NYGA\B

New York Guys Around With Braces

Friday, January 28, 2005

Sterile Equipment

Some hints for the day:

Someone is chasing you. They've been at it for as long as you can remember. If you misbehaved in the store as a child, the man would come and spank you. Same man, modern day. He made it out of the store and is free wheeling with a hunger. For your cootie with a paddle.

You'll bounce back from adversity if you manage to avoid the big dirty boot. Afraid-of-nothing? Meet forget-me-not. She's had a velveteen pouch full of pixie dust to tussle into your hair for years now, and your number's finally been yanked from the sack. If only you believe ;-)

Order out tonight! Come on, treat yourself!

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

To Our Guests

To this year. The year of all years. The year that won't quit.

The year to take any regulatory implants in for routine maintenance. Write it down as part of a list. Make sure the other items on the list seem real menial to you, so this essential task has sparkling significance. So it stands out. Plastic things break. Metal objects are not dependable.

To the year.

Three hundred and bag-change of disappointing feelings and goals that won't be met. The guy obscured through the subway door window stretching that plastic bag to its limit doesn't have a home in the sense that you define it. And the leather bag next to him contains hundreds more bags of the same or similar dimensions. Filled with nothing. Go home and eat an egg. Go home and squeeze out a great big one.

To day tripping this year as part and parcel to toasting the year proper! Sometimes you just got to get away from the grind. Hop the train and hop the bus. Take the subway somewhere unexpected. Bring a metal detector! Keep the change!

To our year. When fun will take over and strap on the helmet that we made for it with our own hands.

The year that Daddy won't know when to stop tickling.

To us.

To the year.

Monday, January 24, 2005

THE RECIPE FOR TASTING TRADITION

Required Items:

1 Beating Stick
1/2 Cup Fresh Oil
1/2 Cup Tonic
3 Pieces Lamb
3 Tablespoons Gorgonzola Mixture
1 Big Hot Cup
8 Curling Inside Supports, Fresh
1 Flame and Clean Metal Extension
2 Wedges Lemon

STEPS

1. Arrange Curling Inside Supports in a meeting in the middle of your Big Hot Cup. Please prick the temperature to approximately 160 Degrees F for your Big Hot Cup, but it is not important to sustain that temperature until the extreme end of this project.

2. Curling Inside Supports in place, mix 1/2 Cup Fresh Oil and 1/2 Cup Tonic by pouring the opposing in your Big Hot Cup at exactly the same time. It will create movement you are not going to expect.

3. Engage Flame to your Clean Metal Extension until it approaches a fierce 250 Degrees F in the open air.

4. Spackle that Clean Metal Extension with Tablespoons Gorgonzola Mixture and gingerly slide Pieces Lamb across. Balance is really very important in this one.

5. So close! When your Clean Metal Extension yields blood from Pieces Lamb quickly turn Pieces Lamb right over.

6. Slide Pieces Lamb into your Big Hot Cup. Disengage Flame from Clean Metal Extension, which is likely ruined in some way. This is the price of Tasting Tradition.

7. Squeeze Wedges Lemon into your Big Hot Cup and drop the skins in there. Finally grind every object in your Big Hot Cup with your Beating Stick.

8. Raise the temperature of your Big Hot Cup to 160 Degrees F for the final stretch.

9. Cooling off, draw from your Tasting Tradition right from your Big Hot Cup and pass it around from friend to friend.

Tasting Tradition is hot and dangerous, but it's really worth it!

Friday, January 21, 2005

Hot Connection

Me: Sheath for the ugly stick. Know a hail mary backwards and forwards. What are your notable features? Well, for one, I prefer tortellini over fried chicken. I don't like it when the table cloth is touching me. I don't like to wear a watch. I don't like fat dogs. Gosh that gave me the shivers. No dogs whatsoever. I don't like holding the fort down. I don't like cheaters and the feelings that make them cheat. Who am I? I asked first.

You: Like to wear the short shorts, but showing off is absolutely last priority. Someone called me substantial.

Me: I do like exploration, and if you took the time to get to know me you would guess that I don't like binding. Well, as well as you thought you thought you knew me, I love binding things indeed. Can't count it against you, it was hypothetical. Substantial? Does that mean you're fat like the dogs I don't like?

You: I like rock music.

Me: I asked you a question.

You: Dodging.

