Prosecutors plan cannibal appeal
Friday, January 30, 2004 Posted: 12:23 PM EST (1723 GMT)



Meiwes said he had been in touch with hundreds of willing victims.

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CNN's Walter Rodgers looks at the case which has shocked Germany.

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Germany's cannibal trial hears testimony from the victim's former lover.

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KASSEL, Germany -- German prosecutors say they will appeal against the manslaughter conviction for a self-confessed cannibal who killed and ate a man who had asked to die.

The court in Kassel ruled Friday that Armin Meiwes, a 42-year-old computer expert who met his victim on the Internet, had no "base motives" in the crime -- sparing him a murder conviction.

Meiwes admitted killing and carving up Bernd Juergen Brandes but insisted it was all consensual.

Prosecutors wanted a life term, calling the man a "human butcher" who acted to "satisfy a sexual impulse." They said Meiwes should have known his victim was disturbed and said they would appeal, Reuters reported.

Legal experts said the case could ultimately go to the country's Supreme Court because it had no precedent.

Defense lawyers said that because the victim volunteered to be killed and eaten the crime deserved to be classified as a mercy killing.

They wanted him to be convicted of "killing of request," a form of illegal euthanasia carrying a sentence of six months to five years.

Many Germans were shocked by the sentence -- as well as the evidence. "It's too lenient, he should have got life," local resident Bernd Exner told Reuters. "Society needs to be protected from people like that."

Among the evidence examined by the court was hours of video footage taken of the events of March 10, 2001.

As well as gripping the country with the power of its graphic detail, the case has also turned an uncomfortable spotlight on a hitherto unacknowledged world of cannibalism and extreme fetishism.

Meiwes told the court how he met the man via the Internet and arranged a meeting.

During the trial Meiwes' lawyer, Harald Ermel, cited e-mails in which the victim insisted on being killed and eaten. One read: "There's absolutely no way back for me, only forwards, through your teeth."

Meiwes' video of the killing, in March 2001, persuaded even prosecutors to concede the death was voluntary.

Media and observers were kept outside while the tape was shown to the court. One newspaper said a woman almost fainted during the film, which shows Meiwes talking to the severed head while he disembowels the body, hung from a hook.

Emotionless and calm, Meiwes recalled how he began the killing by cutting off the victim's penis at the victim's request, how they fried it in a pan and tried but failed to eat it.


Brandes had traveled from Berlin after answering Meiwes' advert.
Meiwes then told how they waited for hours until the victim, weakened by loss of blood from his wound, fell unconscious.

He then stabbed Brandes to death, cut him in pieces and ate 20 kilograms of him over the following months, defrosting pieces portion by portion. Psychiatric experts have found Meiwes to be sane and fit to stand trial.

He told the court he had fantasized since puberty about consuming a man. But he said he regretted the deed and would not repeat it. "I had my big kick and don't need to do this any more," he told the court.

Meiwes says he is writing a book on how he came to live his ultimate fantasy.

CNN's Walter Rodgers said: "Most Germans are aghast yet fascinated at the idea of a cannibal in their midst. This is not supposed to happen in a tidy, democratically ordered German society. And yet it did."


cnn

What I want to know is, is Trueboy really three people, or is it all one person, and are they really making a movie, or is the whole thing a novel. I keep reading it and getting creeped out because initially I assumed it was real, then I decided it was both real stuff and fake stuff mixed together, but I just feel really weird after reading it for the last half hour. And there are shout outs from Jamie in there, who I know is real, so basically what I am saying is, the whole thing really tripped me out because it's like reading a novel and having your friend show up in it, or getting sucked into your TV.

--Pogeybait


ha. yeah. the raymi and laura site was the best...the posts about prescription pills and puking, the accusations and in-fighting...i always felt like they were on to me, which helped keep my game tight. i totally got a fear boner when I read the above post by pogeybait, aka laura...

sterling was hot for laura and the closeted TRUE had an unlabelled 'thing' for raymi...sterling used to get on her case about it:

"stop riding raymi's brastrap!" she'd tell her.

(it was one of the few occasions when i really was talking to myself.)

errrm.

around the same time I had these fantasies of meeting jamie...I was going to get this gorgeous crew cut chick I knew to play the part of sterling and meet up with him in a diner on Bedford Ave. i gave her the run down on who sterling was. i told her to act shy, which wouldn't have been a stretch, because she barely says a word. she just stares with these big green eyes like she's about to pass out or go down on you...anyway, I had it all worked out that they were going to meet and my accomplice would be at a nearby table, secretly filming the whole encounter.

i thought it would make good "art". The watcher and the watched...the real and the fake and the fake that was so real she was beyond fake...durrrrrrrr

then I pictured myself, watching the finished product on DVD alone at night and the whole thing struck me as being pathetic and gratuitous and jamie seemed like a nice enough guy so what was the point of being even more of an asshole then I already was?

but now I'm thinking about it and who knows what might have happened? maybe he would have taken her back to his apt to listen to records and they would have ended up sleeping together and it would have been the best sex either of them had ever had and there they would be, sharing a post-coital camel lite, the smoke twisting in the air, getting all mixed up with invisible cell-phone signals and internet traffic...they'd be slightly embarrassed, still shy, hearts beating hard...

Suddenly, she'd wake from her trance and prop herself onto one elbow.

"listen, there's something i have to tell you," she'd say, her voice cracking...

or maybe she'd let it go, thinking it was only a one night stand, but then it would turn into something more...they'd keep calling each other, both of them reading my site. he'd be checking in on what his newest beloved had to say and she'd be trying to keep up with what it was she supposedly said...and then there'd be the inevitable mess-up, a post she missed or a "fact" she got wrong, and in the midst of his pink and purple love haze jamie would grow suspicious and ask her, why don't you ever talk like that in real life? How come you save all that poetry for the site? Shit, baby. It would be just like Cyrano de Bergerac, with me on the sidelines, pumping this hot little number full of words, words, words that she could say back to her man to win his heart. yep. it would be just like that story except the only thing on me that's obscenely big can be taken off and put back in a drawer when I'm done with it.

wow. look at all that pink down there.



pogeybait's hoo-ha

ya know ya know ya got such big eyes

they make me feel so small

Fog of Victory

Fog of Peace

Fog of Moans and Cries of Despair

Fog of Spin

Fog of Pork

Fog of Kerry

Fog of Street Leaf Smoke in the Softly Falling Snow

When in doubt I consult my magic hot pink Post-It pad to see what I should do:



The beauty of the internet is that there’s a thousand ways you can disappear…

I’m not Sterling Fassbinder.

I’m not Fitzcarraldo.

But most of all, I’m not TRUE.

Not even a little bit...

Remember:

I want the idealized self. I want the lie.

I want it so badly that I'll become it.

Blue-white lightening, flashbulb flashes. Rain and Synthesizers.

