archivals...March 19, 2007
well well well ...titty well well.
lets see.
When i was seventeen,i was sitting in the foyer of Lionel Ritchie's tri-level belle aire estate with his adopted daughter, u may have heard of her, nicole ritchie. She very aggressively grabbed my arm and pulled my hand to her.
Nikki: here. lemme see. u know, I read palms. i can read the future. lemme see here.
NOX: oh ok. ok. u can read the future. ok. yer like 13 years old.
nikki: fuckin shut up ok? i can! look. hmmmm...let's see here...
(she studied my palm very intently, very professionally like a doctor of some sort)
nikki: ah, i see...wow...shit that's somethin...
NOX: ah, whatever
(I smiled that winning sexy smile. her mother and my manager Mel walked by looking on and talking business. the singer tamia, then not famous in anyway, my age and possibly harboring a short lived crush, walks by as well ushering her little brothers toward the lower level to swim. i glanced over. we made eye contact. she smiled. i felt it in my jeans)
nikki: shut up! ok..ok..whoah. ok. says here..are you listening?
NOX: (laughing a bit) yeah. yea, i'm listening.
nikki: shut the fuck up. do u want to hear this or not?
NOX: cmon already. jesus, yer dragging this out.
nikki: ok. u die young. well i mean, not really young but young. in your early thirties.
NOX: uh, ok.
nikki: listen, u suffer a lot between now and then and u die in your thirties.
NOX: hmmmm. that sux. oh well. what are we ordering for dinner? i feel a strong lust for rock shrimp.
nikki: fuckin shut up.
sidenote: girls named NIKKI are usually total sluts. u don't believe me ask anyone.
recently i've been dating a real estate investor/counter girl at the fashion show mall, who called me one day frantic.
liz: o god.
gabe (no longer NOX: too mature in this art environment): what?
liz: nothin.
gabe: no. no, what?
liz: well u know how I have these prophetic dreams?
gabe: right.
liz: i had a dream last night u died.
gabe: cmon.
liz: really. u know, i told u i've had these dreams before and they are usually true.
gabe: alright yeah. so what happens in the dream?
liz: i can't
gabe: well, what the fuck did you bring it up for then?
liz: it's bad
gabe: cmon. i'm a big boy. hit me.
liz: i can't
Saturday night, at the bar code, i'm selling my art and she shows up and leans in on me.
liz: do you want to know? i'm ready to tell you now.
gabe: what the fuck are we talking about?
liz: the dream.
gabe: o. o yeah. tell me.
liz: ok..listen. next year sometime around your 32nd birthday, u are asked to board a private plane to fly to new york. u decline because of a lifetime's trauma at the hands of film and media when it comes to small plane crashes. so u attempt to book a commercial flight ticket, but its too late. so, u rent a car and try to drive to new york.
gabe: new york? what's with new york?
liz: u are on your way to your gallery opening in new york.
gabe: wow. cool. i open in new york finally, that's hot. and i die on the way? that's so romantic. hahaha
liz: u insist on driving and you're in your cell arguing with someone in ny cause of your tardiness and their
lack of organization with the event. i saw it as a passenger until the impact and saw some of the after effects. there is an accident and u die in the wreck. almost instantly. no seat belt. no time. but the good news is, i sensed the success of your death. your art blows up. the art's success lead ts them to your music which leads them to all of your affiliates and friends and u go down in history as this generation's van gough. tragic, beautiful, confused. and lots and lots of money u never see but it is divided amongst your twins and everyone u dealt with profits. its insane the spiraling after that.
gabe: woah. that's pretty trippy, am i texting when it happens? i love driving and texting hahaha
liz: shut up douche bag
gabe: hahaha- is it in the malibu? i knew i shouldn't have bought american. haha
liz: shut the fuck up. anyway, i told you it's a rental douche
gabe: i bet it's a ford.
on the way home that night, several fatal accidents blocked our path to my place. the first, just outside of bar code, involved a car that looked almost identical to my new ride. what a trip.
when i was 20, extremely overweight, miserable, living in a motel on ft.lauderdale beach, my rap career faded--the ritchies and foxx's a distant memory, i turn on the shitty little box in the room and a tamia video with prince, babyface and quincy jones chakka khan gladys knight and about a hundred other people i looked up to growing up comes on and i throw up in the sink. later that night, i swallowed every pill i could find and downed the wide assortment with a bottle of vod. i'd blown my ride and i wanted out.
God said no.
i drove the same little toyota for the last nine years and never got into an accident in my life. i'd been driving since i was 12. i've been an artist forever and until recently never made a dime off my talents.
in the last few months, i've been selling my prints and originals and making a living. i just bought a new car and i'm moving into a two story townhouse in the lakes. i turn 31 on march 31st.
my mother called me sunday night in a chaotic frenzy.
mom: gabriel..i had a dream. a horrible dream.
she was sobbing and u could hear the snot bubbles gloppin about..lol
gabe: mom, i know
mom: no u don't know..o god, gabriel...
gabe: mom, it's gonna b alright...
Directly after my move, i have an interview set up with Damon Hodge of the Las Vegas weekly which by the way is like our local rolling stone mag. in the article i'll tell my story and lead up 2 my plans. hopefully, damon'll throw a review of my new music and heartwarming story together. then, i'll drive to Venice Beach with some groovy chick, who, if i luck out, will go down on me en route without me having to beg, plead, and ultimately threaten.
in los angeles my art will sell like it never has. fast and furious. before i leave, some sweet piece of douche ass will swear by the moons of planet zog, she can put me in new york with heavy hitters. i'll smile that same smile now almost 15 years older, but still somehow equally potent and blow it off because i just spent the last 5 years listening to the locals and their empty promises. i drive back to my townhouse smoke some rreealllyy good freshly acquired pot and pass out. within a year i die en route to my first big opening in new york. i'm hailed as one of the few true renaissance artists of our time, unrecognized in life and tortured by it's cruelty. my family and friends fight for three to five years over my assets and estate and more people make money off me then i ever saw in y life...even those i can't stand like certain locals who are so full of shit they should just lay down and join me. money money money money money all day.
epilogue
my twins alexander and michael are usually greeted by the same line everywhere they go.
"your father was a bad motherfucker..what can I do for YOU??--anything u need, you got it..."
and so, in the end, all the pain, all the suffering is justified. and as much as i'd sang about worthless attempt, truth b told, it was all planned and not truly ALL IN VEIN. and so on and so forth and so it goes....so say good bye--and i say best wishes.
ALL MY LOVE
GABRIEL ALBERRO
epilogue to the epilogue: UPDATE: I'm 35 now and about to release first animation and about to have my first gallery show in NYC. still breathing, still surviving and ABOUT TO go do gallery shows, one major in New York. 35. Ny.
told u all girls named Nikki are huge retard whores.
Monday, September 12, 2011
VIVA LAS VEGAS 4EVER
from da' archives...September 22, 2006
Raised by an over-romantic, somewhat naive mother, i've lived all over the country and for some reason, i keep coming back here, 2 LAS VEGAS. I first arrived as a 10 year old on a visit 2 my dipshit father and his new wife and her young daughter. I did new year's with them downtown (tenacious and overcrowded) and enjoyed the local lifestyle of the desert away from the neon circus as well. there was a gritty-good homeyness 2 the local scene away from the strip and i dug it since day one. a couple years later, my mom's then-current beau was drafted into Legends in Concert as the most coked up and elvis-like elvis impersonator ever and we ended up in a sprawling 2 story abode in a nice ass suburban neighborhood, complete with a springy diving board on the massive pool/jacuzzi and a huge backyard...well needless 2 say, elvis' elvis-esque habits got the best of him and one balmy las vegas eve, upon throwing my mother stark-nekkid out of a hotel room and setting all of her clothes on fire, we were uhauled up and heading back 2 miami. just in time for me 2 hit a gangster-heavy bass driven palmetto junior high with a nice hard case of shellshock and my whole person changed forever.
7th grade i was shy and tho several girls dug me, i always found flaws within them or about them that soured any chance of me actually ever getting my penis wet. Two Puerto Rican chicks dug me that were so greasy and there hair so greasy and oily, i couldn't dig em back. one had oil popping from the acnes on her facial, the other had this hair likea spider web of car grease. A sheen mop of juicy curls. it wasn't my bag at 12, 13. last day at palmeto junior, a 9th grader who was smaller than me cracked me in the cheekbone with a combination lock cuz he had heard i called him a pussy.
my mother in horror of this road i was heading down, gathered abunch of my doodles and approached a magnet school about me bussing there day in and out. i was accepted. i'm not sure how, but i knew there was one of the heads of the art dept. that was diggin on my mom, so maybe she flirted extra hard or maybe she flat out blew him, i will never know the truth. what i do know is my art was ass. while @ southwood, in 8th grade, i was a total dork. i was wearing hair gel and making a wave of my bangs. i was rocking baggy pants, miami vice jackets and converse; i was never grasping that styles changes and evolved and thought that john hughes' versions of what teens are supposed to be like still rang true in the early 90's; we were both wrong. so, lonely as shit that year my grandma bought me a video camera and i began to make short films with an old friend (J) and then found another friend (JOKES) and so on. that led to a movie theater experience so impacting, it guided me all the way 2 realizing recently how fucking stupid i was all the way around. i have a friend who spent half the time i did and became an anethesiologist administering sleep with a mask making 200k on any given fiscal year, easy. i was a fool.
Ice Cube, vanilla Ice, and Tupac made me believe if u RAP, it is a straight shot to movie making and being IN; So i wrangled my two movie making buds and proceeded to make a demo; jokes had been writing poetry and converting em into songs and i'd just been laying in beds figuring out which words were rhymable and which shouldn't be used in a rap song; J was just writing whatever he felt.
JOKES title: love is an illusion
J lyric: Scornfully, i stroll down the street...
NOX: cat hat bat sat fat back shat ass tacks cast whack off cough loft shots smash
when the demo we recorded (jokes set it up in his hood with a guy who had produced a hit locally) was sounding ass (with my hall n oats samples and hours of unsuccessful pre-pro cuz we were clueless) when J decided the song was wrong as a first try, when my ego blew up and i went solo on the 3rd day in a studio EVER, when I went off and joined NOVA @ palmetto high (after splitting with first girlfirend and being rejected from film school @ south miami high) and jokes and j went to south ridge, when i was lost, i tried to gain acceptance and bring all worlds together and be cool with too many sorts and ended up being public enemy number one but without a big clock around my neck a yellow brim or even a little crack c-caine.
A bunch of guys heard i called them pussies and came for revenge.
