Archive for June, 2010

The legend of Zack Sang.

Posted in Uncategorized on June 23, 2010 by SLUTLUST


“When its 100 degrees in New York, it’s 72 in Los Angeles. When its 30 degrees in New York, in Los Angeles it’s still 72. However, there are 6 million interesting people in New York, and only 72 in Los Angeles.” Neil Simon

The pier to Governors island is littered with jorts and floral print dresses. Finance boys in their best set of cargo shorts with flip-flops and fashion girls failing to keep their side boobs in check. Music nerds in their black shirts with whatever band they are worshiping at the moment. The event volunteers overwhelmed by the lack of english speaking people in this very American crowd.


No one is getting the message. The look on these people faces go from “how is an island packed?” to “whatever, I’ll just wait”. The confusion is blowing in the wind like the garbage decorating the Staten Island Ferry’s floor. I refuse to take no for an answer, regardless if I’m no. 2345 in line. I grab my girlfriend by the hand and rush her to the outer part of this fiasco as the police are now forming for a much-needed crowd control. We jet to this small crowd of people patiently yet eagerly waiting on the gated entrance of the pier. The large archway faces the last boat for the Converse Presents Gone To Governor concert series. I scan the white t-shirted volunteers looking for a familiar face, someone to grant me access to the ferry that would take me to see the latest “it” band Yeasayer, to no avail. I swear there’s a new band every 5 minutes, they can’t make trading cards fast enough to keep track of them. But, whatever, it’s Saturday and I’m in a long-term relationship… Do you know how hard it is to come up with date activities every weekend?!


“Sorry VIP’s only”


The scene reminds me of newsreel footage of when people are trading on Wall Street. Everyone is crowding around this tiny girl hiding behind a clipboard like she’s giving out Google stocks for free. Instead of stock tickets it’s a bunch of Casio watches and yesterdays concert wristbands. Some of those neon bands are pretty fresh making me wonder if these people ever shower? Security is now running to this poor girls aid. The brute force these people display raises the question of why would you take a job where you hate the people there? Some black ex con from East New York Queens is not going to understand Timmy Bandlover from Ohio no matter how much MTV he watches. People are being grabbed and pushed. Hands are being separated from their plus ones and everyone’s shouting for someone to get them in. I think we were more organized when we helicoptered out of Veitnam.

That’s when I seize the moment. I send my girlfriend to saddle up behind the poor, swamped girl. She looks over her drained shoulder.

Oldest trick in the book.

“Hi, I’m on the list. Zack, Zack Sang…”

“Walk right in”

Really? No ID? Just like that? I mean I don’t even look chinese when I’m stoned. Fine. Zack Sang and his plus 1 continue to have the best night ever. It was a pity that Zack’s camera battery died or you would be seeing more pictures of the show. Instead Zack dances with his Irish Italian princess in VIP while the Indian front man electrifies the crowd with his slum dog crooning. Zack is now trading wits with May Kwok and Steven Rojas, two people who must have the most desired email address in the world. The only thing  more amazing than the show was the view of downtown New York City. The breeze is like the cools side of a pillow in an air conditioned room after a hot day on the corner. The french fries, burger and beer all taste like summer. Zack is now killing it.

After the show he ferries back to Brooklyn where it’s whiskey at The Woods, Shots with Chris Hires at Good Company, then everything else at The Shank. By 8am Zack as indulged in everything but the kitchen sink. His conversations are now word gurgles and his kisses are now open mouth “let’s make a baby” marathons. He can no longer be in public for his sunglasses can only hide so much of the sun. The BQE guides him home, and he collapses into a South Side Williamsburg apartment that may very well needs a once over. Ah Zack, your night was legendary.

“There is something in the New York air that makes sleep useless.”  Simone De Beauvoir


“Here is New York…”

Posted in Uncategorized on June 21, 2010 by SLUTLUST

Photo by King Texas 2010

“New York should have destroyed it’s self a long time ago, from panic or fire or rioting or failure from some vital pipeline in its circulatory system or some deep labyrinthine short-circuit.”

E.B. White. “Here is New York,” 1948

“Mass hysteria is a terrible force, yet New Yorkers seem to escape by the tiniest margin: They sit in stalled subways without claustrophobia, they extricate themselves from panic situations by some lucky wise crack, they meet confrontation and congestion with panic and grit – a sort of perpetual muddling through.”

