i learned from VICE TV today that gay guys have a deep aversion towards cologne. they, at least the leathermen among them, prefer "the natural smell of a man." i would think you would want to cover that shit up as best as was humanly possible, but what do i know? it's news to me, as during that torturous and sexual harrassment-filled year and a half working in the gay stronghold that was the IKEA corporate office here, i'd never heard such a sentiment. you learn something new everyday, huh?
and if you're wondering what all this leatherman noise is all about, no opie, i'm not talking about your dad's handy all-in-one, multipurpose tool. it goes a little deeper than that.
there's an explanation, but that dog's gonna have to hunt.
no cushy and convenient youtube window. take it up with VICE. here's the hyphylink in case you wanna step your leatherman game up, and god only knows you do. plenty of new york leather bars, high-priced gay sex shops, erotic haircuts, hard house music, and the incomparable Baby Balls himself:
p.s. i fucks with VICE TV, especially the "Shot By Kern" episodes. basically a middle-aged scumbag who artfully cons 19 year old girls into letting him take "tasteful nude shots." and who doesn't love titties these days; they make the world go round.
leathermen i guess.
coming home the other day, i had a strong desire to listen to some Sade. particularly smooth operator, as that saxophone solo was absolutely fucking my world up and i just had to hear it. of course i forgot about it a few minutes later. i'm a firm believer in instant gratification and she isn't on my ipod.
but while perusing youtube, i stumbled upon the director's cut of the smooth operator video. you gotta love a nine minute long storyline-music vid .
for those of you who don't know, Nigerian-born Sade Adu is a renowned soul, pop, urban, and adult contemporary vocalist, noted for her soulful, smoky contralto. back when sony/columbia/epic really was epic. back when the music business was worth a damn, more than just ringtones.
now i've got the "Best Of" cd in the house, so it would follow that i have the world at my fingertips right?
i'm trying to listen to this ish on a reel-to-reel (preferably like the one in Mrs. Marcellus Wallace's home in Pulp Fiction). really get the feel for things. i could do without the accidental overdose though. too much of that'll kill ya.
so in closing, if you're out there, and you have a reel-to-reel similar to the one in Pulp Fiction, and you don't mind parting with it, and you don't mind covering the shipping, please, by all means, get at me.
JIF or Die! or, "An Ode To JIF. and peanut butter in general, i mean it's really quite delicious. unless you have an allergy. then it's deadly!"
i love JIF! moms love JIF! kids love JIF! the president loves JIF man! on his pretzels. i'm eating a spoon of JIF as i write this! i love it! i'm eating a spoon of JIF, watching mature porn for inspiration. i'm a fat fuck. i'm a sick, fat fuck. i love JIF!
what is it about destruction that seems so appealing to humans. mike skinner himself declared that:
"Right now logic states I need to be not contemplating suicide.
With rational thought, it would seem that i need not to be doing stuff
That makes death seem like an easier option."
for the uninitiated, mr. skinner is referring to the horrific and disheartening sensation of the post-drug binge crash, a feeling you'd dedicated yourself to avoiding. yet you still succumb to the dark, annihilating gloom of it, with alarming frequency. many of my readers can readily identify.
nonetheless, seems like we all need a totally trojan plan right now, whether our personal Greeks be substance abuse or landing that promotion or figuring out how to treat your sick kid without insurance.
thus, we're all more or less obssessed with the future. i'm no exception.
it's only natural to live outside of now, and as ken kesey pointed out, even the concept of "now" is a bunch of bullshit, what with the 30ms lag between an actual event and sensory perception. so, the best that the level-headed among us can hope for is a slightly fermented notion of now. it doesn't mean that all is lost, just that the whole "live in the moment" maxim must be reexamined.
of course, those of you that know me, and even some of you who may not, know damn well that all of this comes right back to the repetition of a destructive choice. obviously.
but fortunately for me, and for those in my immediate vicinity, i yet again come out of this one unscathed.
vive le cirque!
fucking 90s. jesus. back when video games advertised new and improved sound effects right alongside "state of the art graphics." seems like only yesterday. those care-free afternoons at my friend kyle's spot (he had snes, i had genesis), perfecting every combo with a clergyman's diligence. no thoughts of booze or tail or drugs or sportsbikes or gear.
only throwing down some sonic booms with guile as his air force cronies cheered me on. but vega was my fave. yeah. the muchachas sweated vega. hard.
most people thought he was wack, a little too effeminate, but the way he fucked cats up in the cage with that claw proved he was no homo. plus those individuals obviously didn't understand the deification of bullfighters in their homelands. they're the shit.
honestly, i had completely forgotten about the part where you fuck up the dude's acura legend with your bare hands and feet for bonus cash so you can buy blow for chun li.
street fighter II turbo. raised a generation of boys, letting them know it's okay to kick a little ass every now and then. in fact, it's your duty.
the less i know about this group/song/video the better, i just woke up to this nightmare this afternoon and unfortunately it's lodged in my head, so i'm detoxing with good music with catchy melodies in the hopes of shaking it loose.
i just use it to illustrate a rather disheartening point.
hip hop really is dead.
i'm so upset by the current trend in "urban" music that i can't piece together some striking, eloquent appeal, so i'll be brief.
where the fuck is new york? where the fuck is the bronx? where the fuck is harlem at? bk? queens? shaolin?
has the "laffy taffy" finger snap bullshit really silenced the hip hop epicenter of the universe? has hovah permanently destroyed the psyche of would-be hustlers turned rappers with his whole "i'm a business-man!" nonsense? has the stratospheric marketability of vapid southern rap totally diluted the viability of talented and conscientious northeastern hip-hop artists? have mtv and bet completely ruined the hip-hop spirit?
southern rap does certainly have its merits (read: clipse's hell hath no fury, good to smoke blunts to, perfect drive by soundtrack), but ya basta. enough is enough! a change has gotta come, and since LA is generally on some bullshit, i was kind of hoping that the beast coast would stand and deliver.
Peachpot: ay yo! neverending hologram! how's the ether search going?
Neverending Hologram: not too well p.p. and time's a-wastin'
Peachpot (strokes scraggled beard): sucks man. there is one thing you could try...
Neverending Hologram: i mean i really had my heart set on ether peachpot.
Peachpot (staring at plane overhead): well sometimes you just gotta roll my friend.
Neverending Hologram: so what were you thinkin?
Peachpot: basuco man!
Neverending Hologram: eh?
Peachpot: basuco man!
Neverending Hologram: no, i heard you fuckstick. what the fuck? enlighten.
Peachpot: yeah, basuco. wacky mix-up of crack residue, gasolina, and other assorted chemicals that may or may not be carcinogenic. lab tests are pending. gets you twisted.
Neverending Hologram: i don't know peachpot. sounds dangerous.
Peachpot (shaking head vigorously): nah man. basuco's straight. homeless slims and street kids living in the sewers of bogota smoke that ish to keep they minds right. gotta duck the paramilitary death squads ya know. social cleansings on the rise. if it's good enough for them, it's good enough for you, right?