I hid in the bathroom of Jenny Sweet's bedroom when they smashed up the windows to the house raining glass on Mike's little sister as she slept; I cried like a girl til i heard nova say 'u can come out now, pussy ass'
I decided to beg my estranged fuckhead father for a chance to live amongst them in the desert bliss.
So i walked into Palmetto one day with a bat and told the principal i was resigning from my desk wood and moving to where it wasn't so menacing.
by late 15, i was on my way back 2 vegas just in time for 11th grade in high school. my high school experience at valley was so fantastical, tho i missed miami and my boys, it sure felt nice. i met TYPHOON when i got there and we soon ran that school. all those valley fux that i still love with a special place in my heart can attest 2 that. those were the days. then a few years later, i came back after a brief recording stint in northern cali and dwelled right before college and was treated like an old vet and war hero/rockstar.
chicks were coming over to my mom's apartment trying to blow me while I watched scarface and I was freestyling with boosum in the sand and smoking ports in my room. then i pissed in my walk in and tried to hang myself after a jar of pills were ingested and downed with a bottle of vodka. i lived. i moved. i moved back. i moved. i moved back again.
why do i always come back???
it's always been good out here.
it's the only town where u can always find something 2 do any day any hour of day or night. i dig that. feeling lonely? a little blue? bored? get out and dig in. something is out there awake and awaiting u.
even if yer sanctuary is a burrito and a tall Jamaica at 4 in the morning on a tuesday. the local scene is like a small town. i'll give u some examples of how things work here. a woman moved in next door 2 our spot. i hooked her with my boys who sells cable and internet packages fer better promotions than the company itself. she got her cable on instantly and my boy even threw her a tv. i hooked him with a sale. i hooked her with cheaper cable. he hooked her with free tv. she may have hooked him with her lips on his penis. i don't know. i can't always be there. i also gave her the number 2 traditional pizza on desert inn and mojave. that place is bomb. (update: that plkace blows: sunset pizza on horizon ridge and verazano's on rainbow and flamingo tkaes the cake) she just got into town and already has cheap cable, a new tv, the bomby pizza. shit, that's how we do. now suppose she gets a job in a bank and i need a business account but have a bad standing with credit. she hooks me up. now the cat who hooked her with cable goes and gets a loan from her when otherwise he wouldn't have gotten approved. she pushes it thru..now, the cable dude lines her up with a drug dealer and now she has good shit being delivered 2 her house. she gives the drug delivery guy some pills. he takes those 2 his day job at a casino and hooks up his supervisor with the pills. the supervisor gives him the night off. and so on and so forth. there is a smashing trade system out here that if utilized 2 full potential could overthrow the local government it is so powerful . i love it here and no matter where i move, i always end up back in vegas. now the fucker is becoming overpopulated and a bunch of california fux have invaded and act like they can shit all over us. but they are forgetting the first rule of las vegas. do not burn the locals. it's right there in the book and film fear and loathing in las vegas by the late great hunter s. study up, u disrespectful tourist fucks. and TIP PROPERLY u slimey s.o.b.'s...
or u can end up out in the sand...savvy? ~Gabe Alberro
Raised by an over-romantic, somewhat naive mother, i've lived all over the country and for some reason, i keep coming back here, 2 LAS VEGAS. I first arrived as a 10 year old on a visit 2 my dipshit father and his new wife and her young daughter. I did new year's with them downtown (tenacious and overcrowded) and enjoyed the local lifestyle of the desert away from the neon circus as well. there was a gritty-good homeyness 2 the local scene away from the strip and i dug it since day one. a couple years later, my mom's then-current beau was drafted into Legends in Concert as the most coked up and elvis-like elvis impersonator ever and we ended up in a sprawling 2 story abode in a nice ass suburban neighborhood, complete with a springy diving board on the massive pool/jacuzzi and a huge backyard...well needless 2 say, elvis' elvis-esque habits got the best of him and one balmy las vegas eve, upon throwing my mother stark-nekkid out of a hotel room and setting all of her clothes on fire, we were uhauled up and heading back 2 miami. just in time for me 2 hit a gangster-heavy bass driven palmetto junior high with a nice hard case of shellshock and my whole person changed forever.
7th grade i was shy and tho several girls dug me, i always found flaws within them or about them that soured any chance of me actually ever getting my penis wet. Two Puerto Rican chicks dug me that were so greasy and there hair so greasy and oily, i couldn't dig em back. one had oil popping from the acnes on her facial, the other had this hair likea spider web of car grease. A sheen mop of juicy curls. it wasn't my bag at 12, 13. last day at palmeto junior, a 9th grader who was smaller than me cracked me in the cheekbone with a combination lock cuz he had heard i called him a pussy.
my mother in horror of this road i was heading down, gathered abunch of my doodles and approached a magnet school about me bussing there day in and out. i was accepted. i'm not sure how, but i knew there was one of the heads of the art dept. that was diggin on my mom, so maybe she flirted extra hard or maybe she flat out blew him, i will never know the truth. what i do know is my art was ass. while @ southwood, in 8th grade, i was a total dork. i was wearing hair gel and making a wave of my bangs. i was rocking baggy pants, miami vice jackets and converse; i was never grasping that styles changes and evolved and thought that john hughes' versions of what teens are supposed to be like still rang true in the early 90's; we were both wrong. so, lonely as shit that year my grandma bought me a video camera and i began to make short films with an old friend (J) and then found another friend (JOKES) and so on. that led to a movie theater experience so impacting, it guided me all the way 2 realizing recently how fucking stupid i was all the way around. i have a friend who spent half the time i did and became an anethesiologist administering sleep with a mask making 200k on any given fiscal year, easy. i was a fool.
Ice Cube, vanilla Ice, and Tupac made me believe if u RAP, it is a straight shot to movie making and being IN; So i wrangled my two movie making buds and proceeded to make a demo; jokes had been writing poetry and converting em into songs and i'd just been laying in beds figuring out which words were rhymable and which shouldn't be used in a rap song; J was just writing whatever he felt.
JOKES title: love is an illusion
J lyric: Scornfully, i stroll down the street...
NOX: cat hat bat sat fat back shat ass tacks cast whack off cough loft shots smash
when the demo we recorded (jokes set it up in his hood with a guy who had produced a hit locally) was sounding ass (with my hall n oats samples and hours of unsuccessful pre-pro cuz we were clueless) when J decided the song was wrong as a first try, when my ego blew up and i went solo on the 3rd day in a studio EVER, when I went off and joined NOVA @ palmetto high (after splitting with first girlfirend and being rejected from film school @ south miami high) and jokes and j went to south ridge, when i was lost, i tried to gain acceptance and bring all worlds together and be cool with too many sorts and ended up being public enemy number one but without a big clock around my neck a yellow brim or even a little crack c-caine.
A bunch of guys heard i called them pussies and came for revenge.
I hid in the bathroom of Jenny Sweet's bedroom when they smashed up the windows to the house raining glass on Mike's little sister as she slept; I cried like a girl til i heard nova say 'u can come out now, pussy ass'
I decided to beg my estranged fuckhead father for a chance to live amongst them in the desert bliss.
So i walked into Palmetto one day with a bat and told the principal i was resigning from my desk wood and moving to where it wasn't so menacing.
by late 15, i was on my way back 2 vegas just in time for 11th grade in high school. my high school experience at valley was so fantastical, tho i missed miami and my boys, it sure felt nice. i met TYPHOON when i got there and we soon ran that school. all those valley fux that i still love with a special place in my heart can attest 2 that. those were the days. then a few years later, i came back after a brief recording stint in northern cali and dwelled right before college and was treated like an old vet and war hero/rockstar.
chicks were coming over to my mom's apartment trying to blow me while I watched scarface and I was freestyling with boosum in the sand and smoking ports in my room. then i pissed in my walk in and tried to hang myself after a jar of pills were ingested and downed with a bottle of vodka. i lived. i moved. i moved back. i moved. i moved back again.
why do i always come back???
it's always been good out here.
it's the only town where u can always find something 2 do any day any hour of day or night. i dig that. feeling lonely? a little blue? bored? get out and dig in. something is out there awake and awaiting u.
even if yer sanctuary is a burrito and a tall Jamaica at 4 in the morning on a tuesday. the local scene is like a small town. i'll give u some examples of how things work here. a woman moved in next door 2 our spot. i hooked her with my boys who sells cable and internet packages fer better promotions than the company itself. she got her cable on instantly and my boy even threw her a tv. i hooked him with a sale. i hooked her with cheaper cable. he hooked her with free tv. she may have hooked him with her lips on his penis. i don't know. i can't always be there. i also gave her the number 2 traditional pizza on desert inn and mojave. that place is bomb. (update: that plkace blows: sunset pizza on horizon ridge and verazano's on rainbow and flamingo tkaes the cake) she just got into town and already has cheap cable, a new tv, the bomby pizza. shit, that's how we do. now suppose she gets a job in a bank and i need a business account but have a bad standing with credit. she hooks me up. now the cat who hooked her with cable goes and gets a loan from her when otherwise he wouldn't have gotten approved. she pushes it thru..now, the cable dude lines her up with a drug dealer and now she has good shit being delivered 2 her house. she gives the drug delivery guy some pills. he takes those 2 his day job at a casino and hooks up his supervisor with the pills. the supervisor gives him the night off. and so on and so forth. there is a smashing trade system out here that if utilized 2 full potential could overthrow the local government it is so powerful . i love it here and no matter where i move, i always end up back in vegas. now the fucker is becoming overpopulated and a bunch of california fux have invaded and act like they can shit all over us. but they are forgetting the first rule of las vegas. do not burn the locals. it's right there in the book and film fear and loathing in las vegas by the late great hunter s. study up, u disrespectful tourist fucks. and TIP PROPERLY u slimey s.o.b.'s...
or u can end up out in the sand...savvy? ~Gabe Alberro
Thursday, September 8, 2011
THE ORIGINAL LOCAL BOYZ
March 27, 2006
The year was nineteen ninety somethin'. It was early 90's anyway and it was a balmy Friday night on the south end of Fla., a gangster-ass little city by the bay, some of u may have heard of, named MIAMI. We called it the bottom. There was a heavy coast line breeze that night and the traffic on ocean ave was bumper to bumper. We were packed in on the flatbed of a red late 80's pick up truck. It was me, Jokes, J. Bishop, and the forgotten Beatle Stuey Sutcliffe. Actually, it wasn't Stuey-- it was Nova, but it may as well have been Harrison Ford for all it matters now; he's since run off and married a rich girl. They live in daddy's Coconut Grove Estate, play croquette, and spend their days sunning on daddy's yacht. Good shit.
