“Hey let me see that thing?” the big kid named Digga asks Will. “I was thinking about gettin’ one a ‘dem. I want to see how it goes.”
Will looks over at me, with his new crew cut he looks so young and innocent, like a lamb I think, you know – a sheep – I know it sounds kind of weird but it’s what I think for some reason. I know that doesn’t make any sense.
I shake my head, no. It’s a bullshit question. A fake question. Digga just wants to grab the skateboard.
“We gotta get going. We’re late,” I say to him. Answering on Will’s behalf.
I knew it was a bad idea to be skating over here by the gym. It’s pretty clear this is these townie kids’ territory, judging by the number of Southie types that are hanging around. Fuck, what were we thinking? We’re new at this school so I don’t entirely know the lay of the land yet, but I heard about these kids. They call them Point kids because they live in housing projects over in a neighborhood called the point. They are like a tamer version of Southie kids. Continue reading
Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. I’ve banked a few entries that I’ll post in the coming days. In the meantime please enjoy video I wrote, directed and acted in. I won’t be acting in any more videos so see it while you can.
Kurt Cobain and the Suicide Solution 20 Years Later
The Following is a copy of a piece I wrote for thefix.com
Read the original here
This document is filled with shame.
I have a secret. If I were to tell you this secret, you’d know me – and my inadequacy – completely, so it must be zealously guarded. It’s heady stuff.
Actually… the real problem with my secret is just how boring it is and worse, how self-important I am to consider it shameful. Despite the cost to my ego though, I recognize that after holding onto it for near 20 years it’s beyond time to spill the goods. You ready? I’m kind of obsessed with Kurt Cobain.
Talk about a misplaced, poorly thought through column. David Brooks, a man with a megaphone at one of the nation’s most important newspapers proved there is at least one subject that he has no business writing about – that would be Rastafari nugz – I mean pot, marijuana, you know… dank. Last week, the NY Times columnist wrote a seriously banal, low energy, and at the same time insidiously inconsiderate column about smoking pot.
Note: This entry is a bit of a drug policy rant. It’s opinion, not fiction and potentially not what you came here to read. Consider starting with the next entry. Hugz not drugz – JSM
Inspired by a friend on Facebook, I tried to tally all the books I read this year. I think if I included books I didn’t finish this list would be twice as long. I wasn’t super psyched about what I read this year, unfortunately.
Just Kids – Patti Smith – my rating 7/10
The Forest for the Trees – Betsy Lerner - my rating: can’t remember
A Feast for Crows – George R. Martin - my rating: 8/10
I Dreamed I Was a Very Clean Tramp – Richard Hell - my rating: 7/10 Continue reading
I’m beginning to reconsider my original assessment of how hot Sara actually is. Maybe I was a bit hasty in my initial appraisal. I do that sometimes; judge women a little too harshly. She bends over the coffee table and sets down a bowl of tortilla chips. I catch a sidelong look down her shirt and decide that there just might be more life in those boobs than meets the eye. Boobs can be tricky that way. Continue reading
Saturday morning I emerge from my tomb-like bedroom into the living room. Will is sitting on the couch in his underwear. He’s lithe and strong with no body fat. I wouldn’t want to have to fight him, but then I pretty much don’t want to fight anyone. I’ve seen him and his brother go at it. They both gave as good as they got and fought each other to an draw – it looked exhausting and painful – not to mention pointless. Continue reading