SGU #PPP Issue

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PETER PAN POSSE IS MORE THAN A GANG. ITS A MENTAL ATTITUDE. WE ARE BORN AND BRED NEW YORKERS WHO PRESERVE THE OUTLAW LIFESTYLE. A LIFESTYLE THAT CHOSE US. WE HAVE MASTERED THE ART OF SURVIVING CITY STREETS. WE ARE THE ARTISTS YOU ADMIRE. WE ARE THE DRUG DEALERS WITH THE LEAST CUT. WE THROW THE PARTIES YOU MAKE MISTAKES AT. WE MAKE THE MUSIC YOU DO DRUGS TO. WE ARE THE KIDS YOU TALK SHIT ABOUT. WE DONT SNEAK INTO PARTIES WE SNEAK OUTTA THEM. WE DONT PAY FOR BOTTLES WE THROW THEM. WE GET PAYED TO PLAY. WE CANT GROW UP ITS A FULL TIME JOB NOT GIVING A FUCK. - PETER PAN POSSE

“WE CANT GR TIME JOB NO A FUCK.”

Photo:Wyatt Neumann


ROW UP ITS A FULL OT GIVING



Photo: Olivia Malone


SUMMER OF SHAME Written by: Peter Pan Edited by: Tinker Bell

It’s the middle of June. or July. Shit I’m so fucked up I don’t even know. It’s 7 am. I’m in an LES walkup on the top floor. My phone is combo ringing and chiming somewhere in the next room under a pile of discarded clothing. *PING PING PING* followed by the old-timey telephone ring I have. The sun is glaring in between the slices of curtains covering the windows. A humid beam rests on my knee and it’s cooking my Ralph Lauren pants with the mallards on them. I can’t seem to move. I despise the summer. I fucking hate heat and the sun. The city is death this time of year but I’m too broke to escape. The only thing preserving my sanity are the Ray-Bans shielding my eyes I stole from someone. I hate Ray Bans. I’d tie a fucking shirt over my face is if I had to now, though. I’m smoking clips of Marlboro Mediums from the overflowing ashtray on the floor. My fingers smell of a mix of pussy, coke and smoke. I cant even remember what I did tonight. I think I fucked an ex. The apartment I’m in is the definition of a flop. Many people lived here at some point this summer. My name covers most of the walls in what looks like ketchup but could definitely be blood . It’s the shell of an apartment. It feels and looks like a rotting corpse. It’s later in the summer, I surmise, cause I’ve crashed here a bunch of nights already. Waking up on bare mattresses next to girls or face down in vomit. It’s pathetic but it’s always fun. I could give a fuck.

Back

to the couch. I’m leaning on something hard (no homo) and my side is going numb but I’m stuck. I can’t tell if the ringing

in my ears is the phone or just my headache. I can hear a girl talking to herself and out of the corner of my eye I can see someone frantically tossing clothes. My phone slides right to the tip of my dirty Converse. One blurry eye open i see ***** is calling me. I melt to the floor and grab it. The sun stings my exposed arm and I recoil like a drunk Lestat. I pick up and breathe.

hands behind my back. My dirty kicks a foot off the edge. I wake with a deep breath, disoriented. It’s dark out, which is great. Sit up, hit the bathroom where I have to lean over to reach the children’s sink. I almost pull something trying to clean my face. Fucking little stupid kids with their small ass legs. Fuck.

