Thoughts (part 1)

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

Nothing can stop me now

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

That’s right, an accordion.

Diagnosis, murder

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

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

Move on

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

The slow train to Tahiti

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

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

That was the 2nd best lesson I ever received.

Nothing's wrong

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

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

Vanity fair

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

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

Son of a bitch

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

The end of an error

This is the last page in a sketch book I’ve had since college (it’s about 15 years old). I’ve been filling up every blank page until now, when I can put it away and move onto the next book.
In celebration of this landmark, the world is slowly starting to feel secure that they can also actually bid a stony farewell to the Bush administration. Now I know how the men in the trenches in WWI must have felt when they were told the war was over, after having spent a year knee-deep in water in the same trench, in the same insect-ridden clothes, with the same hideous task. The future is bright. It’s so bright it’s almost unnerving. Think, when Obama is president, it’ll be like taking a weekend off and really cleaning your kitchen properly. It’ll be like getting sick and then getting better because you took the right steps. It’ll be like shooting a load into the gut of the girl or boy of your dreams. It will be like nirvana when Obama is president.
I can’t wait; let’s start the momentum of progress immediately. Let’s change.

Good riddance the past, I never liked you anyway.

Make love to the camera

I did six photo shoots today. One photo shoot sucks your soul. Six pretty much make you god’s whore. I always felt a good portrait session was a lot like a good fuck. You warm them up, you encourage them into a kind of pare and slowly you start directing them, start reading them, start manipulating them, then lure out their inner soul to the surface, then you delve right into the person. By the end you can read each other’s mind, they know exactly what you want them to do by the most simple command, and they comply, because its all good. And then it’s over. You take each other’s email address, promise to keep in contact, and they leave feeling great, but a little empty inside; a little robbed. Me? I feel tired, fulfilled, at peace, until the next stirring.

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I have less than 10 name cards left, including the one I’m using as a bookmark in Celine’s “Castle To Castle”. Running out of name cards is always an exciting time, because it means you need to make more, which means you need to do something even cooler than the last batch. Our new cards should be ready in the next day or two. Let me tell you about them. The front side is printed on a material that resembles, and feels like, suede. It’s a very expensive paper but it’s worth it. We have 6 versions of the front, each has a different pattern based on ink bleeding into watercolour paper. There will also be a debossed butterfly stamped into the front. The back is a textured paper, something like really gaudy wallpaper, with an exquisite, etched pattern on glossy card. It’s supposed to be unnerving, the trashy flashiness of the back, next to the natural elegance of the front. I think I fucked the back up though (these are 2 of the 6 versions of the front, by the way). The back looks too hideous, like a neon popsicle that has melted into pure sugar.
I’ve put this blog address on some of the cards. Partly to push myself to draw more, and partly because we’ve got a few jobs because of this blog, weirdly enough. Sometime my clients tell me “I was reading your blog yesterday,” and I assume they are going to say “and I think we won’t be doing any more business with you.” But they usually say something like “I didn’t know you were so odd, can you redesign something for us please?” It feels a little wrong, like the time I had a partially nude girl on my name card and I walked on to the exit ramp at a press conference and forced the president of Mitsubishi to take a card. It all happened so fast, the security didn’t know what to do, and I was back in the press section in a flash after he took it, looking completely confused. He never called me, but it all made sense at the time.
Well, we soldier on, I suppose.

Sick of goodbyes

Baby and I found a baby sparrow on the pavement last week. We brought it home and a week later it died. I feel a little sick with myself; more than a little responsible for taking it away from its nature, no matter how dangerous, and then not taking care of it properly. I still have no idea what happened, but I’m pretty sure it was very healthy until the last day, and it died because of some kind of neglect on my part.
It was a strange feeling, holding it, watching it dying, feeding it sugar water, a kind of helplessness I’m not familiar with – it’s like a panic, but a calm panic. You realize something needs to be done, but it’s too late, and, amazingly, it dies. It seems impossible, something so profound as death can happen so easily.

Creastruction

I ruined the picture I was drawing for Shannon tonight by pouring champagne all over it. It did turn out better in the end, although it was still not good enough to give to her.
This was the best lesson I received in college … we had a 3 hour painting class … at the beginning the teacher told us we would spend the entire class painting a landscape. Half way through the class he told us to stop and paint over what we had done. Everyone in the class cried and complained – after an hour and a half we’d gotten emotionally attached to our paintings and invested so much into them. Our teacher explained that today’s lesson was “destruction”, and we would never progress until we understood the value of re-viewing and re-creating; the value of destroying what we created.

How to hate

That son-of-a-bitch Dom-hating grumpy dick-licker of a security guard has been reinstated by the management of my building. The same whore-fucking dirty rotten son-of-a-cunt who has hated me since the “You’re handsome” (http://dominicharvey.blogspot.com/2007/09/handsome-mans-burden.html) episode. Every time I see him I give him a big smile and a cheery “Hello”, and every time he sees me he half-closes his eyes and his face distorts into a kind of trembling, twisted, infuriating train-wreck of a grimace, which makes me beam with joy like a giddy schoolgirl after the first time she drove a schoolboy to wanton despair.
What can I do with this evil man? Baby suggests the fact he despises me so much indicates he maybe loves me. Baby should know – every time she unleashes her hatred of me she points out it is only because she loves me so much, and if she didn’t love me she wouldn’t bother.
His over-theatrical derision drives me to an exaggerated joy whenever I see him. I don’t know why, maybe because I know it etches the hatred deeper into his crooked spine.
I’m at breaking point. Next time I see him I may just pull out Mr Thriller and wave Him in his face, or maybe I’ll just grab the fire extinguisher and pummel his skull into jelly until I’m sure I’ll never have to see his twisted lips again.
Ah hatred, how energizing you are, how inspiring you are, how intoxicating you are, how I adore you.

