On expo and parry, I watched the world end.
An everyday apocalypse, it painted the world bright and surreal, giving the air a taste of intimacy, bathing us in the angry rays of a nuclear sunset.
Bright eyed hipsters and moody vagrants lounge about, unsure of their own beauty that blinds the passing crowds who come here to stare at these alien gods.
We take sacrament of alchemical concoctions and blessed herb and offer our prayers to our many temples of ultimate beauty and worship each other in beautiful blasphemy, happy in our sacrilege
Seeking even greater highs, I prick my skin with the same oils I paint with and reimagine myself as an ancient warrior priest and dance wildly to the throbbing music that constantly plays so as to drown out the cries of distant wars.
In an oasis of peace, miny wars are fought with passive aggressive taunts and childish proclamations, always striving to hurt, but fearful of actual violence.
In the shadow of Hiroshima, left without a world, we created our own, armed with paint, brushes, LSD and MDMA.
In our little corner of the plastic city, memories are like currency, to be hoarded, while men in suits try to rebuild and forget.
We found the singularity in a cast iron pation chair, redemption in a Pabst and a reason to live to in one shiny moment when everything feels like its gonna be OK.
30.11.10
24.8.10
random shit
so this is what we're here for . you're sitting at your computer reading some asshole opinion and this makes you informed. every asshole has opinion. Fuck. are you that much a useless tool you have to agure with me.Go outside. Read a book. Live your fucking life. Ask some fucking questions retard. When it's time to vote, take the day off and tail gate your local poling station. STOP BEING A FUCKING TOOL. IF you hate the way we've become, create your own government. Use your friends and family. All society is is a word. I please allegiance to the nation of ______. I pledge to fight ________ in any and all chooses ___ makes and constantly contradict ______. I pledge to be selfish when I have to be and not when I can. In t e name of the_____, my own personal goddy thing, different from all other goddy thing in that he has an amazing goatee, to do whatever it is people who are angry do. You know what fuck you I'm gonna masturebate.
8.7.10
The nature of disappointment
When my Swiss miss girlfriend broke up with me a couple of weeks ago, I only felt the sarcastic pangs of indifference, that ever-so-facetious twinge of, "Oh, whatever shall I do?? Now I'll have to grovel at the ugly feet of all those who I've rejected if I want some play!" It's ludicrous to imagine that I'd be hurt by such an event. It's no use being disappointed by inevitabilities. Because nothing lasts forever. ¡Qué cliché! Women will come and go, and you too, as a man, will come and go, and there will be another in your stead. That's the way it is.
But something has been bugging me these last couple of days. I have one of those digital cable boxes, and for me, it's almost as good as the basic cable Tio Carlos used to get us for free when we lived in Oak Cliff. I mean, a lot of times the reception is terrible, and sometimes channels will disappear or malfunction terribly, but it really beats the hell out of the constant static and three channel selection of the old analog. Before exposition turns to full-on digression, I will go ahead and say that I am heartbroken to report that my favorite channel on the box, 33-2, or LATV, is no longer available.
Yes! Tengo un corazón roto. I really don't understand this. I mean, I don't think ANYONE would miss 33-1, or The CW, what with its re-runs of Family Guy, The Simpsons, and Two and a Half Men, its crappy news (although, Amanda Salinas es la REINA), or ANY of its original programming, but here we are, nevertheless, seeing the cliché "the good die young" exerting its presence, its reality, all in our fucking faces.
LATV could've done some beautiful things had it been given the opportunity. It could've made being bilingual cool and not just a way for dealing with drug cartels or buying Tijuana prostitutes. It could've introduced a whole new audience to Spanish music with brains y alma como: Julieta Venegas, Calle 13, Belanova, etc. Okay, maybe I'm being steretypical and grandiose all at once, but seriously, Me voy a extrañar esa canal más que cualquier mujer que tal vez déjame en ruinas.
But something has been bugging me these last couple of days. I have one of those digital cable boxes, and for me, it's almost as good as the basic cable Tio Carlos used to get us for free when we lived in Oak Cliff. I mean, a lot of times the reception is terrible, and sometimes channels will disappear or malfunction terribly, but it really beats the hell out of the constant static and three channel selection of the old analog. Before exposition turns to full-on digression, I will go ahead and say that I am heartbroken to report that my favorite channel on the box, 33-2, or LATV, is no longer available.
Yes! Tengo un corazón roto. I really don't understand this. I mean, I don't think ANYONE would miss 33-1, or The CW, what with its re-runs of Family Guy, The Simpsons, and Two and a Half Men, its crappy news (although, Amanda Salinas es la REINA), or ANY of its original programming, but here we are, nevertheless, seeing the cliché "the good die young" exerting its presence, its reality, all in our fucking faces.
LATV could've done some beautiful things had it been given the opportunity. It could've made being bilingual cool and not just a way for dealing with drug cartels or buying Tijuana prostitutes. It could've introduced a whole new audience to Spanish music with brains y alma como: Julieta Venegas, Calle 13, Belanova, etc. Okay, maybe I'm being steretypical and grandiose all at once, but seriously, Me voy a extrañar esa canal más que cualquier mujer que tal vez déjame en ruinas.
21.6.10
Pounding Nails in the Floor with My Forehead
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June 24, 25, 26 @ 7 P.M. El Centro College, Arena Theater
I am performing nine monologues from "Pounding Nails in the Floor with My Forehead" by Eric Bogosian. It's dirty, it's offensive, it's alienating! Come see it and GO FUCK YOURSELF!
15.6.10
Fun With Ad Slogans
“Red Bull. It Gives you the Shits.”
Finals week
Pulling “all-nighters”
Popping Adderall
Blah blah blah
You slam down energy drinks
“Nerve”
“Brain”
“Cuckoo”
“Slam”
And so on
Different flavors
But then there’s “Red Bull”
You had a case of it
Now there’s two left
It’s 6 A.M and you’ve been up
All night
Your paper’s due at 8 A.M
You have two pages done
You need six
All you want to do is sleep
Because you’re crashing hard and fast
But first you have to shit
You’re sitting on the can
Pushing out soft, somewhat watery shits
And you can’t stop
When you do, there’s a calm
And in the calm your asshole burns
And you fall asleep on the toilet
With your head in your hands.
Finals week
Pulling “all-nighters”
Popping Adderall
Blah blah blah
You slam down energy drinks
“Nerve”
“Brain”
“Cuckoo”
“Slam”
And so on
Different flavors
But then there’s “Red Bull”
You had a case of it
Now there’s two left
It’s 6 A.M and you’ve been up
All night
Your paper’s due at 8 A.M
You have two pages done
You need six
All you want to do is sleep
Because you’re crashing hard and fast
But first you have to shit
You’re sitting on the can
Pushing out soft, somewhat watery shits
And you can’t stop
When you do, there’s a calm
And in the calm your asshole burns
And you fall asleep on the toilet
With your head in your hands.
1.6.10
I want to be a cult phenomenon.
Hi.
So, I have a story up here (thanks to the ladies at Sleep Snort Fuck):
http://sleepsnortfuck.blogspot.com/2010/05/old-enough-my-wants-wont-kill-me.html
Read it, comment, follow the blog, submit yourself.
So, I have a story up here (thanks to the ladies at Sleep Snort Fuck):
http://sleepsnortfuck.blogspot.com/2010/05/old-enough-my-wants-wont-kill-me.html
Read it, comment, follow the blog, submit yourself.
26.5.10
death. Or something like it.
So we die.
Not meaning to sound fatalistic but let's face it, it's true. When I died it wasn't at all like I expected. I've had what you may call a bad life. Beaten and abused. Wishing for death. But just not quite hitting the mark. I guess I just wasn't serious enough for it.
I honestly don't remember dying. Of course I know that I died, or else this would just be bullshit. But, I seriously can't remember my actual death.
I just died one day.
I woke up and I was dead.
A coronary or something. Apparently doing a shit load of drugs will actually come back and get you several years later.
I just woke up one morning and I was dead.
Or didn't wake up.
Whatever.
All I know is that I woke beside myself.
I was pretty sure this was just a dream, but it still freaked me out.
My body just lying there.
All pale.
Not white guy pale. Just not right.
Then some asshole puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "It's time to go."
I turn around and some Robert Smith looking asshole is giving me these sad eyes, just staring at me.
Just staring, like I'm supposed to just go along with it.
"Listen you emo fuck, I don't know how new you are to this gig, but you fucked up."
Those sad, sad eyes.
"Listen, I'm know you're just doing your job, and normally I would just accept that, but this seems like a fuck up on your part, man."
Those sad, sad eyes.
"Look. I try to kill myself on an almost daily basis. We've never met, but trust I've gone through this plenty of times before. Normally I'd just go with you, but I didn't do anything tonight. Honest. You've got the wrong guy. I'm Adam Strange; born Joe Adam Hernandez. I drink and smoke pot. But last I checked you can't OD off that."
It is your time.
"But this is ridiculous. I know I didn't try to kill myself tonight and I didn't even do anything close to it. At least tell me how I died."
It is your time."Ya, and I'll accept that and go with you quietly if you just tell me how I fucking died, okay."Around this time a bunch of other unnatural motherfuckers started showing up, looking all angelic and shit.
"Look I know you're just trying to do your job, but this seems kind of crazy. If I died, just tell me what I died of. Come on don't I have a right to know?"
The other grim assholes started off with the whole, "It's your time," line.
"Cool! Cool! Just, can't one of you tell me what the fuck killed me?"
I noticed some worry in their faces, so I pressed the issue.
"Come on. If I died just take me. No problem. I want to die, but this just doesn't make since. If I'm dead why can't any of you tell me exactly what killed me."
Next thing you know I was in my, already cold body, watching these assholes argue, except I couldn't hear a word.
Many of the the other spirits turned away and disappeared. The main spirit and one other stayed.
I was back out off my body.
You may live.
"What?"
It is not your time."But what about what that asshole said?"
Hey buddy, you do drugs and drink like a fish. You're a fucking alcoholic and could die any day. You're just lucky I don't bring you in today. I'll get you, dirtbag."
Next thing you know, I woke up in a hospital. The doctors said I was lucky to be alive and I had a coronary. No one believes my story, but I know that self righteous asshole is still out there. And you know what. This shot is for him.
Dickweed.
Not meaning to sound fatalistic but let's face it, it's true. When I died it wasn't at all like I expected. I've had what you may call a bad life. Beaten and abused. Wishing for death. But just not quite hitting the mark. I guess I just wasn't serious enough for it.
I honestly don't remember dying. Of course I know that I died, or else this would just be bullshit. But, I seriously can't remember my actual death.
I just died one day.
I woke up and I was dead.
A coronary or something. Apparently doing a shit load of drugs will actually come back and get you several years later.
I just woke up one morning and I was dead.
Or didn't wake up.
Whatever.
All I know is that I woke beside myself.
I was pretty sure this was just a dream, but it still freaked me out.
My body just lying there.
All pale.
Not white guy pale. Just not right.
Then some asshole puts his hand on my shoulder and says, "It's time to go."
I turn around and some Robert Smith looking asshole is giving me these sad eyes, just staring at me.