Neverending Hologram: yeah i guess you're right p.p. i don't know. i'll think about i guess.
Peachpot: yeah. shit mang, what the fuck am i doin talking to you? late for methadone. gotta maintain homie.
Neverending Hologram: orale homes. tell pookie i said gimme my damn money.
Peachpot: i promise i will.
back in january, on a quiet winter evening. yeah. must've been about 6:30. npr's marketplace was on. lying on my stomach feeling hopeless, but not any more so than the typical individual thrashing about in our post-american century. things to get done, but i'm so damn comfortable. maybe i'll take a power-nap and hop to in half an hour? not that tired though. close your eyes anyway darlin.
here comes the weird.
shut my eyes, still conscious, just resting them. and the vision begins.
i'm on my hands and knees, in a lush forest, high noon sun splintering through the dense canopy overhead. every thing is in high resolution, hyperrealistic. the greenest, most luxuriant grass i've ever encountered. foot-high blades swaying, leaves fluttering, i can feel the coolness of the ground-level current on my face.
but i hear nothing, and as i acknowledge in my mind that i hear nothing, it instantly becomes clear, as though whispered to me by some unseen guide: i've breached the death interface.
but there's no real sorrow, no pain, no horror. this is peaceful, kind of exciting, like i've snuck into studio 54 and gotten away with it, all wide-eyed and giddy.
dow breaks the 12,000 point mark. a record. overhyped though. DJIA's only about 30 stocks anyway.
wow. that was fucked up.
now keep in mind that this was long before i began experimenting with dxm (though the visual aesthetic of this spirit-vision resembled my closed-eye, dxm-induced visuals rather uncannily). i was totally sober during the minute or so i was in that forest. and of course, trying to grasp at that interface once i'd risen from my bed only pushed the sensation of it farther away. no use chasing it any farther down the hole. might as well get to the homework then, put on some radiohead.
admittedly, there are times when i appreciate such a heightened level of consciousness, honest there are. but there are certainly other occasions when it is the bane of my existence.
wouldn't it be nice, i wonder, to be but a lamb, grazing mindlessly as each day gives way to another?
i'm thinking my first film is going to be about a gang of buttfucking werewolf-nazis that roam the countryside of some non-descript eastern european country, terrorizing the villagers until a valiant group of buxom witches (once ostracized by the townspeople on account of their craft) comes along to save the day. maybe have it all culminate in the largest, raunchiest werewolf-nazi/witch orgy the world has ever seen.
having rejected aspirations for a humdrum suit-and-tie future some time ago, the wackiest possible career paths cross my mind as i ponder the trail ahead of me. after a conversation with dylan recently, it's become rather clear what my calling will be, my legacy to planet earth for centuries to come. horror porn.
makes sense really. i was raised on horror movies that scared me shitless and probably scarred my psyche significuntly. freddie krueger, jason, critters, leprechauns, candyman, aliens; these were my ernie and bert. lots of horrific, vivid nightmares (in technicolor) involving clowns and tarantulas and faulty carnival rides, among other things.
and besides, producing/shooting porn is definitely on my things to do before i go list. has been for years now. right up there with starting a police chase in la.
and it's not like there's not an audience for this niche. all these precious kids who think they're vampires or the devil or fucking charles manson, with the make up and the platform boots with lots of straps and buckles? they gotta beat off too ya know. and a flick with some hairless juicer jock and his bottle blonde, silicon infused, cokehead fucktoy doesn't really get them going i'm sure.
now while, like frank zappa, i can admit that i'm pursuing this alternative art form (yes, art form!) solely for money, i might concede that there's some personal fulfillment in this as well.
this genre is super visceral my friends. the guttural feeling you get while watching one of these is unforgettable. the one tape i've happened upon i don't recall the name of, but the center of the action was a decapitated body getting head from this gorgeous vampire in a barn (presumably a barn in transylvania), with blood squirting out of a sole artery like a water fountain with a faulty valve. in sync with his undying heart.
nevermind that an erection would be impossible with such profuse bleeding. but if you're thinking about that at all, you're not a customer.
so if you're out there looking for a start in the biz, but the san fernando valley makes your skin crawl, touch base with the anthropophagous beast. let's start an empire. maybe have you blow a zombie while he puts cigarettes out on your face or eats your brain or something. maybe play some industrial music in the background, dim the lights, spark some candles, throw down a pentagram or two. maybe shoot with a super 8 for that snuff film feel? let's do it. i'll make you a star.
i know there's been a lot of drug-related foolishness going on around here as of late. now that doesn't mean that we're a bunch of junkies (?). nor does it mean that we're neglecting unicorn week. it simply means that we've long acknowledged the drug culture that is America. of course i'm not just talking weed leaf tattoos and cheech and chong or crackhead imagery in the urban northeast. i'm talking about trying to watch the mainstream, network evening news and being bombarded by a bevy of bodacious babes and hardbodied hunks telling me how much i need this new wunderdrug that lowers bad cholesterol and makes my wang thicker, with only mild side effects. heart failure and liver problems are well worth the trouble if it means i can add to my girth. girth's more important than length anyway, as the most sensitive nerve endings in the vagina are densely packed in the first few inches. the more you know!
fucken ay. it's become painfully aware that the television has become some sort of horrible, won't take no for an answer apothecary. thank god for the interweb. i'm not sure of the year, but someone gave the greenlight to direct marketing some time back and it was a free for all from there on out.
the message: fuck off pharms. most of us don't want/need your dope.
and briefly on the above youtube clip. i mean, what's there to be said that can't be gleaned from watching it. a bit of background. this is some afterschool special/health class video starring helen hunt in her pre-oscar years as a misguided young lady strung out on pcp, raging about like banshee. enjoi.
you'd think that with all the overachieving nerd friends i have that are pursuing careers in the fields of medicine and science that it would be a cinch to get some ether. a slam dunk. but nope. difficulty. fucken figures.
no problem though. i do not love any of you any less for forcing me to use automotive grade ether (filled with carcinogenic contaminants don't ya know) during this writing retreat i'm launching in the near future. it would've been nice is all i'm sayin.
vive le cirque!
someone's taking national unicorn week a bit too seriously. but honestly, this unicorn doesn't even have a horn. and how would a wizard ride it? it's so small i mean. i don't know.
ps. the search that landed me upon this gem was "christ on a unicorn," as i am looking for a picture of god's only child atop a unicorn. please help.
remember when cats used to say doink!!! instead of "cool" or "hot?" better yet, remember doink the clown? dink the clown? american heroes for sure.
suppose for a moment that you're at work, or at school, or sharkin at the boozer, and some fly as fuck feminina crosses your line of fire.
thousands of years of instinct lead to rapid vasocongestion, and before you know it, you're sporting wood and you just wanna poke on something. preferably the bird with the mojito.