You can never be as free and as connected or as trapped and as alone as you are in New York City. Sometimes the swing of the pendulum is all it takes to go from one extreme to the other. One minute you’re at a bar with an assortment of friends and perfect strangers cheering on your favorite team or whatever event available for celebration; the next outside your apartment wondering why no one is returning your calls. Many save up for forever and a day to finally leave the confines of their rural hometowns or overbearing parents to come to a city they can’t afford to leave… Those that can afford to brave the B.Q.E., the Cross Bronx Expressway or whatever train, plane, or automobile to reach whatever distant local with this exasperation and a need to escape, only to long for the return trip home. New York is a jail. And we are the repeat offenders.

You can tell whose been here by the writings on the wall. Like prisoner scratching their names into the paint chipped walls of Central Bookings with our keys or loose change. We leave our mark for the next generation of prisoners, a manual you can say for the continuing survival of our species. One might describe the current amount of ink, paint, and wheatpasting covering our walls as a pestilence on concrete. A virus that sure to infect our eyes and poison our taste and sensibilities. Art gallerys around the world exploit it. Photojournalists continue to write books about it. We continue to do it, our only immediate profit being the rush of “getting up”, recognition by our audience, beef if we go over someone, and jail if we get caught.

We are born into or move to this jail, with or without the complimentary bracelets given to us by our local police. Confined to our sense of design and need to express. Our bars are our skyscrapers, our judges are our peers, and our passions is our warden…

Welcome to hell. Don’t forget to call back home once in a while.

(Top photo by King Texas

“Where did OJ go?”

Posted in Uncategorized on June 17, 2010 by SLUTLUST

At times I don’t even know.

Someone told it was called “The Irish Goodbye”  I call it “The Number.” It’s when you just get up and just leave. No goodbyes no wait for me’s no hold ons… Gone. My true friends know me to do this often and could care less. If you just met me you would probably be offended by my lack of decorum. I’ll apologize in advance but know it isn’t sincere because I can’t sit still. Rarely has there been an event or a party that would hold my attention for more than 45 minutes. People would try to tame me by asking me to host a party or an event but to no avail… I would show up late and leave early. It’s not for a lack of work ethic or disrespect it’s just that… I live in the biggest city in the world. Something is happening every minute of the day in every corner of this concrete maze. Why not discover as much as you can? Or allowed too? That’s another story.

One second I’m on the JMZ train switching up to the F train at Essex st. The next minute I’m at an art show that resembles CBGB in the early 90’s. The Brooklyn band known as Ninjasonik is celebrating their EP release with a gallery show by over a dozen artist designing their EP cover. Genius. The gallery smells like crusty bike chains and Colt 45. Cigarette smoke fills the space. Art school girls and bike boys in an orgy of denim and tights with colors coming together like jigsaw puzzles. There’s a new Marc Jacob’s bag mixed with an old vintage pair of Chanel shoes thrown over some American Apparel. This is the new rich. Everything is ripped, frayed, or neon.  

The people running the gallery keep kicking people out due to over crowding. The more people get thrown out twice as much rush in. Someone is selling rolled up weed joints. The hallways to the bathroom is dark and people are doing whatever they do in the shadows. Drugs or fuck. The fancy “I own my loft” crowd in Dumbo is not ready for this but they love it. Casually trying to keep the red wine from spilling on their J. Crew, reminding them of a time when they didn’t pay bills or cared what their co workers thought. Deep inside we all want to be forever young.

Oh yeah, the arts not that bad too.

Back on F train again. Zoom to the city. The night turns into a festival of cab rides and bummed cigarettes. At times I wonder if politicians on the campaign trail go through this. A “hi” here and a hello kiss over there. It’s dizzying as it is intoxicating. One minute I’m at gallery bar with Mattise and James from Lola the next minute I’m at the Tribeca Grand Hotel lobby with Sarah lee and Jimi from Alumni NYC. This is the equivalent of going from Ralph Laurens Hamptons to Madonnas East Village. We all think we are cooler than the next and we are all smart and creative and on drugs. The drug of indulgence and self-confidence. That assurance 12-year-old bulimics wish they had.  No one can tell us shit about shit.

