She nagged, she nagged, she nagged. She was nagging so much it made his eyes twitch with uncomfortable social pain and she wasn’t even his Mother. Even though he felt discomfort, he knew the girl was more uncomfortable than he. He was sure she didn’t want to sit next to her Mother, what with the way she was carrying on, but lucky for the young girl the Matriarch was too fat to even fit next to her. As he watched her occupy the seat made for two directly in front of her Mother, he could almost hear the girl’s eyes rolling and smell her inward teenage resentment. The girl couldn’t have been any older than fifteen and he wasn’t exactly sure what he was feeling when he looked at her. He did know he felt wrong though. He wasn’t really thinking any impure thoughts, in the Catholic sense, yet he still felt sinful. By now, it had become a habit to just go ahead and feel guilty about everything he did or felt.

After years of formal training in shame and self-punishment, these sorts of habits are hard to break. After years of being smacked by women in habits on various body parts with a ruler, it was ingrained into his psyche. His ass could still feel the burn from “the ruler incident” all those years ago. He wondered how many submissives Mother Superior had created. How many times had boys perfected the proper give-and-take of faked tears and non-response to prolong the punishment?

Once her Mother was settled and the lights dimmed, he moved to the seats in front of her. He took his notepad out of his jacket pocket and wrote, “Hi, does your Mother always bug out like this?” onto one of its pages.

He propped it open with a pen and passed it back to her through the separation of the two seats he occupied. She responded, “Yes, it’s sooo embarrassing.”

He tried to ignore the small cutesy heart she used to dot her ‘I.’ It made his stomach hurt, but she’s young. She’ll learn and plus he had no time for thinking, he had to react. He decided to just get it off his chest once and for all. He had known this certain fact for quite some time. The rest of the world had no clue, but everyone had always told him, “You’re wrong.”

“You’re delusional,” they would say, “There is no way to even know this. And even if there was and you can’t avoid it, as you say, why worry about it?”

He had already predicted her response, but he went ahead with it anyway. He wrote, “If I told you I knew the exact second the World was going to end would you take my word for it?”

His note pad returned through the cracks baring no response.

The Old Boy had been laid to rest around this time last year. His shallow grave was covered with rocks to cover the fact of his decomposition. When one goes about burying a body without a box to hold the remains, decomposition happens at an accelerated rate. This lack of an enclosure also forces the ground where the body is buried to sink. When the skin, internal organs etc, all have seen their last days, the skeleton is the only part that remains. The ground sinks to fill the negative space left by the dead body. My apologies, I have digressed. After a few months, green clover had grown over his shallow grave. It was a constant reminder of the body in the yard. The clover and sinkhole together spelled his name all year long.

Drog blunk, why not?

Everything makes sense in a nonsensical way, it’s like a Lewis Carroll fantasy with literal & visible portmanteaus floating in the air. I’d grab them and rip them in two, releasing them from their codependent imprisonment. Trade a hookah for cigarettes of poison, posing and posturing because they want to be loved. Love is a battlefield, so they say. Love is a mushroom three steps away. Build your lopsided house out of Norwegian wood and hope someone notices.

The only way to get this out of me is to wait, but who has the time? (I do). Well who has the patience/paitents? (I don’t) Fall into a dreamless sleep again and sleep it all off. I’m staring at the reflection on the ceiling from the classic movie disc beside my bed. I wish someone I never met would fall off of a building in front of me just so I would have another experience. Something else to grasp and retell.

It’s never really time to sleep, but I’ll try again and again. Night after night.

*This is vocabulary vomit, but one should occasionally write drunk.

Dear Little Boy,

Happy Birthday little man. I can’t believe it’s already been a year. You’ve become so smart and introspective in this time. You’ve helped me to grow and to share. You’ve helped to make me a better person. I thank you for that.

Here’s a card from Daddy. When you look back at this, remember I never baby-talked you. I treated you like an equal and told you nearly everything about myself and about others, and you relayed it, oftentimes in a convoluted way. Sometimes I even told you about people whom have never existed or are to come. Even though you, like me, have refrained from watching any of the Spiderman films, you know his myth. An ordinary boy with extraordinary powers who still has to earn a living in this shite world.

