Thanks … suckers!

Today is Thanksgiving Day in the US. I never fully understood this holiday, and I always guessed all the surviving Native Americans are sitting around on their reservations, drunk, hopeless and kicking themselves.
Today the Chinese government reversed its decision not to allow US warships to dock in Hong Kong after already kicking them out yesterday – on humanitarian grounds because it’s a US holiday.
Great. I suppose we’ll all be dead by Christmas.

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This was from wandering around a small province called Xin Hui in South China. Starting to feel I’ve drawn myself enough for the time being. I think I need to get out more.

ps, thanks Baby, you're wonderful; and thank you all, my real and imaginary friends.

Election fever

There was no one at the election building when I went to vote on Sunday. Just me, about 14 officials and one police officer. I'm getting more and more confident I can win next time. I also got a letter from the SPCA today asking members to nominate people for the Executive Committee election. I'm seriously thinking of nominating myself for this too. I don't know what such people do, but I want to win it.

In between days

I have a theory that children have more life in them because they still have a memory of not existing. I like very old people, to whom death is a certainty. They have humour, and a sense of life to them. At 36, all I seem to be aware of is myself.

Andy Warhol created me

Thursday, April 20, 1979
Had to go to the memorial service for Ambassador Hoveyda’s brother who was executed in Iran. Cabbed to Riverside Drive ($2.50). Everybody was there. We took our shoes off. There was a rug in the middle of the floor and no one wanted to step on it because it was like stepping on the body because there wasn’t a body there. There was Iranian music. It was like the best cocktail party but with no drinks.
Steve Rubell’s suing Ron Galella, I read in the papers – for starting a fight at Studio 54, he says. And I’m invited to Ron Galella’s wedding on Saturday. I think I’ll go.
- The Andy Warhol Diaries

I read a couple of pages of Andy Warhol’s diaries every night recently. I can’t explain why I love Andy Warhol. No one who likes him can explain why. I think Truman Capote described him as “A sphinx without a secret.”
This world wouldn’t be the same if he hadn’t existed, and I don’t think I would exist as I do now without him.

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Mr Thriller has been on high alert for the last few days. All this clean living and lucidity is starting to get to him. I was in the bookstore getting ideas for our 2008 calendar and all the great ideas were getting me all riled up. When someone with strong perfume passed by I almost broke down from some kind of deviant inability to contain all the pleasing input. It’s a good thing Mrs Wrongdesign wasn’t there, or I may have thrown her down between the aisles. Come to think of it, it’s too bad she wasn’t there - I kind of like the sound of that.

It's good to be District Councilor

I’m excited, this weekend we have elections in HK. I still remember the first time I voted; I was in 6th form in London and I voted for the Green Party. I had no idea who was running for the Green Party or what they planned to do, but I knew it was the cool party to vote for. This weekend I will vote for ‘the Democratic Party’ (not to be confused with another party called the ‘Democratic Alliance for the Betterment of Hong Kong’). Their leader is Martin Lee. When I came to Hong Kong I asked my new friends who they admired the most, and everyone always said “Martin Lee”. Later I got a job to photograph him. When I showed up at our designated meeting spot, the parking lot of the HK Legislative Offices, I realized I had no idea what he looked like, so I stood with my camera out and made eye contact with every man over 40 I saw, until one of them acknowledged me. An important lesson – always know who you are photographing, and try to remember their name if you can. He was an amazing guy, he knew the daughter of an HK painter I admired (turned out the daughter was Anson Chan, possibly the most famous woman in HK who isn’t a pop star, I really need to do my homework). He took me around the court and various offices and we took photos and we went up to the roof - literally on the slanted, tiled roof with nothing between a slip of the foot and certain death. He said he liked to go up there to think. I wasn’t worrying about me dying, but I was really worried about him dying, it would have looked really bad if the most beloved man in HK died while I was photographing him. Neither of us died and the photos were amazing, this man could strike a pose at the drop of a hat, a real pro.
So anyway, this weekend we’re voting for the District Council members. These are the people who watch over our individual regions in HK and make sure the trash gets picked up on time and the road works go ahead. We’re not actually allowed to vote for anyone with power in HK. There is a vote for our leader, but the people who vote are hand-picked by the Chinese government, so it’s really difficult to win unless you are also hand-picked by the Chinese government (though I’m sure it might be possible somehow). The last time he ran for office, ex-Chief Executive Tung Che Hwa spent a million HK dollars on his campaign, even though there was no one running against him. He just had to go through the motions, otherwise it would have looked really bad, I guess.
Because it’s pretty pointless, politics is pretty lackluster in Hong Kong. The government is pretty efficient and has sent me a letter telling where to vote, when to vote, and who my two options are (only 2!). I’m now seriously considering running next year (do they have them every year? I should check that out). I really want to be a leader, I really want the power. At first I thought I might be too morally bankrupt and incompetent, and my opponents would expose me immediately, but then I quickly remembered – this is politics, dummy.

