Truth doesn’t make a noise.
May 28th, 2010
Is a song by the White Stripes, on that album, “De Stijl,” a word the Whites nabbed in the Netherlands, meaning “The Style.” It was a Dutch art movement. But The Style could be some electro ditty with lots of synth, playing in my headphones for the daily commute. Could be a belt that holds fashion up, forward, that pulls the bell ding to high heel step financial district. Could be the hill that sucks balls and then gives a view like an orgasm, that will probably gasp my face for the next four years. At least. Such newness, such style. Such well-done orchestration of culture. I keep saying this. Like some broken record playing that favorite song that after the thirtieth play, you wonder if “does” is even a real word. Does. Does. Does. Does. Does. Funny how words lose their meaning the more you see them, the more you roll them around in your mouth, chew up and splinter, like sunflower seeds in the sixth inning. Here’s to it being Friday. Here’s to San Fran, the one shortening of this city yer apparently not supposed to say. But when someone tells me not to, it kinda becomes the reason for it. Doesn’t it. Oh yes. It does. 
This is about:
Humpday (+ 2) jamz c/o “gaga”
March 12th, 2010
Telephone. Damn. “I told you she didn’t have a dick.” “Too bad.”
