Archive for September, 2010

The Art Show: MIRF 1134

Posted in Uncategorized on September 23, 2010 by SLUTLUST

“Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you… if you’re young at heart…”

G.Leigh, J. Richards

The sun is up. I’m still up. I still can’t believe it. Today is the day of the art show.

“OMG OJ how did this happen?!”


“I don’t know, I didn’t think anyone was reading my blog, I mean Mint’s not even on Twitter and some how he found out abou…”

“OJ can you pour out some more?”

“Sure. Anyway he calls me up one day and says he wants to use one of my pics in his upcomi…”

“Where’s the straw?”

“Over here, sorry. Anyway I give him the negative and whatever and that’s it… Today is the opening of the show and I have a piece in it. Can you believe it??? My first piece of art or whatever in a gallery in fucking Chelsea… So many trained art people die before they can have a show or view in Chelsea and here I am with my ow…”

“Who’s Mint?”

“Oh you don’t know Mint?”


“Mint is Mike. You have to know him, he knows The Blonde, Team Facelift, and Ko….”

She’s doesn’t have any idea who or what I’m talking about. Meanwhile everyone I’ve mentioned at one point or another have been to her house just as I am now, pushing incoherence to its breaking point. This time she’s with her old friend who just returned from Florence or whatever far away land girls with privilege and foreign cock fetishes go to. New York City girls with party addictions and money. One of them has her hand inside her light blouse rubbing her breast as if she’s in a cold shower lathering up. Nothing about it turns me on but I can’t stop looking at the rapid pace and fury her own hand is molesting her. The other one can’t figure me out for shit and is pelting me with probing questions as if I was interviewing for a scholarship at Oxford. I can’t stop talking. Stories of growing up poor (or “imaginary poor” as most rich kids pretend to be when they want to relate to the less fortunate) mix with the cigarette smoke and stench of day old beer and dry wine. The counter top is littered with empty packs of Camel Lights and up to 2 weeks worth of unopened mail. Every available surface is littered with month old magazines. If the bedroom was a car the engine, oil, and brake lights would be on. The door man doesn’t even call up to the apartment anymore when I show up at 5am, he just nods and lets me go on about my business. Such a nice apartment with great potential… broken by a never care lifestyle with an endless bank account.

“Anyway yeah I gotta go… I wanna be fresh for tomorrow…”

“You mean today?”

“Yeah, yeah I do..”

I say this as I swig the last of my warm Budweiser and grab my camera. Both girls are pleading with me to leave them more lines but I’m out. They somehow finagle 10 bucks out of me for another 40 ounce of beer. Classy ladies. It’s like 7am. I toss the money on the counter like I was throwing a piece of steak to in order to distract 2 attacking  pit bulls. Outside the noise of morning traffic is as loud as the day is bright. I check my neckline for my ever-present and handy shades. Fuck me I forgot them, but nothing short of being chased by a Vampire hating mob would make me go back into that bat cave of an apartment. I man up and roll out. My train ride across the bridge is cruel and unusual punishment to my eyes. I should have gone home hours ago.

I can’t sleep a wink. The excitement is running through me like the Marathon does NYC every November. My body is finding every possible excuse to keep me up, from the fake need to piss to the constant need to blow out my congested and abused nose. Kara finds my constant fidgeting annoyingly cute as she prepares to go to work. God bless her. Out of gentle frustration I tell her outfit looks weird making her do a last-minute wardrobe adjustments. Of course I’m lying, I just love seeing her pout. The minute she leave I go to my time proven method of sleep aid: It takes an interracial gang bang and at least 5 running screens of smut to get me off. It’s as if my dick ejaculating into my worn boxers orders my mind and body to shut off. I wipe myself off and turn up the air conditioning. Zzzzzzzzzzzz.

I sleep for about 4 hours.

Fair enough, I have things to do and errands to run. I usually hate this part of the day, phone buzzing like a lonely nymphos vibrator with people who need or want something from me. Mix that up with a girlfriend with a lot of down time at her job and you have a cell phone that has to be recharged at least twice a day. To cope I usually leave it on silent and check my messages in-between my urge to Twitter or look at some random Facebook invite. This usually means I’m at least a half hour late to anything and everything, a habit universally frowned upon. Whatever, dying would be such a better use of my time…

But not this time.

