oh, canada

life and how to live it.

words can't bring me down

(Christina Aguilera singing "Beautiful" at the LA GLAAD Awards)

Yo,

Check out the comments on this post.

He backed out of the argument, calling it PC bullshit.

I think he just couldn't answer.

All those kids blowing smoke up his ass has made him soft.

Hey Tony, you know where I am if you ever feel up to matching wits.

I don't care who the fuck you are or how many hits you get.

As far as I'm concerned you're no better than the bums begging for a dollar on the train.

Being a sellout is so nineties.



pflag

actupny

acid zar

I dreamt I had a Cadillac,

I had a blue pen that wrote in red ink.

My bones were eaten full of holes and I carried a pound of flesh around the house in my Nike bag.

In other words, it was a sloppy ass double dip trip.

Please excuse me today because my brain is filled with hay.

I’m sitting here staring at my lighter like it’s a work of art.

Here’s a tip—Vanilla Sky is NOT an acid friendly flick.

Shit had me under the bed like Brian Wilson.

I am not the walrus.

I am not the lizard king.

That’s from another time, pancake.

A long hair, tight leather pants time with pop bliss and cars made out of real metal

Those tear-drop dreams are dried up for good.

Welcome to the Twin Peaks afterworld.

Barf in a bottle and toss it out on the endless green sea.

I was never the Acid Zar.

That was Sterling’s name, a long time ago.

Way back in 8th grade, before blogs and BRANDTRUEBOY.

Before Belgium and Brooklyn and beer bellies.

My girl used to do a hit for breakfast. Then she did her hair, moussing the hell out of it to get it standing straight up.

On the days she actually made it to school, she’d wander aimlessly, holding onto the lockers and laughing her head off.

She’d show up for tests and get zeros.

She wore unlaced combat boots with no socks. She was the first to sag her jeans super low, showing off her men’s underwear.

She muttered things like ‘mashed potatoes’ and ‘I got the fever’ over and over under her breath.

She’d sneak up on girls doing their hair and hiss, “The better you look, the more you see.”

Years later I saw that shit in a book. No lie, Honeypie.

She spray painted ‘Acid Zar’ all over town. There was that big pink one on the back of the A&P that we passed everyday in the bus. One day she showed up at my place with a can of white spray enamel and tagged the cinderblock wall in my basement. I held back from screaming “Stop! My parents are going to kill me!” because I wanted to be cool, and I thought that if the school acidhead told people I was cool then maybe that would start a chain reaction.

When she was finished with her tag she hung her head upside down and sprayed the enamel on her hair.

girlsarepretty

there's so much more i want to tell you, about all the things Jules and I said that night when we rode the orange train. about boccacio and the decameron and boys and girls who do girls who do boyfucks. the dreams i've had where everything is filed away and compartmentalized and i love to hide, but not to deal. not to steal.

i want to talk about goethe and how this walkman looks like an egg. this keyoard might be dush.

i'm nearly reformed so don't say that you weren't warned.

a little thing makes such a difference

yoferrealman

This morning I was restless, so I decided to snoop around the house. I like finding shit. The owner is in Spain, on the set of a movie. She's an assistant to a movie producer. Assistant Producer, I think is her title. She and I go back. She made us a set of keys and even scribbled down some names on a piece of paper. We should call so and so for a gig on a set.

"Or better yet, just show up at this office looking smart," she said, copying an address from her Palm.

Real work, legit work.

I'm chewing up the paper she wrote that shit on as we speak.

The nicer people are, the less I can accept it.

Fuck it. When my earnings are gone, Jules will probably be gone with it.

I'm not moving shit and I don't plan on it. Hear me Mr. Officer?

I know you're out there.

Anyway Jules is already getting gigs at all the clubs.

It's only a matter of seconds before she signs up on a fat payroll, so I don't worry about her.

As for myself, I'm not too ambitious.

I'll hide out in this attic. Live off of hob-nobs.

I'll call out loud, "what's the frequency, kenneth?" as I read Auden and make collage art with shit I find lying around.

there's a lot of shit lying around

that brings me back to what I started out saying

about how this morning i was poking around the place

jules wasn't home, it was must me and the bbc

I was wearing a silk purple smoking jacket that i found in a hallway closet.

I smelled like death

like i'm so sarry

not funny i know

i went through all the shelves and cabinets and found nothing interesting

there was a lot of space with nothing in it

like she'd only half moved in

just for the hell of it, I started going through one of Jules still unpacked suitcases.

This one was all winter clothes on top.

On bottom were papers, magazines.

Photocopied philosophical texts.

Gadamer, Heidegger, Kant. In German.

What looked like a fax copy of a Tennessee Williams' play.

Folded-up maps of Holland. Little wooden boxes from Africa, wrapped partially in newspaper.

I pulled at a corner of the paper--to rip off a piece for my collection--when a tiny square of paper fluttered out of the fold and onto the floor.

From it's fall I could tell that it was colored green on one side and white on the other.

It landed green side up. A small tab of acid.

The design was a simple green oval.

green monster, i thought to myself, knowing that was probably not what it was called.

not here, not for years

Jules wasn't really into acid, she probably packed this by mistake.

fuck it i'm not really into it either but this seemed like fate

i took it upstairs and thought about it

acid can go either way

and i was too sick to get naked and run around in the woods

which is my preferred tripping scenario.

also i'm alone

who knows when Jules would be back?

I stood by the window listening to cars pass by.

fuck it i thought.

that was almost an hour ago

now these tiny blue windows are popping up over the keyboard while I type

an illuminated manuscript

awesome and bright

Almost Sober

caughtwithweed


Jules is taking care of me while I’m sick. I’ve had fevers and a river of thick snot running through my head. I maintain that the infection began in my bladder, after holding it so long that night with the border police. Up until yesterday my piss was still coming out brown. I brought Jules in to look, as she didn’t believe there was anything seriously wrong with me.

