Thu, 28 Apr 2005 17:23:42 GMT

Every so often when I get restless I decide to go off on my own little tangent and explore the microcosm that is Manhattan. Normally these urges are short-lived and take place in the most inconvenient of times, usually when nobody else is around/contactable or when everyone has made more interesting plans. As a result, I almost always end up going into the city alone.

Sometimes when I’m looking for reasons to pity myself I can rely on this sort of self inflicted solitude in order to harp on faults - even when I try to pretend that it isn’t a lot easier to do things at my own pace without coping with the whims and plans of another person. Ultimately I have this innate talent for finding unconventional people and situations in the most sedate of environments, this is a skill considering all of the boring things I find in notoriously dangerous places. With my luck I’ll be gunned down in the Guggenheim by a dope fiend wearing a giant condom.

I got to the Syosset station around ten or so, it’s ritual that I depart from this station opposed to any other more local areas because I am more comfortable starting my day in a familiar place. When I was five my mother and her troupe of friends (each with a daughter of my age) would take me and the aforementioned daughters into the city for various stereotypical city adventures, and we’d always leave from Syosset. For as long as I could remember there was a profound comfort associated with this specific train station and it hasn’t gone away.

More pertinent to today:
Naturally the train was late considering it was raining and rain has ability to slow things up to an inconvenient and ironic point (the train after us wasn’t late and arrived about the same time as mine did, go figure.). It was a double-decker train and I was ecstatic, the whole thing was fairly modernized, immaculate, and I had a lot of space which of course I wanted to distance myself from obnoxious citygoing people. Upon sitting down I was in my glory - looking down into the tracks and through the poorly mirrored glass of the local dunkin donuts/baskin robin’s hybrid, there wasn’t a cellphone wielding imbecile two rows in either direction. However I was shortly informed that everyone was to transfer at Hicksville, the train we were to board itself was exactly the opposite of the crisp clean double decker – that being grimy, old, and filled with those tacky ads that people like to litter with profane graffiti (the best one that I’ve seen has a picture of a family on vacation, and someone put Dr. Phil’s head suspended in mid air.). All the people from the train I was on boarded, the world on the Hicksville platform boarded, and everyone initially in the train remained sitting. For lack of better words it was insanely crowded and everyone was yapping on cellphones, various people clicked away on laptops (some intelligent looking business man was typing away on aim), children bickered and mothers told the same stories eight times over to their sisters.

I didn’t get a seat; about other fifteen people didn’t - although I hardly minded standing. When I boarded I noticed this very washed up sixtiesesque woman with her two children, one of which looked approximately my age. She had a mass of black dyed hair that fell into her face in large bushels; her grubby black painted fingernails were embedded in a picture of Brandon Lee from the crow. To her sister (a replica with dark brown hair) she flaunted this image and swooned with great smacking noises that were emitted from a heavily painted mouth with the occasional display of saliva. Her mother reminded me of a Vietnamese protester who marched through central park braless and wrestled in the mud while Fleetwood Mac played at Woodstock. Given all honesty these people amused the fuck out of me and I made sure to pick a place to stand as close to them as possible, that being right next to their seat that was used to house Hippy-bitch’s beach bag ‘n shit. Taking a second glance at the brightly colored bag I wondered to myself why she didn’t put it in her lap or on the top shelve in order to let someone else sit in the otherwise empty seat. As I mentioned, I hardly minded standing and don’t particularly care for any confrontation with people – especially if they look like cousin it with John Lennon glasses. However, an elderly woman didn’t quite feel the same way as I do and in stereotypical refined old woman manner she politely pussyfooted over to the seat in order to kindly ask for the woman to move her bag. Not to my surprise Cousin It screamed back to the elderly lady something along the lines of “I’m not moving my bag”. More aghast then I was (I had already labeled this woman as a protester; they’re a crazy lot always fighting for the rights of things that don’t exist. I bet if there was a chance that I was taking up her hypothetical land on the moon by breathing she’d tackle me braless and beat me into submission) the woman sidestepped and responded with a curt “pardon?”.

