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Nuclear-Grade Intensity In Ten Cities
Splitting an atom in Times Square would give more culture to New York than Broadway ever will.
Muhammud Ali: float like a butterfly, Parkinson’s like a motherfucker.
Parenting tip: beat your kids early-they grow up fast, and before you know it they just won’t fly like they used to.
Parent-eating tip: Be sure to cook Mom and Dad all the way through, otherwise you’ll be able to taste their disappointment in you.
Question for GQ magazine: what kind of wine goes best with revenge? Why, strychnine wine, of course.
This week on MTV’s Diary: Anne Frank-“You think you know, but if you’re not really quiet I’ll end up in a fucking furnace.
.............
On September 11th, 2001, I was at the tailend of a three-week-long binge on psychoactive mushrooms. I'd picked up a pound of quality fungus near the close of August for an agreeable 1600 dollars and decided not to sell any of them, but rather to subsist on nothing but them for as long as I could. The world seemed to be more beautiful than it ever had before as my brain was constantly discovering poetic drug-induced profundity. I had been staring into a mirror for three hours or so, the only thing I knew to be 100 percent accurate about my face being the smile, when the phone rang.
"Ghostbusters," I answered, in signature style.
"I burn, baby, burn like disco inferno." It was Sprak, my closest friend, a fairly exclusive grouping in itself.
"You don't say?"
"What are your thoughts," he asks, and I’m tempted to tell him that twenty years from now I plan to be moving shit around with my brain.
"I dunno, dude, it's pretty fucked up. My eyes are almost completely black. I want my pupils to always be this size. Maybe I could get my iris tattooed with lasers or something."
For some reason, he’s confused by this. "Huh? Are you still tripping? Turn on channel four."
"Nah, I never get visuals off the TV." Eventually he explained what was going on and I excitedly flipped on the tube. What an incredible sight. Not that I was happy at the end of all those lives, but I wasn’t necessarily bothered by it either. I didn't know anyone connected in any way to the WTC, or really New York in general, so to me it was just spectacle. I sat there, awestruck, wide-eyed and grinning at the flames licking out from the gaping holes, slipping upwards and then vanishing, as thick, tumultuous smoke poured into the sky in great barrels. Finally, something had happened. My generation would no longer have to list Cobain's or Biggie's or Tupac's death as our definitive event. Besides, any kind of rebellion is good in my eyes. If you have power, I'm sorry, but I'd kinda like to see you be terrorized. Even out the field a little. After a while I got bored of the replays and ventured out into public.
Everywhere I went I was irritated by the conversations I overheard. Patriotic bullshit, kill the ragheads bullshit, sentimental bullshit, I just didn't care anymore. It had happened five hours ago. Couldn't we move on? Were there any good movies out? But I knew that people wouldn't share my views, especially after being chased out of a diner for commenting that, "Hey, at least some cops went down, eh?" I had to find somewhere to go that would just be business as usual. The answer was obvious--stripclub.
Delilah's Den in South Amboy, New Jersey: the finest fully nude establishment within 45 minutes of my home. I was, still kinda am, a semi-regular customer, known to most of the employees primarily by virtue of the dough I throw around and the fact that I occasionally deal to the girls/bouncers/manager. It seemed like the flesh business was my only chance of not having to hear some whining. I was almost right. All the experienced girls were going about business as usual, smiling, flirting, no talk whatsoever of world affairs, just offers of fake affection in exchange for real money. But my favorite girl at the time, Vanessa, a youngun' with a delightfully natural body who bore a slight resemblance to a girl I had a thing for freshman year, was staying fully clothed, watching the TVs (which were not playing ESPN as they usually did, but rather more fucking news which was all a-twitter with their new footage of the first plane), not even dancing. I inquired of one of the other girls, Vegas, what was wrong with her.
"Vanessa has some friends in NY. She hasn't been able to get in touch with them all day because of the phone lines being down, and Victor (the boss) wouldn't let her take off."
"Oh man, that's horrible." But that's not really what I was thinking. I saw an opportunity. See, what the girls do onstage is their business, but the revenue from lapdances is cut with both the club and the bouncers, so girls aren't allowed to refuse an offer unless they want to get smacked around. I circled over to the stage exit to make sure she couldn't run to the back without me catching her. She refused to make eye contact as she got off, but I stopped her.