The trees in Greenpoint are green and rustling with the song only a gentle summer breeze can bring. The walls of Bushwick look more Pollock than vandalism and the store fronts on Delancey street look more Times Square than tacky. I’m in a good fucking mood. I tell everyone who gives me half a greeting about the show like I’m Paul Reverie of promotions. I take a 1000 pictures of 1000 things, flash after flash and roll after roll, until I have to meet Sara Lee back at my apartment. Me and Kara must have been fielding request for a 3rd wheel to the show and she was the only eager applicant. Or she might have still been up from studying or down from bike riding on Oxy. I honestly couldn’t tell you why she was there. Anyway my girl friend gets home we get dress and get out. Sara takes a beautiful picture of Kara braiding my hair on the train. Sara Lee also dressed me. That’s why she was there, she knew I’d be a nervous wreck. Her wit and observational humor takes the edge off my over bearing elation. I’m way to jittery for a man that’s been operating on less sleep than a night owl. I find a weed clip in my ashtray. I light it. I’m now the wind on the tip of a summer leaf. I’m so fucking stoned I’m gay.


I invited my mother, who in turn brought my nephews and niece. Who in turn invited the neighbors. Which in turn super intensified my high. Remember when you smoked weed in, oh let’s say jr high? And it was time to go home, but you where still a little buzzed? You check your eyes to see if they are red and Visine up then Febreze or rub scented muslim oil on your clothes and you smell good and everything was ok until you walked into your mom’s house and everything falls apart and you look and feel like you just smoked crack 2 seconds ago? Yup. This was now playing out in front of the art world I’ve just been welcomed to. In front of all of  my friends that came to see my moment in the sun straight from their jobs or whatever hell they wore gasoline for. In this beautiful, well curated exhibition of real New York City graffiti art in this magical, small, and cozy gallery in Chelsea. I simply had a full 2 page spread of a picture I shot for my blog and a smile that spread from ear to ear. Weed fumes seeping out of my pores. My mother? Too proud of her son to notice.

Back in the second grade I was pitted by my teacher into a drawing contest against the  popular girl. The challenge was to draw the best pony. I went for an anatomically correct steed while my competition went for some cartoon shit that Hanna Barberra would reject. It was cute, and needless to say she won. A horrible, horrible lesson for an introvert to learn at such a young age. If you’re not as popular as you are good you might as well not compete. Since then my art talents remained dormant, only surfacing when I wanted to impress some girl with a romantic notion or when I was bored at the DMV or some social service meeting poverty forced me to attend. My crushed spirit laid in the borders of my text books or the many bathroom walls I would tag as graffiti replaced the fine art that once ran though my drawing hand. I would never compete in anything. Sports, video games, bets, love… Forget about it. I was worst than a loser, at least a loser competes. I felt like nothing…  just an audience member or a commentator in the game of life, spewing minor quips and observations but nothing of interest or substance. I would simply play with it and once in a while a happy accident would occur. From my illustration cover for the Department Of Transportations budget report in 1992 to my being the photographer at the Zulu nation 30th anniversary gathering, all these opportunities were random. Some would have ran with the momentum and went on to money-making jobs or other stuff  but not me, I’m good. Never the one who wanted to ride it out till the end, all I needed was just one “that’s nice” and that’s it. Put the paint away stash the camera I did it. In sports people like me are called “Paper Champions”, someone who wins but refuses to defend his crown. To think a fucking pony with a cowboy hat and spurs did that to me.

