TheBoyNamedCrow/akaLonelyPlanetBoy/THE WHY FILM

I just finished shooting (co-directed/co-wrote/and a ton of other shit) a feature film in 11 days- with my partners Anthony Pedone & Stephen Floyd- the last day we shot for 24 hours strait. I'm more than really proud of this film, production stills in my pic's- keep your eyes and ears open for THE WHY in 2009.i finally finished the 11th level and saved the princess from a terrible fate at the community swimming pool...

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'the only sin that can be committed is the degradation of the human spirit.' -W.S.Burroughs. "i'm not feeling to well- i'm off to the chemist" -W.S.Burroughs to Brian Jones.this photograph of me? my profile pic? it's the only ID i got, the only picture in existence of me. and it's my mug shot from central booking, heaven. st. peter was quick draw-mcgraw with the match to light my smoke. i was psyched, i'd heard that in heaven you could smoke in all the bars and strip joints. the saint's were disgusted that i didn't know the answer to a single riddle- (i'm no good at crosswords either) and god, does god loves riddles- and so they kicked me loose after deciding i wasn't worth the bail money. plus, jesus got all mad when i got up on his lap, tugged his beard and promptly pissed my pants. i tried to sing him a song to calm him down, it went like this: "jesus wept/and got sand up his skirt" over and over until they lugged me to the hole- which in heaven is where buddha lives. he said i only cut myself for attention. i begged to differ. we played pocket war to settle it, and guess what- he didn't have shit! i totally beat his ass. buddha loses like a champ, though. he gave me a lama to ride back to boston, which i did- he was a good dude.so i gets off the lama at havard square and there's all these cops and firemen running around. this is a good example of me- thinking i'm being funny, right- you know i got some wild hair stuck out under a crooked ball-cap, my hoodie up, and my jacket with the safety pins the Quakers gave me. oh, and i'm manic as a motherfucker- off the lithium, you know you gotta drink 17 glasses of water a day with that shit? but anyway so i walks up to this copper- and i says, (figuring it was just another OD in the T) "Agent Dogs. Undercover Narcotics."i reach into my inside jacket pocket and pull out a smoke,"I've been called in to assist."i give him a long hard look, then wink and punch him in the shoulder. a love tap 's what i was thinkin. i thought this was a riot! like- but he didn't think so. he searched me down, found the mantra i stole from buddha and charged me with possession. ran me for warrants.cops have no sense of irony. here's a song i wrote, you can read it and steal it if there's any shot at making money off it. it's like my best buddy always tells me whenever we say goodbye, "hey, e?" and i say "yeah?" and he says, "kill yourself." my friends are the best. William S.Burroughs - Thanksgiving Prayer (dir. Gus Van Sant)

Add to My Profile | More Videos on another note, myspace makes my head hurt. i believe the Computer is possessed of malevolent spirits. i mean, first of all, the omnipotent myspace dirty bastard cyber-brain said i didn't want kids on my profile- puttin' words in my mouth. sonofabitch!- not true. i do, but not now...christ geeezus, i can't even log into my own account half the time, how am i gonna have a kid? well...as long as babies still come without GPS cyber-chips embedded in their brains, and you don't need a password to see them, or spyware to protect them, or COOKIES to feed them, and they don't have pop-ups constantly flashing in their eyes infecting them with some nerd-hacker-virus that'll crash'em- then i think i'd be allright. i like my baby's to sleep, NOT crash. to cry for it's momma's sweet breast, NOT go frozen catatonic blank silent. to be able to take it to the doctor's when it's sick, NOT to some system's analyst in a dust-bin industrial park. to need love, NOT my credit card number, to give love without having first to know my credit score. i want it to spill out of a vagina head first and healthy, not out of an INBOX reading DELIVERY STATUS FAILURE. and really, if baby's can still go poop their little-grinning baby turds and whiz their warm little baby pee into their funny-paper diapers, and not delete into a file-folder, and so long as baby still says "da-da" or "ma-ma" or fucking "goo", "ga" -whatever, and not "FREE TRIAL OFFER", then count me in. i can do it.ok. me.well, i'm a little off the hook- if you want to know the truth. i do have gold fish in my platform shoes. and i did kill my junior high-school science teacher's gold fish in his fish bowl. belly-up, sucker's!how can i not be a sardonic, sarcastic, narcissistic, self-parody of a bastard here...let's see...hmmmmm...my mom says i'm handsome and have "precious" dimples. gotta love the mom's. a fortune teller once told me i had a certain magnetism that draws people to me (unfortunately they usually say things like this "goddamn it! i just NEED a PEN that WORKS! i gotta..i gotta...i gotta get a patent...all my dirty secrets, before they steal 'em- send them to WASHington, $5, before they steal 'em, clean 'em...i got it all up here! gotta make it legal, all my dirty secrets!")- and plus my tarot's were all upside down-the good ones! burn the witch! burn the witch!the spare change guy outside cvs calls me "playboy," but he says that to all the guys. and while i'm on it only in harvard square would you ever, ever hear "spare any change for my hedge-fund?" i'm not a 9-5'er- gas company stooge- marry my highschool sweetie- wash the vinyl siding on the house on the weekends- type of guy. in fact, i don't have a house, i agree with woody allen that whoever invented vinyl siding should be shot, and i would rather die than work adjusting knobs at the gas company. i would gas myself. gas companies do have gas chambers, right? well i'm clockin' out fella's. i'm not a fan of mustard gas or bombast. i'm just a white, lower middle class gypsie, a pickpocket of a mother's love. i'm cold pizza crusts or flat fountain soda. my recipe is carbon-based, but my heart was NOT made cheap in a factory in detroit. and i NEVER wanted to play football for the coach, no matter what lou tells you.