respekt the COCK! and taaaammmme the CUNT!

seduce and destroy!

it's been about four years since i've seen the slice of film heaven that is p.t. anderson's "Magnolia." re-visiting this rousing speech by Frank T.J. Mackey (a character far less deluded than the actor that plays him) has brought me to a realization.

i used to say, "you know, if i end up fucked up, really at the end of my rope, i think i'm just gonna become a crooked cop. kickbacks/bribes, brutality, cozy setups with drug dealers, money trains, sex in exchange for freedom. that kinda shit."

but seeing Mackey in action, i think i'll just go right on ahead and add Chauvinist Motivational Speaker to that list, doubling its size in the process. because quite frankly, as long as there are women, and men that are hopeless to understand/connect/value them, there's a market for this shit.

wish me luck!

p.s. i stumbled upon a pretty serious website that's worth checking out if you're into p.t. anderson's work. link is below.

Cigarettes and Red Vines

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.

it's mah pussy i can do what i want! hunh, i'm a big girl now!

i just made the mistake of cueing up Bmore club music in Ableton. now i fucken wanna rob somebody.

above is the EPK for Mad Decent artist and Baltimore Club hero DJ Blaqstarr. when i was a young, young buck, the pounding, repetitive sound of this shit used to scare the hell out of me.

as i got older, and cunt became ever more intriguing to me, however, i came to love it. my boy Trip's old man owns Club Choices, so much of my education came from experiences there during middle school. for those outside the area, Club Choices is a pseudo-strip club that the local "urban" radio station, 92Q, broadcasts from on the weekends.

going there back in middle school was always a crapshoot though, because we never knew whether it was gonna be guys or girls. strippers that is. one night we might go in, and tuck singles under a thick chick's G-string, trying not to nut ourselves. but the next night, we might stumble in and find ourselves amidst a bunch of fucking Mandingos! fucking Turbo, Laser, and Champion swinging their dicks all over the place. but either way, that Club shit was always rockin. we'd take those 99 track CDs straight from Rod Lee (another Club god) and bump em in the nearest SUV. acting like we weren't a bunch of private school kids.

and of course there were the kiddie discos. basically dance parties for the under-18 set, every easter weekend. there were some truly thug ass motherfucking 9th graders up in there though, so you had to watch your step. but it was all good. lots of video chicks in training too.

a kid i knew once described Bmore Club as "headache music." but i like to think of it a little differently. as the video clearly shows, this is the kinda shit that causes the teen pregnancy rate to skyrocket. you just can't fucking help yourself.

and as for the neophytes seeking a thorough education on the genre, what the fuck do you think this is, Wikipedia? there's a whole gang of shit out there, floating about the internet, so get your weight up, not your hate up.

u used to get it in your fishnets, now u only get it in your nightdress.

what a homo.

WARNING: if you've ever had seizures or been diagnosed with epilepsy, it's probably not best to watch this video. there's a pretty freaky, Pokemon-esque flashing sequence that's been causing some Britons problems as of late. around 1:46 in. just tryin to help you out. and you didn't think i cared. plus i can't really afford a lawsuit right now. sooo... this disclaimer of sorts ended up being much longer than i'd planned. oh well. no harm in that i guess. but you know what they say. brevity is the soul of wit. i must be pretty fucken dumb then, ey?

i heard about this last night on Pightline and i just think it's absolutely fucking hilarious. it's a promo vid for the freshly rolled London 2012 Olympics. more specifically, it's the rollout for the official logo of the London Games. ahh yes, that logo. apparently causing a lot of heartache across the pond.

"it's ugly, innit?"

"a colossal waste of money."

"colours are all wrong, mate."

haha.

this campaign cost approx. 400,000 GBP, and the city is already over budget on that Olympic advert tip. they're even considering raising taxes to help stop the bleeding. always a popular proposal.

but i have to say, i don't see what all the fuss is about. let's not forget the 1996 ATL Olympics mascot, Izzy. total fucken fruit. like an anthropomorphized lightning bolt or something. wack city. and those Olympics saw a bombing. surely you don't want that London City? no one does. so in light of that fact, maybe things aren't as bad as ya make em to be, ay?

suffice to say that whoever designed this campaign has to be under 25 years of age. so much neon! the jittery, unfocused graphics? and the IDM/Afrobeat soundtrack? c'mon. really. c'mon.

definitely a frequenter of raves. a real club kid. maybe a Klaxons fan. very possible. speed freak? definitely a fastidious consumer of hallucinogens. and the lack of foresight (putting an epilepsy inducing, flashing sequence in, despite the well documented epilepsy issue) further evinces the youth and inexperience of the creator(s).

what's even funnier is that these Olympics are all of five years off, so London City has a long time to bitch things up even further. but personally i hope this logo business isn't indicative of what's to come.

