Gay Camp

•August 6, 2011 • Leave a Comment

How does a gay camp work again? I have a pretty good idea how a fat camp works. They probably just drill sprouts and parsnips into your head until your bleeding from the nose. I once heard of leadership camp; I’m sure its just a bunch of kids being forced to goose-step from one place to the next for hours on end. But what about gay camp, what exactly do they do at a gay camp?
How do they convert people back from gay to straight? I mean I hope the literature includes more than just the bible. Who knows, is there is some secret hidden chapter which I don’t recall? Maybe there is a book of Mary Magdalene and it just reads like a Penthouse Forum: the gospel according to Kayla Kupcakes.
I figure maybe those Christians might want to reach beyond the bible; maybe to the Kama sutra, Hustler magazine, the Internet, something.  Hell, a lap dance or how about this: how about all the counselors are all ex porn-stars or titty-dancers hiding behind every tree and tent in site. Or maybe, the mess hall doubles as a Hooters; I’m just saying, please tell me they brought more than the bible with them.
But then again, the biggest freaks I’ve dated were always preachers’ kids, or church steppers. Who knows, maybe there is something to this bible.

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The Matrix has the Revolution

•August 4, 2011 • Leave a Comment

The music you are listening to doesn’t contain any real musicians on the recording. If all it takes is for one to derive listening pleasure from a certain sound to become music, then we can call it music. Like the sound of cats fucking: I am sure someone finds pleasure in listening to that. Pdiddy’s new album, ain’t too far behind that, and look how many copies he sold.
Reality TV has no actors, no writers, no plots, nor story lines, and they rack up the ratings. The news does not report the news. So and So slept with 15 women behind his wife’s back is not news, in fact its nobodies business but him, his wife, and perhaps all the women he slept with, but it is definitely not news. Its gossip
The speech the president just gave; that’s not a speech. A speech implies that he actually said something, he didn’t. That’s what separates the good politicians from the bad ones, whether or not they actually say anything. That was the beauty of  “yes we can”, it inspired so many people without saying a god damn thing.
That big law that just got passed that’s got everyone all hot and bothered because its supposed to reform politics as we know it, didn’t really get passed. In fact it’s probably going to just wind up in the courts, where it will be shot on site, with no witness.
Those criminals you see on TV aren’t really criminals. Being arrested for selling weed is not a real arrest because there is not a real crime. To call it a crime implies that there are victims. There are no victims in a drug sale, one guy wants drugs, another guy has it. For if the dealer to just give his supply away would turn him into a socialist, which in this country…. Is a very bad word; and the people wouldn’t have it any other way.
What we appear to be living in here is the matrix, a matrix that is slowly forming all around us. The food is not real, it’s genetically modified. Hell in my neighborhood, the blondes aren’t really blondes, they are Puerto Ricans with dye jobs. All the black chics are dominican and don’t speak a lick of English, and all the fat ass’s are on underage girls. What the fuck is going on here?
Its not all fake, but the fakeness seems to be spreading. In the pacific there is a pile of plastic trash clustering together bigger than twice the size of Texas. There are islands in the pacific that are in the direct path of the current in which this trash is in. One day a news reporter traveled to the beach with a man who routinely did cleanup on the beach. Only one day after cleanup, and already the beach was covered with trash. The reporter at one point got down on his knees and took note that the color of the plastic was washing off onto the sand. The man corrected the reporter stating that it in fact wasn’t sand. It was plastic that had broken down so much it looked like sand, and that everything he thought was sand was actually plastic. The reporter then observed that the beach itself was literally turning plastic, and the man confirm this.
Rather poetic don’t you think, that even on this small remote island in the middle of nowhere, the Matrix has you.
The people know that everything they love is slowly being transformed in front of their eyes, against their will. The things they have worked for, and put all their money in to is slowly being stolen, bit by bit, the house they worked so hard for is being repossessed brick by brick. You know what, that’s how people want it. They know that the world is shrinking and that there is nowhere to run. That there are no superheroes and no one will rise up to defend them. The people have not only grown to accept the fact that they are going to get fucked and they have come to terms with it. The people don’t really mind taking it in the ass, just be gentile, go slow and if you are really good, make them think it aint even happening
That’s the secret, shower them with love in a reality that feels free. Organized religion has taught us that even though people believe that there is an all-knowing, all-powerful god who controls everything, that he will allow bad things happen to good people.
Shower them with love like the Oprah Winfrey sideshow, reruns of Seinfeld or Medea gets knocked up. People would easily fork over their retirement for more Medea.
Here’s the real question; why will the revolution not be televised? Because it wouldn’t get any ratings. Get fucking real, you think people want to realize they are getting fucked? This is why people say the world needs a little mystery, so people can pretend they are doing anything else other than getting fucked. This is why even though drugs aren’t legal; they are in no short supply. They keep people thinking that things aren’t what they seem.
Keep the donuts, buckets of lard, Internet porn, 2 girls 1 cup all coming. Keep the tabloid freak show, online petitions, incessant tweeting, Wendy Williams, sex scandals and all that other horse shit coming.  For the people who don’t take their medicine, keep feeding them conspiracies about how 9/11 was an inside job, and how the levees were blown, how the water isn’t safe, and how Tupac is still alive.
Even though there won’t be any real revolution, just tell everyone there will be. Broadcast footage from the L.A. riots and just tell everyone that its the revolution, they wont know the difference. And while you’re at it get coke to sponsor the revolution. The revolution will not only be televised, it will have corporate sponsorship and will also have its own page on Facebook. Everyone can “like” the revolution on Facebook, and Tweet about how the revolution is going to have the greatest after-party of all-time. And it will be, the after-party will be so epic and beyond any words at my current disposal.
Then everyone will wake up the next morning, hung over and unable to deal. Not wanting any responsibility, no accountability, but knowing that work needs to be done. They’ll bend over and say, be gentile, and super-size me.

