CIP

...midnight, on the Cross Island Expressway...your eyes turned into digitized pools in the moonlight...

This weekend was all about pop song choruses and suburban psychedelic fantasies coming together on one lawn, for a limited time offer only, we fixed picnic plates and frequencies on cell phones and hashed it out by the lake. We made graphics and recorded tapes of our conversations. We scrambled eggs and turned on cable and admired perfect flower arrangements, pearly white teeth and finely cut mod trouser crotches.

A video camera came Fed Ex. I signed for it in the doorway, ripped open the envelope and let it slide out onto my palm.

I want to film a dark empty theater in which a film is being shown. The film is of a dark empty theater, identical to the first one except thatthere are people projected upon the chairs. The projections are in black and white. They flicker like Princess Leia in her hologram message.

They’re the audience, looking up at a blank screen and seeing something play on it.

Although it is impossible to know exactly what they are watching, one can get a feeling for the point the drama is at by the expressions and movements of the faces.

(When I finally make my film and play it, I’ll have it timed so it breaks off in the middle, the screen turning white just as things were getting good.)

I can feel my cells dividing—I can feel them piling up inside of me, one atop the other at breakneck pace.

I rapped a little the other day, by myself at the ocean, standing in the surf and facing the waves with the dark-eyed windows of the beach mansions behind me, flat roofed and ominous, like set pieces for a David Lynch flick.

we agree to forget the previous evening and focus solemnly upon the Sunday drive to the Sunday obligations…

(reproduction=doubling the bill of memories)

Your son your daughter your fuck your marriage.

Your pink barrettes.

Sterling, sterling, Sterling…I want to take it.

I know.

I feel like we can pull something out of the hat.

Yes. When we’re together. I mean, when we’re on the same team.

I know what you mean. I got you. Sterling, you’ve got to start realizing that I’ve got you.

Yes.

And Fitz too.

And Fitz too. Absolutely.

He’s kind of like the origin.

What do you mean?

Of both of us. He hatched me in Oxford and then I hatched you.

OK.

You feelin me?

There’s only one problem with any of that.

Whuh baby?

Everything that you do—I happen to have already done.

comments are great but i've gotta say i'm kinda glad they're down right now. i'm raising a beer to all of you...



most needed, most cheated, most weeded.

I met Jamie. Sometimes I still can't believe it: I met the guy I saw. After all that time. Actually it isn't so much time to meet a stranger you saw on the street, if you think about it.

He was just someone walking in front of me, early in the morning, a year and 10 months ago.

Now I go to his site everyday, to find out what he's up to.

With his jeep and his fly ass loft.

And his cameras and typewriters.

Paint and patience.

i hope you don't think i'm some kind of asshole, jamie.

i hope i was a little bit like you thought i'd be.

p.s. don't tell anyone my real name.

make me over; make me out

bemezine


Nighttime’s the right time. You know what I mean. When the fairies come out. And the wolves and vampires and disco dan-cers. Nighttime’s the right time to be on the prowl. To get shit looks on the bus and to give them back, to undress someone with your eyes.

Fitz asked me so did Jules really have a big dick and I said yes she really had a big dick.

And did her titties look real?

Yes they looked real, except in the hot tub, then they were too shiny and round.

Did you always pretend to be a boy or did you get to be a girl too?

Get to be? What the fuck you make it sound like I was her slave or something.

Well, weren’t you, in a sense? I mean, I know that’s how you liked it in the past.

Oh, I liked it all right. I liked it in Amsterdam, doing a couple of hits and going out to the garage, shaking uncontrollably as I took off my clothes and lied down across the hood of the old Saab that was just beginning to rust, my tits spilling out from the loosened ace bandage wrap, a winter draft blowing between my legs, nipping at the warm dampness that only got worse as I waited, biting the inside of my mouth and listening intently for footsteps or the jingle jangle of keys, becoming distracted by the hum of the Amstel river only a few feet away, certain that the scurrying in the wall was a rat, certain that the gleaming, hollow car could secretly feel my body and was somehow mocking it.

Finally she came, throwing open the door and belching loudly.

