no beef, just bare bones

mmk

i'm gonna say this once and then that's IT.

(and no hyperlinks cuz i don't want shit to get HYPER)

wtf, man...i send you three invites to join my other blog and you can't even be fucked to send me a decline? that's rude, man. i've been polite and i haven't bugged you and i've given you plenty of time to draft a response.

after we buried the hatchet, you asked me to write for lick and i immediately wrote back that it was a nice offer, but i didn't have time to write for another site. sorry. i think i even wrote "sorry"--but if i didn't it was at least implied.

i think yr lame. i think yr getting old and going nowhere fast. i was so stupid to think you'd want to be a part of something new and exciting. i'm like, kicking myself, but whatever...

soon, when i get to where i'm going and i've taken whoever else with me, i'm going to look back in yr direction and laugh, laugh, laugh






...I feel constrained to add;I really do enjoy how you can be so
prolific, and yet seem so oblivious of your audience,but in a good
way. I can't find a way to put that in your comments without sounding
lame and stalkerish.

Oh, and if I didn't say it emphatically enough before, Tony Pierce is
an asshole who hasn't mattered for awhile. He's dug his niche, let him
bury himself in it. I have a hunch Ultrablognetic will be the new
BusBlog ,without the lard.

See you around.

...




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There we were, in the heart of the heart of Pride, trash up to our shins and sweaty elbows in our necks. ‘Finally’ was blasting out of the Soundfactory café, where my girl and I had just spent 9 dollars on ice coffees, a granola yogurt contraption and honey bbq potato chips, all so we could take a piss in the relatively clean toilet (I have the feeling that only sober eyes like mine would be able to make out the fine pink residue of dried vomit that was in the no man’s land between the seat and the lid).

“Hold on,” I said, rummaging through my bag. “I want to take some pictures.”

My girl sighed and rolled her eyes.

“C’mon, I want to get to the pier before the sun sets.”

“We’ll make it,” I said absently, as I fished the camera out of the tube sock that served as its carrying case.

“You’re taking these pictures for your website, aren’t you?” she hissed. Before I could answer she went on, “You’re taking them to show all those people you’ve never met what it’s like to be here instead of living in the moment with me.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, as I adjusted the light meter. I like to pretend I know what I’m doing with digital cameras, but I really have no clue. I’m like those dignified but poverty stricken uptown queens, who carry around fancy cell phones but never have enough money to buy any minutes.

“I feel like you’re constantly one step removed from the situation,” she said. “You’re always writing in your head or on little scraps of paper when you think I’m not looking. Or you’re in another world, listening to your iPod.”

“It was a present from you!”

“So? That doesn’t mean you have to abuse it!”

She turned and made her way forward down Christopher Street. I tried to keep up, the camera still in my hand, soundbites of conversations in my ears.



I can only think of a couple of times that I’ve lived in the moment: once, when I was ODing on smack and I could feel my heart beating in my asshole, the beats getting further and further apart by the minute until i drifted off into a flat black sea, another time when I was in a car accident and my face smashed against the front seat and a liquid I immediately recognized as blood rained down on my lap...and i guess you could say i was in the serious here and now that infamous time at Timothy Christian High when I cut my fingers off, but there were so many hallucinogenics in my bloodstream that it's hard to differentiate what was a dream and what was real.

These rare occasions aside, I find that life is mostly about the audience and the seven second delay.



“You know, you’re right about the pictures,” I said, when I caught up with her at the corner.

“Oh, yeah—so you see what I’m saying.”

“Sort of,” I said, staring at the large pink sticker on her chest that said “Bride To Be” and realizing just how much it annoyed me.

“I think a recorder would be much better. The bits and pieces of conversations all around us about ben-wa beads and hot dogs would make really excellent audio blog posts.”




hey you

true love is a trophy

kitty do suck me

OUT AND PROUD

LOVE IS THE GREATEST PROTEST TO THEIR OPPRESSION.

DEAR MAYORS, PRIESTS AND RABBIS

UNIVERSAL MINISTERS

DEACONS

BUDDHIST MONKS

ETC.,

ABOLISH SECOND CLASS CITIZENSHIP IN AMERICA

AND HELP INAUGURATE A SECOND, MORE INCLUSIVE SUMMER OF LOVE

MARRY A LOCAL QUEER COUPLE TODAY!!!

