A long, serious post (sorry)

Technomonk got me thinking. The “mental shift”, and the Buddhist idea that change comes from within. I grappled with this dilemma a while ago – the question of if we should actively try to change the world or not.
The idea was that if you try to instill your own truths on other people, then it is a similar thing as manipulating them, which has the same root as the corruption that has been fucking up the human race since the human race started (presumably everyone who campaigns their own truths believe them to be superior to everyone else's, and presumably all such people aren't going to be compatible, so most, or all, are going to be self-deceived).
The general Buddhist doctrine is that you shouldn’t try to change anything outside yourself, but should instead focus only on yourself, and as you proceed towards enlightenment, the world around you will follow. It may be slow and indirect, but it is the only untainted path, and the only one that can reach the true destination.
This makes perfect sense, but I always had a problem with it because it allows for entire generations to be fucked while the winds of change are gently being mustered. While I’m smiling at strangers and conserving electricity some cunt is making a quick buck at the expense of someone who doesn’t know better. This cunt will live a prosperous life and by the time the meek have inherited the earth he’ll be long dead and giggling uncontrollably in hell.
Case in point: US Vice President Dick Cheney. Even if he died a torturous death tonight, I think the life-long rewards would outweigh one uncomfortable evening facing the consequences of his corrupt existence.
I was chatting to a guy once. He was chatting about how he’d lived his childhood being sexually abused by his father, then he’d lived his young adulthood with this all blocked from his mind, then how he’d faced it and how it had torn his soul from himself, and I always remember how he said it wasn’t worth it; how he wished he’d lived his whole life in ignorance, because it was an insurmountable hell to face it. Anyway, I was unusually sober and lucid during the conversation, and he was provocatively articulate and profound, so I asked him about the above dilemma, and he said, “We are all involved”.
His point was, you can’t be inactive. Whether you like it or not, you are part of the runaway train that is humanity, and to have beliefs is not enough. If you sit back and let things happen then you are tantamount to condoning them, and to imagine that you are somehow exempt from contributing is just a façade of weakness and disinterest and subjection.
I don’t see any difference between Mother Theresa and Hitler. They both had Nietzsche’s “will to power”.
I guess what I’m trying to say is: everyone should be just like me. I should be King, and if you disagree I will have you lined up and shot.
No, wait, fuck, I almost had the answer, but I fucked it up again…

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This is a lithograph of Ekaterina Maximova, pupil of Galina Ulanova. After I made this, I didn’t care if I never made another lithograph, I loved it so much.

Train of thought, or, Coming on a train

I got sexually excited in public today. I was reading Yukio Mishima’s “Spring Snow” on the train into Shenzhen, one of the few opportunities I have to sit down and read. It was the passage where Kiyoaki looses his virginity with Satoko.

Mishima is an amazing writer. I have memories of things I experienced through his characters that are as clear and real as my own memories. He’s not a comfortable, casual read. If you let your mind wander you waste your time. He commands your attention and expects you to be involved.
Anyway, I always wanted to do it on a tram; and public places like museums and libraries and shopping centres make excited. All those people passing through, that murmur of language, all those souls, make me want to throw someone down on the floor. But not in public, not with people watching. I didn’t like it today, absorbed in the unfolding of Satoko’s kimono, her thighs, her hair … and the really large man sitting next to me pressing against the side of my leg and back. Kiyoaki’s half-naked body and the rain beating on the roof of the annex … and the stranger clearing his throat next to me, making me check if the swelling in my jeans was visible or not.
It was weird, it grated against my sensibility, but I don’t regret it, I won’t forget it. I just regret the person next to me wasn't more desireable.

I thought France was cool

I'm confused again. For a long time I’ve had a fun policy not to buy products produced in countries that are part of the ‘coalition of the willing’. So, if there are 2 types of butter, and one is from Australia, and one is from France, I’ll buy the French one. Ha ha ha, take that, Australia! But yesterday France announced that they’d consider war on Iran if they produced nuclear weapons. I don’t get it. The US has nuclear weapons, don’t they? They can argue that Iran is not trustworthy, but the US invaded Iraq on clearly false pretenses causing the needless deaths of tens of thousands of people. This isn’t a secret, right? I’m not deranged, making up far-fetched conspiracy theories. Am I?
Let Iran build their nuclear power plants, and let them make bombs too if they like, no need to keep them secret. The West forfeited the right to demand anything years ago.

