illegal search, seizure optional

things i have done in the past week & a half that i ordinarily
a) wouldn't do
b) wouldn't admit to doing
c) wouldn't remember doing, thus being unable to admit to doing

• passed 3 piss tests, the probationary equivalent of jumping through hoops [Broadway's own trained seal, at your service]


• saw a movie in a real live movie theater [district 9. download it instead, trust me, unless you relish paying for disappointing conclusions]


• admitted out loud the extent of my mining the smacktail during my last university semester, much to the sick fascination of those listening [inquiring about ingestion methods, etc--what am i supposed to do, advise you to make human pincushions of yourselves? because i will if i have to, my conscience got hit by a car a long time ago]


• got a library card [obligatory good-girl curveball of the list]


• took an ill-advised concert cruise which--while kicking great heaping piles of musical ass in the form of Amon Tobin--was a truly nightmarish experience in all other aspects, fraught with douchebags, $10 drinks, & histrionic bitches stomped to death on the dancefloor


• landed three job interviews


• was stood up for one of those three by a vaguely humanoid piece of shit who had me waiting in starbucks for 40 minutes like it was 2006 all over again & i was some second-rate slice of velvet underground lyric


• enrolled in two cash-heavy clinical trials, each of which disqualifies me from participating in the other, but they don't have to know that


• sleepwalked, apparently several times


• passed through the eye of a needle, but apparently it was the wrong kind, goddamnit

tonight i win friends & influence people under the influence with "wandering violin serenades" at Winkel's "stranded" party. which has had the shit advertised out of it for the past month, so either we all get our artistic endeavors "discovered" or we get shut down stampeded crushed arrested & probably shot by a pile of overzealous nightlife cops. guess which one i'm expecting!!!!

no but really this'll be fun. just don't tell anyone

Miss Understanding 2009

last Thursday i participated in a subway-party-cum-art-exhibit that somehow spiraled into a sociopolitical morass, & now feel the need to explain myself:

people play music on trains. people play music on train platforms. these are both common occurrences, not requiring phone calls to the cops, the transit police, or the local militia. commuters who do not want to hear this music are generally out of luck, unless they've brought headphones or have selective hearing--i know, i've been one of these commuters many times, more frequently now that my mp3 player is busted & a new one has yet to present itself for an acceptable price. somehow, 99% of these musicians don't get called out by catty after-the-fact wannabe pundits who demean the entire affair as the brainchild of "privileged white hipsters" invading "their" territory with loud noise & circus effects. speaking from the back of the J train--which passes outside my window hello J train i live off you--i heard unamplified violin, guitar, & banjo music, a girl singing, people bustling around handing out donuts & juice, maybe flowers. not disruptive. didn't see any commuters getting any more pissed off than they'd been when they got on the train. no one raises an eyebrow when subway musicians commandeer a car, often with much higher volumes of noise--i can't be the only person who's almost gotten kicked in the face by a breakdancer, but done nothing about it except maybe move a few inches to the left--& "white" is a lazy descriptor by internet douchebags who can't even be bothered to look at the pictures taken at the event, not only irrelevant but completely wrong. i'm not a fucking hipster & plenty of people present were not fucking hipsters. lazy generalizations will be the death of responsible reporting.* same with privilege--sure, some people there were probably subsidized at least in part by their parents. plenty weren't. "trust fund hipster" at this point is such a cliche that unless you are using it to describe a single person, it's all but meaningless.

[the sociopolitical commentary re: "songs about money" supposedly made on the Broadway Junction platform is asinine, however, though i don't know who made it--i am assuming it was a to-remain-unnamed aspiring Rock Star who in his rush to the top tends to step in his own mouth. as for the "acrobats" doing flips over the subway railings & dropping change from their pockets, i wish i had been in THAT car. that change would be MINE, fuckers.]

