Ask iAN

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ASK iAN * TAKE THE TICKET / BE MY RIDE / EAT THE TICKET / RIDE THE SNAKE / THE BLACK RYDER IN S.F. 2013

                                            So me mam took me down by the trams to the train.  i was in a foul mood, feelin' like Stephen King lookin' for a car wreck of football players to take a nap in...to doze off in blood and the safety of dead numbers...instead i pressed on up to the pub and had a hearty piss.  Bowling out past the props of peoples celebrating St. Pat's day, i squeezed through...unarmed...i slank through thick secretary rumps hunched to the rim, square pushers and real full ON Step Dads drunk on party favors, wife beater whiskey and the hopes for something shining by night's End...a wet lavender orchid of vaginal lips in flashing sequence...mouthing the words in mute undertones..."i love your dick big daddy"  but no...they would all go home gastrol'arsed, fumbling for the keys, ape knuckles jamming into the gear shifts and blindly rumbling through the glove compartment for D.U.I. registration and proof of insurance papers...i felt thin, ill and the BLACK RYDER blew on the wind...taunted like an old ghost flame on the horizon...i bought a train ticket with much stress...machine spitting back at me my wrankled and bald headed, wooden toothed George washinton bad boy number 1.  America...i'm in San Francisco at dusk...i stood by the side with a brother and zapped into the mouth of the side doors, headed for homo city...

Homo city...where every GOOD & DECENT bartender calls me by name...BABY. NOW, it is nearly impossible for me to enjoy ordering a drink at any establishment where the bartender doesn't call me baby...no baby, no money, bub. I clamor up the Castro searching out an intelligent light...i come upon two beefcakes...both...tits tough, look like they could mangle a mountain lion with with the flank of their ballbags...i ask them for directions to the Mission...and the shorter of these stalwart bulltwarped noggins ask me if i'm on a mission?  I says yeahs, but no dear handsome teardrop...where IS the mission district...goddamned honeybuns! He says up, left, right, straight, down, a little left, go right, up, up, up and right and you're almost there.... i didn't know if he was giving me directions to my destination or if he was guiding my phallus through the hallways of his invisible asshole... i bowed my head and tipped my hood and dropped many thanx and was off Up through the bargain bin basement crack rock Jasons, past the celebratory linesackers, the spare ribs of twin catastrophes, pressing on past nothing lush, a broken baby's white guitar on the downward sidewalk...i took a left on a steep hill...and found myself right on the ass of some half virgin queerelle who looked lonely for groceries.... Like a force of nature...i loamed and had a long way to go down this mountain...roughly 800 steps, and i am on the verge of tipping...fighting for gravity...and i am on the ass, only 3 steps from behind this poor man's moving slim frame...i know he can feel me breathing down his backside...he is scared and can't turn around up hill...not at that degree...so he must continue to escalate downwards....me...on his fragile tail...i am wearing 90 pound biker boots, my body aches so i moan sometimes and when i do...my smoker's moan sounds like a draw-bridge getting ass flanked by a battalion of major Ass Lords....this guy is thinking i am the Zodiac killer, hot on his buns, for one last ride to the last coma blood soda machine....after 800 steps at the bottom of the street, he takes a hard left and hauls balls with what's left of his wet diaper, facial sweat from eyebrows, and his ears twitching like a near death rabbit...Me?   I haul a hard ass right with my crookid torso, blow spit on side walk, snort Taurus relief, cinch up my girl black jeans and press on past the winos in the park, past the croissant douches, through the people eating in places that look like movies or magazine ads for dining furniture you can't afford and would only dirty up with your un rich un clean paws and mittens...i roll past all that dead sass...i even roll past the past of coziness...back in play...i find my old hideout...the bull-dyke bar where my favorite tuff girls go to rockand roll 004Bl and long haired boys liquor store...i buy me a Mexican gold wash and sprankle it down my nicotine shaved throat like a Colorado mountain of cum drops...and then i am good to go. My nickname has always been babyboy and also...Grandpa..cause i'm the sort that would lose his ass cheeks if they weren't stitched on by the Holy Ghost herself.  i got backpac, i got lighter, i got silks, i got phony fone, i got mega Medusa kamera, i got money in my ass holster, i got gifts, i got on my war suit, i wear a new fuck face of a mask and for once i have bathed, which makes me feel like a skinny wet dog in the company of hot and nasty forest wolf cocks...so i just watch the girls go by.  