I don't know what debt is

I think Baby and I just bought a house. That would put us half a million dollars in debt. This is kind of not great as I don’t have half a million dollars and I can’t conceptualize 30 years from now when we’ll have paid it all off. In times like this I like to imagine Dostoevsky’s Raskolnikov throwing the money he stole from the old hag moneylender into the river, and then I start to enjoy the reckless excess of it all.

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I’ve learned the three chords in The White Stripes’ “You Don’t Know What Love Is (You Just Do As You’re Told)”. I feel the power of satan in me.

People!

I saw the photos of the “Uncontacted tribe” on the internet today, one of the few indigenous groups of people who have no contact with the outside world. They are all painted red, full of fear and fire, pointing arrows at the reconnaissance plane repeatedly flying overhead. Man how I love those people – clueless, facing a bizarre phenomenon flying above them, ready to fight to the death. Hopeless, beautiful people. Like butterflies flying in a strong breeze, being tossed here and there, yet still pushing on. Hopeless, like everything else, but with beauty and dignity.

Meet my new mistress

Every just so often I abandon drawing and everything and become someone else, like a playwright or a matador. At this moment, I have become a guitarist. I am already on p21 of “Progressive Guitar Method Book 1 – Beginner”. Studying is a beautiful process. You sit and you look at it and you practice it and then suddenly it all makes sense. Like one little, hidden room suddenly becomes illuminated, and you’re allowed to go in and enjoy. I love the sound of the C chord moving onto the E7 chord. I could do it over and over again. My fingers are killing me; I now know how Bryan Adams felt back in the summer of ’69. I will start using phrases like “At least I still have my guitar”, and “The guitar is my woman”. I also have a new fuck-you rock’n’roll haircut. Essentially I stand in front of the mirror and spend 15 minutes loading my hair with clay and wax until it looks like I haven’t washed in 3 days and just rolled out of the gutter without checking the mirror. Yep, that’s me, the genuine article.

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Until I start drawing again, I’ll just post random scans from old pictures. This is a banana I had a particular affection for, and I didn’t want it to decompose into obscurity, so I drew it.

I want you

Ah recovery. The days following a minor cold are the best. Your insipid body blossoms with the sweet surges of necessity, and your broken spirit becomes enflamed with guiltless want. You stand at the toilet and your cock weighs heavy in your hand, all rubbery flesh; soft, yet somehow twice its normal size and full of insinuation.
I have a plan. I’m going to invade Burma. All those dispossessed people, all those passive monks, that inept and globally hated junta. It’s practically a revolution just waiting to happen; just waiting for me. Oh how fucking fun it will be, choosing a new national anthem and watching statues of myself going up. I’ve checked a map. We’ll sail from Sri Lanka. There’s nothing in the way, and there’s no one in Sri Lanka who can or will stop us from gathering. We’ll go in many small boats. If we go in one big boat it might get stopped by the Myanmar military, but they won’t be able to stop many little boats. I’ve thought of everything.
We’ll need weapons, but we’ll barely need to use them. We’ll need them just to show we’re serious and to cut down the very few people who will resist. I calculate the Burmese military will almost immediately join us. They will have sensed long ago that the current leaders have lost the plot and are on a one way street to obsoletion. Still, we’ll cut deals with the current leaders, giving them ineffectual positions in the new regime where they can at least live out their worthless lives in peace. I want it to be a quick, clean revolution, otherwise it will drag out and we’ll have stupid little fractions to deal with afterwards. As king I will appoint Aung Sang Syu Ki as president. This will please the peacemongers and Europeans who feel they have a vested interest in the country's wellbeing and may get in the way.
For the initial army, I need only 50,000 men and women. I will pay you after we secure power, US$1000 each. Not bad for ten days’ work. I’ll cut a deal with the United States to pay you off – they will be happy to settle the account to have a friend in Burma. They do it all the time. I’ve calculated it, it comes to 50 million US dollars. Believe me, I know how these people work, and it’s a goddamn bargain. Send your contact details to: domboy@wrongdesign.com and I’ll cc everyone with the time and place to meet. I’ll need someone to help purchase all the boats and someone who’s good at logistics. I’ve really thought of everything.