Let's head over ground, I tell the driver…



(i’m on some now you see me)



Ancient Voices speak of fighting demons with demons, as a Second night settles over the City, illuminating the shadows with its darkness. I am standing at the edge, feeling the tug of skyscrapers between which infinity is rising up…

…an inexorable figure calling to me against the background of the things that are here.


(now you don’t)


I love you guys, fer real, you saved my life…

As things get hazy

It might seem like I’m not around anymore
But I will be

You’ll just have to look a little harder

Where you least expect it--

Beneath the surface

Around the corner…

I’ve always got your back, party people

(And if so that something might happen, I were to make a vow?)

Bellee dat.

Peace.

What if I told you I had a secret blog,--so secret that only one other person knew about it, so secret that it wasn’t even on the internet as we know it, but on a parallel world internet, in which URLs are little pockets filled with space and time instead of HTML and Javascript. Some are really big, with lots of pages containing the entire story of a life, all the ups and downs, pleasantness and unpleasantness…others, like the one I have with this special, secret person, are a single snapshot of a state of affairs—a rendition of the bond between us, the wants and desires and needs that keep us locked in each other’s orbit.

This blog is beautiful, far more beautiful then BTB could ever be, because the person I write it with is the realest, most lovely lady who ever existed.. She’s her own person, unafraid to feel and take risks and remain loyal to those she’s “decided for”, even when they act badly and hurt her. Which is what I did…I hurt her terribly…despite of or maybe because of all the goodness and love she gives to me so freely.

I’ve got this knack, you see. I break the things that mean the most to me, because I don’t think I deserve anything good.

I’ve been going along with blinders on, being busy, hectic even…trying so hard to write something decent, trying so hard to push against the heavy weight of inertia and stake out some space in the future that I’ve lost touch with the here and now. I stopped updating my secret blog. I stopped adding to the story my love and I created. I detached, I withdrew. Maybe I was never there to begin with…I’m somewhere, though. I can’t only be this rat race hustler who only sees herself when she looks at the world…. There’s a part of me that breathes and hurts and wants so badly to deserve her love that I’m like a bull in a china shop, crashing through everything around me…why am I so constantly overwhelmed, so wrapped up in my own shit, thinking I’m doing the right thing, but doubting myself enough to require constant affirmations that must annoy the living hell out of my beloved? I want to be told I’m the greatest, the most wonderful perfect person EVER and anything short of that throws me into a tailspin in which I lash out at the world for denying me the smallest shred of stability.

I want to trust but I don’t trust myself.

Everything good in my life is from her. She’s the real secret behind this site—the real Sterling, if you will, only she’s far nobler than Sterling could ever be. And my god she’s had enough…I made her sob, and she’s a tough chick who doesn’t cry easily. I stood there in the kitchen with my hands hanging limply at my sides, wishing I could do anything to change what had happened…take back the awful shit that came out of my mouth. I can be so cold and mean and ruthless…it’s the past, it’s the awfulness saved up inside of me…all the lowdown shit that happened that’s no longer staying DOWN. it’s coming up like a fast food lunch, spilling out uncontrollably, burning through all my controls.

I stood there, listening to her dear, sweet voice as she cried her eyes out. I wanted to put my arms around her, I wanted to make promises that took the pain away, but she’s heard them all before and she’s sick of it.

She told me not to come close to her. She’s scared of me.

I’m scared of myself.

She doesn’t want this anymore. She’s closing down our secret site….

And I don’t know what happens next

All I want is to win her back

To love her again and make her happy

Fuck writing,, fuck being an artist—I wish I didn’t have these urges!

Fuck my past and everyone in it, the whole room is imploding, the whole sick crew…

It’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault…

…It’s all my fault, it has to be--there’s no one else here

I’m all alone.

it’s over. tp took my link down and is now quickly posting his typical, inane pop culture ponderings in order to put as much blog distance as possible between himself and this episode.

cool by me. he can go fuck himself, but I’m glad it’s over. all that for a little bitty scrap of HTML!!

extra-special thanks to everyone who supported me on this. it means a lot that you got my back. fer real.

as a side note, check out his latest lick idea—have an IM chat with a fellow blogger and post the results…ya gotta love it.

I’m sorry, I know this is tired and old but I’ve so had it with being dicked around by this asshole Tony Pierce.

I’ve repeatedly asked, very politely, for him to take the link to my site off his Lick page, and he won’t honor my request. Instead, he says that he’ll consider doing so when we meet the terms of our “agreement”. Wtf! Our agreement was to do a stoned IM chat and post the results in the first issue of Lick. Our agreement never included my link going up on the site, something I (foolishly) let slide until I felt I was being condescended to over the whole thing. All I got was hazy lazy BS about him being “too busy” to come up with a date and time for the chat. Por favor—how long does it take to do someone the common courtesy of coming up with a date and time? Anyway, just to show you what a pussy he is, on Friday I posted a fictional chat that I created last year, and intimated, that if I felt like it, I would be more than capable of creating another fictional chat. (cough, cough, nudge, nudge) Homeslice obviously read that and soiled himself, knowing that it would be the fucking move if I faked our chat. It’s not like it would take some great imaginative leap on my part to make him look like a total dick.

Seriously, I used to like Tony. I was a fan. But what kind of person doesn’t take down a link when someone asks? What’s it to him?

Anyway, I’ve been posting comments to the Busblog, expressing my frustration:

There’s this one:

really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really really


and then this one, which tp keeps taking down:

yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom yr mom


etc, etc.

Here’s the thing, party people. All I want is for this to end. And the way it’s going to end is if he takes down my link. Unlike tp, I’m not doing this to generate hits. Best believe that if I ever come up with an All Lady’s Site, that shit will be so on point that I won’t have to advertise through any bullshit “controversy”. In fact, I won’t have to advertise at all. I’ll keep that shit on the DL on purpose, sit back and watch as the werd spreads faster than herpes at a Chapstick convention.

If you think it’s wrong to leave up someone’s link when they’ve repeatedly asked to have it taken down, please feel free to copy and paste one or both of the pre-fab comments into his little haloscam world. Leave your email addy and URL if you want…or don’t. Fuck it, he’s just going to try and erase it anyway, Comment Censor-In-Chief that he is. Let him know that just because he gets 1000 hits a day doesn’t make it right for him to push other people around.

I told you not to front with me, tp. I’m not one of your bimbo bitches. I’m not going to just lie back, grit my teeth and pretend to enjoy it while you fuck me over.

Some Boogie Down Morning When I'm Straight...

(sunrise over the bronx)


Push push push push

“i just wanna know, if, like, this kinda stuff is your bag, if you’re like, gonna be able to fix my symptoms”

“fix your symptoms?”

