Tuesday February 28 2012


DREAM: A story saturated in awkward and tense confrontations between high profile gangsters in a southern part of America, maybe in Florida. A white mansion of a property with a river flowing through it.

12:26 p.m. finally awakening from slumber.

Peach. Strawberry Cereal Bar.

On the road...leaving Maryland. I drive. Sarah makes us Peanut Butter Sandwiches. Adding some Quaker Rice Snacks and Aloe Vera Drink.

We make a quick pit stop at a local food and produce stand called Country Bumpkin Grub. The car won’t start for some reason, which is surprising after just recently getting it checked. But a kind gentleman with a country twang gives it a jump-start and we’re on our way.


Our Philly show got cancelled giving us a day off and giving us an opportunity to explore the city. We meet up with Matt Reed, a guy Sarah used to know from high school. Relaxing at his pad, which has a back door that opens up to nothing but air...no ledge or anything. Another guy that bares my name shows up and we go on a night adventure...


We trek the chilly streets of Philly and come across a pile of discarded junk: a box full of DVD’s, books, notebooks, and penis paintings. Then, making our way into Chinatown finding a noodle restaurant...

Egg and Vegetable Drawn Noodle with Soup.

Then to a bakery nearby...

Apple Pie Tart. Lotus-Filled Egg Tart. Hot Bubble Milk Tea.

Marching through the center of the capital building...untainted gothic structures...cherub columns and nightscapes. Running into a lively man in a suit covered in a long brown coat rocking chrome headphones. He asks for a light and explains that...“Yeah, I was just rapping about nutrition at this guy’s house!” He points to his buddy then pulls out a business card that claims him to be a personal health trainer. He laughs at himself, “I work out in my suit.”

There’s a comedy show Matt wanted to attend at this hip bar called The Barbary. We take a cab and find ourselves in a dark lit room being entertained by indie comedians reading off their list of jokes. In between, an on going skit about cleansing and an 80’s fashioned dance troupe. An hour or so later the dance floor opens up and the bar slings out dollar PBR’s. Nothing holds me back from shaking all the limbs on my body amidst this humble crowd.

Shouting in the street...

“Dude! You are the beat!”

“Yes. I am the beat! Everyone is the beat!”

Settling down back at Matt’s pad. After a nice hot shower and much needed solo sexual release I’m off to sleep on a comfy black couch directly underneath a Bob Marley poster around 3:30 a.m.

[i] All images by me.

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