“Hmmm, ahhh. I can smell you from here.”

“Ok,” I said, wondering if she meant my pussy or my feet, both of which I’d scrubbed with peppermint soap.

“Shut up!” she hissed. I closed my eyes as I heard her lock the door and walk slowly down the steep Dutch stairs in her stilettos.

Beneath the click-clank of heel striking wood, there was another, more subtle sound that could be made out: the soft rustle of the heel of her hand rubbing her crotch through her silk slip.

Oh, I liked it all right. I like waiting for her to tell me off, I liked waiting to be punished and put in my place, chosen as an extra and left on the sidelines, alone in the bar, holding a glass of melted ice while I watched her run her hands through some boy’s soft, floppy hair. It was a sick and twisted happiness, but I felt it nonetheless and it was all mine.

(Nighttime’s the right time…)

In case you’ve never had it, gingria is just like sangria but with a healthy dose of Tanqueray thrown in for kicks. You all know how I need kicks, party people. The key is to stick that shit in the freezer—after one gulp you can feel the numbness start at the top of your neck and move its way up your skull. It’s like huffing gas.


art is for losers

"Fassbinder"

One of Fassbinder's most unusual and daring films, In a Year of Thirteen Moons stars Erwin Spengler as a man desperately in love with his business partner. He decides to have a sex change operation, becomes Elvira, but this fails to attract the love of his beloved. Instead, the new "she" finds a series of damaging relationships and betrayals. Fassbinder uses harsh color, asymmetrical sets, a dissonant sound track and alternating narrative techniques to evoke the pain of Erwin/Elvira in a film that stretches the boundaries of conventional storytelling.
(In a Year of Thirteen Moons)


Do you remember the afternoon when we first saw it, four summers back? You were just “Sterling” before I put the tape in, before I put it down and laid it out. The whole sick mess. You were barely more than a ghost. You had white hair, a white face and swollen red lips. You were the shook one with your hand in your pocket.

We watched the movie and shot dope. We used the same works and the same toilet. The Do Not Disturb sign was duck taped to the door. U2’s “One” played on repeat in the background.

When it was over you sat transfixed watching the different shades of black pass across the screen before it turned into static. You didn’t want to believe it was really over.

“What happens next,” you asked, your voice as flat as a pancake.

“The movie leaked out of the TV,” I said. “It’s my movie now, and you’re the star.”

You trudged over to the window and leaned your head against the sill.

“Where are the cameras?”

“Hidden. Everywhere. Can’t you feel their harsh glare burning up the room?”

You lit a cigarette and ran your good hand through your hair.

“When does the shooting start?”

“It already has, Sterling Fassbinder. Everything has already been changed forever.”


jg

Where I end and you begin

i wanna get sweet valley high with you.


That’s right, sometimes I walk the street with the last two fingers on my right hand curled into my palm, pretending I’m Sterling Fassbinder. I’ll start swinging my arms in my usual style, but then I remember how she keeps the hand in question jammed in her pocket, and I do the same. Immediately, my gait changes into her lurching stagger.

The hackneyed, hunched James Dean wounded animal thing that gets her all that LES pussy.

Sometimes, late at night, when the sky turns nuclear pollutant purple and the puddles spin with stars, I hold my hand over my face and imagine how it would look if two of the five fingers were missing.

I remember when I visited her in the hospital on her sixteenth birthday.

She avoided looking at her bandaged hand draped lifelessly across the pea green sheets.

“That’s not my hand,” she said.

“I know,” I said. I remember the hysterical chirping of birds in the trees outside. A plane cut a high arc above our heads. Somewhere a sprinkler was spurting jaggedly.

My eyes zoomed out like a camera. As always I was desperately trying to take in the whole thing, to memorize the details and stash them away for future use. There was her bleached blonde hair. At that time it was cut and gelled down in a Caesar. She shifted to one side and stared at the blinds. Her face was pale against the sheets. There was blue pen ink smeared on her cheek.

Everyone thought she was crazy, that the nuttiness of her bible thumping parents had finally cooked her noodle. They thought that explained why she took drugs and dressed like a boy and cut her own fingers off on a classroom paper cutter.