I get outside and the cool breeze is inviting, instantly turning my “YO.. --- YO --- You still awake?” curled lips into a villainous smile. ”Um, kinda---” I’m greeted in unison to “AYYYYY! “Wanna hit the hamptons?” Look who’s alive!” Yeah yeah; I get * * P A U S E * * it; okay. I’m good. I limp to the grill “Fuck it. I’m at the trap house on 12th.” and crack a joke about who’s do”I’ll be there in twenty.” ing shots. Everyone laughs and the mood is set. It’s time to go dumb. I am standing on the corner in the shade under the awning of a ut to 10:45. I’m drunk. Real Korean deli. It’s Saturday. Loud, drunk. My arms are flailing, almost sticky and my personal hell. I can knocking over the Citronella tiki smell the bouquets of fresh cut torches that are scattered in the flowers behind me and it’s a bit back yard . *** and **** are getting intoxicating. Swaying back and a kick outta my behavior. Everyone forth in the humid breeze, I think else, not so much. I never underto myself how terrible this idea is. stood city folk in the Hamptons. I have no bags so I fall head first They want to spend all day drinkinto the back seat of the car when ing beers in the hot sun then gear it stops for me and literally knock up and hit a douchebag club where out on contact. The Midtown tun- they run into every asshole from the nel swallows us whole. Too late. city they escaped to the Hamptons to avoid. Whatever. I’m the type to I wake up on the Long Island Ex- show up at the beach in a leathpressway exit where it turns into er jacket. I don’t understand it. one lane. iIam here. Slept the whole way and feel a lot better. ***** looks I wake up on the way to the club. back, sees I’m coming to life, and The only lines I do are coke. I’m he in turn feels better. “Hey buddy, whisked through a VIP entrance, feeling ok?” I look up and just smile. dodging Long Island meatheads He laughs and I put him to rest. This who ignore every button on their is one of those summer days that shirts and smell like spray-tan and Puerto Ricans get married in Cen- women’s perfume. Pathetic. Uptral Park. Everything is so color- stairs is a sea of family. I give about ful; the smells are so pungent they fifty unnecessary handshakes, get you high. It makes me want hugs and kisses -- I just saw most to punch Mother Nature in her tit. of these people last night. Some girl throws those oversized exIt’s cooler out east on the Island pensive shades that make you but im in my black 1134 gang t- look like an insect on me. Fuck it, shirt and it’s clinging to me. We I’m having fun and acting a fool. I stop at one of those quaint shops grab a bottle and dance on a banwith fresh produce and fresh baked quet. Once again, all eyez on me. pies. YAY! I’m so hungover this overpriced dump makes me want Just then I get a tug on my shirt. to set a fire in it and watch it col- Its *****, my homeboy I grew up lapse. I stay in the back slowly re- with. His girl is from the Hamptons covering. We get to the “cottage” so he’s out here enjoying what and there’s talk of BBQ (dope) and a Long Island girlfriend has ofbeer pong (hell). I’m directed to the fer. He says he got the afterparty. “kids room” upstairs; how fitting. On to the next one. We are now I stumble up and faceplant with my burning down a highway. Kids

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out here wrap themselves around trees all the time (later that summer ***and I wrapped his Benz around a tree and almost died. We still laugh about having to do all the coke we had before the cops came and sawed us out.) The moon is so bright. It’s a giant spotlight guiding us to salvation. We can see the outline of the beach to the right and it’s beautiful. We screech up to a mega-mansion.

Out east, there are a few levels

of money and gangster. You’ve got the poor folk who rent each summer. New money who build tacky homes called McMansions and have themed rooms like “safari hunt” or “the Blue Room”. Then there are the Original Gangsters. Old money. They have been out here for years and have built fortresses for their children, step-children, new wives and golf buddies. Elite of the elite. They have personal wings and maids for each wing so the father doesn’t have to see his kids. This was one of those mega mansions. I can hear the dull thump of music emanating from different areas. We get to the third floor living room and I realize who’s house it is. A fucking rich prick who’s father runs some huge law firm or some shit. The type who never will work and despises poor people. I don’t even make eye contact when I say

hello. I’m staring at the drug buffet he has scattered on the marble counter. My eyes bug and I try to remain cool. I get a pat on the back from ****, a coke dealer and my homeboy from downtown. He knows how I get down. He must be high from the sea air because he tells me to help myself. Holy shit.

my filthy polo pants. Whatever. I see some Percs laying amongst the battlefield and I pop em. RAGE MODE. I snatch my Jack carafe and begin exploring. I’m sure there’s a ton of shit I can steal outta this compound that no one would miss. I see some expensive looking frames and pocket them. Never can have too many sunglasses. Sunglasses are like girlfriends -- you either break ‘em or lose ‘em. I reach a roof deck and collapse in a tanning chair. It’s brisk. Too brisk. Oh shit, I know what that means. Shrooms are kicking in. WAVEY. Odd shapes appear. Strange sounds. Children laughing in and out of my ears.

