You're hungry, but I'm starving
He cuts you down from the tree
He keeps you in a box by the bed
Alive, but just barely
He said, 'I'm your lover, I'm your friend'
I'm pure and he hits me again
With a bullet, number one, kill the family, save the son
Himself
Himself
The pieces of Jennifer's body
Found pieces of Jennifer's body
Found pieces of Jennifer's body
Just relax, just relax, just go to sleep
Just relax, just relax, just go to sleep...














one two three four what is it good for outside outside outside

(I don’t wanna go)

outside outside outside

where there are people push push pushing, passive aggressively with their elbows and shoulders like it’s all just an accident, like they aren’t really mean assholes with bad coffee breath casually passing gas on the train, addicted to reading, eating, tsk tsking the odor of my herbal essence. hypocrites. old shitty fucks.

I’ll show you what it’s like. I’ll give you freedom from freedom. I’ll strip you down until the only thing you can be is true.

I’ll fuck you in yr fucking fuck

I’ll overcome you with patience, I’ll endure all those uncomfortable frictions that occur when people first get to know each other…the little annoying things that put you off to someone…the things you give them the vibe to shut up about


the freeway entrances you barricade

(let me in let me in let me in)

when I wake up all I want is to go back to sleep

come here, come over, come inside

let’s stay in bed all day

(can you remember feeling any other way?)

outside I know everyone I see

all the songs on the radio are all the ones in my head

the internet is in my back pocket

I have a headful of pills and a handful of dead batteries

there is no service

there is no mercy

only my disgusting needs

and the earth waiting for scars




the longhaul

covet is a cool word.

I watched the first Kill Bill over Fitz’s place yesterday, after work. He kept skipping scenes, claiming they were either too boring or too bloody.

“I don’t want you to have bad dreams!” he shouted, as he pressed his D&G scented palm in my face.

“Don’t look! Don’t look!”

But of course, I did look, and it seemed like no big thing. That’s the whole problem: a hyperviolent movie never bothers me much at the time, it’s when I go to sleep and my dreams take over that I have an issue. The theater in my head is a theater of cruelty. It takes very little to get me going and keep me up for weeks. That’s why I didn’t see the Passion flick, even though I had the perfect idea for an article on it. I wanted to write about the hypocrisy of so-called Christians wallowing in the death drama of Jesus. According to his teachings, Jesus valued life in the afterworld far more than anything here on earth. His whole point was not to fear death—it was an important event only because it marked the end of one kind of existence and the beginning of an other, but as a thing in and off itself, it wasn’t to be flipped out over.

It seems that if you call yourself a Christian, and I did, long, long ago in a galaxy far, far away, then you should be celebrating life and love and charity and growing jesus hair and experiencing orgasmic kicks every time you think about the afterworld. But Christians aren’t into these things instead they want to judge others and ban shit and take away rights and tell people what to do which is why Christianity sucks and anyway the whole thing is just so intolerant to questioning, it’s just too

religious…?

…of this world, I guess, I don’t know.

I also didn’t go see the movie because Melly Mel Gibson is a “Jew baiting” freak and after seeing him appeal to the lowest common denominator of anti-Semitism on leno (by referring—in polite undertones--to the worldwide jewish conspiracy that was out to get him) i don’t want to add another single dollar to the pile of two hundred billion others that his aussie ass is already sitting on.

(yes, i know he was born in the states. but we have enough assholes. shut up.)

dude’s making 200 million billion trillion dollars off of this and he has the nerve to whisper about those in Hollywood who are trying to persecute him? if that’s his idea of persecuting than i say BRING IT ON.

at any rate, by the time i got to bed last night i was so tired i didn’t dream a thing. some people like to say “I don’t remember my dreams” but i wonder-- are they really having dreams if they can’t remember them? night memories—isn’t that what dreams are?

