back in the time when i used to indulge my burgeoning OCD disorder with a sitemeter, i'd notice handfulls of hits from military IPs. like a lot of people, most of them probably got here by accident, through a wayward porn search or whatever, but once and awhile i'd notice one of those addresses hitting at the same time, day after day, and i'd think, hmmm, who is that, this new reader of mine? i'd wonder, what are they like? do they like their job? are they paying for college? are they looking to get off, don't ask don't tell style? are they scared shitless?

it was tough to get my mind past the uniform--shit, i'd think, they're sittin there reading about me fucking a drag queen decked out in their fucking GEAR, man, like some serious boots and collars and slick little sidearms.

and i'd feel honored as fuck because that's some fer real shit. while i'm here getting high and pontificating.

i grew up on the lower rung of the middle class, so there were always a lot of guys and girls going into the service. like every dude in my family did something. later on i knew guys who went to the first gulf war and to bosnia. i'll tell you, from the little they told me, a lot of fucked up shit happens that never makes the papers.

i don't know, maybe someday they could post their stories on blogs.

i think it would help some of them to get it out.

maybe help them leave it in the past...

anyway, i'm getting a little maudlin this morning.

last night we took the late train home

i was mezmorized by the pattern of pink dots across the brown pleather seats

punched from our tickets

it was funny because when the conducter came by

i was so out of it i tried to hand him the CD from my CDman

i didn't understand what he wanted

but i got a little help and figured it all out

and spent the rest of the ride watching as we floated past

intricate formations of bright lights

outlining deep black spaces

like ships waiting in the darkness.

the water was like icing when we crossed the river.

my music was too loud in my headphones

but i still couldn't hear it

i was numb, i couldn't feel it.

thoughts about the war and my life in this country

burrowed deep in my brain

like toothaches

fuck i felt outside of it all

the news...the near empty train

driting past the great sleeping city of hoboken

like a ghost


one love to the troops out doing your job.

welcome back to everyone who made it home.


yr all invited.

Building Steam with a Single Grain of Salt

pay money, pay respect

don't insult my intellect...


this post is dedicated to raymi.



she's the woman

can't nobody touch her

hangs with the elite

makes her papes from the gutter...



hi raymi. please come to the party in NYC. if need be I’ll drive up to t-dot and pick you up. I’ll bring presents for yr moms to win her over. Grapenuts and light cigarettes and other healthy things…



“only 4% of people on the internet read blogs”

raymi is what it’s all about. the pix, the attitude. when I first saw her blog I knew there was a next level to all of this…an alter ego playground, a role playing game for the future. Bill Gates, can you smell me? The internet is for losers who feed off the beautiful like vampires, but it's OK because it usually feels pretty good.

It’s all coming together. I need a little while to formulate, make some power moves…

But until then, I’ll be raymi’s slave…



as I type this there are a million cops milling about grand central and they’re pulling over every van and truck driven by a brown driver. I passed by a white van with its doors flung wide open like a girl with her skirt pulled up around her neck and it reminds me of when I was in Maryland during the whole sniper thing. The fact that it turned out to be an American black dude and his teenage sidekick knocked all this shit into a new perspective. and when I say knocked into I mean, like, right out of the park.



I’m having a day where I feel as though everyone I see I’ve seen before, like the whole city is filled with TV extras and waitresses, bartenders I stiffed…masseuses I wish I had...

the past inside the present



365dumps

fuck yeah I’m trying to market this thing. they don’t call me BRAND for nothing.

BRAND NEW
TRUE BLUE SAGA.

I’d like to write a ballet about a girl who goes to sleep after drinking an old fashioned spiked by this total dick who claims to be her best friend and greatest protector. She falls into a drug-induced sleep in which she dreams that the two of them fall in love and have a relationship. The setting is all tripped out in a Wizard of Oz kinda way with everyone dancing around like maniacs. The music will be Scott Walker, that album he did of all Jacques Brel covers.

The question is should it end when she wakes up and realizes it was all a dream and he raped her in the ass while she was out for the count—in other words, as a tragedy, or should it end with her systematically slicing up her attacker in a scene with resonances to an earlier moment in the dream world, perhaps when she was cutting reams of psychedelic silk for her wedding dress or something?



What do you want to know? If I’m a real person, if I have feelings too? If I’m some kinda robot?

“Things changed after you started blogging,” she said.

“Yeah, I know.”

“You had less time for everything, less time to go out, less time for me.”

“Because I was writing?”