“yeah, you know, make getting fucked-up and being emotionally detached fun again.”

bush bush bush bush


sean baby

i've been freaking out all day because i have a therapy appt this afternoon. i have an irrational fear of therapists...i know it's good and i know i'll feel so much better yadda yadda yadda but that's little comfort to me NOW, when i'm pacing the apartment and sobbing uncontrollably and then getting pissed off because my eyes are going to be swollen and i'll look like the basketcase that deep down, i'm sure i am. fuck. well, whatever. it reminds me of a story i once wrote about a guy who had an irrational fear of choking. he panicked everytime there was a morsel of any substance in his mouth, convincing himself that he would be unable to successfully swallow it. for years he had existed on soup broth, ice cream, apple sauce and energy shakes. his teeth were rotting from lack of use. he couldn't take a girl out for a steak...finally, after years of actual liquid lunches, his doctor called him up and said, good news, we found a cure! so the guy rushes to the doctor's office and is like, OK, what is it, what do i have to do to get rid of this horrible disorder? and the doctor smiles and opens a jar and hands him a little white pill.

"Just swallow this, and by the time it hits your stomach you will be cured forever."

ha--funny, right? well, I never finished the story, having realized that although the metaphor was kind of cool, the premise wasn't all that believable. They would have had that shit available as an injection, or a nose spray...rectal paste, whatever...

well, wish me luck--off i go to offer a helpless dr my thousand yard stare. "mental health". hrmmm. a concept with as much truth and plausability as that other old fave, "western civilization."

just watched a guy get stabbed in the face at the metrocard machine in the subway...

...and now i know how joan of arc felt
(now i know how joan of arc felt!)
as the flames rose, to her roman nose and her walkman started to melt...

I think the most popular secondary character in the BTB saga was Trixie Treat, the 12 yr. old genius slut. I decked her out in heavy metal shirts and gave her skin so pale it looked translucent. Boy, I sure got a lot of email regarding her…

Because it’s cold out and all I can think about is sex, (and therefore am unable to crank out something new) I thought I’d repost this IM chat that I made up between TRUE and Trixie. This was up on the site last January, so a bunch of you prolly never read it. At this point in the story, TRUE has just left Arizona, where she was staying with Trixie Treat and her older sister, a waitress TRUE enlisted to “play the part of Sterling Fassbinder in my movie”.

After I posted it I was a little worried—I mean, here I was talking about filming a 12 yr. old’s clit…hello, child porn. But i figured, fuck-it, bring on the heat…my fictional persona was more than ready to go out in a make believe blaze of glory…


(IM is so much better when you make it up…hmmmm that gives me an idea…)


Yerbluetoy: I AM too making a movie

Trixietreat: you have no plans to actually finish anything.

Trixietreat: we all fell for it. Me too.

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

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

Yerbluetoy: it’s called having different SCENES.

Yerbluetoy: so get over it.

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

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

Trixietreat: you ripped all the sleeves off her shirts.

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

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

Trixietreat: is that what the real Sterling is like?

Yerbluetoy: nope

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

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

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

Yerbluetoy: there’s something desperate about her

Trixietreat: I like tough guy acts.

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

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

Yerbluetoy: like that time in the bathroom.

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

Yerbluetoy: it was all your idea.

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

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

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

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

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

Yerbluetoy: at that point I was already freaking out.

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

Trixietreat: you zoomed in, snapping on your gum.

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

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

Trixietreat: I want to sound a little excited.

Yerbluetoy: Like a kid on a cereal commercial.

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

Trixietreat: I brought the needle down swiftly.

Yerbluetoy: Hot Quaker fucking oats!

Trixietreat: lol.

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

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

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

Trixietreat: plenty of times. duh.

i don’t know why

but I get a little hot when someone online asks me what I look like

maybe that was the real reason behind why I never really showed myself before…

so I could be asked…


i need to see you

send me pictures;

whatever you've got...


jamie

anti

raymi


adj;hf a;jdfhad;hfufhuahfud;afhuj

it's crazy, i could never stand the flavor of wintermint gum. sometimes i buy it by accident, thinking it's peppermint, which is what i did today, but instead of spitting it out in disgust i chewed it when i was walking around and getting hit in the face with the kind of arctic blast that makes your nose hairs freeze. the snow fell all around, turning into gray sludge as soon as it hit the sidewalk as nervous, angry people hustled past with hunched backs and pinched expressions and somehow it tasted good. actually even better than good. it was like, the perfect thing at that moment and i chewed the hell out of it, like how i used to chew gum when i was on coke.

wintermint gum in the winter...it was like a little sprig of sanity in my mouth. who knew? who cares?

but speaking of spitting out things in disgust, the closest i ever came to being a punk was three years ago, when i was first getting off the sauce and doing my time "in the rooms". for those of you who aren't trendy enough to have gone through rehab, "the rooms" are the shitty church basements and faux, wood-panelled rec rooms where AA meetings are held. like a lot of people, i was so scared when i quit drinking--scared of myself, scared of the world, blah, blah blah--that i felt like i had no choice but to go to tons of meetings, where at least i was sure no one would offer me a drink. there was this drag queen, who claimed she was once a hugely successful (male) fashion designer before she pissed it all away with booze and drugs. sometimes i'd stare at her face and try to imagine what she looked like as a dude, and if i recognized her at all, and a few times, in certain light i felt as though her other, secret identity was right there, just under the surface, but i never managed to match a name with the face. of course i could of asked her who she used to be, but everyone had their past and generally speaking, if you started asking questions you'd better be prepared to spill the beans on your own shit.

which i wasn't. so i didn't ask.

she was tall and thin and no matter how cold it was she always wore flimsy, see-through nylon blouses that slipped off her pale shoulders, revealing ivory colored bra straps.

sometimes her psycho meds left her tired and shaken looking. on those days she'd wear a shawl and pull herself into a tight ball and stay that way, perched like a delicate bundle of sticks on the edge of her aluminum folding chair.

other times she had more energy, and it was on those days that we seemed to bond. we stood outside on perry street and smoked lousy, low-tar cigarettes together while rich, old apartment owners shot us dirty looks as they strolled past with their designer shopping bags. that was when i had a shaved head and purple rings under my eyes. it looked like i never slept but the truth was that was all i did, when i wasn't at a meeting. at any rate, an increased sense of wakefullness brought out an increased sense of anger in the queen. i think the little window of health made her remember what it was like long, long ago, before she did drugs, when she was young and healthy all the time. she was angry at all the years she'd wasted, and she wanted to do something to let it out.

"let's start a punk band," she said to me.

"k," i said.

"i know plenty of places where we can play. we'll get up there and let out all our aggression at the world. it will be great, what do you think?"

"i don't play any instruments."

"so what. it's punk. you've got style. and anger--that's all you need."

