JRussell's BlogNO!!!!

American Lotus Eatin' Extravagant Sneaker Fetish

In what was my first solo “holiday traveling” experience, I found myself stuck in the vast American strip mall oasis where car exhaust is their choice of hookah fruit. My train was delayed an hour or two, combined with my paranoia about the uncertainty of finding a cab in Richmond had me stuck outside of the city for at least three hours. This train station is a $15.00 cab ride of the city; if you tell the concierge at the nicest hotel on Franklin St. your name and room number, their “driver” will take you there for free. Stupid me and my fucking honesty, buts its never my money at least for now. While waiting underneath the cantilever or limo umbrella or whatever the fuck hangs out in front the nice hotel, I talked to the cape-adorned doorman about the Richmond flag and the folklore behind it. I didn’t have the balls to ask him what the fuck a “plateau boat” is, so I entered myself by looking at how the hotel stamps their crest into the large ashtrays, thinking about addiction, weight loss, bad teeth, and bubble gum. A $17.00 cab ride later (Thanksgiving tip, I’m so fucking charitable, hearing someone say “you do the same” was kind of close to thinking that someone actually cared about what I do, only cost two bucks). I had to kill time since the train was delayed. Waiting in line didn’t really kill time, it was like a failed suicide attempt, I was standing behind an overweight, bitchy white woman who spoke in that ghetto-arrogant tongue, demanding a refund for herself as well as her husband and three interracial children who had to stand on the train from Balmer’, what with her unreserved seats. I got my tickets and trekked out of the station to see what these strip mall suburban fucks do. And what do they do? It appears there’s nothing else to do there, but eat. Goddamn, this explains why Americans are fat, they drive because that shits too far to walk to, and there aint nothing else to do but eat. First thing I pass was a steak house advertising a $6.99 steak lunch, which created the train of thought “If yr really in the mood for a steak, make it one of those $30 steaks where a flamboyant gay actor struggling to make it on Broadway makes some great steak puns and offers like five different forks”, or just grill yr own steak you want to be cheap. But it could be all about the experience, like buying hash browns at Burger King so you can take a dump in the ball pit and not feel like you don’t deserve to be there. Then I passed a Hostess outlet store offering 69 cent bread, I had never paid attention to bread prices ever before, now I have something to compare nice bread to. I passed a bunch of chain fast food places and the supermarket chain that banned Gwar from playing in Richmond, and then I found what I was looking for: the two golden M’s, Mediterranean Market. Sweet. I gotta try it, and if it’s good, support the fuck out of it. It’s the kind of humbling storefront that I’m always looking for; several small round tables in the front of the store, walls of imported goods on two sides, fresh produce down the center. That sort of simple, all in one deli set up, like Vace if you could eat inside rather than have to straddle Taft bride or sit on a stoop, which aint bad, but on a rainy day in a hole outside of Richmond, VA, stoops are hard to find, and often covered with menthol cigarette butts and soiled NASCAR memorabilia. So I’m there in the market, I set down my bags, I know I want the gyro combo and I want to give their spinach pie a shot, I hadn’t eaten anything at all to that point in the day, it was 2:00 by then. The portly deli-man was talking in a foreign language, indistinguishable to I, maybe Dizard or Cortez could translate, but the non-English speaking was a good sign that the food was true and sincere and delicious, that it would be dense lamb meat cut right of the spinning vertical rod rather some mass-produced frozen shit that gets sent out to Greek Orthodox churches across the country. I drew this analogy on my legal pad that I was drawing boobs on to pass the time:
English : Bad : : Gyro : Good