“Not brown—I’d say the color is more of a monkey shit orange,” she said, peering down into the toilet before pulling the cord to flush it. The expression on her face was of an exaggerated boredom.

“Look, sweetheart, it’s just the drug residue coming out.”

For some reason this caused me to flinch. I held onto the sink for support. She clucked and wrapped her long arms around me.

“You’re my little crystal ashtray, getting rinsed out in the sink.”

“I’m rattled by the rush,” I sang, running a hand through my hair. It stuck up wildly after days of being slept on.

Shit’s been bone dry since we got to the UK. The cops got our number; I don’t want to take the risk. Therefore, no coke, no speed, no weed (OK, well a little of that). For strictly medicinal purposes, we’ve got bourbon (cuts through the phlegm), muscle relaxers (my arthritis has got my shoulder muscles pulled like a trigger) and Demerol (I have a hard time sleeping in England).

I stay rolled up in the covers, spending my days sweating it out on the big metal bed in the attic. Jules brings me green tea, DVDs and my papers. She calls me her little pancake and tells me to be good. Then she heads out for the pub.

Goddamn these fucking crooked ass rafters. Goddamn these fucking flip-up windows. Actually, I kind of like the way they open, I just wish they weren’t streaked with bird shit.

I don’t know why I’m here. I keep waking up thinking I’m in Amsterdam. South London feels like a dream to me. Patches of bright green grass wink up at me when I look down out the window, instead of the deep, blue glistening Amstel that I’m used to. Everything appears wet, even the concrete. I hear children playing in the streets and while I understand what they’re saying, their accent makes them strange. In England, nothing is what it seems, everything that should be familiar and warm is tilted slightly in a way I don’t understand. The people are cold, I find there’s something grimly purposeful about them. Just before I got sick, I took a walk down Portobello Road. It was sunset, vibrant patterns of early spring light fell all around me. This city is so old I thought, becoming somehow emotional at the sight of a satellite dish sitting fat and awkward on a rooftop. In the next moment a wave of loneliness threatened to knock me down. I pulled up my collar against the damp and the cold. I looked people in the eye as I passed, but very few looked back.

At least on the continent they showed a little curiosity.

It’s funny because all my life I’ve tried so hard to blend in and when I finally do I want to be noticed.

The last time I was here there weren’t these Starbucks all over the place. That’s how long it’s been since I dare come back.

When we pulled in at Victoria, I lit a cigarette and spoke enigmatically to Jules:

“Well, here we are, the so-called scene of the crime.”

“Which one?” Jules shot back, snatching my cigarette to light her own off it. Those were the last smokes we’d have before getting pulled aside at immigration.

835

backdraft/blowback

Sitting outside, watching all the girlies go by…

My overgrown, bleached bangs blow around my face and get stuck in my eyes. I’m wearing a black nylon jacket, black pants, shiny black boots, like I’m an officer of some kind.

I’ve got a black glove on my right hand, covering the nasty “flesh toned” prosthetics. Experience has taught me it’s best to keep that mess under wraps. When I walk down the street I have my hand in my pants pocket, like a pervert.

This site must be getting some kind of traffic because I’ve been getting emails from chicks all around the world. Usually they just want to say what’s up, but sometimes they want to talk about their problems, and that’s cool too. I respond to everyone in my slow-motion fashion.

I encourage the emails, ladies.

A few have come out and told me they’re in love with me, and I write back and tell them that’s A-Ok, fine.

I figure they’re already well aware that they’re in love with an internet entity, the on-line, invisible version of “Sterling Fassbinder”, a real person (whatever that means) living out in the world. On-line is on-line and flesh is flesh is motherfucking flesh and if you’re confused about the distinction, I’m sorry sweetheart, but I’m not going to be the one to break it down for you.

I’m too busy going with the flow.

I enjoy playing games with these girls. They seem to enjoy playing with me. Most of them are straight in real life. They’ve got boyfriends and husbands. Sometimes I know what they look like, sometimes I don’t.



Inevitably the girls ask about my thing with TRUE. They want to know if I’m in love with her. They’re concerned that I’m pining away and losing my mind while she trips around Europe.

I try to avoid answering. I tell them yeah we were oldest, best friends but things switch.

(chop a new niche)

The emboldened girls ask, “Have you slept together? Did you ever kiss or make out?”

The answer to both questions is “no”.

Neither TRUE nor I are the touchy-feely type. Even back in the day, we weren’t the kind of friends who hugged and held hands and fell asleep in each other’s laps.

We never did each other’s hair except to shave it off.

We were like beads on a loose necklace, hanging out at the club or the party with several heads between us, sliding back and forth, communicating with the occasional nod—a meaningful glance.

We had each other’s backs but we didn’t ride each other’s bra straps.

I think that’s what I miss most—our telepathic vibe. Fitz and I are tight but it’s not the same. When we hang out I can’t help but think of the missing third.

TRUE and I danced a couple of times when we were drunk. There was some grinding: I pulled her close and felt the warmth of her pussy pressing against my thigh. I found myself breathing on her neck. But there was never that pivotal moment of losing control and crossing the boundary between friendship and something else.

I don’t know if there’s nothing there to ignite or we’re just scared of a fuckin big ass backdraft.



