links open windows




by TRUE



perma-headphones. that's the stylo for those of us trying to ward off human contact. it doesn't matter if you're actually listening to something.

but sennheisers notwithstanding, i still had this jamaican dude fronting with me while i was trying to take this picture. he was talking all sorts of crap about how he was going to smoke me out and make me a meatpie. he smelled like a giant beer burp. finally, i just turned to him and said, "if i give you a dollar, will you go away?" he was so taken aback that he actually left, and i was able to stand there, staring at myself in the mirrorworld glass columns of the Hyatt hotel, in relative peace.


science





by TRUE



this is what i'm talking about, party people. next level writing doesn't have to be about sex, drugs or rock n' roll. it just has to be REAL.

(of course it always helps if you mention me in a post!)

anyway, unlike my lovely and talented ex, i have a very hard time holding a grudge. it's not in my nature. i think i made my point, now it's time to bury the hatchet.

tony, please select from one of the following peace-making options:

1) Trancontinental smokeout followed by an IM chat in which we compete to see who makes the most spelling mistakes.

2) Start a blog called “popemobile” where we both post our deepest, darkest, most pathetic, guilt-ridden secrets. Shit you're supposed to tell a priest.

3) Start a blog called “abbynormal” where we take turns analyzing the posts each other writes on our other blogs.

4) Settle our differences dropping battle rhymes over IM. UltraB could judge and then take on the winner.

5) Pull down our pants, take a picture, and post it on a special site so that everyone can see, once and for all, which boy has the biggest balls.

ha! yes! seriously, tp, please pick an option. or come up with one of your own. i'm game. or maybe someone else has an idea...


peace.

(fer real this time)






by TRUE



i dont mind controversy. i dont mind haters. i dont mind people asking me questions. but i do mind people doubting me and questioning me. big difference there.

hmmm. what’s up, party people? despite my hectic schedule, i try my best to always read things carefully. sometimes, that means going back and reading things a second time. that’s what i did regarding the above passage, cited from tony pierce’s new site, lick. at first, i didn’t see the “big difference” between asking tony a question and questioning him, but after i thought about it, and after a comment he made on this site, i saw what he was getting at. he’s saying it’s OK to ask him to clarify a point, to clear things up or to reiterate—but don’t ask him to explain himself, as in who he is and what his core beliefs (or lack thereof) are about. as far as i can tell, that’s why he got pissy with Katie—because she questioned (among other things) if his shtick of playing host to a group girl blog was built upon good intentions. fine. he doesn’t want folks mistaking the content of the blog for the man who writes it. i can dig that. i, perhaps more than anyone, can see that “big difference”. which is why i was so surprised today when i went back to lick to see how/if he responded to a question i asked, only to find that not only had he not responded, but he had actually gone in and changed my comment, so that it now reads, “blah, blah, blah.”

that’s kind of funny, i have to admit. but i’ve still got to call it like i see it and that’s censorship, baby, pure and simple. i guess tp has every right to censor my comments—i mean, haloscam offers the option to do so, but i don’t understand why he did it, especially on a site that he’s been advertising as a kind of no-holds barred, free-range forum for opinion. i merely asked a QUESTION about the site, namely (and i’ll have to paraphrase myself here as i don’t remember my comment word for word) that i had checked out some of the sites listed on the right (those of the girls who have thus far agreed to write for lick) and i was wondering whether he was sure that they would really be able to handle the thinner air of the “next level” of blog writing. the implication, of course, is that for the most part, i don’t think they can cut the mustard. OK, fine. big deal. touché! argue against me! prove me wrong! or just play dumb like you usually do, but no, instead, homeslice went chickenshit and straight-up edited me.

and i was only asking a question!



i guess he thought a dissenting voice would be too hurtful for some of his poor, little chickadees to take. how sad is that? if the situation had been reversed, i would have used a comment like that as a call to arms. i would have rallied my troops with it—“see that, ladies, there’s some mad doubt out there, i want you all to go out there and SLAY”—but no.

i wonder how many other comments tony has edited? maybe a percentage of all those nice, glowing comments on the busblog originally started out as criticism, who knows?

and who cares, right? that’s what some people have told me. c’mon, they say, you can write him under the table with your eyes fucking CLOSED, why bother taking potshots? well, it’s true, party people. excuse me if i sound like an egomaniac but i do consider myself to be on a higher level than tony. not in all things. just writing. but what’s the point in puffing my chest? i used to read his site on the daily, and when the quality took a dip (after the whole kurt cobain/dead tony bit, which i thought was great) i stopped going back so often. big deal. i even left a comment wishing him well…so why stir up trouble, you might ask?