How did I pronounce gyro? Some slur between Ja-Eye-Ro and Year-Oh, to show I was down but not necessarily sure of how they said it. One of the women there asked “You like the gyro (Ja-Eye-Ro)?” I wasn’t sure if this was some of that Lebanese humor that I got through Patrick Abdel-Nour (I mean, ridiculous lying) but either way I was getting a gyro and the menu also promised a cool mint candy also. Several minutes later, I got my damn gyro, and let me tell you this. It was a damn good gyro however you choose to pronounce it. Hot meat with the right balance of soft delicious flesh and the proper amount of crunch, the tomatoes were fresh and most of all the onions were grilled, gone was the acrid buzz of uncooked cold onions. The one disappointment was that the promised “cool mint candy” was just a peppermint patty. But I ate it, chewed the cool mint (and low-fat as the silver wrapper flaunts) and contemplated the glories of life while the industrial refrigerators buzzed, then a soccer mom totally broke my calm with her whole “I want three gyros, beef gyros, all the tops on the side, except for one with all the tops inside with no onions”. She confused the portly deli man. I told him that I liked the onions and got a baklava for the road, which I ate inside and looked at the variety of hookah products they were selling. Like I said in the Flying Shark comments somewhere; hookah is the new mesh hat, or popped collar or flex fit baseball cap that you keep the holographic sticker on. Usually I’m quick to say fuck the trend and do whatever it is that I think I’m doing in life, but while I’m not a real hookah-horny motherfucker like so many kids are these days, I think it’s a good social wave for American youth. Where does hookah come from? Why, the Middle East. Oh man. All the dumb impressionable, trend-loving, thoughtless American youth, smoking hookah listening to Petey Pablo, wearing black ski masks, smuggling hash in their mommy’s SUV. Imagine the day. Its not going to happen, but I want to emphasize that all the kids are feeling sooooooooo bad ass smoking hookah, its not even that fun, not worth my three bucks. I mean, maybe if the smoke was colored like bright purple or it ACTUALLY GOT YOU HIGH, then maybe it’d be an enjoyable activity to partake in, but I’ll sit there and drink Turkish coffee, maybe get some of that Sha-war-ma, listen to the wild beats and fundamentalist shrieking, loiter amongst the Armani-wearing Arab trust fund kids were their clean, shiny hair and those shoes that are square in the front. Of course there’s my problem, why I’m too fat to get laid. Eating when there’s nothing else to do. All the asshole kids with the active sex lives and stupid hats, they’re all smoking, so they’re not getting the falafel gut, the kind of gut that swallows penises (penii?) whole. The old cancer v. diabetes challenge. A moot point if the liver is destroyed first, totally fuckin’ moot if I lose all my money gambling or on hookers or bullets. Choice of sin, I guess. I mean its all about choices, its just a fucking prelude to innovation, but like in motion man. A fuckin’ freak show. Someday I’ll find a point, where it will make sense, then this will be heroic, but for now I need to find a source of free rolls of toilet paper, because I sure as hell ain’t paying for it. Now I know why those shits have locks on ‘em. Fuckers like me.

