Monday, 20 July 2009

Hey New York!

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

A shout out (or at - whatever the fuck ya wanna call it) to New York City after a long day of hard work lifting heavy steel objects, sweating, throwing my back out, smashing my fingers, toes and shins and driving from Brooklyn to Jersey and back again in a 20' truck...

First off, the shittiest drivers on the planet are all here in this fuckin' city. I take that back, I had that one amazing cab driver of unknown Persian persuasion on one of my initial trips up here to visit my lady who got me from Midtown Manhattan to JFK in like five minutes flat in complete and utter control of the road and his piece of shit car the whole goddamned way as we blew threw traffic. That guy was fucking amazing! I hope he wins the Daytona 500. EVERYONE ELSE SUCKS. You all suck! You stop in the intersection! You stop in the middle of the road! You stop when you're supposed to go and you go when you're supposed to stop! You cut people off! You don't use your blinkers when you're supposed to, and you leave them on when you're not supposed to. You move to the right lane, then to the left lane again, then back to the right again, then to the left lane again, then you slow down to a crawl, then you speed up with no rhyme or reason. You have no fucking clue what the fuck you are doing or where you are going! You put on your left blinker, then you turn right! Amazing... You sit at green lights waiting for Jesus to come, then blow through red lights like you're running from the Devil! And you honk! You honk and you honk and you honk! Unfuckingbelievable - you're still not going anywhere! No one is! We're all stuck in this fucking nightmare quagmire together! Get over it!

I wish that the city would put me in charge of enforcing the no honking law. I would speed through New York City traffic all day and all night long in a turbocharged traffic scooter thingymabob slapping tickets on the windshields of jackhole motorists with a reckless fucking abandon and glee. That would make me happy. It would make me very happy.

It seems that every shithead on the planet that either couldn't, or never attempted to drive in their home country migrated here and immediately got behind the fucking wheel of an automobile. A thought to all of you immigrants behind the wheel: GO TO FUCKING DRIVING SCHOOL!!!! In fact, in order for anyone to get a green card anymore in this country they should have to pass a driving test rather than an English aptitude test. I would much rather have all you newbies from all over the globe be able to drive as opposed to speak, because I can't understand what the fuck you're trying to say anyway. Just shut it and learn how to drive.

Also, on the topic of people from other countries, just because you came from a different country or culture doesn't mean that you are interesting or unique. In fact, it seems to be the opposite. It seems that all the dickheads, shitfaces, and fuckups from all over the world came here in droves. Oh yeah, and you're country's not that fucking great - if it was, you would have stayed there. So get over yourself your homeland. It sucks just as much as you do. Just because you were big shit Kurdistan doesn't mean dick here. Get over it.

Don't get me wrong, there are some pretty cool foreigners here, but at about the same ratio of cool people to shitheads as in High School - about 1 cool person to every 100 or so intolerable fucking assholes.

So here's to those 99 assholes that seem to make up the populace of every group on the planet...

To the Puerto Ricans: Nobody gives a shit about Puerto Rico but you. And your music sucks.

To Puerto Rican women in particular: That shrieking noise you make when you yell at someone is one of the most ball shriveling noises on the planet.

To older Puerto Rican men: Once you're over forty, you are not a thug - you're just old.

To the Russian mobsters: Listening to Hip Hop does not make you look more intimidating, in fact it makes you look like a 15 year old white kid from Iowa.

To the preppy yuppies: My boxers hung out the bottom of my shorts when I was 16 - you're still doing it you fuck tool.

To the Hassidic Jews: You remind me of the Amish - Fucking Boring.

To the Williamsburg hipsters: Just because you dress like a fucking jackass doesn't make you either interesting or cool. In fact, odds are, you're just a total fucking jackass who dresses shitty, you tool.

To all you young chicks: Your style makes you look like a totally unfuckable pilled out middle aged loser of a mom from the seventies - what a waste. There's no future for you. You're already played out.

To all the young fags: Just because you dress like a total fucking jackass doesn't mean you aren't still just a fucking fag.

To all the black guys: Hip Hop is dead... it died with Ol' Dirty Bastard in the studio with those hookers and all that blow (RIP Little Baby Jesus).

To all the fucking places that don't take credit cards: It's the Twenty First fucking century, or some shit like that. What's the fucking problem?

To all you rich fucking cunts out there: Guess what? I go as fast in my behemoth 20' truck as you'll ever go in this fucking city in your fucking Ferrari or Lamborghini - you asshole. I hope you all crash into telephone polls.