"k," I said, staring at her fake green eyes. she was the kind of person who could convince me of anything, no matter how ridiculous. back in our old lives we would have made great drinking partners.

so a musician friend loaned me a second hand guitar and i learned how to strum some nonsense on it while she started getting the lyrics together. i figured that whatever she decided to scream around about would be the least of our problems, but then i heard what she came up with--

the song was called daffodil. the first verse went like this--

i don't need no crystal

i don't need no pills

all i need are daff-o-dils....

yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaah!


what was even worse than the lyrics was how earnest she sounded while singing them. like she really believed it.

if there's one thing i can't stand it's earnestness.

i told her if she was going to sing like that she could forget about it.

she told me to fuck off.

and that was the end of my punk career.

Fuck Raymond Pettibon, a real hero of mine, who self-published zines that he sold for $2.00 a piece and were so good that they ended up becoming art, displayed in glass cases in fancy galleries and on Sonic Youth album covers.

Fuck him for making me think I could do the same thing with blogs.

Fuck the life-sized drawings of naked men that hung in the studio space I shared with an actual artist two years ago. Fuck those throbbing cocks that I had no choice but to stare at as I smoked spliffs and typed random bullshit onto a laptop that I hoped would magically turn into a story.



Fuck my unconscious which was at that very moment working overtime to come up with the story of a girl named TRUEBOY, a story I would slowly start to tell to myself while I waited for the train or rode an elevator.

Fuck writing and fuck writers, and fuck this wacko dream that I have of becoming one.

Fuck TRUEBOY, who acts so tough but always lets me down.

Fuck Sterling Fassbinder, who refused to let me keep control of her, even though I was her creator.

Fuck Fitzcarraldo, who forces me to take control of my past by trying to understand it.



Fuck the New York scene, or what’s left of it as it hobbles along after the city’s most vibrant, creative and outrageous people were killed by AIDS in the 80s and 90s.

Fuck Sex in the City, Fuck Friends and Fuck Seinfeld for giving suburban automatons the idea to come back to the city.



Fuck the fascist Giuliani and everybody who sucked his cheesedick after 9/11 just because he did his job and didn’t lose his shit during press conferences. You might be getting 50K per speaking engagement, but the club scene won’t forget the raids you ordered that all but destroyed it. The uptown won’t forget the roving gangs of boys in blue that you sent to kill young black men who had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Fuck Bush, Cheney, Rove and the rest of the religious, homophobic Republicans who are dismantling our freedoms one by one and working to secure a second term by any means necessary.

Fuck Americans for being apathetic enough to let them.

Fuck the democrats, who have become a worthless caricature of a party without the balls or the spirit to make the coming presidential race even remotely interesting.

Fuck the so-called left, and their half-assed, uneducated notions about international affairs.

Fuck the Europeans, who get on their moral high-horse about the U.S. and Israel while only a couple of years ago they sat around and did nothing while yet another genocide occurred in the middle of their continent. Fuck them for all their bitching and moaning about American imperialism—quoting ideas they got from reading Michael Moore’s latest book, which, last time I checked, qualifies as an American product.



Fuck space and fuck Mars and anyone stupid enough to try and go there.

Fuck the internet and fuck email and fuck the wireless revolution and all those little, expensive devices that are the next status symbols in western culture’s never ending binge of material goods.

Fuck recycling and fuck not recycling.

Fuck cars and fuck bikes.

Fuck books and fuck movies and fuck blogs. All of them are boring as fuck.

Fuck Tony Pierce for taking himself so goddamn seriously because he’s linked half the goddamn blogosphere and, as a result, gets a thousand hits a day. So fucking what, you still can’t write.

Fuck BRANDTRUEBOY for fronting like it was written by three people and then coming clean just when things were getting interesting.

Fuck being a pussy and fuck selling out.

Fuck going to work and fuck going out. All you get is a headache either way.

Fuck girls and fuck boys, especially girls who call themselves boys.

Fuck water and fuck soda.

Fuck beats and fuck rhymes, they always leave me cold.

Fuck beef and fuck tofu. Accept the fact that you’re going to die, moron. Maybe even tonight.

And Fuck Pablo Picasso. He really was an asshole.

holy shit, i'm really losing it right now...

today, i walked like a zombie through the haze and lights of times sq to the virgin megastore, where i saw the first liz phair album--exile in guyville--on sale and felt a strange compulsion to buy it, even though i'm pretty sure i already have it on CD, somewhere. anyway, i bought it, and just a few minutes ago decided to add a track or two to one of my CDmixtapes. now, that album kicks ass, as everyone should know. there are the usual mixtape selections, 'fuck and run', or 'flower' or 'divorce song' but i've always loved the lesser known, existential tune, 'stratford-on-guy', a song about having a moment in an airplane...of which i've had plenty, nervous flyer that i am...

i love the first verse so much--

"i was flying into chicago at night
watching the lake turn the sky into blue green smoke
the sun was setting to the left of the plane
and the cabin was filled with an unearthy glow
in 27D
i was behind the wing
watching the landscape roll out like credits on the screen...

the earth looked like it was lit from within
like a poorly assembled electrical ball
as we moved out of the farmlands and into the grid
the plan of the city was all that you saw
and all of these people sitting totally still
as the ground raced beneath them
30,000 feet down...

(and then the chorus, if that's what you can call it)

it took an hour
maybe a day
but once i finally listened the noise just went a way"

OK, so anyway the point is i copied this track, and then, for no real reason, i found myself searching "liz phair" on google. actually, the phrase i used was "liz phair marijuana"--don't ask why. anyway, i found this article...a breaking story about a possible plane crash outside of denver in which liz phair was believed to be a passenger!!!!!!!!

is this true? i'm like, too freaked out to even be sad or whatever. it isn't the first time i've vibed something like this.

gotta go.

i don't like most jokes, unless they make me think. you know, like 'your mamma' jokes and the crackfights they do on that 125 show on BET.

i also like robin williams when he was on coke. he told one joke after another, really fast, so you could never fully recover from laughing. you're like, stop! stop! as the punch lines keep raining down, hitting you in the gut, until you have to hit stop on the DVD because you're going to piss yourself.

alternately, i hate stand-up comics who are real slow and put a bunch of time in between their jokes, in which they stand there eyeing the crowd or playing with the goddamn mic stand. i think it's really big headed of them. what, did they think their shit was so funny we'd be cracking up all that time? por favor.

a joke:

question: what's orange and looks good on a hippie?

answer: fire.



another joke

in real life i'm shy

in real life, i let things happen and figure that maybe i deserved it

in real life, i fuck up a lot

in real life, i let my frustrations stack up, until finally i vent out in anger

usually at someone i care about

in real life i'm super attuned to people's feelings

so attuned that i feel like i can't shut it off sometimes

once, when i was little they took me out of school and drove me in a van to princeton university

where the leaves were orange and the squirrels were black

they put me in a room with a big window that looked into another room and a man held up a card and asked me to tell him what was on the other side

i didn't know

but i always know when someone's sad

or lonely

or exhausted

it gets to be too much

even with my headphone on and turned all the way up

i have to close my eyes

i close my eyes and pretend that i'm someone else

somewhere else...

somewhere far, far, away

(and the glowing, blue-white words get smaller and smaller until they disappear up near the top of the screen...)

