Disassociate the face with the statements placed. For fakes, I say Jake is right on the case. SO mistakes have been made not great but, hey, whatever’s clever. Theres supposed to be someone better than me at this shit of jargon nonsense, where most of it is related to investment captial and financers pockets. Thing is I haven’t even picked up my career let alone dropped it. I watch shifts in my polls that let me know how I get along with the crowd as it grows. Whos receptive to each post and which ones relflect me the most. I get vexed a bit when I have to pull this though, this informal exersice of spontaneous prose, because I feel that there is a lacking perception of what my ability holds. For instance the sitch is, I’m at home in the sticks with some brews and a new fax machine, making my home office mean, outside of anything. Better off than many dream. Wall Street Cream Team. Triple Beam. The residual speil about meals and means. About clouds of smoke and steam. About clothes and hoes and yatta yatta, rest on Saturday with a Bag of Cibatta. Challah. After a sip of Keystone I won’t– as much as you don’t, KNOW. At all what the fucking plan is. I’m getting called other names in the street. I’m really about to walk around naked so you know that its me. Tre flips all day in the street. Critizie the feet then buy my trees. Screw face and Chinky eye the steez when I’m tired of being me. Or the one you know. The disticition is different, theres a postion of DICTION. Simpleton. Fix it when? Life is over once you cash that check. At least I don’t pay for breakfast, ever. And its steak, GO AHEAD, hate. There will no longer be this page after a few shakes of the magic wand. Concerened? I shall go on. Magic rants have cryptic chants that unearth the scriptures of which to plant, in the mind of guys who utilize time past to glorify, a nonexistent future tense bracket. CRAB SHIT. Fracture the fat kid and eat him. Waterworld with Kevin Kostner cost more at Walmart than it ever did before at my neighborhood video store. I pity the whores who sell themseleves to their agents and ask for payment and gauge that just because their enslavement warrants them being famous is a reason to playcate the IDIOT KING.
Entries categorized as ‘Writing’
To Whom It May Concern
July 5, 2009 · 1 Comment
Categories: Art Openings · Fashion · Film · Interview · Music · Photography · Poetry · Promotional · School Transit · Skateboarding · Tidbits · Travel · Writing · Zines
NEW JSBJ PUBLICATION
February 12, 2009 · Leave a Comment
The guys over at Hixsept are involved in a new project that deserves a once over from everyone, if not an intense love.
JE SUIS UNE BANDE DE JEUNES
Categories: Photography · Writing · Zines
Tagged: Hixsept, JSJB
Rose Contemporary Opening
December 15, 2008 · 1 Comment
Sharing holiday cheer with friends and family, Rose and Julia Burlingham put together a soirée that was intimate and relaxed.
Rose Contemporary Gallery is located on 15 Park Row above the J&R across from City Hall Park. Suite 16E
Categories: Art Openings · Fashion · Photography · Writing
Tagged: Rose Contemporary
Flâneur: September
October 4, 2008 · Leave a Comment
The following is an excerpt from Galen DeKemper’s short story titled:
An Evening in Black & White
The Bulldogs’ coach wants a full-length time-out so I make my way over to the scorer’s table with a minute to kill before blowing my whistle and getting things moving again. I scan the crowd as I walk over, looking at all of the parents. I see mothers rummaging through purses and fathers with salt and pepper hair like mine, but the difference is that they have kids while I don’t. My ex-wife and I divorced before we could have any, and now the only way any parents would trust a forty year old single man with the well-being of their middle-schooler is dependent upon my donning this striped referee’s uniform. I really do try my best though, and refereeing helps me maintain an appreciation for the complexities of the game that a casual spectator could easily miss. The Bulldogs’ Athletic Director, an old friend of mine named Charlie Nichols, is also the announcer, and he is shaking his head in bemusement as I approach.
“That Rodney Mbembe sure is making me remember his name. Next time I come across one like that I’ll ask the coach how to say it before I make a fool of myself.”
Rodney Mbembe is the name of the New Albany point guard who won my errant tip off and has scored the first four points. When Charlie was doing the player introductions, breezing through the visiting team in his SAT proctor monotone, he stumbled over Rodney’s last name until the only black lady in the stands, presumably Rodney’s mother, yelled out the phonetic pronunciation. “M-BIM-BAY.”
*****
By all accounts the block was clean, and this is of course what the spectators see. The whole Jefferson crowd jumps up, clapping and yelling. All of the players begin to scramble for the loose ball until my whistle halts the action. Eyes turn to me and I signal for a foul. The whole Jefferson side groans, feeling awkward as I expose their unfounded happiness. I walk over to the scorer’s table and signal to show that the center made contact with Mbembe’s body. Everyone begrudges me the possibility of this, and I hope that Mbembe realizes I am showing my appreciation of his move rather than calling an actual foul. I want him to know that I understand him.
I hand Mbembe the ball as he lines up for the free throws I have given him. I expect to see the eye contact I gave him reciprocated, two kindred spirits in mutual appreciation.
“I can take care of this on my own.”