To all the Union workers: You work like a bunch of peg legged homeless women in skirts. Grow a pair of nuts!

To all you agents out there who won't represent my book: I hope the publishing industry crumbles around your ears! I don't fucking need you. I'll represent myself. Kiss my ass.

To all you New Agers with feathers in your head: If the Indians were so fucking smart they wouldn't be relegated to Reservations swillin' Thunderbird.

To all the kid bands from Brooklyn: You've got no balls.

To all the queers and women who seem to run this city: You've got no soul.

To all you big business tycoons: I never see you. Let's keep it that way. You seem like assholes too.

To all the women of New York: You all obviously need a good hard fucking! That's okay. In fact, I like that about you!

To all of you who I forgot on this one: I'll getchya on the next one... much love.

To my woman: I love ya... you're the best one in this fucking cultural miss mashed mess of over urbanization, sprawling egos, raging insecurities and complete dumbfuckery.

And to any of you who took any offense to any of this: Suck me off you cockblown fuckfaces. Like Joan Jett said, "I don't give a damn about my reputation! I never said I wanted to improve my station."

Fuck off...


Wednesday, 8 July 2009

You Smell Difficult

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

Fourth of July weekend. Birthday party. Upstate New York. Marie's husband. Mushrooms.

It was Marie's long time friend, Sebastian's birthday party at his house Upstate where we'd been the week before for the yoga retreat. And it just happens that Sebastian is good friends with Marie's "husband" (She calls him the guy she used to live with as it's been years since they've been together, so it's just a "term" to her, she says). The weekend was planned.

It wasn't for sure, or written in stone, that Marie's "husband" would be there, and it never really came up in conversation that it was a possibility that he would be there, but I felt it. I knew he'd be there. And I resigned myself to the thought.

It felt like destiny somehow.

Sure enough, when we walked into the vast old house I saw a guy with a pony tail and some sort of Indian arm band scamper through a doorway that looked to me like he was probably the "one". Several minutes later on the back lawn with the roar of the waterfall in the background Marie introduced to me her "husband".
"My condolences" he said with his affected, condescending South African accent. "I'm only kidding" he restated as he tried to gauge my eyes.
"Only half kidding, I'm know" I told him. What the fuck did I care? I already had a beer, and I'd been living with the fucking woman for nearly six months. Like I needed him to remind me or let me in on the secret that she was a difficult woman. Fuckin' snobbish asshole.

People showed up and began filling the house with noise and booze, and by midnight, after dinner, everyone was getting to know each other out on the front porch, smoking and drinking and getting high as the large iridescent moon hung nearly full with anticipation of the weekend in the clear sky.

It was going to be a good weekend.

The next day was spent in preparation in the kitchen for the evenings festivities of fireworks and birthday cake. By four o'clock I was ready to start drinking. There twenty or more people to feed and the food preparation seemed like an endless chore. But I was done and ready to have fun when one of the locals who works odd jobs on the house offered me some mushrooms. I took em' figurin' it was as good a way as any to handle being around your lovers "husband" in a strange environment with strange people on the Fourth of July.

A few hours later I was swallowing the mushrooms down with a beer as I thought about the last time that I'd taken them ten years earlier in Amsterdam and how I'd ended up hiding in a port a john in the center of town for the good share of an afternoon, and thought, 'what could go wrong?' as I went up to our room to get my jacket. I saw her "husband" coming out of his room that was next to ours with some Indian war paint on his face. 'Fine', I thought, as I walked into our room, 'that's the way you want it?' I looked into the mirror in and ate some more mushrooms. I wasn't sure what he was up to, but I was on to'em. 'I can play that game too' I thought, as I went back down to the party with a little buzz starting in the back of my brain. There were people eating and laughing and drinking and I started smiling from the essence of my being realizing that I had nothing to worry about, that I was okay, that everything was okay and that the world was all right as wandered the party in and out of conversations.

A little while later I went back up to the room to get another shirt as it was getting cold out when I saw Marie's "husband" coming out of his room again, this time with a feather in the back of his pony tail. 'What was this guy up to?' I wondered. 'Well, if that's the way he wants it' I thought, 'I'll show him. I'll show him.' And I went into the room and ate the rest of the mushrooms.

Something was on the line.

Something was going to be determined.

Something was happening.