“It’s the acid,” they whispered, “It’s her father who beats her ass with a pipe.”

She’d been let down, beat-up, lied-to, hated on and now she was going to be kicked out and locked-up in a mental hospital.

I was sixteen myself. There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but sit around with my hands folded. By way of saying a prayer (something I’ve tried but can never actually bring myself to do) I instead wished for sudden, supernatural powers. Wing’d feet, laser shooting fingertips, bullet reflecting wristbands—that sort of thing. Or I would have been fine with a gang of berretta toting goodfellas. We’d line up shades on and guns blazing. I’d free Sterling and leave them all in a sea of blood.

surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away

If I could have had only one power it would have been the ability to go back in time. That way I could switch places with her as a little kid so that she could be me and I could be her.

This would make a cool tattoo or hardcore album cover if it wasn't already used by something else.

Meanwhile, in Australia...

...the good people have put on their winter sparkle


Tell the story, Sterling.

Tell all the stories; go for it.

I know I’m through with holding things back.

Kick out the jams, motherfucker!

I give you full permission, in fact I encourage it.

I’m the bad guy, the villain.

(there’ll be times)

The tranniechaser fag hag.

(when my crimes)

I give myself up to it; I grasp the smooth bone handle of my authority.

(will seem almost unforgiveable)

Okokokokokokok?

Yes, I’m the leader of this crew.

Yes, I’m the administrator with the passwords.

(I give in to sin)

I wear the brightly colored shirts in the outlandish style.

I leave my notebooks open on your bed

So that you may read and judge

(because you have to make this life liveable)

You can’t quantify me

Contest me, deter me

Tonite, I’m in the hands of fate…

I walked the block with a bop

Smoked blunts by the water

Fell into a dream at the bar

Woke up with some fag’s tongue in my mouth

I gripped his glitter-covered shoulders

Muscles rising and falling beneath my fingertips

“I always fall asleep during the best part,” I told him

as I tried to take a step back and ended up doing a half-curtsy instead

He was holding my face in his hands

Looking down at me sweetly

drunkenly

“…and by the way, sir,” I said, regaining my balance

(I give in to sin)

I’m not a boy,

just a blue toy.”

(because I like to practice what I preach)

i'm up in the clouds

ryan mcguinnis

Don't let anyone who does drugs all the time try and tell you they're not running away from something.

After a certain point you're taken over the top, over the precipice.

Your fuckin nerves are shot

Low eyes, heavy lids

The shadows of tree branches shake against the blue and yellow windshield.

In protestation,

In proclamation...

I have yet to discover a harsh truth for which I can’t find an antidote.


From: "jenny ." [Save Address] [Block Sender]
To: trueboy@graffiti.net
Cc:
Subject: real bitches do real things.
Date: Sun, 29 Jun 2003 20:18:07 +0000

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yo.

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>From: "TRUEBOY *"

>To: "jenny ."

>Subject: Re: real bitches do real things.
>Date: Tue, 01 Jul 2003 02:43:46 +0800
>
>like what, yo?


>_______________________________________________
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who are the people in your neighborhood?

Tony Ferguson

...or neighbourhood. barrio, district. however you say, "on the streets where you live"?

you never really know any of them. what fucked up shit they might be up to behind those closed doors.

those sounds that you sometimes hear...and the smells...

give money to klinkfamily

I posed lasiviously in the back seat, loose ass basketball shorts sliding this way and that. They both took turns checking me out in the rear view mirror. I lit a cigarette and pretended not to notice. Deep in my chest a little checkbox was being checked.

same as it ever was,
same as it ever was,
same as it ever was,
same as it EVER WAS

Now and then we caught a glimpse of Long Island from out behind the billboards and rest stop signs. Golden arches floated in the darkness.

It was a dream to really be there...three in the morning, going on four.

"I feel like you two have got something planned," I called out. "You know I reread BRANDTRUEBOY, the other night. I refreshed myself on everything that you both said."

"You mean everything that we wrote," Fitz said.

"That you wrote, whatever."