I just have one question that I’ve been dragging around with me for years – after I win, should I cultivate society, or enslave it for my raucous pleasure? I can never figure this one out. People are senseless, horrible things, and if you give them a break they just abuse everything and it all goes to hell. The last thing you want is for them to govern themselves. And they’re just masses of corrupted, fleshy animals anyway. However, you could argue that hundreds of thousands of years of mismanagement and misdirection has left the human race a little regressive; a tad spiritually reticent. I like people, they’re probably my favorite things after romance and art. I just don’t know what to do with them all.

World Comin' Down

I made the first contact with the little boy who lives on my floor today. We were in the elevator and he whistled a few notes, and I whistled a few to conclude our made-up song. He thought this was great. I’m pleased. I’ve always been curious about him, but he’s so odd I usually think it better to ignore him. I call his family “The Poors” because they don’t have running water and use the public toilets to wash. This is cruel and amuses me, but I think it’s okay as I too didn’t have running water for the first 7 months I lived here. Anyway, this little boy spends hours entertaining himself in the corridor – singing songs and playing odd games with himself that usually involve repeating some action at some specified pace. I once saw him on the street waving some imaginary specter towards him, and then dashing behind the building. There was one woman walking in front of me and she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t get she wasn’t part of the event. I’m convinced if he grows up without being completely crushed by his peers he will turn out to be a creative genius. I can’t tell how old he is, I’d guess something between 6 and 10, I’m not very good with children’s ages. He has an older sister who’s beautiful and elegant and poised.

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It was a rotten day, hard disc broken, weeks of work lost. I felt physically sick when they told me. Carton of whisky sure looked good. 3 weeks of sobriety still left. I did the only thing I could do: put on Billy Idol’s “Devil’s Playground” and drew.

Desperate, but not serious

I was looking at naked girls on the internet and I got to thinking, these are just animals, why are they so amazing to look at? There must be billions of chicks, and they’re all a little bit different. This one’s limbs may be a little longer, this one has a very round ass, this one has lots of hair, this one has bigger lips. I love to look at cool guys, and cute puppies and sheets of rain hitting things, but looking at girls is different. It’s starting to annoy me, because I know it’s old mother nature just trying to get Mr Thriller randy so I can procreate. I feel so used.

Forgive me Satan

Today the doctor pronounced me cured. Although the sty is still there, my overall ying and yang are now balanced. He did, however, recommend I don’t drink for one more month to allow my body to become strong. My friend’s birthday today was a champagne brunch. I love champagne; it has that beautiful combination of decadence and intoxication that sits so well on the soul. I watched as my friends became progressively more outrageous and sloppy, until the gays and the straights where all intertwined on a revolving rattan couch on the sundeck of Jumbo Seafood Restaurant in Aberdeen Harbour. Good for them. We all had fun and I don’t think anyone even noticed I’d had less than a mouthful of champagne.
My friend, by the way, announced he had been looking for a garbage can, and his man concurred, and it was agreed I must be psychic, and the Germans among us passed it around admiring the design, and enquired where one could buy such a piece.