*the author makes no claim as to the existence of responsible reporting on this site, & never will

money-making schemes / how to fail at life w/o really trying

to celebrate the rude awakening [though to be fair i was expecting to be ill upon opening the envelope] brought on by the arrival of yesterday's bank statement, i have renewed efforts at procuring employment, dragging my motivation kicking & fizzling out of a fog of procrastination, subway envy, & the latest thomas pynchon novel.

& we have two options:
1. guinea pig for Eastside Medical Center, in which i have the exciting chance to test out a new & experimental medication & maybe die / undergo fucked-up neurological side-effects [but get 600$ as long as they don't randomly drug-test me at the wrong times]
2. write people's term-papers at a starting rate of $12/page, 20-40 pages a week. interview tomorrow. at an east midtown starbucks, fortunately one where i don't have a history of conducting illegal business transactions. email says i don't have to dress up but dear god where am i gonna stash my mind control equipment. honestly this job is perfect for me, especially since i don't really have to care about the end product since it's no longer my academic ass on the line. can churn out a reliable stream of learnèd bullshit quicker than you can shout FRAUD & douse me in kerosene.

flinging resumes into the ether was feeling way too much like primate excrement-throwing. craigslist "etc" come save me from myself. self-sinking battleship seeking same, let's talk about our futures together & see who vomits first. full disclosure: i just saw / felt a huge rubber band in front of me snap--symbolic or just my subconscious' evolution from throwing unexpected trains at my ass as i nod off on the job since i'm so friendly with trains these days

oh well. "you're only young once."

new leases on life, or how the hobbity smack dealer fled never to return

the hard drive once known as Patrick Bateman is now hooked up like a bag of IV fluids to this computer [known since 2005 as Laura Palmer, as in the welcome screen: "turn off Laura Palmer" ? don't mind if i do]--perhaps my habit of humanizing my electronics is what causes them to band together & combust out of spite at the same fucking time--but i have all my documents music etc etc etc. once more, narrowly averting all manner of heart attacks brain aneurysms & embolisms. now i can read the documents that i don't remember writing & find out what i've been doing while coasting precariously through the last six months;

TOTALLY UNRELATED ASIDE I SWEAR--witness a weird side-effect of the speed you took all through college--not remembering any of your millions of writing assignments--their contents, creating them, or otherwise. when my hard drive crashed i panicked not only at the thought of losing my music collection & my writing but even the memories of what any of them contained. i need neurotic self-referentiality to remember what my self even is. jesus fucking christ. couldn't remember the subjects or content of any of the 3 final papers i wrote last semester. let's hear it for the bonfire of the brain cells

but now that i have no more reason to panic time to write this overdue show review. fuck 18-year-olds that draw bigger audiences than my bands. seriously.

excessive verbosity kills

HARD DRIVE CRASH ALL SYSTEMS UNSTABLE FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT TRASH DELL COMPUTER HAS BREATHED ITS LAST BREATH COME IN GROUND CONTROL HELLO HELLO

while i was writing the last post, i abandoned my computer for about an hour, only to return & find it TOTALLY UNRESPONSIVE TO ANYTHING. yes, right after my mp3 player died, taking the majority of my music collection with it. 40 fucking gigabytes down the toilet. i am going to scream or shoot someone or shoot up or ALL FIVE i i i. holding off on the histrionics in case the knights in shining armor who are supposed to arrive at 3pm today to "look" at it for 95 fucking dollars are able to salvage the hard drive. i have everything backed up through the last time my hard drive crashed but nothing since then, which is terrifying & unseemly. fuck. fuck. more fuck.

typing on the zombie IBM which has now outlasted TWO dell hard drives. regardless of what happens re: data on that other piece of shit machine i'm buying a refurbished IBM like tomorrow. some dude i met 3 years ago then ran into at an art gallery a few months back--who recognized me sans crackhead-teeth, which were unfortunately a distinguishing factor of my appearance back then due to unparalleled dental laziness on my part--has spare copies of windows xp so i won't have to deal with bullshit vista or "windows 7" or whatever the latest crap version of this operating system is. seriously going to lose it if i can't get some music up in this bitch here. using the soundcard on this computer fries it--soundcard being located apparently right next to the vodka spill that caused its demise oh so many years ago--& will freeze the fucker so i can't even listen to what minimal collection i amassed on here. fit to be tied off. fucking stupid references to smack keep creeping up in here. kill 'em all.