(YOU WON'T HAVE TO LOOK TOO FAR

THERE'S PROBABLY ONE 'HIDING OUT' IN YOUR CONGREGATION)

all the fake things get in the way

like air, food and water.




fuck yr job


i think it's time i started doing graffiti again.


and get the new site up

oh man you guys are gonna love it.


{d hjafasd;jf}

"I haven't told my shrink about the party," TRUE said, as she put on her latest mix CD.

"Oh yeah?" I asked, as I adjusted the filter on the joint.

"Ford Mustang," by Serge Gainsbourg came on--bright and suspenseful, like a drive-thru murder mystery in the summer.

"What's this one called?"

"Bloody Rawk Rawk," she answered. I watched as she flipped open my laptop.

"Goddamn this is DISGUSTING!" she said, squinting at the keyboard.

"I don't want to know what's on there."

"Have you told your shrink that you're a closet case yet?" I asked, batting my eyelids.

"Fuck you."

"I thought that was the reason why you're going?"

"There's no single reason like that. Besides, I'm not gay."

"I know. Neither am I," I said, batting my eyes some more.

"Well--yeah. You fucked me didn't you?"

"I think it was more like the other way around."

"Yes, but you're a boy and I'm a girl. We had straight, heterosexual sex, regardless of however kinky it might have gotten."

"Yes. A girl named TRUEBOY and a fairy on drugs stick their pee-pees together while drinking victory gin by the gallon."

"You're drunk," she hissed.

"No, I'm not," I said, although I could barely see past my feet propped up on the recliner.

"Here's the joint," I slurred, "Shall we write 'Good Year' across the side?"

"Juss gimme the light and pass the joinnnn," TRUE sang.

Her first drag was way too hard and she ended up coughing all over the place.

"I did tell my shrink that I like acting like a boy and fucking fags. Except I didn't really go into the boy part."

"What difference does it make?" she said, taking another, more successful drag. "The particulars...the genetalia or lack there-of...?"

"What matters," she said, "is that I'm a sad-eyed lie."

Her voice was strained, perhaps from the coughing.

I do push-ups like I’m in the clink.

fast and loose

faster than you think

then I load her up

and I take a hit

that’s when I get psychic

that’s when i see shit

blue-green pictures in my mind’s eye

of millions living now

who will never die



it’s not like I can read yr brainwaves to find out what you think

rather, it’s about being plugged into the Central Generator

you know,

through the outlet over the sink

the same one that powers my own private Schwarzenegger

he brews me coffee thick as tar

and feeds me cherry now and laters

(while on American Idol a girl scalps herself to become a star)



yeah

me and my friends are so smart

we invented a new kind of art

we receive transmissions from the satellite fart

share a vibe

and erase our start



look

all I know is that I feel like something bad is gonna happen.

something big and fucked on the island of manhattan

and it has to do with how we’ve put the car before the yolk

and those who survive will be the punch line to the joke

they’ll hold hands and join a church and confess all their sins

they’ll have their cathartic memorials and print their t-shirts and wear commemorative pins



and because they’re alive

they’ll finally subscribe

and receive re-invigorated digitized beams for their plasma screens.

broadcasting beer commercials and fox five

anti-pot recriminations

fer the denizens of this daydreamnation

who will walk like zombies around the malls

waiting for danger

fer a pipebomb to pop their basket balls

fer a smuggled gun to smudge their maybelline face

or a black arab hand in their lap

to wipe away every last trace

of how life was before the big zap

when they never thought to make preparations for the dirt nap

that will someday be yours

while these streets will endure

lined with starbucks and krispy kremes

and the compact cars and hard on teen dreams

and TV TV TV

btw

I cried at the full monty

I cried at channel 13

at the story of the lone accountant who stood up and blew the whistle

and I cried at the way that fat woman on The Practice stuck up fer those kids

she was sharp as a pistol

the way she took some highly damning testimony, flipped the script and turned it into the greatest and most obvious defense of all time.