i got the magic trick

•August 3, 2011 • 1 Comment

When I wake in my own vomit, what do I think? Well I’ll tell you what I didn’t think. I didn’t think that I needed to stop drinking. Chill out on my consumption, sure, why not? But quit, listen, that shit seems so completely unattainable right now.
Yeah, I know I could have died, but I didn’t. I didn’t die, I didn’t do it in front of anyone, there are no witnesses, cept for maybe the cats, but they will never talk, no sir, they are too loyal to their stomachs, and if they want to eat, they must shut the fuck up. There is no stench, the sheets have already been cleaned. Why hell , there isn’t one shred of evidence, why tell anyone, why even tell myself? It might as well have never happened. I’m sure if I put on my “try-hard” helmet, look in the mirror and say it to myself enough, and maybe even drown enough brain cells in alcohol, then maybe I can just erase the whole thing from existence…
Kinda like a magic trick. Now I just got to make sure I haven’t left any other evidence.

Best Bagels in Brooklyn…thats right I said it

•July 19, 2011 • 2 Comments

I can remember a few months back a friend came to town and they really wanted a New York bagel. Now I got spots for pizza, Chinese, Indian, but I honestly got no idea where in Brooklyn I am gonna get a real “bagel”.  I mean there is La Bagel on 7th ave or The Bagel store in Williamsburg, but in my personal opinion, these places taste like bagels you can get anywhere in any above-average suburban bagel shop in America. I wanted to give my friend an exclusive Brooklyn experience.
Seriously now what kind of friend would I be if you flew over 3000 miles and I just took you to some regular-ass generic fare, that you could just as easily get around the way in your own neighborhood. I’ll tell you what kind of friend I would be, the kind of friend you don’t need.
When I went to Europe last, my friend Allen asked me where I wanted to go, and my response was simple. No major cities, no tourist traps and I don’t want to see one fucking American, and that’s how I roll. In this day and age we live, homogeneity seems to be this ever-expanding black cloud, perpetually swelling without any discretion. One must ask them self, what’s the point of traveling from coast to coast if you’re not going to engage the local vibe?
I once went to Portland and asked my friend to take me to what Portland did best; he took me to a taco truck for lunch, a pizza shop for dinner and then somehow I was the asshole for not being impressed. First off nothing tops New York pizza and I can prove it. Second: where the hell isn’t there a taco truck in this country? The last time I drove through Death Valley there was a taco truck in the parking lot of where there used to be a Dairy Queen.
Let me backtrack here before I totally loose you; how could a real New York bagel have eluded me for so long? I mean a real chewy on the inside, crisp on the outside, freshly made in house bagel. In this true Jewish melting pot of a borough, Brooklyn is the place.
Which takes me to the morning I found myself all the way out in Sheepshead Bay, on the corner of Ocean ave and Ave Z. Hungry, I was staring at what looked like an old pork store but was really a bagel shop. I started craving a salt bagel with cream cheese and lox.
Upon entering this no frills shop I notice the layout. Bagels on the left, drinks on the right, ok everything seems in order. However I am in no hurry to order, I’m not totally sold on what I want, decide to look everything over and chat up the girl behind the counter in the process.
I say “hello”
“what would you like?”
“feeling like a bagel, yet not a %100 sold on what I want”
“well you could have a flagel” she suggests to me
“whats a flagel?”
“it’s a flat bagel”
“of course it is”
“they’re popular”
“you’re putting me on?”
“no really, they’re for people who would normally scrape out the inside of a
bagel”
My only question at this point is who is so pretentious that they would scoop out the inside of a bagel? Well apparently enough people to spring demand for a “flagel”. I got a joke for you… what do you call someone who orders a flagel: a flagot.. Guess that makes me a flagot because I just ordered one. Actually you’re only a flagot if you order a flagel more than three times, and so I order a salt flagel with a lox spread.
While waiting for my flagel initiation, I grab a seat and a guy comes out from the back as I am still chatting up the girl behind the counter about the seriousness of flagels. The man says he has orders for them every day. But what about the bagels, I mean this is the real reason I came in here to begin with.
This man’s name is Joe; Joe is the owner, and the new owner at that. He took over as owner of the bagel shop in October 2010. This is the man I am talking to now. First off he has people who come in from Manhattan daily to buy bagels for their very own bagel shops. They own their own bagel shops yet they don’t know the first thing about making bagels; they go all the way to south Brooklyn to get their product.
Not only that but Joe himself is blown away at the prices he hears his bagels being sold for. The highest he told me was a man who sold his bagels for $60 a dozen. Joe sells a dozen for $9.50, then someone marks them up to $30 a dozen, then charges another $30 for next day shipping (the customer lived in Ohio). All because some schmo in Ohio wants authentic Brooklyn bagels.
So what’s the secret Joe? Joe is Russian, he claims he learned from and old Jewish man. First off he only makes his bagels by hand; no machines are involved in the process. Also whilst there may be fewer and fewer places who make bagels in-house, most make everything for the day in the morning in one solid run, but not Joe. Joe splits the average run up into quarters throughout day to maintain freshness. If that still wasn’t fresh enough, then Joe has a policy just for you.
If you order a minimum of a dozen bagels and order them at least thirty minutes in advance, then he will make them for you fresh. Let me repeat that. Order a dozen bagels and wait thirty minutes, and he will make them for you by hand, fresh, on the spot.
When was the last time you had a fresh bagel? You’re fucking right, I don’t know either… It may have been fifteen years for me, and all this for just $9.50 a dozen?  That’s the going rate for any normal bagel of mediocre status, but these are anything but normal. Lets be honest now, for bagels of this caliber and quality, now that’s a steal.

