How to Stay Alive

Plan ahead. Make sure there's something to do in half-and-hour, tomorrow, next week, next month, and next year; if not, the thoughts of everything's pointlessness might overwhelm you and cause you to do away with yourself.


Radiation Newsletter is now available featuring Fatboy McPopcorn, an interview with the culprits, and 1-800-RAMONES.


If interested in enlightening the world with an instruction, or maybe having your words sung by the walls, send shit to any.riverbed (at) yahoo.com and maybe something will be done.


The Riverbed will be reading with Bucky Sinister, Al Burian, and Cassie Sneider, along with a show by La Cara Oculta; plus DJ Tisuj Tinc will be spinning records tomorrow, Tuesday the 24th of March. It should be fun. Check it out at the Wayward Council after 10 PM. The Riverbed will have copies of his debut collection, Damaged, on sale for ten bucks. If unable to show up and still interested in a copy, hit the Riverbed up at andy.riverbed (at) yahoo.com


The Riverbed's camera had been acting up on him, so Riverbedian Videos might go into hiatus until furthur notice. It shouldn't be a big deal since the Riverbed was usually too drunk to keep the camera from wobbling.


Here's something the Riverbed wrote during his Spring Break road trip:

The Puerto Rican boy and the German girl met at Pizza Rustico in South Beach. He had arrived from a three-day band festival and she told him that she only had one day planned in her trip; her appointment was the next day. She told him she lived in New York and took care of some rich-family’s kids when they were at work in the city; she was nineteen and she had gotten the job by applying for it in Germany, and she said she wasn’t looking forward to returning home when it was her time to study. He asked her why she was in South Beach and she said New York was cold and that she wanted to get as down south as possible.
The Puerto Rican boy had acknowledged that the things he did he did to truly sense his feelings; he knew he must be alone. He told her to sit down while she waited for her food and she got her pizza and ate with him, and he talked and talked and talked to her because he had nothing better to do, because he didn’t care that he was annoying her. He was thinking that if she left, he’d be just like he was before he had begun speaking to her: alone.
But she ended up agreeing to go see Revolutionary Road with him and he realized the only reason they were talking in South Beach was because he hadn’t copped junk. He had been walking to Overtown on 15th street from the Omni station with a hundred-twenty dollars in his pockets, but it was dark and after many many tries of state-of-mind-control, of slight suggestions, of come-on-you-fucking-idiot-you’re-gonna-get-jumped-and-ripped-off, he didn’t make it to the dope-spot. He decided he’d go back to South Beach, eat somewhere, watch a movie, smoke some weed, go to sleep and that he’d wake up early and cop all the junk he wanted to during daylight; it’d be much safer that way.
They watched a movie about Indian ghetto kids that lived in misery and were conditioned to miserable things and actions, and he saw himself in that movie and she saw herself in that movie and they saw each other in that movie. He walked her home through the masses of fichus and snobs of South Beach with the idea of ghettos more expansive than his homeland cemented into his head. He gave her his number and she told him she’d call him in two days, after she was done with her only plan, but she never did.


*UPDATE*

It has been declared that the Riverbed has soul. Check that out HERE.