Me: Dodged. On to the real marbled meat. I like to spend a lot of time in bed. How does that make you feel? Don't answer. There are good things in me like satisfying nooks and special interests. I'm partial to terror movies and soundtracks. I adore honey straight from the comb. So far I can't sink my teeth in you.

You: Well, walks in the park. Um, dancing with my best friends. Staying out late and throwing paying for it later and the inconvenience that may cause me bodily and emotionally to the wind up and out. Um, I'm lactose intolerant, and can't stand improv. Is that bad?

Me: Pull it back.

You: What?

Me: That was an order.

You: Um, you're starting to freak me out a little bit.

Me: I'm holding a hot wire.

You: What?

Me: That's a wire shooting sparks.

You: What? No. This isn't going to work out.

Me: You complete me.

You: God!

Here's a little constructive criticism:

If you're not ready for the big leagues be careful how you come off. This is not any version of any PSA for that matter either.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

The Overheard Tittering Song

It's messy being dropped from the blessy nest tail cresty fresh.
Smells like, uh I don't know whatever Colonel says
Neatly plucked dressed dead and pressed.
What's the best part, the breast?
No, this one, I'll check the neck his shit was too hi-test.

Not to be dismissive, I mean, this shit is unscripted
Glad to find all uplifted.
Whether snifted when he ripped it
Of piffed when he legit, Aw shit, bit the witch's tit,
Right? No, he can't talk his jeans too tight,
And anyway I think he wanna fight.
Too late he dead it's dusk here's night.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Let's have a meeting

Ninny.

You stink. You're distracted, lazy and overall, disappointing. I once believed in you and now don't - at all. What made you valuable all along has been finely scrutinized (Yes even when you didn't feel watched, turd furburger) and you're deficient in nearly every way possible, and in others on the tip of my tongue, barely conceived but confident in their eventual birth for your idiocy and incompetence.

I'd like you to cry.

What I mean to say is, it would make me gleeful if you wept at my displeasure and judgement of your palsied character. Please? It's hard to keep you from crying every day, so how about sparing me this self-effacing attempt at composure.

What, are you holding on to your dignity?

You see in order to have dignity, one has to have to have something of value, like skills, or an interesting world-view or even a hot mate. None of the above? Precisely. You're welling up. There you go, scum sucking pot-sticker. Feeling bad? Good, now we're getting somewhere.

The you inside of you that feels like it's dying inside every day? Yeah, that little guy. Oh, that's been out in the open there for quite some time. SURPRISE! Can you only imagine what it's been like for us? All of the little secrets and covenants that you keep with yourself ending in "...and that's why they'll never know!" We knew. We always knew. It was like it was tattooed on your forehead, "NOT EVEN A CHARITY CASE - KICK MY ASS ON AN EMOTIONAL LEVEL SO IT REALLY HURTS. I'M A BOTTOMLESS PIT FOR THAT."

Hey peach fuzz, don't go anywhere, we're just getting to the good stuff. C'mere and get up on my lap. Take a sucker. Make sure you're comfy, this'll take a while.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Dear Anthony,


Anthony, originally uploaded by Doctor Eight.

We're going to do this now, and on the web, Shill. Cad. Force it even though it doesn't belong, and it's called self-respect, pig-person.

Afraid that Mommy's reading? Afraid her granny panties are in a grease-squeezing knot because a real man is denying you access? Think you can follow this button nose through all the dusty dirties? Huh? Can't hear you Prince Valiant, your standard bearer just held a press conference - everybody knows you've got a scaly coolie.

You are formally disallowed from NYGA\B. Go lift weights, you deserve each other.

Yours,
Doctor Eight

Friday, January 14, 2005

A real cornucopia has justice written all over it in the blood of your forebears.


So I said to her, "Look, a ride on Monday is out of the question. I have feelings. I don't fear much, but when I get feeling disenfranchised at all, forget about it, I'll run from the town to the other town, and over to the town I'm from."

She balked, in that smarmy way that I had gotten used to. Hissing and grunting, bubbling over - what a combo. I'd leave all my things at home if I had to deal with the ruckus, projecting feelings onto what was really, simple dialogue.

"Oh justify it," she said.

"I'm lazy, but I'm not rich. The last time, I got less than you, and I got half of what you got. I think I know what you're getting at. Just to show you how far I've come, here's the directions I've stolen." I point forward with my hand, "Follow up, make a right on my parent's country lane, and keep on driving until you nearly drift off. You'll come up on the grey pond, left after that. Make your way past the store, and face what's coming up on the horizon. Bear left. Pull in. There's parking in the back." I had made a twisting map in the air.

