I've begun darning my socks.

All coffee and water and cat hair swirling at my feet. I went on a Netflix "Watch-it-now" binge that left me filled with "Norma Rae", a banal story of unrequited love called "Conversations with Other Women" and just wrapped up the cold story of two brother writers dealing with fame and psychoses, "Reprise". Hindsight has me wishing I'd altered the viewing order to end in triumph and perseverance instead of self-loathing and some kind of emotive intellectual pandering. Meh.
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Post scimble-scambling with Rita; just like the symbiotic crocodile/bird relationship, she helps keep my molars clean and I eat her excellently prepared meals.At the under-the-sea Tip Top party for London Linda's arrival, Jamie told my future with streamer tape.Chess on Sullivan with the elusive Josh.
One moment you're contemplating all the ways this little nightmare will afford you the city's fortunes...
...and the next moment hot-pink spray paint quells your government aided dream. These lobsters speak Cantonese.
Moments like this remind me of my papa.
Finding your friend shaking a tail-feather on an abandoned underground dance floor is cause for more celebration. Also the night that MJ cashed in his ticket.
Of course the evening faded into a pre-school morning. I love the building as canvas.
And the body.
Blonde Redhead at Prospect Park was just magical; lightning without rain and dancing against the stage = true gold.
Presently I find myself in Northern California typing away until the family crawls out of their slumber caves. A large decrepit white cat with a tumour under her tongue just sat next to the monitor, meowed, then shook her head until she lambasted me with a snail-trail of drool. I think I'll have a banana chip now (why is it that only one out of every five banana chips are the good ones? the thin crispy ones that don't break your jaw?). Also, the coffee pot is broken and there isn't a cup to be found within walking distance. Suburban city layout, your complete disinterest in my scorn elicits applause.

"Pump it up when you don't really need it"

I cannot start at the beginning nor the end of my travels so en media res will have to satiate the compulsion to put it all in here.
Listening to James Brown's kid, Altyrone Deno Brown. A baby Brown with more soul than child-time Michael Jackson...
Anyway...
Things are steep right now; they are. I have a 'case' under investigation, the soles of my shoes are fashionably post-great depression-esque, I'm living off of Snickers and coffee, sleep duration has grown to 11 hours a spell, 'future' is a most terrifying word and well, at the advice of my therapist I'm meditating on "when in doubt, do nothing".
Pretty sure this pic from last week sums up my present state (this is post DJing a bachelourette party in Connecticut hosted by the most vapid, dull women I've come into contact with in a while):
Rainy days are perfect for sock coordination and stand-up:
If you hang out in your room long enough, visitors will come. Sometimes they will be decked in furs of the finest quality:and sometimes they will hearken the 'zany era':Of course live vision shows this skyscape to be two million times more lovely than my camera could capture but there it was, a view we see on the daily, and somehow it was new and dark and clear and we just sighed "ahhhhhh":
I watched these two men (pink shirt=swoon) play chess for an hour as a zealot screamed into a microphone on the right and called our sins as filthy as menstrual rags. A young man (dressed in an (ironic) Amish fashion and seemingly rolling) kept interjecting maniacal screams about the martyr: "THIS MAN IS POISONING YOUR MIND!" "EVERY TIME HE MASTURBATES HE SUFFERS PSYCHOLOGICAL TRAUMA!"
Cupcakes with Iona made the days seem less about war and religion and more about interesting sugar combinations:
Earlier, Eric and I went on an epic walk. Here we find the lad ponderin':
I got lanky on a Roxy Paine sculpture:
This bookstore kitty protects the Jesus:
I willed an external reality that perfectly mimicked my internal one:
So, cut me some slack over this test broadcast. The days and my writing will grow brighter. I'm remembering the things that I love.

The patriarch calls silence on the topic of death and we all keep chewing.

I am out bumbling around and have been accumulating the shit true life is made of (I suppose I'm implying that a life lived online can never be authentic for me. We're talking, what, ditching out on 40 hours a week spent screen diving?) and I've found it to be equal parts cheeseburgers, sun-block, text messages, art theory, crickets and longing. Not to forget the tiny pangs of anxiety which are quickly diminished once a greater, wider, more comprehensive outlook is achieved.
Anyway, I'm not tied to the computer having been laid off last week, dropped off in the coachella desert, back-country mosied to echo park and now sitting comfortably in my dad's track pants at the base of some looming and defiantly beautiful mountains. This computer is the cutest joke! Grandparents on the internet just makes me cheese up a bit.
So, next stop is recording some songs with Mochi then hopefully heading to Hawaii until the end of May to get some much needed writing hammered out.
Everything is wide open and gaping; the world and I are one large mouth. I miss New York but I'm happy to stave off my return until I've found the perfect gift to bring her.

more to come...

