Archive for August, 2004

essay # whatever

August 18, 2004 at 3:44 am Leave a comment


so behind in these things it’s 8/16 now.
ahh well catching up to do.

Carlisle, PA

On my way back from Orlando I run into a truck marked
Carlisle, PA. Fred’s new home town and the current digs
of both Simone and Jess. Two finely honed ninja theater
workers. The theater worker is a surly sort, built on wi-fi
laptops and a desire to play Doom 3. [just a note these
things don’t really obey the usual laws of space time i.e.
this one mixes yesterday w/ what happened before orlando
w/ what happened in orlando w/ what didn’t happen and
with some total fiction. see if you can figure out which is

Doom 3 is dissapointing, something which no doubt
Simone will see w/ complete disgust. It’s not the graphics
that are lacking (their pretty amazing) it’s the culture. It
lacks the sense of breaking new ground. 1/2 Life knocked
video games off the shelf becuase it ignored graphics
for story, here Doom tries to marry the two together
and seems like a decent fusion, but it is just a fusion.
ID is good at making straight shooters that just
keep the adrenaline running and the finger clamped
down on the button, here ID takes it long standing
talents and waters them down, what is lost is idenitity.
I’m sure ID can make a great story game, but there’s
already been a lot of good story games, what we want
is something new, something that brings in a new culture
something like Quake that made it all 3D, Doom that started
the whole franchise (yeah even though wolfenstein came b4).
What is dissapoining about Doom 3 (even though I wanna buy it)
is that we felt let down. The pioneers of a genre have no new ideas.
They’ve caved into Microsoft’s Direct X, and yeah they’ve probably
made a game that’s still a little more fun than your average FPS.

Orlando is a hurricane. We’re walking around in it over to Lee’s house.
Lane and Phil have shrooms and are bumbling around the neighborhood.
At one point we run into Phil and he’s getting to know a tree. It’s a cool tree
though, chopped down at the roots, towering over the street, it seems like a giant
bushy friend. We make plans to see JuJu in Tampa, but I break off and go hang out
w/ Pete Barber (another story in itself) while they hang w/ Anna and Chris. When
I head back to the house no one is there and I leave a note, went to tampa, see you at JuJu.
Tampa’s traffic is really light, much less backed up than usual and in Tampa Hot Wax has
graduated from ragga-drum and bass to actually hosting a decent dancehall selection. I pick up
another old school rankin 12″ that blends disco and eighties bass into one perfect
whole while a soulful mc spits kingston slang on the needle. For an early show JuJu is packed.
About 200 fill the orpheum and the one local band I catch is trying to be the
Blood Brothers but has a sense of humor. I run into some guy from Tallahasse who tells
me Orlando’s best thing is it’s metal scene. I run into Matt/ Astropec who I’ve known through
AIM for about a year now and apparently has been talking to Travis for years.
And I FINALLY run into Jack Spatford who seems un-eventful and tells me that
McCraney and The Social have turned down Lightning Bolt 3 times now. JuJU could
hardly even get a gig in Orlando and things don’t look good for Deerhoof either.
You’d think McKraney would realize these acts can bring him money by now but
Spatford says that Mike just doesn’t seem to get it and we talk about getting
Lighting Bolt up to Orlando next time they come through via either Lane, Pat Green,
or Backbooth (wills pub amazingly turned them down too). It’s a good night and
I wanna play my records when I get back home, but the power is off and everyone
is away. I crash on a cough and me and J.T. hang out in the morning before I leave.

