I Get Laid All The Time

What surrounds the object, creates the object.

2006-10-03T02:33:00.000-07:00

I could tell you about the Teach Me conference and how Ries and I gave a workshop to the cute and talented future artists of Italy. I could tell you all about that and how we got a hotel room in Giudecca and partied like maniacs all over the waterlogged city of Venice.

I could tell you all about the people I met, the food I ate, the drinks I consumed, the nudity that commenced...

But you know what? A picture speaks a thousand words.
And I'll leave it at that.

Another evening blurred: UPDATE #2

2006-10-03T02:17:00.000-07:00

So last Wednesday I had dinner with these girls, "the girls." And my bike is Andreas bike, who is friends with Merche (right) so at the dinner I had to explain, rather confess, what happened to the bike. I had to tell her I got drunk and left it at the burger stand. I thought about lying, telling her it was stolen, saying I was mugged by a gang of children, that I got run over by a car and the bike was totaled.
I thought about many a different lies to tell Merche at dinner but in the end I decided that honesty is the best policy.
Of course, she was disappointed and slightly angry and said that I would need to pay Andreas for the bicycle.
I agreed, said I felt awful and embaressed and that I was gonna curb my drinking.
Then the primo piatto arrived and we moved on in topic.

However. Then Camilla said, "I think he passed, girls."
"Passed?" I asked.
"I think he passed the test."

It turns out that on their way home from my house on Tuesday night they passed the burger stand and the clerk said, "I think that's your friend's bike and it's unlocked."
So, like good friends, they took the bike home with them.
And like really good friends, they decided to let me either drown myself in lies or redeem myself through confession.
Since I chose the later, they agreed to return the bike to me.

And I've never been happier!
I may be a forgetful, irresponsible drunk. But I'm a lucky sonofabitch with loyal friends, and sometimes that's all the matters.

Another evening blurred: UPDATE

2006-09-28T03:37:00.001-07:00

Occasionally, my drinking habit bites me in the ass. Whether I crash my bike and break a rib, lose my camera, wake up in a puddle of puke, or whatever... sometimes my drinking, how shall I say... sometimes my drinking impedes my ability to function like a normal human being.
And Tuesday night was no different.
It seems, as I only realized this last night, that I forgot my bicycle at the burger stand on the way home on Tuesday. We go to the bar, I have a few drinks, a few more, I ride to the burger stand while others walk, we buy beers, and then I walked with everyone back to my house. And I completely forgot about my bike.
Needless to say, I no longer have said bike.
And I feel awful. I mean, it wasn't even mine. I was just borrowing the bicycle.
Now, I have no bicylce. I some girl a bicycle.
All I have is a stinking shit pile of embarrassment and regret.
Terrible times, indeed.
I'm on the wagon from this moment forth. That's my penance.
God have mercy on me.

Another evening blurred

2006-09-27T05:42:00.000-07:00

Jesus, what the fuck happened last night? It was just suppose to be dinner with friends. Then I don't know what happened. I remember playing foozball and kicking ass and getting free drinks at the gay bar and then some French man called me an asshole and my friends said it was time for us to leave. Then... let's see... oh, we hit up the burger stand and bought forty beers and a gang of us went back to my place for a James Brown dance-a-thon. Then people started passing out and Hansi and I kept draining beers talking science and philosophy and suddenly it was seven in the morning.

I can't believe I got out of bed today. I actually made it to work!
My co-worker Guillermo is laughing at me. He says, "You look like shit."
I say, "I feel like shit."
He says, "And you look bloated."
I say, "Fuck you."

Treviso Poker Circuit: The Final Table.

2006-09-25T03:09:00.000-07:00

We had our final poker night last night. The Treviso Poker Circuit at Casino Rivero...
We've been playing almost weekly for the last nine months, and all in all it's been quite a rivalry. With five seats and two wild-card positions, last night's double-header seemed the appropriate way to conclude this year's tournament.

At the final table:
Hansi "countin' cards" Raber
Guillermo "straight face" Rivero
Daniel "false idol" Hirschmann
Mark "capitán huevos" Argo (pictured)
Ann "no bluff" Poochareon
Juan "princess" Ospina
and myself, Andy "lay off the juice" Smith

Generally, the house has a distinct and suspicious advantage so going into the first game last night we all keep a keen eye on Rivero. Soon into the game, Argo dropped Poochareon on a flopped straight and Ann tossed her chips across the table before storming out of the room. Hansi soon followed losing on a poorly played high card.
Then it was Rivero, Argo, and myself (Ospina and Hirschman having a seat at the final table already). Tensions were high as it seemed Rivero had higher stacks than Argo and me. And sure enough, after trading stacks for a few hands, Rivero took me out. He went all in, and I called. Like a sucker. Like a moth to a flame Rivero pushed me out of the game.
Not long after that, however, Argo took Rivero down with a well-played two pair. The house doesn't always win.