Dear London Organising Committee for the Olympic Games, i'm kinda tryin to go, so get your fucking act together!

to the top or broke!

D-Block: "i think i'm gonna put a counter on my web joint to represent the number of days clean... but i'm gonna put a reset button on that shit... just in case."

and there's the rub.

when Hernando Cortes set sail for the "new world" in the 16th century, he had nearly 600 men in his employ. he assured them that boundless riches awaited them upon arrival, all but guaranteeing that their children's children's children would want for nothing. that's how paid these motherfuckers would be if they just got on their grizzly.

but you see, transatlantic voyages can be a real bitch. especially by sail.

growing increasingly wary of the dangers of foreign shores as the journey dragged on, by the time Cortes arrived in Mexico, the crew was mostly unwilling to press on. reassuring them that they would be Paid Like Wade if they went ahead with the conquering bidness, Cortes formed a holding pattern on the beach.

what's a young Conquistador to do?

in a show of true leadership (or manifest destiny-fueled delusion?), Cortes instructed his men to burn the boats. that's right. burn those motherfuckers. because when there's no way out...

Trap Or Die!

so needless to say, with the boats gone, these motherfuckers became absolutely ravenous. fucked the Aztecs in the ass. literally.

excuse the cultural insensitivity, but i think there's a rather positive lesson in this for all of us. because frankly, who doesn't have their own personal fleet that's holding them back, giving them an out, a route to failure. keeping them from getting that gold, from truly beasting out.

despair and dreariness are easy. short skirts and wet garbage bags really. Canadian -Shotgunning beers by the video poker machine, constantly putting their filthy fingers in your mouth. they call it flirting.

it's determination that's the bitch of the lot. she'll give you a fake phone number if you don't get your weight up. maybe even a drink to the face. not beer. i'm thinking something expensive and viscous. so the sting lingers. the cost of doing battle.

just do it.

sweeter than a five pound bag of sugar in a bucket of kool aid.

let it be said that any asshole who spends his or her time disparaging attorneys has obviously never required the services of one. because if and when you fuck up (or if someone's trying to fuck you, or both), they're pretty fucking god damn sweet!

back in '03, i required such assistance.

after a particularly ridiculous night of drinking during my rookie semester at the univ. of maryland (maybe i'll tell you the backstory if you ask nicely), i, along with young Timmy Sniffles and young Dollar Bill, proceed home to "north campus." about a 30 minute walk from where we are.

it's around sunrise, and somehow, we end up carrying a CO2 tank from a keg-o-rator back with us. we were to fill it up for a "friend."

so anyway.

we're wasted, as young kids tend to be after pounding boxed wine and gun-cleaner vodka, and we're slamming this empty metal bottle on the pavement as we stumble around under lofty fluorescent lamps. in our inibriated state, the resonant ring of metal on concrete is absolutely hilarious to us. it's all very, therapeutic.

about two minutes into our journey, an imposingly large black cop black cop stops us. figures, since the university police station is directly behind the house we'd just left.

"hey. hey!" he shouts "is that yours?"

takes us a moment to realize what the eff he's talking about.

(pause).

repeats the question.

somehow, one of us manages to answer coherently.

"you sure it's not stolen?" his primary concern.

most likely the same person answers that question as well.