“Yeah. Because you were…writing.”


tinylittlepenis



I was searching google for a pics of fred flintstone when I came across this guy. the .jpg is named fred flintstone I think it’s from a car customization site but I was too high and freaked out to stay and find out more. i mean, why is he popping up out of the back like that? that photoshop stuff isn’t mine, btw, it came like that.

the reason I was looking for pix of fred flinstone is I wanted one of that little green martian fag who used to float around his head in the later episoides. I think his name was Kazoo? anyway, he had a dope helmet with a WiFi antenna in the back so he had a constant connection and was always online. too bad he had to deal with fat stupid fred all the time.

it ain’t easy being green.

this blog was made for you and me.



now that i understand this right
let me take it to the mic
this revolution has just begun

SOMEWHERE IN SPACE THIS COULD ALL BE HAPPENING RIGHT NOW...



fuck it. I’m alive. I’m young. this is my time, there won’t be another. I want it all, I want them to come here, I want this to be the biggest party ever.

I want to celebrate the fact that it’s a sad and beautiful world. I want to party with the trust fund kids, Mexican gangbangers, spanish girls wearing old navy and their baby daddys… I wanna get high with that dude from around the way with the maimed hand, and those old drunk queens with horny toenails, not to mention the pretty Indian men who stand on the subway platform and let the wind suck their fine tailored shirts against their slender chests…I wanna get a light from the smoking downtown angels with luck on every finger and hang by the door with those goblin people who are on some new drug that makes their faces scrunched up like in a Toulouse Lautrec poster.

I want it I want it I want it and most of all I want to be able to click pause at any time and change the channel...

...and write a post...

(or three)






THIS IS TONIGHT:


-----Original Message-----
From: Neil deGrasse Tyson [mailto:tyson@amnh.org]
Sent: Thursday, May 27, 2004 8:15 AM
To: xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: Manhattan-Henge: It's that time of year again...


Dear Museum Community

It's that time of year again....

MANHATTAN-HENGE

What will future civilizations think of Manhattan Island when they
dig it up and find a carefully laid out network of streets and avenues?
Surely the grid would be presumed to have astronomical significance,
just as we have found for the pre-historic circle of large vertical
rocks known as Stonehenge, in the Salisbury Plain of England. For
Stonehenge, the special day is the summer solstice, when the Sun rises
in perfect alignment with several of the stones, signaling the chage of
season.

For Manhattan, a place where the evening matters more than the
morning, that special day comes on May 28; one of only two days in the
year when the Sun sets in exact alignment with the Manhattan grid,
fully illuminating every single cross-street for the last fifteen
minutes of daylight. The other day is July 11th. Had Manhattan's grid
been perfectly aligned with the geographic north-south line, then our
special day would be the Spring equinox, and if we so designated, the
Autumn equinox -- the only two days on the calendar when the Sun ruses
due East and sets due West. But Manhattan is rotated 30 degrees east
from geographic north, shifting the days of alignment elsewhere into
the calendar. Upon studying American culture, and what is important to
it, future anthropologists might credit the Manhattan alignments to
cosmic signs of Memorial Day and, of course, the All-Star break. War
and Baseball.

Because Manhattan is so small (13 mile long) compared with Earth's
distance to the Sun (about 93 million miles), the Sun's rays are
essentially parallel by the time they reach Manhattan, allowing the Sun
to be seen on all cross streets simultaneously, provided you have a
clear view to the New Jersey horizon. Some major streets cross the
entire island from river to river without obstruction, including 14th,
34th, and 42nd streets. While the May 28 sunset qualifies as the exact
day for this auspicious moment, the surrounding days will also work, as
the point of sunset migrates slowly north from day to day along the
horizon, bringing with it ever-lengthening daylight hours.

Sunset on Manhattan-henge begins at 8:10PM, at a cross-street near
you.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Image of "Sunset on 34th Street" as it first appeared among eh
photo-essays of "City of Stars," Natural History magazine: http://www.naturalhistorymag.com/city_of_stars/19_sunset_34th.html

Download a high-res image of "Sunset on 34th Street" http://research.amnh.org/users/tyson/publications/ManhattanSunset.html

+++++++++++++++++++++

As always, keep looking up,

-Neil deGrasse Tyson

Department of Astrophysics
& Director, Hayden Planetarium
American Museum of Natural History
Central Park West at 79th Street
New York, NY 10024
http://research.amnh.org/users/tyson

How To Help

folks have been writing me asking what they can do for the cause. the answer is, I don’t know, what can you do? what are your resources? what do you want to accomplish? we’re shaping this big hunka clay called eight-thirty together. right now we’re on the line—“if you build it, they will come.” just don’t expect to sit at the table and not get some dirt under your nails. here are some thoughts, non-linear style, served raw with a side of goofy disregard:


Link:

--write a post
--type the words “Fuck Bush” or some version thereof
--highlight those words
--click on the little globe and type http://bringthebeef.blogspot.com


Come/come:

--find a way to get to NYC for the end of august.
--whether you can be here in person or not, between now and then spend time every day improving the quality of your orgasms. you can do this with or without a partner(s), tools, games, props, toys, DVDs. I need you all to be seeing stars, especially the ladies. wakey wakey, the year is 2004 and not 1954 and we’re still far from heaven. the time has come to embrace all our needs and all our holes—our open mouths and our open wounds.