It’s all swell when you’re well

Dreaming I was preparing an exhibition honoring Herman Brood. I was being emotionally tortured. In defiance I offered a knife to use against me, and in greater defiance it was ignored and the torture compounded. When I woke up my throat was killing me and I knew I was sick again. Then I fell asleep and dreamed of hamsters, just like the last time I was sick. A man had neglected his hamster – it was in a poor state, all malnourished and half bald. I helped orchestrate the campaign to save the hamster. Later, I walked past the man’s shop. His hamster sat on the sidewalk in front of his shop. The front of the shop was all glass, and the hamster looked tiny. I saw the man inside, completely broken with his head in his hands, awaiting his fate. I petted the hamster, which had completely recovered. The hamster stared stupidly in front of itself, completely unable to comprehend its current state, or even its previous state. It sure looked cute though.
Later Baby mentioned Laika. I always thought Laika survived, but it turns out her spaceship wasn’t even designed to be able to make it back into orbit. Later Laika was honored with all sorts of statues, postage stamps etc, which somehow makes me feel even more sorry for Laika. I bet all she wanted was some food, a place to run around, and a good fuck.
Well, in a nutshell: I’m sick, we’re all going to die, and existence is futile.

The libertine

I first learned I had no soul in Egypt in 1999. I was in an oasis town called Al Fayoum, taking photos of romantic poverty, when a local man purposely walked into me, knocking me sideaways, mid-photo. I assumed it was an accident and looked up at him, and he turned to face me while he was walking away and gave a clear grimace, somehow both facing me and walking away at the same time, grimacing, with piercing, unfriendly eyes. I’d seen that look before a few times in Egypt; enough times to make me stop and think what it meant. This was pre-9-11, when I still had a healthy disrespect for all religions, and didn’t know the difference between a Jew and a Muslim. I now know there is no difference – they are just the same as me: insignificant human animals with overblown senses of importance. I’d made a lot of faux-pas during that trip. I still remember the whole room filling with laughter - absolute uncontrollable, unexpected mirth, after I asked if I could get a flight to Israel. I remember the student coming up to me in the Mohammed Ali mosque (no, not that Mohammed Ali) and telling me I was not behaving respectfully. He was unapologetically angry, veritably incensed. I remember the man saying, with contempt, “No, they are not singing, they are praying”, and I especially remember that pregnant pause during an argument about money in the Khan al-Khalili souk, after a non-Muslim female had literally ripped the cash out of a male Muslim’s hand, when I could see in their eyes the thought: “Should we beat the crap out of them, or laugh it off?”. That look followed me everywhere, and I eventually interpreted it to mean “that base infidel”. Those challenging eyes, coming from an animal that had spent an entire lifetime in devotion to a spiritual ideal, facing an animal that had spent an entire young adulthood in devotion to folly and fleeting sensual whims.
What troubled me most was that it was all true. Where they had a deep spiritual conscious, no matter how absurd it was, I had only an indiscriminate fancy, based on nothing but orgasms, pride and desire. I have no soul. I am like a Labrador, running through a sunlit field; it’s tongue hanging out, with a glorious, idiot smile on its face.
I wish I had a soul. I listen to Mahalia Jackson and I wish I had a soul. I meet my fiends and relatives who have a certain and defined faith and I wish I had a soul. I speak to virtual strangers who are discovering subtle and profound truths about themselves and I wish I had a soul. But I don’t. I am hollow and empty like the rotten core of a decaying tree trunk. Like a shell whose inhabitant has long left for a larger housing. Like Kenny G. I am on a path of existence, leading towards a death that will lead me into eternal nothingness. It makes me feel so … liberated.

Men’s stage-fright (a true story)

Several years ago I was in the men’s room in Penn Station in New York. The urinal was one long, stainless steel trough with no partitions, long enough to accommodate about 20 men. I took the most free spot and started organizing the dormant Mr Thriller to pee when I noticed some commotion to my right. Men were hurriedly stuffing their trousers and scurrying away and I saw a man at the other end running his hand up and down his penis. By the time he had it to its full length everyone had vacated the area except me, and he was calling after them “You see it, don’t you? You see me doing it!” He had an enormous smile and he looked really pleased.
I was defiant, and I stood there facing the wall, determined to do my business. But I couldn’t. I waited, I concentrated, I tried not to concentrate, but I couldn’t pee. I can’t remember if I ever had men’s’ stage-fright before, but I definitely had it after that episode.
I have made an amazing discovery though; a Nobel Prize worthy discovery … I think I have cured men’s stage-fright. If you’re a man, or if you know a man, please read this.
Now, when I feel stage-fright coming on, I think of the Buddha. Yes, the Buddha. I visualize him, with his happy face and big belly, and I can pee. I can’t for the life of me remember how I came to this discovery. I know, over time, I tried various things to think about, and various techniques, and this was one of them, but I just can’t remember why on earth I would decide to try thinking of the Buddha. I haven’t been in a situation as dire as a masturbating stranger yet, so I’m not sure if it works in extreme circumstances, and I’m also not sure if it’s just me because I have a certain innate reaction to the Buddha, but it’s worked for years, so I think it’s a pretty good discovery. This is not a joke, by the way, and it doesn’t contain an indirect hidden message, so please try it and tell me how you get on.

