Aay-Cee

Party People, what’s up? I’m down in AC with Fitz and my baby bro, Mousetrap. We’re here takin it to a whole other depth, dude...a little Hunter S. Thompson kinda stylo, except without the journalism or the interesting, acerbic thoughts. We skipped getting high altogether and are instead concentrating on getting twisted on the shaky, shaky boardwalk with the bright blue sky overhead and the ocean to the left with crazy florescent green reeds stickin up all over the place. It’s a little jarring and out of place to my New Yorker eyes to see crackheads in disgusting blond wigs wandering around in front of all that sky, but then again EVERYTHING is kinda fucked up when you leave the City. Especially in New Jesey. Out on the beach, the rusted carcass of a would-be casino starkly rots like a beached whale—cranes with corporate logos peer down from above, ready to pick it apart. We’ve got a winner’s circle suite at the wild, wild west Bally’s. We’re hotboxing in the bathroom and zoning out into the paintings of cowboys racing against hallucinogenic backgrounds of rolling red dust storm clouds and purple sunset explosions. I focus in on the clod of dirt being kicked up by the horse’s hoof. I’m taking things as symbols—as warning signs and talismans that come in pairs: the awful agonizing screech the elevator makes is followed a few minutes later by the sound of an old woman sobbing against the relentless drone of the slots. Or how the a dude named Jose who sold me my quarter ounce had a funny right hand—like, it was a perfectly normal hand except it was about three sizes too small for the rest of his body—like his real hand had been chopped off and replaced with a doll’s hand...then there was another Jose a few hours later—a security guard who took us into the labryinth of service tunnels that twisted beneath and around the hotel. He had a fucked up eye--it too was perfectly normal, except it was stuck in one position--looking up to the left.

Meanwhile, they were playing Sheryl Crow.

the first cut is the deepest

(it has to MEAN something!)

We are drinking, eating steak and shrimp twice a day. Fitz is openly hitting on my brother which he knows makes me sick. Then he’s brushing against my ass as we ride an escalator through an archway of blue light. I nearly get into a fight with a black townie girl who thought I was talking too loud on the boardwalk. She started walking behind me with her boy, talking shit. Mousetrap was there but he was too engrossed in the story he was telling to notice anything until I turned around and asked the chick point-blank if she had a problem.

“Yeah, bitch,” she said, “I guess I gotta a COUPLE.”

“Why don’t you step over here and tell about 'em in my EAR,” was my offer.

“What the fuck, TRUE?” shouted Mousetrap as he grabed my arm and yanked me into the wicker seat of a pushcart. He slamed a twenty into the guy’s thick hand and told him to step on it.

The girl strutted behind us for a few steps, degrading me with every name in the book. Then she proceeded to drop some rhymes, just for good measure:

“Nah-yeah—what a pity!

Yr committee

can’t hold a candle to Aay-City!

Bitch!

Bitch ass PUSSY!”

etc., etc.


Mousetrap rubbed his eyes and laughed.

Then, he quoted Biggie Smalls:

“Thoroughbred bitches
Adapt to any borough bitches
Be in spots where there were no bitches.”

Sometimes Mousetrap speaks in lyrics. I think it's a result of being raised in front of MTV.

“Yo, she totally started it,” I told him.

“Yeah, sere,” he said, stretching out his long legs so that they criss-crossed with mine in the bottom of the car.

“Fitz is kinda like family, now isn’t he?” he said.

“Huh? What?”

“Fitz. Fitzcarraldo.”

“Yes? Fitz? Well, I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? He’s been hanging around since forever.”

“I mean what I said.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. We passed the front of Caesar’s, where a pretty decent karaoke version of “We Are Family” was being blast out of PA speakers.

“How fitting,” I commented, which Mousetrap either didn’t hear or ignored.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

“Why wouldn’t Fitz be a considered a member of our family?”

I had an image of Fitz pressed up behind me with his hand between my legs—not so much an image but the feeling, the feeling of loosing control as he ever so barely brushed his finger over me there...thick waves passed in front of my eyes as I stared into the clean white pillowcase and bit down on my bottom lip...

