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[July 17th, 2006] |
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I'm still living.
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[March 7th, 2006] |
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Rebel Rebel.
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[February 28th, 2006] |
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mood |
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 bitchy |
] |
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music |
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G-Unit |
] |
♥I'm stupid.♥
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[February 15th, 2006] |
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mood |
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angry |
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music |
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eminem |
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My tea's gone cold, I'm wondering why I got out of bed
at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see
at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture
on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad
My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed
at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see
at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture
on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad
Dear Slim, I wrote you but you still ain't callin'
I left my cell, my pager, and my home phone at the
bottom
I sent two letters back in autumn
You must not have got 'em
It probably was a problem at the post office or
somethin'
Sometimes I scribble addresses too sloppy when I jot
'em
But anyways, fuck it, what's been up man, how's your
daughter?
My girlfriend's pregnant too, I'm out to be a father
If I have a daughter, guess what I'm-a call her? I'm-a
name her Bonnie.
I read about your uncle Ronnie too, I'm sorry
I had a friend kill himself over some bitch who didn't
want him.
I know you probably hear this everyday, but I'm your
biggest fan.
I even got the underground shit that you did with
Scam.
I got a room full of your posters and your pictures,
man.
I like the shit you did with Ruckus too, that shit was
fat.
Anyways, I hope you get this man, hit me back, just to
chat
Truly yours, your biggest fan, this is Stan.
My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed
at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see
at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture
on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad
Dear Slim, you still ain't called or wrote, I hope you
have the chance.
I ain't mad, I just think it's fucked up you don't
answer fans.
If you didn't want to talk to me outside your concert
You didn't have to
but you could have signed an autograph for Matthew.
That's my little brother, man. He's only 6 years old.
We waited in the blistering cold for you for 4 hours
and ya just said no.
That's pretty shitty man, you're like his fuckin' idol
He wants to be just like you man, he likes you more
than I do.
I ain't that mad, but I just don't like bein' lied to.
Remember when we met in Denver, you said if I write
you
You would write back. See, I'm just like you in a way.
I never knew my father neither.
He used to always cheat on my mom and beat her.
I can relate to what you're sayin' in your songs.
So when I have a shitty day, I drift away and put 'em
on.
Cause I don't really got shit else, so that shit helps
when I'm depressed.
I even got a tattoo with your name across the chest.
Sometimes I even cut myself to see how much it bleeds.
It's like adrenaline. The Pain is such a sudden rush
for me.
See, everything you say is real, and I respect you
'cause you tell it.
My girlfriend's jealous 'cause I talk about you 24/7.
But she don't know you like I know you, Slim, no one
does.
She don't know what it was like for people like us
growing up.
You've gotta call me man. I'll be the biggest fan
you'll ever lose.
Sincerely yours, Stan. PS: We should be together too.
My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed
at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see
at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture
on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad
Dear Mr. "I'm too good to call or write my fans"
This'll be the last package I ever send your ass.
It's been six months and still no word. I don't
deserve it?
I know you got my last two letters, I wrote the
addresses on 'em perfect.
So this is my cassette I'm sending you. I hope you
hear it.
I'm in the car right now. I'm doing 90 on the freeway.
Hey Slim, "I drank a fifth of vodka, ya dare me to
drive?"
You know that song by Phil Collins from "The Air In
The Night"?
About that guy who could have saved that other guy
from drowning?
But didn't? Then Phil saw it all then at his show he
found him?
That's kinda how this is. You could have rescued me
from drowning.
Now it's too late. I'm on a thousand downers now, I'm
drowsy.
And all I wanted was a lousy letter or a call.
I hope you know I ripped all o' your pictures off the
wall.
I love you Slim, we could have been together. Think
about it.
You ruined it now, I hope you can't sleep and you
dream about it.
And when you dream, I hope you can't sleep and you
scream about it.
I hope your conscious eats at you and you can't
breathe without me.
See Slim, {screaming} shut up bitch, I'm trying to
talk
Hey Slim, that's my girlfriend screaming in the trunk.
But I didn't slit her throat, I just tied her up, see
I ain't like you.
'Cause if she suffocates, she'll suffer more, and then
she'll die too.