She got up and got down.

I continued, "You'll need this ticket. Don't be afraid to flash it like you don't give a good goddamn. You'll feel like all eyes are on you. They are. But everyone thinks that that means pack up your breakfast, hop back in the car and head back. No, no, no. Never give up when there's some time left. Can't say that's original. Not original."

By this time the sun was way up, and burning bright holes in everything. I couldn't tell if we were getting somewhere. We weren't arriving at any point. In the fair, dumpy ditch we had dropped most of the items we had brought for this showdown: a pad of recycled paper, eye drops, a polaroid camera, and a copy of a book. I had dropped a tube straight down, and it was stained with mud and small rocks.

"Cancelled," she exclaimed abruptly.

Whose nose was turned up on that day, and I had practically signed a contract and hopped on for this sad sad story.

"All right, I'm listening," I offered.

"You're fucking insane," barking now.

"I'm used to it. Your vulgarity is off and running. What are we going to focus on now? Here I am, about as calm as can be, because I've covered myself, I've covered my parents; No one's knocking on our door. Let's stop this for a moment. Brush off your face."

She pulled her face off.

"We're getting somewhere. My my, you are rational when feelings are at stake. I'm full of you. Plain as the night sky, you fuck."

"Replace it," I replied rather more dictatorially than I had thought possible, "I've had enough."

I thought it better that we finished the conversation next door, so I motioned to her to wheel me up the ramp and around the corner.

She sprouted as she spoke, "I knew it. Fancy comes as forward motion fakes it. You're a real asshole. A loveable type, but boy I could really read you your rights. Should we put us behind ourselves?"

Not answering, I started to shake my head this way and that, tapping my fingers like a metronome.

"Let's finish with a riddle you bastard," she said.

"I'm game."

"No, you're responsible for every bit of information."

"Okay, when can I start this new plan?" I asked.

Her fingers tightened around the handles, and I knew what it was, the future was coming down the pike, and we wouldn't even be able to stop that mother working together.

THE RECIPE FOR TASTING CHICKEN

Required Items:

1 Chicken
1 Block of Sharp Wisconsin Cheddar Cheese (Extra Sharp) grated
3 Celery Stalks
1/2 Cup Shortening
2 Plugs of Haw Haw
2 Egg Yolks
4 Tablespoons Water
1 Pan

STEPS

1. Smear Pan with shortening. Try to cover every single inch in the event that your Chicken is disturbed.

2. Light up the oven to your preference depending on the amount of time that you would like to work on the Tasting Chicken project. Very hot is 600 degrees F. Medium hot we consider 450 Degrees F. Not hot we consider 150 degrees F. Depending on the amount of heat F employed, it might mean a considerably different number of hours spent working on the project.

3. Place Plugs of Haw Haw and all Cheddar Cheese into a bowl with your Tablespoons Water. Mash up Plugs of Haw Haw and Cheddar Cheese with your gloved hands. You'll find this easy for your Tablespoons Water!

4. Push Egg Yolks across and around Chicken. Fill the hole of Chicken with Haw Haw/Cheddar Cheese/Tablespoons Water mixture. Stuff it in.

5. Almost there! From the same hole of Chicken fan out Celery Stalks like a tail. Place Chicken in Pan, which you should then slide into the oven.

6. Watch your Chicken in that oven!

7. After your Chicken is golden brown remove it from the oven.

The real beauty of the recipe for Tasting Chicken is it's fun.

Enjoy by yourself or with a friend!

Thursday, January 13, 2005

I CAN GET AROUND WITHOUT YOUR HELP!

Hi my name is diversion.

Please get back to me regarding this weeks exclusive offer. Notice has been sent to our lawyers that you and your whole collection are ducking the question.

My job is to handle all of your business. Lay it on us. If you have something to show for it, give it to email. I am information. This email is an email. Email is chock full of formation. Your RSVP is direly supported. My email is my email. Lay it on her. My name is someone laid an oinker egg. Faboo.

Lately, someone sent me a special package. That package included: hors d'oeurves, axle, name that tune. Lovely patronizing. Email is the flipping news. Make up for that.

All right, love that new style. I emailed you about that. I emailed the style sheets to you and fancy tag-team is the new business. Whoop whoop.

In permission, the pants you sent me were way too big. Everyone at the store laughed nose bleed. Okay. Think of one hundred ruined jackets. Discipline is everywhere. Fairly, one more two.

