So, for some inane reason I'm in Chinatown, Philadelphia, drunk, waiting in line at the Trocadero to see The Psychedelic Furs. Now, for me, this is pretty normal, but this crackhead walks up (I'm assuming it was crack,) and starts mumbling about how a bunch of kids are going to foil him. He asks us if we've seen a dog around. He tells my friend he looks awfully familiar - who just happens to be tall, gangly and has shaggy brown hair. Now, by some twist of fate, said friend is also chicken shit, so he runs off, and I have to listen to this guy rambling on about pancakes until his delusions get the better of him and he runs off, likely to scare those pesky kids. To this day I wonder what it was he did, if he did anything at all but trip balls on the streets of Philadelphia. He would've gotten away with it, too...

 

 

and it's midafternoon and I find myself standing at a phone but I'm sweaty and a pounding migraine thumps dully in my head and I'm experiencing a major-league anxiety attack, searching my pockets for Valium, Xanax, a leftover Halcion, anything, and all I find are three faded Nuprin in a Gucci pillbox, so I pop all three into my mouth and swallow them down with a Diet Pepsi and I couldn't tell you where it came from if my life depended on it. I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier and, even more important, where. Was it Robert Ailes at Beats? Or was it Todd Hendricks at Ursula's, the new Philip Duncan Holmes bistro in Tribeca? Or was it Ricky Worrall and were we at December's? Or would it have been Kevin Weber at Contra in NoHo? Did I order the partridge sandwich on brioche with green tomatoes, or a big plate of endive with clam sauce? "Oh god, I can't remember," I moan, my clothes--a linen and silk sport coat, a cotton shirt, pleated linen khaki trousers, all by Matsuda, a silk tie with a Matsuda insignia, with a belt from Coach Leatherware--drenched with sweat, and I take off the jacket and wipe my face with it. The phone keeps ringing but I don't know who I've called and I just stand on the corner, Ray-Bans balanced on my forehead at what feels like an odd, crooked angle, and then I hear a faint familiar sound coming through the wires--Jean's soft voice competing with the endless gridlock stuck on Broadway.

The Patty Winters Show this morning was Aspirin: Can It Save Your Life? "Jean?" I cry out. "Hello? Jean?" "Patrick? Is that you?" she calls back. "Hello?" "Jean, I need help," I shout. "Patrick?" "What?" "Jesse Forrest called," Jean says. "He has a reservation at Melrose tonight at eight, and Ted Madison and Jamie Conway want to meet you for drinks at Harry's. Patrick?" Jean asks. "Where are you?" "Jean?" I sigh, wiping my nose. "I'm not--" "Oh, and Todd Lauder called," Jean says, "no, I mean Chris--oh no, it was Todd Lauder. Yeah, Todd Lauder." "Oh god," I moan, loosening my tie, the August sun beating down on me, "what do you say, you dumb bitch?" "Not Bice, Patrick. The reservation is at Melrose. Not Bice." "What am I doing?" I cry out. Where are you?" and then, "Patrick? What's wrong?" "I'm not going to make it, Jean," I say, then choke out, "to the office this afternoon." "Why?" She sounds depressed or maybe it's just simple confusion. "Just.. say... no...," I scream. "What is it, Patrick? Are you all right?" "Stop sound so fucking... sad. Jesus," I shout. "Patrick. I'm sorry. I mean I meant to say Just say no, but--"

I hang up on her and lunge away from the phone booth and the Walkman around my neck suddenly feels like a boulder strapped around my throat (and the sound blaring from it--early Dizzy Gillespie--deeply irritate) and I have to throw the Walkman, a cheap one, into the nearest trash can I stumble into and then I hang on to the rim of the can, breathing heavily, the cheap Matsuda jacket tied around my waist, staring at the still-functioning Walkman, the sun melting the mousse on my head and it mingles with the sweat pouring down my face and I can taste it when I lick my lips and it starts tasting good and I'm suddenly ravenous and I run my hand through my hair and lick greedily at the palm while moving up Broadway, ignoring the old ladies passing out fliers, past jeans stores, music blasting from inside, pouring out onto the streets, people's movements matching the beat of the song, a Madonna single, Madonna crying out, "life is a mystery, everyone must stand alone...," bike messengers whiz by and I'm standing on a corner scowling at them, but people pass, oblivious, no one pays attention, they don't even pretend to not pay attention, and this fact sobers me up long enough that I walk toward a nearby Conran's to buy a teapot, but just when I assume my normalcy has returned and I'm all straightened out, my stomach tightens and the cramps are so intense that I hobble into the nearest doorway and clutch my waist, doubling over with pain, and as suddenly as it appears it fades long enough for me to stand up straight and rush into the next hardware store I come across, and once inside I buy a set of butcher knives, an ax, a bottle of hydrochloric acid, and then, at the pet store down the block, a Habitrail and two white rats that I plan to torture with the knives and acid, but somewhere, later in the afternoon, I leave the package with the rats in it at the Pottery Barn while shopping for candles or did I finally buy the teapot?

Now I'm lunging up Lafayette, sweating and moaning and pushing people out of my way, foam pouring out of my mouth, stomach contracting with horrendous abdominal cramps--they might be caused by the steroids but that's doubtful--and I calm myself down enough to walk into a Gristede's, rush up and down the aisles and shoplift a canned ham that I calmly walk out of the store with, hidden under the Matsuda jacket, and down the block, where I try to hide in the lobby of the American Felt Building, breaking the tin open with my keys, ignoring the doorman, who at first seems to recognize me, then, after I start stuffing handfuls of the ham into my mouth, scooping the lukewarm pink meat out of the can, getting it stuck beneath my nails, threatens to call the police. I'm outta there, outside, throwing up all the ham, leaning against a poster for Les Misérables at a bus stop and I kiss the drawing of Eponine's lovely face, her lips, leaving brown streaks of bile smeared across her soft, unassuming face and the word DYKE scrawled beneath it. Loosening my suspenders, ignoring beggars, beggars ignoring me, sweat-drenched, delirious, I find myself back downtown in Tower Records and I compose myself, muttering over and over to no one, "I've gotta return my videotapes, I've gotta return my videotapes," and I buy two copies of my favorite compact disc, Bruce Willis, The Return of Bruno, and then I'm stuck in the revolving door for five full spins and I trip out onto the street, bumping into Charles Murphy from Kidder Peabody or it could be Bruce Barker from Morgan Stanley, whoever, and he says "Hey, Kinsley" and I belch into his face, my eyes rolling back into my head, greenish bile dripping in strings from my bared fangs, and he suggests, unfazed, "See you at Fluties, okay? Severt too?" I screech and while backing away I bump into a fruit stand at a Korean deli, collapsing stacks of apples and oranges and lemons, that go rolling onto the sidewalk, over the curb and into the street where they're splattered by cabs and cars and buses and trucks and I'm apologizing, delirious, offering a screaming Korean my platinum AmEx accidentally, then a twenty, which he immediately takes, but still he grabs me by my the lapels of the stained, wrinkled jacket I've forced myself back into and when I look up into his slanty-eyed round face he suddenly bursts into the chorus of Lou Christie's "Lightnin' Strikes."

I pull away, horrified, stumbling uptown, toward home, but people, places, stores keep interrupting me, a drug dealer on Thirteenth Street who offers me crack and blindly I wave a fifty at him and he says "Oh, man" gratefully and shakes my hand, pressing five vials into my palm which I proceed to eat whole and the crack dealer stares at me, trying to mask his deep disturbance with an amused glare, and I grab him by the neck and croak out, my breath reeking, "The best engine is in the BMW 750iL," and then I move on to a phone booth, where I babble gibberish at the operator until I finally spit out my credit card number and then I'm speaking to the front office of Xclusive, where I cancel a massage appointment that I never made.

I'm able to compose myself by simply staring at my feet, actually at the A. Testoni loafers, kicking pigeons aside, and without even noticing, I enter a shabby delicatessen on Second Avenue and I'm still confused, mixed up, sweaty, and I walk over to a short, fat Jewish woman, old and hideously dressed. "Listen," I say. "I have a reservation. Bateman. Where's the maître d'? I know Jackie Mason," and she sighs, "I can seat you. Don't need a reservation," as she reaches for a menu. She leads me to a horrible table in back near the rest rooms and I grab the menu away from her and rush to a booth up front and I'm appalled by the cheapness of the food--"Is this a goddamn joke?"--and sensing a waitress is near I order without looking up. "A cheeseburger. I'd like a cheeseburger and I'd like it medium rare." "I'm sorry, sir," the waitress says. "No cheese. Kosher," and I have no idea what the fuck she's talking about and I say, "Fine. A kosherburger but with cheese, Monterey Jack perhaps, and--oh god," I moan, sensing more cramps coming on. "No cheese, sir," she says. "Kosher..." "Oh god, is this a nightmare, you fucking Jew?" I mutter, and then, "Cottage cheese? Just bring it?" "I'll get the manager," she says. "Whatever. But bring me a beverage in the meanwhile," I hiss. "Yes?" she asks. "A... vanilla... milk shake..." "No milk shakes. Kosher," she says, then, "I'll get the manager." "No, wait." "Mister I'll get the manager." "What in the fuck is going on?" I ask, seething, my platinum AmEx card already slapped on the greasy table. "No milk shake. Kosher," she says, thick-lipped, just one of billions of people who have passed over this planet. "Then bring me a fucking... vanilla... malted!" I roar, spraying spit all over my open menu. She just stares. "Extra thick!" I add. She walks away to get the manager and when I see him approaching, a bald carbon copy of the waitress, I get up and scream, "Fuck yourself you retarded cocksucking kike," and I run out of the delicatessen and onto the street where this

 

 

When I sit down something strange on the stage catches my eye. Bono has now moved across the stage, following me to my seat, and he's staring into my eyes, kneeling at the edge of the stage, wearing black jeans (maybe Gitano), sandals, a leather vest with no shirt beneath it. His body is white, covered with sweat, and it's not worked out enough, there's no muscle tone and what definition there might be is covered beneath a paltry amount of chest hair. He has a cowboy hat on and his hair is pulled back into a ponytail and he's moaning some dirge--I catch the lyric "A hero is an insect in this world"--and he has a faint, barely noticeable but nonetheless intense smirk on his face and it grows, spreading across it confidently, and while his eyes blaze, the backdrop of the stage turns red and suddenly i get this tremendous surge of feeling, this rush of knowledge, and I can see into Bono's heart and my own beats faster because of this and I realize that I'm receiving a message of some kind from the singer. It hits me that we have something in common, that we share a bond, and it's not impossible to believe that an invisible cord attached to Bono has now encircled me and now the audience disappears and the music slows down, gets softer, and it's just Bono onstage--the stadium's deserted, the band fades away--and the message, his message, once vague, now gets more powerful and he's nodding at me and I'm nodding back, everything getting clearer, my body alive and burning, on fire, and from nowhere a flash of white and blinding light envelopes me and I hear it, can actually feel, can even make out the letters of the message hovering above Bono's head in orange wavy letters: "I... am... the... devil... and I am... just... like... you...

And then everyone, the audience, the band, reappears and the music slowly swells up and Bono, sensing that I've received the message--I actually know that he feels me reacting to it--is satisfied and turns away and I'm left tingling, my face flushed, an aching erection pulsing against my thigh, my hands clenched in fists of tension. But suddenly everything stops, as if a switch has been turned off, the backdrop flashes back to white. Bono--the devil--is on the other side of the stage now and everything, the feeling in my heart, the sensation combing my brain, vanishes and now more than ever I need to know about the Fisher account that Owen is handling and this information seems vital, more pertinent than the bond of similarity I have with Bono, who is now dissolving and remote. I turn to Paul Owen.

 

 

Sphincterus Rollicus: The Discovery

Once, when I was slightly younger, a young man came into my father’s clinic. He was a doctor, you understand, of the family sort. I was, at the time, an undeclared undergraduate at the Wheel Actual College, which was founded by my great-grandfather Jermius Marko Wheelbergstein, in Robotopia, Louisiana in 1874. I was working part-time as a clerk in my father’s clinic, Wheel Family Medical.

Now, when I say the young man came in, I must imagine that you envision him simply walking in. This was not, unfortunately, the case. He appeared, at first glance, to be riding a unicycle. I took his information and shortly thereafter he was called in by my father. Robotopia was a small town, and my father had no need for nurses, and anyway there weren’t ever any nurses that weren’t working already at Robotopia General. Anyway, suddenly, I heard a yell, in the voice of my father: “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD!”

The lobby being empty, and I being curious, I ran into the examination room, only to discover a shocking thing: the first recorded case of sphincterus rollicus!

TO BE CONTINUED!

 

 

It is 2 A.M. and im board and can not think of anything to draw on the poopdeck so I figured what the hell I will tell everyone my dads gay.It has always brought interesting conversation around.

 

 

Fucking midnight shift again, man. Just one night of it. It was a month ago i was taken off midnight shift and placed on afternoons because midnight shift was driving me insane with its monotony. Eleven PM to two AM sailed by like it was nothing. I was out of practice and was a little behind on my work.

Finally around 3:30, I got all I could remember I had to do and sat down for a little bit of gameboy while checking out the occasional customer. Bam. 4:30 hits, I needed to count up my cash drawer and get the new day on the computer started up. Two dudes walk in, ski masks. It was balls cold outside, so that was understandable. "Hello" I said to them. These guys were customers.

One of them walks up to the counter while the other one walks to the sandwich cooler. Still nothing too surprising, until the guy reaches over the counter and pokes me with something. Im pretty jumpy so I didnt get poked very hard, but it was small and brown, not sure what it was. Hell, the way it poked me it could have been a damn frozen hotdog. The only appropriate thing to say after being poked with what you think is a hotdog is "What the hell?". So, not wanting to be rude, I said to the man "What the hell?". He walked to the back side of the counter where the entrance is to the employee area, where he met his buddy. They approached me and the other guy banged on a register with what looked like a two-inch thick wooden dowel.

"Open it up" he said to me. Not too angry or demanding really. he just kind of said it like it was part of his job that he didnt like doing. I stood there for a second, thinking "what the fuck?". He hit the register again, this time saying louder, "NOW".

My mind decided to have a discussion with itself, as it often does. "Oh, Im being robbed. That explains a few things. Quick, man, how much is in the register? Twenty? Twenty-five bucks? Man Im not paying no 25 dollars for a concussion, just give him the money".

I opened the drawer and both men lunged for it like a pair of siamese kittens, joined at the hip since birth. The first guy grabbed the bills and waddled off while his friend helped himself to the quarters and pennies (oddly enough, not the dimes or nickles). Before leaving the employee area, register-banger stopped for a brief moment to survey our selection of cheap cigars, decided that he wanted a pack of strawberry philly blunts, promptly knocked most of them off the shelf, and left through the door where he met his friend. With less than 30 dollars worth of cash and merchandise now in their possession, they might as well have made their escape on unicycles, because they were fucking clowns.

"911 what is your emergency?"

"yeah um hell, i just got robbed."

"can you describe the robber?"

"yeah uh hold on im kind of losing it now, let me sit down." I sat down and proceeded to lose it.

After regaining my wit and a brief talk with the 911 lady, a cop pulled up and waved at me through the window to ignore him. Standard procedure, someone might still be in the store waiting to ace the next dude that walks through the door. Ignoring him was pretty pointless though, because as soon as he walked in the door he tripped the motion detector and set the bell off that you can hear from all the way across the store with headphones on. After waltzing around the store pointing his guns at things that might be robbers, like a cooler and a slushy machine, he decided it was best to ask me about what went down and call in some detectives.

I filled out some forms, questions were asked, the boss was called, the detectives arrived, i answered more questions, reviewed a shitty quality video of the scene (which contained, actually, a REALLY cool shot of the guy poking me), then as i was sitting down drinking the third pepsi since the thing happened, the detectives notice that someone had spit on our glass door.

A brief moment of silence, where i assumed that they were thinking of a million different reasons for that spit mark to be there in fancy, flashy ways like on CSI.

One detective lifts his finger, points to the spot, and says "Think that hocker has something to do with it?"

"Nah, looks like its frozen to the door. Its been there a while."

So, they decide to take me down to the station where i got to sit in a comfortable chair in a room that looks like some guys just got done playing dungeons and dragons in, while drinking a pepsi, and reaccounting the tale of myself getting assaulted by a hotdog for the third time in two hours and was allowed to go home and laugh at the whole episode, because really when you think about it, Getting poked with a hotdog and then giving some guys 25 bucks sounds really goddamn dirty.

 

 

I took Daily Spew off of killass because nobody finds it amusing to yell about retards besides myself.Well, consider this the first 2005 edition.And to think, I almost got through the year without getting severely pissed off due to lack of dipshittery.

Okay, so, I get in at 3 PM, greeted by loudass (who is both loud and an ass) and a huge pile of dishes.I don't think too much of it, since two other people are coming in at 4:00 and 5:00 respectively to help me out with it.

Or so I believed.

Tony shows up at 4:00, we work until 5:00, meal time.We both clock out and go downstairs to eat.While we're out, the other dishwasher, Antonio (mexican guy) comes in.As we return upstairs and clock back in, Tony goes back downstairs, claiming he'll be back in a minute after he breaks down the boxes outside.Still no problem.

Half an hour later, Antonio goes downstairs, apparently to sweep the dock outside.Not much point to it, really, since it gets just as dirty within two days since it's surrounded by trees and people smoke out there almost constantly,but I've been stuck doing it before and it's a good way to kill an hour.So now I'm working both the dishwasher and the sinks until they get back.

An hour passes and neither of the absent dishwashers return.I go downstairs to check, they're still sweeping.No big deal.It's ass-freezing cold outside, that's probably why they're taking longer than usual.

Another hour goes by.I start to get annoyed.No matter how dirty the damn dock is it shouldn't take this long.I go check and they're dicking around in the damn driveway, not sweeping the dock at all.I figure at some point the boss will notice and tear each of them a new asshole with an ice cream scoop.This event never occurs.

THREE hours go by since both of them disappeared and they're still not back.At this point i'm rather severely pissed off, ready to punch the head off anyone who bitches about my job not getting done as fast as they may like as if they were a cheap action figure.Fortunately this doesn't happen.

Three and a half fucking hours later, they return.Rather than working, they both paint moustaches upon themselves with chocolate syrup and prance around like faggots.Neither is punished or even told to stop fucking around and do their job.

They work for a full hour before Antonio goes home early.I don't keep up on his stupid excuses to take off hours before the time scheduled, but I am reminded of a time when he left at 10:30 claiming to have an appointment.Because you know, there's absolutely nothing suspicious about making an appointment for 11:00 PM on a Saturday, when the only things open in the entire city are 1) Wendy's and 2) drug dealers, neither of which is a good excuse to blow off your job.

Tony offers me a break while he finishes up the dishpit.A great tradeoff to being left stranded for almost four hours, eh?

One hour later it's finally time to close down.Tony works the third hour he bothered to actually do anything during his entire eight-hour shift and helps me finish the dish sink.The rest of the crew averts violent rampage by cleaning the floor while this is going on, preventing me from staying there past midnight.

Quiz time, kids.Is it fair that I get paid the same for working eight hours as two other people get for working three each?

 

 

In the past 2 fuckin weeks we have had 2 different people shit on our floor at Mr. Movies.First occasion was someone shitting on the floor putting paper towel on it then SPREADING IT AND SMEARING IT MORE.Then someone shit and pissed on the floor. WHAT THE FUCK IS THEIR PROBLEM!!!!?????????? Not sure if they just get off on this or what.

 

 

Alright, this is an actual story that happened earlier today, involving what appeared to be two college-age idiots from Wyoming.