The final table, one last game: I was very serious. I was determined. As the year's statistics read, I had a five or six game streak in the first half of the year, but couldn't seem to find it again for the rest of the year. And indeed, Argo had come up on top for most of the recent games. Yet again, Rivero had the house advantage.
Game on!
Poochareon dropped out almost immediately. And after a few hands Ospina seemed to have the highest stake while I had almost nothing. Raber took a big pot, then Argo after that. I went all in on a pair of sevens and survived. Hirschmann was the next to go, kicking a screaming after a losing a two-pair split down to the high card, which he didn't have. Chips circled the table for a while after that until Rivero and Argo went head to head. And Rivero took it.
Four remained: Raber, Ospina, Rivero, and myself.
Hansi folds on the flop and on Fourth Street Rivero goes all in. Ospina calls. I call too.
I took them down, knocked them both out, giving a significant advantage against Raber's meager stack.

Argo presented the cash prize of 70 euro and Raber and I went hand for hand, not much chip movement. Raber went all in on three different hands but each time I folded, not having the cards. The fourth time I called, and Raber took it, but I still held a bigger stack. A setback, that perhaps Raber could take advantage of? No. I went all in on the next hand, Raber called, and that was it.

I collected my winnings.

Thus concludes the Treviso Poker Circuit.

Make it stop!

2006-09-20T02:32:00.000-07:00

I can't stop sneezing! I wanna die! Seriously, I think I've sneezed every four minutes this morning. What's wrong with me?
Atisshoo!
There! I just sneezed again!
Why me? Why this torture?
Supposedly, sneezing is caused by a bacterial build up in the throat, lungs, or nasal passages. Pollen, pet dander, dust mites, these things make you sneeze too. You sneeze to get that shit out of your system. But really, enough already. I've sneezed enough this morning to expunge a dust mite for every fucking grain of sand on this planet.
Researching "the sneeze" I found that the nose can mistake other things for nasal irritants. Stong odors, sudden chills, bright lights, and orgasms can make you sneeze. Great.
Oh, I also found a sneeze fetish forum. Fantastic.

I don't give a shit about what makes you sneeze or who gets off on sneezing. What makes you STOP sneezing! Someone help!
Atisshoo! Atisshoo!

Ok, wait, here it is, how to stop sneezing:
- Swallow your saliva when you feel the sneeze coming. Do this repeatedly until the feeling goes away.
Done. Doing it. I'll never stop swallowing my saliva.
-Hold open your eyelid. It is almost impossible to sneeze with your eyelids open.
Ok. I'll never blink or wink again.

I think it's working. I haven't sneezed in like six minutes! This is great! I feel l like a human being again. Finally.
But I sort of miss it. Now I want to sneeze! You never know what you had until it's gone, so true, so fucking true!

Oh God, why have you forsaken me?

Stay focused. Get Serious.

2006-09-18T02:34:00.000-07:00

I pretty much drank away the weekend. Again.
And yesterday's rainy weather made it real easy to sleep in, watch a movie on the couch, take a nap, eat some pasta, make some phone calls, and watch another movie before calling it a night.
Hell, even this morning I went downstairs planning on riding my bike to work and discovered that my bike was gone. Some motherfucker stole my bike!
No. After about two seconds of rage I realized I had left it outside my friend's house on Saturday night. Duh.
I gotta ease off the juice.
Because really, I only have so many weekends left here, before I return to the states. And I have a long list of all the things I want to do before I leave. It's mostly writing and artistic endeavors but some of it is personal. Like... I think I'm going bungee jumping on Thursday. That's not on the list, but I thought I'd mention it.
Just having a definitive end to living here, working here, having a specific departure date has, as they say, lit a fire under my ass.
I've been slacking a bit. Sure, we launched the first issue of Chief Magazine, but I haven't had time to help Percy upload pics of our August adventures, and I've been slacking on this blog a bit. Not that Boraxx hasn't, in fact, he still owes me two drinks, and drinking at his expense on Friday night was pretty sweet.
I don't know exactly where I'm going with this guilt-ridden diatribe. Is it a pep talk? Is it an excuse?
No more excuses, that's what I'm telling myself.
But wait. Camilla comes to visit tonight. And if I know anything I know I'll be drunk again before you even read this.
It's not easy. The nature of being a writer calls for isolation. Writers can only produce (and often be happy) when isolated. For a drunkard this can be a challenge.
And I accept this challenge! Speaking for alcoholic writers around the world, I vow to battle my inner thirst and hold tight to my priorities. I vow to write and create each and every night. I vow to stay committed to the A.P. SMITH TCB MONTH OF THE CENTURY.

Cheers!

Life is better on holiday

2006-09-15T02:26:00.000-07:00

I want to go back on holiday! I've been back for like two weeks now, and I think I deserve it.
It's raining today and I'm so far behind on some of my shit that I don't even want to start catching up. I want to swim in the sea and get drunk and eat squid. I don't want to be at work.
Maybe I'll quit.
Maybe I'll quit and run away to the coast where I'll recruit an army of child pick-pockets and live in a dry-dock boat near a secluded cove.
What if I took up a life of crime, starting with stealing a car and rampaging across Europe robbing and beating the elderly?
Criminals work, sure, they have "jobs," but c'mon, you and I know they're not working. They're not working like you and I are working. Or at least you. I'm at work now.
And this is what I'm doing.