We were rolling around on the now famous Southbeach, cruising the strip, smoking weed, drinking and rattling aerosol cans. Truth b told, two of us hadn't gotten into smoking mary jane yet in those dayz, but this is my version of the shit, so...Beaneath us, half-empty spraycans, backpacks fulla' new freshly stolen spraycans (Kmart-- IN THE DAYS BEFORE THEY BEGAN LOCKING THE SPRAYPAINT IN GLASS CASES--- which is likely due 2 us or our associates @ that time), stems and seeds, and a couple of ratty porno mags. The truck was shakey, over-bassy music pumping- Clay D er some shit, and beautiful women, some even wearing clothing, everywhere. Nova was always kind of the quiet one. Jokes on the other hand, Cuban like me, but actually knowledgeable-- and about shit that isn't necessarily untrue--he was passionately relaying an idea to J. about a flick he wanted 2 make when he went away 2 film school. It was about a dirt merchant who had a third, possibly a fourth nipple, a fetish for goats and an extreme vaudeville appeal 2 his Homestead ranch which was forever burdened by the everlooming and impending foreclosure notices. One day he stumbles very awkwardly across a rap battle in the middle of a park in Cutler Ridge. Two young males are mowing each other down rhyming insults and a crowd cheering them on. the merchant becomes convinced that rap will save his farm. Anyway, I don't recall the rest, and not 2 spoil it 4 all of Jokes' fans but i think i remember it ending with a lot of hot chicks in bikinis and something having 2 do with new clothes and sneakers. J. nodded emphatically agreeing with Jokes and every so often adding his own ideas and suggestions. For example, J. felt that the movie was missing some kind of collossal heist-- a major robbery-- and felt perhaps, one or more of the characters should have english accents.
Nova had been complaining throughout the night about his wimpy feet and his pussy stomach. Mostly, tho, it was his girl-like stomach, weak and shakey, that bothered him. His face was a pale unholy shade of sky blue. Jokes turned away from J. to ask, "Hey, have u eatten anything today?" I scoffed. "Of course. I eat constantly." J. was doodling something over in the corner on a rusted spiral, utilizing the brief spots of street light as we rode. "Not YOU," Jokes said, "Nova...he looks like he got stuck and been bleeding for the past three hours." He did look like shit, but I was famished.
"Yeah, he's a mess. Look, I'm starving. is Miami Subs still open?" J. was shaking his head; he glanced up from his notes. "Does it have 2 be Homestead? ...and why does he need a 3rd and possibly 4th nip, dawg? the nipple thing is pointless." Jokes jumped up almost 2 suddenly. "What?! Are u fuckin' nuts? the nipple thing is an explosive metaphor. get it? the goat fetish, the nipples. we could probably do MORE nipples..6 or 8!"
J. shrugged and kept writing. Jokes leaned back and took a swig of punch. Nova grasped for his tummy, lightly howling like a bitch in heat. "Pull over and get Nova a sandwich er somethin, Franky. He's starting 2 annoy us... and that's usually Gabe's job. Pull over Franky."
The truck slowly creeped to a halt. Behind the wheel, Fat Frank, older than the rest of us, he was even slower coming out of his coma and only then noticed that girl Michelle fiddling with his infantile-esque little pecker (I'm not sure if her name was actually Michelle, but all the girls from junior high, in my mind, have been clumped into one and because of the name's popularity amongst young women who happen 2 be slutty and/or jappy, that one is MICHELLE). Suddenly, from one of the cars in front of us, out comes CASE ONE. He flings an empty Krylon at Fat Fuck-- I mean Frank's windshield and breaks up laughing hysterically like a hyena. "U fat bitch, where's my money?" Frank pulled swiftly up 2 Case then. Nova shifted around uncomfortably and blue-green at the gills. "Eat a boatload of my shit, Manderbach. that's all u get from me" Case chortled and jumped back in the car with Van Shun and Earl Palmer, before Fatass could run him over.
Jokes furiously continued his rant about nipples and goats and J. just nodded and every now and then added his 2 cents until the story became a medieval heist movie complete with ancient aztec gold and pirates, but u know. thugged out and urban. I was enjoying a BLT, HOLD THE LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND ADD SOME HEAD AND A BUNCH OF FUCKING CHEESES. Nova refused 2 get anything when we stopped for food. He was just sitting whining. the chicks we picked up in the drive thru were rubbing on J. and Jokes' nuts. One eased towards me, her blowse astray. I continued on the BLT, very nonchalantly stroked @ a bit of bread from between the teeth, and reached down her shirt for a squeeze off, titty tug. She roared like a happy little drunken duck. After all, it wasn't every night that normal around the way chicks like that got 2 rub nuggets with the likes of local graf and hip hop's elite. Not every night, but pretty much every weekend, but hey, that's miami. u got a little fame, u get a lot of ass. It's like that everywhere now, thank god...or some of us would have 2 grow personalities. So, here we are, future film makers, artists, actors, musicians, writers,..just about 2 wet our willies and get er done. I remember standing up shifty, shouting somethin 2 the effect of "D.F.S. crew for life!" I thought I was 2pac in Juice 4 a minute but my body knew the truth. it did some awful, awkward jerking like some off beat, tangley new age dance moves just before plumetting me 2 the flatbed canvas face-first 2 eat the shit end of a mild concussion. Then, Nova threw up all over everybody.
We were 13 and we had our whole lives ahead of us. ~Gabe Alberro
The year was nineteen ninety somethin'. It was early 90's anyway and it was a balmy Friday night on the south end of Fla., a gangster-ass little city by the bay, some of u may have heard of, named MIAMI. We called it the bottom. There was a heavy coast line breeze that night and the traffic on ocean ave was bumper to bumper. We were packed in on the flatbed of a red late 80's pick up truck. It was me, Jokes, J. Bishop, and the forgotten Beatle Stuey Sutcliffe. Actually, it wasn't Stuey-- it was Nova, but it may as well have been Harrison Ford for all it matters now; he's since run off and married a rich girl. They live in daddy's Coconut Grove Estate, play croquette, and spend their days sunning on daddy's yacht. Good shit.
We were rolling around on the now famous Southbeach, cruising the strip, smoking weed, drinking and rattling aerosol cans. Truth b told, two of us hadn't gotten into smoking mary jane yet in those dayz, but this is my version of the shit, so...Beaneath us, half-empty spraycans, backpacks fulla' new freshly stolen spraycans (Kmart-- IN THE DAYS BEFORE THEY BEGAN LOCKING THE SPRAYPAINT IN GLASS CASES--- which is likely due 2 us or our associates @ that time), stems and seeds, and a couple of ratty porno mags. The truck was shakey, over-bassy music pumping- Clay D er some shit, and beautiful women, some even wearing clothing, everywhere. Nova was always kind of the quiet one. Jokes on the other hand, Cuban like me, but actually knowledgeable-- and about shit that isn't necessarily untrue--he was passionately relaying an idea to J. about a flick he wanted 2 make when he went away 2 film school. It was about a dirt merchant who had a third, possibly a fourth nipple, a fetish for goats and an extreme vaudeville appeal 2 his Homestead ranch which was forever burdened by the everlooming and impending foreclosure notices. One day he stumbles very awkwardly across a rap battle in the middle of a park in Cutler Ridge. Two young males are mowing each other down rhyming insults and a crowd cheering them on. the merchant becomes convinced that rap will save his farm. Anyway, I don't recall the rest, and not 2 spoil it 4 all of Jokes' fans but i think i remember it ending with a lot of hot chicks in bikinis and something having 2 do with new clothes and sneakers. J. nodded emphatically agreeing with Jokes and every so often adding his own ideas and suggestions. For example, J. felt that the movie was missing some kind of collossal heist-- a major robbery-- and felt perhaps, one or more of the characters should have english accents.
Nova had been complaining throughout the night about his wimpy feet and his pussy stomach. Mostly, tho, it was his girl-like stomach, weak and shakey, that bothered him. His face was a pale unholy shade of sky blue. Jokes turned away from J. to ask, "Hey, have u eatten anything today?" I scoffed. "Of course. I eat constantly." J. was doodling something over in the corner on a rusted spiral, utilizing the brief spots of street light as we rode. "Not YOU," Jokes said, "Nova...he looks like he got stuck and been bleeding for the past three hours." He did look like shit, but I was famished.
"Yeah, he's a mess. Look, I'm starving. is Miami Subs still open?" J. was shaking his head; he glanced up from his notes. "Does it have 2 be Homestead? ...and why does he need a 3rd and possibly 4th nip, dawg? the nipple thing is pointless." Jokes jumped up almost 2 suddenly. "What?! Are u fuckin' nuts? the nipple thing is an explosive metaphor. get it? the goat fetish, the nipples. we could probably do MORE nipples..6 or 8!"
J. shrugged and kept writing. Jokes leaned back and took a swig of punch. Nova grasped for his tummy, lightly howling like a bitch in heat. "Pull over and get Nova a sandwich er somethin, Franky. He's starting 2 annoy us... and that's usually Gabe's job. Pull over Franky."
The truck slowly creeped to a halt. Behind the wheel, Fat Frank, older than the rest of us, he was even slower coming out of his coma and only then noticed that girl Michelle fiddling with his infantile-esque little pecker (I'm not sure if her name was actually Michelle, but all the girls from junior high, in my mind, have been clumped into one and because of the name's popularity amongst young women who happen 2 be slutty and/or jappy, that one is MICHELLE). Suddenly, from one of the cars in front of us, out comes CASE ONE. He flings an empty Krylon at Fat Fuck-- I mean Frank's windshield and breaks up laughing hysterically like a hyena. "U fat bitch, where's my money?" Frank pulled swiftly up 2 Case then. Nova shifted around uncomfortably and blue-green at the gills. "Eat a boatload of my shit, Manderbach. that's all u get from me" Case chortled and jumped back in the car with Van Shun and Earl Palmer, before Fatass could run him over.
Jokes furiously continued his rant about nipples and goats and J. just nodded and every now and then added his 2 cents until the story became a medieval heist movie complete with ancient aztec gold and pirates, but u know. thugged out and urban. I was enjoying a BLT, HOLD THE LETTUCE AND TOMATO AND ADD SOME HEAD AND A BUNCH OF FUCKING CHEESES. Nova refused 2 get anything when we stopped for food. He was just sitting whining. the chicks we picked up in the drive thru were rubbing on J. and Jokes' nuts. One eased towards me, her blowse astray. I continued on the BLT, very nonchalantly stroked @ a bit of bread from between the teeth, and reached down her shirt for a squeeze off, titty tug. She roared like a happy little drunken duck. After all, it wasn't every night that normal around the way chicks like that got 2 rub nuggets with the likes of local graf and hip hop's elite. Not every night, but pretty much every weekend, but hey, that's miami. u got a little fame, u get a lot of ass. It's like that everywhere now, thank god...or some of us would have 2 grow personalities. So, here we are, future film makers, artists, actors, musicians, writers,..just about 2 wet our willies and get er done. I remember standing up shifty, shouting somethin 2 the effect of "D.F.S. crew for life!" I thought I was 2pac in Juice 4 a minute but my body knew the truth. it did some awful, awkward jerking like some off beat, tangley new age dance moves just before plumetting me 2 the flatbed canvas face-first 2 eat the shit end of a mild concussion. Then, Nova threw up all over everybody.