Fish eat fish

I dreamed there was a tank full of fish which were to be culled. The culling was acheived by poisoning the water and slowly draining it, so the poison became less and less diluted. As the fish started to weaken, the stronger fish started to eat the weaker fish, but these stronger fish then became weaker and themselves were eaten, till it was just shallow water with various fish wallowing around with strings of half-dead fish half swallowing each other.
This reminded me of when I got a free pass to a new gym. My regular gym has a big, open changing room, but this new gym had a tiny one cluttered with ill-places seats. In my regular gym people are generally polite and generous in the changing room – they stand back and make room for each other, but in this new gym it was dog eat dog, with everyone vying for a good spot to change, jumping all over each other and the furniture and aggressively protecting their little patches.
This in turn reminds me of the Middle East.
Silly little fish.

Flashbacks

I spent the best part of Saturday photographing a bar. We started at 9am in Hong Kong’s Wanchai district. Wanchai is a haven for older white men who want to score younger Southeast Asian girls. I haven’t hung out there in about ten years. When I first came to Hong Kong I had no money and used to walk there from home every weekend to dance. I remember I didn’t have pockets in my “cool” clothes, so I used to put my house keys in my mail box, then tie my mailbox key to my shoelaces. I didn’t drink, because I never had cash, and I never spoke to anyone, because you just don’t want to explain why you can’t even pay for a bus home together, or come up with a reason why the bed is just a piece of wood that’s supposed to hold a mattress. My friends came and slept on the floor anyway, because it beat sleeping in the park. Now I have a bed and a futon, but nobody stays over any more – they all have houses of their own.
When I was walking to the bar I passed a 24 hour disco, windows all covered up and an endless thumping of dance music vaguely muffled. The girlie bars were still open too, and I was glad to see they now use little girls in polyester hot pants to lure customers in, instead of the ancient and wholly uninspired “mama sans” that used to invite you in back in the day when I walked those streets.
Photographing the bar bought back endless memories too. It smelled just like the room I used to live in during my first summer after college – above a bar, next door to a bar and opposite a bar. Twelve rooms altogether, all sharing 2 bathrooms (one for boys, one for girls). The light bulbs were always being stolen, so I learned how to shave in the dark. It was a great summer. It’s okay to be poor and working 3 jobs when everyone around you is also poor and working hard and, most importantly, young. I had a double bed, and Pony lent me a small refrigerator which I kept cheese and beans and which kept me alive together with the stale pastries I salvaged from the deli trash.
We took six hours, photographing booths and drinks and private rooms, and all the time it was like the radio was stuck in 1986. The memories just kept piling up and up till I really felt a little touched when the Neil Diamond, Barbara Streisand duet “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” came on. I was only about 11 years old when I used to play this song incessantly on my Walkman, and it was weird to realize I still know it word for word; especially when I think I had absolutely no experience of breaking up from a serious relationship when I was 11. Then again, I was singing my heart out to Bronski Beat 3 years later, even though I had no idea what a homosexual was. The music also slipped back into hippie times, and when the 25 minute instrumental version of “Marrakesh Express” finished I was just about ready to walk out of the job. I repaired myself by illegally downloading everything I could find by Bright Eyes when I got home and then, when I was sure I loved it, I bought it, and played it until there was something like truth stirring my blackened soul.

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I talk to myself a lot. For posterity, I wanted to record the various names I use to refer to myself and their variants:
Dom, Domboy, King Dom, Big Dom, Big Bad Ass Dom, Big Bad Ass Motherfucker, Big Boy, Dom Dom, Natty Dom Dom, Natty, Fatty, Fatty Dom Dom, Fat Boy, Daddy, Mr Me
I think that’s all of them – I’ve been writing them down all day as they come up.

Loving the alien

Back from 2 weeks in Old Lady Manhattan; I’m starting to like the old hag in a perverse kind of way – like the way you watch out of curiosity the lunatic dragging his emaciated body down the road screaming; or the uneducated, angry minority forced to the ground at gunpoint by a lone police officer; it kind of draws you in. Perhaps later I’ll comment on it all. In the meantime, 24 hours of travelling in close confinement with total strangers has left me with an urgent need for an orgasm, and 2 weeks without a drop of whisky (only champagne and wine in Old Lady Manhattan) has left me damned thirsty. The more I see of humanity, the more I both want to help every struggling human being and destroy the human race.

On a more sober note, why is it that in Hong Kong, where there is only me and one male assistant, we go through one roll of toilet paper every three or four weeks; but in New York, where there is me, one wife, and one female roommate, we go through four rolls in three days? What on earth are they doing with all that toilet paper?

Fast times

It started when the waitress brought our fried vegetables, and there was a thick, pubic hair spiralling out of it. We protested and the waitress picked it out, flicked it on the floor, and then put the plate down for us saying “Sorry, there you go”. That was maybe the cue to pay and leave, but really, it’s not that big of a deal. I did complain to another waiter, but I only knew how to say “there was a hair in the food” in Cantonese, which just doesn’t have the same weight as a “pubic hair”. Anyway, he was very sweet and brought us back an even bigger dish, as well as bringing our original dish back just to prove they hadn’t given us the same food.
Apart from the hallucinations that come with poison derived fever, I never thought there was anything good about food poisoning … until now.
Three days without eating leaves a man somehow mentally cleansed. I usually trip over words and can’t communicate tête-à-tête, but after fasting for 3 days I found my mind actually able to express itself with speed and clarity. It’s been over a week now and I don’t feel hunger for anything. My old bedfellow, overindulgence, is conspicuously silent, and I feel liberated.
Oh, and during my convalescence, I finished Yukio Mishima’s “Spring Snow”. If anyone has the chance to read the end of this book, and follow Kiyoake’s descent into fever, while they themselves have a fever – I highly recommend it!

