1. because you left me

I pulled this from ffffound because you know how much i adore The Femmes (and rotary telephones)

Mister Freedom Mechanic Sweatshirt

I feel like hip dudes have been been on Cotton Duck, thread-wise, for a minute. Cotton Duck is good. Mister Freedom is good. It's like boy porn. Well, porn is boy porn but you know what I mean.

the more you ingnore me

I pulled this image from the delightful tumblr; Decapitate Animals. I find this photo to be beyond captivating.

eat it out and beat it up...

Men often chat with each other about women. We have to, women are a fucking mystery. It's good to pool our collective knowledge. Its' bad, however, to take every bit of advise given to heart.



To be honest you should probably discard most of the dribble you hear from your male friends.



On Friday I received an advisement from a gentleman that works with me at the dye house. "Eat it out and beat it up", he told me. I giggled off the remark.



That weekend I really began to analyze what I was told. On Saturday afternoon it hit me like a sock full of nickels. "eat it out and beat it up, It's so simple it HAS to work."

When I returned to work this morning I found myself in conversation with the same young man. "I have a policy", he pontificated, "If you don't suck, I don't fuck." He means that if these broads don't go enthusiastically with him to the Dome-Zone, he's not taking THEM to the Bone-Zone. That's revolutionary.

This guy has really taken pussy off the pedestal in a way I find both scary and liberating at the same time. I, of course, have not had the opportunity to put either aspect of this empowering ideology to practice, nor am I committing that I will. I am excited to have these viewpoints/strategies enter the conversation concerning sex, gender, and blowies.

s.a.g.e.

You Love Owls

I'm like the aunt who found out that you like owls, so she buys you every owl-related trinket, for every holiday.

Even though you only kind of liked owls and that was like 10 years ago.

Thank You, Portland

I"ll burn something down, just like I promised.

Oh, and if you want to get a quality, vegan tattoo in the Pacific Northwest, you gotta go with my besties at Scapegoat Tattoo

Thug Life

I've been trying to convince myself that it is since 1993.

via ohwrd

Gay Yoga

Yeah, that just happened

Vampre Weekend: Contra

Fuck you, I'm excited...

Vampire Weekend perform Cousins live on Canadian MTV


Cousins, Horchata, California English; all song titles from the new record. They think they're proper Angelinos or what, ese?

This is what Cuba wraps our Vicodin in

vicodin in, vicodin in, vicodin in,

That sounds sounds funny

like a Puch mo-ped with after-market pipes

burping to a start on Normal Ave. and Virgil

Chord Organ Blues

Everything's BIG in Texas

You know it's true

I think I might have made a big mistake

Kurt & Me

Kurt Cobain was a child of the 1980's

I grew up, mostly in the 1990's

Kurt Cobain was an American Songwriter and Rock musician that was revered and loved by millions across the World.

I work in an office

Kurt left this life, as many others in his vocation, at the glorified age of 27

I, myself, have gone on to reach the dubious age of 30

Mark Twain, who was once called "The father of our national literature", wrote the following: "I have never wanted any released friend of mine restored to life since I reached manhood"

Mr. Clemens, I concur.

list no.2 things I saw on my walk home from the factory

1. A dead black poodle puppy in a basket

2. A fox-like creature that was so decomposed that it was basically a jawbone and a fox shaped pile of fur that had mixed with the litter and discarded syringes from Alameda

3. The body of a French Bulldog wearing a collar with a small bell (like a kitten might wear) around its obviously broken neck

4. A paperback, meant for pre-teen girls, entitled What's your Guy-Q?

5. This is mostly a list of dead dogs :(

list no.1 splitting up

1. Downtown

-Bar 107, La Cita, Pete’s Café, Banquette-mine

-L.A. Café, The Down n’ Out, Bermuda Café-yours

-Stuart’s apartment first floor and balcony-mine

-Stuart’s apartment second and third floor-yours

-Brooke’s apartment-split

-The Smell-mine

-Five Star Bar-yours

-Warung café- split

-Main St. between 4^th and 7^th-mine

-Main St. between 7^th and Olympic-yours

-Spring St.-split

-MOCA Grand Ave-mine

-Museum of Neon Art-yours

-Geffen Contemporary-split

-Pershing Square during summer and spring-yours

-Pershing Square during ice skating season-mine

-Little Tokyo-mine

-Arts District-yours

-China Town-split (except for Hop Louie-mine)