We were 13 and we had our whole lives ahead of us. ~Gabe Alberro
The SOVEREIGN PENIS by Lance ILLiad Duprit (pronounced DOO-PREE) As told to GABE ALBERRO, former 'Anchor' newcomer and host of college radio show HEADSTRONG NONSENSE @ RIC
Penis never knew much. He didn't know why it seemed 2 be his calling in life 2 remain a poor and undeniably desolate soul, lost in some otherworld form of a nonsensical wilderness. He couldn't seem 2 grasp the concept of 'fate' either, but most personally-- probably, Smokey Buldoone simply could NOT fathom how or why the other wandering homeless nomads so whimscially referred 2 him as 'PENIS' (although his head DID seem 2 resemble and take on the shape of one).
The man PENIS had spent FIFTEEN of his 34 years eating shit pellets from the bottom of regional dumpsters and laying his tortured head to sporadic rest on tattered, filth-soaked mattresses, disregarded somehow beneath the Hobie Beach freeway. And somehow, even beyond the loss of their housing and material wealth, the others still managed to maintain pompous and 'all-too-better-than-thou' aires when it came 2 Penis, often tormenting and teasing him. Those whose teeth, if not irreparably missing or broken, curled like yellow-green death, smiling wickedly @ Smokey Buldoone.
"Hey PENIS! Don't HOG the fuckin' FIRE! ...Can't effectively WARM all of us if you got your big, fat ASS in the way...", one would call, then laugh out, an aristocrat, robed in some stranger's throw-aways.
Another would hollar, "PENIS!!! Your stench is worse to my nostril hairs then the rot of ten dead horse dicks! Your foul makes the rest of us smell like millionaires!"
They would rub their greasy hands together, laughing, hacking up used chaw bits and spitting alot.
"So... are you thanking me right now then...or?", Penis would once reply, only to be interupted by an elbow to the chestbone.
It wasn't until one abnormally cold December morning that Smokey Buldoone would be abruptly awakened by his own sleep-assassinating realization. As the cardboard comforter, that warmed his filth nightly, departed from his body by the bone-chilling winter breeze, he'd had what alcoholics refer 2 as a 'moment of clarity'. Fifteen years had just blown by, floating off as softly and quickly as the blanket itself... and it was time 2 make a move.
No longer would Penis settle for his membership to the cult of unclean; you know: those who subscribed to a strong belief that bathing- that marriage of soap and water- was as sacreligious as smacking the Pope in his dentures with a fly swatter, rimmed with barbed wire; those who naturally grew a hate-boner for the common day businessman, as he repressed his grimace, slightly deterred from a schedule, for a detour into the land of guilt, only remedied by tossing charity in the form of copper coins and Penis and his peers. These suits would then become proud, feeling nobelity like Cub Scouts who'd made new rank, maybe 'head Webelo', while these ex-members of so-called 'civilized' society- these cement- dwellers of no God, unkempt and in dire need, forced out that ole' urban bum classic "May God bless you, brother" just before lying back into that world of self-loathing and self-pity, feeling as tainted as that same Cub Scout celebrating his new rank in a private mass @ a gay church, surrounded by exposed and lingering preist cock.
"I love you, my sweet Penis." He'd never heard it spoken. And yet, he dreamed almost each and every night that those very words would warmly fall 2 the earth, and then, slither HIS way. He'd spent all these years imagining, in a deep, crack-smoke-induced trance, that somewhere, out in the dark, that same sentiment was dangling in the salty air, the words reeling in anticipation of his prescence. Somewhere, beyond the churn and clank and roar of passing motorists; SOMEWHERE... some special ONE was patiently (virginally ofcourse) WAITING 2 bless him with those words.
And now, he simply COULD NOT dream anymore. He would not wait for her to come to him. She, who would need not wonder whether HE would come for HER, either. Smokey Buldoone was fucking ready. This choice to conclude his roofless oblivion stood erect, similar to a metaphor for the reason he had chosen to push away at such a young age, disconnect, and exist this way. Now, it was high time to rebuild. The slow road back to a western civilized society beckoned. Penis would finally leave behind him the houseless hecklers, letting loose the shackles of this repugnant lifestyle, abandon his smelly bed, and return to being human.
"Peee-nis, mah' man... if ya' wanna' BE 'impo-tent'... ya' gotta' LOOK 'impo-tent'...", one narley inaudible wretch adivised, as he rolled forth his plan, slick as porn shop blue prints.
"Look, I don't want the sun to go down on me just yet. I aims to rule my own destiny and then seal it with that tongue-kiss of good fortune., replied the new Penis, arms flailing, the ragged prophet, finally FIXED on comprehending FATE.
"Damn. Thasss deep, Penis. Mah' man, Pee-nus... goddamned 'Aristo-ma-tottle' of the homeless... thasss fuckin' inspiring, NIGGA... (healthy pause) Man, i don't want to be getting in yo' way, but uh... do you got a cigarette?"
The bums could never understand an entity such as Penis; but he would not wait for their grasp or even yield another moment to their comfortably lazy ignorance. He would turn instead, semi-sift, the back of his t-shirt riddled with holes of varied size left to face their doubt and chuckles. He would leave that world behind. Far behind.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEEEE.. I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEEEE!" He knew not where he'd heard it, this phrase of liberation he'd tacked on to his mental health, yet he would repeat it over and over, making it serve as medication; a self-assuring mantra; an anthem for rebuilding confidence; a verbal Viagra.
And the other bums would yell at him to "SHUT THE FUCK UP, Penis!!!"
He stroll down the back roads of the boulevard singing it.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEE... I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEE...."
Women would often pass on the same streets and clutch their handbags and shield the eyes and ears of their small children. Who was this dirty peasant, shouting out therapy to himself, at various volumes of dank unchained and off key melody, like some sort of really bad, blatantly low budget off- off- off Broadway alley one man production? Did he even know who Sammy Davis, Jr. was? Why did he smell like chlorine and semen and for Chrissakes, what were the odds he'd attack at some point of this state? Would he assault them suddenly? What's the timeline on an outburst of overwhelming happiness usually? Who could say?
As for Penis, he knew not where he was headed, nor why he had chosen this particularl bitingly- brisk day 2 head there. All he could feel was the excruciating sting in his unclipped toe nails, the flake of a four day old resin of Cheez Whiz that had somehow found it's way bung-ward one eve as he slept, and a head full of hope. Unexplainable, inexplicable hope, coupled with vocalized explosions of bliss.
He ALSO became painfully aware, through the course of his destination devoid journey, that he had not been laid in at least a good five or six years. On top of that, it was only once and lasted only a few seconds. Plus, she hadn't exactly been the consumate Playboy pin up. No, far from it. More to the point, she was a one-legged, toothless crack connoisseur, a prostitute who reeked of sour salt and vinegar potato chips and spoke in mindless riddles, often screaming random obscenities, calling Penis a motherfucker. And aside from the minor fact that she attempted to kill him once with a junkyard tire boot, post sexual relation that dawn, it dawned on him now, that she was possibly the only woman that ever loved him.
PENIS yearned 2 be loved by another. And so, he continued to walk, his traveling light and his destination unknown. His heart open, his eyes half open, still a bit sleepy and high, but he kept on.
And when he approached the man trying to perform felatio on the exhaust pipe of a Ford wagon...
(to be continued...)
(An excerpt from the archives, written as a theater class assignment in 1999 by GABE ALBERRO, while attending Rhode Island College for a brief stint)
The man PENIS had spent FIFTEEN of his 34 years eating shit pellets from the bottom of regional dumpsters and laying his tortured head to sporadic rest on tattered, filth-soaked mattresses, disregarded somehow beneath the Hobie Beach freeway. And somehow, even beyond the loss of their housing and material wealth, the others still managed to maintain pompous and 'all-too-better-than-thou' aires when it came 2 Penis, often tormenting and teasing him. Those whose teeth, if not irreparably missing or broken, curled like yellow-green death, smiling wickedly @ Smokey Buldoone.
"Hey PENIS! Don't HOG the fuckin' FIRE! ...Can't effectively WARM all of us if you got your big, fat ASS in the way...", one would call, then laugh out, an aristocrat, robed in some stranger's throw-aways.
Another would hollar, "PENIS!!! Your stench is worse to my nostril hairs then the rot of ten dead horse dicks! Your foul makes the rest of us smell like millionaires!"
They would rub their greasy hands together, laughing, hacking up used chaw bits and spitting alot.
"So... are you thanking me right now then...or?", Penis would once reply, only to be interupted by an elbow to the chestbone.
It wasn't until one abnormally cold December morning that Smokey Buldoone would be abruptly awakened by his own sleep-assassinating realization. As the cardboard comforter, that warmed his filth nightly, departed from his body by the bone-chilling winter breeze, he'd had what alcoholics refer 2 as a 'moment of clarity'. Fifteen years had just blown by, floating off as softly and quickly as the blanket itself... and it was time 2 make a move.
No longer would Penis settle for his membership to the cult of unclean; you know: those who subscribed to a strong belief that bathing- that marriage of soap and water- was as sacreligious as smacking the Pope in his dentures with a fly swatter, rimmed with barbed wire; those who naturally grew a hate-boner for the common day businessman, as he repressed his grimace, slightly deterred from a schedule, for a detour into the land of guilt, only remedied by tossing charity in the form of copper coins and Penis and his peers. These suits would then become proud, feeling nobelity like Cub Scouts who'd made new rank, maybe 'head Webelo', while these ex-members of so-called 'civilized' society- these cement- dwellers of no God, unkempt and in dire need, forced out that ole' urban bum classic "May God bless you, brother" just before lying back into that world of self-loathing and self-pity, feeling as tainted as that same Cub Scout celebrating his new rank in a private mass @ a gay church, surrounded by exposed and lingering preist cock.
"I love you, my sweet Penis." He'd never heard it spoken. And yet, he dreamed almost each and every night that those very words would warmly fall 2 the earth, and then, slither HIS way. He'd spent all these years imagining, in a deep, crack-smoke-induced trance, that somewhere, out in the dark, that same sentiment was dangling in the salty air, the words reeling in anticipation of his prescence. Somewhere, beyond the churn and clank and roar of passing motorists; SOMEWHERE... some special ONE was patiently (virginally ofcourse) WAITING 2 bless him with those words.