Just staring, like I'm supposed to just go along with it.
"Listen you emo fuck, I don't know how new you are to this gig, but you fucked up."
Those sad, sad eyes.
"Listen, I'm know you're just doing your job, and normally I would just accept that, but this seems like a fuck up on your part, man."
Those sad, sad eyes.
"Look. I try to kill myself on an almost daily basis. We've never met, but trust I've gone through this plenty of times before. Normally I'd just go with you, but I didn't do anything tonight. Honest. You've got the wrong guy. I'm Adam Strange; born Joe Adam Hernandez. I drink and smoke pot. But last I checked you can't OD off that."
It is your time.
"But this is ridiculous. I know I didn't try to kill myself tonight and I didn't even do anything close to it. At least tell me how I died."
It is your time."Ya, and I'll accept that and go with you quietly if you just tell me how I fucking died, okay."Around this time a bunch of other unnatural motherfuckers started showing up, looking all angelic and shit.
"Look I know you're just trying to do your job, but this seems kind of crazy. If I died, just tell me what I died of. Come on don't I have a right to know?"
The other grim assholes started off with the whole, "It's your time," line.
"Cool! Cool! Just, can't one of you tell me what the fuck killed me?"
I noticed some worry in their faces, so I pressed the issue.
"Come on. If I died just take me. No problem. I want to die, but this just doesn't make since. If I'm dead why can't any of you tell me exactly what killed me."
Next thing you know I was in my, already cold body, watching these assholes argue, except I couldn't hear a word.
Many of the the other spirits turned away and disappeared. The main spirit and one other stayed.
I was back out off my body.
You may live.
"What?"
It is not your time."But what about what that asshole said?"
Hey buddy, you do drugs and drink like a fish. You're a fucking alcoholic and could die any day. You're just lucky I don't bring you in today. I'll get you, dirtbag."
Next thing you know, I woke up in a hospital. The doctors said I was lucky to be alive and I had a coronary. No one believes my story, but I know that self righteous asshole is still out there. And you know what. This shot is for him.
Dickweed.
25.5.10
An experiment in comedy
In a dark and mostly empty comedy dive a visibly shaking and obviously drunk little mexican in 1970 punk garb takes the mike. After a good minute of awkward silence he whispers....You know the worst part about being Mexican? All the damn cousins. I've got cousins I've never even met. I actually lost my virginity to a cousin. Don't worry it wasn't inscest, I was wearing condom.
But there are good things. You know I'm catholic, obviously, I'm a drunken masochist. But hey, at least we only have to deal with a 45 minute mass. Well that and the ass rapings, but that's only till 12 then the priest finds a younger boy. Hey beats being Baptist.
Jeez this is getting awkward, let's talk about abortions. I've just realized I'm not pro-life or pro-choice, I'm pro-take-your-pregnant-girlfriend-to-Six-Flags. Think about it. Abortion clinics are so sterile and discomforting. It's like going to get a root canal. Who wants that? Now what's more comforting than a theme park? "Here you go sweetie why don't you have a turkey leg and a beer while we wait in line." What! She gonna give it up any way! Then after 30 to 45 minutes, WHHEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
Ya, my ex hated that joke. She just called me the other day. She wanted to know what I was getting her for her birthday. Bitch we broke up a month ago. Here's a balloon and a dildo, go fuck yourself.
I don't have a girlfriend right now. I have a cat. I know. I know. This is where I put the pussy joke. Well the joke's on you it's not a pussy joke. It's a cancer joke.
So my stepdad just got cancer. Prostate. Don't worry, he was an asshole so it makes sense. He use to beat the shit out of me, now he shits in a bag. In unrelated news I am no longer an atheist. I use to worry about him beating my nieces and nephews since my sister lets him baby sit all the time, but not any more. Even if he does it, he'll half ass it.
Well my time is up thanks for your time and please don't follow me.
The strange little man flashes a gun and walks backward off the stage.
But there are good things. You know I'm catholic, obviously, I'm a drunken masochist. But hey, at least we only have to deal with a 45 minute mass. Well that and the ass rapings, but that's only till 12 then the priest finds a younger boy. Hey beats being Baptist.
Jeez this is getting awkward, let's talk about abortions. I've just realized I'm not pro-life or pro-choice, I'm pro-take-your-pregnant-girlfriend-to-Six-Flags. Think about it. Abortion clinics are so sterile and discomforting. It's like going to get a root canal. Who wants that? Now what's more comforting than a theme park? "Here you go sweetie why don't you have a turkey leg and a beer while we wait in line." What! She gonna give it up any way! Then after 30 to 45 minutes, WHHEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
Ya, my ex hated that joke. She just called me the other day. She wanted to know what I was getting her for her birthday. Bitch we broke up a month ago. Here's a balloon and a dildo, go fuck yourself.
I don't have a girlfriend right now. I have a cat. I know. I know. This is where I put the pussy joke. Well the joke's on you it's not a pussy joke. It's a cancer joke.
So my stepdad just got cancer. Prostate. Don't worry, he was an asshole so it makes sense. He use to beat the shit out of me, now he shits in a bag. In unrelated news I am no longer an atheist. I use to worry about him beating my nieces and nephews since my sister lets him baby sit all the time, but not any more. Even if he does it, he'll half ass it.
Well my time is up thanks for your time and please don't follow me.
The strange little man flashes a gun and walks backward off the stage.
Caught in the rain at Pearl Station
If I die tonight,
Tell Abbey I love her,
Tell Jameson,
I'm sorry,
Tell Laura,
I wish I was a better brother,
Tell Dean,
I wish I could have been a better student,
Tell Tony,
I miss her,
And remember,
I wrote this
Under an iron oasis of sunflowers
Tell Abbey I love her,
Tell Jameson,
I'm sorry,
Tell Laura,
I wish I was a better brother,
Tell Dean,
I wish I could have been a better student,
Tell Tony,
I miss her,
And remember,
I wrote this
Under an iron oasis of sunflowers
In flames
I had a dream last night
I dowsed the city in gasoline
The high rises and the river
The mansions and the ghettos
Every big box and mom and pop
Every bar and church
I dowsed city hall then pissed on it
On and On I went
I was drinking rubbing alcohol and smoking menthols
I flooded clarendon, greenville, and main
Every piece of pavement
Every window
Every man, woman and child
I stood on top of Back of America and looked down at it
The glimmering rainbow hued silence
I laughed and dropped my cigarette.
I dowsed the city in gasoline
The high rises and the river
The mansions and the ghettos
Every big box and mom and pop
Every bar and church
I dowsed city hall then pissed on it
On and On I went
I was drinking rubbing alcohol and smoking menthols
I flooded clarendon, greenville, and main
Every piece of pavement
Every window
Every man, woman and child
I stood on top of Back of America and looked down at it
The glimmering rainbow hued silence
I laughed and dropped my cigarette.
23.5.10
Dirty Poetry.
EAT A BAG OF SHIT
Dear heckler,
one day I was
sitting on the bus
& I met your moms & your
moms moms & I moved to sit
closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them
that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records
& drink gin from my asshole.
Not reluctant, they nodded yes,
&
when we got to my place,
I put on that Frampton song that goes
“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”
& we started talking, & your moms said that her son
is the biggest fucking loser this side of the
prime meridian
who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base
& jerks off into his dirty socks.
You sick, depraved fucker.
Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment
she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because
she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.
Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait
& used her fake chompers to open the gin
they came out in the process, but it was a laugh
& your moms pulled down my pants &
commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts
she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since
your daddy promised he’d tell her when
& he lied, of course
(She was excited)
& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.
Dear heckler,
your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest
& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts
& then she poured a shot of gin into
my asshole.
It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack
but she drank it all & licked it clean.
So basically,
your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.
Eat a bag of shit.
*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.
---
“How Academics Fuck”
Academics are turned on by academic things.
My friend Adam Strange
Said that they are
Not
Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps
(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)
But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing
Revisionist histories.
One time I crafted my own vision.
I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than
What
The
Books
Say.
In my vision,
Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all
Those crazy conservative things because
He wanted the
World
To see how insane the neo-cons are.
The Academics, of course, disagree.
So do I.
I was just having some fun.
Academics, well, they fuck for fun.
They are very studious and wear formal things,
But in the bedroom, they are animals.
Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,
No rubbers.
Cum on bellies,
Cum on backs,
Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,
FUCK.
They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.
They’re for speech codes and against on-campus
Military recruitment
Good good liberal types
Trangressive behind closed doors,
Sensitive to feelings in the open
And I support transgression, and I support free speech,
In the open.
Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
When Academics fuck
People listen (credibility)
And follow suit
Fucking in emulation
Intellectual masturbation
For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same
Nation.
Dear heckler,
one day I was
sitting on the bus
& I met your moms & your
moms moms & I moved to sit
closer & they smelt of manjuice & womanjuice & so I ever-so-gently put it to them
that I have a passion-pit of my own if they’d like to come over & listen to records
& drink gin from my asshole.
Not reluctant, they nodded yes,
&
when we got to my place,
I put on that Frampton song that goes
“Ooooh baby I luv yer waaay.”
& we started talking, & your moms said that her son
is the biggest fucking loser this side of the
prime meridian
who has to pay fat girls just to get to second base
& jerks off into his dirty socks.
You sick, depraved fucker.
Your moms moms is dying of embarrassment
she doesn’t make you cookies anymore because
she’s afraid to spit now that she has dentures.
Feisty, the old lady couldn’t wait
& used her fake chompers to open the gin
they came out in the process, but it was a laugh
& your moms pulled down my pants &
commenced to sucking my cock & fondling my nuts
she kept saying that she hadn’t tasted jizm since
your daddy promised he’d tell her when
& he lied, of course
(She was excited)
& she wished that that jizm contained the sperm that was you.
Dear heckler,
your moms moms made me pull my knees to my chest
& ate out my asshole & gummed my nuts
& then she poured a shot of gin into
my asshole.
It was cold & tingly & some of it ran down my crack
but she drank it all & licked it clean.
So basically,
your whole maternal lineage is comprised of sluts.
Eat a bag of shit.
*Dedicated to the late, great Sam Kinison.
---
“How Academics Fuck”
Academics are turned on by academic things.
My friend Adam Strange
Said that they are
Not
Turned on by alchemy or gods in gaps
(only drunk pseudo-intellectuals are)
But he added that they enjoy socialism and criticizing
Revisionist histories.
One time I crafted my own vision.
I wouldn’t call it re-vision, but it was different than
What
The
Books
Say.
In my vision,
Señor Raygun was a staunch liberal who said and did all
Those crazy conservative things because
He wanted the
World
To see how insane the neo-cons are.
The Academics, of course, disagree.
So do I.
I was just having some fun.
Academics, well, they fuck for fun.
They are very studious and wear formal things,
But in the bedroom, they are animals.
Sucking cock, eating pussy, analingus,
No rubbers.
Cum on bellies,
Cum on backs,
Reverse cowgirl, doggie style,
FUCK.
They say that ts elliot and ezra pound are impenetrable fascists.
They’re for speech codes and against on-campus
Military recruitment
Good good liberal types
Trangressive behind closed doors,
Sensitive to feelings in the open
And I support transgression, and I support free speech,
In the open.
Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke.
When Academics fuck
People listen (credibility)
And follow suit
Fucking in emulation
Intellectual masturbation
For a monkey see-monkey fuck-in-same
Nation.
2.5.10
¡Viva La Raza! or Why Stuart Antonio Rey-González didn't attend yesterday's marches
See, I have this thing. She's called a "girlfriend." Friday night was her birthday. I spent every penny I had from my tax return on a swanky hotel room in VP. There was Evan Williams. There was cocaine. We drank, inhaled, and watched the NBA playoffs on an HDTV, blaspheming overpaid assholes the whole night. Just me and her. It was sweet. Romantic.
I told her that I had to be more conservative with my excess because May Day (this year) is an important day for us Mexican-Americans. Of course, she's of the blonde-Swiss variety, so she just stared blankly at LeBron James or whoever. I don't know. I started cutting a coupla lines on the glass coffee table when there was a knock on the door. Housekeeping? Can't be. There's a DO NOT DISTURB tag on the doornob. Roomservice? We never called for any. Fuck. The room was like, $450 for a night!
My girlfriend, in a paranoid panic, swept the two lines that I'd been painstakingly molding with my long expired, maxed-out credit card off the table. After some choice expletives, I went to the door, stuck my face to the peep-hole, and saw a strung-out looking hipster and his-- I had presumed-- morenalicious girlfriend. I shrugged, turned to my girlfriend, who was snorting grains from the carpet, and decided to let them in.
They claimed to be part of a big wedding party and were inviting the entire floor down to the bar for the festivities. After prying my Swiss beauty from the carpet, we made way downstairs. We did some shots with complete strangers, and then the hipster dude and morenalicious (they said their names were Homer and Gracie) came back to our room where we played drinking games and did lines of coke off the girls's asses.
The whole time I was thinking, "man... I've written a story that was kind of like this." The last thing I remember is that we swapped partners. At least I thought we did. Because Homer and I woke up naked, spooning on the balcony; finding that we'd been locked out. After the initial, "holy shit, we're gay" scare, we tried to see if the girls were in the room. Neither of us had our phones, so we had to scream for them. Nothing.
Hours later, we were let out and asked to explain ourselves. The girls were gone and the room was fucked. The glass coffee table: broken. The HDTV: the object used to break it. The handle of Evan Williams, tipped on its side. Its contents: soaked into the carpet. Thousands of dollars of damage. Homer and I claimed that we were fucked up and that we didn't know what the hell had happened. I tried to deny that the room was in my name, but was unable to avoid it as I "looked more like a González" than Homer.
In short, I was profiled!
I'll also be hearing from their lawyer.
I told her that I had to be more conservative with my excess because May Day (this year) is an important day for us Mexican-Americans. Of course, she's of the blonde-Swiss variety, so she just stared blankly at LeBron James or whoever. I don't know. I started cutting a coupla lines on the glass coffee table when there was a knock on the door. Housekeeping? Can't be. There's a DO NOT DISTURB tag on the doornob. Roomservice? We never called for any. Fuck. The room was like, $450 for a night!
My girlfriend, in a paranoid panic, swept the two lines that I'd been painstakingly molding with my long expired, maxed-out credit card off the table. After some choice expletives, I went to the door, stuck my face to the peep-hole, and saw a strung-out looking hipster and his-- I had presumed-- morenalicious girlfriend. I shrugged, turned to my girlfriend, who was snorting grains from the carpet, and decided to let them in.
They claimed to be part of a big wedding party and were inviting the entire floor down to the bar for the festivities. After prying my Swiss beauty from the carpet, we made way downstairs. We did some shots with complete strangers, and then the hipster dude and morenalicious (they said their names were Homer and Gracie) came back to our room where we played drinking games and did lines of coke off the girls's asses.
The whole time I was thinking, "man... I've written a story that was kind of like this." The last thing I remember is that we swapped partners. At least I thought we did. Because Homer and I woke up naked, spooning on the balcony; finding that we'd been locked out. After the initial, "holy shit, we're gay" scare, we tried to see if the girls were in the room. Neither of us had our phones, so we had to scream for them. Nothing.
Hours later, we were let out and asked to explain ourselves. The girls were gone and the room was fucked. The glass coffee table: broken. The HDTV: the object used to break it. The handle of Evan Williams, tipped on its side. Its contents: soaked into the carpet. Thousands of dollars of damage. Homer and I claimed that we were fucked up and that we didn't know what the hell had happened. I tried to deny that the room was in my name, but was unable to avoid it as I "looked more like a González" than Homer.
In short, I was profiled!
I'll also be hearing from their lawyer.
1.5.10
A poem about H-Town by Robby Mexico
That Old H-town
Don’t be angry, she said in gentle tones
And I tried to listen but screamed instead
At her injustice, at the sheer ugliness,
Of this old H-town you all love so much.
God bless this city, burn it down,
Spread the ashes across the ocean,
Spin beautiful tales of that old H-town,
That malicious metropolis littered with good intentions.
Play honest violins at the funeral; flutes, too.
Trumpets don’t lie and we gather here,
To give our last respects, say our last words-
It’s okay, Houston would have wanted it this way.
Dallas came and cried a bit, as did London, Paris, Rome.
New York gave her condolences, but couldn’t come due to circumstance.
San Antonio seemed broken, lost; New Orleans cried a flood again,
But Milwaukee was too concerned with self to cry;
Seattle cried for days and days, and Galveston?
Well, Galveston attempted suicide but couldn’t
Convince himself to die.
And Moscow sent his heart, from Russia with love,
And Venice and Los Angeles consoled each other,
And Tokyo still refused to believe the news
And Chicago, Cairo, and Vancouver were silent,
Jordan and Beijing strove to be strong,
And Athens and Amsterdam collapsed with grief,
Nairobi and Sydney mourned their brother with
Toronto and Baghdad, and Phoenix and Bristol
And Berlin and Dubai and Okinawa and Barcelona
And Boston and Austin and me.
A moment of silence for that old H-town.
-- Robby Mexico
Don’t be angry, she said in gentle tones
And I tried to listen but screamed instead
At her injustice, at the sheer ugliness,
Of this old H-town you all love so much.
God bless this city, burn it down,
Spread the ashes across the ocean,
Spin beautiful tales of that old H-town,
That malicious metropolis littered with good intentions.
Play honest violins at the funeral; flutes, too.
Trumpets don’t lie and we gather here,
To give our last respects, say our last words-
It’s okay, Houston would have wanted it this way.
Dallas came and cried a bit, as did London, Paris, Rome.
New York gave her condolences, but couldn’t come due to circumstance.
San Antonio seemed broken, lost; New Orleans cried a flood again,
But Milwaukee was too concerned with self to cry;
Seattle cried for days and days, and Galveston?
Well, Galveston attempted suicide but couldn’t
Convince himself to die.
And Moscow sent his heart, from Russia with love,
And Venice and Los Angeles consoled each other,
And Tokyo still refused to believe the news
And Chicago, Cairo, and Vancouver were silent,
Jordan and Beijing strove to be strong,
And Athens and Amsterdam collapsed with grief,
Nairobi and Sydney mourned their brother with
Toronto and Baghdad, and Phoenix and Bristol
And Berlin and Dubai and Okinawa and Barcelona
And Boston and Austin and me.
A moment of silence for that old H-town.
-- Robby Mexico
25.4.10
Run for the Border (¡Apurate!)
"Run for the Border (¡Apurate!)"
look, I may look like a messican
but really, I'm not (scout's honor)
so before you go doing shit like
passing laws to fortify erect walls,
remember: you're only encouraging carlos mencia to steal more material from Jewish-American comedians
shame on you all
&&SG
look, I may look like a messican
but really, I'm not (scout's honor)
so before you go doing shit like
passing laws to fortify erect walls,
remember: you're only encouraging carlos mencia to steal more material from Jewish-American comedians
shame on you all
&&SG
15.4.10
Trannies on Parade
These are stick-figure trannies with no clothes (save a hat on one of them), noticeable deformations, and no variegation save penis size/shape and the fact that one is prostrate (and one is wearing a hat). Two are pissing/cumming, their bodily fluids seemingly defying laws of gravity and physics and who knows what else.
To some, this may be tasteless, even offensive. I'm fairly positive most will never see this, but fuck you all just in case. You are the most joyless, humorless people in existence, and you make the world a horrifying place to live in. You'd rather sit on your ass and choose to be offended by what other people do instead of taking one minute to create something beautiful, and that is what makes you sad, empty, boring, and annoying.
To everyone else:
The opening bid on this piece is a bottle of low-end brandy. I like Christian Brothers. I think you can get 750ml for less than $10 these days. However, I'll gladly give it to you if you promise to frame it and hang it in your living room for all to see.
4.4.10
Some Books I Own.
"Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery."A while back, writer Steve Finbow posted a link on his Twitter to Lookshelves, a website dedicated to people's bookshelves. Finbow's is tidy, but as you'll see, mine is a disorganized clusterfuck of various tomes and lexicons. This is partly because mine isn't a bookshelf. It's a desk.
So, I will not answer any questions, I will merely volunteer information that no one gives a shit about.
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Houellebecq's Possibility of an Island is a British hardback edition. I think I got it for $6 at Half-Price. There's more Elmore Leonard here, some film related books; Four Stories by Ingmar Bergman and Rebel Without a Crew by Robert Rodriguez. There is a Border's Twain anthology here, Goodbye, Columbus and Patrimony by Philip Roth, an Oxford Pocket Dictionary, Troubled Sleep by Jean-Paul Sartre and some essays by Albert Camus. Also, note: Graphic Novels Pussey! and David Boring by Daniel Clowes.
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The 501 Spanish Verbs has been very used. It was irreparably damaged in my relocation. The thickest of all the books in this photo is an anthology of Twain that is much more complete than the Border's version. Complete versions of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court can be found betwixt its covers. Also here, some college notebooks and a Spanish dictonary, also worn from usage.
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Closeup here... My Idea of Fun, Cock & Bull, and How The Dead Live by Will Self. The Body by Hanif Kureishi, the man who wrote the screenplay for My Beautiful Laundrette.
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Recently added: Dorian: An Imitation, The Sweet Smell of Psychosis, and Psychogeography by Will Self, and Ablutions by Patrick deWitt. Two of which have been reviewed on this site. Also missing from these photos is God Hates Us All, which I lent to Adam Strange, and was subsequently stolen from him along with his faux leather jacket. At one point he also borrowed Panegyric by Guy Debord, which was not stolen. Hmm, I wonder.
2.4.10
Doug Stanhope Wikipedia Photo, "Ablutions" by Patrick deWitt, and a snippet of a story
This summary is not available. Please
click here to view the post.
29.3.10
It's not the fucking drugs, it's the fucking idea of fucking
Richard Hermes is a lonely guy. That's why he spends a lot of his time with the most vacuous people in London. Who are these people, you dare to not ask? They are only interchangeable vessels of lust and syncophantry for the adman/madman known as Bell.