...I opened my eyes. The kids were completely quiet. Dumbfounded. They shook from side to side in the pickup bed like dolls, discussing with one another what this could possibly mean.

I remember thinking, wow, I pulled another good one, but as I had this thought, the moon came out from behind the cloud and the mushrooms kicked in to that next level, in which the sound of a low flying plane over head melted across my brain like a slab of butter, and I had to try and remember who I was and why I was in the position to make elaborate jokes at other people’s expense.

We were picking up speed. The other side of the highway was a blur.

(It’s my job to get us out of here safely, I thought, having suddenly become filled with a ludicrous sense of purpose)

What am I doing?

Where am I?

Who am I?

At that moment I came to the unsettling conclusion that I was more of a mix of certain carefully chosen styles than a person.

“OK. Party people!” I said. “I’m going to enumerate my identities for all of you, in order of importance. And by importance, I mean societal relevance and not according to my own personal preference, ya dig?”

They nodded their shaggy heads, ready for anything. Stoned and dethroned. Wearing next year’s style, despite their stupidity (or maybe because of it).

A number of them had perfect bone structure, lean builds and golden brown tans. They could have been young Greek lords or Calvin Klein models, lounging languorously around a giant urn and getting paid for it.

But then there were others—myself included—who were pale misfits, skinny or fat, with fucked-up skin and eyes that were either too far apart or too close together. Bad hair. Dandruff. Scars. It wasn’t like high school, where we would have been automatically relegated to the bottom of the social barrel. Deep in the chewy center of a drug subcultcha, the value system of the outside world no longer applies. In the desert, when you’re high all the time, it’s an inner light that matters. An inner beauty, based on need and companionship.

We shared everything, food, water, books, bodies.

“First and foremost, I’m a woman. Second, I’m white. Third, I’m young. And fourth, I’m American.”

Marco shouted, “I think American should be first.”

“Of course you would--you’ve got a dick,” I said, and everyone laughed.

“What about being an artist,” a small voice asked. It was the twelve year old Trixie Treat, the genius-slut, who was shivering in the corner from cold and lack of sleep.

“Fuck all that other stuff," she said. "Isn’t that what you really are?”

“Darling, I see what you’re saying, and a hundred or maybe even fifty years ago, yes, it would have been the case. I would have been an artist. But times have changed and TV has clipped our attention spans and it is no longer possible to be one thing any more than it is to get through an entire cable TV so-called program without changing the channel, at least once.

“Listen up,” I said, blinking my eyes against the wind as I turned to look each of them in the eyes.

“I am part of a new breed of artist. Rather than spend years working on a single canvas or score, we prefer to work sporadically, on several projects at once. The different works are usually united by a shared aesthetic that bounces back and forth between mediums. It’s like a game of hot potato with one player.

The new artist is a counterfeiter—a simulacrum, The Matrix itself.

The new artist grew up surrounded by a wealth of contradictions, i.e., the overflowing bounty of the suburban wasteland.

The new artist believes ordering-in is a lifestyle choice, best exemplified by answering the door wearing nothing but a pair of socks.

The new artist is not a hippie. He/she does not like to share drugs.

The new artist is sick of lip service, professionalism and contracts.

The new artist doesn’t know for sure who is real.

The new artist understands that all art is always already business art, but that one must be in a constant rebellion against this state of affairs. The best, most effective way to rebel is by making art.

The new artist is not like the others, who will spend their entire lives grasping at the magic string, which they can see but can never touch.

The new artist sees the string, tears it down and throws it in a plate of spaghetti to eat for dinner.”

I opened my eyes. My listeners were transfixed, whispering back and forth with one another, as they repeated bits of what I’d said and tried to get to the meaning of it.

I opened my eyes. My listeners were transfixed, whispering back and forth with one another, as they repeated bits of what I’d said and tried to get to the meaning of it.

I sat with my back against the driver’s window, stunned and uncertain at what had just transpired. I stared out at the highway that dissolved into darkness, like the wake of white surf left behind a ship. Several cars had passed us in the opposite direction, but now, for the first time I made out a pair of headlights behind us, growing brighter by the second. They were in a hurry, whoever it was. I sat facing them, squinting into the face of the unknown driver.

My comrades took notice. Elena, a big-boned, half-black, half-Romanian girl grabbed my shoulder.

“Here. Sit facing the other side,” she said.

I nodded my head and obeyed, automatically, giving a last glance out to the anonymous fellow traveler—or travelers.

(You see, deep in the folded recesses of my mind, I already suspected…I already knew who was coming for me…I could feel them getting closer, the same way a lonely lover can know without knowing that his wayward lover has decided to come back to him…alone in a late night diner, oblivious to the world, he absentmindedly runs his finger across a laminated menu and traces the arc of the silver plane that is carrying her home at that very second…)

Thousands of feet above…as invisible as the Holy Ghost…three miles high and rising…

so it turned out to be my dutch pal, jeroen allart who was impersonating kool keith, hera and seduced in the comments. my apologies to all of you. and thx to kool keith for waving a flag... i've caught jeroen posing as me before, but, you know, given the three-ring identity circus i had running on this site until a month ago, i felt like i could hardly justify getting up in arms about it.

but it's quite another thing when you impersonate my peoples.

i don't think you mean any real harm, homey, but you best cut that shit out.

ja?

punks jump up to get beat down...trust.

okkie?

thing is, i was set to believe those comments were genuine, as I was already thinking that i needed to "get a life" when i posted the link to lick's comments, in which tony avoided answering my question about when we were going to chat on IM. that was the option he choose to cyber kiss and make-up with me, after i went off on him about the lameness of lick and he edited one of my comments...i really don't understand why he seems to be avoiding my requests to come up with a time. i tried to email him but it always bounces back--so i posted the link to the comments as a nudge-nudge, hey, are you going to follow through on what you agreed to do?

my time is money. believe me, i feel like i need to get a life when i'm writing posts like this...but there's something at stake here, so i'm not going to just let it go.

here's the thing: tp said he'd have the chat with me if he could post it in the premier issue of lick. fine, i said, cool. (of course, it goes w/o saying that i'll be posting it on BTB as well). i wasn't aware that he was going to then automatically add my name to the list of writers on lick, but fine. in the interest of putting negative shit behind us, i didn't say anything. but if we aren't going to come up with a concrete date and time then i want my name off. ya smell me? pronto. because i don't put ANY of my names--fake, "real" or whatever--onto anything by anyone who doesn't stick to their word.

mmmmmk? you with me, tp? it's going to be fun, c'mon...at least, that was the whole point when i came up with the idea. and not to brag or anything, but you KNOW lick could use a yard or two of my flow.