There are model types walking around in floppy sun hats and bikinis. Chanel frames wrapped around their faces to hide the bloodshot eyes and the shame they carry every day. I make a jack and coke in a wine carafe, sit down and shove about an eighth of mushrooms in my mouth. There’s probably about ten grams of coke on the counter, but the humidity has made the pink fish scale too moist tartled, I peer around, trying to snort. Or it could be that my to remain still. The waves behind nose feels like I’ve stuffed a cake me crashing on the sand amplify. up there over the past two weeks. I start to laugh uncontrollably. Introspection kicks in. Is this really I throw about two grams on a Ver- the life I live? HAHAHAHAHAHA. sace dinner plate and frisbee it into I could die now and be happy, I the mircowave. I remember that think. As a reaction to the thought in Tijuana that’s how we cooked of death, I jump up and walk to the some horse tranquilizer that lat- edge. Look over and I see someer had me walking like a spider. one in the pool naked, floating like The gold leaf on the Versace plate a corpse. I need to focus and refostarts to spark inside the micro- cus to figure out who the hell it is. waves, so I hit ‘stop’. Cooking it I try to form words but a jumbled didn’t help the coke anyway. Fuck mess peeps out. The body starts it. I use a foot-long Ginsu blade to move and a wave of relief blanand begin cramming the cocaine kets me. Thank God he’s not dead; into my nose. Half up half on to that would totally ruined this buzz.

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“A METROCARD AND A DREAM IS ALL I HAVE TO MY NAME.”

Photo: Shaun RFC

I hear foot steps and I crouch down. Who the fuck is this?! I’m looking for something to defend myself. I see a familiar silhouette then a familiar voice. “Yo ... you good?” I realize I look insane and straighten myself up. He laughs, can tell I’m wigging out, and brings me downstairs. I feel crazy and everyone is now sitting around a mahogany table. Immediately I throw the stolen shades on and join them. All eyez on me. I get a ton of questions: “You good ?” “You sure?” Yes yes, I’m cool... for now. I hate when people know you’re fucked up -- especially on when you’re on hallucinogens -- and want to help you or worse bug you out. I sniff some more fish and drown myself with Jack. It’s spilling all over my 1134 shirt which now has a tear on the collar. I feel like I’m being judged and pop up like a jack-inthe-box and walk to the balcony. Close the door and it’s a brand new sensation. I’m about fifty feet above the sand and fifty feet from the water. Staring directly at the moon. I take the deepest breath I’ve ever taken -- WOW. This can’t be life. I

live pretty care-free but there are a few very rare moments in life when it is absolute freedom; I’ve transcended all. The closest you can get to Eden on earth. I absorb the fleeting feeling into my body, every pore, every cell. I end the moment before overanalyzation kicks in and turns this into a bad trip. Mobb Deep’s song “Shookones” sends an electric pulse through my body. Oh shit! I’m feeling nice!

Back inside I start dancing. The

Coke and Jack have evened out my trip but an overwhelming grandiose thought has entered my brain. I’m a fucking rock star. I’m crashing into furniture mumbling the lyrics to the song. A random girl grabs me and I think she wants an autograph. “You got a pen?” I slur. Confused she says no and that I need to chill. Ha! Who are you to tell me to chill! I continue my rampage. I can hear the crew whispering. Oh, how will they deal? Finally ***** grabs, give me a little shake and says “YO! CHILL!” Briefly I snap out of it; I smile like the Cheshire Cat. I guess the party’s over. Sun’s rising so I agree to get into ****car. Still bugging, I keep screaming something

about Obama: “OBAMA LAMA LAMA LAMA!” over and over. (I dont remember this but was told all about it the next morning.) I wake up on a couch to ***** poking me. “Who’s this greasy haired boy on my couch?” I bat her hand away. “What the fuck are you doin’?” I say. I realize it’s ****’s mom. Oh shit. She walks away asking the whole house who I am and I immediately hop up and run outside. ***** is sleeping in a hammock in the shade. I see ****’s Saab parked in the driveway. Pop open the door and sit shotgun. The beige leather burns my skin. I run to the nearest shade next to **** and pass out. I’m woken up by ****. Once again, I’m extremely hungover. He says, “Get in”. Back to the Benz. I curl up in the back. Throw the stolen shades on and feel on the floor for anything to drink. A hot bottle of Poland Spring reaches my hand. I chug it, crack the window and try to piece the night together. The wind whips through my hair and I pretend I’m asleep so I don’t have to talk. We fly home. Good times..