"Hey kiddo, can I get a dance?" Stunned, she looked at me like I was a demon-how could I be so devoid of compassion as to be in a stripclub on this sad day, asking her to rub her sex all over me? Little did realize…
"I really don't think you want me. I'm not feeling up to it tonight."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be just fine." The anger in her eyes just faded to exhausted compliance, a look that women in the objectification professions sometimes acquire permanently, and she led me to the private area. Under normal circumstances she was a wonderful dance, a real sweatheart who would try to break the rules for you if no one was around, grabbing your dick with her hand, kissing it, throwing a little titty fuck in there (if you were wearing soft, non-zippered pants, as one always should when getting a lap dance--sweatpants or pajamas recommended, the girls will appreciate it too), and letting you feel her up when it was easy to hide. This time we were the only two back there, and yet there was none of that. Usually she would start off easing into it, lightly brushing her body along mine while moaning in my ear before engaging in any serious grinding, to give me time to get a hard-on going. Instead, she just rolled her slipdress off and mounted my leg, sliding back and forth without any passion, her face a foot away from mine, staring up at the wall, silent. I wasn't even aroused, and I doubt I could have been with all the mushrooms in me, but I was fascinated with the image. The pure uncompromised misery of this girl's situation, combined with the repeating images of crumbling buildings and expert flying playing on a TV screen easily visible just over her shoulder was tantalizing a more powerful lust in me-a love for tragedy. After only two minutes or so, she got up and started to put her clothes back on, but I pulled out a second twenty and asked for another.
"What the fuck, why? I was horrible, I know I was, I did it on purpose."
"I don’t know what you mean, I thought it was some of your best work." She grimaced, then frowned, and took the dress back off. This time she was a little more into it, trying to appease me because she thought I was making her dance again as punishment for not doing enough the first time. She moved my left hand up onto her breast and I let it drop back to the bench. I didn’t want her to have any legitimate grounds for complaint to the bouncers. This time she went what felt like the whole four minutes, but when she got up I had another twenty out before she could even reach for her dress. She flinched, the fear of an abused dog flickering in her eyes, and got down on her knees to pull out all the stops. Her hands ran up and down my torso as she rubbed her tits all over my groin and thighs, and she tried to pull my dick up between them but I was still limp, and she looked up at me curiously where my smile and black eyes obviously scared the shit out of her because she immediately turned around and started trying a doggystyle technique. She switched up as frequently as she normally would, moving into a cowgirl position, clutching my face tightly to her chest, moaning, acting for all she was worth. The song ended and she stayed on me but pulled back and looked to me in question. I had the bill in my hand, waiting, having already decided that this had to reach complete fruition. In disbelief she let out a brief shreik of anguish and the anger and frustration took over. She forcibly pulled me forward until my ass was at the edge of the seat, reached into my pants and stretched my dick along my left thigh, then mounted her pussy directly on top of it and wrapped her legs around my leg, tight and efficient. Now she was just riding me for all she could muster, moving so fervently she had to grip the back of the bench to steady herself. Deep guttural grunts were coming out of her, but with no pretense of sexuality to it, just the natural exhale of air for someone tensing every muscle in their body. She could only keep it up for two minutes or so, when her body heaved, and she stopped, and collapsed on top of me, and softly began to weep. This was what I had been waiting for. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered into her ear, “It’s okay sweetie-I’m here.” As I had hoped, this caused her to snap, the halting, sniffling tears of a moment ago instantly transforming into full-on bawling. Her arms came around me again and her hands held my face cheek-to-cheek with her and she resumed grinding, slowly, almost passionately, as she squeezed me and tried to press as much of her body against mine as she could just to feel someone there. “Shh,” I whispered to her, rubbing her back, and as her crying started to slow I helped her off me and onto the seat next to me. Now I stood up, and got out a fifty and held it out to her. She looked up, reached for it, grabbed ahold of it, and I didn’t let go so that she would look me in the eyes. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I said. “Thanks,” she replied, mascara streaming all the way down her face and onto her neck, and I walked away, wishing that there were an immense cloud of dust rushing at my back at a thousand miles an hour.