Oh, and rock on the protesting monks in Myanmar. When I was a kid I was always ashamed I lived in a time when apartheid was legal, and all I did was talk about how I didn’t like it. I feel the same about Myanmar – so clearly a despicable system, and all I’ve ever done is say I don’t like it. It’s just as bad as praying and thinking you are helping somehow.

Handsome man's burden

We have a new security guy downstairs. A couple of weeks ago, while I was waiting for the elevator, he said I was handsome. What do you say in this situation? You can say “Yes I am” – I used to do this, but people think you’re a dick so I stopped. You can say “No, I’m not” in a humble way, but that just sounds like you’re way above it all. I tried the jokey response, and called him crazy in Cantonese. This is a very common, casual expression, but his face dropped and he told me I shouldn’t say that and I should speak in English. Since then every time I see him I smile and every time he turns his face to the desk and puts on an insulted expression. I need to confront him; I can’t stand this miserable, bitter, hurt man anymore.
I’m not even that handsome, maybe he really is crazy.

Left to my own devices

Baby Doll has left me again. She's gone to Japan. Something about preparing for our wedding celebration in 2 weeks. Mark it in your diaries - October 5th - we will marry in Heian Jingu Shrine in Kyoto - I want dancing in the streets, the general public copulating like feral kittens, throngs and riots. I have 10 days to get ready. Why am I trying to get ready? Shouldn't I be recklessly destroying myself?

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This is a gecko I found in my old apartment; all shriveled up and dead. I thought I should immortalize it somehow.

Lady's Bridge

I can't stand it. I want to have Richard Hawley's babies. I'm married. I'm a man. I'm not even gay.

Back to civilization

Back from the United Kingdom. It's so ... English there. I love the accents, still, it's nice to be back in a country where the trains, busses, internet etc work. Quote of the holiday - Uncle George: "I like it here in the country, away from all that internet and escalator stuff they have in London."

Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered

Baby’s back from New York and we’re busy little bunnies getting ready to go to London, then Scotland, then Kyoto for the grand finale/new beginning. At last, I can be …

Raping the rewards of success

My violent struggle with obesity has taken a turn for the better. After a strict regime over the past couple of months I can securely say my love-handles are reduced to mildly significant, subtle curves. I devised an ingenious balance of diet and exercise that has worked, and I feel so magnanimous that I am going to share it with the world for free. There are 3 essential steps to this regime:
1: don’t regularly eat large bags of potato chips or Doritos in replacement of meals
2: don’t make a habit of being stone, blind drunk every day
3: exercise regularly
There are drawbacks, of course; especially in point 2. I recently spent 5 straight days stone, cold sober, and I can tell you, pals, it’s much less fun than 5 straight days stone, blind drunk. But that’s the price you pay for beauty, I guess.
To celebrate, I’ve drank till 6 in the morning. Still sober, but running out of time, I’m left confused. Must be time to start drugs … I don’t have all night AND day to become oblivious!
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I just got Neikka RPM’s “Rise of the 13th Serphant” and it’s as exciting as I secretly hoped it would be. I listened to it all night, till I switched to Nina Simone. 3 days ago, when “I Put a Spell on You” came on, I started crying. I’d be embarrassed to say, except it really was an amazing moment. I’m sure I have a soul buried down there somewhere.

Cock, I did it again

It happened again. I didn’t mean to say anything out loud, but I did.
I was leaving the post office and I saw a large, rotund Western man stroking a small, plump Filipina’s cheek. I exclaimed “eeeeeeeeeeew”, as in “I’m going to be sick”. Again, it came out loud, when I meant to say it in my head. Fortunately they did not hear me.
I see this is going to progress from here, and lead to tears, and I’m kind of looking forward to it. There are, after all, so many things out there that need addressing.

I'm sorry, bitch

I can't believe it's only me that does this.

When I'm walking down the street I comment on everyone I see in my head. I'm a pretty kind person on the outside, but inside my head I'm wicked. Things like "Better spend a little more time at the gym, and less time at the grocery store, you fat cow" if I see a large person carrying groceries, or "Hey look, it's a radical, Muslim cleric" if I see anyone with a beard. It's all, frankly, childish and amusing.

