It has not yet begun to bite. Suzie Q, make it a double. dribble. edmund tibbles put the scribble on hold for a little. piece of the axiom. isuzu joe made sure I would remember his face. til the end of TIME. magazines blow their load on full auto. she told me she was well blotto. so i made it. swellllll. put it in yr mouth like Akinyele say. I am Iron-Man!
And they said to me, "when things grow too savage for the sake of saving, stand back and figure how to make them even more grotesque". Little did they know that I was already hard at work at my own personal Haunting. Slaggin' and Crashin' and Choppin' Bliggy on octagonal glASStABLEs. Yeah, generally Muckin' About. (Heath)Cliff Huxtable ain't got shit on me!
ii.
"What happened to you?" she asked. "You used to be beautiful". Whimpering and Malcontent like a chamber maid on bomb heron.
"... And after one-thousand-and-one years of anguish, the Harrier Of TRUTH finally sinks its obsidian talons into the flesh and marrow of the sexually sated Fuck-Titan, and things begin to begin again Mr. Finnegan, the slender ovipositor having posited something rather sinister."
I remember when "they" started making ("urban") public school kids wear clear backpacks so that security and law enforcement stooges could see what the kind of heat/drugs/stabbing weapons the little nappy-headed tikes were packing. Even more hilarious is that it was just then that the Columbine jump-off, well, jumped off and school shootings at "suburban" places of learning became en vogue. Natch.
The Jake Gyllenhaal film Bubble Boy reminded me of all this madness, because you see, once he's broken out of his medical-grade-plastic tomb and strikes out in his personal isolation sphere to track down the woman that he loves, he has this thing called the decontamination chamber on the side of his bubble that is, in actuality, one of the clear backpacks I was on about sentences before.
Synchronicity. Pachinko Tiffany.
As I sit, broken stem in hand, about to tumble headlong off the precipice of that Plymouth Rock, I'm reminded of a hate crime recorded in the exurban neo-yuppie fuckpit that is Howard County, Maryland:
"Jews Rule" "Go Jews" "Swastikas with Xs through them"
Not sure of the exact details, but who gives a fuck.
A bit of pro-Semitism for a change. And from the looks of him, the victim's Jewish. How can I tell? Let's just say I have some experience in the field. Wink-Tink.
Man I wanna fucking join a cult. Like yesterday. Get some of that brainwashed trim before it drops dead in a bright blue Nike jumpsuit.
Wascally Wabbits End Up With Their Chests Blown Out. Period.
Also interesting is that the last time I dropped pills (after a Cage show), I drove from a club to an apartment party at 6am, rolling my face off, listening to, you guessed it, The Presets. "Are You The One" to be exact.
(Pseudo-)Synchronicity. It's What's For Dinner And Shit.
So yeah. In summation: The Presets, dope; Modular, dope; Anything that significantly and permanently alters my brain's chemistry (for better or worse), super dope.
Reach for the lasers, Safe as fuck.
P.S. For those among you who may be new to the nightmare, further insight into my epicly horrific, rehab-inducing experiences with Dextromorphan can be found HERE.
Last night before Morelandshire tucked me in, I found myself strangely stricken by a feral urge to hurl a shrieking newborn baby (a docile infant would do as well I suppose; as with most things I'm not very picky) into the corner of an unfurnished room.
This isn't strictly an anger thing (nb: it would moreso be a light toss than a throw), nor is it as simple as being a matter of wanting to satisfy reprehensible violent urges. I am, after all, the first to admit that my reptilian brain has gotten the upper hand on the mammalian from time to time, often in inappropriately sanitary and highly public contexts. But a bit of the hyperviolence does a body good I always say. And I do know when the RAGE is presenting itself, and this didn't seem to be one of those special moments.
The Freud Noid would posit that this is possibly a sexual thing, a matter of rePRESSion. They love to play that card, yeah? Maybe an urge stemming from formerly latent recollections of seeing interracial gangbang porn at a particularly perverted neighbor's apartment at the wee age of three? It's all connected somehow. Someway. That's what the leapfrogs say.
Whatever the igniter, the fire's been raging for no less than 12 hours now. So, as the great Warren G. Harding once said while fellating the French ambassador behind his solid oak desk: "Ain't nuttin' to it but to do it!"
Way I see it, it's a metaphysical thing more than anything else. Charity even. Let the little bastard child know from the jump that "the world is a cruel place" and that "life's a bitch and then you die." It'll thank me later.