And now, he simply COULD NOT dream anymore. He would not wait for her to come to him. She, who would need not wonder whether HE would come for HER, either. Smokey Buldoone was fucking ready. This choice to conclude his roofless oblivion stood erect, similar to a metaphor for the reason he had chosen to push away at such a young age, disconnect, and exist this way. Now, it was high time to rebuild. The slow road back to a western civilized society beckoned. Penis would finally leave behind him the houseless hecklers, letting loose the shackles of this repugnant lifestyle, abandon his smelly bed, and return to being human.
"Peee-nis, mah' man... if ya' wanna' BE 'impo-tent'... ya' gotta' LOOK 'impo-tent'...", one narley inaudible wretch adivised, as he rolled forth his plan, slick as porn shop blue prints.
"Look, I don't want the sun to go down on me just yet. I aims to rule my own destiny and then seal it with that tongue-kiss of good fortune., replied the new Penis, arms flailing, the ragged prophet, finally FIXED on comprehending FATE.
"Damn. Thasss deep, Penis. Mah' man, Pee-nus... goddamned 'Aristo-ma-tottle' of the homeless... thasss fuckin' inspiring, NIGGA... (healthy pause) Man, i don't want to be getting in yo' way, but uh... do you got a cigarette?"
The bums could never understand an entity such as Penis; but he would not wait for their grasp or even yield another moment to their comfortably lazy ignorance. He would turn instead, semi-sift, the back of his t-shirt riddled with holes of varied size left to face their doubt and chuckles. He would leave that world behind. Far behind.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEEEE.. I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEEEE!" He knew not where he'd heard it, this phrase of liberation he'd tacked on to his mental health, yet he would repeat it over and over, making it serve as medication; a self-assuring mantra; an anthem for rebuilding confidence; a verbal Viagra.
And the other bums would yell at him to "SHUT THE FUCK UP, Penis!!!"
He stroll down the back roads of the boulevard singing it.
"I'VE GOTTA' BE FREEEE... I'VE GOTTA' BE MEEEE...."
Women would often pass on the same streets and clutch their handbags and shield the eyes and ears of their small children. Who was this dirty peasant, shouting out therapy to himself, at various volumes of dank unchained and off key melody, like some sort of really bad, blatantly low budget off- off- off Broadway alley one man production? Did he even know who Sammy Davis, Jr. was? Why did he smell like chlorine and semen and for Chrissakes, what were the odds he'd attack at some point of this state? Would he assault them suddenly? What's the timeline on an outburst of overwhelming happiness usually? Who could say?
As for Penis, he knew not where he was headed, nor why he had chosen this particularl bitingly- brisk day 2 head there. All he could feel was the excruciating sting in his unclipped toe nails, the flake of a four day old resin of Cheez Whiz that had somehow found it's way bung-ward one eve as he slept, and a head full of hope. Unexplainable, inexplicable hope, coupled with vocalized explosions of bliss.
He ALSO became painfully aware, through the course of his destination devoid journey, that he had not been laid in at least a good five or six years. On top of that, it was only once and lasted only a few seconds. Plus, she hadn't exactly been the consumate Playboy pin up. No, far from it. More to the point, she was a one-legged, toothless crack connoisseur, a prostitute who reeked of sour salt and vinegar potato chips and spoke in mindless riddles, often screaming random obscenities, calling Penis a motherfucker. And aside from the minor fact that she attempted to kill him once with a junkyard tire boot, post sexual relation that dawn, it dawned on him now, that she was possibly the only woman that ever loved him.
PENIS yearned 2 be loved by another. And so, he continued to walk, his traveling light and his destination unknown. His heart open, his eyes half open, still a bit sleepy and high, but he kept on.
And when he approached the man trying to perform felatio on the exhaust pipe of a Ford wagon...
(to be continued...)
(An excerpt from the archives, written as a theater class assignment in 1999 by GABE ALBERRO, while attending Rhode Island College for a brief stint)
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Long Hard Summer in Northern Cal WTF?
Summer came and went without a warning. Alright, it's a pasty old lyric from some 80's pop ballad, but hey. it fits. it was warm and windy and i was just getting used 2 swimmin' in my skivvies up in northern california.
Stayin in Redding, wherever the hell that is, with Steve-O, a real hard-liner, vaguely honduran with a hint of pissed-off LA whiteness, and a mexican named Hard-LOS, who looked like John Gotti but with the audible stylings of Cheech Marin; there were times i felt the sensation that i was in a prison or something of the like.
Steve-O would sleep on the couch, somewhat like a small apartment's warden, between the spare bedroom LOS and i shared (alternating nights in and out-- the smells ever looming), and would mostly make garbled comments as one passed, or would fart into the air and name it. he refused to sleep in his room, it seemed it was there merely for show, and by no means intended on turning air conditioning on during the hot sweaty day. He would however pump it smooth at 59 degrees just around morning when it was roughly the same temp outside. I would fall asleep sweating and wake up freezing. what a summer vacation, indeed.
Redding was dull and quite forgettable. Everywhere u look, there are trees and spiders and white boys with no shirts on, high on gack and car grease. that's not the bad part or anything. that's just the city. Then around ten in the p.m. every single night if u listen really well, u can hear it. absolute fucking nothingness. city of blank. even on the weekends.
I would wake up, swim, do laundry, walk around selling cable and shit, then swim, jerk off and swim and do laundry; it was silly as fuck. Couldn't believe i was jaggin it, especially cuz i figured in a town where there ain't much 2 do, and behind every door i knocked, lived a pregnant teen with 2 kids, i assumed i would be gettin mucho ass...cuz when there's scarce an activity 2 hinder in any given American city, u can usually count on a whole lotta easy fuckin. i predicted i'd hit a landslide of ass. a fuckload.
and secondly, 4 fuck's sake, i was one of a few local men who had all his teeth in his mouth. Having all of your teeth in Redding is rare. it makes you part of an elite community. or so I would've thought. but still my weenis saw no asscake. not much anyway...
Ok, there was the landlord's daughter, Elvisetta, but she preferred cigarette chain-smoke on a spider-littered porch 2 lickin me sexy. And there was the puerto-rican, possibly the only pr in those parts, who took me 2 the club, paid for my drinks, got us a pill and passed out nekkid. I pretended 4 three mins i was the good guy in the drifter movie, tucked her in, kissed her on her sweaty forehead and laggered the hard miles back to the salami den.
As i entered, Steve-O was rubbing extra virgin olive oils onto his bloated belly and LOS was laying on a deflated air mattress, both passing mad flatulent winds and hard-lying on sexual escapades. Entourage played loudly in the background, but the convo between these superior minds reigned warlock ass.
STEVE: ah, are u kiddin me? the door opens and i swear to God's nipples, she was all of 14 but had titties like she was 15... ya get me?
LOS: uh huh..uh huh..heh heh..the good ones, huh?
STEVE: aww, u have no idea, dipshit. her teeth were a bit fucked up, u know? but what're u gonna do? thats regional. her boobies tho my man, bro-YARE, yes indeedy. yes. melon scoops lovely and youthful. she was like 'yer name steve-o right? wanna shower with me?'-- i was like fuck...
both bust up laughing. steve mentions he may have shit his pants a bit on that last one. he hops up and exits stage left. I'm entering the open door to the apartment, so he yells something as he springs away clutching the back of his jeans like he can PLUG that brown spout.
he yells, 'here comes godzilla' or something, but i'm not sure if he means me or if he's referring 2 the blast from his tailpipe.
I scurry past LOS quick as humanly possible, LOS beginning a long-winded tale no doubt, and avoiding the speech feast of bullshit, I slam myself into the spare.
Redding. Everyone was friendly. long as the convos were short-lived and didn't require much thought. then it could get hasty. Bored out of my mind, finally one night after reading every book i had twice, i caught a greyhound bus back 2 vegas. never do that btw. never take a greyhound unless u are a masochist and deeply into self-abuse. narrow seats, stink-pitted travelers, crying bebe kids, the scent of ass on tap; big mistake. i rented a 300 this last time and even thought, I shoulda just stayed in LV...people dream of living here. the locals dream of escaping..we leave and come back. sick habit.
i'm done with this beast...~Gabe Alberro
Stayin in Redding, wherever the hell that is, with Steve-O, a real hard-liner, vaguely honduran with a hint of pissed-off LA whiteness, and a mexican named Hard-LOS, who looked like John Gotti but with the audible stylings of Cheech Marin; there were times i felt the sensation that i was in a prison or something of the like.
Steve-O would sleep on the couch, somewhat like a small apartment's warden, between the spare bedroom LOS and i shared (alternating nights in and out-- the smells ever looming), and would mostly make garbled comments as one passed, or would fart into the air and name it. he refused to sleep in his room, it seemed it was there merely for show, and by no means intended on turning air conditioning on during the hot sweaty day. He would however pump it smooth at 59 degrees just around morning when it was roughly the same temp outside. I would fall asleep sweating and wake up freezing. what a summer vacation, indeed.
Redding was dull and quite forgettable. Everywhere u look, there are trees and spiders and white boys with no shirts on, high on gack and car grease. that's not the bad part or anything. that's just the city. Then around ten in the p.m. every single night if u listen really well, u can hear it. absolute fucking nothingness. city of blank. even on the weekends.
I would wake up, swim, do laundry, walk around selling cable and shit, then swim, jerk off and swim and do laundry; it was silly as fuck. Couldn't believe i was jaggin it, especially cuz i figured in a town where there ain't much 2 do, and behind every door i knocked, lived a pregnant teen with 2 kids, i assumed i would be gettin mucho ass...cuz when there's scarce an activity 2 hinder in any given American city, u can usually count on a whole lotta easy fuckin. i predicted i'd hit a landslide of ass. a fuckload.
and secondly, 4 fuck's sake, i was one of a few local men who had all his teeth in his mouth. Having all of your teeth in Redding is rare. it makes you part of an elite community. or so I would've thought. but still my weenis saw no asscake. not much anyway...
Ok, there was the landlord's daughter, Elvisetta, but she preferred cigarette chain-smoke on a spider-littered porch 2 lickin me sexy. And there was the puerto-rican, possibly the only pr in those parts, who took me 2 the club, paid for my drinks, got us a pill and passed out nekkid. I pretended 4 three mins i was the good guy in the drifter movie, tucked her in, kissed her on her sweaty forehead and laggered the hard miles back to the salami den.
As i entered, Steve-O was rubbing extra virgin olive oils onto his bloated belly and LOS was laying on a deflated air mattress, both passing mad flatulent winds and hard-lying on sexual escapades. Entourage played loudly in the background, but the convo between these superior minds reigned warlock ass.