The other day, however, there was a stupid, stupid woman in front of me while I was crossing the road. At the other side she stopped and, I guess, took a little time with herself to think about what the fuck she was doing. The problem was, when she stopped she blocked my access to the sidewalk, leaving me standing in the road, legitimate prey for any vehicle that now had right of way. I had to walk sideways and squeeze between her and the railing to get to relative safety. As usual I had a barrage of abuse for her in my head, but in this case it came out, out loud, in real life, for all to hear. I think it was something like, "Get the fuck out of my way, bitch." She kind of deserved it, as I really could have died (well, extremely unlikely, but there was a very, very minute possibility). The point is, though, that I didn't mean to say it, I just meant to think it in my head, but it came out. I guess I'm getting sloppy. Maybe I now need to curb my extravagant and highly amusing abuse.

Sonofacunt.

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This is, by the way, a cheap Trilby I own, not my Stetson.

Running scared

1:30am, drifting back and forth between this world and the other one, I'm suddenly acutely aware that I am going to die, and I have 40 or so years, tops, to accomplish everything I want to do. This happens a lot, that flash of urgent panic that accompanies an unexpected, clear grasp of mortality. Must sleep, I am going to die, I have a world of things to do.

It's alright, ma

August 25th, yesterday, was my Mum’s birthday. Apologies for 30-or-so years of selfish, arrogant, ungratefulness. I hope, somehow, all the beautiful things I’ve seen in you over the years have become part of me in some abstract way.

Fighting lukewarm with lukewarm

I read this article (“Teen Christians campaign against pop culture”) today: http://edition.cnn.com/2007/US/08/22/gw.teen.christians/index.html
In response, I’d like to say:
"Hey everyone, let’s rally together and be really, really naughty. Ooooh, ooooh, the devil’s in me. Beer, tits."
Come on, it’s the 21st Century. Haven’t we progressed beyond christianity YET?

Don't drink and sleep

I had another date with melatonin 2 days ago, this time with a belly full of whiskey. When I got to bed I felt like I was crashing through a window, falling, and hitting the ground all at the same time. I was kind of enjoying it in a 'I've-never-experienced-this-kind-of-thing-before' way, but like all good high-impact crashes, I was unconscious before I could really get used to the experience.

Today we finished the magazine, and orchestra brochure, flier and ads. I'm going to bed on time with Richard Hawley.

Note to self: stop being such a pussy

Today in the men’s changing room of the gym there was a man having a coughing fit. It was kind of gross at first, but not a big deal; but he just kept going. I guess he was choking on someone’s hairspray or something. I was half naked and he was still coughing, and someone with a whiny, English accent said “Get a fucking glass of water for fuck’s sake”. I wanted to say something, like “if he could stop it, I’m sure he would”, but this poor guy had so much attention on him I didn’t want to make it worse, so I just stared into the pit of my locker and got naked like a good English person. Finally the guy got his stuff together and bolted out of the room, still coughing, and then the whiny-voiced English person said “Haven’t we fucking-well progressed since SARS?” Again, I finished my duties as if I had no idea what was going on, and went to shower.

I’d like to rewrite this:
Today in the men’s changing room of the gym there was a man having a coughing fit. An asshole said “Get a fucking glass of water for fuck’s sake”, at which point I went to the coughing guy and asked in English if he was okay. Then I asked in Cantonese if I could get him a glass of water, proving my intellectual and humanitarian superiority over English dick. At this point everyone in the changing room started to admire me. The coughing guy pleaded with me to get a glass of water, which I got for him. He thanked me, and left, feeling much better. Then I turned to English dick and said, “Is this how you treat strangers?”, and he, trying to be cool, said “What are you, the Lone Ranger?” and I said, “What the fuck is wrong with being the Lone Ranger?”, stepping up to him. Even though he’s bigger than me, he knows I will beat him down because I’m a man on fire. He says, “Cool it, man, I’m just having a laugh.” And I say, “Don’t fuck with me. You wanna talk shit like that and then try to act like it’s a mutherfucking joke? Show some respect or keep your goddamn moth shut you sonofacunt.” At which point he packs up and scurries out and everyone thinks I am really, really cool.

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It’s another night of Richard Hawley’s “Danny”. His new album came out yesterday, but I’m not ready to buy it. I want to sit down with a tall glass of whisky and no pressing jobs and listen to it. I’m going to England next month with my baby doll, and I arrive in London the day after he plays there. Goddamnsonofawhore. You think you’ve got it bad in Iraq? You should listen to my troubles.