(the billowing curtain hiding the neuron circuit board, over which impulses travel in pinball rhythms…)

maybe i didn’t have any bad dreams because after the movie fitz and i went out to the park and overwrote the movie scenes with something different. the sun was setting and we watched some kids play soccer on a dusty field. we leaned against the fence and said nothing as crowds of plump brown and pink legs scurried back and forth in front of us. fitz chewed on a long blade of grass while i pressed the top of my head against the metal chain link.

it was nice not to talk, to just chill with someone in silence. fitz and i haven’t had a time like that in a while.

finally, when a long time had passed, he turned, and squinting like a little boy asked,

“Was it like it was in the movie, when you cut your fingers off?”

“You mean the blood?”

“Yes—and the slicing sound…I don’t know, the whole thing…was any of it the same?”

I held my hand out before me. I haven’t been wearing the glove so the stumps were right there. Naked. Undeniable.

“The blood squirting like crazy—that part happened. That’s what I remember most, actually. The way it shot across the room and got on everyone’s shirts and faces. It was like a blood filled super soaker. I stood there watching it shoot away, and it seemed so wrong, so terribly sickening, and yet I didn’t move or try to stop it or get myself help.”

I formed the shape of a pistol with the remaining three fingers and pressed the tips against the side of my head.

“Yeah, the blood never seems to stop, just like in the movie. Except there isn’t that pretty video game glow at the center of the wound.”

“Hmmm,” Fitz said, “There isn’t at the center of the world, either,” he pointed out, but I have no idea what he meant.






sterling.fassbinder@gmail.com

i meant it about the porn.

which reminds me,

thank-you, bored housewife

it's beautiful.

yesterday morning was my trial date. "but i'm a rebel to the system so i might not be coming". I got as far as city hall and then I skipped that shit and spent the day riding the trains with my hood pulled tight writing rhymes instead. holy bender, batman. i'm so hung over right now my teeth hurt. it’s like the roots are atrophying, deep inside my gums. blame it on Belgium: the chimay hit me like I grand piano outside the blind tiger; all i could do was keep ffalling against the parked cars.

I kept huff huff huffin but I couldn’t blow that shit down

people had their cellphones flipped open--nice people who asked me if i wanted them to call 911 or get a police officer or somethin. i laughed of course and someone from off to the side shouted,

"hey, she's been sniffing glue! all day! look over there!"

my little white laminated bag had fallen by the back wheel

it’s the kind they put expensive chocolate in

and i was like, yeah yeah yeah fuck you.

all the puddles were purple and green and my shoes were untied.





this is this

so badge it would make medicine sick.


i can't help it: i'm into those kids from montreal. we listen to some of the same music. plus, they have bad attitudes and they wear their jeans the right way, as far as i can tell.

also, they're like a tight crew...inter dating and making art and getting high together...it makes me a little jealous, especially now, when everything's so fucked up between the three of us.

it all started with aurore. she found me and vice-versa and we were like two peas in a pod. i wish i could roll through her scene and show her that i'm not the monster or weirdo she might think i am.

i'm a real person--

i'm just anonymous and always will be...

fuck it. i'm a little messed up right now.






badge

meltingdolls

“Quick—we only have a few minutes before the sun goes behind that building!”

She grabbed my hand and pulled me back down onto the pile of damp towels and cushions. Her skin smelled like cocoa butter and sweat. We’d been on the roof for a half hour and we were already cooking.

Union Square hummed beneath us. From where I was lying I could just make out the top of that awful art installation—the one with the steaming hole and the yellow numbers flickering according to some incomprehensible computation.

“I can’t take it,” I said, peeling off my wifebeater. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Watch out, the people on that roof can totally see us,” she said, gesturing to the same building that was about to rob us of our sun.

“Who cares?” I said, as I rolled over and pressed my sweaty chest against hers.

“mmm, I like that,” she said, as she reached down and pulled up her bikini top. I moved down, and then to the side, rubbing my skin against her skin.

She was a rich kid and an artist. Her daddy was a big time culture vulture and had bought her the sprawling apartment just beneath the roof. He wanted to make sure she had enough room to work. Her paintings and collages and photographs hung on the walls in professional looking frames.

“Fuck this shit, I’d trade it all in for a little validity,” she told me, after I’d expressed admiration for her set-up.