(oh, if only I had someone like that to take care of all my tiny little crimes!)





mott the cromby

I see the states, across this big nation
I see the laws made in Washington, D.C.
I think of the ones I consider my favorites
I think of the people that are working for me

Some civil servants are just like my loved ones
They work so hard and they try to be strong
I'm a lucky guy to live in my building
They own the buildings to help them along

It's over there, it's over there
My building has every convenience
It's gonna make life easy for me
It's gonna be easy to get things done
I will relax along with my loved ones

Loved ones, loved ones visit the building
Take the highway, park and come up and see me
I'll be working, working but if you come visit
I'll put down what I'm doing, my friends are important

I wouldn't worry 'bout
I wouldn't worry about me
Don't you worry about meeee




psychoticnormalcy

katzinjammer

k

gsusking

cocaine milk

i can always come here. i always feel welcome. i built this place with my own two hands. it's my world, my pearl. i own the land. someday, when it's dead and gone i'll drill a hole through the middle and suck all the oil out and use it for something else.

i feel like i'm burning my own fat to make soap.

(is that the only way i'll get clean?)

i like that my template is retro. i write some of this shit on the subway--the trains rock an old vibe too, so it all fits. also, my cd man is ancient and scuffed.

my notebooks are filled with maps and equations.

back in the day i would have been writing hieroglyphics and making masks.

no scratch that. i'm a woman, so back in the day i would have been a piece of property with a kid on each tit, sucking me dry, while my mind floated in another universe

steeped in those dark oscillations...

making up stories

stories and people

people and stories

somethin to get me the fuck out of wherever i was.




raymi, write me back.

I don’t know why but listening to Air always makes me feel so lecherous…

you’d think that their slightly fraudulent, slightly saccharine pop mélange would keep me firmly anchored to PG rated thoughts, but as the computers sing and the beats go skitter scatter across the speakers, I sit back in my arm chair and imagine you, barely legal and hardly sober, strutting across the room in those designer daisy dukes you bought with the money I gave you.

you’ve got some thoughts behind your eyes, you’ve got some things you’d like to try…

come here, I order, gripping the armrests like it’s the end of the world. I’ve got the glove on—I know you like it like that.

(you’re not like the other girls—you believe in masks)

come here.

no. YOU come here.

I get up and cross the short distance to the bed. you’re on all fours, looking over your shoulder as I come up behind you.

the curtains billow out in front of the window and get sucked back in like a mistake

I’m wearing a louis vuitton power suit, no a brooks brothers jacket and trousers, no a pair of super thin D&G brown denim jeans and a wifebeater, no bra, no…wait…

I press my thigh against your ass and feel the heat between the cheeks.

I kiss your neck and lick at your ear like a dog, making your little girl earrings jingle just like LL.

(baby)

I just wanna lick your pussy, I hear myself saying, please, that’s it, nothing else, you don’t have to do a thing… and I can tell you like the sound of that by the way you push up against me.

tell me I can, I say.

no, you moan.

please?

no! you say again, out of breath and pressing even harder.

just a kiss…just a little one like that, I beg, my lips just barely brushing the back of your neck by way of demonstration but then there is an opening in the music like the moment of revelation or the moment just before the last moment of the movie trailer the one that sends chills down your spine and makes your titties hard and I realize it wouldn’t go like that, oh no, because if we made it together there wouldn’t be enough time or breath for words, there would be no games left to play, even freaky deaky rape games and what-not.

and so I skip back a track and start again…

I wanna make you give in, breach your hull, crack the hard, seed nut center of your resolve…pile one nasty descriptive phrase onto another and write them down where everyone can see…

I wanna make you lunch and make it all too simple, I wanna pull the cord too early, sound the alarms and let it all fall down.

I wanna ease into your rhythm and make it my own

yeah, the asshole bosses at your shitty, 9 to 5 cinderblock prison might yell at you for being late and chastise your sloppy ways, the train might pull away without you and your big gutted bf might tell you to lose weight and your mother might call you every night, inconsolable over the latest mess you’ve made, but to me you’re the one and only, to me you’re a princess, to me you’re a star.



mrtt

the three of us were watching the funeral on friday. (see how it sounds like old news, already? that’s why they had to make that shit so long and involved, so there would be at least a CHANCE that it might get burnt into our short ass, TV-clipped attention spans.) anyway, don’t tell anyone but I got unexpectedly choked up over nancy. she looked so stricken, like a corpse herself. it reminded me that we all end up alone, even former first ladies.

“oh, sweetheart,” fitz intoned, without bothering to turn away from the screen. “it’s OK. It’s good that yr sensitive. It’ a good thing to see people as people and not just as political party props.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I don’t know,” sterling said, as she slurped the last bit of her seltzer up with the orange bendy straw she had just bought at the 99 cent store. She crushed the can in her gloved hand and burped quietly before continuing.

