1.13.2005

Slow Learner



i've got all these ideas--i've got all these ideas that im tryin to get out as fast as i can but the ideas are like white caps on black waves, just a flash and then they're gone...and i feel slow and tired, like that story u told us about going fishing with a bunch of guy-guys after drinking all nite and gittin no sleep and then heading out to sea, at first feeling vaguely romantic about the cold and the darkness but then the sun came out and the guy-guys started throwing chum over the side and setting up the lines and u felt sick from the heat and the smell of the bait and the sway of the boat. everywhere u looked were slippery guts. u rested yr head on yr arms and got a sunburn on one side of yr face. finally, after zero action on the lines, yrs got a tug, and for the next two hours u wrestled with the line and the thing at the end of it that had much more invested in the outcome of the battle than u, but still u struggled stubbornly on...wondering why u continued to care as the work got harder and harder and u were sweating and wanting to puke but in the end u managed to pull the enormous dark shape of the fish out of the water and hoist it aboard where one of the guy-guys took it upon himself to grab hold of the beast, take out a gun and unceremoniously bust a pill in its lid...smearing its perfectly evolved head across the deck and ensuring that the prize u fought so hard for could never be mounted and admired...

that's what writing is like for me: each word is a fish and the guy-guy with the gun is time.




brooklynzon


whitey





1.11.2005

i want a casket made out of pop music and i want it painted black.

it might seem like im so out of touch and like i dont give a fuck, but really im right there with you guys...you cyberspace people.

whatever happens directly to one person happens indirectly to everyone else.

in my dreams about the waves i am standing on the beach and the sky is just like the sky in a super 8 flick.

sometimes there are gulls overhead

sometimes my shoulder hurts like it does in real life

(like it does online?)



tintin. sterling has her hair like that, btw.



timdot.



tim-like.



timtam.



meningitis


1.09.2005

i like when u take it out.


1.06.2005

Lookin at my hands today

Looked to me like they're made of ivory.

Had a funny call today.

Someone died and someone married...

You know it seems to be my fancy

To make it with Frank and Nancy,

(when)

Over the bridge we go

Lookin for love.

Over the bridge we go

Lookin for love...


--"New Age", The Velvet Underground




...but what i also meant to say in the last post--just give. k? give. give and give and give and give and give and give and give and never stop and u can never go wrong and i promise we'll change the world.






humpmonster.




1.05.2005

jesus christ had an anti-theft device on his MIND.




i think i've been getting mad traffic off this pic. since i don't have a sitemeter, there's no way to know fer sure, but lil blog babies from all over the world have been dropping me lines telling me how much they liked it and asking how i did it and if it was photoshopped, etc, etc. well, i gotta confess...it's not my pic. sterling posted it on mrtt and included the link to the website hamandcheez, where it came from. i don't know anything about it, but my guess is that it was not photoshopped...u could prolly make something like this by cutting out a pattern of holes in a piece of black construction paper and sticking the little xmas lights in them. but be careful-- fuckin around with arts and crafts can take up a lot of valuable time that u could otherwise be wasting...

it's much faster to rip shit off, cut and paste style.

like the overly repetitious, drug-addled choruses to random sixties songs:

jesus is just alright by me

jesus is just alright.

jesus is just alright by me

jesus is just alright...


cuz u know what...he IS alright by me. jesus. as a dude...the jewish dionysius, half-man, half-amazin--public enemy number ONE with his dreads and his chilled-out demeanor and his bad-ass pierced wrists. he didn't sit with the conservative religious jerks who wagged their horny fingers at everyone else and fronted like their shit didn't stink...nah. jesus was fer reals. he hung with the hookers and the tax collectors and the three time losers and when he rolled up to the spot he came CORRECT with the wine, the fish, the multi-grain bread...jesus was bout it. he and his gang of friendless wanderers traveled the countryside, telling whoever would listen about the power of love...real, unselfish love, the kind u give without expecting any back...and by "not expecting" jesus meant REALLY not expecting, i.e., not just TELLING yrself not to expect anything back. same with charity...don't give yr time or yr money if yr secretly hoping to get that "im a good person" buzz off it. cuz yr never really good. even in yr good moments, all the dirty deeds u did are piled around u like empty album covers that u can no longer find the records for.

jesus was not a christian. the dude im talkin bout had nothin whatsoever to do with that religion shit.

that's just one more thing they pinned on him, after the fact.

i'll tell ya somethin: sometimes i try to pray to jesus. i'm never sure what i should say, though. i hardly feel like i'm in a position to ask for anything--it's kinda like what would happen to me back in the day, when i used to play ouija board. once i'd finally convinced someone to get into the closet with me and sit cross legged and CONCENTRATE i'd discover that i didn't have a thought in my head about what i should ask and i'd instead spend my time fidgeting around and staring at the other person and inspecting my nails and the shape of my thighs as i sat indian style.

sometimes i'll try to pray, get distracted and ferget all about it.

then i find myself apologizing, which is pretty lame, if you think about it.

apologizing to god. ha.

so mostly i just ask for help, over and over...

not for anything specific, just help, in general.

lots of it.

like, you know, a double shot.

to-go.