actin' a fool

It's been one of those weeks where every turn, every conversation, every step out the front door has yielded some sort of New York praise. I'm getting high on the fact that I love where I live and finding myself seriously and sheepishly agreeing with Updike that a true New Yorker holds the “secret belief that people living anywhere else had to be, in some sense, kidding." The sun actually woke me up today; things are moving along.At rehab waiting for Bob. I thought about returning the diamond earrings I foolishly purchased (with fake money) a few weeks back. After discussing with Fatima that these blood rocks actually help me steer clear of certain ex-liquid-lovers, I think I'll keep 'em. If I don't treat myself, who will and blah blah.
Eating cantaloupe sent me back to a CA summer.
But the perfect cappuccino and coffee brought me right back home.
...and talks of the fates of families and what your lot is in life in Fatima's new apt. Will you always have money issues? Will your health be a constant concern? Will you break your back for love (yes)?
One day that cat will be a baby and then, with blue hair, how shall I presume?

We're sitting here and wondering what our dads are probably doing.

Riley's dad is probably smoking a joint, listening to The Who, sitting on a found chair, a native american blanket draped over the back, waiting for his Japanese immigrant girlfriend to get off work.

Jenny's dad is probably sitting in his lazy boy recliner with the lights off, watching Tivo Formula One car racing, drinking red wine and tooting away.

My dad is probably smoking the world's smallest joint clasped in a roach clip then hitting golf balls out into a vast dirt field while the sun sets.

Eric's dad is probably asleep on a tear-stained pillow with a bible sitting on his chest.

Jamie's dad would probably be building a carburetor with chewed gum and a book of matches.

What is your dad probably doing?
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here's a great video Richard did fer MoonwalkAirMilesDavis; documents my long hair eh!:

"For the eye altering, alters all..."

So this might be cool. I was looking at photos from over the weekend and noticed that my eyes were coming out two different colors. Upon careful examination I realized I had 3 or 4 brown spots on my good eye (I was born legally blind in my left eye). I dig it; I'm calling it my tiger-eye. What I don't dig is my propensity to WebMD any little malady and thus set off a chain of irrational anxiety bombs. Here's what I've learned thus far: one in a million people get cancer from these lil eye freckles, they're actually called "choroidal nevi" - not nearly as exotic as "tiger-eye" and I need to wear sunglasses more often.
This got me thinking about Kate Bosworth's eyes:
Now, the deal with her is called sectoral heterochromia which, I have to admit, looks much cooler. Then I was reminded of the time I made a flier for my friend's band the spookfish and used the below photo of a wolf with total heterochromia.
I'll let an opthomologist tell me what's really up. Until then, this is one of those bodily oddities that you're kind of like, hmm, ok, I can roll with this (like post-birth control boobs or a cool tooth chip? scars?).
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Melissa and I have updated our Lobby Chess Blog.
&
I did a little writeup for The District on my buddy's band the Knew.

"I cannot whip a disco's ass by myself."

As my hair falls out like long, soft pillow-batting into my hands, I am considering abandoning peroxide heaven for a little dark-haired debauchery. The missus and I had what one politely calls a "mis-communication" (such a civil word) about the direction of my scalp and today, underneath this red beret, a molting Chia Pet is losing its wings. No matter, all's fair in life and hair and you gotta roll with the punches as in any other avenue of improvement. But, so, yeah, I had a nice perm at Jenny's birthday. Rita looked like a cupcake and Glenn's armpits were straight ripe:Seen here, Glenn's puggle cake and Jamie's knowledge of posing:
There are so many good shows in Chelsea right now. I dropped the catalog to this show in a puddle so I can't remember the names. Ah, found it on the webz: Tony Oursler at Metro Pictures. This is the same cell model as my old phone and really recreates the anxiety caused by always being "available":
Great hidden world cut into the wall with projections of senile/mentally unsound people milling about in alternating rooms and accompanied by audio of them babbling.
Melissa doesn't like her cropping, and yeah, I'll agree. I don't think I'd ever try to kiss a giant lit cigarette in real life:
The John Water's show was just fucking fun:
I am still laughing. I fekking love Eddie Murphy:
Tea and chess at the Essex house. Check-Mate (get it???) and rock candy for days:
I got a little excited and almost lost a dude in my tea-heating chamber:
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Re-reading Air Guitar by Dave Hickey and falling in love again:
"[...] Human art and language (as opposed to institutional art and language) always cite the exception [...] that "normal" life, in this country, is not normal at all - that we exist in a general state of social and physical equanimity that is unparalleled in the history of humans. (Why else would we alert the media every time we feel a little bit blue?) Yet, we apparently spend so many days and hours in this state of attentive painlessness that we now consider it normal - when, in fact, normal for human creatures is, and always has been a condition of inarticulate, hopeless, never-ending pain, patriarchal oppression, boredom and violence - while all our vocal anguish is necessarily grounded in an ongoing bodily equanimity, a physical certainty that we are safe enough and strong enough to be as articulately unpleasant as we wish to be."
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Also, I will die for Mounds candy bars and my selfish fucking brother who is in town for a Halo tournament can eat shit.