Create a symbol:

--we sorely need something unique and powerful that expresses our “fight for your right to party” vibe and can be mass produced in many formats, including ornamental nipple ring.


Kill Your Television:

--if not literally than figuratively, as in, don’t take a lick of that shit on face value. this applies to all media, actually, especially Big Media. wean yourself off your reliance on images. learn how to listen again. one of the purposes of this event is to show the world that there’s a whole cross section of people out there who talk back to their monitors and refuse to be spoon fed the corn syrup-coated bullshit that passes as real news in this country. information is power. asking “why?” is the first step to freeing your mind.


Question your belief in an overarching governmental conspiracy:

--while yes, it’s true, with each new “revelation” it seems, as though we are “living in the 2004 version of JFK, where we are using the same arguments to prove a conspiracy that is so obvious, people think it can't exist” it’s important not to fall into the “man behind the curtain” syndrome, in which one believes that everything that happens is the result of some heavily orchestrated governmental scheme. just as it’s dangerous to underestitmate the intelligence of the powers that be, it’s also a mistake to make them smarther than they really are. they are men (with a few chicks thrown in). they make tons of mistakes and often fail to meet their own objection. they are not reading your mail or peeking up at your privates through your toiliet (although your landlord might be, especially if you live in long island).
--we can take em, hear me?
--(re)learn the true meaning of marxism—it wasn’t all about becoming a socialist. first and foremost it was about learning how to think the historical moment one found oneself in—to see it in its context, to figure out how we got where we are and to find a way out.


Don’t turn the terrorists into victims:

--I’m not talking about the tortured prisoners in iraq. I’m talking about the dudes who hijacked the planes and deliberately flew them into civillian targets. or the ones who triple packed TNT and blew up those trains in madrid. Don’t come back to me with, yeah, but the U.S. causes the death of countless civillians every day blah blah…Even if that’s the case, two wrongs don’t make a right. Those dudes will stop at nothing, do you understand? For whatever reasons (yes, I know there are links between the saudis and bush and the oil companies, etc, etc) the facts are as following: these fanatics believe this is a holy war. A fight to the death—us against them. They won’t stop until they’ve killed or conqured us. We women will be under veils with zero rights. We queers will be dead. Not to mention every single Jewish person on the face of the planet. Now I don’t care about your politics as much as I care about the fact that you are allowed to have your own views and express them and so am I. Bush might be the enemy but so is Al Queda, Hamas, Islamic Jihad, the PLO and anyone else out there who is chickenshit enough to send 12 year olds out strapped with explosive. They must be stopped.


Clean up your fucking act:

--take it from me, there’s nothing like being straight, man. of course, not everyone has an issue with substances, and for many a shift in consciousness is exactly what the doctor ordered. that said, moderation in all things is key. it’s like what john waters said about why he quit smoking up everyday: “pot just seems to make people satisfied with a lot less in life.”


Realize that it’s now or never:

--make the art, make the call, ask her out, ask for help, start the site, leave the comment, jot down your dream, burn the CD, steal the copy, get on top, shave your head, get up to get down, register to vote, push back, push first, question authority, support the troops, keep your cool, switch the station, fuck your gender, go on a tangent, write the words past the margin, use your fingers, get enough sleep, flex your muscle, wear your sunglasses (at night), fuck the police, don’t be scared, be ready to try…

…be ready to die. at 8:45 you could be sitting at your desk, going through your morning email and at 8:46…








ultrab

paxgitmo

gold tooth aesthetic

right now i'm over TRUE's place, trying to fix her virus ridden system. i'm also trying to fix her computer. HA. she's reading over my shoulder. fuck off.

posting something on this machine right now is like rubbing up against a dying person.

no, it's not like that. there's no need for drama. recover. reinstall. re-download. this is what it's about. i do this for a living, remember? everything will be fine. TRUE is obsessive about back-ups. ok, maybe obsessive isn't the right word. but there are cds everywhere. some are mixes, some are pictures, some are files. some are labelled, some are not, but she claims to know what's what, by their brand or condition.

OK, the post i wanted to write will have to wait. today was a motherfucker. it got off to a brilliant start which, among other things, included getting molested on the subway. it was the kind of day where i found myself just not giving a fuck, chain smoking and drinking too much coffee. i sat at my desk for an hour after i came in (incredibly late, i might add) reading email, before i realized that i was still wearing my shades.

oh yeah and i narrowly missed signing an email "Retards, Sterling Fassbinder" instead of "Regards, Sterling Fassbinder." of course a part of me regrets catching the mistake. ahh, yes, well hang tight, Le Grand Slip-Up is on the nigh and nigh, i'm certain.