Our Gun Tit

Last night, the G-Unit Tour was in Richmond. Last night G-Unit was a block away from my dorm. Between me and G-Unit were some cotton candy vendors, three ambulances, some kids playing buckets, a scattering of police in unmarked cars, and a shitload of kids waiting in a two-block line to see G-Unit. No joke, people were shot last night at the G-Unit show. The show was at Richmond’s Landmark Theater, which was the converted mosque that Will Dizard(o) spoke of in his description of a lengthy night in down in the capital of the confederacy.
“Yo, you going to the G-Unit show?” was the overplayed, tongue-in-cheek slogan of every stubble-bound HILLARIOUS WHITE COLLEGE STUDENT that evening, and I’ll tell, it never got old. And of course, there is nothing funnier than violence at large public events. This takes me back to the Del show at 9:30 Club, where some GW student was like hitting on Janet and talking about go-go’s and how safe they were, which as we learned at Wilson, is not necessarily a true statement. Like, having never gone to a “real” go-go, I couldn’t tell you one way or the other, but I do know kids that have been shot, and kids who have died in the course on a long evening at the go-go, a “real” go-go as opposed to a fine, safe for the whole family throwdown on Constitution Avenue that everyone should check out. So this GW fucker was telling me that “No, that’s an exaggeration, go-go’s are safe. I saw Chuck Brown once” he said. I’ve seen Chuck Brown, and that man is a musician and a local hero, but that isn’t an example of a contemporary go-go. I told him about kids at Wilson, and the sincere warnings of the navy blazer security force “Whiteboy, if you go, you will most definitely get hurt.” Somehow we managed to avoid that dumbass GW student for the rest of the night, but there’s something about suburban white kids that don’t realize what’s going on; in the end I still heard lots of jokes about how fucking hilarious it would be if they saw 50 Cent shoot somebody, other kids just wanted to get high with the rappers.
Next point of business, I was incredibly disappointed with G-Unit bus; was it covered in diamonds? No. Were there chain gun turrets and spent shells everywhere? No. Were there stripper cages? None visible. How ‘bout spinning rims? No, not single spinning rim on that bus. But there was a large TV visible and one that satellite hemispheres on top the bus. The bus wasn’t guarded by large intimidating black men in bright colored suits, just a bunch of Richmond police in flak jackets, but there were at least 15-20 cops out back by the bus. Some of them must have been off-duty cops getting the ole’ double pay to hang out behind the gangsta rapper’s bus in case any enemy tries to lay a hit on the boy.
If you listen to 50 Cent’s album ‘Get Rich or Die Tryin’, it certainly seems like the fucker has people somewhat constantly trying to murder him, or more appropriately, many men wish death ‘pon him. So either he really is a former coke dealer with extensive crime history, or he has created great fucking folklore, so much to the point that this show of police force solidifies how strong this tall tale is. I’m not saying a doubt that people are constantly trying to kill him, but I’d really admire the fuckers if this were all staged, it would be an intense 24-hour spin. It isn’t that honest, but there are people in this world whose whole job is to spin these events and create these stories and everyone buys in; these people are really good at what they do. Like, part of the G-Unit experience is having these cops and ambulances outside the show, right? Its like drinking cheap beer and seeing ugly tits at Capital Centre parking lot in the early 80’s, like is murder the tailgate party you expect at a large arena show. Of course not, that’s absurd. Because there was plenty of non-murder related life outside the G-Unit show. There was cotton candy and a large cardboard cutout of the movie Scarface that you and your friends could take a picture in front of and kids rockin’ the buckets, like 8-year-old kids, kicking ass on the buckets. And kids dressed up, they weren’t wearing medieval gauntlets or waving tapestries that were dyed in a sink at a Hardees in Ashland, no, this is future baby, and everything is fucking shiny. It’s time for us to rise up and wear our wealth around our necks. Man, gold chains, big pendants, huge glittering belt buckles, and the nicest fucking automotive rims you’ll see in Richmond all year. Shit, if I had several hundred dollars worth of gold (or something looks like several hundred dollars worth of gold) around my neck, I’d certainly show it off, hell, I’d walk around holding it out so that everyone sees this shininess, sure its dark out, but I’ll it to you. I love shit, I don’t do it, but it makes my night. Like I like seeing colorful, punked out 14 year olds from the Virginia suburbs come to the 9:30 Club and act like total assholes when some shitty pop-punk band opens for the Pietasters or the Bosstones, just as long as they don’t pogo into me and I spill my Nachos of Ulysses, then those bitches are toast. I remember being a 15 year old rudeboy, I loved that was two-tone, of fuckin’ A. Pick it up, pick it up. Come Wi Goh Dung Deh. Yeah man, youthful enthusiasm is great. I see a college kid decked out in large plaid blazer with poorly affixed, poorly screened NOFX patches, and I think to myself “Grow the fuck up”, but I guess in five years he’ll be a strung out bearded piece of shit just like me, and I figure I can sell this dumbass all my old Scofflaw, Skavovee, and Skunks CD’s. I think I’ll keep the Skunks albums, just for the memory of a more sober Eric “poop” Morgan.