I've seen the face of the Devil.

2006-09-11T02:35:00.000-07:00

Last Friday there was another one of them outdoor "Party in da Park" shindigs. And like other parties before this one it raged on into the night, well past any reasonable or even sensible amount of drinking and gallivanting.
There was a riot in my brain the next morning.
And sitting with Hansi that morning we tried to piece together the events we could barely remember. Here are some of the questions we asked each other:

"Where the fuck did that dog come from?"
"What would you have done if you didn't find your shoe?"
"Remember when you crashed your bike?"
"How many girls did you cram into that tube with you?"
"Was that before or after we performed our ballet to 'Tiny Dancer'?"
"Is that why I have this lump on my head?"
"When did you lose your toenail?"
"Where the fuck did that dog come from?"
"He was there?"
"What?????"
"Who were those people?"
"But really, where the fuck did that dog come from?"

He was called The King for a reason

2006-09-07T03:01:00.000-07:00

I almost didn't come into work today. I was up late last night, had crazy dreams, and woke up around 11am. And sometimes going in late is worse than going in at all. At least that was my philosophy.
But not anymore! This month, the ninth month of the year 2006, is officially THE A.P. SMITH T.C.B. MONTH OF THE CENTURY.
This month I will work my ass off, take no shit, leave no survivors, and smoke those rats right out of their holes. Or something like that.
Really, I've just been living it up all sweet and easy for the last month and now it's time to get back on the gravey train. School is starting, the summer is winding down, and we're all a little older.

And that's a promise.

God Bless Gerard Damiano.

2006-09-06T04:57:00.000-07:00

Let's take a moment to reflect on the wonderful world of puppet pornography...

The film is called "Let My Puppets Come." And it's awesome.
I first saw it at a midnight screening in Seattle like eight years ago and recently found half of the film buried bewteen old porno clips on my hard drive. And it's just as good as I remember it:
Puppet on puppet action, dog on puppet action, pornstar on puppet action, it's got it all.
It even has a storyline: "The three chief executives of Creative Concepts Systems & Procedures Brothers Unlimited Inc. of New York are in hot water as their latest venture has been a huge failure, and their Mafia investor, "Mr. Big", wants his $500,000 within 24 hours, or else. So Jimmy, a courier who over hears their plight, suggests they make a porno movie as an easy way of getting back the lost money."
Of course, as you can imagine, hardcore hillarity ensues.
"Let My Puppets Come" came out in 1976. That's 13 years before "Meet The Feebles," and 20 years after the show "Sam and Friends," which is considered the birth of Jim Henson's Mumppets. But "Let My Puppets Come" is not a Jackson vehicle nor a Mumppet film. It's directed by Gerard Damiano. Yes, Damiano, who direceted the infamous "Deep Throat" and "The Devil in Miss Jones," not to mention "Naked Goddess" and "Naked Goddess 2" and "Young Girls in Tight Jeans" and "Slightly Used" and "Candy's Little Sister, Sugar," and, the 1969 classic, "We All Go Down."
And Damiano doens't hold back with "Puppets", using the same gusto and talent that made "Deep Throat" the highest grossing fuck film of all time.
Highlights of "Puppets" include a nurse blowing a dying man complete with messy puppet cum, a singing penis and dancing vagina, Little Louie played by the late Louie De Jesus aka Louie Short Stud (real person, little person), and the extremely life-like puppet dog lipstick cock...

And I looked high and low for some video clips of the flim but it seems the puppet porno has not yet penetrated the world of YouTube. If you have clips, or the entire flim (I only have the first 25 minutes), please let me know.

Seriously.

I know what you're thinking.

2006-08-24T09:25:00.000-07:00

Where's A.P. been?
He's been motherfucking busy, that's where he's been.
I ain't forgot about you.
Don't you forget about me.

That's all I'm gonna say about that.

I'm so thirsty...

2006-08-24T09:24:00.000-07:00

When I lived in Bed-Stuy Brooklyn, I always drank 40 ounce bottles of Colt .45 malt liquor. Either that, or Steel Reserve. Why? Becuase that was what was available. That's what they sell in the stores in poor, predominately black neighborhoods like Bed-Stuy.
But what is malt liquor? Why do they call it, "liquid crack"?
And why is it always available in impoverished neighborhoods? And, perhaps most importantly, why is Seattle, WA trying to outlaw the sale of such malt liquor?
There's a simple explaination for this consumer anomaly.
Poor consumers want and need to get the most for their money. And booze is no exception. So, they reach for malt liquor with the highest alcohol content (one 24-ounce can of Steel Reserve costs $1.39, and has the alcohol content of four shots of whiskey), so what do the producers of these malt liquors do? They target poor minorities through advertisments like the one above. Or this one. But it wasn't always like that.
However, these days, in places like Seattle, the government is creating legislation to ban the sale of malt liquor in certain neighborhoods in an attempt to rid the streets of drunks and... well, the type of people that drink malt liquor. How much malt liquor advertisements influence their target demographic or are merely resultant is up for debate.
What isn't debatable is that this legislature is descriminatory, aimed at a specific consumer: poor minorities.
Quite simply, the mind of the government thinks: "How do we get rid of the people we don't want? Oh, we'll just ban the sale of what they drink!"
And worse yet, it will definately put hard-working shop owners who rely on their malt liquor sales out of business.

