Saturday, August 28, 2004

But Fitz is Fitz and I am me and no matter how lame whatever it was that he had happened to do or say the night before, and no matter how he pussied out when the going got rough or acted like the spoiled rich brat that he was, seeing him always lifted something in my chest. It’s the same feeling I get when I hear the opening beats of a really deep jam coming across the speakers at a club. It’s a tipsy, homecoming kinda feeling. Fitz. Fitzcarraldo, the drunk fag snake. My field marshal, my fifty foot Queenie. My philosopher king—my right-hand man, in the Capital of it All. He was by my side before I’d taken my first step through the door. I smelled his cigars and cinnamon gum as he clasped my limp hand between his.

“Darling, now listen: Snake misunderstood and thought we were going into production to-night. So he like, brought a good deal of materials here…like, um, an entire wheel-fucking-barrel’s worth. When I told him this was just supposed to be a brainstorming session he got really pissed. The old dodger heard the world ‘loft’ and he thought “industrialized work space” as opposed to Spring street settlement award trophy apartment.”

David’s mom was on that plane that got bombed in Locker bee.. He’d bought the admittedly fabulous apartment with money he’d received from one of several multi-million dollar settlements.

“I guess he’s unaware of our policy against being in any real proximity to actual or imagined labour.”

“Mmmm,” I said.

“Are you high?”

“No,” I said

“OK, so that’s it,” he said, looking down at his nails dismissively.


“What’s different about you. I thought for a sec that you’d cut your hair. It just turns out that you aren’t stoned, for once.”

“F-U, maahhhn. Do you have any valium?”


He lit a Dunhill and exhaled through his nose.

“You’re going to have to deal with Snake, hon. He is on his PLATform, calling us all “pussyfoot”—his word, not mine!--if we don’t get anything DONE tonite. Lots of grandiose talk about “the cause”. He’s always willing to cover a mistake with a diatribe, that one. Stupid, crotchety old man. I was very clear on the phone when I told him what the plan was; so don’t blame me, k? Jesus, I’m peeved. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do—I’m going to yank off that tacky, stinks-like-the-anchovies-i-prolly-eat-with-my-finger-straight-out-of-the-tin-vest he’s constantly wearing and BURN that shit, sacrificial style, for the collective good of humanity.”

“Hey,” I said, in my best “Dude” impersonation. “Taker easy.”

We were standing just outside the door leading to the living room. I peeked in and saw the pearl white couch, where dirty old Snake sat beside a lanky dude in black designer jeans. I stopped and stared at the stranger. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded on his chest, giving an impression of perfect ease and relaxation. There was an ageless quality about him: his eyes were narrow but bright like a teenager’s. He had a receding hairline. His skin was shiny and looked well scrubbed.

I was immediately certain that I knew him from somewhere.

I grabbed Fitz’s arm:

“Who’s that?”

“Who—him?” he said. I felt him study my face in that piercing, somewhat angry way of his.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said.

“Yo, I totally know that guy.”

“For real?” he narrowed his eyes. The white eyebrows made his green eyes greener. “He’s a nobody. A guitar player, I think. He bartends at The Park and Eric Conrad is like, in love with him.”

“But he isn’t gay,” I said, uncertain about how I knew this.

“Um, sure. Right—of course, darling! I could tell by the highlights.”

“What’s his name?”

“Ondine,” Fitz said, shifting from one foot to the other.

Ondine, I thought to myself, struggling to remember.

“It’s an extremely masculine name, don’t you think?”

“Whatever,” I said, waving him off. He shrugged his shoulders and headed for the booze. As though in a dream, I stepped into the room and crossed the short distance separating me from the couch.

Ondine immediately looked up and smiled warmly, which should have reassured me but had the opposite effect.

“Hello!” he called out. The cheery ring of his tenor voice made something twist in my gut, but I managed to persevere with what I wanted to say.

“Hey. Hi. Listen, I’ve gotta tell you. I know I know you from somewhere.”

His tight, shiny face fell a bit, yet his squinty cat eyes remained unchanged.

“You mean, you don’t remember?”

“Remember…? Remember what,” I said, already cringing.

Something flashed in front of his face.

“At the Stonewall last Friday…upstairs?”

“Ok, right,” I said, blushing up to my ears.

“You remember now?” he said. There was an annoyed edge to his voice.

I clenched and unclenched my fists. Standing before him and looking at him look at me like I was a huge mistake made me feel awful--more awful than I’ve felt in a long time. I took in details like the tan scalp in between his thinning hair and his euro trash silver retro reebox and his flashy platinum pinky ring, which in turn fired off memories of that elaborately decorated, mirrored and perfumed fairyland, with those two dyke bouncers who used to work at Kingsize guarding the top of the stairs and sending back the usual bar rabble, so that a select number of us could rub glitter on our naked backs and snort coke off each other’s fists. There were cottony webs above the fake trees and syrupy sweet drinks for free…for the waiters and after hour call boys and punk rockers and trust fund darlings…and me, the cute little girl out acting like a boy, but not because I was trying to hide being a girl. In my sleeveless hard rock t, my rack was out for the world to see.

