"Butthole". Why not?

I just wrote a semi-businessy email re: some dj work in which I compared playing Nine Inch Nails for hipster kids with a finger to the butthole of a someone you're getting freaky with, in that very few people will actually ask for it, but more than you'd expect will go off if you do. For a second I thought it was kind of weird that I wrote that, but I guess it's just par for the course of mid-to-late 2005 when Jessica and I (usually totes up on the creation or early adoption of street-hot slang) are using the word "butthole" more often than any other Americans over age 8. It's like the slang equivalent of grad students working at Starbucks. I told a friend in a band that we titled an interview with him that's running in HIOQI XVIII, "Like A Laser Beam To Your Butthole". For a second he looked like I had told him we'd napalmed his living room.

Better or (preferrably) worse living through chemistry.

I tried to watch the Kinski/Oneida show tonight but I've got allergies and I realized 2.5 seconds into Kinski's set that I don't even have the financial resources to get stoned enough to get down with them. Then again, I barely have the financial resources to invest in a decent sandwich. But drug music's only good when the drugs aren't good for the musician, you know? For as much acid as the Butthole Surfers did, it obviously didn't completely agree with them, and putting the Geto Boys or the first Stooges record on mass repeat is like being friends with one of those people that smokes weed all day long despite the toxic, aluminum-foil-over-the-windows paranoia that comes from it. Without that unbalanced edge you get Donovan or math rock. It works the same way with the fans. The relatively sedate psych-folk revival's got its future pinned on the pseudo-booj market for spendy weed, but you set some kids up on a maintenence regimen of Ritalin and SSRIs, let them grow up to the age where they start fucking with some alternative chemistry on top of that, and you get System of a Down, Mars Volta, and Hella doing arena shows together, which is truly bonkers on several levels. When mallrats have a dozen or so degrees of amped-litude over me on the subject of manic avant-rock, it gives me pause. But I'm not even trying to get it. I'm sticking with super-premium vodkas because I'm trying to be the 2006 Dame Dash.

Oh, The Guilt

I just got done on a final edit of this like real cynical and snarky faux MySpace music industry survey where it was all, "Oh, (inside joke about some band that got really heavily PR-ed and totally sucked) [nudge, knowing smile]". I think I was actually kind of smirking to myself in satisfaction and loading Blogger up so I could post it on my blog when I all of the sudden remembered the war in Iraq and I was like, "WHAT THE FUCK!" You can't realize anything faster than how I realized how utterly pointless my fucking "bands you 'know'" vs. "bands you actually know" equation is. I swear you could almost actually hear me thinking "WHAT THE FUCK!" so hard that it echoed in the back alley behind my building.
Is what's happening to the subculture now like what happened to the hippies? Did we just become the hippies c.1972? I need to read some of the real paranoid Phillip K. Dick stories right now because that shit's starting to make a lot of sense, and I need to make myself a poster to hang on the back of my bedroom door that says, "BURN DOWN THE WHOLE FUCKING SYSTEM" so I stop forgetting that.

Capitalism makes you an asshole.

So the two anonymous comments on my blog today ended up being comments spam for a dating service. Hey, thanks a lot spammers. Way to fucking just go in and ruin my stuff. Do you have parties where after the keg's half gone and people are starting to loosen up and have a good time you hide in the shower and corner people coming into the bathroom to deliver high-pressure sales pitches for time shares in Cancun? Assholes.
Comments are disabled from here on out. Anonymous shit-talkers will have to start using a fake email account. My past enemies have favored Hotmail for this purpose. I don't know how well they liked the service, but maybe they have a Scene Drama quick setup tool or something.

Sometimes it's just all too much, right?

I tore up the plate of the nachos with systematic hunger of a state-of-the-art demolition crew, the desire for nachos being fuelled, sometimes, by the same hunger for negation or wish for an act of destruction to be a creation, for however many fleeting seconds that it happens, unto itself. It's that desire that fuels anything from the bedroom to the dancefloor that we call "tearing it up". At some point near the end of the plate I realized I was composing poetry about nachos. Staring past a chunk of pico de gallo, I realized something was wrong.

Boom

The two most busted-hair people in the club.

The story of me hanging out with Faith Evans is long, and I'm not gonna go into it, but I will say that it starts with me drinking panty-peeler shots and ends with her asking me for my number.

Bummer Summer

Talk about shitty days, though. The weather's like living 24/7 in the butthole of a guy shovelling coal in the engine room of some 1877 Mississippi steamboat, which gave me like THREE pimples, and then Bush does an end run around the legislature to appoint a new UN ambassador who will probably start like at least a dozen wars. How am I supposed to live my active socially butterfly-like life with acne breakouts and the democratic process of our nation eroding like a sno-cone in a piss stream?

The number one song in New York City for the past 20 years.

Another dip in the bubbly waters of flossy clublife last night at the De La afterparty. Guest list and gangsta-grips with the party promoter and a headlock-based hug thing before he introduced us around and bought us drinks. Handshakes with the guy who does Beyonce's house remixes. Afro maintenence tips and anecdotes with a girl named Betty and I thought for a minute that I should go out with her, mostly because we would be, you know, Miles and Betty, which is the type of music-writer shit that I always feel ashamed of whenever it pops in my head, which is basically all the time.
I keep thinking of the club or whatever it was that I hung out at in Kalamazoo, 1998. There was a warehouse north of downtown where all the raves were, and being halfway between the Chi and the D on the I-94 drug corridor everyone came from out of town and packed the place with more people than should have been at a rave in Kalamazoo dancing to better DJs than we deserved. On the ground floor and around the corner there was an office that had been used by a shipping company or something; drywall halls, cheap woodgrain office doors, a big garage. The garage was the dancefloor, all dim-to-nonexistant lighting, old oil slicks and newer water puddles on the floor, some kid from Western Michigan Univ. spinning some shitty soulful house. There was always about a third of the crowd that showed up there that didn't give a fuck about the DJ or the dancing. They broke into the offices to do coke or backrub circles. The socializing happened in the halls and the bathrooms, where people did more drugs and had more random sex. Candy ravers and punks hung out with Australian soccer teams carrying half a liquor store. Around then the tv news was running stories about the dangers and decadance of raves, and pretty much every sin and crime they listed in their items happened at the office every weekend. I pissed next to a drag queen for the first time there. When I finally heard Lifter Puller the next year it was like I had been waiting for years for them to happen.

Real hot.

Yeah, I know I haven't been blogging. Not blogging is what's hot on the streets these days. iBook batteries taking the grande muerto shit is also hot in the streets, so is saying, "Fuck y'all" and going inside where there's air conditioning and acting all reptilian and evil about your air con priveleges, and basically saying , "Fuck y'all" about anything is real hot. Apparently also hot: not giving me My God-Damn Money.