Friday, May 30, 2003

Addendum 05.30.03

From Don Delillo: [This is] a matter of silences, not words.

Thursday, May 29, 2003

Tenor of an Afternoon. 05.29.03

While on this retreat I have read a lot. I am not still on vacation—I am in New York—but surprisingly there is a marked difference between the monastic church I entered sometime during my trip to Chicago and the state of New York.

A long good-night.

Friday, May 16, 2003

Feel the Seismic Shift. 05.16.03

I am taking a few days in Chicago. Ladies, I will be back soon. I promise, love. For serious. I would like peace in NYC while I am gone. And booty-chasing. Though I think the booty brigade is dead (let me hear the wink wink) (by wink wink I do not by any stretch of the imagination mean that it could possible go back underground like our favorite cartoon earthworm) (let me hear the nudge nudge) (run your hands through my brigade, move all to and fro, no more talking 'bout booty. this is the remix to raw muses, blowing up all your fuses, come stop rolling those eyes because you love to read through it).

Well, at least Gulshan got it.

Tuesday, May 13, 2003

I'm Crying. Really. 05.13.03

From EUR.

**Irv Gotti told MTV that Ja Rule is going on the
downlow. Ja, who's been in our heads continuously
since 1999, will supposedly be out of action until
sometime in 2004 (Thank you, Irv). It seems that
folks are just plain tired of hearing from old gravel voice,
especially his, er, singing. And, as the article points out,
the public has been showing mucho love for Ja's lyrical
foe, 50 Cent. Damn, it's enough to make ya wanna Holla!
Postcards to A Lost Weekend I. 05.13.03

Happy birthday, Eben! You must be loved because your friends were bouncy like pogo sticks on your stoop. What more can a young man ask for? Obviously—bowling and Rhinegold’s Ale.

And this place deep in Brooklyn did not disappoint. Worth the price of admission, this alley was defended by serious bowling league cats, adorned with trophies, ceilinged with the removable pockboard tile. It’s so cool, I just lost control and used a word that don’t exist at all (ceilinged).

Arroz is very serious about his bowling. I can’t wait for his paunchy days where he and I will both belong to a league with Eben, who by that time will no doubt be suave and in the midst of a midlife crisis. We all know what that means—rides in the Ferrari! Homely strippers!

I digress. Nice to meet you, Megan and Adam; good to bowl with you Arroz, Eben, Nascar Anna, and Silver. Especially Silver, because I don’t know anyone else who can lose his balance on a bowl so badly that he falls back, stumbles against the ball return, then squares up only to collapse onto his side. Truly skilled, my friend, truly skilled.

But again, great to be out on the yuppie/ hipster/ imported-Brooklynite-free sections of Brooklyn. Our friends notwithstanding… but next time, it won’t be your birthday, Eben, and I won’t take it so easy on you. I will continue to sing Sugar Ray’s “When It’s Over.” Plus, ass-whuppin’ will commence.

Yours With a Tough-Sounding Snarl.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend II. 05.13.03

Oh, my head.

Rhinegold, you come back with a kick in the mornings, when I am laid out on my friend’s couch, reaching for a conveniently placed cup of water.

But, Rhinegold, buddy—what is this laying in front of us? A copy of Moneyball, the book about Billy Beane and his baseball genius featuring a section that might as well be called, “how I made Steve Phillips drop his pants and hand me one of his testes garnished with a lemon.” Ah, Steve Phillips. You have managed to sell the Mets’ player assets at “I need to win now!!” prices. Meaning New York received the pleasure of Billy Taylor and other such washed up players.

Thank you for making the New York Mets’ impatience into a piece of art. Not that Mr. Phillips is the only victim on the skewer. But he is there.

And I can’t stop reading about the man who mounts an occasional challenge to the Yankees' evil empire. Even though I need to leave and wash and go to Linner’s “it’s my birthday” barbecue. This is what Saturdays are made for—lazy ass reading and wondering what was the name of the beer truck that hit you.

