcript”:

Yerbluetoy says: I see you used the name I gave you as your tag.

Trixietreat: yeah, so?

Trixietreat: isn’t that what everyone does—use the name you give them?

Yerbluetoy says: only Fitzcarraldo, but who cares about him.

Trixietreat: what happened? All of a sudden you hate him or something?

Trixietreat: like hot to cold?

Yerbluetoy says: long story, let’s talk about something else

Yerbluetoy says: I was never hot.



Trixietreat: you make up all this fake mystery. Why don’t you just get things out in the
open?

Trixietreat: you expect people to put up with your druggie moods

Trixietreat: …or maybe you’re just scared

Yerbluetoy says: think what you want

Yerbluetoy says: listen, if this is going to be about berating me I’ve got better things to

Yerbluetoy says: do

Trixietreat: k




Trixietreat: so what are you doing in Amsterdam, anyway. Business or pleasure?

Yerbluetoy says: You know I work hard, play hard, baby.

Trixietreat: I know you do a lot of drugs.

Yerbluetoy says: that’s just to get the machinery going upstairs, spark a fire—

Yerbluetoy says: knowwhatimsayin?

Trixietreat: that “fire” metaphor doesn’t work so well with coke

Trixietreat: weed is one thing…

Yerbluetoy says: whatever girl, it’s all good.

Trixietreat: you’re a junkie, just like my dad

Yerbluetoy says: o no, a junkie is a smackhead. I haven’t touched that shit in years.

Trixietreat: I know what a junkie is.

Yerbluetoy says: And I never got deep with it, like sterling did.

Trixietreat: You’re always comparing yourself to her, to try and show how you’re not so
fucked up

Yerbluetoy says: I’m just blowing off steam.



Trixietreat: you’re fucking up your brain, you know that—you’re going to have
Alzheimer’s when you’re older and shit your pants.

Yerbluetoy says: with all the cigs you smoke you’re going to get lung cancer by the time
you’re 40.

Yerbluetoy says: and all those dicks in your mouth can’t be healthy, either.

Trixietreat: you smoke too!

Yerbluetoy says: yeah, but not like you

Trixietreat: what, did you get high and forget?

Yerbluetoy says: you’re so young and skinny those Marlboros look like mini penises in
your mouth.

Trixietreat: what’s this obsession with me and dicks?

Yerbluetoy says: you tell me, babyho.

Trixietreat: you know you left a sweat stain on our couch

Yerbluetoy says: what couch

Trixietreat: the orange scratchy one, in the living room

Trixietreat: there’s a stain where your ass was and at the top

Yerbluetoy says: what! what the fuck that shit was totally fucked when I got there.

Trixietreat: maybe those 8 balls make your tits sweat



Yerbluetoy says: what is that shit, circa 1973? It’s seen better days, hot pants.

Yerbluetoy says: give me a break I hardly ever sweat.

Trixietreat: you do. it smells good though, like milk

Yerbluetoy says: this sux

Yerbluetoy says: I’m taking off

Trixietreat: I think you’ve got a lot of problems, TRUE

Yerbluetoy says: sure

Trixietreat: I think yr biggest problem is that you love having problems

Trixietreat: you use them as an excuse to avoid work

Yerbluetoy says: wow. deep.

Trixietreat: you’re greedy you want it all

Yerbluetoy says: how old are you again

Trixietreat: you want to get away with murder

Yerbluetoy says: damn straight.



gungirlz

New York, Alone.



I waited for the train with my hands in my pants. Ice covered branches stuck through the fence. I sighed and rocked back and forth. I wanted fresh coffee and a girl to go on a walk with. I would have made up a list of things to say. I would have tried out different ways of being.