But back to 50 Cent and G-unit. The music is mediocre, but has entertaining amount of almost cartoon gunshots, but there are some moments where the fellow seems sincere about, well, not wanting to die. Surprisingly, a handful of your girlpants-wearing, youth medium size t-shirt, screamo kids dig the 50 Cent, but these days you can’t tell what the fuckers are being ironic about anymore. But the veil of the story is well played out, when 50 Cent was in DC, apparently he was at one of the big gyms down in the old Dupont Circle, and the story goes that him and his entourage, just jetted out of there real fast at some spontaneous moment because apparently some nemesis was in the gym. Like if this was all fabricated, holy shit, what a tale. Like this could be a new fairy tale in four hundred years, people could tell their kids about 50 Cent (motherfucker) and translate that verse like is Beowulf (motherfucker).
I feel like I’ve contradicted myself here, talking about how violence at go-go’s is a serious issue and talking about that GW out-of-towner being a sissy bitch whatever I called that goatee motherfucker, and in my last entry I tried (and failed) at expressing the nervous giddiness of watching a huge drunken brawl with straightedge crew violence. Which is just another culture that has gangs and stupid violence and it all comes from fuckers who don’t think for themselves. I won’t deny I was entertained by watching this tough old school hardcore fucker from DC give a boot to the head of a redneck who was making fun, hell I’ve been listening to ‘Give ‘em the Boot’ comps since 9th grade, finally got to see someone give ‘em the boot.

So in the end, last night I didn’t actually see 50 Cent, but I did play some air hockey, was a huge bitch to operate at first, but I lost both games, so then I bought some Ben & Jerrys and watched a Roseanne marathon, and that’s about where I am now. I wonder how long this marathon is. I’ve got some photoshoppin’ to do. I should eat a meal, a bowl of Half-Baked Ben & Jerry’s isn’t a healthy breakfast, but had I gone to University of Vermont it would have been my most frequent meal. Damnation.

Filler (I got tired of the virtual bartender)