Spring in Brooklyn, how I fucking love thee…

•March 25, 2011 • 6 Comments

Sliced mangos and Pellegrino
For breakfast on Knickerbocker
Pulled pork and Delirium
For dinner at the ice house
Old Cubans shaving ice (con ceresas)
Boricuas squeezing all that winter fat
Into last summers’ jeans
Mexican pool sharks sipping on Negro Modelo
And West Indian girls down to swirl
BBQ in the park
Dominos in the shade
Sunsets on the roof
And Poker all night
Skateboarding at 2am
Late night bootycalls
Karaoke at Perks
And nursing a hangover with fresh orange juice
White folks in the Stuy
Ecstasy in the hood
Stiff drinks at Mo’s
And you can still smoke at Rocky’s
My black friends who listen to lite rock
My latin friends who say David Bowie is their nigga
The Japanese kids who bump BIGGIE
And the Hipsters who dress like they don’t own a mirror
The goddamn Guidos thinking its gangsta
To blast “if you like pina colladas”
In front of the Marcy projects
And all the young hoodrats
Not even knowing what to think of that shit
Fresh off-the-boat Platanas
Flashing smiles and singing Bachata
Canoas at Cuchifritos
Cockfights at the corner store
Satmars drunk on Purim
Yemenis selling 75 cent loosies
Russians running Grimaldi’s
Eating pizza on the water
And walking off the itis
On the Brooklyn bridge
The harder the winter
The more amazing the spring
The longer the cabin fever
The more starved one is for attention
For that even the most horrendous winter
Still has a silver lining
And if you’re in Brooklyn in the spring
How sweet it is
I Heart BK

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Lipo for the masses (my Burning Man blog)

•October 26, 2010 • 6 Comments

This shit was going to blow up in my face… The flight leaves at 7:30, I show up at 7:10. The dude behind the counter told me to run, I could use some encouragement. The stewardess said “even though the bags do not fill with air, oxygen will be flowing”, I said “BULLSHIT!”

I knew when I got on that flight…I’d forgotten something; I must have. Everything went too perfect…too rock-star. But since I couldn’t figure out what it was, I didn’t think about it. Justin Credible picked me up from the airport and we left for Black Rock the very next day. All was a little tense as Justin seemed a slightly frazzled trying to make sure she had everything, but once we hit the road, the mood became rather festive, until we hit the toll booth in Vallejo…that’s when it dawned on me: We were in the middle of cracking a joke when my face froze and a chill just ran up my spine. I tried to talk, but was speechless. Finally it came up like a belch and I said to Justin “I left my ticket to Burning Man in Brooklyn!”

What to do? At one point I told Justin to leave me on the side of the road, and I would just figure it out…but no, instead we went to a diner, got some burgers, a couple of milkshakes and started making phone calls. Within 30 minutes I’d told a friend how to break into my apartment, where the ticket was, called Fed Ex and got the locations of two places in Manhattan who would over-night as late as 9 pm and have it arrive in Reno by 10:30 in the am, where we could have it sent to a friend of Justin’s. Really when you think about it, this is low-grade teleportation. I mean just think about all the shit around you that doesn’t work, especially when you need them to. Well on that day, something actually worked…and it only cost $32.95.

Upon entering Nevada I saw a sign that advertised “Low Cost, affordable Liposuction”, just what this world needs, drive-thru Lipo for the masses. In the meantime thank god for Starbucks for bringing San Pellegrino to bum fuck America. Honestly if I would have known how wild of a driver Justin was I would have gotten Jose Cuervo instead. Things really sank to their worst that night when Justin hit a narrow stretch of road she referred to as the Luge. Every bump, breeze, and passing car made her jump and whimper until finally I opened my big mouth to offer to drive, which simply prompted Justin to scream “SHUT THE FUCK UP”! You have no idea how hard I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing, but seriously now, I was dealing with someone who was one step away from foaming at the mouth, and the last thing I wanted was this woman sinking her teeth into me.

Yet somehow… by divine grace, we arrived in Reno around 9:30 at night and checked into the Sands. I have never understood gambling nor the fun that people derive from it. Maybe I am like my dad in that respect? My dad doesn’t listen to music, only talk radio. I eventually just came to the conclusion that the man just isn’t wired for music; it’s simply not in his genetic make-up. Maybe I am not wired for gambling; or religion, reality tv, or paying taxes for that mater.

Even in a glamorous, “sexy” environment like Vegas, I still don’t get it. But this wasn’t Vegas, this was Reno bitch. Vegas is to Reno like a fruit salad is to a rotten apple. Undesirable on a good day, and night of the living dead on a regular. Let be honest now, the milk has definitely gone sour in this town.
The casinos are filled with what appeared to be a lot of drug addicts, senior citizens, obese trailer-trash, and ugly, broke tourists. A very unsavory lot they were smoking cheap cigarettes, drinking watered down cocktails, playing video poker at a nickel a game and…wait a minute…… I can smoke indoors; where the fuck are my cigarettes?