"It makes a big difference," Fitz said in that faggy tone that I despise.

"Words, words, words," Sterling said, yawning and leaning back like the mack.

"Half-truths and fiction," I said, struggling to light a cigarette. The match flashed in the rear view mirror, and for a second my face was lit up like a ghost. "That's all you're going to claim then. Huh."

"Who's making a claim? Not me," she turned and scrutinized me unapologetically.

"I think you're fucking with me," I proclaimed.

"Really? Well I think you're high," she returned.

"That doesn't mean you aren't fucking with me."

"That's true, TRUE," she laughed her famous, beautiful laugh and punched Fitz's arm in a way that seemed close to a real punch.

"I'm always fucking with you." She leaned over and put her face a few inches in front of mine. I could see her freckles in the passing headlights.

"Everyone is always fucking with you."

"What the fuck, I know!" I leaned back, miserable. My hands were two dead fish in my lap, lifeless, bloated. It took a couple of tries until I was able to bring them to my nose, so I could see if they stunk or not.

They smelled like nothing.

Yo mammi, I know I look tired…

I paged D. and because I didn’t have anything better to do, I ended up accompanying him on his afternoon rounds. Sadly, his truck was impounded in March. I feel for him. That shit was bad ass—but not in a played out bling bling kind of way. D. doesn’t front like he’s big pimpin. He’s got a wife and a kid. His ride was what it was—a shiny black pick-up. A gilded workhorse. After 9/11 a plastic american flag flapped wildly on its antenna. I won’t tell you what he drives now except that it’s vastly inferior. Actually, he has several cars as well as an entire collection of bikes, scooters and ATVs. This particular vehicle, however, was lame. I wore my shades and pretended that I was undercover.

hey. i love those movies like donnie brasco and deep cover where the cop goes in all the way down and stays there, trying only to do his job and breathe the air and check the scenery but the situation gets twisted as situations so often do…he makes money, gets girls, befriends the antagonist, that goddamn perfectly cast Lucifer character—the rebel angel so dashing and charming and strong and good looking that everyone’s cunt throbs in and out to the bass beat of the dolby decimals…

In the tradition of grand theater plays, a decision is presented, padded by suspense and chase sequences and an uneven hip-hop soundtrack: Will our hero turn to the dark side and take up a life of financially rewarding crime?

(Or will he kiss his one true love instead? Will he pull her to him and press his chin on her shoulder, his cheek against her hair, taking in the scent of her. Will he get to close his eyes and finally achieve that state of Just Letting Go that’s so often touted in the lyrics of pop songs?)

At some point between clients I stuff my money under the stereo that’s hardly ever on. D. pushed his long hair behind his ears. He fumbled around for a bag, talking about his wife and son, and then about the girls wearing nothing up in his neighborhood.

“One thing I like about the heat—the clothes come off on the la-dies,” he shot me a questioning look as we hooked around and pulled out on the West Side Highway. I think he’s trying to find out if I’m gay.

I don’t mind, he can think and say whatever he wants. As long as he keeps coming up with those next level trees, it's all good.



eight-three-five be smokin the la-la-la


Jennyeah be smokin the la-la-la


anti and whitey be smokin the la-la-la

oh, ho. what's the story, party people? i'm locked out of my friends pad (south bronx represent) so i'm here chillin with sterling at her place of work. soon to be ex place of work, as i have a proud and hallowed tradition of getting bitches fired. so here i am now, entertain me! that's right, sterling. big reading over my shoulder with one eye half open! don't front with that "you need to get up now" shit. i don't see your nameplate on this swank ass aeron chair.

what i've been able to scam from corporate america thus far: software. a box of 40 OB tampons and bumble and bumble hair shit from the bathroom. three handfuls of single serve timothy's world coffee (french roast and french vanilla). a couple of boxes of those light blue pilot precise V7 pens that i adore so. a stack of yellow steno pads, the kind my dad used to cover with his loopy ass prose. more software. blank CD-Rs (i'm making mixes for y'all), pink post-its, two glue sticks, some serious heavy-ass-gouge-a-motherfucker's-lung-out-metal scissors. a "while you were out" phone message book, complete with yellow carbon copy pages.