I pass the time standing by a trash can and just watching the girls...the women...all of their faces look like oil paint brush strokes on expensive night light canvas... a brush stroke here of mad blush red and then a chinese lantern bleu...a hint of dead dawn gold....and black ether...wet at the wing tips...why would men ever want to touch them?  Like birds or war planes...i love to just watch them fly by... Into The Chapel i go.  Having already procured a half rack of gold piss cans to dodge the weighty sum of quid i do not hold for dranks, i huft them snugged, sequestered and  sooted into my spinal urbaniac* backpac.  The little dinner manager dances around the hooligans and the sphinxez and has a keen eye on my forboding crippled figure...he wants to expose me i feel and i...i want to break his spleen over the crook of my kneecap like the jellied little lizard he is.  I tell him i am with the band...times like this man, you don't fuck around....and if he wants to know which band...the really big fucking band goddamn you son! i hold sway.  i am alone and half spooked still expecting a horrid bath of a night. i turn right around and limp into the gent's Head...drag my half drained and mangol'd bodice into the wheelchair pisser'loon. fetch out my sad dick (we haven't been on speaking terms for a spell) and as he is doing his best impression of a mini waterfall, i crack open two beers and choke them down with all the gusto of a porno inhale. Got my buzzard buzz on...flying like an ape given free grace with a b.b. gun and all the soft texture of a well made prom gown...I hit the streets. Out front i see what looks like Francis Farmer...Jet fang shangs of knife wave hair, smart tweed jacket, legs to kill and she is smoking a black cigarette...i give her a light...i don't wanna burn her hair off witch hunt wind style...she says she knows me from 2 years ago...Hollywood Blvd...Frolic Room....my old ghost and gold piss hideaway...in the heart of tourist spirits fading on the walk front and my brother round the corner....2 years ago?  Hell.  i can't remember 2 years ago...was i born then? i call upon her to explain.  Then Aimee Nash walks in.  Try to remember a time when you were just a kid and it was maybe a Saturday...and maybe nothing in your life had died yet and you had the whole day to figure out in front of you... Go to the park ride the bicycle go to the arcade and play that one new fun game throw sticks throw wrenchs in the street at the end of the day and watch the sparks come off drink cola get some candy from Grandma be on the lookout later tonight for falling stars cookie jar play records play with dog leave cat alone go see friends maybe go skating She is like that. Just somebody kool, something fragile getting closer to dangerous flight like all great artist right before they get born into strength and the light of command.  3rd EyE* 063bl and then i couldn't find my tweed...my Francis Farmer...said she was going to Law School and found it kinda lackadaisical....wow...how cool is that?  Francis Farmer good looks...law school kool, smart tweed jacket and a black cigarette...if she wouldn't marry me...she could still at least be my friend, lawyer and partner in crime. 080l Then i met St. Patrick from Santa Cruz...a good friend of Dead Man Dean. St. Patrick looked like a Native American Michael Been...and wore a black Levis denim jacket with the arms cut away. He lavished me with kind spirit and poured drinks into my fracas of a splintered frame...spoke to me about organic foods and farming...it was refreshing because it made me think of how American TV only...Only talks to the viewers about bad meat and doktors and bad drugs side effects are death and suicide um...do you have anything that might cause the mild side effects of getting rich? oh the wrong songs of the hatchetmen and the kings of mildew 034bl 1st on stage was Matt Baldwin........pied piper for the cell phone ratz generation... i remembered him from out front when i was watching the paintings glide by... with his black and white polka dot shirt and cavalier thin sports coat his Nick Drake easy shoes and his seasick syd energy and Scott Walker turn around Hydrocodone blonde head... On stage alone guitar, effects and a microphone he took us all down the into the dream zone with his Carl Sagan Loveseat soundz and history books fell apart at the spine and the seams mingled to grey... the stars fell out and we were drifting like Helsinki TV background music... eclectic loops of Carl Sagan swoons... and a really decent fella! 007bl After he flew away...Young Prisms  (thinkdream/ ringo deathstarr & Tamaryn) Exploded out of nowhere like a best friend's hushed secret about a new boyfriend...with the daunting haunt...the languid orchards....the soft machineless breath of a valentine pure soft kool in pearl, off gold and fake fur with heavy mascara strawberry cookie jar and Tracey Emin neon Later on outside i would find myself with the singer snapping a photo... and then something broke...a splash of sound made from sand, compression, and light we ran...an instant partner in crime...this night was turning out to be a strange and split second global community of beautiful criminals and the strange tongues babies sometime speak soon after being hushed by god's pointer finger. 