2. Echo Park

-Little Joy-mine

-Short Stop-yours

-Gold Room-mine

-El Prado-split

-The Park for jogging-mine

-The Lake for paddle boating-yours (this was a tough concession)

3. Silverlake

-mostly mine

-Intelligentsia on Sunset-mine!!!

-Flore-mine

-Vegan House-yours

-Farmer’s Market on Lucille-yours

-Sunset Junction Festival-mine

4. The West Side

-Santa Monica, you can have it-yours

-The Marina-mine

-Abbot’s Habit Coffee Shop-yours

-Intelligentsia on Abbot Kinney-split

-The Brig-yours

-The Other Room-yours

-Rooster Fish-split

-Westminster between Abbot Kinney and Main-yours

-Westminster between Main and the beach-mine

5. Trader Joe’s

-Silverlake-mine

-Culver City-yours

-South Pasadena-split (we may need to go there someday)

6. Whole Foods

-On Santa Monica-yours

-On Fairfax-mine

-On Lincoln-split

Author's Disclaimer: This list is but a joke. I love you very much and I hope you are doing splendidly. If it was up to me we would co-habitate harmoniously in all of our favorite spots across the city and the world. Infinite Xs and Os.

Compton Baby

I find a lot of good shit. I remember the night I found this prison letter. It was Summer and Greg's friends were gathering at an ancient Downtown watering hole which had recently been made new again by promises of continued yuppie influx and expertly trained mixologists, fluent in the language of nostalgic libations and spirits of yester-year.

We gathered to see Greg off to La Ciudad de Mexico. I was nervous. Steffi would surely be amongst the well-wishers. I brought gifts. A billfold of crocodile leather for the nearly departed and for Steffi I arranged a bottle of French perfume and a book of poetry that was very uniquely American.

I found the letter, which originated in prison and was bound for an outsider, on a strip of Los Angeles Street that transforms nightly to a sort of hobo encampment. I picked up the still-sealed envelope and slipped it into a designer bag which, much like the letter, I had no business carrying.

It wasn't until weeks later that I opened the letter to an audience of 2 on the Intelligentsia patio.

The letter was authored by an incarcerated individual who referred to himself as Compton Baby.
Compton Baby wrote, with much tenderness, to a man he called New Orleans

Black people really love to refer to each other by the names of cities that they may be associated with.

Black people love to call me Red. I know this and I do not try to discourage it. Sometimes people call me Ginger. I don't really mind this either. I don't mind what you call me as long as it's not Late for Supper


Below I've included images of the actual letter along with a transcription. Please see my translation notes in red.

What’s up New Orleans: (This should be a comma but who’s counting?)

Well hom’me (homie?)

When you get this letter it fine (find?) you & your family in the best of God(‘s) Care.

So

How did you like the program? It(‘)s better then(than) jail anyday as you know

I’m getting ready for trail(unless his jailers are preparing him for a forced cattle drive through the barren West, I think he means trial) anyday now
Say(,) David man it’s time for something new cause the game down there is over with

It’s time to think on bigger thing(s) hom’me life is to(o) good when you give it a chance

Man I

Been down here 9mo fighting this dope case with no dope or no mark(ed?) money ,(.) I see them trying them giving people program with dope & mark(ed?) money I cant get a good lawyer to push it for me

Out come but that’s(oh, NOW he embraces the rules of the contraction) how the ball go(I think this is a mangled metaphor of some sort) but one thing us meeting I kept it real with you when you left me (WARNING: this where the letter veers tragically gay!!!) I made sure you had yours ( I bet, Pal)

That’s what real brothers do by keeping it real you don’t find to(o) many like me ! That’s why I’m a “Soldier” Wooole(I think this word is a an antyempt at using a artifact of Southern vernacular. They use this word similarly to the way we may use “dude”)

Brother When I get out of here hopefully soon we have to really kick it on some real brother shit Compton & New Orleans you know?