Reno is rotten and don’t be deceived by the billboards that show a group of big bosomed blonde girls partying like the world is coming to an end over a game of craps. Instead think of a couple of middle-aged meth-heads, pale and sleep deprived, chain smoking and grinding their teeth playing video keno for hours on end. Going nowhere and winning nothing, from dusk till dawn in a dank, smoked filled dungeon surrounded by bright lights, brown teeth, and flip flops.

I have to admit that aside from Justin and me there didn’t appear to be anyone younger than fifty in this part of town. I don’t know…maybe forty. Who knows, maybe they are our age but just look old. Maybe that’s just the desert sun sucking the life out of everyone’s face. Or maybe it’s a myriad of factors like too much sun, too many bad vices and way too little to do if this is how you spend your time off.

The next morning we stole as much ice as we could and took off to see her friend, get my ticket, some lunch, and last minute provisions: goggles, beer, cheap cigarettes, and random snacks. About an hour outside off Black Rock, we pass Pyramid Lake and decide its time for an impromptu dip. Even though it hasn’t really felt like it, we need to act like we are enjoying ourselves.
Upon arrival to the front gate we pulled up to will call so Justin could get her ticket. However, there was no ticket, at least not yet. There is no entry without a ticket, and sadly there was nothing to do but wait. Well nothing to do except light a joint, crack open a beer and piss our names in the sand. Which was exactly what we did for over an hour until the sun went down.

Finally after a couple of beers, Justin jammed a cd in the player of her car and with that the bitch just finally came out. Trying to prevent another “Justin Credible meltdown” I began to try and pry the cd out, but after only sixty seconds on the job, I looked up and she was gone.

I knew exactly what would happen. She took all that aggression straight to will call and unleashed it on some poor teenage anarchist behind the counter. I can see her now, a bull dog with a buzz, spitting while she spoke as her eyes spun in circles. The girl behind the counter would be helpless, unable to get past a fragmented sentence, unless of course she was to tell Justin that she had a ticket for her, because motherfucking Justin Credible wouldn’t hear anything else.

But wouldn’t you know it, Justin came back after only fifteen minutes with her ticket and a new attitude. Exit the ‘dirty little bitch’ and enter the ‘grumpy old cunt’…nothing more than a stain in the dust in a leopard print miniskirt. God I love that bitch. She just looked at me and said “choach of the morning to ya!”
As we rode into the deep blackness of La Playa , Justin’s spirits began to lift as she washed that grey right out of her hair. The other campers greeted us with weed, whip-its and Makers. Every monkey wrench thrown at us was overcome, we persevered the arduous journey to the center of the universe as we knew it. The fridge was fully stocked with fresh fruit and Heineken, the Makers was warm, the nitrous flowing, the sleep was coming, and I didn’t intend to outrun it.

For those who haven’t been to burning man, it’s a freaks party of epic proportion, or at least that’s what it started as. If you work with the DPW, you still get a little bit of that old school vibe, (it sort of feels like being at fantasy camp; for the criminally insane that is). I am a volunteer at this fantasy camp… and what do they have someone with all my brains and charm doing? I’m a fucking garbage man.

I’ve got to be honest, for a sec it fucked with me… interacting with a group of low-life’s who liked to play dress-up…no wait, let me rephrase that…Taking out the trash for a bunch of fartists who liked to play dress-up and strike poses in the middle of a sand storm fucked with my head. I gave Justin attitude over it, but in the end, the work was easy and everyone was actually so nice to me, it made me feel bad for being so fucking jaded. I won’t lie, I’m an asshole; a New York asshole according to Justin, and I’ll give her that one. I had a shitty attitude, and in case I forgot why I bought my ticket in the first place, it was to get the fuck over it. Besides, it could be worse… I could be cleaning the toilets. I actually met that guy. I was wearing my “I heart BK” t-shirt at the time. He told me that he liked my shirt so I said “BK baby”. He simply responded “you know it”.

As for the desert, and being exposed to the elements and all that jazz… Even though we have trailers, generators, bathrooms, ice machines, private showers and wifi internet, I would like to state that this is still a rough environment at times.

Thursday came and so did our ambition to set up camp. We laid out the carpet, brought out the chairs, hung the tarps, the whole nine. It was around mid-day that I decided to venture out and get a lay of the land. I walked out to see man, after all it’d been 12 years since I’d come face to face with the fucker. After twenty minutes of walking I was out in the middle of nowhere with just a few giant installations on each side of me when I noticed a massive cloud of dust headed my way. The wind picked up and I put on my goggles.

A siege of wind and Playa dust raged on relentlessly blurring everything around you until you could barely see five feet in front of your face. Now I am feeling like I am getting my moneys worth. Everything must get dusted, there is no hype, just dust, embrace it. Embrace the sand in your shoes. Embrace the sun burning your shoulders and the wind drying your lips like an old worn-out piece of leather.

At times the wind kicks so much dust in your face all one can see is at best a few feet in any direction. It is then that it becomes totally possible for one to believe that one is not only alone, but also somewhere else. Fifteen thousand people and the man, all out of sight, and out of mind if only for just a few minutes.

So now I stand alone with my headphones on and iPod in hand queuing up the slow-tempo, dreamy Hawaiian sounds of Jerry Byrd’s steal guitar. In the middle of a dust storm noticing how the sweat and sand have begun to mold my hair, and all I got is a tiny little Mohawk. If you have a real head of hair or even worse long hair, I feel sorry for you because showering and wearing clothes definitely aren’t mandatory around these parts and they sure as shit aren’t daily activities. The storms came and went and so did the dust, until eventually I decided to venture back to camp.

