♥ ♡ ♥ read a little ♥ ♡ ♥

I WILL BE BACK....♥♥♥

2011-11-08T10:29:00.000-08:00

Hi...I can't believe it's been so long since I posted here. But a lot lot has been going on, with the novel and some other things. Though I will be posting some new stories on here very soon.

The novel will be ready to launch very soon, which is why it's taking a lot of my time. I have to work on the creative side of this project, too, developing the fun things like tumblr and youtube for it (I'll keep you posted as soon as things are ready). I am also writing a foreward for Walter Cessna's book of short stories (!!!) which is amazing but also a big deal and so that has taken my time as well as my own work.

So hold tight and there will be more stories up here soon. I like to post 2 stories a week. But it's just been a tricky time where I get super tired by the time I get some free minutes and I just want to veg out and watch some braindead TV.

Thanks for reading and keep checking in (or just subscribe) and you'll see some new things soon. xxx

NATURE SUCKS part 1

2011-09-01T12:17:00.000-07:00

I hate the fire ants and the striped ants and the spiders on the walls.

I hate the stickers and the chicken poop and the dirt under my nails and the sleep in my eyes that crawls to my sinuses. I hate the cold water showers and that anything I want is a 45-minute drive.

The guineas that bark and the geese that hiss. HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

And how my clothes always reek of sweat.

I don't really hate nature. I love my minks and organic French face creams.

I'm in the Twilight Zone of farmtown and I don't know which way is right or left.

see part 2 here (part 2 went up before part 1)

NATURE SUCKS part 2

2011-08-28T14:55:00.000-07:00

“Which one laid that huge egg?”

“The peacock.”

“Those are peacock eggs? Aren’t you going to hatch them in the incubator?”

“No…these are old or I don’t know how old they are. I don’t know what I’m going to do with them.”

It’s hot and there are too many mean flying bugs attracted to sweat that I can count. The ground seems covered in doo-doo, but I’ve been here so long I can’t smell it anymore. My newly painted mannequin-skin Morton toe is cut and bleeding a little and the big dogs are running around like nuts.

“Dad! Pasha and Blackie are running after something!”

“Call them over back to you…!”

“I can’t! They’re not listening to me!”

I have a slight headache from the shouting. I have a slight black eye from the allergies. But standing here with my puppy in one arm, facing these painted hills that look lit up from inside even though they’re on the opposite side of the sunset…I’m fanning these peacock feathers in front of the sprinkler that’s shooting water…all I can see is rainbow feathers in rainbow water in front of rainbow hills in my view. No one else is “here” but me. And no one will remember being there but me. And even though part of me wants to say I hate it, I know this is the only place it would ever be.

But I still hate it.

ps part 1 hasn't gone up yet...i had the image for part 2 before part 1. thx for reading!

ESCAPE TO THE RITZ part 2

2011-08-16T10:03:00.000-07:00

Guest Author: Walter Cessna!

2011-08-12T10:03:00.000-07:00

LAQUIDA in DA HOUSE

Being a true believer in random coincidence, it hardly surprises me that I am once again in the presence of my favorite…

……Flori-duh denizen LAQUIDA. I’m standing in line at Mickey D’s in the mall, trying to keep my patience as the countergirl readjusts her wannabe ghetto girl oversized bamboo earrings for a full minute, her eyes glazing over as she punches in an order at a pace that can best be described as tortoise on smack like. The dude in front of me keeps repeating his cholesterol killer selection, but she keeps fucking it up, giving me ample time to question my being there in the first place, my craving for a wak mac non-withstanding. I decide that i’d rather have my toe-nails extracted by a dull blade, rather than spend another second in fast food limbo, so I turn around and head for the exit. That’s when I spy my newfound visual distraction sucking on a soda in the corner. It’s Laquida, whom I first encountered a few weeks ago sifting thru the clearance racks at Tar-Jay. She’s just as beyonder as I remember, looking like a cast off character from a Spanish version of Gilligans Island. She is Ginger gone wrong on top with her crudely applied multi-layers of make-up and hair-sprayed to death coiffure and Mary-Ann on the bottom, sporting an ensemble of ill fitting capri pants and Lolita goes uber lush boatneck blouse with horizontal stripes that exaggerate her already overwhelming bosum in all the wrong places. I LIVE for her, especially when I notice her bargain bin Balenciaga gladiator sandles, the straps straining against her thick calves and the heel worn down to almost nothing. I need more of this spectacular display of surreal style gone wrong, so I plant myself in an empty booth and pretend to talk on my cell phone as I selfishly continue my optical overload. Laquida slowly dips a chicken McNugget into a container of sauce, but instead of biting into it, slowly sucks the sauce off, letting her bright pink tongue trail against it in slow motion as she switches it for her soda straw, sucking on that like a newborn feeding for the first time. At her feet are several shopping bags, testament to her mall prowl, but something about them isn’t quite right and that’s when I realize they are dirty and crumpled, so NOT fresh. Does Laquida live at the mall? Is she a homeless shopaholic in search of a lifestyle mark-down? Does she survive on the kindness of fellow shopping strangers and the occassional remnants of someones elses Mickey D. delights? I ponder these questions as I continue to stare, but just like the first time I saw her, she notices me watching her. And just like the last time she smiles at me, slowly, revealing lipstick stained teeth flecked witch splotches of sauce. I get up and leave her behind, a million question left unanswered, but my visual hunger strangely satisfied. As I get to the exit I turn around for one last look at my precious Laquida, but she is gone, only her wrinkled bags left behind as evidence. I wonder if she was even there in the first place, my boredom tricking my mind and my imagination working on over-drive. I decide that the reality might be less stimulating than the possible illusion, so I continue walking until I lose myself in a sea of banality, bunches of mall crawlers without one smidgen of Laquidas correctness.

YEA!! and YEAH! my lovely talented crazy talented super crazy talented fun supportive interesting nine-plus cat-lives friend Walter Cessna (this site has a lot of erotic nudity...just a warning) just finally got me the image for this awesome awesome new story that has an equally amazing title as his last submission did (have you read Fuquishsa St Ives Rules the Mall???)!!! Walter has a new book coming out(!!!gasp!!!cheer!!!) called FUKT 2 START WITH (desperanto) and he'll be going on book tour to promote it...I'll keep you posted! you can keep up to speed with him on his tumblr yo! thx, walt! love you! x

drawing by the awesome Jake Ryan (no...not that jake ryan...i wish it was that jake ryan....but this jake ryan is rad rad, too) he's walter's muse, but walter considers him more than that, "he's family, too." check out his tumblr, too...thx, jake ryan...i love love the illustration!

ESCAPE TO THE RITZ part 1

2011-08-08T15:21:00.000-07:00

just click on the image if you want to see it larger, folks. xmt

NEW TEENY TINY FICTION

2011-08-05T21:39:00.001-07:00

is on the way...

two news series...

one titled NATURE SUCKS

and the other titled

ESCAPE TO THE RITZ...

PLUS....WALTER CESSNA has some new submissions!!! And they RULE!

AND MY NOVEL WILL BE OUT SOON AND WALTER WILL HAVE A NEW BOOK OF WRITING OUT, TOO!!!!!!

MORE SOON...LIKE REALLY SOON. thank you luv you miss you. xmt

CLUES PART ONE

2011-04-23T20:06:00.000-07:00

GOD is going to help you.

I really believe...

We know you believe.

Then I saw a book close. Or hands close a book. The book was cream. I didn't see anything on the pages.

GOD is going to help you. I felt a strange feeling inside like an arm or a road from my shoulder to my heart.

The pressure feels real these days. And I'm still learning how to make it go away. I won't let it defeat me. I just need a clue on which way to go.

mouse hole 2 drawing by my lovely lovely friend Rafael Rozendaal ! thx, rr! x

Guest Author: Walter Cessna!

2011-04-13T11:38:00.000-07:00

FUQUISHSA ST. IVES RULES THE MALL

I can hear her high heels click click clicking against the cold tile floor, long before she makes her appearance......Not just any grand entrance, mind you, but one of such immaculate thought and perfect timing, there can be no denying that this is a true vixen, an indisputable goddess in our midst. Her long black hair is cut into several face flattering layers and bounces around her head as if there is a surge of magic fairy dust percolating through each follicle. Her expression seems frozen, an almost angry, slightly sarcastic glare emanates from her eyes while her lips are pursed into a faux friendly smile that hides the sharpened fangs waiting to sink into their next victim. Her string bean long body is punctuated by a set of sprightly Raisinettes, permanently erect and forever popping out against the thin jersey of her deeply v'd top. Super skinny jeans the color of tainted mustard encase her legs like wet paint on a dry wall and each curve and languid line on her legs is highlighted to magnificent proportions. And let's not forget the shoes. Cheap, almost vulgar, frankly fake patent vinyl multi-strapped creatures from the hot pink lagoon, tiny metallic hearts and stars sprinkled liberally across each toe and down the back of each heel, looking like the footwear that Rainbow Brite or Gem & The Holograms might sport. She has had her fill of whatever it was she was looking for in the first place and spins around, slowly at first, then twirling like dervish, an out of control top in tacky clothes and a frozen face, spinning for her own amusement, disappearing from sight slowly, leaving nothing in her wake but my bewildered gaze and a few thoughts that weren't worth having anyway.