(if you recall we were both supposed to have puffed on the peace pipe prior to IMing...but if you're about doing it straight, that's cool too)

so let me know...or don't...

but don't front with me

you better watch out because today i worked on the software that's going to allow me to jump through a javascript window in my comments and go straight for your smug ass face.

yes. you.

RE: The MixtapeCD.

I finally figured it out. There will be three CDs, one for each character, with songs that reflect their personality and drug of choice, or, in Sterling's case, former drug of choice.

Sterling Fassbinder=The Smack Mix

TRUEBOY=The Weed Mix

Fitzcarraldo=The Coke Mix


Those of you who gave me your addresses will be getting these mixes in the very near future. That's three times love, party people.

And if I don't have your address and you'd like some free shit, please drop me a line.

The zine's almost finished too. The idea has been to send the mixes with the zine but now i'm so excited about the music that I might just HAVE to get them in the mail.

Of course, my excitement will probably fade in a few hours, and I'll got back to zoning out and staring at the wall.


...am i getting dissed or is he just shy?

Last night I had a dream that I was talking to Anti via “my” Palm Treo. The cool thing was that I had it on speakerphone and I could see his face on the screen. Hold-on, he said, I’m right above you. It was then that I realized he was flying a blimp. I looked up and saw it above me. Hey, watch out man! I said, as the thing turned in the air and took a dive. I could see the nose getting closer and closer to my head.



Don’t worry, I told myself. At the moment of impact it’s going to be soft, like a Nerf football.

i just assume i'm transparent, and yr able to see that my intentions are good.

the guy i'm lifting these fucked-up photos from.

yes yes

to all my people uptown

you don't stop

that includes the bronx and harlem

you don't stop...

and downtown

you don't stop

el ee ess

you dont stop

crooklyn

you don't stop

queens

you don't stop

dirty jerzee

you don't stop

strong island

you don't stop

boston

you don't stop

illadelph

you don't stop

maryland

you don't stop

the south

you don't stop

up north

you don't stop

t-dot

you don't stop

west coast

you don't stop

east coast

you don't stop

no coast

you don't stop

europe

you don't stop

asia

you don't stop

aus-trail-ya

you DOINT STOP

worldover

you don't stop

you keep on and on

you don't stop

till the breakadawn

you don't stop...

you won't stop

you're...


...thousands of feet above…as invisible as the Holy Ghost…three miles high and rising…

“Alone, in the crowd,” I whispered, as I tried desperately to keep my shit straight. The mushrooms were making me forget my real name…they were making me fake it so real I was beyond fake.

I could hear the straining engine of the car behind us. The entire pick-up seemed to glow, as if a gigantic spotlight was shining upon it.

Just then, there was the sound of tires screeching, followed by a yellow flash that tore across the back of the pickup and shot up like a pinball into the great, black sky.

“Was that lightening?” I asked.

I felt someone’s arm curl around my ankle.

“It was going the wrong way to be lightening,” Trixie Treat purred from my shins. She was stretched out across the bed of the pickup like a cat.

The screech broke off, all at once. There were a few seconds of windswept silence during which someone muttered what the fuck. I understood enough to know that we were going very fast, too fast—the kind of fast that means you’re being chased. I squinted through the shadows at the back window and tried to make out the burly silhouette of Noah, the driver, but I kept hallucinating the outline of horns on his head so I closed my eyes and concentrated instead on holding the fuck on.

Due to the heightened sense of anticipation that the shrooms gave me, I felt us running off the road even before it happened.

Don’t worry, it’s a 4x4…

This thought was followed immediately, by:

Shit. I’m going to die.

I forgot the horns and started banging on the back window with one hand while holding onto one of the nylon straps that were fastened to the side of the truck with the other.

The pickup wasn’t meant to safely hold so many people crowded in the back, especially not at this speed. The dessert floor was little more than a pile of rocks. We bounced around like crazy. Everyone tried to get as flat as they could and hold on to whoever was around them. I felt legs draped over my arms, knees pressed against the top of my skull, arms over my thighs. “The five-o, the five-o,” I head someone cry out, but I knew it wasn’t the police who were after us. I know it the way someone who’s been robbed knows something is missing the second they walk in the door. They don’t yet register what, exactly, but they immediately know something is gone.

I heard music playing.

At first I wasn’t sure, but then it was unmistakable. Biggie Smalls shouted, “Where Brooklyn at? Where Brooklyn at? Where Brooklyn at?” over a raw, old school beat.

Jesusfuckingchrist, I said.

{It can’t be them, it can’t be them!}

We hit a bump and went flying. Everyone screamed and I looked over my shoulder to see one of the younger guys tumble over the back. Just like that. For a split second I saw him airborne--his hair stuck straight up on his head, forming a black halo against the red glow of the taillights and in the next second he was gone. “No!” I shouted, like they do in the movies. I imagined him hitting the ground and SPLAT! his head exploding like a watermelon. Someone cried, “No, Billy, oh, god!” There was a loud whirling sound during which the truck lurched wildly from side to side. I lost hold of the strap and was shot to the back, gritting my teeth and holding my breath as I waited for the deadly back flip, when suddenly—miraculously--we were back on the smooth and gloriously level highway.

“We cut back to the exit!” someone yelled.

“Are you OK?’ someone else shouted—I think it was Marco--as he put his hand on my shoulder.

“I’m fine, I’m fine” I said, brushing him off. I crawled back towards the front of the bed. I felt like Mad Max, covered in dirt with the wind whipping my hair.

Had we lost them? I couldn’t see anyone behind us. I looked out at the road illuminated by our headlights and it was empty as well.

{Holy shit! That kid fell out he’s going to be dead and it’s all my fault…}

Suddenly, a huge cloud of dust filled the left side of the road as the other truck came charging up the rocky slope towards the road, in the same way I imagined we had. I saw that their plan was to cut in front of us. They were going so fast my eye could barely keep up with them. I felt like I was watching an old Laurel and Hardy movie, in which the action scenes always seemed to move too fast, as though someone had wound the film too tightly and it was spinning out, just barely staying on the reel. When they reached the road they tried to turn in front of us and ended up skidding instead. Before I could process the fact that it was Sterling’s bleached head that I saw in the passenger seat, the skid turned into a flip, and then another one, as I watched, half-laughing, half screaming.

“Fuck these shrooms!” I screamed, “Fuck these schrooms!”

As they had been trying to cut us off, when they flipped they landed directly in front of us. Noah turned quickly to the left, and we narrowly avoided a direct collision. I was laughing like crazy. Had there been anyone coming from the opposite direction, we would have been killed.

{Fuckfuckfuckfuck!}

We came to a grinding halt across the road, a pile of cacti stuffed into our front grill. Noah switched off the motor and the truck sagged backwards. The engine ticked away like crazy. That and the hushed gasps of someone crying were the only sounds.

As in a dream, I got up and jumped out of the pickup. I walked wobbly across the road, my Nikes crunching on the rocks and gravel that were strewn across it. I noticed that I could see the sky again. The clouds had gone away and the stars had come out.