Then it happens. I get hit by a car on Classon and Quincy in Brooklyn. A red Madza tosses me across 4 lanes of traffic. Everyone is amazed that I’m able to get up and walk away without a scratch. You can fill in your own life changing cliché here… I just wanted to take pictures and write about everything I experienced so my son could have something tangible and honest.  I started when he was born, but I’ll do it tomorrow turned into weeks then months now years. Shit I’m supposed to be dead. And here I am. Once again I’ve made it. Not only did I create the blog, a picture with both of our names was shown in an art gallery. A MOTHERFUCKING ART GALLERY!!! The crowd ranged from the affluent to the flagrant. Air kisses and bear hugs flooded after party at the Ace hotel.Every drink from the open bar is another congratulations. I try to tell Mint and Serf how grateful I am without giving them an emotional hand job but it’s too late. My watery eyes reveal way to much. I share all of  this with Kara on the rooftop of  385 Union on our way back home. I owe her so much. Shes tells me it’s ok over and over. She’s obviously enjoying this moment of clarity way more than I am. We’re drunk as shit. If it wasnt for that pony, lord knows what I could have been. Kara wants to make love to the man I am now, on this beautiful rooftop with the Manhattan skyline in full attendance. I mention how bad is she is at doing dishes hoping to buy myself some boner time. Not bad for a shy bucked toothed Dominican kid from Harlem USA. Me and the pony smoke and laugh all the way all the way back to our apartment.

“You can go to extremes with impossible schemes. You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams…”

G.Leigh, J. Richards


How not to pull a number: TRYBE’S birthday week edition

Posted in Uncategorized on September 16, 2010 by SLUTLUST

“It was a queer, sultry summer, the summer they electrocuted the Rosenbergs, and I didn’t know what I was doing in New York.”

Sylvia Plath

It’s hot as fuck on these streets. The sound of The City has been reduced to the hum of fire hydrants sprinkling water on every corner and the sizzle the Sun makes in this jungle of steel, brick, and concrete.  We are in the middle of heat wave number seven out of two hundred and forty or so. My eyes are as fogged as a camera in a steam room giving me the perception only achieved by beer goggles at 3am. Everybody’s skin looks like they just came out of the gym or a very good porno. Girls searching for the skimpiest thing they could find have retired the leggings and reinvented the side boob. Gone are the daisy print one pieces and gladiator boots with a home-made jean vest that defined the spring. Those were replaced by jean shorts that look like panties and tops that were all shear or lace everything. Bras were no longer an option. I’ve seen more nipples this season than a quality inspector at Gerber’s baby bottle making division. The Jorts (home-made shorts from jeans) got shorter for the average hipster looking for an escape from the heat without giving up the skinny jeans and flannel. You would swear an army of moths and a huge bottle of Clorox Bleach invaded the city with all the rips and stains spotted on the collective t-shirts adorning the sweltering pavement. Water was the weather proof hustle. Street hoods that would usually sell candy on the train have now taken it to the many outdoor events with a water cooler. An air conditioner and cable tv at home made it easier for less attractive men to score with the local sevens and eights swarming to any bar with a yard and taco truck. The battle of make up was lost to wet hair and dripping sweat. It’s to hot to fuck or fight…






My nuts and I are in the middle of a divorce. The humidity has made us mortal enemies. I’m constantly peeling my scrotum off my inner thighs. The itch down theres was slowly becoming the Tell Tale Heart of my madness. Shaving annoyed them – Gold Bond viciously angered them. I lost count how many times I was eyed by some antsy undercover cop while adjusting my junk so it wouldn’t touch anything in my jeans that could generate heat. My dick was constantly trying to get me arrested. No gun officer, just a raging penis. This was the first summer I traded my hip hop sized jeans for the widely preferred Slim Fit and Skinnies. My balls did not enjoy having less floor space and responded with an itch that baffled baby powder and the doctor recommended Tenactin. At home I banned clothing and replaced it with multiple showers and standing over my air conditioner while fanning my balls. I would pray some nights wishing it was crabs and not the bitter Sun, at least you can get rid of crabs. The sun? Not going anywhere for now… Fuck my life.

I remember being behind the stage at Webster hall thinking to myself this can’t be life. All the black Sara Lee was wearing was making me melt in rave juice and sticky beer. I could have sworn I came here to see Anoorak but all I see is that one dude from MSTRKRFT. His DJ set is breaking the thermostat. Amazing show, but I couldn’t tell. So.Much. Haze. The audience looked like one sweaty blur. People didn’t dance as much as slip off one another and everyone looked like a contestant in a wet t-shirt contest. Fuck, the things I would have done for a swimming pool. Then I remembered hearing about the latest exclusive watering hole called Le Bain. Le Bain was located on the thirty something floor of The Standard hotel in Manhattans Meat-Packing district. It also had a pool, and a strict door guarding it. Then I remembered Ian Cogneto worked the door on certain nights. Ian is a friend.