Sink or Swim? Float! ...down the Mississippi that is.

2006-08-10T07:10:00.000-07:00

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.” –Mark Twain

They’re setting out any day now. For two weeks now they’ve been stationed in Minneapolis, Minnesota building and constructing and preparing. And they’re almost ready. Ready to do what?
“We want to meet people who aren’t like us. We want to meet ourselves at age 16. We want to be a living, kicking model of an entirely different world — one that in this case happens to float. Plus we suspect that there is something wildish about seeing the stars night after night from the grand old Mississippi.”
They are called The Miss Rockaway Armada. About two dozen artists, performers, and renegades from Brooklyn, Seattle, San Francisco, and a few places in between aiming to float from Minneapolis to St. Louis, stopping along the way to spread music, art, and everything they hold dear.
Their vessels, three 20-foot barges constructed with found Styrofoam and salvaged wood, run on two Volkswagen Rabbit engines converted to biodiesel and capable of running on vegetable oil.
Part snake oil medicine show, part punk band tour, part nomadic tribe...
Will they make it to New Orleans, or even St. Louis? Perhaps. And perhaps that's the best part.
For me, the core of this mission, like any adventure, lies not in the destination but the journey. In these modern times, when air-travel is as easy as a mouse click and summering tourists clog the highways, it’s absolutely beautiful to see something like Miss Rockaway: young Americans, living frugally, enacting a vision, and taking it all the way down the throat of the Mississippi River.

photo by: Tod Seelie. See morehere

Threat Level: Critical Threat.

2006-08-10T03:01:00.000-07:00

Great. More terrorists.
Really though, two days before I’m suppose to fly into London there’s some messy terrorist plot thwarted by the police. Apparently the plan was to use carry-on luggage chock full of dynamite* to blow up the planes mid-flight from the UK to the USA. Authorities claim the “significant” plot involved up to ten airplanes.
But we foiled them again!
After 25 arrests in London, 21 remain in custody. And now, according to England’s super-secret domestic spy agency, MI5 007, the country is at the highest threat level: critical threat!
Critical Threat: “An attack is expected imminently and indicates an extremely high level of threat to the UK.”
Meanwhile, I’m searching google for “hip London bars” and “strip clubs London.”
I should be searching “London Bridges falling down” or “Survival tips at 60,000 feet.”
Damn terrorists. Always one step ahead, always fucking up my travel plans.
It’s not enough that I get ass-searched every time I fly but now I’m gonna get the random selection latex double-dip!
Yes!

*That’s not true. Terrorists don’t use dynamite. It was probably some sort of liquid explosive in an Avian bottle.

Working for The Man.

2006-08-10T02:19:00.000-07:00

That's a photo of my boss and me. Her name is Sara.
Last night we had a few drinks at a restaurant where my buddy Ries was having a going-away shindig before his two-week jaunt in Morocco.
The last time I hung out with my boss was at a similar dinner party at her apartment for our co-worker Amel who was leaving Fabrica. We got drunk that night too. But last night, unlike the time before, we didn't go for a walk down to the river and I didn't get naked and I didn't jump into the river and bare-hand wrestle a swan.*
The time before that, if my memory serves me right, we went to the circus and watched like wide-eyed children as the ringmaster paraded camels and horses and hippos in front of us.
Sara loved that shit.

*True story. No photos.

Just because you're paranoid, doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

2006-08-08T07:01:00.000-07:00

Finally, someone said it!
John Mueller recently wrote an essay titled “A False Sense of Insecurity?” in which he espouses, with great evidence, that we are far more scared of terrorists than we should be.
Did you know that since the late 1960s (when the US State Department began counting) the number of Americans killed by international terrorism is the same for the time period as the number killed by lightning, accident-causing deer, or allergic reactions to peanuts.
And that includes the 3,000 killed in the September 11th tragedy.
Even in Israel, four times as many people die from car accidents than from terrorism.
So where does this intense fear come from?
Terrorism expert Brian Jenkins says, “terrorists want a lot of people watching, not a lot of people dead.” And that’s exactly what they’re getting.
In 1982, Tylenol capsules filled with cyanide killed seven people, yet it generated 125,000 stories in print media. Suddenly, the country was terrified of Tylenol and this attention cost the manufacturer $1 billion.
Of this ubiquitous fear, Senator John McCain wrote, “Get on the damn elevator! Fly on the damn plane! Calculate the odds of being harmed by a terrorist! It’s still about as likely as being swept out to sea by a tidal wave. Suck it up, for crying out loud.”