Behind us was the canyon we had just passed through—a great, yawning emptiness. In the darkness, I couldn’t see it, but I could feel it.

…i could feel it opening…and then tightening it’s little rock fists…

The driver’s door of the Range Rover opened as I approached it. Fitzcarraldo was at the wheel, sitting bolt upright, his bangs in disarray.

“Hey,” he said, without turning his head. From the sing-song tone of his voice you would have thought we were bumping into each other downtown, on a street crowded with silly afternoon shoppers.

“Are you OK?” I said, my voice shaking.

“I think so,” he said.

His eyes watered up.

“Sweetheart! I can’t believe it’s really you!” he gushed. His

I felt someone nearby. I turned and saw Sterling standing by the rear of the truck.

“Get in,” she said. Her voice was low and menacing.

“Hey man, what the fuck…” I started.

“I said, get in,” she interrupted, and calmly pulled up her shirt to reveal the handle of a pistol sticking out of her jeans.

“Are you kidding me?” I said.

“Sterling!” Fitz said, still looking dead ahead and apparently unable to turn and see what was going on. “What are you doing?”

Something stirred on the other side of the road. Sterling looked over and then back at me with her eyes wide.

“We’re here to rescue you. Now shut up and get in the goddamn car!” She took the gun out and pointed it at me. The whole image was made ten times worse by the drugs so it was all I could do to just fall to the ground and shit myself. Instead I stuck my arm out and let Sterling grab it and pull me towards the truck.

I looked at her, something had changed, but I couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Have you been working out?” I asked.

“Get in!” she shouted, still pointing the gun at my chest.

“OK, OK!” I placed my foot on the step and was immediately overcome by a violent tremor. Sterling gave my ass a shove and I managed to flop in next to Fitz.

He started the engine and looked at me out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s going to be OK,” he said, in a hushed tone.

“Yeah, OK, sure, whatever,” I said. Sterling reached over and pulled a seatbelt across me as we rolled forward into the night. The glass had popped out of the rear view mirror, so Sterling sat up and kept a look out behind us. Several minutes passed, during which I debated the reality of my situation.

“Are we cool?” Fitz asked.

“Wait a sec,” Sterling said, still keeping watch.

“No. I need to know,” there was an hysterical ring to his voice. Perhaps because he seemed incapable of turning his neck to look for himself. “Are we cool or not?”

Sterling turned around and faced forward.

“No one’s there,” she announced, “the stupid hippies aren’t even going to try…”

“You pulled a gun on me,” I said, matter-of-factly.

“I needed you to get a move on.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“You were standing there like a deer in the headlights! C’mon! You know I’d never hurt you!”

“I don’t know,” I said, rubbing my face. There was the sensation of dry leaves again, but this time I recognized it as the feeling I get just before I start crying.

“Somebody fell out…at least I think they did…oh, god…I don’t know…” The truth was, I didn’t want to know. Everything was completely haphazard…the glares across the windshield formed the letters of an alien alphabet; the dashboard lights hummed a barbershop quartet filled with ill portent.

“Shhhh, it’s OK now,” Sterling said. I felt the pressure of her thigh against mine.

“Let me look at you,” she said, and she held my face in her hands. She looked me in the eyes and I flinched.

“What is it, did they hurt you?”

“I did all the hurting,” I said, “You know me.”

“Yes,” she said. “I do, a little bit…”

There was a bump in the road that made us all jump, but it was only the beginning of a newly paved stretch of highway, smooth and shiny like a freshly iced cake.

“Are you hungry?” she asked, as she smoothed my bangs across my forehead.

Hungry? Was she kidding? The only thing I’d had for days was cereal and beer.

The tears finally came, burning the corners of my eyes.

“You just have to tell me one thing, OK? OK, Sterling? Is this really happening? Can you tell me that? Can you tell me if this is real or a dream?”

there should be more of this.

What’s up, party people.

The post that previously occupied this space upset someone I respect. So I’m taking it down and hereby apologizing for any misunderstanding.

The post was not directed at anyone. Had it been, I would have posted their name. Underhanded swipes are not my style. If I’ve got shit to say, I say it outright.

The post wasn’t “about” anything, really. I found this picture and I wanted to write something that vibed with it…something with a misanthropic buzz…

You know, a grimy something somethin

I lifted the language from a moment during my senior year in high school. I was at a party when I overheard some “guy friends” of mine talking about how they were going to bang some freshman chicks they perceived to be virgins, a la the movie Kids.

“Hell no I’m not using a condom! If bitch gets pregnant, too bad bitch!”

Needless to say, I was completely grossed out by this. I always knew they were assholes, but this was taking it down to a whole new level. I remember I went outside for a smoke and ended up projectile puking into the bushes…

I’m not sure who I was more pissed off at. The boys who took advantage of those girls or the girls who let themselves be taken advantage of…

Here’s the thing. Recent events in my life have gotten me thinking about what it means to be responsible. I think that information, and not age, is what makes you responsible. Pedophiles are fucked up because they’re having sexual relations with someone who (in most cases) lacks the conceptual framework to understand what sex is. For the sake of the law this has to be defined by an age limit, but in my mind, this is pretty arbitrary. I’ve known nine year olds who had plenty of sex that they seemed to enjoy and nineteen year olds who didn’t have a clue about what happened on the “wedding night”. That said, I hate the overarching tendency in our culture to treat teenagers like idiots. They might lack experience and the wisdom that sometimes goes with it, but they have just as much access to the facts of life as anyone else. It’s just a pile of moral horseshit to make blanket statements about how it’s wrong for kids to do drugs. Why? Because it’s going to damage their precious underdeveloped brains? Por favor. Sugar and TV have already taken care of that, homeslice. If they know where to get top shelf shit, than obviously, their brain is hard enough to take it. As some of you know, I sold coke for a short time a while back. My clientele was the same age as I was: young. Now, I’m not gushing with pride over having done this, but I don’t feel bad about who I sold to. I had a product that they wanted and it was up to them to understand its addictive and destructive powers.

I know I understood...as a child of the 80s I knew EXACTLY what could happen...and I did it anyway and along with booze it ruined my life, express lane, multi-car pile-up style.

Anyway, if ANYONE's going to do drugs it makes more sense to me that kids do them because when you’re a kid you’ve got more time on your hands. Take LSD. Figuring in recovery time, you need to be able to put aside at least a day and a half for a decent, balls on the wall trip.

A day and a half! Shit, baby, I could barely find the time to write this post.

peace

octodog: you know you want it.

(via stereolabrat, of course)

i was reading this comic the other day, excuse me graphic novel and this character brought sausage and goat cheese to the goddess of desire, as a way of appeasing her or showing her honor or some shit like that. i was wondering which food was a nastier symbol of sex. i mean, we all know how long pink tubes of stuffed pig parts represent shlongs--but goat cheese!?! what's that about--vaginal discharge?


emmm... crotch cheese...who's got the toast?

