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Nothing sums up all that goes down between men and women better than the act of anal intercourse. It’s not about making children and it’s not about being friends. It’s about how the struggle to get one another in bed becomes a struggle acted out IN bed, where all things are weighed out on the twin scales of pleasure and pain—pushing countering patience, effort countering letting go, hardness countering softness, being broken countering being made whole…

the scales yo-yo in a delicious dance

they will never be even but when its love they come up close.


Double-jointed really means loose jointed: sometimes I come so hard a space opens up between my legs and hips, technically making me taller.


Pain is more than a kind of feeling: for many it is a way of being that makes them realize they took all other ways for granted.

Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature



It wasn't cuz he was a big time CEO that left me shaken--it was the anger itself, that rose like a yo-yo in my chest, revealing that I hadn't yet forgiven him, and there was still a ways to go...

Notes for DRAFT letter to Bill Gates


Advertising genius:

If you want a brand to be really hot you’ve gotta be willing to let it lay low for at least 6 months to a year, maybe more. By lay low I mean only cryptic ads with no mention of the product whatsoever and utilizing a theme, slogan or phrase that will never be used in relation to the actual product. Only a privileged few test users will be told of the significance to the brand. These users will have been chosen by virtue of the demographic reach of their blogs or myspace sites.

When the product is finally released “nationwide” make certain that it is only available in a handful of stores before slowly increasing distribution. For an even thicker buzz, stipulate that a certain percentage of units comprising initial rollout are unable to be opened, no matter how hard the targeted (and parched) cool kid tries.


I bought a coca-cola BlaK cuz I read about it on stereolabrat's site...when I got it home and tried to open it the top was sealed on TIGHT.

I went at that shit with scissors and a knife and still I couldn't get the top off...What started as a drink i wasn't sure i'd like and had only purchased cuz a sick-ass blogger had written about it on her sick ass site became something i was DESPERATE to TASTE.


im staring boob eyed at the boob tube.

the desert of daytime network feels so good to expect so little.

meanwhile im revolutionizing home entertainment in my mind.


The fraudulence paradox: the more time and effort you put into trying to appear impressive or attractive to other people, the less impressive or attractive you feel INSIDE.


The voice of yr beloved—a thing so close it is already half in yr head.

Launched from those lips u love to kiss: yr lover’s voice flows into yr ears and alights upon yr skin and flutters gently there, like yr lover’s fingers running up and down yr body, warming the oxygen rich, spring soil of yr heart.

No wonder when I asked an ex girlfriend who’s subsequent girlfriend had a sex change and now lives as a fully legally recognized male American citizen—what was the craziest part of the transition? Was it a change in a particular body part—a specific addition or a reduction that took the most getting used to?

My ex-girlfriend answered without hesitation:

“It was when his voice changed,” she said.


Anger is the result of wrong perceptions: misunderstanding the nature of what u saw or heard.

This is true in every case.


Fear of sleep, fear of success, fear of becoming a creepy mess...


Everything that has ever happened to u and anything that ever will was meant to be. Every false start,failure, fuck-up, freakout and fall HAD2BE

*yr paranoid heartbreak beats


All around the world there are those of us who are united by beats. Repetitive, sampled, electronic, drum, beats. Beats you recognize and beats u don’t but somehow they are ALL familiar, as if pulsing in time with the blood in your veins. Something started in the 1970’s and criss-crossed the world several times over. Wherever you were—there was this music that was coming from the cities, it had this BEAT and if you listened closely you could hear your own future calling in the spaces between.

There was the murderous, thrilling boom, boom BIP of hip-hop in a jeep…

There was the frantic and deep ump- TEH, ump-TEH, ump-THE of house in a club…

Escapism: one rung came from black kids in the g and the other from queer kids in the disco but both led to the same spiral staircase of elevated possibilities. Then there was the homegrown ska and hardcore beats that I heard in the university town where I grew up and the mixed-up scene that surrounded it of black kids and white kids, jocks and skaters and freestylers and skinheads and straight-edge punk rockers with black magic marker “X”s drawn on the back of their hands. From a young age I believed in the power of a scene…and beyond that I believed in a dj culture encompassing everyone from the pet shop boys to a tribe called quest to white kids in the suburbs.