well, i’ve wondered myself and i’ll tell you: despite my façade of easy-going chillness, i really do give a damn about this whole blog thing. i think it’s an amazing tool of communication and creativity. right now it’s still a baby taking baby steps, but i think we’re witnessing the start of something big, something that has the potential to merge with video games and reality shows and wireless technology to make a really new form of interactive entertainment. i think that we who are out here now are the forerunners—the early adapters, and i’m referring specifically to the personal/creative/artsy blogs like mine and tp’s and any of the ones listed in my prop list. i think this type of blog has the most potential for interesting growth. the pundit/news blogs are great, but i don’t think there’s anywhere to go with them except to join with or become, Big Media. with personal blogs, i think the sky’s the limit. fuck it, they could change writing and reading as we know it.

i know that’s what i would like to see happen. those who’ve been reading this site know full well that i’m all about trying to raise the bar.



so i ask questions. i bug and i pester in an effort to keep people thinking, and pushing things forward. i see someone like tony pierce, who has a sizable readership, as being in the position of influencing blog trends, for better or for worse. that’s why i bugged him when he started his “send me money for a car” experiment. in exchange for a donation to the car fund, a person could have their site linked on the busblog. i asked, are you sure that’s a good direction for blogs to go in—paying to get their site linked? i didn’t throw a hissy, i didn’t lose any sleep trying to fuck with his site or any diabolical shit like that—i simply put up a red flag in his sea of shiny happy readers. the same went for his use of the word “gay” as an adjective describing something that was lame. i know lots of people use the word this way, it’s not an exclusive ‘tony pierce’ usage, but i wanted to (again) question him on it. he, who is so quick to call out the injustices he perceives in the world. he, who prides himself on being open-minded about people who are different than he is…i thought we could have a discussion. that never really happened, but he did write a post apologizing to whomever he may have offended amongst his gay/lesbian/Tran gendered readership, although at the time this did seem to be more of a way to shut me up than anything else.

a good thing that came of it, however, is that people who read our exchanges in his comment box emailed me to discuss the issue further. i met some cool people and discovered some great sites, which in the end, is all one can hope for.

(btw tp still regularly uses the word “gay” to describe things that are lame or negative)



so yeah, there were other, lesser incidents along the way, but whatever, you get the idea. regarding this current strife, i just want to make sure i’m not being misunderstood and then i’ll drop the whole thing quicker than a fat math rock beat over some arena power chords.

there were three main points i was trying to make by having this (by now) tiresome tete à tete with tony over lick:

1) i wanted to show support for katie’s view that women should be making all-women sites on their own, without the help of some dude. what’s wrong with the help of some dude, you might ask? nothing, just like there’s nothing wrong with a corporation with a male CEO, there’s nothing wrong with male fire chiefs and chefs and presidents and taxi drivers…nothing wrong at all, in and of themselves. what’s wrong is that so few women actually run shit in this world. i’m talking about being the top dog, head of command. there’s very little of that, party people. so why, of all things, should an all-women site be run/started/founded by a dude? again, nothing wrong with it in and of itself—but the question should at least be asked (and Katie was brave enough to ask it) “why don’t more women blog writers get their own thing going on?”

2) i wanted to point out that i think raymi is one of the best writers out there and it was like a half-dis to invite her to join a group of other, far inferior writers. i know that she and tony are cool—i certainly wasn’t trying to imply that they weren’t. it’s just that i know that, like me, tony recognizes raymi’s genius and gives her mad props on the busblog…which is why i thought he needed to represent on his new site and not just make her one of many. but whatever. for all i know she’ll join lick and it will be great and hugely successful for her. it was just my two cents, take it or leave it.

3) i also wanted to make some noise and get people thinking about the future of blogs and the so-called next-level that tony eludes to on lick:

tell your stories. tell them from your heart. have courage. and trust.

everyone will have psyedomns and some will have more than one. if you want to write something with your real name, fine. if you want to tell your deepest darkest secrets and remain anonymous, fine.

if you just want to kick ass all over the place, that will be accepted as well.

there will be a web site for longer and artier peices, there will be a blog for quickies.

no one will get paid unless the brinks truck backs up, and even then you might not get paid.

this is about making something head and shoulders better than whats out there, get rich at work. this isnt work.


fine! good! i like the vibe, spelling mistakes and all! i did not comment on this post. i did not QUESTION. i waited…until the list of ladies who were going to supposedly take us to this next level came out on the right. and for the most part they were not, i’m sorry to say, great or even good writers. i hadn’t even thought of the feminist angle, yet. Katie brought that up, and i’m glad she did. i was only thinking, damn, how are some of these chicks going to titillate when i’m bored senseless after one visit to their sites? but tony was nonplussed:

write whats missing in Lick.

write it in your own thing too if you want, but take it up another level for Lick.

if the people in your comments dont really like it when you talk about sex or politics or religeon on your blog, or if your mom reads it, or if your job reads it, write it in Lick.

