Another bloooter from the archives dated March 19th 2008:
WELL.
BURN MY CANDLE DOWN 2 THE VILLA MELT AND FLOG MY MEATS. REALITY HAS SET IN.
Ubnawkshis had a good run. One of us ran off and as is rumored, fast running towards wealth and good luxury tidings. the other, drug- addled sex starved, overweight, the roof closing in on him all while he stands in his once-recording booth/enormous walk-in closet, red light smooth overhead and pounding down on a creatively decored interior, every few moments hard-snorting railroad rails of doodoo cut gasoline tasting veg cocaine. he walks out of the walk-in, but only briefly and 2 light a joint of very fine cron. he forgets the ecxtasy he'd taken minutes ago, and not only lights a cig on the balcony but gobbles the remaining half xannax on the aladdin hotels disregarded reptilian table he stole for the studio. heath ledger style.
i'll let u the reader, figure out for yourself who's who. but face it. i know it's painful for all 3 or 2 fans of the music we made. the duo is dead.
and the boy is on his way to joining the group's end but in the literal. unless, twas not all in vain and by chance his nitch creeps up. his blogs praised; maybe its to b a writer. but his art and music praised as well. maybe its to stand in a closet and do blow.
so, he begins to blog as he recalls the green vitamin and waits for the kickoff. then he thinks of eenie meenie miney moe, the script his boy JOKES left before heading back to miami and the 'e'-relevant shock ending and then the guy who fronted him the pills texts him again for the fiftieth time 2 see how biz is going.
well, biz is just great, that is...if 'biz' is the first scene of the wall where he's sitting callus amidst the hotel rubble and gruel. comfortably numb.
the producer ran and hid with all the material. the ex ran and hid with the precious sons. the friends and affiliates all sprawled and spread(keeping a safe distance from the psychopath, scatterbrained, non following thru, newly deadbeat dad junkie mess-- mood swinging like a past prime boxer sluggish and foul) for their different postures agendas and venues, and the narrator drowns in his own sorrow and pomegranate tea...
i mean, it ISSSSS gooood.
the other night i'm in a strip club rollin balls like a sweat monkey dripping. a very cute stripper is sitting in my lap and i'm massaging her as the kick-off arrives. my words BEGIN 2 jumble and i say something like, 'bitch i just dropped a pill before this convo started and frankly i can't fuckin understand u. its hot in here. i need a cigarette.' i walk out past the enormous samoan door guy and slap his arm like 'there he is'. these people can barely stand me. but it feels good.
i stand leaning, smoking. the sun comes up, but subtle and smooth. i peep back in and my friend, the night's sponsor, is mushed beneath a throg of grinding thick dominican ass and natural dee's. he is squeezing and groping and explaining his resume to her.
i think of how cool it'd been to have gotten famous and plunger fucked- say- Nicole Kidman on a night like this-- but where the rest of the world was pummeling dominican and whatever other 3rd world ass-- i was nestled in a cozy 8.5 mill house on stilts overlooking the hollywood hills and sipping the finest cocoa with nicole. or lala. or fucking whoever. the chick that was in one movie in 93 with dolph lungdren. who cares? as long as she's been consistant about working out.
FOR ME, the same rules do not apply however, cuz i'm this sort of iconic powerful power-player powerhouse type. i stumble forward drunken, thin multi-patterned, muddled colored flamboyant robe astray, flabbily joyous and drunk, slothingly overweight, a stomach like a donut, injected to collassal pumpkin patch like size. but i mean, prize-winning of course. i eat shit. stubbed toe, couch tears, but u know what? it doesn't even matter. cuz i'm rich and famous. and drug-free minus the expensive gourmet deliveries, the heronie, the aged wine, supposedly the best of the best- pricey as all fuck, but tastes like pure rubbing alcohol, the italian clothes, the sex with women who make insane livings at pretending to be other women who are normal and functional. women who can show their lopsided flawed breast once or twice in a flick and drive some men to daylong masturbating frenzies.
i reflect. i'm in the studio of some young new school bay area east coast sounding producer's lab one night for the first time since i recorded my r n b album in miami (in november), and the phone rings as we are laying a hook. it's a nice aggressive rhyme i soon realize is aimed at my old ,now missing producer. i answer the phone and it is just that same producer. we haven't spoken in a year. not since he reinvented the slinky or whatever it is he does 4 those ginneys and mexican drug overlords... he has 2 tell me something 'very serious', he tells me SUPER dramatically, a master of torment, pausing for effect n all, it takes him 20 minutes and the payoff? one of our affiliates, who happens to be a pimp and drug-dealer WAS THE MESSIAH. - that was his message. i kindly thanked him for the call-- after a year and with such poignant and useful info. i also inquired where one could come across the type of drugs they are apparently growing on cowshit out there in boulder. and also, suggested perhaps he would do right by ingesting just a few caps less each stroke.
then i hung up and did the dopiest song i may have ever done that no one's ever heard about that very same producer called 'think' twice'... THEN, the new producer ran off and hid with it.
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