“You heard me you bitch, I’m not moving.” Plastered upon her face was a smug look of triumph, it played with the upper corners of her mouth and sent her children into fits of giggles HHAAHAHRHRHAHRHAHR. The picture of Brandon Lee was withdrawn into a backpack encrusted with pins.

“You’re setting a bad example for your daughters!” replied the older woman using a matter o’ fact tone in that telltale elderly fashion. Her voice reeked of haughty influence and the mentioned daughters continued to shriek with glee. I noticed the younger girl resembled a horse.

“I’m not moving bitch”

I continued to watch the situation with growing fascination; I also realized that in the event of a fight that I’d probably be the first person to be pummeled by hippy flesh.

Gasping and clicking her tongue synonymously (I found myself later trying to emulate this action by executing it myself, it’s entirely possible) the woman finally stalked off after muttering a quick “You’re just a son of a bitch”.

Rising from her seat the revolutionist called after the retreating woman
“YOU HAVEN’T WON. DON’T YOU THINK YOU HAVE!”

Two seats back a girl started crying with false naivety, “I’m not used to this, I’m from Virginia!” she confided to her boyfriend who probably was well aware as to where she was from, most likely from the same place himself. He sheltered her with his all
powerful shoulders and poor combover.

The woman reluctant to give up a seat she hadn’t paid for was now lecturing to her daughters in a sagelike voice that sounded slightly ethereal (as she intended) all about rights and how they are to never give them up no matter what. Her daughters nodded after each word with a profound understanding, if anything it reminded me of the blind will to follow that Colleen exerts on a daily basis. I was very happy that I forsaw interesting things accompanying these people, and as one stop had passed I was well aware that I’d be up for more.

Another older woman made her way down the aisle clutching a floral patterned umbrella, her pointed shoes were shiny and hair was done in various ringlets framing a wrinkled face. She smiled politely and asked if the woman would move her beachbag, the woman herself had sunk into the seat and closed her eyes as though all of this sitting she had been doing was consuming her lifeforce. Acting as though she was oppressed and had been all of her life, she replied with a solemn “no”.

The older woman was nonplussed and raised a quixotic eyebrow, I leaned nonchalantly in order to fully take in what conversation ensued. I also toyed with the idea of hurling myself headlong into her beachbag at the next stop as though it were some horrible form of accident; the will not to draw attention to myself stopped this thought from acting upon itself.

“Please Miss, I have a poor back.”

She smiled earnestly as if her yellowed teeth would make a difference; it reminded me of that line from Pretty Baby, “I am old, and I have seen a lot of things”…probably because the woman was old and I was seeing a lot in the span of five minutes.

“I was here first, go fuck off”

Given all technicalities the elder woman did fuck off just as frazzled as the first, as she left I felt various sympathy pangs. The woman herself didn’t look as though she was in her prime and the more I thought about any condition she may suffer, the more I saw crags and crevices embedded within her skin.

By this point the entire compartment was well aware of the obnoxious woman with her two vulture-like daughters; in heated conversation they spoke about her in poorly hushed tones. Various sythentic nails were jabbed in her direction and I took each and every one in with a careful eye (A woman with what seemed to be crossed between a pixie cut and mullet had deep plum nails with little inserted rhinestones). Alas, at Mineola a portly woman staggered in.

Middle aged or so the woman herself by appearance absolutely screamed “Lesbian”, complete with a New York Liberty jacket, large/stout build, weatherworn bar t-shirt and straight legged jeans that were anything but generous to her figure. She wanted to sit and it came to no surprise as to what seat she wanted to sit in (the only one partially available). The two women were both very headstrong people as far as I could tell from limited contact with both of them, and generally when one asshole meets another there is nothing but the gnashing of teeth and the gnawing of flesh while pussies such as myself go “Oh, look at that…Isn’t this funny?” (we later record our experiences in great detail on livejournal).