STEVE: ah, are u kiddin me? the door opens and i swear to God's nipples, she was all of 14 but had titties like she was 15... ya get me?
LOS: uh huh..uh huh..heh heh..the good ones, huh?
STEVE: aww, u have no idea, dipshit. her teeth were a bit fucked up, u know? but what're u gonna do? thats regional. her boobies tho my man, bro-YARE, yes indeedy. yes. melon scoops lovely and youthful. she was like 'yer name steve-o right? wanna shower with me?'-- i was like fuck...
both bust up laughing. steve mentions he may have shit his pants a bit on that last one. he hops up and exits stage left. I'm entering the open door to the apartment, so he yells something as he springs away clutching the back of his jeans like he can PLUG that brown spout.
he yells, 'here comes godzilla' or something, but i'm not sure if he means me or if he's referring 2 the blast from his tailpipe.
I scurry past LOS quick as humanly possible, LOS beginning a long-winded tale no doubt, and avoiding the speech feast of bullshit, I slam myself into the spare.
Redding. Everyone was friendly. long as the convos were short-lived and didn't require much thought. then it could get hasty. Bored out of my mind, finally one night after reading every book i had twice, i caught a greyhound bus back 2 vegas. never do that btw. never take a greyhound unless u are a masochist and deeply into self-abuse. narrow seats, stink-pitted travelers, crying bebe kids, the scent of ass on tap; big mistake. i rented a 300 this last time and even thought, I shoulda just stayed in LV...people dream of living here. the locals dream of escaping..we leave and come back. sick habit.
i'm done with this beast...~Gabe Alberro
Monday, September 5, 2011
ELVIS AND I
From the archives- March 31, 2006, my 30th birthday. Gift to me- juxtapose; Elvis v. Nox.
so here we are again and the year is 1987. i'm asleep in a small food closet at the rear of a dingy little nightclub in davie, florida called SWILLBAGGZ 'er sumthin'. No, no it was Brickyard West. Live music of an eclectic vibe rattling, pulsating with the moving shadows, clouding the light flowing in from under the door. It's 4am, i'm about 7 or 8 years old, it was a school night and my mother and her latest boyfriend had brought me along 2 attend one of his performances.
he was a dirty toilet-rag plumber by day (one of the most vile fucking jobs on earth), and a pub singer by night. he looked like elvis, but in reality was just an angry substance-abusing marelito cuban rafter. my moms brought him home one night and for some reason, he just stayed. i guess the boy had a lot of charisma. and groupies. they would even stand up at the shows (with assistance of course), and wave their granny panties and dentures at him. some even forced their walkers over 2 approach him at the end of the gig. they'd slobber all over him and my mother would be frontrow, laughing--not really tripping. i mean, the chix were like in their 80's usually. but u know like, a firm 80.
some nights i found myself up there at these clubs, extremely young, i'd watch the earlier performances while old white trash women and breathy old drunk latinas would hit on me. one even stuck her tongue in my mouth 2 apologize for bumping into me while she was dancing. i know. sick, right? but then, perhaps she wasn't just your everyday low rent pedophile. maybe she was just a very open-minded person and in her state, assumed i was a very attractive midget. or maybe, she was just reeeaaalllly sorry 4 bumping me. I don't know.
So, on this balmy eve in 87, his show ends. fuck u, goodnight; he jumps off stage and tongue kisses, i swear 2 gawd, it looked like the ghost of christmas past, skeletor and the grim reaper- wrapped in one. they levitate in this long-winded, almost romantic tongue bath, until my mother goes, 'heyyyyy....' from the front row between marlboro puffs and the buttersauce and steamers. i know all of this to be fact, for i had only moments earlier been awakened by a short dominican with gold teeth and greasy hair squabbed up in a net, as he clunked his way to the storage room, flipped lights on, and then proceeded 2 make more of a racket. only after i sat up and rubbed my eyes, did pacito notice me and then jumped a bit startled and ushered himself out of the box.
i staggered over 2 my mother's table and she smiled sweetly at me and blew a thick cloud of dark gray smoke away. 'sit. sit down, hun'. At that moment, assface approaches with a mongoloid strapped 2 his leg sucking his kneecap, a beet-red nose with little gobs and spritzes of cocaine all about it.
"FUCK YES, I'M HUNGRY" he shouted at my mother in this gleeful yet psychotic and angry way. she hadn't even asked him a question. she looked around puzzled a bit then replied, 'ummmm, ok. what do you feel like eating?'
Elvis roared like a dain-bramaged raft-monkey. 'PUSSY AND ASSSSSHHHOOLLLLEEEE!' he cried out joyfully and attempted 2 pick my mother up, and by means i'll not mention here. her resistance got the better of him and he gave up. eventually. but u could tell he had that look on his face thereafter like he just got beat by a girl and all his schoolhouse buds were poking fun at him. he eyed her viciously from across the room as he made his goodbyes with his fans and colleagues. he was acting like a big baby. it was like he had tourretes syndrome. every so often between hugs and kisses, he'd holler something at my mother vulgar and inappropriate. in retrospect, i'm kinda surprised he didn't take his shoes and socks off next, get up on the bar and attempt to eat beer nuts with his toenails.
Mom was getting more and more tense; u could feel it. i'm standing by her car and he walks up; she's kissing some broad goodbye. "Ah Judy Lee is a fucking fat chinese BITCH!" he screamed, laughing wild and high, and then he said something like ...'she can bite my coke!...' he laughed, sniffled, nudged me playfully in the nuts, "right? heh heh, right?! that fuckin BITCH!!! hahahaha" i laughed but only nervously and 2 b polite i guess.
the car is roaring up the woodsy broward county backroad highways. it was a pontiac firebird. it was in my mom's name but he drove it of course. she had 2 borrow grandma's car. i was drifting in and out of sleep again in the backseat. so, it all happened very fast- and i'm going to run thru it in a similar fashion. the car is speeding up so she leans over and says "so and so (i ain't gonna say his name cuz fuck him) slow down. you're driving too fast."
He sniffles, wipes his nose and whispers 2 her, "shut up".
Now, my mother has always been very big on respect. u just can't talk 2 her like that...there's 2 things she's big on. don't come at her with no disrespect and don't use the 'n' word in her presence. and she's big on being a pain in the ass, but that's 3 things. so whatever, she asks him incredulously, 'what did u just say?' and he repeats it. but this time, he says, "I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" and with that, punches her dead in the face with everything he's got like a man hits a fucking man. her head smashed thru the passenger window like some kinda scene from a gruesome action flick.
From the backseat, i jump up--all 80 or 90lbs or so of me and attempt 2 bash this fucker's brain in with my toy tonka truck. we're wrasslin around, they're strugglin back and forth with the hands flailin, and the car is stoppin and goin...stoppin and goin...
the sun is coming up over davie and we are gump-jumpin all up the highway in a cherry red firebird with cocaine presley at the wheel and my poor mama in the hotseat of a black death chariot. all of us scrapping and grappling, the sirens came wailing up flashing behind us like a sudden burst of gunpowder and fireworks on the fourth of july. the officer walks up 2 the car and with thick countryboy drawl asks, "fux goin on? guys gump-jumpin all over the road...been drinkin?" I was hyperventilating huffing out, 'he hit her' but the cop wasn't listening. He asked elvis 2 step out of the car and walked him over 2 the squad, then cuffed and uncuffed him. elvis was clearly not only drunk, but high- his nose red, lips chapped, and with scrapes of blood from a recent tangle with a petrified 8 year old boy.
he told the cop an animal like a deer jumped in front of the car. we were swerving around not to hit it. but that wasn't what got him out of the cuffs. the pig recognized him.
"Ain't u the boy that plays up there at SWILLFUCKERZ er whutever it's called with johnny depp's old band the t birds?" and elvis of course replied that yes, in fact, he was that same cat. "Man, yer good. i love when you sing that elvis stuff, man. U know, u look a lot like him. I knew him. well, i mean, i didn't know him, but hell, i been 2 memphis and hell, i done met u this morning", and with that, the ridiculous pig chuckled uncontrollably and was like gushing all over him. he took the cuffs off quickly and rubbed elvis' wrists for him. i think i even saw elvis raise a ring and the cop fucking kissed and licked it. it was quite repulsive and i was still very audible saying 'he hit her' thru my sobs as they returned and senator el-dog hopped back in the firebird, victorious. my sobbing got louder; the cop ignored me again and told us 2 drive safely then. my mother, who'd been trying to shut me up while i tried 2 rat him out 2 the 'cop', now sat back and waved at the officer thru her blood and broken bones. we drove home in silence.
NOW, elvis was actually discovered a couple years later, by Legends In Concert out here in Vegas and was stuck portraying The Elvis for the rest of his marielito woman-beater life. i saw him recently (1999) and he looked so silly, like an impersonator of himself impersonating elvis. it was sad, really. he came up 2 me @ the bar outside the showroom very bloated and apologetic- much like the real EL in his final days and took several heinekens 2 the neck, while he hit on my hot stripper girlfriend and with torrid breath. breath that could sink entire fleets and burn down whole villages of screaming children. i almost whooped his ass, but instead just left. took whats-her-snatch back 2 some run down hotel there in Atlantic City (where he gigs now, long after his drug-heavy Legends dayz in Vegas), filled the bath tub with ice and beer, and proceeded 2 pound the mound. Never 2 look back. ~Gabe Alberro
so here we are again and the year is 1987. i'm asleep in a small food closet at the rear of a dingy little nightclub in davie, florida called SWILLBAGGZ 'er sumthin'. No, no it was Brickyard West. Live music of an eclectic vibe rattling, pulsating with the moving shadows, clouding the light flowing in from under the door. It's 4am, i'm about 7 or 8 years old, it was a school night and my mother and her latest boyfriend had brought me along 2 attend one of his performances.
he was a dirty toilet-rag plumber by day (one of the most vile fucking jobs on earth), and a pub singer by night. he looked like elvis, but in reality was just an angry substance-abusing marelito cuban rafter. my moms brought him home one night and for some reason, he just stayed. i guess the boy had a lot of charisma. and groupies. they would even stand up at the shows (with assistance of course), and wave their granny panties and dentures at him. some even forced their walkers over 2 approach him at the end of the gig. they'd slobber all over him and my mother would be frontrow, laughing--not really tripping. i mean, the chix were like in their 80's usually. but u know like, a firm 80.
some nights i found myself up there at these clubs, extremely young, i'd watch the earlier performances while old white trash women and breathy old drunk latinas would hit on me. one even stuck her tongue in my mouth 2 apologize for bumping into me while she was dancing. i know. sick, right? but then, perhaps she wasn't just your everyday low rent pedophile. maybe she was just a very open-minded person and in her state, assumed i was a very attractive midget. or maybe, she was just reeeaaalllly sorry 4 bumping me. I don't know.