She prowls through the mall lost in her Ipod and sipping an...... extra large cup of frozen faux fruit bliss, oblivious to the stares of strangers unable to avert their eyes from her. I'm guessing she's in her 40's due to the leathery texture of her face and the slight sag of skin at her elbows, but her attire tries hard to convince that she is no more than 20 and not swimming with the sapphic sharks. Her top is one of those crinkled polyester halters in a hue of fuchsia that I've never seen before and her barely crotch covering denim mini skirt appears worn in all the wrong places. Dozens of dull silver & gold bangles descend down her arms and her earlobes are weighed down by huge hoop earrings that a parrot could comfortably perch on. Her hair is tied up I Dream Of Jeannie style with a black & white polka dot scrunchie and her heavy lidded eyes are caked under a badly applied layer of emerald green eye shadow that she most likely scored from one of the bargain bins at Odd Lots. But it's her shoes that have me and almost every single other person passing her staring in fascination: gold metallic gladiator sandals that feature multiple straps all the way up her stick thin calves, covered completely in gaudy rhinestones. She must have a Bedazzler at home and customized them herself and although they come off looking like retired Vegas Showgirl shoes, I must admit they have a tacky brilliance I'm finding hard to resist. I can't stop myself from following her, savoring the crude stares and whispered comments that pass her by and reveling in her over-all obliviousness as she loudly sucks her drink through her straw and occasionally lets out an audible word or two from whatever song is playing on her Ipod. She appears happy, confident even, unaware of the visual spectacle she presents and unwilling to pay anybody but herself any mind. I think I'm in love...not the kind you're thinking, but more an admiration kind of feeling. For she possesses the one thing that most of us could truly benefit from: the ability to not give a flying fuck or care about what other people think. And for just that reason, she is my heroine of the day, a magnificently marred creature that slinks through life at her own pace, savoring her own in-correctness and revelling in the visual distraction that she unwittingly presents. Work girl...work.

Walter Cessna is an old dear friend of mine who has a ton going on...you can check him out and what he's up to here. this was a great story and I'm stoked to have it on the blog. look for more stories, too, soon! they're done...i just need the drawings to go with them. thx, walt! x

thx so much to homie Rafael Rozendaal for the awesome emotions drawing! miss you!

PRO ON IT.

2011-03-31T18:55:00.000-07:00

This could be the beginning. Of what, I'm not sure yet but something new...on "another level" as the girls say. It is time. I mean the clock did its ticking and now...I'm here. There's perfect sunlight. Pizza by the slice. Loud pop music radio blasting into the boulevard. Busy cars and lots of sand and ocean. GIANT round sunglasses–with floral frames–copies of last year's Miu Miu's, maybe.

No matter. All I have to do is sleep and wake up...and take a few more steps. And then maybe, if I'm lucky, it'll meet me there. Or he'll meet me there.

I'm PRO on it.

another update

2011-03-30T22:25:00.001-07:00

i will start having stories up here on a regular basis starting next week.

promise. :) xmt

Guest Author: DEANA BIANCO!

2011-02-01T09:59:00.000-08:00

I-495

Any coffee drinker will say that the first sip of the morning is the most important. For Morris the first sip was his first official wake up call, minus walking in freezing temperatures to get to work, he could do that half asleep. When in the store, he would fill up his Center Gas Station travel mug with the Columbian blend two sugars with a sprinkle of half and half. He would sit on his stool behind the counter with his coffee making sure no one was in the store and brought the mug to his lips lighting a cigarette slowly afterwards to complete the ritual.

Outside, the cold rustled around the mountains and a forest green Land Rover filled up at pump number two. It was just another Friday. The chime of the bell above the door broke his concentration. The driver of the Range Rover, a young fellow, strolled in wearing a brand new black and red one-piece ski outfit.

“Hey?” The expensive man motioned to Morris reading the bold headlines of the USA Today.

Morris had skied twice in his whole life but never got to like the sport. He enjoyed the snow, but never understood the whole dynamics of skiing.

“Will the gas be all for ya?”

The man in his early thirties looked at him out of the corner of his eye while grabbing a small carton of orange juice from the fridge. “How far until Vail?”

“Give or take forty minutes depends on the roads. You’re lucky that the pass is open. It’ll probably be closed in the next few days.”

“How often do they close it?”

“More often then you think. The government don’t want any accidents on their hands and when it’s icy, that’s the first place accidents ‘ll happen.”

The man placed the drink on the counter, threw down five bucks, opened the front door of the gas station, and yelled out to the passenger in his car, “Babe, its going to be another forty minutes! Want to wait to use the bathroom?”

The young blond woman with teased hair and a white headband in the Range Rover shook her head. “I’ll wait until we get to the hotel. Honey, you know I can’t go in public bathrooms!”

Morris took the money from the gentleman and said, “You’ve got a real classy girl out there.”

The guy ignored the comment and smiled politely, grabbing the orange juice, and drove out back onto 495.

Deana Bianco is a rad rad girl with an amazing travel blog (it's more like a magazine to me) that i write for, because it's so so chic and fantastic, called RunawayNow.com. she does a ton more, too, and plans to launch her own personal writing site soon. i really look forward to all the projects we'll hopefully get to work on together in the future. she'll also be one of the writers featured in a book chris bettig is putting together. more on that later. (chris bettig has done a ton of illustrations on ttf.) thx so much, d! you rule! xxx

awesome coffee mug drawing by Deana's friend Samantha Conti ... thx, sc!

"MY" BIRTHDAY

2011-01-28T23:27:00.000-08:00

In the house of what ev er…

It was my big birthday today. And I know I was feeling the storm come on, but I kept telling myself that it would be fine.

I was so wrong.

Right from the start she was on me like a hawk–wanting to get a move on so “MY” birthday plans could commence. My birthday plans were to chill out, watch TV, write and get some burritos and two cupcakes. One chocolate and one vanilla. And maybe see a movie. Tron. “MY” birthday plans were to wake up! wake up! get ready! go to the movies! then eat! then get cupcakes! And all before noon. Um. Right.

When “MY” birthday plans were obviously not happening because I was still in bed......I’d been up all night due to a sinus headache plus there was some crazy blackout that ended around 5am–which is when I really went to bed. So yeah– my birthday plans were on schedule. Chill out. It’s only 11:30. Do I want to get up and have cupcakes at 11:30 am? No. Will I see a movie? I don’t know. Maybe. Perfect day for my birthday.

Not so perfect for “MY” birthday. She came in–11:39am– with a wily eye and a wave a tension. “Are you getting up? When do you want to get out? When do you want to go? You don’t know? Well I can’t just sit here and wait for you and then jump up when you say to! I’m not your SLAVE! You just want to lie around? You’re so rude! You’re such a bitch!”

And then she stomped all over the house until she left two hours later. Thank God! I took a shower–a long hot shower singing “let the sun shine in…let the sun shine in…the suh-uhn shine in…”– and styled my feathered Leif Garrett hair and even did my make up an entirely new way– not to go anywhere…just because–and it turned out a million times better than I expected. In the mirror I was actually startled at how fresh and pretty I looked. It was a good sign. I was stoked. “This is a my new make up…it’s a new day.”

I stayed hold up in “MY” room with the open-suitcase/drawer on the floor in the corner. It didn’t matter, I thought. I was leaving soon. And I was getting paid next week. I’d have a proper birthday plan after both of those happened. So….it was fine. I even ate a piece of toast with a slice of cheddar and felt like it was faux gras. Nothing could bring me down.

Hours and hours went by. I washed my makeup off and dotted Kiehl’s mud mask on my spots. I didn’t get my cupcakes, but “so what.”

Then “MY” birthday plans showed up again in “MY” room just as I was going to bed.
“You have messages from your father on the phone…and some other people…that you have to listen to…and you should be ashamed of yourself for how you ruined your birthday plans…”

What could I say? I knew I had my birthday to look forward to.

thx for sticking around. lots of stories coming soon! and guest authors, too! xx

MERRY MERRY CHRISTMAS! XXX

2010-12-25T00:12:00.000-08:00

THX FOR READING!

MERRIEST XMAS AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!

2010-12-24T00:12:00.000-08:00

WE'LL BE POSTING SOON...

2010-12-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

JUST BEEN BUSY WORKING ON SOME ACTUAL WORK....BUT WE'LL BE BACK BY THE WEEKEND....XXMT

IN THE MEANTIME, REVISIT SOME OF MY FAVORITES:

BIRDSEED

STINKY K TRAIN

POTS OF GOLD

FREEDOM FOR 2-99

HIS FIRST FRENCH KISS

PUKING IN MY SLEEP

LIGHT FRIGHT

I SAW YOU AT THE CHINATOWN MASSAGE

FRIENDSHIP...

2010-12-01T10:13:00.000-08:00

...means just that to some people. To other people it means I need you until I need you and I'll squeeze whatever I need out of you until I've got what I need or there's nothing left to squeeze...and even if you've fallen into a ditch, it won't matter to me, 'cause I'll do what I do and kick you to the curb.

Then I'll (they'll) go have some gourmet soup.

"FRIENDSHIP" drawing by the awesomest friend ev er...and talented....Rafael Rozendaal. Thanks, AGAIN!

ICE CAVE

2010-11-24T19:31:00.000-08:00

Waking up in an ice cave. She didn’t know what was going on but she quickly figured it out and started chipping frantically FRANTICALLY to get out. So panicked. She has to get out before claustrophobia sets in the tiny bright space. She busts through the ice, creating a tiny hole. She looks through and can see a wide vast open space.….then a bigger hole where she can now see the small ice cave is inside a…HUGE ice cave. The ice is thick but she’s so happy to be breaking through and so happy to be…free. Almost. She chips away at the hole like a dog pawing at the grass until she breaks the ice cave all the way open. Only to find…the cave is on the cliff. And leaving the cave means falling down what looks like 30 flights. She can stay in the ice cave and die or jump down down into the icy water and…probably die. Sit in “safety” or leap to…"freedom".

ravine drawing by the most awesome dude ev er Rafael Rozendaal...thx YO. x

KITCHEN.

2010-11-20T00:03:00.000-08:00

Maybe it was time to wash the dishes. Yeah. That would be good. She scrubbed a pot as her mind trailed off, like it sometimes did while washing dishes, into thoughts like....what if…it doesn't work out…what if…this is it? And then behind her ears came a loud FAST, LOUD, LOUD SSSSHHHHH! That felt more like a HUSH!

The pot slammed into the sink and water exploded everywhere as her body swung around. What was that?!?