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It’s now 3am. I wanted a drink when I started drawing and the Cure came on and I remembered November in 1993; and my whole body shuddered remembering that motel room in Hampton Bays, and that car, and the silent chill in the air and Wish on the stereo and the entire world falling away from under me, when everyone was still alive and the future was still the future.
I’m okay now.

Shopping spree

I went out to buy a present for my friend’s birthday tomorrow. I had in mind a garbage can for some reason, but I thought this may be a useless present as he probably doesn’t need one, so I looked around for something to buy. While looking, I bought myself 8 sticks of charcoal, one charcoal rubber, a pirate copy of Adobe CS3 (Designer edition), ordered pirate copies of Dynasty Warriors 5 Empires and Samurai Warriors 2 Empires for PS2, a kind of soap bar for cleaning stains off clothes, 2 short-sleeved, white undershirts, 2 white vests, one white and one black long-sleeved shirt, 2 washable V-neck sweaters (one black, one grey), one pair of trousers, one button-up shirt, one sponge with handle (for cleaning the toilet cistern - the water’s always dirty and it builds up in the cistern, they’re doing some kind of work on the pipes I think), French chocolate (with orange peel), pesto salad, grilled salmon, and, most exciting of all, overpriced ear swabs (my good wife and I have been stuck with cheap ear swabs for years, that come in packs of 5 million, and they’re finally all gone. I got Johnson’s last time, and they’re great, but this time I upped the anti and bought black ear swabs with beveled cotton, yes, beveled, black cotton).

At the end of my shopping frenzy I chanced to see a really nice garbage can, which I bought for my friend.

I am becoming sensible (somebody shoot me)

I have a brand new neighbour, a Chinese doctor, so I have been seeing him about my sty. My liver has too much fire, and my kidneys have too much water, and he is curing me. I essentially need to sleep proper hours, stop drinking alcohol, eat well, and take Chinese medicine every day. It is a slow process of repairing all the damage, but I feel great already. Apart from last weekend I haven’t drunk in 2 weeks. Boy, I can’t wait till I’m all cleaned up.

A cry for help

I really want to keep sheer reality at a comfortable distance from this blog, but I have a problem I can’t figure out and I’m going to ask you, virtual pals, if anyone can advise me. It’s about setting up a fixed IP address. I have a server and I want to access this while overseas, and give clients FTP access. My internet provider is just too expensive to justify signing up for a fixed IP address, so I have tried using NoIP.com, and directing my noIP.com address to the server’s FTP address (the server, by the way, is connected to a router which is the gateway to the server and various computers). Inside my office I can access the server via the NoIP.com address, but people outside can either not see it, or not login.
I’ve been trying for over 2 months to figure this out, and I just can’t get it together.
I’ll pay you, any of you, anything you ask (be reasonable, this is reality, remember), if you can help me understand and resolve this.

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To balance that unpleasant slice of reality, I’d like to tell you about my dream.
I was traveling and was waylaid in Iran. While we packed the Jeep and arranged documents, President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad came to see how we were doing and joined us for tea. I’ve long been a fan of Mr Ahmadinejad (until he made that odd comment about there being no gays in Iran), and this made me feel a tad misunderstood when he behaved the way he did to me. During tea he was pontificating on things in general, as he does, which is fine; but then he added lots of sugar to his tea, and explained it was because Muhammad (peace be unto Him) had suggested he dose his tea with sugar to counterbalance the corruption that had infested my soul. President Ahmadinejad wasn’t entirely hostile though, explaining that it was because I showed promise that he deigned to take this action (regular infidels would just be disregarded without sympathy). I was kind of flattered, yet, really, President Ahmadinejad, I’ve championed you before, so I wish you would think of me as less foreign than you do. Or am I fooling myself? Really, is it so bad to be soulless, corrupt, self-absorbed, with a history of bursts of violence? It’s the human in me.