“All I can say is that Carter better not kick the bucket any time soon, cuz no one will show up.”



junkyard

there have always been blogs, there will always be blogs. blogs have been around since the beginning of time, since the first scalping, the first bear rug the first telephone call and the first big mac.

blogs are like the salt shakers and little aluminum ashtrays next to the fake flower in the 99 cent vase that you use to stare back at yr puffy ass eyes.

and blogs are dying all the time: every time you wait a little longer to update, every time you go on vacation, every time you loose your connection, lines of javascript break off and float into the abyss like rust hairy chunks of the titanic…until there’s a web inside the web of corpses and flickering half-lives…stations along the road leading to nowhere…

the internet is for losers.

I imagine an intergalactic tourist looking down at this cloud of stupid ass political commentary, junkie war stories and cybersex fantasies and remarking,

“and here you can see the irrevocable proof that western civilization has indeed rounded the corner and headed into its final lap…”

the other week I was in a piss poor mood and toyed with the idea of putting up a list of sites I’ve managed to shut down during my illustrious blog career. mind you, none of us at BTB have ever purposely gone and fucked up anyone’s shit, except for the time fitz and I were fighting and he managed to hack into my profile on blogger, but that was only because he got his hands on my laptop. sere i play rough with folks and i always carry the verbal whip--but none of that tit for tat shit has resulted in someone quitting their shit. nope, on the contrary, I got along famously with the authors of the sites that actually shut down. we were like, friends, almost. friends who had never met. but then something happened. assumptions were made, lines crossed and shit got said…about how they couldn’t handle it, about how they might be in love with me, or sterling…about how they can’t tell fact from fiction and it’s fucking with their head, even though I’ve come out and shown my hand and offered to answer whatever questions they have. somehow it’s not enough. they tell me I’m sending out secret signals, subliminal messages that only they can hear—that I’m fucking with their heads, but the truth is, I’m not desperate or needy enough to satisfy their egos—they want me to want their words in the exact same way that they want mine. they call me selfish and cold and pure as the driven snow while they are the ones who refuse to accept me for the way I am.

which hurts, fer real…

cuz y’all are the only ones who can appreciate what I’m trying to do here. the few folks on the outside who I’ve told about the blog are usually pretty dismissive. “so what are you going to do with it?” they ask, and I’m like, I don’t know. nothing? “but how are you going to make any money off it?”

I won’t, I answer, and they look at me like I’ve got two heads.

but I know I’m right.

I know there’s a next level to this shit—I can feel it, I just can’t see it...

yet

when all hope is lost I’ve got my day ones to keep me strong. although I’ve connected with everyone on the prop list, those three are the only bloggers I “regularly” communicate with. Jamie in person and on the phone, anti on IM and raymi through telepathic mind hump…

one love, you guys.

also big ups to my boy IDEA, who I met on memorial day. we had breakfast @ 3 in the afternoon, holiday style.

welcome to the circle of trust, my Motown amigo.


in other mindfuck news, I told this asshole I was going to send him poop in the mail. I was being metaphorical, of course. at any rate, I’m like, blocked from the site right now, so can someone let me know if there are new developments? I hope my comments are still up, they are hi-lar-ious.

it's not trigonometry.

same old thing as yesterday

that whiteboy on the roof threatened to jump, so the whole block went outside to watch the cops talk him down. he seemed like just yr average, sullen motherfucker, and not at all like an edged-out case who was about to swan dive into eternity. also, he picked the shortest building on the block. it was like when I was 11 and used to carve at my wrists with a plastic takeout knife.



the cops yelled up that if he jumped, he most likely wouldn’t kill himself, “just fuck yrself up real bad”, which I thought was a pretty good point to make.

the whiteboy shook his head and repeated his line about having three kids and nothing to show for it.

I hung around on the periphery, eyeing the cops and picking halfheartedly at the smoker’s callous on my thumb while I eavesdropped on my neighbors’ conversations. I guess this plus all the Reagan coverage was really bringing out the latent morbid fucks in people. one chubby, jolly looking Indian woman asked a guy and a girl couple if they could sum up their lives in a 30 second eulogy. the wife snapped her gum and stalled and pulled on her hair before finally admitting that she couldn’t do it. they guy smiled and rubbed his chin.