Will Self is probably my favorite writer. Not because his characters are the most developed or the most endearing, but mostly because of the prevailing voice. He has a way with words, and knows how to use them. He's also endowed with a vision that he elucidates in a way that engages both intellect and primal instinct.
He's said that his writing is only communicative of a tangential relationship with reality. Which is to say that he doesn't see himself as an observer/social commentator but as a participant. His stories are journeys into alternate dimensions where psychosis and drug abuse are orders of the day.
With "The Sweet Smell of Psychosis," one of his earlier novellas, Self explores a dimension where Richard Hermes is constantly tormented by his desire. The only thing that stoked his curiosity (in the first place) with regard to the Sealink is Ursula. He sticks around because wants so badly to get close to her. To know her. To fuck her. To love her (maybe). All this keeps him under the influence of Bell. Ubiquitous, transmogrifying fucking Bell. Richard sees the man's visage everywhere he goes. Billboards. People in the street. People at the Sealink. Did I mention that Richard often dines with Pablo (you shouldn't have to be a cokehead to get the reference)? He does. He hangs with Pablo so much, it's like they're fucking roommates. But Pablo isn't a good roommate. He's put Richard on the bubble at his shitty job.
So.
Without giving away the ending, let's just say that for a man, sex would never be the same if what happened to Richard happened to us. A man will go through a lot of shit if he thinks he's going to get laid. A lot. He will not question, complain, or avoid compromise. Of course, he will lie, but doesn't it make sense to use a manipulative tactic as a countermanipulative measure? No? Okay.
Whatever you do, don't say it's the drugs. Pablo doesn't make a man hallucinate. That's bullshit. If Richard didn't spend all his time trying to fuck Ursula, he might've continued just being boring ass Richard Hermes. But that would've been... boring. What actually happened was a lot more interesting.
23.3.10
FUCK IT & FUCK U 2
“‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too”
I scribble.
Color outside the lines
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I drink.
Sloppy, obnoxious, flirtatious
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I smoke.
Insistently, persistently, against your grain
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I fuck.
Badly and in the light of day
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I scribble.
Color outside the lines
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I drink.
Sloppy, obnoxious, flirtatious
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I smoke.
Insistently, persistently, against your grain
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
I fuck.
Badly and in the light of day
‘Cause fuck it and fuck you, too.
16.3.10
Movies & Music
"9 Songs"
Written/Directed by Michael Winterbottom
Featuring: Kieran O'Brien, Margo Stilley and some rock bands.
I was warned about this film a few years ago by a friend. At just barely an hour and six minutes, it's a mercifully short film about a love affair between a British man (Matt) and an American woman (Lisa) living in Britain. There's no back story. They just meet at a concert, and the year long tryst goes from there. There's no plot. No real story. Just a lot of sex. A lot of kink. A bit of tension.
Throughout the film, we are asked to slog through concert footage from several bands... I think I may have listened to the BRMC once or twice, but everything else here is shit. Because the couple met at a venue, it's only to be expected that they spend a lot of time going to shows. But I have to say that this is the weakest aspect of the film. Winterbottom is expert at capturing sensuality, but not so much at capturing the feel of a live music venue.
There are also some vignettes where Matt spends some time in Antarctica, but it seems more like filler to push the film into the "feature length" category than anything to do with the relationship between him and Lisa. There is a bit where Lisa gives him a book on Antarctica, so I suppose that explains it, but it still seems random as hell to me.
I like this film because the unsimulated sex scenes are beautiful, and the chemistry between the two leads is used to great effect.
"Hoy y Mañana/Today and Tomorrow"
The film is a low budget visual wonder. There's no candy coating the lifestyle here, unless you believe it a must that all prostitutes end up drug wracked and STD infected (I say this being an avid reader of William T. Vollmann, who is a master at capturing these things at their most ugly, most human). Costa is very endearing and relatable as Paula. And I love the theatre scenes.
***
"Option Paralysis"/The Dillinger Escape Plan
Without question, The Dillinger Escape Plan is my favorite band of the last 10 years. I have never loved a band as I have this one. Sure, I love Ornette Coleman. I love Albert Ayler and Charlie Christian, and some of that old jazz music. I think Ted Leo is a gifted songwriter. But this band just does it for me. In general, I have drifted away from their style of music, but not from them (I might indulge in a #12 tune from time to time).
From "Cleopatra's Sling" (the first song by them I heard), to "The Mullet Burden," to the entire 11 track masterpiece that is "Calculating Infinity" to "Setting Fire to Sleeping Giants" and "Mouth of Ghosts," they have proven to be a skilled, versatile band. They have a punk ethic and a virtuosic touch. They're down-to-earth guys who take their music seriously. Themselves? Not so much.
I could talk about the lineup changes, the genius of lead guitarist and founding member Ben Weinman (the only original member left), but it's been done. I could use "Calculating Infinity" as a measuring stick to this, their fourth full-length release, but it's unnecessary. For the first time in their 13 year existence, they have released a dynamic, challenging, and extremely listenable record. I don't consider that a knock on their previous output. More, it's a comment on how they've managed to synthesize all their previous endeavors.
Here, you'll find tracks like "Chinese Whispers" and "Gold Teeth on a Bum," which seem to be a continuation and progression of the ideas and melodies found in "Milk Lizard" from '07's "Ire Works." "Widower," which is probably the most emotional song they've ever written... and includes some brilliant piano interplay between Weinman and guest musician Mike Garson (David Bowie). "Parasitic Twins," a song that, in parts, wouldn't be out of place on an A Perfect Circle record, and in other parts evokes 70's rock. The guitar solo at the end makes me think "Houses of the Holy" era Zeppelin.
And then there's this:
About 1:50 in, I was kind of expecting them to do some improv here, as it reminded me of some of their live sets, but it goes in a different direction. This is probably my favorite track on the record so far.
The most notable improvement here is the vocals. Greg has always had the dimensions. The ability (See: Spylacopa). But this is the first record where he really makes his mark, and it makes a big difference on the song writing end.
I recommend this to anyone who likes crisp musicianship, experimentation, and unpredictability. You can get it here: http://e-shop.season-of-mist.com/en/catalog/show/22675 that's the big package, but there are cheaper options if you're like me and have no money.
Written/Directed by Michael Winterbottom
Featuring: Kieran O'Brien, Margo Stilley and some rock bands.
Throughout the film, we are asked to slog through concert footage from several bands... I think I may have listened to the BRMC once or twice, but everything else here is shit. Because the couple met at a venue, it's only to be expected that they spend a lot of time going to shows. But I have to say that this is the weakest aspect of the film. Winterbottom is expert at capturing sensuality, but not so much at capturing the feel of a live music venue.
There are also some vignettes where Matt spends some time in Antarctica, but it seems more like filler to push the film into the "feature length" category than anything to do with the relationship between him and Lisa. There is a bit where Lisa gives him a book on Antarctica, so I suppose that explains it, but it still seems random as hell to me.
I like this film because the unsimulated sex scenes are beautiful, and the chemistry between the two leads is used to great effect.
"Hoy y Mañana/Today and Tomorrow"Written/Directed by Alejandro Chomski
Featuring: Antonella Costa
This is a nice little film from Argentina. It's a joint production with a Spanish film company. It's very raw, but also very pretty. Lots of cityscapes and vérité. Twenty-something girl struggles on her own. Her gas is cut off, then she is threatened with eviction. Her borrowing power is naught, and she has an untenable relationship with her father, who lectures her and then doesn't give her shit! So what does she do? She becomes a street-walker. Of course, there's some reluctance... fear... that sort of thing. She's got no pimp and no street smarts, so she gets ripped off a couple of times. And when she does manage a little scratch, it's stolen by a guy pretending to be a cop. She meets a Spaniard looking for a little fun away from the wife, and he's loaded. Of course, she doesn't hold up her end of any bargain with him, which leaves her with the worst kind of options: old dudes in seedy motel rooms.
The film is a low budget visual wonder. There's no candy coating the lifestyle here, unless you believe it a must that all prostitutes end up drug wracked and STD infected (I say this being an avid reader of William T. Vollmann, who is a master at capturing these things at their most ugly, most human). Costa is very endearing and relatable as Paula. And I love the theatre scenes.
***
"Option Paralysis"/The Dillinger Escape Plan
Without question, The Dillinger Escape Plan is my favorite band of the last 10 years. I have never loved a band as I have this one. Sure, I love Ornette Coleman. I love Albert Ayler and Charlie Christian, and some of that old jazz music. I think Ted Leo is a gifted songwriter. But this band just does it for me. In general, I have drifted away from their style of music, but not from them (I might indulge in a #12 tune from time to time).
From "Cleopatra's Sling" (the first song by them I heard), to "The Mullet Burden," to the entire 11 track masterpiece that is "Calculating Infinity" to "Setting Fire to Sleeping Giants" and "Mouth of Ghosts," they have proven to be a skilled, versatile band. They have a punk ethic and a virtuosic touch. They're down-to-earth guys who take their music seriously. Themselves? Not so much.
I could talk about the lineup changes, the genius of lead guitarist and founding member Ben Weinman (the only original member left), but it's been done. I could use "Calculating Infinity" as a measuring stick to this, their fourth full-length release, but it's unnecessary. For the first time in their 13 year existence, they have released a dynamic, challenging, and extremely listenable record. I don't consider that a knock on their previous output. More, it's a comment on how they've managed to synthesize all their previous endeavors.
Here, you'll find tracks like "Chinese Whispers" and "Gold Teeth on a Bum," which seem to be a continuation and progression of the ideas and melodies found in "Milk Lizard" from '07's "Ire Works." "Widower," which is probably the most emotional song they've ever written... and includes some brilliant piano interplay between Weinman and guest musician Mike Garson (David Bowie). "Parasitic Twins," a song that, in parts, wouldn't be out of place on an A Perfect Circle record, and in other parts evokes 70's rock. The guitar solo at the end makes me think "Houses of the Holy" era Zeppelin.
And then there's this:
About 1:50 in, I was kind of expecting them to do some improv here, as it reminded me of some of their live sets, but it goes in a different direction. This is probably my favorite track on the record so far.
The most notable improvement here is the vocals. Greg has always had the dimensions. The ability (See: Spylacopa). But this is the first record where he really makes his mark, and it makes a big difference on the song writing end.
I recommend this to anyone who likes crisp musicianship, experimentation, and unpredictability. You can get it here: http://e-shop.season-of-mist.com/en/catalog/show/22675 that's the big package, but there are cheaper options if you're like me and have no money.
15.3.10
Scary Messican Gangsta Dude
I don't care about permissions or any of that shit. This scene is gold. The movie is even golder.
That aside, I have been considering some things. At one point I was thinking, "oh hell, I'm gonna move to Mexico, be a bullfighter (note: I almost wrote bullshitter; don't need to go to Mexico to be that!)," but then I realized that I am such a whitewashed Mexican that it'd make more sense if Patrick did that. I say, "gwakamoley." He uses the accent. I think he does it around me to be a prick. I tell him, "when you do that, it's like... your sister fucking machinations are becoming vividly clear, guero."
But whatever.