mrtt


retards,

ok, sometimes I hate her lesbo guts, but sterling fassbinder is my girl. we’ve been there and back and even when i’m like, CERTAIN that she’s not listening to a word I say it turns out she understands me better than anyone else. fer real. she’s one of those rare motherfuckers who doesn’t talk a lot and just gets shit DONE. and when I say done, I mean to the like, 9th level of completion. she didn’t just do drugs she went through them one by one, going from the ACID ZAR who used to hug the high school halls and sign her name on tests with a question mark to a straight up smackhead with twitchy fingers and yellow hepatitis eyes. she didn’t just make out with girls she became a full-on carpet muncher who used to wear a strap-on under her jeans when she left the house in the morning. she didn’t just get kicked out of her born again Christian school she cut off two fingers on a paper cutter to make sure they never EVER let her pagan ass back in there AGAIN.

now, she doesn’t just come up with a list of folks who are down for the eight-thirty cause, so we could like, coordinate resources as per my suggestion--she goes and creates a brand new site devoted to all things PARTY and invites each one of you mofos who responded in the comments to write for it!

fucking hell it’s no secret I look up to you, bitch. that’s it…midnight at the party I’m gonna wheel out a gold plated bling-blinged paper cutter and slice off two of my fingers. cuz I’m hard like that. and also, I’m trying to integrate identities right now. those are my shrink’s words, not mine.

bring the beef


cypher


thx, fer the pic, jamie

link and come

yes, TRUE

I hear the call and I will answer.

eight-thirty. ravers of the world unite. even crusty, (nearly) reformed ones like me. we could all wear Ithaca is Gorges t-shirts and Ronald Reagan masks, canvassing the city with tiny cameras and fat chunks of pink chalk. we’ll write rants on the sidewalks and sign them with our symbol…we need a symbol, don’t you think?…some twisted image of underground communication, like the curved horn in The Crying of Lot 49…it will show up everywhere, overnight…spray painted on steel gates and hand drawn beneath restaurant plates…on the back of bus seats and magic markered across some fresh mamma’s double d teets…shoot. I can’t rhyme on time like TRUE but I can raise hell with the best of em.

yes

there’s a lot of work to be done

we've got to get organized

serious times call for serious action.

what's your excuse?

come to nyc

meet me in the flesh

feel my stumps, find out how real I really am…

I’m ready to get to know you.

TRUE’s saying we’ll rent out a club, fill it with strippers and rock stars, waiters and drag queens…

it’s the end of the world as we know it

we have to fight for our right

please oh please

link and come

don’t let them take new york.

FUCK BUSH.

party people in the house. ok, so bet: you know how on august 30th The Republican National Convention is going to be in NYC? my idea is this--as many of y'all motherfuckers as possible come to the city at that time. hotel rooms are going to be few and far between and most of y'all are broke anyway, so instead, it will be arranged that you're put up by an NYC blogger. in exchange fer sex. (if yr sexy). just playing in exchange for posts and pix and porn burnt onto CDs. there will be secret email lists. special buzznet sites. c'mon what do you say?



those who can't be here fer real can still be involved by HYPING IT UP...following the drama and linking the shit out of it...i don't know...maybe paypalling us enough for a fat sack. or maybe loaning cameras or image editing software so we can capture da hap'nin. basically whatever it takes to amp up the anti-bush blog buzz. speaking of anti i ran the idea past him last night and he was bout it, bout it, (mostly cuz he's excited to tricks like laura and i fer the first time)

Think about it. all of us out her at once...the possibilities...the legal implications. canadians are of course, welcome, as is everyone else. but especially canadians and mexicans as we all share the same land.

don't worry folks who want to stay anonymous will have their wish granted. masks will be provided. we can have a masqurerade ball.



seriously, though. it's genius...those old dangling balls and dried up twats will be there viagra and oxy contin coursing through their veins and meanwhile all of us will be running around. outside. talking, hyping, typing (but no skyping).

partying, taking pictures, making movies of one another while we sleep.

starting a new country...

does "fuck you" sound simple enough?



turn off the lights and go to sleep like a good baby.



i'm sick of yr holes i want new ones.

i just realized-i don't listen to loud music anymore. i mean i listen to music that's meant to be played loud, i just don't play it loud. i don't TURN IT UP. it's always my girlfriend trying to read or sleep or the people downstairs or the people upstairs both of whom we're embarassed in front of anyway because our sex is so loud.

each time i turn it down i'm less likely to turn it back up, i suppose.

is this the end? i mean...i don't know what i mean...

it almost seems like an experiment, like a gigantic "what-if" drug dream that i'm having while i sleep off the smack.

but time is fading even that sensation...the memory of what it was like to be high...

i got dust and i got dusted

TRUEBOY: GETTING THE BIGGEST HIGH POSSIBLE …a head full of pills and a rainbow of fruit flavors…I woke from a three-day party to the roar of police helicopters over my building. It was like Vietnam out there; I was on the floor, bare foot with my cell, trying to get a car to get my ass to Jersey. I had that sinking feeling—some of y’all know which one I mean… I didn’t know what day it was, and I needed to pee. There was a feeling of de ja vu as I took my iced-out symbol off my neck and dropped it in a gap between the floorboards and the wall. It winked back up at me from where it landed on the dusty black floor of the boiler room. I grabbed an overstuffed ashtray and dumped it in after it. The butts and ash rained down and snuffed out the sparkle. I’ve totally done this before, I thought. Not that it mattered—everyone knew where I was and where I had been--they knew what I looked like and they knew my voice. They knew everything . There was a crackle in my earpiece as Fitz finally answered the phone. He was in Hoboken.