Let's get low!

Melatonin. It's amazing. If I do 2 overnights in a row it becomes impossible for me to rebalance my schedule, because your body just desperately needs sleep, so you take it at the first possible chance, and from then on your routine is fucked. I never really believed it could work, but, good goddamn. 20 minutes after taking it I was getting drowsy, after 40 minutes I was cranky and had no patience for my computer which was stalling. Within an hour I couldn't stay awake another minute. This has got to be illegal. Since then I've felt calm, subdued. I like it. Now I just need another pill to make me wide awake, and it'll be just like I'm not taking pills at all.

I remember Paris

As you can probably tell, my hair was pretty messy when I drew this.
As often, there’s too much to write, so I’ve dutifully nullified my mind with dark rum and video games so as not to be too poignant.
To start with, I need to mention that I keep remembering Paris, and that night in the F1 Motel with my good wife (then girlfriend), and the white wine and cheap pizza in the sports arena restaurant and the room and her with me that night.
Next, I need to say, I’ve had a heavy heart all weekend because I had a virtual disagreement with one of my best friends – your hero and mine, Andrew Collins. He said Lilly Nash (the number-one singer who sounds just like Kate Allen) was great, but I said she was rubbish. This has bothered me for so many reasons. For one, he bases his argument on thought and experience, but I base mine on whatever sounds most entertaining at the time. This makes it hard to argue if it turns out the person you are corresponding with doesn’t immediately agree with you. There are probably other reasons, but they’re not entertaining enough to remember/mention here. I may need to cross him off my ‘best friends’ list, but like many of my best friends, I haven’t actually ever met him, so this gets confusing; and, all the same, I genuinely like him very much. I just may need to rise above.

Well, enough of the abstract, let’s talk more concrete. My good wife and I are currently looking for a place to buy in NY. This satisfies both her innate need to shop, and my innate need to conquer the world. I don’t really like America, but I have learned to speak ‘New Yorkian’. This mainly consists or referring to streets – like: “I know the greatest hummus shop, it’s on 32nd and 5th, or is it 32nd and 6th?” and then you need to throw in some racial element, like “it’s run by a bunch of jews who’ve owned it since the 40’s” or “there’s a Puerto Rican restaurant nearby – my friend swears it’s the best place in New York, but I went there and, to be honest, I’ve had much better fajitas at Hernando’s on 41st Street”. It really doesn’t matter if you’re accurate or not, as the whole world is full of bullshit anyway. All that matters is me and baby and a long night of kissing and cuddling.

Never mind Elvis, here are the bollocks

Everyboby was looking at me on the street today. One person even came up, and stood right in front of me looking into my eyes, smiling. I didn’t know what to do, so I kind of looked friendly and disaffected at the same time, and they backed away. What happened? Am I finally commanding the attention I deserve? Or did I accidentally leave the blinds open last time I masturbated? Either way, I like it.

How to proceed

6am. Impatient, I pour ink into my hands to draw with that. I end up saturating everything I drew. I have ruined everything.
Now I understand. It’s all gone horribly wrong, but I’ve fixed it now.

Flip, Flop and Fly

I’m thinking about Johnnie Ray tonight. You can’t help but love the man - a man who had teenagers screaming at his feet before rock’n’roll was ever heard of. The man had no foundation to base his act on, he was just a wild, half-deaf, bi-sexual man who destroyed pianos and cried on stage and drove the kids wild. Then he went and died in drunken obscurity, overshadowed by the sensation of Elvis and the genius of Chuck Berry. If there was a god, or justice in the world, we’d all have a statue of him in our homes to worship every day. As there isn’t, well, I hope he had a hell of a time while he was on top.

Stop being so close-minded

I searched the Bloggers who also like Clint Black. I had to go through about 5 pages of results before I found a decent person who didn’t list “Military”, “Jesus” or “Hunting” in their interests. I’ve always bragged that I’m ready to try anything, but I realize now that there are so many things I would never go near. I need to diversify, stop being so close-minded. Maybe I will go to that church of scientology introduction meeting after all. Maybe I should take up yoga. I might even start prostituting children. No more holier-than-thou attitude. We are, after all, all the same ... or perhaps I should embrace racism?