Lord, get me off this wagon

I have a sty in my eye. It’s been there over 2 months and has grown to the size of a small baby’s nostril. These days, unless I require a scalpel or desire some perception fucking-up drugs, I go to a Traditional Chinese doctor; so I went to a Chinese doctor, as my friends were telling me I looked revolting (and the bloated sty wasn’t making it any better, ha ha ha ha ha).
This doctor always has the same line – “No alcohol and no ‘fire’ food” (no fried, or spicy, food). Usually I take his advice for a day or two, then consider myself on the road to recovery, but this time, considering the sheer magnitude of my affliction, I stayed stone, cold sober for 8 days straight. For those of you who don’t know – it wasn’t actually that bad. The nights were sensible, which is pretty much a crime against humanity, but the mornings were fine and dandy. I’ve woken up every day sharp and ready to lay the world, one at a time.
All in all, it was a pleasant diversion. All in all, impregnating the planet one filly at a time is all good and well, but there’s a time when sheer abandon needs to be given free reign. And that time, well, frankly, is now. And the next time the question poses itself, the answer will also be "now".

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Commissioned portrait went very well. The client told me I was great and gave me cash money and I had a new order within 45 minutes. I am amazing, I knew it all along, even when I’m not, I’m sure I am.

Lucky Dube

I first saw Lucky Dube at Reggae Sunsplash in Bermuda. It had been one bland act after another, until this enormous group of musicians came onstage, and one solitary voice wailed the intro of “It’s Not Easy”. Not the 17 second intro you get on the album, but something like a 2 minute beautiful, violent profession. Imagine, the whole field of us, in our thousands, stopped in our tracks, mesmerized, by one voice.
I feel very sad Lucky Dube has been killed, that his voice cannot continue, that he's been robbed of enjoying the effects of his enormous influence, that such a source of wisdom and peace has been stopped by a gunshot.

I'm not a spiritual man, but the world somehow feels very quiet right now, like right when the tide starts silently pulling back, only to build a wave.

You can call me Falstaff

My commissioned portrait is now done. I had to scrape the dredges of my soul, but the thrill overwhelmed the sight of the devil’s claws clutching that long-sold piece of divine flesh. I’m tempted to say I don’t give a monkey’s what the client thinks, because I love it, but the reality is my seemingly eternal giddiness is balanced precariously on the genuine reaction of this. It should be okay though, I’ve failed so many, many, many times before, and I still dogmatically believe myself to be, well, something not unlike god.

Post Futurism

“Construction is the arrangement of elements.
The future is not going to build monasteries for priests, or for the prophets and clowns of art.
Down with art as a glittering extravagance in the senseless lives of the wealthy!
One has to work for life, not for palaces, churches, cemeteries and museums.”

I found this in a college sketchbook. It was during my ‘Futurist’ phase (lasted about 1 year).

I wish I was as insistent now, but less unoriginal.

Give me liberation, or give me death

Not long after college I lived in a house with my friend Rich. We had the basement and a group of inconsequential, Long Island ‘party girls’ lived upstairs from us. One day I had an idea in my head. I’d been thinking about how much energy I had, and how overwhelming it was becoming … I just couldn’t use it all up.
When I came home from work there were no cars in the driveway, which meant there was nobody home. I decided to make an audio piece. I took a cardboard box and a broken pane of glass I had, pressed ‘record’ on the cassette deck and smashed the glass in the box with a hammer; making violent, tinkling noises; then I screamed “I have an incredible … amount of … energy”.
I then heard something like muffled distress coming from upstairs. Seems someone was home after all, and my little project, sadly, was over. I just couldn’t continue knowing someone outside myself was somehow involved.

