Friday, March 31, 2006

fishscale




while in bolivia, johnny starks has bumped heads with drug czar columbo, and moved over ten pounds of raw fishscale



“excuse me, um, can you tell me how to get to hart street?”

“…hmmm…heart street. alright. you go down three lights, right. you get on bush highway. you go past vagina street. you gonna get off at dick, you gon’ make a left on dick, right. you gon’ run right into walls. the next block is clit boulevard, but you gotta be careful, it’s kinda wet down there. you goin’ past guts now. that should take you to tits project. my man balls and ‘em be out, be around there somewhere, you know what i mean? umm…the heart is around there somewheres, so…or…you can go 45 minutes…you can take butt avenue to, to hershey highway. you know what i mean? up spine and, and, and, and, ya be at, ya be at, ya…ya be at the mouth of the tunnel…ya be at the mouth of the tunnel right there. you know what i mean?”

“fuckin’ pervert.”

Monday, March 27, 2006

cabman

the new moon rode high in the crown of the metropolis…shinin’…and i was on top of this new job, joy ride jitney driver driving through these side streets just before sunrise. this new kind of grind was wearing on me, though, and i had the feeling that i wouldn’t be able to make it through the rest of this night without some chemical assistance. i found a clean, well-lit parking lot where i could let the car idle and wait for a call. i ate two black acid tabs i had in some cigarette-pack cellophane in my pocket and popped in a tape of some new songs.

the car was warm and i may have nodded off for a few minutes, but certainly not more than that. there was a distant, polite tapping on my window.

“are you on?” he said.

i said i was and unlocked the back door. i watched as he settled in to the back. i’d seen him somewhere before.

“familiar face,” he said and then asked if i minded turning down the radio. he wound down the rear windows and let in the cold air. he wanted to head crosstown but there was a water main break and the crew had traffic blocked in both directions. the lady with the sign hollered that it would be another five minutes. i was beginning to spin the car around and cut down an avenue when my fare said that it was no matter to him. he was in no hurry and didn’t mind waiting.

escuchela…la ciudad respirando,” he said.

“come again?”

“do you mind if i use the phone?”

“sure,” i said. he reached down below the seat and began dialing what sounded like a rotary phone. he came up with an army green handset and a spiral cord.

“hello,” he said, “this is mister jones…yes…i’m trying to reach tomorrow. can i get in touch with tomorrow? yes…i suppose i’ll hold, but i’d rather not. i’m trying to reach tomorrow…yes…yes, i suppose…but i'm just tryin' to reach tomorrow. can i get through to tomorrow?” soon, he would nod and hang up.

and when we were nearing the end of the ride, he was sitting next to me, and he said, “"well johnny…sincerity's the best gimmick. remember that."

and I said something like, "all right…be sincere, that'll win it?"

"that's it. sincerity and honesty," he said, "will do it. it'll trick 'em every time."

i said, "well, sincerity and honesty…i never tried that."

he laughed and told me to put the bill on his tab.

Friday, March 17, 2006

on the record #9


yeah man, so i had this one gig writing for Rolling Stone for about a minute, but i had to get out of there. all those newspapers have ugly print…yeah…no, seriously…it was actually a minute. but i did manage to walk away with a ton of records and even some advance copies. and when i say walk away, i mean was chased from the building by armed officers. the following is submitted for your perusal, and to prove how hip i am by having an opinion on all this “cool” music.


catfish haven – please come back [EP]

why do i think this is swampy? i would say it’s garage-y, but catfish don’t live in no garages. and once they’d start flappin’ around and shit - getting’ all tangled up in the chords - there could be an electrical storm or something, the likes of which we haven’t seen since jupiter crashed into the moon. but it would be tasty. i love electric-fried buttered-ass lollipop catfish almost as much as i like this record. and by almost i mean you’re a fuckin’ biznatch. WOOOOOOOOOO!!! FLA-VER FLAV!!!


the strokes – first impressions of earth

yawn…yawn…yawn…this must be the theme from the Dinah Shore show. i wish these guys would at least play “rawhide.”


j-dilla – donuts

his soul is but a little ways above our heads. an instrumental hip-hop record. rumored to be produced from his hospital bed. really liked his work on common’s like water for chocolate and the slum village stuff. need to listen to this one, too. check one two, one two who got more styles than st. clair do?

jack johnson – curious george soundtrack

just shut up.

various – ?uestlove presents babies making babies#2…no more babies

if volume one was the “quiet storm” love jamz, then this is the break-up record [henceforthwithallessly the title]. 70’s soul slow stone grooves for the most part. never heard much of it before, but i recognize the names. he must have went all deep into the album cuts for this one.