No, fuck it. What a bunch of cocks all those violent, hateful people must be.

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Tonight, Richard Hawley's "Danny" is the most beautiful song ever recorded. The man must have a soul deeper than Hell itself.

Knowledge forsakes me again

Today I sat in a cab, stuck in traffic, for over 15 minutes. Finally traffic started moving, we turned the corner, and my destination was right there.

Anti-anti-establishment

I have a very big problem. I’m fixated with Clint Black. He’s a semi-cheesy, over-produced country singer. I have no problem with indulgence, but I just learned he vehemently supported George Bush and the Iraq war. What a cock. Why can’t he contain his violence to more acceptable outlets, like wife-beating or substance abuse? Why does it have to be so corporate? So … mainstream? It’s not cool. I feel so punk liking him. So anti-anti-establishment.

Nobody fucks with Tony Montana

I saw Peter O’Toole once. He was playing in “Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell”. Aunty Gill (aka Aunty Jill) and I waited at the stage exit for him after the play. Impatient, Aunty Jill ventured inside to find him, and soon came running outside screaming “Dominic, do you have a pen?”, followed by the man himself. Talk about presence. At the same time, at the end of the alley, a man was screaming, “You wanna fuck with Tony Montana? NOBODY fucks with Tony Montana!” Mr O’Toole looked up quickly and, making sure it wasn’t anything to do with him, resumed his previous cool.
That’s it. Jeffrey Bernard is Unwell, Peter O’Toole is cool, nobody fucks with Tony Montana. These are the rules, and I never forgot them.

God is from Belgium

I listened to Plastic Bertrand’s “Ca Plane Pour Moi” on repeat while drawing this. It just might be the perfect song. Not much surprises me, but I’m still surprised I lived my long and absurd life for 35 years without ever hearing this perfect song. What if I’d died 10 months ago, never having heard this, forever thinking Elton Mortello wrote the original (“He gave me head…”)? Imagine, slipping into nothingness never having heard this ridiculous 80’s Belgian pop/punk masterpiece. Playing it on constant repeat is no longer enough, I am now listening to it unsynchronized on both my headphones and my stereo. Oh god it’s beautiful. Oh god, have I just discovered God? Oh God, you’re more beautiful than I ever imagined.

Exposed, sort of

Being a portrait photographer has certain advantages, for example, when you need a new passport photo taken and you want it to be just right. I devoted last Saturday to this. I started pretty much as I usually look (except that I just dyed my hair black). Not satisfied with my natural state, I put on a suit. Still not happy, I combed my hair. Then came a little foundation, then mascara, then I darkened my eyebrows a little, then I added a tie. It looked pretty good, so I put on my best Mickey Rourke half jolly / half don’t-give-a-fuck smile, and shot away. Afterwards I smoothed my complexion a little on the computer, made my colour a little more healthy, removed the sty in my eye and softened the lines around my eyes. Smashing. I couldn’t get rid of the ‘lazy-eye’ that seems to set in after a few weeks of skipping sleep, but I figured that added to the persona somehow. I really started to like the new me. I realize it doesn’t actually represent me very well, which may not be entirely appropriate, as it is a passport photo, but hell, why limit yourself to, well, yourself?

I realised, also, my face has 2 completly different sides. I've seen this when i draw, but everything's exagerrated when i draw. Now I really see it though, if you draw a line down the centre of my face the left and the right seem to be doing their own, separate thing. I wonder if this is common.

Some best friends are better than others

This is my best friend Piggy wearing my Stetson hat. Ha, isn’t he silly?
I had another best friend when I was a child, he was called David Granham. I once told him that inanimate objects had feelings. The next day he came to me, all mad, saying he’d talked to his parents and I’d lied to him and inanimate objects didn’t having feelings at all. I didn’t agree. I knew, technically, toys and rocks and balls didn’t have life, but I knew at the same time humans projected their own feelings onto objects, just the same as they project their own feelings onto animals and other people. They personify and distort everything, regardless, and they were so corrupt that saying your dog loved you was the same thing as saying your TV loved you, or your grandmother loved you, or your god loved you. It was all free interpretation, based on what you believed through your constantly distorted perceptions and beliefs. Maybe your mother didn’t love you, but she said she did. Maybe your favorite slingshot was your best friend, but it never said so. You had emotions, and you shared them; sometimes with a friend, and sometimes with a bird on your window sill. Being seven years old at the time I couldn’t articulate this very well, so I just said he was very stupid, with such force that the conversation stopped there.
Anyway, this is my best friend piggy wearing my Stetson hat. Oh, what a card!

