Category Archives: What the fuck?!


Straight from the “What the Fuck?!” files, we bring you snortable asparagus.

Powdered Snortable Asparagus


As mind-blowingly ‘what the fuck’ as this is, it’s kind of awesome.

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Alcoholic Whipped Cream

Okay, obviously, I’m all for imbibing spirits. I also like creative culinary creations (in the vein of molecular gastronomy).

Sangria or Mojito Ice Pops… Genius! The bastard child of 2 of my favorite things. Alcohol and Ice Pops. Really. Its sort of crazy… Ice Pops, though probably not really “food” is in the top 5 of my favorite foods.

But may I be the first to say that everything about Whipped Cream infused with alcohol is fucking disgusting. Especially when the marketing department calls it “Cream”.

Thank you, drive thru.

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Random Posts from the Interwebs

and so it is...

…just another refreshingly sad image found stumbling around on the interwebs.

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a stranger in strange times…

aka ‘the text, the livingroom on ludlow & the homeless-penn-station-shuffle’.

14 Aug 2010
A Stranger in Strange Times: This is what I am.

To begin:

Late in the week: My friend E texts me…. doesn’t know where I am. Nobody really knows where I am these days. This is not metaphorical, mind you. There are literally a handful of people that actually know my physical location. And this, simply because I’d neglected to mention the fact. Where ever I may be, the aforementioned text also says that, where ever I am, he would be in both of the potential places that I would be, at certain times and invites me to 2 separate soirees in two separate cities on two separate coasts… you guessed it, approximately two weeks apart.

  1. That Saturday (three days?), he will be downtown at the Living Room on Ludlow playing with his band.
  2. The aforementioned some later time, he will be in that opposite coast place, at his apartment/duplexy home, co-hosting a barbecue.

In keeping with the adult theme (not like dirty adult… just like actual ‘taking responsibility for your person and your actions and thinking beyond the next 2 seconds-adult), I want to be where the barbecue is. I want to go to the semi-domestic-type barbecue that I’ve been invited to with his girlfriend and young-adult chatter. I want to pretend, again, that I already am something that I’m, currently, half-commited to be. I really really really kind of want this.

Alas, I am 0 for 1. I am not in that opposite coast place now; far away only in space… but space counts, I suppose as much as time as far as practicality goes. So…

Going back to number 1, I will be downtown and available to see a friend on Ludlow Street on that Saturday. No substitute for the adult-soaked Mid-Wilshire barbecue and/or a growing semblance of evolution, but as good as I can get at this point? Sooooo, I go.

Annnndddd…. ACTION!

It’s really not like that, however. I decided to tell E where I was and actually go and not just surprisingly show up somewhere a la kiko of years past because I was rockin’ the adult thing. And because I thought that I may be able to transcend location (space, whatever). With my friend E, I feel that I had started this sort of thing. Respect and general relatively mundane adult behaviour. …I say ‘relatively’ mundane …to syringes and speed and benders that went on for days. In any event, I kind of really didn’t have any sort of business going at all, what with my no-money and no-job and no-actual anything and all. I went because it seemed like an adult thing to do. Or atleast, it resembled the closest thing that I could grasp as adult. Sooooo….

Subway downtown.

And this is where “action” should really be called.

For routine’s sake, I suppose… subway downtown, wine in a Coke cup with a straw. Didn’t need to get my drink-on… just thought: It’s wine in a cup with a straw. It’s also around 9:30pm and I’m completely sober… these things somehow = ‘this behaviour is okay, makes sense and therefore, I don’t really have to think about what I’m doing, ergo… learn and adjust potential behaviour’. Really, it’s embedded routine and a taste of autonomy vs. chill the fuck out (this is not five years ago, you’re not going to W 4th to see the guys play The Bitter End, you don’t care about being fleetingly fun and cute and… whatever).

Anyway, in the end, as traced from the beginning “fleetingly fun and cute and whatever” wins out… routine, man… it’s fuckin’ routine, man. And now, I can’t say that I don’t know how it happened, all wide-eyed because I’ve just told you.

