Dust clouded the air behind the van as it pulled off the street in front of the worn gas station on the edge of Robinsonville, Mississippi. The die door slide open and three young men wearing the stereotypical uniform of wanna-be rock stars stepped out and stretched their legs. The driver started pumping gas as the others walk into the store, one holding a guitar without a case.
“You boys on your way to New Orleans for the festival?” ask the attendant, an elderly black man whose name tag identified him as Dusty.
“Actually we’re looking for a cemetery that’s supposed to be around here. You know the one I’m talking about?” asked the one with a guitar.
Dusty studied him for a minute. The kid was about 6’3” with spiky black hair, a sleeveless black band shirt and dirty jeans that look like it was only pair. Could’ve been any one of the musicians making their way to Louisiana for the big festival, except for those eyes, those coal black eyes, so filled with pain and hate. Dusty knew those eyes and knew what he was looking for.
“Ain’t no cemetery around here. Go home kid.”
The guitarist smirked. This one was hell bound. Most who come looking here are, that’s why their here. Any other fanboy, would be at Greenwood trying to figure which of the three graves hold their idol. But every now and then, someone comes down here, not out of respect for the late great blues singer who supposedly honed his skills at a cemetery outside of town here, but to find the devil himself. Robert Johnson’s Devil.
The kid started picking at his guitar, a nervous habit, but this time with a purpose. He picked his way through most of “Me and the Devil,” when Dusty spoke up. “Not like that boy, like this.” Dusty took the guitar from him and started playing the same song only much better. All of the notes were the same, but the feel of them carried a much more menacing tone. The two musicians stared in wide open shock. They had traveled throughout all of the United States, Europe and Japan, barely escaping fame. Had made a name for themselves as the hardest most musically adept metal band, not signed to a major label. Had opened for the greats of the genre. But, never had either of them seen anybody play like this before. It was as if they had been transported to another dimension by supernatural means. A realm of pain and anger not of this earth. In this old man’s music they had found the true meaning of fear.
And just for a moment, Dusty wasn’t Dusty anymore. What once was an old black man was a shining being of pure light, except the light gave off no warmth. The being didn’t speak because it didn’t have to. But, it wasn’t so much the hate or rage that effected them, it was the over powering feeling of loss. Whatever this being may have been, it knew pain. Pain not in the physical sense, one got the impression that nothing ever come close to actually harming this thing. No, this was a pain that was known though out the universe. The pain of someone that loved another with all it’s being. True love. Completely and honestly loved someone else that it hurt an infinite time more than any physical pain ever could. To love so completely and be tossed aside. They say Hell has no fury like a woman scorned, but hearing this being’s story you understood, knew with a terrifying certainty that Hell’s fury was that of a lover scorn.
And as quickly as it started it was gone. No more than a few minutes had passed, but the effect was as if it and eternity had passed. The two boys standing in that gas station were forever changed, tears flowing freely down their respective faces. Dusty looked hard into the eyes of the guitarist and found what he was looking for, compassion. This mortal child understood and actually sympathized with that unholy being that even now was fading from they’re memories.
Dusty handed the guitar back. “Go to a crossroad near Dockery Plantation at midnight. Go by yourself and bring your guitar.”
The boys left without saying a word. They got into the van and simply stared ahead. The dumb founded driver who had been outside the whole time got in the car and very confused drove off down the street.
Dusty sat back down in his chair and picked up his Field and Stream and looked at his watch, 3:30, those boys would need to hurry if they wanted to make it on time. But, Dusty wasn’t worried, they’d get there. They always do.
18.1.11
30.11.10
On Expo and Parry.
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.
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.
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.
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