So, on this balmy eve in 87, his show ends. fuck u, goodnight; he jumps off stage and tongue kisses, i swear 2 gawd, it looked like the ghost of christmas past, skeletor and the grim reaper- wrapped in one. they levitate in this long-winded, almost romantic tongue bath, until my mother goes, 'heyyyyy....' from the front row between marlboro puffs and the buttersauce and steamers. i know all of this to be fact, for i had only moments earlier been awakened by a short dominican with gold teeth and greasy hair squabbed up in a net, as he clunked his way to the storage room, flipped lights on, and then proceeded 2 make more of a racket. only after i sat up and rubbed my eyes, did pacito notice me and then jumped a bit startled and ushered himself out of the box.
i staggered over 2 my mother's table and she smiled sweetly at me and blew a thick cloud of dark gray smoke away. 'sit. sit down, hun'. At that moment, assface approaches with a mongoloid strapped 2 his leg sucking his kneecap, a beet-red nose with little gobs and spritzes of cocaine all about it.
"FUCK YES, I'M HUNGRY" he shouted at my mother in this gleeful yet psychotic and angry way. she hadn't even asked him a question. she looked around puzzled a bit then replied, 'ummmm, ok. what do you feel like eating?'
Elvis roared like a dain-bramaged raft-monkey. 'PUSSY AND ASSSSSHHHOOLLLLEEEE!' he cried out joyfully and attempted 2 pick my mother up, and by means i'll not mention here. her resistance got the better of him and he gave up. eventually. but u could tell he had that look on his face thereafter like he just got beat by a girl and all his schoolhouse buds were poking fun at him. he eyed her viciously from across the room as he made his goodbyes with his fans and colleagues. he was acting like a big baby. it was like he had tourretes syndrome. every so often between hugs and kisses, he'd holler something at my mother vulgar and inappropriate. in retrospect, i'm kinda surprised he didn't take his shoes and socks off next, get up on the bar and attempt to eat beer nuts with his toenails.
Mom was getting more and more tense; u could feel it. i'm standing by her car and he walks up; she's kissing some broad goodbye. "Ah Judy Lee is a fucking fat chinese BITCH!" he screamed, laughing wild and high, and then he said something like ...'she can bite my coke!...' he laughed, sniffled, nudged me playfully in the nuts, "right? heh heh, right?! that fuckin BITCH!!! hahahaha" i laughed but only nervously and 2 b polite i guess.
the car is roaring up the woodsy broward county backroad highways. it was a pontiac firebird. it was in my mom's name but he drove it of course. she had 2 borrow grandma's car. i was drifting in and out of sleep again in the backseat. so, it all happened very fast- and i'm going to run thru it in a similar fashion. the car is speeding up so she leans over and says "so and so (i ain't gonna say his name cuz fuck him) slow down. you're driving too fast."
He sniffles, wipes his nose and whispers 2 her, "shut up".
Now, my mother has always been very big on respect. u just can't talk 2 her like that...there's 2 things she's big on. don't come at her with no disrespect and don't use the 'n' word in her presence. and she's big on being a pain in the ass, but that's 3 things. so whatever, she asks him incredulously, 'what did u just say?' and he repeats it. but this time, he says, "I said SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" and with that, punches her dead in the face with everything he's got like a man hits a fucking man. her head smashed thru the passenger window like some kinda scene from a gruesome action flick.
From the backseat, i jump up--all 80 or 90lbs or so of me and attempt 2 bash this fucker's brain in with my toy tonka truck. we're wrasslin around, they're strugglin back and forth with the hands flailin, and the car is stoppin and goin...stoppin and goin...
the sun is coming up over davie and we are gump-jumpin all up the highway in a cherry red firebird with cocaine presley at the wheel and my poor mama in the hotseat of a black death chariot. all of us scrapping and grappling, the sirens came wailing up flashing behind us like a sudden burst of gunpowder and fireworks on the fourth of july. the officer walks up 2 the car and with thick countryboy drawl asks, "fux goin on? guys gump-jumpin all over the road...been drinkin?" I was hyperventilating huffing out, 'he hit her' but the cop wasn't listening. He asked elvis 2 step out of the car and walked him over 2 the squad, then cuffed and uncuffed him. elvis was clearly not only drunk, but high- his nose red, lips chapped, and with scrapes of blood from a recent tangle with a petrified 8 year old boy.
he told the cop an animal like a deer jumped in front of the car. we were swerving around not to hit it. but that wasn't what got him out of the cuffs. the pig recognized him.
"Ain't u the boy that plays up there at SWILLFUCKERZ er whutever it's called with johnny depp's old band the t birds?" and elvis of course replied that yes, in fact, he was that same cat. "Man, yer good. i love when you sing that elvis stuff, man. U know, u look a lot like him. I knew him. well, i mean, i didn't know him, but hell, i been 2 memphis and hell, i done met u this morning", and with that, the ridiculous pig chuckled uncontrollably and was like gushing all over him. he took the cuffs off quickly and rubbed elvis' wrists for him. i think i even saw elvis raise a ring and the cop fucking kissed and licked it. it was quite repulsive and i was still very audible saying 'he hit her' thru my sobs as they returned and senator el-dog hopped back in the firebird, victorious. my sobbing got louder; the cop ignored me again and told us 2 drive safely then. my mother, who'd been trying to shut me up while i tried 2 rat him out 2 the 'cop', now sat back and waved at the officer thru her blood and broken bones. we drove home in silence.
NOW, elvis was actually discovered a couple years later, by Legends In Concert out here in Vegas and was stuck portraying The Elvis for the rest of his marielito woman-beater life. i saw him recently (1999) and he looked so silly, like an impersonator of himself impersonating elvis. it was sad, really. he came up 2 me @ the bar outside the showroom very bloated and apologetic- much like the real EL in his final days and took several heinekens 2 the neck, while he hit on my hot stripper girlfriend and with torrid breath. breath that could sink entire fleets and burn down whole villages of screaming children. i almost whooped his ass, but instead just left. took whats-her-snatch back 2 some run down hotel there in Atlantic City (where he gigs now, long after his drug-heavy Legends dayz in Vegas), filled the bath tub with ice and beer, and proceeded 2 pound the mound. Never 2 look back. ~Gabe Alberro
Sunday, September 4, 2011
MY LV ARRIVAL
FROM THE ARCHIVES... September 5, 2008
It's still in the early nineties in this tale, but I have since been run out of that little city by the bay by some bloated overweight gangster-wanna b bullies and have now relocated 2 somewhere out in the desert where the air is hot and dry, unlike the rampid humidity of south florida. U can get off the plane @ Miami International, barely step outside the terminal, and become a literal swamp of your own sopping sweaty mass. Vegas on the other hand, is more of a sauna in the summer, than a steam bath. i think Las Vegas translates to 'the city of smelly old vultures' in pig latin. I'm not sure, but if the local in-town casinos' patrons are any indication, it's possible it means just that. Cigarette smoke and coin pounding slot rattle-bells all day n night, and that's just the 7-11's and grocery stores. Forget about what goes on constantly on the strip, the main boulevard, where u can always find an adventure to fall in 2. I love this city. U show up as a teen, blow up on the scene, and by the time its connects u need, u know everybody--fantastik. Everyone in Vegas is full of shit but they are really convincing at it and hospitable and make the whole experience very smooth and comfortable. I'd prefer no other social environment--except for maybe a strange foreign island where the natives and newcommers all just grunt at one another, occassionally whistle, and often burst into uproarious laughter but in random spurts. I arrived on the scene in a hoody, a brim, some baggy airbrushed graff pants (Jokes n Nova hooked up) and an attitude like 'Miami, bitch, whut?' Hooked up with this big fat blobbery over-confident cat named--well, we'll call him BADMOON-- Badmoon was the condensced milk-slurping, crumbcake snatchin, stank-body pheasant from the north end of town who had a real socially pleasant shake 2 him. It was a bit sugary but it did the trick..he knew everybody, everybody wanted 2 know him, and they all loved him. he blended stupid humor with outrageous bullshit and it worked magic. For both of us; we were knee deep in friends and chicks. We would walk up in our flashy multi-colored gear (he was my new stylist) and harmonize ballards at these bitches. And I went from being this somewhat introverted artist wanna b filmmaker type, 2 a cocky rap artist badboy new guy type. badmoon had taught me how 2 b an entertainer. well he brought the entertainer out of me anyway...and we fucked THEM ALL. now, the really great or horribly shit part to the whole lv deal is this: all the guys have fucked all the same chix who have fucked all the guys who fucked all the tourists some of which fucked us. now, some of us have fucked some who were here n some who there were fuckin some of us here. now see, most of the locals have fucked most of the locals and some moved. they fucked the others who fucked the ones that were fuckin some others. the point is, we've all fucked ALL OF U. collectively. and the place keeps growing, but all within the same four walls of mountain and rock. this is the valley. not san fernand or some gay tv pop academy. this is where the rednex started, the mobsters nested, and then everyone else and in that order. and tho the place has changed a lot and become a mockery of a mockery, it still has something very special 2 it and beyond the glitz and glamour of the strip. i keep coming back and for the most part have had nothing but good experiences and good times here. plus should anything every get foul, should i ever actually need 2 correct a problem, if it's that serious, there is always a lot more empty middle earth in the desert just a few miles from civilization perfect for human burials. ~Gabe Alberro
It's still in the early nineties in this tale, but I have since been run out of that little city by the bay by some bloated overweight gangster-wanna b bullies and have now relocated 2 somewhere out in the desert where the air is hot and dry, unlike the rampid humidity of south florida. U can get off the plane @ Miami International, barely step outside the terminal, and become a literal swamp of your own sopping sweaty mass. Vegas on the other hand, is more of a sauna in the summer, than a steam bath. i think Las Vegas translates to 'the city of smelly old vultures' in pig latin. I'm not sure, but if the local in-town casinos' patrons are any indication, it's possible it means just that. Cigarette smoke and coin pounding slot rattle-bells all day n night, and that's just the 7-11's and grocery stores. Forget about what goes on constantly on the strip, the main boulevard, where u can always find an adventure to fall in 2. I love this city. U show up as a teen, blow up on the scene, and by the time its connects u need, u know everybody--fantastik. Everyone in Vegas is full of shit but they are really convincing at it and hospitable and make the whole experience very smooth and comfortable. I'd prefer no other social environment--except for maybe a strange foreign island where the natives and newcommers all just grunt at one another, occassionally whistle, and often burst into uproarious laughter but in random spurts. I arrived on the scene in a hoody, a brim, some baggy airbrushed graff pants (Jokes n Nova hooked up) and an attitude like 'Miami, bitch, whut?' Hooked up with this big fat blobbery over-confident cat named--well, we'll call him BADMOON-- Badmoon was the condensced milk-slurping, crumbcake snatchin, stank-body pheasant from the north end of town who had a real socially pleasant shake 2 him. It was a bit sugary but it did the trick..he knew everybody, everybody wanted 2 know him, and they all loved him. he blended stupid humor with outrageous bullshit and it worked magic. For both of us; we were knee deep in friends and chicks. We would walk up in our flashy multi-colored gear (he was my new stylist) and harmonize ballards at these bitches. And I went from being this somewhat introverted artist wanna b filmmaker type, 2 a cocky rap artist badboy new guy type. badmoon had taught me how 2 b an entertainer. well he brought the entertainer out of me anyway...and we fucked THEM ALL. now, the really great or horribly shit part to the whole lv deal is this: all the guys have fucked all the same chix who have fucked all the guys who fucked all the tourists some of which fucked us. now, some of us have fucked some who were here n some who there were fuckin some of us here. now see, most of the locals have fucked most of the locals and some moved. they fucked the others who fucked the ones that were fuckin some others. the point is, we've all fucked ALL OF U. collectively. and the place keeps growing, but all within the same four walls of mountain and rock. this is the valley. not san fernand or some gay tv pop academy. this is where the rednex started, the mobsters nested, and then everyone else and in that order. and tho the place has changed a lot and become a mockery of a mockery, it still has something very special 2 it and beyond the glitz and glamour of the strip. i keep coming back and for the most part have had nothing but good experiences and good times here. plus should anything every get foul, should i ever actually need 2 correct a problem, if it's that serious, there is always a lot more empty middle earth in the desert just a few miles from civilization perfect for human burials. ~Gabe Alberro
Thursday, September 1, 2011
WATERFIGHTER
First off, con-fucking-gratsssss... to the weather Gods and their unpararelled and oppressive heat wave this summer in Las Vegas and it's surrounding neighborhoods, where the wiser have moved, because of course, as I've stated before, Central LV is turning into New Jersey, a fucking sewage dump. It's cool (and not literally AT ALL THESE DAYS) of course, 2 visit and party in, but to live near-- anywhere near-- the strip, is for twenty-somethings fresh out of Oregon who view it as an adventure, and HOES. Real life fucking hoes; prozzi's and I don't mean some obscure new age Italian bistro. Whores, Jack; that's if you need your art spoon fed 2 ya.