It’s always the same—everyone always thinks everyone else has got it made.

We met on the subway. The 1 and 9. She helped me help a blind guy out the door.

“You’re nice, “ she said.

“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” I said.

We went to the Christopher Street espresso bar and talked for hours. I was into her and I could tell by the way she looked at me that she was into me too. Our words bubbled up and ran over themselves—there was that excited, sexy tension in which we both knew that if we stopped talking, even for a second, we’d end up on top of each other.

Now, a month later, we still couldn’t get enough.

“What was it like, the other week?” she asked, after we’d pushed away from each other.

“What was what like?”

“You know,” she said, “When you were in jail.”

The way she whispered the word ‘jail’, you would have thought it was against the law to say it out aloud.

“Oh, that,” I said. I lay flat on my back and lit a crumpled cigarette I’d fished from my pocket.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

“It was no big deal. I already told you.”

“I know, but what was it like…spending all night with her…in that place?”

I had tried to tell her about TRUE but the parts I left out loomed like shadows in her brain.

“TRUE? Oh, well, you know…we’ve been there before.”

“In prison!”

“No, well, not really…”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Let me put it this way—we wasted a lot of time together over the years. It doesn’t make me proud, but that’s the way it goes.”

“I don’t get it, “ she said.

Just then, the sun was eclipsed by the building. It shot one last psychedelic band of orange light across our bodies before all was shadow.

“It’s a drug thing,” I said, blinking my eyes in the sudden coolness.

“You wouldn’t understand.”








gmail gave me one gig. send me dirty pictures, please:



sterling.fassbinder@gmail.com


thx

transmissions from the satellite fart

Report Junk E-Mail
Report and Block Sender



From : Stacey Graham
Sent : Wednesday, April 21, 2004 7:22 PM
To : sterlingfassbinder@hotmail.com
Subject : RE: on the segmented parasitic worm

| | | Inbox


Last night, while scamming wi-fi at the conference room, I got on a "parasite research kick".

Did you know that the way to check if you have worms is to put a light-colored colander/strainer in the toilet and go to the bath room, and then pick through the solid wastes with kitchen utensils?

You can use those facts in Brand Trueboy if you want. It's my ultimate gift to you, to show how sensitive and caring I really am!

S

i made a bubble bath for myself using a quarter bottle of this cheapo juniper scented green shower gel. in clean, pharmaceutical font it promised invigorating thoughts and tried to tempt me with tranquility, better pheromone flow or some horse shit like that. i lit a smoke to cut the smell. It bubbled better than I thought and pretty soon the bubbles were piled high above the tub. For a while I let the water keep running and watched the foamy white mass grow larger and larger, until shadows appeared between the towering bubble mountain peaks. It swelled like something alive, yet unthinking.



I shut off the water and got in. I’d been standing there, stupid and stoned, so long that the water in the back had gotten cold. As I sat with the hot water pouring down beside my lap, I had an intense flashback to baths I took when I was a little kid. I remembered being happily dazzled by the way the bubbles twinkled like disco bits in the bright light, and yet, at the same time, I’d be vaguely troubled by the feeling of the cold water creeping up on me.

it was like the coldness out there was getting closer and closer to invading my happy little womb,

(out there was the dark and unfriendly world, where anything could happen)

i noticed a pubic hair stuck in the bubbles.

it was like a little black sword, swaying there in warning or salutation or both

(like the strange character you meet along the highway strip, as you make yr journey to the place yr fate has prescribed)

the bubbles were suffocating, swelling—sizzling and evaporating in the air.

(they were mimicking every single second which is gone as soon as it happens)

and yet out there the cold water was beating the warm

it was down by my feet and making its way up


(blood turns purple beneath the blue streetlights what color is it now?)

how strange

i thought

the cold has somewhere to go and i have nowhere




i’ve got nowhere to go.





(i had myself a smoke

and i slipped into a dream)


him: there’s a sense of longing…of loneliness

Theartistformerlyknownas: yes

Theartistformerlyknownas: it’s like, the better it feels, the more alone I get

him: you pull back

Theartistformerlyknownas: Yes, it’s like I’m there by myself. You could probably plot it on a graph: the greater my pleasure, the less I’m present.