I want to take what someone has to give--all of it, every lie, every lipstick pout.



stain, pressure/thrust...

quarlo
(if you don't know, now you know)

It trips me out how even the most so-called cutting edge, radical shit eventually gets boxed-up and fixed with a fancy label and sold in mass quantities, plopped out of an assembly line like donuts or tampons . Here in Amsterdam, the coffeeshops are a business, just like any other. There are a couple different flavors--the Rasta Bob Marley spots, the "futuristic" techno spots that also sell candy bars and fruit juice, the loud Rock N' Roll spots, and the "generic hip-hop/older brother's living room/this is also a bar and pick-up spot with a TV to watch soccer"spots. I guess it was an in-depth study of the market that yielded these results--polls taken of the "typical smoker", worldwide. Man, all I know is that I don't go for any of that shit. It's not that I don't like Marley or rock music, or the future, or sports on big screen TVs...I just can't stand the packaging. It depresses me. I'm not against consumer culture. I've never contemplated throwing a brick through a Starbucks window, but for fuck's sake, the whole point of smoking (at least for me) is to get on that other level, away from this whole flat as hell life, where everything's in two dimensions--the monitor and the TV, rows and lows of flickering windows with nothing behind them...

The Mind Elevate: I want to rise above all these radiowaves broadcasting rules and information. I'm sick of food in boxes.

When I'm high I dream of making something beautiful--the kind of overwhelming beauty that comes from a multitude of detail and perspectives--I want to create a world onto itself, like a battle scene from the 18th century painted on a room-wide, ceiling-tall canvas.

It takes years to even begin to get down one instant--a single rearing horse is a seperate study...I want to make notes in a sketch book of the faces I see in the street...A man at the market who has a "soldierly countenance". I want to work, work, work on something, one thing, for years at a time instead of all these half-assed, quick, one-off projects I find myself doing.

There was this one coffeeshop I really liked--The Tweede Kamer (Second Room). It was a tiny little place on a side street off Koningsplein. The sign outside was a play on a tiny blue postage stamp, the kind you stick on when you just come up short. Inside there were old Russian intellectuals and neighborhood guys stopping in for a quick puff before lunch. On the weekends, a local intramural soccer team made up mostly of African guys would crowd the place after practice, throwing out looks to the few ladies in the place. The weed was amazing and so was the coffee. There were plenty of decks of cards lying around. And dominoes and newspapers. No one bothered me as I stared into space.

I went in there when I first got to the city and immediately I realized something was different. The postage stamp sign was still there, but inside, the tiny, framed black and white photos that used to crowd the walls were gone. Instead of gypsy music or wailing sitars a live Jill Scott album played. Thinking it was just me, I ordered a spliff and sat down to puff. Two minutes later I was rushing for the toilet. They had rolled that shit with some harsh, stale ass tobacco that made my stomach do flip-flops. When I was done polluting the place, I came up to the counter to ask "what the fuck" which is when I saw the little stack of biz cards. "Coffeeshop Dampkring", they said, with some pseudo rasta graphics floating around.

"New place--my first coffeeshop!" the guy behind the counter told me, when he saw me examining one of the cards.

"Here," he said, and he handed me a clear plastic tube. "This is a new thing, you put your joint in it when it's still lit. Then you close the top and it goes out immediatly. No smell, no fuss--and you don't lose anything by stamping it out in an ashtray."

I nodded and put the tube in my pocket. I was confused and still sick to my stomach. I walked along the canals and watched the ducks. Later on, when I was looking around for some change, I pulled out the tube. "Dampkring" was printed all along the bottom in some ridiculous wavy "stoner" font.

...and to think I told Jamie it was a cool place.

The tubes aren't a bad idea though.

"Sumo Pop" would make a good coffeeshop name.

In Praise of Being Sick

(art crimes/giant)

I’m pretending that there’s something wrong with me. It’s a game I play every once in a while. I skip a couple of meals and rub my eyes until they’re swollen. Then I hobble around the apartment, telling myself that I don’t feel quite right. I turn the blinds and change the light in the room. Refill the Brita. Put soup on the stove and pick at the paper while it heats up.

There’s a happy glow in the sick bubble. I lean back and imagine I have a legitimate excuse to sleep the day away. Influenza, Bronchitis, Tonsillitis, Appendicitis…I’ve got nothing but admiration for all of those middle range diseases—the ones that won’t kill you but will allow you to take a nice, juicy time out. I’ve never been sick a day in my life. All throughout school for as long as I can remember I went out of my way to catch something. I ran around in the winter with wet hair, without a jacket—I stood in the way of sneezes, I smoked cigarettes at an absurdly young age when my baby lungs should have revolted with a serious case of hacking but they never did, even when I was up to two packs a day.