I'm still in bouncer mode out here, now the head of the door (security) at another club, a day pool, which are daytime pool party clubs, which have gotten very popular and one that is under the brand of a very prestigious individual; one who's name I can not say here as he employs net surfers to find any negatives about his name or legacy, and has any discovered culprit dropped out of small cargo planes and then hunted down on remote islands like wild animals. Funny thing is though, I have no true complaints about him or the company; the fucking food in the EDR is pretty damn good; I've been known to induldge many a morning or night on some tempura shrimp by the gajangle and miso soups and fucking eggplant sliders; I've also been made the head of the door at one of the hotter day pools in town and been left alone to do things my way more or less all summer;
all skeweringly hot, Jew-frying, Cuban drowning summer; It's so hot out here, black folks actually now can only be refered to as black and not Afro-American or even brown; The indians and midgets have gone into hiding; the Mexicans are shoting eachother less and landscaping and car mechanic work has become solely twilight affairs; I think the average has been 115 degrees in the shade, no breeze, and once or twice it rained and the locals dropped 2 their knees like Tibet monks and tongue- kissed the pavement. People still can't drive out here in alternative weather conditions, mind u. Remember we have people from all over the world constantly driving around our streets out here, many from a whole other planet, called LA.
Among all these foreigners crashing all four corners of the valley, included are old Mexican women whose only previous experience driving has been on goats and donkeys. (that's not ebonic code for certain car corps either, i mean land mammals here, mama) AND there's the Asians; I love Asians. Let's begin that way; I love the people (most times), the food, the women, the kung fu, the ninja and even small unthreatening penises. To an Asian women, I'm black from the waist down, which is seriously fucking appealing.
BUT Las Vegas has Asians from all over and all of them are attempting 2 drive in the same area. You do the math. These people have invented some great fighting moves and savory dishes; they're women can backrub you and blow you into another dimension... BUT... they should be kept away from steering wheels the way the Mogwai were meant to be kept from sunlight, water and eating after midnight. (basically, Gizmo had the same rules a fat kid has at fat camp)
An Asian man, while site-seeing with a carload of his family and children, each trying to drink in every monument and see each attraction out of the window at the same time (so as to steal it and redesign it better), will drive his rented minivan directly into a cinderblock wall, if it starts to drizzle. Welcome to Sin City. Not everybody knows these little tidbits about this town, but i will reveal a few until someone from MGM shows up at my house with four lawyers and demands i sign something saying in four hundred pages that i will cease to tell the truth. and the Asians will be in the paperwork for at least 10 to 15 pages. (How come the people most closely connected to the aliens in outerspace can't handle land vehicles?)
Anyway, a culture nor my job is the issue for the moment; A former NFL minor celeb is my boss and he's pretty bad ass; I had back pain he gave me a week off and never asked anything except how I was doing. I texted back that i was fine and that Hawaii truly is a great place to fuck your back pain away.
I was lying of course; I was on a leveled twin matresses icing my assbone and crying for help. My children were stepping over me, sighing because they had to actually lift a leg to get 2 the playstation 3;
I'm lying again; we're still stuck on playstation 2. (we can't afford the 3 yet-- and of course, i mean emotionally)
As for the career, well, let's put it plain. This is the slowest rise to being a famous artist i have ever been on. At 6, I'm already making my own comic books. AT 7, published short stories in the Miami Herald; At 9, being called an artistic genius by college professors; at 10, making my own films; at 13, writing songs; at 15, in LA recruited by a manager; by 18, in Belle Aire, eating shrimp with Nicole Ritchie;
At 35, masturbating 2 Jersey Shore, using only my own self-absorbed tears as LUBE.
Gotta' jump up @ 2 and get those chillin's from the schoolyard or the other soccer moms will frown and look down their noses at me. Gotta' sell blood sweat and tears for peanuts to make rent and rent the electricity...
Gotta get those groceries, BITCH.
Did I miss a movie? Didn't this brand of character end up with the world by it's nipples by film's end? Were we not all crying and clapping for the victor? some of us even harboring snot-bubbles and giving eachother high fives? WTF?
Well, at least cuss words haven't been outlawed yet. ~ Gabe Alberro
I'm still in bouncer mode out here, now the head of the door (security) at another club, a day pool, which are daytime pool party clubs, which have gotten very popular and one that is under the brand of a very prestigious individual; one who's name I can not say here as he employs net surfers to find any negatives about his name or legacy, and has any discovered culprit dropped out of small cargo planes and then hunted down on remote islands like wild animals. Funny thing is though, I have no true complaints about him or the company; the fucking food in the EDR is pretty damn good; I've been known to induldge many a morning or night on some tempura shrimp by the gajangle and miso soups and fucking eggplant sliders; I've also been made the head of the door at one of the hotter day pools in town and been left alone to do things my way more or less all summer;
all skeweringly hot, Jew-frying, Cuban drowning summer; It's so hot out here, black folks actually now can only be refered to as black and not Afro-American or even brown; The indians and midgets have gone into hiding; the Mexicans are shoting eachother less and landscaping and car mechanic work has become solely twilight affairs; I think the average has been 115 degrees in the shade, no breeze, and once or twice it rained and the locals dropped 2 their knees like Tibet monks and tongue- kissed the pavement. People still can't drive out here in alternative weather conditions, mind u. Remember we have people from all over the world constantly driving around our streets out here, many from a whole other planet, called LA.
Among all these foreigners crashing all four corners of the valley, included are old Mexican women whose only previous experience driving has been on goats and donkeys. (that's not ebonic code for certain car corps either, i mean land mammals here, mama) AND there's the Asians; I love Asians. Let's begin that way; I love the people (most times), the food, the women, the kung fu, the ninja and even small unthreatening penises. To an Asian women, I'm black from the waist down, which is seriously fucking appealing.
BUT Las Vegas has Asians from all over and all of them are attempting 2 drive in the same area. You do the math. These people have invented some great fighting moves and savory dishes; they're women can backrub you and blow you into another dimension... BUT... they should be kept away from steering wheels the way the Mogwai were meant to be kept from sunlight, water and eating after midnight. (basically, Gizmo had the same rules a fat kid has at fat camp)
An Asian man, while site-seeing with a carload of his family and children, each trying to drink in every monument and see each attraction out of the window at the same time (so as to steal it and redesign it better), will drive his rented minivan directly into a cinderblock wall, if it starts to drizzle. Welcome to Sin City. Not everybody knows these little tidbits about this town, but i will reveal a few until someone from MGM shows up at my house with four lawyers and demands i sign something saying in four hundred pages that i will cease to tell the truth. and the Asians will be in the paperwork for at least 10 to 15 pages. (How come the people most closely connected to the aliens in outerspace can't handle land vehicles?)
Anyway, a culture nor my job is the issue for the moment; A former NFL minor celeb is my boss and he's pretty bad ass; I had back pain he gave me a week off and never asked anything except how I was doing. I texted back that i was fine and that Hawaii truly is a great place to fuck your back pain away.
I was lying of course; I was on a leveled twin matresses icing my assbone and crying for help. My children were stepping over me, sighing because they had to actually lift a leg to get 2 the playstation 3;
I'm lying again; we're still stuck on playstation 2. (we can't afford the 3 yet-- and of course, i mean emotionally)
As for the career, well, let's put it plain. This is the slowest rise to being a famous artist i have ever been on. At 6, I'm already making my own comic books. AT 7, published short stories in the Miami Herald; At 9, being called an artistic genius by college professors; at 10, making my own films; at 13, writing songs; at 15, in LA recruited by a manager; by 18, in Belle Aire, eating shrimp with Nicole Ritchie;
At 35, masturbating 2 Jersey Shore, using only my own self-absorbed tears as LUBE.
Gotta' jump up @ 2 and get those chillin's from the schoolyard or the other soccer moms will frown and look down their noses at me. Gotta' sell blood sweat and tears for peanuts to make rent and rent the electricity...
Gotta get those groceries, BITCH.
Did I miss a movie? Didn't this brand of character end up with the world by it's nipples by film's end? Were we not all crying and clapping for the victor? some of us even harboring snot-bubbles and giving eachother high fives? WTF?
Well, at least cuss words haven't been outlawed yet. ~ Gabe Alberro
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