Never apologize for not posting

Never take yr internet persona(s) too seriously--the fact that u have one at all is a sign of chronic lameness taken to the lamest degree.

The comments are like a neighborhood cookout with u at the grill. Remember that any beef is yrs and to never let em see ya sweat.

Always allow anonymous comments.

Develop a habit of calling outTony Pierce, but only when yr certain it will have a negative effect on yr site.

Write posts on trains, plains and automobiles about the scenes u slip thru...like grafitti u take with u.

Write posts in bathrooms on toilet paper, write posts at weddings on the backs of crisp white cocktail napkins, write posts on pricey handheld devices that u need to constantly justify owning.

Write posts with yr eyes, ears and guts.

Write posts about what turns u on...quickly...before u forget...

Tell all yr secrets but lie about yr past.

Flameout if u need to flameout.

Post pix of yrself naked if u hate big media.

Post pix of yrself broke and high if u luv america.

Fuck old skewl grammar rules based on screwed up capitalist notions, like capitalization

Gun in the window baby, gun in the store. Give me that gun baby, cuz we gotta score.

A blog is not real life...u can go ahead and press delete.

Never forget that when all is said and done, the game is to be sold, and not to be told...so...always keep em guessin....

here is something u cant understand.

he said, "there u have it", and there it was, an uncrossable line between us. he said it didn't matter what we experienced together, it didn't matter how many pimped-out cars we sped around in or how much beef we cooked in other people's kitchens or how much money we made (and pissed away) or how over and over i proved to him that i was tough enough and cool enough and high and drunk enough to be down for whatever....he was telling me that there would always be this thing that seperated us...this THING that he'd done.

"i didn't mean to do it," he said, as he sat on the edge of the bed. the rain was rattling the window. everything reminded me of the comic books i'd been reading...the colors...the radiating bands of energy in the air.

in these comic books the superheros had been replaced by ordinary people. they lived and ate and fucked and did drugs in a world that was exactly like ours, except every so often they'd give a hint to let us know that they knew we were out there, while we went on, stupidly oblivious to our audiences.



over on the bed he couldn't calm down. his knee was bouncing around like crazy. he had his shirt off, revealing two plain green tattoos, one on each shoulder. on the right shoulder was of a pair of long hands, pressed together in prayer.

the same hands were on his left shoulder, only they were clasped around a gun.

"i committed a mortal sin," he said, "there's no going back for me...but you...you can still get off this ride with all yr arms and legs on right."

"fucking hell," i said. i was sitting by the window, ashing my cigarette into an empty coke can.

"i just don't know if it matters," i said.

"what?" he said.

"the fact that i don't believe a goddamn word you just said."



warscribe

hoo-ha

i stick a knife in my head, im thinkin bout yr eyes, but now that u've been shot dead, i gotta new suprise...

.

wowee zowee. i guess this drug and alcohol induced blog would be remiss not to pour a little out in honor of the passing of Sir HST, especially seeing as how the three of us totally slept on old dirty's death, one of our other favorite wasters. altho i have to say that one's still got me confused--wtf was he doing with a big ass bag of coke in his stomach anyway... i mean, homes was in the recording studio...he wasn't on an international flight or some shit like that, and anyway, what country could the dirt dog possibly be going to where there wouldn't be a supply of powder readily available?

hopefully we'll have more info on HST. like his suicide letter. ya know, just the paraphrased gist of it, if it's personal, which it prolly is. i haven't read anything about a letter but i have to assume there is one. what kind of person kills themself and doesn't leave a letter? it reminds me of a curb yr enthusiasm episode, in which larry david finds out that a woman in the neighborhood offed herself but didn't leave a note. "no note!" he exclaims. "that is so rude! i mean, even when you go out for a few minutes to pick up some milk you leave a note so people know where you are!"

YEAH HST was great, YEAH he was funny as hell, YEAH he definitely stuck it to the man, and like old dirty bastard, there was no father to his style...but u know what, party people? he was gettin old...and his time--the time of the baby boomers--has passed. they had their turn and they tried and shit got twisted and as far as i can tell, they chickened out and ran for the safety of their townhouses and all that low-fat cheese.

gonzo was great. gonzo was hardcore. go buy his shit on amazon if you wanna learn more about it, history lesson style.

click on the shit on the left if u want the NEXT next level writing style.

i was going to tell you all about the time i went camping by myself in an ancient belgian forest with a bunch of books by delueze and foucault in order to gain "persepective" or some shit like that and i fell asleep under the stars in a damp sleeping bag that was somehow pressed against the sheet of acid i'd haphazardly stuffed in my duffel bag, so that by the time i woke up i was tripping balls-- i mean we're talkin seeing the whole world as though it were a background gel for the simpsons. and what's worse is i had to figure out that i was tripping, and not just going crazy. i felt around and saw what happened with the soaked ass faker patagonia bag and i somehow managed to put it together.

anyway, i was going to go into the whole thing, the tidal wave of a trip that it was--plus the fact that i was all alone, just me and all the revelations i had and the things the trees said to me but i can't be arsed so i'll just cut to the chase:

when you find yourself on a trip, the best thing to do do is trip out.

sometimes in order to keep from going crazy, you have to stop making sense.


that is all for now, my children.

next show, 10 PM.


xo

me, myself and i on some trueboy shit.

