Time Machine - 8/30/2003 - Frantic Dismantlers of Kindness

this is the holding taketank for all the rummies...

flagrant disregarders, smack-talkers, angry young things and self-destructors. four a.m.ers, tweaking losers, frantic dismantlers of kindness. street sweepers, nightclub creepers and secret keepers.

the not-so-fine line between knowing the lyrics to "mr. brownstone" and having them tattooed on your back.

the lack of perfection in my personal selection has led me toward the latter, as of late. wanting something bigger than life. wanting something worth conquering, not these tired sad old quests that begin in a circle drawn around the words so what's it all about?

fuck what it's all about. give me action.

this moment in time and sorry facial expression courtesy of a boy who spoke to me explicitly last night. as i tried to chill it all out for long enough to watch cartoons in my bedroom, he says to me he says i'm really lovely. really. absolutely sweet and kind and fun. and oh how he'd love to hang out with me. but he'd rather be abusing himself right now.

that's the prettiest thing i've heard in months.

i walked him downstairs and felt much calmer after he'd left. my god. how rare is that honesty? he's honey-throated, gravel-voiced and pure mannish. hats off to the baggage claim early enough in the game for me to check my own luggage.

and for the beautiful people...

three quarters of the busta rhymes crew otherwise known as the united nations of sexy. missing from this picture is miss alyss, who i believe was on the other side of the lens. daughters and sons were not safe that evening, believe you me.



all i can really say about this picture is that i don't know what we're advertising, but i'll take three of them. no. make that four. thanks.

and now. hmmmm. i've got something in the works today. something unimaginable. gonna finish it up and play show and tell later. i'm off to the attic. hold my calls.