the minus 5 – the gun album

not sure if this is the title or not. there’s a big pistol on the front cover. but it’s not a sex pistol…cuz if it was a sex pistol, it would spit all over ya!!! HA!!! get it? you lousy fuck. i wish this record came with a real gun, so i could shoot it at the speakers when this turd is playing.

tv on the radio – return to cookie mountain

been looking forward to this one. first track is a killer. i keep thinking of saul williams. at least these guys are doing something new, though i don’t see it causing a revolution or anything. and that’s the nut of it all, ain’t it? you know why the revolution will not be televised? it’s because the first revolt takes place IN YOUR HEAD!!! that, and the cable bills are fucking outlandish. ARE YOU LISTENING PRESIDENT GORE?

mozez – so still

didn’t listen to it.

gnarls barkley – sampler

i am really diggin’ the name. it’s begging for a lawsuit…good for them. they should call the disc “the round sound of getdown.” matter of fact, if you see these bastards, tell them that’s what i said. i ain’t lookin’ for money. just, you know, have them dedicate the record to me…something simple like, i don’t know, “to my homebizzle from way back in the dizzle, thanks for helping us get rid of the body,” or something along those lines. shit is decent, but the violent femmes’ cover blows like a flute with no holes, naamean?

curt kirkwood – snow

fuck him. oh. oh my. i’m sorry. you know…i shouldn’t be so flippant. this is a respected artist, one who is continuing to explore the boundaries of music, of words, in an attempt to put out something not only of artistic merit, but of commercial merit as well. eh…fuck him anyway.

the raconteurs – steady, as she goes [EP]

ooooooo…jack white is in this band. apparently with some other rockstars. decent enough that’ll i’ll pick up the full-length when it comes out. and if that’s not a fuckin’ stamp of approval, then your mother sucks eggs. austin powers from oasis said jack white looks like zorro on donuts. HA!!! the gay blade.

the twilight singers – powder burns

this may or may not be the title of the record. who gives a shit. muchas guitars, señor…do you have penny? chopstick, 29 cent…HURRY UP AND BUY!!! tell you what…even if this isn’t the title of the record, its still got cocaine all over it. the Doktor, he doesn’t like cocaine…he just likes the way it smells. thank you. a round of applesauce for mr. st. clair everyone…he’ll be here all week. try the veal. it’s delicious. it was fed milk until it was anemic and forced to live its short, miserable existence in a squalid stall of its own filth. you can REALLY taste all that care. record is decent, but it didn’t get to me like blackberry belle. continues to be very cinematic, in a 25 cent porno flick kinda way.

gomez – how we operate

hot damm ho here we go again!!! after all those years of watching television when i was a yute, i never – NEVER – knew gomez addams could kick that shit like he does all over this record. wednesday and pugsley are holdin’ it down, keepin’ it righteous, you know, uncle fester really shines like a lightbulb in the mouth and lurch…fuckin’ LURCH…i mean, don’t even get me started on lurch. caught them live a while back, and morticia is fine…she shakes that thing like she just made bail. dita von teese and the suicide girls ain’t got nothin’ on morticia…NOTHIN’!!! buy this when it comes out…you can’t miss it…it’s got that thing thing flippin’ the finger right on the cover. plus they’re hairy like cousin it.


alright. my sincerest regards. stay well. good luck. i gotta get outta here. i get the feeling there's gonna be a riot.

Monday, March 13, 2006

the surface of the Moon

in my old neighborhood, there is a park where we used to drink and hide when i was younger. and at its far corner, there’s this patch of evergreen bushes and a bench that overlooks the hillside and the highway, then the river, and the city lights across.

i was in the area a little while back. it was night time. and since no one else was around, i parked the car and walked over to that bench with some wine. it was colder than i ever remember it being before, and the lights from the city across the river didn’t dance like they used to either, but it was usually summer then and the heat can do strange things. i was thinking about the fire we watched rage one night when the moonman came up and scared the shit out of me.

the moonman was this bum from the neighborhood. everyday, he would write these three- and four-digit numbers all over the hill by the park…hundreds off them, each day, in pink chalk or yellow, electric blue. no rhyme or reason. sometimes there were words, but you couldn’t really make them out…they weren’t instantly legible in any case, and i mean, who the fuck is gonna stand there and try to read the words of some insane maniac.

