tropicgoth:

:( HAPPY WORLD GOTH DAY :(

nicolebonaccorso:

I never have.

I’ve only slept with one person.

I’m bored.

It’s cold.

He’s dumb and I feel bad.

We have nothing in common.

Maybe I’ll like him more.

I hate the last person I slept with.

He has air conditioning, and it’s hot.

He included a poem about me in his thesis.

We’ve already done it.

He’s funny.

My roommate did.

stopped his truck and asked to take a video of me dancing to his music. he said “no one likes this song” (although its my favorite ice cream truck song around cuz its got a beat) in a puerto rican accent and he looked kinda tough in baggy pants and taped me on his i phone dancing with a ceramic chicken in my hand.

globalpost:

An ancient unknown language engraved on a clay tablet was unearthed by archaeologists working in Turkey.

The tablet, dating back more than 2500 years, is believed to be from the ancient Assyrian city of Tushan.

PART ONE

so yesterday was my poppop’s 92nd birthday. i wake up around noon and get the 47 around 1:30. Get off at 7th and market. get a falafel sandwich and a coke for $4 from a nice arab man in a lunch cart at 8th and market. walk across the street take the patco to walter rand (in camden). $1.40.  WALTER RAND. i read vice and leaves of grass. “in a dream I saw a city invincible” is in big concrete blocks on a tall building across from the waiting area. whitman quote. ha. everyone looks like they have been beat up a hundred thousand times and is eating crown fried chicken or is a war veteran returning from the ss new jersey and seemingly oblivious to the fact that we are in hell. $1.50. get my ticket stamped. walter rand was a new jersey legislator who expanded the transportation system, and the new jersey transit logo is three diagonal stripes, blue, purple and yellow. i’m reading about the wars in mexico, and 15-year-olds are talking about dealing drugs, and smoking marijuana, as if it were exciting and cool, and telling the one white boy in my section that they bet he is trash at basketball.

i get off in delanco. as of the 2000 census, the township population was 3,237. it is situated on the jersey side of the deleware river, and north of the rancocas creek, once called “deleranco”, the name was shortened to “delanco”. my grandparents have been living there in a 2-story, one-bathroom, 3.5-bedroom red house 2 blocks from the deleware, since 1953. my cousin john has been living next door with his mom (my dad’s sister) and his dad (an english schoolteacher at shawnee high school and a huge beatles fan and a man with a pony tail) in a one-story, 2-bedroom blue house since 1988. its about a half mile from the train, which i remember being constructed, specifically when the barge carrying a large blue bridge which now carries the train across the rancocas creek tipped over and for weeks or maybe months the bridge was laying tipped over in the creek til they came and fixed it. riverside, a one-square-mile town, in one edition of the guinness book of world records, boasted the most bars per square mile in the country, and is famous for its former watchcase factory, which closed in 1956, making “boost” (a strange soft drink syrup that is sold in about 20 small towns in south jersey), filming “jesus’s son” (because it looked the most like a small town in the ‘70’s midwest (in 1999)) and deporting thousands of brazilian and portuguese immigrants between 2006 and now.

i tell my poppop happy birthday. he was in the army and fought at the battle of the bulge in belgium, like kurt vonnegut, and is now a republican. i drive my mommom to the post office, to mail back the stockings she mail-ordered, which do not fit her. she was a nurse in the army during world war two, where she met my poppop, in washington state, in the line at the army liquor store (which was exclusive for officers and i guess nurses) and he asked her to a dance. she did her nursing residency at byberry state hospital (i found out yesterday), a now-abandoned mental institution in northeast philadelphia, in the ‘30’s, during the depression, before modern medicine, in a psychiatric hospital. “that, then the war” i’m thinking. she is the sweetest woman you will ever meet. she gives money to the church, makes baskets for the poor, had hungarian parents, gives me kisses and money, and was a nurse in a geriatric facility until she was eighty-one years old, and was older than most of her patients. she dresses colorfully.

we go to shoprite in delran, which has a bad parking lot. she gets milk and orange juice and bread and liver and oreos with chocolate stuffing for my poppop, and we can’t find the bread sticks, which later upsets my poppop. i get some stuff like kale and fake chicken and ice pops. (i think im gonna eat an ice pop after im done writing this). im wondering if me walking around with my 93-year-old grandmother with a cane makes me look cute to girls here. im wondering why they only give out regular-sized condoms on the new york subway, and not the extra big ones. it’s a problem. Im wondering how she loves me so much, even though she will never go to a basement show, or watch me rock and roll, or smoke dmt, or watch water bugs in a stream, or climb a tree again. she calls it “afriganistan” because she can’t remember or pronounce “afghanistan”. i love my mommom.

