Gym etiquette, part one

My gym has an interesting list of “Gym Etiquette” posted, listing things like “Don’t drop the weights on the floor” and “Don’t wear jeans or sandals”. My favorite says “Don’t be paranoid.” It goes on to explain you don’t need to think everyone is watching you, and you can just concentrate on your workout. I know for a fact this is not true, as I personally, ruthlessly, judge every single person I see.

I have my own list I’d like to add, starting with:
1. Don’t shower with the door open. Your water splashes on me, which is disgusting.
2. Don’t shave with an electric shaver in front of the mirror, you fucks. All your disgusting little hairs fall onto the counter, around the hairdryer and cotton swabs. It’s not complicated, do it over the sink and clean up after yourself.
3. If you smell, go home. This includes bad breath, cigarette breath, body odor, farting, musty clothes, whatever. I need to breathe deeply when I exercise, and you make it hell for me.
4. Don’t sing in the goddamn shower. Do you really think I give the slightest fuck about your favorite song? No, I don’t, so shut the fuck up.
5. Never sit on a machine if you’re not using it, or are not about to use it. Also, don’t stand in front of a machine, blocking it, leaving it inaccessible. Why? Don’t ask me why. It’s obvious.
6. If I’m on the machine by the mirror don’t try to cut through to the other side. I have to stop to let your lazy ass through. Walk around, it’s a goddamn gym after all, get some fucking exercise you selfish cunt.
7. Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave a used band-aid in the shower stall.
8. Don’t read newspapers, magazines or books on the treadmill. You’re lying to yourself thinking you are getting exercise while reading and casually strolling on a self-moving machine. Don’t talk on phones either. If you have enough lung power to hold a conversation then you may as well be wandering aimlessly on the street, just as your aimless, pointless life dictates you do.
9. Don’t use your machine in time with the bland, over-produced pop covers on the speaker system. You’ll look like a dick.
10. Don’t do stupid yoga-style poses in the stretching area unless you’re an able-bodied girl. Again, you look like a dick.
11. And really, don’t drop the goddamn weights. If they’re really so heavy then choose lighter weights you stupid cock. Otherwise you’re obviously just trying to tell everyone how tough you are, which makes you a completely, stupid cock.

The Proselytizer Blues

I read an article in Time today that had a reference to the 22, once 23, Korean hostages in Afghanistan as “camcorder missionaries” – groups that go off on sponsored trips to raise the profile, and raise the income, of their local church group; with no real purpose other than private gain and the obstinate force of unfounded pride. The venomous spite welled up inside me. Don’t get me wrong, I hate Muslim zealots as much as I hate Christian ones, but when push comes to shove I’ll usually side with the resistor rather than the aggressor.
If those idiots make it back to Korea they’ll undoubtedly be hardened Christians and gain a big following of other idiots, and the whole thing will perpetuate – a magazine cover here, a huge donation there, and before you know it they’ll have statues of themselves with halos and poems about martyrdom. At this point, I just don’t care if they live or die. I really just don’t care.

Perspective

During high school I received detention only once. We had been given an assignment to write a story evoking “atmosphere”. I wrote about being on the beach, in the steamy heat, seeing the nipples of a beautiful girl poking out inside her bathing suit, toying with the straw of her drink with her tongue, and getting a hard on. It wasn’t a brilliant piece of writing, but it was a breakthrough in opening up a new horizon. My teacher called it “smut” and told me I could re-write it in detention.
That day my mother was volunteering in the school kitchen. When I went in to get my free pie my mother, who had heard about my creative endeavor, gave me a stern speech about how bad I was. Whatever. I had to wait for my free pie to cook, so I was forced to hang around the kitchen with my unfriendly Mum (who, in all fairness, has always been a much better person than myself). One by one the other teachers came in to get their food, and each one patted me on the back saying my story was being passed around the staff room and they all thought the whole thing was hilarious. By the time my lunch was finally ready, my mother was singing a different tune, something like “That’s my boy, he’s a little wild, but we still love him.”
I learned an important lesson that day. Sometimes it’s not exactly what you do, it’s how it’s presented. People are malleable, weak. Don’t accept another man’s truth, follow your own; the definition of right or wrong is up to you.