When I finally did get back to the first thing I noticed was that all the work put into it earlier in the day was completely non-evident. The tarps had come loose, the inside of my tent was filled with sand and Justin was over it, ready to go home. We put so much work our first day here into setting up our tent I guess it only seemed appropriate that we got a proper La Playa welcome, e.g. A psycho-gorilla dust storm to fuck our whole shit up.

We went into the commissary for dinner and the place was filled with a thick cloud of dust. The storms didn’t let up. They went until sundown, which was when everyone finally came out to party because that night was ladies night. Which means the dudes all look like a lady, and the ladies, do what the fuck they like, and they did. Honestly if I had to sum it up in one word it would be “yawn” just another party, underwhelming at best.

I decided to just drink myself right into a piss bucket. Out of the party and into the dust of my tent. Safe and secure, drunken and drooling, slumbering away without a sleeping bag and no way to protect myself from the freezing cold which engulfed everything late in the night. This was a moment that would truly separate the men from the boys, or in my case those in a tent without a sleeping bag from those in a camper under a couple of warm comforters… like Justin.

Now that the alcohol had worn off I suddenly realized that I quite clearly had no idea what the fuck I was doing, but that’s gonna change. I was going to crash in Justin’s camper. I don’t even remember thinking much beyond that. Did she care? Was she with someone? Was the door locked? Should I knock? At that temperature and that time of night, those questions were so far out of the range of my thought process. All I knew was that I had to move something, like my ass.

I slowly crept into Justin’s camper and made a point to occupy as little space as possible. The warmth of the trailer began to set in, and I could finally get back to sleep. “What the hell are you doing with your feet off the bed” Justin snapped at me, and with precision I get my feet on the covers as I layed there frozen not wanting to move for fear I might piss her off again. Once again Justin snapped “are you gonna get under the covers or what?” And like a dog, I quickly obeyed, got under the covers and didn’t move a muscle. All I want is warmth- sleep and warmth- and now I finally got it.

In the early morning, I was woken up by the sound of Justin pouring a glass of water, and naturally I got an impulse to ask for a glass myself. Just then a voice came in my head, it was the voice of Kairsten. Kairsten usually went with Justin to burning man, but for one reason or another, didn’t go this year. When I told Kairsten I was going to be taking her place, she advised me to watch out for any jars lying around Justin’s trailer that looked like they were filled with apple juice. That was all she said. Just then I realized, that I most certainly did not want a glass of water, or to be more specific, I definitely did not want to drink what Justin was pouring.

When I finally did wake up I blew my nose and it was all blood and dust; the hallmark of a proper La Playa morning. Friday cleared up for the most part, with scattered dust storms, the opening of camp 4:20, more whip-its, weed, trash detail and another cold night of me sneaking into Justin’s trailer
Come Saturday the dust still wouldn’t let up, and neither would the wind. I started out wearing shorts and no shirt, the sun turned La Playa into a skillet, and I was loving it. I’ll take the dry heat out here to the humidity that had seemed to engulf Brooklyn over the summer. This wasn’t to last though, come mid-day it got cold and wet complete with a double rainbow. I can remember at one point looking down at my shoes covered in mud, thinking about how I hadn’t showered in several days now. At that moment, for a split second, I honestly thought to myself…if someone were to offer me a ride home, right then and there… not even home…just out of that shit hole…. Fuck it, I would have taken it. I wouldn’t have even told Justin, just gone. That elusive feeling of “get me the fuck outta here!”. It’s not everyday I feel that way.

That night was a party put on by some group called Jub Jub. Earlier at the opening of 420, Joe the Builder informed me that I had to show up at this party. I do, and don’t know anyone, which doesn’t seem to matter, because in less than sixty seconds someone turned around, told me I looked like I could use a drink and handed me a bottle of Jameson. Well he wasn’t wrong. He also said his name is the Jackie Llama, introduced me to his son, gave me a cigarette and encouraged me to drink up saying there is an endless supply.

Apparently the whole point of Jub Jub was to get DPW fucked up. To meet that goal they would bring in what some said were one hundred bottles of Jameson. Others said it was one hundred cases. Whatever the number was, if you were DPW, all you had to do was walk up to the bar, ask for your bottle, and bingo bitch, you got yourself a bottle of Jameson.

So obviously I walked up to the bar, requested my bottle, and once I got it turned around to take in the scenery. A tent filled with crusty dead-beats, all nursing their own bottle of Jameson like a nursery full of babies sucking on pacifiers. Needless to say the night only got better, even if I had to sit on the only wet spot on a couch just to talk to a girl. Thank you Jameson, and thank Jub Jub.

Sunday was rather uneventful, with the exception of my realization of Gonzo Frothwood. A couple of days earlier I went into one of the DPW Porta Potties in the commissary and noticed a hole in the urinal and decided to just step into the next stall. The next day once again, I stumbled drunk into the same stall except this time I noticed a sign covering the urinal informing whoever it may have concerned, that the urinal was not to be used, and again I proceeded to go to the next stall.

