Y'all So Stupid: Lady Pants

This Bud's for you Bedford Avenue...

Manna Festival Toe? Naw. Man-I-Fester, like somebody's long-dead uncle. seven feet deep, creep creep.

To the "men" of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: fucking eat something, stop wearing your 13-year old sister's jeans (yes, that means the cut-off joints too), and STOP critiquing my clothes out loud as I walk out of CYN to get drug money from Mr. A.T.M. Lest you wanna get wasted in front of a sizeable crowd, with the JUSTICE being administered by a modestly sized, yet tenacious, cracked out, deeply troubled hooligan with no fear and no hope. Know Yourself.


To the women of Williamsburg, Brooklyn: take off those ridiculously large sunglasses, stop getting those gargantuan chest-piece tats (think about your menopausal years for christ's sake!), get the stick outta your ass, and stop dating/fucking/marrying the aforementioned twinks. Actually, you know what, yeah, stop breeding altogether. Your virulent gametes are tainting an already suspect gene pool.


I fucking hate you.

As you were.



epilogue: for the unlearn-ned, the parties mentioned herein, despite their protests, both verbal and non-verbal, are about as "cool"/"hip" as a hairy, elderly gay couple sunbathing in the nude in St. Tropez.

yeah that's right. it's like that! Funeral Music type shit, yeah.

we're forever unfulfilled, and can't think why, like a search for murder clues, in dead men's eyes.

will the all-knowing glare of the Fiber-Optic Dodecahedron truly be enough? enough to satiate their feral needs? to quiet the mindless chatter of spoilt children, formerly precious macroorganisms gone all rotten in the high noon sun? oh the stench is an unbearable one.

what are you on about you fuck?!

well.

it's just that, a few weeks ago, i went ahead and created a MySpace profile to spread the gospel re: this bullshit website. and quite frankly, it's haunting the hell out of me. because now, i can admit to a handful of subscriptions to various hypertext panopticons. a fact that of course makes me less of a person in God's eyes. forgive me father.

i guess i've forgotten that the internet is for buying shit i don't need, niche porn, stealing copyrighted material, and obtaining misinformation. nothing more, nothing less.

yet in light of this misjudgement, this affliction (which like my colossal substance abuse problem, i'm working on rectifying), a pandemic has come to my attention. one that must be discussed and in turn, reversed and eradicated:

city dwellers from various locales (l.a., the "LES," greenpoint/williamsburg, etc.) thinking that their shit don't stink just by virtue of their geographic location. surely it doesn't take the internet to tell us that the souls that haunt these urbane hotspots (most of which were crime-ridden and polluted to high hell before investors/consumers/developers ran out of ideas and began pouring their dollars into them) feel entitled to a certain share of praise and reverance.

a visit to any bar/gallery/boutique/club will key you in on that. but these physical locations have spatial restrictions that the ever-expanding interzone does not.

the "cool kids."

up their own asses, which is, i believe, the antithesis of the "cool" they so desperately strive for.

progress by proxy. what have YOU done for me lately babydoll?

i do my best to check myself whenever i happen to fall into their headtrap. the importance of being important is such a strong motivator wouldn't you know it. this website would cease to exist were it not for that push to be loved, lauded, and laughed with.

but surely i don't fancy myself a gang member, crack dealer, or murderer just because i hail from Harm City.

The Edict: you are not your fucking zip code!

it would be foolish to assume the identity of a built up area without first questioning what it is that the city can do for you. cut yourself open and bleed on the pavement a bit. because what's a revolution without a little BLOOOOODDDD!!!

ya basta, ya basta, ya basta!

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I'm Afraid of Americans!

this one goes out to anyone who's ever set foot in the Shooting Gallery in wonderful downtown Williamsburg, Brooklyn. it's the MV for David Bowie's "I'm Afraid of Americans," featuring Trent Reznor as the obligatory American to be afraid of. they used it on the Showgirls soundtrack. remember that shit? fucken nc-17 rating? only a handful of those dished out eh? commercial poison. R's bad enough. god damn elizabeth berkley, "Leave your inhibitions at the door, the show is about to begin," feverishly trying to get your hands on a copy you pre-teen scum of the past.

but that's not why i'm doing this. no. rather, the astute among you will notice that at 1:29 in the video, the icon of the Shooting Gallery (and all the lunacy and genius it embodies) is plastered on the wall, next to the shady, trenchcoated, G-man looking character.