Then I thought, "hey, I'll finally sit down and write the great American novel." But I don't have the dedication or attention span for that shit. I'll settle for a cover story in the Observer. Make up some shit about being a bullfighter. Take some photos of me in a sombrero with a bottle of mezcal in my paws, taming a mechanical bull. I'll even sing the Jarabe Tapatío! Humor isn't usually their "stock-in-trade" for cover stories, but I think it'd be awesome.
I considered starting a band. I like to sing and swagger in the shower, so I figured it would translate. Well, I got in line for American Idol and had my dreams subsequently crushed. Not by Simon or or any of those other fucks, but by the people in line with me! They thought I was so awful. They couldn't even hide their contempt. Little kids were covering their ears and crying. So I flipped 'em all off, told 'em to go fuck themselves (especially the kids), and went to a bar where I drank myself stupid.
Currently I'm working on some drawings. I'll put those up soon, see what peeps think.
Re: dumpster readings, I've decided that the final reading will be downtown. They don't know it. Yet. But I will be joined by Patrick and Adam (of the Strange variety). I don't know when, but it will happen.
As the great philosopher Al Green said,
"Let's Stay Together."
8.3.10
Redefining the Threesome as Ultimate Male Nightmare. LO-fuckin-L
“When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6”
By Stuart González
When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6, but it’s probably the best sex you could ever hope for. I met two women at a strip club on the outskirts of town, and the price was right. I had just received a grand in tax return money that was burning holes in my pockets. Forty dollars in one dollar bills went a long way in a joint such as the one I found myself in, but it didn’t go far enough. I’d already spent about two-hundred. They informed me that all a night with them would cost me was a room at the Motel 6, a couple handles of whiskey, a bottle of Thunderbird, lots of rolled cigarettes, and an eight ball of coke.
These women were a mother and daughter team of strippers: blonde, skinny, and tatted to the hilt. They weren’t my type at all, and they could barely speak proper English, much less could they possibly relate to me on an intellectual level, but sex is sex, and need is need. They were offering sex, and I was needing it.
They had cool stripper names. Roxy and Allura. Allura giggled and said that her name was like “allure,” but with an a. Because she’s a girl. Get it? I got it, and the sleaze in me wanted it. I was an expert at mixing liquor with sex, but I’d never before purchased coke myself, so I gave Roxy the money for the eight ball. There was method to my madness. I waited in the motel room with Allura. She turned on the TV and started dancing to latin music on LATV. She didn’t have hips to speak of, but I could feel my dick hardening in my jeans. I cracked into the whiskey and poured two cups.
We sat on the bed, sipping whiskey, quiet. The TV had been turned down and the girls were still dancing and sprawling themselves on the hoods of souped up cars; little more than ornamentation, a sexy visual compensation for shitty music. I asked her if she liked that kind of music. She said that she didn’t know what it was, but it made her want to fuck.
I tried to get her started, but she said that we couldn’t start without Roxy. It wasn’t long after that the devil appeared, and she had an eight ball of coke and some weed. We started with the weed. I took a couple of hits and then turned down further offers in favor of the liquor and coke.
They took off all but their tops, and I did lines off their asses and began drinking straight from the bottle. They did lines off my dick, which was erect and poking out through my open zipper. They weren’t long lines, but soon the coke was less involved and their tongues more prominent. It turned into a mother-daughter tag-team on my cock. I managed to get Allura’s bikini top undone and off, revealing her small, perky tits. Roxy volunteered the removal of her top. Her tits were saggy and covered with awful tattoos, recipients of years of groping and abuse.
We all three fell onto the bed in an animalistic mass and noise. Roxy straddled me and proceeded to grind and gyrate into my groin while I swapped saliva with Allura. The mass and noise of our tryst seemed to outgrow the motel room. I imagined it as a Kafka story about the sex in a motel room between a coconut Mexican and two white trash strippers that engulfs an entire city to become a new city called, placerparasiempre-- or whatever it would be called in German.
I was in the throes of that excitement when the door was kicked in by two guys with guns claiming to be state cops. They were yelling something about having received an “anonymous tip” about our orgy and drug buffet, and that I was going to spend a long time in the federal pen. What the fuck? They were calling me a spic, a scumbag, and all kinds of shit. On top of that, the guns that they plunged into my face made my dick instantly soften inside Roxy. She and Allura were both laughing. It was the funniest shit in the world to them. Because it was a trap. I was being rolled.
These cops had an empty duffel bag, which they filled with the weed, the coke, the whiskey, my clothes, and my money. I was drunk, high, and scared. I shat myself. It was messy and smelly and fucking embarrassing. Roxy and Allura joined the two assholes dressed as cops in mocking me and poking and prodding at me while I squirmed in my own excrement.
Eventually they had me cowering in a corner, telling me that they were going to kill me. All I remember was screaming about how if they were going to kill me, they should dispense with the casting of aspersions and get it over with. I regretted nothing. Fuck them. They punched and kicked at me a few times before I felt a sharp pain in my head. It was the butt of a gun.
I woke up in the tub with a headache and a bloody lump on my head. I touched myself to make sure I was alive. My balls were sore. I thought about crying but decided to see if I had anything left. Nope. No clothes. No money. They even took my fucking socks and shoes. There was half a bottle of Thunderbird on the table and a couple of half smoked cigs in the ashtray.
I downed the Thunderbird and lit one of the cigs. The cleaning lady came in, and didn’t seem to think it was strange to see a bloody, naked Mexican sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. She tried to ignore me, but when she noticed the shit smeared all over the sheets, she exclaimed, in Spanish, that they didn’t pay her enough to clean up people’s shit.
Lo siento, I said. Lo siento mucho. She called me a filthy pig and said that I’d have to pay for the mess. With what? I was just robbed, I said. She didn’t answer. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later with clothes. Cleaning service attire. She made me clean the room and wash the sheets and towels. When she told me I could leave, I realized that they had also stolen my car. I had to walk five miles back to the city.
When I finally got home, I masturbated, thinking of Roxy and Allura.
(2010)
By Stuart González
When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6, but it’s probably the best sex you could ever hope for. I met two women at a strip club on the outskirts of town, and the price was right. I had just received a grand in tax return money that was burning holes in my pockets. Forty dollars in one dollar bills went a long way in a joint such as the one I found myself in, but it didn’t go far enough. I’d already spent about two-hundred. They informed me that all a night with them would cost me was a room at the Motel 6, a couple handles of whiskey, a bottle of Thunderbird, lots of rolled cigarettes, and an eight ball of coke.
These women were a mother and daughter team of strippers: blonde, skinny, and tatted to the hilt. They weren’t my type at all, and they could barely speak proper English, much less could they possibly relate to me on an intellectual level, but sex is sex, and need is need. They were offering sex, and I was needing it.
They had cool stripper names. Roxy and Allura. Allura giggled and said that her name was like “allure,” but with an a. Because she’s a girl. Get it? I got it, and the sleaze in me wanted it. I was an expert at mixing liquor with sex, but I’d never before purchased coke myself, so I gave Roxy the money for the eight ball. There was method to my madness. I waited in the motel room with Allura. She turned on the TV and started dancing to latin music on LATV. She didn’t have hips to speak of, but I could feel my dick hardening in my jeans. I cracked into the whiskey and poured two cups.
We sat on the bed, sipping whiskey, quiet. The TV had been turned down and the girls were still dancing and sprawling themselves on the hoods of souped up cars; little more than ornamentation, a sexy visual compensation for shitty music. I asked her if she liked that kind of music. She said that she didn’t know what it was, but it made her want to fuck.
I tried to get her started, but she said that we couldn’t start without Roxy. It wasn’t long after that the devil appeared, and she had an eight ball of coke and some weed. We started with the weed. I took a couple of hits and then turned down further offers in favor of the liquor and coke.
They took off all but their tops, and I did lines off their asses and began drinking straight from the bottle. They did lines off my dick, which was erect and poking out through my open zipper. They weren’t long lines, but soon the coke was less involved and their tongues more prominent. It turned into a mother-daughter tag-team on my cock. I managed to get Allura’s bikini top undone and off, revealing her small, perky tits. Roxy volunteered the removal of her top. Her tits were saggy and covered with awful tattoos, recipients of years of groping and abuse.
We all three fell onto the bed in an animalistic mass and noise. Roxy straddled me and proceeded to grind and gyrate into my groin while I swapped saliva with Allura. The mass and noise of our tryst seemed to outgrow the motel room. I imagined it as a Kafka story about the sex in a motel room between a coconut Mexican and two white trash strippers that engulfs an entire city to become a new city called, placerparasiempre-- or whatever it would be called in German.
I was in the throes of that excitement when the door was kicked in by two guys with guns claiming to be state cops. They were yelling something about having received an “anonymous tip” about our orgy and drug buffet, and that I was going to spend a long time in the federal pen. What the fuck? They were calling me a spic, a scumbag, and all kinds of shit. On top of that, the guns that they plunged into my face made my dick instantly soften inside Roxy. She and Allura were both laughing. It was the funniest shit in the world to them. Because it was a trap. I was being rolled.
These cops had an empty duffel bag, which they filled with the weed, the coke, the whiskey, my clothes, and my money. I was drunk, high, and scared. I shat myself. It was messy and smelly and fucking embarrassing. Roxy and Allura joined the two assholes dressed as cops in mocking me and poking and prodding at me while I squirmed in my own excrement.
Eventually they had me cowering in a corner, telling me that they were going to kill me. All I remember was screaming about how if they were going to kill me, they should dispense with the casting of aspersions and get it over with. I regretted nothing. Fuck them. They punched and kicked at me a few times before I felt a sharp pain in my head. It was the butt of a gun.
I woke up in the tub with a headache and a bloody lump on my head. I touched myself to make sure I was alive. My balls were sore. I thought about crying but decided to see if I had anything left. Nope. No clothes. No money. They even took my fucking socks and shoes. There was half a bottle of Thunderbird on the table and a couple of half smoked cigs in the ashtray.
I downed the Thunderbird and lit one of the cigs. The cleaning lady came in, and didn’t seem to think it was strange to see a bloody, naked Mexican sitting at the table smoking a cigarette. She tried to ignore me, but when she noticed the shit smeared all over the sheets, she exclaimed, in Spanish, that they didn’t pay her enough to clean up people’s shit.
Lo siento, I said. Lo siento mucho. She called me a filthy pig and said that I’d have to pay for the mess. With what? I was just robbed, I said. She didn’t answer. She left the room and came back about twenty minutes later with clothes. Cleaning service attire. She made me clean the room and wash the sheets and towels. When she told me I could leave, I realized that they had also stolen my car. I had to walk five miles back to the city.
When I finally got home, I masturbated, thinking of Roxy and Allura.
(2010)
1.3.10
DXM
I got an e-mail from Matt this morning, and this is what it said:
This was attached:
by Matt Royall
Smack this on the blog.
Call it DXM.
This shit is fuckin weird duded.
This was attached:
by Matt Royall
27.2.10
Brief Viewing of a Hideously Bad Movie
"Brief Interviews With Hideous Men"
2009
Written and Directed by John Krasinki based on the short story collection of same title by David Foster Wallace
Starring: Julianne Nicholson, Christopher Meloni, etc.
Perhaps there is something disingenuous about reviewing a film that one has only watched 1/2 of, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up.