And she stood there. And she stood there.

the kitchen sink drawn by the awesome drawer of stuffs Mr. D.W. Frydendall . he really draws awesome stuff and he is really awesome and i heart him a lot. you can check his stuffs out at forces-of-evil.com (um, yep! i'm not quite sure and i haven't asked him about it yet...but if you take a good look, you might see a scary face in those sudsy bubbles...right? that's the magic of D.W....he's the master!). thanks, D! x

THE MOUNTAIN WINO OF TOPANGA CANYON PART 2

2010-11-16T10:37:00.000-08:00

In the back of his house, sort of near the miniature vineyard, is a small brown bird that jumps directly into the living room window—repeatedly—over and over and over and over… And he hits the glass over and over and over and over so hard and so often that, from the front of the spaceship house, it sounds like someone is hammering in back. It’s like he’s committing suicide. Or maybe he’s not giving up. I’m like the bird maybe. I don’t know if I’m losing the battle…or holding my ground? I just know I keep hitting the glass.

wino bird drawing by Christopher Matty...be sure to check out THE MOUNTAIN WINO OF TOPANGA CANYON PART 1 , too!

Guest Author: CLARE SABATINI!

2010-11-11T10:49:00.000-08:00

Just Midwest of Now…

In a way it’s easier to imagine this is Fall in a big, grey city. Except, our clothes are more crumpled now, the chill a yawning (desperate?) tug where Summer is never far from our minds.

For some reason I remember lemons. Maybe these are remnants of being born to a metaconscious generation (my Nana’s scrubbed linoleum mingling inseparably with commercials of “lemony fresh”), but I seem to remember a bowl of lemons on her bright table in a kitchen forever buzzing with, oh, all of us. There would have been some variety of anise-scented cookie originating from the same presence that scolded grown daughters and entreated a husband three rooms away.

Countless grandchildren underfoot.

And all of us eager planets (or awe-filled, nonetheless), hovering in and around this arena of butcher block and dusted kitsch., of loving industry, of practical affection. Maybe the only reason I’m here. Hanging onto mementos such as, “Never marry a man who doesn’t see you to the door” and vague references to the old Pennsylvania neighborhood. The sense that she has always known these things, even as they are fading under me.

This awesome awesome story was written and given to me by one of my sparkliest friends from portland (PDX!)...Clare Sabatini...she makes me smile all the time because she *gets* the entire process of creating and how exciting and fulfilling it can be. I think she's an awesome writer. but she's an awesome artist, too. You've seen her work on here...here's one of her pieces with my writing. and also here . thx clare! xxx so so so so much, lovely!

the lovely lemon drawing that i love love is by another friend i love love, Rafael Rozendaal. thx!!

GREEN DAY (another excerpt from my novel about crazytown!)

2010-11-07T20:18:00.000-08:00

Green day. Green awning. Lady with green T-shirt walking by the same bright kelly green as the green awning and the painted storefront. All green. Bright kelly green. Green mustang in front of our parked car. Same bright kelly green. Not 5 minutes later get back to Normal Heights. And see. Green car across the street. Lady jogging past green car across the street. Wearing green tank top and green visor. Same kelly green. Green car next door on street. All within 15-20 minutes.

“I know what all of that means!” he bellows out. What? You know what all that green means? “Uh-huh!” he says with a really great, smart, he-knows-the-answer smile. He’s wise and wiser and always right and connected to something I don’t know and I’m not sure he even knows, but he is. “It’s the green candle!” Shit! Really? Fuck! That’s right. I mentioned getting a green candle the night before, when we ate at that Greek-salad-and-charbroiled-salmon place. Out of the blue, I said I need to get a green candle! I hadn’t done that in a long time.

And yeah, I did say that last night. I didn’t say anything out loud, but I thought maybe that all the green meant here is a lot of green since you need some green affirmation to let you know the green is coming. Well, it’s coming.

strong dollar drawing by the raddest ever Rafael Rozendaal ... i haven't talked to him in a while because he's been exhibiting all over the planet recently! and if you are able to check out one of his (plus his friends') BYOB (BRING YOUR OWN BEAMER) shows, do go! here's a link http://www.byobworldwide.com

WALK ON BY...(CUZ FOOTBALL SEASON SUCKS)

2010-11-04T12:04:00.000-07:00

She hated football. She hated football. GOD SHE HATED FOOTBALL.

It had been a night of magic. And a morning of love and kisses. And hunger. So they made their way to their favorite little South Beach brunch-erie, The Egg Shoppe, where the little wrens begged like puppies at your feet.

Along their way, under a cool white sun, past the old grumpy church, they held hands and hummed the chorus from “Walk On By…”

Then he mentioned, “…Have to get back for the game…”

She growled in her head. “Does the season need to end for us to have a full weekend?”

He stopped humming and looked at her. “Maybe we should just break up….”

God she hated football.

image by Cliffard...thanks!

ps...sorry it's been quiet here on TTF....but i do have a new batch of stories that will get some drawings and they'll be on here every couple of days for a few months. thanks for sticking around! x

NEW STORIES SOON. IN THE MEANTIME...

2010-10-17T23:44:00.001-07:00

THE MOUNTAIN WINO OF TOPANGA CANYON PART I

2010-10-01T09:37:00.000-07:00

Muckluck Charlie. Stinky smoke tokes. Sinuses. His own Cleopatra. Up on a cliff behind a few winding roads sits his house, like a spaceship—but made of wood. Containing everything dreams are made of. Or everything you’re dreaming of. Skylights. Hifi Hippies. Hifi life. High life. Surrounded by a miniature vineyard, and pool table trees. The Fair Lady convertible parked outside. Drunken walks in the black dark, along a long circle up and down a furry canyon with flashlights as guides. Good Good Good Why Vibes. Punk rock and Polo-ed. Twenty-eight brains and 28 bottles of the best wine you ever had from a tiny cellar in Malibu that he bought on a whim on an afternoon drive.

mountain wino drawn by a friend i used to see almost every day in pdx and miss very much, Azad Sadjadi. but he's very busy with his art blowing up up there and i'm stoked for him. if you're in pdx, check out his site and see some of his work. (love you!)

ps this will be a series...part 2 is already done.

updates

2010-09-21T20:07:00.000-07:00

i'll be working on a new batch of stories soon and then they'll be up here about 2 per week or more even...stay tuned. i've been busy going to meetings and covering fashion week for my other blog nancy girl.

thanks for your patience. xmt

I CHOO-CHOO FOR YOU, KUNG-FU ♥

2010-09-11T14:25:00.000-07:00

Gary was a tiny square. He was scrawny and short with short 50’s style light brown hair, a “crew”, and kind of big ears. And he always wrote his Y’s backwards. He always wore striped jeans or little brown corduroys and little almost-tiny western cowboy shirts. Or little tiny Johnny-collar sweaters and teeny little Keds. And he wore the thickest thickest cool-cat black frame eyeglasses. And you’d think that even with those thick glasses and those funny ears and the way his voice cracked over and over itself, that he’d feel closed and awkward. But, he didn’t. His nose always wrinkled under those glasses, classic cute wrinkles under the bridge because of his constant crooked teeth smiles. (He had some big teeth and some baby teeth and some no teeth.) But he didn’t care. And with his scrunchy smiles came all his daily Kung Fu moves. “I LOVE Bruce Lee!” He’d say, every day, all day. “I LOVE Bruce LEE!”…Kung Fu move…then a glittery smile, a laugh, and “Don’t you?”

And Valentine’s Day was Gary’s Day. Every girl, including the teacher (Mrs. Doty), got a Valentine from him--sweetie cooey cooing hearty backwards-Y, delicately selected Valentine from Gary. And as he passed out his Valentines, he smiled his crooked teeth smiles and made a little thick spectacled eye contact right before he placed a tiny red envelope in their Valentine shoebox. With a tiny Kung Fu chop. And then, later, when Mrs. Doty said it was time to open the Valentines, he’d smile so proud. And one by one, he’d revisit each (girl’s) desk to make sure they got his and knew he meant what his Valentine said to her and her and her. He’d stop and gloss with that baby-killer smile.

Canoe be my Valentine?

You’re so deer, Valentine!

Hot Dawg! Be my Valentine!

Please put-put-put me in your heart, Valentine!

But I’m not sure he got many Valentines. I guess we just assumed he didn’t get too many Valentines back. But then he’d turn around and twinkle through those thick specs and hold up a card. “I CHOO-CHOO FOR YOU, TOO, VAL-EN-TIIINE!”

Kung-Fu Gary illustrated by Christopher Bettig...I LOVE LOVE this illustration. Not only is it in the style i love, but it actually looks like the kid i see in my head...especially the expression on his face! thx so much, c!!! i'll have to commission him to do a painting of this one day!

woohoo

2010-09-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

i'll have a story up shortly...either later today or tomorrow! hold tight. xmt

TRUST (is just another word for TEST)

2010-08-26T22:55:00.000-07:00

From a tender age, the arrows were already pointing. Library Day. “Library Day! Oh YEA! Library Day!” Hours spent walking along the aisles, touching all the spines. Pulling books out, pushing them back in. Understanding the Dewey Decimal System. Using stools to reach up high. Going through sets of Joan Walsh Anglund. Noting book size, book girth, book smell. Miss Nelson is Missing led to sneaky pre-teen camp outs on the carpeted floor, just to read Wifey. Which was better than looking at copies of Playgirl they found on a dumpster dive and hid in their fort.

It happened over and over. More years. More signs. More arrows pointing there. New days. New yellow bricks on the road. There was never anything more freeing than paper and ink. And all the thoughts in paper and ink. But after mountain after mountain and all those storms, that summit seems so close. Though everything changed. Or appears that way. What’s real on this side and real on that side feels jumbled now. And the summit that appeared after Library Day and got closer and closer…well, no one can see how close it is now. Maybe tomorrow.

How does one pick up and go the other way after 30 years on the same road following all those arrows?

And what does all of that mean?

And why now? When it’s so close?

When all the answers showed up? When you can’t give up, even if you can’t see where you’re going anymore. Because it’s better than going the other way. Maybe. I mean, all you’d be doing is looking back and end up falling off a cliff.