THE KENTUCKY GENTELMAN Written by: Peter Pan Edited by: Tinker Bell

Great; three hours to Baltimore and I get to sit bitch in between some intern I’ve never met and a young Mr. Rogers. Mint and Serf rented a minivan but there’s one person too many, and that person was me, Mr. Take A Picture & Blog About It.

We were headed to The Virgin Free Music Festival and to be honest I didn’t know why I was going. My graffiti was limited to whatever bathroom I did drugs in and the five-block radius of my apartment in South Williamsburg. Mint thought it would be cool If I some photos and documented the trip and all I kept wondering was “Has Mint even seen my blog?” I’d be the last person I’d trust to preserve a moment or to photograph an event that you would later need for its promotional value. I’m horrible when it comes to deadlines and guidelines. But whatever, I devour my egg & cheese from McDonalds and ready myself for the most uncomfortable ride of my life.

real deal. Was this the Mirf manager or accountant -- maybe a reporter for The New Yorker? I was clueless. Anyway. Before we arrive in Baltimore we stop at a Home Depot with a rest stop to buy spray paint. A bunch of graffiti writers buying paint? This wasn’t the graffiti I grew up with. We stole everything, and if it was nailed to the floor we stole a hammer to pull it out of the ground. Now it’s 2010 -- it was, then -and we get hired to spray paint all over a music festival as part of its “art” installation. Okay, cool.

Back to Home Depot. As we load

up the van I plot to maneuver my way to a window seat. Fail. Mr. Rogers is the last one to walk out of, out of all places, Roy Rogers. Like the restaurant. Inexplicably, there is one next to the Home Depot. He is wearing a Roy Rogers french fry tgun holster on his belt, complete with the fries and dipping ketchup you would get in a kids meal. Mint, Serf, SI, and Same can’t stop laughing. I think this is what white dads do when they are out on the town and the wife is back home and all of his office work is done. Bullshit, I think this is all a little too weird. Mr. Rogers enters on my side of the van and once again I’m playing bitch. He offers me a French fry as a consolation prize. Thanks, dad, Baltimore can’t come soon enough.

Let’s go back for a second. I knew The Wonder Twins that combined to create Mirf and I knew Same, but the rest of the crew was new to me. There was this one kid who was trying to get us Ecstasy from a bodega in Harlem at 8 in the morning (later I would find out that was SI), and the Asian intern, but whatever, that’s an intern… We opt out of going to the hotel and go straight to the festival. After ho was Mr. Rogers? He didn’t some minor haggling we get our say much during our ride down VIP passes and are led to the two there, the entire time he was on the walls we’re supposed to decorate phone with who I could only assume with our extensive knowledge was his wife and kids. Since when of street vandalism. I’m thinking did Mirf start rolling with dads??? some elaborate art piece with He had the hair cut that you would fancy letters and colors like we only find on a episode of “Mad were redesigning the Graffiti Wall of Men” with the immaculate jaw line Fame in Spanish Harlem. No. Mint straight out of a 70’s Cognac ad or and Serf go with fill ins, stompers, on James Bond. This man was the and basically rag the shit out of both

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walls in what looks like we all have graffiti beef with each other. At first I’m like “okay this is probably not what the organizers were looking for”, but then I see the vision.

The wall looks like a wall you would see along the west side highway or on a train coming in or out of the Essex JMZ street train station. This isn’t graffiti, it’s “performance art”, a moment in the streets of New York City captured and placed on a fake wall built in Baltimore. One by one, rave-faced spectators surround us, curious about what exactly we were trying to do. Mint rocks a floater that’s crossed over by Same who then gets covered by stomper made by Serf who then gets crossed out by SI who then get’s half his shit blocked out by News. Everyone rags me and the intern. Oh yeah, in case you just missed it: Mr. Rogers has a graffiti tag and it’s News. The crowd surrounding us looks like extras from a Blink 182 or Moby video. Everyone tells us what we are doing is cool but no one really knows what’s going down. Soon we have a gaggle of girls watching us vandalize and re-vandalize this poor wall that’s collapsing from the weight of the spray paint. For every girl we saw with a nice ass in skinny jeans we were greeted by bedazzled tank tops and dusty ballerina flats or poorly executed wedges. Mostly everyone has bad acne and my entire crew is aggressively New York snobby so we come to terms that none of us are getting laid tonight.

We

start popping the first of many E pills. After we decide we are done with the wall (how we came to that conclusion is a mystery to me) we stumble around the fairgrounds hunting for free food and liquor.


