The Toilet, She Cry Much of the Time

The women we love
The sacrifices we make
The condoms we wear
The condoms we break

Baby, can you dig your man?
He's a righteous man
Baby, can you dig your man?

Where You'd Head

Idiot.


You shouldn't admit that to yourself, and certainly not aloud. You won't, but idiocy is what makes you chuckle, nope, more like a cachinnation, but whatever. It's cool. So you mutter "Where would you head if trouble were coming?" and four souls heed your call, including you.

"Where?" Steph inquires, and you glance away from your Big Grab of Flamin' Hot Cheetos to catch her fucking with a dispenser knob, pouring Blueberry Slurpee into a nonexistent cup. From behind the sanctity of the checkout counter, Preston (cashier extraordinaire) states that Steph will have to pay for a cup, even if she's just running the machine. His name is Preston Podaril, but people refer to him as Pillsbury because he likes to chew on toothpicks like he pioneered the very act. Pillsbury is a bit pudgy, too, but not in that fat bastard kind of way. Steph is going to pay for something, yeah, but probably not for the Slurpee; she'll just buy a Mounds bar and they'll call it even. You paid for the Cheetos, so you're cool. That you've been ogling a bean burrito notwithstanding, you're inclined to pay for stuff. Whatever, pt. 2.

"Here, this place" you say, shrugging your shoulders haphazardly. Schumacher tells you to shut the fuck up as he eyes the rack of porno mags, but that's just his way. He doesn't really want it to be quiet, because moments of silence honestly seem to cause him unbearable pain. Bet you didn't know that underneath that brutish exterior, he's a softy for walks on the beach. Beneath that studded leather jacket and the meat hook nestled within its folds, he's a sentimentalist with a penchant for bukkake videos, Hustler magazine, and dealing cocaine. Such things won't matter in a bit, but that's neither here nor there.

Pillsbury snickers in disbelief, and if you didn't know better, you'd say that there were three toothpicks dangling from his lips. "I'd stay behind this counter, baby!" he jeers, because he thinks that he's got it made, that portly fuck. Chances are that he'd like to fuck you, in the ass most likely, but then again, wouldn't you enjoy screwing yourself in the ass? You can't blame him, even if he is a douche bag. Foxy whatever, phase three.

You shut him down by modifying your initial query as "Where would you head, if you were a customer?" Steph's moved on to free espresso at this juncture, and her wild bush of blonde hair kinda pisses you off, just because it's there, and just because it's no longer 1988. This is tonight, after all. Schumacher gently unwraps a granola bar and says something about the lack of necessity. Pillsbury sneers at you, and doesn't ask Josh 'the hook' Schumacher to pay for the merch. You wish you could recollect how much money Preston owes Josh for blow.

Steph informs you that it's three in the morning, and nothing bad, let alone exciting, happens around here -this 7-Eleven, this city, this state- at night, and you respond by munching on a few more fiery snacks. You're gazing out the window, past the neon haze, at a pair of automobiles, neither of which is your own, parked at the Aldi's lot across the street, but not really; instead, you're watching him, no fuck that, you're viewing what he's doing, and what he'll proceed to do, shortly.

Betwixt a rusted white import and a Ford Aerostar (and you'd recognize an Aerostar anywhere, ever since Brian Grimm tipped his over while driving - as you sat in the passenger seat, no less) He merely stands, arms outstretching progressively toward each respective car. You're too far away to hear anything, but when each of His gaunt hands tear a door from its steely mooring, you needn't be a prodigy to ascertain His intentions. His movements are so comically readable.

"Like I was saying," you mumble as you begin to shift with considerable speed, "if trouble were coming, I'd head to the Shazam machine.* That thing is a brick, for Christ's sake." As you begin to take refuge behind the mammoth block, Steph takes a sip of her coffee and asks if you need some cash. It's cool.




* Also known as an automated teller machine, for those cultured folks.

Dead People Party VIII (aka This is One for the Good Old Days)

From the Diary of Masta Killa:

Day 648. Woke up outside the San Diego Zoo. Lots of bones and dust, that's it. Could hardly tell the difference. Had to crap so broke a store window to get toilet paper. Took a dump in the parking lot. Was checking empty cars for matches, circled around, and, hell, stepped in it. Not a steaming shit save mine on the third rock from the sun, and I reacquaint myself with it not a minute later. Poetic. Beans again, cold. Migraines persist. Found an unexpired bottle of Advil at a nearby pharmacy. Playboy, too. Kim Kardashian looks hotter in person, trust me. Still, I masturbated. Random graffito on bus window: Iceberg sweaters were mad stupid. Can't say I disagree. At least Wu Wear never featured Snoopy prints. Still no sun. Rained yesterday. Tasted metallic. Going to see the ocean. Fish still alive? I wonder. Haven't seen even a cockroach since it happened. Shaved with a broken bottle shard just for the heck of it. There's a singular experience. Look emaciated. Like Christian Bale in The Machinist. Vitamins don't work. Nothing does. Even when I gorge myself I either can't hold it down or pass it almost immediately after consumption, so I've stopped trying. I'm on my farewell tour, I'm confident. Push up your lighters. Sleeping well, though. Undisturbed. Isn't that ironic? When I was a kid I often fantasized about being the sole inhabitant on Earth. Note to my younger self: not even close. You want to play videogames for 24 hours straight and eat a king's ransom in Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, laddie? Tough. You want to smoke a joint in the Oval Office? Make due with a cigarette (a fucking Lucky Stripe; how's that for injustice?), pirate, because, amazingly, you're more liable to find a nugget of gold in a petrified bear testicle than chronic. (Hell on Earth? Goddam right.) Wanna run naked through your old high school? Surprisingly underwhelming. I would kill for a bag of Munchos. An earthshattering blowjob, moreso, but let's be realistic. Do I have a purpose? I dunno. Perhaps I'm on a quest. Perhaps I'm the final cling-on that is humankind. Whatever; before these boils, tumors, scars and scabs cover me both inside and out, I will accomplish something noteworthy. Even though no one will see it. I'm tempted right now to claim that I hit ten thousand straight free throws, but I cannot in good conscience do so (the actual number was ninety one). Supposing someone is reading this, you might wonder "Isn't being the sole survivor of the apocalypse enough?" Sadly, no, it isn't. Nearly two years ago I went to bed at night and awoke the next day in another world. I didn't plan it, will it, or wish for it. It just happened. I used to think it was pretty neat that I was chosen from on high to repopulate the planet until I realized that, unless I could transmorgrify into an earthworm or a mogwai, I was shit out of luck as far as compatible mates go. Oh well, then. Not long after, the self-admission that randomness was the only explanation for my survival set in. That wasn't a good day (my constipation only compounded my misery). I have always considered myself a unique individual -- second to none, one might say. This stems from the fact that I was conceived no more than a few months after my brother was born, after the IUD my mother had implanted in her arm proved ineffective. I beat an IUD. Not even Jordan can claim that achievement. Still, again, the comfort I take from the experience is fleeting, for I do not remember my existence as a tiny sperm, nor can I claim that even then I possessed a strong survival instinct, although given recent developments that's not entirely implausible. Jesus complex? Maybe. But right now I'm wearing a pair of ragged corduroys, a shirt -- word to the Grinch's heart -- 2 sizes too small, and the eyes I stole from the mailroom supervisor at my last job. Crown of thorns > my shabby attire. Anyway, I'm almost at the bottom of this boulder. If I keep writing it might fall on me. Should I live another week, I'll make it my duty to engrave a follow-up missive on some legible surface between here and Mexico. Meanwhile, here I go again. On my own. Walking down the only road I've ever known. God, I miss you. I wish we could have seen the stars together. They were so bright.

Dead People Party Interlude -- AKA Crisis on Infinite Earths

Eoin Forbes: Warning: this might become incoherent and poorly written two sentences from this one (save the jokes, Mr. Funnyman). I slept less than an hour last night, my eyes are burning, and my neighbors dog is entreating me to KILL. Psychedelic Insomnia, aka lying in bed for seven hours straight, too ascairt to get out of bed and play DS/read Thomas Pynchon/send the Duff sisters fanmail because I think I feel it. I could fall asleep...any...second.... Seconds become minutes, minutes become hours, and, ultimately, the result is the hollow chrysalis of a man. This room is spinning.

It was a previous bout of insomnia (see, I'm going somewhere with this) which inspired the Dead People Party series of posts. I began the

(I don't want to say bold, because the word connotes foreshadowed achievement; so let's settle on industrious)

series after spending a night in that immensely frustrating limbo between superlative drowsiness and perfect awareness. Some time before dawn -- and that's the rub, let me tell you: stay up all night sleepless, denied entry to the Land of Nod, only to gain access less than an hour before your alarm clock rings. I feel the same way vis a vis adulthood and wet dreams, by the way -- I dreamt that I was at the release party for the Wu-Tang Clan's new album, their latest in nearly six years, 8 Diagrams

Naturally, as dreams of mine are wont, reality was a tad skewed. Raekwon was three-feet tall, wearing rainbow-colored suspenders, a jaunty bowler atop his watermelon-shaped head; Inspectah Deck was a cyborg, Method Man a witty raconteur who amused all in attendance with anecdotes of a year and a half spent aboard a whale ship with Julia Child (or maybe it was Chris Childs; I don't remember); Ghostface, perhaps ironically, was the phantom bartender from Kubrick's The Shining; U-God was a woman -- a fairly attractive one at that -- teaching children how to whistle with their fingers. Rounding out the Clan (mostly, for in both dreams and wakefulness, Masta Killa has proven elusive; and ODB is dead and Cappadonna is Olivia from The Cosby Show), GZA, dressed as a skeleton, threw water balloons at late stragglers, while RZA, holding a lorgnette, viewed (NYC)everything from a bulletproof opera box.