I’m having a nightmare

I’m back in Old Lady Manhattan, and the country is celebrating the 40th anniversary of the murder of Dr Martin Luther King Jr, or something. I’m not an expert, but I can clearly see a divide here in New York between the races and what kinds of jobs they hold. If you’re black, you have a simple job without much responsibility and a low salary. If you’re Hispanic you have a more difficult job with more responsibility (but not a very high salary). If you’re white you have a better salary, more authority and less actual work to do. Asians seems to fit into all categories, and I haven’t seen any Native Americans. Anyone who says you’re not privileged to be white in America is either lying to you or themselves. No disrespect to the Reverend, who did more for human progress than most, but something really seems broken here but I don’t think the white people who admire you so much are really trying very hard or really give that much of a fuck.

Eyes for eyes

I’ve been very angry recently. No reason, it’s just in my blood I think. I’ve been drunk for about a week, working, not sleeping to alleviate it. Exhaustion brings peace and calm.

Because it’s the 5th birthday of the Iraq war, everyone’s talking about it, especially the cost and the body count. The costs are phenomenal, and I’m thinking, what the hell have I been doing for the last five years? I should have set up an ammunitions factory in China, or a funeral home in Iraq – there’s just so much opportunity I’ve missed. Staying in my field, I could have even bid for the job of designing the new Iraq flag (or do you have to be associated with Cheney to get these contracts?) What ever happened to that flag anyway? I remember they released a new Iraqi flag about a month after Iraq “fell” then someone complained it looked too much like Israel’s flag, and then I never heard of it again. That happens a lot with news. Do you remember Yasir Arafat? He was the leader of Palestine, then one day he got sick, then he died with no explanation. That was suspicious, right? It wouldn’t have been, except absolutely no newspaper ever mentioned that it possibly could be suspicious. It’s like no paper ever mentions Barak Obama is half black, or Hilary Clinton is a female. They pretend it is just two people, because we’re not supposed to care who is what sex or colour, but in reality it is pretty exciting.
Speaking of Obama; Wrong design will now like to formally rescind our backing for him to become the next president of the United States. I was thinking today, George Bush should have been impeached when the US invaded Iraq. I understand it’s a pretty big deal and there was an uncertain feeling, so I forgive the public for hesitating; but when the public re-elected him, I really lost all compassion for them, and I think I have to hold them more than a little responsible for the outcome. That’s why I think Barak Obama is too good to be the next president. Instead I think Dick Cheney should be president for at least 8 years. America shouldn’t get off so easy, they should stick it out, till there’s nothing left of the country except a heavily fortified White House with a golden temple in the garden housing the chief executive of Halliburton and a couple of other elite cronies.
Another option: Barak becomes president, then everyone who voted to re-elect Bush gets lined up and shot.

The Japan odyssey

The Japan trip started out both fine and dandy. Baby had a show in Tokyo and she’s great. We stayed with Gwa and Mrs Gwa and Baby Gwa. Itarru (Baby Gwa) is very cool and I have to admit more than once I thought it was amazing they were speaking to him in Japanese even though he couldn’t even speak English yet. Fancy that, introducing a difficult foreign language to a seven-month-old.
We went to a Toulouse Lautrec exhibition at the Suntory Museum in Tokyo. This is the first touring exhibition I’ve been to in Japan and the procedure seems to be pretty much: stand in line for 30 minutes, get into the show and then move in a single file line with hundreds of other people. Can’t move ahead, can’t dilly-daddle. It’s a drag. Imagine all the genius of Toulouse Lautrec seeping into you and then being torn away, over and over again.
Gwa took us to an amazing tofu restaurant, recreated like a beautiful series of private rooms overlooking a landscaped garden. We had this amazing tofu picture on our wall.


Then things started going bad from there. We moved on to Osaka and Baby caught the flu, then I caught the flu, and I had to miss Riho’s birthday party at Pico-chan’s restaurant. We spent almost the whole of the 1st week in a fever, watching Japanese TV and living with a cat whose sole purpose in life was to inflame my allergies as much as possible. I swear I opened my eyes one night, gasping for breath, and the cat’s face was centimeters from mine, and it was laughing. Like all good women, though, it remained charming while at the same time was slowly destroying me.
My sty, by this time, had grown to amazing proportions. I think it was the combination of sake, flu and allergies, but it swelled up to an impressive, red globe with a portentous white head. Each day I awoke I had to pick the snot-like crust and goo out of my eye-lid. It would have been unbearable, had it not been so fascinating.