This film is based on a collection of stories by the late, some would say great, David Foster Wallace. I happen to think "Good Old Neon" is one of the best stories I've ever read, and for that, Mr. Wallace has my infinite (teehee) respect. That said, and without commenting on the book on which this film is based (because I haven't read it)-- as a film in a context removed from the story-- Krasinki's directorial debut has to be the most boring piece of cinema I've laid eyes on.
The main character, Sara, played by Julianne Nicholson (no offense, but I think she is WAY too old to be a TA) sleepwalks her way through campus functions, lectures, interviews with "hideous" men, and various confabs with her social circle. I'd say they are friends, but I get no indication from the acting. She's boring, the cinematography is boring, and Krasinki makes the subject matter boring. There's no life to anything on screen.
So, why did I stop a movie halfway through for only the second time in a year? Because there's nothing to this. It doesn't say or depict anything that hasn't already been said or depicted by superior films ("In the Company of Men" and "Glengarry Glen Ross" come to mind right off), and I fail to see what's so hideous about "boys being boys." To me, something hideous or ugly would have to be something out of the ordinary. Something that didn't constitute "normal" behavior-- or what passes for it. Sure, you can say, "well, maybe you missed all the truly heinous bits in the final half of the film." Maybe. But who wants to watch half of a film before there is any kind of payoff at all?
Here, Krasinski suffers from Zach Braff syndrome. Just another relatively wet-behind-the-ears tv actor who thinks he has something to say, so he spends a lot of money and wastes a lot of people's time trying to say it.
Hell, he even had a head-up! He had source material. From a bad ass writer. If this film is an accurate representation of the late Mr. Wallace's book, then wow, it's gotta be his lesser material.
Part of the problem is that Krasinki doesn't allow scenes to linger or build. They're static and then they're gone. You can't even settle in on anything before there's a cut to another interview or Sara being followed around by two guys pondering the "mysterious" nature of women. My sense is that Wallace's book is about a woman who gets a glimpse of the inner workings of men vis-a-vis these interviews, and as the stories go on, she sees how said workings affect her own relationship with a specific man (played by Krasinski himself).
Instead of centering the film on her as a character, we get this spliced, artsy-fartsy, segmented display of thoughts that go absolutely nowhere. It's humorless, drab, and it gave me no indication that it was suddenly going to establish the kind of focus necessary to drive home whatever ideas it has.
I will say that Christopher Meloni stole the half of the film I saw. The guy can act.
Other than that, poorly played.
Encyclopedia Pornographica and Berenstain Bears
i always meet the prettiest girls in the shittiest bars
buy her a drink, show her my scars,
we drive to her place in a broken down car,
in minutes we’re drinking more and taking score,
i tell her that i used to masturbate into my older brother’s
girlfriend’s panties,
she says, my older brother’s a tranny,
i tell her that my hole ridden socks become cum rags,
she says, i used to pose in porn mags,
i tell her i lost my virginity to a fat tijuana prostitute,
she says, i can shove a coke bottle in my coot,
i tell her that i’m a premature ejaculator,
she says, see ya later!
… big brown bear blue bull beautiful baboon blowing bubbles biking backwards…
buy her a drink, show her my scars,
we drive to her place in a broken down car,
in minutes we’re drinking more and taking score,
i tell her that i used to masturbate into my older brother’s
girlfriend’s panties,
she says, my older brother’s a tranny,
i tell her that my hole ridden socks become cum rags,
she says, i used to pose in porn mags,
i tell her i lost my virginity to a fat tijuana prostitute,
she says, i can shove a coke bottle in my coot,
i tell her that i’m a premature ejaculator,
she says, see ya later!
… big brown bear blue bull beautiful baboon blowing bubbles biking backwards…
20.2.10
Movie Review: Revanche
2008
With: Johannes Krisch and Irina Potapenko
Spielmann's beautiful film would've fit very nicely in my "top 20" of the 2000's list. It's that good. It feels like two films in one. In the first, Krish is a small-time crook working in a Vienna brothel who makes the mistake of falling for a Ukrainian prostitute. In the second, he lodges in his aging grandfather's cottage; his life having been thrown into upheaval by an accidental death. A loner, by day he chops firewood and by night he paces his room in anger and frustration.
It's quite a coincidental tale of love, loss, and revenge. The beginning, which is defined by love or something approximating it, is peopled with various urban dwellers: pimps, prostitutes, johns, and crooks. The climax comes in the crime, where the bad deed is punished by loss. Needless loss. A loss that stokes the fires of revenge, creating three new perspective victims.
He finds himself in the pastoral sparsity of his need for revenge. Where once there was a future, there is but a void. A void that cannot be filled by whatever memories may be conjured from a single photograph. Because that's all he has. A photo of her.
The cop who killed her also carries her photo. Krisch's loss is also his. So it is that their lives swirl round and round in an existential vacuum, but only one can benefit from the death of the other. After a moment of revelation, he is implored by the most seemingly innocent of seductresses, the cop's wife, to not pursue vengeance. Though she knows he is without faith, she beseeches him in a dignified manner that exhibits vulnerability, but doesn't overstate it with pathos.
Because, as we all know, revenge has its many faces.
14.2.10
11.2.10
the occult of freethought
There definitely is a chilly wind that blows through a persons bones when they come across the paths that lead to destruction.
It's no wonder all the travelers that once walked with you no longer share your burdens, they got off miles back. They saw something ahead that wasn't in your direct vision and left you to deal with it without warning, but that's how it goes.
Something has to be said for the person that tries and tries, gets knocked down and gets back up just to start the cycle over again. It's when giving is more of a sickness than a charity. At one time there was a backseat to take comfort in, knowing that the people driving wouldn't lead you astray, but that, again, was miles ago and now you've been kicked out and have been trying to make it on your own.
It's not as if fortune hasn't smiled in the least bit, but sometimes fortune doesn't have teeth when it does. Maybe there is no mouth; maybe you just look it in the eyes and see that there's a glimmer of something laying in the depths and you have to crack some skulls to get to it.
Can it be that the monotony of monetarily driven monkeys manipulates the meaningless masses? Maybe. Though the masses be the monkeys.
Surely there can be assured some insurance to assure our security? But that's certainly not the case.
Whatever happened to dependability or predictability? Gone away with care and responsibility.
Thanks for bringing me here, now where did you say that map was?
There is only one sure thing in this world when you leave it all to humanity; and that is flesh. Man's desire to be back in the womb drives him to find someone who will let a piece of him inside and when that piece doesn't bring peace then on to the next. It's mans desire to be in control that man let's himself be controlled by a piece and not by himself because that is the way things are, and if it feels good then do it, right?
When does it begin to feel wrong?
Is that where virginity steps in?
Your last chance to see things from the clear perspective of ignorance?
Ideology always gains favor but never wins.
And to think people choose their life because they were born that way. They say that they aren't ashamed of who they are but they hide their true nature until they are welcomed among the flock, then they pounce. That's fine, and why not? If the sheep smell you for what you are yet let you among them, by all means jump on it! But don't assume that since you're a wolf, a hunter and out for meat that you can pick it up from someone that seems similar to you. The attraction is only one-sided and it's all you.
You get a gold star for the effort.
Though I recommend a cold shower.
There is a misery that bores deeply and lovingly into the soul and once it reaches its destination there is no telling what wonderful damage will be done. It's something so ethereal yet substantial; ageless while aging. Melancholy but for assertion limiting the flowing breathless embers of life (if I could elaborate... but that would be telling).
Sometimes the world looks perfect but then reality steps in and the light hurts my eyes.
Starting over, over and over. la-la la-la la-la....
Daily.
I'm just glad that the one truth in my life hasn't faded with my lack of want or following.
It'd be humbling, if I felt humility, and I would be proud if I ever had a chance to feel pride. I'm unsuccessful with success while sporadically stagnant.
Rapidly immobile.
Limitless limitations.
Keeping it together and staying focused are primary goals.
Once obtained (man, I never use that word) then moving further will be the next logical step.
Thank you for always being there when I didn't need you and gone when I do. I appreciate that so much I'm willing to suffer you in my life for no personal gain.
It's what I do.
by kevin mack aka VagueRant
It's no wonder all the travelers that once walked with you no longer share your burdens, they got off miles back. They saw something ahead that wasn't in your direct vision and left you to deal with it without warning, but that's how it goes.
Something has to be said for the person that tries and tries, gets knocked down and gets back up just to start the cycle over again. It's when giving is more of a sickness than a charity. At one time there was a backseat to take comfort in, knowing that the people driving wouldn't lead you astray, but that, again, was miles ago and now you've been kicked out and have been trying to make it on your own.
It's not as if fortune hasn't smiled in the least bit, but sometimes fortune doesn't have teeth when it does. Maybe there is no mouth; maybe you just look it in the eyes and see that there's a glimmer of something laying in the depths and you have to crack some skulls to get to it.
Can it be that the monotony of monetarily driven monkeys manipulates the meaningless masses? Maybe. Though the masses be the monkeys.
Surely there can be assured some insurance to assure our security? But that's certainly not the case.
Whatever happened to dependability or predictability? Gone away with care and responsibility.
Thanks for bringing me here, now where did you say that map was?
There is only one sure thing in this world when you leave it all to humanity; and that is flesh. Man's desire to be back in the womb drives him to find someone who will let a piece of him inside and when that piece doesn't bring peace then on to the next. It's mans desire to be in control that man let's himself be controlled by a piece and not by himself because that is the way things are, and if it feels good then do it, right?
When does it begin to feel wrong?
Is that where virginity steps in?
Your last chance to see things from the clear perspective of ignorance?
Ideology always gains favor but never wins.
And to think people choose their life because they were born that way. They say that they aren't ashamed of who they are but they hide their true nature until they are welcomed among the flock, then they pounce. That's fine, and why not? If the sheep smell you for what you are yet let you among them, by all means jump on it! But don't assume that since you're a wolf, a hunter and out for meat that you can pick it up from someone that seems similar to you. The attraction is only one-sided and it's all you.
You get a gold star for the effort.
Though I recommend a cold shower.
There is a misery that bores deeply and lovingly into the soul and once it reaches its destination there is no telling what wonderful damage will be done. It's something so ethereal yet substantial; ageless while aging. Melancholy but for assertion limiting the flowing breathless embers of life (if I could elaborate... but that would be telling).
Sometimes the world looks perfect but then reality steps in and the light hurts my eyes.
Starting over, over and over. la-la la-la la-la....
Daily.
I'm just glad that the one truth in my life hasn't faded with my lack of want or following.
It'd be humbling, if I felt humility, and I would be proud if I ever had a chance to feel pride. I'm unsuccessful with success while sporadically stagnant.
Rapidly immobile.
Limitless limitations.
Keeping it together and staying focused are primary goals.
Once obtained (man, I never use that word) then moving further will be the next logical step.
Thank you for always being there when I didn't need you and gone when I do. I appreciate that so much I'm willing to suffer you in my life for no personal gain.
It's what I do.
by kevin mack aka VagueRant
8.2.10
¡Fuck this Blog!
Memories from Dumpster Reading #6. Sycamore and Munger.