“Hey, Love. Glad you called. I just had the craziest dream about a bomb going off,” he reported. “In Chinatown of all places—in my dream I was watching the news and it showed people lying on the street with their polyester aprons burned into their skin.”

“Listen! Fitz! You gotta come and pick me up! I need to get out of here! This is an emergency, goddamn it. An actual emergency.”

“Then the news showed that the lions outside the public library had also been blown to smithereens. Compressed TNT, just like Madrid. In the dream I was completely crushed by this. They were wearing baseball hats--Mets on one, and Yankees on the other—you know, how they did during that subway series whenever it was. I don’t know—them getting blown up really galvanized me. Even though it was a dream. I woke up really wanting to DO something. Do you know what I mean?”

“Fitz—I’m telling you a helicopter with NYPD painted on the side is bobbing over my building RIGHT NOW. Its fat black and white belly and long metal feet just swung past my window.”

“Why would they announce themselves like that? Listen, calm down. It’s nothing I’m sure. A traffic jam. Whatever.”

“Can’t you fucking hear that?” I screamed and held the phone out into the roar of the rat-a-tat-tat. “Do you think I’m rocking out to some old Industrial—some fucking Nitzer fucking Ebb?”

I heard him sigh and light a cigarette. “Why would a helicopter come to your building? Logically speaking. Duh, you have a slanted roof.”

“Fitz!”

“Sweetheart, go back to sleep. I mean, do you even remember breaking that mirror at XL last night? What you need are some good old fashioned VITAMINS.”

“What? What the fuck.” I shut off my phone. Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to count on anyone from here on in. Although I was it was true that I was scared shitless, there was also something exciting about being left on my own. I sat against the wall for an undetermined amount of time, zoning out. I think I was waiting for him to call me back. Suddenly I realized that I could hear the stereo again. The Cure’s “Close to Me” was playing. “Oh, if only I was sure, that the head on the door was a dream-dream-dream.” The room was completely silent and grey except for the light by the window. The air looked grainy, like a movie still. I stepped to the window and couldn’t see or hear the helicopters. I had been expecting to feel a thud if they landed on the roof but maybe they’d managed to set-down without a sound. Or maybe they had gone away. As far as I could tell, the coast looked clear. But there was no way to be certain. It occurred to me again that it was possible that I was still hallucinating and this whole thing was a dream. Even Fitz’s phone call, and his dream, were parts of my overall dream.

A dream within a dream within a dream within a dream of a life…

A million switches turned in my body at once as I tried to ascertain what was real and what was fake.

I felt a train rumble beneath the building and an idea came into my head. I would head underground where I could blend in and get lost in the crowd. I grabbed my nike bag and without giving it another thought, ran out the door as though for my everyday hustle. I trotted down the three flights with a spinning sense of freedom, a superhero in my shades and blue camouflage nylon jacket that billowed elegantly out behind me. I kept thinking, I knew I shouldn’t have smoked that shit, I knew I shouldn’t have smoked that shit, over and over as again and again I nearly fell on my face trying to look over my shoulder. I could picture the cops, storming down the stairs bowlegged with fat thighs and jet black guns, just like in the movies. A part of me wanted someone to put a stop to everything. I’d already imagined the scene a million times—it was a running fantasy of mine, a harmless little diversion, a place for my thoughts to wander to when I was waiting on line at the supermarket. The pig who would finally catch me and bring me to justice always appeared in my mind as a passport control cop I’d encountered years ago on a train traveling from Paris to Vienna.

“Excuse me,” he said, appearing from out of a secret panel in the floor. His voice was deep and sinister. His outfit made him look like a straight-up Nazi.

“You need a supplement,” he said, waving my passport in front of his face. “I must have your supplement, immediately, please, or you can not continue.”

“Or you can not continue…” I looked up into his face and saw the whole procession of events already unfolding in his eyes: the argument over the supplement during which time the holes in my story would be revealed and my bag and person would be searched, at which time I’d be promptly deported, without a chance to get all my shit out of storage in the Marais…

But it turned out that even though I didn’t have any money, the nazi liked my watch, and so the supplement was marked as “paid” and my passport got a little red stamp and my bags and person weren’t searched I was left to my own devices.