If you weren’t supposed to be HERE, why’d they all show you the way HERE for so long? What do they expect you to do now? Angels don’t laugh at you, and angels don’t lie.

"not quite quiet" drawing by the amazing talented crafty lady named Clare Sabatini, one of my pdx homies....thx! xxx

PESOS Y EUROS

2010-08-23T13:43:00.000-07:00

She stands there—pesos in her left pocket, euros in her right. She was in a fake race. Well, she wasn’t in a fake race. She wasn’t in anything. There was no race. She took pictures of herself running in track shorts and Asics Gels along a rocky trail, above the beach. Both feet were stuck in the air. And her mouth was stuck in a Wheatie’s smile. Where was she going?

Numerous links on her numerous webbernet sites and they all led to a cornball page raising money for “a really good cause”. Lists of names and donations. The Wheatie’s air photo and “I’m running in a race!”

The day of the race. She waits in a line with a stuffed backpack. Pesos in her left pocket, euros in her right. An announcer from above says, “NOW BOARDING FLIGHT NUMBER 666…NON-STOP TO PUERTO VALLARTA…” The line she’s in starts to move.

“They’ll never find out…fuckers…”

"runner" illustration by John The Man Reeves yo! Thx again, JTMR!

Happiness is Resin and Cement (another excerpt from my novel about crazytown...)

2010-08-19T10:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I scraped my borrowed from my-brother-who-hasn’t-spoken-to-me-in-over-two-months pipe. Sneak a toke. I scraped it. I looked for the mini screwdrivers and I found them. I tried to pull the piece apart, but I noticed it had two tiny screws in the wood oval bottom and main part of the pill shaped sneak-a-toke. I looked all over for them. Finally having to call someone to find out where they are kept. After unscrewing the tiny screws, which was so so easy, I pulled the bottom apart. It was like a sandwich. Two pieces of little oval wood and a rubber band thing in the middle to keep it air tight. But, BINGO. It looked like slick oil, but the resin was there. And I scraped as much of it as I could. I was salivating. I was so so elated. I smoked half of it immediately. Moving outside so I didn’t stink up the house cuz the resin has a stronger burn smell. Smells almost toxic. The sun felt like fucking heaven on my brownish tan thighs. It felt like heaven. Part of me wanted to go back indoors, back to the computered office and listen to My Bloody Valentine on headphones. Fuck, I could just barely hear it from across the house and out the windows. But not in a way that I could actually get into it. But, the rest of me was cemented. Heavy, unable to move. Cement, I guess. More than cemented. But, in bliss. I thought about the reason Near Eastern religions use pot. I remember hearing or reading that they did because when they do use it, it brings you to now. Oh, yeah. I read it in one of Alan Watt’s books. Where he talks about all the different drugs. But he most preferred pot. Grass. And then discussed why Near Eastern religions use it. You are more sensitive. The sky looked fucking bright and blue and the sun felt fucking great and the breeze felt even more fucking great. It was true. Heightens our senses. Why can’t we feel like that all the time? Would we get used to it? So, yeah, I scraped the sneak-a-toke and used half the scraped resin crumbs and it looked black like tar and bubbled when I lit it. Kinda like maybe freebasing looks like, but I was just doing it with grass resin. I smoked the rest of it today.....

I will be sad when it’s all gone.

amazing smile drawing by amazing internet freak Rafael Rosendaal

KILLING TIME IN A PDX LAUNDRY MAT

2010-08-15T03:00:00.000-07:00

Game over. She got her ass kicked. “Damn,” she professed under her breath, “I should have used ninja magic!”

awesome ninja magic illustration by none other than JTMR! John The Man Reeves, y'all!!!

Punalu'u'u...GIRL HA-WA-II

2010-08-11T12:09:00.000-07:00

this is a repost...because it was like my second story on here and i really like it and the illustration so much...i thought i should repost it for those of you who forgot or haven't ever seen it...enjoy. x

“You don’t have a pulse in your left arm. I can’t find a pulse in your left arm…this has never happened to me before…how can you not have a pulse in your left arm…will you mention that you don’t have pulse in your left arm to your regular doctor when you go in next week?” the acupuncturist mumbled.

“What does that mean?” the girl asked. “Is that why my eyeballs are swelling? Or is that just the pollen from the cottonwood trees?”

“I…don’t…think…so,” the acupuncturist sort of said. “I…don’t….think…so,” the acupuncturist said again, grabbing the girl’s wrist and squeezing it so hard it felt like her nails were now inside the girl. “I think it means you’re a ghost. Or, your left arm is a ghost.” The acupuncturist didn’t laugh or crack up, though, which would have been a normal reaction to follow something like that. The girl lie there—pins needling her entire body. “I usually don’t put so many needles into someone so small and new to the game, but…”

“Oh…” the girl said.

“…But you’re like a graduate project.”

“Oh…” the girl thought with lightness and question marks, until she suddenly realized how fucked up she really was. More than she thought. Which was a lot. “Can you get my pulse back?”

“You have a block…I’m going to try,” the acupuncturist said.

“Okay,” the girl said.

The girl left with a “thank you” and a lecture to “just take it easy today” and “eat only raw organic” and “take the Chinese herbal pills I gave you” and a wobble down 10 blocks to the darkness of her filthy treehouse.

As she lie there, on her ground, the energy running beside her, around her, above her, and, every few minutes, through her, a voice jockeyed its way into her brain.

“GIRL HA-WA-II”

“What?” she thought. Or, thought she thought. She didn’t know. But how could she go to Hawaii? When she didn’t have a pulse in her left arm? When her left arm was a “ghost”? Who would carry her bags?

“GIRL HA-WA-II”

She quickly realized if she didn’t go to Hawaii, more of her body might become a ghost, which she did not want. So the girl packed her bags and boarded a plane, WIKIWIKI JETS (of course), and drove a rental up to Punalu’u’u.

The energy still ran around and beside and sometimes through her and she felt free but freaked. What if Punalu’u’u couldn’t save her left arm from being a ghost?

She walked to the small quiet empty beach, even though the sun was almost down and the wind was everywhere. It was the first time she ever felt like she was on an actual floating island—she could swear that the beach moved, not the waves. Like vanilla ice cream foaming in a bowl of rootbeer float. She tried not to think about it. It freaked her out even more in another new additional way. Was this a breakdown? Or a rebirth? Even though she knew the island might float away and her ghost arm might soak away or something like that—she HAD to get IN. And she stayed IN. For a long long long long long long time. Until she felt a smile pressed onto her forehead. Then she knew it was okay to get out.

She made it back UP. She stood on the lanai, smoking a smuggled joint that tasted of perfume, her chin resting in her left palm. The island still floated, but she didn’t mind so much anymore. She didn’t have a word for what she felt, but it was the best she had felt in months.

Then, from the white of her eyes, she noticed something jump. And jump. And jump. And jump. She moved her chin down, slowly, and saw the thin skin of her tiny inner wrist…JUMP!

She ran inside and grabbed her phone—it was an answering service. “I’m just calling to let you know there is no block—I’m not a ghost.”

illustration by the amazing lovely Emily Ryan

PICK ME EAT ME–A DOUGHNUT STORY

2010-08-08T18:02:00.000-07:00

Teddy Nickels walked into the ma-n-pop doughnut shop kiddy corner from her place, like she did every single morning.

“Hi, Teddy,” the Latin mama with the tiny body and big boobs said. “The regular?”

Teddy said good morning and then eyed the old fashioned and buttermilk bars, glistening and glazed, like she did every morning.

“Do you have anything coming out of the oven?” she asked. The doughnut lady smiled, “Let me go and check in the back, hon’…”

As the doughnut lady went in back, Teddy continued to pan over all the hole-y trays. Until she heard something coming from the direction of the raised chocolate frosting with rainbow sprinkles.

“HEY!”

Teddy shook her head.

“HEY!”

Teddy’s eyes blurred and bugged out. “Oh-my---”

“HEY!!! COME ON! IT’S YOUR LUCKY DAY! COME ON! PICK ME! PICK ME! IT’S YOUR LUCKY DAY! BE DIFFERENT! GET CRAZY! GO A DIFFERENT WAY!”

Teddy looked around. No one else was in the doughnut shop. “Are you talking to me?”

“YEP! PICK ME! PICK ME!”

The doughnut lady came back out just then. “It’s going to be about 10 more minutes, if you want to wait for something freshly baked…”

“Um-I think I’ll get a raised chocolate with rainbow sprinkles.” But just as the doughnut lady started to grab one from the back of the tray, Teddy stopped her—“Um-can I please get that one?”

“Oh,” the doughnut lady said. “Are you sure?” Teddy looked at her for a second. Did she know? No. She couldn’t have known.

“Yes, please.”

“Sixty-five cents.”

“Thanks!”

Teddy took the white paper bag and left. When she got to her place, she locked the door, walked over to her little table and opened the bag—slowly peeking inside.

“HI! HI! HI! YOU PICKED ME!!!”

“Wow,” Teddy said, “you really do talk. This is really weird.”

“YEAH-UM-CAN YOU TAKE ME OUT AND PLACE ME IN THE SUN? I LOVE THE SUN!” the sprinkled doughnut said.

“Um-sure…” So Teddy opened her blinds and let the sun in. She placed the sprinkled doughnut on a pink princess plate.

“AWESOME! DO YOU HAVE ANY ANDY GIBB? I LOVE ANDY GIBB!”

“Andy Gibb?”

“YES! YES!”

Teddy thought this must be like those fairy tales where she’d be nice and the doughnut would grant her some wishes. Which was good. Because she was a writer, and that was her last 65 cents. Surely this would pay off in a big big way.

“CD or vinyl?’ she said.

“OH VINYL! VINYL, INDEED!”

But after only one song, the doughnut said, “DO YOU HAVE ANY DIANA ROSS AND MARVIN GAYE? THAT SONG ‘YOU ARE EVERYTHING?’”

“Um,” Teddy said, “Yes.”

The song played and the doughnut pressed Teddy to sing along—

“YOU BE DIANA AND I’LL BE MARVIN…”

“What?” Teddy said in disbelief.