if youre cheating on your lovah, if youre secretly digging justin timberlake, if youre silently loving the OC, tell us why.



um, yeah. that’s really what i see for the next level in this blog game. Justin and the OC. yes. because nothing has been written on those topics. you see, the busblog/lick’s brand of cool is the same as mtv’s brand of cool. there’s a lot of empty talk about transgressing the status quo, but in the end they are strictly and squarely there--at ground zero of "the norm". it’s about commodification, party people. i'm talking about the way in which soon, blogging is going to start making cash that somebody is going to get. and yeah, yeah, yeah, so what? don’t we all want to hit it rich? wouldn’t that be great? yes it would, but can’t we use the occasion of this new and original means of communication to come up with some new and original ways to make some cash? i’m not talking about little ten dollar donations, either. i’m talking about putting our heads together and making this blog thing HAPPEN. i’m talking about making a brand new form of art--for us, by us, so that when and if we do get PAID it won't be in a form of a check from the man. i'm talking about continuing to run our own shit, party people. yessssir. now you see my cards, now you see what i think is at stake. i’m not going to sit around and watch the whole thing turn into some bullshit-let’s-talk-about-sitcoms-lowest common denominator kind of story. it’s dangerously close to that as it is. fine, yes, tell me that i should mind my own business and that there’s more than enough room out there for me to do what i want and for the tony pierces of the world to do what they want. OK, yes. that’s the same thing they said about starbucks when it first started popping up in nyc. “oh, there will still be the local cafes…this isn’t the end of independently owned coffeehouses.” 8 years later and there’s one on every street, the idea being that the coffee you get uptown will taste exactly the same as the coffee you get downtown and isn’t that just great? isn’t that what we want—everything to be lame and the same? but fine, yes. maybe i’m just a paranoid freak—a Donna Quixote with a URL for a sword. fine, fine, fine. go ahead, let me have it.

i promise i won’t edit or delete any of your comments.



by TRUE

adios sitemeter. checking stats is so 0-3. by removing the script and canceling my "account" (it was a free piece of shite, anyway) i'm hereby putting an end to all those lonely, wasted hours in which i find myself going from my site to my stats and back again in an endless, mindless loop as i wait around for something (anything!) to happen.

i love you guys, and i love your comments...they make me feel good...and the fact that there are many others who come here every day but don't say anything makes me feel good too...but like anything that gives me pleasure a little is never enough...i try to stay away and be normal about it but inevitably push comes to shove and i lose composure and hit the sitemeter stats like it's a crackpipe.

now that it's gone i'll have time at last to get to work on refining my webmd profile, which will allow me to make better, more comprehensive searches of the symptoms database and get a jump on all the secret diseases i might have.

as i think about it, it seems to me that by not having a sitemeter i'm making this site much more customer friendly. from now on y'all gotta make yourself heard if you want me to know that you're out there. otherwise you're as good as invisible, which i know is how some of you masturbators like it.

of course, the fact that most of you will still check your stats means that i have to still rely on all the old tricks that i perfected when i fronted like i was three people. the use of VPNs and IP switches...the collection of spare laptops and computer geeks at my beckon call...whatever it takes so that i can be covered to come back to your piece 300 times a day, to check back and see if anything has changed, without the fear that you might be on to my stalking ass.





1-2-3-4-5-6-7-im floating in a concrete heaven

by TRUE



sissy


disco justice for crippled souls

that's what this city needs.

a soundtrack to remind us that many will be left behind.

(we need a little violence, to proove us rebatizable)

tonite i want to attend service

at the church of the worm in the apple.


i want to go somewhere in my new boots

i want to be your camera



i want to listen to the pavement cover of the r.e.m. song

and then i want the original

i want it all

like anti and raymi

i want the dream and its analysis

on one plate.




by TRUE

secretly, of course, i'm really working for Lick--

from the Outside...




BRANDTRUEBOY IS HARD AS HELL

I'LL BATTLE ANYBODY I DON'T CARE WHO YOU TELL






by TRUE

right-on, katie.

real bitches do real things, with or without the hits.

and the fact that big daddy asked raymi to be merely one of many in his girl gang gaggle is like asking the brightest, most beautiful blue-white star in the night sky to come down from its throne, millions of miles high, and shine amongst the cheap and sputtering bulbs that illuminate the parking lot of the local Home Depot.

yeeeeeeeeeeah. that's right. pouty propmaster, represent.



and why shouldn't you feel safe? it's not like you live in nyc, for fuck's sake...




in the words of one of the great west coast MCs:

"you betta check yoself before you wreck yoself."

ladies, it's the year oh-four, time to go for YOURS.........

(cuz big dicks in your mouth are bad for your health)

fuck pimps.

peace.