I could remember exactly how it looked and felt but I couldn’t remember him, not at all—not one bit.

“Of course, of course—I remember. I was just…confused, for a sec. I mean, I was pretty drunk that night.”

“That’s for sure,” he said, looking me slowly up and down.

I looked down at my Shox. I have a boy’s haircut but I wear makeup and I like dick. I just happen to like getting shitfaced and getting it from fags.

Friday, August 27, 2004

Well, the best the “dream team” can do now is a bronze after losing to Argentina in the semis of the Olympic basketball tournament in Athens (Greece, not Georgia, Bubba).

Is it just me or suddenly has the NBA lost some serious luster? Ouch sandwich. Send the fucking clippers in 4 years. Serially, don’t fuck around, they WILL get it done.

Of course, eric at offwing has some muy interesante stuff to say about the whole dillio with the US basketball team, especially some reaction and discussion about a controversial article written by Jason Whitlock at espn page 2 basically accusing any American that roots against this team of being racist (that’s what it sounds like, honestly, I ain’t read the article – yes I’m a pile)

Ok, well, I just read it, and I don’t see whut the gigantic fuss is about. Pretty good article actually. I mean, if you take it a certain way, you could get all worked up about it, but in a way he might be right, I mean, why are we jumping all over the players, like it’s their fault?? They were the ones willing to go when shaq and company couldn’t be bothered, they were the ones with a lot to lose (their credibility, the reputation of US ie nba basketball) and almost nothing to gain (yah, a gold medal, but, shit, and oh yah the derision and humiliation of being on the team that lost the olympics). I mean, at least they had the guts and desire to rep their country and tough it out, for zero cash i might add.

and yeah, reality check, the rest of the world is catching up to the US on the basketball tip, refining the game. The parallels to the transformation of hockey in the 70’s because of the influence of European players is especially interesting. And hate to break it to you America, but a good portion of you ARE racist fucks, and prolly are stoked that an all black millionaire team are losing to a bunch of short Europeans, Puerto Ricans, whatever, it makes you feel better about yourself sitting on a tractor chewing tobacco. Not that that’s a blanket description, and I like to think that the majority of people AREN’T racist, but, well, reality is a bitch and the “la la la everything is cool” committee is thankfully in recess. Kudos to Whitlock on a good column and making people think (as uncomfortable as we all know that can be).

So I would recommend: first read the whitlock column, then read this post by eric at offwing, take a valium, and call me in the morning. 976-PHUK. Aloha mahalo nui loa.

(Update: yah, you prolly know already, they did it, win bronze that is. yup, updated pic, too, yuppity duppity)

Update 2: click here for a cool follow up piece on Allen Iverson and the apparently excellent way he handled himself and the media while many others, most notably coach Brown, bitched and moaned about how they needed more shooters and the nba screwed them over in the team selection & yadda yadda yadda.

Thursday, August 26, 2004

Doood. I just hit the wrong button. Oh fuck whatevs. That’s what happens when you drink a shitload of jim beam black and then try to operate heavy, as in deep, mentally, not physical weight, machinery. You get the picture. Of course you do. It’s soooo obvious, that you almost bumped into it with your big fat head. Dumbass.

Soooo. Did I mention that a certain whatistat is fukn broken and I gotta get it fixed, and that it’s vital idol in that it is a cart what with octagonal dimensions and whut with you get in it & go places and the retardedness factor of this factorial occurrence is equal to about 83 million astromedallions, and DON’T think that keith aka alfredo sauce invented astro medallions, I showed him that I educated him on that and my old poker and pinochle buddies ralphie & Theodore actually were the ones whut originally originated it. Back in Oakland. At the northern cali watts towers. Yah, we used to shoot cats over there whut with our ak-47 assault rifles.

not cats as in some hip way to say people. actual cats. hey, cmon, this was before the whole anti-fur movement, so get off my back. we were just cleaning up the eco system, they'd overpopulate their environment, yah? yah.

if you're like a lawyer we didn't really do that.

i love that we use the most asian of banks possible for my work. it's called East West Bank, and i have never had a smooth trans action there.

firstly, i'm always doing something that looks shady to begin with... aka cashing a 3,000-4,000 check and asking for it in 5's and 10's.

just cuz i look like a skeeve, and just kuz i have a italian last name, and mostly cuz who needs 4 grand in 5's and 10's? well shit, ling dong wing kung fu.

hey wu tang, or whatever your name is... just go into the damn vault and harvest me some small change, and don't be yabbering in some language i cant understand, cuz i KNOW your talking shit. i would be.

anyways, my point is that there's this big fat blonde bitch at the torrance branch who always recognizes me, so i go there. and today, it was ALMOST a smooth transaction.

i just wonder how you say, "fuckin whiteboy" in chinese... cuz i KNWO i heards it.

