Or maybe not -- these shenanigans assisted themselves tonight with the aid of a flexible friend I will regret come end of month... am I gonna cry now? Hell no. We can always cry later in that vacuum that is the place where my fucking ears pop and your insanity ceases to be. Heard of it? It's not hip and it sure ain't young, but I'll be damned if you can't get your World Cup talk in it... to the Manny, the Jason, and the Pedro -- good talk all around, even if we don't get called for the South Africa ticket in 2010, we will at least know what to do when handed a squad of world class footballers. To Patti and Osteo, everything that had to be done was done cuz we did. Look for the collected works and our loft in NYC. Miami? You can fucking keep it. Magic City 101: don't let this broad ride you longer than you agreed to be ridden for. My next dispatch will be from either Paris, Texas; Paris, France (EU); or Bayreuth, Lebanon (the Paris of the Middle East). Don't call, don't bother -- it's high time I rent an X-Terra and load up all my lead friends for the trip. But I digress: I say these things now for humor and cuz deep down inside, no matter how on point my fingers are, there's a whole bigger bag to live for. And I only begun to scratch at its buttery goodness. Jesse -- my friend, my confidante, my assister -- though you'll never understand why 90 minutes on the pitch seldom yield more than a goal or two, I can only hope the past dies in fuckery most foul so that the burning brightness of the future we've up to now chosen to ignore, consumes everything we're here to be consumed for.
When I loved, I loved honestly. When I love, I love honestly. No heroics, please.
I hang out here on Thursday nights. Buy me and my friends a drink. Don't be cheap, nobody likes an asshole!
http://studioamiami.com/
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