-Location: green dumpster behind 12 unit apartment complex.
-Some contents: diapers, stray beer cans and cereal boxes from torn open trash bags, oily rags, cardboard boxes, used prophylactics, bicycle chain, and some dried up tissues.
-Smell: nothing potent enough to unclog my sinuses.
-Audience: hippie looking dude in cowboy hat and homeless black guy who wanted the cans.
-Hippie jokes: 3.
-What I did: read six poems from "Ahora, tengo que ir..." and closed with a newly minted short story called, "When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6."
-Time: 23 minutes, 17 seconds.
-Talking with hippie guy:
Me: So, what's up ya hippie fuck?
Hippie: Not much. You Port-o-Reekin?
Me: I'm American.
Hippie: Oh. Me too.
Me: Yeah. Well, if you're a Mexican day laborer, you disguise yourself well.
Hippie: I'm not a hippie. I was born in '68.
Me: Look, if you don't have no thai stick or LSD or shit, you're wasting my time.
Hippie: Oh. So why you standing in the dumpster?
Me: It's a statement on artistry and a strong re-affirmation of the importance of the DIY ethic.
Hippie: No clue what yer talkin' about.
Me: It just means that I'm a cheeky fucker. I don't have a fuckin' book deal, and I don't roll 6-10 deep in some internet writing clique. Every artist I associate myself with I respect and would never want to emulate them or have them emulate me.
Hippie: Oh.
Me: You're really only like forty? Dude, you look sixty.
Hippie: I useta do drugs.
Me: I still do. Fuck me you look like shit. Best anti-drug abuse ad ever.
-Location: green dumpster behind 12 unit apartment complex.
-Some contents: diapers, stray beer cans and cereal boxes from torn open trash bags, oily rags, cardboard boxes, used prophylactics, bicycle chain, and some dried up tissues.
-Smell: nothing potent enough to unclog my sinuses.
-Audience: hippie looking dude in cowboy hat and homeless black guy who wanted the cans.
-Hippie jokes: 3.
-What I did: read six poems from "Ahora, tengo que ir..." and closed with a newly minted short story called, "When you get fucked at the Motel 6, you really get fucked at the Motel 6."
-Time: 23 minutes, 17 seconds.
-Talking with hippie guy:
Me: So, what's up ya hippie fuck?
Hippie: Not much. You Port-o-Reekin?
Me: I'm American.
Hippie: Oh. Me too.
Me: Yeah. Well, if you're a Mexican day laborer, you disguise yourself well.
Hippie: I'm not a hippie. I was born in '68.
Me: Look, if you don't have no thai stick or LSD or shit, you're wasting my time.
Hippie: Oh. So why you standing in the dumpster?
Me: It's a statement on artistry and a strong re-affirmation of the importance of the DIY ethic.
Hippie: No clue what yer talkin' about.
Me: It just means that I'm a cheeky fucker. I don't have a fuckin' book deal, and I don't roll 6-10 deep in some internet writing clique. Every artist I associate myself with I respect and would never want to emulate them or have them emulate me.
Hippie: Oh.
Me: You're really only like forty? Dude, you look sixty.
Hippie: I useta do drugs.
Me: I still do. Fuck me you look like shit. Best anti-drug abuse ad ever.
7.2.10
Zombiefilm.
1. Woody Harrelson is a bad ass.
2. Bill Murray.
3. Twinkies.
...
4.2.10
Peanut Gallery/Pinup Show/Art Auction/13th/Feb/2010
If you live in DFW, The Peanut Gallery is doing their monthly thing, this time at the Soda Gallery. Dressing up as a pin-up or greaser encouraged but not required. February 13th. I believe the gal in the photo will be there. I hope. Also, check the video for the event (you'll have to log in to facebook), Raymond in a wig is either the sexiest or scariest thing ever, depending on your taste.
Be there.
2.2.10
...and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex, and then we had oral sex... we had mad, mad, mad, mad oral sex
30.1.10
Getting Your Ass Kicked by Your Hero: A Review of "Big Fan"
But for Paul Aufiero, getting your ass kicked by your hero is just that: literally getting the shit beat out of you in a dark, liquor soaked nightclub.
Oswalt is a damn fine comedian, and after seeing this, he's a formidable actor, holding his own when sharing the screen with the likes of Kevin Corrigan and Michael Rapaport. But what's more to me, personally, is that I can't imagine anyone else being able to capture the essence of a guy like Aufiero. Of course, I don't mean this as a dismissal or personal appraisal of Oswalt; I mean this as hey, the guy has shown his geeky tendencies before: in his cameos as an RPGer on "Reno: 911!" and in every appearance he made as Spence on "King of Queens." Call it typecasting if you will, but it's more than that.
In the beginning, Paul is a happy guy. He's a happy guy who is single, lives with his mother, and works as a parking attendant. His only real passion, which he shares with his only friend (played by Corrigan), is Giants football. As well as watching entire games from the parking lot of Giants Stadium, at 11:30 each night, he calls in to the local radio station to defend his beloved Giants against the taunts and slander leveled by an Eagles fan who goes by the handle "Philadelphia Phil."
Of course, everyone in his family exibits frustration towards him. His behavior-- indeed, his entire lifestyle-- is not that of an adult man. He needs, in his mother's words, to "grow up" as his brother and sister have. "Normal" is a wife and kids. Etcetera. This tension is exacerbated by an incident where Paul is viciously attacked by his hero, Giants defender (his jersey # is 54, which is generally a LB designation, but it isn't entirely uncommon to see DEs wearing them) Quantrell Bishop in a nightclub.
It's no surprise that a guy like Paul would have no idea about "club etiquette," or even understand that pursuing your hero is a fruitless endeavor that can only lead to heartbreak. But even in the wake of the event, his concern doesn't shift from Giants football to his own well-being or his sense of justice; no, he awakens in a hospital bed and realizes he has missed his beloved team's blowout loss to the Chiefs. Bishop has been suspended pending the case.
Paul's single-mindedness is a constant throughout the film. He doesn't want the "normal" that his family wants for him. He wants to cheer on his team. He wants them to win. He wants to shut "Philadelphia Phil" the fuck up. Every Giants loss crushes the guy, sending him further into an emotional abyss. But even through that, what struck me was his relationship with his only friend, Sal. Sal is the only person who doesn't want to change him, the only person who doesn't view him as a loser. They are in the same boat, and even when he lashes out at Sal after a loss to the Cowboys, it's not a friendship killer.
My only real complaint about this film is its lack of NFL scheduling knowledge. The Giants (NFC East) would never play the Patriots (AFC East) and the Chargers (AFC West) in the same season (outside of perhaps playing one of them in the Super Bowl). And as a Cowboys fan, the "Dallas Sucks" tee was fucking stupid (editor's note: how very biased of you), but a necessary evil as it is indicative of the divisional rivalry between the two teams.
27.1.10
More from "Ahora, tengo que ir..."
"Cigarette Butts in Beer Bottles"
i don't know how many times i watched
billy bob thornton in bad santa but may
be the most important lesson to learn if
one even cares is that one should proba
bly not drink from the first bottle one s
ees
&&SG
"Party Girls and Wake and Blows"
i woke up because i was dreaming of having sex
everything felt so wet and warm and nice and
i remember
i remember opening my eyes and thrusting my hips
up and down
and i could hear mmmming and hummmming
the beautiful sounds sensually
signaling satisfaction
but as nothing was towering above me i picked
my head up and saw her
the party girl
and without removing her lips from my cock
she smiled and went back to work
i remember thinking "i love you party girl"
te voy a casarse
&&SG
"Foreign Girls Rule"
She thought it was great that I hablo español and I thought it was wonderful that she tried to hablar inglés even if she was shitty at it because in situations such as the one we were in not much hablando was necessary except las palabras that led us to la cama y
yo me desperté
y la cosa más graciosa
was that she was the one
out of all the ones I'd had
who I wanted most to stay
and she didn't
ella me dejó sin
información de donde estaría
I saw her on campus a couple of weeks later and confronted her like some weird creepy kind of guy that I was normally not and she gave me that "ay no mames wey" look and turned to meet her other foreign friends
CHINGADA!
&&SG
"Lecturing Bukowski"
I told her to get out
We had drank & fucked
I told her to get out
It was over & there was nothing more
She started screaming
She threatened to burn her arms with a lit cigarette
Mortified, I grabbed her
She told me to let her the fuck go
So I let her go
& she threw herself on my kitchen floor
I was still drunk and I wanted to laugh
But this was no time for levity
So I pulled her up & she smacked me
I was an asshole because I had used her
She started breaking shot glasses &
Telling me I was a bad lay but damn it
Part of me wanted to laugh again
Because I was just happy I didn't have any
China
& when finally she settled down I asked her
If it was possible for her to finally leave &
She got this devious smile on her face
"I'm not fuckin' leavin' 'til you fuckin' apologize"
So I apologized but I didn't mean it
She said "I'm leavin'" & opened my fridge &
Threw all the food onto the floor
& took my last beer
I wasn't getting paid for another week
&&SG
i don't know how many times i watched
billy bob thornton in bad santa but may
be the most important lesson to learn if
one even cares is that one should proba
bly not drink from the first bottle one s
ees
&&SG
"Party Girls and Wake and Blows"
i woke up because i was dreaming of having sex
everything felt so wet and warm and nice and
i remember
i remember opening my eyes and thrusting my hips
up and down
and i could hear mmmming and hummmming
the beautiful sounds sensually
signaling satisfaction
but as nothing was towering above me i picked
my head up and saw her
the party girl
and without removing her lips from my cock
she smiled and went back to work
i remember thinking "i love you party girl"
te voy a casarse
&&SG
"Foreign Girls Rule"
She thought it was great that I hablo español and I thought it was wonderful that she tried to hablar inglés even if she was shitty at it because in situations such as the one we were in not much hablando was necessary except las palabras that led us to la cama y
yo me desperté
y la cosa más graciosa
was that she was the one
out of all the ones I'd had
who I wanted most to stay
and she didn't
ella me dejó sin
información de donde estaría
I saw her on campus a couple of weeks later and confronted her like some weird creepy kind of guy that I was normally not and she gave me that "ay no mames wey" look and turned to meet her other foreign friends
CHINGADA!
&&SG
"Lecturing Bukowski"
I told her to get out
We had drank & fucked
I told her to get out
It was over & there was nothing more
She started screaming
She threatened to burn her arms with a lit cigarette
Mortified, I grabbed her
She told me to let her the fuck go
So I let her go
& she threw herself on my kitchen floor
I was still drunk and I wanted to laugh
But this was no time for levity
So I pulled her up & she smacked me
I was an asshole because I had used her
She started breaking shot glasses &
Telling me I was a bad lay but damn it
Part of me wanted to laugh again
Because I was just happy I didn't have any
China
& when finally she settled down I asked her
If it was possible for her to finally leave &
She got this devious smile on her face
"I'm not fuckin' leavin' 'til you fuckin' apologize"
So I apologized but I didn't mean it
She said "I'm leavin'" & opened my fridge &
Threw all the food onto the floor
& took my last beer
I wasn't getting paid for another week
&&SG
25.1.10
The Junkie Mona Lisa
A threefold heartbreak manifest in the empty smile of a junkie Mona Lisa.