(thank-u, drive-thru!)


amen.





12.28.2004

blog factory

there's the kind of tragedy that begins with a seemingly insignficant detail that is overlooked...the letter left unopened, the phone call unreturned, the cigarette not put out, the dog that is forgotten to be fed...that's why i totally sweat the small stuff. cuz it's the little things that have snuck up on me in the past and im not lettin that shit happen again.

when i look back a lot of the time all i can say is, 'damn, i shoulda seen it comin!'

fucking hell i'd love to have a snappy site. y'know...lots of short, witty posts about the government and my big toe.

i'd ask questions and people would answer them in the comments.

last year at this time is when i took the hinges off and thought about shuttin down the blog but instead just came out to y'all as the liar/fiction writer that i was/am and then kept paddling along, upstream style.

it's all about hard work, i told myself. get rid of your romanticized views of art and put in the hours.

the long, lonely hours, in which i reconfigure my life with words.

an act which is both the power and the glory

as well as the shit and the hole.

sometimes, when it's late in the evening and everyone's out and about,
i tell myself im sick of nearly drowning and never getting anywhere.

im tired of living as a prince among thieves and a pauper among the princes.

...and yet it's my own ego which has brought me here.

(halos were found at the landing site)



i can't believe all those people were killed by the waves,

although when i saw the headlines on monday morning i didn't feel shocked--

merely loose.

loose and alive as i walked down the avenue in my boots like it was the end of the world.









12.26.2004

trembling blue stars



i dont wanna write or think or watch tv or talk to anyone or read or clean or anything. im just gonna smoke some xmas trees and think of u and also the pickup i want to buy.

i like making my own private summertime, with the heat turned up ridiculously high so even with my drafty ass windows i can run around in a tanktop. i can blast music and lift weights. i can pretend that the sun shining thru the skylight is the sun shining thru my sunglasses on the beach.



i've put the music on shuffle and it's all soul and eurofag, one-for-one, for what seems like hours, in a defiantly never-ending routine, kinda like a girl going forever on double dutch.

i know it's gonna mess up somewhere, ya know it'll be a country song or hip-hop, or

oh wait. here it is--sonic youth.

how suiting that they are the break in the chain.

tonite im wearing a black glove on my right hand like sterling.

im imagining that im her

with her missing fingers and her tragic past

the several different versions of herself that were unceremoniously killed off

one after another,

chopped down like trees

then strung up like corpses.



i drank all nite

my sunglasses were broken on the kitchen table

there were lighters and drug baggies

and a pan covered with burnt egg..

i looked straight into her eyes for the first time in months.

"oh," she said, as though i'd touched her.

she held my shaky gaze as i imagine she'd hold my hand

if i ever let her...


while i looked, something gave in her eyes,

something i hadn't expected to see.



"what's going to happen, TRUE?" she asked, in that high-pitched, sing-song voice of hers.

"what's going to happen with all these blogs and all these ideas we keep coming up with?"

"i don't know," i said.

i looked up into the hair that covered my eyes.

"i mean, i think i know but then it's one thing to know and another thing entirely to DO. to make HAPPEN."

i took out a blue ball point pen and wrote the many across my hand, for no good reason.

"but you wanna hear somethin?" i said, while i still had her attention.

"ok, sure, " she said.

"lookin in yr eyes just now felt like steppin thru a broken window."

"well!" she said, taking her toothpick out to laugh.

"stepping inside from outside or outside from inside?"

"outside from inside," i said.

"ok, i guess that's pretty cool," she said, with apparent satisfaction.






12.22.2004

sometimes i cant look u in the eyes cuz mine r somewhere else.



in the winter before they were destroyed i had a recurring dream about the twin towers in which i looked up at the them from the end of a street in brooklyn and watched as a piece of the sky opened and silver sparkles cascaded down like fairy dust. at this point in the dream something very strange and very meta would always happen--i'd actually think to myself while still dreaming: "this feels like a dream or a movie. i wish i had a camera."

then it would end and id be onto the next dream or dark nothingness or whatever. i didn't get too hung up on them. maybe if they were the only recurring dreams i had...but in comparison to some of the other things broadcasting in my head, these twin tower dreams were small potatoes.

they reminded me of a hologram--a beautiful, glowing picture that you tilt slightly in order to make something happen.