Word o' the day: Lickable

2006-08-04T02:50:00.000-07:00

What happened to advertising? Really. They just don't do it like they used to. Looking at this ad makes me want a fucking creamsicle. I want a creamsicle like I've never wanted anything before in my entire life. If you were sitting next to me holding a creamsicle right now, I would kill you for it. I would choke you with my bare hands.
Because creamsicles are so damn lickable.
Just like child gymnasts.
It's OK.
Don’t feel bad. There’s nothing wrong with your confusion, that disturbed, guilty feeling in your loins. It’s natural.
You can look. Just don't touch.
Lickable.

National Creamsicle Day is August 14.
Go lick something.

Bank robbers are much sexier than sceenplay writers

2006-08-04T02:27:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched the latest Spike Lee joint, "Inside Man." It's a movie about a robbery, what the ringleader and mastermind calls "the perfect robbery." And in the opening scene, during a Five Ws monologue by said robber, he states that the "why" of the robbery was "because I can."
OK. Let's think about this for a moment.
We got this guy named Russell Gewirtz. And he's a writer. He's in the shower one morning and slips and hits his head on the sink and when he comes to he has this idea, an idea for the "perfect robbery."
He spends the next few weeks writing a screenplay about the idea, calls it "Inside Man," and eventually Spike Lee directs it.
My question is, Why the fuck didn't he just rob the damn bank?
I mean, he probably got a few hundred thousand, maybe a million dollars for the script, certainly advanced his career, but he didn't get away with a truck full of cash.
Screenplay writer: stuck in traffic on Sunset Blvd. arguing on his cell phone with his agent.
Successful bank robber: sipping cocktails on a remote beach next to his napping supermodel lover.
Or better yet...
Maybe he could have sold the robbery plan to a high-paying crime network. I'm no Hollywood buff but I think crime-networks have as much if not more money than film producers. But I think they have the same amount of cocaine.
It's just so boring when art imitates life. What happened to life imitating art?
We've all seen "Dog Day Afternoon," now that was based on a true story, a bank robbery gone horribly wrong one August day in New York. But wouldn't it have been better if they filmed "Dog Day" on that hot afternoon?
Imagine this: "Inside Inside Man: A Documentary."
Russell Gewirtz should have implemented his robbery and filmed the whole damn thing. That's what's up.
Rob the bank and make the film.
No one thinks outside the box anymore.

The Hansi & Andy Band Band!

2006-08-03T02:15:00.000-07:00

We've been practicing like maniacs. Hansi on the drums, me on the xylophone, Hansi on the synth, me on the drums, Hansi on the cowbell, me on the synth, both of us on the xylophone, and we even do a couple a cappella numbers.
And we fucking rock!
We head for the studio next week to cut our first album, tentatively titled "The Return of The Hansi & Andy Band Band."
And the album is slated to drop in October because our producer thinks it would be best not to compete with all the other summer albums.
Besides, our style, our genre is more for the Autumn listeners. We don't do summer jams. Our cuts are deep and thoughtful. Especially numbers like "We Eat You," and "Put Your Finger In My Penis," and, everyone's favorite, "I Hate Hating You."

Out last practice session ended in a naked cake fight with our upstairs neighbors. They came down to complain, we threw cake, got naked, and eventually won them over with our lively music and unabashed “Bake Rock.”

And there’s plenty more where that came from.
Stay tuned!

God made you in his own image.

2006-08-02T03:31:00.000-07:00

I don't care if this is photoshop or not. A chimp face tattooed on your snatch is the best goddamn thing the internet has ever given me. Just imagine those little chimpanzee eyes gazing up at you as it swallows your shaft. It's the best of both worlds: you get sex and the illusion of beastly fellatio without the guilty feeling that comes with primate oral!

I have the strength of one thousand men.

2006-08-01T05:05:00.000-07:00

On Friday night I got a little drunk
Then I ripped the phonebook in half.
I didn't think I could do it. No one thought I could do it.
But I did. It.

Then we went online and watched other people rip it up: Old Toothless Rip, Superman Rip, Dorm Room Rip, Talent Show Rip, Crackhead Rip, Way Too Serious Rip.

It's not a game, or a science.
It's an art.

And only when you achieve a technique that transcends technique will you be able to rip a phone book.
There is no opponent because there is no you.

There is only the phone book.