Now, years later, I pushed open the metal door and ran out onto the street, holding my breath—ready to be surrounded. Cornered. Played out. But again, nothing happened. A few people walked slowly back and forth, none of them taking any notice of me. A mustached Mexican in blue jeans and red sunglasses played a mournful song on accordion, and there were some other people, also Mexican, who gathered around to listen. A yellow-eyed dog ran past. And kids too, there were a few cruising around on dirt bikes, speaking Spanish into walkie-talkies.

The sky was completely empty. There were no helicopters, birds or planes to be seen.

No clouds, either.

And god, he wasn’t around either, btw. which would have been cool because that james carvawhoever works the gothed-out, blood stud look to the hilt.



piss n moan

puss n boots

"lydia lunch"

ok. here’s something: I like quick ones when there isn’t time to undress and my ass is getting bruised by banging against a brass belt buckle and i ride his fleshy cock until I cream all over it and then I wipe myself off with the end of his t-shirt and go back downstairs to steal a lousy, low tar smoke from his girlfriend’s pack.

milkdoesabodygood

are you going to be able to give me over 125 quality digital cable channels for only $39.95 a month? are, you, going to be able to give me over 125 quality digital cable channels for only $39.95 a month? are you GOING to be ABLE to give me over 125 quality digital cable channels for only $39.95 a month? areyougoing to be able taiohraoerhae’oh amover adslfja;sdf5 channels for only $39.95 a month? are you goingadsjfa’sdfj ‘asdfja’sdfjdsa’f ija’sd fuiasdp to be able to give me over 125 ad;fha;sud hf;asodhfa;sdouhfaso; a monmth





ever since I read tyranny’s post about how he had a heart attack when he was 25 I keep thinking I’m about to have one. especially right after I smoke. I mean, I often get the body shakes and feel like that but now I doubly feel it. so thanks a lot, man. fucking hell. nice mask, btw.

but the fact that I’m not really having one goes to show that the most damage drugs does is to yr brain. well like, duh but I’m not talking about drain bamage. I’m talking about those one hit over the line slips from reality in which you become momentarily untethered from the voice in your head. and not in a poetical kinda way, more like being wrapped in bubble gum-thick layers of static obliterating all meaning, all trust… suddenly everything is everything and you can’t make sense of it and you can’t lean on anything or anyone and you can’t find yr way back. that voice getting chopped off is an act more violent than most physical world drug shit that goes down, although now that I think back I did watch a guy go into cardiac arrest once at my friend’s place on Bedford ave. he was sweating through her new couch lying on his back with his eyes real wide asking us to please change the music, please change the music even though nothing was on. he had just picked up our blow and didn’t want to tell us that he did a whole bag by himself in the back of the cab during the ride over. that clammy mother fucker. he thought he was such a playa because he landed a contract with sony to be the personal stylist/shopper for their top execs. which meant he cut their hair and told them what CDs to buy. of course the six figures were destined to go up his nose along with everything else that wasn’t nailed down. we were going to go out and leave him there but then someone said, he’s having trouble breathing so we called an ambulance and ran around like crazy hiding everything even though it didn’t matter because the ambulance never came and we ended up dragging him down the stairs and hailing a cab instead.

that was five years ago. I ran into him the other month having a smoke outside of stonewall. it was a hot five seconds before he asked if I was holding. whatever. just now it started pouring and I tried to pull down the storm window and it slipped and fell down like a mini guillotine almost slicing off my finger. sterling fassbinder eat yr heart out. oh, and that guy in iraq I almost forgot but he can’t eat anything anymore so I won’t say shit to him.

there are as many kinds of homeless people in the city as there are any other kind of person. black ones, white ones, mammacitas, pappadonnas, queers, breeders, scabby scavengers, book worms, punk rockers, nervous fidgeters, the high and mighty, the sober and scared, the nutso buttsos, the skinny sticks, the fat as whales and covered with barnacles…I’ve got no special feelings for any of em either way, except when they stand between the subway doors and keep them from closing. that’s automatic hatred which, depending on my mood, may or may not warrant my knee in the small of their back.

each homeless person has their shtick, like the rest of us. and some of them work better than others, like the woman in the wheelchair at grand central who had no arms or legs and played a casio keyboard with her tongue. or the dude on the train who went up the aisle with the cup saying, “It’s OK, you don’t have to be ashamed to give, it’s OK…” both of their cups were stuffed. but if you’re just your regular one armed drunk or hunched over old lady with bald patches with nothing to say but “urrrrr” you might go the whole length of the train without so much as a nickel. this is nyc. we want to be entertained, we want to be moved. we want swing low, sweet chariot played by a tongue so strong and elongated it could probably lift a dumbbell. we want that team spirit feeling of everyone pitching in at once—as long as we don’t have to be the first one to throw our coin in. what we don’t want is hovering stink. or religious proselytizing. or bellowing statements about the wads of paper towels you’ve jammed in the holes in your legs to keep them from leaking puss all over the floor.

we want that movie feeling…we want to be tricked into thinking we’re good people but not tricked enough to actually start acting like it.

