Archive for May, 2011

The Gentleman from Kentucky: PPP SGU Edition

Posted in Uncategorized on May 28, 2011 by SLUTLUST

“We don’t sneak into parties we sneak out of them”

Peter Pan Posse

Great, 3 hours to Baltimore and I get to sit bitch in between some random intern I’ve never met and a young in the face Mr. Rogers. MI** and **RF rented a minivan with 1 person too many, and that person was me; Mr. Take A Picture & Blog About It. We were headed to The Virgin Free Music Festival and to be honest I didn’t know why I was going. My graffiti was limited to whatever bathroom I did drugs in and the 5 block radius of my apartment in South Williamsburg. Mint thought it would be cool If I took some photos and documented the trip and all I kept wondering was “Has MI** even seen my blog?” I’d be the last person I’d trust to preserve a moment or to photograph an event that you would later need for its promotional or commercial value. I’m horrible when it comes to deadlines and guidelines. But whatever, I devour my egg & cheese from McDonalds’ and ready myself for the most uncomfortable ride of my life.

Let’s go back for a second. I knew The Wonder Twins that combined to create M**F and S**E, but the rest of the crew was new to me. One kid was trying to get us Ecstasy from a bodega in Harlem at 8 in the morning (later I would find out that was S*), and the Asian intern from the far east – whatever that’s just an intern… Who was Mr. Rogers?

He didn’t say much during our ride down there. The entire time he was on the phone with who I could only assume was his beautiful wife and 2.5 kids. Since when did MIRF start rolling with dads??? He had the type of haircut you would only find on an episode of Mad Men with the immaculate jaw line you would find on a 70’s Cognac advertisment or on James Bond no matter who played him. This man was the real deal. Was this the M**F manager or accountant, maybe a reporter for the New Yorker? I was absolutely clueless.

Before we arrive in Baltimore we stop at a Home Depot with a rest stop to buy spray paint. A bunch of graffiti writers buying paint? This wasn’t the graffiti I grew up with. We stole everything, and if it was nailed to the floor we stole a hammer to pull it out of the ground. Now it’s 2010 and we get hired to spray paint all over a music festival as part of its “art” installation. Ok, cool. As we load up the van as I plot a way to maneuver myself towards a window seat. Total fail. Mr. Rogers is the last one to walk out of, out of all places, Roy Rogers. He is wearing a Roy Rogers french fry gun holster on his belt, complete with the fries and dipping ketchup you would get in a kid’s meal. MI**, **RF, SI, and S**E can’t stop laughing. I’m thinking this is what white dads do when they are “out on the town” and the “wife” is “back home” and all of his “office work” is “done”. This is all a little too weird. He enters on my side of the van and once again I’m playing bitch. He offers me a French fry as a consolation prize. Thanks dad, Baltimore can’t come soon enough.

We opt out of going to the hotel and go straight to the festival. After some minor haggling we get our VIP passes and are led to the 2 walls we are supposed to decorate with our extensive knowledge of street vandalism. I’m thinking they will be doing some elaborate graffiti art piece with fancy letters and colors like we were redesigning the Graffiti Wall of Fame in Spanish Harlem. No. MI** and **RF go with fill Ins, stompers, and basically rag the shit out of both walls in what looks like we all have eternal beef with each other. At first I’m like “ok this is probably not what the organizers where looking for” – but then I see the vision. The wall looks like a wall you would see along the West Side Highway or on a train coming in or out of the JMZ Essex Street train station. This wasn’t graffiti, it was “performance art” on dust, a moment in the streets of New York City captured and placed on a fake wall built in Baltimore. One by one, rave faced spectators surround us, curious as too what exactly we were trying to do. M**T rocks a floater that’s crossed over by **ME who then gets covered by stomper made by SE** who then gets crossed out by *I who then get’s half his shit blocked out by N***S. Everyone rags me and the intern.

Oh yeah, in case you just missed it, Mr. Rogers has a graffiti tag and it’s N***S.

The crowd surrounding us looks like extras from a Blink 182 or Moby video. Everyone tells us what we are doing is cool but no one really knows what’s going down with the exception of some local toy writers that hoover around in hopes of catching a quick tag. Soon we have a gaggle of girls watching us vandalize and re-vandalize this poor wall that’s collapsing from the weight of the spray paint. For every girl we saw with a nice ass in skinny jeans we were greeted by bedazzled tank tops and dusty ballerina flats or poorly executed wedges. Mostly everyone at this music festival has bad acne. My entire crew is aggressively New York snobby so we come to terms that none of us are getting laid tonight.