This dream, it would turn out, would be prophetic. I'm used to, for lack of a better term, fucked-up shit happening while I am asleep; but something about this particular dream left a profound impression upon me. I awoke (wose fwom my gwave is more like it) utterly convinced that 8 Diagrams would be a terrible album. I shall reiterate: not a mediocre album, but an album that would quite possibly kill hip-hop, or at least the zeitgeist of those of us who are still clutching with hope upon hopes that a seismic shift, no matter how minor, could yet occur. And who better to to bring about its resurgence than the fellas who rebuilt the matrix the first time, the Wu?

I should have known.

The Wu-Tang Clan hasn't been relevant for over ten years, good for half that. On lyrical skills alone you will find none better, and the stars truly were aligned when, 15 years ago (damn I feel old), nine men orbited the Sun, aka RZA. And that is an apt metaphor, because without him all nine planets could not survive within the same solar system: not GZA (Jupiter), Raekwon or Ghost (Saturn and Uranus), Method Man (Mercury), Inspectah Deck (Pluto), U-God (Neptune), ODB (Mars, natch), Masta Killa (Venus; clouds, see) or Earth...(us, the fans).

And here's where it gets tricky. And here's where the Sun becomes a quasar.

When your home planet is threatened by an extinction-level event, what do you do? (Or, when your groundbreaking producer becomes impotent as both a beatsmith and a life coach, from whom do you seek sustenance to maintain your growth?)

The immediate answer is complex: a) you pull a Kal-El and seek exile in a galaxy where your strength can be honed and further marvelled upon (Ghostface), b) you break out of orbit and hope that you may someday reunite with the denizens of your fallen brothers (Raekwon, U-God), c) you pull the planetary equivalent of the Jonestown Massacre by slowly cannibalizing yourself (Inspectah Deck), d) you fall asleep during the apocalypse (Method Man), e) you -- word to Mike Tyson -- fade into Bolivian (GZA), or f) pretend you never were planets to begin with (Masta Killa and that taxi driver), and thus become fat kids in a pickup game who are just happy to be chosen, regardless the team. Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. G) you implode (ODB).

Envy ODB for dying, because whatever brought the Wu-Tang Clan back together -- read: cash, money -- certainly didn't reunite them. In fact, it has divided them more than ever. You can save yourself the time reading about the recent back-and-forth between RZA and Raekwon -- who pulled a Bill Cosby Leonard Part VI and might probably never see Cuban Linx II released as penance -- over the new album's merits or lack thereof. The Chef is right: 8 Diagrams sucks eternal balls.

How bad does it suck, though? So much so that I find myself bereft of adequate metaphors to compare to its phenomenally amazing suckage, that's how much.

(Still, I shall try.)

8 Diagrams is that time you thought you just had pimples on your shoulders and they turned out to be shingles. 8 Diagrams is 6 degrees of stupid plus 2. 8 diagrams is every retarded chain mail letter you've received in your inbox times infinity. 8 Diagrams made my turtle Dexter die to return as a giant turtle of feces that swallowed the Earth and shat out itself. 8 Diagrams is the reason you were born with Down's syndrome. 8 Diagrams is the reason I'm listening to Idlewild right now, wondering whatever happened to magic. 8 Diagrams is responsible for every remade film that sullied your fondness for horror cinema AND the Star Wars prequels. Furthermore, 8 Diagrams is to blame for every derivative pop reference joke I make on this hallowed site AND every one I miss. 8 Diagrams causes bowel discomfort in babies, toddlers, children, adolescents, teens, adults, senior citizens, and slow mutants. 8 Diagrams built Ilsan on rock & roll. 8 Diagrams is an effective means of birth control on the African continent. 8 Diagrams wants my mind, soul, and my body (or maybe that's the Illuminati; same difference). 8 Diagrams killed Biggie, Tupac, and Dave from Wendy's. 8 Diagrams caused the HAL9000's meltdown, and, likewise, several inept film majors'. 8 Diagrams, 8 Diagrams, Dalton Ames.

Goodnight.