“Where’s Mike Nouveau?”


In between the sea of black outfits with asymmetrical cuts and bangs that stop short of your upper lip he’s nowhere to be found. Our promoter gifted bottle is done, now what? Hop in another cab. There are nights where my cab fare spending would top at least 80 bucks. Most people don’t spend that at the bar, I spend it getting to bars. Who cares? No receipt, thank you. Doors shut. Now I’m at a Dim Sum place at 88 East Broadway with a bunch of night life refugees hiding from the bridge and tunnelers that rampage New York on any given weekend. Walk in. Theres Katie from Good Peoples. She takes me to the bar. The bartender takes me to a Jameson and soda. The Jameson takes me to the dance floor. Stop for Bronques. Hairs ok? Back to the dance floor. Now I’m in the middle of a shirtless and heelless puddle of  sweat and exhilaration. It’s gross but yet beautiful. OK. My favorite DJ isn’t spinning. Time to go…

It’s nearing 4am now what? There goes my cell phone like a digital Tinkerbell. Rooftop after hour with Team Facelift and Smart Crew? I’m there. Quick stop at a deli for some beer and a fresh pack of Camels and BONG, it’s summer in NYC…

And then it’s daylight again.

“Welcome to hell”

“I’m a big deal…”

Posted in Uncategorized on June 16, 2010 by SLUTLUST

“Wouldn’t it be cool if we got people to do shots out of this blow up dolls mouth?” 

Probably the first words Prince Terrence had ever heard me say. It was the OM Records roof top party on this alcohol soaked rooftop in South Beach Miami. I might have met him before back in the city but God if I could remember. That Miami sun is like a Jehova’s Witness that wont take no for an answer, pleasant at first but then waaay too much. We were only at that party for like 30 minutes until I lost my ride to some exstasy and a fold out beach chair. By the time the blunt was put out in the astray Mark wanted nothing to do with socializing. I was just collecting business cards. I never knew why people gave me their bisiness card, I would only use them for scooping up illicit stuff . I don’t like making phone calls. Texting and email even less. And plus I do nothing important. Nothing. At all.

“Ayo we’re going to Mark Ronsons”

“No whe’re not, God! I don’t think we can all go… Like who are these people?

“Yo chill we all good, what we got Spank Rock here we got lloyd in the back we got Oh…”

“Who the fuck is Oh!?”

Excuse me?

“Yo back in New York I’m a big deal…”

That Navigator exploded in laughter.

Between that exchange by Blu Jemz, Lax, and myself plus Spank Rocks scarf you could’t stop the jokes. I truly believe if we were all on Twitter then #spankrocksscarf would have been a trending topic. It was 104 degrees inside that packed Lincon and we were waaay beyond capacity. Our truck needed a fire marshall and an air conditioner that could stand up to that Miami heat. That air condition backed down like it was 12 and the sun was his dad. Oh hello traffic! Traffic was also hangin out with us. 
We had just left The White Room in Downtown Miami with no sure direction but hey it was WMC 08 at 8am. When in doubt just go to South Beach. It helped that my old school friend from New York now lived in Miami and owned a truck. After some frantic cell phone ping-pong we finally agree on the OM Records rooftop party. The “Big Deal” and his plus one with a car will be attending as a guest of Blu Jemz, mind you this is his first time ever meeting me. And that’s how I introduced myself.
Well hey I did come through with the ride.
And now I’m on this roof with this blow up doll soaked in molly dunked in beer with all this minimal techo and all this sun and all these people and hey we are leaving already? Ok let me get ready I need a smoke where are we going? iPhone? Lost it. To go cup? Check. Shades? On my neck. Jeans? Polkadots by PegLeg NYC. What? I saw the big sign on the sliding doors. Saw it a  million times in my million runs to the bathroom:
The forces we already rounding up. Everyone I came with was moving in these rapid hushes of secrets within circles. Are we finally going to Ronsons? Is there a better party? Would there be MORE MOLLY? Everyone is now in the apartment huddled in a “we gotta go” frenzy. My plus one was already outside on the beach, due to his drunken urge to tan. it is now about 11am. Get to him get to the group get the car, Got it. I open the sliding doors and start to make my way towards my burned out bunch. All of the sudden some lady in the middle of a nervous breakdown grabs me by my arm.
“You can’t smoke inside.”
“Oh I know I just got this cig we are walking out…”
“Here, let me show you the door.”
In one swooping motion she takes me off my direct path to my new friends towards this door on the left. By the time I can ask her to let go off my arms the door shuts behind me. I gather my senses and realized I’m alone in an alley.
The “Big Deal” had been kicked out.
The 2 video’s below are by Prince Terrence and his band Hussle Club and Blu Jemz and his set The Hardy Boys. Yes I am eating chicken that video. See you guys Saturday.