We start popping the first of many E pills. After we decide we are done with the wall (how we came to that conclusion is a mystery to me) we stumble around the fairgrounds hunting for free food and liquor. N***S is already breaking in and out of shit and showing off whenever we find him. The intern is slightly drunk and we then find out he’s only 16 and MINT might have dated his mom. Shits and giggles for hours. LCD Sound System closes the festival with a loud “electro-dance” set and we are left alone in a field of dust and garbage. The ecstasy has me already seeing doubles – and now it’s time unwind and party.

We stop at a deli to get some cigars and beer. Apparently you can also buy liquor at any local deli in Baltimore so Of COURSE our Russian designated driver gets a bottle of Smirnoff while the rest of us load up on Coors light and Budweiser’s. N***S show us up with a 1 liter bottle of a mystery whiskey that would later be known as the Kentucky Gentleman. We go in face first with our bottoms up. Pause.

This is where the night gets blurry; at one point in the night we wind up at what I could only describe as a Baltimore Bass “Krunking” party where a bunch of black kids are dancing their spines and whatever inner city demons they have living inside out. NEWES disappears.


In an alley full of hipster weirdo’s we meet 77 Klash with 2 girls I know from “the scene” back in New York City. Hotel after hours? Sure, why not? On our way back to the hotel we get lost and crash the minivan twice. Ever been in a van filled with drunks, on E, lost in Baltimore? Extreme levels of life changing. We find N***S (again) who volunteers to sit in the back with the left over spray cans and starts telling us how he grew up somewhere along the road we just happen to be lost on.

“Yo Baltimore is soft, I left, tried to find some crack drunk, and came back with all my money.” 


That prompts S**E to joke about which tree N***S lived in, opening the floodgates for jokes on jokes on top of jokes with a side of jokes. After our 3rd, E tripping, slightly drunk driving, everyone screaming directions at the same time but no one knows where we are going crash into whatever you would describe as a highway, N***S reaches his whiskey soaked boiling point. Kicking the back of my seat, N***S starts screaming and freaking out, demanding to get out of our sloppy party van. By then I was nearing my own breaking point with him when **RF and S* pulls me aside so I can have a moment.

“Don’t worry about him… That’s Pablo, P3D.” 


We finally find our fucking hotel.

Behind our hotel there’s a pond with a small romantic deck. We proceed to litter it with our drunk and trippy New York City born and raised arrogance. Earlier in the day N***S bet S* he could get people to jump into the seemingly welcoming pond. By the time the night was over four of us had jumped in. Three of us quickly got out when we realize that this isn’t a pond as much as it is a murky marsh, like the one The Swamp Thing from DC comics would live in. We prayed that there was nothing unhealthy about the green algae that has glued itself on to our skin. Not N***S. He swims the entire pond and climbs the Weeping Willows brushing the pond like a drunken lemur with his Kentucky Gentleman well in hand. I keep motioning to MI** to get him out of the water but everyone is too busy laughing at my nude “Dominican Shark” to care. In my defense it was the first time I’ve ever gotten naked and skinny dipped in front of a bunch of men.


I was bonding, N***S was wearing sea weed like a swamp warrior and throwing whatever he found at the bottom of the pond at us. An old Commodore keyboard, Play Station, more sea weed, etc. I would later tell this story to my girlfriend who had previously met N***S before we started dating and she didn’t believe one word.

We finally get N***S out of the pond and he’s is not too happy with that, or us. He refuses to put his clothes back on and starts doing naked cart wheels on the now formerly virgin grass. At this point it’s around 4am and we were all a little loud and a little too loose for the imaginary security plotting to bust us. All I remembered was **RF stuck on stupid by the little bit of weed he smoked (we are talking internet kitty cute) and SI blessing us all with some grown man, one to grow on talk. I’ve never felt so close to a motley crew of people as I did but now I’m pretty sure that was the E talking.

And then N***S started screaming…

“I’M OK!!!!!” “I’M OK!!!!” “I’M OK!!!”

All I could think about was N***S drowning himself or killing someone, or just SERF who everyone I’ve ever met described him as legendarily annoying. But no, SE** was a beardy pug on a hallmark card with his newly discovered stoned self. MI**, as camp leader, did his best to calm down **WES but to no avail. He angrily put on all of his clothes and stormed off with a repeated shreik that would haunt me for the rest of my life…







The scream faded the further he stormed away from the pond and into the hotel parking garage. We heard NE***’s screams slowly fade out in the distance for the next 10 minutes or so. It wasn’t even a scream it was more of a shriek that comes from a lot of internal pain or unresolved childhood shit. Yes, even in my drunken and hallucinogenic state I was trying to Dr. Phil the events surrounding me. We anticipated the not so imaginary hotel security calling the cops on us so we quickly gathered all of our things and ran back to the hotel room. This was not going to be good but we were way too wasted to do anything about it. We all split up into our seperate rooms. Me and MI** pass out to the sounds of S**E petting a small furry mouse (you’d have to ask him, sorry).