Dead People Party VII

Ghostface Killah*: 대머리 거예요. 나는 클라이드 780과 같은 모양에 내 맡았 던지하면 어떻게하지 마십시오 같았습니다. 나는 팬텀은 최근 진동 증후군을 개발하고있는가 정의하여 나를 기분으로 phenomenom 때 발생하는 것처럼 하나 하나의 휴대 전화가 진동하면 정말없는 것이있습니다. 비트 팬텀 결손 증후군, 그건를 확실히합니다. 귀하의 스니커즈주세요. 나는 생각하지 않는다 체리 토마토 피자에있습니다. 나는 모두 사랑합니다. 그러나 일부 과학자의 경우 아이슬란드는 치즈를 발명하는 방법을 보장하는 그리스를하지 않는다 체리 토마토와 우유로 만들 젖은 양말, 좋은 민속 언제 파파 요한의 메모를받지 못했다. 나는 놀라움과로 찌른 수있는 gza의 발상으로 icicle을받을 사람이 살인 무기의 제거에 사용되지 않았 에피소드의 소비자 기대 : 뉴욕입니다. quiznos이없습니다 참치 금속, 이것은 travesty의 대서사 비율입니다. 진지하게, 왜 미워합니까 참치, quiznos가? 잠수함 참치 샌드위치 숍이없는 악의에 메뉴가 본질적입니다. 이것은 자기 증거입니다. 마지막으로 크리스마스 나를 제공한 심장합니다. 바로 다음 날, 나는 나에게 주어진 실현될 수있습니다 대신 거짓말을하고 있었다 baboon의 심장입니다. 교묘, 교활합니다. 내 아기가 사라짐가있을 경우의 기회입니다. 모든 생명이있는 선반, 일부 다른 사람보다 더 오래입니다. 덕분에 내 천부의 능력을 호소 대안 음악을 누르십시오 (나를 cam'ron과 clipse; 큰까지 자폐증 아이 언제 독 미디어), 나는 우주인 배급 동결 - 건조합니다. 일족의 나머지 부분은, 너무 많이하지 않습니다. 저는 예쁜 레아는 확신가도 그는 qiwu 않을 수있습니다 파인애플은 그 유효 기간 후에 먹는다. 당신의 피부 복용을 해제하면 친구가 나에게 이야기합니다. 나는 한 사람을위한 것이 앙등의 영어 머핀. 이와 같이, 저는 a 주스를 마시는 것이 유리 전체의 화이트 식초를 한 번 더 키스에 전체, 입술을 감각적입니다. 나는 건강한 수면 각 밤, 위안은 사실이 화성 번은 결코 무관한 될입니다. 10 년 내에, 아무도 예화 황소이나 감기 맥락이 기억됩니다. 슬픈, 남자가있습니다. 케빈 베이컨의 6 개의 학위 : 테리 michos. 확인, michos 이전에 전사, 하나의 월터 힐 감독. 힐 차관보의 지시 deadwood 파일럿 에피소드입니다. 나중에 deadwood 특집 키스 바꿔친의 역할 와일드 빌 hickock. 바꿔친의 아버지는 하나 데이비드 바꿔친, 등장한 사람 quentin tarantino 의외의 죽이는 법안입니다. 내과 2. tarantino erstwhile 또한 위대한 배우 로버트 드니로 자신의 지시를 따르 - 최대 펄프 픽션, 재키 브라운. 드니로했다가 1 년 앞서, 배리에 나타났습 levinson의 소년범, 영화도 기능이 케빈 베이컨 학대 교도소 경비로합니다. 저는 매우 확실합니까 탈락 수 있고 2 개 또는 3 개의 학위를, 그러나 나는 것들처럼 어려운 결정되는 등입니다. 나는 요즘 연주 picross는 매우 높은 수준입니다. 코리아 - 또는 어떤 나라에 대한이 문제 -이 매우 지루한없이는 문화의 노력은 또 다른 문화입니다. 및 차관 - 지입니다. 아니오 수하물, 많은 보상합니다. 나는 상황을 찾을 수 없다는 적절한 상황이 없으며 귀하에게 확신을 반영할 수 있도록 머리를 손질합니다. 귀하의 생일을 누락 대신, 저는 구매하실 수있는 빙산입니다. 상상보다 큰 경우 제 아내입니다.



* translation in the comments section

The Killers, Sawdust (Thoughts)

I must preface this by stating that I am, unapologetically, a total Killers homer, despite lead singer Brandon Flowers's often cliche-ridden lyrics (Sam's Town appears to be written by a sentimental eighth grader), said lead singer's lack of vocal range (but, boy, does his voice feel right; seriously, as a -- contrary to popular belief -- heterosexual male, I have to admit my raging man crush; and, yes, I'm holding my arms above my head in the shape of a heart right now), and the fact that -- the truth is rarely spoken and barely heard -- my affection for the band stems from a (perhaps) unhealthy tendency to see grandiose in pretension*. So if all those commas, parentheses, and dashes haven't already killed you, I would like to invite you, Constant Retard, to read my impression of the band's recently-released collection of b-sides, covers, rareties, and I got a free designer jacket. Ah, indulgence.

Tranquilize

Brandon Flowers, Lou Reed, singing children, and the war in Iraq is fucked up. Ah, indulgence. This is the rock equivalent of a Carl's Jr. meal. I. Am. Not. Complaining. By the way, as someone who has no gift for singing (and that's being conservative; I sing like Von Dutch caps are cool), Reed's "Perfect Day" is my ace in the hole during late-night noraebang sessions.

Shadowplay

I like Joy Division. I also like it when you tighten your vagina during intercourse. Clearly, I like a lot of things.