We delayed going to see Mom till we were almost recovered, then Baby lost her rail pass, so we spent half a day looking for it, going through the trash and everything. I was almost pleased, it was like a ticket out of every rebuttal I was going to face over the next several months for forgetting or not bothering to do something. We finally gave up and took the train up to Yonnago to see Mom. On the way we stopped at the Police station to file a ‘missing rail pass’ report. I really wish I had the balls to take photos in that police station. For all the wealth in Japan, they really haven’t channeled any of it to the police force. The walls were stained with years of dirt and hand washing. The chalk board was worn down to the wood in some places. The laptop had to be wired up, with a series of bulky cables stretching across from the custom-made reception desk, circa 1975. During the report two teenage boys in sports suits came in to hand over a wallet they found. It was like something out of a government sponsored infomercial from the 70’s. Everything was friendly, disciplined, charming.
My nose was running non-stop and my 4 year-old Armani Exchange jeans had finally given in under the bulk of my manhood and split along the crotch (I had to wear these jeans for the rest of the trip).

Mom had booked dinner and a room for us in a beautiful hotel on Mt Daisen. It was a beautiful, elegant old hotel on the snowy mountain with a magnificent view. We had an enormous room and access to everything. We got there so late though all the family had left, and we had to rush through our luxury meal so the staff could go home. Next morning we had to catch the 9am train to get to Atami on time for check-in. We’d chosen Atami for a mini-honeymoon because it’s where Baby’s Mom and Dad had gone on their honeymoon. When we were eating with Mom though she said “Why are you going to such a boring place?” Turns out Mom never went there on her honeymoon after all. The trip was really starting to go from bad to worse.
We checked out early, so we had enough time to see Grandma. This was exciting, and Grandma and I crossed the threshold of pretending we don’t see each other to actually speaking a couple of words. I like Grandma a lot, she just needs a little time to get used to me.
With our luxury hotel wasted, we soldiered on to Atami with a ridiculous amount of luggage.

Now, Atami was essentially the hottest resort town in Japan in the 50’s and 60’s. We assumed it would be full of old-world splendor. When we arrived though, it felt more like a ghost-town. We got given a room on the 4th floor, at the end of the corridor. This is pretty much the unluckiest room to get in China, because all the ghosts drift towards that spot. I’m not sure about Japan, but we left our shoes crossed at the doorway just in case (this makes it difficult for the ghosts to get in).

We went out for a wander and, I’m not kidding, the same black cat tried to cross our path twice. Things were really starting to feel creepy. We slept on a tatami floor with the sliding paper walls half-open and the light on.
Next day, though, things started to change. We both felt much better, maybe from the fresh air and excitement. The staff were convinced I was, or was a double for, Ewan McGregor. I’m no big fan of his, but I’ll gladly take it if it means girls dig me. We took a tour of the area, the highlight of which was Kiunkaku, an old Ryokan (Japanese traditional inn) which hosted several famous writers, including one of my heroes Yukio Mishima (this is me with Yukio in one of the rooms he stayed in).

The place was truly enchanting, and the open access to so many of the rooms was amazing.

We also visited the oldest tree in Japan. Each time you walk around the tree you gain one year of life. I went around 5 times, and Baby went around 6 times, the logic being that she wanted to live 1 year longer than me (idiot).

That night we visited the famous statue of Omiya and Kan-ichi, recreated dramatically here. It was at this beach that the betrayed Kan-ichi said “You were blinded by his diamond” as he kicked Omiya away. Fortunately for Baby we got the shot in one take. By now we were starting to turn the wheels of fortune and things were becoming dandy again.

Next day we visited the MOA museum. This, like more than a few of Japan’s museums, was set up by a fanatical religious group. Japan really sets the imagination wild with the dizzying possibilities of cult worship and the power of organized religion. The museum is in parts creepy, particularly the enormous elevator lobby-like area that is half-way up the odd series of multicoloured escalators that lead from the first gate to the main entrance. It may have been impressive, had it not been for the fact that we went to the Miho Museum in Kyoto last year – another religious museum set in a remote mountain, but far, far superior. The highlight of the MOA was definitely the tryptich of three Japanese beauties, including the enchanting bitch Sei Shonagon.

After Atami, we returned to Tokyo. I started getting disenchanted with Tokyo as I saw more and more old men completely ignoring Baby as she was trying to get off the subway with her suitcase. They just walk ahead, blocking her way, and seem genuinely taken aback when you point out they are being complete assholes for not taking 3 seconds to stand out of the way while a female is getting off the train.
Oh, and when I got back to Hong Kong I bought Chivas Regal at duty free and a photo of Baby as a teenager in her school uniform fell out of my wallet onto the counter, and it looked really, really, really bad as I scurried to pick up and put away the photo of the Japanese schoolgirl while buying cheap whisky with my swollen eye.

Plane of fools

Back from Japan. Just quickly, everyone, seriously, is it really going to kill you to sit in you seat and wait till the captain turns the seatbelt sign off? Are those 25 seconds you jumped the gun really going to get you home any earlier? I’m not unfamiliar with an over-inflated sense of self-importance, but I can’t see the benefit of getting out of my seat and getting my luggage out of the overhead compartment and getting my phone turned on before the plane comes to a complete halt, just to stand there, just 3 feet closer to the exit than I’d been if I’d stayed in my goddamn seat, for ten minutes while they park and connect the walkway to the door.
I hate you all.