“YEAH! COME ON! HERE WE GO…YOU’RE FIRST!”

So Teddy started, “Today I saw some-body…he walked just like you…I thought it was yoooo…”

The sprinkled doughnut interjected, “ARE THOSE THE WORDS?”

Teddy looked confused. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure—”

But before she could finish, the doughnut said, “WAIT! DO YOU HAVE ANY TOY DOLLS? ON VINYL PREFERABLY?”

“WHAT?” Teddy shouted a little. “HOW THE HELL DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHO THE FUCKING TOY DOLLS ARE? AND THAT IT’S BETTER ON VINYL?! ARE YOU GOING TO GIVE ME WISHES? I’M STARVING!”

“WELL,” the doughnut said, “I don’t know. I just love music. AND…I’m not an elf…only elves can grant– ”

Then Teddy picked the doughnut up and crammed it in her mouth.

“Yeah, I have the Toy Dolls on vinyl,” she said, licking her fingers......“Eat me.”

psychotic doughnut doodle by Dane Loveless, y'all...
and donuts on turntables can talk doodle at the end by John "The Man" Reeves ! (thx!)

thoughts.

2010-08-05T08:28:00.000-07:00

why fb flckr and tweets suck...
cuz you end up stalking (or you feel like you're stalking) a guy you don't even know if you have a crush on and 50 minutes has gone by and now you've read all about his life in the past 2 weeks. and he doesn't even know it. and you're not even sure/positive you have a crush or not but you feel really weird cuz you have to admit to yourself you were on there....

that's why they suck.

"no ending" by mad creator (and skater) John "The Man" Reeves... thx so much, JTMR !

Guest Author: Walter Cessna!

2010-07-31T11:15:00.000-07:00

TATS

"Take a picture, it lasts longer," I blurted at a complete stranger giving me more than the once over.

I'm a bit testy (having been hospitalized for a week in a coma a month ago most likely to blame) and not in the mood to put up with the weird looks my ink seems to incite in some people. I'm at Wal-Fart, helping my Mom with her shopping and for some reason my freak magnet is on full blast and I am either attracting stares from people who really should have taken a good look in the mirror before they left the house, or the exact opposite reaction from homo's on the down low that actually stop me and want to ask me every imaginable question about my tats until they finally realize that I'm not featuring the attention and leave me alone. I knew going into the whole ink thing that it would be something that defined me in other people's eyes in ways both positive & negative and it was completely my choice to cover my arms in alien looking bug eyed creatures in day glow colors. When I'm in more urban areas such as NYC, L.A., SF and Portland, the attention I get is almost always 99% positive, leading to stimulating, very cool conversations, new friendships with other tatted souls and even the occasional job offer while shopping in stores which is how I ended up working at Levi's and Urban Outfitters. My ink is an homage to the art by my long time buddy Michael Economy and his crazy cast of Japanimae influenced characters. All of my 26 tats save for 3 are from his limited edition book that was released in conjunction with his one man show in Tokyo way back in the 90's. To me, it's perfectly natural and I usually forget they're even there. That is until I'm down here at my Moms in central Florida where once you leave her gated, retirees-only community, there is nothing but endless strip malls, confederate flag tatted & mulletted mutants and an endless capacity for counterfeit astonishment (OK I’m exaggerating, not everyone is a freak, they just happen to be the majority). So as I ignore the stares from a couple behind us on line, the man himself covered in a barrage of screaming skulls and flaming this-n-that tats, I have an epiphany, a moment of clarity, my tension miraculously lifted. I look them straight in the eyes and smile and say hello, completely throwing them for a loop and think to myself how lucky I am to be an individual and not part of the crowd. My ink is unique and so am I, a non victim to the whims of the masses and comfortable enough in my own marked skin to simply shrug off the haters and go my own way, not allowing my bad mood to dictate my reactions and instead killing the annoyance off with kindness. It's so much easier to just smile and go about my own business rather than let someone else’s ignorance bug me.

Walter Cessna (the link to his site...it's very adult content) is a long-time friend, and maybe even an old war buddy we've been through so much, and yeah...he is a full-on individual who knows a shitload about a lot of amazing things. Plus, he's a damn good writer and I'm pretty honored to know him the way I do and have his work here. He's a writer, photographer, creator, yadda yadda yadda...he's a true artist. Oh yeah...and he has some rad amazing sleeves from the work of his friend Michael Economy. Thanks, Walt, for the awesome story.

crazy stewing image by none other than Chris Matty-ington!

I BURNED YOU IN A LETTER (WHY STORY #2)

2010-07-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

She woke up. A voice under her cough said

BE PATIENT!

But she didn’t know why.

She dressed in dirty sweats, brushed her teeth, bunned her hair, tweezed an eyebrow, and looked for her pen and notebook. She ripped a piece out.

On it, she wrote:
I FREE MYSELF FROM YOU.

I GOT IT.

YOU CAN’T HAVE YOUR CAKE AND EAT IT, TOO.

She crumpled the paper into a crumpled ball and kissed it eight times. But she didn’t know why. She took a long long long match out of the box. Pink, her favorite. But it broke. She took another match out. Baby blue, her favorite. This time it did not break. She put the orange flame under the kissed crumple until it, too, was a little orange-y. Then she placed it into the fireplace. She kept nudging it with the match to make sure it was reaching ashy. Burned and burned. And slowly burned.

She watched to make sure the orange reached the center of the kissed crumple. The core.

She blew on it, and her toes cramped a little, but she didn’t care.

Soon she could only see a little orange sparkle amid the ashy feathers.

She blew again, but this time the feathers blew into nothingness.

She looked at what was left, for a minute, but her toes were cramping. And then she left.

fuck off drawing by Rafael Rozendaal the awesomest xm

TRY IT ON (SOMETIMES SHE LIKES TO)

2010-07-23T17:14:00.000-07:00

Before she even went out with him, she thought she’d try it on.

“It helps…”

Whether it was Bobby or Keith or Guillaume or Alex, she’d get caught up in solitary moments of wonder when the thought would pop up—“Why don’t you try it on?”

Most of the time, the result was interesting. Sometimes she had no idea if it would feel right or RIIIIGHT… or just plain wrong. Not until she tried it on.

Sometimes the climax was surprising—in a big big BIG way. And other times it was deflated and before it happened, it was gone.

She thought he’d be different, even though they hadn’t met yet. But she had to know for sure. So she tried it on and tried it on and tried it on and on…and on and on and on.

try it on image by Kelly Tunstall who really liked the story because she figured it out...instantly. Thx, Kelly!

BEATRIX & CLINTEE TAKE ONE

2010-07-21T08:14:00.000-07:00

Beatrix ran into her freckled ginger friend, Clintee, on her way back from the record store…

“Beatrix!”

“Hey, Clintee!” They stood-sat next to each other on their rusty old bicycles.

“What are you doing today, Beatrix?”

“Well, I just picked up some new records, so I think I’m going to get back, put one on, and hang out in the back of my skull.” Clintee didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t anything. “Yep, in the cave inside my skull, a sanctuary where its lush and cool and I’m a tiny golden Buddha sitting way in the back of my head on a pile of plush silk pillows, just kicking it and looking out into the endless prismic universe through my eye sockets…”

“Oooooh,” Clintee oh-ed, seeming a bit lost in her own cave.

Then Beatrix asked, “What’re you up to today?”

“Well,” Clintee started, “I’m on my way to the cosmic nursery to pick up some magic bean soil and some crystal flowers, because this morning I planted some lulla-bells in my gut…” She lifted her shirt a little, exposing a cupboard door with a tiny Victorian brass knob on the side of her lower belly. She opened the little door to reveal some ringing bells sprouting from a terra cotta flowerpot sitting inside, just above her gut.

“Wow! Okay! Good luck!”

“Yeah, you, too…”

And they went on their merry way.

drawing of Clintee with her Lulla-Bells sprouting from her gut by the always amazing Alex Suhner Isenberg of Searching for Style . check out the rad story she wrote and illustrated here. (you rule!xx)

I ________ do it. a) can b) can't

2010-07-17T12:30:00.000-07:00

One day it was sunny. But it didn't matter. Darkness was everywhere. Or so he thought. Then he woke up, up in the sky, or something close to it, with someone nudging him from behind.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Teddy?!" Teddy rubbed his eyes. And his head. And then his eyes again. He couldn't believe it. He was sitting in a cloud, looking at his belated Shrink. The one who passed away after her safari in Africa. The one who tripped and got attacked by giant bugs.

"Ho-ly fuck!" he said with his mouth agape. "Where am I?"

"YOU'RE ALMOST DEAD!" she yelled at him. Angrily. Frustrated. Just like when she was alive.

"Ooooh," Teddy mumbled. "Ooooh! Yeah! Yeah! I took a bunch of aspirin and then jumped off a bridge. What do you mean almost dead? How can I NOT be dead?" He was so so confused. More confused than ever before when he was back on the ground.

His Shrink shrugged and shook her head in discontent.

"What the hell? Didn't I teach you anything? Didn't anything I teach you sink in?! Did you succumb that easily after I left?!"

Teddy just looked up at her. She looked the same with her short spiky grayish hair, and her almost motherly vibration. "Well, yeah..."

"WELL," his Shrink threw her arms up up in the air! "YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE!! YOU'RE NOT FINISHED DOWN THERE!"

"But how can I go back? I took a bottle of pills and I jumped off that bridge. I was sick of one person running my life and the other bashing it in. And a handful of people having control of where my career and dreams go. And the other ones who never make time. Not even for a Slurpy. I mean, what's the point? Why would these dreams and ambitions be planted in me for my entire life if all they do is make me suffer? I can't go back..."

"YES YOU CAN AND YOU WILL!"

"Fuck..." Teddy said. He didn't know how to feel. He was excited and relieved, in a way. And he was happy it was his old Shrink who was there to yell at him. He had missed her so much after she passed away. He just didn't think he could do it without her. "Well, why are you up here then? You weren't finished either!"