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.

Don’t look forward

I had trouble drawing this one because I was sometimes smiling and sometimes frowning. I was thinking about Tony Blair leaving office and announcing he was going to become a peace envoy. What a joke. What a sharp, shooting pain in my gut.

Brand new model

This is my best friend Piggy. Just like animals, just like beautiful strangers and idols, just like any object that can’t respond, I impose all the best things on Piggy and he never lets me down.
Tomorrow my brand new wife arrives. I hope I can draw her over and over. It’s intimidating though, to be yourself in front of another human being. Some pictures come out bad, that’s just part of the process, but they come together eventually. I hope she likes my pictures of her.

Brought eyes (sic)

I downloaded my first album legally tonight. It was Bright Eyes’ “Cassadaga”. “Poison Oak” made me cry while shopping for washing machines and refrigerators in Broadway in Causeway Bay just over a year ago. That was pretty interesting.
Yesterday I had to go to a big law firm to check out their conference rooms for a photo job. It was just before lunch when I left and I got into a full elevator. Once inside I saw the doors were mirrors, and I got to look at myself surrounded by perfectly preened, young executives. I looked like shit. From my hair to my outfit to my self, I looked a mess. Not a Keith Richards kind of a mess; just an ugly, avoidable-person kind of mess.
You might not know this, but I was young once. I was aware at the time that older people envied me, that I had access to the little girls and the energy, and that one day it would be gone. I decided that I would enjoy it and when it was gone, well, to hell with it. I would embrace maturity, or drop dead if it got too hard. I’m bored of this topic already, but I’m still surprised every time I look in the mirror. Does it have to be over so quickly?

Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout love

I had the idea a long while ago to freeze-frame pornographic videos and draw them. I never really developed it far, but I still like the idea. I’ve had a nagging feeling about sex and love recently – how the two are so interchangeable, but I’m sure they’re not that related. Love is just a moral concoction to allow fucking in civilized society. The reality is that a swollen cock thrusting into a juicy pussy is the best part of existence, and it’s made that way because nature insists we select and procreate. The idea that I’m being manipulated by something outside myself makes me mad, and makes me never want to fuck again. Really – I know the game: passion, that overwhelming desire, that explosive wanderlust that comes with being in the arms of beauty. Nature, you fiend. Am I just a cog in your wheel?

the Cure

This is another old picture. It is a familiar process - I fuck up the first one or two sketches; then, as my energy and inner violence grows, I need to choose to pull it together or just submit to the failure. Herein lies the beauty of creation: inarticulate insistence.
I’m listening to “Lost” by the Cure. I always imagined that this song culminates in a grand piano being tied up with a rope and lifted into the air and then being repeatedly smashed into the ground in time with the music. The big, repetitive, pulsating sound made up of all the instruments getting more and more insistent. It’s like the selfish urgency of passion; the overwhelming violence of sex. The insistence. The insistence of culmination. The point where mistakes are irrelevant. It could be murder or orgasm; it’s all the same when you’re overwhelmed.
I was thinking yesterday, as I rode the bus home, of a moment when I was waiting on someone’s balcony and I watched 2 young lovers far, far below me at the dock. It started raining and they had no shelter, but they stayed. They stayed for over an hour. All they had was a piece of wood that protected their bags from getting too wet. I waited and waited. All they did was hug, and wander around, and hug again. I thought it was sweet but it was dull. Why didn’t they do something? Why didn’t they fuck? Why didn’t they fight? Why didn’t one of them slit the other’s throat? Why did it just drag out and disperse into the endless sea of nothingness? Inaction can only lead to disintegration.

Gee but it’s good to be home

As much as I dig my wife and have the greatest time staying with my in-laws, it sure is nice to come home. I thought I’d give the night to rum and Dynasty Warriors, oh how I’ve missed my warrior friends, but I spent the night working and listening to music, and treated myself with drawing at the end. Japan for 2.5 weeks sure was fun. Getting back to work sure is fun. Life is both hunky and dory. I love it here. I can’t wait to go back. What a complex pattern of happiness existence is.