i walked that street--the street of the dream--every day on my way to the train. that winter i was still on the morning shift. i'd head out when the sun was coming up. the light hung over the avenue like orange laserbeams. i passed the corner where the mexicans dudes gathered in their dusty jeans to wait for work, and the row of warehouses where behind one of those brightly painted sliding doors, a drummer banged out some serious rock n' roll solos. i passed the drunks in front of the bodega and the kids smoking the first j of the day beside the towering pile of reappropriated aluminum. i passed the immense chainlink fence of the mechanics yard, with its rusted chassis and fierce-ass doberman/rottweiler mix guard dogs. they followed me with their suspicious eyes, but had given up on the ferocious barking/shaking the fence routine, as it failed to get a rise out of me.

if at any point on the street i paused and looked up, there'd they'd be, rising up over the treetops of the park just ahead...night watchmen keeping eye on all of us and the dirty going-ons in this dirty, broken ashtray smudge of northern brooklyn.

no wonder i dreamed of them...freud said that when all is said and done most of what we dream about comes from the everyday.

just as i dully repeated what i did, day after day, the dream of the sparkles repeated itself, nite after nite...

in some ways it made perfect sense, yet the meaning for its repetition...the insistence it had in making sure it was dreamt every nite...this didn't seem to have any explanation.

then, one freezing, grey morning in which everything glowed like it was lit from within, i trudged down that street, with the broken bottles everywhere and the wind carrying around the stench of truck exhaust and black plastic bags flyin through the air like wasted wishes...i had my head down and my scarf over my face, when all of a sudden i was gripped with a need to look up. i stuck my face into the arctic blast and blinked up at the towers...and there i saw, a single bright patch of sky open above them. i stopped--stunned. for it was just like the dream...

i watched as the first powdery snowflakes of the storm fluttered down from the break in the sky...

they floated, like falling angels or bits of confetti over the tops of the towers.

and just as in the dream i wished i had a camera, although i knew there was no way anyone could take a picture that would capture the sense of scale or space...

the flakes kept falling, more and more, faster and faster, but it wasn't until i was halfway across the playing fields of mccarren park that they started falling around me.

i felt honored, blessed even as i joined the crowd of hipsters and wannabes on bedford avenue.

i never had the dream again.





unrattleable








12.20.2004



when u cant sleep, u miss out on more than a few z's. u miss out on the little moments happening all around u. u feel wiped out, not quite in sync with yr friends and family. if yr not getting a full night's sleep, talk to yr dr about AMBIEN--the #1 prescribed sleep aid in amerikkka for more than 6 years. AMBIEN, taken at bedtime, helps u fall asleep faaaaaast, stay asleep loooooonger, and wake in the mornin rested, not strung out. talk to yr dr about AMBIEN. or call 1-800-PP5-DO-DO.






12.16.2004

BIG BAD.



u wouldn't know it by looking at me but beneath this cool veneer i feel so amped up, brimming over with emotions...like a sad pop song played on fuzzy guitar or a punchbowl from a dead relative that u can't bare to fill with anything except whatever happens to land in there by accident--melted birthday candles, a rusty bottle opener with a cracked handle, a spare set of keys--bills you don't plan on ever opening...


bear bair bare

i want to straddle u

undo yr belt and pull down yr pants

and do u while yr dancing in la-la land with me...

i see a starscape in yr eyes

as it rises over the city...

i see the flickering shadows

cast by the sad stories

that other people trust u with...

i've decided that water is the cure for everything before it starts

like this tickle in my lungs. im gonna flood that shit out.

hey 'green loogie' would be a cool name for a kid's punk band...

like the kind that would be on a sitcom episode. silver spoons or some 80s wildly capitalistic shit like that.

those reagan years were dark days. i was too young to get the details but i got the vibe.

these days are darker.




yes, i'm aware that writing like this

with these broken-up sentences and these extra spaces between the lines does not constitute poetry.

i just like the way it looks.

but going deeper, i write like this cuz i'm constantly tracing the arc of my own thought patterns...which directly effects my ability/disability to type.

in other words i get sick of what im doing so i hit space

either that or im excited for what's next and hit space to get closer to it.

plus i like it to look like lyrics

especially the kind written by someone whose attention span

was clipped short by endless hours of mtv at an early age

(cuz u know im secretly a rock star)





anyways i gotta give it up to my big bad boy, anti. i got my boring blook from hell last friday and it's the sheeeet, mahn. it looks so, so good. of course i'd already read everything in it when it was first online but it looks amazing to see it in print. the layout and everything. there's a big b&w pic of my boy on the back cover (nice stubble) and on the cover a super-duper close-up, over-saturated pic of a fat ass hit. on the binding (which is very professional and not at all cheap and falling apart like i thought it would be) it says 'a stoner's blog turned hardcopy'.