now imagine that in an instant, a nanosecond let's say, you're teleported, transfigured to one of those wack, urban legend frat dawg scenarios where the big dawgs make the puppies sit semi-naked in front of a gay porn and whoever gets a boner is more or less doomed. hey wait?! that's you. violence and ridicule ensue.
imagine today's the day you opt for the flashy open toe slingbacks instead of your trusty old flats, and in a rush to get to somewhere of relative import, you stub your toe on the leg of your stylish IKEA futon.
but just as you're about to drop the obligatory f-bomb, you're transposed to a different key: some kid's bar mitzvah. one of those high-end mitzvahs i mean, not some middle class shitshow. real high brow. and maybe your hair's all messed up on account of the time-space travel turbelence, so you really look like a methadone clinic is your home away from home. all eyes on you love.
now don't you giggle, because vast and unseen though it may be, the spatio-temporal plane is a fragile missus, a 90-lb waif in a room full of NFL players hopped up on viagra and amphetamines. ever seen donnie darko? it could happen to you!
it DID happen to my boy pookie. got his refund check well early, like two weeks ahead of schedule. bought his girlie a cubic zirconia over east. big willie style!
keep your eyes on the prize and stay sharp!
"leaving coke under your nose is the new leaving the tag on your baseball cap!"
fucken priceless. if only i had come up with it.
ps. it's national unicorn week here at the savant, so expect lots of pics of unicorns for the next few days, even if they have no bearing to the corresponding post. what can we say? we love unicorns motherfucker! N.U.C. might extend into national unicorn month, or year, or whatever period of time we deem adequate to pay homage to this most majestic of earth's endangered species.
if you have any thoughts or anecdotes or websites about unicorns and unicorn-related things that you'd like to share, please do comment below. thank you.
two nights in a row. what they'd call a recurring dream maybe? whatever its label, i'm thoroughly haunted. yet, last night's version was a bit less edgy.
the deal is as follows: there's kasai, watching the night's news broadcast, we see that the coalition forces are being handily defeated in the streets of baghdad. i mean real-time, super nintendo type shit; the poor bastards are disappearing onscreen like so many super mario goombas.
so, seeing this, my friends and family tell me that i have to ship off and suit up for war.
despite my protest, i'm put on the next bus for fort meade or wherever.
of course, this isn't a dream for so many out there, but as far as i'm concerned, having to go over there is abreast of going to prison and committing murder. three things that are absolute bad news and that i hope never come to pass. so needless to say, this dream shook me up upon sunrise.
now everyone knows that reading/hearing about someone else's dream has the tendency to bore you to tears (except in the case of an artist like michel gondry's vivid films and music vids).
but it's last night's sequel that makes the trip worth the price of admission. because i mean come on, everybody loves unicorns, right?
now in the first chapter, i woke up before i got to iraq, so i was spared that portion of the nightmare. in the second ride, however, i actually did get to the desert, riding atop a glistening unicorn named duke, not unlike Bellerophon atop his trusty steed Pegasus.
arctic mane glistening in the noon sun, chaos all around, yet both ride and rider remain calm in the face of VBIEDs and tanks shrieking and dead kids and body parts and blast walls and such. delivering all from the shitshow that is Iraq.
really triumphant stuff.
further examination shows that the unicorn's presence can be attributed to a rather simple chain of events. attempting to fall asleep, i began to reminisce, to think of wild and dangerous days. particularly, i began to reflect on those raucous sunday nights that one spring, poisoning ourselves with roxies and booze as we eagerly awaited TimeMachine and Dollar Bill's radio show "Wizards and Unicorns: A listener's guide to Dungeons and Dragons" on 88.1 WMUC.
Yessir, good times those, the hosts beasting out with us beforehand, then retreating to their broadcast post to disseminate the gospel of D+D, all the while spinning everything from Mighty Mighty Bosstones' "Knock on Wood" to Broken Social Scene's "I'm Still Your Fag," the latter being edited during play of course. really good stuff.
on account of the dxm trouble (see earlier post: "What More Can I Say?"), the thought of unicorns prancing about meadows, obeying their wizard riders, triggered somewhat blurred closed eye visuals. that's right, months after the fact, i'm still tripping. that's why i try not to think of horrible things like abortions and date rape and the holocaust when i'm trying to fall asleep. difficult though, as i watch a lot of R-rated movies and black metal music videos. and snuff films. sometimes, the fun never ends.
the lesson, because there always is one: don't do drugs or whatever, unless you've got something to hide. then by all means, do as many as you can get your hands on, at all times.
jesus h! this song used to be really near and dear to my heart you guys. kinda cutesy even. play it for cool people at work maybe and get a laugh. all that's fucked up after seeing this video though. one look at uncle howie shooting up and it's like fuck, the addict's life, in my face, for real this time. i almost can't even pay attention to the lyrics with all this dope drama going on in the background. and the fucking vintage camcorder aesthetic (you know, the shit the size of a samsonite, vhs tapes, shoulder mounted, goofy as fuck?) adds to the griminess tenfold.
if ONDCP were smart/effective/tuned in at all, a. they'd stop trying to get kids to stop/never start smoking weed, and b. they'd launch their new front with this video as their all-star PSA.
one look at this shit and all the gateway drug stuff is instantly validated.
"no kid grows up saying, i wanna be a junkie," proclaims mr. voiceover.
yeah, well, make it visceral uncle sam. introduce the kids to uncle howie. haha. to a real fucking maniac and not some drama major asshole from connecticutt but no, as usual, the war on drugs wastes our time, cash, and resources pussyfooting around the issue.
bottom line, stop wasting my money you fucks.
i was going through a serious ed banger, paris, french touch scene trip some months back. a follow-up to my 'scandanavia is the shit' trip, which of course was preceded by my 'king-kong ain't got shit on clipse' end-of-'06 bent.
just thought i'd share some lesser known ed banger greatness with the unsatisfied masses. dj mehdi's the bomb-diggity son. i wasn't convinced of this until a dj spun "i am somebody" at a club here and i enjoyed it/danced to it without the ecstasy crutch. my litmus test for the purity of this genre i suppose. and this version of signatune's been reworked from it's original length (about 1.5 min) to full track status by thomas bangalter.
fitting, as recent download sprees have evidenced that with the success of ed banger's flagship model, justice, every fucking electronic artist seems to want to shamelessly emulate the post-Discovery sound of le Daft Punk. but whatev, if you're gonna bite, don't bite shit i guess.
p.s. not to get all remix-mad, but the ZZZ rmx of signatune is pretty dope too, if you can hunt it down.
i consider myself a devout atheist, an out and out denier of all things supernatural. but this has got me wondering. something i thought to be wholly impossible goes and happens. and i believe that that, my friends, is synonymous with a miracle.
the chemistry of these two legendaires (and the gloriousness of their art) is indelible, and though we can't possibly foresee what's going to come of this reunion, let's just float on our backs and bask in the glow a bit, eh?
kinda like the way pete is basking in that first picture. feeling all safe and warm in carl's loving embrace of forgiveness. truly what the game's been missing.
if you don't know who these two are, hang yourself. or ask me. then hang yourself.
