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 ...MEET THE 99 CREW ...THE 99 VOYAGE EXITS ...THE 99 CREW'S LOG ...THE 99 SPIT SOUVENIRS ...MAKE A 99 DONATION!!      |
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Here they are!! The 1999 crew that is aboard on one hell of a tour! Review your knowledge about the ladies first, then head on over to the 1999 logbook to read about their antics on the road! |
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Sign: Aquarius Hometown: Chelsea, MA Favorite Van Breakdown on 98 tour: That little town in New Mexico, when all the exhaustion of the previous six months caught up with me and I could not keep my eyes open, and lied delirious at the back of the van while it was dissembled around me and the earth-sign girls did yoga in the parking lot and scared the normal american travelers who thought we were a cult. Best 98 Tour Bar Fight: The insane chaos Lynn Breedlove provoked when she whipped out her dick at Charlie’s Kitchen in Cambridge, Massachusets and had a straight guy circus performer take out his dentures and give her a gum job, and the jockish catholic guy who somehow had managed to not get shot and killed by a high school student got upset and started yelling and I whipped a jar of Grey Poupon at him and he pulled out a knife. But no one got hurt! Favorite Tour Beauty Product: Um, I like to sample the many different beauty products found in the showers of the nice girls who let us stay at their houses! Thanks! |
| from Valencia Shelly grew up in a trailer park near the Everglades in Florida, she had already told me about how she saw Bigfoot there, all orange and furry, swatting for fish in the creek. But when she was like two years old a neighbor’s pit bull knocked her down and bit her bottom lip off her face. Did the dog eat it, or did it lie in the dirt like a bit of meat? Shelly’s mom sued the guy who owned it, there’d already been a bunch of complaints and he was suppossed to keep the beast chained up. She won a lot of money and took Shelly to the best plastic surgeon and they made her a new lip. Out of what? Guess,she said. She was gloating. It was impossible to impress Shelly because she would just make up a lie to top whatever story you told her. They took a skin graft from my mother’s pussy! she screamed. Your Mother’s Pussy? My mama’s pussy! She Must Have Really Loved You, I said. Shelly wanted to leave the bar, looking around the bright darkness with wild eyes. Let’s make a movie. Shelly claimed to have bunches of cameras, video, super 8. I assumed she was full of shit, but she left the bar and came back with two cameras, old and silver like laser guns from a 50s science fiction movie. When Shelly actually delivered it made me wonder if maybe she wasn’t a liar, maybe her lips were fasioned from her mama’s labia and the aliens were talking to her and the world was really going to end, soon, and shit would finally start to happen. |
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FLAME SCATTERED SKY
I TOSSED MY HEART IN THE SKY TODAY
I TRIED TO GRAB MY HEART BACK
AND MY LOVE BLOWS OUT LIKE FUSES - - -I WON'T REPLACE
I'VE PLACED MY HEART IN MY HEAD
AND I ASK YOU NOW. |
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sing song
tears you spent
spending his nights out now you know differently took you long enough to finally see |
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Your body is a whole entire beautiful magical universe of its own, exactly right and perfect. I know that this is not what you have been taught, but it is The Truth. How could anything so incredible ever be denigrated, scoffed at, invaded, discounted, spat on, violated, ridiculed? Your body is magic. What you are thinking now is: why was I told to look at charts, diagrams, scales and teen magazines to tell me what's wrong with me? Why wasn't I told to trust myself? Why did they make me feel like a horrifying ugly pathetic puking loathesome monster, if the truth is that I am magic? As woman, you must learn to identify as an object. You must learn to be objectified, made ugly and disgusting, but not in a way that is powerful or frightening to them - you will be made ugly in a putrid, rotting way. Your soul is the first to rot. Then your heart, then your mind, then your flesh. . . whatever is left is the magical part that will live forever. That is the part of you that is eternal. Your silicone implants. |
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from The Beautifully Worthless Dear Lamby, Spent a night in a motel trying to watch the scrambled porn channel. Only managed to see the occasional breast and hear the plot - a dominatrix who was being stalked by a psycho trick. It made me think of all the dykes in San Francisco I knew who were sex workers. This morning I walked Rorschach near the train tracks while I waited for my oil to be changed. I felt curiously attracted to the kid who was working on my truck. I wondered what it would be like to live in a place like this and have a boyfriend who worked at the filling station. There was a postcard stand in the office and one had a picture of Laramie, and on the back, the history of the town. Butch Cassidy was in prison for 18 months here, and also the first female jurors served in March 1870. Then there was this asterisk, and it said, This hasn’t happened yet, but in October 1998, two boys will lure a twenty-one-year-old gay student out of a bar, rob, pistol whip, and tie him to a fence leaving him for dead. A bicyclist will find him hung on a fence and left for dead. The student will never regain consciousness and die a week later. One of his murderers will say he was embarrassed when the guy flirted with him in a bar. xoxox |
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Dinosaurs did not go extinct
We learn change means extinction.