Theartistformerlyknownas: The funny thing is i’m not there but i’m also not holding back…there’s an inverse relationship—the better it feels, the more freaky it gets—and it gets pretty freaky—the less i’m really there.

him: i see

Theartistformerlyknownas: what do you think of that? pretty banal given my history, huh?

Theartistformerlyknownas: …except it’s NOT wounded dove syndrome…it’s not like, oh, poor little me…

Theartistformerlyknownas: cuz i’m not like, all closed up and refusing to be touched, mmmk

him: yes

him: ok.

Theartistformerlyknownas: yeah, i mean, it’s like…

Theartistformerlyknownas: fuck i don’t know what it’s like…

him: i think there’s some part of you that wants to be protected.

him: i think there’s a part of you that you’ve pushed away

Theartistformerlyknownas: errmm

him: we can work on getting that out, if that’s something that you want

Theartistformerlyknownas: maybe

him: ok.

Theartistformerlyknownas: I don’t know, though

him: what?

Theartistformerlyknownas: I might just be telling stories…

Theartistformerlyknownas: or maybe i’m just high and aggressive

Theartistformerlyknownas: or maybe i’m treating this like one big video game and scoring all the easy points really fast.

him: i’m not competing with you. this isn’t some kind of mental contest.

Theartistformerlyknownas: i didn’t say that it was

him: it’s ok for you to try on other selves in here. that’s something that you can do.

Theartistformerlyknownas: ha. boy is it ever.

Theartistformerlyknownas: you have no freakin idea.







i didnt know


missed forever

i’m so amped, even w/o the coke, that i only sleep about three hours and when i eat i usually shit it out right away, especially if the food is natural in any way.

i keep busy, no matter where i am, no matter who’s around. i’m like that dude in a beautiful mind, finding the secret patterns in people magazine.

i can see the frontier and it’s closing down.

silver turnstiles turn into crosses in the shadows.

(on the parkway tonite)

i figure i only have a couple more years before this look of mine goes sour.

NO MERCY

YOU HAVE SHOWN ME

it’s a bitter sweet symphony, this life.

exactly.

“I’ll take you down the only road i’ve ever been down”

That right there is the sadness we all share

of only getting to be one person

and living only one life.



dubhamaro


(i’m stuck with this face now and so are you.)

dirtyharry

This whole thing with TRUE getting arrested on the bogus bullshit charge of intent to commit graffiti (plus whatever it was they added about possessing drug paraphernalia for the ancient bat) has forced me to rethink the historical moment we find ourselves in with regard to design, art and literature. If the NYC anti-graffiti goon squads hadn’t perfected the art of illegal search and seizure then the old train bombers from yesteryear would have had a fighting chance against the quality of life plainclothes riding the subways. They would have been able to dodge those flat footed lo-sers, and no matter how often the city washed its trains, and regardless of what toxic “spray paint repellent” it coated its public exteriors with, the writers would have kept at it, displaying the same pluck and stubbornness that one finds in the best blog writers—those who keep on keeping on with their twisted styles even after they’ve pissed off everyone and their audience has dwindled down to cyber dust. Those graf artists would have kept at it, had their apartments not been busted into and all their supplies stolen. They would have kept tagging, had their hard drives not been removed and their phone lines tapped. They would have persisted in the wee, dark hours of morning, had they not been jumped the night before by strangers wearing all black, who threatened to next time “break all their fingers” if they kept at their illegal art. Yessiree, the graf kids would have stayed out there, and they wouldn’t have had the need to find new, legit avenues for their art. They wouldn’t have become graphic designers, lending their unique look to websites and t-shirts and art galleries and magazine layouts. We wouldn’t have those Sprite commercials, or the magazine Mass Appeal, or that whole wave of stencil painted 80s inspired fashion. That’s the way it works, you see, that’s the way the big wheel spins round: something is killed so that something else may live, one era ends so another begins… it seems terrible at the time but it might turn out to be for the best, now that some of those graf artists can actually make a living doing what they love and bring their shit to a whole new audience while in the meantime a harder even crazier illegal graf underground opens up…that’s a good thing, isn’t it?