There was only one time that I truly had the feeling that something was about to happen between us. It was four years ago, when TRUE was living in Brussels. I was crashing my then junkie ass on the futon in her one room apartment. I remember lying beside her and staring up at the ceiling while she drifted off to sleep. We lay there like dolls. Her sleeping face was sublime. It was like she was under a spell. I didn’t want to move; I didn’t even want to breathe. The smack had diminished all my body’s processes to the point where I felt like I could will my heart beat down to a bare tip-tap spread out over long intervals. TRUE got up every morning at dawn and crept over to the closet, where she took out her pair of jeans to replace her oversized football sweats and exchanged her tank top for one of those silky long sleeved thermal shirts she wore under another shirt. Then she went out and had breakfast in the café down the street, coming back two hours later with the paper and fresh croissants.

She didn’t know it, but my body sensed it as soon as she got out of the bed. I lay there and secretly watched her get changed in the green and gold morning light.

I’d seen her naked before, but somehow this was different.

The careful, quiet way she pulled things off and on, folded them, put them back. She was still half asleep.

I was honored that she stumbled around in the dark like that, trying not to make any noise.

Little did she know, I was wide awake.

She undid the knot on the sweatpants and let them fall to her ankles. Then she shuffled forward and gently kicked them off each foot.

She didn’t wear any underwear under the sweats. There were a stack of black Calvins stuffed into a lower cubby hole. I watched her bend down; I heard the elastic snap when she slid them around her waist.

I took in everything I could, until I felt sick and full.

Those days I was used to feeling sick and empty.

A part of me was screaming about that I was an asshole, spying on my best friend in such a lascivious way. I couldn’t help myself. Something about the light on her skin made me terrified and happy at the same time.

I don’t know why it took as long as it did, but one morning she finally felt me staring at her and whirled around. I was too shocked and ashamed to pretend to be asleep, so I looked her straight in the eye, my face reddening. She looked back across the shadowy room, the drawstring of her sweatpants tangled up in her fingers.

“Hmmph,” she said. Her eyes were dark.

I waited for her to laugh and give me the finger; or for her to lose her temper and scream “what the fuck, you asshole”. One of these reactions would have been fine.

Instead, she gave the drawstring a hard tug, undoing the knot.

The sweatpants fell to her feet with a swoosh.

I let my eyes drop from hers for a second.

Then she reached down and pulled her tank top over her head.

She held it in her hands and cocked her head as she watched me watching the muscles move across her naked body.

She ran a finger straight up the trail leading from her belly button to her chin.

I started to sit up.

“No,” she said. I remember that her voice was calm yet firm.

She walked over and threw a leg onto the futon. There were the pink tips of her nipples against the white comforter. She climbed up and straddled my waist, her knees pressing into my sides, somewhat painfully.

“TRUE,” I said, looking up. I could smell her—warm, sweet.

She looked down at me, grinning ever so slightly.

I felt a lifetime of moments piled-up around us and I started to shake.

“You wanna wear my clothes?” she purred.

“What? Yes,” I said, breathless.

“You wanna be me?” she said, smiling fully now.

“Fine, anything.”

“OK. Here”

She giggled and dropped the tank top onto my face.

“Wear this,” she said. I pulled my arm out from under the covers and took it off my face. Before I could look at her again—before I could reach up and grab her face and pull it to mine--she placed her hand flat against my chest—right over my heart, in fact—and suddenly and violently pressed down in something of a one-handed push-up. She jumped off the futon, her feet landing with a loud thump on the floor.

“Fuck!” I said, gasping for air, while she skipped back over to the closet, completely naked.

A few minutes later she was dressed and out the door. I remember she didn't leave me any cigarettes.



there's no one like you you're just like everyone else

or

molly

photo jenny

The stairwell of my building is a veritable collage of found art. Sneakers, bike parts, a rusted birdcage that reeks ominously of cat piss...my favorites, however, are the notes taped to the impromptu message board beside the mailboxes. Especially when they're personal and pissed-off:



Hey TRUE, this guy wants to battle you:

fat kid rapping

Whatever. Listen, I'm bored. When are you coming back to NYC, darling? Big, black trannie dicks are so last year.

There are so many things I'd like to say: I just can't get them together

I'm a star beaten

by heavy beats,

Garage Label

i made a blue and white sticker, smack my bitch

shoot the pitcher

fucking Mets, Navy dress

Your face is a mess (tremble, tremble)

no one has a clue...

...BRANDTRUE!



It's a lie that I have the letters "B R O O" tattooed onto the knuckles of one hand and "K L Y N" on the other.

I don't have any tattoos;

I don't have anything pierced except my ears.

Your own hall of fame--closed on weekdays, shut for good

raymi,

is that me with the cigarette?

trying simultaneously to look and shield my eyes

from the lit-up krakatoa of your return

(blow the lid off this mountain)

or maybe i'm the gaze of the camera eye itself

steady on the action

an unblinking

device

(and yr thoughts they start a-turnin'
lessons that yr learnin')

no one has a clue



while i've got the chance I'd like to say thank-you,

quentin tarantino

a white boy using the n-word,

first cinematographer of how a high really feels

thank-you, moby

we love the innovator failures

I'm feeling so real

thank-you, andy kaufman

for mighty mouse

and thank-you, the rock band pavement

for everything

especially your glass house.

Happy Four-Twenty, Darlings!

wfmu

I've been a fan for a long time, but this weekend it happened. Jim Treacher became my lawrd and say-veeyer. Despite the fact that I do believe it's Orwellian, not Orwell, Darling. No bother. "Mother May I?" indeed.

Just my type. A right asshole who's straight, jobless, probably married.

Maybe it's the hot rod flames template that gets me going, I don't know.

So when people begin to talk about how derivative I've become, that's fine by me, as long as they know that I was the first to make the accusation.