i really like how the blog url is nowhere to be seen. nor are there credits or thank-us or a title page for that matter. or a fuckin, 'about the author' wank-off page. page one is a post, the last page is a post...they're headed by a date--no pix. just text, one post after another...it totally reads like a real book--only better, cuz anti can actually write.

i gave the book to a chick who really hates reading things on a computer screen and has therefore spent little to no time reading blogs. but she's read like, everything else in the world...in several languages. hey, she said, after thumbing through a couple pages, i like this guy. then she proceeded to read several of his posts out loud in her german accent.

lemme tell ya i got such major kicks out of that.

i sat there on the edge of my bed listening with my head cocked. it was a pretty wild experience--i was hearing the words of one friend through the voice of another. both of whom happen to be smart and funny and highly-observant as well as cynical and uncertain and confident, all at the same time.

it occured to me--it's not about country or creed...it's about being a certain kind of person...

damn, i thought. maybe there's a fabulous future in store for all of us afer all?

maybe it's really going to happen.

...all this from something called a blook. jamie and i were wondering about how it was going to look and what one could do with their blog as a book that they could hold in their hands. we didn't come to any conclusions, but agreed that it would be cool just to have it, and we were both excited to get a copy of anti's. jamie said he was waiting to order it until he could work out a plan so that anti could sign it. oh yeah, i said, cuz of course i want him to write something in my copy as well. but i placed my order when that shit was still 17.27. werd to the nerds.

so i guess i just have to go out to LA and get that shit signed in person.

whaddya say annnnnnnni?

as'd ifhsdfia'

(man i'll tell u im just in a state of flux right now...it's not good and it's not bad, just like in the song. it's just dense, yo...and complicated. i mean, it's deep when this blog feels like an anchor in the silvery swimmmmmmming sea)

life's rich pageant.

rockwitit.




peace.











12.15.2004

idle hands are the devil's playthings.

the devil's playthings are the devil's playthings...






12.10.2004

"falsegirl"



trueboy


i'll be yr mirror

i'll be yr plastic toy...



u be my blog.






tony pierce





12.05.2004




i think that if i ever get rich and famous i'll still do my own laundry.


for a while i dropped it off with this lady, then i had her coming over and cleaning up after me too.

talk about losing perspective...

she'd come over at 8AM to find me doing lines off the kitchen table, eating doritos and drinking heineken as i counted the money i'd made the night before.

i liked to take each bill and press all the creases out of it before placing it neatly on the appropriate pile.

the cleaning lady would stand in the middle of the room with her coat on and stare at me as i haphazardly and unsuccessfully tried to cover up what i was doing. she listened as i went on about how i was "extremely concerned" about the birdshit splattered across the bedroom windows. and the grout in between the bathroom tiles...what could be done to get that to be a perfect white--not an off-white or almost white, but a pearly, heaven-sent white? she nodded and looked down at the floor while i spoke. i really could care less about any of those things but i thought that by taking a tone i might seem like a together kinda gal and less like the fraudulent waster that i was.

when i was done talking she nodded her head and got straight to work. it turned out she could really care less too.

the one person she hated, though, was fitz. it started right away, the first time she saw him she made tisking sounds under her breath as he flamed-out about something. she made us coffee and practically shoved the cup at him.

"hello?" he called out, his voice syrupy-sweet.

"may i have cream instead of milk for my coffee? i believe there's some on the door of the fridge...could you bring it to me, por favor?"

"i am not spanish," the woman said, clearly offended.

"my language is arabic," she said, shaking with anger.

"oh yeah?" fitz said, narrowing his eyes.

"well you're in new york now, sweetheart. you'd better hurry up and learn spanish."





mcdonald's in canada.





12.03.2004




My edges might be raw and bleeding but deep down in my tootsie roll center im rather old fashioned.

Sex means something to me. So does friendship.

My definition of sex is a shared activity between two or more people during which at least one of them cums.

(it's similar to my definition of soda which is something that fizzes when u shake it.)

My definition of friendship is when i decide for someone.

That means that no matter what i'll keep all their secrets and get their back in a fight, and i won't hate them if they get piss drunk and break into my apartment when im asleep and secretly take a piss in the bathroom sink.

it means i'll give them money for a ticket to seattle even though i think it's a bad idea.

it means that when the food comes i won't slap their hand away if they reach for something on my plate

"help yrself," i'll say to them.

(and cuz we're friends i won't even have to say it out LOUD)

it means i'll keep silent and won't ruin the ending for them...

it means that just one minute in their arms is enough


it means that no distance is too far.

i can walk down that road forever...





