Coverage of me and other train wrecks: my mama, subway nut jobs, sex and the environment.


The Right Stop

If I’m going to properly assess whether I’d sleep with him, I have to watch him carefully on this crowded train that is....suddenly getting less crowded. Damn. Everyone is getting off at this stop. Now it’ll be harder to stare inconspicuously. Thank god he’s still on board, sitting there properly. Six foot five, is he? Tall. But he’s squeezing his legs in and keeping his body within the confines of his seat, even now that the train has emptied, he’s striving to take up as little room as possible.

I’ve got to say, men who are space efficient are SUCH a turn on. Nothing says capitalist pig faster than a guy who sprawls his body all over the train bench, letting his legs fall open, offering his cock up to the world. Sprawlers make me think of SUV’s and suburbia’s takeover of our nation’s wetlands—and who wants to sleep with a nature-killer? Not me. But this guy—this man—he’s so careful to only take up just as much room as he needs. He’s got nothing to prove, he doesn’t need to pretend his cock is the size of a Boeing 747, which makes me think his cock probably IS huge. It makes total sense. He doesn’t splay his legs open because he KNOWS he’s hung—my spin is tingling! A guy with a large penis and who is actually modest about it is such a rare breed—especially one that’s handsome as a cowboy!

This guy is so hot. Double oh seven. He’s balding but he buzzes his hair really short, which means he’s definitely got style cuz he knows that you can’t be balding and let your hair grow out, it just doesn’t look good. It’s like Nazism, you know? No matter how you cushion your kindness, the second someone finds out you’re a Nazi, that’s all they’ll see. So bald guys need to just shave the hair completely—come out with it up front, don’t pretend you have hair cuz everyone knows you DON’T. Plus if you emphasize the lack of hair it means YOU are not only self-aware, but confident about your body. Oh and is this man confident! He wears a blue work shirt like George Michael wears a cockring. Damn. He looks fiiiiiiiine.

The only drawback, though, aside from the wedding ring on his finger is that he’s ogling his cell phone. I mean really intensely looking at it and I can’t be attracted to a man who is THAT into his phone. I mean, on our first date are you gonna shut the damn thing off? What about at our commitment ceremony? Does he spend hours on the toilet flipping through electronics catalogues? Uh uh, that’s just gross. This man, he doesn’t poop. He’s too godly for that. Oh, who am I kidding, I love the seedy side of guys, the part that makes them real and human—I’d LOVE to hear this guy fart or burp or even take a dump—it means he’s natural, honest.

He’s still staring at that damn cell phone, what the F is he doing? See, the corporate world might prize multi-taskers, but I loathe them. You need to pay attention to me. Focus on this, baby, and nothing else, and—oh wait! He’s playing a game on his cell phone. Awww. That’s kinda cute. I thought he was, like, reading emails and stuff, but I like video games. We could play video games together. Fighting games, adventure games, racing games, and then we can have sex and wipe all the cum off with that hotly understated green silk tie. Damn. He is fine. And SO straight he hasn’t even turned to look at me once. He doesn’t even feel me checking out that pumping thick vein on his bronzed and hairy hand. My god, those fingers could do a number on me. This is my stop.


What I did yesterday

Yesterday I unpacked the evidence of our togetherness (was it really love?):
Receipts for burgers and underwear,
Moviestubs with faded titles
The undeveloped roll of film from the day trip to the roller coaster park
The hard grey seed of a dune-loving succulent from Bill Baggs Cape Park where we made love in the nearby brush
A bright green toad watched us
A helicopter patrolled
Brine spiked the air
Sand in your hair
Wedged in the middle of the long narrow bag of memories
I found a blue card with BELIEVE written on it in gold wire
Then your picture; the half smile that—

I couldn’t go on digging, interrupted by regrets that spilled onto every article and soaked my evidence like water. I hadn’t believed enough, I cried, so I had stopped collecting.

I rolled the seed between my thumbs,
Examined its surface for cracks
Squeezed it.
It was dead inside, it had to be, although they say some seeds can sleep for centuries and still shoot life.

Anyway I’m too far north, too far inland for a seed from a beachside park in Miami to grow.


Devendra Banhart

I know I'm married to Róisín Murphy, but she lets me have flings with Devendra Banhart (my new love puppy). Check out this vid. Rey hates it cuz he thinks Devendra looks like a serial killer. I can understand that, but I get excited by sex under threat of massacre.

Dance in yr underwear and letcherself feel five.

Here he is pre-manson at the Knitting Factory:


Overall Time on Earth

We rush to much.
To the station, through the turnstile, all aboard.

We know better, I mean we complain about the stress the pace. There's segments on Good Morning America especially dedicated to helping viewers cope with the rush of life. Don't do too much, they insist, rest, vacate, vacation, focus, meditate, exercise, eat right, on and on. America is founded on this culture of self-help books of constant self-improvement founded on the assumption that we work too hard and run our lives at too quick a pace to actually live happily.

Yet we are terrified of true leisure. Stasis is anti-American. In the great climb up the social ladder, if we don't rush with the masses we won't make it. So our culture alternates between illness and cure. A catch 22: you MUST rush in order to "make it," so that you then have enough money to buy the therapy, pills, pilates classes and vacations necessary to rest and be happy. But then, if we weren't trying so hard, we'd be resting right? We be happy? Or would we sink into self-loathing watching our friends "make it" with SUV's and second homes as badges of misery, er, I mean success.

It's a factory of sadness.

Why try? Why not work as little as necessary to have food and shelter from cold and rain?

I guess what I'm struggling with is the constant need to have more. It feels juvenile. Not bound to an age group, though; after all, plenty of old folks still strive for more more more. It feels juvenile in a spiritual sense.