Daylight (part 1)

Posted in Uncategorized on June 15, 2010 by SLUTLUST

There was a time in my life that I never saw the day light… except for when I was going home. Each day was just me fast forwarding from one after hours to another, bed sheets for curtains and red Gatorade for substance. A tan in the summer for me would be whatever sun I would catch on a ATM run. When I would crash I would crash hard masturbating to put myself to sleep after smoking whatever roach clip I had growing stale in the ashtray. If I had a good woman at the time she would be at work, if I had a bad girl she would be right there passed out with me… or awake scraping baggies for her next greedy little hit. Sunglasses, the essential accessory. I stopped buying expensive glasses after I lost 3 pairs of Karen Walkers in one week. That’s about $1,200 in trying to hide my face eyewear. Don’t ask my how you wear sunglasses when you’ve lost your face, I have no idea. The Pakistani that sells glasses on St. Marks st. knew me by name and always kept a pair of my favorite shades in a box not on display. I would haggle him for the joke but I stopped after I wondered if he thought I needed that extra buck for crack. No dad, my habits were way more expensive then that.

“mumble mumble mumble”

“Excuse me my friend?”

“mumble mumble Phillie mumble…”

“Come again?”


“Ok ok my friend… so sorry you go now…”

This exchange became a common place for me for about 6 years. The Deli’s would change but my body odor remained the same, fresh vodka and/ or whatever cheap beer I could afford. Nose running like there was a snot race and I was in first place. Have you ever seen what a white v neck or any t-shirt looks like after 24 hours of wear and tear? Yup that’s me, the human dish rag… A bunch of 20 dollar bills in a ball and some 100’s hidden in my wallet. It’s a blessing that my memory would go and I could never find that cash stash because if I did I would have been broke or in the red a long time ago. The red, for me is not a fun place to be at. Usually it comes with someone being really upset and being denied or stalled on my necessary provisions. The idea is to always be of some value and function, even if your function is washing human dishes.

This is what my stumble home looks like:

Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the Saint of Safe Passage.

Dear Saint Christopher,
protect me today
in all my travels
along the road’s way.
Give your warning sign
if danger is near
so that I may stop
while the path is clear.
Be at my window
and direct me through
when the vision blurs
From out of the blue.
Carry me safely
to my destined place,
like you carried Christ
in your close embrace.

I was probably listening to this:

Don’t forget your street smarts for God helps those that help themselves. I wouldn’t be surprised if I got that off a ghetto fortune cookie.

This is still and will always be New York City.

“Think of how many dudes died tryin to be down with you…” None yet, but these lyrics haunt me everyday.


Posted in Uncategorized on June 10, 2010 by SLUTLUST

5 pair of jeans, a few pair of shorts, very short swimming trunks, about 4 pairs of shoes, a few rolls of film, and this old Cannon Sureshot Supreme film camera I stole from my moms. Yup, we are about to embark on our 1st vacation as a couple. You know, the one that makes or breaks a relationship? Sure, she looks beautiful siting at Fabianes sipping coffee like true Brooklyn royalty but how beautiful will she look like when you are lost in another city with missing luggage and a stolen wallet? A couple of hours stuck on a flight over a 7 dollar beer with your years are popping while the Hindu siting on the other side of you rubs his bare feat are not going to be the ideal conditions for the required romance needed to lead to the Mile High club. I had my worries, she was a seasoned flier while I was better at walking then most people I know. To make matters even more complicated we were headed to South Beach Miami for the Winter Music Conference. The WMC is one of the biggest electronic and dance music gatherings ever and all of my friends will be there, giving this trip a Meet The Fockers feel. She packs heavy. I packed light. I carried everything. Here’s to a happy and healthy flight.