He says it so silently, nearly under his breath, that I am sure I am the only one who heard. I make a puzzled expression as if I didn’t quite hear what he said, but I feel my face getting red. So he does know what I tried to do, but he doesn’t want the help I have to offer. He spins the ball out in front of him and then when it returns, he dribbles three times. Then he pauses for three seconds and shoots it. Swish. He repeats the procedure again with the same result. 42-40. Most of these good black kids are flashy but can’t shoot free throws. He is the real deal.
Full length version available later this winter in a negotiable compilation of young writing. Send any submissions or questions to barakaat@tmo.blackberry.net and I’ll get back to you promptly.
Thanks Galen!
2008 © PostHood
Categories: Writing
Tagged: Galen DeKemper
A Taste Of The Truth
September 29, 2008 · 1 Comment
Fuck David Blaine by Chris Fernandez
I was doing PA [Production assistant] work down at Wollman Rink. It was David Blaine’s Dive of Death, where he hangs upside down for 60 hours. 1000’s of people came through, including a photographer from France, and these two drunk NJ girls getting in my face. When I told them to chill out, her BF came down to see if there was a problem (He was my height, rockin’ a wife beater and chain in 40 degree weather, fuckin’ guido).
Blaine gets up 5 times during the first hour I was there. They show a video segment about his childhood, then pull him up to the top. Everyone took out their camera phones and looked up. My man jumps 3 stories( look like light work), then gets carried away outside the rink by huge balloons. That’s it! Plus I saw a string attached to the balloons pulling it carefully out. ABC edited the ending and said he disappeared in thin air. Yo fuck this shit! I’ve never seen so much hype over dick. Whatever, I got paid $150 for clean up afterwards. Fuck you, David Blaine!
Categories: Writing
Tagged: David Blaine, OM
Newest Immigrant Rights
September 11, 2008 · Leave a Comment
There are new immigrants that are walking up and down the streets of New York. They have all sorts of things that old immigrants didn’t have. They have opportunities and jobs (design, fashion, lying, marketing, advertising) that old immigrants didn’t have. They have special preference for cuisine – namely Thai food – that old immigrants didn’t have. So among the slew of Black Berry having, exotic dinner eating, vintage clothes wearing, some other address having immigrants there has to be that age old motivation of immigrants in New York. The drive to go out and party every night, hitting up ATM’s in neighborhoods where the DEA usually get cash and drugs, striving to attain the jobs that no one/everyone wants by participating in a demanding art school education. I congratulate and simultaneously condemn Hipsters as the new immigrants.
“Cleavland rocks!! Cleavland Rocks!! Ohioooo!”
-From the opening of the Drew Carey Show
Categories: Tidbits · Writing
Tagged: Art, Bushwick, Immigrants, Transplant, Williamsburg, WTF
Subway System
August 23, 2008 · 1 Comment
Riding the Subway in New York city can be the greatest feeling and most daunting experience that the city has to offer – next to the Staten Island ferry. You can find all sorts of people traveling together in unison, sort of how the Olympic games is an example of the world playing together. The New York city subway is how we all work together. A cohort of mine made an astute observation about how there are certain rules that are understood and even implemented a little better by a select few that would not go anywhere else.
For instance:
Subway platform staring. There is an etiquette to this that is not very easy to manage. You cannot ogle someone that you are interested in, but the method in which you are to acknowledge them on a crowded platform has a barometer of how intrusive it is. There is also a way of dismissing the ogling so that you can be at least a bit more comfortable around thirty people who are pretending that you do not exist. School kids are good at this.
Other things include your proximity to a person. You are guaranteed a least ten minutes a day – if not all at the same time - of a person’s face directly in front of yours while you’re painfully looking at advertisements. Aside from that are the people who talk needlessly loud almost in order to deter the fact that there are seventy people that they don’t know surrounding them. Most of the time the conversation has to do with their destination, as that is one of the few personal things that you can speak about on the train and not be too obnoxious.
There are things to watch out for on the subway too. You should never stand too close to the guy who just bought a magazine that he can’t read in plain view from one of those stands on the platform. Another thing are the dudes looking about as if they need directions but start walking toward you when you get closer to them. If you keep a straight face and look forward they won’t ask you for change. Keeping their gaze just warrants a long story about how they are trying to catch a bus. They’re going to be two stops down the line tomorrow with the same twelve dollar request.
There is little compassion that is dispensable on a subway car. Think about it, we’re all too broke to afford a car. And those with cars can only drive them on the weekends because they can’t afford gas. The reality that we live when we take the subway is one where all turns are dark, and most of our options have been exhausted. We’re coming home from having an amazing dinner. It might have even been free. We still have to pay for a way home and we are completely alone in the matter. However in our loneliness we are together and you can see all shades of the global community in commute with each other no matter the subway line or the circumstances of our individual lives.
There is also comfort in knowing that no one wants to speak to you. In most other situations during the day you are forced to say things that you’d rather not, or were just thinking, or that had no place in the conversation. There is something admirable in the way that each of us without the company of others embark on our musical, or silent, teleportation to the situations of our lives.
2008 © PostHood
Categories: Writing
Tagged: New York City, Subway