However, this morning I ran across Vaughn looking rather irritated. When I inquired what had upset him he mentioned that it was him that put up that sign and in the morning he had noticed that someone had simply pissed all over it. Talking to Vaughn I couldn’t help but notice that he wasn’t about to take things sitting down. No sir he had some tricks up his sleeve I tell you.
It was around that same time that I noticed all these notes on just about each and every stall. Now I didn’t look at every stall, but I noticed that not one note repeated itself, and every note was signed Gonzo Frothwood. One note read:

“Don’t be so bold, nor so brash,

to assume this potti is meant for trash,

you know we all win, with no trash in, the honey truck won’t crash”.

I assumed that Gonzo Frothwood must have been Vaughn’s alter-ego playing out his revenge and aggression on each and every stall. Serving as a reminder to all who entered the stalls that perhaps they were being watched and to instill a sense of paranoia into those coherent enough to actually read what was right before their eyes.

I was wrong, as I was later informed. Gonzo was not Vaughn. No sir…Gonzo was someone else entirely. Gonzo Frothwood was a chick; a chick into scat… HELLO!!! Lemme elaborate. As was told to me, Gonzo Frothwood was a chick who was not only into scat, because lets face it, in this day and age bringing human waste into the bedroom was tame- Two Girls and One Cup have taught us that- not only was Gonzo Frothwood into scat, but she also took it upon herself to go thru the public Porta Potties with a stick (a long one I hope) and stir things up if you will in a search for trash and anything else that didn’t belong. Word also was that not only did she use to be a cook for DPW, but she would also do so topless.

Shit aint fucking right people. I mean I look at myself as a loose dude and all, but a scat munching, porta-pottie scavenging, topless chef is a big wrong muthafuckin turn in my book. But that’s just me. Maybe I’m being close minded on this one.

Its Monday now, the first official day of the event and already things are pretty dense. Shit has changed a lot in the twelve years since I was here last. Back then there were only fifteen thousand people, which might seem like a lot, but this was predominantly just freaks. Noisicians, Droners, Punks, Rave-babies, Weirdos, Hip-Hoppers, bay area freaks, DLB’s, etc… All like-minded people, where you could stumble into just about any camp and feel at home.

But this year there were roughly fifty thousand people slated to attend the event, and for the most part, all my eyes could see were suburbanites. Lollapalooza types, old rainbow gathering hippies walking around naked covered from head to toe in body paint. Tweens riding bikes talking about trust funds and rehab. Frat kids blasting Biz markie’s “he’s just a friend”. Baby Boomer cocksuckers with their dream tiki-bars not to mention these were the same people whose idea of an art-car was a boat. I lost track of how many tiki-bars and boats I saw out there, blasting top-40 music.

I mean there had to still be freaks out here, you just had to dig through a think layer of pure bovine American fat just to find em.

I’m not hating, I know it sounds like I am but I promise I’m not. I’ll admit I’m not sugar coating any of my observations, but lets be honest. A majority of the people out here must live painfully normal lives if dressing like a pirate and drinking Mai Tais at a tiki-bar whilst listening to a house remix of “California Dreaming” is your idea of radical free expression. And you know what, that’s fine. I won’t lie. I had a few moments when I couldn’t help but think “there went the neighborhood”, but why should I have a problem with any of this? Nobody was telling me and my friends we couldn’t do what we wanted, even if DPW was right across the street from Kidsville.

Yes there was a Kidsville. And whose idea was it to put Kidsville right next to a camp filled with people notorious for excessive drug use and debauchery. Just a bunch of old ass punks cracking nitrous, snorting ketamine, only to wash it down with liquid acid and bong rips. Whats on the other side of Kidsville, the tantric tent? Tell you what, next year they should just surround Kidsville with the worst of the worst Burning Man has to offer: DPW, Dustfish, ThunderDome and that camp of cancer survivors, fuck yeah! That’ll pack ten years of misery on those kids in just one week.

Tuesday brought the setup of Happyland and the arrival of the alpha-geek himself, Breadsticks Bennet, armed with his Photoboof and latest invention…the Gizmotron: which was various cb, police band and two way radios routed thru a series a FX units and Kaos Pads. I’m not going to elaborate any further because I figure you can just Google what you don’t know.

The Boof was what Wrybread (Breadsticks Bennet) describes as his key to La Playa. Everywhere he goes, people were instructed to not form orderly lines and had their pictures taken in the Boof in the back of his Cushman. While not open to the public the Gizmotron definitely served its purpose this year. You see, apparently Google has its corporate meeting out at Burning Man, and in doing so they supply the Green Bikes. These are seven hundred and fifty green colored bicycles that are supplied for anyone can use free of charge. The rule is, if you see one not in use, grab it and take the fuck off. Usually in a crowd of fifty thousand people, if you see one, you better run to it because usually there are ten other people doing the exact same thing.

So someone at Happyland took two green bikes, spray painted them yellow, and walked away. Then along came a ranger who noticed two bikes that looked just like green bikes yet were yellow, and were right next to the bikes was a can of yellow pray paint. Before I go any further, yes Burning Man had rangers mainly to serve as an intermediary between the participants and the real law enforcement out here. By real I mean two sheriffs departments, ATF, FBI, DEA and BLM who were all out at Burning Man.

So the ranger confiscated the bikes, found the culprit and started yammering away on his two-way. Wyrbread saw this, ran to the Gizmotron, scrambled the dial, figured out what channel the Rangers were broadcasting on, cracked a couple whip-its and listened to rangers decide what to do with said spray-painter. Lucky for everyone, they decided to just drop it and move on to bigger and more important things.