Hello, beautiful

I was too tired after my Tammy Faye Messner extravaganza to clean off my make-up when I went to bed, and too rushed to notice it the next day. It wasn’t till lunch time when I glanced in the mirror and noticed how beautiful I looked. To be honest, this has happened several times before. The true test was when I forgot about it again and went to the gym in the evening. That place is full of mirrors, so it’s hard not check yourself out, between checking out all the men and women around you (while pretending you don’t notice anyone). I figured it out before I got to a mirror though because everyone looked twice at me. It was a bold experiment, and I’m not sure if I would have had the courage to try it on purpose. Ultimately, though, I really looked much better with darker eyes and fuller lips.
It’s now 2am, and I can’t find my lipstick anywhere. Perhaps someone stole it? Where’s my goddamn assistant when I need him? Useless sonofabitch. I know I have lipstick because I used it the last time I opened a bottle of champagne and painted Chinese love poetry all over my naked body.
This all reminds me of when I was 15 and walking through the streets of Hamilton, Bermuda in make-up, high heels and ridiculous hair. Some girl I never met before called me a “faggot”. I have no problem with being thought of as gay, but this was fighting talk. We went tit-for-tat, throwing high-school insults back and forth, while still walking, till we were almost out of ear-shot, when I yelled a finite “Suck my dick”, and she came straight back with “I can’t, it’s not big enough”. I’ll never forget it. She’d never even seen my dick before. She’d never even seen me before. I had no comeback. Later I thought of: “It’s more than you’ll ever get, you fat bitch”, possibly even whipping it out and stroking 'Mr Thriller' to his full magnificence, but it was way too late. I’ve forgotten so many episodes in my life, but this one has been dragging behind me for the last 22 years. Goddamn filthy whore. Who the fuck does she dare think she is, that useless, dirty-pussied, whorebag of a cunt?

I’ve been listening to Richard Hawley’s “Precious Sight” all night, convinced it is the best song ever recorded. I went online to buy his complete back catalog, just because I wanted to give him something back, but it’s not available.

Nemesisless

Tammy Faye Messner died today. I can’t make up my mind about her; she seems to be everything I hate and love all wrapped up into one tidy package. She’s a religious nut / she manipulated millions of weak-willed people into donating cash to her empire; she’s totally fake / she’s iconographic. Everything about her was contrived and carefully planned, yet she somehow remained innocent, possibly even sincere. Who knows? It’s brilliant and it’s disturbing. In tribute I painted my face tonight and drew.
She looked great on Larry King Live, days away from death, her broken face painted in grotesque make-up, part frightened, part immortal. She looked unusually alive for a human.

ACT I, Scene II

ILYCH: If love was truly sprung from an arrow, I’d swear I saw Cupid before me now. Yet Uncle, why tonight of all nights do you start this tempest, where wounds have no chance to heal? Unless perhaps your arrow’s intention is to maim?
GREYGOR: This is a wretched night indeed. In truth, I never dared imagine it would come to pass. If I had, I would have acted. Now it is here, there is no excuse for inaction.
ILYCH: And what action do you seek?
GREYGOR: The liberation of beauty.
PACHEN: Ah, the beauty of liberation!
GREYGOR: What mirrored tongue is this?
PACHEN: The reflection is yours, Your Excellency.
ILYCH: Playing the fool, Pachen?
PACHEN: I am playing the master, my good Lord, who is fooling himself. Yet it would not be wise for me to call him a fool.
GREYGOR (laughing): Your courtesy exceeds you, my good rascal. Pray, continue.
PACHEN: From playing, to praying – this is the routine of many a scoundrel.
GREYGOR: But what of myself?
PACHEN: I would say you take more pleasure from the play than from the players.
ILYCH: Is this drama we are talking of now?
PACHEN: Comedy, tragedy – only the Good Lord knows. How easy it is for one to veil the other.
ILYCH (to himself): If I were the one to lift the veil…
PACHEN: Your tragedy unfolds, my good Lord, as the master’s folly begins.
GREYGOR: Your rhymes provoke and confuse.
PACHEN: Then charming they must be.
GREYGOR: And exhausting.
PACHEN: Some men retire when burdens grow, and slackness does embrace them; others retreat for they do know, time ripens their condition; whilst others yet will not be slow, and force chance’s decision.
GREYGOR: The time has come, without my beckoning. What would you say to this my charming servant?
PACHEN: If I were to serve you well I’d recommend rehearse no more, your tongue is learned, do not betray the script, or chaos will ensue.
GREYGOR: Impossible! Am I not the master of my own verse? Life is no play, my destiny cannot have a conclusion before it even ends!
PACHEN: While affectation plays companion to a man’s senses, liberation is his enemy. Such a man is only free when he forgets himself. Were such a man to step outside his surroundings, where would he be?
GREYGOR: Nowhere.
PACHEN: To himself, perhaps.
GREYGOR: I grow weary of being outwitted. To your point, my good fool.
PACHEN: As one acts, another reacts. The action’s foretold, directed by circumstance. Be neither swayed nor seek to sway and there you will find yourself free.
GREYGOR: This weary fool retires. The day has overcome me. If tomorrow’s script follows today’s I’d sooner be dumb, than sputter this nonsense before me. But act I will as happier I’d be to make ruin than follow this through to its unhappy end.

