My family’s a bunch of sports Nazis. I’m the art fag black sheep. I don’t fucking care about football. I do think, tho, none of the players should wear helmets. Like what the flip are they protecting themselves from? Head injuries? Like who cares.

I can’t wait until Friday. Fucking tickets for this band!!

don't hate them because they're beautiful.

I’ve been invited by my agent to read at George Whipple’s penthouse this Friday. I must say I don’t know much about Mr. Whipple except he has crazy eyebrows and writes for New York Times, Harper’s Bizarre and Town and Country. I write for Town and Country, too. No, not really.
I’d invite ya’ll but I can only bring one guest. I have to dress all mod and feminine. This means I must abandon my ripped jeans that are starting to smell like expired produce once again – my friends hangin with me tonight, you have been warned, cos I’m wearin’ ‘em. If you’d like to donate quarters to the make a Jordan smell better foundation, you may.

fake girls don't smell. they don't laugh or cry either.



So I’ve had quite a few email requests to read my novel. I am planning on getting back to you as soon as I can. Meanwhile check this out.

I must go now…….my dominant side is persuading my submissive side to join together in the bedroom……..

From “Demonic”
The Death of Billy Goat Judas

PHIL
We went to a shabby little bar in Detroit. It was an underground place. The steps were slabs of red painted concrete. Chunks were missing from the stairs. It would have been so easy to have fallen and broken my neck. The waterlogged piece of wood that hung over the narrow entrance read Blake’s. It had just started raining. Tonight’s specials were written in chalk on a board placed on the floor by the bouncer. I went to the bar while Harry went to the jukebox. I suddenly realized how fat he was. In the truck it was hard to tell. As he stood in front of the jukebox, though, with one hand placed on his hip, I noticed how his fat just spilled over his jeans. He was short, too. His arms were still muscular, I guess from the required exercise of scooping ice cream. I ordered us some jack and cokes and we took a seat on a wobbly bench near a pool table. Boys with no asses in loose-fitting jeans played an unimpressive match. The collision of the balls and consistent toss of beer bottles behind the bar filled up the silence between Harry and me. I tried to think of something somewhat interesting to say. He looked bored but wanted to talk.
“So, you don’t really like college, huh?”
“No…did you go to college?” He looked at me and laughed.
“What do you think?” Then he took a long suck from his beer, looking up at the neon sign that made his face even redder than it already was. “Yes,” he clarified. A few more moments of silence passed. Finally he added, “What does it matter in the end, right? We all choke.” Alice Cooper suddenly blasted out through the terrible speakers. “Eighteen! I just don’t know what I want!”
“This song should’ve been called forever,” Harry commented, “Because I have always felt that way, not just when I was fucking eighteen. That’s just when it started.” I nodded.
“Yeah, I know. I don’t feel like I’m meant for college. I really don’t feel like I’m meant for anything. I do like to build stuff, but last night destroying things felt better.” There had been a brutal rape on campus a few weeks ago. I don’t know what made me think of it, I just did. Some girl, a freshman, said four guys ganged up on her, raped her with a broomstick and made her suck her own tampon after they took it out of her. A guy in my hall was one of the suspects. Some jock joked about the rape the other day during some fund raiser hogwash. “You think she got splinters in her kidneys?” A few guys around him laughed.
After Alice Cooper came ACDC.
“I like your taste in music,” I said. I wasn’t sure if he heard me at first.
“The only reason why I come here,” he pointed to the table, “the fucking jukebox.”
“Yeah, it seems cool.”
“They got some fuckin’ Spinal Tap. You should go over there and check it out.”
I did. I ended up loading about fifteen songs. They had everything I used to love and there wasn’t anything better then getting drunk and hearing stuff that made me think about the couple of good years before I started Michigan State. There were these two guys I’d pal around with – Deccon and this punk guy that called himself St. Charles as a joke. They were both loners like me, but every so often we’d get in these moods to hang out with each other and just drink. Deccon had so many records and St. Charles had a few good ones, too. St. Charles had a pet Billy goat named Judas. One night when we were listening to The Ramones, Judas got hit by a car. We were in St. Charles room, smoking and drinking. He noticed Judas was gone and we looked out into the street and saw a lump of white hair and blood. St. Charles seemed real broken up about it, so much so he stopped hanging out with us. Deccon went to visit his sister in Portland. I went to Michigan State. We just got scattered about. Actually, hearing stuff like 53rd and 3rd makes me sad, but it’s better than not feeling anything at all.