I’m always afraid when I get to the security gate of an airline. A few years ago while at the 1st Detroit Electronic Music Festival I Snuck into Canada on a ferry. While on the way back I was pulled over by TSA agent as my name came up on their criminal watch list. Didn’t help that I was almost done with my probation for a drug related misdemeanor. After they searched my body and scanned my fingerprints I was allowed to re-enter the United States. It was the worst boat ride ever as I kept having this conscious nightmare of the Detroit Police Department waiting to give me a night stick massage. But nothing. Just a minor warning and I was allowed to roam the city streets and commit more crimes. Buahahahahahaha. Just kidding. I saw Slum Village perform and pretended I was on Ecstasy so I could make out with the less ravey looking girls in attendance and photograph them under the watchful eye of my gracious Host. A host who probably really liked me up until my 7th random make-out session. Now when I think about it they should have locked me up in Canada. Shit that was douchey, like who does that? Oh, my point is I was scared when I boarded. Sorry.

“Located on Collins Avenue in the Art Deco District, the Aqua Hotel is centrally located to all Miami Beach attractions and activities.”

The Aqua Hotel

South Beach reminds me of bubble gun, very sticky, moist, and wet. The humidity stretches your nose you we need more to room breath in the thick  air and the neon lights make your eyes dilate. It’s almost like Las Vegas but with a dimmer. All the people who work in the airport have the same amazing tan as the bums and Miami Sound Machine is written on everybody’s  face. The natives are awkwardly nice due to the year round perfect weather brain-washing everyone into this cocaine induced bliss. You wake up with a margarita and sleep with a Vicodin in between sex and surgery. South beach has seen its share of beautiful people. Even the cashiers at the McDonald’s judge you. Kara’s New York black is dull against the pastels of our hotels facade. The Aqua Hotel looks nothing like the pictures we saw online. A body parking lot with a pool would have been a better description then the word “boutique”. Before we can receive our keys they charge us an extra 250 bucks for “incidentals” explaining that since this is WMC they expect some party related damages. I can no longer fight the future and refused to let something Expedia should have mentioned ruin our fun. I pay in folded 20’s and we make our way to our hotel room. I drop our bags on the cement grey concrete water stained floors. This is not going to be fun to walk around in bare footed. The room is immense in size and comes complete with a Sid killed Nancy vibe you’d only find in a seedy Chelsea motel. If the walls could talk it would probably re-enact any scene from the movie Scarface. Our flat screen is small and suspiciously from K-Mart. Someone might have wrestled an alligator in our kitchen. I look at Kara and try to read her face for some sort of approval but I’m only met with “eh”. I understand it as it’s not that bad. We have 5 nights to go in this “art deco” hotel. OK, let’s go get some Cuban coffee.

“Look at that murky ass pool…”

“Yeah, we wont be going in there…”


The night in Miami is as thick as the cuban coffee we brought walking down Collins Avenue. The buildings and hotels along Collins look like the equalizer settings on an old stereo as they expand and contract to the sound of dance music. House music all night long, say what? We’ve only been in South beach now for 30 minutes since I posted my “I’M IN MIA BITCH” prerequisite twitter. It’s Tuesday evening and I’m one of the first of many to arrive from NYC. No ones responded yet. I literally have no directions as to where this night will go. Frog won’t arrive until Friday. Fine, we’ll take it slow. We take out Cuban coffee and buttered bread from Davids Cafe to the beach. The humidity has blackened the sky and we can only see as far as the waves crashing on the sand. That even happens to a beat. Beads of sweat start to form on Kara’s face and she no longer looks like the Kara I know from NYC. she’s a Pilar or a Maria from downtown Miami. Her curves, softer. Her lips, fuller. My cool yet crazy corporate girlfriend was starting to look like my wild trophy Miami girlfriend. Fuck this beach, fuck this coffee. I go in for what will be first of many soap opera styled kisses. She wants to know what’s gotten into me. I want to get into her. I want dance. The rhythm has gotten me. We are in Miami.