Haven’t posted anything recently, nothing meaningful for a while. Any rant I could go on would be a rerun and not worth anyone’s time. Continuing with the college freshmen clichés, I am totally out of money, not totally, but I spent way too much money than I should have in the month of October. I spent over $500, which is just fucking ridiculous, but I guess I can account for the whole month. October 1 = Darkest Hour at the Nanci Raygun, I bought a Facedowninshit Euro-Tour LP that night. I also bought some records at Plan 9 that day (Spazz, Econochrist, a Flipside comp.). The following Tuesday, Q and Not U’s new album ‘Power’ came out. I remember I was sick then, so I got a couple cans of Coke and some Hot & Sour soup while I was down in Carytown. That Friday I came back to DC, saw Q and Not U at Black Cat, bought a shirt and an LP. The next night I lost $10 gambling. I believe I also bought a Slurpee since I was back in DC. When I came back to Richmond with my bike I made several bike trips to Plan 9 Records and spent too much money. A week and a half later I went to New York, where money just kind of gets sucked out. I got fucked with the ATMs there. I would go to the ATMs that advertised “ONLY $1.00 SERVICE CHARGE”, but it turns out that it’s their buck service charge in addition to Wachovia’s $2.00 non-Wachovia machine cost. And that happened (hesitation) several times. Bought a new Comets on Fire CD while I was New York, which was totally unnecessary, but their totally tripped out songs went well with the beautiful New Jersey chemical waste sunset. Next weekend, I came back to DC, so another set of totally unnecessary costs built up, but I was having a good time and this was the first time in my life when I could rely on the old money card to get me through. But my careless spending would catch up with me. That Friday night I saw Del the Funkee Homosapien with Sam and Janet, went to Ben’s Chili Bowl afterwards. The rest of the weekend I continued to spend money; Steak’n’egg a couple times, Pho ’75, two different Record Exchanges, seeing the Aftermath’s last show at Wonderland, buying their 2x7” (limited to 100 copies, so that’s an investment, harDCore gold bullion) then seeing 86 Mentality and Dead Stop again the next night in Richmond.
Actually that show in Richmond (election night) was something. It was the first time I ever got to be caught in the middle of a huge brawl in which the entire bar was swirling in some real melee, not some stupid jock-mosh-karate kick-bullshit, like a real life giant fucking brawl, like something out of the Wild West or a Blood for Blood record. Here’s how it went down. There were a bunch of kids there dressed like 1980’s metal types, the whole ‘Heavy Metal Parking Lot’-look, you know the type, dudes in short cut off jeans, belly shirts, aviator glasses, stupid fucking mustaches, dumb ass drawls. They were all there for some Richmond band who’s banner had a confederate flag that I couldn’t tell if it was for irony or not. But that band was okay and their fans had fun but were well behaved, so whatever. Next up were one of DC’s toughest fuckin’ bands, 86 Mentality, who I had seen the night before at Wonderland in DC. Totally awesome band, these dudes live on the “other side” of Georgia Avenue and the address of their house is 666. Very gruff early DC-style punk, a lot like S.O.A, which was Henry Rollins’ high school band. So these dudes are playing and getting heckled by on of the faux-rednecks the whole time. After too much heckling, the dude from 86 gives throws the redneck to the ground and gives him a boot to the head and then the whole place goes off. You’ve got the singer of the band fighting this one dude, then redneck crew gets in there trying to pull the two away from each other, then the hardcore fundamentalist kids known for their gang mentality start like stealing rednecks’ hats or something and that’s the biggest insult to a redneck or something, so then the whole place is tossing fists throwing each other to the ground. The show was in the upstairs bar of a Chinese restaurant, so when I realized “holy shit, this is a huge fucking brawl” I was inching towards the stairs down, because I got that DC mindset, I’m not gonna be a fucking statistic. But eventually it all calmed down, and the different tribes separated, I think a girl lost a tooth and some ironic plastic sunglasses were broken. But in the unity-spirit of hardcore everyone settled down to let Dead Stop, who were on tour from Belgium play a set that included a couple bad ass Bad Brains covers, and in the end, we all love us some Bad Brains, whether you’re a redneck, or a straight edge boy scout, a Degenerate Fuck, a southern fried stoner, manic depressive Rastafarian, or a JRussell, we can all pile on and sing ‘Banned in DC’. Then I biked home, watched some of the live Election coverage, the next morning I checked the news and went back to sleep. So that was the month of October.

In the end, I spent my money way too carelessly, especially on records, but I learned my lesson, since is the first time in a while I’m not getting paid to hang out in a record store on weekends and there’s not income. So I’m making some tapes of the good shit and putting it up for auction. I can post a list of records if anyone’s interested, not just punk stuff; there’s some jazz, soul, classic rock, a couple comedy classics (Rappin’ Rodney, That Nigger’s Crazy). Help me get back on financial feet. So I can like, do laundry and not be in debt to my stepfather.

Waaa-waaa

I'd Really Like to Think I Have Better Things to Do

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
iamthenewflesh: they don't have any pabst
iamthenewflesh: oh wait
iamthenewflesh: it's pabst blue ribbon
iamthenewflesh: not just pabst
iamthenewflesh: i did the shirt
iamthenewflesh: crazy

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
audiac eclipse: wow
PieToaster: command her
audiac eclipse: wait
audiac eclipse: this isn't something that's gonna scare me
PieToaster: no
PieToaster: just type in tits or ass
audiac eclipse: i typed in tits
audiac eclipse: she didn't do shit
audiac eclipse: oh tight

CapsFanBen: that is fucking awesome
PieToaster: hah

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
WatzukeJD: oh shit!
PieToaster: make some demands
WatzukeJD: i did
WatzukeJD: bra?
WatzukeJD: damnit!
WatzukeJD: she put she shirt back on!
PieToaster: heh
WatzukeJD: man what the fuck!
WatzukeJD: i told her to get naked and now some body guard is blocking her
WatzukeJD: lame
PieToaster: word