we go home. my father’s best childhood friend randy’s mom died when she was 81 walking into the tailor’s to get some shit hemmed when a tractor-trailer lost control and plowed through the front of the building. she was in the hospital for three days with the injuries and then she died.

we eat dinner. poppop has a turkey sandwich and some salt-free chips cuz his heart is bad, mommom has soup and green beans. i have 2 veggie burgers, green beans and a fruit salad with orange juice. this is what I eat basically every time I go there, which is about once a week since my poppop suffered a drop foot and was no longer able to drive about a year ago, so i can drive them to get groceries and pills and make appointments and such, in burlington county, the capital of which (burlington) is older than philadelphia. most of the county is completely fucked with a few exceptions (mount laurel, evesham, moorestown (former nicest place to live in america)) and its crumbling bricks and broken factories and painters and truck drivers and mail men and kids on bmx bikes and a “shocker” sticker on a little suv outside of 7-11 and black folks in aldi and i watch it with these old folks on route 130 or on the river line, and we go to the best “bottom dollar” i’ve ever been in and there’s a family of retarded people laughing. i take their trash out. i read walt whitman. my poppop read right-leaning historical hardbacks about 300 hours a week. after the war he went to college only because my mommom wouldn’t marry him if he didn’t, so the story goes. before the war, she was engaged to four different men and joined the nurse core to get away from them, so the story goes, met an irish boy from connecticut, and brought him back to new jersey. he was a history teacher and a high school principle.  he loves her very much and is grumpy and calls her “dear” and “dearest” sometimes. he is very hard of hearing. The live off pensions and give me $200 every month and sometimes more for small chores, which I accept because I am poor and have no job and live off of this and go out to bars and smoke marijuana and buy things at thrift stores and break them and get stains on them when im drunk.

my dad picks me up around 8 or 9. we drive to 7-11 and get boosties and he gets two hot dogs from the philipino or something woman. and he drives me home and we listen to songs from the 70’s and he remembers when “all right now” came out and he was in college. “that must have been cool” i say. yeah, it was. drive down 130. my mother says “route 130 is the ugliest road I have ever seen” and it is quite amazing and also dying a cracked-out death for the large. we take the betsy ross. betsy ross! We take 95. we take christopher columbus and washington. we drive by the basketball courts where on a similar trip from delanco me and my mom and dad heard gun shots and kids running off the court and I called 9-11 and I found out a 12-year-old and a 15-year-old were shot by an unknown assailant the next day. my dad tells the story again of how in 1970 john denver played a show at his college after having written “leaving on a jet plane” and getting enough money from peter, paul and mary to buy a car and go on tour. he was hanging out in my dad’s dorm and my dad had a nice guitar (a gibson, i still play it. its amazing), so john played it. Ive heard this story about a billion times, but this time my dad revelead to me he also played for john denver one of his songs. “what was it called?” “patti the cheerleader”. It was in D. I love D!

i get out of the car, get the groceries and go inside.

PART TWO (GETTING DRUNK)

i bring in the groceries. a bunch of people are hanging out, drinking andrew (not me)’s nice beer and smoking his american spirits. i have a red stripe. andrew is a guard at a navy prison in afghanistan, and works some sonar machine on a ship in the sea. the navy has no guitars on ships in the ocean for months, years. in afghanistan, you can walk to the store, buy a loaf of bread, a pair of socks, a live animal, an rpg, a machine gun, and a hand grenade, which you could quite possibly use later to murder your next door neighbor, who you have been in a holy war with for 1200 years because some clan came and invaded 1250 years ago or some shit, and your country has been occupied by some foreign force for like 2000 years (most recently, the usa and co. inc.). in afghanistan, some people are extremely wealthy and their families have been for a thousand years since they sold someone out to inians or russians or mongolians or some shit forever ago, or some shit. in afghanistan, most people are very, very, very poor. you are an opium dealer and so you have sim cards, however, and that’s how people make and trade electronic music, which is very interesting and middle-eastern sounding on low-fi sim cards. afghanis think the prototypical hero american is some pro wrestler i had never heard of until andrew told me about it. like EVERYONE thinks that. americans and russians and polish people and well i guess the whole world has been scrawling dicks in bathrooms since we brought bathrooms there. afghanis shit in holes, even the rich ones.

anyway, the navy pays pretty well, so when andrew comes to town, i don’t remember much after about 11pm. He can’t drink on the boat or when he’s on assignment, so when he comes back he hooks it up for everyone, and then we go out.