TRUE’s last post reminded me of how on mother’s day I took the F train all the way down to the LES. the car was mostly empty. I guess most folks were with their mothers, exchanging cards and eating ham and whatever else it is that folks who have mothers do. 9 times out of 10 when someone asks I tell them my mother’s dead. shit it’s been so long it’s probably true and if it isn’t, it will be someday and I’ll be none the wiser so who cares?

a skinny black guy wearing faded black jeans three sizes too big and a fucked up paisley shirt sat next to me. he had several of those large, white service announcement posters under his arm.

“excuse me, miss,” he said.

I sighed and put my book down. The Gambler, by Dostoevsky.

“I was wondering if I could sketch you…right here, on the train. I’m a really good artist…I’ll do it really quick.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. He had red fuzz in his hair. I noticed he was clutching a couple of pencils in his fist, the little stubby ones you see rolling around the counter at OTB.

“I’m really good,” he said, his eyes shining. He seemed like a nice enough guy.

“OK, how much?”

“Um, I’ll do your portrait right here on the train for five dollars.”

(he was really into the “right here on the train” bit. I guess it was his shtick.)

“Five? Well, OK.”

“Great!” he said, flipping over one of the service announcements. “You’re gonna really like this. I’m really good. I’ve been drawing all my life.”

He looked about 25, 26…same as me.

I sat up straight and tried to look thoughtful.

“Oh, no,” he said, “Go on and keep reading. I like to catch people doing whatever it is they’re doing.”

“Sure,” I said, picking up the book again. I read the same sentence over and over as the train hissed and whined. I could hear the scratch of the pencil on the paper but I didn’t look. I was distinctly aware of each and every lurch that we made, realizing it WAS pretty cool that he could draw under such circumstances.

“Are you a writer?” he asked, suddenly.

“Um, yeah…sort of. How did you guess?”

“Oh, well, I know things sometimes,” he said, “I can tell things about people.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, putting my book down. “What else can you tell about me?”

“Oh, I don’t know…you’re a nice, relaxed person, but deep down you’re anxious.”

I took a long hard look at him as he scratched away with his pencil. He seemed to be covered with a layer of fine white dust, like a construction worker. Other than that he was cleaner than most homeless people.

“Isn’t everyone anxious deep down, especially now a days?”

“Yeah, maybe, “ he said, “But it’s different for you. It’s like how you’re growing your hair out—got it all brushed nicely to the side like a good girl. But I bet you’re really a tiger. I bet no man can ever satisfy you!”

“Ha!” I laughed.

“You’ve got that right, buddy!”

“Yeah,” he said, turning the paper on his lap and smudging at the pencil marks with his thumb.

It looked like me—except my hair was bigger, and my eyes were narrow, as though I were scrutinizing something.

“That’s pretty good,” I said, taking out my wallet.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m a good artist. I could have been real good, but I made too many bad decisions in my life.”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly and acutely depressed at him having said that.

“I knew what the right thing was, but I didn’t want to having nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah,” I said, again, like a robot. I slumped back in my seat and stuffed The Gambler into my bag. Suddenly, our whole cheery exchange was ruined for me.

I gave him the fiver, he signed his work, and jumped off at 14th street, after having wished me well. Other people in the car watched as I struggled to roll up the stiff posterboard.

I got out at 2nd avenue and carried it under my arm all the way to Avenue D, when I got sick of it and threw it in the garbage.





STILL the only blogger who knows what i look like

it must be the time, or the season, or maybe some little karma god that I trampled under foot because these days even when I’m laying low not taking chances I’m still taking chances. Par Example: late last night on the A-- I closed my eyes for a hot second and woke up to find the car empty except for me and a crackhead who was mumbling obscenities to the bottle of ghetto grape soda that he couldn’t manage to twist open and the 50 cent bag of popcorn that kept slipping from his ashy ass hands…he didn’t REALLY want to kill me, he just wanted to shake me up a little as he suddenly leapt up screaming ‘bitch! all y’all bitches!’ at the top of his soot coated lungs and jabbing the air above my head with a filthy box cutter blade. there he was, the end of the line— with his blue and gray vomit encrusted timbs and his pathetic Panasonic tape player circa ‘82 swinging from his belt by its faux wooden handle, the volume turned up all the way, distorting jay-z’s voice so badly that it sounded like he was rapping through a sheet of plastic…

I looked up at him and through him and I told myself that he was just a fellow traveler, that this moment was just a station on our way and he was merely keeping me on my toes by cutting the air and shouting in my face, bringing me back to the surface and out from under my drug induced stupor. he didn’t want me to nap and miss out on any of life’s rich bounty, because, after all, life is good, life is what you get when you heed the conductor’s worried glance as he mouths the words “NOW! NOW!” through the door and despite yr wobbly knees you calmly get up and walk past the stumbling human wreck who just threatened you through to the next car, where there aren’t any crackheads just someone lying in a bundle, stinking like gin and bedhead and a kid in a filthy tommy Hilfiger jacket trying to sell a broken amp and a woman with huge, collagen enhanced lips and a makeup-less drag queen staring out into space and me, slumping to my seat, the buzz from my encounter wearing off as I returned to being sleepy and suicidal, but not enough to do something about it, not enough to have REALLY wished the crackhead stabbed me, just enough to have fantasized about it, which as all of us who write these goddamn internet diaries know, isn’t the same thing, not at all.

