god sends gay angels to chicago to work on my self esteem
and as a reward they get to fuck each other
I'm going ninety on the Florida Turnpike, when the tire blows. Maybe I was going faster; ninety was as high as the speedometer went. Either way, I was getting tailgated. Either way, when a tire blows at that speed, the car goes into a spin. In this case, it climbed the divider into oncoming traffic first, veered back, and then spun out into an 18-wheeler.
It doesn't matter where you start the story. It doesn't go anywhere and it keeps a steady beat, so wherever you drop the needle, it's okay.
So I'm gonna start with the phrase My Dad's got some mochaccino niggas after his shit
I don't know why it's gotta start like that, or with that phrasing. Maybe it's because I'm watching The Boondocks and maybe it's because of who I work with. DJs, hipsters, and art students for seven hours a day. A bunch of cats who've been fed steady doses of hip hop, irony, and post-ironic self consciousness since they were pre-natal.
The whitest black kids I know. The blackest white kids I know. Spraycan skateboarders in hoodies and day-glo technicolor. My boss is the most homophobic person I've met in years, and I mean that literally, in that he's scared of gay people, just like my girlfriend's Dad, but then spends all day listening to the gayest club and electro tracks I've ever heard. And I mean the word 'gay' here as literally as I meant 'homophobic' two sentences back. Culture Club remixes that make the originals sound butch and a lot of shit I can't even name. Apparently my girlfriend's Dad does this too, but it doesn't have anything to do with my Pop's car.
I go to the garage and see that the whole front end has what looks like a spilled latte crusted over it. This is the second time it's happened in a month, except the first time it looked a bit more like an Oreo smoothie.
It's been a good day, but not a great one. I'm not happy with the way I conducted my radio show, the pounds I've put back on since I got a job, or the new hairs that have sprung out on the side of my eyebrows, as if I'm not just destined for a unibrow, but a handlebar one at that.
I don't trust the car. It's making noises, like the metal is eroding underneath, and flying off the car. In retrospect I think I'd drifted over to the lane divider, and it was the sound of the car hiccuping over the little reflectors planted in the ground, but immediately I think it's the wheels. I always think it's the wheels. They don't have enough air. They've got too much air. They're punctured, they're old.
I pull my bowl out of my pocket, and place it underneath the smoking heap of metal. The cop who picks me up tells me that if I hadn't hit one of the wheels, the car would've gone underneath and I probably would've been decapitated. He makes an invisible line across his neck with his finger. Everything above here, would be gone right now. My fingers smell like resin. A song plays through my head.
There aren't 18-wheelers on Lake Shore Drive, in fact there's nothing on Lake Shore Drive but myself, the Honda Civic I'm riding in, and a beautiful classic car coming up on the side quick. I don't know how to describe cars but I can kind of narrow down what you might be imagining this car to look like. It's one of those classics from the fifties that's built like a boat. It's red, it has fins, and it's not a convertible. It isn't a show car. It looks like it was restored just so it could be run into the ground again.
The car slows. The driver says something. I open a window to hear what.
It's the tire. He's going to tell me I'm driving on a flat.
"You're really [high?]"
"No, I'm just t...wait what did you say?"
"I said that you're really hot. You're really sexy."
"Oh. Thank you." What else was there to say? "You have a good night."
"I will... now." He drives off to parts unknown, and I ride home on four apparently-fine tires. I diagnose myself with hypochondria and shut the door.
In Florida, I stand across the highway from my grandmother's new pile of wreckage. As I'm talking to the cop, a frantic woman pulls over; her mother's having a stroke. We're between cities, but I'm not sure what they're called. Ambulances race across both sides of the road but a helicopter beats then over and air lifts the girl out to safety. The story is interesting, but it has a distinct beginning, middle and end.
Which is to say that it has no place here.
I'm going ninety on the Florida Turnpike, when the tire blows. Maybe I was going faster; ninety was as high as the speedometer went. Either way, I was getting tailgated. Either way, when a tire blows at that speed, the car goes into a spin. In this case, it climbed the divider into oncoming traffic first, veered back, and then spun out into an 18-wheeler.
It doesn't matter where you start the story. It doesn't go anywhere and it keeps a steady beat, so wherever you drop the needle, it's okay.
So I'm gonna start with the phrase My Dad's got some mochaccino niggas after his shit
I don't know why it's gotta start like that, or with that phrasing. Maybe it's because I'm watching The Boondocks and maybe it's because of who I work with. DJs, hipsters, and art students for seven hours a day. A bunch of cats who've been fed steady doses of hip hop, irony, and post-ironic self consciousness since they were pre-natal.
The whitest black kids I know. The blackest white kids I know. Spraycan skateboarders in hoodies and day-glo technicolor. My boss is the most homophobic person I've met in years, and I mean that literally, in that he's scared of gay people, just like my girlfriend's Dad, but then spends all day listening to the gayest club and electro tracks I've ever heard. And I mean the word 'gay' here as literally as I meant 'homophobic' two sentences back. Culture Club remixes that make the originals sound butch and a lot of shit I can't even name. Apparently my girlfriend's Dad does this too, but it doesn't have anything to do with my Pop's car.
I go to the garage and see that the whole front end has what looks like a spilled latte crusted over it. This is the second time it's happened in a month, except the first time it looked a bit more like an Oreo smoothie.
It's been a good day, but not a great one. I'm not happy with the way I conducted my radio show, the pounds I've put back on since I got a job, or the new hairs that have sprung out on the side of my eyebrows, as if I'm not just destined for a unibrow, but a handlebar one at that.
I don't trust the car. It's making noises, like the metal is eroding underneath, and flying off the car. In retrospect I think I'd drifted over to the lane divider, and it was the sound of the car hiccuping over the little reflectors planted in the ground, but immediately I think it's the wheels. I always think it's the wheels. They don't have enough air. They've got too much air. They're punctured, they're old.
I pull my bowl out of my pocket, and place it underneath the smoking heap of metal. The cop who picks me up tells me that if I hadn't hit one of the wheels, the car would've gone underneath and I probably would've been decapitated. He makes an invisible line across his neck with his finger. Everything above here, would be gone right now. My fingers smell like resin. A song plays through my head.
There aren't 18-wheelers on Lake Shore Drive, in fact there's nothing on Lake Shore Drive but myself, the Honda Civic I'm riding in, and a beautiful classic car coming up on the side quick. I don't know how to describe cars but I can kind of narrow down what you might be imagining this car to look like. It's one of those classics from the fifties that's built like a boat. It's red, it has fins, and it's not a convertible. It isn't a show car. It looks like it was restored just so it could be run into the ground again.
The car slows. The driver says something. I open a window to hear what.
It's the tire. He's going to tell me I'm driving on a flat.
"You're really [high?]"
"No, I'm just t...wait what did you say?"
"I said that you're really hot. You're really sexy."
"Oh. Thank you." What else was there to say? "You have a good night."
"I will... now." He drives off to parts unknown, and I ride home on four apparently-fine tires. I diagnose myself with hypochondria and shut the door.
In Florida, I stand across the highway from my grandmother's new pile of wreckage. As I'm talking to the cop, a frantic woman pulls over; her mother's having a stroke. We're between cities, but I'm not sure what they're called. Ambulances race across both sides of the road but a helicopter beats then over and air lifts the girl out to safety. The story is interesting, but it has a distinct beginning, middle and end.
Which is to say that it has no place here.
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