I saw us in Prague.

I saw us in the Alps.

I saw us in Philadelphia and in Arizona.

Most of all I saw us in transit: on planes or waiting in stations…or on the autobahn at midnight, with the moon radiating through the black treetops...

“Because I don’t really know him,” I said.







(i am still going to write that email, hun)




skylar4ever

Not Everyone Really Dies

Guest Post by TRUE's brother, Mousetrap:

what's with belle & seb's obsession with ministers? (london) suede's obsession with bored housewives?

pit-patter

the raindrops keep fallin on my window pane

the city callin me

out

into the night

with promises of

pleasures and sweet delight

it’s wrong

it’s oh so wrong

but I want it

to be right...

you know you’ve got me walkin on the sidewalk

talking, movin, lookin

stopping, fartin like a dog

barking…

and all the raindrops keep on landing on my face like splinters

each one branding me

showing me who I am

(don’t give a damn)

you know you got me walkin through clubland again

lookin through the smiles

each one a friend

(none a dem, none a dem)

and the bass is oh so

demanding…

cuz at night I have a million dreams

and when I awake

I pray to the lord

my soul to take

and deliver me from this vanity

from this evil, lurking

insanity…

it’s so wrong

it’s so wrong

it’s so wrong

but I want it

to be right

it’s so wrong

it’s so wrong

it’s so wrong

but I want it

to be right…

and the day is coming

and the party people

start their running home

as if they miss

being all alone…

take me home to dry

hang me out for a line and I’ll tell you no lie

too much pressure

is sending me…

and the raindrops land on me…

can’t you see? can’t you see?

I’m going under…I’m going under…I’m going under and I can’t turn round

I’m going under…I’m going under…I’m going under and I can’t turn round

"going under"

--rockers hi-fi (kruder und dorfmeister mix)

puff lye

Autumn is coming

My wound she's cracked open

the lanes are all woven

together




my personality gets better the more you wash it

just like denim.

tonite i'm going out in drag

white--all white

D&G alabaster jeans

white shirt, white doo-rag, one of my white on white baseball hats, a white sweatband that i wear around my bicep...

i want to be over-the-top with white

take it to some kinda logical extreme

i'm gonna carry my booze in a soda bottle

i'm gonna take it slow

i'm gonna go up and i'm gonna go down

until my legs are black and blue






u know i heard u have a new name now...







alexa

ok yes

i'm tired

im beaten and shattered out here on the rainy streets, with the drains overflowing and the water foaming in the sewers like beer. you've got me unfocussed, unraveled, unable to stare at the stupid ass monitor for another second so I jog down the stairs with my hood pulled over my Yankees hat, wandering aimlessly through crowds of people…stopping, staring…thinking maybe i’ll see you on the corner, thinking maybe all of this is a dream after all. i’m checking my phone obsessively; i changed the ring to a tense Spanish guitar. im not going to answer it unless it’s you and it hardly ever is. this evening the trains are fucked up and the clouds are filled with tiny daggers. i have my hand in my pocket--i try to imagine your face but i never get it right. but i can close my eyes and instantly recall the feeling of your gaze as it swept across my body. the kids down the street are playing lo-fi hip-hop out of expensive Japanese boom boxes. they’re nodding their doo-rag covered heads and looking at the ground. they don't see me out here, the waves crashing over me one after another. i feel overjoyed and desperate at the same time, like someone who is on something but there is nothing in my body, not a single speck or drop or serotonin switch. not food, not sleep—fuck it, most of the time it feels like there’s barely even air in my lungs. the streetlights shine down through the trees, green and yellow. everything is happening in flashes...the you i've known for all this time is mixed with the you who is still a stranger...you say you could never love a woman and you don’t want to ruin our friendship, but your eyes seem to say something different and i am patient. i have been patient. i've waited and kept in the background while you fucked your boys and your girl-boys. i've kept myself company while you sat at your computer; i poured myself glass after glass of mineral water while other people swam through the aquarium in your mind...i’ve played the part of the mermaid…invisible, imaginary…and i can stay that way if you want me to. i've kept things off the blog, i've let you have your space—your empire, as it were, “BRANDTRUEBOY”. three is the magic number. yadda yadda. thank god something real has come out of it because i don’t have the foggiest idea about what’s going on here anymore. all i know is that i have to stop pretending. i can’t go on like this. it’s not like it’s anything you don’t know…

but why? why say anything at all? why put everything at risk like this?