Exit Greygor

ILYCH: I follow my Uncle, it’s time for sleep; but in waking I’ll follow no more. He finds no pleasure in pleasure and is affronted by charm.

Exit Ilych

Beginning to see the light

I started a new game of Dynasty Warriors tonight. I decided, before I started, that I’d try a new strategy, just for fun. I decided to be as aggressive as possible, and not to be sentimental, and to forget my usual practice of not taxing the peasants. After a couple of games Jinuan Sanjae got captured. I killed the guy who captured him, then went on to destroy the whole empire that was associated with the battle, even though it was at the expense of other areas I controlled. I got Jinuan Sanjae back and it felt good. All along the way I kept pushing the peasants for more and more taxes to fund my campaign, to the point where Da Qiao actually suggested forced labour (an option I’d never seen before) – but I figured this would lead to revolt so I didn’t choose it.
Anyway, I had a great time and I was pretty successful, so I’d just like to apologize to the Bush administration. I didn’t realize before what a kick it is, and how profitable it is, to make a sacrifice here and there, all for the benefit of the key players.
All this awesome killing has left me with a new perspective on world events. I just hope it’s not too late to get a piece of the action.

Nirvana, here I come

Today I styled my hair just like my new best friend Artem (not actually my friend). I have made a very big decision – I will go ahead and get my “2046” haircut. I will be cool, I may even buy spats (http://www.benlocker.com/blog/?p=178). Progress, you little charlot. A full life is maybe 70, 80 years? We cram it full of shit – brand new televisions, homeopathic remedies, self-defense classes, comprehensive lists of battlefield locations. Goddamn it all to hell, all I ever wanted was a nice haircut and a few accessories, a little pussy and a whole lot of senseless fun.

Shooting a Russian

Another day of taking orchestra photos. Extra special mention has to be made of Artem, originally of Siberia, who did a Russian dance with his cello in his hands. Forget the fact that he was able to do it – just the fact that he did do it was beautiful, and he did it with humor and gusto. I just can’t help but admire people who dance and sing and laugh. Tomorrow feels fun already.

Come on, let’s go

There comes a time during drawing when you’ve added too many layers, and the only thing to do is spray spray paint on your fingers and draw with that.
So many things to write today, so little time. Today we did a photo shoot of an orchestra. I liked all the musicians with their instruments. We also had a stylist, so the studio smells like hairspray, which smells like girl, which turns me on.
I’m listening to Neikka RPM tonight, made up of friends from college, most notably Domgirl. I was called Dominic, she was called Dominique, when the phone rang no one could tell if it was for me or her. Hence I became Domboy. I liked it also because it sounded like “cowboy”.
Special mention to the tropical Blue Moon butterfly, which in just 5 years evolved a gene to suppress the Wolbachia bacteria that was wiping out the males of the species in the South Pacific. Lazy humans take note. Isn’t it about time we evolved? I don’t know why we needed some things in the first place, but I’m sure we no longer need to fart, or have stinky armpits, or bleed between our legs every month. Come on people, this is the 21st Century, let’s evolve.

All the pussy you want

I went to the gym today after a 7 week break due to traveling and having a stupid, stupid cold. The gym is a fascinating microcosm. I watched a hapless man try to chat to a girl on a treadmill. She was half his height and maybe half his age. At the end he gave a pathetic punch in the air as if to say “Okay, get back to your work-out”. Fortunately she’d already put her headphones back on and was staring out the window. He was old enough to have realized he is a loser by now but, like my friend English Richard used to say – “If you don’t shoot, you can’t score”.
On the way down the escalator I saw another man leaning on the reception counter, staring out the side of his eyes at a girl’s ass, chewing gum with a look of contempt in his eyes. I bet he gets all the pussy he wants. If I ever have a son I’m going to teach him how to get girls – just treat them like dirt, and when you get them in bed make sure you give them a good fucking. Like Lisa Bonet said in Angelheart – “It’s always a bad ass that makes a girl’s heart beat faster”. Like Leonard Cohen said – “No man ever got a woman back by getting on his knees and begging”. Like I always say – “A man never becomes king by asking for it politely”. If my son is lucky like me he’ll find a good girl or boy and stick with them; but if not I really hope he doesn’t go around hoping for miracles. Well, what does it matter? If he’s worth his salt he’ll just do the opposite of whatever I tell him anyway.