Nothing is forever
This is all true
How many times will I bite my tongue looking for food
My mouth is full of blood |
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Later I decided love is a little like that story, you know there's an accident up ahead and you spend all this precious time imagining the crash and its various forms when really you could come out with only a few scrapes. Rare but it happens. I just keep trying to see things as metaphors, cause I'm learning about 'em - you know metaphors are cool, they say things so's people can understand how you're feeling, like if you say "I'm upset" - that could be anything, but if you say "my heart feels like a tipped over motorbike", that really gives you the feeling, like whoa, that's an unexpected drag. Or like fairy tales use metaphor, right? Young George is fishing on a boat and three ships with a princess czar and her thrity foster sisters appear, so maybe it's just this regular girl in some fishing dingy, like ol’ George is a regular dude but it's love at first sight and overwhelming so it feels like some big friggin ticker tape parade. Yeah so I try to use metaphors for writing poetry but I only just started and I'm still gettin down the rhyming thing, here's my first poem about a Metallica concert it goes like this: 10,000 in San Jose and the band really fuckin rocked one girl rocked so hard she knocked her kid off the speaker box another girl exclaimed I was pregnant the last time Metallica played her girlfriend exclaimed no way it's been that long since I've been laid The families taught all their kids to hail Satan the beer line was long, dude, we were waitin some man got his hair caught in the guitar player's shirt sleeve another man horked into his blue kercheif fun was had. |
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Excerpt from On Ageism 1. The young boy
Tiny tiny little baby man! Let's see the precious pecker baby! Teeny little
precious doily, gramma's pride, come to momma, come to momma's mouthy bring
the stinky. Oopsy-now, don't claw, no grabbies, lay so still like a tall ant
hill. Inside you ants are partying, not working for the winter. Oh! Your
stinky biting ant heart clutched by teeny little boy ribs. Come now, give
your momma, sister, sister's lezzy bed buddy and clubhouse girls, grandmommy,
a taste of tiny boy juice. Drip me a drop, a drippy for we haggard beggerly.
Oh! Prick up your cock all stiffy like a rigormortos puppy, bobbing in the
canal. Give me a taste. Bald and flipping, my fish too small to keep, can you
take it if I punch your tummy, don't you want to be a man? Don't you want to
be my hubby, fucker-baby son forever? Mommy loves you makes you pudding,
makes you oily sardine cunt pies. Lay there still, don't die.
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What I Did Today
Woke up and the phone rang. |
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Excerpt from Sonogram My mother, with her Munchhausen's Syndrome by Proxy, my mother who had sent me to this hospital bed, caused my organs to shut down in protest of her constant hiding of my glasses to teach me to "keep an eye on them", the punishing shopping expeditions to the mall which made my eyes burn, where my body oozed and leaked between the racks of punitive dresses, the cruel mirrors, the condescending, lying sales ladies, the knee socks, lumps of putrid matter throbbing and pistoning beneath my skin like a horror movie where the creature inside struggles to be born, burst forth through your skin, couldn’t they see, my mother and the salesladies asthey commented on my short waist large nose the least of my worries, couldn't they see? My mother killed me and then she coaxed me back to life in an erotic frenzy of remorse with stroking and concern and whipers and tears. It is no coincidence that my mother was young and lovely, continued to look far younger than her years well into her 60s. In class I wet my pants every day. Uncontrollably I'd tell jokes then just as uncontrollably laugh until my impressionable bladder joined in the fun and lost control of itself and I'd wet my pants. Every day I walked home from school with my coat wrapped around my waist. I was thirteen and I lived alone. |
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