All the Pretty Faces

Why this wasn't included on Hot Fuss is a question for the ages. Seriously, are you telling me that replacing the universally awful "Everything Will Be Alright" with this outstanding track wouldn't have made an awesome album 100 times more awesomer? I certainly hope you're not telling me that. Fun fact: substitute Flower's "I spent 2 long years in a strange, strange land" with the number seven and you pretty much have my biography, at least as it relates to the last year and a half. Eerie. Brandon Flowers is the new Miami Heat.

Leave the Bourbon on the Shelf

There are so few song trilogies in music these days, which fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow. However, it's pretty easy to understand why this -- part the first -- song about the elusive Jennifer was left to marinate while "Jenny was a Friend of Mine" and "Midnight Show" were served to the masses (word to Soylent Green). It's a fantastic song (in fact, I believe it recently stopped genocide in Darfur and resuscitated Emilio Estevez's career), but it lacks foreshadowing. It's like Certz without the retsyn, or Kraft Dinner without the I got a free designer jacket.

Sweet Talk

Contra 4 is harder than a motherfucker. To the heads at Konami: there's a big difference between making a game challenging and making it so frustratingly difficult that one contemplates randomly firebombing various heavily populated locales. To put a finer point on it, Konami, I'm blaming the next large-scale terrorist attack (my magic 8-ball says a week from next Tuesday) on you. History will prove me right.

Under the Gun

Remember when, in Superman III (the third greatest Christopher Reeve film), Supes goes bad and starts drinking and shit? That -- coupled with Flintstones Vitamins-sprinkled Rice Crispies -- sorta fucked me up as a kid. Is "Under the Gun" a good song? Indeed. Is it derivative of The Strokes? Unquestionably. Did I empty my cache of porn and clear my site viewing history before you came over? Oh shit.

Where the White Boys Dance

I am supremely nonplussed. This isn't a cover? Wow. I mean, really, wow. I will make it my duty to make love while this song plays. Soon.

Show You How

The Killers are so hip-hop and they don't even know it. By the way, I'm starting a podcast sometime (soon). I'm pretty sure it will rock your world and stop genocide in Darfur. Look out for the innaugural broadcast in which KMart and I discuss the pros and cons of (among other relevant topics) moving to Tahiti, wearing an apron while eating samgyeopsal (pro: no grease on your shirt and pants, con: you look like a fairy), and the quantifiable hotness of watching Japanese lesbians tongue kiss on YouTube.

Move Away

The Killers are so U2 and they don't even know it.

Glamourous Indie Rock & Roll

A rerecorded version of the Hot Fuss UK-release bonus track. Flowers pulls a Kobe, mailing in the vocals. It's as though he's singing a karaoke rendition of his own song and purposefully trying to murder it. The original had a certain amount of satire, but here he swings for the bleachers. Genius is rarely appreciated.

Who Let You Go?

I am officially making this the new "Walking to the Subway on Your Way to Work" song. Considering past honorees ("Planet Telex" by Radiohead and The Verve's hall-of-fame "Bitter Sweet Symphony"**), it is evident that we are indeed in esteemed company.

The Ballad of Michael Valentine

Again, this isn't a cover? Ah, ambition. By the way, why do songs these days that are blatantly aimed at homosexuals have to contain the name Michael? Since when did Michael become the new Bruce? Get creative! Throw some Ians and Garys in the mix.

Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town

Like Rocky V, steroids in baseball, and the Holocaust, let's pretend this didn't happen, okay?

Daddy's Eyes

I had the most remarkable tonkatsu today. In a word, it was really very tasty. What can I say, I like crushing up sesame seeds with a pestle. Only winning the NBA Finals MVP and co-starring in a movie with Owen Wilson can, I am confident, compare.

Sam's Town (Abbey Road Version)

Remember that time we made a really fantastic song? I do. So, here's my idea: we do it again, only this time I play the piano and sing waveringly, sort of as a way to underline just how fucking incredible the song is. It doesn't matter that I have a cold. Makes me sound weathered. And, yeah, immediately after you're going to want to listen to the original version. That's the whole point. I truly lament the loss of my jacket to you. It cost like two hundred dollars.

Romeo and Juliet

I am Bob Dylan, Lou Reed, and that guy from Blues Traveler who had a gastric bypass. I am Legion, for we are many. Stay tuned: I plan to massacre Sultans of Swing sometime in the near future.

Change Your Mind

Out again. A siren screams at half past ten, and you won't let go. While I ignore that we both felt like this before, it starts to show. So if I have a chance, would you let me know? (Honestly, I have shivers listening to this; word to the Miami Heat -- 3 and 10, as of this writing -- and angels sent from Heaven.)

Mr. Brightside (Jacques Lu Cont's Thin White Duke Remix)/Questions with the Captain

Is it redundantly hyperbolic to call something both goosebump-inducing and a shattering orgasm of sound? I hope not.

Final thought: In the cupboard underneath my sink I have plastic bags, some black, others white. I really can't say why I keep them. Perhaps someday I will need them, I dunno. I don't have a toilet plunger or a screwdriver, but I do have roughly eighty plastic bags of various persuasions sleeping gently beneath my sink. I have considered naming them individually, but so far that is a border between eccentricity and madness that I am unwilling to traverse.