11.30.2004

The song is real but the group is not.



F-1 b/w Pirelli
1/00
Villeneuve
Paris, France


We wrote this song for a scene in a movie called Sterling Fassbinder. In the scene, a girl named Nora speeds down an American highway in a red Ford Mustang with the top down, blasting Serge Gainsbourg's song of the same name out of a boombox stuck to the dashboard with ducktape. Nora smokes Gitanes and can barely sit still enough to drive. She is the very zenith of dyke style with her freshly washed, dazzling white wifebeater, grey suit trousers, and oversized Tag Heur watch that hangs loosely from her slender wrist. On her face are Cutler & Cross tortoise shell shades with burnt umber lenses that keep her world in perpetual sunset. Her greasy dark blond hair blows all over the place: she is the European playing the part of the classic American drifter. The wind makes her nipples hard. They seem disproportionately large in comparison to her small, hard breasts. F-1 starts playing when Nora pulls over to pick up a girl who will turn out to be Sterling Fassbinder. She is waiting there, in the middle of nowhere with an army green duffel bag--a sleepy, sad boy-dyke under a wide screen expanse of late morning blue sky patched-up with big, fluffy clouds. When they meet everything else becomes interchangeable...they could be on any highway, on any country, on any planet...it wouldn't matter. The stark inevitability of the fuck strips it of all romanticism, leaving behind the hard kernal of animal lust. Nora's broken and heavily (German) accented English is punctuated by bouts of giddy, hysterical laughter. She is trying to explain how she feels like a man with a man's desires and then a woman and then a man again. Not too different from this song, I think."





11.28.2004

Dear {insert friend's name here},



i made this iMix 4 u:

belle and Sebastian “i fought in a war”…here’s a mix i made to explain to you where i’m at in this post-9/11 and post-fraudulent historical moment. this long, Night of the Living Un-Ironic that we’ve been suffering through. by putting this song on first, i’m layin out the hope that this highly idealistic and slightly introspective collection of tunes can cut thru the bullshit and give it to you the way it really feels, so u know how i’ve been shakin thru my days and have been too busy fighting the windmills of my mind to call or drop u a line...

straight up, tho--i’m a huge belle and Sebastian fan. gotta love a bunch of pasty, thirty-something scots who write songs from the perspectives of lonely teenagers. i saw them when they played prospect park last year. i bought a tea towel with the band’s name on it. it’s a map of Scotland with icons depicting the major industries in each area. it’s the kind of thing you’d find in a school textbook, which is probably where they got it from...lots of bottles with a W on them and black cows lying down in patches of grass…

massive attack “unfinished sympathy”....this song is totally off-the-hook dramatic—it’s the perfect mix of house melody and hip-hop beats. the toy piano kills me every time…this song always takes me back to the damp, dark year that i lived in england. i used to bring down the house with this when i djed around oxford. i think this group is one of the coolest that ever came out of that country. they’ve got that deep voiced, leather pant swagger like the animals, or the rolling stones in the late sixties, when they danced around on drugs with their shirts open and their skinny white chests out for all the world to see. incidentally, during the gulf war the bbc banned massive attack records because of their name. “You’re the book that I have opened, and now I need to know much more”--it’s crazy that years later the lyrics are more relevant to me than they ever were.

mix master mike “fur coat”… this guy’s on my top ten djs of all time list. absolutely. i so totally sweat how he incorporates his own distinctive style to everything he does—that lurching psych-rock, skate-punk, orange soda, drive-thru movie thang. the way he switches back and forth between beats is hypnotic. mix master mike is from the California in MY MIND. i don’t know if he really is from out there, but his shit’s the very ESSENCE of what i fantasize the west coast to be about. i’ve said it before—sometimes i feel like my future lies out there…i’ll make a new start, with a new name…btw, this is about the point in the mix when you spark up the american beauty, if you haven’t already. ya know—catch a fire, bun a dun, pass the dutchie from the left hand side…whatevs.

my bloody valentine “sometimes”…when i first heard this it was on a cassette i bought used and i thought the tape was fucked up. i was pissed, but something told me not to shut it off and by the time this song came on i realized it was supposed to sound that way. it’s funny because now, nearly ten years later, i’m still listenin to that shit and it’s beyond me to even FATHOM how i could have ever thought anything was wrong. each note sounds perfect to me—perfectly placed, executed and produced, like a miles davis track…

i don’t care who you like or what kind of music yr into--everyone should own the album loveless.