Tansi’s mother always pointed to that spot on the street where the buildings broke
and a ray of sunlight broke in and shone down on a metal fortress made of brick
and incased in steel. “That’s where the americans breed the babies we’ll sleep with
when we’re older,” she said. Tansi was an infant then, making it up from 8 and then
into a viable profession of navigating the go slow by bike while other couriers spent
their days smoking ganja in Capetown’s numerous ghettoes. Their pants ripped and thrift store t-shirts always gave them the appearance of hipsters while the strange women of the u.s. put down their muzzled beers and stradled legs to let another in for a second. In magazines he head stories of black nationalists starting clothing lines, working their way out of ghettoes, fullfilling a dream of pride so far away it seemed like a speck of dirt on the american’s walls.
He worked away from the other carriers. His isolation wasn’t so much a product of being shy as that he had work at home everyday and didn’t socialize, so he ended up outside of the group but frequently on time. This lead to him being the least trusted of the pack. The manager knew the other boys and their ways, but Tansa remained an enigma. He sat in the front row and watched the teacher run through their lessons, but he went immediately from this to packages and then home to finish dinner before anyone could get there. He spent most of his time wondering around the various american embassies where no one else bother to go. A group of grafitti writers had entered the city as of late and they hailed down Tansi every time he entered the forbidden zone, check this shit out, one said and sprayed on the final lines of a helicopter that crashed into an insect that was piecing together an afro. They both laughed and the writers invited him to get some beer, but he went home instead and worked on a patched pair of jeans for tomorrow.
Tansi had known from day one as a courier that he was looking for one assignment, an entrance into the American’s citadel. It came in the form of a news wire the manager dispatched, It had to hit the American building by noon and Tansi took the job on even though he knew there was no way to ever make the deadline. The go slow was locked w/ cyclists and cars on monday and his approach would have to be made by foot, literally leaping from rooftop to rooftop until a fire escape could let him down under the bridge and from there he would have to swim to the other side. His shirt stained and his jeans reaking water he made his way from the street and to the American’s fortress in time for them to start serving lunch.
The first American Tansi saw was a green man with nervous manner. He seemed on the verge of collapse and a group of chips and wires made up his left eyebrow where a very nervous hand had plucked away silicon revealing a base layer of skin not unlike his own. The American lumbered, his back bending back up to straight and his artificial breath letting out sighs as a green puss began to form in his hands and his eyes seemed ready to roll back. He followed the man’s stumble down a corridor till he collapses in a bed. There the body remained still until a voice intoned, “don’t mind him, we’re all sick here,” the american said, his body obviously rocked w/ jaundice to the point where he seemed bloated with liqour, “we’re all gonna die soon.” The man took his letter and looked it over, “You came through the river here right?” “yes,” tansi replied, “then you may as well start working here,” he said, “come back through around 9 a.m. we’ll find something for you to do.” and the man turned around and slumped on his desk a few minutes later a rich snore erupted and Tansi found his way out where he found the americans making loving to his mother, “Go home Tansi,” she said, “we’ll talk about this later.” the whir of the g.i.’s arms and his decaying flesh seemed slightly more natural as Tansi made his way through the door.
More tomorrow. To tired.


August 17, 2004 at 2:14 am 3 comments

FEELING LIKE A WEARWOLF… (chorus feeling like a wearwolf, feeling like a wearowolf)

August 12, 2004 at 2:38 am Leave a comment

updates due

by my count need to write

08/09, 08/10, 08/11, and now 08/12

no idea if I’ll have an internet connect tomorrow
in Greensboro


New York is a brilliantly small town comprised of lilliputs villages
of all the cultures that make America prominient. It’s a strange home
where you find yourself in a park from a movie every 3 blocks and filling
times with the age old game of train-fu. Train-fu is the art of buying
12 dollar train pass and crusiing new york by as few stops as possible.
you walk entire sections, the east village to soho to the gugenhim to
central park. the jogger of central park sits by us as we read his plac
establshing him as new york’s first runner of the central park resevoir.
I never make Williamsburg or Fusetron by passing the entire area by
2 stops into cypress hill. New York is home, always, somehow. It’s double
package of foriegn experience, entrenched structures, and it’s uncanny
ability to be everything you’ve been to before only compressed like
spray paint into one un-formed whole. It exists slowly outside of time’s
contraints. There is no worry that East Village will ever be adabonned,
Astoria will always be a great place, these things are temporary, but
every generation of grafitti writers and wealthy gallery owners leave
their mark. The city becomes a concurrence of signs, of culture, of
people leaving one district for the next. Where will Williamsburg relocate
now that it’s residents climb the economic scale? It’s crime rate is soaring
as bohemians become sucessfull enterprenuers. Austin, TX is losing it’s
populos of under-acheivers for houston and dallas, Willismburg for philly
and astoria (which is already looking nice) and the east village is getting
new residents. Ultimately an economic climb is gonna come. We of the
google, the flash script, the gallery trotting girls that mob the L by night,
the indie-loving boys that scrimp down kim’s grottoes, austin’s emo-sapiens,
Seattle’s grungy bottle rims, are becoming sucessfull. the counter culture slows,
Brookylnites call for the cops who’s absence of patrols let them party for 10 years
un-abated, now to protect their wealth from mobsters and cypress hill. A change
is gonna come. We’ll all be yuppied in 10 years time. Garnered in galleries, corned
with wealth and wine collections, wondering why our kids can’t seem to find jobs.

Andrew Jones

August 12, 2004 at 1:06 am Leave a comment


18 hours of walking.
tired as fuck. trying
to get drunk
2 job offers, one D.C.
one New York.
In philly tomorrow.

more then.


August 10, 2004 at 12:59 am Leave a comment

this one is just gonna be text


Washington D.C.

D.C. is ridicously wealthy. Just ridicously wealthy.
It’s poorest neighborhoods look like they were just dry-vaced.
Anyway ended up watching fear and loathing w/ scott, bekka, and emily
till about 5 a.m. Emily is a grad school student and of course extremely
cute and fairly smart. This ensures I will never sleep with her. It is
impossible for me to ever provide the calm cool disinterested state of
mind that actually A. engage her on a level aside from wanting to have
sex with her (which obviously streams forth from my eyes) B. becuase of
A she’ll forver be wary of my company. This, unfortunately, is the story
of my love life. One constant girl crazy jump from pine to pine to
not pining to 2 day involvement back to pining away from pining thinking
I’m gay for awhile to 2 day involvement back to pining to finally just blowing
it by telling someone I love them say around 15 minutes after I meet them.