"OH LORD...YES I WAS. I died in Africa on safari! I won trophies for lifting weights when I was 60! I dated Phil Spector when I was a teenager! I helped you get there...I mean, I believed in you. And you know that. But I thought you knew how to believe in yourself and so I knew it was okay for me to go. What the fuck happened?"

"I don't know," he said. "You left. And everyone else was too busy with bullshit to slow down and look at things with me for a while. And I lost touch with hope. Or happiness. Or dreams. It was only for a minute. But that minute was so bad that I didn't want to try anymore."

"Well, you have to go back. I didn't spend all that time with you for you to be up here so soon. Go back. Go back. Go back." Teddy just looked up at her. The tears swelling beneath his eyes. He started to say something but she stopped him. "Listen, you didn't win with me down there and you're not going to win with me up here. Angel, just go back. TRUST ME." And with that she was gone.

He woke up in a bed with a smashing headache, crust on his lips, and sleep in his eyes. He didn't know what to do. But he figured all he could do was trust. Or try again.

pill jump with confused bird illustrated by the awesome Christopher Matty (thank you, C x)

NO GOING BACK...

2010-07-13T11:40:00.000-07:00

Her normally talkative demeanor is surprisingly at a loss for words as she sits stiffly in her boyfriend’s red Jeep. She’s off to Chico to meet the family, his family, and friends, his friends, and see and smell and touch and run in a place he grew up in…a place where everyone knows him. And she’s going, too, as a girlfriend who in a way has just crossed over the threshold between dating and commitment. No words, no movement. Only hands crossed on legs crossed and eyes glued to the highway ahead.

I know exactly how that girl feels in Clare Sabatini's drawing for the story. It's amazing how she got it just right. I hope I get to see a lot more from her. thx!! xxx

POTS OF GOLD

2010-07-09T12:24:00.000-07:00

He sat there, sipping his milk from the carton. His elbows on the table. His neck cocked forward a little. His eyes lost in the Formica. They weren’t necessarily sad, even though they had shadows and bags below them. He hadn’t given up—he still combed his short side-parted hair and, even in his whirl, he hadn’t lost his style. A v-neck olive green sweater, a white button-up, and even a narrowish vintage black tie spotted with tiny white doves.

But lodged behind his tonsils was a thought that he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, let out. He blinked. Then his loooooong fingers picked up the milk again and he took another swig. God it was quiet. Except every once in a while he heard a car ride by. He wiped the milk off his lips and his arm fell limp onto the table. Had it been worth it? He was done. It was finished. Something he’d wanted to accomplish his entire life. But it had taken years, and time....Away. Everyone had grown up, got married, had kids, gone to parties, picnicked on the beach, fucked in a tree, run in silly carnival races, camped out in Budapest…

They didn’t have what he had, his dream realized. Or, had he?

moneybags drawing by Rafael Rozendaal who's one of the people who keeps me going

A STRAWBERRY DEATH.

2010-07-05T15:33:00.000-07:00

Ginni’s mouth watered. Ridiculously. So badly that she slurped the spit back every couple of seconds. She was on a trip—in a field—or NEAR a field of giant bulging juicy shortcake strawberries—and all of her friends were gushing them back—smashing them onto their tongues—staining their fingers with pinky juice heaven.
“GINNI! COME ON!”

“NO! I CAN’T!” And she couldn’t. She was deathly deathly allergic to these supple red gems. One touch, one smear, one nibble...and she’d die. She’d never even seen so many strawberries in her entire strawberry blonde life.

She stood on the sidelines of Strawberry Hill, and strawberry life, watching their happiness ravage inside. The others laughed and jumped and danced, skipping from berry to berry, singing a loud, “THESE ARE THE BEST THINGS I’VE EVER TRIED!”

For hours it went on. And then it started all over again. And the more it went on, the more alone and flavorless Ginni felt inside. There’s a moment some get to where they stand on the line of what’s worth it and...before she gave it another blink, she leapt into the center of the juiciest patch.

a strawberry death perfectly captured by Kelly Tunstall ... i love it! thx!

Cancer.

2010-06-29T00:17:00.000-07:00

She let him go

Over and over and over.

But he kept coming back.

She said goodbye

Over and over and over.

But he kept coming back.

She asked him why…

He kept coming back.

He vanished again and again.

But he kept coming back.

She burned his letters and cloaked them with tears.

But it didn’t matter. He kept coming back.

She moved. She hid.

He got married. Not to her. She said goodbye.

She cut the silver line.

But he kept coming back.

the never-ending doors by Rafael Rozendaal who is definitely one of the best.

STINKY K TRAIN

2010-06-24T22:44:00.000-07:00

She’s on that K-train again, dreaded journey to City College to add that dreaded math class. The cold, frigid windows feel like they’re absorbing the 40-degree rain that’s pouring outside. It’s 6p.m. and her birthday—but she has to add this fucking class or else she’s doomed. Her face, a sallow frown. Her jaw, a rock-hard clench. Bitterness the class won’t let out until after 9:30…she knows she won’t get home until after 10. Her forehead wrinkles…”Should I screw it? Go back, put the party dress on and rage?” The dinner her boyfriend planned is postponed. She loathes this stinky K-train, she loathes Ocean Drive, and she loathes that damn math class. The darkness she sees as she peers outside through the droplets on the window illuminated in twinkle red, blue, and white from the cars driving by. Her wide-eyed smile is hardened and frustrated. There is no way out and she has no one to vent to on that cold, stinky K-train to math, jutting back and forth, and side to side, as it jangles down its path.

stinky train illustration by Clare Sabatini, one of the amazing amazing talents i met in portland (and i'm super excited this fellow francophile is drawing and writing for TTF!) thx, clare! xxx

I SAW YOU AT THE CHINATOWN MASSAGE

2010-06-21T11:05:00.000-07:00

It was dark and seedy and the fog hovered behind corners and through old fire escapes, which made them craaaanky-cranky. The trinket shops and jade jewelers and tourist racket were all tucked in. No one was in Chinatown that night.

On a back street that most out-of-towners would miss were the only places that looked open. At the far end of the almost-alley was a counterfeit Hello Kitty shop. A chubby Chinese woman with Farrah hair unwrapped the new Hong Kong shipment. Her husband glared suspiciously. “No. No diaries. No.”

Hot spice and pork blew into the alley from two spots nearby...“Delicious Dumplings.” No one stood in line tonight, but the little old lady stood guard over the steaming bundles. Chive dumplings and Hong Kong Kitty. That was it, aside from the looming fog overhead.

Except…

One of the skinniest beautiful old Chinatown buildings stood dead center on the sticky street, like a pagoda-style steeple with giant red and pink lanterns getting nudged by the Bay air. And below its red iron galleries, a bright bulbed light light light light CHINATOWN MASSAGE poked out above an old carved-dragon door…which cracked open, and a gashing light flooded the dirty dirty street. Then the back of a man moved into the doorframe. He was a bit husky, in a pressed shirt and wrinkled slacks (business-y attire) and short hair. His arms waved, then pointed, and a voice could be heard.

“Where is the massage?” He stepped back, so he was standing outside the door. Again he asked, “Where is the massage?”

Then another man came into focus, facing him, inside the door, facing the darkness of the street. The garish light lit his aging sunburned Chinese face.

“Massage is next door.” The door shut. And so did the light.

The faceless man looking for a massage went to and knocked on the faceless door next door. This building looked closed, invisible, hidden, like someone wasn’t home. Like it had nothing to do with the bright lights of the CHINATOWN MASSAGE.

He knocked again and waited. Then he heard a soft voice pass behind him and his shoulders stiffened as he nervously peeked—

“…I see you at the Chinatown Massage…”

awesome "dude" doing a double take by awesome dude Chris Matty

I EAT BAA-LA-LEET!

2010-06-17T13:45:00.000-07:00

I dream of BAA-LA-LEET.

A mountain of the noodle treat,

my childhood favorite thing to eat!

With saffron and sugar,

the part we fight over-

believe it or not

is all the burned TADEEK!

okay...a silly rhyme about my favorite bahraini food ev-er...but tadeek is a persian treat that everyone does fight over...the crispy bottom of the rice or, in this case, noodles...mmmmm!

Emily Ryan's amazing amazing baa-la-leet drawing of a lovely with saffron in her hair. :) thx, emily!

Guest Author: MONICA P!

2010-06-13T00:11:00.000-07:00

Champagne of Beers.

Yeah, I had one or two. Okay, I had a few. More than a few would probably be more accurate, because a couple is two and a few generally refers to three, or possibly more. And three would be a gross and terrible understatement.

My head hurts too much to count. Whatever.

I fumble to the bathroom, find it, finally. Almost trip over some sort of hair appliance on the checkerboard black and white vintage tile. I take a long and satisfying piss, push my dick back into my boxers as I take in the sheer number of what - shampoo bottles? – that line the edge of the tub. I turn on the right spigot and it squeaks as cool water sprays into the basin. I bend my long body almost in half, catch a glimpse of my naked torso in the mirror, and put my head as deep into the basin as it can go.

Damn these vintage sinks. Too shallow for proper face splashing, the faucet spigot jams into the top of my head. Wincing, I pull my head up, look in the mirror again and let the water fill my cupped hands. Carefully bowing to the sink again, I close my eyes, pull my hands to my face and let the coolness roll down over my eyebrows and drip off of my chin and nose. Another handful of water in the mouth, swish and spit. The spigot drips a last few drops. Look in mirror. Run wet hands through black hair. Wipe mouth with hand. Consider options.

Chris Matty did the rad rad "champagne of shampoos" illustration even tho' he's really busy teaching his school of rock!

Monica P is my bookworm dear dear friend, who was a roommate once back in the day when we all partied in Twin Peaks (yes)... she is someone i've always discussed and shared booktalk with, she hooked up with my other roommate Franc in my (basement) room and they got married on my birthday (and now they have a really cute chubby baby boy!). she's also a great great supporter of everything i do, no matter how crazy it gets, even though she has a really smart job working at really big companies doing really important smart things. and i'm so happy she's writing for my blog. cuz i always knew she had a writer in her. thx, mon...i love you!