I took all day to muscle up the balls to start drawing today. To step away from all the dull humans that somehow own a part of me took all day. It took till I was too impatient, too bored, too urgent.

What a drag. I must start being more free.

Not quite not quite myself

Although the weekend is only half over, it’s already been a series of ‘firsts’.
To begin with, I bought mushrooms. As far as I can remember, I’ve never purposely bought mushrooms before. Sure, I’ve bought them before, when someone’s asked me, but never on purpose. I just don’t understand them – either they taste of nothing, or they taste too much of mushroom. I was at the vegetable market on Friday and they looked fun, so I bought 3 packs. 3 PACKS! I’m half way through already; not because I like them, but because they interest me.
Then today, when I was preparing dinner, I turned on the TV for company. TV! Now, I don’t watch TV. My television has just one purpose, to play PS2 games, and very occasionally watch DVDs when I’m sick. I think I spent so long at my in-laws that I can’t adjust to my regular life of work and solitude. Normally, I can genuinely stare at the floor for 20 minutes and muse on existence and humanity and consider it a worthwhile experience. I'm really not used to this phenomenon 'loneliness'.
Thirdly, at 2am I allowed myself to go to 7-11 and buy ridiculous snacks for my amusement. Now, I’ve had this impulse plenty of times before, but I’ve never allowed it to manifest itself. It’s kind of like yoga or heroin – if you capitulate and try it, you’re kind of tied to it for the rest of your life, so best to steer clear. I was inspired by Ken-chan, my new brother-in-law (he’s married to my wife’s sister, can I still call him that?). He’s pretty much the man all men want to be, 2nd only to Lyle Lovett. We got a wedding present of Bermuda black rum from Bryan Adams (not THE Bryan Adams) and Straight Richard; and Ken-chan went out in the middle of the night to buy Coke to drink it with, and came back also with instant noodles and various snacks.
Going out in the middle of the night reminded me of when I was younger and I used to come home in the middle of the night. I saw all the odd people who exist only at this time. I saw a young Indian couple walking the street, laughing together (I always see young Indian couples laughing together in the middle of the night, why is that?). On the way to 7-11 I saw a woman sitting in a chair on a street corner smiling, listening to her phone, but not talking. On the way back she was still there, in her pretend conversation. In 7-11 I saw a man eating, reading the paper, and talking to himself. I saw a girl behind the counter who was almost pretty, except something about her face wasn’t quite right. And I saw regular club-goers – guys in flashy shirts that don’t quite suit them, talking on their phone to their guy friends, neither of them found an easy girl … again. I try to walk past them as if I was sober, but I end up tripping on the perfectly flat sidewalk.
Aaaaah, it’s nice to see some things never change.

The gift

When I was in college we had a small bookshop in the town centre. Whenever I visited I was always attracted to a book on the top shelf called "The Gift" by someone called Vladimir Nabakov. It was a 'Vintage Classic' - they always had beautiful covers and paper that felt so good in your hands. Every time I went there I always took the book down, flipped through it, and decided it didn't look interesting. It always attracted me all the same, and finally I bought it.

I read it, but I didn't understand it. Its characters were made up of great Russian writers I'd never heard of, like Pushkin and Lermontov, and it seemed to be split into 2 sections - older writers, and more modern writers.

One night, after I'd been reading the book, I woke myself up screaming "Turgenev! Turgenev!"

This book ended up changing my life. I still don't understand it though.

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I'm scanning old pictures from sketchbooks for the time being. I have a commissioned portrait, yipee, so I'm not drawing me, me, me. It's confusing to draw for someone else. You have to forget them and do it your own way, but then you need to remember it is for someone else. I like it, that beautiful balance of discipline and freedom.