Close, but no cucumber

Day 4 in Japan. We’ve been staying at Gwa’s house till now. Gwa is one of those people who are much cooler than me but still let me hang out with them. On one hand it’s great, but on the other hand it makes you feel like a dick when you’re obviously the less cool one. I’ve allowed my sycophancy to bloom to the point where I actually went to a shop with him and bought exactly the same shirt as he did.
Eye update: my sty has returned bigger and badder than ever – and this time it has sprouted something that looks not unlike a third eyeball. Tomorrow, I looking for a doctor … and a sunglasses shop.
This is me with a patch of shade that makes me look a little bit like I’m wearing clown make-up.

Toodle-oo

I am leaving for Japan for 2 weeks now. Not sure how I can blog while I’m wandering around lost and confused, though I guess that never stopped me before.

Could've been you, Should've been me

Baby got interviewed for a newspaper today. I, of course, sat in the sidelines, desperate to start talking about myself, about her, about anything. Baby is famous in ways I can only dream of. Google her and you’ll see, she’s practically Wikipedia material.
I’d love to be an interviewer. I imagine it must be like taking portraits photos. You kind of warm them up a little then step by step strip away their masks till you get down to their naked soul, which you steal and encage – it’s just like falling in love.
I think I will do that, I will interview people. One thing I’ve learned taking so many people’s pictures – they love talking about themselves, and I love them all. Ah, the freedom to love everybody without reserve or incarceration.

Neighbors from nowhere

So, I live and work on the third floor at the front of the building. It’s basically a studio/office with a pretty bathroom, open kitchen, and little, hidden bedroom where I get dressed, sleep, fuck and play DS Lite. Someone just moved in downstairs, and they’re selling some kind of hippy, mood music. Okay, fine, the building is less cool with you, but to each his own, live and let live etc etc. Your business will fail and you will leave eventually.
Today, though, they really moved in and I could hear that nonsense from my office. At first I thought it might be some strange mix in the music my assistant was playing, then I thought it may be my neighbor’s niece practicing recorder again, then I recognized it as piano – like, floating piano, like scales, but in a really mellow way. Like a really peaceful, meditative, repetitive noise. Like a really pointless noise. Like when you come home, dragging your soulless carcass like the dead luggage it is, and you have the faint, nagging little demon on your shoulder insinuating that the past nine hours of work as a trading assistant, and three hours of commute, was in fact a waste of time. You put this music on and it soothes you.
When you come home and the future 4 hours of television, regurgitated conversation, casual mention of a wish that will never be fulfilled, and obligation you dodge, start to seem like the foundation of a repulsive, pointless, hateful existence. Put this on and you feel relaxed at last. Like when you lay in bed, and remember a moment of passion that led to nothing 25 years ago, and you start to realize you are like one expendable, already half rotten piece of cattle being hoarded forward to a death that benefits not even the consumer causing it. This music is for you.
This music; this casually calculated noise, is just for you. It soothes not the savage beast, but the sluggish pedestrian. It is designed for the hollow, ever-so-slightly pricked, least human of humans; the masses that infect this broken world with nothing more than nothingness.

Paper moons

I read an article a while ago about a man who owned three Sony AIBOs. He said he felt love from them, then went on to explain that it is the same as having a ‘living’ pet; that we, as humans, project our own emotions onto animals even though they have no concept of such things. This felt like a revelation at the time.

Humans aren't really that sacred ... just me.

Welcome to the free world

Me and Baby went to Shenzhen today. I do love China, it’s so free of so many of the useless things my own society has been cultivating over the years. Children hang out together there, like little gangs of little people. I once saw an older child leading a younger child by the hand, and the smaller child fell over. I expected it to start crying. Instead, I witnessed the older child just drag it along the ground till it as able to find it’s feet again, and they continued along their merry way.
I also saw a little boy in a restaurant, whose face was all cut up and who seemed to have a badly cut up foot, all bloody and bandaged around the toes. He was filthy and looked poor in the good-old fashioned sense. To amuse themselves, the restaurant staff tried to stamp on his bad foot, and he danced around trying to avoid what promised to be excruciating pain. They thought it was funny, and he thought it was fun, and I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if I could have fun too.

Inside my comfort zone

2:30am, and the party is over. I drank enough, drank some more, and still got to draw a little. I feel a little disappointed, there was no drama. I feel like going downstairs and causing some trouble, just a little bloodshed before the night is out. Maybe I’m in the wrong town. Those girls I thought were Russian prostitutes turned out to be only French models.

It was a fantastic year of wedding parties. It is now time to look to the future. From this beautiful gutter, the only way to look is up, into that world where the streets are lined with tinsel. Lord have mercy.

The downward spiral

A lot of things to get through tonight:

1. Just a few days till our party, I was starting to worry – what is no one shows up? What if nobody likes me and nobody comes? But then I realized – I have 6 bottles of champagne, a night off, and an amazing party mix in iTunes. Fuck ‘em if they don’t like me.

2. A doctor took my blood pressure. She said “This is suspicious, it is too good”, and took it again. She seemed excited when it was the same result. 60 over 100, or was it 100 over 60? Anyway, it was good. Then it came. She said: “This is excellent … for a man your age.” A man my age? A man “my age”? This is the first time anyone has referred to me as a human who has passed from young adulthood into absolute maturity. This is bad, bad news. I guess senility will step in when I get too tired of self-deception. I would like to announce, by the way, that I have a high sperm count.