Capitalistic selection: only the strong survive…but who are the strong, and what does surviving mean? Does riding the wave to the end=getting paid? Does getting paid mean selling out?

What would happen if blogs got locked down—if the free-for-all was filtered down to a co modified trickle? Would sites like BTB make it through the corporate bottleneck? Or would the common denominator be reduced, once and for all, to straight, frat boy booby (but no nipple!) sites and fake pundit (yawn) slate inspired bullshit?

What I want to know is,

What’s next, luvs?

I mean, where’s the party going to be at? And who will be waving the rhythm stick?

how will we cook the bacon if we don’t have any heat?




hmmm…well whatever. enough mental masturbation. time to see about getting fucked for real.

(fer real)

(oh, yeah…and FUCK BUSH)

(double oh yeah fuck metropolitan, like I care about being 86d from some lame ass Brooklyn fag bar. puhleeeze)


swiss cuties


of course he's totally gorge...

second sight=dot calm



the cop with the garlic breath was like

15 shots and five beers?

wouldn't it be easier to just put a gun to yr head?

I don't know, I said

give me yr gun and let me find out



they were all over this shit

they hit all the links too

and went to yr sites

check yr stats and you'll see

they were sniffing around

hungry for stink

I'm sorry I wanted to warn you but I couldn't

i only had one phone call

(this is America after all)

they couldn't find my stash so they confiscated my hard drive

they couldn't shut me up so they shut me down

(this is America, after all, the judge said)

i'd explain but my hands are heavy like rocks

crack rocks, of course

ha

no, fer real

the damage is already done but anyone who wants me to take their link down

just let me know

i promise i won't cook any beef over it

my name ain't tony pierce.

peace.

fuck the police.

oworneyerbluetoy: so what’s next?

sterlingfassbinder: it’s not about what’s next, it’s about what’s now.

oworneyerbluetoy: what’s now IS what’s next. ha.

sterlingfassbinder: so you tell me, wise prophet.

oworneyerbluetoy: don’t call me that. i don’t like ‘Little Buddha’ either.

sterlingfassbinder: i think that was more like a joke

sterlingfassbinder: but i don’t know because i didn’t start it

sterlingfassbinder: not that one, anyway (-:

oworneyerbluetoy: i don’t like to be anything except the names i told you to call me

oworneyerbluetoy: i don’t want you to use any of yr own pictures or descriptions either

sterlingfassbinder: right

oworneyerbluetoy: that was really mean that you wrote that about me. being fucked up in the bath and calling you.

sterlingfassbinder: i know, i said i was sorryh.

oworneyerbluetoy: & yr the one who makes the big deal about trust? pfffff

oworneyerbluetoy: why youd playt me out

sterlingfassbinder: it wasn’t like that

sterlingfassbinder: i told you

oworneyerbluetoy: oh yeah what was it like?

oworneyerbluetoy: even though a lot of those people out ther prolly went through the same thing or something similar it doesn mean i wanted them to KNOW about it.

oworneyerbluetoy: that it happened to ME

oworneyerbluetoy: i’m a very private person,

sterlingfassbinder: i know.

oworneyerbluetoy: i thought you knew that.

sterlingfassbinder: fuck…

sterlingfassbinder: hello?

sterlingfassbinder: look

sterlingfassbinder: it was just that i was down on myself, you know. because i was having such a hard time writing the first post of the new site

sterlingfassbinder: and you were so cool, you didn’t say a thing

oworneyerbluetoy: so that’s why youpissed all over me? wtf

sterlingfassbinder: i know it’s fucked up

sterlingfassbinder: it came out the wrong way

sterlingfassbinder: i didn’t mean it to sound like that

sterlingfassbinder: i meant to tell you how great i think you are and how much talent you have

sterlingfassbinder: and how angry i get at the catastrophe you’re making out of your life

sterlingfassbinder: how you’re turning out to be a boring drug casualty

sterlingfassbinder: you were scaring me and i’m sick of being scared by you

oworneyerbluetoy: ha

oworneyerbluetoy: they were just playing long way home—supertramp

oworneyerbluetoy: he says catastrophe in that song like you just did

sterlingfassbinder: are you listening to the classic rock station again?