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
OldShizer: sweet
PieToaster: command her
OldShizer: dude
OldShizer: this is dumb
OldShizer: i asked her to make me a margarita but she wouldn't do it
OldShizer: and then i told her to take off her shirt and she did it
PieToaster: say lose the top
PieToaster: oh
PieToaster: she did do it
PieToaster: all she has is beer
OldShizer: haha
OldShizer: thats what i figured
OldShizer: she won't blow me
PieToaster: heh
PieToaster: if you type in hummer
PieToaster: you get close
PieToaster: or dance
OldShizer: yeah
OldShizer: hah
OldShizer: she bent over
OldShizer: this is rediculous
PieToaster: courtesy of pheerboard
OldShizer: hummer
OldShizer: haha

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
spid36: what should I order
PieToaster: knee
PieToaster: shoes
PieToaster: tap
PieToaster: fight
spid36: haha
PieToaster: ass
spid36: hahaha
PieToaster: fake
spid36: this shit is great
spid36: this is awesome
spid36 signed off at 6:01:21 PM.

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
JDusty5: haha gross
JDusty5: she doesnt know hwo to do anything
PieToaster: what have you asked her to do?
JDusty5: make me a gin and tonic
JDusty5: give me a guiness
JDusty5: she did the take off your clothes thing though
JDusty5: all she knows how to do is bring me a beer and take off her shirt
PieToaster: pervert
JDusty5: hahaha

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
pooh browne: nice
pooh browne: wait how come it dont seem to work
pooh browne: hold on ill try again later

PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
Ihavegodinacage is away at 6:00:54 PM.
Ihavegodinacage returned at 6:06:51 PM.
Ihavegodinacage: she is disrobing
Ihavegodinacage: this is quite amusing
PieToaster: what have you asked her to do
Ihavegodinacage: I have asked her to take off her shirt, pants, get me a beer, get on her knees, chug a beer, and bend over, and then a bunch of shit she hasn't done
Ihavegodinacage: nothing creative, really
Ihavegodinacage: I am really tired
Ihavegodinacage: she is not completing a lot of these
Ihavegodinacage: I told her to put butter on her feet and dance on the bar, but her feet remain unbuttered
Ihavegodinacage: I was hoping she would fall off
Ihavegodinacage: now she is weilding a lightsaber
Ihavegodinacage: but she still can't get me some food

(a couple hours later)
audiac eclipse: yo
audiac eclipse: hook me up with that bartender
PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
audiac eclipse: what are some commands
PieToaster: kiss, fake, dance, rock out, pour beer on yourself, cowboy, shoes, hummer, pitcher
audiac eclipse: haha
audiac eclipse: tight
audiac eclipse: tight
audiac eclipse: dude this is so great

(Several days later)
spid36: hey ya wanna send me that link once more
PieToaster: hah sure
spid36: thanks
PieToaster: Virtual Bartender
PieToaster: thats what you were asking for right?
spid36: you bet

If Virtual Bartender is a little too un-PC for you, kill some time with Subservient Chicken.

Mustang candy cake.

Mediocre T-Shirt Design

You, uhh, think the kids'll wear it?
Well, I ain't making it.

You're never going to regret this, Ray!