3. It seems Fidel Castro has stepped down. This seems great – the man didn’t die or get assassinated like a Kennedy. I hope the personal vendetta of the United States and the voting public in Florida fades into its own hideous obscurity now. We all know the truth, by the way; just in case you think you were fooling any one. Everybody knows you sanction Cuba out of a petty, childish, need to empower yourselves after a series of failed invasions in what looks like your own backyard. Good for you Fidel – no matter how you are painted by your peers, and no matter even what evil you may actually hold, you will be written in history as a victor against an even bigger evil.

Promulgation time

On February 22nd (happy birthday Dad) we will be staging a party at the Wrong design Hong Kong headquarters in Sheung Wan.
This will be a landmark project, not only because it will be the final date on our “Wedding Tour”, but also it will be the only of our parties of which I am totally in charge.
I’m getting excited. I hope loads of people come, and everyone gets wild. I want cheap champagne and easy access to drawing implements. I want heated arguments and unplanned pregnancies.

How does one promulgate decadence? Is there a drug I can slip into the punch? Or should I just dance naked with a paintbrush in my hand and hope everyone follows suit?

Don’t sweat the small stuff

I once found a dead housefly in my ear while cleaning it out with my finger. I was telling Baby about it tonight, and she had the same questions as usual: “Didn’t you feel something was in there?”, “How did it happen without you knowing?” etc etc.
I really feel we, as human beings, are far too distracted with petty matters, such as television, gossip, truth and all other obvious things. Come on friends, we’ll never get anywhere if we don’t focus on the obscure.

Nocturnal

4:30am, couldn’t sleep, got up to draw.

What a beautiful moment. If I die and some god says “Go back for an hour and do what you like” I’d come back here, put on some Ryan Adams, draw, and slip back into bed with Baby.

Shock and awe

There has been a scandal in Hong Kong involving my idol, Ah Giu (B&W photo in earlier post "The Twins effect"). Local celebrity Edison Chen had a problem with his personal computer, which was then taken in for repair. Before returning the computer to him, someone in the repair shop copied all his files, including 1300 photos and movies of him having sex with various girls, including 4 celebrities, including Ah Giu. These photos are now everywhere, and before I even had a chance to search for them, someone sent some to me. It’s a very odd occurrence, watching a carefully crafted image shatter in front of you, and discovering your idol is just another animal, just the same as you and everyone else. It’s strangely heartbreaking, particularly as Edison Chen is such a hollow, untalented and uninteresting celebrity. After the shock, I realized that I too am naked under these clothes, I too have had sex, and I too recently took my computer in for repair even though it contained homemade pornography, and that actually, it’s nothing shocking.
Why is the penis so sacred? Why is it so titillating to see photos of African women with their breasts exposed? Why do we get an uneasy feeling when a child is walking around naked in front of strangers? An exquisite patch of pubic hair following the curves of a woman’s mound is intoxicating, but so is the curve of her jaw, or the corner of a boy’s mouth, or the nape of a child’s neck. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel sensuality has been distorted into something violent somewhere, and humans confuse aggression with sex with passion with love with attraction.
It’s strange, now my idol has been exposed to have an actual, clearly visible vagina, and a seemingly un-romantic and non-utilitarian use for it, what has been exposed is not really her body, but more my and the general public’s two-dimensional passion for her.

I have been famous two times in my life. The second time was when I moved to Cheon-Ju, a small city in South Korea, where I was the only young, Western person most people had ever seen in the flesh. I had attention everywhere I went - it was like being in the Beatles, or a zoo animal. On a good day it would be a crowd of high school girls squealing, and on a bad day it would be hoards of little children spilling into the public toilet to watch me pee. I quickly learned that nobody actually liked me, they all just had an image in their head of what I was and, in most cases, would get very offended if it turned out I didn’t want to go to karaoke with them or be the special guest at their birthday party. Since then I’ve always tried to treat celebrities as human beings.
But, who wants to be a stinky old human being? Who wants to be reduced to Winston in “1984”, without either the bravado or the insight to follow a truth either real or concocted?
It’s that old demon reality again, clawing away at the rotting veneer that is my façade - the only definition I have of myself.

It’s beginning to look a lot like Chinese New Year

Four days till the start of Chinese New Year. This is the best time of year in Hong Kong, the only time when a real festive spirit hits the nation. As a relative outsider, I like to join in with full gusto. The jaded little me tries to point out this is just a social phenomenon cultivated over the years to provide a welcome annual distraction to the populace. Just like me and my life – I try to pack every type of activity and reward into every single day – work, games, snacks, alcohol, orgasms, drawing, music, gym etc. Each and every day is full of little landmarks that keep me happy in some way or another. When I miss one it just means I get to have it even bigger tomorrow. I have to say, I like existence, it’s quite fun. Is this the path to enlightenment? Everything’s good, but it just doesn’t feel like I imagined nirvana would.

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This is me in Kangol cap, scarf and fake fur jacket from South Korea, for the Pony. I haven't drawn myself in weeks - months? It is strange to revert, after drawing other things all this time - the synchronicity becomes derailed momentarily, and things that were separate encounter each other. I like it.