Blogless

I had my new blog entry all planned, but I can’t access my phone (which has the photos I need), and I’m too damned drunk to figure it out, so I’m stuck with my natural self (what a drag).
As a result, I can provide you with only random thougts:
Texas: I love it, I want to move there. I want to wear my cowboy hat and boots and be charming.
Sex, pussy, big, throbbing penis: nothing new here, I just want to mention this phenomenon because, frankly, no matter how smart you are, it all boils down to this.
Whiskey/rum/vodka: come, all of you. I know you don’t love me, but you’re fun as hell all the same.

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This is Lucky. My friend gave him to me the night before I left New York. I remember, I was in my underwear, tied to a chair, and I was so hungry and my friend was eating food and not giving me any, just waving it infront of my face. We didn't have any kind of romantic relationship, it just seemed interesting at the time. The 90's were like that.

Unlock your daughters

At last, she's mine, mine, MINE!

(...now what do I do?)

Flaunt it (an important fashion update)

Thanks for all your concerned texts and messages re my hair (nil). I need to announce I have abandoned my quest to look like Tony Leung in “2046” (http://dominicharvey.blogspot.com/2007/07/wong-kar-wai-did-this-to-me.html). Just like when I tried to grow my hair like Johnny Depp … it turns out I don’t look anything like the idol in question - so I’m blonde again – back to the old, fake me I know and love. I needed to do this now so I’d match my pink wedding suit next week.
Tomorrow is a public holiday in Hong Kong, celebrating mid-autumn festival, and the next day I am flying to Osaka, so today was the last day I could receive my Ivory Paisley Spats ordered online at spatterdash.com and, sadly, they did not come (the delay was something to do with my credit card being overdrawn, whatthehell?). I feel like I have let down my great friend (I don’t actually know him) Quilty (not actually his name). Nevermind, I will receive them eventually, and I will change the world in them, in some strange, magnificent way, and Quilty will then be proud of me.
Also, I have tried on my new tailor-made suit and it matches my 2nd hand Stetson trilby perfectly (not to be confused with my Stetson "Gun Club" cowboy hat); but Kyoto is unseasonably hot at the moment, so it’s not really 'hat weather'. Goddamnsonofacunt. I also have my silk Chinese jacket and ridiculous Jimi Hendrix soldier jacket with gold tassels which I wanted to wear at the wedding. I’m pretty sure I will wear them all anyway. After all, you’re only alive, and a physical form in existence, once (I think), so you may as well flaunt it.

If not, well, you may as well flaunt it anyway.

Plain gold ring

I bought my wedding ring before I went to the UK (are you supposed to buy your own wedding ring?). Despite my penchant for dressing up and putting on make-up, I’ve never had much interest in jewelry, and I was really having trouble finding a ring I liked, until I saw this baby. It’s a Cartier, white gold Tank Francaise ring and I adore it. It’s a little bulky, with an etched pattern separating it into 3 rings. The center ring is also etched and alternately polished and matt. The outer rings have triangular knicks cut out of them.
My good wife told me I’d have chicks all over me if I wore a wedding ring, because they are attracted to settled men, but so far no one has shown any interest.
One thing I’ve discovered is that it is uncomfortable to applaud. The ring bashes into the lower joint of my index finger on the opposite hand. More interestingly, though, is I have discovered I applaud all the time. Before, if you asked me how often I clap, I’d probably say about twice a year, but now that it is a little painful I realize that I’m clapping all the time – more like twice a day. I guess I’m just an enthusiastic kind of guy.
So much of my life is automated. I honestly can’t remember any of the toilets and showers in any of the places I’ve lived – I think I just use them mechanically. It’s nice to have a reminder of yourself instead of going about your daily life oblivious – like when you touch jalapeno peppers then pee, and your penis stings for ages.

A short, simple post (sorry)

"Pussy's so good,

And I do mean very,

Sometimes it's shaved,

And sometimes it's hairy."

- Too $hort, "Cocktails", 1995

I'm busy, but I wanted to post. This is the first thing that came to mind.

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!