most of these days i'm awkward and plain. you said on a good day, i'm better than cocaine.

your cache of stolen instruments brought in just enough, well, cash, at the pawn shoppe to make for an interesting afternoon. what can truly be said of this kind of bartering? well if you've gotta ask then you ain't invited, friend.

rock and roll of a different sort. your fingertips are blackened, the preexisting calluses now resembling the stark, dead surface of sun-scorned Mercury. but physical appearance is the least of your fucking worries.

there's things to forget, obligations to flake on, expectations to fall far, far short of.

none of you care for what's been set out before you. it didn't make sense 10 years ago and as you draw nearer to the finish line, it still doesn't mean shit.

you watch X as he prepares his kit and it is fucken amazing! his preparation man. the focus. he doesn't even blink! his boney fingers load up the rock with the hurried determination of a revolutionary soldier loading his musket, fervent redcoats bearing down on him, drawing ever nearer, ready to run their bayonets right into his chest cavity.

for god, for country, for spinal bliss. your central nervous system will thank you later.

Y is just as fascinated by X's skill and focus. he spends extended slices of time watching him, half making sure he doesn't fuck up on account of the speed bumps, half waiting in anticipatory silence, like a Nazi doberman awaiting the shrapnel-laden scraps of American war dead. yeah. he's really chomping at the shit. he has a drug test next week.

as for you? you've got your rights and you plan to exercise them.

rock's in. your turn. you hold the pipe at a 60 degree, your knuckles caressed by the sagging headliner of Y's piece of shit Cutlass Supreme. the car reeks of dick, Doublemint, and now, drug smoke.

none of you wear seatbelts. that way if you crash, you'll be more certain to go. take the mystery out of things.

and the way Y is air-drumming on the steering wheel (Hot For Teacher tends to do that to people, especially when the neurotoxins start flowing), a crash seems about as certain as certain can be.

you worry, as you tend to do. but, in a moment of inspiration and genuine goodwill, X throws another rock in.

"Yeah?" he asks, as though you wouldn't approve.

"YEAHYEAHYEAH!"

"i'm HOT FOR TEECHUH!" screams Y at a terrified Arab couple in a hybrid. a role reversal of sorts.

baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! baby on board! bright yellow beacon fucking your world up.

little do they know that given the state of things, their cargo's gonna end up riding in the Cutlass Dream Supreme someday, blasting rocks and punching hookers in the stomach with the best of 'em.

and oh boy, oh henry, the best of 'em are in that vehicle. that raggedy showcase of post-oil crisis American craftsmanship. Buy American, Bleed American, Blow American.

this is the 7th straight day you've been at it. you're a real hero, you know that? i wasn't sure about how to go about this, so i'll just ask. do you want to be the godfather of my kid? actually, don't answer now. i'll give you some time to think about it. this is an important thing this. wouldn't wanna RUSHIT.

the world streaks by, seemingly in as much of a pre-mortem daze as you. the windows are filthy, but the streets are filthier. best-week-EVERRRR!

no food, not much sleep. just a healthy regimen of heart-stoppingly wonderful amphetamines to keep the day away. in that plush backseat, you feel like your respiratory function is being compromised. fight through that shit.

Y is going on about how flashing your high beams at traffic lights changes them from red to green.

"it's called Strobe Alert. 911 amberlance trucks use it and shit. for EMERGENCIES."

given that you're all walking, talking, living, breathing emergencies at this point (and at all corresponding points), the word resonates in the hollow cavities not occupied by toxified grey matter and strained muscle, bouncing around like a SuperBall made of pure adrenochrome. you all laugh in unison, tickled pink at the thought of your earth-shattering lunacy.

head thrown back, eyes closed, Y tears through the next interjunctionsection, not really bothering to test his Strobe Alert theory.

you've never heard so much horn-blowing, nor have you seen so much finger-throwing.

he pushes that whip to its limits and it gives as good as it gets baby. the Blue Banshee powerslides into Number 1 Liquors, but not many are in the parking lots to be appalled. you can't fathom that it's 10:17 a.m. doesn't bother you though.

makes you feel like some sort of fucking WarMachine, some sort of nutso, fucked-though maniac jumping out of a plane and slitting like 50 throats before banging out every horizontal cunt in Khe Sanh. then you know what you gotta do right? burn that motherfucker!

yeah that's right. you are the harbingers of a new era. an extemporaneous thing whose sole purpose is to destroy the psychological (and physiological) constructs of homo sapiens sapiens. a nuclear anachronism that, to be entirely honest, couldn't be more timely.