Patrick! get your fucking act together!
Bowie! get your fucking act together!

it's really quite the same if you look at it long enough.

New York Cares.

subway she is a porno. the pavements they are a mess. my sentiment exactly. but at least the mayor wasn't caught smoking crack.

this is a vice tv interview with philly band clockcleaners, who apparently have a terrible reputation both at home and abroad for their less than personable manner. but i think there's a lesson to be learned from their abrasiveness.

along with heroic substance abuse and hooker murder, rap-grade beef is what the game's been missing. the rock game that is. the closest thing we have is old heads (morrissey, pete townshend, et al.) indirectly shitting on brash newcomers (arctic monkeys, klaxons, et al.).

but that's fucking britain.

in the states, the best we can do is hinder shooting off at the mouth about how fucking gay fall out boy is. oh the irony, it runs deep, so deep.

during my first stay at the shooting gallery in brooklyn, i discussed with muscle matt and timemachine the merits of infusing rap's hardass ethos into rock. who says i shouldn't be able to stab the drummer of some other fucked up, gay band that i despise, outside the "ballroom" after the show, lance "un" rivera style? who says i can't dedicate half an album to calling out some faggot lead singer? who says i can't indict a pussified system that rewards cowardice, insincerity, and sensitivity over balls-out, maniacal self -destruction and advanced narcissistic rage?

who the fuck says there can't be BEEF in the rock?

where are my FUCKING mushrooms!

just thought i'd whet the appetites of those curious to know what mario, princess peach , and luigi are up to right now.

fucking nypd.

Help, I'm A Rock!

a self-fulfilling prophecy, huh? while a lot of the country is concerned with perfectly acceptable things like spider-man 3 opening weekend, nba playoffs, de la hoya vs. mayweather, picnicking maybe.

what are we doing?

well, anthropophagous beast, timemachine, muscle matt, konvict keri, dangerous dave, killa kos, timechild, and jade "pour some" lien "in my cup," well, are pretty much trying to see just how far millenia of evolution have really taken us.

"how much can this fragile vessel really handle?" we wondered out loud. drive it hard and put it away wet being the mission statement; more good times serving as both our morals and our ethics.

trying to really, well, live in the moment and be the moment simultaneously, anomalies, yeah? anachronisms that will 5,000 years from now be regarded as the unofficial link between homo sapiens sapiens and the next stuck-up, overachieving, telekinetic, overlarge incarnation of the species. cursed with indestructibility, yet able to come to grips with demi-god status. we're fucking talking hypersensory perception children, completely jacked in to the synchronicity that dominates much of modern life.

fucking vampiric, energized by the delirium of sleep deprivation and politician-grade moral flexibility.

this is your brain. now this is your brain at its most masochistic, its most dissociative. feel good tv off. self-inflicted embalming, pounding the pavement amidst families and couples literally cocooned by decency, stability, and sensibility.

but for now, there's only those like us (or our mortal betters who we seek to befriend, betray, and behead) that hunt with the lights out. going through the motions, at slightly above mach 2.

the antisocial soldiers brigade fighting corps squad militia team hell bent on freaking out the cubes and taking what we want, when we want. twiddling our thumbs, impatiently waiting for the meth epidemic to cast a dark, horrifying cloud over the american northeast like so many killer africanized bees. among other things.

but at its core, this weekend was a test yeah? i mean if we're really honest. like i'm thinking paternity, aids, sat, driving, bar exam, pilot's, pregnancy, act, lsat, gre, mcat, gmat, the memory game, and simon says all in one. the fork in the road as it were. and i've been caught cheating a few times in the past. and maybe i didn't study. never intended to.

jesus what? incessant gotham metropolis supercenter fuckpit hub? can he really hack it up there, among all the enterprising immigrants and the snot-nosed starfuckers and the heartless club kids and the global conglomerates and those wacky sicilians and the 100 year old sewers and the waif boys in girls' jeans and the girls, deprived of their jeans, striding proudly through the filth and the noise and the heat with their victorian dresses and adorable kids' shoes and flowers in their hair?

well.

i'm writing this aren't i? so as 311 once said, fuck the naysayers cuz it don't mean a thing, cuz this is what style we bring. don't act like you don't know what i'm talking about. god i fucking miss the 90s.