Well, gotta go, I'm almost at the bridge now.
Oh shit, I forgot, how am I supposed to send this shit
out?
{screeching tires, crashing sounds, car splashes into
the water}
My tea's gone cold,I'm wondering why I got out of bed
at all
the morning rain clouds up my window and I can't see
at all
And even if I could it'd all be grey, but your picture
on my wall
it reminds me that it's not so bad, it's not so bad
Dear Stan, I meant to write you sooner, but I've just
been busy.
You said your girlfriend's pregnant now, how far along
is she?
Look, I'm really flattered you would call your
daughter that.
And here's an autograph for your brother: I wrote it
on your Starter cap.
I'm sorry I didn't see you at the show, I must have
missed you.
Don't think I did that shit intentionally, just to
diss you.
And what's this shit you said about you like to cut
your wrists too?
I say that shit just clownin' dawg, c'mon, how fucked
up is you?
You got some issues, Stan, I think you need some
counselin'
To help your ass from bouncin' off the walls when you
get down some.
And what's this shit about us meant to be together?
That type of shit'll make me not want us to meet each
other.
I really think you and your girlfriend need each
other.
Or maybe you just need to treat her better.
I hope you get to read this letter.
I just hope it reaches you in time.
Before you hurt yourself, I think that you'd be doin'
just fine
If you'd relax a little. I'm glad that I inspire you,
but Stan
Why are you so mad? Try to understand that I do want
you as a fan.
I just don't want you to do some crazy shit.
I seen this one shit on the news a couple weeks ago
that made me sick.
Some dude was drunk and drove his car over a bridge
And had his girlfriend in the trunk and she was
pregnant with his kid
And in the car they found a tape but it didn't say who
it was to
Come to think about it...his name was...it was you.
DAMN!
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[February 14th, 2006] |
I can feel the heat closing in, feel them out there
making their moves, setting up their devil doll stool
pigeons, crooning over my spoon and dropper I throw
away at Washington Square Station, vault a turnstile
and two flights down the iron stairs, catch an uptown
A train... Young, good looking, crew cut, Ivy League,
advertising exec type fruit holds the door back for me.
I am evidently his idea of a character. You know the
type comes on with bartenders and cab drivers, talking
about right hooks and the Dodgers, call the counterman
in Nedick's by his first name. A real asshole. And right
on time this narcotics dick in a white trench coat (im-
agine tailing somebody in a white trench coat -- trying
to pass as a fag I guess) hit the platform. I can hear the
way he would say it holding my outfit in his left hand,
right hand on his piece: "I think you dropped some-
thing, fella"
p2
But the subway is moving.
"So long flatfoot!" I yell, giving the fruit his B produc-
tion. I look into the fruit's eyes, take in the white teeth,
the Florida tan, the two hundred dollar sharkskin suit,
the button-down Brooks Brothers shirt and carrying
The News as a prop. "Only thing I read is Little Abner."
A square wants to come on hip.... Talks about "pod,"
and smoke it now and then, and keeps some around to
offer the fast Hollywood types.
"Thanks, kid," I say, "I can see you're one of our own."
His face lights up like a pinball machine, with stupid,
pink effect.
"Grassed on me he did," I said morosely. (Note:
Grass is English thief slang for inform.) I drew closer
and laid my dirty junky fingers on his sharkskin sleeve.
"And us blood brothers in the same dirty needle, I can
tell you in confidence he is due for a hot shot." (Note:
This is a cap of poison junk sold to addict for liquida-
tion purposes. Often given to informers. Usually the hot
shot is strychnine since it tastes and looks like junk.)
"Ever see a hot shot hit, kid? I saw the Gimp catch
one in Philly. We rigged his room with a one-way
whorehouse mirror and charged a sawski to watch it.
He never got the needle out of his arm. They don't if
the shot is right. That's the way they find them, dropper
full of clotted blood hanging out of a blue arm. The
look in his eyes when it hit -- Kid, it was tasty....
"Recollect when I am traveling with the Vigilante,
best Shake Man in the industry. Out in Chi... We is
working the fags in Lincoln Park. So one night the Vigi-
lante turns up for work in cowboy boots and a black
p3
vest with a hunka tin on it and a lariat slung over his
shoulder.