did i mention software?

the crunch-crunch of the carbon copy brings me back to the days of soap erasers and blue xerox "ditto paper" that got you a little bit high if you sniffed it hard enough.

you best believe i was sniffing with all my might, party people.


wah lee

whatthe?...don't fool yourself, it's a big country out there...there are many, many blogcrews to do battle with...

i close my eyes and imagine suburbia's blue streetlight glow. row after row of flat brown rooftops. perfect green lawns symbolizing the bless'd wholesomeness of space and lo-density safety.

cars.

the risen lord.

belgium is the size of new jersey, for example.

I've had a strange sick feeling in my gut ever since "we touched the ground at JFK".

angel of harlem

my country tis of thee.



slower



raymitheminx.com is not the answer. and it is not the question. it is what i wanted and what i started, the best way i knew how. the internet is the answer. ray mi the min x . com.

Back in the USSR...

...boy...

you don't know how lucky you are...BOY



thisisamagazine...because everybody wants a shadylane

i light a smoke and lean back in a heavy morning gospel chair. i haven't slept yet. when you go this long without sleep you become afraid of the sudden drop.

the bellyflop into the abyss.

i'd rather space out to the beat of life's knock in my wrists.

cha-chum, cha-chum, cha-chum

gears switch, hydraulics hiss

greased with ancient residue, I'm my parent's genetic wish

half-granted, half-mistake

with fine-tuned migration instincts like a fish...

the blue waves of the harlem river are in freeze-frame, thick like icing on the cake.

(when things switch, I chop a new niche)

thankyoujamie

the gray light is different. it glows with an inner bling. a new york thing.

The Real Ish

Motherfucker Brit undercover store detective sheizzerkopfs (or whatever the word for ‘shithead’ is in German—if it’s one thing the Germans have a handle on, it’s shit). Two days left in this dried up twat of a country (bejewled isle, yeah right—England can kiss my euro fannypack) and I get tapped for shoplifting. At pansy ass Self-ish-ridges of all places, that avenue-thick, three block long fortress of a department store nightmare, where, incidentally, I once had a breakdown on the escalator trying to get to the subterranean luggage dept. Will someone please tell me when, oh, when will I learn to avoid the scene of the crime? Vibes, karma, I don’t know what it is--some places are just bad news and there t’ain’t no amount of time or greenbacks that’s going to change it. But here’s the rub-a-dub, party people: I got tapped and brought down to the in-store clink (metal tables, cloth handcuffs, psych ward style) even though I didn’t take shit (sheizzer). For real, honest-to-goodness, I swear on my biz class (you know how we do) plane ticket to NYC. All I did was peel off a hologram sticker from the lid of a New Era cap (BoSox, whatimsayin) to replace the one that fell off my recently PURCHASED (OK, not from Selfridges, but the point is I BOUGHT IT) throwback Detroit Tigers cap. What’s the point of rocking a brand new hat if it’s missing the sticker? I thought I could hold off until I got to NYC, but when I got high last night that bare ass lid looked back at me in the mirror, bringing tears of shame to my eyes, so that I had to say “enough”.

Party people, you know how it is. Sometimes you just gotta say “enough”.

They pulled the sticker out of my sweaty palm. They brought me swiftly downstairs and put me through the paces. They called me by the name in my passport. They claimed to have no understanding as to why I might want to take a sticker but not the hat.

“Look,” I said, “I’m willing to buy the sticker. How much does it cost, 50p?”

The undercover frowned. He rubbed his chin and narrowed his eyes.

“The point is not the cost.”

His partner scrawled something on a sheet of paper and placed it in a folder.