“Guess what I’m doing on Tuesday?”

Sarah lee wipes the sweat off her forehead


Tuesday nights is also the RANDO, a weekly party purely based on the idea that you’ll never know what can happen there. Art school girls from SVA mingling with upper east side goons from Dalton and black kids in Mishka hats trading blunts with fashion types from LA. Gallery bar is like a variety pack of night-lifers in Costco bulk sizes. Shirts are taken of like inhibitions after prom night. There’s always more than one party photographer there and a rotating assortment of host and DJ’s to keep it consistently interesting. Located in a seedy basement, the rage turned up to ten, Dances With White Girls has the crowd swinging off the pipes that aligned the ceilings. A bump here and a spilled drink there and you left with a night you didn’t remember but the stains on your shoes told you it was fun. I used to host it back when the party first started, which was an honor, but let’s just say Kathy Griffin put the kibosh on that one.

Trybe is in the middle of his birthday week celebration. Theo is in town from LA. Tuesday night is a guaranteed stop on the party parade for my PPP clan. Fuck me again. There is no way I can bring the whole crew to Le Bain. I mean I probably can, but I don’t like risking things like that plus my biggest pet peeve in the world are people who hassle door men. If I’m not wanted in your venue I won’t even let you finish rejecting me before I’m in a cab to the next spot. When you are a party it doesn’t matter where you party. Now I know I’m a shoe in, but my PPP gang has only one female member and she’s in the Hampton’s. A bunch of dudes drunk on other people’s booze and smoked out on dust hardly makes for qualifying  candidates to enter what could be the modern-day Studio 54. A Studio 54 with a pool. Any other day I would have said fuck it and just rolled with my clique, but it was hotter than Arizona  in the middle of a heat wave in the center of hell. Plus I had already packed my ultra small neon swimming trunks and I hate not using the stuff I bring out with me. It’s going to have to happen, fuck it I’m selfish.

Number Time.

Pulling a number is also known as the Irish Goodbye. It’s the art of leaving anything or anyone without saying good-bye or any indication of leaving. It’s also technically the rudest shit in the world. Sometimes I wonder how I even keep friends considering I pull those often along with my not being a fan of phone calls or “hey what’s up?” text messages. Lucky for me I’m in an occupation that requires me to be anywhere at any given time. Most of my friends understand and forgive, but there are a few people who don’t know what I do. Since I prefer discretion and every second counts, I use these time-tested techniques:

“Excuse me I have to, make a phone call, use the bathroom, smoke a cigarette, talk to that guy, save a panda, park my car.”

Well everything but the last two are usually true. Once I hear the OK slip out of your lips I’m gone. If this was a Road Runner cartoon all you would have heard was “beep-beep”. If you’re lucky you’ll read a Twitter as to where I went next. Odds are I’m having way to much fun to twitter anyway so you would be out of luck in finding me. I’m sorry, it just beez like that sometimes.

Trybe and Theo are not having it.

Everyone is outside of Gallery Bar trying to plan the next move. The bouncer is trying to micro manage the cigarette smokers in a chatty and rambunctious mode. I’m trying to spot an opening where I can slip into a cab with no one seeing me. Someone is passing around a dust blunt. Half of the eyes on me are starting to slouch to the floor. Perfect. I shoot towards Delancey on a whim. DAMN IT, Heather spots me as she’s walking towards RANDO and stops to introduce me to all her friends. I totally forgot I invited her there. She ready to party in full force with a group of ladies any gambler from Atlantic City wouldn’t mind having in some decadent limo. Now all the guys I’m trying to ditch want to meet them.

” Yadda meet yadda meet yadda meet yaddda yadda yadda oh shit, wait I gotta take this call…”

“Oh no you don’t OJ where are you going?”