cuz i can hear you now, sweetly telling me that you’ve got my back and that is so much, i know that…it’s almost the entire world right there but do you want to know what’s really fucked up?

(”c’mon, man, you know i got you…c’mon, baby…”)

it isn’t enough...sometimes i think it almost is, but then i look into your eyes and there's one thing i know for certain:

i want you for more than just a friend.

biology in an iron galaxy

(always a fave)

Love and Hope and Sex and Dreams are still surviving on the street. i saw them, mahn. i hung out with those cats just the other day. they are still getting a small cut and squeaking by. in nice weather they take the game outside, chillin in between buildings or at the back doors of the most exclusive restaurants. they dress in tattered hard rock Ts and smoke butts. they have big, solemn, murderous dogs and cardboard signs covered with unintelligible poetry.


technically, they were supposed to be panhandling, but they were a little mixed-up and drawing infinity symbols with green chalk all over the sidewalk instead.

Evening slowly fell and everyone did their own thing:

Hope was buying...


Sex was taking...


The Dreams were coagulating...

while Love was waiting...

and me,

i was hiding.

TRUE TRANSPARENCY

Things You Should Know About a Girl Called TRUEBOY

as told by Fucked-Up Fitz

1. she is a paranoid hysteric who is currently in the other room wearing a tacky shirt

2. her hair is bitchen.

3. a typical occurance is that she leaves you an URGENT message that she really needs to talk right away and you make yourself CRAZED calling all of her ten thousand phones, leaving concerned, detailed voicemails that she ends up deleting without listening to as apparently, by the time she notices you've called she's worked the whole thing out in her writing and now she's embarassed for having called in the first place and please oh please she can't deal with talking about it.

4. we're playin those mind games together. pushing the barrier. planting seed.

5. once in awhile her right eye goes off a little to the side. when it does, you better believe something twisted is about to happen.

6. sometimes the only word she knows is more.

7. other times a bunch of weird crap comes out of her mouth. just now, when we were standing in front of the medicine cabinet, surveying the terrain, she started mumbling about how there wasn't a problem in her life that god couldn't handle. like my knee, she said. god can handle that! what the hell are you talking about? i said and her head snapped like i woke her up.

8. she's a very private person. i expect her to be fairly pissed off at this post. but hey, you asked for it, grrly-grrrrrrrl.

9. when we drink together we go one-for-one and even though we start at the same place we become just stations on the way as the empties line up and she goes her way down and I go on mine.

10. one of her favorite things to tell someone she's just met is that she should have died three years ago. interestingly enough, it's been well over a year but she still tells it as "three years ago".

11. TRUE is Paul, Sterling is John and I am George.

12. (We are all Ringo. In the yellow submarine)

13. she doesn't hesitate and she doesn't make a big deal out of it. the words just seem to pour out of her. give the girl a notebook and a pencil and she'll write until lunch or the pencil point is gone--whichever comes first.

To be certain, there are many reasons why i'm going to hell, but one of them has got to be for the way my mind sometimes wanders when i'm getting ready for work in the morning and i'm staring at the mass produced buttons on my mass produced shirt and i'm thinking of how great it would be if along my commute there was some kind of disaster, like the street split open or the subway imploded...oh, i know it's awful and i don't TRY to think about it, i'm just so tired that my thoughts wander away like dogs off the leash and i can't be fucked to catch them.

i just want it to stop, you know? i just want a small break. some time off with nothing expected of me.

a vacation can't really give you that feeling of being frozen in time.

when i woke up on the cot in the stuyvensant high gym with TRUE sobbing in a heap on my lap and the back of head literally stapled together after being split open by a piece of falling concrete the feeling i had was one of perfect calm and restful contemplation, as though i was a part of the world but not taken over by it. i felt like, OK, i got my hits, now i can just lie here and no one's going to tell me i can't.

it's messed up, i know.

i told you i'm going to hell.