oworneyerbluetoy: yeah so what?

oworneyerbluetoy: sososososososososososososososososossssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

sterlingfassbinder: what

sterlingfassbinder: are you going to respond to what i wrontte

sterlingfassbinder: *wrote

sterlingfassbinder: ?

oworneyerbluetoy: sorry i was just putting on a cd

oworneyerbluetoy: if yr feeling sinister—belle and Sebastian. classic

sterlingfassbinder: it’s like someone with selective hearing. you have selective reading

oworneyerbluetoy: the beauty of chat

oworneyerbluetoy: is that you can dream it and not be it.

sterlingfassbinder: i know that’s your favorite

sterlingfassbinder: “two people who are in love but never do it”

oworneyerbluetoy: that’s right

sterlingfassbinder: time or distance or the fucked up rules of a fucked up situation keep them apart

oworneyerbluetoy: that’s why the internet is so great

sterlingfassbinder: i don’t know…

sterlingfassbinder: i’d rather be talking to you in person

oworneyerbluetoy: oh por favor

oworneyerbluetoy: we’ve “said” more to each other over this blog than we ever have in real life

oworneyerbluetoy: it’s my fault, it’s all my idea

sterlingfassbinder: i just took it all too far

oworneyerbluetoy: and boy you could never play guitar

sterlingfassbinder: hardy-har

oworneyerbluetoy: listen, i think fitz is going to post the first thingy.

oworneyerbluetoy: he and i, actually.

sterlingfassbinder: what do you mean?

oworneyerbluetoy: he wrote the first bit and i wrote the second

oworneyerbluetoy: they like, go together

sterlingfassbinder: i see

oworneyerbluetoy: i can’t keep waiting

oworneyerbluetoy: too many people aren’t following through on other shit

oworneyerbluetoy: i at least need the text, youknow

sterlingfassbinder: yes, but i’ve been working on something

oworneyerbluetoy: i haven’t seen anything

sterlingfassbinder: but i told you about it

oworneyerbluetoy: the Martha stewart thing

sterlingfassbinder: yes

oworneyerbluetoy: yeah well, you can post that later

sterlingfassbinder: no i can’t, man

oworneyerbluetoy: you can put it up now if it’s ready

oworneyerbluetoy: but i know it’s not

sterlingfassbinder: c’mon

oworneyerbluetoy: no, YOU c’mon

sterlingfassbinder: i’m trying to bring shit up a level

oworneyerbluetoy: good—i’m all for it

oworneyerbluetoy: i just turned to the soul station btw

oworneyerbluetoy: where they’re inexplicably playing yesterday, by the beatles.

oworneyerbluetoy: are the beatles white soul or did paul mccartney die or something??

sterlingfassbinder: i think you like the internet because you’ve learned now to command a conversation on it

sterlingfassbinder: when in real life you’re so shy—stuttering your words

oworneyerbluetoy: that’s not true

sterlingfassbinder: that IS true, TRUE

oworneyerbluetoy: it’s not going to work, you know

sterlingfassbinder: what

oworneyerbluetoy: all yr goddamn negativity

sterlingfassbinder: ?

sterlingfassbinder: w hat’s that supposed to mean

oworneyerbluetoy: it means the show must go on

sterlingfassbinder: what show? i thought this site was going to be about writing?

oworneyerbluetoy: life’s a bitch and then you die

sterlingfassbinder: i thought it was going to be the start of a whole new stylo

oworneyerbluetoy: that’s why we get high

sterlingfassbinder: and what not?

oworneyerbluetoy: cuz you never know

sterlingfassbinder: fuck this shit.

oworneyerbluetoy: when yr gonna go…

clammy hands on the subway

today i'm going to spread millions of germs.