Trybe with his baritone old school New York cabbie voice yanks me back into the group by the collar. I look like a fish out of water, flapping aimlessly on a deck trying to come up with excuses. Trybe is from from the Boroughs of Queens and can see right through me. Fine. I tell Trybe and without hesitation he points to his car, Old Besty. Now all the girls want to come. Same and Remo, oblivious to whats going on randomly pull a number on us and leave in a yellow cab. Those bastards!!! Those two were way to edgy to party anyway. The group is now smaller and manageable.  This is starting to look possible. Now it’s seven of us packed into a four door with the ratio in favor of the men. It takes about tw0 songs into the drive until Trybe is feeding us the latest Action Bronson track. It’s so ninety’s in the whip right now… This might work. And it does.

Le Bain is like entering a glamorous 80’s era movie set. If it isn’t the gold or silver plating it’s some Italian marble adoring the floor and walls of this swanky hotel lounge. The crowd is Fashion Week beautiful and the view from the floor to ceiling windows is immaculate and breath-taking. Mike Nouveau is DJing is fashion set to a very upscale black Amex and Hipster crowd. All the girls look like Michell Phifer in Scarface and none are wearing proper pool attire. The bouncers look like off duty secret service agents. Everyone in my party has a OMG look on their face with their jaws dropped on some blondes Louboutins. Before anyone can say a word I’m already in my really short swimming trunks cannonballing into a pool filled with homosexuals and fashionistas. The bouncer is none too pleased.

My balls on the other hand, breathe a sign of relief and are having an excellent time. Best night ever.

Welcome To Hell: The Flask Edition

Posted in Uncategorized on September 9, 2010 by SLUTLUST

“It takes a good deal of physical courage to ride a horse. This, however, I have. I get it at about forty cents a flask, and take it as required.”

Stephen Leacock

Look at me. I look like shit.

I’m doing this weird thing where I’m breathing really heavy and my jaw looks like an old cash register on the fritz. It’s not even a good register that spits out money like a broken Vegas slot machine but a money sucking black hole of abuse and indulgence. I’ve left a trail of clothing that goes from my door to my bedroom which is now turning into a river of cranberry soaked jeans and sneakers. This is not my thing. How the fuck did I get so drunk? Why was I hanging off Chris Hires metal Jewish tenement balcony chain-smoking cigarettes like it was a competitive sport? My Blackberry’s Pandora app is on a Morrissey radio station while my snot is in one of the many balls of tissue on the kitchen counter. Why does my hand have spray paint on them? Oh god I’ve stayed up way too late, I’m watching fresh bread and morning newspaper deliveries being made all around me. Why does my girlfriend even put up with me?

Well, in part its her fault. But um, yeah not really…

I’ve never been a drinker. I mean I’ve gone out to bars and I’ve hung out with my neighborhood friends over a 40 ounce of St. Ides and Newport smokes but it was never my thing. I can drink a can of PBR for 3 hours. In part it had to do with this memory I have of the first time I cut High School. The high-lights of this adventure were watching my male friends dance Reggae music with each other while drowning in a jug of Smirnoff vodka and vomiting on the entire floor of some random bedroom while magically not getting a drop of it on the bed. And there was also the unspeakable cold shower. My horrible, horrible friends had me convinced for years that I had been “rectal examined” by one of them while I blacked out nude in a tub. Let’s just say I never became a fan of  those friends or any liquor. Ever. Until I started dating Kara.

Kara on the other hand is a huge fan.

She has a specific taste… and its for Jack Daniels premium grade whiskey. This is a girl who warriors it up on the weekends and wines out on the weekdays while making million dollar decisions for a fortune 500 company. She’s also a girl with an extensive collection of shoes and a knack for one of a kind designer shit that can’t be resold anywhere due to no one ever recognizing the brands. Between her vices and her South Williamsburg rent it’s baffling how a lower middle class corporate girl in NYC can afford all of this without having to waste time with any man at a bar or a sugar daddy in a nursing home. Everywhere we went she had more fun than everyone else and had more cups of booze in her hand than I had beer bottles or tolerance. I would still be playing catch up while putting her in a cab home as gravity and her liver have caught up rendering her body useless and very accident prone. She also has a pretty interesting collection of mysterious scratches and bruises, and yet this flawless, amazing.. skin. Don’t ask me how, I’m just in love with her.

Welcome to the “Pre-Party”.