"self portrait with ear"

by TRUE




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----- Original Message -----
From: "r le minx"

Date: Mon, 24 Feb 2003 13:29:48 -0500
To: trueboy@graffiti.net

Subject: Re: can u c me

> heart shmart
> that photo has obviously been doctored
> i like that u did that
>
> i still love you
> and how u wanted to mislead me or whatever
>
> i respect u more than you know
>
> u have no reason to be wary or whatever
>
> im fuckedup
> too
> lotstotell
>
> _________________________________________________________________
> MSN 8 with e-mail virus protection service: 2 months FREE*
> http://join.msn.com/?page=features/virus
>

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by TRUE

i can't stop making this mixCD, maahn. i can't call it a wrap.

there are just so many songs out there, so many that i want to listen to with you.

i like that so much

being quiet and listening to music with someone

especially if it's a song that i love and i'm pretty sure whoever i'm playing it for is going to love it too

that's exhileration

or however you spell it

that's making something happen

(the t-shirt, the hair...the indie CD cover handfolded in fours)

it's making something happen just by sitting on the floor and watching someone hear something for the first time


five star, on-line vacation










by TRUE



The characters aren’t gone. I’ve just taken them off the stage for awhile.

I talked to a friend about how Fitz was a little hazy in my mind. She assumed I was referring to his physical appearance, but that’s only part of it. TRUE’s the one who writes in the voice that’s most like my own, Sterling is the one who got away—the creation I lost control of and had the thrill of watching blossom into her own person, and Fitz…Fitz has the unlucky heritage of being loosely based on someone I used to love, and now hate. As a result he’s an ever changing mélange of style and emotion, faggoty fluff and fucked-up-ness.

He’s the monster in my mind—repressed, reformatted, reborn.

I took his name from "Fitzcarraldo", the movie, by Werner Herzog. The title character (played by the inimitable Klaus Kinski) is an opera fanatic who wants to build an opera house in the middle of the Amazon rain forest. It’s based on a true story. There’s a scene in which he and a tribe of Indians construct a pulley system to drag a ship over a mountain. Herzog decided to film this without the aid of special effects—the actors reenacted the actual struggle of dragging a huge wooden vessel over a muddy mountain. In the Les Blank documentary, "Burden of Dreams", about the making of "Fitzcarraldo", we see just how close the project came to being a complete and utter life threatening disaster for Herzog and his crew as they battled the jungle and themselves to get the thing filmed.

Also worth watching is the Herzog movie, "My Best Fiend", about his tumultuous friendship with the often insane Kinski, with whom he worked on several films.

For me, 'Fitzcarraldo", the movie represents the dangerous, slippery slope over which one must haul the weight of real life in order to get to a place in which it is possible to make non-pussy, non-sellout art. One has to bring the opera to the jungle. It wasn’t that I saw the character of the drunk fag snake in the role that Kinksi played; rather, I saw my Fitz as the product of a will to power (my own) that was similarly hyperbolic in scope to this grand and misguided cinematic undertaking.

“I think he has a mole,” my friend offered.

“Hmmm,” I said, kicking my feet up on the coffee table and checking out my new Nike Shox.

“And stubble,” she said, getting excited. “A five o’clock shadow, but on purpose. You know, Miami Vice Style.”

“But he wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those suits,” I pointed out, as I turned my heel in horror at what I thought was stain but was really only a shadow.

“Oh, no,” she laughed. “No way. Not our boy. No chance in hell.”



Two from "our boy":


My Pot Dealer Boyfuck?

The Season of the Witch.







the fields of flanders

by TRUE



allart®

i used to eat these when i lived in belgium. my sugar daddy took me to a restaurant called "The Flemish Rabbit", a fancy place with white tablecloths and mirrors on the walls. i always sat facing the room so he could stare at himself while we ate. i remember being pretty grossed-out when they first brought my plate. flemish rabbits grow really big, unlike the white cottontail bunnies we have over here. it felt like i was eating a mutant. the flesh was really tender, though.

sometimes the rabbits ran alongside the commuter train as we passed through fields of dark, blue-green grass. the soil of flanders still reaps the benefits from all the ground-up human remains that it absorbed during the first world war. they say the grass grows thick around auschwitz, too. my sugar daddy liked to pepper me with these and other facts. i was new to europe and trying to get my bearings, a process of assimilation made that much harder by the fact that i was getting off of coke as well. i sat on the train and nodded my empty head to whatever he said, while i sipped at my five-thousandth cup of coffee and watched as the giant shadows cast by the rabbits turned into prehistoric wolves and took off in every direction, black and aching with hunger.



u r not me.

by TRUE



Smoked some la-la-la this morning, even though I said I wouldn’t…

I’m a snob. I only smoke the earth if it’s purple or blue. Fuck that brown Jamaican dirt. I’d rather pass and wait on some government-issue, nutritious American Beauty plastic bag shit that makes the world look like it’s posing for an album cover.