Love it. Love the dress, love the shoes, love the bag--love it.

Daddy Treacher

Fuck it.

It occurred to me today, somewhat randomly.

“Fuck it, we can still make it.”



BRANDTRUEBOY can still take this shit.

We can have a good time with large crowds.

I could go back to NYC

And pick up where I left off with the graffiti.

I stood topless in front of the mirror while I thought this.

The ace bandage was off

My tits were out

I had Jules crying on my shoulder,

Pulling on me, prostrating herself.

“I need my money,” I told her. I put on my new yellow meshback baseball cap, purposely cocking it at a ridiculous angle.

The light in the room changed. My reflection darkened.

An Aphex Twin remix of St. Etienne was on the stereo in the other room. I felt hidden cameras filming me for the summerblockbuster.

(oh, blockbuster. Oh, block)

“I’m not going to give it back,” Jules said, teary eyed but defiant. “You won’t leave without your money.”

She was right, of course.

anti

raymi

jamie

Breakfast Dose

I wasn’t the only one eating my breakfast on the train this morning. Across from me a girl went to town on something called a Bocca Pop. At least that’s what I was able to make out on the label of the film roll size container; the top of which can only be described as being a purple nipple.

The girl turned the nipple upside down and carefully dipped it into the container. It emerged covered with a pink candy powder that she proceeded to vigorously suck off. Let me stress the word vigorously. Her lips were big and pink and shiny. I could see people trying not to stare. She was ten, maybe eleven. She had short black hair cut like a boy’s and she wore a red hooded sweatshirt that said “Metropolitan Opera Children’s Chorus” across the front. She looked half-Filipino. Flip, as we used to say in the neighborhood. Her father was sitting next to her, a balding white guy in khakis, tapping away at his Palm. I could see a strip of stamps sticking out from one of the folds in the leather cover.

From time to time he shot his daughter a nervous, suspicious look. The girl went right on sucking. I gave up on the other half of my bagel and wrapped it back up in its greasy cellophane.

In addition to the obvious, the whole thing also reminded me of doing drugs: the ritual of it—the fucked up little tools you rely on, scraping away at that last bit of the bag.

This little kid was getting a taste right in front of me. She was going at it on that nipple. Dip, dust, score. Her dad was powerless to stop her. She was single-minded like a junkie. I had an image of a silver pinball shooting perfectly into a hole—fast and straight, without the slightest variance in its path. The satisfying sound of “cla-clunk” when the ball drops through.

It disappears into the black. Just like TRUE, who just made it over the border and into the UK. I'm worried about her being there. For those of you who don’t know, this whole sick mess started in England in 1995. That’s when TRUE met Fitz and set down the path that I would later join them on.

The path of destruction...wave of mutilation and what-not.

I had another name back then. Sterling didn’t exist yet. Not for me, not for my parents. I’m talking about my twin brother. The one who died in front of me and I forgot all the fuck about until that day on the beach with TRUE.

This little girl has her sugar nipple high, she's got her rich dad and her budding theater career; meanwhile here I am an adult and fully grown and all I've got are two missing fingers and someone else’s name.

My mother flipped out when I informed her that from now on, I was going by “Sterling Fassbinder”:

“But Sterling, you’re already dead,”she screeched, nonsensically.

I only saw her only once more after that—waving goodbye from the car window. My father had just met me at the end of the driveway to tell me that if I tried to come back in the house, I’d be trespassing.

novelnotes

Ben Gay

I think I fucked up my bladder by holding my piss for the nine hours they had us captive at border control. I was freaking out that if I let a drop go, they'd send it straight from the toilet to a test tube, where god knows what they'd find.

Towards the end my abdomen was like a little balloon over my pants. I lifted my shirt so Jules could take a peak.

"It's those cheddar crisps from last night," she whispered. "All that salt makes you retain water."

"Don't say that word!"

"What word?" she teased, as she pressed a long manicured finger against my belly.

I slapped her hand away. A guard turned in our direction with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't get angry at me," she hissed. "You have so much poison in your pipes I bet you haven't had a proper leak in years."

A.R.E. Weapons

I want to apologize to everyone who was checking for me last night

Sorry Sterling. Sorry Fitz. Sorry World.

I was up and ready to do that chat shit, but I thought I’d have a little somethin’ somethin’ right before and that turned out to be a mistake.

You ever have a smoke and the second it fills your lungs your mouth gets this chemical taste in it and a signal goes off (quick, the yellow phone!) and you’re like, “oh, I shouldn’t have smoked that, I really really really shouldn’t have smoked that…”

I had to lie down. My legs twitched uncontrollably, like those of a beetle stuck on a pin. I kept wringing my hands, pulling the hell out of them as though that would get the evil out.

And there is evil, party people. We all doubt it, because the very nature of this evil is to make us believe that all we have to worry about is the passing of time, (if I do everything right, I’ll be safe) the petty obligations and stupid preoccupations of one day flowing into the next. The evil makes us dutifully fill out entire calendars of days with the promise that we’ll be magically flushed forward into some vague thing called the future.

Party people, open your eyes and get out of your head.

There is no future. There’s only this breath.

There’s only this accidental heartbeat.

Ask yourself, is this the life I want—right now, in this moment?

Ask yourself before your thoughts are hopelessly scattered,

Like white pebbles shot out from under spinning wheels

On one of these majestic English driveways.

On Sunday I went up to Fort Washington to visit the German girl in her new digs. She’s just north of Washington Heights, way up by the Cloisters and Fort Tryon. Her neighborhood is filled with stately brick buildings and tall brass fences, the pointed tips tarnished bright green. There was that triumphant uptown feeling of being high-up, of being close to the bright blue bell of the sky while the City rolled out in front of you, and beneath you, like a thick carpet covered in jewels. The Hudson was right there—the Jersey Palisades rising up behind it. I felt a twisting in my gut when I saw them, poking between the trees as I walked up the hill from the subway. They were like gods out on the water, silent as sphinxes, judging me for all that shit that I did in that fucked up state.