The allure of breakin the law
Is always too much for me to ever ignore
I gotta thing for them big body Benzes, it dulls my senses
In love with a V-Dub engine
Man I'm high off life, fuck it I'm wasted
Bey Venay kicks, or them Marvin Kaye wrists
My women friend get tennis bracelets
Trips to Venice, get they winters replaced with
the sun, it ain't even fun no more I'm jaded
Man, it's just a game, I just play it to play it
I put my feet in the footprints left to me
Without sayin a word, the ghetto's got a mental telepathy
Man my brother hustled so, naturally
Up next is me, but what perplexes me
Shit I know how this movie ends, still I play
the starrin role in "Hovito's Way"...

dangermouse grey album remix of jay-z's Allure



illegal art




at first i only rode shotgun in his suped-up jeep like i was his tomboy bitch. we smoked ls and drove around and around, talking and laughing. i liked how he asked me questions--and how he listened carefully to my answers, cocking his bald brown head towards me and nodding vigorously.

he especially wanted to know about people. kids at school who thought they were players. what do you think of this guy? he'd ask. and him, and her? so i told him--all the little things i'd noticed and remembered, the thinly-veiled insecurities, the lies and betrayals and false allegiances.

get this one on yr side, and this one and this one and this one will all follow.

how can you be sure, he asked.

cuz they're weak-minded, i said, surprised at how cold and matter-of-fact it sounded.

werd, werd, werd, he'd say, exhaling blunt smoke through his nose.

he dropped me off at my house in time for dinner. usually by then he was quiet and pensive and stoned, as he turned over the things i said.

u look like a nice girl but yr pretty smart, he said, sniffling through his permanently broken nose and rubbing his face and nervously flipping open his zippo, lighting the flame and then slapping it back shut, over and over.

he barely went to school anymore. he woke up at 2 for his "after school job" --driving around the 8 yr old son of a russian mobster with a loaded gun in the glove compartment. on his way back he'd come to see me, if i wasn't hanging out with my musician boyfriend.

he asked me if it was OK if he gave me things. i said yes and he hooked me up with designer clothes, cds, watches and gold rings, all bought with stolen credit cards.

fuck rich people, he said, which made me laugh cuz all he seemed to care about was becoming one.

i wanna be rich, i told him, as we drove past block after block of dilapidated row houses.

i wanna be rich so bad i can taste it.

i brought him customers and measuring pots that i ordered from the back of punk rock zines.

i met his "business associates" and had them over my house.

"don't let them out of yr sight," he whispered to me as they pushed through the front door, caps pulled low over their heavy lidded eyes.

they burnt popcorn on my stove and knocked over one of my mother's potted plants.

then they went out back and shot his gun at my neighbor's aging and arthritic Labrador for kicks.

"we need better people than this," i said. "these guys are fucking stupid dangerous losers".

"agreed," he said.

"we need to become a part of something bigger than us," i mused.

it was more than just the money, it was more than just the sweet feeling of sinking deep into a leather passenger seat with a fat system blasting and rolling up to spots with brand new chains and sneakers.

it was more than how good it made me feel to buy things for my sweet and lovely and sensitive jazz playing boyfriend. clothes, a silver ring, a new amplifier...cartons of cigs and bags of drugs.

thank-you, he'd say softly, sitting indian style on the middle of his floor surrounded by his records and his dog-eared fake books. i loved him all the more for not asking me how i got the money, because i knew he already knew.

it wasn't out of shame that i kept it a secret.

it was out of love for the game.

monday mornings i'd promise to quit but by thursday afternoon i was straining at the bit...