You may have noticed some minor changes around here despite the fact that we have been vaguely announcing them or not so mysteriously. Yes, mr. pennyworth is history. Adios butler kooter. Me, keith’s uncle, am in charge. Also you have noticed new faces dropping knowledge at various points. These include, well, fuck it jackhole, look for yourself, mr. fisk would like them to know, public record as well as private interview indicating their ids, that they are entirely free to say whatevs whenevs howevs blah dee blah. There’s plenny of space for everyone who’s so inclined to get along etcetera, and if you’re not so inclined that’s cooh and the gang as well, plus we’ve got an unknown by you number but it’s very small, less than half what you see there, of outlying endeavored contract hitters that may or may not undertake literary assassination requests. Oh yah, and also don’t be surprised if one day out of the blue mr. fisk has suddenly kicked one, some, or all of you out to the curb cuz he did it to the creative founder and well, it’s just like that, the way it is, etcetera, and we’re still trying to struggle away the last vestiges of minor control from a certain batman custodian slash disrespected by tower records rap comedian, so there’s that too, never know what’ll go down if for some reason his feet come up on the ground after the shizzle gets completely fizzled.

Oh yah and does anybody else wanna be down with the blogger fantasy football dillio or whut. I’m one step away from accosting peeps at walmart.

i really didnt ask if i could write twice on here, but asking is for chumps.

so i just took a shower and my hair is still wet, and my gmail is acting slow, and i hate it for that, hate.

my skin reeks of irish spring

and um i have a headache.

i ate del taco for dinner WAIT no it was taco bell. but i wish it was del taco. del taco is tastier.

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

so I get a call from my punk ass nephew this morning, or last nite, I don’t know, fuck it, I was drunk off my ass.

“wuddup uncle.” That was him. It may sound weird to you, but local style, even though I’m not local, well, we whut been here for a spell though, bleh, I don’t feel like explaining it, anywaaaayyy, just saying “uncle” instead of like “uncle jehosophat” is common here. Trust me. And move on.

To which I replied “Keith.” No more. No less. That’s the kid’s name, or one of em. We both knew it might be a tense moment. I had betrayed my own blood for money. Ok, my sister’s blood, and, well, I never really liked the kid anyway, but we both learned the art of articulation from granny Carlisle, and, well, there was a connection of verbage, but, shit, mo money mo something or other.

“I’m thinking that everything worked out for the best. In fact, I can’t think of a more proper and beatific way for the progress of the page, the empire, to have gone.” Him.

“are you nuts? You got pushed out! The kingpin owns your shit! He suge knighted you out of the pictura, comprende? Damn, you always were stupid.” Me.

“suge knight, uncle? Heh. apt comparison, actually. Who you see droppin more bombs now you decrapitated relic? Dr. dre? Snoop dogg? Or suge muthafucking knight? Suge’s a strongarm punk with a dilapidated line-up.” Him.

“hey, hold up, you can’t…” me, trying to interrupt.

“hey, shut up. Lemme finish. That’s where the parralelogram ends. Carlton, yes, Carlton, may be a metaphorical Suge Knight, a big pocketed jack handy imitator, but the stable, the front line, it’s, incredible, maybe that’s what I always lacked, the organizational skills, the charisma, maybe talent isn’t whut it’s all about, you gotta be able to communicate…” he was lost in some tangential orbit, typical dreamer, prolly the thing that always irked me about the kid.

“whut in the jack fuck are you talking about?”

“uh, nothing. Hmmm.” It seemed he was reevaluating the degree of revelation he was gonna drop. “I loved True’s post. Loved it. Maybe the best thing that ever appeared on the site. Maybe definitely. Definitely maybe. I don’t know. I do know that with me in charge it probably never would have happened. And I know that everything…” he stopped again.

I was about to say something, suddenly it felt important to keep him on the line, but the booze, I felt woozy, disjointed, moreso than I had just minutes earlier.

“tell carlton I said keep up the good werk,” were his last words before the line went dead.

wuddup. yup. who's da muthafricken mon? yup, me that's who. chuch. not keith. nein. yo. as in moi. i rule harder than any "rulons" or whatevs. i mean pshaw. you think alfredo was gonna get the mo feshanals to display wares like the traveling salesmen of old, except not selling jack shit, taking it, ya dig? yup. definito. good evening & good night. repetition is the father of something that i forgot, but i got rights. and you got yer ovaltine. choke on it, potna.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

me and big tanky worked on my anti that republican guy that wrote me whatever you wanna call it.

and now it's laundry/pizza delivery/cigarette smoking/whutevers-clevers time.

it's always bout that time.

wait here while i look up dominoes phone number. it's twofertuesday and um, i should prlly write down their number already. here it is!

ok i derno i guess we will wait for the pizza to get here...