The next morning is hangover heavy with a side of exhausted. Everyone is sluggish and cranky on the way to van. We decide not to see the last day of the virgin music fest, find a diner, and go back to the land of sky scrapers and mass transit. One by one we pile into the van, MI**, **RF, S**E, S*, the intern, myself…

“Where’s Newes”

“Yo I tried to call him I don’t know” MI** answers with a Kanye West at the VMA’s shoulder shrug…

“Are we leaving him???”

“Yeah man, what else can we do?”

At this point I’m thinking MI** has to be one of the shittiest friends in the world. I don’t even know N***S and all I want to do is search the local hospitals and call the police. No one cares; everyone just piles up in the van and puts on their best “I need a nap” face. I couldn’t sleep because all I keep thinking about was that shriek. I had never heard nothing like it in my entire life. What if that would have been me?

These motherfuckers would have abandoned me with the Snoops and Barksdales and whatever other character that would have killed me on HBO’s “The Wire”. I contemplate arriving in NYC and erasing them all from my cell phone. Here I am, sad for a man I just met. Who would do Mr. Rogers like that??? I would have taken a train home if I didn’t spend all my money on booze and ecstasy. Fuck these niggas… Then M**T gets a text messages and starts laughing out loud:

“Yo this nigga N***S, went to DC to find crack, found it, passed out in a bus station, wound up in Jersey, and is home safe, sipping coffee…”

We, on the other hand still had another 2 hours on our trip back to New York.

Pablo P3D.


Mothers Day.

Posted in Uncategorized on May 8, 2011 by SLUTLUST

My smile. Here I am on the other side of the world with this beautiful smile. a smile that has kept me from harms way, built life time bridges and broke many hearts. A conniving and sly smile with charisma carefully hidden within humility. I know there’s a few people who couldn’t imagine a life with out this smile. Trust me mother if I die right now it wouldn’t be a empty funeral.

My smile comes from you… It all comes from you. I love music because you always played it when you were happy, occupied with the moment and not with the weight of the world you carried with 3 children in a new country. Mind you we are talking about NEW YORK CITY. First Dominican family on our block in Harlem during the crack attack of the 80’s? Check. What was it again? The thing our elementary school teachers would pepper us with along with Christopher Columbus and our ABC’s? Oh yeah, dead or in jail by the age of 21. FUCK THAT. Mom I’m on a motorcycle riding through the shadiest parts of Cambodia, enjoying every heart beat at the age of 35, with my dream girl on the other side of the planet, with money I got from art. Art mom – some stupid pictures I took so I could have some sort of relevance in the sense of our city’s history. A story for my estranged son to curse at or treasure for it’s cautionary fables.

I’m still messy mom… but when I clean up I do pretty ok. I like the corners of furniture to align and the room color schemes to be perfect. Our apartment never looked the same… you constantly redecorated, as I now constantly re invent myself, improving on décor at a time. Even through the worst you made our lives beautiful. You probably thought having me help with your college homework was hard on me but no I was honored that you trusted me at such a young age. You probably wish you would have done some things different, the little Cambodian girl, no older then nine years holding a baby begging for food, says you shouldn’t regret a damn thing. The Dominican republic you grew up in is no different from where I am now.

15 and with a new born? Homeless in NYC? With no English? Wow you did all of that so I can sit in this hostel in Cambodia, living out my wildest dreams.

Yeah, you did that.

Thank you.

“The Vietnam Diet” 1st Brooklyn Art Show Edition

Posted in Uncategorized on May 6, 2011 by SLUTLUST

“You have to document 7 days of what you ate, then come up with a art piece for it…”
Kat Popeil, Something I Ate

3 eggs, 2 slices of raisin bread lightly buttered with the non-heart attacky stuff. A banana, some apple juice, some mixed nuts to go along with my severed balls while I read my New York Post. What the fuck do I care about this gut anyway? So what? I’ll be the fat American on vacation. Being stared at by locals who know I’m from a country where we give eating and drinking utensils out as souvenirs. Commemorative plates used to adorn an already full mantle loaded with memories of our excess. My gut carries the rotting remains of one too many drinks and I’ll order whenever I wants. Vietnam and Cambodia? All I know is what I saw in movies and in the little green army men I used to play with when I was young and impressionable. Everyone looked poor and savagey in Full Metal Jacket. Here I am worried about how poor my stomach looks in a white V-neck. I forgot all about it as I crushed my 4th PBR later that Night.