They Threatened Us With Violence: on the road with I Ragazzi Della Prateria & DJ Boraxx

2006-07-31T02:19:00.000-07:00

On Saturday night I found myself in the middle of the mountains in some town outside of a town that isn't on the map. I was drinking gin and watching a musical performance. The local football team, dressed in drag, lip-synced to an hour's worth of classic rock tunes like "We Are The Champions" and some other shit. They didn't even know how to pretend to play their instruments. And it seemed like everyone has having way too much fun.
The whole scene was ghastly: teenagers swooned while their parents smiled and videotaped the performance from the wall, burly men clapping along to the song their local football players pretended to sing, and when they concluded with the Italian national anthem, "Inno di Mameli", the crowd held their hand out straight from their chest not unlike the fucking Nazi salute.
I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
And the encore? Nothing less than screaming the riff of The White Stripes' "Seven Nation Army," which for inexplicable reasons has come to be the Italian football war cry, and since the World Cup, simply the Italian war cry.
Then it was time for my friends to play. That's how I landed myself in this throng. My friends i ragazzi della prateria and DJ Boraxx were following the mess of shit football dragqueen lip-syncers.
"If this crowd likes our music," said Boraxx. "I think that will speak badly of us."
And he was right. They didn't like their music. In fact, they hated it.
It's good music, disco/dance/beat sort of tunes, with live, impromptu music-matching visuals. And when they play in Venice or Mogliano Veneto their performance is well-received.
But not this time.
During the first song, a few audience members bum-rushing the stage, requesting "more commercial music," or "music people could actually dance to," and one even asked my friend if he "liked the music you're plaiyng."
They were climbing up the sides of the stage to argue and request. They were coming at us from all sides.
In no time at all the audience turned from crowd to rabble to mob...
The organizer of the concert could be seen speaking with the bouncers in the corner of the auditorium. Football players clad in Italia jerseys stood menacingly just off stage with their arms folded across their chests.
It was time for us to leave.
Violence seemed imminent.
"I'm not even in the band," I said.
My friends glared at me.
"Nevermind," I said. "Tonight, I die with you."
"Just help with the equipment."
"We have to leave... quickly."
The organizer jumped on the stage and approached us. He asked for the keys to our car because "it's probably a bad idea to leave through the front. I can bring your car around back."
"Are we in danger?"
"Yes, a little bit," he said.
So he drove up to the back entrance and we made a beeline from the stage to the car and rolled away with our headlights off.
As we reached town, getting closer to the complimentary hotel room, we joked about how the organizer was probably in more danger than we were because he's the one responsible for the booking.
"They're probably beating the shit out of him right now!"
And we laughed heartily.
"Yeah, he's already dead."
"I just hope he doens't rat us out and tell them what hotel we're in," I said, laughing.
The others weren't laughing.

I heart thunderstorms.

2006-07-28T02:01:00.000-07:00

Last night it thunderstormed something awesome. About fucking time.
It's been so damn hot these last couple of weeks, I can feel my brain swelling and sweating.
I sweat in bed. I sweat in the kitchen. I sweat in the shower.
And I know it's been hot most places, some sort of climate change or something or other, but enough already...
Stop using hairspray. Stop driving with the AC on and the windows down. Stop making me sweat.
I remember watching Texan thunderstorms as a child in the garage with my father. We’d open the garage door and sit in lawn chairs just inside, just out of the rain. Those were the days before thunderstorms were needed. Those days, as a child, thunderstorms just happened, like anything else, and they weren’t exactly miraculous. But in a way, they were.
I’d keep time from thunder to lightening to estimate the location of the storm’s center. Three miles away, two miles away, one mile away, and then practically simultaneous thunder and lightening.
These days, I feel like I need a good thunderstorm every once in a while. I think we all do.
Because even if they lack the miraculousness they had during childhood, they still bring a sense of peace and rest with their chaotic and violent ways. With high temperatures like this, the violence of a storm is soothing relative to the static, stifling heat that keeps you from enjoying yourself.
At least during a thunderstorm, you can feel like a kid again.

Back to work!

2006-07-27T02:21:00.000-07:00

You know what? I've actually missed work these last couple of days.
Sure, it's fun sitting on your ass all day watching movies and reading, downloading porno and, well... masturbating five times a day. But it gets old after a bit. And your dick starts to hurt.
I can honestly say I'm happy to be back at work today. I've showing off my infectious sores like they're battle wounds. But no one really cares. And I can't blame them.
It's just nice sitting here in the air conditioning. Sure, I'm not exactly "working" as they say. I'm still gonna spend my day the same way I did at home, minus the movies and masturbation, but it's nice to be out of the house, interacting with people, and listening to internet radio.
Also, the fact that it's already Thursday means that the weekend starts tomorrow. And if there's one thing I like about the work-week, it's the weekend.
Eight hours for work, eight hours for sleep, eight hours for what we will!
Except on the weekend. On the weekend I do whatever the fuck I damn well please.

Definately NOT mosquito bites.

2006-07-26T01:25:00.000-07:00

Here's an update:
My right leg is rotting off. I have to go to the doctor. Over the course of yesterday the pockmarks grew and pussed and actually began to hurt. Mosquito bites... they itch. They get red. They go away.
Remember that whole flesh-eating bacteria scare?
Well, I woke up this morning and my foot ballooned to the size of a watermelon and I couldn't fit into my flipflops. My fucking flipflops!
And so I wobbled and hopped across town to the doctor but of course, it's Italy, and on Wednesdays the doctor sleeps in until the afternoon. So I wobbled back home.
I think I'm gonna go back to sleep now. I'll need all my strength for this afternoon's amputation.

Mosquito bites?