cream “badge”…in my mind, this song plays during the crucial scene in the best movie ever, which has yet to be made but includes a Buick Riviera and winding rain-coated, suburban streets, complete with blue streetlights and piles of beautiful, multicolored fake leaves in the gutter…

the song kicks in the exact second the protagonist turns off her headlights and then cuts the engine as she rolls incognito into a gravel covered parking lot, looking this way and that, straining her eyes, tryin to see if there’s anything out there…



interpol “leaf erikson”…brooklyn scenesters, but a serious cut above the rest--and they dress well. i know it’s awfully nostalgic of me, but i prefer my musicians hip. this entire album is brilliant. it was the first thing i listened to that really felt like young new york after 9/11…all that jaded longing that comes after the greatest tragedy of your time leaves you unscathed and strangely unaffected.

the rolling stones “miss you”… “i guess i’m lyin to myself…it’s just you and no one else…” man, mick jagger sounds so incredible when he sings that line…like he’s overcome with longing and he finally can’t take it anymore. he’s stopped his swagger and fallen to his knees.



the walkmen “138th street”… this song is a lament to a long lost friend, and for me, the sentiment extends also to a certain time and group of people…i went to college with these guys and their infamous ex-lead singer, who was the same year as me. back in the day they were jonathan fire*eater, and everyone who knew them knew they were going to be famous. stewart, the lead singer, was especially charismatic. he had that thing—call it a look or a cinematic glow or something. maybe it was the smack, which he couldn’t stop using. i knew some of his friends but not him, not really. they showed me the poetry he banged out on his dirty typewriter (so that the ‘e’s and ‘u’s had ink smeared in their open spaces) and i was too awestruck by what i read to say much more than, ‘hi’. for all his rock star antics, it seemed like he was shy, too—although maybe that’s just me, projecting. he wrote about johnny cash and children in huge, old cars and floating lipstick kisses and southern daughters, jesus and telephone wires…all motifs i intended to steal, as soon as i got far enough away from that school and from him. anyway, jonathan fire*eater were hard at work payin their fuckin dues, going on shitty mini-tours in a van and playing the 3AM slot at the continental, among other dives, until suddenly and unexpectedly the steven spielberg mega-label dreamworks came round and offered them a million dollar contract. they signed, accompanied by a music press hoopla that designated them as the next big thing…a year later they were broken up, the contract and their friendships were in shambles and the album that was to end all albums was only so-so. was it the hype? the money? the pressure to bring it? who knows. like i said, they weren’t my friends. i was just nearby, at the party… a face in the crowd. all i know is that stewart escaped from rehab and left the tristate area for several years, during which time the rest of the band reformed as the walkmen. i think they wrote this song about him.


elliott smith “needle in the hay”…the royal tenenbaums is a great flick and the suicide scene when this song plays is really beautifully filmed. the fact that elliott smith actually killed himself recently (by stabbing himself in the chest) adds a level of poignancy, but when all is said and done you can’t deny that it’s a great song, in and of itself.

the clash “straight to hell”… i tell this story about myself, in which i’m conceived while the clash are playing. i’ve told it so often i almost believe it myself. this was the first clash song i ever heard. to me, it always has been and always will be perfect. not even as a song anymore, but as a way of being—and i’m not talking about the trajectory of literally going straight to hell, although i guess that plays into it too: “Water froze, in the generation. Clear as winter ice. This is your paradise. There ain’t no need fer ya. (There ain’t no need fer ya.)”

earth, wind and fire “that’s the way of the world”…i bought this off an iMix by crystal method. the one dude described it as a beautiful song and it was enough for me…so you see it works, this whole selling individual tracks as parts of a whole. btw, the dude was RIGHT. the song IS beautiful.



portishead “glory box”…this group specialized in making music for films that didn’t exist. it was a bunch of dudes and this patrician looking, straight-haired lady as a lead singer, who belted out songs of love, lust and loss…there was definitely something hot about her looking so repressed and singing so slutty…there are lots of little details on a portishead track—like samples of imperfections in records, or a needle pop used as percussion…

i like when u can get lost in details, as u dream yrself the star on the big screen of yr mind…


public enemy “by the time i get to Arizona”… chuck d once said that hip-hop was a certain feeling—an expression of the angst one has at being born onto the so-called “wrong” team of life. this ‘hip-hop feeling’ wasn’t limited only to rap. according to him, nirvana was just as much hip-hop as public enemy—both groups were raw and in yr face and unapologetic. it made an impression on me, when I heard him say that, and although i agree with him about that feeling, “by the time i get to arizona” IS the kind of hip-hop track that makes you realize just how incredibly ELECTRIFYING the form can be when presented at its PUREST level. beat is for yoko ono, beat is for sonny bono, but “by the time i get to Arizona” is one of those songs that a certain segment of the population remembers exactly where they were and what they were doing when they first heard it. i was on the highway in new jersey, in the back seat of this guy’s car, stuffed like sardines with other people from my high school. it was winter, we had on puffy jackets and the windows were fogged. i remember he had a digital speedometer and the dashboard glowed blue green as he pumped this through his thousand dollar system (which was a fuck lot of money when yr 15 and broke)…i’ve always been a PE fan but DAMN. talk about music that makes yr nipples hard—how about that break down in the middle with the chorus of screaming and the dark, subterranean beats?…shit, PE’s producers weren’t called the bomb squad for nothin’…we drove thru back roads and projects, and i wrote the name i used then in big bubble letters on the window…a short while later there was the mtv video that got banned, cuz it depicted the members of the group acting out an assassination on the governor of Arizona.