yeah…so, the moonman…

we would catch him sometimes wandering around in the park at night, writing in this notebook, all looking up at the stars and shit. i don’t know if he had any family around here. you would see him walking around with this army bag slung over his shoulder and a notebook, but he didn’t fuck with anybody. sometimes kids would yell at him and he’d yell back, throw snowballs at him or some mean shit like that, but he would just take the hit and keep on going. no one ever got too close…like if he ever got his hands on someone, he’d rip them apart.

so anyway, when i’m just tryin’ to mind my own business and get drunk in the park that night a little while back, this motherfucker - the moonman - comes creepin’ up like a cat and just stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the cliff at the river and the lights. he was pretty close to the bench, and he must’ve seen me, right? so i reached in my pocket and took out my blade, clicked it open…cuz you know, i was ready to cut a motherfucker. i recognized him right away, even though he was wearing a suit and he looked a helluva lot cleaner than i ever remember him being. but there was no doubt who it was.

“what’s goin’ on,” i said.

he never took his eyes off of what he was looking at, just reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of paper and folded it lengthwise. i took a drink.

“you sound like one of those little kids who used to scream at me once upon a time,” he said.

“yeah, well, i ain’t some fuckin’ little kid no more, moonman.”

“now there’s a name i haven’t heard in a long time. moonman…” he held up his sheet of paper and inspected the folds by the moonlight.

“you still writin’ those numbers on the streets?”

“hmmm? numbers? i don’t remember any…”

“you know what the fuck i’m talkin’ about…all those numbers, man, that you used to write all over the street. didn’t make no sense. how the fuck didn’t you get locked-up in some hospital?”

“oh…those,” he said. and i was there waiting for something that never came. he just stayed with that piece of paper, folding it slowly. four folds, five, six, seven folds.

“is that a fuckin’ paper airplane?”

“you know, all those curse words certainly make you sound like a little kid.”

“check ya tone, moonman! i CUT YA!!!”

he kinda half-laughed and threw the plane over the hillside. i thought i could make out it’s white reflection in the moonlight for a moment before it disappeared into the twists of trees and brush and vines below. after a minute or so, he turned and sat on the bench next to me. “what are you doing here?” he asked.

“nothin’,”

“nothing. ain't doin' nuffin'," i think, but i'm not sure, he was mocking me. "ain't doin' nuffin' but messin’ around with those pills and wine. you better be careful. it’s just one step away from…”

“pills? i didn’t take no…”

“please…you’re so pilled-up, you rattle.”

“fuck you, old man. you wanna drink or what?”

“why would i drink with you?”

“well fuck you too, then.”

he laughed. now up until this point, i was humoring the sorry bastard. i felt bad for him. but that laugh...it really stuck in my head. and frankly, it offended me. “the fuck is funny? huh? what are YOU doing here, huh? tell me THAT! shouldn’t you be out…fuckin’…i don’t know…writin’ on the fuckin’ streets and shit. you crazy fuckin’ bum…”

“you know, there was a method to that madness, i think…”

“you think?”

“yeah, well…you know how things get…but, yeah…those numbers meant something.”

“what?”

“i don’t know anymore. something about the position of the sun and stars. the constellations, i guess. i don’t know.”

“the constellations?”

“yes…the constellations. the sun, the stars, the moon. radio waves. frequencies. lock combinations. communications. flight patterns of migratory animals, mostly butterflies. all sorts of…”

“you know what?”

“what’s that?”

“that’s the craziest motherfuckin’ shit i ever heard,” i said and started laughing this forced laugh that was shallow and hollow and mean.

“oh, i'm crazy?” he laughed with me for a minute. only he meant his. “man, you’re the one sittin’ out here in the middle of this empty park drinking alone. you're the one who’s crazy. God only knows what else you have in you. got your hand wrapped around that knife in your pocket like…”

“what knife?”

“you know," he was looking right at me, "you’re the crazy who took my place. you know that?”

“ain’t shit wrong with Me…i’m doin’ fine…Smoove Sailin’,”

“you’re all wacked up with bitterness."

“fuck you, old man.” kissed the bottle. pretended not to hear another word.

“you know, the best way to get clean ain’t by stayin’ in the shit that you lyin’ in,” he said, and put out his hand like i was really gonna shake it or something. old crazy junkie drunken bum. fuck him.



Saturday, March 04, 2006

all kinds of blessed love and salutations

...the hiatus is back off again...

THE HEADPHONE MASTERPIECE RETURNS FROM THE SONIC PROMISELAND

see cody chesnuTT in chappelle's new flick, bitches.

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

we mean it, MAAAAAAAAAAN!!!