along with a staggering X and Y, you sidle up to Number 1 Liquors, telepathically agreeing to approach the place like you're going to rob it. but when will you stop pretending? will it be at the wheelchair dip in the curb? will it be the sound of the ding-dong at the door that snaps you out of it?

before YOU can decide, X is holding his hand, in a gun-shaped fashion, no more than one inch in front of the asian cashier's face. screaming at her. not really "gimme the cash" screaming. no. more like, "gimme that log of peach skoal" screaming.

you try to stop him, to get him under wraps, but then he points the thing at YOU. what the fuck?! i thought you were my boy and now you point a fucking gun at me?! fuck you dude! you whip out your strap, tom cruise-style and point it at his heart. you've seen a lot of movies. you know what you're doing.

"MOTHER-FUCKER!" Y comes into view, crushing on a bag of pork rinds and drinking an as-yet-unpaid-for beer.

startled, you both train your weapons on him. he drops the beverage and bag of pork snacks, both of them hitting the linoleum at the same time.

the objects hit the floor in that sick, slo-mo fashion that the kids seem to love so much these days. but while you and X were focusing on how cool that fucking looked, Y managed to grab his gat from his leg holster.

the three of you. the best of friends. now all heated and tense and enemy like, guns aimed at vital organs, silence broken only by the rotation of the poorly maintained ceiling fan overhead.

tension. drenched in sweat. most likely on account of the standoff, but that second rock might also have something to do with it. it was pretty big.

the room is spinning, but in your fucked-up headtrap, it feels more like one of those crazy, Jerry Bruckheimer-esque circular tracking shots where like 80 dudes have guns on each other, each one telling the one next to him to drop his weapon.

not til you drop yours man! then the skittish methhead has a miniature seizure or some shit and 80 people get their brains blowed offffff.

an interruption.

"you guys are weird." she's not afraid anymore, though she should be. because this just isn't "normal." she's cute. asian. blonde hair pulled back like a real k-pop superstar. probably gives terrible head though. awkward. you'd have to finish yourself.

she repeats her observation. perhaps because you're all still standing there, stone-faced, panting in uncertain desperation. or maybe it's because you're all still wearing those ridiculously large bras you stole from TJMaxx yesterday.

"are you gonna buy something, cuz if not, you gotta go!" look at her. trying to sound authoritative. "you-guys-are-weird." under her breath, but not entirely inaudible.

like a fucking organic version of the Blue Banshee, X breaks the tension of the standoff, springing up on the counter in an incredible display of athleticism given all the crack he's smoked in the last week. he nearly knocks over the lotto machine, but somehow has the presence of mind to grab it just as it breaches the precipice, preventing a fall.

this is gonna be good.

"WEIRD-" he stammers, adjusting his bra but keeping the gun trained on her. straight-faced, straight laced. all wrapped up. great support. a really beautiful pattern. i can't believe it was on sale! free.99!

he composes himself.

"WEIRD is a dastardly word madame! WEIRD has committed many young, brave souls to their ultimate demise! WEIRD has enslaved entire races and it has burned pre-teen girls at the stake! for its own sick enjoyment! WEEEEYYERDDD, young lady, is a vir-u-lent thing, so i suggest you exercise extreme caution before deciding to USE IT!"

the gun is shaking violently by now; like the rookie cop facing down the FBI's 5th most wanted fugitive at Penn Station.

"so you're not robbing me?" asks the Asian calmly.

"haha fuck no!" you assure her. during X's oscar-caliber mini-soliloquy, you and Y have loaded up on enough grain alcohol, bourbon, and Beast Ice to cause a billion drunk driving accidents. you hoist your haul onto the counter beside X. "fuck no. i don't gets down with dry anal rape. and i hear there's a lot of that in prison."

she feigns understanding.

you carefully pull X down from the counter, taking care that he doesn't slip on one of the scratch offs. none of you have insurance. you urge X to holster his weapon, and he duly complies. atta boy.

the asian popstar rings you up and as you leave, shouldering your load of booze, cackling like hyenas, she wonders if she'd just born witness to something ethereal.

fallen angels? time travelers? crossdressing alien bounty hunter club promoter pornstar activists? or maybe it was just your imagination baby. bad dream. now go back to sleep. we'll figure it out in the morning.

as the poem goes, the world may never know.

all that can be sure is that you're just gonna try to be as weird as you can be. because your best is all the world can ask of you.

stupid twat, eeeeeee shouldn'ta lookt at me like that!