[Chorus]
It's just life, I solemnly swear
To change my approach, stop shavin coke
Stay away from hoes, put down the toast
Cause I be doin the most.. oh no!
But every time I felt that was that, it called me right back
It called me right back, man it called me right back - oh no!



it was the feeling. the drama. the danger. the high. the juxtapositions between fluorescent light lit AP english and project hallways crazy wet with piss.

i also didn't tell my boyfriend about the times the thug and i ended up crashing on his bed, after staying up for days straight. i wouldn't let him fuck me or kiss me, but in the middle of the night he put his arms around me and rubbed against my ass through my panties until he came with a silent shudder.

in the morning i tried on his oversized hip-hop sweatshirts and posed with his gun in the mirror while i told him all the things i wanted:

a Jacuzzi, a Benz, an ice-covered symbol to wear around my neck, a hundred disc CD player with a bass box and sub woofer and...

you got it, baby, he said, stuffing pork rinds in his mouth for breakfast while he chugged the pint-sized serving of the milky medicine that was supposed to keep his ulcers from flaring up.

i smoked a joint and stared out the window at the cheap and boring suburban rooftops that made up the view.

the sprinklers were whirling. the bugs were buzzing while pesticide fumes rose up from the unnaturally bright green lawns like steam.

he came up behind me and put his hands on my hips.

that shit out there always looks faker than fake when im high, he said.

yeah, i said.

"soon all of this will be picturesque ruins," i said. it was something i stole from a book i was reading at the time, but i knew he wouldn't know that.



I never felt more alive than ridin shotgun
In Cline's green 5 until the cops pulled guns
And I tried to smoke weed to give me the fix I need
what the game did to my pulse, with no results
And you can treat your nose and still won't come close
The game is a lightbulb with eleventy-million volts
And I'm just a mark, addicted to the floss
And doors lift from the floor and the tops come off
By any means necessary, whatever the cost
Even if it means lives is lost..
And I can't explain why, I just love to get high
Drink life, smoke the blueberry sky, blink twice
I'm in the blueberry 5, you blink three times
I may not even be alive
How mean James Dean couldn't escape the allure
Dyin young, leavin a good lookin corpse
Of course...




the detox.

To the Girls of the World on the Day After Valentine's Day:

This one goes out to you

and you and you and you and you...

oh, you pretty, irrepressible things--

you are a sea of flashing waves in my mind

hooked like horses' heads

as you near the shoreline of my dyke wet dreams...

i can see the current in your eyes

the ebb and flow

the drift and the downward spiral...

i.e., The Struggle.



i see you--

rich girls with long silky hair pulled back by a polished wooden clip

poor girls with champagne-flavored lollipops and nothing much to lose

except freedom.

white, black, red, yellow and grey girls...

girls with asses that taunt

and asses that pout

white girls with black babies out on the stoop

black girls singing back-up for pale white english dudes...

i see you on the sidelines

in your plain, tight dress and your perfect make-up

trying to tell the world the truth about love

how its not a fairytale at all...but a rock n' roll concert

loud and obnoxious and destructive

triumphant, insane and tons of fun



your agent might not return your calls, or else tell you to your face that you're not skinny enough or young enough or that your looks push too far and your sound is murder on the senses...

your man might think it's "cute" that you get "so worked up" when you talk about art and your kids might treat you like the hired help and the train might pull away and leave you in the rain but you're still a princess to me...



i'm by the window where the light is.

i've got my hand in my pocket

and my hair in my face

i've got money and i've got time

i want to stand in the doorway while you try on clothes

i want to take you on a cruise

make you dinner and tuck you in

and keep you safe from harm...



i want you to teach me how to be

i want you to give me the weight

cuz i can take it

i want you to dance around in your panties

i want you to bring the ice-cream to bed

i want you to show me all your secret spots...

i want to ask you

if i can touch you there.

Next Exit

u guys know i love u, right?

i mean, if it wasn't for u...




heya i need to give a shout to tyranny and his girl. i met them when i went out with anti and jamie. the fronts work like a charm. he's tall as fuck and smart and funny, and i think a little shy, like me.

good lookin on the xanax.

i didn't even have to purchase them. they were just remainder drugs from a deal that i happened to be near, there in the back of cheesy ass max fish, of all places.

it could have been a cathedral in france or a restroom in jerusalem...drug deals have a way of stickin to me, like a booger to a nose.

{sigh}

anyway, in unrelated news, i was talking to a friend today about this gay guy at my school who gave such great head that straight dudes were taking the pepsi challenge. oh yeah? my (straight) friend said, raising his eyebrow. it got me thinking...every straight dude who really likes getting head should definitely try it with a gay guy, at least once. just that--nothing else. u know, talk about it before hand. most fags that i know would go for it, if the straight guy's cute and not an asshole...

i learned how to give head from a gay guy.

he taught me mad technique.

yo

im like nas

i blog fer listeners bluntheads, fly ladies and prisoners...