"alright. get home."

get home indeed. missed opportunity.

satisfied with our daring escape from the inquisitive copper, we stumble across a grassy, quad like area where the dirty hippies often play "ultimate" frisbee. we still have the CO2 tank.

this next part is a bit blurry, but i'll do my best.

crossing the field, we approach the Maryland roundabout, for all intents and purposes the main entrance/exit for the university. across Campus Drive sits a bus stop shelter. without even a word, we head toward it. to this day i don't remember who commenced the action, but one of us hurls this CO2 tank straight at the side of this shelter. the tempered glass drops in an instant and we cheer raucously, our chants echoing off the walls of the surrounding science buildings.

for the next five minutes or so, we kick this bus stop shelter's ass, until all the glass is gone and portions of the metal frame is dented. from there, apparently we went up to a campus parking sign and smashed it with the bottle. i don't remember that though, but when i revisited the scene of the crime, it sure as hell was destroyed.

exhausted from our vandalism, we proceed in quiet satisfaction toward our dorm, still some 10 or 15 minutes away.

little did we know that that morning, a student was doing a ride-along with campus police and spotted us smashing the bus stop shelter, and of course, pointed us out. mind you, this was just before the "Stop Snitching" phenomenon took hold.

walking abreast of one another in the quiet autumn night, we hear footsteps other than our own. hard-soled, shuffling. surely we imagined it, all three of us, simultaneously.

"hey!"

OH FUCK!

pretend that didn't happen, keep walking. DON'T turn around.

"HEY!"

the casual, i-didn't-do-nothin walk is now a just shy of a run. quickly then, a hand on my shoulder.

oh shit son!

a female officer. gives us the once over. yeah. we still have the CO2 tank with us, all dented and bruised.

but it's bizarre, damn near surreal. she doesn't cuff us. just kinda asks those stupid, mindfucking cop questions. wants to see ID. stupidly, Timmy Sniffles and Dollar Bill give her their fakes, which she confiscates. after a tense few minutes of interrogation, she tells us to go home, and that there will be a warrant out for our arrests in the morning.

wtf?!!? take it and bounce kid. gas, brake, dip!

so of course, the next few days are hell, as we don't know what the fuck she meant. we kinda even feel like we'll get away with it, given the vague circumstances.

the next day, we go on a trip with a large group of "friends" to a large and prestigious nearby state university. no biggie. to get our minds off the legal dilemma, we go to some party at a massive frat house there and start stealing (paintings, jackets, credit cards, knives) and end up starting an enormous fight. inexplicably, 20 on 60, we "won" the fight, and i'm pretty sure i killed a kid (or at least gave him permanent brain damage) when i kicked him in the head (the temple to be specific), even though he was clearly already knocked out. we weren't even that fucked up.

good times.

but anyway, back in maryland (and still a little juiced from our assault), we're served our warrants, told to come to the station to be fingerprinted and photographed and given our court dates. Felony Malicious Destruction of Property (because it's over $1,000 in damage). Possible Jail Time.

my momma gwon kill me. "FUUUCCCCKK!" was on a permanent loop in my head and i waited till the last minute to tell my parents, just to avoid unnecessary problems.

but then, deliverance. Dollar Bill tells me that his old man knows a guy. former PG County prosecutor. he'll fix it, quick!

it took some balls, but i got up the nerve to beg my rents for the retainer money.

and that's when the magic starts. it took me a while, but the point is made. with his bold assurances ("this shouldn't even be in court; it's a waste of everyone's time; the judge will take one look at this and laugh out loud") and "legalese," this guy had us all breathing a sigh of relief. it was like a mother's lullaby, soothing the swaddling derelict as he faced his detractors.

sure, he couldn't do much to alleviate our judiciary problems at school. there was talk of suspension. it seemed devastating at the time, but i kinda wish i had been suspended. maybe then i could've finished college in less than seven years. haha.

but nonetheless, the lawyer mellowed us out on that tip as well. we were buying everything this guy was selling, and rightfully so. i've literally never seen someone so confident.

so after some legwork on his end, we show up to Hyattsville District Courthouse, suited up and with distraught parents in tow. he goes into the courtroom before us. it's bustling with various drunk drivers, car thieves, hookers and such. extremely crowded. he waves us in, tells us to take our seats, and approaches the bench. he and the judge chat casually for no more than a few minutes. he returns to us, urging us outside the courtroom.

just like that. teenage troubles vanished in the span of 10 minutes. smiling at our parents reassuringly, he says that the damage has been repaired, and in the way of remuneration, the school is asking that the three of us pay $33.33 each. to cover 1,100 bucks worth of damage. add that to the fact that none of us were suspended (had to take an online alcohol class, and community service that we never did) and i'd say we skated pretty cleanly. thanks to a certain lawyer.

of course, there will be some who'll say that the $3,000 retainer total means we ultimately ended up paying for it. but i'm guessing that those would be the same ones trashing lawyers. shut the fuck up! bitch ass goody-two shoes.