Each kiss a stab in the heart.
We lie down and play like dead bodies intertwined in the sorrow of our mutual inability to feel any joy.
Her head rest on my chest listening to the bebop of my own erratic heart.
She smells like vomit and jasmine.
Tobacco and Hard Sex.
Love and Sorrow.
"Fuck me" she sighs.
I try to comply and fail.
Whiskey Dick.
She strokes my face and tells me I'm beautiful.
A soft lie.
"What are you thinking?"
Blood and Violence.
Anger and Loss.
Hope and Redemption.
We kiss to the joy of our voyeuristic cat.
Tongues intertwined in glorious battle.
I work my way down.
Over soft breast.
To the little man in the boat.
My tongue plays and that tiny lump of flesh.
She moans and clamps down.
My vision blurs from lack of blood circulation.
I feel my life slipping away.
"Don't stop!" she screams.
"Can't breathe."
"Eat my pussy, asshole."
I force my neck away from her vise like thighs.
"What the fuck?" she screams.
I reach for the perpetual glass of water we keep by the bed.
She starts punching and slapping me screaming "What the fuck?"
I start laughing and fart.
A nasty one.
Smelly and gross.
A moment of shocked silence, then we laugh.
We kiss again.
Passionately.
I smile my vague smile.
We keep kissing.
The passion of prisoner newly released.
The passion of a thousand blooming cherry blossoms
The passion of a fiery star fighting the days glow.
We fuck like its the end of the world.
Two sleepless dreamers.
Free of shame.
Free of guilt.
And let our sins float away with the last cigarette of the night.
to Dagney.
Each kiss a stab in the heart.
We lie down and play like dead bodies intertwined in the sorrow of our mutual inability to feel any joy.
Her head rest on my chest listening to the bebop of my own erratic heart.
She smells like vomit and jasmine.
Tobacco and Hard Sex.
Love and Sorrow.
"Fuck me" she sighs.
I try to comply and fail.
Whiskey Dick.
She strokes my face and tells me I'm beautiful.
A soft lie.
"What are you thinking?"
Blood and Violence.
Anger and Loss.
Hope and Redemption.
We kiss to the joy of our voyeuristic cat.
Tongues intertwined in glorious battle.
I work my way down.
Over soft breast.
To the little man in the boat.
My tongue plays and that tiny lump of flesh.
She moans and clamps down.
My vision blurs from lack of blood circulation.
I feel my life slipping away.
"Don't stop!" she screams.
"Can't breathe."
"Eat my pussy, asshole."
I force my neck away from her vise like thighs.
"What the fuck?" she screams.
I reach for the perpetual glass of water we keep by the bed.
She starts punching and slapping me screaming "What the fuck?"
I start laughing and fart.
A nasty one.
Smelly and gross.
A moment of shocked silence, then we laugh.
We kiss again.
Passionately.
I smile my vague smile.
We keep kissing.
The passion of prisoner newly released.
The passion of a thousand blooming cherry blossoms
The passion of a fiery star fighting the days glow.
We fuck like its the end of the world.
Two sleepless dreamers.
Free of shame.
Free of guilt.
And let our sins float away with the last cigarette of the night.
to Dagney.
21.1.10
A broad abroad. Or the manhood of Europe
“The Manhood of Europe”
from ¡Existe el amor solamente para matarme! or Love and Me Have No Business Doing Business
By Stuart González
Sarah got her man. She got him in every country. In Albania and Poland. In Italy and Germany. In France and Spain. In Denmark. She had them all. Men typical of their nations. Stereotypical. Some were greasy. Some pale. Some dirty. Too dirty. Some clean. Too clean. Some hirsute. Some androgynous. She hated that the most. It wasn’t that she was old-fashioned, she just liked her men to-- look like men. She didn’t want to wonder or be made to play a guessing game. The only points she wanted to stack up were penis points. And she was never behind.
Sarah Leigh and her not esteemed friends, like many young Americans with loaded parents, traveled Europe after high school. Despite hating each other, they called themselves a “band of sisters” and decided-- fuck men-- they were going to fuck men. The plan was to backpack from country to country, notching bedposts, and hopefully, maybe, gaining some culture along the way.
The journey began in England, where she met guys with great teeth and poor fashion sense. Seriously. There, she bedded young men who called themselves things like, Wilbur and Philip. In the seemingly ubiquitous pub environs of London, they wore argyle sweaters and sipped on pints while watching football on the telly. They weren’t sporty guys, but they feigned well enough their European machismo. Their sex was quick and eventless. Slow to start, fast to finish. Oh, how her sexual appetite had not been sated in the slightest!
In Germany, one of the girls let a guy named Friedrich shit on her. Sarah was appalled when the girl giggled and said that she enjoyed it. How could someone get off on being so debased? She herself met a guy in Bavaria who liked to have his nipples bitten to the point of bloodshed, but other than that, it was all quite normal, and he wasn’t nearly as quick as the English men.
By the time they reached France, Sarah found out that she was in the lead. Of course, she lied a little. At least ten of the guys she counted were just random oral partners. No penetration. But the truth was, outside of collecting condoms filled with seminal fluids or taking photographs, there could be no certitude. No real way to substantiate quantities.
It wasn’t too much later that her epiphany came while she ground her hips into a Scottish guy's crotch in Glasgow. In a room solely consisting of shadows and blue light. It was simple. She felt no joy. It was too easy. She could conquer, oh yes, and easily at that, but one cannot rape the willing. She wasn't doing anything new, even for a woman. None of them were. And despite the much touted and spoken of romanticism that supposedly gripped Europe, she felt she must be in the wrong place.
Because romance for the European male was merely a clever, serpentine artifice to the fruition of raw, unadulterated sex, by the time she met the beguiling Oliver from Italy, she’d become jaded to the whole contest. The “band of sisters” had traded pleasure for competition and what was the fun in that? A guy could thrust once, come, and that would be it. It’s just another number without the sensation to copy to memory. So with Oliver, Sarah began to count her orgasms. Maybe she wouldn’t break any records (she didn’t), but she’d feel damn good, and the process; focusing on her own pleasure, would lend more to hedonism than whoredom. Because that was what she needed. In the midst of all the boring, monotonous, occasionally wild copulation, she needed to regard herself as the user and not the usee.
Nearing the end of the trip, she’d become emboldened by her experiences. Now she could gather all her notes. She’d fucked men in two different continents. White men. Black men. Mixed men. Men who barely spoke the same language as she.
Her confidence solidified itself on a bus in London. She sat next to an older man. They were traveling from Greenwich to Westminster and she was reading "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." When she took her eyes from the pages to look out the window, she noticed the man shifting his eyes from her face to the book in her hand.
"Raymond Carver is no Hemingway," said he, chuckling.
"And Italians don't fuck nearly as good as Chicanos," she responded.
"Yes... yes. Very well," he said, and eased himself out of the seat with the aid of a cane. He tipped his hat to her as he stepped off into the wet street.
(2010)
from ¡Existe el amor solamente para matarme! or Love and Me Have No Business Doing Business
By Stuart González
Sarah got her man. She got him in every country. In Albania and Poland. In Italy and Germany. In France and Spain. In Denmark. She had them all. Men typical of their nations. Stereotypical. Some were greasy. Some pale. Some dirty. Too dirty. Some clean. Too clean. Some hirsute. Some androgynous. She hated that the most. It wasn’t that she was old-fashioned, she just liked her men to-- look like men. She didn’t want to wonder or be made to play a guessing game. The only points she wanted to stack up were penis points. And she was never behind.
Sarah Leigh and her not esteemed friends, like many young Americans with loaded parents, traveled Europe after high school. Despite hating each other, they called themselves a “band of sisters” and decided-- fuck men-- they were going to fuck men. The plan was to backpack from country to country, notching bedposts, and hopefully, maybe, gaining some culture along the way.
The journey began in England, where she met guys with great teeth and poor fashion sense. Seriously. There, she bedded young men who called themselves things like, Wilbur and Philip. In the seemingly ubiquitous pub environs of London, they wore argyle sweaters and sipped on pints while watching football on the telly. They weren’t sporty guys, but they feigned well enough their European machismo. Their sex was quick and eventless. Slow to start, fast to finish. Oh, how her sexual appetite had not been sated in the slightest!
In Germany, one of the girls let a guy named Friedrich shit on her. Sarah was appalled when the girl giggled and said that she enjoyed it. How could someone get off on being so debased? She herself met a guy in Bavaria who liked to have his nipples bitten to the point of bloodshed, but other than that, it was all quite normal, and he wasn’t nearly as quick as the English men.
By the time they reached France, Sarah found out that she was in the lead. Of course, she lied a little. At least ten of the guys she counted were just random oral partners. No penetration. But the truth was, outside of collecting condoms filled with seminal fluids or taking photographs, there could be no certitude. No real way to substantiate quantities.
It wasn’t too much later that her epiphany came while she ground her hips into a Scottish guy's crotch in Glasgow. In a room solely consisting of shadows and blue light. It was simple. She felt no joy. It was too easy. She could conquer, oh yes, and easily at that, but one cannot rape the willing. She wasn't doing anything new, even for a woman. None of them were. And despite the much touted and spoken of romanticism that supposedly gripped Europe, she felt she must be in the wrong place.
Because romance for the European male was merely a clever, serpentine artifice to the fruition of raw, unadulterated sex, by the time she met the beguiling Oliver from Italy, she’d become jaded to the whole contest. The “band of sisters” had traded pleasure for competition and what was the fun in that? A guy could thrust once, come, and that would be it. It’s just another number without the sensation to copy to memory. So with Oliver, Sarah began to count her orgasms. Maybe she wouldn’t break any records (she didn’t), but she’d feel damn good, and the process; focusing on her own pleasure, would lend more to hedonism than whoredom. Because that was what she needed. In the midst of all the boring, monotonous, occasionally wild copulation, she needed to regard herself as the user and not the usee.
Nearing the end of the trip, she’d become emboldened by her experiences. Now she could gather all her notes. She’d fucked men in two different continents. White men. Black men. Mixed men. Men who barely spoke the same language as she.
Her confidence solidified itself on a bus in London. She sat next to an older man. They were traveling from Greenwich to Westminster and she was reading "What We Talk About When We Talk About Love." When she took her eyes from the pages to look out the window, she noticed the man shifting his eyes from her face to the book in her hand.
"Raymond Carver is no Hemingway," said he, chuckling.
"And Italians don't fuck nearly as good as Chicanos," she responded.
"Yes... yes. Very well," he said, and eased himself out of the seat with the aid of a cane. He tipped his hat to her as he stepped off into the wet street.
(2010)
20.1.10
16th/Art Auction/Reading
Ray Emceeing.
Me bartending.
Adam Strange reading.
Some cool artworks.
Me reading.
More arts.
Me reading again.
Adam Strange reading again.
We want, from the bottom of our drunken hearts, to thank Raymond Butler and Felicia Garcia and everyone who came out for the good time. On behalf of Adam Strange, as we both grew up in Oak Cliff, it was great being back in the 'hood again. Can't wait to do it again.
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