Well baby Boy I gotta look over some of my paperwork (what he’s crunched for time? Too much paper work? Is he a fuckin’ Tax attorney now?)hoping to get my lawyer to really help me

Your Real Homm’me(Homie),

Compton

NO x STOP x DON'T

This trick you do

You have this trick

where you make everyone around you bat-shit crazy


While you stay perfectly sane...



It's a fucked up trick

El Ranchito

Casey and I went to lunch at El Ranchito today.



We took my Olds Mobile because I wanted to take a hit from the Arizona Iced Tea can that I had malformed into a weed pipe.


Casey asked if the Olds was my O.G. car, like from Arizona. I explained that it was from Arizona but it was not my O.G. California car. My O.G. car was a beautiful 1994 Thunderbird, snow white and low to the ground. It was the type of car that Tron would drive when he wasn’t mounting laser bikes that travel at ferocious speeds, leaving laser-colored jet streams in their wake.


I told him that at the time that I drove the Thunderbird my only job was selling pot. This was an awesome job because it left me with lots of time to explore other interests. The only down side was my close proximity to all sorts of other delicious and tempting drugs. These drugs often took a lot of the time for activities that I was afforded by vocational choice of being a pot dealer.


Steffi was in school at the time and I would wake up every morning, after doing lots of exciting drugs the night before, to drive her the 4 or so miles to USC from Downtown.



On one such morning I was returning to our Downtown apartment when I was smashed with a wave of nausea from the previous night’s ecstasy or vicodin or some fucking mix of salvia and opium.


I began to puke out the window and for some reason had a knee-jerk reaction that caused me to swerve the T-Bird to the right every time I leaned my head to the left, to huck out of the window. It was a very strange reaction, the swerve corrected itself in the exact same degree as my head returning to postion, post-huck.


I was pulling into the underground parking lot of the Pegasus building on 6th where I then lived when I spewed one last puke n’swerve, this time hitting an exposed water pipe and screeching to a halt dead center in my own reserved parking spot.


I was concerned that my car was totaled and I was concerned about the water that was now quickly rising in the basement of the Pegasus but my main concern was getting the fuck out of there.


About a week later the manager of the Pegasus called me into his office, leaned very close to me over his big, oak desk and explained that he knew what had happened in the basement.


“I’m not going to do anything, but I know it was you that hit that water main and flooded the basement”


“I just don’t want you to think you got away with it”, he said.


“if you're not going to do anything then I sorta did get away with it”, I thought .

Soldier of Crist

Taken in the car park of the American Apparel
World Headquarters, AA employees are far
more religious then I had remembered. I don't
however believe that they will be winning any
spelling bees soon.

About three weeks ago Tory called me and informed me that he had pulled off what I thought to be an impossible task, he had won back for me my coveted slot with American Apparel. I had done a couple fun things during my six month leave but it was no secret that I missed the hustle, the bustle and the off-the-cuff creative flash flood that was an average weekday at the "big, pink factory". It truly was and is an unprecedented corporate experiment; Meryl Lynch on acid, in a tank-thong.
I'm wrapping up my second week. I now share an office at Sequoia with two boys. In the interest of their anonymity I will call my new(and much beloved) office mates Surfer Hulk and Maniac-Face. If you come visit me I will let you break a sweat deliberating which is which.
I remembered a poem, which I wrote merely weeks ago but which has achieved a greater level of obsolescence than the mac mini I use to type this correspondence. If you know me you would know that I believe that obsolescence should never blockade proliferation.



ode to my old job

I used to be a product developer for American Apparel, the greatest fashion label of our generation. A technical designer, really, I fit garments, calculated costing and decided between elastics with the best of them. One day, during a particularly rigorous fitting session, I pricked my middle and index fingers on a straight pin and found that I had technically designed myself out of a job. My factory issue blackberry still in my left hand, nostalgia is often delivered in alternating wafts of sheer jersey and taco truck asada.