yerbluetoy says: sorry, babe. when it comes right down to it, I’m the one who’s gonna have to start this dot calm shit off
fitzcarraldo_ says: I see
yerbluetoy says: I AM TRUEBOY after all.
fitzcarraldo_ says: no one’s denying that
yerbluetoy says: you can post the second one
fitzcarraldo_ says: grand. except that what I’ve written will probably be completely old and out of date by then
yerbluetoy says: give me a break yr writing about the past
fitzcarraldo_says: yes but it resonates heavily with the present
fitzcarraldo_says: if there’s such a thing as a heavy resonation, that is
yerbluetoy says: what? heavy resin nation?
yerbluetoy says: ha
fitzcarraldo_ says: yes. always with the play on words
fitzcarraldo_ says: or should I say “werds”.
yerbluetoy says: what’s with the hating?
fitzcarraldo_says: I’m not hating
fitzcarraldo_ says: I’m just getting tired of all talk and no action
yerbluetoy says: is that so
fitzcarraldo_ says: I’m sure I’m not the only one
fitzcarraldo_ says: I mean…
fitzcarraldo_says: how many times have we heard about those goddamn free mixtape CDs
yerbluetoy says: easy there!
yerbluetoy says: yr such a lazy ass hypocrite
yerbluetoy says: wtf has yr buttplug gone up too far again?
fitzcarraldo_says: yes, please come over and fish it out
fitzcarraldo_ says: homophobe
yerbluetoy says: that’s right
yerbluetoy says: an angel spoke to me while I was eating a bic mac
yerbluetoy says: and he told me to stick needles in the eyes of queers
yerbluetoy says: for god
fitzcarraldo_ says: I’d bed you’d love nothing more
fitzcarraldo_says: *bet*
yerbluetoy says: with you, yes
yerbluetoy says: nice Freudian slip btw
fitzcarraldo_says: oh, please
fitzcarraldo_ says: seriously tho
fitzcarraldo_ says: is this dot com going to happen or not
yerbluetoy says: wtf you mean?!?
yerbluetoy says: of course it is
yerbluetoy says: you’ve seen what a kick ass job Stacey and I did with the design
fitzcarraldo_ says: yes for months it’s been a pretty painted shell
fitzcarraldo_ says: too bad it’s totally empty
fitzcarraldo_ says: if I held it up to my ear I’d hear the ocean
yerbluetoy says: that would be cool, actually
fitzcarraldo_says: yeah put that in your pipe
yerbluetoy says: avec plaisir
yerbluetoy says: or however you spell it
fitzcarraldo_says: In your case I think it would be d-r-u-g-s
yerbluetoy says: oh and like for you it would be something different
fitzcarraldo_ says: definitely
yerbluetoy says: what then?
fitzcarraldo_says: C.R.E.A.M.
fitzcarraldo_says: all kinds, if youknowwhati’msayin
yerbluetoy says: werd
yerbluetoy says: I got the TRUE plan from the WU tang.
fitzcarraldo_ says: I know
yerbluetoy says: no, I don’t think you do, compadre
yerbluetoy says: “it goes: life, lyrical times and hard crimes”
yerbluetoy says: I love that shit!!!
fitzcarraldo_ says: your love for the wu is well documented
yerbluetoy says: I’m like the RZA--the mastermind
yerbluetoy says: my brain pulls out into six pieces
yerbluetoy says: like cut out dolls, connected at the arms and legs
fitzcarraldo_ says: and the paper it’s made with is EZ WIDER
yerbluetoy says: na, bamboo, baby.
yerbluetoy says: my shit is strictly bamboo.

you make me feel like I do after the first high of the day

when the morning light turns into liquid glass

and I get lonely and feeling like it’s the end of the world

and I watch a stupid Hollywood blockbuster just to feel a part of something


you make me feel like I do when I eat a fatty meal in some horribly derivative “ethnic” restaurant

filled with yuppies

and shiny faced tourists

who have a little bit of money

but not much class

and I get pissed off and stupidly aggressive because they’re just like me.


you make me feel like putting it all on hold

and putting it all on red

even the cab fare home


you make me feel like I do when I walk past the conde nast building

or a large happy family

or a bag left casually swinging on the back of an unattended chair

I could have that shit, I think

if only I cared enough to take it.




fuckit

(i know i didn't make a post fer real

but tech-nic-ly i'm as hard as STEEL)


tyranny

katzinjammer

meld