I went out back to the lawn where the party was in full swing and ended up next to the "husband" sharing his glass of whiskey and talking about something or other or nothing at all, and determined that he wasn't such a bad guy after all. We even laughed about a couple of things - I don't know what. And as I left him standing there I felt that bygones were bygones, and they weren't even my bygones...

Something was happening.

The night rolled along with long talks on art, the nature of art, the essence of people, capturing people in art. Toy guns were waved, declarations made and drinks drunk.

Later, closing in on two or so in the morning I found myself cornered, being interrogated by a curious woman about my tattoos. I felt like I was being interviewed by Rolling Stone magazine, in a movie about my life that I was starring in, and I was helpless to form a coherent thought or statement about anything as the woman snapped a photograph of one of my tattoos, and Marie saved me from the bad interview out of nowhere and took me outside to make out under the stars and I tried to figure out how in the hell I'd ended up "there", with her, in that moment, in that rapture, in that love.

Afterward in bed she willed herself on me, literally infusing herself into me, letting me know that I was "hers" as she spoke to me with her energy the story of her soul as I tried to make love to her, speak to her with my body and my soul, naked and exposed, vulnerable, as her "husband" lay in the other room, his presence trying to keep me from entwining with Marie, her asking me with her body to erase the thought of "him" forever as I entered her and drove the thoughts of "them" and what once was away for good. We were together.

I lay there holding her lost in the union of our energy, a field of color and warmth and love enmeshed. And as I held her close I could smell the essence of her being, and I told her: "You smell difficult."


Thursday, 2 July 2009

Article I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I entered this article into a writing contest on Helium titled: How to build muscle by manipulating hormones.

It was deleted by the site.

I liked it.

They didn't.

Oh well...

The article we have deleted (Helium):


A couple of years ago I worked a short stint in a vitamin store.
After a couple of weeks of working and stocking the locked display case full of bottles with names like TORQUED, TESTOSTERONE BOMB and JACKED UP that all had extraordinary claims of rock hard muscles and sexual prowess I decided that I wanted to become a rippling, glistening Adonis who wielded a sexual sledgehammer!
The lab results for one of the products said that it gave castrated rats boners! Shit. That’s all the information I needed. I’d done my research before I started my regimen. How could I’ve known I’d grow bitch tits like Bob in FIGHT CLUB?
I began taking handfuls of pills daily. I was eating everything in the store: Testosterone boosters, growth hormone supplements, protein bars and shakes! I was gonna be Paul Bunyon huge with a giant hard on all day long!
Soon I started looking bigger. But I didn't look shredded like the guys in the pictures on the bottles. I was just lookin’ kinda fat. I wasn’t getting diesel. And I wasn’t any hornier. Then I started noticing a tingling behind my nipples. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. But I wasn’t worried - as I thought I was just becoming sexually charged - until one day in the shower the sensation became almost painful as the water pelted my chest. It felt almost like I had small rocks lodged behind my nipples. Fuck. And when I got out and looked in the mirror I thought that it looked like I had supple baby breast forming. But I was too shocked to believe it. My mind couldn’t handle the truth and I convinced myself that I was just getting buff, not becoming a woman, and kept on taking the pills determined to become a Fabio like sex God.
Soon after at the beach though, as I came running out of the water towards my towel for another beer, my worst fears were confirmed as one of my buddies yelled to everyone, “LOOK! HE’S GOT MOOBS!”
“What the fuck are moobs?” I asked as everyone laughed and I went for the cooler.
“Man boobs – moobs! And you’ve gottem. You’re gonna need a bro for those buddy!”
"A bro?” I said, as the sun seemed to wilt me.
"Yeah. A bra for guys. You need one."
Jesus, life’s fucking brutal. Instead of looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger working out at Venice Beach I looked like Brooke Shields in BLUE LAGOON.
Later on, drunk and stoned, I tried to flex for everyone to prove it was all muscle, but they just kept on laughing until they were crying and I passed out.
After that I went straight to the doctor to find out what the fuck was going on. They took a blood test to measure my hormone levels and said that my estrogen levels were higher than Anna Nicole Smith’s. I was immediately put on an estrogen blocker and told to stop my regimen.
I wanted to sue, as none of the labels on any of the bottles said anything about the lab rats growing boobs.
And they wouldn’t go away.
Whenever I was out drinking with my friends they’d try to feel me up. It was fucking humiliating.
I felt like a woman.
I wanted to be a man again.
I wanted my dignity back. I’d had enough and started to look into other alternatives, like surgery.
Traditional surgery seemed invasive, risky and costly. So I kept on searching the internet, eventually coming across a new laser surgery that could melt moobs like butter. That was the ticket, I thought.
There was only one location where I was living and I swallowed the last of my pride by making an appointment.
The office was a modern glass and steel dermatology clinic full of mirrors and beautiful blonde, tanned women.
I was the only guy in the place and the only one with tattoos. I sat down on the slick leather Bauhaus couch and picked up an Elle magazine as all the girls turned to look. I hated myself and was thinking about leaving, backing my car into oncoming traffic, when the tall swimsuit model looking assistant came out smiling calling my name.
My humiliation seemed endless and I cursed my life under my breath as I followed her back down a fluorescent hallway of doors.
She motioned for me to take a seat across the desk from her as she asked me to take off my shirt.
“Huhh?” I said.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said smiling, almost as though she was fucking with me.
I turned crimson as I took my off shirt and became shamefully aroused as she came around the desk and sat next to me and gently felt me up, her blushing as well in the process. I was all hot and bothered after she fondled me, and slightly confused as to what was going as she said that underneath the flab I was hard as a rock – she had no idea, I thought. She said that she would give me a discount on the price if I really wanted to have the laser procedure done, but that I’d probably just be better off doing some serious cardio. I didn’t have enough money anyway.
“You mean work out?”
She smiled.
And I wasn’t sure if she was coming on to me or what after what’d just happened?
So I asked her out.
She looked at me stunned and laughed to herself and said that I had some balls.
Like a castrated rat.
She gave me her number, but never picked up when I called. She wouldn’t even come out when I drunk text her from the bar asking her if she wanted to fuck. It’s my breasts, I thought, I gotta get rid of em’. And from that point on, just like Forrest Gump, I was running man.