“I slept with faith and found a corpse in my arms on awakening; I drank and danced all night with doubt and found her a virgin in the morning.” - Aleister Crowley

this quotation and this painting by Egon Schiele seem to sum things up for me at the moment, don't they? fucken wow. it's where i am, and it's my best thinking that's gotten me here. so i guess it's onward and upward or whatever makes you feel at ease with the knife lodged firmly in your back. keep on smiling. it's what you do when no one's hooking that truly determines your character. or something like that. the devil's in the details, ay?

wait wait wait? who said that? who's there?!

shifting about nervously, like a startled, feral thing, devoid of a higher brain and all the wonderfully terrible abilities that come with it. honestly, get your wits about you... then a reassuring thing.

it was nothing honey, go to sleep. busy day tomorrow. no. no, it was nothing.

or was it? and nevermind that you live alone.

you know it's there. that... thing. always speaking to you when the lights are on, making you look the fool in all those important places you traipse about during the course of your hauntingly exciting day.

and you can feel its breath, hot on the side of your neck when the lights are off, making sleep impossible.

go on little one, follow it into the cool darkness. tumble into the technovoid, the neverending promise of the abyss, and emerge from the threshhold a changed thing, a true force of nature. something epic even.

look into it. it's the real bravery here ladies and gentlemen.

catharsis for your arses. blinded by the LIGHTS, dizzee new HEIGHTS.

because who doesn't wanna be like Mike? you wanna be like Mike don't you? that's what i thought. now sit tight, read on, and take some notes. there will be a quiz this coming week and i don't play with kids!

to be sure, there's honey nut goodness in every bite of Crowley's quip.

truth be told, i trust nothing.

not the ground beneath my feet or the twittering reflection in the mirror in lap or the birds and the bees and the trees atop the Pyrenees. and certainly not these much-lauded infrastructures of the mind and heart. faulty engineering. but no federal oversight means the builders will get away with it. bastards.

and neither should you. trust what's before you, that is. not even your own mama. she might still be bitter at you for stretching her twat to the size of a basketball hoop so many years ago. you just never know man.

wanh wanh wanh!

"but i wanna trust my mommy/daddy/gf/bf/sister/brother/pastor/friend/plastic surgeon/Kasai/mistress/home/city/life/husband/wife/radio/sensory experience/Congressman/dog/cat/tarantula/social worker/sponsor/newsman/contractor/bartender/god/neighbor/boss/co-worker/televison/favorite author/life coach/goldfish!"

i know. i know. i know. i know. i know. i know. but it's just not gonna do.

but wait, there's more. there's nothing more actually. hold on! right. let go of you.

(nervous stares toward the ground. tandem.)

don't listen to me. run off, before something B.A.D.D. happens. yes yes, i know i told you to keep reading my other stuff earlier. i know what i fucking said. but what's more human than contradiction sweetheart? now go. GO!

i'm changing into something terrible.

some sort of salacious, serpentine thing, fueled solely by costly cigarettes, complex chemical (chiral) compounds, and combustible, corrosive fluids. holy shit! that's a lot of Cs. and Ss.

what are you still fucking doing here? don't make me break my foot off in your ass! i'm doing these things because i love you.

you shot the kid in the head and looked down his neck because you're a fucking jock and you do what people tell you.

the time? well, that would be the penultimate day of perhaps the most horrifically insane amphetamines binge i've ever partaken of. about 6am. the place? the Crime Scene of course. the players? well. Tits Zawodny has left the building after Timemachine threw an enormous metal clothes rack at his face. make it home safely Matthew. you'll be in our prayers.

sun's coming up. not out of the ordinary.

hey. Real World's on. i've never really fucked with it, but Timemachine hearts it pretty severely, so teeth chattering, sweat glands working overtime, tremors making sitting still an impossibility, we set up on our respective couches and watch.

it doesn't take long for the magic to happen.

we'd discussed trying to finagle our way onto the show for quite some time. there's never really been an out-and-out criminal/scumbag/addict/tragic figure/pussy magnet beast amongst the casts of the past, sooo...

then the ideas start to flow, because god knows BEING on the show wouldn't be enough to satiate our need to feed. or is it our need for speed? both then.

anyway, somehow, in that early morning haze, we came up with what will be affectionately referred to as the Chainsaw Diaries. fucking MTV won't know what the fuck to do with it, but they'll love it nonetheless.

basically, things will go as follows:

Timemachine and i arrive at the house a day early to set up our equipment. accordingly, the entire upstairs of the house will be our playground. we shall fly in the Ministry of Sound PA system and install it in various rooms of the house. one song will play, at full volume, at all times, on a continuous loop: Nine Inch Nail's "Closer." 24/7. push the bassbins to 11 pleeze.

upon their arrival, our housemates are unsettled by the booming chorus: "i wanna fuck you like an ANIMAL!"

but we're not nearly done. oh no.

once the soundsystem's in place, we will take delivery (through an upstairs window) of our Stihl 025 chainsaws.