Splitting an atom in Times Square would give more culture to New York than Broadway ever will.
Muhammud Ali: float like a butterfly, Parkinson’s like a motherfucker.
Parenting tip: beat your kids early-they grow up fast, and before you know it they just won’t fly like they used to.
Parent-eating tip: Be sure to cook Mom and Dad all the way through, otherwise you’ll be able to taste their disappointment in you.
Question for GQ magazine: what kind of wine goes best with revenge? Why, strychnine wine, of course.
This week on MTV’s Diary: Anne Frank-“You think you know, but if you’re not really quiet I’ll end up in a fucking furnace.
.............
On September 11th, 2001, I was at the tailend of a three-week-long binge on psychoactive mushrooms. I'd picked up a pound of quality fungus near the close of August for an agreeable 1600 dollars and decided not to sell any of them, but rather to subsist on nothing but them for as long as I could. The world seemed to be more beautiful than it ever had before as my brain was constantly discovering poetic drug-induced profundity. I had been staring into a mirror for three hours or so, the only thing I knew to be 100 percent accurate about my face being the smile, when the phone rang.
"Ghostbusters," I answered, in signature style.
"I burn, baby, burn like disco inferno." It was Sprak, my closest friend, a fairly exclusive grouping in itself.
"You don't say?"
"What are your thoughts," he asks, and I’m tempted to tell him that twenty years from now I plan to be moving shit around with my brain.
"I dunno, dude, it's pretty fucked up. My eyes are almost completely black. I want my pupils to always be this size. Maybe I could get my iris tattooed with lasers or something."
For some reason, he’s confused by this. "Huh? Are you still tripping? Turn on channel four."
"Nah, I never get visuals off the TV." Eventually he explained what was going on and I excitedly flipped on the tube. What an incredible sight. Not that I was happy at the end of all those lives, but I wasn’t necessarily bothered by it either. I didn't know anyone connected in any way to the WTC, or really New York in general, so to me it was just spectacle. I sat there, awestruck, wide-eyed and grinning at the flames licking out from the gaping holes, slipping upwards and then vanishing, as thick, tumultuous smoke poured into the sky in great barrels. Finally, something had happened. My generation would no longer have to list Cobain's or Biggie's or Tupac's death as our definitive event. Besides, any kind of rebellion is good in my eyes. If you have power, I'm sorry, but I'd kinda like to see you be terrorized. Even out the field a little. After a while I got bored of the replays and ventured out into public.
Everywhere I went I was irritated by the conversations I overheard. Patriotic bullshit, kill the ragheads bullshit, sentimental bullshit, I just didn't care anymore. It had happened five hours ago. Couldn't we move on? Were there any good movies out? But I knew that people wouldn't share my views, especially after being chased out of a diner for commenting that, "Hey, at least some cops went down, eh?" I had to find somewhere to go that would just be business as usual. The answer was obvious--stripclub.
Delilah's Den in South Amboy, New Jersey: the finest fully nude establishment within 45 minutes of my home. I was, still kinda am, a semi-regular customer, known to most of the employees primarily by virtue of the dough I throw around and the fact that I occasionally deal to the girls/bouncers/manager. It seemed like the flesh business was my only chance of not having to hear some whining. I was almost right. All the experienced girls were going about business as usual, smiling, flirting, no talk whatsoever of world affairs, just offers of fake affection in exchange for real money. But my favorite girl at the time, Vanessa, a youngun' with a delightfully natural body who bore a slight resemblance to a girl I had a thing for freshman year, was staying fully clothed, watching the TVs (which were not playing ESPN as they usually did, but rather more fucking news which was all a-twitter with their new footage of the first plane), not even dancing. I inquired of one of the other girls, Vegas, what was wrong with her.
"Vanessa has some friends in NY. She hasn't been able to get in touch with them all day because of the phone lines being down, and Victor (the boss) wouldn't let her take off."
"Oh man, that's horrible." But that's not really what I was thinking. I saw an opportunity. See, what the girls do onstage is their business, but the revenue from lapdances is cut with both the club and the bouncers, so girls aren't allowed to refuse an offer unless they want to get smacked around. I circled over to the stage exit to make sure she couldn't run to the back without me catching her. She refused to make eye contact as she got off, but I stopped her.