Eagerly awaiting conflict I noted the butch woman approach my little renegade; asking the woman to move her beach bag for the third time (to no avail of course) the butch woman was hardly going to stand for it. Grabbing the beach bag herself the revolutionist flung her tremendous bulk upward and seized her belongings with the term “civil liberties” floating on her tongue. A bit of a scuffle ensued, two slaps were exchanged and the “lesbian” sent for the conductor.

The girl from Virginia shrieked “conductor! Conductor!” (for no apparent reason really) while flailing her arms madly. Her boyfriend still had that hideous comb over (I don’t know why I thought it’d be different from three minutes previous.)

Eventually the conductor came, a tired looking woman who lifted the beachbag and forced the modern day freedom fighter to relinquish her seat (stuffing was coming out of the bottom, talk about prized seating). The stout woman who summoned the conductor initially then asked me if I wanted to sit, of course I let the woman have a well earned seat and gingerly nodded for her to take it.

The entire compartment erupted in a round of applause.

Freedom fighter hid behind a curtain of stringy hair, her daughters wrinkled their noses in disgust – their almighty fat momma had fallen at the will of a lesbian. Naturally this wasn’t the end; the woman had to continue her lecture which had a new edict to it.

“Don’t ever give up your seat to a fat ugly lesbian. That’s right girls (CACKLESNORTHUHHUHHARHARCACKLE) they get really angry when they’re in the closet, big…fat…great hairy lesbians. Don’t EVER submit to the will of a lesbian! (at this point she raised her fist heroically) EVER.”

This was too much for me and the other woman, I coughed on a litchie gummi and the butch lady started shaking out of sheer rage.

“Why don’t you just face me when you’re talking about me.” She responded hotly, if I wasn’t busy regurgitating Japanese candies I would have told the woman not to bother arguing.

Leering sagelike she fished for various index cards and continued.

“I wasn’t talking to you (indication of repulsion would be inserted here) I was talking to my daughters.”

“You just spent the last five minutes calling me fat, ugly, and a lesbian – and now you have the nerve to say that you’re not talking to me. I may be fat, but you’re fatter.”

Clutching her index cards she tried to pointedly ignore the other woman after instigating a whole conversation with her very obvious speech. Sifting through her “itinerary” the words “museum of modern art” was tossed around a bit, I wanted to go to the MoMa (abbreviationz r kewl) and thought it’d be wonderful if I could impale her with one of Miro’s mobiles (or maybe I could just hit her with the statue of a bird stand including the stuffed parrot) . I was busy contemplating one of my grandmother’s favorite phrases “What goes around comes around again.” and somehow amused myself with the thought of the woman being crushed by a twenty foot canvas, preferably Andy Warhol’s “Fourteen car crashes in orange”. Then I realized being flattened by a Warhol is a very honorable death and reconsidered a more pointless end due to the tipping of Jack Pollack’s bigstupidcanvaswithuglyblobs 5645677578568567. (It’s funny that he gave most of his paintings numbers for names because it makes them all seem that much more ridiculous even if it’s probably what he wanted /Jack Pollack was a very ugly man/, I later saw what is considered to be number 1…when I asked if they had number 2 one of the floor security guards laughed at me and said something along the lines of “You’re serious aren’t you”. Of course I was serious, I wanted to compare number 1 with number 2…There probably is no number 2, most likely it went from 1 to like 1000 just to piss people like me off. Nonetheless I had my conversation with Warhol’s 32 soup cans so it’s c00.)

Another elderly woman with bleached blonde hair came from down the aisle to confront the freedom fighter herself for no reason that I could find logical. Her fireengire red nail she jabbed directly in the face of the sitting woman, who naturally retorted with a quick “GET YOUR FINGER OUT OF MY FACE.”