Rhinegold, you play rough but I love ya.

Yours With Cottonmouth.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend III. 05.13.03

Oh my head. I should have walked the extra block to get a bagel or a scone. PS, no one ever sounds cool saying scone. Just try it. You didn’t sound very cool at all.

You are here with me, walking to Hoyt-Schemerhorn, stopping for the Daily News. Watching the magic man tap on his box and then open it to let loose a dove on the A train. And above ground, where we watch Brooklyn pass. On the bus where a woman’s bag crushes me to the side of the seat.

Thank You for Joining Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IV. 05.13.03

I was not alone in the late-recovery. Silver had a little Rhinegold-slow on him. Nascar-Anna and Eben woke up at 2. Joined by Linner’s parents, brother, sister-in-law, a couple more friends, a cooler of beer, meat, there we all were, in the backyard.

Thinking of how to move from our trash-talking free-cussing selves to our highly pleasant parental approved selves. Remembering how to be bright-eyed and bushy tailed, how to be civil, and how to tell stories that do not involve “so I’m f*cking this girl.” For the uninitiated, yes, there is a joke and Silver will be happy to tell you.

Linner, thanks for having us over; your roommate was wherever little demons go on the weekends, and your boyfriend, Big Guy, is always a blast, and he makes sure we are fed. That’s cool. So was your tree-shrouded brick-floored backyard, your design portfolio (hope your interview went well), and your parents.

What was not cool, of course, was the fire coming out of the bottom of the fuel line of the grill’s propane tank. That could have ended poorly. The votive candle that caught afire was also kind of strange. Were you perhaps in a Firestarter-type of government program? Are you a mutant? Are we mean to you? Linner, don’t set your friends alight. Our hair smells funny in flames.

I know we didn’t talk enough on Saturday. I promise to go shopping with you and we will have an opportunity to chat—okay… I’m lying. But we will hang out and I will buy you a beer.

Torchingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend V. 05.13.03

Haylz, Marla, Gully. I know you might think that I missed our tentative pre-partying appointment because I thought putting Gully and Haylz together creates a chaotic environment wherein stars collapse in upon themselves, where pigs fly helicopters, where leprechauns demand their f*cking pot o’ gold as you're strolling through the projects.

But really, I was lazy and tired and went to uphold a promise to Anna who does not yet have a nickname. There was a gathering of NYU MBA’s at a bar whose name is of little consequence. There were shiny buttoned-down shirts, and low lights, and couches. Like so many other bars.

In the bar, there was Anna, some lame kids, and I thought long and hard about lying my way through the whole evening, because most interesting of all was the Mavericks/ Kings basketball game.

Gully knows, Gully knows about the occasional propensity for lying. You’re at a party, and some over-pompous ass is off and running about his or her cocaine use, or their art, or what they used to do back before the Lower East Side became gentrified, et cetera. Et cetera. Et cetera.

And you start to think, I can’t listen to any more of this. And you also think, but I would love to invent some tales and see if this blowhard is listening as you embellish your age, your experience, your travel, your bisexual experiences while you were high in Aspen…

The point of this all is that I played it straight. I meant to lie. I had accents at the ready. But then, I was confronted with some guy named Chris and then I was talking to the two women he came with. I think he helped them pick out their clothes. Or helped them shop for their matching sandals.

A perfect opportunity to lie, I know! And I found myself having a long-ish conversation with one of them—Danielle, perhaps?—and enjoying it. I must have been tired.

So, while you were working on your consumption, I:
*hung out with Anna,
*walked by a kid from my university (who informed me that my old DJ partner’s getting married in a few months),
*drank some more,
*dared a guy not to jump down onto the refrigerator truck directly below the balcony,
*chatted with some kids from our rival high school,
*and ran into another kid from the HS.

How was your weekend, Bangin’? Holler At Me.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VI. 05.13.03

Mom, I know that I was late in getting back for dinner, and you went to your church thing; but you appreciated the flowers right? Rock. Moms, you is the bestest.