“The point we're concerned with,” he said, his South London accent infused with all sorts of moviecop bullshit, “is how you're going to pay for it.”

kevyn malone

1998: The three of us walk into the casino at Baden Baden, deep with the shades and long white cigarettes. “More Reservoir than Tarantino,” remarks Sterling, who’s looking dapper in her dark green, Dries Van Noten suit. I nod and flip back my hair. Fitz hands us each a wad of bills. I’m playing the part of The Gambler in my suave ass Vivienne Westwood, sporting my sling back heels and black lace tights hand woven into intricate pornographic patterns that run along the inside of my thighs. Outside it’s hot and bright and humid from all the water shooting into the air from the famous Baden-Baden spas, but inside the casino it’s cool and dry like a museum. Everything echoes against the marble floors and walls. The place is nearly empty. We saddle up to the glistening bar and slouch under the lights. I feel like an international criminal on the run. Fitz tells the bartender to bring us a bottle of champagne. He and I touch glasses and then tap Sterling’s, which is still on the bar. “Cheers, Dears,” she mumbles, and hovers over the top of the drink like a hummingbird. After the first sip her hand is steady enough to pick up the glass.

We head for the floor, feet sinking into the ancient red carpet that’s soaked through with a million conversations and exhalations, as well as microscopic bits of hair and skin and sweat. Fitz is the only one whose German is good enough for Poker. Sterling and I lose a few hands of Black Jack before moving over to the Roulette wheels. I’m transfixed by the old fashioned-ness, the spinning, creaking wood sighing reluctantly as the greased metal gears send it whirling. There are no blinking lights, computer soundtracks or hysterically ringing sirens, just a red faced attendant guy wearing black pants, a white shirt and an ill fitting black jacket. There a green casino insignia on the front pocket, the same one that graced the corners of the thick white cocktail napkins. He nods his head in an exaggerated, coked-up kind of way. When he hands me a stack of chips I notice that his fingernails are chewed down to the nub.

Time passes but we have no awareness of it, as the only windows in the casino are tiny portals just beneath the ceiling.

“Leaded glass,” Sterling reports, while she plays hopscotch with the patterns on the floor.

“What little light there is has gone green,” she says as a waiter serves her a martini from a silver tray. He addresses her as “Sir”.

“I feel like I’m in a New Order video,” she said, before berating the waiter for having run out of olives.

We throw our last Deutsche Marks on the wheel and stagger off to find Fitz. We wander around and around, getting hard looks from little old men as we drunkenly call out his name. I stop Sterling from going off on one of them, and we proceed to have one of our terrible fights, in which each accuses the other of being a fake and a liar. We pull out all the stops, using every name in the book, spitting on the floor and pulling at our hair, insane with emotion and alcohol. Finally, we end up in a bathroom stall, where Sterling digs out her works from her suit jacket and we shoot up and fall against the partition, sweating and laughing. The towel lady freaks out. She yells something at us in German and then we hear her scurry out the door.

I slide all the way to the floor and sit slumped against the toilet. My legs are spread and my skirt’s hiked all the way up to my crotch.

Sterling hands me a cigarette that’s already lit.

“We need to boogie,” I say through numb lips.

“I wish we could stay here forever,” Sterling says, dreamily.

“Bitch is getting her boss,” I say.

“We could exist, timeless, forever…you and me.”

I squint up at her. She’s calm and in control, the H having set her straight.

“God, Sterling, we’ve been through this. You’re a girl.”

“What if I became a boy for you?”

“A what?”

“You know, I was thinking. I’ll get an operation.”

“You’re on drugs.”

“I’ll get off drugs.”

“I like you as you are, c’mon what is this shit?”

“But I want you to like me more.”

“Sterrrrrr-ling,” I sing. It’s a song that she knows.

“No, TRUE, I’m serious. I want to be with you.”

“Sterrrrr-ling Fasssssssssss-bin-da.”

“TRUE, please.”

“You don’t really want to be a boy.”

“I’m willing to do what it takes.”

“No, I can’t get over it.”

“Maybe not at first, but you could train yourself to think of me as a… I don’t know, as your husband. Why the fuck not?”

“Flesh, Sterling. Flesh doesn’t lie. It’s irreducible. It’s the point where there can be no metaphor.”

“But I’ll get an operation.”

“But you’ll always be a girl and so will I.”

“Couldn’t you pretend?”

“Pretend……?” I close my eyes and see the roulette wheels, spinning off into infinity. I feel the Casino’s marble arches pressing down on me from above. It's a cool, smooth weight.