I can see it now... 30 yrs down the road, I'll be laid up with a stoma in my throat, miserable, penniless and alone, about to fucking kick it and suddenly, a visitor. An eight foot tall, shirtless, buttfucking-werewolf-party-monster with stunna shades and 10 strippers in tow. He'll mumble his gratitude in between guzzles off his metal flask of engine degreaser, then he'll spit in my creased, Hep C-ravaged face, finger fuck one of the strippers on top of my respirator and ManDump all over an elderly nurse, just for good measure.
Practice. Theory. Practice. Theory.
Always willing to help, my equally sociopathic sister suggested that I consult a local unfit mother and, by dubious means, to be sure, procure her infant for said tossing, so as to insulate myself from the otherwise inevitable prosecution that fulfilling this deranged whimsy is sure to bring.
A good old-fashioned frame-up, yeah. Shouldn't be tough. Plenty of unfit mothers to go around. Like macadoni and cheez at olliday times.
Nothing like family to spur on a derelict. Nothing. Look for me in the news.
Shit's gotten all post-meridian and all is quiet on the Western Front. Yet, the aforementioned empty pouch of Medellin Magic won't go down without a fight. (See the previous post if you don't know what the fuck I'm on about).
Reaching into my pocket, mulling over plans to hitchhike to L.A., my fingers fondle what I, until recently, believed to be a guitar pick.
But the heart has its reasons that reason knows nothing of. Just be glad that for once in your colorless (RGB) life, a contiguous and captivating narrative is thrown at your feet.
You're Welcome.
Next Episode: How best to dispose of the (appreciably vacant) bag and avoid further exacerbation of drug-related interpersonal and familial crises.
In a day spent mostly trying to download the Kim Kardashian sex tape, a thing of beauty emerges but a few hours after sundown.
*Expose The Nose*
I sit atop my dais, shivering in solitude, leafing through the "Harvester of Sorrow" issue of Vice Magazine (procured from the Williamsburg American Apparel store during a cracked out excursion with TimeMachine; very cute footsoldiers working there, ps).
Though the cover and pages are unreasonably weathered (stained with the joys, sorrows and general heroics of all that have passed through Shooting Gallery Studios in the past three or four weeks), this is the first time I've made an effort to actually read the thing. Flagged long before this little reenactment of the that now infamous Seinfeldian vignette. Natch.
I arrive at the Guitar Center advert/"Vice Guide to Bands" bit, taking the time to read the bit on Chromeo's gear tips, internally decrying the ubiquity of the Vice/American Apparel hipster-industrial complex, when what should I see but a bit of terror. The beautiful blonde mistake, straight from the belly of the beast, in the home my mother raised me in.
A first. Honest.
There it is, a twenty-bag of Devil's Dandruff, lying dead before me, completely empty, at once a disaster and a blessing. What would possess me to tuck away a decidedly empty bag of flash deep within a magazine? The world may never know. All that matters is that we're here now, so there's no point in leaving just yet, yeah?
Sit your ass down and have a drink. We've got a lot to catch up on, yeah? The Killer in me likes the frosted side, but the Automaton in me likes the Killer in me. Go figure.
Three 6 Mafia - Sippin' On Some Sizzurp (feat. The Munchers)
In case you're not all that strong at visualizing horrific scenes, this YouTube video more or less sums it up. Though there wasn't any Codeine-infused prescription cough syrup or anthropomorphic teeth involved, the level of madness is about on par with the last six days of my life. I like to picture myself as that bizarre Cavity-Vampire character, if I do say so myself.
As if the track isn't Gothic enough, someone saw fit to make things super sketch and mash it up with this bizarre cartoon. Claymation has always scared the shit out of me, but if I had seen this coming up, I would've gone absolutely apeshit. If parents of the echo boom ever have to wonder why we ended up the way we did (read: all fucked up and real shitty), look no further than shit like this. Have a nice day!
I'm not going to make any apologies for being sporadic. When benders last from one Wednesday night into the following Tuesday night, these things are to be expected. At a juncture such as this, it becomes necessary to consider how badly you want it.
Are you able to shake the memory of inadvertently drinking your own urine? Should you apologize for throwing a pint glass at a stranger's head, seemingly unprovoked, at a favorite local boozer? Does it make sense to consult a psychiatrist after hallucinating (in the midst of the aforementioned bender) that you discussed the possibility of a war with Iran with your long dead grandfather? Should you be worried about pneumonia after spending four hours in a broken down SUV with the windows down, cracked out in the financial district, awaiting help? Should you fear retaliation from the number of customers (and proprietors alike) who were utterly offended by your savagery? Maybe, maybe not. Maybe fuck yourself. Don't worry. Things can only get better. You love it when I'm bad.
another wonderful transmission. depending on how you look at it.