I got a free designer jacket. By the way.


* Sam's Town is a phenomenal album, and anyone who says different is obviously a replicant from Mars sent to first infiltrate then later collapse the structure of intellectual society.

** That song will outlast humankind, I am certain.

Dead People Party VI

U-God: I did it yesterday, when you weren't looking. It wasn't intentional, but I achieved my desired effect.

Perhaps you saw me pacing around the room, looking nervous. I didn't want to go through with it, but when you ignored my attempt to start a conversation, I knew I had to. I'll show you, I thought.

There's something poetic about it. To me. I never really wanted to die; I did so to prove a point. To you.

When I walked out and wrapped that nylon rope around my neck, I expected someone to come out looking for me a lot sooner. Standing in the stairwell above, I listened carefully. I took sixty deep breaths while silence and my racing pulse shook my head and down below my bowels screamed. I heard nothing else, as though I were under water. I imagined you sipping a warm beer, looking bored, and then I jumped.

Dead People Party V

Raekwon the Chef: Yo, this blunt smells like bleach, cousin. You rolled this?

Ghostface Killah: Yeah.

I dunno, man. Shit has a chemical taste to it. Here, take it.

Damn, that shit is nasty! Smells like burnt hair.

Anyway, as I was saying. I knew that bitch would try to play me the way she did. She's like the Eye of Sauron, you know? Nothing gets past her when I'm wearing that ring. She came back from Chicago after visiting her aunt, and BAMN! not a week later she finds out about this "side project" I'm working on. Bitch went to Verizon and got a printout of all the calls and text messages sent to and from my cell piece. She claimed the bill was too high and wanted to check if there was a mistake, but now I know she was suspicious the whole time she got back from JFK. I shoulda clued in, cousin. But I was high as a cirrus cloud, you know? It's those small mistakes that get you, believe.

What she do then?

She freaked the fuck out! Clawing at my face like a crazy bitch on angel dust. I wanted to drop her, but you know how shit like that goes -- word to Warren Moon. So I broke north. I was out the house two seconds though when I hear all this crashing and banging, like there was a tornado back in that fucker. I thought the bitch was gonna smash my Linx plaque, so I rushed back in.

What she did was destroy most of my DVD collection. That's over 300 titles, son. And, yeah, most of the discs were alright, but all the boxes were FUBAR, and I'm somewhat of a collector. The only disc that didn't make it was Hustle & Flow.

I managed to calm her down (I thought she was gonna break my fucking plasma screen), but not before she called shorty, saying she was gonna kill her.

So you made things straight then?

Fuck that, son. That bitch and I been dead long before that nonsense. It was just the next necessary step in the evolutionary process of our relationship. Like that black monolith in A Space Odyssey. I only pretended to play nice so's to ensure she didn't stab me one night while I was sleeping before she got served her papers.

Sounds like one fucked-up ho, for real.

You don't know the half! I could fill a book with all the crazy shit that bitch did.

So these days how you livin'?

I feel good man, for real. Better than I have in my whole life, in fact. But it's weird; without that sort of conflict my writing suffers. It isn't at the level it once was. Paradoxes and shit, when I'm under stress I can pen an amazing verse, but when I feel like I'm exactly where I want to be, forever, I can't do shit. Maybe that's how John Steinbeck felt, I dunno. All I know is that comfort zones are dangerous in and outside of the creative process.

And that's all I'll say right now, for fear that if I continue I'll break the fourth wall.

Dead People Party IV

Inspectah Deck: You know how people sometimes pick Ringo as their favorite Beatle or The Possessed as their favorite Dostoevsky novel* just to be contrary? Well, I am not that guy. That guy is Masta Killa, and I'm pretty sure he'd be delivering pizzas right now if it weren't for the rest of us.

No, I am not the weak link. Not by far. Ask any fan of lyricism and he'll tell you that a debate has long raged over who of the Clan's esteemed membership is the best pure rhymer, me or GZA. And, yeah, GZA usually comes out on top, at least on most of the message boards I frequent**, but that likely has more to do with his moniker than anything. I know this, as I have recently been taking classes in marketing and economics at a local community college***. Word to Stringer Bell. Let's have a "better MC" debate pitting Jason Hunter against Gary (*snicker*) Grice, and then we'll see who the real champion is.

(And for the record, my verse on "Guillotines" crushes dude's.)

I may sound bitter. Trust me, I am not. Have you heard Words from a Genius or Beneath the Surface? More like Words from a Glib Asshole and Beneath the Rectum! Pwned. Liquid Swords, while a classic, is more a credit to RZA than to Mr. Grice. Sure, Gary throws heat on the album, but I would argue that, of the record's thirteen tracks, the weakest are the ones in which Mr. Grice is the sole MC, "Labels" an obvious exception. Looks to me as though someone can't shoulder the soloist burden.