“30 seconds? OK, here you go:

‘It started out good and it got worse.’”

this cracked everyone up—even me, so that I totally missed seeing the whiteboy change his mind and go back inside. safe and sound.



I heard that venus was in front of the sun yesterday and that it would be visible as a black dot during sunset, when it’s possible to look directly at the sun without blinding yr self, but I only remembered this when it was 2 AM and time for the army of infomercials to take over the air. I take an odd solace in these mutant pieces of broadcast. It’s comforting to believe that there is an 800 number for everything evil in the world, from acne to lousy saran wrap to exercise machines that don’t fold up and disappear when yr done with them…yessir…they have lotions, they have potions, to hide yr shame from all those prying eyes…




zulieka

Youth Against Fascism

i remember being at the zodiac club in oxford with fitz, dancing in the pink light at the back while the cold cut brothers tore the place UP. they got surgical on the wheels of steel, mixing rock n' roll and opera and incidental bits from soul songs--handclaps and shouting and shit...at one point my bloody valentine flowed under run d.m.c. like water under a bridge.

it was '96 everyone was sweating...rolling...but not me, i was prolly just drunk. i remember fitz's hair was soaking wet. anyway, one song fades out and everything gets quiet, and for a minute or two, all you heard was the pop of the needle on the record. than, suddenly, there's an impossibly low bass note struck by a gravelly human voice that comes thundering acapella through the gigantic speakers on the wall. a chill ran up my spine. the man talked in a tough voice about america becoming powerful again...a new morning in america or some shit like that. everyone was laughing and cheering even as their hair stood on end. it brought me back, hearing that dried-up war mongerer's voice.

my first president was reagan.

his cowboy vibe made me think of america, and all the things that were wrong with it...but if nothing else we were at least out of those dark ages.

at the end cold cut tweaked the voice, comically yanked it back and forth before disintegrating the sound until it was only a hummmmmmmmmmmm

(ashes to ashes)

above which, a beat started. it was a fresh hip-hop beat, old school and immediately recognizable.

yo, yo, yo, i said, pushing my way through the steaming crowd and up to the turntables...

(dust to dust)

lemme have the mic...i said.

the ceiling was ringing with beats

just gimme the mic for a minute...i yelled out

and when i was startin to think no one heard me

or gave a fuck,

it got passed over the crowd

a golden baton

some duck tape on the bottom...




it was on.




today is anti day.

everyone, taker easy.

big ups on yr berfday, baby.

Fruit on the Bottom

Dear America Who Likes To Watch:

I'm not a victim and I'm not sorry.

Warm Regards,

The Future That's Sooner Than You Think.

I don’t know, man…working on the skullfuck bush party makes me realize just how ambiguous I really am when it comes to politics. there’s no right way to think, no clear way out of the mess we’re all in. I don’t wanna veil on my face, I don’t wanna car that spurts toxins into the air, I don’t wanna read about all the infighting regarding the building to be born on ground zero, I don’t wanna cringe inside when the train comes to a sudden halt due to a police investigation, I don’t wanna have kids and suffocate them with my neurosis, I don’t wanna put up with some richy rich pinstripe dude cutting in front of me like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing, I don’t wanna spend my entire 20s dazed and confused, wasting valuable energy repressing all the fucked up shit that happened, I don’t wanna keep fronting like I’m strong, I don’t wanna be called a victim, I don’t wanna march, I don’t wanna stand still, I don’t wanna know, I don’t wanna find out, I don’t wanna fuck, I’d rather be fucked, lie on my back and dream, dream, dream, I don’t wanna wake up tomorrow and find out that it’s all been decided…

it’s like the end of the first story in denis johnson’s collection, jesus’ son. yep, the same one from which they made that sucky ass movie that I nodded out on. anyway, the story’s called “car crash while hitchhiking” and it’s about how the narrator, a nameless drugged-out hitchhiker in the heart of the heart of the country is in a car crash and ends up saving the baby of the family who’s picked him up. there he is lying to the doctors who want to admit him to the hospital, a precursor to years later when he’ll be dragged into rehab and injected with sedatives, his skin crawling and his eyes seeing shit…totally fucked up, totally unreliable…

“and you,” he writes, “ you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.”



blue hysteria