I’ve always felt this was something invented by urban college kids on a “Mom and Dad don’t got it” budget. I think the first time I heard it coined was on a MySpace bulletin, some fashion emo goth from F.I.T. offering his apartment for a booze and shnooze session before going to Trash when it was at Rififfi’s or Darkroom on Ludlow street. That was back when I was much younger and lived in Manhattan. Now I’m older and live in Brooklyn which is more dive bars than lounges and has more barbecues in backyards then block parties on asphalt. Que my best friend and Facebook fiancé Brooke, who’s inviting me to a small gathering in a backyard around the corner from my apartment building. Fast forward to the part here I’m in attendance with a girlfriend who doesn’t like beer, at all, which is in abundance, along with a tent holding a flip cup table and male drunk wrestling . Ah Never Scared… I grab a beer. Kara gives me a spunky look then goes into her purse… What’s this I spy? A bottle of  Jack Daniels conveniently stashed in her Alexander Wang camera  bag.

Welcome to The Flask.

What? No more waiting in line at the free drink troff at art openings because I keep a “nip nip” on me? Sure I’ll buy the picture of a fish or whatever post apocalyptic interpretation on what you think New York will be based on what you read in a Jet Magazine you found at a dentist office. Nigga I’m drunk. Now I understand why Bedford Avenue is so packed at all hours… It’s a freaking bar with traffic lights and food trucks and the occasional cop thats gonna fuck you up if you piss on that Subaru. Wait, what was I saying?

I’ve always had the luck of knowing one or two bartenders when I go out keeping the relative prices of a good beer binge down. But I do catch myself over tipping, in part because I know the piece of shit tourist or bridge and tunneler has stiffed my hard-working friend. Instead of doing what I think Patrick Swayze would do in “Road house” I just leave a little extra cash, no big deal. Every visiting douche out swears they are playing a supportive role in nightlife with the one dollar tip after slurring their order while perched on a bar stool like some slow walrus that’s off the wagon. No. When you just sit at full bar and don’t allow people who want to spend money the access they need, you’re just fucking the bartender over. Whatever, I try not to get into the politics. The one thing I can always do without is the small talk I’m forced to have or the shoving my way through the drunk zoo in order to get my Friends and Family drink discount. It’s a busy night or it’s not so busy, but really who cares? Some times I just want my drink and a quick exit to the next nocturnal fiasco. So why not cut my time in half and give the flask a shot?

I’ll tell you why, without even mentioning the fact that I’m also fucking the bar over.

This experiment with the flask lasted about 3 weeks. My friends loved it, I still can’t remember most of it. There I was one night huddled in a dark corner of Gallery Bar with a cup of ice I tipped 5 dollars for out of guilt for not buying a drink. Mint is egging me on and the next thing I know I’m table dancing like a Hilton on spring break in Columbia. My clothes are filled with ink stains from drunk tagging and I radiate a funk that only true alcoholics can appreciate. I drool every sentence in between the hand shakes I use while greeting people and the cautious sips of my smuggled in contraband. It’s 4 in the morning and I’m just a marionette with no strings. My flask is empty and I’m now on my 4th beer. I stumble to the bathroom for a life raft of a bump and shake the dizzy off my face. I grab my warm beer and take a sip as I’m walking towards the door to meet the rest of my night….


I’ve just drank someones urine.

Let’s try this again…

I’m at Alro and Emse with Frog and the gang, you know, just stopping by on our way to this new bar called Good Company in Brooklyn. My bottle of Jack is conveniently wrapped around a newspaper and stashed in my back pocket. To my surprise no one is questioning why I have a NY Post with me at 2:30 in the morning except Brittany who is bartending. I’m in the middle of an order for 7 shots of Jameson. I tell her I didn’t get the chance to read Page Six yet. She then asks to borrow it. Sure enough there goes my bottle sliding across the bar room floor. I would have retained more dignity if it had shattered, at least scoring some sympathy points. But no. She spots it laying casually near a bar stool and just gives me a minor scowl. I shrug my shoulders. I’m just happy the bouncers didn’t see it. The rush of the possibility of getting caught has pushed my drunk levels up to ten. What the hell is going on? The bathroom attendant keeps hugging me like I’m his long-lost brother. Project Matt is burning dollar bills while I heroin lean over DJ Erock and scream out “REST IN PEACE GURU” as he’s dj’ing to a crowd of day traders and executive assistants. A few of them surprisingly respond. I don’t even think I’m funny.