(that and the fact that i'm a big ol dyke, of course)




anti's island of california

hellisacloseddoor

it’s like i’m being born from out of my own head.


(that’s why i pop Excedrin like tic-tacs)


homes

this TRUEBOY shit is popping out to you fully grown

the Rebel Enforcer

comin to you smooth like fresh oiled skates.

or a pure china saucer

(ok, maybe a tiny bit coarser)

like a poppy seed bagel and Land O Lakes.


i’ve got what it takes.




i wear the fluorescent yellow halo

that i brought in with me.

i find you on the corner of the stairs.

in the nook, with yr book

(while i stand there ripe, with my pipe)


red shorts orange shirt

i’m on some

“shall we play a game?”

super hero,

super computer

(ok?)

i've got ill shit fer yr body…

(big fat steaming pieces of it)

and if the people stare than the people stare

oh, i really don’t know and i really don’t care!





i feel like i’m being pulled by fate

i feel like i have to have this; i have to have you

i’m willing to put everything aside

well, almost everything

and i plan on giving it up

in a way that i never have before

oh, but i don’t know

maybe i have had it like that

and i don’t know

maybe you aren’t interested

in trying something new.

btw, i don’t think it has anything necessarily to do with love.





maybe it has to do with being a rolling stoned?





hhhrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

or maybe i am secretly bored and it’s just another way of making something out of nothing...



Angst=
nadaynadaynadaynaday






lifes a bitch and then you die

that’s why we get high

cuz u never know when yr gonna go...









one love, radio


it's year three, party people

the year we make me over

and make me real...


"BTB est. 9.6.2002"


werd to the nerds!!!!!

give a homeless person a dollar with an anti-govermental slogan written on it today!!!!!! (props 2 duke)


click for my sexy steak

space is my planet

hey hey hey party people!!! space travel is a strange and wonderful thing: right now, as i'm communicating to you thusly, there's a well recognizable part of me that's speeding up the thruway to a hotel hot tub party with none other than her royal highness, Queen White America, in the...flesh. nevermind the fact that she's canadian--she brings the beef, and calls yr queef. for her i'd split atoms and change the sheets. i'd bing bat em and throw salt on their deli meats...hmmm. yes, well, the idea, of course, was for jamie and i to go up and bring her back for the par-tay, but that didn't pan out, so i'm hurtling up to her now, triple the speed limit with my dark-ass persols on so i can't see, past trees and more trees and old barns turned into filthy gas stations and ducks and big black birds that stand around sniffing each other's butts. i'm on my way, i'm coming...blasting last exit by the junior boys, the soft porn beats running up and down my body like one bad idea after another, swells getting larger as the tide pushes in...i feel like i'm in that scene in sleeping with the enemy, when julia roberts is out in the ocean in the middle of the night, her face awash in a pale yellow light that is all she has to guide her...except i'm not in the water at all but behind the wheel with the car humming all around me, and my hands with that funny ache they sometimes get as i'm getting closer every second to yr door, trying to concentrate on a clear line to lead me out of my daydreams...i'm done with all the broken arrows, the letters never sent...this is me and i am in the world, interacting damn it, and meanwhile there's this other part of me that's sitting here, zonked out and typing this for whoever will listen. or is it for no one? me here in my "natural habitat", alone at my glass desk with the iPod shuffling away...i'll have you know, fyi and all that i've decided on the easy way to my first million: all i have to do is load up all 40 GB on this baby and ebay it off and i'll be set. cuz this shit is like the greatest little jukebox ever in the whole world, if i do say so myself. you hear me, money? sorted. state of the art.

so fresh

so clean

the sexy stranger with the bag full of dope...

citywide, cinemascope.


hs;jghs;g hya;ruoh;auh

fuck spellcheck

killercoke


calendar


We were late, as usual. TRUE and I ran down the street holding hands. The sun was setting and the air had turned cool.