...The kind of mind elevate that gives me inner visions, like Stevie Wonder.

There's barely any smoke when i exhale...everything goes straight to the brain and the sinuses...spark it everyday and the good effects are inverted. Shit this high-potent will chew up your nerves and give you a stutter.

But every once and a while...every now and then...when i want to really know something, when i want to take it on faith--to feel it but not be able to see it

when the high hits there's always a second in which i feel washed over by an incredible sense of loneliness.

it washes and it washes away

and the next moments are like a blood letting

a loosening of knots i'd forgotten were there.

(letting the shoulders drop)

I close my eyes and see myself in the crowd, in the yellow light of the show

A thousand voices and a thousand hands

A thousand dreaming hearts beat according to a thousand scheming plans

But there's no one here like me.




(please Hammer, don't hurt 'em)



come to nyc, MAIORIELLO

i had to copy and paste that cuz i wasn't going to remember how the fuck you spell your name.









by TRUE

"It's fun to vote for things that don't matter."--Best of Treacher

"Removing Saddam Nonviolently: A Tale"--this gets my vote



i can't hear gwenn stafani and if that is her she sounds like a dude.

by TRUE



i'm listening to moby. on headphones. do you think that means i'm dying?

here i am. blogging. it's funny i made that other user name ("theartistformerlyknownas") and I already forgot the password. oh, well. it sucked anyway. TRUEBOY it is.

i remember the time i didn't post as fitzcarraldo for so long that not only did i forget the password, but i also forgot how i spelled the name in the user id, which is different from how it shows up in the "by____" part. it took me a million tries to get it right, but eventually i did. it's like i always say, the good thing about short term memory loss is you remember whatever it was, eventually.

holy shit the artpepper is good looking. so is his girl. her eyes are like, blinding me.

i like when couples have their faces pressed together like that.

by TRUE

my favorite are those with the pinched expressions and the pins on their bags that say, "No Blood For Oil!" as if blood for some other reason is OK. as if there really could be such a thing as a just war...as if this country would be able to last a single week without oil. once all the machines stopped working, and the cars wouldn't run, and the drinking water could no longer be distilled how long do you think law and order would hold up before the riots took over?

no blood for oil...that's right, drive your car to the protest and thank god that there's gas to be had when you pull up to the pump.

now go ahead and tell me that there's enough oil in texas...or alaska or russia...and that we don't need the middle east. OK. well what about europe? don't they need oil too? would there be enough for them to use as well? are you sure? because we need to make sure that they're OK. remember what happened when they fell onto hard times after the first world war...

no matter what you think about the u.s., you've got to admit, it's tough being the world's sole superpower.



by TRUE

ha! there are tons of shortcomings when living in the truth. in the past, when no one commented, i could always start things off myself by posting a comment as one of the other two. if i was really bored i'd have the characters throw out some innuendos, maybe get into a fight...you know, whatever i thought would spice shit up. how do other bloggers do it--just sitting around waiting for things to happen? i got so bored today that i even went to antonio's site for the first time in months. i fucked around in his comments, just for kicks, but it was like taking potshots at someone whose head is already full of holes. don't get me wrong, i have nothing against the man, but it's like i told jim--he and his sychophant fans tend to give me that not-so-fresh high school feeling.

anyway, now that it's starting to sink in that i really am only one person and that the three characters i built this blog around were just that--made-up characters--i'm starting to get some interesting correspondance. someone wrote: "there's something fucked up about the whole thing. it was like you were out there flirting with yourself--coming on to yourself. isn't there something sick and twisted about that?" well, i don't know. would you say that to a "regular" author, regarding the characters in the book that he or she wrote? is it something we even think about at all when we tear open our latest cardboard encased fix from amazon dot calm? god, i wonder if the author was really turned on when the main characters finally hit the sack? was he or she like, touching themselves with one hand while writing it with the other?

of course, when you get down to it, there is something masturbatory about writing. it's like this dirty little act that you do alone, when no one's looking...but it was as though this person who wrote to me was ESPECIALLY offended by BRANDTRUEBOY being a solitary effort. "isn't it more the fact that i was lying?" i wrote back. "doesn't it have to do more with the fact that you really believed in it?" the person didn't write back, so i'm not sure what they made of that. someone else asked me, "what the fuck do you care what people think? ...i think it's their own damn fault if they believe everything they read on the internet." well, yes, maybe so. you should never blindly believe that everything you read is the truth, but i can't help but think that most people came here thinking they were in the autobiography section, and not the fiction dept. while no one with a brain expects an autobiography to be the god's honest TRUTH, they don't expect it to be blatantly made-up, what-the-fuck-whatever-goes either.