That night brought the opening of Thunderdome to friends and family only, and if you remember the movie Mad Max – Beyond Thunderdome… that’s exactly what has been recreated out here.  Friends and family means its only open to DPW and friends of. Don’t really remember what time we got there, but shit was in full swing by the time we did. We just grabbed a seat, threw back ol Sailor Larry and I got to say I felt like I was back in the Dominican Republic at a cock fight. The only difference being that in the DR they served food, beer and you gambled with the dude next to you. But the level of excitement was the same.

Seated next to me was a girl named Nice who I think its safe to say that the girl was pretty fucking hammered. Just waving her arms around all belligerent screaming bloody murder, digging her hands in the sand and practically speaking in tongues. At one point we looked directly at each other and I could see it all over her face… bitch was twisted and I was envious.
All this was not to last, and at one point someone fell from above, toppling the crowd. EMS had to be called and just like that Thunderdome was shut down, the night was over and all I could think was …amateur.

The next day I had to work breakfast and come the end of my shift I bumped into the guy whom was on the bottom of Thunderdomes’ crash the night before. Dude was wearing a neck brace and had a very positive attitude, saying that he felt fine and would only have to wear the brace for roughly six months before his spine healed. The sign on the outside of Thunderdome stated it had been 0 days since its last injury and that day, they actually fucking meant it.
Wednesday marked seven days since my last shower and well, I guess I felt I had taken that shit far enough. It sounded a lot worse than it seemed. You see, living in New York we have this image of the west coast, but more specifically the Bay Area being just a bunch of crusty cracker-ass kids running around with birds nest’s in their hair or worse yet dread-locks. I have always believed you can never trust white kids with dread-locks, or girls with legs hairier than your own. That’s just not how shit goes in New York; you shower at least daily, if not more.

At one point I had a conversation with someone from the Bay Area who described their bathing habits as showering once every four or five days. For those days in between you just simply take what they described as bird-baths. A bird-bath was when you went to the bathroom sink and washed your essentials. Some girls I know would sum these essentials up as PTA (pussy, tits and ass) and some guys would just say asshole, armpits, crotch and teeth.
We have these in New York too; we call em Puerto Rican showers… or in some circles Irish showers…really it depends on who you are talking to. But this was Burning Man, and its down to the essentials. Brush and floss at least twice daily, wetwipes when you go to the bathroom and as for my armpits; well, this is the desert, and its dry heat, I haven’t broken a sweat once. No sweat and no stink.

The next few days started to blend together. Scatha made her grand entrance by choking out Boba fet the DJ, and in turned was blacklisted from Dustfish, which in itself is a feat. I always knew that deep down inside Dustfish were a bunch of squares; ‘cept for Karima whom I haven’t seen in almost ten years, and catching up with her she decided to show me her latest invention, the airgasm. The airgasm that if you were a girl you blew on your clit to get things going. I guess a guy could use it as well, though I would rather not ponder on were a dude would use that.

Karima gave me a quick demo of the airgasm then passed me on to the Lord, who wasted no time getting wasted and teaching me the lyrics to his current favorite song taught to him by Larry Harvey himself. The lyrics went as such: “I will not be, shut the fuck up!” the Lord shouted this very mantra into a microphone during Black Sabbath Pancake Sunday.
I went to Teraform to find Nome, but the only thing people could tell me was that he stripped off his clothes and ran off into the night with a head full of acid. Good for him, keeping it real, that’s how I like shit. The next morning he turned up at Happyland wearing only a towel. Thursday and Friday went completely up in smoke lost somehow in all the whip-its and Sailor Larry. God knows what else really went down between sipping absynth at first camp and cruising La Playa at night with DPW. At one point I passed some dude laying face down at 5:30 and Edinborough screaming into his own blood while all the burners around him just walked on, too busy nursing their fag bags.

And what is with the trends here at Burning Man, all the girls are wearing Uggs, all the guys have roaches in their ears (cell phone ear piece) and everyone has this thing that is sort of a back pack, with a canteen and a hose that runs to the your mouth so you can drink from it. I just referred to these as fag bags, paying homage to the summer when I was a kid visiting Disney world with my cousin Richie from long island. Richie constantly in a thick long island accent referred to fanny packs as “fag bags”. On that same trip my brother, Chris, described to me a similar conversation he had with Richie in which Chris described something as bad-ass. Richie in that same Long Island accent inquired “what the fuck is bad-ass?”. When Chris explained that bad-ass was just another way of saying “cool”, Richie said “its not cool, its fucking mint”.

So “fag bags” have really always had a warm place in my heart, and this is how I rationalize using the term to describe those hideously ugly back-pack/canteen shits everyone seems to be rock’n. Fag bags, roaches, baby slings and Ugg boots.

Or how about the day I came across some yuppies from camp RVtropolis who just so happened to have quite the supply of San Pelligrino that they were so generously handing out and lets face it, all I wanted in this heat was that and fresh mangos. Sloppy mangos, the kind that leak all over your hand and ice cold Pelligrino, hell yeah. Shit, I’d burn down Kidsville for some fresh mangos and Pelligrino, hell I’d almost burn down the man early until I found out what they did to the guy who actually attempted to do such a thing a few years earlier.

Apparently a couple of years back someone attempted to light the man early and was sentenced to 4 years in jail…which to me, seemed excessive. I mean don’t get me wrong, I love mangos and Pelligrino and all, but I am a little dude; I know what they do to guys my size in jail. Fuck that.