crosby, stills, nash and young “ohio”…as a little girl i loved to listen to music with my father up in the attic that was his office. it was one of my favorite things to do. records, 8-track and cassettes—he had the whole set-up. he was a big fan of these four guys, but at the time i didn’t really connect with any of their music except this song. it’s an angry reaction to how the police murderously opened fire on a crowd of kent state college students protesting the vietnam war. four people were killed and others were wounded. i remember lying on my back and looking up at the wood rafters with the line, “ten soldiers and nixon coming, we’re finally on our own” turning over and over in my head…

“they were just kids,” my father said, which made me wonder, because i thought i was just a kid.

were the police going to shoot me too?

the hives “die, all right!”…nyc punk rock from sweden-- “too messed up to even mess around…we seem so alive, but when it comes to death we’re gonna die, all right! we’re gonna die! we’re gonna die! but not...right…NOW!”



nada surf “hi speed soul”…i want to “all skate” to this.

beck “paper tiger”…the story is that beck’s girl broke up with him and threw him into a soul searching depression, the result of which was this album, sea change. some people thought that he lost his game and wussed out, but i think it’s the best thing he ever did. maybe it’s because i was never a huge fan of his other stuff. that stoner, space cadet wit of his always got on my nerves-- although i did like some of the jams he put out with the dust brothers. but this is different…sea change is filled with tracks like this one, a big mural of a song, painted with bright, cinematic colors. the style recalls the 60’s pastiche of the first song of the mix--belle and Sebastian’s “i fought in a war”…which nearly brings us full circle…

that’s right. in the TRUEBOY world every ending is a beginning…especially when all u have to do is press play again…

i like the idea of making iMixes that fit on CDs, so folks can burn them for friends. there were two extra songs that weren’t in the iTunes database but are included on certain handmade hardcopies that i may get around to making, complete with one-off, painfully artsy covers.

thank-u for reading/listening.

-TRUE

email—trueboy{at}gmail{dot}com

URL-http://www.trueboy.blogspot.com



11.21.2004

BRANDTRUEBOY



what i'd REALLY like is a little carpeted storefront with a person seated at a wooden desk with a brown Formika top (the old school kind that has little, "Meet the Jetsons" designs spinning around in there) who looks like one of the three of us. perhaps they are one of us, it's hard to say...there's a gigantic neon clock on the white plaster wall and not a computer in sight. the person at the desk has a typewriter. or an adding machine. or a fashion magazine and a nail file.

or perhaps instead there's an ancient, rusted cash register that looks like something that was dragged out of the bottom of the ocean and unceremoniously dropped onto the desk. there is no way it would ever function, even if there was something in the store that one could actually buy.

there are some shirts hanging on a small metal rack, but each one of them is different and none of them look particularly NEW and besides, there aren't any tags on anything.

retro hip-hop plays from 2 huge, stark white speakerboxes that hang from the ceiling like communist intercoms.

there is a fat white phone on the Formika. it's something from the late 80s, with a long, curly cord that may or may not be tangled. occasionally it rings an incredibly jarring and ridiculous ring. the actor has to maintain a strict aura of officiousness as they answer, "Hello, BRANDTRUEBOY?"

or maybe it should be, "Hello. BRANDTRUEBOY."

or perhaps just,

"heya."

i dunno. i've still gotta work some of this shit out.

i'm especially interested in the actress who will play the part of TRUE. i think i'm gonna stop by when it's her shift, fer sere.

maybe she won't mind if i sometimes chill out there for a bit

smoking a cigarette and reading a comic book

bringing her a coffee...

(light and sweet)

and talking in familiar tones

about familiar things...

i can be THAT customer

the kind i always secretly wanted to be...the one who's in with the cool kids who work at the store

the one who gets to hang out, no questions asked, and is first in line when the free shit gets doled out.

the customer all the other customers love to hate--

that's who i want to be.


come on down to the store...u can buy some more more more...come on down to the store...u can buy some more more MORE



shit this thing keeps ringing.







jamie's coming home.