“I’d like you and everyone else on this train to drop it” the older woman replied, clearly indicating the events we had witnessed. Two rich looking women snorted from the next row over, one was probably text messaging the entire progression play by play to Chantal down in La Jolla.

“I was only teaching my daughters a lesson! How dare you instruct me about how I should talk to my children? I’m not the idiot who was clapping after some lesbian (The masculine woman twitched) got my seat.”

“All I’m saying is the conduct on this train was immature and we should all be ashamed.”

“You’re right, that’s right, hear that girls? She’s right.”

Lured under a false sense of security the final elderly woman departed radiating a sense of self satisfaction that comes from being ‘a good Samaritan’. Her friend returned the smile and they hardly paid any attention as to what transpired after her little pearls of wisdom. I had a prime location so I wasn’t in any position to miss anything – this woman just wouldn’t shut up.
“See all these assholes? They’re all going to talk about me all day, like this (by this point she adopted a nasally voice and started gracing her words with violent thrusts from her now limp wrists) “Gawdzz, therez diz rel big bitch on da train ‘n she called diz womAN a leSBIAN, wut a BITCH”

Out of all the things she did this was most likely the one thing that really perturbed me, beforehand it was all a cheeky form of entertainment – something of which I tolerated and enjoyed. However, I couldn’t understand why she was mocking gay men or why she was continuing to contradict herself. If she didn’t want people to talk about her all she had to do was be more discreet with her conversations…then again the right to talk loud enough for everyone in a 100 foot radius can hear you is undoubtedly a right that shouldn’t be trampled (remember this my daughters). I don’t think she understood that when given/vying for certain rights you’re up to public opinion even when it’s on a very minimal level. I don’t think this woman understood much of anything to be honest.

The train stopped at Penn station and I felt the need to say something, I wanted to say “thanks for the entertainment.” Or… “The way you called that poor woman a lesbian was amazing!111” but as always I could only voice the negative.

I was very sincere and I promised the woman that in her honor I’d retell the story as many times as possible, and that I’d be sure to adopt the limp wrist maneuver in order to do justice to her speculation…then I left.

But I realized that I don’t talk to many people for long enough intervals in order to fully tell the story and I hardly felt like playing storyteller in the first place. So I kept my promise and wrote this whole thing out in her honor – despite the fact it’s poorly written (it’s not as if she deserves a valid description of her heroisms) and there really is no indication that I am narrating with limp wrists. “You can’t always get what you want”

Once I was in the city I met a lot of interesting people such as Wade, and had I the interest to describe this African American homosexual male who’s mother died four days previous at the age of 59 (after having 14 heartattacks), although ten minutes later he confided in me that he turned 50 on March 22nd – went to Yale for art but is now studying to become a psychiatrist …I would. Yes I gave him money.

I lit candles in St. Peter’s cathedral (I don’t know why, maybe something special will happen.)

Went to the museum of modern art.

People in art museums are all the same; it’s as if everyone blends in together in this feigned sort of attempted unconventionality. The more you try to stand out the more you blend in with the person next to you and this is interesting given the fact half the people have technocolored hair and/or piercings in places that Utopia has yet to pierce. I felt as though everyone in the building considered themselves artistically inclined and that they have this surreal sort of perception that automatically makes them art experts. I swear, I haven’t seen so many faux Mohawks since the last time I ventured to the downtown.

Speaking of which… What really annoyed me was the amount of pseudo scenesters frolicking around the fourth floor (fourth floor = the floor with da warHol) with their 39567567 little pins and quaint messenger bags trailing behind one another.