This is also the story of the world. For instance would Mussolini have been a Nazi if he hadn’t accidentally spilled his lust for Winston Churchill all over the 1937 limberug sausage debate? Would Churchill have developed a relationship with him? maybe become friends, then enemies, then lovers on some twist of fate involving getting stranded by 2 submarines on a prison sex island while the chicatuqia bannana woman gently strokes her way through the fawn, lovingly embracing all the tress around her. Emily is right about one thing, the new isue of Fence rules. All of the poetry aside Katherine Nolte is my hero. Her stories race along in a deadpan surrealism that un-cannily rivals my own. I begin to wonder how old she is, where she lives, what does she look like? And why the obession with penguins?


Queens, NY
I have a peculair driving method which could be related to such classical forms as Don Quixte or even the drivvling marches of the crusades. Driving is a zen like state provided meditation and obsessively gawking out the window are one in the same. I start in D.C., wind over to Baltimore, in Baltimore I have the choice between a toll road and a toll road that goes under a harbour. I go under the harbour and come out on the other side on my first gigantic bridge of the day. In D.C. giant bridges don’t exist all buildings can’t be taller than the white house. Anyway, Baltimore leads up i-95 which goes to Philly and in Philly I find an abandonned parking garage that’s essentially now an open air gallery for grafitti. It’s absolutely beautiful. Around 4 stops for directions later I am now 19 dollars less than I started (yes it is 5 a car to get on 95 and 6 a car to get into new york plus about 7-8 in tolls additionally along the way) and somewhere in new york. predicabily no one calls. Lisa doesn’t call, I call Praveen, I call Kim, no one answers. It is at this point that distress turns into the world’s best enchilida. You see on 31st in Astoria, NY there’s only one mexican restaurant that takes credit cards. For 14 bucks I get a beer and 3 cheese enchilidas. I take them and walk back to the park by the waterfront where a giant bridge slopes over and couples sit 2 at a time on benches over looking the water. I open the enchilida which is made w/ white sauce, green chile, and yes even guacamola has been mixed in. It’s the best thing I’ve eaten probably ever on the east coast. I mean it really is that good. The enchilida is spicy enough that it makes you continue eating it as your sinuses drop out of your face and a feeling of relief washes over you, it is sour like cottage cheese and soothes you with a subtle hint of balm, it is still hot after 2 weeks, it is made w/ swiss cheese instead of cheddar. Additionaly it’s fucking topped with fresh onions and avocado. Man is that thing good. All of this spicey sourness only makes the final cigarette you smoke over a negra modelo all the better. You feel releived. You feel like booking things, you feel like publicizing things, you feel like fucking all night, it’s kinda like a suana and fast food combined into one, you just feel relaxed. I wonder if they do mail order?


August 8, 2004 at 11:42 pm Leave a comment

christian cafes

couple things.
the screen shot today comes from Scott’s computer here.
so it’s a lot cleaner than mine =)
secondly should be back in orlando
in about a week’s time unless work magically
pops up here.

August 7, 2004 at 1:27 am Leave a comment

1st album – music of my mind

August 5, 2004 at 8:54 pm Leave a comment

the snake story and other lists

August 4, 2004 at 11:28 pm Leave a comment


He went to Monte Carlo where he played roulette,
Won ever penny and he never lost a bet.
Played every night till the bank went broke.
Laid himself down and took another smoke.

– Willie the Weeper
(from Luc Sante’s Low Life)

I had a challenge once to write a parable like Kafka’s.
I never did it, couldn’t think of one. I mean it’s kinda hard
to tie words in knots like that. To make plots shift into
each other like an Escher drawing. Spent most of today driving
around. Went back by the building on 33 and looked under the floor
boards. Found some old corn cobs but nothing else. In Virginia
there’s a bevy of destructable buildings waiting for exploration but
not much else. Didn’t make the beach. Richard sent me a link to his
new website which looks nice. Supposively
Richie is doing an album for Ghostly now. When I think about it
the Kafka parable usually revolves around a point of view. The Hunger Artist (which I just looked up again and is a great little story) makes the artist an outsider. He just can’t eat. Which reminds me ate at Knightdale Seafood and BBQ today and
recommend it to anyone who’s in Raliegh. Great place. They have squatter’s rights here, which means many of these abandonned buildings are occupied from time to time as communes. In south carolina a pink building indiicates it’s a squatter community. looking on the hunger artist now it all seems simple. Stories I dream up these days have motives and morals far more complicated than Kafka’s premise, but still it’s one of his less profound stories really, many of his other stories just deal with a kinda metaphysical agnst (note brooding isn’t cool anymore i.e. like your worren jets to brazil shirt, but out rage is totally in style i.e. break out thse pussy galore tees their back in). Anyway tired from a day of traveling. The Hurricane has hit us here. We’re all inside or like me driving around. Going up to NYC pretty soon.


August 3, 2004 at 10:12 pm Leave a comment

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