Don’t worry son, by the time you have to make an income, hopefully you won’t have to. One way or another.

Forever I Remain,

Your Pops

Karl

Christie’s is having an auction next month for a large amount of rock and roll memorabilia and collectibles.

I can’t wait to have cash in the future for my generations’ Christie’s auction, which will be of 80s metal bands, Wu-Tang and other hardcore East Coast rap from the early to mid 90s, and grunge rock. Oh wait, never mind, there are Nirvana items in this lot already.

Thanks Courtney Love.

Christie’s Punk Rock Auction

If anyone happens to be in the area November 21st-23rd go to the viewing and let me know how it looks. It’s at Rockefeller Plaza from 10AM-5PM on the 21st & 22nd and 1PM-5PM on the 23rd.

“Laters,” he said as he lingered at the window.

Her eyes looked moist, but he knew it was only the reflection from the TV, which was playing a VHS copy of “Faces of Death,” she had rented for him. It was hard to believe that only an hour ago he had been trying to pull his own face off in the mirror and now he was exiting with grace, yet not under the most graceful circumstances, out of the second story window. As anyone would guess, he exited this way as to not be seen. He wasn’t embarrassed of her and she wasn’t embarrassed of him, but she would get in trouble if he was found there. She would be in figurative “deep shit” if he were seen doing anything in her room at this hour, let alone doing whatever else it was they did on those nights in the darkness.

First, he blindly hung his foot out of the window and onto the perfectly placed vertical wooden beam belonging to the unfinished patio roof. Then he lowered himself with the strength of the youth in his chest and shoulders quietly down onto the soft grass and dirt. He could have done this with his eyes closed and still been as quiet. He was much more quiet than the sound of her window closing and he was even more silent than the buzz of his pager as it read “6000*171647.” At the time, she didn’t have a pager, so he whispered “Good Night” into the air as he mounted his bicycle, which had been hidden in the woods, and rode off.

He felt no fear as he rode past the sleeping trailer park. With a fleeting thought, he recalled the petty drug dealer he had troubles with in the past, who lived close by. This “baller” of a child drove an Acura, which would have been something to be proud of in those days, but this car was old, beat up, slightly rusted and of a drab hue of silver. He still drove it like a medal of royal honour through the streets even though it was, to be frank, “a piece of shit.” He felt alone despite the cars passing him on the long road home; the final road in the dark to where he slept.

He loved these nights. The cold Fall air on his face would make him sniffle just a little. It was just enough impending sickness to remind him he was human. It reminded him he was capable of physical incapacitation, capable of outward pain, capable of dying, despite his thoughts of invincibility. On those nights, coming home all alone with the pistol tucked into his pants, the metal poking into him as his legs moved upwards and downwards with the piston-like movement of the pedals, he sometimes wondered why he liked her. He enjoyed the traveling alone and the feeling of getting to a destination. The woods behind her home smelled sweet to him. Sometimes it was as if he lived for the feeling of not being about to see through the brush and how the moist leaves felt under his sneakers. He liked many of the occurrences that went along with their surreptitious late-night rendezvouses, but did he really like her? Was it merely out of convenience? She had approached him, told him he was beautiful, told him she liked him, she pursued him. She wasn’t the first girl to do this, but at that moment he just went with it. Plus he liked the attention.

Eric Wareheim’s lo-fi, public-access, children’s show-centric sensibilities find a home with MGMT.

After exploring fantasy communes deep in the rainforest with the guys from Showbiz Pizza on “Electric Feel” and being somewhere between Burning Man and an 80s video installation with “Time to Pretend,” (both directed by Court 13), Eric takes it in a completely different direction.

Simple, fantastic and funny.

He is the man.

.people

A shadow war in Pakistan
A forgotten war in Afghanistan
Iran is next
Palestine is always under fire
Northern Ireland too
Africa (if the country is rich in resources)
Iraq… still, after 7 years (in a way it has been 17 years)

Can we see the shadows we cast without the power of the Sun behind our motives? Sure we can, if we look around at the faces of people instead of being blindly-focused with a manifest destiny-like ferocity, drooling at the mouth and seething from the gills.

People, please think of people.

people.