Are these hillbillies and yokels really going to be the next generation of doctors and psychologists? Is this stiff bastard going to be the suit that owns me in ten years? Oh man, this is what I get for not applying myself back in high school. Getting shafted by the suckers. I have nothing against hillbillies or collared fuckholes, I’m sure they’re all fine people, but it boggles me that they’re going to be much “better” than me in the socio-economic-power structure thing in a couple years. I’m pulling two examples from across the plane of world here; the first being earlier this morning, I was sitting against one of them indoor brick walls waiting for class to begin, and the hick with poor complexion was talking loudly to a cute girl with one those hoarse southern accents, they were talking about their pre-med requirements and volunteering in child psychology and talking about hundreds of credits, whatever that means. I’m there, against the brick, probably showing off some ass crack, in my United Airlines hoodie with the ripped right pocket, probably nodding my head to the beat of ‘Capitol Radio’, probably smelling awful, looking worse, there’s no more noxious sight then a large unkempt man trying to sit cross legged-y; there was a reason I was always the pilgrim or lumberjack in the elementary school reenactment of Thanksgiving, this brother over here, ain’t sitting Indian style, plus I’ve always thought flannel was bad ass. So back to this pre-med hillbillies. Man, that yokel must be a lot smarter than me, therefore he’s going to be more successful than me, he’ll become one of those “cool” psychologists, the one that all the teenage girls look forward to seeing, he’ll tell them horizontal = call for help, vertical cuts = getting business done, the room will be full of books, with a fine Oriental rug that he bargained the fucker down on, he’ll one of those things where there’s like five balls and one ball hits the other balls, you know, the fuckin’, the fuckin’ perpetual motion machine or benoit ball thing that they always have in offices. Fuckin’ A. Am I confusing psychology with psychiatry? What’s the difference? Joy Division to New Order? Maybe that hillbilly fuck is better suited for that job. I don’t want to learn the truths of the brain, I just want to confuse the fuck out of myself and get some General Tso’s chicken once in a while.
When I was up at Columbia, hanging with the DC mafia there, we got ourselves in a conversation that spanned from Freud to the Flaming Lips, with the question of does neuroscience have the capacity to, in time, chemically determine every action of the human mind. Before disintegrated in to a whiskey-fueled rendition ‘Baba O’ Reily’, one the Eli’s up there stated that there was conscience decision to not want to understand the depths of human decision and wonder whether or not they’re chemically derived (hence the Flaming Lips) and if human feelings can not be broken down to just chemicals in the mind. Man, I sure felt like an Ivy League student then. If it wasn’t for my MC5 shirt with the coffee stains that look urine stains, I could really fit in over at that cinderblock building, until they caught me stealing forks and spoons, which is inevitable. But I could still hang out on their quad, doing Bill Murray quotes on the steps; “For whatever reasons, Ray, call it fate. Call it luck. Call it ka-arma. I believe that everything happens for a reason. I believe that we were destined to get thrown out of this dump”.

RAY
For what purpose?

PETER
To go into business for ourselves.
Offers RAY a drink. RAY drinks.

RAY
This ecto-containment system that Spengler and I have in mind is going to require a load of bread to capitalize. Where are we going to get the money?

PETER
I don't know.
drinks
I don't know.

Outside Manhattan City Bank
The three come out of the bank. Fanfare.

PETER
You're never going to regret this, Ray!

RAY
My parents left me that house! I was born there!

PETER
You're not going to lose the house. Everybody has three mortgages nowadays.

RAY
But at nineteen percent! You didn't even bargain with the guy!

EGON
flashing a calculator
Ray, for your information, the interest rate alone for the first five years comes to $95,000.

Well I fucking enjoy myself. I sure can pass time well alone, hell that’s all I do down here. Maybe I’ll make up my own language, hit ‘em like Sigur Ros, with a fetus on the cover.

But those kids were hitting some deep stuff, and I can’t even find the soft spot in my skull. Makes me wonder whether I’m really as interested in psychology as sometimes I tell myself I am, I think I’m down for the mystery, for the surprise, I’m more of a man for thrift stores and Boggle and fucking damn curry, you don’t know what curry can do to ya. I don’t know whatever the truth is, but I gues I’m content with making fun Asians and saying ‘fuck’ more times than I have to, spilling chili all over my sleeves. I still don’t what I’m in it for, air hockey? Cheap hoochie? Square dancing? I dunno.

“So when you go to sleep at night, some writers write all night, ten thousand words of truth, then they drink themselves to death upon finding it...”

I can’t wait to go jail and then have a jailbreak.
I’d get some coffee and some pecan pie.
Be the best damn pecan pie ever.
Even better than that old Mama’s bourbon pecan pie.
Let’s take it all.

Election Got Too Close