013l014bll019bl Before i knew it....i think a pyramid flashed before my eyes... Black Ryder These are people and a certain charm of music that words truly do not capture Something you have to feel, cause words like grunge, shoegaze, rockand roll will not sum this up 042bl046bl051bl054bl055bl060bl065bll066bbl067bll074bbl James Dean at the Observatory in Rebel without a cause gazing up to the ceiling stars with the high school click cracking at your back...or if you've ever dropped a good drug late at night on your uncle's farm and spoke with horses in native tongue through the ponds of their big black cat pool eyes... Some people need songs that they can sing along to like bad radio tat tat a tat...foot tap...karaoke zip zap None of that radio pap.  This is music to rewrite the wrongs of History to...this is music for people who are going into something without the word (quit) in their vocabulary.  This is Hunter S. Thompson NOT with the hell's angels...but that soft moment in the photo of him on his motorcycle looking past the ocean...past space...outside of himself and back again into nothing at all... hunter_thompson_motorcycle There are many, many numerals in this music....this is music that often makes the same shape as the golden ratio... well...it ain't Mumford and sons, fuckface. outside i was lucky enough to get to speak with Joel Gion famous for working at AMOEBA (FUCK YES) RECORDS. No, but really....i had to tell him what he and everybody knows...which is he is the soul of the brian jonestown kingdom...bringing the joy like the donkey and the golden bear...he said he's got a new record coming out...yeah?  well i got a paycheck coming with a piece of it going into your jeans...big soul like Bez from the Mondays Big Soul...the once in a lifetime kinda person with a soul bigger than the demon of crack.  Kinda cat that ya wanna bend over backwards for and thankful for a handshake from...at least in his company...i could feel whatever is left of my happiness...dance inside like a poisonless viper...it was truly an honor to meet such a shaker...a real cool man. 073bl i even bumped into one of my favorite teachers from my University days...and old pro, a grand wolf, whose words are as important to me today as they were back when i was learning to pick up and steady the silver electrical pencil.  A teacher whose words and hospitality challenge the rays of the sun...like bob dylan....a man with wisdom falling out of him like torn pages from a book bleeding out of denim jean pockets...always making my heart swell with admiration...as well as making my nervous tonuge talk too much...thanx for not socking me out, Grand Master. Everyone made sure that i...Grandpa had all his gear....bless your strange, huge silver hearts...i so fucking owe YOU. My smart tweed beautiful Frances drove me in her fake Volvo home...she trusted me enough to not Rape her...when i asked her to come with me....into the dark....she hesitated and maybe a little against her better judgement she came with me anyway....i took her to the puppy park on top of a small mountain that coyotes are often spotted...we drank a beer or two...she let me hug her tweed arm...the stars were out...she looked dashing, smart...and in layman's terms....cool as fuck under those virgin suicide stars...and then she drove away...thank You for the ride if you're reading this...i owe something like a trip to Spain...or at least 70 dollars in kindness* Floating on this night of strange antiquarian fern like feelings...i drifted home and fell asleep on the divan with my grotesque and golden little best friend...Nugget...she is my puppy.  The heater was on high as i fell into my soft drip cell coma of dreamless therapy...and when my Mother came out from her den, aching to facebook to kill her insomnia i was there...on the divan ass in the cushions dick in the air like a wayward and lovelost mushroom balls danglin' down like the sad cheeks of Picasso and my hairy ribcage breathing like a jackal My Mother turned on her toe and poked back into her den and when i woke up all i saw was my stupid dick and thought oh no...not you again... and i still had 10 dollars, my balls, my jagged knees, my jet set half back full on asshole soul...i had my house keys, hell, i had keys that didn't even belong to me...i had great music from the night before swimming in my head....on a sore ass football saint Sunday....i had my Kamera , and what is left of my throat, my axe to grind and my thor hammer tongue...had beers left over even and some odd seven red Marlboros...and enough hate to fuel a hand grenade and enough love to even drown God. as for the venue...THE CHAPEL? Everyone from the Owner to the bouncer are solid GOLD. BRILLIANT ACOUSTICS, SPACIOUS, WARM, AUBURN GLASSY AQUA BLUE HUES COOL MENUS AND FROTHS AND FINE WINES... MY KINDA CHURCH with all the right kinda dreamers... 005Bl015bl021bl https://www.facebook.com/Youngprisms   002Bl http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lv3N46UvtW0 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxvZ65K2IA4 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f60BgalgJnw