Helicopters zoomed over our heads. I looked up at the Fuji blimp that the NYPD were using. It dangled like a fat green and white melon over the Garden. The hum of its motor grew louder as we got closer.

I could make out the hollow blasts of megaphones followed by explosive cheers.

"Fuck!" TRUE shouted, pissed off that we were late, but I could see that there was an excitement in her eyes that was not dampened or otherwise affected by our tardiness.

We were blocked from turning west on 34th street by a legion of riot police. While they stopped us from crossing west, they didn't bat a collective eye at us crossing north, so we merely went up one block and crossed there. Then we cut back over and around the corner towards Penn Station.

It was like a rock concert, with the klieg lights and the thousands of camera flashes, and the deep rumble of many voices shouting in unison. Everywhere you looked there were protesters and signs. They covered the sidewalks and crowded the corners. Cops were on the steets. It was like a river of blue--and as we stood there, more and more kept showing up, on motorcycles, in cars. White police pick-ups came carrying huge coils of metal barricade. And on top of this there were still the normal commuters trying to shuffle past into the subway. Every single second the air was flashing with a photograph being taken. The first thing that caught my attention was a bunch of kids who had climbed on top of a newstand. They were cute and dirty, with the requisite bandannas and cigarettes.

Incidentally, I was wearing a black Gucci suit and my Bally moccassins. TRUE had on designer jeans and one of her homemade black SKULLFUCKBUSH t-shirts.

"Wow," I said, awestruck at the scene before me.

"Yeah," TRUE said, gripping my hand tighter.

"So good to feel that old familar blast of terror," I shouted, because one had to shout--it was impossible to hear otherwise.

I could feel police around me, closing in on every side. It was a nightmare.

But my impending claustorphobia was pushed back by the chorus of angry voices--shouting from street corner to corner, across the great blue divide. Really, I've never heard anything like it...there was a real electricity. I merely had to open my mouth to have my voice soar forth with the others--

"Who's streets? OUR streets!

Who's streets? OUR streets!"

Suddenly, one of the little girls perched on top of the newstand started to climb down and almost lost her balance.

TRUE let go of my hand and rushed forward. Without thinking, I followed her.

At that moment, the cops we had not seen came around from the side of the newsstand and threw the pink cage around all of us gathered there.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" TRUE sighed.

"We were just helping her down," I exclaimed. How could we get arrested? We hadn't even done anything yet.

"Just chill out," the cop said while his partner barked something unintelligible into his phone thing.

"WEARE-WORKINGPEOPLE-UNITED-IN-NONVIOLENCE!" our cohorts began to chant.

"Speak for yourself on the 'working' bit," I muttered while staring suggestively at one of the cuter cops, hoping to maybe strike a deal.

Meanwhile, the busses filled with delegates were pulling up one after another, and we all had to shield our eyes from the glare of the giant monitors as they broadcast a showbiz version of the world, with peaceful smiling faces and giant retouched scenes of red white and blue prosperity.

someday this week will be a novel.

out on the streets there was no time

to pause, or look back...


ive seen the light. literally, man. it was on the path train, when we came out of the darkness of the tunnel and into the brilliant sunlight blasting on ground zero. i blinked and flipped open my phone and was about to dial but then i stopped and flipped it closed. something strange came over me as we turned 'round the edge of that giant, puddle ridden hole. i was like an animal responding to a far off sound--i stood there on the platform, watching the escalators rising slowly into the air. i watched everything kinda peal off of itself until all that was left were the shapes and the feelings.

there was darkness, and gray revenge like smoke

but there was also profound beauty and love

clinging protecting love


i moved through the city without a plan or a purpose.

i let the air pull me a long.

i wasn't looking for revelations but that's what i got

the whole world changes when you take the time to actually look at it.






unwellness