Postcard to A Lost Weekend VII. 05.13.03

Dear Helen H:

Great to see you at Bubby’s with your kid tonight. You looked tired and natural but better than you did in Pay It Forward. That is so superficial of me. And it’s Mother’s Day too. I am a heel. Please forgive me, Helen.

We had a conversation—Arroz, his sis Kiri, little Leanna, Riz, Naomi, and Jess—about how you would be the perfect celebrity to see—still a cool moment/ event but not so spectacular that anyone loses their shit and embarrasses everyone.

Bubby’s was filled with children to distract us from thinking of staring at you. Ah, the children and the balloons that invariably slipped out of their little fingers and into the whirl of the ceiling fans. I hope you had a better time that we did… to be detailed in another postcard.

Yours in Slight Admiration.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend VIII. 05.13.03

To: Bubby’s.
From: My disappointed ass.

Bubby, America is about meat and blowing stuff up. And your chili is not about either. I want it deported. The mac and cheese did not mack for me. I added an indiscriminate amount of hot sauce to give it some kick. I spent the rest of the evening dabbing my upper lip and under-nose for some illusory hot sauce remnant.

Try that in the mirror, by the way. You’ll look like a moron too.

But, Bubby. The food lacked a little kick. Except for the hush puppies, which we could have eaten for days. Damn, those were good. We should have made them dinner. Naomi didn’t mind. She’s a fan of eating. I mind. I’m finicky and do not have Naomi’s heightened sensibilities. So I complain.

Bubby, one more thing—the strawberry shortcake had ice cream instead of… cream? And it looked hastily considered, hastily slapped together. But nothing like the key lime pie, which lacked lime.

I appreciate your restaurant, and would appreciate it more if you addressed these issues. Thank you for your time.

My Savory Regards.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend IX. 05.13.03

Arroz the Rice-A-Homie is the bestest. He wouldn’t tell me the surprise for weeks, but told me to leave May 11th open for… a surprise. We walked through the mists of Hudson Street and past Canal up to Spring and cut left, finding ourselves at the end of a small line at the rock club Don Hill’s.

Where the poster states that tonight is one of two shows by a cavalcade of unheard of terrible funk-o-metal bands. Headlined by King’s X and your band, Fishbone.

Some of my friends probably get excited over the name Fishbone. I have seen you once myself, on the Mississippi Riverfront in Memphis, Tennessee. I’ll tell you that tale one day if you haven’t heard it. It’s one of my favorites. And Fishbone, you were okay there, on a crappy soundsystem and a crowd maybe a little old for their antics. Parliament Funkadelic was the headliner, if you’ll remember.

But back here in New York, I hopped on one foot in glee. And not just over y’all, Fishbone.

I listened to a lot of heavy metal as a high schooler. Yeah, I did it. One of the bands I liked was King’s X, a progressive metal band of positive Christian men who mess with time signatures and harmonize about love and probably grew up listening to Rush and Voivod.

Arroz didn’t know that. He knows that Fishbone is a blast in and of themselves. In fact, in the sweaty no-fan confines of Don Hill’s, where water is an essential and my stink isn’t bad compared to the ambiance of the club, with John Waters’ absolutely filthy Pink Flamingos on two TV screens, you rocked hard.

The kids were stage diving from Party at Ground Zero throughout the set, surfing the crowd and yelling out loud. Angelo Moore, you of course got into the act, singing while floating on a wave of hands. But, Angelo. I am glad I came to your show. But watch the feet. You kicked Kiri in the head. Don’t kick the Kiri, don’t break her nose. She’s gonna be famous one day. She’ll need that nose. And her brother’s really big and won’t cotton to such behavior. You did see her with the cup of ice to her face, right?

Also, Norwood. I love your anti-rat-tail, or your last remaining dred, or your antenna to the funk aliens with the frozen Godzilla farts. But, as a fan, I must tell you—showering is your friend. When walking through a crowd, we can smell your musky waft. Please, next time—don’t opt for the oils, opt for the soap.