Know what I did? I dropped Uncontrolled Substance, and while it definitely has its flaws, I did that shit with little assistance from either RZA or my fellow Clansmen. Just to prove a point. And there was a reason you didn't guest appear on that joint, Gary. Reason: you suck!

Oh, I've heard all the jokes about my second album (The Movement) being an aural dookie already, so don't try to appear witty by making another one. I know that's too low brow for you, seeing as how you're The Genius and everything, but I just thought I'd give you a heads up. You don't want to embarrass yourself further. You certainly don't want to do that.

I have a funny anecdote, and I swear this is true. A couple of years ago, maybe five -- I don't remember the exact date -- we were riding the tour bus en route to some fucked-up venue in Tennessee or one of those other southern states where all the people are slow mutants or glue sniffers, and I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed and started playing Silent Hill (or maybe it was Resident Evil: fucked if I remember or care), and after what must have been forty minutes took a piss and decided to retire for the night. Well, I must have been pretty drowsy at the time, because I mistakenly entered Gary's room****. And you know what I saw? That perv was jerking off to scrambled pay-per-view porn! Or trying to, I should say. The truth is that while the GZA is the head, in terms of genetics he, rather unfortunately, drew the short straw when it came to drafting team members, if you catch my drift.

I'm looking forward to finishing the new Wu-Tang album. It's fire. Hit me up on MySpace for more details. (That's http://www.myspace.com/inspectahdeck; copy and paste, bitches.) I'll add you as a friend.

Unless, that is, your name happens to be Gary Grice, or my layout gives you an epileptic seizure -- in which case I sincerely apologize for the latter.



* Or Idealjetsam as their favorite PK contributor.

** The handle's INSfan_70, if you need to know; and, yes, I've been banned a couple of times from various sites for blatant and oftentimes flagrant self-promotion, and one time for harassing a poster who had the gall to choose the handle "Rebel IBS". And let me just say that what the idiot moderators at allhiphop.com consider spam is, to me, the very epitome of good ole American business ingenuity. Don't make me out to be the bad guy.

*** I get mad pussy from the co-eds, by the way.

**** It was a pretty big tour bus, mind.

Fruit of the Loom

This past weekend, I was privy to a deluge of emotions, experiences, and extended metaphors, not the least of which was the chance rendezvous with a buddhist monk’s canine companion. I’ll let that specific situation remain elusive, as I wouldn’t want to be accused of recklessly endangering the otherwise hallowed perception of wanton bestiality, suffice it to say that Buddha’s beads were rocked harder than my sister breasts on prom night.

Okay, enough of that shit: not a post goes by in which I fail to drudge up some faintly tainted memory of revelry that is as nonsensical to you as it is intrinsical to me, and that’s really not what I’m about, at least not until some unknown, forthcoming paragraph. I’m here because I want to talk about fruit, and just how it can alter one’s perception of leisurely activities. If strawberries can enhance a sexual encounter, would it not stand to reason that, say, a mango could, inversely, ruin that same hypothetical affair? ( I suppose that would be a post for Kermo to tackle, so just consider this a prefatory exercise.)

Last Friday, we had a company outing or, as management prefers to phrase it, a Membership Training opportunity. For those precious few individuals that are unaware of what such training entails, I shall elucidate. Coworkers gather and commence to eat, drink, travel, sleep, sing, and visit a Buddhist temple together. Things weren’t as neatly delineated as proposed, but you get the idea, as long as you insert plenty of awkward silence, arguing, and ridiculous photography.

Not everyone joined in the festivities, however, and that is a sure-fire indication of disloyalty, one that is to be dealt with swiftly, and severely! Not in the mood? Too bad, you’re off the team! What’s that? You’d like to offer an excuse? It matters not, but lie to me anyway. Righteous! I love stories!

Work concluded for the evening, and we were led, albeit slowly, and without any particularly reassuring sense of accuracy, toward our first destination of the long (long) night, a stock Korean barbecue restaurant, replete with all the pork, tofu, kimchi, and vegetables a teacher could indulge in without a tinge of remorse. That we took a good twenty minutes to locate the eatery is of no consequence, as we had as much time as we wished to achieve optimum corpulence.
There were a good number of teachers -about ten in our group- in attendance, and after taking off our shoes in enforced unison, we commenced to nudge our way onto our respective, pillowy seating arrangement. What each person did, what they ate, and where they sat is a bit too intense for me to get into at the moment, so let’s narrow it down to three core characters that, henceforth, shall be known as Gavõn, Francesca (a Korean English teacher, if the name didn't tip you off), and yours truly, KMart, with a special appearance by Matt as random whitey.

And without further ado, I present you with the greatest story ever told.


Gavõn: (struggling) Can we move this table, or what? My legs aren’t supposed to bend this way.

KMart: (sitting at an adjacent table, next to Gavõn) I get a half-eaten bowl of rice all to myself?