but back to sex and masturbation. it's kind of funny, actually, because for all its posturing, this blog was strictly PG. OK, maybe PG-13 (i forgot about TRUE's relationship with Jules, the black tranny). for the most part, however, i was operating on a bollywood vibe, where the build-up is more exciting than the act itself. and that's not because i'm a chick, and i'm all into foreplay, because truth be told, i'm not even all that into foreplay. if i have to choose between having my titties played with and coming really hard, let me tell you, there's no contest.

but that's making love...or having sex, or whatever. when it comes to writing a love story, imo, the greatest one you can tell is about two people who are totally into each other but never actually get together. all that yearning...that's what i tried to have between TRUE and sterling. there's a scene that i keep trying to write, in which they really almost get together. i mean, literally--i wanted sterling to get on top of TRUE and have her kissing TRUE's neck and everything, but then...well, i don't know. it seems strange to just tell it now--this tender, yet kind of screwed up moment that i've been working on in my mind for so long. it would be like finally being able to afford the diamond engagement ring you saved up three years to buy and then just tossing it at the person you wanted to marry like it was no big deal. it was the scene i wanted it to be the real end to the blog, but as you can see, i fucked all that up.

some other time. i need to lie down now. i'm still sick.






by TRUE



Ahhh, the drone of the Zaxxon plane…that was the best part about holidays at Grandma’s. I loved everything about Colecovision. I wish I had one of those fat cartridges to stick into my head right now.

BRANDTRUEBOY has been brought to you by...

by TRUE

©Placenta 1975

©Cracked Porchlight w/fluttering moths 1979

©Mother, May I Touch You There? 1982

©Relax, Don’t Do It 1985

©Broken Fossil 1986

©Words 1991

©Stikman Mixtape 1993

©Leslie 1994

©Outside The Zodiac Club, OxyFoxy 1995

©Peter Radtke Performing Kafka in Vienna 1996

©Cutting Grams Like a Champ 1997

©Words 1999

©Dusted Roach 2000

©These Words 2003

©Catch Myself, Make it Real 2003-2004




by theartistformerlyknownas

i'm sick. so sick i can barely walk from one end of my apartment to the next. i just have to pull myself together enough to get to the ghetto doctor for some meds. it's cooked brain, fever limbo times like this that i wish i had a TV. i mean i've got one but when the hijacked cable was turned off i said fuck that. i watched TV the way i went to antonio's site--always complaining about the shit that was on, but watching anyway.

the funny thing is, i think TV has the potential to be the best artistic medium. that's why i'm so fucking picky about it. in my own small way i feel like i'm working towards the moment when it all just comes together. all of it. the reality shows, the multi-player web games, blogs... someday, when i have my BRANDTRUEBOY® corporate office on the top floor of a glass skyscraper, the front lobby will be wallpapered with glowing TVs, each of them half a millimeter thick. and the shit that they're showing will be exactly what you want to see, at exactly that moment, even if you didn't know it yourself.



in every blog post a heartache...

by TRUE

(theartistformerlyknownas)

Jamie told me it was going to be hard to quit and he’s right, especially when I read tidbits like this that remind me of a story that the real Fitzcarraldo told me, or, I should say, the real man who I based the fake character of Fitzcarraldo upon. This man who was once my best friend and is now my best enemy—but that’s another story to build another blog around. Anyway, when he was still a teenager and living at home this real Fitz got picked up by a man who claimed to be a fashion photographer. He told the real Fitz that he was beautiful and that he was going to make him into a star. It was the beautiful part that got the real Fitz’s heart fluttering—only his mother had ever told him that before. After dinner somewhere fancy, the photographer drove the real Fitz back to his place in his silver sports car where they made out on his black leather couch. The photographer wanted to have sex, but the real Fitz was hoping that this would be different from his usual, meaningless one-night stands. He told the photographer that he preferred to wait in order to sweeten a future moment, adding that it had already been the “perfect” date. The seamless veneer of the photographer’s gentlemanly nature began to slip: he became pushy, and then pissed off. “What the fuck did I buy you dinner for?” he growled. Before the real Fitz could come to grips with the Mr. Hyde who had materialized before him, the photographer had handcuffed him to the stainless steel leg of the dining room table—an enormous, custom-made piece of furniture, the top of which used to be a butcher’s block.

The photographer left the real Fitz chained there and went to the garage. When he returned, he held a pink square of pink fiberglass insulation in one hand and a .45 in the other.

“I’m going to make sure that you enjoyed our date,” he told him.

He placed the square of fiberglass in the real Fitz’s hand, the one that wasn’t handcuffed. Then he pointed the gun at his head.

“Our date will be finished once you cum,” he said, as he reached over and unzipped his pants for him.

Needless to say, the pain was immense. The real Fitz sobbed hysterically, blacking out and straining so hard to break free from the table that the handcuff cut deep into his wrist.

