Inside

Do What Thou Wilt, with an emphasis on gratuitous sex and blissful drug consumption

These ain't no hood rats

A couple of my girls thought it would be cute if they ran around deep in the hood while in NYC. It wasn't long before they were huddled scared at a bus stop waiting to get the hell out before they fine asses got jumped. These hoes, man. Can't tell them nothing.

Capitalism

"Mmm on set waiting to do my scene. But so far I have sucked 3 cocks and gotten fcked by 2 guys lol." - Katie Kox

The monarch's big day

Wake up. Contemplate the profundity of existence. Check the weather channel. Sunny and hot—imagine that.

Shower, get dressed. CNN drones in the background. People are mad at the President for reasons that are not wholly clear. It seems to have something to do with the fact that he’s an “uppity negro” that doesn’t realize that even half-black people have no right to make major decisions that will affect the country. I mean, I realize that he was voted into the office and all, but there are limits. This is still America, right?

Somewhere in there I smoke my first bowl of the day. Inside my head thoughts slowly clank to life, like a rusty old machine that hasn’t been turned on in years.

Pack my shit (computer, power cord, Odwalla bar, etc) into a briefcase and head out.

Get in my car and start down Olympic towards the office. Car makes weird sounds that are cause for concern. I promise myself I’ll take it to the shop soon. I’ve been telling myself this for months now.

Attempt to make it to the office without any road-rage meltdowns, which in L.A. is never an easy feat.

Pull into the parking structure. Park on Level 3. Clip my ID badge to my belt. Climb the stairs to the top of the parking structure. Make sure the letter is still in my back pocket. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. Below, fellow drones march listlessly towards their own destinations, oblivious to the fact that there’s nothing at the end of their journey but a hole in the ground or the inside of a large oven. I notice an attractive woman below. She’s young, late teens, maybe early Twenties. She’s beautiful, with flowing dark hair and a tailored business suit. She has the smile and gait of someone that’s really going somewhere, with a bright, vital future in store.

The woman is talking on her cellphone, oblivious to my presence a few stories above her. When my plunging body lands on her and kills us both, she literally has no idea what hit her.

It’s my little parting gift to her. No need to suffer the crushing disappointment that surely lies ahead, the cruel way time would eventually strip her of her looks. She wouldn’t have to endure men that would eventually look through he as if she were no longer there when she gets old. No child would break her heart by growing up to become a whore on the streets of Baltimore that lets guys from the suburbs videotape her sucking them off in their expensive cars to afford another small bag of blessed death to slowly take her away from all of the horror.

Instead, just silence, peace and the warm, comforting embrace of nothingness.

Occult of personality

This is some creepy shit I found on the internet today. Actually, it found me.

All I know is that now I want to be a Mason. That shit sounds better than Scientology.

Objectification

Question of the week

Question: “Do you think you are clearer after being sick because being sick forced you out of some habits?” (Courtesy: Otto)

Answer: Yes.

The conduit between inspiration and myself is more open that it’s been in a very long time. But illness always causes me to shut down and run on reserves, which allows for a kind of mental sloughing. My only concern during those times is getting better. I wash away any stressful thoughts with the cathode ray. When I can find something like a “Law and Order: SVU” marathon, I’m all good.

But this particular spell was augmented by my recent trip home.

One of the aspects of home that has always appealed to me (even more so now) is the relative isolation, peace and quiet. Some look at it as desolation and hopelessness, and there’s some of that, too.

But the wide-open urban space, coupled with a decided lack of humanity, creates a landscape that sings to me with a pretty song.

I can imagine how it used to be, years before I existed. When those streets teemed with life, energy, and hope. I dream of what they can become in the future, and the possibilities are truly endless. I get kind of sad when I realize there’s a good chance those possibilities will materialize too far in the future for any of us to savor.

The people that do remain are quite the fascinating collection. I’m particularly attracted to the women (imagine that)—there’s a steely kind of resolve there I rarely experience anymore--but not at the expense of their femininity. If anything, they amplify their sexuality in a kind of reaction to the bleakness of the environment.


Which is why I’m returning for another long weekend there for the Thanksgiving holiday. That’s also the weekend where a certain personal project I’ve been avoiding for far too long will begin in earnest. The goal is to have a finished product in my hands by the end of the year. It’s been honed down to one of three projects, actually. I’m going to let time reveal to me which one is the first to fall. That’s exciting.

But the rather consistent lack of cultural stimulation (unless you really search for it) creates a blank canvas on which it’s easy to draw up something original. I feel like I get so much done there, and fast.

I have entertained the notion of returning there for an extended period of time, but not quite yet. I could definitely see hunkering down for a spell and really getting to work.

But for right now, I’m making good time in the rat race of L.A. It’s been a bitch of a fight, but I’ve actually carved out a nice little place for myself here.