All I wanted was to be spared going to that hellhole Timothy Christian school. I remember how it was adding insult to injury, that last year when the asswipe sitting next to me was out sick every other day with one “bug” after another, not one of which I caught, regardless of my proximity to this walking germ test tube. The thing that made me furious—I mean, if I thought about it I could transform myself into a seething, red faced zombie—was that this sniffly four eyes was already a brainwashed born-again. The freedom of staying home was lost on him. I should have been the one to get the get out of jail card.

I was the one cutting class and tripping on acid out by the dumpsters. I spent my days walking around and around the compost heaps at the edge of school grounds, wearing out a Mingus mixtape on my Walkman and dreaming of a new country.

Everyone despised me at Timothy. I looked like a boy, I acted like a boy and I made no secret of the fact that I wanted to fuck other girls like a boy.

Some of them (especially the girls) despised me so much that they actually prayed for me—sinner that I was. The teacher would announce my name as she went through the daily “Pray For” list and with one eye half open I’d actually see it being whispered on the shiny, lip-glossed lips of a preteen pseudo missionary who indulged freely in gossip and hiked up her skirt to show us all her smooth, stocking-less legs.

How sweet, I thought, she wants my slutty cunt up there in heaven with her.

Now, years later, on this, one of my patented fake sick days, I got up at the crack of dawn and changed into my “sick” outfit of a grey hoodie and grey football sweats without any underwear. I tie them low on my waist—as low as possible, just barely above the line where my pubes begin. I drink a pot of tea and spend the hours under a blanket, watching TV and rubbing my clit, my eyes blank and my head empty. Sometimes I invite over a girl to “take care of me”. Every so often I get up and sit on the toilet to come. Lately, my orgasms have been so overpowering that I let go of my bladder a little bit during the magic moment.

Un Petit Mort, a little pee, the tough seizure of horniness cracked…so what if a couple of times I didn’t make it to the throne?

There’s that fag D. in the Hamptons, who’s fighting lung cancer tooth and nail. He’s a shadow of his former self, ashy and emaciated, but he’s still got porn in every room of the house. I think there’s something about the prospect of immanent death that makes a person even hornier than usual, that is, if they’re still able to feel anything at all besides pain and regret. If you can manage it, getting-off is an affirmation—a way of sticking up your middle finger and shouting, ‘I’m not dead yet cuz I still gets mines!’

The one time I really felt close to death was when I kicked smack. I puked and puked and puked until all that was coming up was burning bile and little bleeding chunks of stomach lining. My throat felt like it was closing and I got a mountain range of gigantic, puss filled whiteheads on the back of my neck. I guess you could say I was sick, but I don’t really think of it like that. It was more like a journey in which I traveled from slavery to freedom.

Rub it ‘till it bleeds.

Raymi, little hump monster.

Turned to steel in the great magnetic field

(Iron Man)

If I died from a coke overdose in a shower in Amsterdam while listening to Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" on a tiny waterproof Philips radio (with surprisingly good bass), but by the time the aging hippies who were putting me up found my stiffening corpse the song had changed to Sheryl Crow's "Leaving Las Vegas" would that still qualify as a fucking cool way to go?

Just Because You're Paranoid...

Hey Sterling,

The whole fucking site was busted: archives, links, comments...I had to reapply the template, some content might be lost for good...now do you want to try and tell me that someone's not fucking around with my shit?

A message to my hacker:

Listen Bitch. This is my world, my pearl. You come up into my piece and I'm going to get extra-deep in yours. Navy Seal style, K?

Diabolical: I cherish the moment to perish opponents.



I was walking down the street constantly bumping into the sleep.



I think I've got no choice but to act retarded today.

So I'm back on the chaingang. Shortly after writing that last post (which, according to her eloquent as hell email was just two hours after the Dutch authorities released her from the detox pen) TRUE dropped me a line and gave me a new password for the site. I was starting to give up on her paranoid ass. I find it pretty hard to believe that someone was actually trying to break into her blogger account, but whatever.