*The rest is mostly written LIVE-like on a blackberry wordpad as I progressively get drunk. (that’s why it reads like I’m on crack)

I walk up the stairs from the subway… somewhere downtown. …somewhere downtown east, even. hmm… Disoriented (as exiting any subway station, for anyone… even the most embedded of denizens of this city are), I am ‘between’… among, a sea of others. …must ….manage ….energy of ‘winning the stairs’.  Must go up as fast as humanly possible. However, vertically, horizontally, everything-ly, I am between… among and possibly burdened by the external. …however, it’s not a burden; it’s a sea of people that move. One adjusts their speed or pace and ‘winning the stairs’ in one’s real-time, becomes, a concept though so singularly focused, comfortably adjustable here-and-there. In that way, I might, leg-half-lift’d, wait a millisecond more for the person in front of me that might also wait for the person in front of them in the same manner as I  (or conversely struggle just a bit with the pace). But the sea of people move but we all adjust and somehow become one. But somehow, we all remain intensely individual.

So now, I slo-mo clop up the stairs in the intensely individual pseudo-socialistic adjustment bureau that I find myself in. It smells like NY… late summer. This is comforting. This is something familiar; something familiar that strikes one over the head like an all-engulfing mallet (smashing an entire hemisphere of one’s brain to absolute minutiae) with no effort on the part of any party on any side of this ill-conceived metaphor/simile.

I stare, though. A wide-eyed stare that I once rocked as ‘my thing’. …a million years ago. Similar-to anyway. …the stare. Familiar again in a displaced manner; a displaced tone. The same low energy. This low-energy concerns me, however. I know its not the same… Its not as naïve and sweet and pure.

I may have depleted all of my dopamine or actually, it seems, serotonin receptors yesterday…. at T‘s place. I forget that I’m not the severe, ritualistic alcoholic that I was just a few months ago… Physically. And physically, I handle it in the way that only a novice/born-again-whatever can.

Everything is up for grabs now. This is grand without saying. But the ritualistic and unfamiliar just catches one sometimes… Off-guard and all. …when they are presented in such a stringent and spontaneous-like manner. I’ve spun so many things in so many directions too many times, most likely. And now, when I can ‘check myself’ for a second… Even the most familiar is based on this spin. The familiarity is incongruent, discontinuous, piecey… and dizzying as a result.

And I know enough to know better (atleast I’d like to think so), but its still a jarring prospect that nothing can remain the same.

Drinkdrinkdrink… watch the band. Hug people. Say hello to others. drinkdrinkdrink. Say hi to E, talk as much as we can above the music; but there is something going on. Something that doesn’t involve me, probably. I sense this, so I go… (he tells me that he is kind of offended, though, that I hadn’t mentioned the whole picking up and definitively moving to the other coast)

Even later…
And so, some cute-kiko version of the beast has been unleashed… Moremoremore. And walking on ludow, I need to focus on getting to the F or something. I am not hungry… But I needneedneed, somehow now. And need equals hunger? Then… Katz’s… Yeah-yah! I don’t but I do… Want roast beefish things inbetween bread… Even though I actuaLly can’t fathom chewing and esophageal southward movement of ‘stuff’ to eventually fester in my stomach. Then food pregnancy. But for some reason… I want for anything. More alcohol; consumption of food…. Something… Moremoremore… Something, please. I go in… it’s all confusing… and really all I really want is more drink.

This is not drink. And so, finally, I end up at the Egyptian boy.

Oh, I hadn’t mentioned the Egyptian boy? There is an egyptian guy. Or boy. I am again in penn station and again, I am confronted with time. Slow… Fast… Passage, time. What-the-fuck-ever. The egyptian boy works the place that sells the french fries (grave fuckin yard style… the working of the boy; not the style of the fries). I see this as I pass (off of the uptown a,c,e… Whatever) I am as drunk as my body can accept (abnormally… Incongruently)… I am also poor as fuck.

The rest of the night/day goes:
1. sleeping in the transitional place between penn station, nj transit and armtrack? or whatever that other thing is.
2. major headache hungover, can’t deal.
3. sitting miserably downstairs against a penn pole
4. weird child molester-looking guy talks to me. he is not a child molester… but I feel that he is autistic. I say this multiple times. He says that he is in sports. Um-hmm, sports. He rarely speaks, but when something is awesome to him, he prefers the term “fantastic”.

I don’t fuck him or anything. I mean, this is all just too mundane. and, yes, Leon, I am a stranger in a strange land… in strange-ass times.

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flash cartoons… voiced by children… for crackheads.

This is fuckin’

preventing addiction



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In the land of dreams… pt I

Okay, I may have some sort of imbalance. Chemical or animal or something.