"you don't know the meaning of beasting out unless you've snorted a drug off a bathroom floor."
for the past few years, this maxim had gone unedited, my sole defense against a generation that seems to think that weed is a hard drug (it fucking grows in the dirt, and if a little kid can blaze and not die or become violently ill, it's disqualified in my view) or that drinking a six pack of beer is binge drinking or "getting wasted." unless you've put yourself either on the brink of death, in treatment, or on your hands and knees trying to salvage your night after a bit of clumsiness, shut the fuck up.
but alas, an auxilliary to the mini-manifesto.
"You don't know the meaning of scumbaggery until you've fucked a guy's wife."
parlaying a former co-worker into an adulterous liaison was something i'd shied away from at first, but i'm really quite dichotomous (see previous post about rehab: "What More Can I Say..."). a few weeks of conscientious trepidation erased in a synapse-quick flash of horniness and a salacious want for something desperately depraved. what can i say? it's all quite biological. and besides, i'm a low-life. but not a regretful low-life mind you. shit was primo, puro, tubular even. a dream sequence played out in the suburban fuckfields. hope her husband had a good time in dallas, because i had a pretty good time in his wife.
reckless, yes. fearless, yes. godless, yes.
the soldiers of Street Thunder embrace this uncanny, hellish lifestyle. we pursue that which makes us happy and makes other people feel like shit, that which raises eyebrows and increases disdain for our tribe. we love the hate.
instant gratification's the trip my friends, 'more good times' being both our morals and our ethics. a flag flying in the face all that is pompous and proper and accepted.
surely, this isn't the end children. oh no. just the humble start of a beautiful nightmarish joyride that'll inspire future generations of vandals, philanderers, users, geniuses, and aficionados to greatness. there's many amendments to be made to this Constitution of these Rage Out States. oh yes. just give us some time. time's all we have.
Paul: we can drink street thunder lemonade, which is taking the nation by storm by the way
Kasai: oh yeah? ingredients?
Paul: pint glass with 2 shots everclear, lemonade, sugar and a lemon wedge
for the curious kids all conked out on the communist's coca cache:
(deep voiced movie dude)
"A deserted beach. A bloodcurdling scream. A decapitated head. So ends another tourist's holiday. So begins the Anthropophagous Beast as it gallops through shock after bloody shock. Probably one of the most frightening films you will ever see. It will leave you wondering if deep inside us all, there may lurk the cannibal. Watch it. If you dare!"
(nefarious, fading laughter).
i love shit c-movies. especially ones involving cannibals. cannibals and otherwise harmless animals that become terrors in droves (see "Slugs" and "Ants").
any idiot can make/take part in an oscar winner or a cannes selection. but it takes a truly delusional, transcendent wunderslut to pitch, write, produce, direct or star in one of these gems. who else but the most special among us would attach themselves to such projects. i'm hunting down a copy as we speak.
i will heretofore be known as the Anthropophagous Beast aka the Neverending Hologram. Referring to me as Kasai will get you nowhere from here on out.
a poem for suzie. who's suzie one might ask. doesn't matter, neither here nor there:
the robot lizards could not amass
much far beyond the desert pass
we hoped and hoped and prayed and prayed
the police knew not that we were yayed
finish your mutton you lascivious chaps
i'll take you back to the age of flaps
when men were men and lasses fair
with bows and ribbons in their hair
the witless curse that gleeful eon
fear not boyo they're only peons
tiny hands and shrunken faces
a flavorful compendium of all the races
kids must be kids and rushed to their bunks
i've found in my years that we're nothing but drunks.
"We have reviewed your blog and due to excessive profanity cannot be accepted at this time. Our apologies."
i'm sure there's some good stuff in there somewhere though, gimme a chance you motherfuckers.
said the army recruiter, via email, (sgt. marcia ramode) to a gay black man trying to join up:
"Go back to Africa and do your gay voodoo limbo tango and wango dance and jump around and prance and run all over the place half naked there."
haha. it wasn't bad enough that recruiters, falling far short of their quotas on account of a FUBAR war, were caught soliciting sex from potential recruits, among other violations? then they had to come with this noise? i love the Arnold Schwarzeneggar-esque "there" at the end. nice touch ramode.
i hadn't had extensive experience with the gay community until my year and a half stint at IKEA's corporate office, with about 90% (not an exaggeration) of the 300 or so employees there being either female or gay males. while some of these cats were certainly flamboyant or eccentric (think miss jay on top model flamboyant. yeah i watch top model, what?), i certainly didn't witness any voodoo, not even from the carribean cats that worked there. though there was some limbo and tango dancing at the winter party.
but in this sargeant's pleasant missive we see a few things of note. most striking of all, we see the kind of hatred that starts well early, maybe with an uncle that can't keep his hands to himself and also happens to be gay. maybe with a drunken, be-slippered (word?) mother who spent every waking moment of her life either boozing or falling down or cursing the faggots or the niggers or some other large group of people who've done nothing to her. the kind of fury that begins in the youth, under the tutelage of some fuck up adult, and never really dies away. these fucks are everywhere. i hear that was adolf hitler's trip. yeah.
additionally, amidst the talk of don imus (which will be more or less hushed thanks to the VT nightmare), america is all of a sudden reexamining its stance on racism and hate speech and blah blah blah. nike even took out a full page ad in the nyt: "thank you, ignorance. thank you for starting the conversation." with that monolithic swoosh above the bold print.
i love a fresh pair of nikes like any other red blooded american male, but fuck! starting the conversation? so after a pretty terrible human rights record over the span of four or five centuries, we're just starting the conversation? christ.
i love when this kind of thing goes down though. everyone all of a sudden going all hypersensitive to the feelings/sensibilities of all human beings (except the rappers of course, they don't give a fuck about a ho), really concerned with the plight of the country's underclass or whatever. people acting like racism went extinct, then reemerged in small pockets like a persistent virus; an event truly warranting ceaseless press coverage.
then three weeks pass, customary media fatigue, and back to our daily routines. gotta get paid, gotta get laid, gotta get made. "racism doesn't exist anymore. this is america."
major social changes take generations, so if we're just "starting the conversation," the prejudice and biases that typify our _____-ist (fill in the blank children) culture will be fleeting memories in about four or five centuries. cheers.
i read an article not too long ago about how deft Prince (the Artist) has been over the years at beating a phenomenon the writer referred to as the "Michael Jackson Quotient." put simply the quotient refers to the exponential talent, notoreity, and success of these artists, and the consequent potential for a post-prime meltdown, as evidenced by the last 10 or 15 years of Michael Jackson's life. amazingly, Prince has thoroughly avoided the pratfalls of hyperfame. no cancer boys, no ranches, no monkeys, no lawsuits over borrowed millions, no bankrupty, and hell, he's still banging out music that's worth a listen. the latest blurb on the cat might reference the lawsuit filed against the Artist for vandalizing (painting his symbol all over the walls) the apartment rented out to him by NBA player Carlos Boozer. not much more than that. it's only for like 70k anyway. better than millions.