My excitement is at its peak now. I’m bobbing and weaving in and out of the pink polo’s and off duty life guards cluttering Ocean Avenue. I check  my phone. Nothing in my text messages or Twitter. Fuck it. I’ll just go ANYWHERE. I just want to dance I want to get out of my airplane outfit and put on something with less fabric and more color. I put my phone away as I decide my Black Berry can’t do anything useful for me. The minute I take my hands off my phone and out of my pocket I bump into 12th Planet in front of Wet Willies. You can call 12th one of the heavy bass champions of the world. Holy shit. Prayers answered. Let’s get wild.

“Yo kid!! We going to the White Room what’s good???

We are back at our Hotel. Everyone I know will be in downtown Miami. This will be the 1st of our many trips down the McArthur Causeway. A quick shower and outfit change .Whatever Kara is wearing I tell her to go without underwear, that we wont need it, and it’ll only get in the way. Huh? She slowly starting to get annoyed at my enthusiasm. She’s been to Miami a couple of times and doesn’t see the big deal. “You do this shit in NYC.” she tells me and I totally agree… but not like this. My eyes are as wide as Elijah Woods in Lord Of The Rings. I’m shaking like I’m in day 2 of my recovery from Heroin. I’m might as well be foaming out the mouth with anticipation.”Whatever”… she indulges me and leaves the panties behind. She stashes a bottle of Jack Daniel in her Alexander Wang camera bag and we walk out to a group of obnoxious Euro’s in the pool below us.

“Oh god people get in that water?”

“I guess so…”


The only way I can describe the next few nights is as such: Imagine holding a movie camera in the middle of a party that’s on a huge trampoline  recording everyone and an earth quake hits for 6 hours. Everything is loud and out of control. No one’s drinking out of glasses preferring to drink straight out the bottle. No one is hiding in that bathroom stalls, everyone is very public. This is WMC 2010 Miami, you know what the fuck you came to do. Jess Jubilee plays AC Slaters “Calm Down” and you shake and rattle the DJ booth. The DJ booth. Armand Van Helden and Atrak play “ANYway” and you spill your drinking while flapping your arms like a flamingo. You can stop touching her, smelling her, pawning at her. She returns the affection by fucking you with her eyes and teasing you with her hair. You can’t finish another drink but you try. You gurgle directions to your cab driver to your hotel and are considerably overcharged.

And then you walk by your empty murky hotel pool.

I set the Budweiser by the end of the pool with my camera. She puts her hair in a high pony and slowly walks in the water. It’s heated and all I think is this is a germ pot used to cook tourist and self entitled locals. I light my cigarette and lean against the inside pool wall. She’s starts to purr like a cat and now I’m starting to purr like a weird mating ritual that belongs in a Broadway play. The sun is starting to rise. I kiss her once. Then again. Then drop the cigarette into the water as we start to go at each other like cannibals during a meat drought. The gentle water has now grown violent with our rampant splashing. Our nails digging into each other hard enough that we can feel but gentle enough as to not break skin. OMG we are doing it in this unattractive and murky pool. I try to capture as much as I can on camera but the timer is fucked. I’m so drunk and everything is spinning and the vertigo feels amazing. Soon we are at Showgirls level of intimacy. It’s like the universe stepped out for a beer and it’s just us. Alone. Great, no ones going to see Kara drown me and she’ll get away with murder. I’d remind her that I can’t swim but her lips keep trying to get inside my face. I’m holding on for dear life and how I have a boner while praying to God is beyond me. I find my rhythm. Mmmm.Yes.YES. Wooooo HOOOOOO!

And then I hear a plate crash.

One of the Euro’s from earlier is casually cleaning up the mess left by this comrades from  earlier in the night. The table is just a few steps away from the pool, fuck, fuck, fuck. Was he even looking in our direction? Probably, and he probably didn’t care. We wrap ourselves up in our hotel towels and giggle our way back to our room. The embarrassment has squashed any need for me to ‘finish’ as it’s now impossible and I can’t stop laughing. We hug, we kiss, we pass out. I wake up to my very wet pillow and my damp dreadlocks smelling of chlorine. She wakes up wrapped in a towel and a bikini worsth a rape kit. We both don’t remember why. Our walk to get coffee and food is now a sheepish waddle as we walk along our 2nd floor balcony overlooking the pool. The Euro’s from last night are once again frolicking in that murky ass water. We both turn away in disgust. Then one of them spy’s us, alerts his friends, and we are received with a tremendous applause.