R.W. Matt: (sitting kitty-cornered to Gavõn) I think we can move the table an inch or two, if that helps, just as long as we start cooking the meat immediately.

Francesca: (sitting across from Gavõn) I like mushrooms.

Nearby Voice: Mushrooms are very healthy for you. They give you stamina.

KMart: That’s great, as you know how much I need stamina. Pass the slab of tofu, please.

Gavõn: So Francesca, you’re not going to Daecheon Beach with us tonight?

Francesca: Yes, I’m not coming. I told you already. You don’t remember?

Gavõn: Well, I do remember, but I still wanted to ask.

R.W. Matt: I’m not going either.

Gavõn: (to R.W. Matt) I know that too, but that’s just because you don’t give a fuck about membership training. I don’t know why Fran isn’t going.

Francesca: I told you. I hate Daecheon.

Gavõn: You hate Daecheon Beach, the home of Mudfest? (Glancing toward the boss) Who wants to get some beers?

Nearby Voice: Yes, let’s get some beer, but drink quickly. We have to leave in twenty minutes.

KMart: Won’t that leave us with three minutes to eat all the cooked meat?

Gavõn: Hey, lady! Makju dugeyo, right here! Wait, make that seygeyo.

Francesca: Yes, I hate Daecheon. I will tell you why I hate it now.

Gavõn: Yeah, sure.

R.W. Matt: (drinking from a bottle of soju that he brought in his pocket) Do it, Francesca.

KMart: Just as long as I don’t have to eat another one of these goddamn mushrooms, I’m down with it.

Francesca: Many years ago, when I was in university, my friend Suji and I went to Daecheon Beach for our holiday. It was very pretty at that time of year, during the summer. It wasn’t very hot, and there was a cool breeze in the air. We spent a lot of time in our motel room, watching television and sharing stories about our other friends. We had many friends that were getting married, so we had to come to Daecheon Beach by ourselves, but that was not bad, because we liked to talk, and Daecheon Beach was so nice that summer, so we wanted to go.

KMart: (thinking about the Killers’ sophomore effort, Sam’s Town, while looking at another teacher) Don’t you wanna feel my bones on your bones? Hey, that tofu isn’t gonna get any browner, you know.

Francesca: We walked down to the beach in the afternoon, and we were eating grapes from a plastic bag. They were delicious, and Suji told me that the grapes reminded her of university life. I understood what she meant, because they were so sweet, but we both knew that the end of our schooling was very close, and that our lives would change drastically.

Gavõn: (finishing his first bottle of Hite) Right. How many grapes were in the bag?

R.W. Matt: (a piece of seafood in his mouth, with a tentacle drooping out from his lips) Thirty-six?

Francesca: There were many, but we had to be careful not to eat too much. They had to last the entire day. When we got to the beach, we sat down on the sand and talked to three nice men for a while. They were from Incheon, and they were going to the military soon, so we talked about our dreams for the future. I feel as if we shared a special moment.

Gavõn: That’s cool. What were their names?

Francesca: I didn’t ask. Suji held hands with one of them, so she may know. I have many pictures at home, if you would like to see them.

KMart: Please no... not you Francesca, as I’d love to see those pictures. Julie is trying to order more onions, but we only have five minutes to finish our feast. Listen, Julie, if you want something stinky to munch on...

Gavõn: (finishing his second bottle of Hite) Bring ‘em in, Fran. So what happened with those guys?

Francesca: They left. Another woman came to get them, and she was wearing a two-piece bathing suit, so they went with her. Suji and I were very angry, but the ocean was so wonderful that we had hope that another group of men to share a bond with would come. We ate some more grapes, and then we dug a hole in the sand so that our grapes would be safe. We put the grapes in the hole and covered it with sand, so nothing would contaminate them.

R.W. Matt: Except for the sand.

Francesca: Yes. We then went swimming. The waves were so delightful, and the water so fresh, that we forgot all about the end of our university days and the men with whom we shared our greatest hopes and deepest fears. Our married friends would have been so jealous of our ocean experience. After about an hour, we thought it best to return to our motel, so that we could prepare to watch our favorite drama shows. We came back to our towels, and we were so hungry, so Suji and I dug up our grapes. But the grapes were gone. Someone had taken our grapes.

-awkward silence ensues for roughly thirty seconds-

Gavõn: (verbalizing the thoughts of our collective, foreign mind) So what happened then?

Francesca: Our grapes were stolen, and I hate Daecheon Beach because of it. I’ll never go back.

-another bout of silence-

KMart:(setting his chopsticks down, and looking Gavõn in the eyes) I don’t think we should take any chances with our grapes.

R.W. Matt: (finishing his bottle of soju) I...need to go to the bathroom...or something...

Gavõn:(after chugging his third Hite) Wow. Francesca, that was the greatest story I’ve ever heard. Really, that was fantastic.

The End.

Well, perhaps it wasn't the end, per se, but after a story like that, everything else would just be a letdown.



Clubber Lang