watching Purple Rain last night helped me further understand the Quotient (MJQ). i mean the film is awesome, bottom line, but it showcases a lot of the early Prince egotism and eccentricity that could have easily resulted in some sort of prostitution scandal or high speed blast down the 405, maybe even tax evasion. but no, we got none of that.
instead, the man has remained culturally relevant, and we're laughing with him, not at him (those of us who know what's up anyway). According to the tenets of the Michael Jackson Quotient, Prince's stellar Super Bowl halftime show should not even have happened. he would have never been asked by the NFL or CBS to helm the program in the first place. no way. according to MJQ theory, he would either be in prison, preparing for a courtroom showdown of some sort, or freebasing moonrocks in a vegas motel. but instead, he beasted out to show the world that he's no mj. thank god.
I Love City Life! Yayyyy! living in a bad neighborhood, all cozy in my overpriced rowhome, driving my hybrid, drinking my chai tea and walking my small dog after dropping my perfect little kids off at their elite school. maybe i'll go to the museum today, maybe i'll open my own gallery. who knows? the possibilities are endless when you live the city life!
"I Love City Life!" previously i'd only been aware of the bumper stickers, but apparently, livebaltimore.com offers a plethora of merchandise (dog leashes, fleeces, and other yuppie trash) to propagandize their veiled vision of Harm City.
having gone to private school in north baltimore for 12 years, i saw my share of these ridiculous fucking stickers, plastered on the backs of volvo station wagons, luxury machines, and various sport utility vehicles driven by small mothers with limited agendas.
if this wasn't baltimore, maybe i could ignore them. i mean, every city in this country, in the world, is stratified along class and racial lines. classic haves and have nots scenario. but this is baltimore you fucking yuppies, have some empathy.
fucking 78 murders in 2007 so far. i could stop there. but i really want to indict these sons of bitches.
past distinction as the heroin/std/aids/teen pregnancy capital of the country. troubling jobless/illiteracy/poverty rates. the public domain nightmare that is the east side. numerous tv shows attesting to our (yes, our) crack/heroin problem and the hyperviolence that characterizes the real "city life." even our police are downtrodden, so much so that they just aren't brutalizing as much as say, lapd or nypd (though there was some buzz around mayor-induced arrest quotas last year). this is the city that bleeds, and even our cops acknowledge it.
and our public schools. jesus. characteristically american, in the vein of houston, la, south carolina, or new orleans. but there's a distinct character to the baltimore school, helped along by a city hall too busy bickering with one another to do much about it. hell, recently, a board executive was caught stealing three million dollars from the public school system's budget. gotta love city life.
reading the police blotter in this town is akin to reading a report on the day's war dead. it's just fucked up, and the fact that the city's better-off make light of the plight of urban baltimore with their yellow stickers is even more fucked up and discouraging. but it's a classic case of us v. them, the duality of modern life that is both our greatest asset and our greatest foe.
and beyond baltimore, with a global shift towards urbanization (which of course means overcrowding, then increased pollution, rises in crime and unemployment, and ultimately the death of the earth), we'll see how much these yupster fucks (heart) city life in 10, 20, 30 years.
ps. big ups to baltimorecrime.blogspot.com, hit it up
"all these fake djs, fake producers trynta make baltimore club, ya'll not makin bmore club, ya'll makin fake club" - "sex machine" by labtekwon feat. dj booman
i guess every generation of Black Americans experiences it, the straight up pilfering (reverse signifying?) of their cultural expression by white hipsters/enterprisers that then go on to success, fame, and fortune. we seem to have taken it all in stride though, proving ourselves artistically dynamic in the face of it all (i.e. the exodus from rock to rap in the late '70s/early '80s; enough was enough i guess). imitation is the most sincere form of flattery we're told.
but this aggression will not stand man! the latest case of stylistic hijacking is of great significance to me, as my hometown is the battleground. baltimore club has gained a relatively broad national audience in the last few years (like miami bass a while back), and a number of artists that i respect and love have used the staccatto, repetitive beats as backing for their flows and rhymes. but honestly. honestly?! it was cool when M.I.A. and Diplo hooked some shit up. but honestly!? ya basta!
the permeation of bmore club into the hipster remixer scene is indelible; in a recent downloading frenzy on limewire and the mp3 blogs, a huge number of the remixers used bmore club as backing for songs (remixes?) that were otherwise unchanged.
don't get me wrong, when this shit is done well and with some restraint, it pops off. but when i hear a track by some swedish cat that's completely off tempo and not mixed well, it's just plain horrific.
i grew up with this shit, this bizarre genre of music that's rooted deeply in the house, detroit ghettotech tradition and that often samples doo-wop and r+b/soul tracks from the previous generation (as well as the spongebob theme, southern rap, and chris rock stand-ups). repetitive, but hard hitting, grimy shit to get your gun off to.
summers spent banging 92q's club mixes, feverishly recording the joints onto cassette straight off the radio. shady nights as a kid spent at club choices (a local strip club that 92q broadcasts from; i grew up with the owner's son). hotboxing SUVs and storming around town bumping 90-track club mix CDs straight from the radio station. good times in general.
it should make me feel good/proud that two cats from new york tried to con me and my boys (all baltimore natives) into believing that baltimore club started in new york. but all i can think is that all this sampling from the bin is gonna deplete the supply that much more quickly. but hey, i can look forward to the shit that blows up in its wake, right?
I'm starting to notice a lot of nostalgia amongst those in my generation, which could be attributed to a number of factors (i.e. getting up in our years: 1997 was a decade ago?!) supreme among which is the fact that the '00s are turning out to be REALLY fucked up and we're only 7 years deep.
there is perhaps no greater icon for the oeuvre of the '80s baby than American Gladiators. there's a reason the boys at ESPN Classic decided to rejuvenate this television classic, a showpiece for the culmination of the American Century. yes, a physical embodiment of our accomplishments, our machismo, our braveness in the face of a world becoming progressively worse.
for those of you hopelessly in the dark (maybe your parents didn't allow you to watch tv out of some sadistic quest to keep you pure? maybe you were a political prisoner at the time? maybe you're blind and television was not a primary form of entertainment growing up?), American Gladiators was a syndicated programme that pitted four meatheads (two male, two female) against a rogue's gallery of bigger, stronger, faster meatheads with creative nicknames in a series of elaborate and highly orchestrated physical contests. basically a really intense, televised obstacle course, at the end of which the true beast emerged with the cash (about 20k USD), the car, and the cunt (or the cock in the case of the women's champion). youtube it. you won't regret it.
so many days worn away, some trying to recreate the breathtakingly dangerous feats of athleticism performed onscreen, but most spent sitting in front of the Zenith with a box of teddy grams [sic] in one hand and a big gulp sized sports bottle with the accordion straw in the other, eagerly awaiting the eliminator so i could watch Laser fuck cats up. Laser was my favorite. yeah. Who was your favorite i wonder? And what was your favorite event? There's only one correct answer.
some AG trivia, courtesy of wikipedia.org
- During season three, two contenders had accidents while finishing the Eliminator. One fell off the zipline shortly after taking to it, but emerged uninjured. In the first episode of the second half, female contender Angela Shepard landed wrong off the zipline and severely injured her ankle, rendering her unable to finish the course (although she got to return during a special police themed episode of AG a few years later).