“Kara, what the hell are they yapping about?”

“Yeah I dunno, it must be that gross water…”

Then one of the Euro’s ask us if we’ll be using the pool again tonight while his boys make a weird mooing sound.


Que the awkward walk back to our hotel room with our shabby continental breakfast. And yes, we did go back into the pool that same night. Best.Trip. Ever.

(This is the only set I wish I would have heard while in Miami but couldn’t because we were shot from hanging out at P. Diddy’s house and refused to One More Day ourselves. A special shout out to Felix The House Cat and my good friend Dances With White Girls for that, totally super-sized our amazing vacation.)



Posted in Uncategorized on June 9, 2010 by SLUTLUST

(This was written on July 11th 2009)

 A little over a week ago one of the greatest that ever did it died. That’s it, over. Twitter told me Micheal Jackson had died. Post after post, I thought it was some sick joke or rumor being spread by someone irresponsible fishing for retweets… but no, it was real.

My circle of sarcastic and jaded friends one by one posting the rawest and purest of emotions. I’m talking about that ‘back when I was in kindergarten’ or ‘my auntie put me on to this’… Things that you would reserve for the eulogy of a family member. As I sat in the kitchen of this beach house I couldn’t help but feel it. I cried. I sobbed like a tween when she sees her idol and they are thisclose and the bodyguard mushes you in the face. Nah, it was more than that. It was just like, “REALLY?!?” God came down and snatched MJ from us, like a father does to a child’s toy when he doesn’t really appreciate what he has.

But what did God take from me personally? I can’t say I’ve been playing MJ all these years like it didn’t go out of style. It sure wasn’t on my recently played playlist crafted by my itunes. I didn’t even listen to History. I mean you grow. MJ hadn’t had a hit in over 20 years. There are kids right now getting their first 21 year old legal beer and they where only 1 when Jackson was at his peak. Not me, I was about 12 years old. The tenement where I lived at in Harlem had roaches and not much glamour. Our dreams were grey, not much color.

In true ghetto fashion we had the TV, illegal cable, the “I can’t hear you, lemme turn this down” sound system. It also had my mother, struggling to figure this America thing out. She held her own with 3 kids while in community college with about as much english as a mexican maid. Yeah, we were fresh off “the boat” as we heard over and over peppered in jokes meant to crab us back into the same disparaging barrel.

Everything in this city was fresh to us with the exception of the music and overcrowding. We know beats, we know rhythm, we know how to dance. Sing, and drink, fight and make up, cook. We know what it is to be around a lot of people. Micheal was there with us, along with the Africa Bambatta’s and the Donna Summers. These where our looking glasses to this amazing and complicated country. Bambatta had my sister perfecting the worm. Micheal had my 4 yr old brother doing the dances in front of our small family get togethers, ripping his shirt like he was Hulk Hogan. You’d think for a family that didn’t have much we’d be against the shirt ripping, but we wasn’t. As always in life its the memories that count. Looking at MJ’s fold out thriller album while eating sliced bread with just a thin layer of mayo on it. Seeing him all over TV, t shirts, and posters, wasn’t that inspiring. I mean no one could have ever imagined being that big.

 But we all wanted to be as big as Micheal. Living in poverty, you really don’t have much but music, and these musicians were our companions. They where there at our bbq’s when the family would get into the station wagon to go to Jones Beach, on our headphones when we went to the corner store and needed to block out the drug dealers, on our television when our parents where going at it in the bedroom. Heaven or Hell the music was there. The melodies remained the same but emotions each of us got was as unique as the time or the events in that moment we heard those first bars. When MJ died, it was like losing our theme music or personal band, our best friend.

You have no idea how tight I was that I was in Oceanside California for this. I kept reading updates on the web from friends about all the pop up MJ sign alongs and parties. Cars blasting MJ all over the streets of NYC. Every media outlet descending on LA like it was ground zero part 2. I just had this Strand, on this beach, in Cali. It did make me smile every once in a while when a low rider would go by and Billy Jean came on. Yeah it was cool but I wished I would have been with my mother when I heard the news. In the streets that raised me with my friends, celebrating MJ and our lives.

Shit man it’s like my childhood died and I was far from home.

Whatever RIP to the greatest to ever do it.