first, to the dolphin. my father used to go to the dolphin in the 70’s. it was a big country and western bar. tonight, there are three girls in g-string dancing on the bar to p-funk and outkast, and some overweight woman is slurring so bad i can hardly make out anything, except “so what do you want to do? do you want to fuck or what???” (…nahhhh.) and stealing the tip off the bar right before the bar tender tells us “yeah she’s a little…. she’s a good soul”. pat is talking to three strippers, and one of their’s very attractive friend with an afro. it’s me, pat, andrew (salyer, u.s. navy), andrew (lifers, noise music) and andrew (me) (the a-team) and vince, who’s music video premiered on vice.com or some shit today. good for him. he doesn’t want to go to the club tomorrow but he doesn’t want his girlfriend to go without him. cognitive dissonance. he also doesn’t want to go to the club with us, so we go to the club without him. navy andrew drives drunk to the gayborhood, and we go to “voyeur”.

the party is called “snacks”, they give out hot dogs (wieners) and play house music. the crowd is mostly hipsters and homosexuals. the beer is expensive. a shot of jameson in a paper cup is $5. i dance a little, get drunk, hear some guys crazy story of someone trying to ram him off 95 from deleeware to philly, talk to people, see some people blablabla and decide to walk home.

PART THREE

this is where the story gets WEIRD.

im so fucking drunk. i cant remember where i was. somewhere in the gayborhood, when a transsexual (presumably, because there are a lot of them around) prostitute approaches me and i can’t remember what was said, but she is grabbing my cock and i am politely trying to move on but am so drunk also sort of enjoy it i guess. very aggressive. she backs me into a wall and next thing i remember my cock is out on the street and she is felating me. i enjoy it for a second, then begin to remember what the fuck and im feeling very awkward. he gets up and pulls her pants down and screams at me to “fuck my ass” i decline. i don’t remember well but i get away. she comes calling from behind me “your wallet!”. wtf. i get the wallet back from him/her and look inside. its empty. i think i had about thirty or fourty dollars, so i’m pissed. i walk after her, she awkwardly denies the allegations and is speedwalking away. another tranny hooker gets involved, i’m being yelled at. at some point, im chasing her at a run. at some point, she’s got me gripped on a wall. at some point im chasing her and 23 dollars fall on the ground and i pick it up. im walking home, think im safe and she comes up with another tranny and a kid on a bike i presume is her pimp, holding my rolling tobacco. i say “that’s my cigarettes” and he says “are these yours?” and gives them to me. he’s NICE. he says “you don’t have any money do you?” “no.” (i lie) “alright”. and I walk home, recollecting this today, feeling kind of majorly fucked up but still laughing. I HOPE I DON’T HAVE AIDS THE HEAD WASNT EVEN GOOD EVENING USA.

earlier today i was considering “strawberry fields” the appropriate song to play on repeat when i commit suicide, then i left my house to meet my dad to go with him to a phillies game and i found an old macbook in the trash around the corner from my house, went home again. i dont think it works but it was cool. saw pat and yago and tony and they made me happy. then i left again, feeling a little better.

i have something wrong with my right eye. it started hurting yesterday so i took out my contact and cleaned it and put it back in and then went out to do karaoke at 12 steps down (in the italian market) and got real drunk and forgot about my eye pain. hung out with these guys that book shows with pat called “phonographic arts” and i cant remember any of their names and they depressed me because they are in it for money and girls and parties and shit and dont seem to know much about music or anything but i guess they’re all right. woke up at 3pm and my eye was killing me and it still is and i think i scratched my cornea or something.

anyway….

i was walking on dickinson inbetween 9th and 10th and out front of the post office there was a woman blowing bubbles and she started talking to me telling me its a wonderful day. “ok”. often people that talk to you on the street are people i dont really want to talk to. she’s middle aged and wearing flower print shoes. she says, “ten wishes will come true for you by tomorrow night if you repeat after me… bee-bitty bee-bitty boo” “dreams do come true” “and it can happen to yoou”. and so i said it. she then said “i see you like colors” and complimented my shoes, which are blue suede sneakers…. which i purchased from goodwill so i could say “you can do anything, but don’t step on my blue sued shoes”. and so i said it. she told me i had “the most beautiful blue eyes” and “the cutest brown hair”. then she to have a nice day and started to walk away, turned and said “oh, i’m happy hannah” and walked away. i looked back and saw her picking shit up off the ground, like i do. a couple blocks later i found “super stars of sex” and “face/off” on vhs in front of a barber shop in the trash.

i gotta think of some wishes.