FREEDOM for 2-99. (An excerpt from my soon-to-be-released novel!***)

2010-06-05T07:41:00.000-07:00

Somewhere then I trailed off into the chemical pong of countless mini fans and twangy gossip.

I found my grasshopper self at an electric organ store in a very brown mall, looking up at a crate of sale records. I pulled out the only one I could reach. It had the face of evil on it with devil makeup and samurai hair, black lipstick and dripping blood. With a big red sticker for $2.99. Yes! My first real freedom! I walked through the very brown organ-slash-miscellaneous-electronics shop, placing the evil record proudly onto the counter. The vested salesman stopped what he was doing, looked at the record, and then at me. I held up a five-dollar bill. This was it. Me against his giant handlebar moustache and thinning hair. I want this record and, NO, my mommy is NOT with me. He rang it up and handed it back to me. I had my freedom, for 2-99, devil makeup and samurai hair. I had no idea what I had purchased, but I couldn’t wait to play it backwards at show-n-tell.

devil makeup and dripping blood illustrated by Chris Bettig (thanks!)

***update...chris is actually doing the cover for this novel. as soon as the cover and layout are done...it'll be out! i'll keep everyone posted on ttf about it. i'm stoked chris is doing the cover. it's going to be rad! stay tuned...

hi hi hi

2010-05-28T19:44:00.001-07:00

just waiting for some illustrations to come in...
stay tuned...xmt

CIRCUS MAGIC.

2010-05-20T12:20:00.000-07:00

Even The Ring Leader Dies.

creepy clown illustration by dutch boy Rafael Rozendaal

SHE LEFT HER HEART IN A PARIS VINTAGE SHOP (HEART COURRÈGES)

2010-05-14T21:29:00.000-07:00

“I’ll be right back.” She left the quiet corner café and the long stretch of friends and nouvelles acquaintances—fashion superfreaks, snobby Saint Martins graduates, finicky designers, chic Dior Homme publicists, and a saucy editor or two—at their long stretched table, gabbing over recent past happenings—parties and panty raids and everything in between no sleep, many café au crèmes, Red Bulls, and mass “spillage”.

She walked down the quiet rue, her mascara-ed lashes clicking every inch of the way, past a boulangerie where she stopped in for deux freshly baked sacs of Madeleines (her favorite), one grande brioche (for the trip back to London), and un croque monsieur--without the meat. “Seulement fromage?” Oui. Merci.

Donnez-nous aujourd'hui notre pain.

Then she picked up some everyday Frenchie things at the drugstore next door that she couldn’t get at home: toothpaste, skinny Vogue cigarettes, and some Phyto shampoo. Moussez, nettoyez, et répétez.

Just before she head back to the fashion pack, her eyes bumped into a window crammed with delicious fare—Pierre Cardin scarves, 1930s King Tut scarabs, ‘60s mod mono-kinis, Cartier pearl drops, and the most perfect of them all…a pair of shiny black patent leather Courrèges flats with the giant logo in white embedded in the toes! She pressed her face closer…size 37…her size! She didn’t know if this made it worse, or better! Quelle fantastique! These were as rare as a shooting star; of course they were meant to be hers.

But, alas, it was Sunday. And the boutique was fermer…CLOSED. Was it already Sunday? The days had all smashed into each other. Dimanche!!! Quelle horreur! Her deux sacs des Madeleines dropped to the sidewalk. Perhaps someone was in the back. For the next hour, she leaned into the glass, examining every inch of the Courrèges flats, daydreaming herself walking back to the café in them.

She stood there. Non non non non! Weepy and mad. Separated by cold glass.

Eventually she pried herself away. She’d miss her ride back to London if she didn’t leave. Though, she kept looking back.

She promised…one day they’d meet again.

mes flats favourites ever illustrated by the lovely lovely Emily Ryan (merci!)

Almost Broken.

2010-05-11T00:14:00.000-07:00

Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken.

Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken. Broken.

God. God. Oh God.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

B R E A T H E.

Wake UP. Sun. Thank. God.

"broken self" illustration by Rafael Rozendaal who's far away but always there just the same (thanks)

LIGHT FRIGHT.

2010-05-06T19:07:00.000-07:00

She met his bright eyes on a warm night after EMDR and another candid discussion over wheat beer and French fries at The Waterfront in Venice Beach.
“Come with us…” the friend with the handlebar mustache had said.
“Okay,” she replied, looking down at her tan feet. “But one of my flip flops is about to bust…”

“It’s okay. Just take them off. You don’t need any flip flops where we’re going,” the handlebar mustache said. And they left in a little mini truck.

They pulled the rickety mini truck (a genuine “Va-to Mobile”) into the valet at the poshy-gray boutique “motel” up on the hill, just as the sun fell below the sea.

“Twenty-five dollars for the night,” the valet said with a smile.

Fuck, she thought. He saw her face. Then the handlebar mustache paid the valet.

They made their way into the palm-y, mirrored lobby and up the tiny crystal elevator. She stood there, watching the numbers go…12…14…15…PH…POOL. Barefoot, with sand between her toes.

They walked toward the pool and the make-do-tray-bar with vodka and hummus, by the striped cabana. A birthday cake shaped like a Bolex sat there in the middle of the table under the striped tent. She wiggled her nervous toes as her handlebar friend made her a drink. Then she noticed a blond beam in a striped shirt behind her. She knew that blond beam. But from where? From her past, when she was alive, she concluded. The blond beamed and she faded into the corners, where the birds-of-paradise hung out along with the footed ashtrays and golden rubbish bins. At least she had vodka.

Then she realized her handlebar friend was gone and so was her vodka. Fuck. She had to leave her corner and go for more.

A group huddled, dropping ice into clanking short glasses, pouring tonic. She inched closer, and then, like champagne fizz, the group fizzled away and she stood alone, shoulder-to-shoulder with the blond beam. Oh Fuck. She turned to him (the blond beam was a man or close to it or something like it), and two huge blue crystallized eyes spun, looking at her, inches away from her. She was…stuck.

“So…where do you live?” the beam whispered.

She looked down at her tanned feet. It was too much for her to look back into those spinning crystal globes. But she knew this blond beaming in front of her.

“Um,” she answered. “I don’t know where I live…” The blond smiled. She could feel it even though she was still looking at her toes and the tan line her flip-flops had left behind.

Then another figure showed up. A shadow behind the beam, facing her. The shadow was tall, with a crooked nose, cut off white jeans, and a black bowl on her head. The shadow with the black-bowl head scowled at her. Then at the blond beam. Then back at her. The blond looked at the black bowl head. And then slowly back at her.

She slid her hands in her denim mini-skirt pockets and sighed silently to herself, “Yeah…” And her bare feet stepped away.

dreamy nightmare illustration by Eun-Ha Paek, who is a master at visually creating what we see in our heads. her L'Faux is still one of my favorite things ever!

LIKE A RAIN-BOW...

2010-05-03T12:46:00.000-07:00

There was so much

she wanted to write.

But The Beatles

and The Stones

had written it all…

like a rain-bow illustrated by the next Jeff Koons Tofer Chin
(yes, the next Jeff Koons)

Guest Author: Alexandra Suhner Isenberg!

2010-04-29T11:38:00.000-07:00

THREE T-SHIRT DRESSES.

She loved a great t-shirt dress, it made her happy. She couldn’t wear a t-shirt dress to work because of a stupid business casual dress code, so the t-shirt dress was never associated with bad things.

Her denim t-shirt dress was bought on a trip to the Swedish countryside (the shop was in the nearest big town.) Wild boars had invaded the forests of Småland, and it was pointless to search for chanterelles because the nasty boars had upturned all the soil in the forest. The chanterelles were destroyed. They walked in the forest anyway, and she wore her denim t-shirt dress with a big sweater and work boots. She thought about ways to trap the boars and sell them in London, people would pay a fortune for wild boar meat there, especially in the posh butchers.

The cotton t-shirt dress was bought for a trip to a beach suburb of Athens. She went with her friend Sara and they only had four days, there wasn’t enough time to go all the way to one of the islands, so they settled for Glyfada. Sara wasn’t a very smart packer, she brought black leather dresses and heavy acid-washed denim jumpsuits for a beach holiday in 33°C. They argued about whether to go to eat at the local restaurants, (her choice) or the “authentic” Greek restaurant mentioned in the Wallpaper City Guide for Athens (Sara’s choice.) It was a stressful trip, but fun, and the t-shirt dress was thrown over a bikini with a straw cowboy hat and a pair of flip flops. The straw cowboy hat had a red bandanna tied around the crown, of course.

The silk jersey t-shirt dress was bought directly from her designer friend, Avshalom Gur. She visited his studio when she was last in London. He always gives her nice tea and there are even nicer chats. They studied at St. Martins together, and they reminisced about the past and talked about their futures. He was happy to have more time to spend with his sons, she was happy she moved back to Canada, her trip to London had reminded her how crappy the tube was. She wore the pointy-shouldered t-shirt dress when she went out to dinner in Shoreditch the next day. She wore it with a great pair of Finsk shoes. After they ate, her friend Dal lay on the ground to take a photo of her shoes. He wanted the photo to be like a Jak & Jil photo, so he had to lie on the sidewalk to get just the right angle.

Based on real t-shirt dresses.

Alexandra Suhner Isenberg is one of those women who know a lot a lot about a lot a lot of things that I love. Even when I was her editor, I looked forward to working with her on a linear level, because her forecast reports were not only spot on, but also chic and new and to-die-for, which probably comes a little from her training at Central Saint Martins, but mostly from trusting her gut. Which is why we are starting an online magazine together!! Stay tuned! And check out her awesome blog Searching for Style. She did the illustrations, too. Thx, Alex!

check out alex's "fashion chat" with me!