I’ll tell you all my secrets but I’ll lie about my past…

(so send me off to bed forever more!)

d’uh. Of course I wish things were different. The past hangs from me like an abscess, dark and unknowable. But I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to have to think about it anymore.

That’s why I smash my head against the floor and run outside without a jacket, red rings blooming like radarscope in front of my eyes…

That’s why night after night I dream of tidal waves…the wind and the weather spinning above while a great blackness looms on the horizon

It’s a dream about inevitability.

The nightmare of knowing that there’s something you can’t outrun but you run nonetheless.

It’s not that I want to be a different person altogether, just a different version of the one I already am.

I want to be state of the art.

With cameras in my eyes and a sleek chrome carrying case for my pomegranate heart.



When the shit comes down and with it, the panic pure, I sit as still as I can, wringing my hands while my mind goes on tour…

(and I ask myself)

What would TRUE do?

What would TRUE do?

What would TRUE do right now?




jg

someone said that these pictures taken on "my" palm treo look like ultrasounds, but i think they have an uncanny resemblance to the daguerreotypes i saw recently in a darkened corner of the Met. i had just left the el greco exhibit with it's crowd and audio headsets and its huge canvases upon which slightly elongated, surrealistic figures stared up to heaven, looking for a god who remained invisible. entering the empty, narrow passageways of The Dawn of Photography: French Daguerreotypes, 1839–1855 was quite a change--i felt like i was decompressing into the stillness as i stared into TV-sized squares of light within which a single daguerreotype was mounted upon a page of black paper. i peered, impassively across the centuries into another world--another time, before there were photographs and movies to tell us what we looked like. everything was different, but whereas i'd expected things to perhaps look younger, buildings and faces alike appeared beaten and sunken, like a malnourished, canterkerous old man, to whom everyone has learned not to pay much attention.

it was a mirrorworld, dipped in formaldahyde...just when i thought it had nothing more to teach me, there was the shock of an overexposed blue sky...ebulient and detailed, like stained glass.

i saw a man revealing the untouched white of his forehead in a gesture of intimacy and trust...he had no reason to fear photography...to him, it was merely a matter of curiousity, he thought it an interesting invention.

(there was shyness in his eyes, but they weren't guarded; his hat was folded loosely in his lap)

no one knew what awesome power it was to have over the world.

this here, preserved in glass and in shadow, was the birth of the image as reproduction. the subject matter itself eluded to the moment of change that was upon us: there were daguerreotypes of dirty bedrooms and bison, dead children and naked twins...

a grecian landscape...a lonely booth lit by a flash...



and now, one hundred and sixty-five years later we're trying to figure out how much longer to go until we can digitize objects down to the core of their particles and get all possible informationon all conceivable sides at once?

reproduction=the means to do so

(as well as the scale of those means)

i want a special new recording device

the size of a credit card

that works exactly like a video camera except it captures things in their essence.

for instance i'd be able to get you an accurate copy of the way my muscles feel inside.

right this very instant.

the exhaustion at the center of them

the ache all around



o, love

the perfect recording device

would allow me to carry the smell of your skin with me, always

in nyc you can order-in for everything

hmmmm.

but i don't like how they're going to use strip twister and strip poker to make it happen. i hate all games. except video games.

this is a better one:

newyork.craigslist.org > manhattan > casual encounters > Mutual Debauchery and Pleasure Wanted With Sexy Girl - m4w
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Mutual Debauchery and Pleasure Wanted With Sexy Girl - m4w

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Reply to: anon-21681165@craigslist.org
Date: 2004-01-01, 7:59PM



So let’s be realistic and say this encounter thing is definitely about pheromones to start, and then some of the emotional and intellectual congruities come into play. So, you can be mild-mannered on the outside, or not, or way up and out front, or not, or pretty much anything, or not, but, what you definitely are is at least comfortable with admitting when you are horny and maybe even when you are feeling a little kinky and when you want to engage in fun, passion, fantasy fulfillment and whatever else you might request - you can openly communicate that. I am a fun, sexual and sensual SWM.

I'm 39, 6’ (+); 175 lean and muscular lbs., blue eyes, sexy (so I hear) shaved (well, really it's buzzed around the back and sides) head. I hear I look good, but that is all personal taste stuff. You? 25-40, good company, great conversationalist. I am very intelligent, very open and a great communicator. You are slim, lean, nice-bodied, whichever, just not too overweight, and you have a picture to send -- I have one to send to you as well.

Look, this is about something more sacred than anything most of these mere drooling CL wankers could appreciate. This is about feminine worship. From the time the testosterone kicked in and I caught the faintest whiff of female pheromones, I have knelt at the altar of that which is female in this world. I love women. What I love in them is something that always moves and changes and must be allowed the freedom and space to do so. I love their minds, their smells, their textures, their complexities and the inexhaustible variety of their psychic weather patterns.

I think that my peaceful ways, good personality, intelligence and playful sensual attention, which might also include (depending on what you like) maybe a full shiatsu treatment (I am trained), might definitely have the desired effect for us both for a start. I am totally uninhibited and definitely not repressed and open to everything. I am also emotionally available to see what could be made of "it." I’m open to exploring any possibility that may present itself (why be constrained by a set of rules or preconceived notions?). So, get in touch: What's to lose?




it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
this is in or around Manhattan





21681165




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It's corny bullshit

even so, right now i'm linking those stats

but his use of the word 'wanker' makes me think brit

and inevitabley, i don't get vibes with brits

but whatev

who cares

i don't know.

it sucks to be lonely.


i wish i spent my new year's here:



i need to reinvent myself.

give me

ennio morricone afterworld...

when i get online i open tons of windows at once and set off on disparate paths that i travel simulteously.

i make weaving trails

things come together at junctures

and then fall apart

i'm using the web to train myself to think multiple thoughts

i want to bling out my brain with platinum philosophical processor chips

set a razor-sharp hunk of ice squarely between theory and praxis

my flow's like a quaterback

who doesn't know what a sack is...

anyway, whilst surfing, i found this picture in an article about medical marijuana in california

it's from 1997

as you can see from the picture, those plants were lame as fuck

all together, they fit in a single tupperware container

that's like, nada mucho, party people.

seven years later,

are things better now, or are they worse?

is there such a thing as progress?

do you think the guy in the picture smokes?



i'd smoke with that guy.

and this guy



holy shit, pogeybait is pregnant!

congrats to you and your man

brooklyn babies are the coolest babies in the world

werd is bond.

i want to tell you how badly my new year's sucked, but i'm waiting for the drugs to get here first. in the meantime, go vote for the saddam post in jim's poll, if you haven't already.

jim always has the best polls. here's one from last year. i mean two years ago. whatever, the whole changing numbers thing makes me hostile: