Sleazside: Where fades & junkies exist in semi peace.

Nothing says cheer up like a desolate, deserted boardwalk when otherwise crawling with fades, CZs and trannies passing as females with the word they are NOT printed on their ham be good part of their sweatpants. Sleazside: Post Apocalyptic.

Seaside is always a vat of emotional maybes for me. For a sizable chunk of my addiction, I survived in Seaside. Sometimes when I think of my best friend Jen and I stalking the boardwalk, being more rageful than any youth should ever feel necessary; there is the possibility of nostalgia.
On the other hand, being homeless there was while nursing a habit is another serving all together.
Yesterday while letting the dogs run on the beach, Matt had asked me if one was able to walk under the pier and I answered that you could. He began to guide our dogs in that direction, when I asked if he was going under, he said he yes and I told him I was not comfortable with that; he said no problem & meant it, one of his canonizing qualities, and we evacuated the most dope needle cap ridden beach I have been on in a long time.
Shooting dope under a boardwalk is not news for an junkie: active or in recovery, but some instances are better not relived.
I had a terrible day that segwayed into beyond contentment and was cosigned by Billie Holiday Standards all the way to Art History class.

Matthew Stone, Anais Nin & a foggy day not quite in London Town.

In efforts to reinvent curiosity & cultural exposure by way of actual socialization with real human beings, I am "suggesting" (subtle command) that you do your self one of many favors and put the remote down, call a friend, not text & make your way to this exhibition that is only up till December 10th.
Matthew Stone
Optimism as Cultural Rebellion
November 1 – December 10th 2011
at The Hole NYC
312 Bowery New York, NY 10012

A fog ridden morning begets an Anais Nin read. She is best, unfortunately, known for her affair in less literary circles, with Henry Miller; however was an accomplished writer in her own right not to mention charming, erotic and progressive in her rebellion.
If you are easily enthralled by guttural longing, combative resistance against stereotypes, love falling in love, have a penchant for sarcastic wit ridden sentiment and tragedy, I see no other direction for you but The Diary of Anais Nin. You're Welcome.

If your Baby doesn't have a beard, I don't want to know them.

Let's get right into it shall we? I am off on beards and babies today. Matt and I went to the beard and Mustache Competition last night and a better time could not have been had in Amsterdam on heroin. On the ride up, Matt & I were discussing and airing our grievances about the proverbial boners one is expected to get and display for others people's kids. It's annoying, oppressive and conforming to a standard that should really only exist in Oklahoma. Which led me to this actively dick ridden rant.....

Why am I expected to celebrate other people's children by way of acting enthusiastically enthralled & impressed that it's grabbing a finger, or eating solids or managed to make a sound that may in some Somalia ridden circles sound like an actual word? I would never expect anyone to do the same with my children or animals.

The only reason I am likely to hold your child & there is nothing spectacular about them, they are not related to me & I have no real connection with them; coupled with my obligatory social graces being exploited, is to avoid some dull conversation; the kid will act up inevitably and I will have to leave the room.
Be joyful & psyched on your own choice & decision. Aside from immediate family, it is not necessary for all and sundry to actively and audibly support your choice be hemming and hawing that your child has developed motor skills, ( I participate a little every day myself, no big deal zygote.) Chances are you have most likely moved onto children because of family's incessant prodding about the topic or maybe it's more generalized than that. Maybe you know that society will only see you in a "successful" light if you pop them out like a factory line and maybe even harbor hopes of your own reality show?? Yeah, we're getting down to brass tacks now.

If your child appears to be a jaundiced raisin that's dressed in Target sale items, can't use it's "inside" voice to relay what it wants, and you are expecting me to get it up for you in spite of all these things; you may as well ask me to climb Everest while going native, save for a dicky and a cravat.

If you have made the choice to procreate, that is wonderful but I cordially invite you to stop asking me to validate that decision, you should be incredibly comfortable about it, seeing as how it has manifested by way of actual human being. So buck up, and place your insecurities in the right location: your partner and parents.

The Beard & Mustache Competition was held at the Europa in Brooklyn and was a great time. Matt & I are entering next year and will be blowing the fucking roof off along with your minds. Stay Tuned, enjoy & for fuck's sake, keep your baby at bay.

Tori Amos and nursing an open wound.

Last night my gracious friend Alaya (she drove) and I went to see this anomaly at the Beacon, a favorite venue of mine for years and it was everything I had hoped it would be. I would go into detail about the show, but it would tarnish my personal experience and it was more internalized than that. I will say that the Belt Parkway landfill stank that was residing on the jackwagon in front of us, was overbearing and unnecessary. Jesus Fuck, work that out.

Moving on to maybe not so green, but different and more personal pastures...

Quite possibly my favorite Tori Amos song.


"Spark"

She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's afraid of the light in the dark
6:58 are you sure where my spark is
Here
Here
Here

She's convinced she could hold back a glacier
But she couldn't keep Baby alive
Doubting if there's a woman in there somewhere
Here

You say you don't want it again
And again but you don't really mean it
You say you don't want it
This circus we're in
But you don't you don't really mean it
You don't really mean it
if the Divine master plan is perfection
Maybe next I'll give Judas a try
Trusting my soul to the ice cream assassin
Here

You say you don't want it again
And again but you don't really mean it
You say you don't want it
This cirucs we're in
But you don't you don't really mean it
You don't really mean it
How may fates turn around in the overtime
Ballerinas that have fins that you'll never find
You thought that you were the bomb yeah
Well so did I
Say you don't want it
Say you don't want it
Say you don't want it again
And again but you don't really mean it
Say you don't want it
This circus we're in
But you don't you don't really mean it
You don't really mean it

She's addicted to nicotine patches
She's afraid of the light in the dark
6:58 are you sure where my spark is
Here

This song always makes me think of my estranged son whom I have not seen since he was 5. The mistakes I have made in my life are continuous, lengthy and accompanied by a streak of guilt and shame that could easily turn into a new mental disorder. However, this particular wound is a deciduous one in the way that I can expect a certain amount of falling apart at distinct times during the year more so than others. This is one of them. There's nothing that can suspend time, an uncomfortable sharpness that I have created for however long it remains.

My hope is that a heartfelt anything will rear it's head and abandon confusion. I guess waiting is still, the only option...