He showed me the scar when he told me the story.

“People think I tried to kill myself,” he said, taking a deep drag on his smoke.

“How did you finally get away?” I asked.

“How do you think?” he said, in that matter of fact tone of his. “I came. Finally.”

He looked off into the distance, although his eyesight was so poor I knew he couldn’t make out much.

“It would be the last time for many years.”

(i swear to god the roxy music song from which i stole the title of this post just came on the village voice radio as i was about to hit publish, on this, the first and only real and actual and TRUE post i ever wrote)

...remember...there is no such thing as chance...






by yr

asdf adsf

by TRUE



there are times when you just can't explain...

the harder you try, the less sense you seem to make

that's when it helps to have a friend:

someone who listens,

someone who doesn't judge,

someone who speaks for you when all your words are scattered about crazily, like marbles.





by TRUE

i don't know how to do this.

i was just looking at raymi's naked body and wishing i could just lay it all out as easily as she makes it look.

the truth, i mean. not my tits and patch.

but things come easy to that girl. she's a pro. a star. the real deal.

anyway. i always imagined the ending to be different. in fact, i'd been outlining it for awhile...i told jamie i wanted to go out with a full technicolor bang. like the streaming end of a fireworks display.

i wanted to finish the story

i figured i owed it to myself, and to you.

and to the characters.

but i can't. i just can't anymore.

this date crept up on me. december 5th. eight years ago, while i was a student at oxford, some seriously fucked up shit went down that changed my life forever.

it was so fucked up that i immediatley repressed it to the point that i'd almost completely forgotton that anything had happened at all.

and as i got closer and closer to the day i could handle it less and less.

this whole thing has gotten pretty out of hand.

i've been trying all night to explain this and now i'm so tired i'm passing out

so yeah, it's true

nothing in here is true.

i'm all three people.

who are made up people doing made up things.

in other words--fiction. this is make believe.

the matrix, the blue pill, a schitzophrenic paradise, whatever.


the girl in the pictures, posing as TRUE. that's me

fuck i've got to lie down

by TRUE





raymi really liked these pix when I first posted them, and I really like raymi, so I’m posting them again in the hope that she’ll like them again.

“is that you?” she asked and I could tell by the way she wrote it that she was impressed and so it was a real downer to have to say, “no.”

I think the pix were taken by Lydia Lunch, a mover and shaker in a century of fakers.

I stole them, which I thought was highly appropriate as they accompanied a post about how I was spending my afternoons robbing trailers for drugs and processed food with a gang of violent hippies in Arizona. Those were the days, party people. Well, not really, but when viewed through the funhouse mirror of time and distance they almost COULD be.

I remember thinking to myself, fuck Lydia Lunch if she’s sold out and bitch trips about not getting proper CREDIT on a shitty little nothing site like mine.

She doesn’t own those scars.


more more more more more more more more

by TRUE




this is the blue pill, btw. i thought about dividing the site into two, one for each option, but i haven't had the energy. so as of now, we're all still dreaming...

road trips and drugs and happy turkey stuffing and horrible, pink and blue DIY style web (un)design...

the truth is, i'm scared, party people; i'm scared to give it all up. i'm standing on the edge, about to take a leap in the dark

one day you'll come here and i will have disseminated back out into the song lyrics that i found my TRUE self in.

all that will be left are the blue vein processor paths of the site's underside

criss-crossed with life and lies and good intentions

it might even look something like this.




brooklynrepresent



by fitzcarraldo





Everybody had a hard year
Everybody had a good time
Everybody had a wet dream
Everybody saw the sunshine
Oh yeah, (oh yeah) oh yeah, oh yeah
Everybody had a good year
Everybody let their hair down
Everybody pulled their socks up
Everybody put their foot down
Oh yeah
Yeah


Still here, still queer, darlings.

All that was needed was a new password sent to me via electronic mail by Her Royal Paranoidness. I plunked it into Blogger like a shiny quarter and, Voila! The infamous stream of supercilious bullshit has been reactivated!

Enter Fitzcarraldo! With his 12 inch saber and his flashing fag fists of fury!

I just wanna say fuck all South Hampton bitches. That’s the last time I bring one of my dearest out to that overly manicured seashore pooptown for a major holiday. Sterling and I slaved away all day in the kitchen for a room full of boytoys and don’t you know I didn’t get a single blowjob offer out of it? Not one. Nada. Nunca. Zip-de-da-do-da. I’m telling you, those overfed, over moisturized queens have lost all perspective. Back in the city bitches know to show proper respect for a home cooked meal, youknowwhatimsayin?

The only redeeming part of the trip was hanging out with my girl. I swear, she gets more beautiful every day. We went crazy in the car to “Charlotte, Sometimes”, by The Cure, and then the Beatles song, “I got a Feeling”, to which Sterling took her top off and nearly caused a thousand car pile-up on the Northern State.