Good company is more of the same.  My friend Man Man eats shit in the middle of an impromptu dance off and I cower from the lights and nosey barbacks with a small group of party refugee’s  in the bathroom. Everyone is talking about the after party taking place on this rooftop being thrown by The Shank. I still don’t know who or what The Shank is just that the bathroom lines are always gross and long. A sniff here and some warm beer over there and we’re off! This is where the line that separate “aware” and “in a coma” gets blurry. All I remember is the tarp on the roof and the shitty Baltimore, Techno, House Music hybrid noise being spun by some nerd who survived Freshman Week . The party looks like the L train at 8am complete with some mom and dads, 40-year-old really good with a fiddle, and a bunch of ethnic teenagers in skinny jeans. I remember is Same looking real sincere against the black tarp and some small pow wow I had with Nick the Duke, probably about the internets. I’m surrounded by mooches. I must have turned Mr. and Mrs. Knuckles down 20 times, after the 21 mind numbing attempts to get into my inner circle. I finally give in, then black out. The next thing I know my girlfriend is laughing at me hysterically. I’m in bed. Apparently I came home and pissed all over my trashcan and all over the walls in the bathroom.

What a great way to discover you sleep walk. And suck at drinking.

Once Again.

The love if my complicated and confused life wants to go out. It’s a Saturday so in decide it keep it Brooklyn with the exception of an event Good Peoples is throwing with Jessica 6 in China Town. It’s a little early in the evening so I suggest a stop at the liquor store and some random party that DJ Chaddubz twittered about at the Mckibben Lofts in Bushwhick. I got our 2 bottles of Jack and this beginning of summer excitement vibrating in me so don’t do any research on the party and just go on a whim. Next thing you know I’m at some Neo Soul, Hip Hop, live band, R&B show being thrown by what I think are the children of Eryka Badu and John legend. Everything feels and sounds like Jay Dilla is the national language and 10 Deep is the national flag. Personally I’m fluent in Slum Village so I’m having a ball getting lost in the smooth Pete Rock type bass lines with some baby Common Sense look alike rapping… My girlfriend? Not so much. I can tell by the amount of nervous swigs she’s taking from the bottle while I pass around a blunt filled with Sour Diesel, trading head nods and free-styling in my head as the smoke clouds my better judgement. When I realize I have nothing in common with anyone here I start to mirror her down to the hair flips. Now I’m drunk and stoned, bumping into the fake Phife Dog from A Tribe Called Quest, accidentally spilling his jungle juice while trying to make a beeline to the dance floor. Kara’s high heels are over dressed and unsuitable for the steep wooden steps that take us from the backyard to the exit. Everyone is like 19 years old. Time to go.

By the time Jessica 6 get’s on stage at 88 East Broadway, Kara and I have run through our 2 bottles of  BYOB. Our conversation are now simple cute and intimate giggles. We share our bummed cigarettes like kisses under a lovers moonlight. Alexandra and Michelle swear we are the cutest couple, I think they’re just as drunk as we are. Soon after settling in I get a text message from Puja promising me a drink ticket if I go to her party at Savalas. I hate that place with a passion. Not the bar itself just the dick-head, black, fixed gear bikers that frequent the place… well just two of them, but that’s another story. Fuck it, DJ Ayres is dj’ing so why not? Plus I already know at the hour that I’m arriving Puja would have been ran out of drink tickets. I was gonna just ask her anyway. Sure enough. Lucky for her, what she lacks in perks at the moment she makes up in adorableness.  Then POOF! All of the sudden I got Prince Terrence and Bathroom Sexxx from Ninjasonik. Wow, I’m being followed by a conga line of shots and unbridled revelry, great.

Blackout. No wait, I’m now with Chris Hires on a rickety fire escape. No, no I’m not… another black out.

Next morning my ever patient and loving girlfriend tells me I pissed all over our brown antique coffee table in the living room.

No more flasking for me.