To elaborate…

Somehow, I find myself walking down a public sort of street, but it seems underground a bit or in a warehouse… though it isn’t. It’s a bit dark…. gritty. But not in a dirty way… in a cool, semi-industrial blue way. The shadows a saturated black. And not sad at all. Not even moody. Refreshingly comfortable in a non-committal way. I wear a cool windbreaker or something of that sort and walk all self-contained like one walks around in New York. Definitely have a messenger bag. A sophisticated, refined but ultra true rapscallionism.

I pass a dock-worker sort of fellow (blue-collar). He is behind one of those large, wheeled, metallic devices… a very large hand-cart, I believe would be the best description. On this very large hand-cart very industrial-sized flour bag/ice bag-esque bags. They are the size of an industrial sized flour bag and sort of flat as well. But they are clear plastic and hold a crystalline substance inside. Just stacked upon each other. Maybe sixteen of these bags…

The dock-worker yells passed me to dock worker #2… something to the effect of “don’t take any of these”. A warning definitely. We all know they are a shipment of illegal drugs.

And I somehow know it is meth… or rather, the thing that I want. I don’t think my mind even differentiates what this substance is. It doesn’t need to because somehow it’s probably symbolic of something much larger than meth or even drugs. It is just “what I want”. The all elusive thing that I want.

I think, and though these are huge bags, and there is the impending doom of the consequence of taking one, I hesitate in my gait, my brain hiccups and I side-step back and sort of grab one with me. I run a bit, but know that I am seen.

By this time, the cops, on foot, have been chasing me. They haven’t seen me, however… I mean, specifically me, I’m sure of this. They just give chase to the individual who has swiped the bag. I don’t remember the sensation of running, but I appear to be sort of concealed by turning a corner. Then somehow, I am running toward them. A medium build to thin black woman (you know that if she wasn’t wearing the cop uniform, that she’d be attractive)… like a cop from a procedural on CBS or something, I think and cop #2 in the background. I drop the bag by some Indian kid and run passed. They never suspect a thing.

Then, I remember that I have some left somewhere. This doesn’t make sense, of course. I guess it just means that its meth.

My surroundings take on sort of a Möbius Strip existence at this point. The aforementioned jammed-packed action went down ‘underneath’ somewhere. A darker place, generally. When I remembered that I had a bit of this drug left, with me, in my possession, somewhere in a general home sort of place. I walked up the Möbius Strip and appeared into the fresh outdoors. Like an open skate park. This place was somehow “my place”. Not my home, in the literal sense because it wasn’t a structure. But I walked along the Möbius Strip and found myself at home in the sun shine.

I’m not sure where the crystalline substance in the bag came from. But I feel like it came from my bag… the bag that I had been carrying with me the entire time. I’m not sure why I needed to walk toward my home up the Möbius Strip. I know it was a left over portion of a gram of meth in a clear baggy. Or atleast that’s what it looked like. Very familiar anyway.

Maybe I all just made it the same thing. What, with the stuff on carts and all. Maybe my brain just needed to reconcile. And the cognitive miser I am… that’s what I do. Another strange thing about this… I remember having no desire to actually do the substance in the bags on the carts. I suppose I always have a general notion that having drugs is better than not. Whatever sense that makes.

In any event, somewhere along the line… I suppose that I do the drug. I don’t remember actually ingesting it… I know that I don’t shoot it. That would be another dream altogether. ha! I mean, I guess this part is maybe irrelevant. I end up in this place that maybe further down the Möbius Strip possibly again, where the place starts to bend and twist. It’s darker again, but an open-ish place. There are possibly 16 people or so sitting in nice columns/rows. Indian-style. A nice accepting pseudo hippy sort of vibe.

They are all high some how… but in a hallucinogenic psychonaut way wherein they are searching for meaning or something. The way I determined they were high is that, in front of each person, there was a sort of computerized square. A seismographic cube of sorts. One could tell how high or not they were or how far they had gone to reach answers or be enlightened or whatever one is supposed to do by the movement in and around the box. Some pulsated some contained pulsating waves… always some color changing. Strange stuff. But at the time, nice and comfortable.

I realized that this was what I was on. And again, it seemed familiar though I didn’t have a definition for it. …only the, “oh, okay… I know what this is. I’ve done this before”. I suppose that I didn’t need a definition for it.

Upon waking (not that I woke then… ohhh, there is still soooo much more, my friend), the closest thing I could liken it to was a non-typical hallucinogen: K. But, again, this is probably irrelevant.