The German girl came down when I buzzed and met me in the lobby, ready for a walk in the park. She was dressed perfectly: tight designer jeans and a cream-colored velour top. Classic tortoise shell shades, none of that frameless, blue glass Gucci crap. I had time to reflect, “This is a date,” as I took her hand and led her out into the sunshine.

The daffodils survived last week’s frost, they were blaring yellow trumpets across Fort Tyron Park. Everything else looked a little droopy. The German girl told me about all her activities and appointments. I marveled at how much shit she piled onto her life. Her cell phone goes off like crazy—I have to ask her to shut it off when we hang out.

We walked up to the Cloisters, playing that game where we guessed the nationality of tourists passing by. The trick was to get close enough to them to hear them speak, or to ask them the time and evaluate the accent. The German girl had an innate sensibility about these things, while I stuck to my cheat sheet:

French—tended to have slight builds, with nice hair and pleated trousers. Map-happy, goofy bewildered expressions...they wore thin jackets with lapels.

German—the black shoe brigades and ridiculous, “cutting edge” eyewear. Loud voices. Sensible jackets.

Italian—overdressed but looking good, great shades, their children always seemed to have slightly out-of-control hair

English—bad hair and posture, sweatshirt/or sweater over collared shirt combo, entirely inappropriate shoes, the women wearing open toed sandals without tights even when it’s freezing out.

Russian/Eastern European—the women overdressed in obvious designer dresses, a bit whorish with the hair/make-up. The men like to wear American sports casual—team labels that look somehow out of place. Lots of furrowed brows and pissed off expressions.

Americans—loud, boorish, wearing expensive, gadgety jackets but underdressed otherwise. Map-happy but self-conscious about it. Wide foreheads.

There were other people too, from Asia and Africa, but they weren’t as much fun. There was something about sizing-up and characterizing black and brown people that didn’t seem quite right.

Inside the Cloisters it was cool and dark. Apart from a few desk lamps at the entrance, the place was all about natural light, just like a real monastery. Canned medieval chants played on invisible speakers as we wandered through passageways made with stone transported from actual European and South American cloisters. We stood in front of the Unicorn tapestries, absorbed by the intricacy of the weaving. All that shit was done by hand! It must have taken years. Same for the illuminated manuscripts under glass—each page painstakingly copied and decorated with intricate ink drawings of saints and cathedrals, birds and angels.

I tried to imagine the monks who got up at 4 AM and sat hunched at a desk all day, everyday, making art for which they would never get a single ounce of recognition. There were no magazines to stick their faces in, no book tours they were contractually bound to bemoan. Those monks didn’t worry about selling out, or fading to black.

I followed the German girl out to the herb garden so she could have a smoke. We leaned against the stonewall and watched the waves glittering on the Hudson. Behind us, two elderly women spoke in heavily accented English. I peered over my shoulder: they were dressed in heavy black winter coats with fur hats and powder on their ancient faces.

“Hey,” I whispered, my face close to the German girl’s sweet smelling neck. “How about them?”

“German,” she said, without turning around. “They have the same accent as me, can’t you hear it?”

I listened to the women talk about someone’s granddaughter, who was currently an associate at her firm but would hopefully be something more. The German girl walked around a bit with her cigarette, and stole a few looks at the ladies.

“OK, fine—German,” I said, when she came back. “But tell me this, why are they speaking in English?”

“Because they probably swore many years ago that they would never speak German ever again.”

I opened my mouth to say something and then closed it, nodding my head instead like a dumb parrot. I pressed my palms flat against the wall and stared out at the endless current of cars crossing the George Washington bridge, on their way to Jersey. From this distance they seemed to be moving in slow motion.

alana

"The Inner Donut"

Or

"The First Time I Tried To Kick"

By Sterling “Already Dead!” Fassbinder.


Three years ago I floated through the head of my double-glazed, donut brained lover,

And I came out the other side bearing the name of my dead twin brother.

utahgoth




angie jensen

i'm on the run the cops got my gun and right about now it's time to have some...

The invite said fags and queens only. No natural girls, no excuses. What bullshit. Jules greased back my hair with French coconut pomade and helped me glue on a goatee. She put a little liner under my eyes and took some Polaroids. The pictures seemed to inspire her, she inhaled deeply with her eyes closed, holding the air for at least ten seconds before exhaling grandly. She opened her eyes and cast a disparaging look around the dingy room, as though she’d expected to find herself somewhere else. Her critical gaze ended up in my crotch. I crossed and uncrossed my legs.

“Honey, you’re going to need to pack with something a little bigger if you want to get past the door.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. I got that sinking feeling, as though there were angels watching over me.

“Politie! Toegankelijk Naar de Portier!

“Jules,” I whispered.

Jules rammed her cigarette in her mouth and walked calmly across the room. She summoned up that man strength from way down deep and pulled the immense mahogany bookshelf away from the wall, revealing a gap between the floorboards and the wall.

“Go get the shit.”

I ran to the bedroom and grabbed my duffel bag. I grabbed the three remaining tennis balls stuffed with coke baggies.

“Hello!” I heard the cop call out as he rattled the door handle.

I ran back into the living room and dropped the balls in the hole. They bounced around like crazy down there in the dark before coming to a stop. Jules braced herself to push the shelf back.

“Hold on,” I said.