Everything seemed to be a fog until the night of the burn, in which this burn was a truly poetic experience. All the hype, and all the momentum surrounded the man. Every last freak, tween, geek, punk, yuppie and member of DPW seemed to amass around the man. The man seated on a four-story high structure with his arms stretched up in the air while a ring of fire dancers surrounded him. Every art-car formed the outer ring while the inner ring was formed by a group of fire fighters.

Now whether it was planned or not the biggest dud of the night, or maybe even of the event itself, was the man himself. This was the biggest, most perfect metaphor on the reality of this event. That Burning Man, honestly and truly was no longer about what it used to be. No the three structure burned with all types of intensity, but the man himself didn’t light in the least, and really what was so bad about that.

Lets face it, in a festival made up by its participants, it seems only natural that the festival reflects the lives and mindset of those who attend, and therefore they are the ones who truly shape what this event is about. And so what has become of the little gathering of freaks in an exercise of so-called radical free expression, what is it now? It’s a mall… a giant out-door hyper mall overflowing with lame, low-frequency, double-digit IQ mother fuckers.
People came to burning man, and the man didn’t even burn. Some people came to burn weed, some people came to burn the names of loved ones on the walls of the Temple Mount, some would burn their camps, some would burn up in the sun, some would burn out altogether, and obviously some just came to burn money. Say what you like but one thing is for sure, everyone burned in one way or another; except for the man.

Where was Larry Harvey during all of this, was he even watching the burn or was he drunk on absynth passed out naked somewhere in first camp? Maybe that’s why he charges three hundred dollars a ticket, because he knows this is all DOA. Who knows and who cares, its no longer relevant, and maybe that’s what the old school in this festival need to recognize… that they are no longer relevant.

Rumor had it that Larry was trying to find a non-profit to take over Burning man so he could move on. What was he supposed to move on to? Maybe he was just as over this party as the rest of the old school. Maybe he is ready to move on to a better party. And so what to all of that? So what if you are surrounded by a bunch of wanna-be freaks, who want to party so badly, yet have no clue how to loosen up.

On the last day of the event people were handing out anything they couldn’t devour at the festival itself. I managed to get a giant bucket of Red Vines and was later offered free clean urine, but I don’t have those kind of worries.
As for my overall rating of Burning Man: it’s the type of place a day could last a week and you can pack a week in a day … and people wonder why you come back someone different… cause you have fucking aged 5 years by the time you come home.

As for me, I got to Oakland airport and checked in a bag loaded with raw weed still on a stalk, a bottle of liquid marijuana, a couple of hits of acid, several cartridges of nitrous and an opened bottle of Jameson.  When I finally got back to JFK and picked up my bag, there was a note inside of it that stated “Notice of Baggage Inspection”. Well apparently they didn’t find anything that bothered them, because nothing had been touched. Just the way I like things to be, exactly where I left them.

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TV … and whats left of it

•July 7, 2010 • Leave a Comment

I have friends who have done reality TV, and friends who have done other sorts of work in television, and from what I hear…the pay is shit. I use to have this belief, that if you were on TV, you were doing ok. The camera was reserved for people with star appeal…and I want to stress “was”. But now, with the advent of YouTube and the internet in general, any clown with a decent connection speed and a willingness to expose themselves taking a cock up their ass, or breaking a limb pulling some jackass stunt or just acting like an outpatient can get a little air-time… no talent required.

I mean I guess it takes some menial amount of talent to know how to operate a camera, a computer, and lets not forget how to navigate them internets, yeah sure… I’ll give you that. I guess it depends on how you use the word “talent”, and lets face it, when referring to this current generation, the word “talent” should always be used in quotes… along with “work” and “friends” (Facebook anybody).

What that leaves us with however is that being on TV…ain’t shit. Nobody gives a shit if you do the weather; did you do it while eating shit? No? Well some white trash from bum fuck nowhere did, and he didn’t hesitate, didn’t gag, nor did he skip a beat. He gave the entire forecast while gulping down a chocolate shit shake and he did all professional-like. And the best part is that we can pay him in food stamps, that or credit at K-mart.

Seriously, the corporate big wigs have already got wind of this, and that is why roughly %80 of the people you see on TV get paid fuck-all, and %5 make some obscene amount. The remaining %15 …I have no clue about…maybe they are D-listers. You never really hear about B or C-listers. Just A-listers and D-listers. What about the F-listers? I’ll bet F-listers are real… they are probably the ones who are practically blackballed from the industry, like Mickey Rourke…Yeah not knowing your lines and/or being piss drunk when and if you show up for work will definitely get you on the F-list.

I honestly think it’s only a matter of time before they just start out-sourcing the local news to Mexico, and it wont even be in English. If some family in rural Indiana wants to catch up on local events, they will have to tune into some sweat shop in Tijuana were a Mexican cattle farmer will be sweating his balls off because there obviously wasn’t room in the budget for A/C. Feathers will be flying all over the place and sounds of chickens screaming they’re last scream will echo in the back because naturally the company thought it would be best for everyone’s pocketbooks if the news desk split overhead costs with the local slaughterhouse.

They won’t even have any writers, Jose will have to just read off the news banner at the bottom of the screen. All the money in this budget…will go to advertising. Hell the adverts will be in Hi-Definition, that’s where all the money always goes. Whatever happens in this economy, no matter how many times the market spins out of control and crashes and burns right thru all that is holy, there will always be plenty of money for advertising. Who needs food or housing? Man that shit is the past, and fuck health care or education… that’s the first place the budget gets cut.

There aren’t many rights left in this country, but you can bet your sweet ass the right to high quality, grade A, world class advertising will always be one of them.

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