Book Review I Wrote That Was Deleted By Online Writing Marketplace

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York

I wrote this review for Helium on a book called: "Melrose & Croc Beside the Sea".

They didn't like it...

The article we have deleted (Helium):

I have to admit that I haven't actually read this book. But with a title like, "Melrose & Croc BESIDE THE SEA", why the hell would I want to? I mean really, come on. I'm in my thirties and ashamed of myself that I still haven't finished my High School Senior English list of required reading. In the study alone that I am currently sitting in there are hundreds and hundreds of books with fascinating titles staring me intently in the face, crying out to be read, such as: "The Book of Disquiet"; "Lord of the Barnyard"; "Death on the Installment Plan" (probably the best title ever), and on and on and on. All of which I desperately want to read. But between work, feeding my gob, doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, exercising, making intimate time for my girlfriend and me, working on the query letter for my book, trying to find that special agent for my book, trying to figure out how to become a journalist, skimming the paper in a half hearted attempt to stay current with the circumstances of the world beyond my apartment, grocery shopping, taking the subway, watching a movie now and again, and dropping my Netflix at the mailbox around the corner, I often find that I simply don't have the time sit down and read a damned book, let alone a book titled, "Melrose & Croc" whatever whatever. And I mean no disrespect to the author (it's simply not my cup of tea), for it is a great feat of talent and know how in this day and age to get published by a traditional publishing house (I'm assuming these fellows Melrose & Croc have found a comforting home securely nestled in the milk giving bosom of a publishing house - God knows I'd like to suck on that fat nourishing tit). And I mean no disrespect to those of the reading public who have the time to read this book or other books of the whimsical nature that the title suggests. In fact, I am jealous of both the author and her readers, as I would love to have the seemingly care free existence that allows someone to write and or read a work thus titled. I, unfortunately, seem to be doomed to toil and struggle in the murky swamp of life attempting to keep my head above the dirty water, ever on the lookout for an opportunity to pounce on an unsuspecting victim, like the ancient crocodile of the title. If I were however to actually review this book I would tell the reading public to read it only if they had read everything else on the planet that they had ever wanted to read to satisfy their particular intellectual bent. Or read it if they didn't have to worry about money at all and therefore had no need for any sort of intellectual bent. Or read it if they had kids that they needed to read to at night. Or maybe buy it if they had nieces or nephews that they saw on the holidays and wanted to spend some quality time with reading to them or some shit like that. Or, read it I suppose if they just wanted to be be whimsical and spend their precious reading time in an act of defiance. Then and only then would I suggest that they should possibly pick this book up. Otherwise, I'd suggest tackling another one of those 100 classics from High School English before they were dead.