I took the iced-out TRUE medallion off my neck and let it fall. It winked back up at me from where it landed on the dusty black floor of the boiler room. I grabbed an overstuffed ashtray and dumped it in after it. The butts and ash rained down and snuffed out the sparkle.

“I’m some boy you picked up. Name’s Jamie. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he won’t ask for ID.”

Jules nodded. “Jamie,” she said. She was all business.

“OK. I’m ready,” I said, and helped her push.

myshitdontstink

i hope i die before i get old

fuck this shit, fuck you all. i'm not even gonna tell you where i am, maybe i'm in l.a.yme (r) maybe i'm right across the room from you in phoebes, in brooklyn, drinking a fucking soy chai. maybe i'm smoking shit in the boogie down (south bronx, south south bronx). i could be cruising 8 mile, the fuckin pimp slappin female eminem (nah, i don't think so) or i could be sleeping in a puddle in the center of baghdad, my hearing blown out, saying raps under my breath and imagining other worlds far away from the army, posting made-up stories on blogger. (you're jingling baby. go 'head baby)

fuck everyone tryin to be a big shot, tryin to act like they know what time it is. fuck those vice boys. mama said canuck you out. fuck the pundit blogs, those close-to-being-middle-aged fucks with flabby arms and bushy facial hair who sound like they're typing with their dick, blessing us with a few milky pearls dripping from their superior consciousness. fuck you i already went to college.

it's afrika bambaataa's b-day.

he and his friends were so smart, they invented a new form of art.

hip-hop was born in parks by the river.

it was born out of love

in community centers and on cardboard boxes

under the neon lights of Times Square

What have you and you're friends created? What the fuck have you come up with?

Are you out there protesting the war, getting in everyone's face

and then driving off in your car?

You think everything's so fucking black and white, what the fuck do you know about violence?

What the fuck do you know about running towards the grey cloud,

the disaster scene

fucking ground zero

everyone running the other way

i get on the back of some kid's BMX

all of us looking up

eyes wide open not getting it

a feeling of unreality made us strangely nonchalant

the boy made figure eights on the bike

i didn't say anything

he was zoning out, unsure whether to go backwards or forward

it looked like the end of the world up there

a guy behind me muttered "get em get em" under his breath

when a row of fighter jets screeched over our heads

it was the only sign of emotion

that strange dust washed everything out of us

for me all that was left was a never ending tickertape in my mind

the same thing repeated

over and over

it read:

"sterling's somewhere in there i've got to find her

my best friend's in there i've got to find her"

i think war is when you stop thinking

your mind is shackled by the gravity of the situation

something else takes over

like during my blackouts

i live through hours

sometimes days

and i don't remember a thing

(i was central, i lost control)

i swear i don't remember a thing.

whatever that means.



sumo pop

We're the renegades of the atomic age.

And it's the atomic age of the renegades.


TRUEBOY never softens it.

I don't make it easy on you.

That's because I want to build something here.

Maybe with your help

Mr. Only Fierce

Hold off on that car

and buy a kingdom instead

a blog enterprise

for us by us

(rub your titties if you love hip-hop)

fuck selling out

fuck the 9 to 5s

i can't work for someone else

The future is upon me. Several years of partying have steeled me. Fuck all of you out there who don't know what drugs really are about. The fucking night vision that they give you. You need to have been around the block more than once or twice to start getting that kind of high.

I'm a black tailed rat, racing on all fours across the tracks of the evening train.

(and we'll kiss, as though nothing can fall)

Totally disconnected from reality, air born, laced-up. Fuck it, we're ready. Let's travel six heads deep down this highway. Let's leave the centuries and customers behind us. I want to return to year one, to an untold wealth of wisdom, the playground of the inner shining idiots.

listen to "new age" by the velvet underground

the live version if you can

then some public enemy

(beat is for sonny bono)

(beat is for yoko ono)


(beat is forever)


kidgod

Tonite the Stars Reduce Us Back (BRANDTRUEBOY=Murder)

Gun in the corner

Gun in the store

Steal me that gun, baby

Cuz we got to SCORE

Guernica

ellenh

Cheers, Dears.

It’s time for another one of my blog belchings.

Wasn’t it Ken Kesey who bemoaned the fact that being a great writer meant that from time to time one actually had to write something?

Fuck.

I’ve been killing time with the artsy squatters again. I took a car across the bridge to Avenue See (as in see how the other half lives) bearing a thermos of piping hot Irish coffee and a bag of Fila sports socks. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s filthy little toes sticking out of filthy socks. I charged up the dank, concrete stairs and tossed the bag near the pile of army surplus shoes at the door.

“I brought you some dignity!” I called out over the frightful noise. One of the musicians had managed to hook-up the ancient refrigerator to an amp. He’s fascinated by the way electricity “breathes”. He likes to stand next to power stations and “vibe in the blue Rock n’ Roll energy”.

I lit a Galouise and strolled into the big room, where a DJ was spinning rockabilly. I saw the bleached head of Cain, my current Cover Star.

“Darling!” I shouted.

He looked up and gave me a goofy, stoned grin that made my heart flutter. I got that movie feeling again. I waved him over and leaned carefully against the splintery wall. I took a hit off the thermos. Everything was illuminated by a single, swinging 40 watt bulb. I closed my eyes and tried not to think of the obvious comparisons to Guernica.



Cain asked me for a cigarette. The way he handled the lighter reminded me of an old woman—there was that same level of delicate desperation towards his habit. His blue eyes sparkled with relief. As far as he knew, Fitzcarraldo was my real name. While we smoked he suddenly hunched down to admire my trousers.

“They’re cute. I love the cut.”

“I bought them because they don’t flare out, and yet they’re not completely full length.”