FUCK BUSH

this morning howard stern played a really good april fools trick: instead of his show starting as always, the station manager of k-rock came on and explained that due to the troubles with the fcc and the station's desire to appease its sponsors, it was no longer going to broadcast the howard stern show. taking its place would be a new, "clean" morning show called cross and lopez.

i heard the replay of the opening jingle of the show and i'm telling you it was pretty good. it was this super slick, sound collage of guitars, britney samples, and voices shouting yeah! in excited r-r-reverb. "Cross and Lopez," an announcer crooned, "Now, fun without the filth!" and "More fun than getting dirty!" As electronic alarm clocks went off and people sang, "Wake Up!" in the background.

It was at that point that the two new hosts, Cross and Lopez, introduced themselves as the replacement and antidote to the indecent Howard Stern. From the playbacks I thought they sounded totally legit. They had that seamless corporate glossiness to them, if it's possible to use such a word when describing a medium based in sound. Anyway, it was so believable that channel 11 news (The WB) reported the story, Howard Stern Fired! "It shows how the WB really gets out there and checks the facts before they broadcast a story," remarked Howard. The station later retracted the story. (you can go look it up yrself, i can't be fucked to put in the links)

In addition to supposedly reputable news stations, a good portion of Howard's loyal legion of fans fell for it. They started calling the new show and having hissy fits. A lot of what they said couldn't be aired under the new, cleaner format of CNL, (that the new clean show duly censored callers only made the joke more believable) but Howard played it after he came back on the air when, an hour and fifteen minutes into the broadcast, CNL's "crack" newsteam reported the story from the field--"In what appears to be an elaborate April Fools joke, Howard Stern was fired today and replaced by a new morning show team, Cross and Lopez".

One of the callers was this totally hilarious russian dude who went off on CNL and demanded to know why the FCC hadn't consulted "all americans" to find out if they wanted Howard or not.

"Americans like me!" he shouted in his thick accent. He then declared that he hoped CNL got cancer.

Meanwhile, ultimate opportunist Donald Trump wasted no time appearing on the Imus show.

Whatever. Fitz called and said everyone was talking about it at his spinning class this morning. The point of me writing about this is it was a funny joke, and that, as irregular listener of the show, I was pleased to check in today and hear that the dude still has his stuff. i've had a thing for howard ever since i was little, when my father listened to him, despite the fact that he drove my mother nuts.

he's racist! she shouted, and he hates women!

whenever we drove somewhere in the morning and it happened to be just the two of us, my father would put on the show at the super loud volume that he played everything at, on account of his bum ear with the blown out ear drum.

now don't tell yr mother, he told me, in between us cracking up.

and if ever something super racy came on, he'd switch the station or punch in a tape, and the car would fill with the fine young cannibals or the bangles or some other equally odd band from that time that he'd taken a liking too.

he's always considered himself something of a pop connoisseur. i used to tag along when we went into the mall record stores to buy "tapes." i got to read the inside cover while we drove home and he blasted his new purchase.

listen to that--the harmonies! he'd exclaim excitedly.

i guess that's where i get my whole flipping-out-while-dancing-and-jumping-on-someone's-back-and-screaming-in-their-ear-thing from.

at any rate, howard makes me laugh. he's been doing the same daily, four hour show for years and now they make a scapegoat out of him...he really might go off the air... victim to this lame ass culture of decency 1950s throw back dealy we got goin on.

SO ANYWAY. my real point is that sometime while i was listening to all this, havin my first high of the day with the newspaper spread out before me--with its litany of violence, destruction and region wide crisis--it came to me all at once. the slogan. the mantra. it was to be from me that it was transmitted.

FUCK BUSH.


everywhere. on t-shirts on graffiti on stickers on billboards on trains on the internet. maybe we can get that dude from giant to help.

i'm serious. think of ways to spread it.

like making it the number one search term in google

skywriting

put it on yr skateboard and crack yr head open, i don't know

(and it has to say 'fuck' and not be blocked out or whatever)

i'm gonna think some more on this.