11.17.2004

this is how to blog

im wearing the same pants i wore the last time we fucked.

ohmygod u made me feel so good.

u made me want to fall fast asleep...






11.15.2004

and so we all huddled together in the room, drinking 40s and listening to palace. cat's blues--with will oldham howling, and if i could have a clue what justice is, it would be more than i deserve! and at that moment someone pulled open the closet to reveal an american flag draped over the inside of the door...our host staggered over and calmly lit the bottom corner of red and white stripes on fire with his zippo.

at first it only smoldered, but then long orange flames leapt up the flag, heading for the ceiling. everyone was yelling and smashing their beer bottles against the wall.

"I hate u hipster assholes!" i screamed, as the room swirled with orange and yellow carnival lite. no one heard me over the incessant BLEET of the smoke detector.

no one except sterling, that is.

she pressed her hands on my shoulders and whispered in my ear:

"i've got yr back."

then she grabbed my hand and led me to safety.




mouthy


11.09.2004

mama said canuck u out!



yo, i'm sorry to hear about yr heart...having had cardiological issues myself, i know you must be goin thru some shit right now. listen, tho, i found this great new product: Vegannaise. it's not made out of eggs and it has zero cholesterol and I SWEAR ON WHATEVER YA GOT that this shit tastes BETTER than most real mayonnaise. is that badge or what? Vegannaise fakes it so real it is beyond FAKE. that could be an ad! tack on the bit..."just like yr moms" and i think it might even sell in the g. hell, the first health food store opened in harlem a couple of months ago...(and by having ONE store harlem has more than in the entire state of indiana).

so you never know...

after i tried a tiny taste of Vegannaise i was like, super-psyched. plus i was high so you KNOW i slathered that shit on THICK--'happy mayo days are here again', style. it was funny though--when i took a bite, it was a little much. literally--the taste was great but i wasn't used to a sandwich being so wet.

six months ago, when the doc told me i better flip the script, i didn't really know how i was gonna manage, but now i can't even remember how half that shit tasted and i could really care less.

that's something i've been figurin on recently:

it turns out that i don't always want what i think i want, but i keep on after it anyway cuz i'm a creature of habit

i carve my name

i have to stop lecturing myself all the time and try listening instead.



anyway, my t-dot bloodclot, now that you have to lay off the sauce you and raymi should be down for whatever. she's goin dry too. oh i know it's none of my bidness, and that for all i know the two of you got beef right now, but this here is my site and it happens to be all about ME and my extended-play phantasies (i've got another site that's about me and my militia)...so if i want u and raymi to be cool, then u and raymi will be cool, and if i want my entire proplist to be living the life of rockstars without the music, than gosh darn it, i'm gonna treat each one of those bloggers on the left like they're the famous folks they deserve to be. and if i want to be a secret superhero who flies around my mind in my invisible jet and occasionally gets out to stare down the one and only wesssside batman, masked face to masked face--then i'm gonna do EXACTLY that.

there we are: pledging honor among thieves. the barest hint of a smile on each of our lips as we raise our arms and press our gilded, magic-spouting rings together.

thundercats, ho!


yeah so i hope it all works out fer ya, tyranny. incidentally, what did the doc say about puffin? mine didn't say a word, which led me to assume that i could keep on with my girlie smokes.

t-dot, t-dot

wtf is it called that, anyway?

wow. the Word spell check wants to change blogspot to bloodspot.

deep, huh?

...shit. i just read over this post.

i think i'm losing it.


11.07.2004

open yr heart to me



we went out to the intersection

and walked until the sidewalk turned dark

i looked up and saw that the cheap, plastic, ne0-modern streetlights had been smashed to bits

plunging the alley into total darkness.

this must be the place, i said, as i looked in to try and see if anyone was there.

headlights passed overhead

playing patterns on the overpass

like tiny bits of film

it's time, i said

come rain or shine

solice or swollen lips
...


cut to us making love

that's how i called it in the dream

you were on top of me and raining kisses on my cheeks

"whatever it was you said,"

you said.

and i was about to tell you i didn't understand

but i woke up instead.



11.04.2004

my idea of PHUN




mmmk.

the first thing i wanted to do was go out and incite a street riot,

but the first thing we have to do

is open our minds.



it was the internet who came out and voted, party people

it was that howard dean, smoked-out vibe

it was blogs and the daily show

it's the knowledge that even if yr the number one faggot freak

and all alone in yr shithole town,

there are places not so far away

where there are others just like you.




in the next four years it's time to build on that concept

we have to celebrate all the shit that makes us different from them

everything they'd like to pave over...

it's time to be in it for the spinach

it's time to bum rush the show

slay them with our love




(not to mention our BEATS)


all their beats, r belong to us!