“I see,” he said, tugging at the bottom of the legs, which came to approximately mid-shin. He looked up at me slyly, but only for the barest of seconds. Then he rose, took a step back, and gave the pants and overall appraisal. “Nylon,” he said, as if he had just discovered it, “the only worthwhile synthetic.”

“I paid fuck too much for them,” I said, something I’m usually loathe to admit. I’ve found that I’m strangely spontaneous in my speech when around him.

Cain ran a hand through his closely cropped hair. “What I like to do, is to buy something entirely too expensive, leave the tags on, wear it once, and then return it.”

“That’s so tacky,” I said, dangling my cigarette off the edge of my lip. “And besides, I love the act of buying something too much to try and undo it.” That said, I slipped a wad of bills into the pocket of his purple mesh shirt. He gave me a wide, fake grin. His eyes were perpetually heavy-lidded and his nose was too fat. He had a slight stutter and hips like a woman, but in spite of all this, I couldn’t get enough.

Just then, as I was staring meaningfully into his eyes, my phone rang. Something inside of me told me to answer it.

“Pronto.”

“Fitz. It’s TRUE.”

“Shit,” I said, “Where are you?” I held up a finger to Cain and walked over to the window.

“Rotterdam…but I’m getting the fuck out of this mess.”

“Are you on a plane? I can barely hear you.”

“I’m on the street. I’m drunk and cold.”

“Get yourself inside, sweetheart.”

“No, Fitz, listen, you have to give me a song to sing…”

“You sound totally tossed.”

“Yes! I spoke to Raymi. And Anti. Listen. She wasn’t raped. Thank god.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Give me a song, please.”

“Do you think you were raped, TRUE?”

“I need a song, you fucking asshole!”

“This is important. You have to answer the question.”

She started sobbing. It sounded like hic-cups.

“Darling, please.” I put my hand over my ear and pressed the phone as hard as I could against my head.

“TRUE, you have to tell me, once and for all….do you think I raped you?”

“A song, something to sing…please, my chest is caving in.”

Then she hung up, and I was alone in a room full of strangers.

Cuz Her Mind is So Steady

brooklyn kid


so here we go

I spent the weekend out and about, as is again my fashion.

No more staying at home, hatching plots and obsessing over my artshit.

I need to be outside, with the light and the sounds and my new blue jeans cutting through the fresh air and the free time that lately leaves me so uptight. I wander along and join my fellow sufferers of Sunday sickness at the galleries, nursing sore nerves and thinking, at least I’m not watching TV. I leave the ATM and wave for a cab, scrutinizing the purple smoothie splashed across the bright white sidewalk like it's a sign. I wonder, “Is there something I should know?” as a group of teenagers dressed in Old Navy pass by and giggle.

I've got that hook in my head:

girls look so good but their minds are not ready
i'd rather be with a woman cuz her mind is so steady

(so here we go)

A flash goes off in the corner of my eye and I turn on the heels of my Japanese Nikes and catch someone taking my picture.

“OK,” I think, as he runs away around the corner.

The park is covered in a yellow haze. The leaves on the trees are glittery. Workers in green shirts turn over the topsoil, pulling up dead roots and pouring in fertilizer. Then they pat down a handful of hay, spit, light a smoke and move on to the next patch.

I think about those decomposing flowers, mushed in there under the ground. I wonder if they stink. If you got on your hands and knees and put your face in the dirt, would you be able to smell the ground-up death?

I’ve been getting that tingle in my missing fingers.

A message from the phantom.

Always a sure sign that something big is about to happen.

ms. jennykatherinhand

At the gay bar

gay bar

Late nights I spend at the gay bar, with Jules and her posse.

I’m the only American and the only one who claims to be straight. Sterling gave me shit about it, because I’m dating a drag queen, but I’m like, what the fuck she still has a dick and she likes to use it.

Americans always get suspicious when a person doesn’t exactly fit their expectations. Europeans are much more likely to go with the flow. Jules’ posse sees me dressed like a boy and they don’t bat an eye. They ask me where I got my black on black Yankees cap, or my vintage Levis. They call me TRUEBOY and don’t dare disrespect me with the hated question.

“So, what’s your real name?”

“C’mon, you can tell me…your name can’t really be…”

Listen up, party people…I am who I am. I’m who I’ve decided to be.

(I’m the boy, who’s learned to enjoy, invisibility…)

I like the gay bar. I like walking in with Jules’ fabulous posse and I like all the stiff drinks I get for free. I like the commotion and cacophony of Dutch and German being spoken around me. I sit hunched over with my notebook, puffing on a spliff and trying to remember not to take my pulse every five minutes. Meanwhile Jules makes her rounds.

Recently, I’d been catching looks from a delicate looking baby dyke with a crew cut and brand new black and white Converse All-Stars. She was American, it was written all over her blank, well-meaning face, just as I’m sure it’s written all over mine. She had that art school vibe--straight out of RISD or Coopers Union or some shit like that. She’d come to Europe to be an artist, like thousands before her. I hated her for that--the sickeningly sweet brand of optimism that brought her here. I hated her gadgety brightly colored American jacket and her chirpy, “Yeahs?” and “Oh, reallys?”, as she sat at a table with students from the University.

I hated her so much I couldn’t help myself from constantly shooting looks back at her, just to see how reprehensible she really was with her American Camels and her Asian style tattoos.

Last night, she finally came over. Jules’ crowd could barely suppress their mocking, throaty laughs as they sat up tall in their stools and squinted through the smoke to watch. Jules herself was on the other side of the bar, keeping track of every movement I made.

“Hey,” the girl said. “I’m blah blah.”