The road to Texas

If I had to choose just one man to be, just one man that represents all the best qualities that I desire, I would choose Lyle Lovett. He is everything a man should be.

I have a Stetson. I bought it in Albuquerque while I was visiting my baby-doll in Santa Fe. I had fake snakeskin boots, blue jeans and a Stetson hat, and I felt like a real man. I stood up straight and, although I could take any man down, I was polite and charming. I belonged in that hat, in those boots, with that big sky stretched out above me and True Love Ways on the car stereo. I didn’t need any of you, I was complete.

Bite me

I drew this in charcoal, then I drank more, then I added spray paint, then I drank more, then I added acrylic, then I drank more, then I added ink, then I drank more, etc etc. There’s nothing like impatience to add energy to a man’s input. This is a mess, but it has poetry. I’m suddenly everything I ever wanted to be – independent, reckless, pointless and free. If you don’t like it, well, you know where I live. Bring it on.

Bear with me

Like a lot of people who are about to get married, I’ve had my photo taken a lot recently. I’ve been Japanese, I’ve been Chinese, I’ve been a soldier (my favorite) and I’ve been an angel. All this photo taking has reminded me of what a genius I am. I’ve had my head tilted, my hair fixed and my lighting adjusted, but I can’t smile for shit. When I smile I look like a really badly crafted wax dummy. My apologies to my good wife for ruining a lot of photos which would have looked amazing if they had been her alone. In contrast, when I take photos, the lighting sucks, the positions are not thought-out, but the sitters are slowly coaxed into shining, and smiling, no matter how uncomfortable they are when we start. I can adjust the white balance in Photoshop later, this is merely a technicality. So, I’ve been encouraged to smile more. This is me trying to smile. It took a while, but I finally realized what it reminds me of – it’s the same look that husky had in it’s eyes right before it attacked me – kind of glazed over – slightly lost and confused, slightly possessed. Pretty scary.

The good mormon

I’ve always hated mormons. Since the first moment I met one in South Korea and learned what they were I’ve freely despised them. I see them when I’m on the bus passing through Central. They always hang around outside Worldwide House because it’s full of Filipinos – the poor and mistreated are the easiest prey. For a long time I’ve wanted to dress like one except have “I hate mormons” on my badge, and go down to Worldwide House and preach the concept of intolerance of any one group of people that actively tries to convert people into a concept of segregation and blind faith. Mormons are like Hitler – so easy to hate you almost forget why you hated them in the first place.

Today, because I’m still sick, I allowed myself to watch another movie. This time I saw “New York Doll” – the documentary of the New York Dolls’ bassist Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane. I loved it apart from 2 things: 1. my new Tony Leung Chiu Wai hairstyle, which I haven’t even tried properly yet, quickly became superseded by the Dolls’ long hair and make-up, 2. all the mormons in the movie seemed to be genuinely nice people with sensible and useful things to say.
Man, just when you think you have the world summed up, someone throws you a curveball. It’s 2:40 in the morning and I have no idea who I should pretend to be tomorrow, who I should emulate, who I should persecute.

Wong Kar Wai did this to me

I watched Wong Kar Wai’s “2046” tonight. I’d heard mixed reviews of it and was expecting it to be a little clumsy. In the beginning I saw it was so well framed I was ready to forgive any bad acting or messy plot; by half way I was becoming very attached to the picture; and as it was nearing the end I was thinking it may be a masterpiece. The overwhelming nuance of time and memory and the continual overlap of storyline and conflict of personalities, each with their own timeline and memories, was amazing; together with the overlap of previous Wong Kar Wai movies and future ones it became something akin to truth – that indefinable, yet somehow tangible reality.

I’m getting over a cold – another one, which is strange for me. I watched a movie thinking it would be a pleasant way to pass the time and distract me from working, but it was too exciting. The movie made me want to start smoking and had me drinking whisky before it was finished, even though I’d planned not to drink till I’d stopped coughing up disease from my sticky lungs. Then afterwards I gave myself a side-parting like Tony Leung Chiu Wai, painted a fake moustache on my upper-lip, and drew this. Who the hell ever said “just be yourself”? Everything I love and ever loved has been on a pedestal. I’ve been myself, let me be you for a while.

Getting uneven

This is the one picture I managed to draw of my baby-doll in 2 weeks. Now she’s gone to NY and I can revert to different kinds of long, drunken nights of frenzy.

I have a new ambition now: to work for George W. Bush. Imagine the power. You can fuck anyone up and never, ever go to jail. Now that Johnnie Cochran is dead, a man needs some kind of unfair advantage when going about his business.