I wake up feeling like shit but I promised my girlfriend I would work out today. I like telling her to tell me to do stuff and get mad at me if I don’t do them. Then, in true elegance, I argue with her for getting upset. That roller coaster of pressure has got to be giving us good abs. I still feel full from the all the beer I had last night. It becomes apparent I’m not full when doing all of the slow burn poses in yoga as I shake like an above ground train platform. I still can’t believe I do yoga, and I do enjoy dropping the Y bomb on twitter like I’m some put together snob. I pig out on a turkey & swiss hero with lettuce & tomatoes toasted from my corner deli. That’s not bad. Then I top my order off with a Phillies Blunt cigar. I later eat all the cashews and walnuts from my industrial size planter peanuts can from BJ’s Wholesale.

I stayed in on a Wednesday night. Wow. Lately I’ve turned into a fucking recluse, curating the 4 corners of my vision with whatever sitcom currently in season that I can DVR without Time Warner fucking me. So now it’s Thursday morning and I have nothing to watch. Good. I take the free time bang out my yoga and finally set up my “art” tumblr. I’m suspicious about the attention I’m receiving but refuse to blame the constant smoking of the pot. It has to be something else that everyone wants from me. Flattery, like I have that much to begin with. I have a can of Progresso vegetable soup with 2 slices of toast. That was healthy. The sugar in the 3 glasses of grape juice I washed it down with wasn’t. I take a handful of wheat thins on my way to catch the B60 bus to sell my 2nd photo print. This is my life at the moment.

Because I work late on Thursday nights, Friday is already off to a bad start. On my way home from Beauty Bar Brooklyn I get a chicken kebab from the Halal street meater in front of Woodhull hospital. Right after my last bite Flowgy answers my mass after hour’s text. The last time I showed up to his loft at this hour the space was flooded with conversation peices. When I arrive it’s only him, a neighbor and some brutal non-descript gin. Suddenly I’m too full to party and go home. I wake up later in the afternoon to a banana, a corner store croissant, and a bowl of my beloved lucky charms cereal drowned in 1 percent milk. I’m horrible to the things I love.

There’s no fucking way I’m working out today. I’m too old to be smoking dust in a Lower East Side house party complete with the flirty enabling mom but I didn’t let it get in my way at all. Recalling the rest of last night is like trying to drive with sunglasses on in the middle of a down pour at night. I promised Alison that I would check her out at Tandem bar for brunch. That was 3 Saturdays ago. My “responsibility” to my friends is awarded with 2 eggs over easy on a biscuit drowned in gravy with a side of sausage. It reminded me of the now closed Relish diner. I should remember to be more responsible. I smoked dust again later on in the evening.

Sunday is family brunch day also known as Dances with White Girls diet cheat day. Everything is friends, fashion, and cocktails and Frog it killing it. An alpha male doesn’t ask for the price on the special so I order the Steak & Eggs with the home fires as my fuck you, your salmon, and your fancy mixologist concoctions. I don’t know why I’m so bothered being that Frog has been like this since I’ve met him. Later I realize it’s me who’s changed. The days of wearing expensive sunglasses and women’s jewelry were behind me, I was content with my old Adidas shell toes and fuzz balled J. Crew sweater. I saw it as a sign of my maturity, but at that moment it felt uncomfortable. It was my fucking stubborn gut feeding my paranoia. Prosecco after Prosecco I felt like his flash as a statement of youth and it was calling me fat, old , and sluggish. I now secretly hate him. He’s officially like my family now.

I wake up to the mother of all hang over’s. All I want is Lasagna, greasy and obese just like my mother makes it. I settle for Chicken parmesan sandwich with an order of mozzarella sticks to complete the ten dollars needed to complete my order. The mozzarella sticks taste like shit. The purple I smoke does nothing for the situation, minus cure me from the post vomit nausea. I step on my scale and I’m the same weight as when I started this Vietnam diet if not more bloated. I miss my Girlfriend. She comes home with a matching hangover and a face riddled with social exhaustion. I show her the video of her stumbling all over the apartment drunk that I recorded on my Black Berry as we hide our shame under the Kellogs Diner menu. I stuff myself with a grill cheese sandwich and a banana milkshake. My gut is now on a steady pace of being the only New York souvenir I’ll carry overseas.

(Editors note: A special thank you goes to Martine Langatta, Igor Smith, Steven Klavier, Kara Mullins and my brothers Napolean Luna and Dances Bolton for paying $30 dollars to share this moment with me. I love you all…)