Photo:Osvaldo Chance Jimenez


Photo: Osvaldo Chance Jimenez



Mr.Rogers is already breaking in and out of shit whenever we find him. The intern is slightly drunk and I then find out he’s only sixteen and Mint might have dated his mom. LCD Sound System closes the festival and we are left alone in a field of dust and garbage. The ecstasy has me already seeing doubles. It’s time to unwind and party.

We stop at a deli to get some

Phillie Blunts and beer. Apparently you can also buy liquor at any local deli in Baltimore so OF COUSE our Russian Designated Driver gets a bottle of Smirnoff while the rest of us load up on Coors Light and Budweisers. News show us up with a one liter bottle of a whiskey that would later be known as the Kentucky Gentleman. We go in face first bottoms up. This is where the night gets blurry. At one point we wind up at what I can only describe as a Baltimore Bass Krunk party -- a bunch of black kids are dancing their spines out. And News disappears. In a alley full of hipster weirdos we meet 77 Klash with two girls I know from “the scene” back in New York. Hotel afterhours? Sure, why not. Ever been in a van filled with drunks on E lost in Baltimore? Extreme levels of life changing. On our way back to the hotel we get lost and crash the minivan twice. We’ve by now found News, who has volunteered to sit in the back with the leftover spray cans, and as we drive he starts telling us how he grew up somewhere along the road we were lost on. “Yo Baltimore is soft, I left, tried to find some crack drunk, and came back with all my money.” WHAT? That prompts Same to joke about which tree along the road News lived in, opening up the floodgates for jokes on jokes on top of jokes. After our third crash News reaches his whiskey-soaked boiling point, starts freaking out, and demands to get out of the van. By then I’m nearing my own breaking point. Serf and SI pull me aside to chill out. “Don’t worry about him… That’s Pablo, DonP3D.” Okay...

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with his newly discovered stoned ehind our hotel there’s a pond self. Mint, as camp leader, does with a small romantic deck, we his best to calm down News, but proceed litter with our drunk to no avail. He has angrily put on and trippy New York City-raised all of his clothes and stormed off, arrogance. Earlier in the day News repeating a scream that would bet SI he could get people to jump haunt me for the rest of my life: into the seemingly welcoming pond. By the time the night is “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” over four of us have jumped in. “AHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Three of us quickly get out when “AHHHHHHHHHH!” we realize that this isn’t a pond “AHHHHHHHH!” as much as it’s a murky marsh, like the one The Swamp Thing News’ screams slowly fade as he from DC Comics would live in. storms away from the pond and into We’re praying that there’s nothing the hotel parking lot. They’re not unhealthy about the green algae even screams so much as they are that has glued itself on to our skin. truly disturbing shrieks, the guttural kind that come from a lot of internal ot News, though. He swims pain. Yes, even in my drunken and the entire pond and climbs on hallucinogenic state I’m trying to the weeping willow branches that Dr. Phil the events surrounding me. skim the surface of the pond like We anticipate hotel security calling a drunken lemur, his Kentucky the cops on us so we quickly Gentleman well in hand. I keep gather our things and run back to motioning to Mint to get him out of the hotel room. This is not going to the water but everyone is too busy be good, but we’re way too wasted laughing at my nude “Dominican to do anything about it. Back in the Shark” to care. (In my defense it room, we all pass out to the sounds was the first time I’ve ever gotten of Same petting a small mouse naked and skinny dipped in front (you’d have to ask him, sorry). of a bunch of men. Pause. I was bonding.) News is wearing sea The next morning is hangoverweed like a swamp warrior and heavy with a side of exhaustion. throwing whatever he found at Everyone is sluggish and cranky on the bottom of the pond at us. Dell the way to van. We decide not to computer, playstation, etc. I will see the last day of the Virgin Music later tell this story to my girlfriend, fest; instead, we find a diner and who had previously met News, prepare to go back to the land of and she doesn’t believe one word. sky scrapers and mass transit. One We finally get News out of the by one we pile into the van, Mint, pond. He is not too happy with Serf, Same, SI, the intern, me… that, or us. He starts doing naked “Where’s News?” cartwheels on the grass. It’s around 4 am and we’ve all been a “Yo I tried to call him, I don’t little loud and a little too loose. Serf know,” Mint answers with a gets stuck on stupid by the little “Kanye West at the VMAs” bit of weed he smoked. SI blesses shoulder shrug. us all with some grown man talk. “Are we leaving him???” I think that I’ve never felt so close “Yeah man, what else can we to a motley crew of people as I do do?” right then, though in retrospect I’m At this point I think Mint is one of the fairly sure that was the E talking. shittiest friends in the world. I don’t And then News started screaming. even know News and all I want to do is search the local hospitals “I’M OK!!!!!” and call the police. No one cares; “I’M OK!!!!” everyone just piles up in the van and puts on their best “I need a All I can think about is News nap” face. I can’t sleep because all drowning himself or killing I keep thinking about is that shriek. someone, or Serf who everyone I’d not heard nothing like it in my life. I’ve ever met has described as legendarily annoying. But no, Serf hat if that would havebeen me? is being a kitten on a Hallmark card I think as the car starts. We’re leaving

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Baltimore. These motherfuckers would have abandoned me with Snoop and Barksdale and whatever other character that would have killed me on HBO’s “The Wire”. I contemplate arriving in NYC and erasing them all from my cell phone. Here I am, sad for a man I just met. Who would do Mr.

Rogers like that??? I tell myself a bus station, wound up in Jersey, that I would’ve take a train home if I and is home safe, sipping coffee…” hadn’t spend all my money on booze and ecstasy. Fuck these niggas. We, on the other hand, still have another two hours on Then Mint gets a text messages our trip back to New York City. and starts laughing out loud: “Yo this nigga News, went to DC to find crack, found it, passed out in

Photo:BC

Photo:Curtis Culig


Photo: Olivia Malone



STEAK WELL DONE AT WELL HUNG

Alfredo pours himself some water and offers me more wine. He’s as intriguing and aloof as his militant depictions of armory. Alfredo doesn’t do drugs and has a laid-back demeanor. He’s been traveling, he says. Alfredo enjoys discussing culture in East Asia and all literature. His presence nearly overwhelms me due to sheer physical size and warm verbal embrace. Alfredo speaks thoughtfully -- not cautiously, but deliberately. He introduces me to his friend who performs Written by: Peter Pan Edited by: Tinker Bell at a poetry club on Bowery. A group listens to the poet’s “I used to get drinks with Clemmy spoken improv. The performance -— all the time,” says Carlo is uplifting considering my McCormick, dominant downtown earlier dialogue with Carlo. fixture as well as culture critic and curator, nonchalantly disclosing I notice two of my friends stare his personal pet name for Clement directly at each other but carry Greenberg while exhaling a cloud on two completely separate of hand-rolled nicotine smoke. We conversations. Someone has are inside a West Side space -- the sprinkled dust on the green. Chelsea Chapter - at the friends Obviously, the early night has of the press dinner for Well Hung. begun. It’s March 24th, 2011. New York has just started to warm up after the winter. The family style dinner celebrates a small community, which has been fostered by Mint&Serf’s energy. Surveying the other guests gathered around the communal table, I listen to Carlo’s tales and visualize my own history of art being written. Carlo confesses that art critics aren’t paid well, ever. I nod, take a long drag of my Parliament.

he says of the unusual framing of microscopic graphite drawings cut out and stored in bags.

Night turns to late night. Everyone is high off something. I’d expected this considering that the last time I’d hung out with some of these boys, I had aided in an apartment highjacking. We’d usurped the studio from a young Wall-Streeter who was en route to his hometown to visit his grandmother. We partied until noon even though the owner’s flight was at 10.00am. Why do I write about this group of artists? Because in an increasingly commercialized art world in an increasingly commercialized city, they -- particularly those stragglers who stay later post-dinner, getting debaucherous -- thrive on the street and in the gallery. They still tag; they still covet paint markers; they still end up in jail because of a 40 oz. and a TriBeCa commercial building. While they show in Chelsea, they still incorporate street rules. And as much as they’re happy to be embraced Well Hung shouldn’t be considered by the public, they still don’t give strictly “street art.” Mike and a fuck about public approval. Jason’s curatorial style involves many artistic outlets: studio art, The gallery clears out; we head to design, writing, curation, music. Don Hill’s. From the taxi window The artists of the show have I watch the streets downtown taken risks, yet they seem to be streak by, dark and tagged in sync. Each work renders the everywhere with color. We stay late speed of New York City whether at the next party; we always do. it due from aggressive treatment of surface or risky subject matter. The works truly hang together well. My favorite point of the night comes when conservative guests have left for home, also leaving us to our own devices. In my experience, artists tend to conceal small fractions of their personalities in public. Once comfortable, they lose superficial attitudes and unveil neuroses that often afflict creative folk.