Her voice was bright and clear like a bell.

When I didn’t respond, she gamely continued, “Watcha writing?” an inevitable question given the presence of the notebook. I shifted in my stool and bit down on my bottom lip.

“Don’t bother, I’ve already sized you up,” I muttered, without raising my head.

“Excuse me?” the girl said.

I was silent for an uncomfortable minute, before responding, “How do you want this to go—what’s your plan--your weapon of choice? I can already tell you that if it’s anything other than alcohol you’re barking up the wrong goddamn tree, chillymost.”

The girl was taken aback. “You want a drink?” she asked. “I was just about to offer…”

“Yeah-yeah, that’s the ticket. We’ll sit right here, have a few drinks and you can oohh and ahhh over me being an MC. If they’re the right drinks I might even drop a rhyme or two for you. They can be some of mine, from this here notebook,” I flipped rapidly through the pages, “Or they can be someone else’s—a verse from a hit fucking song, I doubt you’ll know the difference. Even if you do actually own a few hip-hop albums you’re probably a total lightweight who will be so drunk that you won’t even try to understand what I’m saying. Not that it really matters--the cadence of the waterfalling words will seal the deal nonetheless, and you’ll hurry me back to your place to fuck.”

The girl stood there, too astonished to move. I heard someone rapidly translating my words into Dutch behind me.

“We’ll go to your student digs to be among the ironical hanging hippy tapestries, the retro shag throw rugs and the second hand coffee table coated with layers of candle wax. We’ll get high on your cheap ass grass with Ani Difranco playing on the 3 Cd Aiwa, staring at each other and trying hard not to think and to just let go and give in—two things we should have done a long time ago. Inevitably you will have a lot of books, incense, artsy black and white photographs in metal frames, and the requisite black t-shirt or shirts strewn over a chair. Maybe there will be posters of Rosie the Riveter and Gay Activism slogans from the eighties on the wall. The three Queer M’s: Mapplethorpe, Madonna, Morrissey. Or torn argyle socks and baby blue boxer shorts rolled in a ball in the corner, from your last fuck. Stale donuts on the counter, high-end shopping bags in the corner…whatever…there might be a crack pipe still smoking on the yellow linoleum. Anything, there can be anything up in your apartment but I’ll tell you already that I’ve seen it all before and you’ll have to do better than that.”

The girl didn’t know what to say. Her eyes were wide and her forehead lined. She took a step back, frowned, and looked around her. The giggling, chattering cliental immediately turned inward, like a row of shutter panels pulled closed.

“So,” she said, her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. “This is how you get your kicks—putting down a nice girl like me for the amusement of all your friends, here.”

I leaned forward and grabbed her wrist.

“Oh, no,” I hissed, just loud enough for her to hear. “These aren’t my friends, love. I care two shits about any one of these losers. I was merely fast-forwarding through the painfully predictable future hours you were proposing we spend together.”

“I didn’t propose shit to you, you fucking asshole,” she spat, wrenching her hand free.

“Really, my favorites are the ones who want to take a picture of me,” I went on, my heart pounding. “The stiff and the bored—they need evidence. They need something to put in a scrapbook for when they’re married and their twats are dried up and big as Hefty bags from all the puppies they squeezed out.”

“Fuck off,” the girl said and walked away.

“I love it when they say, ‘I think it’s so great that you’re breaking down these boundaries, that you’ve chosen this as the way to express yourself.’ Well let me tell you something about rapping, I didn’t chose it, baby—it chose me,” I called out. By now the girl was already on her way out the door. The bar buzzed and clucked in her wake. I caught Jules’ gaze from across the room: steady, unimpressed as always.

For a few seconds the girl was framed in the doorway, cast in half-silhouette by the streetlights outside. I watched as she ran her hand over her nearly bald head— for just a second, I found myself imagining how that soft baby hair would feel against my inner thighs. She had an ass on her too. A glare shot off a passing truck and reflected directly into my eyes, forcing me to turn away. When I looked back the doorway was empty.

pepsi lover

foundmagazine

Jules woke up from a nightmare, gasping for air.

"I was frozen--I looked down and my body had turned to stone. I was a sculpture in somebody's fucking garden. I screamed out, 'Somebody save me, I'm not real! I'm already dead!' "

I didn't know what to say so I ran to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. When I came back, Jules was sitting up and smoking a cigarette.

"What's that?" she said.

"It's water," I said, holding out the glass.

"Water! You know I never drink any of that. It comes out of the sky."

She ashed in the glazed ceramic ashtray on the nightstand, the one with the mountain of white butts piled-up like lies.

"Sweetheart," she said. "What I really need is a Pepsi."

I saw your arms in a dream

quarlo

I’m eating vanilla truffle whole milk yogurt and drinking German mineral water. That’s what I substitute for the alcohol. You need your sugar and you need your bubbles. When I first went on the wagon it was coffee and ginger ale. Not together, but often one right after another.

The vanilla truffle yogurt isn’t a staple. I’ve only just discovered it. Before that it was rice pudding and before that it was snack-size Snickers bars and before that it was Soy Delicious Chocolate Peanut butter and before that it was a disciplined serving of Cadbury Fruit and Nut—I allowed myself one tiny square a day for the entire first year after I quit drinking. One square, no more, no less.

Those were the days I hardly ate a thing. I was running on fumes, junkie fumes. Obsessing about anything and everything, driving all night.

People’s bodies go through all kinds of crazy metabolic changes when they suddenly quit drinking and doing drugs all the time. They gain weight, they lose weight; they get healthy, they get sick. There aren’t any patterns. The only thing that’s for certain is that you’re going to feel fucked up.

TRUE said I looked like a starving vampire.