I wish I could also tell Riz to NOT spit water at me. Granted, I dribbled a little on her shoulder, but a full-on fire hydrant spit was not the way to go. The guy behind me certainly didn’t enjoy it.

When the skankin’ was done, and everyone was smiling, well after Arroz and I wailed along to Sunless Saturday, the rest of the kids left. It was late, they were tired. So was I.

But not too tired to stay for King’s X.

And I saw you in the corner, Neal Davis from high school. Man, these kids are everywhere! No matter. King’s X whipped out blues cords and a funk beat for their new songs. And they did fine, embellishing some of their crappier songs and making them pleasant.

Then they took it back to 1989-91. Damn, it was good. Like the first real key lime pie of the summer. Norwood, I saw you appreciating them between fan conversations, hanging out in the back, quietly accepting on-stage appreciation from King’s X. Very cool.

Fishbone—as the crowd said, you are Red Hot.

Skankingly Yours.
Postcard to A Lost Weekend X. 05.13.03

It is times like these when living at the end of the earth leaves a little to be desired, with my feet sore from standing and swaying, when I have not slept in my bed since Thursday night, when it is almost 4 AM and I walk home instead of taking a ridiculously overpriced car service.

There are about ten other people in cars, walking, standing, along my path, and I always wonder what they are doing out under the cover of night.

Probably the same thing as me.

The trees are coming in, finally, making some dark paths even darker but in a relaxing sort of way, adding a pleasant obscuring to the streetlamps and creating images and shadows enough to make my heart race, but not enough to strike late night fear into my heart.

The air smells wet and feels warm with each breeze. And though I would like to sleep for a good long time, I also want to sit out on the front steps and recline.

I see the cats who have taken residence on a car in my driveway, gesture for them—you don’t have to find a home, but you got to get the f*ck up outta this driveway—and put key in lock, realizing that the whole sit and recline fantasy? F- that dog, I am crazy tired.

Good Night, Neighborhood.

Thursday, May 08, 2003

What's In A Name? 05.08.03

According to the Kalabrian Philosophy:

Your name of Pico creates a quick, clever mind capable of grasping and assimilating new ideas. You are rather studious, mentally challenging each new idea before accepting it. Because you learn so quickly you have little patience with those whose mental processes are somewhat slower, and you could become supercilious or somewhat "know it all" in your attitude. This characteristic could make you rather unpopular with your associates. Although you are very knowledgeable and intelligent, you often find spontaneous verbal expression difficult. You crave friendship, understanding, love, and affection about your reserved manner appears forbidding to others. You can give expression to your personal thoughts and feelings most fluently through the written word.

You have a sensitive nature--sensitive to your environment and particularly sensitive to how your deeper and more serious interests are regarded by others. Your feelings are very easily hurt and to protect yourself you withdraw within the realms of your own private thoughts and shut out the rest of the world. Moods, which are your worst enemy, result. Your sensitivity and lack of verbal expression frustrate and limit the satisfaction in life to be gained from your responsible and capable nature. Health problems arise due to worry and a sensitivity in the respiratory area which could lead to problems with the heart, lungs, or bronchial organs.

Hit that link above and search for your name; I bet you will have a sensitivity in the respiratory area too.

Wednesday, May 07, 2003

Blowcrastination 05.07.03

This is excellent. I have one more final. It’s a paper. All I have to do is finish a paper. Instead, I am rediscovering other people’s blogs.

I am noting that I never wrote about my party homie Larry Eustachy like I had planned to. He’s the man who can coach basketball and then party with nubile 18-yr olds. Yeah, Eustachy’s my hero.

I am noting that I have not yet said anything about Bob Ryan’s retarded ass comments about Jason Kidd’s wife.

I am noting that I have not gone back and started inserting insane fictional bits in my other blog.

Angel’s coming to a season (maybe forever?) end and I have not noted anything about that.

Or Rey Sanchez’ haircut follies.

Soon, my sweets, soon.