Here and now should be enough. Take a breath. Look around. What more do we REALLY need, and at what price?


Róisín Murphy Overpowered

My Wife, Róisín Murphy, got upset with me recently. I'm not the husband I thought I was. Guess there's lots for me to learn yet about husbandry. I just hate that instead of calling me so we can talk face to face like a mentally balanced wife would, she puts out this this new video instead. I guess it's one of the things that made me fall in love--the way she communicates. It's just that after being together for several years, the qualities I used to love have become annoying. Wish us the best. She's got a whole new album out, called Overpowered. If you wanna know about our relationship, I guess you can go ahead and buy it.

Baby, please, come back home to Jackson Heights.


Too Much Information

I wonder what the delicate man behind the counter at the drug store thought when I purchased an enema, lube, and a box of single sided razor blades "because the single-sided ones are better for what I need."

Honestly, the enema and lube were for, well, anal play. The razors were for carving foam.

This man was soft, gentle. He stretched out the seconds as he counted the bills I handed to him. he moved like Daryl Hannah in SPLASH when she was sick and in that tank. Except this guy wasn't sick, just graceful. He probably imagined the razors and lube and enema were for a vampire sex ritual. I doubt he cared, though--he was working in a Chelsea drug store, after all. He'd seen it all. Maybe I gave him something to masturbate to? Or something to post on his blog Pharmo-Fear: Alarming Tales from the Pharmaceutical Counter at Chelsea Drugs.

Only Child Syndrome

We have the tendency to cut people out of our lives—entire groups of people even—without a sense of remorse or grief. We draw a line in the sandbox, this is mine, this yours. But our sense of justice is clear and unrelenting—the world falls into right and wrong easily for most of us. The sandbox, then, is pretty symmetrically divided. We do this because we’re only children, and solitude is our foundation.

I know several only children—we kind of attract each other. We’re the honey and the flies. We don’t need anybody else damnit.

Okay, that’s wrong. We DO, we DO need other people. We need friends and love and all that jazz, but we prefer to outweigh socializing with solitude. Sorry, no offense, we just can’t help it. We NEED the intense me-time in order to be able to deal with you because frankly, dealing with you is annoying. You have needs and wants and demand compromise and you can’t read our minds, which means we have to communicate our own thoughts and feelings. The whole interaction gets overly complicated and we tend, then, to run off and hide, or to mentally check out, or to pick a fight just so we can have things OUR way. Then you get hoity toity and turn your nose at us accusing, “Only child syndrome!”

Maybe it’s that we have a syndrome and someone should come up with a pill. Before you judge us, consider that we happen to embody a high concentration of that human aspiration that becomes increasingly difficult to attain as the world breeds more humans who build bigger towns—hermitage. Ahhhh...that would be the life. To live in a cave in a Spanish hillside with nothing but a herd of sheep and a dog as companions. And maybe a cellphone. King of the sandbox, but ruler of none.

You know you'd love that. If only just a taste. Let us show you the way....


Tropical Frosty

When the cool hands of winter held Miami, grownups complained of the cold, of having to wear sweaters at night, of handing more money to Florida Power and Light on account of the electric blankets. Me and other kids knew better.

Winter was the peak of the dry season, the mosquito-free, mud free, humidity free time of the year when you could play hide and seek without ending up a bumpy, dirty, itchy sweat-puddle.

The jewel in the hand of winter was its icy frosts. Most people think of Miami as a tropical paradise, but when I was growing up it was more swamp than beach resort, more wild than pastel, more nature than man. Of course, I grew up on a small farm, which even in those days was rare. Still, back then Miami had texture, and at the peak of winter I always looked forward to the event of the year: the frosts. They’d come in just a few times each season but the memory of them has lasted me my whole life.

Mornings during Christmas vacation I’d wake up at the crack of dawn, not long after my farmer father, who was always up hours before the sun. I’d peer out the window, my back tense with hope and I’d jump excitedly at the sight of crystal dew. The droplets form on grass at night and as the temperature drops, they freeze. Every piece of green coated in an opaque white sheen. I couldn’t wait to get outside and stomp all over, leave footprints, grab leaves and blow off the frozen bits.

My favorite game was to take a blade of grass and slide it between my fingers so that the frozen dew would accumulate into little mounds on the tops of my knuckles. If I stared hard enough into the mounds I could almost see, almost feel what snow would be like. Kids played in the little mounds on my fingers, bears made snow caves and seagulls left footprints. I still have never seen a seagull leave a footprint on a mound of snow; does such a thing exist outside my childhood brain? The heat from my fingers quickly turned my wintry scenes into drip water so I’d pluck another blade and go at it again.

By mid-morning the sun would melt the frost everywhere except in the shade of the orange trees. I cheered for the resilient patches, quietly sending them my hope so they’d outlast the day, but eventually sunlight would get them. For the rest of the afternoon, the dew on grass and trees and dirt melted and dried. Winter Wonderland evaporated.


Antony and the Johnsons

It's cleansing to cry. Antony and the Johnsons give you permission to cry. But you might laugh instead. That's okay. (Antony warbles.) Two vids of live performances here. The first is Fistful of Love. The second is Cripple and the Starfish.


"And I accept and I collect upon my body the memories of your devotion."

"It's true I always wanted love to be filled with pain."



This morning I started to hate myself again.

The grapevine outside the window coats the bedroom and takes all the sunlight for itself.
Even my plants on the window sill--right on the sill--are withering in the shadow of the grapevine.
Damned darkness.
Me versus grapes.
I'll pour melted vaseline over the leaves.
Burn the vines with a hundred lit cigarettes.
If I piss on the trunk every night while the landlord sleeps the roots will die.

Pretend you can be happy by letting in the sunshine.
It might not be dark in the room but in your heart.
What vine do you kill then?