“No, I can’t pretend,” I reach up and push the hair out of her eyes.

“But it’s nice of you to think that I could.”


therealkidgod

Kid God says:
people take everything too seriously
Kid God says:
life's a game
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
mmmm
Kid God says:
waste of time to take it for real
Kid God says:
think of devo
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
it's real though
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
flesh is real
Kid God says:
sometimes
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
always for me
Kid God says:
i have a friendship like you and sterling
Kid God says:
it freaks me out to read about you guys
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
it's hard to say what are friendship is like
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
our
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
why
Kid God says:
just strange whan you see yerself somewhere alse like situations you can identify with but aren't affected by
Kid God says:
holy typos
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
who do you identify with...
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
sterling or myself
Kid God says:
both really
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
ha
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
we are like night and day
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
she
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
she's always on the verge of letting me down
Kid God says:
evryone has a bit of night and day in them. maybe jus cuz i'm gemini
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
twins
Kid God says:
no no
Kid God says:
she loves you
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
oh, i don't know about that
Kid God says:
whatev, just from what i read
Kid God says:
hard to decipher sometimes
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
anyway, if i ever had children they'd proably be twins
Kid God says:
twins are creepy
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
i know
Kid God says:
like the shining
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
oh, yeah, and start figuring out a way to nyc
Kid God says:
my friends are recording out there
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
i'll be there in a week and a half
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
who
Kid God says:
are you stoked?
Kid God says:
the stills
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
stoked?
Kid God says:
happy
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
i know what it means, but i don't think i've ever been it…
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
I’m not stoked, I’m stoned.
Kid God says:
c'mon
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
dethroned
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
a-lone
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
ingrown
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
ha
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
no, i'm ready to be back in the saddle
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
seriously, there's no where like nyc
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
for getting shit DONE
Kid God says:
what do you do in NYC
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
work
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
i'm an american, after all
Kid God says:
oh yes
Kid God says:
i won't hold it against you
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
o yeah
Kid God says:
for long
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
it's not a pro or con
Kid God says:
isn't it?
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
america is just like any other country, really
Kid God says:
i know
Kid God says:
i been to vegas
Kid God says:
ha
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
i suck at gambling
yerbluetoy@hotmail.com says:
it makes me way too excited…

Dearest Jules,

If you’re reading this, then congratulations, you successfully decrypted my message:

Q: Why did the chicken cross the road?

A: To die alone and in the rain.

Feel free to look around, to dissect, to judge…there are three of us here.

Myself, Sterling Fassbinder and Fitzcarraldo.

(Three’s the magic number)

And you thought I was writing a novel, you poor pretentious fuck.


aurore

no sleep till brooklyn...

i'd never noticed how festive disco is. the 70s are often portrayed as this bleak, depressing time, and sure, there was the oil shit and vietnam and the black panthers getting assasinated but you've got pretty much the same thing nowadays. we've got the big cars, just like they did. what we don't have is a sexual revolution and lady snow parties and the birth of hip-hop. mean streets. bruce lee.

the way the economy is going, it's going to be tough to stay straight in the states. i've got to have a plan. mama's not seeing a nine to five.

blegging, anyone?

actually, i have nothing against these folks. i'm not above the scramble: just not for fives or tens--that's not worth my time.

a plan, i need a plan

(first we take manhattan)

i've got my mind on my money and my money on my mind

(then we take berlin)

what about blogshares? is that the next evolution? like david bowie issuing stock in his...

(what? person? fame? talent?)

america needs more disposable heroes. more reality TV. more organic chocolate and pink icing endings. more extreme close-ups, more tears and humiliation. more pimple constellation foreheads. more upright make-up coated muscle racks.

america eats its young but not before its young eat america

blogs are a crop that will be harvested.

tell me, party people

do you feel yourself being blindfolded

as you line up for your rapid fire fifteen minutes?

do you love plastic idols like i do?



tell me,

are you also sliding across the surface of things?