All participants called and zapped. Afraid of nothing, meet the lamplighter. Take it easy and take it easy. No one plays second fiddle for dumpy dirties.

I think we're talking.

A Camping Song

I heard from a whole bunch of bees.
They dialed up and said, "Puh-lease,
don't extort the action scene
of its loafing farts and krispy kreemes."

When I caught on that they wanted me,
to git on stage and start to scream,
I beeped them back, an emergency,
that the whole durn thing's diaree -

I removed my moles one by one.
Placed them right up on my tongue.
The bees called back from planet fun,
now for blood from everyone.

"Organize!" I cried out in vain,
through the thick and bitter rain.
They came on down right through the drain,
yellin', "You won't live to see the day."

CHORUS:

I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.

Through the shadows and burning tears
I overcame my piddling fears
of swarms of bees and lighted trees,
'Cause Jesus found my luggage tags.

He is a great and frightful man
reached right out and grabbed my hand.
Led me up to the promised land,
and sent me back, with another plan.

He said, "Set on out for planet Earth,
Find a beast with tremendous girth.
Whisper right into its ear,
that it's no use - the bees are here."

CHORUS:

I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.

BONUS CHORUS:

I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.
I am red.

CODA:

Levelin' off .
Levelin' off .
One two three four five six seven, levelin' off.
Levelin' off.
Levelin' off.
We're levelin' off.
You're levelin' off.
I'm levelin' off.
We're levelin' off.
Levelin' off.

I think it's time to talk.

As charter members of the NYGA\B, I think we have to
consider laying down the laurels, and admitting that
this hasn't worked. We have no dues-paying members, no
scooters, no manifesto, and most importantly - WE -
the would-be bearers of the NYGA\B standard towards
it's destined ubiquitous perch over the 5 boroughs -
don't even have braces.

What really breaks my heart is that so much good could
have been done.

The de-facto standard of living in this gritty city
that could have drastically improved for our efforts,
our ascots, and our kind and selfless deeds. More safe
street crossing. Trimmed hedges. Less pole leaning.

What happened?

Really how productive can the blame game be? I'm not
pointing my finger at you. Well, at least not straight
at you. There are so many factors: lack of funds, lack
of stout hearts, lack of the piss and vinegar it takes
to cry. You know what I mean. Really cry.

I'm no quitter - and I'm guessing you're not either,
but i think it might take a bag full of blood and a
pair of jumper cables to get this thing started, and
blood is really hard to get.

I was feeling discouraged last night. Hurt. Confused.
I thought we had everything figured out.
That is, until I realized that out of every pile of
filthy ashes, a phoenix can and WILL emerge.

Lick your thumb and stick it in the air. Does that
mean you know something about the wind, and how it's
going to treat you in the next little while? The
people around you might think so, and that's exactly
what I'm getting at.

Enter the NYMWRUTTEKR

The New York Men Who Respect, Understand, and Try To
Experience Kokopelli Respectfully

It descended on me like a blinding flash. The NYGA\B
was too namby-pamby to ever cohere. I looked inside
myself and fellow man and understood that the impish
desire to do good is only a thinly veiled contempt for
everything that doesn't smell and sound like (Y)ou.
Why force it?

The New York Men Who Respect, Understand, and Try To
Experience Kokopelli Respectfully is a competitive
organization whose basis is essentially this: while we
respectfully approach the Kokopelli and its mystery,
follow its instructions, and bear ITS standard among
the 5 boroughs, we do so predicated only on the
understanding that there is only one Kokopelli. And it
will choose only one of us to take with it when it
goes. Only one. And while we have to work together
until that fateful day, eventually we will have to
connive and defeat each other to gain its fancy and
its favor.

Sounds more realistic doesn't it?

Perhaps you and I can arrange a discovery tour in the
near future, because I understand that this new
direction will require some finessing. To that point I
have BLIND CARBON COPIED this email to protect myself.
I think you know what I mean. Perhaps we can arrange
an initial group meeting - and perform some feats of
strength, and eat too much.

Warming the earth by playing his flute and singing
songs, Kokopelli would melt the winter snow and create
rain, ensuring a good harvest. Kokopelli often
displayed a long phallus, the robber fly, a
humped-back insect and a persistent copulator, and the
petroglyphic flute player with the cicada (maahu),
whose proboscis resembles a flute, whose buzzing is
described as fluting, and who can appear to have a
hump.

Bye Bye NYGA\B,
Your Friend