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.
25.1.10
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.
15.1.10
10.1.10
“I’m very depressed that Fruit of the Loom has pulled the Charlie Sheen ads"
“I’m very depressed that Fruit of the Loom has
pulled the Charlie Sheen ads”
carlos irwin estévez
was in
red dawn
platoon
wall street
men at work (written, directed by, and starring his hermano, emilio estévez)
hot shots one and deux
major league one and two
the chase
the arrival
money talks
he’s the star of two and a half men
playing the fictional champion of an ideal
espoused by womanizers the world over
drinking
lazing
fucking
forgetting
and now
his greatest role
teaming up with mj (the living one)
in fotl ads
will never be seen by human eyes
again
because the measure of american self righteousness can not be quantified ($$)
i just hope you motherfuckers are happy.
(2010)
pulled the Charlie Sheen ads”
carlos irwin estévez
was in
red dawn
platoon
wall street
men at work (written, directed by, and starring his hermano, emilio estévez)
hot shots one and deux
major league one and two
the chase
the arrival
money talks
he’s the star of two and a half men
playing the fictional champion of an ideal
espoused by womanizers the world over
drinking
lazing
fucking
forgetting
and now
his greatest role
teaming up with mj (the living one)
in fotl ads
will never be seen by human eyes
again
because the measure of american self righteousness can not be quantified ($$)
i just hope you motherfuckers are happy.
(2010)
2.1.10
Book Review: "God Hates Us All"
This makes it near impossible to review this work without referring to or at least mentioning the fact that it figures quite prominently in the first season of Showtime's "Californication." When you get to the title page, you will notice that there is, under Hank Moody's name, another. One Mr. Jonathan Grotenstein. I assume Mr. Grotenstein is the genius behind this particular piece of fiction, and while I do not mean that in a derisive or dismissive way, I'm not sure if I'd want my name attached to it if it was my work.
I think that part of asking your audience to "suspend its disbelief" is asking them to understand/accept that within the context of the show, this is a piece of literature. A piece of literature that made a man a hit in the literary world. So when I picked it up and saw that, I thought, "why didn't this guy ghost?" Maybe there is a specific reason, and if there is, I won't argue any further. But that is my impression.
The synopsis on the back sleeve of the book calls it a "wry literary masterpiece," which I find funny because if you flip through it randomly it seems more like something you'd find browsing in a YA fiction section. Less than 200 pages, large text (as opposed to the scene in which Hank goes into the book store and skims through it, seemingly reveling in his own youthful genius; it is larger and the text is smaller) and an ad for the 3rd season on the final page.
Of course, I was still able to suspend that disbelief I wrote of a couple of paragraphs earlier. I wanted to. I'd been waiting to read the thing since I knew it really existed.
So, is it a "wry literary masterpiece?" No. Not by any stretch. Is it good? Yes. Readable? Infinitely. In fact, it's a quick read. Hank Moody is definitely not a postmodern trickster. He uses conventional linear narration and doesn't bog the story down with big ideas (not a bad thing either way). I could definitely see how it could be turned into the sappy chick flick "A Crazy Little Thing Called Love," and I hope they never get the idea to actually film it.
Our protagonist is a college drop-out in his late teens. He meets a slightly older girl who shows him what happens when you start fucking the first crazy bitch who comes round. But he's not the first man who's had one of those relationships that is solely based on wild sex and recreational drug usage. Far from it. This is a page out of Bukowski. Except, he doesn't turn down her advances because he's too drunk to get a hard on. No. She's fucked it raw. And when he "rejects" her is the downward spiral that sends his young life into upheaval.
There are smatterings of great dialogue and insights here and there throughout the novel, but a lot of it is pedestrian. You do find out why the novel is titled as it is, but even then, the creative way of putting it forth doesn't alleviate that "so what?" feeling. But maybe that's the point. Moody's protagonist doesn't know what he wants. He hasn't any aspirations unless you call landing a model girlfriend an aspiration. It's certainly not one to define one's life with.
The one thing that's certain is that the Moody on Californication only comes out subtly. Mainly in mannerism and witty dialogue. This is supposed to be the manifestation of a younger Moody's creation, and it can certainly be passed off as such. The one thing that never changes is hope. Moody's protagonist has hope despite his failings with women, and Moody himself, on the show, retains that childlike quality all while floating his liver and courting STDs, pissing women off in the process.
"I love women, I have all their albums."-- Hank Moody
I would recommend this book mainly to fans of the show. And really, only to the fans who like to read. It's a nice little companion piece that might offer a sliver of insight into the character that Duchovny portrays on the show. But within a real-world context, I don't see it as being a best-seller, nor do I see it having a huge following outside of the cult aspect. I see it as being a start. A work by a writer who might one day churn out his opus.
2010.
Photo at right taken from here: http://allnumerablemosts.tumblr.com/
Photographer/copyright holder: unknown. Will remove upon request.
2010.
Photo at right taken from here: http://allnumerablemosts.tumblr.com/
Photographer/copyright holder: unknown. Will remove upon request.
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