pieceoblog

Home. The street where I grew up. Jersey baby, that's right. I took this picture two years ago and have carried it around ever since. It's a little bent and there's a faint yellow stain over the tree on the right where I touched it with a greasy fingertip. Anyway, the bright, undented speed limit sign's a replacement. By now, it's probably a replacement of the replacement. We used it's predecessor for target practice, hitting that cool-ass whap-bing! high note with rocks and snowballs packed so tight and thrown so hard that when they hit, they didn't stick to the sign like scoops of ice cream but instead ricocheted off it whole, leaving behind only the barest snow kiss. Baseballs, green beer bottles--anything we could find, until one day, Mark Dubeke from down the block came over and tossed an M-80 at that bitch, leaving a fuming hole the exact size of my open mouth in the center. I'll never forget the whizz of the plastic casing as it shot past my ear. My mother heard the explosion and came running outside, bare foot and smoking. She grabbed Mark by his skinny ass arm.

"What are you doing? Just what the hell were you thinking?" Her voice sounded strange over the ringing in my ears.

"Sorry," Mark said, looking at the ground through his hanging yellow bangs. His family was trash. His mother threw dinner plates at his drunk father, and his older brother Chuck smoked j's on the rooftop, listening to Ozzy. Chuck worked at A&P, walking the aisles with a pricing gun sticking out of one pocket of his super tight jeans and a comb sticking out of the other. He was a total waster who would end up kicking the bucket at 22 when he stupidly shot an air bubble into one of his veins. Mark was the worst, though. He wasn't just a fuck-up--there was something about him--a light missing from his eyes or some shit like that. There was a steadiness of movement and a singleminded nature to his actions that was somehow unnerving. I doubt he ever hesitated for a second over any of the fucked up shit that he did, even years later when he took to lighting parked cars and condos on fire.

He wore army surplus and his brother's old heavy metal t-shirts. He smoked cigarettes and lit firecrackers. I remember him on Fourth of July's, shirtless, his smooth back awash in the flickering yellow light of sparkler glow. "He's so skinny," my mother liked to say. "Look, you can count every rib."

We often saw him leaning against idling, backfiring cars, flirting and getting his cigarette lit. Meanwhile, he treated us younger kids in the neighborhood like we weren't really there while we followed him around at a safe distance. Or so we thought before the cherry bomb. My mother made the five or six of us who were present line up along the curb. I remember BJ and David were crying. With her hand still firmly encircling his upper arm, my mother made Mark go down the line and tell us he was sorry, one by one. I didn't know which was more shocking: her actions or the fact that he was going along with them. Usually, he could care less what my mother said. It felt like church: I remember being barely able to look him in his eyes. They were yellow, like his hair.

Like a tiger.

When he finished his apologies, my mother made him pick up the plastic shrapnel that was scattered across the street. I can still see her standing there, keeping watch over him while she raised her hands slowly, as if in a dream, and lit a new cigarette off her old one. Her toes curled over the edge of the smooth white curb and her shadow stretched out behind her like a skyscraper.

anti4ever

It's rare that I ever experience true desire. The full-blown, feel your heart beat in your throat kind of wanting. Lust for me is an itch and sex is a way of getting it scratched.

I don't itch very often--not in the spots that can be reached, at any rate.

I like to look. I like the things that stand out about people--their hair and their scars, their cleavage and their shoes. I appreciate the effort that certain individuals put into the way they look. I find nothing wrong with anyone who spends a lot of time in front of the mirror. It's just another way of filling up the hours in between eating and sleeping.

(i wouldn't mind becoming a little more vain, as I waste a lot of time standing around, doing compulsive pocket checks and farting like a dog)

The other night I found myself in a crowded club, cigarette between my lips as I scanned the room for buisness ops. Meanwhile, I let men buy me drinks and talk into my ear. One of them put his large, hairy hand over mine and asked what a sweet american girl like me was doing out all alone in big bad london town.

I moved my hand and took a sip of my drink. I told him truth be told I was shopping in a pet store, hoping against hope to find a certain rare breed of animal in one of the cages.


stereolabrat

via

new fire resistant treacher

(I'll have to remember to change his link on the prop list. Not tonight, though. I don't fuck with the template when I'm PMSing.)