I spent a full year under the harsh lights of Ctrip’s corporate glare and I wrote a lot of stuff for them. It seemed like pissing into the wind, for the most part. I met great people there, but the Chinatravel.net site for which I worked is the mortally wounded man doggedly clinging to life, dragged along on a make-shift stretcher, gangrenous, glassy-eyed, and raving about travelling across China. Black blood cakes the straw and stains the snow. One by one his buddies close their ears to the lies of the dying.
Bad for Ct.net, good for Sascha. I am back in the Du with my two lovely sons and my lovely wife Bean. We have little kids scampering around all day. I eat good. I am busy writing this and that for him and her. Things are good. Shanghai was wonderful in many ways and if I were single I would tear that ass
up.
but i isn’t. So i don’t. Actually the truth is my game is weak so I cain’t. I reach for the booty but never quite get a firm grip. I’m already that old man leering from the front porch. It’s hard to watch, but seeing as I don’t have to see it per se, I am fine with it. And for those young bucks with game, all they have to do is hang around while I get everyone thinking about fucking. But just not with me. I am a great wing man. Funny as hell and laced with cock talk and pussy jokes. How many times have I scared all the ladies into some quiet dude’s arms and then staggered home drunk fending off the despair of self-knowledge with more jokes?
On a more positive note, my music collection is now “spiced like ham” with contributions from my man J.R. Weir and my man Skip James. I can’t stop thinking about this track right here… the way it turns me on. Music sends me into paroxysms. I dance wildly and grab a son and twirl. I love their faces, a mixture of delight and fear and wonder atop a constant inhalation of everything that happens. like the UI of a spy machine.
I got the Wu. Got that Talking Book that still makes me curl up and bawl/jump up and dance/feel God in my buttcheeks. Got a whole grip of new stuff that I am slowly working through, shabazz and such.
And to end this blurb I gotta mention the fact that I am reading the Crossing by Cormac McCarthy and I always love his stuff but damn. I think his pen is getting in the way of his theory. In most of his books there are characters that speak of the truth and God and Evil and they explain it to young cowboys with little to say and seemingly less to think about other than “pappy’s saddle” but this time I just ain’t feelin it. I can read Spanish just fine, so I am a leg up on most others who have no clue what is going on, less so because its Mexican Spanish with weird grammar and weird little words like “to” which seems to replace “lo” although lo is around to(o). I am not sure if the Spanish is a perfect rendition of early 20th century Mexican, Cormac doing his best, or gobbeldy-gook that makes real Mexicans sigh and thumb dismissively toward the end before tossing the book and reaching for some of that good latina booty they snatched up while I was slobbering on about cocoa butter skin and how it looks covered in semen.
I’ll finish it anyway though, cuz at night I can’t sleep…