Latch Key Kid

2010-04-24T12:25:00.000-07:00

Latch Key Kid. Morning solo walk to school, past prickly pear, past tall tree shade, past mean dogs. Dodging mean dogs. One mean dog. One 15-minute stand off with a mean dog. Eye to eye with a growling shepherd. Stay still. Hope. Pray. Shake. Don’t cry. Someone yells and scares the dog, time to run away.

Late to school. School. Lunch. Recess. Art time. Bell. Quickly run across the street to Circle K for Bazooka Joe and fortune telling gum.

Afternoon solo walk home. Past traffic. And dirt roads. And secret cut-through short cut that adults would frown on. No dogs here. Relief. Such relief. And grape Bazooka Joe. Dirt in between toes because of leather thong sandals. Hot. Sun. Hot Hot Tucson Sun. Hot Beaming Sun. Hot Glorious Beaming Sun. Dodging giant flying beetles with claw mouths and grasshoppers that leap right into you, like they’re blind. And lots of ants. Red ants and black ants. Big fire ants. Little black ants and all the ant wars.

Through a field past houses and basketball courts where it’s fun to spin around in the warm summer rain. The Door. The Key. Lock the door. Don’t answer the door. Put the key on the dinner table next to the bowl of fruit. And the note from Mom.

The ice cream sandwiches (made with mom’s homemade chocolate chip cookies and vanilla ice cream). And Macaroni and Cheese that’s easy to make. Sit down. Cartoons. Cartoons. Cartoons…Love cartoons.

hot hot tucson sun illustration by Christopher Bettig

HIS FIRST FRENCH KISS

2010-04-19T19:28:00.000-07:00

“Close your mouth a little…yeah…that’s better.”

kissy illustration by a pdx persian homie that i miss a ton Azad Sadjadi

David Lee Roth Ate At My Dad's Steakhouse Last Night.

2010-04-15T12:53:00.000-07:00

New Wave Kelly walked up to Little Ren and smiled her brace-y smile and twinkled her twinkly mystical quartz eyes and Little Ren knew something great had happened.
“What?!” Little Ren leapt at New Wave Kelly’s growing dimples.

“David Lee Roth was at the restaurant last night.” She gleamed with great satisfaction.

“What?” Little Ren could hardly believe it. New Wave Kelly worked at her father’s restaurant, a steakhouse in Pasadena called “The Salt Chips Are Falling”, and oh-wow how cool and strange this could happen.

“Yeah—totally. He came in to eat. By himself.”

“What?”

“He was wearing a baseball cap and a white linen shirt that was unbuttoned and a gold chain necklace and some white tight jeans,” she answered calmly, but cool as shit. Like it had been her own house he had eaten his baked potato sopped with sour cream and bubbly butter in. But Little Ren loved it.

“What happened?”

“He was nice. He was funny. Everyone was staring at him…”

“Then what happened?”

“Everyone took all the stuff from his table when he left. They mobbed it all…”

“What?”

“Yeah—someone took his plate and someone else took his glass and everyone wanted his napkin and his fork. Someone wanted his chair, but your dad said no…”

“What did you take?”

New Wave Kelly smacked her gum and ran her ringed fingers through her bleached spiked hair.

“I got his knife. I wanted something that was in his mouth, but I got to his table too late…”

totally DLR baked potato illustration that i'll have to buy by Emily Ryan

Guest Author: ROBIN R!

2010-04-11T11:35:00.000-07:00

The Divorce

At one point, I thought I would never have an appetite again. What had been my raison d’etre was now a repulsion, and insurance that there would be nothing, not butterscotch pudding, not noodles with atomic orange 'cheese', to distract me from the objective at hand: the sustained absorption of pain, shame and anger, at regular intervals, for the foreseeable future. For three weeks I lived off of hardboiled eggs and jelly beans. The eggs were for survival, the beans for inhaling unconsciously while on the phone with lawyers, utility companies, concerned friends and nosy parents. The eggs took five pounds off the scale and the beans kept me from chewing off my fingertips.

Had he broken my heart, I would have nestled nicely into the couch with soft pants and all varieties of carbohydrates and dairy products until I became bored with my self pity. But because our love had simply failed, and he had the keys to my house and our restaurant and its bank account, there was nothing left to ameliorate; he traded in his need for self-examination for a mound of debts, financial and legal, that he had no intention of getting out of alone. So for the first time in years, since I was last in love in fact, I just wasn't hungry.

Of course to live without an appetite is to not really live. My hunger returned on a Tuesday. I had finally resigned that nothing--not the restaurant, not the house, not even the dog--was worth more to me than a divorce. I suddenly had a taste for a burger, medium rare, on a kaiser bun with pickles, onions and swiss. Thank God we didn't have children.

Robin holds a lot of titles under her belt: super agency creative recruiter, supreme foodie (check out her blog Chronic Mastication), and caustic humor maven...but the one i'm stoked to see her spend more time on is kick ass creator! (write? right.)

anthropomorphic burgers by the radness that is Chris Matty

Puking In My Sleep (an excerpt from a book I wrote in NYC c.2003)

2010-04-06T23:13:00.000-07:00

Puking in my sleep. Passed out. I think I could have died. I read I could have died. It doesn’t matter. The next day I wish I had died. Sort of. Not really. Just that I was suffering all day for nearly two days. Just puking up any lining that was in my stomach or anywhere else. It looks like there’s a bug flying around my room in the dark and I think I need a smoke. And then I need to go to sleep. Just so strange about how my head is so not on straight these days. OH to be a writer in New York City. IN New York City! Wow. Did they mention that you’ll end up on drugs or aged from all the parties or alone because everyone you meet is in your “industry” or that your back will feel like it’s breaking sometimes? Like almost every day for a week and you’ll look out of the window of your cramped tiny tiny Manhattan Lower East Side apartment longing to go out and play like a little puppy, but the fear...the FEAR of leaving your house and getting all dolled up all the time and never being able to ESCAPE anyone will keep you inside? Does the manual for being a writer in New York tell you that? No. It doesn’t. It’s not that bad all the time. It’s just sometimes. And it gets inside your skin to the point where you feel like you’re living in that old stinky robe you see your ancient smelly neighbor in. She’s nice and grandma-like, but you know she never leaves her apartment. Except to go to church or pick up her meat at the meat market and some milk at the store. Or to go to her daughter’s for dinner once a month. That robe. You don’t have one. But it feels like you are living in hers. That’s what it sometimes feels like, and it makes you feel crazy. Like a mad person. Like you will never escape and how did you ever fucking end up here in New York anyway? How?

Anyway, I’ll have to recap the week before. I should have really written it all down. But wow...I've been too busy trying to make my stomach and my nerves feel normal again. And well, at least being ill has its perks. You get thin and thin is good. 'Cause all the boys will like you then. Even if you’re living in that stinky robe.

illustration by one of my favorite artists/sweetest friends Chris Matty

Hit This.

2010-04-02T10:41:00.000-07:00

HIT this. Hit THIS.

Toke.

Whoa.

Yeah.

Toke.

Cough. Cough. Cough. Cough. Cough.

Don’t hit it so hard, dude.

Cough. I know cough-cough, right?

Toke.

Dang.

I know, right?

Toke.

Heh heh.

Toke.

Am I really like that?

Toke.

What?

Toke.

What do you mean?

Toke.

What? Oh yeah. Cough. Cough. I don’t know. Cough. Cough. What did I say?

Toke.

I don’t know. Here. Hit this.

Right. Cough. Cough.

puffy illustration by that dutch homie Rafael Rozendaal

Long Lost Weekend (Honeymoon in SF)............ AKA ♪ she-left-her-O-in-san-fran-cisc-O ♬

2010-03-29T12:50:00.000-07:00

Five boxes. And more sore than ever before.

illustration by Kelly Tunstall who draws the cheekiest girls ever

Birdseed? (an excerpt from one of my novels about crazytown.)

2010-03-24T09:53:00.000-07:00

Sometimes in the middle of the night, when the birds' cages are covered with the black sheet, I can hear one of them every once in a while make a weird little chirp. Not too different from a person mumbling in their sleep, but in a chirpy offbeat out-of-harmony short way. I wonder if the birds dream. What do the birds dream about? Do you think they dream about flying around in a big open sky? Like one day they'll get out and fly around the entire planet? I hope not. Because they won't. I hope they're just dreaming about birdseed.

totally rad chirpy illustrations by Christopher Bettig

Punalu'u'u...GIRL HA-WA-II

2010-02-10T16:16:00.000-08:00

“What does that mean?” the girl asked. “Is that why my eyeballs are swelling? Or is that just the pollen from the cottonwood trees?”

“Oh…” the girl said.

“…But you’re like a graduate project.”

“Oh…” the girl thought with lightness and question marks, until she suddenly realized how fucked up she really was. More than she thought. Which was a lot. “Can you get my pulse back?”

“You have a block…I’m going to try,” the acupuncturist said.

“Okay,” the girl said.

As she lie there, on her ground, the energy running beside her, around her, above her, and, every few minutes, through her, a voice jockeyed its way into her brain.

“GIRL HA-WA-II”

The energy still ran around and beside and sometimes through her and she felt free but freaked. What if Punalu’u’u couldn’t save her left arm from being a ghost?

Then, from the white of her eyes, she noticed something jump. And jump. And jump. And jump. She moved her chin down, slowly, and saw the thin skin of her tiny inner wrist…JUMP!

She ran inside and grabbed her phone—it was an answering service. “I’m just calling to let you know there is no block—I’m not a ghost.”

illustration by the amazing lovely Emily Ryan

(a fine day for) Birthday Cake

2010-01-30T15:52:00.000-08:00

“JD…”

“I know. I was going to call you…”

“We never made it out there. I was telling an older friend how I used to bug you about going out there and stalking him, and he was like, ‘but isn’t that what he hates?’ and I was like, yeah…but we love him. I remember you walking around New York with that old copy of Nine in your back pocket. Is it weird that I keep crying? Maybe it’s like a really good teacher we never knew…”

“He taught all of us…”

“Yeah. Do you think he’ll run into John and John will be like, ‘Dude…What the fuck….?!?!’"

illustration by the most awesomest Rafael Rozendaal