[surprised the panic hasn't really set in yet, aside from my being utterly unable to sleep last night & subsequent exhaustion mixed with bizarre affection for the city buses undulating up Joralemon St. this morning. oh beautiful b38 you are so limited in your morning express runs to Downtown Brooklyn / Tillary St. oh glorious b45 you are so close to the end of your journey as Court St. is just a block away [insert gimme-shelter-&/or-death reference]. this strange goodwill even before i jumped through the last hoop of my current probation status by passing a drug test [!!!]. while we were tensely waiting for the test strips to hopefully show up negative the chip-eater was all "thc...negative...morphine...negative...& your friend coke..." give me a fucking heart attack please. i will take it & run far away. & will now going to be reporting only once a month to some other building where no chip-eaters reside. now to drown my sorrows like a burlap sack full of illegitimate children.

LOLocaust, now with more joy division soundtrack

in one of my minimal slices of actual journalistic endeavor i set out to review a show at Don Pedro's last night for jezebelmusic.com. being the star reporter i am, i forgot my notebook & probably my dignity in my "other purse," & arrived sans both. the show started two hours late minus the "headlining" band i'd signed up to see & was opened by a punk band comprised solely of 18-year-olds. they had a bigger audience than we ever did when Ryder Pales played there, any of the shows. i mean i can only take so much consolation in the fact that we know at LEAST two more chords than they do. they weren't very good but loud passes for good often enough in that place that it didn't seem to matter for the audience. now i have to review the show based on the notes i scribbled on a loose piece of paper that was floating in my purse. FAIL.

on the way to the Lorimer J stop where i FLEW after watching the second band [who were much better, though still partially comprised of 18-year-olds], i was on the phone & someone behind me kept yelling, trying to get my attention. when it persisted for a whole block i figured i'd dropped something or maybe i knew this person & turned around. dude comes up to me all jovial, shakes my hand, introduces himself, makes abortive attempt at smalltalk by which point i have replaced my face with a question mark. then: "hey, uh, do you know where i could get some powder?" oh for the day when i could have just pulled a bag out of my purse & charged him something obscene. i explained consolingly that normally i'd be able to help him out but i had to pass a drug test for probation on monday. he was mildly intrigued & asked what i was on probation for. not wishing to get into the whole story--there had been a train to catch at some point--i explained that i did a very bad thing several years ago, but "he deserved it." dude was kind of unnerved & i took the opportunity to wish him the best of luck & escape while he yelled after me that i was totally rock'n'roll. i guess i should expect by now that i will be approached by complete strangers for drugs wherever i go, but. the fuck?

snacktime in hell: a dramatic tale of love, loss, & lard on the BQE overpass

obese child fiending for corn syrup picks up an abandoned McDonalds cup sitting innocently unattended on the guardrail overlooking the Broadway BQE overpass while waddling down the street hand in hand with proportionally obeser manatee mommie

as the pre-moistened straw approaches his meaty lips Mommie's eyes widen with the monumental dread associated with hideous breaching of the all-powerful dictate Don't Eat Stuff Off The Sidewalk and she shouts with righteous anger DON'T TOUCH THAT and grabs it out of his hand

as they continue down the sidewalk, child recovered from the momentary shock of the bellowing maternal flabheap, said heap waits til Junior is distracted by a passing shiny object, & surreptitiously takes an experimental sip of the contents of the McDonalds cup, heated to seriously ungodly temperatures as they must be by any amount of time spent in the 90+degree sun

there is a moment of smugness as Mommie mentally pats herself on her expansive, fleshy back for the insanely excellent parenting skills she has just demonstrated, and a gradual slackening of face as the potent liquid in the cup floods her synapses with chubby ecstasy

the end
[true story brought to you by Fans & Friends of Human Extinction, Inc]