Monday, August 23, 2004

My stomach seized up as I rounded the corner. I couldn’t shake the nervous feeling. All I could think about was how badly I needed a joint. I need a joint I need a joint I need a joint. I told myself to shut up so many times that I had to tell the voice that was telling the other voices to shut up to shut up. Once you’ve gotten into steady fiending it’s all about one parenthetical phrase inside of another, one ragged, weak thought wrangling in the jaws of another ragged, weak thought. Everything’s torn; everything’s faded.

The only thing that was going to help was if I got fucked up. Then I could tackle all this political Bush rebellion shit.

The front door to David’s building was propped open with a broomstick. I had a moment in the elevator: as soon as the door closed I remembered that the ancientness of its wood paneling frightened me which is why I usually took the stairs. I slammed down on the door open button but it was too late. I stood pressed against the wall, breathing heavily and imagining that the whole delicate contraption was made of wood, through and through, even the outside and the cabling. I imagined that the creaky vibrations moving through the floor to my brand new sneakers was the electricity that was about to burn up the box and turn it into a coffin. I was certain that I was trapped and done for but then, miraculously, the doors opened on the fifth floor and I made it out in one piece. I stuck a cigarette in my mouth and looked both ways. I’d been here a thousand times but everything looked different and strange, having come up this way. I saw a door with a photograph taped to it of president bush and first lady laura posing on what appeared to be the crawford, texas ranch. A large red x had been drawn across the entire picture, with crayon. That had to be the place.

There were voices and a beat I nearly recognized.

Oh, yeah--It was that old house song: Impeach the President! Impeach the President!

My glasses were fogging up and sliding off my face, my clothes didn’t fit too well.

I’ll be the first to admit it’s an odd mix. Things always seem to happenwhen I walk into a room—either as a direct result of my social retardation or else from efforts to get over it.

The door was open. Upon entry, I immediately lurched into the side of the large wooden bookshelf, causing a mini earthquake to send several things tumbling to the floor—a plastic something, a clanging can something and a delicate something that sounded like it smashed into a million pieces.

“Fuck,” I muttered, as I lit my cigarette and slumped back against the door. I really didn’t feel well. I’m the kind of sickly person who needs a lot of rest. I thought wistfully of my little room with the little window overlooking the BQE. It was just about the time in the afternoon when the glare shifts and the cars get halos as they stream past like toys.

“Darling, you made it,” I heard a familiar voice call out. I squinted and saw the blurry apparition of Fitzcarraldo. He was dressed all in white. Dolce and Gabanna. His hair was a silvery white, something I’d done for him two nights ago at my place, while we watched CNN and cut out pictures from high end, international fashion and design zines. We did his eyebrows and pubes as well, and I ended up sucking him off for a little while, but he didn’t let himself come.

He pulled back and rubbed himself gently against my face, before he pulled close his violet velvet smoking jacket and tied it shut.

“No,” I said, as the cold wet tiles pressed into my knees.

“I don’t want to,” he said, a stricken look on his face.

“We’re getting too old for this,” he said, and then added, “at least I am.”

Which made it so much worse, of course, than if he had just left it at that.

[Editor's Note: TRUEBOY, Sterling Fassbinder, Fitzcarraldo and Alfred Pennyworth all write for mrtt, a pro-thought, quasi-political, mostly anti-bush blog that has the real life aim of staging a party in the middle of manhattan, in the middle of the RNC craptacular.]

yo. keith's uncle again. again and again and again. it's official. i was the one with the drive, i was the one with the guts, i'm the one gets the glory goddammitt. you are now looking at the official new head writer of ultrablognetic enterprises main enterprse, or at least 4th or 5th, degree of how important an enterprise, that is, not the 4th or 5th, oh fuck it, you understand.

i'm takin over. lock stock barrell, all that shit. in fact, yup, and don't step. i'm keith's uncle but i ain't a clown, i ain't here to amuse you, i'm here to bring serious shit about serious issues.

like the jurk storr. and not to worry. we'll still bring chocolate and cereal.

hello. Keith’s uncle again. I made a fantasy football league. It’s the official unofficial bloggerville fake football dillio. Spots are currently available, so if you wanna be down, leave a comment or e-mail me at and I’ll fill you in with all relevant info. first come first served. If that bitch can't swim, she's bound to drizown.

the draft is gonna be september 5th at 9:30 am hawaii time. black tie.

Gracias. And keith, you’re not invited. In fact, I’m disowning you. Cuz carlton’s got fat pockets. Long beach. Raiders. I’ll be in my escalade playing scrabble if anybody’s got ishes with tha fishes.