"So I says: 'What's with you? You wig already?'
"He just looks at me and says: 'Fill your hand stran-
ger' and hauls out an old rusty six shooter and I take off
across Lincoln Park, bullets cutting all around me. And
he hangs three fags before the fuzz nail him. I mean
the Vigilante earned his moniker....
"Ever notice how many expressions carry over from
queers to con men? Like 'raise,' letting someone know
you are in the same line?
" 'Get her!'
" 'Get the Paregoric Kid giving that mark the build
up!'
" 'Eager Beaver wooing him much too fast.'
"The Shoe Store Kid (he got that moniker shaking
down fetishists in shoe stores) say: 'Give it to a mark
with K.Y. and he will come back moaning for more.'
And when the Kid spots a mark he begin to breathe
heavy. His face swells and his lips turn purple like an
Eskimo in heat. Then slow, slow he comes on the mark,
feeling for him, palpating him with fingers of rotten
ectoplasm.
"The Rube has a sincere little boy look, burns through
him like blue neon. That one stepped right off a Sator-
day Evening Post cover with a string of bullheads, and
preserved himself in junk. His marks never beef and the
Bunko people are really carrying a needle for the Rube.
One day Little Boy Blue starts to slip, and what crawls
out would make an ambulance attendant puke. The
p.4
Rube flips in the end, running through empty automats
and subway stations, screaming: 'Come back, kid!!
Come back!l' and follows his boy right into the East
River, down through condoms and orange peels, mosaic
of floating newspapers, down into the silent black ooze
with gangsters in concrete, and pistols pounded Hat to
avoid the probing finger of prurient ballistic experts."
And the fruit is thinking: "What a character!! Wait
till I tell the boys in Clark's about this one." He's a char-
acter collector, would stand still for Joe Gould's seagull
act. So I put it on him for a sawski and make a meet to
sell him some "pod" as he calls it, thinking, "I'll catnip
the jerk." ( Note: Catnip smells like marijuana when it
burns. Frequently passed on the incautious or unin-
structed. )
"Well," I said, tapping my arm, "duty calls. As one
judge said to another: 'Be just and if you can't be just,
be arbitrary.' "
I cut into the automat and there is Bill Gains huddled
in someone else's overcoat looking like a 1910 banker
with paresis, and Old Bart, shabby and inconspicuous,
dunking pound cake with his dirty fingers, shiny over
the dirt.
I had some uptown customers Bill took care of, and
Bart knew a few old relics from hop smoking times,
spectral janitors, grey as ashes, phantom porters sweep-
ing out dusty halls with a slow old man's hand, cough-
ing and spitting in the junk-sick dawn, retired asthmatic
fences in theatrical hotels, Pantopon Rose the old
madam from Peoria, stoical Chinese waiters never show
sickness. Bart sought them out with his old junky walk,
patient and cautious and slow, dropped into their blood-
less hands a few hours of warmth.
I made the round with him once for kicks. You know
how old people lose all shame about eating, and it
makes you puke to watch them? Old junkies are the
same about junk. They gibber and squeal at sight of it.
The spit hangs off their chin, and their stomach rumbles
and all their guts grind in peristalsis while they cook
up, dissolving the body's decent skin, you expect any
moment a great blob of protoplasm will Hop right out
and surround the junk. Really disgust you to see it.
"Well, my boys will be like that one day," I thought
philosophically. "Isn't life peculiar?"
So back downtown by the Sheridan Square Station
in case the dick is lurking in a broom closet.
Like I say it couldn't last. I knew they were out there
powowing and making their evil fuzz magic, putting
dolls of me in Leavenworth. "No use sticking needles in
that one, Mike."
I hear they got Chapin with a doll. This old eunuch
dick just sat in the precinct basement hanging a doll of
him day and night, year in year out. And when Chapin
hanged in Connecticut, they find this old creep with his
neck broken.
"He fell downstairs," they say. You know the old cop
bullshit.
Junk is surrounded by magic and taboos, curses and
amulets. I could find my Mexico City connection by
radar. "Not this street, the next, right... now left. Now
right again," and there he is, toothless old woman face
and cancelled eyes.
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