2006-07-25T02:28:00.000-07:00

I have these disgusting mosquito bites on my legs. I also have two near my left elbow.
I got these bites at the horse track last week and now they’re all infected-looking and oozing yellow puss.
I’m beginning to think they’re not mosquito bites at all.
Some have caved in on themselves leaving a deep crimson crater in my calf. One scabbed over something awful. And one down by my ankle has bubbled up and over into like what I imagine a whitehead looks like magnified a million times.
“Don’t scratch them,” everyone tells me.
I’m not scratching them! I swear! I don’t know what is going on!
I fear I have some terrible disease.

Booze numbs the pain. Until the morning.

2006-07-24T02:19:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to a party in a playground near the soccer stadium. The party had a Brazilian theme, which meant we were to drink caipirinhas and mojitos. And we did. We also drank rum and coke, tequila, grappa, and vodka.
There were maybe forty or thirty of us. Including three Brazilians. And everyone looked beautiful, especially the twenty year-old Italian girls with massive breasts who came from God knows where.
We drank and danced and wrestled. We jumped off the swings, we climbed the cargo nets, we ran around like children caught in frenzy of unabashed life lust.
At some point I took my shirt off.
And soon after I gave some Venetian dude a bloody lip. But you know what? He was asking for it. Sure, I got bruised up a bit in the scuffle but at least I didn’t bleed down my chin onto my pretty-boy white button-up.
That’s when the party started dying down. We were out of booze anyway.
Walking my bicycle back through town with some friends I decided it was time to mount that chariot and take to the cobblestone streets like the half-naked drunkard that I was. But my buddy had no bicycle. “No problem,” I said. “We’ll double up.”
And almost immediately after we started rolling, I was on the ground. I couldn’t breathe. And for some reason I couldn’t see. My friends picked me up, I fell down again, they picked me up again.
As they wiped the blood out of my eyes, I could hear my buddy saying he was fine, didn’t get hurt in the crash.
“You went down like a fucking brick,” said one friend.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” said another.
“I can’t see through all this goddamn blood!” I said. “Jesus, I think I cracked a rib.”
“Let’s walk the rest of the way,” said my buddy.
And somehow I woke up in my bed.
Today, I’ve got a really punk-looking gash through my right eyebrow, and I’m damn sure I cracked a rib. For those of you who haven’t had the misfortune of cracking a rib, let me tell you, it’s some of the most painful shit I’ve ever endured. It hurts to sit up, it hurts to breathe. Coughing, even sneezing, is absolutely excruciating. And there’s nothing you can do for it.
The last time I cracked a rib was in Brooklyn a year or two ago. I had gotten into a little tiff with the bouncer at that bar Supreme Trading. Well, I don’t know who swung first but in the end he just sort of picked me up and threw me across the street. I landed on the curb, and cracked my rib.
For weeks I couldn’t fuck in the missionary position. My girlfriend thought I was just lazy.
“Baby, if it didn’t hurt like a stab wound I’d mount you right now,” I’d say. “But it does, so hop on.”

(photo by: Percy Widget)

Welcome to Wonderful...

2006-07-24T02:11:00.000-07:00

Copenhagen!
I’m moving to Copenhagen!
I just visited a friend there. She lives on Istedgrade, halfway between the junkie church and Kebabistan. Really. The kebab place is called Kebabistan! Ha! You can’t miss either of those landmarks. And that’s where you’ll find me for the rest of my life: tiptoeing around used needles and broken bottles.
Because Copenhagen has it all.
Firstly, everyone speaks English. It’s like a game for them, they love that shit. Just throw out some slang and some curse words—i.e. “That’s the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”—and you’ll be the life of the party.
And the women—every friggin last one of them—are blonde and beautiful. As one friend phrased it, Danish girls are very open and outgoing. And by “open and outgoing” she meant alcoholic and slutty.
They take it like champs and give it even harder. For fuck’s sake, they open beer bottles with their teeth with an ease that silently mocks you.
But even if you can’t get laid—and if you can’t get laid in Copenhagen you might as well be a eunuch—there’s hardcore porno on TV every night. Basic cable. And I don’t mean Cinemax dry-humping, I’m talking about raw, dirty double penetration. Every night. In your living room.
But that’s just the beginning. Copenhagen also has Tivoli, the oldest theme park in the world, smack in the middle of the city. Don’t knock it until you try it, my friend. We went straight from the Carlsberg Brewery to Tivoli’s rollercoaster. It was like I died fucking a supermodel and woke up in heaven’s hot tub. Only on a rollercoaster. Drunk.
I heard Michael Jackson wanted to buy Tivoli but the city told him to fuck off. And any city that sticks it to MJ is okay in my book.
One night I went to some artsy hipster party in an abandoned candy factory and it could have been Brooklyn with the hip-hop duo who played and the country cover band. But in Brooklyn kids can dance. The Danish are so unfortunately arrhythmic they could barely clap with the beat. But they looked good nonetheless. And those bastards can drink!
That’s why I’m moving to Copenhagen. Because even though I was the only dark-haired, bearded dude I saw, at least I can dance. And that’s more than those fucking Vikings can say for themselves.
Even if they invented porno.