By 9 p.m. all the pasta has been eaten, and hip-hop resonates throughout the gallery. Art icons, graffiti legends, critics, punk poets, old-school partiers and downtown kids candidly speak over wine, weed and lace toppings. Dust. Well Hung turns into a good Brooklyn house party. The room is drunk on wine. There’s a buzz of chatter. Even Adam Krueger, who meticulously paints with a singleI post up next to Alfredo Martinez. haired brush, comments on I’ve already acquainted myself his personal life by discussing with the Martinez infamous for a major motif in his works— a peaceful protest against art the end of a relationship and restriction during his stint in a New an long marriage engagement. York prison. He once served time for forging Basquiat drawings. “Each baggie contains evidence This man was (and is) a legend. from the day everything ended,”


Photo: PJ Monte



Photo: PJ Monte


Photo: Mint&Serf

THE LOST BOYS Written by: Peter Pan Edited by: Tinker Bell

After the partying, we started painting. Did some spots which led us to this parking lot in the Tenderloin. We climbed in this parking lot and started painting. Morte was our lookout. As we were just about finishing up, he stopped looking out and began to paint... All of the sudden this dude was hustling over with his walkie-talkie buggin the fuck out, Boo and Mint ran and hopped the gate where we’d all entered. Rambo, the young buck and I ran and hopped over two gates on the opposite side. We dipped down this alley that had one small ass pickup truck parked on the side that Rambo and I were on, and he and I dove behind it. Morte was on the other side; the cops had seen him and grabbed him up.

You want to hear a crazy story from S.F.? Let me tell you. It starts off with me, Mint, Boo, Rambo and Morte . We were at Rambo’s crib in the Mission. Then we rolled out, and bumped into some tranny prostitutes. Soon enough we wound up in their hotel room, with all the trannies trying to get with Morte. My job was to take the photos. So as Morte was getting his dick sucked I started popping off flicks, but the trannies weren’t feelin that About fifteen minutes passed and and got all bugged out, so we left. the cops didn’t even think to look behind the truck for us. I thought We hopped in the car and drove for sure they’d seen our feet unout to Home Depot to rack paint for derneath the car, but they didn’t. the bomb we were planning to drop Eventually all the cop cars left and later that night. We came off with we decided to bounce to Rambo’s ninety-something cans in one spot house. The cops kept rolling by so we felt that we could retire from us so slow, so when we saw them racking and proceed to the partying. approaching we’d hold hands to

act gay -- and then they’d just speed off. It was unbelievable: we pulled this three different times, and the cops didn’t stop us once. We got to Rambo’s house, ate some pasta and decided to look for Boo and Mint, but they were no where to be found. So we decided to go across the street from Rambo’s to paint this roof. The building was a one-story garage-type space -- not a house, more like a warehouse, with a connecting building that had a nice wall visible from the street. I think the side of the building had some sort of gate or garden structure in place that made it no problem to climb. Or perhaps the facade of the building was just covered in large grooves. I don’t remember. All I know is that it was easy to get up there. We were just about done when cops rolled up, ran up to the building and started climbing up. It was as easy for them to scale the building as it had been for us. We looked around for an escape. The building was spilt-level, so there was half of a second floor next to where


we stood on the flat roof. This is where Ram saw a little doggy door. As he peeked in it, I turned around and saw that the first cop had his hand on the ledge of the roof. So I kicked Rambo through the doggy door, then dipped in it behind him. We crawled into what, as best as I could see in the darkness, appeared to be a studio apartment, with a bed to the left of the doggy door where we’d just entered. The fucking dog started immediately barking up a storm, which of course woke up the owner, who switched on his bedside lamp. Then he jumped out of bed and whipped out this huge-ass semi-auto rifle from somewhere - who sleeps with a semi-automatic rifle in their bed?! - and cocked it. It looked like some huge ass machine gun that was gonna open us right up. The dude was screaming and yelling all sorts of kill you shit, for us to get up against the light get up against the light. We must have looked nuts to him cause we had on the head masks (SWAT team style). We were pleading with him not shoot us, all shhhh and that the cops were out there on the roof looking for us and that we were just doing graffiti and to just let us lay low. We could all see the flashlights shining through the doggy door. Rambo and I eyed a staircase to our right that led downstairs.