- Season four was probably one of the most injury-plagued seasons in AG history. While the Gladiators were fairly injury-free (save for Elektra's broken nose in the Grand Championship), more than a few contenders were put out due to injury, including at least three winners who were unable to advance any further in the tournament due to their injury.
- Quite possibly the most dramatic finish in AG history came during the men's Eliminator in season three's Grand Championship. Runner up Joe Mauro held a four second lead over champion Mark Ortega and held it all the way down to the first wall, while Ortega pecked away at it. Mauro struggled with the first wall and gave up on his first attempt to scale it. Just as Mauro came back down, Ortega came off the zipline and caught up with him. They were nearly even scaling the second wall, and Mauro held a slight lead going down the straightaway to the hurdle. Ortega flew over the hurdle just as Mauro cleared it, and both landed at the finish line at approximately the same time, causing the officials to review the finish. It was determined that Ortega's hand crossed the finish line a split second before Mauro broke the tape at the line, and he was crowned Grand Champion.
- In the final alumni show, dubbed the "Battle of the Best", a famous moment took place when season six Grand Champion Kyler Storm performed a somersault leap over Turbo in Breakthrough to score (he had wanted to perform the move during his season, but he was told not to, so he kept his mouth shut this time around). The two would clash again in Swingshot, when Turbo caught Kyler in mid-air and got into a fistfight after Kyler had faked two earlier leaps from his platform, a violation of the rules. Both would be disqualified for their actions, although Kyler did receive some of the points he lost by his fake jumps.
don't get me wrong. i used to fuck with eggs, fucked with em pretty heavy like. but something happened over the years, some sort of traumatic experience turned me off, ruined this breakfast staple's rep for me. through careful analysis, i've realized that the culprit wasn't me being tricked into thinking that painted easter eggs were delicious chocolate treats, only to find that they were actual stinking fucking eggs out of a chicken's puss or wherever. no that was what? age four? so that wouldn't explain it. it might have just been total egg saturation, too much of a good thing, mixed with my parents' disdain for the wasting of food (you know with the starving children in somalia and china, and america for that matter).
this disillusionment with the egg, in many ways, reflects the saga of my relationship with Dipset. Starting in about 2004, in the wake of the Black Album, and with G-Unit getting all Picadilly Square on us, i turned to the gentlemen of Diplomats/Byrd Gang/Purple City for my mainstream rap jollies. and it worked, not just for me, but for a lot of internet seekers, dopeboys, and mixtape fiends. new york radio rap that didn't apologize, for anything. not for the nursery rhyme raps, not the bizarre logo, or the graphic imagery of cumshots, the garish application of the color purple, or the relentless quest to rhyme things with lamborghini. none of that mattered. in fact, in '05, upon hearing of the release of Juelz's 'What the Game's Been Missing,' i literally nutted in my pants. i still have them. i can mail them if you'd like.
but after the radio/ipod/car stereo break in of juelz's album, something happened. here we see the aftermath of cam's bizarre near-murder in d.c. in the carolina blue Lambo Gallardo. videos on youtube of these motherfuckers riding bicycles around the city at night like 12 year olds and a whole bunch of other shit i don't even know about because of my dwindling interest in the "Dipset."
maybe it was the high schoolers in the mall with 'we got it for cheap' and 'stop snitchin' tees barking "DIPSET!" in unison before stomping the shit outta some cat (in front of his chick and child) for no apparent reason.
who knows. all i know is that it's wack city, and that i do not like green eggs and Cam. hopefully these fucks (and new york as a whole) can get their heads out of their asses and really show us what the game's been missing.
the truth is, you don't pay much attention to the news if it doesn't pertain directly to your immediate experience. we're just selfish that way i guess, can't really absorb it all. i pay attention this time though. jesus christ. radio says a fucking panther escaped from the brooklyn zoo, and it's 3,000 miles yeah, but i still get the chills, start to sweat a little. i pull over and collect myself for a bit, deep breaths, then back on the road. i wipe my eyes and hope that the people in the cars around me don't notice, don't stare. especially the kids. they love to fucking stare.
it seems like an eternity ago, really does, but it wasn't quite long enough that any of this could be excluded entirely from memory, could be made hazy, harder to grasp with each lunge. oh no, it's all really quite fresh, but i'm moving past that day by day i guess.
all quite horrible, quite embarrassing really, so much so that none of the affiliates even reported the niceties of the attack, just the vague outline of the escape and the consequent putting down of that cougar. it was just one of those things so unspeakable and graphic that in the interest of the city's morale, in the interest of the children, the visceral details of the "attack" were left to the imagination and rumor.
but whatever, this is me, my fucking life, i fucking belong to this shitshow, this "attack." i mean i'm sure as hell not sitting on the couch thinking 'oh that is just so bizarre and unlikely and extraordinarily terrible that there's no way my life could ever take a turn like that.'
i wasn't even outside very long, to be honest.
doing one of those mundane things that completes our existences, nothing of any worth whatsoever, which for what it's worth, makes that day even more painful.
i hadn't been inside to hear the all points bulletin on the cougar. i remember how perfect the weather was that day, everybody out on their motorcycles, kids playing kid games and nothing but tits, and shoulders, and necklines on the streets of san diego.
work had been a bitch, but nature's atmospheric comfort was making all this okay. by the time i heard the screams, i was on my back.
i'm not a large person, by any means, but this thing, this cat out of hell, this 1000 megaton bomb, all fangs and fur and fury and confusion, kind of nullified the difference that increased physical size might have made.
i hit the ground at about 100mph and my head slammed against the browned grass of my so-called lawn. the sensation of skull to earth was without a doubt the most intense and malevolent, persistent pain i'd ever been in. but i knew with an angered killing machine on my chest biting and scratching and hissing, things would only get worse. somehow, in some sort of reptilian survival thrust, i was able to get my forearm up, which of course allowed the cougar to latch on, to anchor itself as he jockeyed for position in the quest for my jugular.
now, i can easily admit, much more easily than i can tell this story all the way through without tearing up, that though i considered myself an atheist at the time, i was praying, out loud, calling out to that dead mystic that so many had put their chips on for so long. i mean really wailing. if He just got me out of this alive, I would devote my life to him or stop drinking or stop looking at porn or whatever specific thing he asked for at that moment of grace and mercy. i mean, God works in mysterious ways.