But, at this point, I wasn’t even high… feeling anything, what have you.

And FUUUUUCKKK… seriously?! that is when the real games begin…

…to be continued.


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The St Vincent’s Investigation [pt I]

I’ve resumed my quest (and it, at this point, has indeed become more or less a mysterious puzzle/quest) in trying to figure out which four days in 2001 I had called St Vincent’s my extended purgatory.

St Vincent’s… the hospital… NY, NY 1-0-0-something-something (1-3, maybe).

It began as mere curiosity. (had always been a lingering detail in the back of my head which my organizational slice of brain fed just enough to keep on a special sort of life-support… it sort of screamed, “I want the paperwork… the details, etc” in that sort of scream that one screams in their sleep wherein no sound is made and everything around one closes in.)

And for a long time this mere curiosity is all it could ever be, as I flailed around for the next 6 1/2 years or so, in one epic fog followed by another.

…my own version of the epic fog-thing, anyway. One in which complete detail-oriented-focus fogged the long-term consequential stuff…. you know, life in general and all.

Meaning, my intense micro-micro clarity was the tool used to obliterate any macro clarity or concept thereof that I might be able to grasp. Consequence-based future. Meth is strange like that. Strange and lovely.

And so, it was always there, the desire to obtain and read said paperwork… notes… anything… everything. There is a part of me that is a scientist by nature. As I flail in my epic fogs, I record the findings or, at the very least, random observations, if there is no theory to record findings from. I fancy myself a psychonaut writer. And I believe my ideas fascinating and possibly insightful. Awww.

But the thing is, I was (psychonaut writer). And they may have been (ideas, fascinating and possibly insightful).

And it all started out very very detailed. I mean, if you can dig that. It was all very adorable… I isolate and number each drug experience and categorize by type of drug, class of drug, location of ingestion, amount of ingestion, activity, combination, etc… Record all of the aforementioned into my little spreadsheet that I create and entitle: ADU (approximate drug usage). I mean, atleast, for approximately 3 1/2 years… before the very detailed specifics became a bit more muddled.

In so saying, even all these years post- …that, it’s easy to understand my overwhelming desire to get my hands on actual medical data that pertains to recreational drug use. MY recreational drug use. This sort of thing excites me.

Secondly, and just as importantly, I feel that it will validate my existence as a person that is, or at one point, atleast, had been, alive, on this planet. It gives me weight somehow. Prevents me from drifting off and evaporating into the atmosphere. *poof*


What the fuck is right. Why would I need my existence validated? And furthermore, how, would records of a hospital stay due to intravenous drug usage that led to a septic infection do this for me? A stay that I adamantly fought against…. didn’t think that I needed… ultimately, didn’t acknowledge.

Well, there you go… there it is… I just didn’t get it. The whole thing. The entire… whole… thing. That whole, I’m-in-a-hospital-because-I-use-needles-to-shoot-drugs-I-buy-from-the-guy-in-the-car-thing.

…wait, not the the guy in the car yet. It would have still been Washington Heights-guy, I suppose.


…I mean, but this whole thing… that’s another story.

This is my semi-catch phrase. “that’s another story”. Stolen, I’m sure… I don’t care. I use it frequently… so, catch-phrase it is. However, unlike when I’ve said this any time in the past, this is a particular story that I have not yet traipsed the fields of. Or even really considered (the weight… the validation… my need for these particular things). I might be lying… but I don’t feel like I am. My usual “that’s another story” presupposes a mischievous glint in the eye and railroad-track smile that work as a dam or fence, preventing “the other story” from gushing out and side-tracking the whole thing.

A digression prevention device, if you will. That’s how it functions for me. Just this time, my clenched teeth hold nothing back and there exists no knowing glint behind my eye. The Chesire Cat has long left me. … I mean, atleast as this particular story goes.

And so, it is what is. And for whatever reason these things feel to me as if they would fulfill certain questions or validate certain existences… I am now, again, on the hunt. With my newly cleared-head, in the very early part of this year, 2009… I feel that I am ready.

And with this, it would seem easy enough…



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Lefties are hot.

This has nothing to do with anything.
But is does.
No offense to the people who have dominant right hands… but….

this was the type of thing that I was not going to do.

Oh, you know… be all drunk and pill-ish… and influenced by events/episodics that don’t matter.
But who knows what I’ll remember.

So, I’m a liar.

Sensory issues. I just want to remember.


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