2 Dead Chinese People in the Sand

Richard Brautigan tells us that “anybody can catch VD”

With this, I agree. “Please see a doctor of you think you’ve got it”

More applicable it would have been if Brautigan had pleaded for his readership to get to a doctor, because in my experience those apt to bout with social disease are 1000 subway rides away from regular scheduled check-ups.

The City detests them and forces them (sometimes by the hair) to work early and to home late.

The Chinese people are clearly just sleeping.

I got fucking robbed

at gunpoint. I felt like a fucking Korean. They took everything in the fucking shop. I'm just glad that me and my 2 friends, who i blindly led into this ambush made it out with our lives.

It could have very well turned out like this.

ON DECK: playlist from the past

Drunken Butterfly - Sonic Youth

For a little while Greg, Tommy and I were doing a weekly show on IM Radio. At this time (It's since moved to Echo Park) IM Radio was broadcasting from a rad little spot in the window of the MJ Higgins gallery, which at that time (It has since moved a few blocks east) was on Spring between 5th and 6th; my block!

At that time we were all DJing together. We all found ourselves with Spring St. addresses (we have all since moved on, Tommy and I to the retired comforts of Silverlake and Greg to fuckin' Mexico City) and thusly operated under the banner of "Bruce SpringStreet" a local, very local DJ collective. It was a fun way to listen to Punk Rock records, stay out late on weeknights and drink enough pints of Schlitz to float a manatee.

Our radio show was a rather moist affair, as well, with bottles placed among the begged, borrowed and stolen Internet radio equipment. We always had fun but I wanted to banter. I felt like Greg always wanted to "get back to the music", leaving me silently screaming, "just let me get to my punch line!!"

Well, on the night which hosted this particular play list from the pleasant past was different, I was alone. Engagements of natures forgotten kept both of the boys away. I was alone to banter, ramble and play as much "new shit" as I pleased.

Knowing that I had no buddy at my saddle, ready with a vinyl life vest, I scratched the following play list. No song titles, just band names and denotations concerning medium; "vinyl", "7 inch","CD".


Set 1 (I call this my, "geez, go to The Smell much?" set)
1. Ponies
2. NO AGE(2)
3. Silver Daggers
4. Mika Miko
5. Abe Vigoda
-talk-

Set 2 (This is my, "I'm old but I still like drugs and only listen to KCRW sometimes" set
1. Phychic TV-Godstar
2. Feathers(7)-LSD MUSIC
3. Animal Collective-Feels
4. White Flight
5. Violent Femmes(18)-American Music
-talk-

Set 3 (Um???? this is like a "I go to college in Oregan and have mad natty dreads coming in" set. weird one)
1. Aesop Rock (last song)
2. Dangerdoom
3. Ghostface Killah
4. Paul Barman
5. Kimya Dawson
6. Juiceboxxx
-talk-

Set 4 (This is like a "fuck you I'm gonna play bands from high school and a couple from nowadays...and Buddy Holly" set)
1. Propaghandi
2. Black Flag
3. Upsilon Acrux
4. Buddy Holly
5. French Film Blurred
6. Clip'd Beaks
-talk-

Set 5 (This is my "raddest set EVER" set)
1. Raooul
2. Old Tyme Relijun
3. Econochrist
4. XBRX
5. Elvis Costello
6. Sonic Youth
-fin-

My favorite parts were when I got to -talk-

There Is Still Here

I think a lot about life as if I've lived several already. Like my past can be segmented into "past lives", beginning and end not tallied by birth and death but by events that I deem metamorphic. The logical tenant that occupies my head space warns that these events only seem important and the journey is much more congruent than I like to admit. In other words, your dead selves are always in tow.

When two of my best friends decided to collaborate on art project concerning text they brought this little poem out that I wrote a long time ago. "This poem will be the text", they said. "ummm, OK, rad."

There Is Still Here
There is still here because I still have burns and scars and tattoos from there and they're here. I still have cuts and tattoos and burns and burns from lighters that Aaron gave me in Lori's bedroom.


one of my old lives

Free Haircut On Your Birthday

I really thought I was about to get my fade lined-out on Christmas morning.

Devastated daily!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ode to Downtown Los Angeles

Bukowski sprawled in your duck pond park, drunk on drink and prose and watery duck pond air, John Fante, too & me, as well.

The pond has since become a spout a launching pad; Pershing Missile Square.
It wasn’t until many years later that I overheard a man at the bus stop say,” that used to be the most dangerous plot in Los Angeles”

The pond had since huddled over, coddling docile homeless and middle-management Armenian types.

Oh, Los Angeles, your Temple is a street & your Spring has long sprung ever-changing, a metamorphic municipality bodega to parking lot warehouse to loft. Even your wholesale fashion for the poor vacates for I.T. guys and painters and middle-management Armenian types, & me as well. Gentrification they say but phantom Bukowski & Fante’s apparition know there is something far more sinister at hand & me as well.

A black lady pulls over and flags me down. She has real human hair and finger nails with the length & curvature of the journey itself, “Can you tell me where I will find the courthouse?” “Four more blocks & you’ll see it on your left." I have no idea if this is true.

American Gothic

Playa Vista Style...


This was the prelude to a grey-haired, wife beater-clad, gentleman chasing us from the basketball court of the Playa Vista planned community.

"You woke up my kid and I'm going to take your head off", he yelled as he swung his condo-sized garden implement.

"Fuck, how old is your kid, you old fart; 30?" , I thought as I jogged backwards away from my geriatric attacker. "I'll be back for you", I prophesied, and I meant it.

He scared Steffi badly, and for that he must pay. After all, IT WAS JUST SOME FUCKIN' MORTARS AND A COUPLE MAXIMUM THRUST.


This was our pre-4th trunk-stash. I still possess around 40% of the load