as the muscular beast's strength started to fade away, motivated by my Jesus Power, I kind of warded off the big cat and somehow made it to my feet, only to find a moderately-sized crowd standing on my lawn, watching in horror, like fucking idiots. tears filled my eyes as i begged them to call for help. no one did anything. i had never done anything to these people to warrant this. still no takers. the fucking excitement, the fascination with weakness and humiliation, the pleasure in the grotesque i guess, all coming together to form some sort of horrible sideshow. they didn't know what they were in for exactly.
in one of those moments when i reared back my arm to swing at the puma's dense head, it lunged at me with that last bit of power left in its powerful haunches, grabbing me by the waist with its powerful front legs.
to this day, i don't remember the actual-i don't remember the actual event itself, only its aftermath. i'd never seen so much blood in my life, not even on television.
it was like the damn thing was a set up, some sort of fucking cosmic punishment for something so terrible that maybe i'd completely blanked it from memory. cougar runs off, gets shot by an off duty cop minutes later, medical help is called for, loose ends are tied. i guess it wasn't really punishment though, because i did go into shock pretty much right away. but i guess when a fucking cougar bites your cock and balls off, your body isn't really left with a choice. God works in mysterious ways.
all that stuff about god working in mysterious ways. yeah, well, that day, i could see my pubic bone or my pelvis, i mean all that flesh and the cotton of my chinos and most importantly, my identifying genitals were fucking gone. gone! all the boys and girls could do was stare, and there might have been a chuckle (nervous, sadistic?) among that crowd of sub-urban fuckwits. there was a lot of diffusion of responsibility that day, everyone hoping that someone else would come along and save the poor bastard with his dick missing. try as i might i'll never forget the sensation of the rivulets of blood snaking down my inner thigh, bloodying up my trousers, a draft coming through the open window in my midsection. mysterious ways.
having blacked out on my lawn from the bleeding, in the ER, i could tell immediately that even the doctors were haunted by the chunk missing from my midsection. fucking bloody crater smiling up at them from the gurney, like fucking triage in khe sahn, the calm and cocksure swagger of the hotshot m.d. instantly deflated at the sight of a half-skull bubbling blood as the g.i. tries in vain to prolong his life for a few more seconds. or in my case, the crotch void spurting streams of oxygenated blood in every which way onto the floor as the writhing accountant tries to sprout an erection that just isn't coming, severed muscles and tendons failing to contract like they had on a daily basis for the past three decades.
a nurse had to leave the room after a doctor slipped in her vomit and struck his head on a cart of medical supplies. and of course there was a lot of reconstruction to fuss over, where parts were going to come from. donors? other sections of the patient's body? worries about aesthetics, about anaesthetics. arguments about functionality. they basically kept me on morphine the whole time, sorting it out strictly amongst themselves, i guess. fine by me. more opiates please.
with the battle over, looking down my body, all i could see was a mountain of interlocking bandages where my cock used to be. they released me from that place with their shoulders shrugged, shoving me off into the world to face the remainder of my life in shameful and emasculating impotence. mysterious ways.
i got a call about a week after i was shipped off to duty in the real world. of course i hadn't been to work in all that time, just lying in bed, miserable, catatonic. i had no doubt it was one of my managers calling to feign concern and understanding while a gaggle of my co-workers cackled in the background. but this was an out of state area code. texas?
this hero, this champion of the human spirit came to me with a question that day. "how would you like to fuck again?" not exactly coy to be sure, but i did want to fuck again, and though i knew that there was no way in hell that any of this could ever work out, i still trusted him, still flew to texas to shake hands with my hero that thursday. still laid down the cash. an experimental medical procedure that would require an opening of the mind, as well as an even further opening of the checkbook. i wasn't worried about money. my uncle remus had died in the oklahoma city bombing and the winfall brought about by the inheritance (seeing as how i'd survived all other possible proprietors of his ill-gotten, medium-sized fortune) allowed for this radical undertaking.
brace yourself kids, because like i said, god works in mysterious ways. fucking real wacky, fucked up, in your face, hate to say i told you so, ass backwards ways. but a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
the surgery would go down in a plastic surgeon's office in beverly hills. dr. kateyian. arab.
"how would you like to fuck again?" was his question, the way i recall it, one that would of course imply some sort of phallic instrument (i supposed a prosthetic, plastic cock while riding on the plane, mind racing as i approached austin) enetrating plump, wet pussy to the heart's content. the american way, fucking for freedom. but. he had something else in mind.
as he explained the procedure with the aid of an intricate PowerPoint presentation and props (those creepy hard rubber models that doctor's and scientists love so much), i was in shock, dissociative shock, looking down on myself as i listened to his pitch. something about solenoids and servo motors and a microprocessor and RealFlesh technology and 90% success in trials and electrodes and daily hormone (male and female) injections and accomodating partners and frequent lubrication and an extended warranty, yes, a fucking warranty.
i floated back down into myself momentarily. "a vagina?"
"not a vagina," he quickly replied. "a new lease on life, and, might i add, a chance to not only have a meaningful sex life again, but to actually stand at the precipice of what is humanly possible in the field of modern medicine." he had a twinkle in his eye as he stood to speak, that vein in his forehead more pronounced than it had been during the not a vagina nonsense. nobility, duty, like this was WWII. he adjusted his sport coat, clearing his throat. "a chance to be a real pioneer. let me ask you, how many people, how many people get the chance in their lifetimes to be at the forefront of something this big."
i was once again outside of myself by that point in his speech, and emotion was truly overwhelming logic. fucking was a significant part of my life, i guess. actually, to say i was, addicted to sex would be wholly accurate. but this, this is fucking nuts, right? asking no one in particular for counsel, trying to float back down into my body to stop my shell from signing off on this shit. a pioneer. that shit just rang in my ears over and over again, right alongside the talk of having (meaningful?) sex again. i mean, i'm an ordinary dude, always have been, with nothing extraordinary to report, save for a cougar mangling my genitals, so maybe this was a brilliant opportunity. yeah, but a question first.