...prisoners locked in their own mind

in their jobs and in their lives...

in the teeny tiny two block radius routine of their social anxiety disorder

i blog fer those who roll up to the party

strapped with a video recorder.

i blog fer everyone who's tried to derail me

scare me

scar my insides and crash me on the couch

with my shoulder hanging off my back and my heart on my sleeve

im growlin at the ghosts lining empty bottles atop my tv

half-dead motherfuckers, who refuse to leave

thx to them, i limp when i walk

thx to them, i stutter when i talk

thx to them, i get a little more deep than u think

(thx to them, at night i get a little less sleep than u think)

i blog for the boulder that keeps pushing me back down the hill

the one i explode into pebbles but comes back still...

i dont blog for the paper

i blog for the chase

i spit the phrase condensed from the halycon haze

bout life on this island and how to survive

how i broke up with my pager but im still ready to ride

(and im still ready to die)

all u gotta do is whisper in my ear...

"C'mon let's go get out of here..."

BigBad

john wayne anti: i'll be able to say i knew him when.

he's got that movie glow.

he orders curly fries and mayonnaise for dinner.

then he's out like a flash for a smoke

on avenue a with his hood on.

standing there facing the opposite direction of the crowd

a skateboarder without his board

a rockstar without the music...

ladies and gentlemen

i felt like sayin

if u don't know, now u know...

one day, when i was in the second grade we had a substitute teacher who, in typical "sub" style, put on a "made for classroom" movie about tsunamis. i was immediately and deeply fascinated by the idea of a gigantic wave that was as tall as a building and moving as fast as a car, and that would destroy everything in its path once it crashed to shore. better yet, after the scientific facts and graphs explaining the basic physics of the wave, the movie went on to depict a dramatization of a tsunami striking, which began with a boring blonde couple strolling leisurely on a beach, enjoying a nice summer's day. suddenly, the perspective shifts and the woman is filmed facing the ocean, (which the audience can no longer see) with a concerned look on her face. the narrator explained in his matter-of-fact, "this is the cold truth of the world" voice, that when a tide has gone out so dramatically it was a sign that a tsunami might be on its way... and should one ever witness such a thing, they should run (immediatley! don't hesitate!) to high ground.

but there was the couple, standing there holding hands and staring at the sea like dumb ducks.

my classmates and i were at the edge of our seats.

"man," the boy in front of me exclaimed, "those white people better MOVE!"

it was at that crucial, exciting moment that the substitute teacher came over to my desk and told me that there was a lady who wanted to seem me in the hall. i remember trying to look over her shoulder to see the screen, where the couple were shielding their eyes and staring out at the sea...hypnotized perhaps by the dark wall rising on the horizon...?

can i go in just a minute, i asked the teacher, but there was no delaying. she put her hands on my shoulders and steered me out of the room, while i craned my neck to catch a last glimpse of the screen, where the couple had broken into a run...

the image of them on the beach burned into my mind...forever freeze-framed and blasted through with the white light of imminent destruction.

the woman was waiting for me in the hall. she stood beside a classroom desk that had a two stacks of cards upon it, about the size of supermarket flyers. she had long, silky straight brown hair and a warm, smile.

she said hello and asked me to sit at the desk. she told me her name and asked me mine. then she told me that she was going to play a few games with me and ask me some questions. i said yes, although it was difficult to care about anything besides the vision of the actual tsunami, which now i would now get to see.

my sense of frustration was nearly overwhelming, but even so, i noticed that she looked me in the eye when she spoke, and her voice was not one of an adult talking to a little kid, but of an adult talking to another adult.

i sat down and accepted the pencil she gave me.

she then showed me cards with shapes on them and asked me what i saw. they were dark blobs of ink, out of which evil, leering faces seemed to spring as well as exploding buildings and volcanos spewing fountains of blood...all as clear as day, but i hesitated, as i'd already learned that i sometimes made people upset when i described the things i saw.

"it's OK," she said, "there are no right answers...you can draw me a picture if you'd like."

stupidly, i believed her, about there being no right answers. i told her...first just a little--the nicer stuff that was there--but as she showed me more and more cards, i held back less and less, eventually stumbling over my own words in an effort to tell her everything.

"good, good," she said, her voice encouraging but not pandering.

i told her about the fields i saw filled with dead flowers, or the crowds of people running like ants from some unforseen force raining down destruction from the sky...

all the while blue and white light flashed from out of the classroom window, as the hypothetical tsunami struck the hypothetical shore, sucking the hypothetical couple out to sea...

"yes, you've done very well," the hippy woman told me, as she put back the last card in the first deck, face down.

then she reached over to the other deck and got ready to pull up the first card.

"ok, now we're going to do the same exact thing," she said, her voice still warm and adult.

"i'm going to hold up a card and you're going to tell me what you see, only this time," --she picked up the first card and held it up with the plain white back facing me--

"this time i'm not going to show you the picture."