I admired the people who made this music. It managed to have relevance without lowering itself to the cheapened standards of the the low-quality, mass produced 80s. I might not have understood everything that was being rapped about but I got the vibe—there was the feeling of a huge space opening up in front of me, like a prairie rolling out for miles and miles after the mountains, and everything I’d ever been taught seemed to shrink against this new expansiveness, this new awareness…

It started out as something more than sex, drugs and rock n’ roll (or at least that’s how I’m spinning it now--)

When I was a little kid my heroes were putting on headphones and fighting the tv radiation that was ruling the nation.

torn together (the bonnie and clyde mix)


his body's literally hot to the touch, breathing fast under the covers, like an animal or a child in those in between moments before the dawn, when the shadows and the mirror rule the hotel room.

meanwhile im sticky sweet.

aldkfja ajdf


What the world doesn’t need is another novel so fuck me trying to write one. Novels are so last century. Like psychotherapy and CDs and Bjork and the notion that “after everything” one can still find happiness in life as a “charming failure” simply by sliding across the polyurethane surface of multi-cultural meaninglessness and absurdity the same way the finger of a potential customer slips across the glossy, “anti-design” designer book jacket that fits like an envelope around the novel—fingering the inside flap and eyeing the pretentious, "about the author" pic before moving along to the next strategically piled waste of trees.

I’d like to write something that’s a mix between a treatise, a tractatus and a living will.


now im sitting here watching school of rock and eating subway.

the world doesn't need my whining.

the world needs a joyous song.


another friday nite and im brushing the tears away.

there are no prizes for being smart. there never have been. unless u count escaping and surviving--two things i've done several times each. fucking hell.

bear in mind--we all fall behind from time to time...


yr unfinished mix


we both wanna keep it simple. i know i do--for the time being i wanna live in hotel rooms with little or nothing and take planes and trains and just be with u. we could pretend to be real people when we had to--we both know how to play that game.

u and i r escapees under the covers, liars on fire, new yorkers in love who tried hard to be invisible.


"The first duty in life is to be as artificial as possible. What the second duty is no one has as yet discovered."

--Oscar Wilde


soon i had no choice but to crush up three or four ultram ers and snort a fat rail on my red aluminum commode.

i found myself fingering myself in the bathroom, either imagining or actually hearing my neighbors having sex then pulling up my chinos i ran out into the city streets...pain free, brain free...a gigantic bubble of air had risen like a tumor from my lungs pushing thru my throat to my brain. i was nearly being suffocated by air!

i went into the american apparel store on 63rd and proceeded to wander dreamily thru the hanging clothes. i hate shopping but sometimes i like stores as places to be...with all those cameras hardly anyone pays you any attention.

as i sifted thru the underwear i wondered if it was the urge to have a baby that was causing such great pain upon my body each month...a sick urge not for the child itself but to get knocked up. fertilized like a dumb dripping plant.

the blond countergirl with the skinny body and fat face was asking one of her minions about the delivery options at the new burger place down the street.

"a burger...?" she said, as tho she had never before said the word aloud.

"you mean, i could just, like, order a burger and they'd bring it here and i could eat a BUR-GER? holy shit. you guys. i think i want a burger."

"yeah," one of the androgynous pixie minions chimed, "a bur-ger."

"i want it really raw," the blond said. it was impossible to tell if she was being facetious or not. i kept grabbing more and more underwear and feeling the texture of each pair with my fingers.

"i want lettuce, and tomatoes and ewwww no onions! and lots of ketchup and a big TOASTED bun"

"oh my god," a minion screeched, "do you want fries?!"

"yes!" the blond gasped, like she'd just creamed her jeans.

"here." I came up to the counter with my loads of underwear, all different colors and sizes.

"you know that there isn't a return policy on underwear," she said to me, her voice sweet and patient and kind and completly different.

"i know," i said, disarmed and shy.

"ok," she said, and silently ran each pair over the black panel of the scanner. there was an extra small thong followed by large boy pants followed by things i didn't even recognize.

suddenly, she threw her head back and was again addressing her minions:

"holy shit guys, can i get CHEESE on that bur-ger?"

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