Paul Pagliaro: dear god Paul Pagliaro: you realize we need years of therapy and medication right? Kasai REx: yeah Kasai REx: decades Kasai REx: all of us Kasai REx: of course i realize that Paul Pagliaro: just kidding, fuck all that hippie bullshit! Paul Pagliaro: the only thing i need is a doctor that's gonna prescribe me whatever i want, whenever i want
As the REx has been in digital hibernation for some time, it's only courteous to play a bit of catch up, yeah?
The scene is the Borough of Kings. Somehow.
God knows how long ago the Saturn's Day in question was.
God knows what transpired the Friday before.
But you see. That's the trip with this set. Days become nights and weekends never really die. This is all far beyond any song lyric or party Polaroid on Last Night's Party. You Talk It, We Live It. Which ironically, is part of a song lyric. So there you go.
A Saturday morning not all that spectacular in and of itself. Oh no. Quite normal really. A head full of fire, megalomaniacal thoughts and more than a bit of dust. Plenty of "You Go Grrrrl!" Overdrawn accounts all around. Like some House Party 3 shit, yeah?
Let's move. Coked-Up Werewolf and the Ultimate Warrior are made of sterner stuff that morning. TimeMachine, however, breaks out the fake blood, a full week before Halloween, methinks. Not putting that shit on my face. Sensitive skin. But once again, emotion overwhelms logic and something beautiful is the end product. Two banshees, braving the cold steel rain, bleeding profusely from the head, awaiting the opening of our favorite boozer, Williamsburg's CYN (Lounge). Just down the block from "home".
Drive around a bit, stretch out those Aquatreads. The GraveDigger hydroplanes about Greenpoint, and by now, I'm on my way to taking an entire can of highly lethal Dust-Off to the face. Gotta be economical, yeah.
Eventually, the potential for vehicular manslaughter becomes too much for even TimeMachine and I, so we park the GraveDigger where we damn well please and take a walk. A long walk. Bloodied, soaking wet, well mashed, sketching out any and all who happen to be in the blast zone. One concerned Brooklynite stops me to ask if I'm alright (on account of the blood), even offering to help fuck up whatever vato done did it. My reassurances of a lack of injury don't seem to calm his murderous rage. Perfect. He's on the team.
A short time afterwards, I've found an umbrella, a child's, made in the P.R.O.C. All purple and My-Little-Pony-cute. Time to make this thing grotesque, cos' that's what the REx does best, yeah.
Within the span of a few blocks, I've destroyed the umbrella to the point that it consists of little more than a mangled revision of its flimsy metal endoskeleton. Occasionally, I hold the eye-poker at arm's length, squatting in the middle of Bedford Avenue for long stretches of time, horns honking left and right of me, all the while making any and all attempts to pick up a transmission from those pesky fucking Scanners. It's a war so futuristic it has but two combatants and one side. Nervous stares all around. No NYPD for miles.
Time's gone. CYN's on, with a dear friend manning the bar. L.A. Guns and blood-soaked Roses will be the vibe. Lots of Death From Above 1979. Tour Support. In spades. And so much blood on our faces and clothes that we'll most likely develop skin cancer 10 years from now as a result of the cosmetics. Everyone is worried about us.
Frequent dashes outside with my former-umbrella cum interstellar listening device. And on one such occasion, who should I see ambling down Bedford Avenue but Kyp Malone, guitarist and vocalist for Brooklyn indie supergroup TV on the Radio. Not unusual in and of itself, as he's often in the neighborhood, along with lead singer Tunde Adebimpe. But this is special. I'm feelin' strong and the world is mine, so to speak. Literally. Shhh. Here he comes...
And it go a little somethin' like this:
kasai REx: "Big fan Kyp, Huge fan. Great live show man!"
Kyp Malone: "Jesus dude, you're bleeding!"
...end scene...
Mission Accomplished Mr. Hawke. Return to base for some Jack-and-Waters.
Mumbled through a mouth full of peach Skoal, TimeMachine proposes a jaunt to Manhattan, seemingly out of nowhere. On the hunt for some trim. Two guns up! Terrible idea. kasai at the wheel?
Across the bridge without mass death. Somehow, someway. Not so lucky from there on out. A mingling of sheetmetal interfaces. on Houston. a yellow cab and a narrow escape, courtesy of a now freshened Ultimate Warrior. if only it had been one of those mobile paternity test centers, like the ones I see in Bed-Stuy. Then maybe I could have cleared up some, uncertainty. Yo well.