PARTY TIME!

during the obligatory co-mingling period of the first day in the house, the friendly schmoozing and boozing will be interrupted by more than the pulsating beat of Reznor's masterpiece.

maybe an astute cast member will notice that the ranks are two bodies short. just as they all agree that they are indeed undermanned, one of us will cut a hole in the floor/ceiling, Looney Tunes style, and drop the running chainsaw down to the floor below. someone may or may not break its fall. mtv hasn't gotten back to us on that.

the image of a falling, running chainsaw will set the tone for the season and let the entire cast, from the frat dawg meathead fuckface to the woefully insecure house cockpocket, know what time it is and who the fuck runs shit.

to keep up with the frenetic pace of the constant loop of NIN, we will of course procure a member of the Pagans motorcycle gang to supply us with more meth than you can shake a stick at. he will be one of the few allowed upstairs. more on that later.

at random moments during filming, we will terrorize our housemates with the whine of chainsaw motors, occasionally throwing them in unprovoked, meth-fueled tantrums.

of course there will be protest. these losers will complain that they feel "unsafe" sharing the house with such maniacs and that "the music is driving them nuts" and that they didn't "sign up for this." but MTV producers will be forced to keep us onboard as they log a 100 share Nielsen rating week after week. maybe they'll make things more lucrative for our fellow castmembers to keep them down for the cause. whatever cause that might be.

after a few weeks of chainsaw-driven tyranny, an entourage will form around us. in addition to our Pagan meth dealer (who, upon our insistence, will drive his bike inside the house on a nightly basis), Trent Reznor and Marilyn Manson will come along to join the party, every so often having chainsaw swordfights for money and meth. of course, best buds Pete Doherty and Mike Tyson will want in, and maybe Pete will seduce the "innocent girl next door" character and get her hopelessly addicted to heroin.

additionally, we will breed fighting pitbulls, placing no fewer than ten steroid patches on the muscular haunches of each dog, tazering, beating, and starving them before setting them loose downstairs.

as a show of diplomacy, we will hire an electrician to help splice into the house's breaker box electrical grid thinger, giving us full control of the joint's power. this way, we determine when the others get electricity. how does an hour a day sound? good. good.

as a friendly practical joke, we will, in anticipation of some adolescent, MFF jacuzzi romp, dose the water with no less than a liter of GHB, to be absorbed cutaneously by the frat dawg meathead closet gay and his two drunken bimbo marks in the wee hours of the morning. we will be as conspicuous as possible while poisoning the water, revving our chainsaws and such, so that when it comes time to finger the culprit, there is no doubt as to who did it. but what the fuck are they gonna do about it? we've got chainsaws, steroid-addicted pitbulls, mounds of methamphetamine, and mike tyson. sit down bitch. and somebody get rid of these bodies.

so yeah, things are in the pre-pre-pre-production phase as of right now, but i'd say it's a sure thing. i mean, who in TV doesn't love ratings? and controversy? oh my gosh! that's reality TV's middle name.

Real World: Chainsaw Diaries - ETA Q3 2008

i'll eat the pussy til i burp. eat your shit like it's oreo cookies and shit.

it's may guys! can you believe it? fucken summer's fast approaching. for some of us it's already here. my new summer's resolution is to do a lot less drunk driving than i did last summer. but i also resolve to do a lot more drunk fighting/mugging/fucking than i did last summer. i resolve to maintain last year's level of solitary drinking, and hopefully my connects will get their weight up (not their hate up) before i leave forever.

taking a cue from dipset, i think i'm gonna try to bring back riding bikes (and neon hanes tank tops will be in full effect, please beleeme). fucking still got the bmx joint from summer of '95. i saw my first set of titties that summer. had the reebok trainmaster II's shinin with blades on the motherfuckin silks. moved to a new neighborhood. the nascent years of the internet in my family (hello porn!).

all in all a fuckable year.

but i am morbidly out of shape, so i'll need the great god rotor to assist me. worked for fucken neal cassady, and he was driving a fucken bus! shouldn't be a problem right? right?