Still, I look around and see faint outlines of what my environment should really look like right now. I’m realizing to bring those fuzzy images into focus is going to require discipline, determination and simply doing the work.


But I am up to challenge. This is what life is all about (for me, anyway). I’ve been training for and working towards this moment my entire life.

Nervous, excited, and kind of anxious. All good signs.

Small Metal Gods

It`s the farthest place i`ve ever been
It`s a new frontier for me
And you balance things
Like you wouldn`t believe
When you should just let things be

Yes you juggle things
`cause you can`t lose sight
Of the wretched storyline
It`s the narrative that must go on
Until the end of time

And you`re guilty of some self-neglect
And the mind unravels for days
I`ve told you once
Yes a thousand times
I`m better off this way

I`m better off this way

Where`s my queen of hearts
My royal flush
I have cleaned and scrubbed her decks
My suicide my better days
There`s nothing i regret

I`ve placed the gods
In a ziploc bag
I`ve put them in a drawer
They`ve refused my prayers for the umpteenth time
So i`m evening up the score

Small metal gods
From a casting line
From a factory in mumbai
Some manual labourer`s bread and butter
And a single-minded life

Small metal gods
Cheap souvenirs
You`ve abandoned me for sure
I`m dumping you my childish things
I`m evening up the score

—David Sylvian

Crush of the week

Blond, super-cute and a DJ with good taste in music. I'm smitten, y'all. And not even in the dirty, I want to put parts of my body inside parts of hers kind of way. Even though I do.

Pounding Sweet Ess

"One of the problems with being a bubbling source of creativity—it's like I'm bubbling in a laboratory, and if you don't put a cap on it, at one point it will, like, break the glass. If I can hone that . . . then I have, like, nuclear power, like a superhero, like Cyclops when he puts his glasses on." — Kanye West

1982

it's raining in my head
but no tears come down
and i'm dreaming of you
until sleep comes around
sleep comes down sleep comes down
sleep comes down sleep comes down
the orchestra's playing
it's so very loud
and i'm biting my nails
until sleep comes around
sleep comes down sleep comes down
sleep comes down sleep comes down
the clouds are all running
but no tears come down
and i'm thinking of you
until sleep comes around
sleep comes down sleep comes down
sleep comes down sleep comes down

Welcome to Miami

Hot like fire

Sometimes it snows in April

“Dude, are you psychic or something?”

On the other end of the phone is my friend/drug dealer. I figure I can make this distinction, as he was my friend first. Met him through one of my best friends in the world, who’s a mutual acquaintance. I’d been buying marijuana from him for the longest time before he finally let me know that he handled blow. Needless to say that was a good day.

He was questioning my psychic abilities because even though he told me a few weeks ago that he was out of the coke game for the foreseeable future, I rang him up the other night.

I called under the guise of wanting to know if he knew anybody that might have something. As it turns out, his connection re-upped and he was getting a supply later on that same evening.

“My guy called me like 20 minutes ago. And then you just called. This is fucking weird, bro.”

I always have kind of felt like Sookie Stackhouse in that way. My mother used to say I was “extra sensitive.” She was a wise but extremely troubled woman. She was deep into metaphysics. She filled my young brain with all sorts of profound thoughts, ideas and theories.

So from a young age, I’ve always had this intrinsic idea that anything is possible. And on the rare occasion when I do quiet my mind and allow myself to just be, I’m consistently amazed at the things I’m able to kind of channel from the universe.

I’m always a little clearer after being sick. All of that down time allows my being to slow down long enough that I have an extra little charge when I’m back to health.

It’s all been going into work lately, which is fine. I’ve been on top of all sorts of assignments, and even got publicly commended by my ‘boss’ today, which was all sorts of awesome.

Since I achieved most of this while under the weather, it was the perfect excuse to purchase two grams of blow from my man.

The timing couldn’t have been better. On Tuesday night I had to attend the opening of a “hot” new West Hollywood club. Perhaps if I were younger, dumber and I don’t know, idly richer, I might be able to enjoy these things.

But when it’s just far too many bodies crammed into some space where the DJ is spinning the same abysmal garbage that’s endlessly repeated on Top 40 radio and a cocktail is $19, excuse me for not feeling especially privileged for the opportunity.

Thankfully I had my bullet in my pocket, which allows for discreet snorting. So I just kind of skied my way through it all, which needless to say made things far more bearable.

I'll be taking my little friend to the big rock show tonight. I feel like coke is more appropriate for the Yeah Yeah Yeahs than just taking a joint, you know?

If you never tell a story

I can’t find anymore of me. I think they’ve all grown up, gotten married and had children. At least that’s how it looks on Facebook.