Though the night would continue from that point (approx. 5pm Saturday) through 9am the following Sunday, this story does not have a happy ending. This denouement is one of parking tickets, the petty theft of Apple products, empty wallets and empty hearts, "how do I taste", the death of the fake blood gag and epicly savage coke crashes. So for your own sake, you'd best stay behind the yellow line. And please do mind the gap.
i. I've got a 9mm bullet casing hiding between the blue and pink layers of my reversible BoxFresh jacket. Funny, as I have no idea how it got there. I don't own a gun (n.b. - given my professed derangement and past outbursts of warrantless and excessive violence, probably for the best), so that's out.
Most likely, I found it somewhere and was carrying it around, fully in the throes of TOUGH GUY Mode. And it's highly possible that someone in "The Circle" advised me to put it in of the "Keep New York City Clean" trash cans on some Brooklyn corner, so as not to draw unnecessary police attention. Holding, you see. Funnier still is the fact that, short of cutting the jacket open, which I'm not fucking doing, there seems to be no way to get it out.
ii. By around 4pm this day, I should've been fully prepared to hang myself. To think that my drug counselor (and former addict) uncle visited the family home, well mashed, driving around my young cousin and her friends, advising me to stay away from the "drug scene". Farbeit for me to stop a drunken sermon. Let him run. He'll wear himself out, with lots of talk of how the mental illness/savage drug problems that plagued him and my grandfather "skipped" me. Assuring nods, yeah. Guess that's my M.O. Case ya didn't know. To paraphrase, The Spark In His Eye Belies The Apocalypse Inside Him (thank you TVOTR). And don't you fucken forget it.
But hey. I did gain some insight through all the Newport haze and Jack Daniels belches. A sober-eye view of what cats look like when totally mashed. Not enough to shut the lights out when I get back to Brooklyn though. The Fatal Flaw. Drag the Waters.
Epilogue... Bullet troubles aside, it occurs to me now that the aforementioned uncle in Article ii. was the same uncle who gave me my first beer. At age three. And apparently, getting toddlers wasted has been his M.O. for quite some time. The More You Know...
Panties for men Match.com Pussy tattoo Dust and Peyote, but not in that order The Maytag Man's illegitimate black son Flatbed trucks carrying other flatbed trucks Monster truck video games (in 2007) Dreaming that Pervez Musharraf was dead Lindsay Lohan's head on Eminem's body 1991 BMW (E30) M3 The 201 area code The Coked-Up Werewolf God damn skylight! Being referred to as Miranda Richardson on some blog Trying to steal my own identity Glock 19L Spanx "This is the game of LIFE!" Point Break, thrice in one day Cranberry shortage Euros under my tire Eddie Harris Talk of the Nation Noodles "I want that inside me!" Jim Palmer rookie cards 19-year-old twat Holland Tunnel's "suicide squad" MLK Jr.'s funeral Filial disappointment Midgets drowning on inflatable rafts Yu-Gi-Oh Sobbing mother Baltimore Street Phantom 20s 19th Pregnancy Scare Lifetime (bans) The Scourge CYN "One Day The Children Came" Flight Simulator X Coke-covered MetroCard Pissed Jeans Live Free or Die Logitech Flashers Peter Jackson "Because Heart Care Can't Wait"
This is the nightmare. Lived every day, all day, 1/30th of second slower than it actually jumps off. Melding a somnambulist's fuckwittery with a Reaver's perpetual anguish. We'll drink to that. Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again. And Again.
Reading about the formative years of HST by candlelight, I came to a near epiphany concerning one of my most precious (if oft-delayed) creations. The revelation, being, of course, that the 4/5ths completed manuscript i've toiled at on and off for the last three years shall be transmogrified into a screenplay.
I'm hardly pretending it's brilliant in the traditional sense (it is, after all, unfinished and mostly neglected), but at this point, the switch is just a fucking necessary thing. The movie in my mind becomes the movie in their theaters, yeah?
And the only reason i'm putting this up on the small screen is because months, nay, years from now, I want to be able to look back and figure out exactly when the entire project began to unravel and fester.
i often go weeks at a time without eating or sleeping (though i require an ample flow of combustible liquids and complex chemical compounds)... As a rule, I won't smoke a pack of cigarettes costing less than 50.00 USD... I get my government recommended cardio (big ups to Slick Willy, The Governator, and C. Everett Koop) by slyly setting forest fires with dying cigarettes of high pedigree, waiting no less than six minutes, and then running suicides (with a 100 kilo bronze blunderbuss strapped to my back) through the blazing labyrinth, taking time to chop down robust, glowing oaks before they're reduced to a greyscale pyre, the fervor of it all transforming me into a bad, bad monster. Yes. A sweat-soaked, glistening, sinewy monster that hears and sees things that no being, living or dead, ever should...
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