TRUE, get your ass back to NYC already...enough of this rock star award tour.

Having trouble leaving the house. I've got that feeling that trouble is right around the corner...the streets of Brooklyn are all lit-up like a dirty movie. I want to make eyes at some sweet little girl while she's on her boyfriend's lap. I want to follow her to the freezing toilets, and slip into a stall...I want the chipped paint and smell of old shit. Her eyes turning glassy as I push my knee up between her legs...

I want to send her back to her man after I've used her shirt to wipe off my dripping pussy.

I want to walk back out after she's back beside him. I want the thrill of watching her watching me...I want to ask him for the time and smile real sloooooow.

laura can you feel me?

it's up to me now to turn on the bright lights...

(Durer)

There's sand in the back of my skull. Right there, in that three finger-wide indentation where the neck begins. It goes, "Swish, swish" like a fucking bean bag everytime I turn to look over my shoulder. Something's up with my eyesight as well. Behind me, the world has a slight red tint and in front of me it's blue. That means I must be the white. I'm a part of a magical flag; a magical color sandwich sold the world over in thinly laminated cardboard boxes...too bad there's a real distaste for Americans over here. I feel like the stink at a dinner party when someone secretly passes gas. Guess you could say my accent really cuts the cheese. Everyone at the table wrinkles their noses and shifts uncomfortably in their seats, but no one says a word.

I don't admit to anything--I'm just passing through; the situation is not of my making. I only read the papers like everyone else. My Dutch friends want to know if Americans are really as pro-war as they seem. They sit in their brightly colored plastic chairs and spread thick yellow butter and chocolate sprinkles on their toast and look up at me with big round eyes. (You've got those phaser eyes) They don't get any news of American anti-war protests and are surprised to hear about how many have taken place. Their leaders are fine-tuning and bullshitting like anyone else, working hard at keeping whole populations in the dark--meanwhile they've taken apart their guns and are giving them a good oiling. One thing that's clear is that something is going to happen. I thought maybe that feeling was only in the States, but it's here as well. Inevitably, my friends want to argue about the situation. They're old hippies and founding members of the Dutch anti-apartheid movement. They want to smoke and gesticulate and figure things out. It's all too much for me so I excuse myself and go out to watch the ducks on the Amstel River.

Everything aches. I'm popping Nurofen by the handful, but it doesn't make a dent in the pain. Old ladies pass on bikes; kids wearing baggie jeans smoke hash in a huddle and snicker at the passer-bys. Germans in their fancy eyewear, the French with their too-thin tailored jackets, the Brits with their bad skin and fly away hair. Americans looking lost but happy...all these groups, within which there are sub-groups, made-up of families and couples and friends looking for a good time. Where do I fit in? (Why do you come here? And why do you hang around?) I slip into a movie theater, I get on and off trams. No one tells me what to do. Last night I drank half a bottle of Jack and several pints of beer. I puked up the entire contents of my stomach in a rain soaked gutter near the Stadhuis. A police car idled on the corner. Inside the pigs were laughing their heads off as I lost my balance and swung violently from side to side. I wiped my mouth on my sleeve and shuffled over to the passenger side door. I banged repeatedly on the window with an open palm.

"Why don't you stop me?" I demanded. "Why don't you put an end to it all?"

The window rolled down and one of the cops stuck his head out. I remember being impressed by his baby-face. He had a fresh crew cut and razor burn. He asked me where I was staying.

"I don't know," I answered. "I don't know how to get back home."

His partner leaned over baby-face's shoulder. For a long time he didn't do anything and then he slowly took out a long pad and clicked open a pen. I saw myself reflected in his mirrored shades. It was at that moment that I realized the party had reached its final, most humiliating stage: I was officially the girl with puke breath and cum in her hair.

"I just need a Heineken," I told them, as they ushered me into the back seat. "Just een pintja, first OK...a real quick one...?"

There was no response. The car jumped forward, spraying water in every direction.

I'm the boy, who's learned to enjoy, invisibility...


pink haired girl eases my troubled basehead nerves.