PS- Everyone in Demark is friends with or cousins of or walked the dog of Lars von Trier. Don’t believe them for a second. They lie. If Denmark had some other claim to fame no one would have to lie about living next to Lars von Douche.

(As previously published at ViceLand.com)

It's not a hangover if you have one every morning. Then it's just normal.

2006-07-21T01:53:00.000-07:00

This is one of those cancelled days. Those days after long nights of gambling and drinking. Those days you wake up still drunk, not sure how you made it home last night, and where’s your cell phone? No cigarettes. No money. Nothing in the refrigerator.
You close the shutters and watch a movie you’ve seen half a dozen times and fall asleep in the first twenty minutes only to wake up for the climactic ending.
After shuffling around the house for a few hours you find the strength to get dressed and head out for cigarettes and groceries. It’s five o’clock and the town in still, the quiet before the rush hour storm. You get your cigarettes. And at the supermarket you buy hamburger meat and hamburger buns.
You cook cheeseburgers and drink Fanta.
You watch another movie you’ve seen half a dozen times.
By then it’s almost ten and you think, “Maybe I’ll open a bottle of wine.”
Jesus, how much did you drink last night?

Looking for a Job in the City.

2006-07-19T02:38:00.000-07:00

We had been on the boat since 4AM. Our newfound friend, Jonathan was the captain but it wasn’t his boat. “It’s just the boat I use,” he said. “And that’s better than owning a boat. This way I am more free. And happier too.”
As Jonathan rowed us through the canals of Venice we listened to him tell us about how sometimes everything is for him: the wind, and the current. And sometimes everything is against him. “That is when I cry. And sometimes almost die.”
And certainly, after dawn, when the city came back to life, there were moments when Jonathan told us, “You can cry now if you want.”
Drunk on cheap wine and high on hash, I was rowing us through the Grand Canal, under the Rialto Bridge, dodging the massive vaporettos, the garbage boats, fighting the wakes tossed in our path.
And I just couldn’t stop laughing.

(photo: Adam Huggins)

Word o' the day: Pidocchi

2006-07-19T02:35:00.000-07:00

I learned a new word the other day. Pidocchi. That’s Italian for lice. A few weeks ago I got stupid drunk at this boat party in Treviso, Italy and after jokingly trying to get this teenage girl to jump in the river with me I found myself naked on the bow surrounded by a throng of onlookers and a gnat-storm of paparazzi. Sure, I jumped in the river, splashed about for the audience, climbed the rocks back onto shore and dressed only to continue the night at some pseudo-discothèque where I stank like river water and some friends told the DJ it was my birthday: “Buon compleanno Americano!”
Anyway, I got home around eight or nine in the morning and slept until eight or nine in the evening when I woke up and took a shower. In the shower I noticed my chest was covered in dirt, little brown flecks of… dirt. Dirt that wouldn’t wash off, dirt that moved when I picked at it.
Bugs! My chest hair was infested!
I spent the evening picking these critters out of my chest hair—not an easy task as they have claws and strong ones at that.
But even then I wasn’t sure it was lice. So I did some research. I googled “bugs in chest hair,” and the first hit was something like “sucka, you got lice.” And my Italian is disgraceful—even after six months I haven’t gotten much further than posso avere—so I once again turned to google for a translation of “lice.”
Pidocchi.
The pharmacy man, a bald, bespectacled guy with tiny, tiny hands, was very kind and gave me “the lotion,” as opposed to “the shampoo” because the lotion was stronger. Then he looked sternly at me and said something of which I understood less than half: something about being careful with it around my penis because this shit is strong. Anyway, that was weeks ago, like I said, and still I got lice. I must have used that can of aerosol foam half a dozen times now, fucking bathed in it, and I’m still picking these fuckers out of my chest hair, my armpit hair, and yes, my pubic hair.
My friend Adam said, “Shave it off, dude. Just shave it all off.”
But if I do that they win. And I can’t lose.
Fuck, even as I write this I can feel those parasitic critters sucking the blood out of my crotch and crawling around in my beard.
For a moment I thought about sleeping in my vacationing roommate’s bed just to see if when he came back he’d tell me that he had lice. Because I don’t think he would. But I didn’t. He’s an asshole, but maliciously giving someone lice seems a bit immoral, even for me.
Lice have a stigma to them, like back in grade school with those screenings and tests, “Today is Lice Day!
I told a few people, some friends, but I tried not to let everyone I worked with know about my parasites. Of course, there’s this one girl, an Italian co-worker I’ve been flirting with and I didn’t really want her to know I had lice, but at a bar not long ago she said she heard I had bugs.
“No no no no… I had bugs.”
“What kind of bugs?”
“Nothing serious,” I said, landing my hand on her waist. “They’re gone now.”
But another Italian co-worker overheard and chimed in with, “Pidocchi.”
The girl was immediately terrified and tripped over herself stepping away.
“But I killed them, I killed them all,” I said.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “Those bugs are hard to kill.”

And you know what? She’s right goddammit.