What I need is the accompaniment of Ja Rule and his innumerable duets to give me pop as I write. Or a freaking snickers bar. Or maybe I should have slept in my own bed last night. But that Gulshan is too convincing! So is beer. And the prospect of multiple possibly nubile art ladies in a bar, ready to let loose after a long semester of art creation... with a little creative act or three in athletically adventurous positions...

Though I and Gulshan were reminded that the first rule of the booty brigade might really be "don't talk about the booty brigade." It's hard to tell someone about the concept and then follow with, "so how 'bout it? I'll even buy you a drink if I have to and shit." Props to the Holiday Bird for coming out for a little lunching in Bryant Park, our feet in the green (but our shoes on, as per the security guard's instructions), our mouths busy with chatter and chew, our eyes strafing the grounds for boy/girl candy.
Poemtry 05.07.03

Thanks to Affordable Justice for popping this on his site. It's a poem generator. To try it, click this jammie.

One generated for Pico Dulce's blog--

muses codfish ] ; cops try to his licence,
to players to say that
proper budonkadonk
to Drinkland. My rims
done slaving over
Persian food.
choices. i ain’t shitting you,
have fallen asleep
at , New show
Raycroft over
them skittish.

Tuesday, May 06, 2003

Quick-E 05.06.03

Check it out-- Pixel is finally done slaving over her boyfriend's site. he should like, take her to a Hollywood opening or something! BTW, look for the picture with Carrie-Anne Moss, it's special.

Monday, May 05, 2003

Six Responses From Hayley 05.05.03

Fill in your own questions. I am lazy.

Halyz says: when else would you get to sing "piece of me?"

to answer your questions:

1. scale of 1-10, 3-4. and it only gets that much because i was wasted. and because there was ass exposure in the street.

2. hoboken is a quaint little place, but there are too many drunk fraternity guys and sorority girls. if i had to live in jersey, i would choose hoboken. but i will never live in jersey.

3. if i could change one thing, i would not have fallen asleep at schnapp's, but rather whipped out some stimulants, gone back to manhattan to a bar, and gotten laid.

4. i remember thinking that one of the designs on the wall looks like my tattoo, i remember schnapp told me there were bananas and i found chocolate chips and was mad that he had "lied" to me about my snack food choices. i remember tossing mini chips into my mouth. i remember being woken up.

5. not mr. softee. i'm thinking mini oreos.

6. i thought she was really pale.

7. i learned to do a bridge from yoga class. i am most impressed that i can reach my head back onto the ground when i am in the bridge. i did it because i want other people to oooh and ah. i'd like to say that that's the first time i whipped out the bridge, but it is not.
The Smut Ambassador 05.05.03

My time with Hayley was something to behold with beer goggles firmly on. So was the sight of us screaming the lyrics to 18 and Life as we stumbled past the bars of Ho-broken as the little sorority chickens and fraternity puppies watched us pass. And watched Haylz flash. And watched Gulshan try to convince various ladies to accompany us into the city.

We did it all, yelled off of roofs (rooves?), made time with the nice people of the ACLU, I talked sports until Marla was ready to deck me…

And what I came away with was this—even though Haylz will do a bridge for our pleasure, I refuse to hang out with her and Gulshan together until they can play civil and not fondle each other until one ends up upset or annoyed. That’s just me.

On the other hand… it was kind of funny. And it’s not so bad, nobody fell off of Devon’s balcony. No one was photographed with a Bacardi O3 in hand. And no one decided to stay in Ho-broken because it seemed happening and adventurous.

Thursday, May 01, 2003

Ozzy 05.01.03

Ozzy might sing in the kitchen: "I'm rocking out with Haylz eating Gravy Train!" A night of debauchery with Bangin' Brooklyn is coming and I will give you the real inside scoop into her debaucherous life. What makes her tick. The most embarrassing thing she's ever done. Is there love in the Bangin' world? What's next for our sexual stuntwoman?

Coming after this weekend's hangover. And be thankful I didn't lead you to this site, the first thing that pops up when you search "Gravy Train" on Google.