"Hey kiddo, can I get a dance?" Stunned, she looked at me like I was a demon-how could I be so devoid of compassion as to be in a stripclub on this sad day, asking her to rub her sex all over me? Little did realize…
"I really don't think you want me. I'm not feeling up to it tonight."
"Oh, I'm sure you'll be just fine." The anger in her eyes just faded to exhausted compliance, a look that women in the objectification professions sometimes acquire permanently, and she led me to the private area. Under normal circumstances she was a wonderful dance, a real sweatheart who would try to break the rules for you if no one was around, grabbing your dick with her hand, kissing it, throwing a little titty fuck in there (if you were wearing soft, non-zippered pants, as one always should when getting a lap dance--sweatpants or pajamas recommended, the girls will appreciate it too), and letting you feel her up when it was easy to hide. This time we were the only two back there, and yet there was none of that. Usually she would start off easing into it, lightly brushing her body along mine while moaning in my ear before engaging in any serious grinding, to give me time to get a hard-on going. Instead, she just rolled her slipdress off and mounted my leg, sliding back and forth without any passion, her face a foot away from mine, staring up at the wall, silent. I wasn't even aroused, and I doubt I could have been with all the mushrooms in me, but I was fascinated with the image. The pure uncompromised misery of this girl's situation, combined with the repeating images of crumbling buildings and expert flying playing on a TV screen easily visible just over her shoulder was tantalizing a more powerful lust in me-a love for tragedy. After only two minutes or so, she got up and started to put her clothes back on, but I pulled out a second twenty and asked for another.
"What the fuck, why? I was horrible, I know I was, I did it on purpose."
"I don’t know what you mean, I thought it was some of your best work." She grimaced, then frowned, and took the dress back off. This time she was a little more into it, trying to appease me because she thought I was making her dance again as punishment for not doing enough the first time. She moved my left hand up onto her breast and I let it drop back to the bench. I didn’t want her to have any legitimate grounds for complaint to the bouncers. This time she went what felt like the whole four minutes, but when she got up I had another twenty out before she could even reach for her dress. She flinched, the fear of an abused dog flickering in her eyes, and got down on her knees to pull out all the stops. Her hands ran up and down my torso as she rubbed her tits all over my groin and thighs, and she tried to pull my dick up between them but I was still limp, and she looked up at me curiously where my smile and black eyes obviously scared the shit out of her because she immediately turned around and started trying a doggystyle technique. She switched up as frequently as she normally would, moving into a cowgirl position, clutching my face tightly to her chest, moaning, acting for all she was worth. The song ended and she stayed on me but pulled back and looked to me in question. I had the bill in my hand, waiting, having already decided that this had to reach complete fruition. In disbelief she let out a brief shreik of anguish and the anger and frustration took over. She forcibly pulled me forward until my ass was at the edge of the seat, reached into my pants and stretched my dick along my left thigh, then mounted her pussy directly on top of it and wrapped her legs around my leg, tight and efficient. Now she was just riding me for all she could muster, moving so fervently she had to grip the back of the bench to steady herself. Deep guttural grunts were coming out of her, but with no pretense of sexuality to it, just the natural exhale of air for someone tensing every muscle in their body. She could only keep it up for two minutes or so, when her body heaved, and she stopped, and collapsed on top of me, and softly began to weep. This was what I had been waiting for. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered into her ear, “It’s okay sweetie-I’m here.” As I had hoped, this caused her to snap, the halting, sniffling tears of a moment ago instantly transforming into full-on bawling. Her arms came around me again and her hands held my face cheek-to-cheek with her and she resumed grinding, slowly, almost passionately, as she squeezed me and tried to press as much of her body against mine as she could just to feel someone there. “Shh,” I whispered to her, rubbing her back, and as her crying started to slow I helped her off me and onto the seat next to me. Now I stood up, and got out a fifty and held it out to her. She looked up, reached for it, grabbed ahold of it, and I didn’t let go so that she would look me in the eyes. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” I said. “Thanks,” she replied, mascara streaming all the way down her face and onto her neck, and I walked away, wishing that there were an immense cloud of dust rushing at my back at a thousand miles an hour.