herb plantation growing to the fullest extent. Hearing the cops coming closer, we ran and hid under the tables of weed. We managed to dip on them for a minute. Turns out when the cops saw what was going on in this guy’s place, they forgot about us for a second and slapped the cuffs on him. We stayed curled up in balls until they found us. A cop asked me to lie on the floor, so I did. He then proceeded to drag me through muddy ass water and knee-drop me, as if I wasn’t cooperating. With my cuffs securely on, the other cop cuffed up Rambo and walked the three of us -- Rambo, the owner of the building, and me -- outside. As we passed through the hallway, the cop decided to take a cheap shot at Rambo’s face, connecting clean on his cheekbone. They threw us in the squad car and brought us to the station. Sort of a funny thing when we were walking in, cause guess who we see cuffed up in the holding tank? That’s right: Mint and Boo, and Morte.

The cops also thought it was funny that most of us were from New York. They cuffed me by myself next to the soda machine and put with the fellas in the tank. They put the grower dude by himself; they thought he would try to kill us or something. I soon passed out and when I woke up Mint, Finally Rambo was like, Yo Serf; Boo and Morte were being taklet’s run down the stairs. But the ing upstairs to the jail. I was then dude with the machine gun wasn’t moved into the tank with Rambo. feelin that. He jumped a little closer and burst out with “I’ll shoot Soon after the cops bring in this you fuckers.” But then for some crazy crackhead who was pretty stupid reason he decided to just brolick. This crackhead was on a run over to the door and open it mission to break the fuck out. He for the cops and yell, They’re in picked the cuffs using Ram’s key here!, so Rambo grabbed me and ring with the quickness. I would we hightailed it downstairs. Only to say he had the cuff off in one and find a door locked from the inside. a half minutes. His game plan was to climb through this hole next to Super-frantic, we ran around the the ceiling which let the lights run stairs and through this little laby- through. It had to be no bigger than rinth of hallways and down this hall your average magazine. Rambo that was lined with foil. We saw a and I were just laughing so hard that bright light at the end on the right he was so serious and determined. side, so we turned and stumbled across...the craziest shit ever. I’m You see now, I was the closest to telling you I have never seen an- the opening so obviously he asked ything like it, me being from the me for a boost. I gladly obliged as East, I guess: This dude had an he hustled over to me and started

climbing up my back. I’m a skinny ass person and this guy easily weighed 240 -- imagine the load I was trying to push upward to this small ass hole that I knew he wasn’t gonna fit through. But it was worth the laugh. Rambo and I kept the lookout for this fool as he attempted to escape. He fell a couple of times, but when he made it to the opening, it looked like a grown man trying to climb back into his mother’s womb. The crackhead finally realized that he wasn’t going to fit, and he jumped down. At that point Rambo and I were thinking that this guy was out of his mind and willing to try anything. So Rambo started giving him ideas and with no hesitations, the guy started trying them. First Rambo was like, Yo just pick the door lock like you picked the handcuff lock., and we’ll look you out. When that failed it was on to Plan 2: Use a key as if it were a credit card on the lock. We had no good Plan 3 but we were dying of laughter watching this fool try this shit with such enthusiasm. So Plan 3 was to try and break the wall part of the dead bolt. What do you think happened? It failed, is what fuckin happened. The crackhead tried to break through a wall after less than five minutes of trying to break himself out with a house key. Are you kidding me? He was ridiculous to watch. I only wish the holding tank had a camera, and I could have doubles. Alright, fourth and final idea from Rambo. He told the crackhead to rub off the rubber around the window on the door to point where the window would be able to be pushed out. And like a frantic junkie, dude got straight to work. He told us he also had a backup plan, which involved one of us going to the bathroom so he could slip in some tissue where the deadbolt slid into the wall. The guy never had a chance to try it out, cause Rambo and I were released with an O.R. ticket. Boo, Mint , and Morte stayed in the jail for three days, surviving on grey soup and fruit. We all had to go back to see the judge in a month.


Photo: Shaun RFC


Photo: Robin Giordani

Photo: Wyatt Neumann









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