I’d like to say that I know more about modern art and particular pieces of art then most of the people I witnessed (I found myself inwardly explaining things, such as “Francis Bacon was born on the same day as Bill Gates, and I wonder if they have his picture of Pope Innocent the somethingth. Or, “Isn’t this funny, I know there are two different forms of surrealism. One type of surrealism is marked by the works of Salvador Dali and the other that was based on Freud’s discovery of the subconscious. This method involved the artist and his capabilities to free his mind and exert what it is that he is void of on canvas, sort of drawing without thinking. It’s slightly off topic but I don’t see how the early 1900’s was the first time someone decided to clear their mind and draw, maybe it was the first time anyone put emphasis on it….but I saw “Battle of the fishes” which is said to be the second form of surrealism) but I don’t think I do. I mean it’s very egotistical for me to put myself above people who all sit, sulk, and brood over Pollack’s crap in the same manner by which I do. My new goal is to be able to concoct something ridiculousINNOVATIVE> enough to be displayed next to Warhol’s gold Rorschach blob in the museum for all ETERNITYtillrentgoesout; maybe I can do Hottopic pop art. Or that’s sort of like dada and Duchamp’s solitary coffee maker.

“The lone safety pin”…is a bit redundant.

In all honesty how many other people in that building knew that Edward Hopper was born some few days before me and was known for personifying futility in modern culture? Or that David Hockney was born on July 9th and excelled in painting various homosexual scenes depicted in Beverly Hills. How many other people have read the Philosophy of Andy Warhol? (Probably a lot.) …and what’s his name with the bed sheets? That’s right..what’s his name, it goes to show how much I really do know…but pretty soon my bed is going to look like that considering Andy Warhol once said “Everything is more glamorous when you do it in bed, including peeling potatoes.”

Still, once I was able to get over 800 anorexic boys in tight hoodies and 3000 of their girlfriends in low-rise jeans and obscure band t-shirts – I was able to enjoy Andy for all that his limited displays are worth.

I also sat in the park adjacent to that Pienormous library and met Wade.

Made my way downtown into SOHO (I have to admit, north of Houston is exactly the same as south of Houston – only everything doesn’t say “SOHO” on it.)

Meandered through central park.

-And came back home.

Feeling the virtual hate

Mon, 25 Apr 2005 03:56:24 GMT

The logic song (11:30:30 PM): Why do you hate me again?
x neon blood x (11:30:36 PM): Haha. Fuck off.
x neon blood x (11:31:11 PM): I just do. I forget why, but Iknow I hate you.
The logic song (11:31:39 PM): Sounds like someone is a racist.
x neon blood x (11:32:12 PM): I was born in another country.
The logic song (11:32:34 PM): Undoubtedly a different country then the one I was born in.
x neon blood x (11:33:03 PM): I dont hate your people
x neon blood x (11:33:11 PM): I just hate YOU\and Andy
The logic song (11:33:15 PM): Do you eat babies too?
The logic song (11:33:19 PM): I can see you eating my relatives back in the homeland.
x neon blood x (11:33:32 PM): I'd never eat a baby
The logic song (11:33:48 PM): Don't try sugar coating it.
The logic song (11:33:51 PM): I know what you'd like to do to my people.
x neon blood x (11:34:37 PM): Go to hell

That kept me amused for a good three minutes.

Sun, 19 Dec 2004 05:30:20 GMT

Silver couches to recline upon
And ornaments of gold
Silver moonbeams dance in fountains
Below shining citadels
Surrounded by silver gates ascending silver stairs
Eureka on angelic prayer wafts in and scents the air
With ornaments of gold
To warm my soul from the growing cold
Ornaments of gold

We can drink from silver vessels
We can feed from silver bowls
Then I'll give you gilded treasures
Annointed by intoxicating oils
Drenched in riches unimaginable
Your splendour drips with jewels that are so beautiful

And ornaments of gold
Warm my soul from the growing cold

Adorable rewardable you
From head to toe I'd love to cover you
And smother you in ornaments of gold

In honeydew I'd love to cover you
Oh lover do bring

Ornaments of gold
Protect our hearts from this cruel world
Ornaments of gold

When the music is over...

Feeling the virtual hate