“Ah, what the fuck is that about?” You scoff, and rightfully so. But it’s my only real conduit into the lives of normal adult people types. I see their profile pictures of robust and healthy babies, and digitally leaf through albums with titles like “My favorite photos of Sanchin yet!!”

I am what you would call a Man of a Certain Age. Back home, I might as well be an albino poker champion. Everyone wants to be around the freak, and there’s always a whiff of easy sex and wanton abandon lurking under the table.

Needless to say, I’ve been spending an awful lot of time trolling Expedia. I might as well give the people what they want. And maybe, just maybe, there will be some left over for me.

I just wish I wasn’t so fucking cheap. Thanks, dad.

If I would only let myself, I could afford a couple of trips over autumnal months. The first one would be to take in the fall foliage, scream at myself that if I don’t do it now I never will and will die a miserable abject failure and it will be all my own fault so get off your fucking ass and fucking do it already you miserable fuck over and over, and (finally) to connect with a certain female I used to know there.

She’s a Woman of a Certain Age. She’s had lots of issues with drugs and men in the past. I had totally forgotten, but her and I actually made out exactly once. It was when I was a DJ at this club. There was one night when the party really went off and it was all sweaty and warm and open and sexy and good. When it was over she came in to the DJ booth with her roommate and they took turns making out with me. It was fucking awesome. How could I forget a story like that?

This is where the screaming at myself part comes in.

The second trip back would be over Thanksgiving. Now that I think of it, that one is probably more important than I was even realizing. That one is kind of at the crux of the screaming. Yes, that one needs to happen. OK, good to know.

I know it’s a long shot, but Thanksgiving weekend in the land of my birth has the potential to be everything that I’ve lazily been imagining of late.

It started with fucking Facebook, of all things. She randomly hit me up on the site’s instant messaging system. We talked. A lot. About many things. She asked when I was going home again. She told me that she was going home at Thanksgiving, and that it would be nice to see me.

Considering what happened the last time we saw each other, I’m a fool for not already having the trip booked. Even just the hint that it could be anything like that is the fire that stokes my soul. It makes me feel “the feeling” and the lines begin to blur and then it’s sparkly magical dreamland time.

“Why not?” She implored with a smile. “Why not?”

Even though she's not here, I can still hear her voice. Even though she'll never be here again, I can still feel her hair coarse on my face. Even though.

Dear Lizzie Miller: I just want to love you

So fucking sexy. That is all.

Sickness

Not my generally mental illness, but actual physical maladies.

They have besieged my body for the past week plus two days. And it's sucked. A lot.

I've somehow been able to drag my bedraggled body out and about town, but it's been hard. Especially the fatigue. I hate feeling so fucking tired all of the time. Sucks.

My brain has been especially tired. I've had to find a way to keep it running in somewhat top condition despite my illness, and that has taken quite a toll. But I've been able to keep things afloat at work, which is of tantamount importance to me.

While my porn/masturbation schedule hasn't slowed down that much (if at all!), I just haven't had the energy to say much about it. And you're welcome (ha).

And while Kanye West could very well be one of the world's biggest douche bags, I'm all about his bald-headed bitch of a girlfriend, Amber Rose. Those tits are simply outstanding, no pun intended.

I really want to fuck Kristina Rose

Cuz she's just so glamorous.

Deep thoughts

I wonder what porn stars think about while they're prepping their anuses with a thorough enema before an anal scene? Hmmmm...

Cities

Traveling always opens my mind to the true realm of possibility. Moving through what few bodies remain in that third world city remind me of how far I’ve come, and oh not really.

I put myself in stark relief against the barren, scarred landscape I barely escaped more than ten years ago now. I can see the Me that would’ve staggered through this muck had I not made my daring dash for freedom. The picture is hard to even imagine.

I stand on the periphery of what is still such a grim reality for so many and I am thankful, humbled before the enormity of the rusted sense of defeat that drizzles over everything like rain.

I smell of cigarettes, down to my underwear. I can legally talk on my cellphone while driving. Denny’s closes at midnight. The night quiet is vaguely sinister, like those last nervous moments before a storm.

I smoke a joint as I drive north on the freeway at four in the morning. The oversized rental car lumbers aggressively towards the most anonymous hotel imaginable.

My sister tells me raunchy stories. I always knew she was wild when she was my age and younger, but woo. I think my favorite is the one about the time the “love of her life” put a loaded gun to her head. She now says she deserved it. She’d been stealing cash from his wallet for months.

If he’d know how much she wheezes now, he would have pulled the trigger. I find it sad but wholly appropriate that this guy was married the entire duration of their relationship, which lasted more than 20 years and only ended when he died. My sister swears that his wife called her and invited her to the funeral. She says she declined out of good taste. I like to pretend that’s true.

I like 'em round and big

But Gmail can go suck it though. WTF?