She made up her own words. Her naked skin glowed like ivory—her voice was bright like a bell:


Everybody sucked a boob dear
Everybody rocked a thin dime
Everybody made a movie
Everybody had one line
Oh yeah, (oh yeah), oh yeah, oh yeah
Oh yeah!
Yeah yeah!


good pussy







by TRUE



by TRUE






i helped make this movie...as in, i was sitting at the table while young and hungry filmed these two people having a fight. "you are being watched..."

his other movies are pretty good, too. i'm pretty film illiterate. spike jonze taught me that the facts are always shot in digital, though.








by TRUE

You’re it

No, you’re it

Say it

Don’t spray it

Spinning desire

Spinning desire

Spinning desire

We

Will

Fall.


OK so I went overboard and made 12 different mixes. My plan is to rate them in order of tightness and send the top two to you.

Tightness btw does not only have to do with the songs in and of themselves but with the order of the tracks, the way they work together to emanate a vibe and make you read between the lines. But if you’ve ever made a mixtape than you know that, and who the hell hasn’t made a mixtape before? Like for a girlfriend or a friend who was leaving town? It’s a good way of talking without opening yr mouth. Like Nick Drake sings on “Hazy Jane”:

if songs were lines in a conversation,
the situation would be fine.



(spinning desire)



imo music is about sharing a sensation that can’t be guaranteed through words which is why I’m sending out the mixes “Music From and Inspired by the Blog” in the hope that you can go a little deeper with me.

In the hope that…I don’t know…in the hope that we can all stand, yearning together

There are people just like you in every country, in every city, in every strip mall, on every gated

(glad you made it)

burning together

block

oh, blockbuster!

I gotta apologize, it’s like, some Charlie Kaufman, Adaptation level shit that I’m bringing to you. Don’t worry if you don’t know what’s going on. Nobody does. We’re all Mr. Jones here, including me, except I also happen to be playing the part of Bob Dylan. Only for the matinee, though, so don't scalp those tix yet. I’m my own meta version of myself, my time is perpetually out of joint (no pun intended), my communications with my innermost nodes are stressful. The truth of the matter is, I'm making power moves right now and some people are getting upset. I can feel them out there--half-enraged, half-dazed as they stare in wonder at my stage/page....i already ate one blog on my prop list and I might have to make room for more…it's all about binge/purge, fuck/birth--like the whole site is ending and beginning at the same time. BRANDTRUEBOY is a butterfly—it’s a flower that can’t take root.

It’s everything's happening at the same time and i'm going to have to turn myself inside out to get it to y'all but if that's what it takes…


milk

shake






by sterling



This weekend I bit the civic duty bullet and added myself to the World Trade Center Health Registry. Basically, it’s a database that will track, over the next twenty years, the physical and mental health of those who were directly affected by the attacks. It’s supposed to be confidential, but I gave them Fitz’s address, just in case. I haven’t come this far to get tripped up by something like this.

As a child of pop culture, my decision to call the hotline was precipitated by watching the movie 28 Days Later. I sat there, scared shitless one second and crying like a baby the next. Screw all those memorial proposals—each one of them so white and clean. I don’t think there could be a better analogy for the full degree of fucked-up-ness that was that day than this flick. A terrible event, after all, is like an evil zombie—it wields its power over us despite the fact that it is an unconscious entity unable to think or feel. The logical structure that we impose upon it—the whos and the whats and the wheres that we take such pains to figure out—give us the impression of there being a sensible cause, in much the same way that the staggering zombie gives the impression of being an actual, living, breathing, thinking human when seen from far away.

But as it careens closer to us, and then closer still, unstoppable, unKILLable, even, as it is already dead, we are given no choice but to look into the monster’s eyes and face the glassy nothingness that is behind them.

It’s that nothingness that is the place of the gap—the strife between the sensible world and that of chaos and insanity. Fuck the tearing off of limbs and the spurting blood. The true moment of horror is that in which there is no longer an explanation that works, the one in which all our choices have been taken away from us. Violence is nothing compared with absolute stasis—total annihilation in which everything is stopped like those clocks in Hiroshima.

A place of no time, no thought, no action, no future.

They told me the words would come in time, but I’ve never been able to talk about that day and I don’t think I ever will.

I was an atheist before, but it was only afterwards that I realized that for all my self-conscious posturing, I was still living my life as though there was something or someone out there that was interested in keeping me safe. I secretly thought that I was special. Blessed, even—although I would have never admitted it. On that day even the illusion of god’s gaze was snuffed out, rupturing the city’s psyche and immediately creating three classes of people.

Those who were there.

Those who saw those who were there.

And those who watched it on TV from the safety of their homes…












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