So I'm driving down Drake street on the way to work, which is busy pretty much constantly from the hours of 7 AM to 9 PM.About 20 yards after I turn off the highway and onto drake, these retards in a white car with Wyoming plates start tailgating me and blasting their horn at me (which, in true redneck fashion, was not the horn of a station wagon, but modified to be closer to the volume of a semi truck).

Having not done anything wrong and wanting these retards to shut the hell up, I punch the gas and barely slip through a yellow light.Lo and behold, they run the red and continue doing the same stupid shit.I consider slamming the brakes and watching them bust their noses open on the dashboard, but think better of it, since I know from many years of living in a podunk town that rednecks always carry shotguns.Even to go and get their paper.Not being in the mood for a buckshot sandwich, I speed up some more.

Spotting another opportunity to be dumbasses, they pull into a nearby turn lane and jet past me, stopping short about 30 feet short of the turn-off.I pull past them a bit to stop at a red light above.Nearly a minute later, it seems they apparently finally worked the stupid out of their system and turned into a nearby neighborhood.

In short, Wyoming youth, just because crucification is still legal in your ass-mound of a state doesn't mean you can act like dipshits wherever you go.Piss off.

 

 

i have a list of wack events tonight that kind of balance each other out, i'm writing it kinda fast, more telling than showing...you know:

i go meet up mike davis (black kid ive known since grade school who has always liked to get a rise out of me), and my other buddies we get some pot from our friend "ducky" who we think is an unreliable dealer, everyone but me was talking trash about him before we picked up from him.we get the pot, i split up with my friend nick and toke, i decide to go to cub foods (huge grocery store)

-~

im biking around in my chrome Redline BMX bike I got when i was about ten years old, it is a reliable bike, my dad's mountain bike is malfunctioning so i have to ride ole' chromie.

-~

i go to cub all stoned off my ass and buy a long john and zours for a dollar 25, i was going to pay with my 10 but then i realized if i opened up my wallet infront of that guy he would see my pot, so instead i get the change i had wanted to spend on coke at a 50 cent machine close to my house.i get out of cub, and check my wallet near a tree in a hill of rocks slanted diagnolly, it wasn't very wise to choose such an unsteady base to lock my bike, i thought.my remaining 10 dollar bill of 5 ones is gone, so i wonder what happened to it, (it was raelly dark when i took out my money when i gave my 5 one dollar bills to joe.) or (it fell out while i was poised to collect my 5 dollar share of pot into my ten dollar bill.

now i can't remember if i had the ten at that point or not

i leave cub finally after fucking with my lock around the tree and in the rocks.i see something shiny in the rocks surrounding cub, it was the bottom of a glass bottle, or some circular shaped glass piece with ridges around the circumference.the number 14 is on the piece of glass i just noticed.

then i see a black cat meowing at me, i stare at it for about thirty seconds then ride my bike slowly to the cat, it keeps it's distance from me but when i stopped it licked itself casually and didn't feel the need to run.i get a piece of the long john out, just a dough part and throw it halfway to the cat and it sniffs it and then rubs against my legs.i was a little surprised, then left.

also,

earlier this night i was stopped by a cop because i don't have a light guiding my bike.they cost five bucks at WALMART according to the officer.

and Now, i realize i have cut my pinky and there is blood drying around the wound because i started writing this when i noticed it.

i picked up a positive attitude right away on my way back.cinco de chocobo was playing on my iriver, i gotta be happy.

So, the main events in this time are:

• 1. Buying weed, pitching in my 5 for a shitty 20 sack.
  
• 2. Getting stoned behind my friend Nick's parent's charity house.
  
• 3. Losing my 10 dollar bill.
  
• 4. Glass relic for my bad luck, and
  
• 5. Meeting with a black cat, (of the few or more i have seen this week, no joke.)
  
• 6. Befriending the black cat.

I don't usually investigate bad luck, or karma.But the weekly occurence of black cats is true.And I don't care that much about the ten anymore.I have plenty of money to waste.

On the positive list:

• 1. Zours
  
• 2.Awesome long john donut
  
• 3.Weed
  
• 4. Comfort of own home
  
• 5. Secret of Evermore
  
• 6. iRiver