"why a vagina? i mean, why not a prosthetic penis, more traditional you know, i mean larry flynt has one right, and i read that he bangs girls all the time, three at a time sometimes." my shell was rambling on like a fucking idiot without my help. the good doctor responded immediately with a bunch of medical jargon, with talk of how you wouldn't build a house without a foundation.
that was all my shell needed to hear, the whole house without a foundation line.
it was all real transient for me from there, dashing from center to center as specialist after specialist constructed my bionic pussy from the ground up. i was comforted by constant assurances that these men and women had been flown in from all corners of the country, nay the world, to ensure that this went as smoothly as possible. lots of asians on the job. mysterious fucking ways.
after a week with this new contraption, it became perfectly evident that there was something amazing going on here. these asian fucks knew what they were doing. i had my attorney bargain for a contract that would maintain my anonymity, at least at first, while i figured this thing out. maybe a reality show could come later.
the first few weeks were, experimental. i pretty much tried everything i'd always been jealous of women for having the ability to do: the whole showerhead trick, vibrators out the wazoo, putting everything, i mean everything up there, remotes, vegetables, and anything else i could find that reminded me of what used to be between my legs.
i bought books teaching me how to jack off with this new found glory, but eventually the time would come when i would desire penetration, which was tricky, but i needed something to counter the trauma of having to sit down to pee.
i don't like to think about all this stuff, about the past, because if you live in the past, you die in the past. in my case, i had no choice but to discard it. too many questions, and though i moved to san francisco, i'm no faggot, so it didn't even cross my mind to change teams in the name of getting off. fucking mysterious ways.
these days, i mostly just get hookers to go to the sex shop with me and buy strap ons. it's fucked up, but it works, especially when i go nuts with my hormone injections. a good life.
and to answer your question in advance, physiological side effects haven't really been an issue, but there has been one. i mean, standing in this safeway, staring at the women here as they shop, horny as fuck, i have to ask myself, "i wonder if she owns a strap-on?"
i almost killed a man today. fucking cold steel rain turning our roads to battlefields. nothing we can do, the front drivers and rear drivers among us. almost at school and up the hill, sweeping corner, and hyrdroplaning. jesus, almost lost it, got a little hairy, but we reeled it in. this ain't no Lancer, friend. he was on a yellow bike. a messenger's rig, road bike with no markings, no brakes (he stops with his foot; thanks pop). looks like he's straight out of the '30s, rides in and out every day, on choked byways that are dangerous no matter the weather. better man than i am. thanks to marlboro reds, even walks to class can feel like k2 treks. so hopping on a road bike for a dash to the market is out of the question.
wasn't always that way though. i used to ride my bike from school with my old man, from the time i was about 8 or 9 til i was 12. while all the other kids were getting packed into their volvos and ford tauruses (SUVs were still a few years off kids), i waited for my old man to ride in, mr. mom, with my toddler baby sister strapped to his stomach and my bmx bike strapped to his back. always garnered stares from curious and admiring private school housewives. but it was my own quiet misery. of course looking back i appreciate it, especially since so many brothers don't know their old men, let alone have the luxury of having them ride along with them on the way home. but still, it was hell on earth: a vietnam vet drill sargeant, avid cyclist for a dad, expecting a kid to keep up with him. hell he used to ride to dc from bmore every year, rode in the snow with studded tires, even during the blizzard of 93, got a cover shot on the Towson Times haha. hellish weather. pounding pavement amidst barking dogs, baltimore crackheads, and rush hour traffic, scared shitless. borderline child abuse. there was a nice fruit stand that we stopped at on particularly bitter days, maenner's market. closed now, but a hell of a place run by some real first class blokes.
all this nonsense got me fit though. i was the fastest kid in my class (which is important out there on that blacktop), but maybe that was b/c i was the only black kid in my class until i was 12 or 13. who knows, the point is that there is no way in hell i could ever beast out like that again. the deterioration is too far along. gonna go have a marlboro red. go to bed.
So I Says To Him, So I Says, You Lick The Barrel of This Gun Like You Lick Your Man's Dick. Then, Maybe I'll Let You Live to See the Sun Come Up.
yeah so if you haven't been paying attention, there's this sort of postmodern arms race going on. only we're not dealing in plutonium or warheads or propaganda this time around. nope. we're trying to pierce the heavens. and admittedly, amurrrica is getting its ass handed to it, so maybe "we" is inappropriate language (but the "freedom tower" 9/11 memorial seems to be our entry into the field of 43; seems we didn't learn our lesson from that day). Taipei 101, in Taiwan, stands as the world's tallest building, and at just over 1,600 feet, dwarfs our bitch ass sears tower and empire state building by several yao mings.
perhaps the most striking thing about said race is that the current victors are all of asian descent. shanghai, kuala lumpur, hong kong. there's something happenin here, and what ain't exactly clear.
well, actually it's pretty clear. the proliferation of these mammoth phalluses penetrating the virgin clouds over asian skies is easily explained. allow me to get a bit ridiculous here. east asians, like all humans, are victims of their physical appearances. given an average male height somewhere in the 5'6" or 5'7" region, it's no coincidence that the world's tallest buildings are mostly in asia. compensating. kinda like the way the needle-dicked amurrrican male drives an overlarge SUV with a 6" lift and 35" tires, or collects guns by the bowlful (think gun rack on the baby's crib). and speaking of needle dicks, therein lies my next exhibit. we all know that asian guys aren't the most impressively hung motherfuckers on earth (asian friends of mine, male and female, admit this, so it's not stereotyping fuckhead). so therefore, as with OUR guns and tonka trucks, the east asian male materialist is forced by nature to devastate the skyline with a gargantuan skyscraper, proving to the world that he's really worth a damn.
sure, i know what you're saying. engineering advancements, cutting edge, asia's the new frontier. blah, blah, blah. biology people. psychology. more primordial things at work. all men wish to be gods. it's in our blood.
my balls itch. nothing too intense, but still appreciable enough to cause concern. too bad this is america and i don't have insurance, and thus can't get it checked out by a balding, beady-eyed middle aged physician in a private room. oh well, hard and dirty living catches up to you every so often. i'm sure it's nothing right. right?!
well. nevermind. speaking of hard living, it seems that every few weeks or so, i'm presented with reminders of who the true beasts on this blue marble are, Keef of course standing atop Mt. Olympus, somewhere near the summit. I won't bore you with superfluous foolishness here (i.e. background, other anecdotes, etc.), but a parusing of google news presented a particular gem to me.
in an interview with UK music rag NME, the interviewer asked Keef what was the most intense thing he'd ever put up his nose.
giving the answer that only a true beast of this order could, he quickly replied that he snorted his dad once. back in '02. ol' Bert Richards kicked it, so Keef, honoring his old man's legacy, ground his ashes into some coke and ripped a few funerary hollywoods up his right nostril. asked what his dad would think of this behavior, he shot back that he wouldn't have given a shit. if only all our fathers could be so cool.
the guitarist also took some time during the article to shit on the libertines/arctic monkeys/bloc party (knowing that NME LOVES these bands), claiming that they're derivative "poser rubbish." whatev. i'm a huge fan of those three groups, but who fucking cares dude. this is keef. besides, the rolling stones (et al.) were entirely original when they stepped onto the scene four decades ago, right? originality is dead anyway, has been for a long time. but i have to admit that Keef shitting on the new breed is far more tolerable/justified than that faggot morrissey doing it. or even pete townshend for that matter (he referred to the blokes of arctic monkeys as 12-year old wankers haha).
regardless of the hateration on the young bucks, it doesn't get much better than this. it really doesn't. in Keef we trust.