Role-play

I’m flying back to Old Lady Manhattan this morning. It generally takes me 24 hours door-to-door as I fly through South Korea. This 24 hours is fun, fun, fun. I like airplanes. No phone calls - you’re forced to do nothing but doze off and watch movies while beautiful girls serve you and you play “If I had to choose just one” and read the Financial Times. I pay tones of money for each flight, but it still thrills me to get a free newspaper on the plane.

When I used to live in Bermuda I had to write my occupation on the arrival card, so I used to write whatever I wanted to be, like opera singer, conductor or matador. Travelling is just a form of pseudo-suicide.

I think the people in the Cartier shops in HK, S Korea and NY probably know me by now, but apart from that I could be anybody. I’m very tempted to act like an asshole for the whole trip, to play that role, just to see.

Thoughts (part 1)

I’ve been thinking about Tommy Lee from Motley Crue recently, and imagining we are friends. I think we’d make good friends, but he comes across as much more outgoing than me, so I wonder what we’d actually do together.

Nothing can stop me now

Today I hired a 2nd assistant, bought a new laptop for over US$2000, and purchased a 2nd-hand accordion.

That’s right, an accordion.

Diagnosis, murder

It’s Saturday morning, or more accurately, the end of Friday night. I’ve been with people. Generally I don’t spend a lot of time with people, I’m quite busy. This is the 2nd weekend in a row I’ve associated with people.
When you hang out with people you need to interact with them. This sometimes means putting up with their asininities, and sometimes, if they’re quite clever, means you get to intellectually pare with them. Tonight was a bit of both, but ended up, as any good human event should, with intoxication and dancing.
I like people, I really do. I just wish so many of them weren’t so hung up on themselves. Really, we’re here to fuck and have a good time. You can diagnose it as much as you like, but you’re going to come to the same conclusion: fuck … good time. Art … girls and boys. It’s really not that complicated.

________________

I believe my grandfather coined the title "Diagnosis, Murder" in his novel of the same name, under the pen name of "Sutherland Scott". A fine writer in my somewhat biased opinion.

Move on

So Israel just swapped Samir Kuntar, plus 4 other Lebanese prisoners, plus the remains of 199 Lebanese fighters for … the bodies of 2 dead Israeli soldiers.
I would usually laugh at the “persecute-them-before-they-persecute-us” circus that is the Middle East, but this whole thing is just a case of humanity gone straight out the window.
Sometimes I just wish everyone would kill each other and get it over with, I’m sick to death of all this petty god, possession, hatred idiocy.
I’ve seen a little of the Middle East, and I can tell you friends, they’re all just a bunch of people, just like me. Just as useless and pointless and beautiful as everyone else.
I know what it’s like to be pissed off and get in a fight, but I get over it.

The slow train to Tahiti

Can’t sleep. It’s been another productive, perfectly coordinated day (the worst kind). Had to get up and draw … spend a little time with myself. I’m seven small inches away from doing a Gauguin – quitting the bank and going to a small tropical island to unearth my soul in purely sensual pursuits. I think I’d take Baby with me though. And I don’t work at a bank.

I used to amuse myself and exasperate my history of art teacher by saying “I could do that” every time he showed us Gauguin. One day he handed me a sketchbook and some colours and said “Okay, so go and do it.”

That was the 2nd best lesson I ever received.

Nothing's wrong

I’ve spent the past 3 weeks stone cold sober, and the last 2 weeks in complete control of myself, dealing with mortgage brokers, insurance brokers, printers, deliveries, premeditated ejaculations, hair care, ironing etc. Adult things. Everything is running smoothly. I feel great. It’s so nice. Everything’s nice. Nice, nice, nice. How pleasant to see things running smoothly. How nice. How tediously nice. How comfortable and predictable everything has become. How stable I feel. How clean. Like I’ve been disinfected. Like I’ve been wiped down with bleach. Sterilized. Sterile. Squeaky clean. Like a soldier’s button. Like a happy, shiny soldier’s button. Happy, clean and nice.

Tomorrow I will do something stupid. Tomorrow I will make a mistake on purpose. Tomorrow I will feel my pulse again.

Vanity fair

Baby has a high school reunion next January so we are in training for the event. To start out with I’ve become a recovering alcoholic again – this is a sure-fire way to get rid of that unsightly ‘spare tire’ flesh that is becoming a constant pest. I thought maybe it had been a month or two since I stopped being a filthy drunk, but actually it’s been only 2 weeks. I remember last time it was 40 days and 40 nights and by the end I felt like some kind of lean, sexual python, slithering down Hubba Hubba Street. This task is, frankly, tedious, but it’ll be worth it in 6 months’ time. I won’t let anyone accuse me of not knowing the sweet poison of conceit.

I decided to draw with my left hand today even though my right is functioning pretty much as normal. I was a little disappointed to discover it seems to be exactly the same as drawing with my right, just slower. Perhaps I’m ambidextrous. Or perhaps I’m just not very good. Or perhaps my old suspicion is true after all, and god himself is moving through me.

Son of a bitch

I have recreated here the painful last moment I could feel my right hand. I have drawn it with my left hand because my right hand has been chewed to pieces by a vicious dog. This is the 2nd time I’ve been attacked by a dog – it happens very suddenly, and all in the same moment you hear that horrifying snarling sound they make through the saliva of their flapping lips, you feel the tugging against your limbs and you feel the sharp pain of the teeth breaking through the skin, pushing into the muscles. Almost immediately they let go and then go in again for a better grip, and at that moment, because you have already analyzed and understood the situation, you try to outmaneuver the animal, which is virtually impossible, but you can at least give it a less important section of your hand/arm to tear up. At this point, you’re in a bit of a conundrum. Do you attack the dog back? It’s hard to kick a dog when it’s locked on to you, and if you hit it with your hand you stand the chance of it shifting its teeth over to your one good hand. This is a good time to find a suitable piece of furniture to beat the dog off with.
Actually, after 4 days I do have the feeling back in all my digits but one, but I thought it would be more dramatic if I pretended I had to draw with my left hand. I almost enjoyed it - makes me feel like a tough guy, especially with the wounds.