Hours of idleness

I have been 3 weeks in Hong Kong by myself. I have been drunk for 3 solid weeks, indulgent, caught up in work all day, up all night in a time-lagged endomorphine emergency all night, saturated in whisky, pornography, TV drama, and a million miles away from the beautiful filth of the gutter of my soul.
What a happy waste of time.

I’ve got the power

My best friend Splotchy (never met him) asked me (asked any of his readers) to draw up a list of 8 power pop tunes, and now we are asked to write why we picked them.
Here is my list:

“Ca Plane Pour Moi” – Plastic Bertrand
Anyone who knows me knows I rate this as one of the best audio experiences on earth. Anyone who knows me well knows, when I get really excited, I like to play this on loop via 3 or more players at the same time, and all beginning at different times. The effect, if you’re really excited, is like taking every drug at the same time and somehow staying conscious.

“The Don” - The View
Like any good pop record, this song can be played incessantly when you first hear it, and even when you’re sick of it you still have the impulse to play it again. I don’t really get the lyrics, but it does transport me to being young and bored on the streets of Scotland (which I never was).

“Crazy Taxi” – Andy Hui
I wanted to put something from ‘home’, but it was a little tricky, as pretty much all popular Asian music could be loosely referred to as power-pop. Andy Hui is a personal hero of mine. When I first came to Hong Kong I fell in love with his then-girlfriend Sammi Cheng (again, never met her), and I hated him because I thought he wasn’t good enough for her. Later I saw him in concert though and saw what an amazing voice he had. It was clear that most HK singers relied on studio effects and costumes to make their music, but Andy Hui had a reputation for giving a shit and working hard. Now I’ll buy anything he puts out, and sit in the dark with my headphones and listen to every little nuance of his voice like a quivering, star-struck schoolgirl.
I don’t know what the song is about; I assume it’s about the video game of the same name.
I once assigned my first assistant the task of learning this song in karaoke, and he did it. Work can sometimes be much too fun.

“Mr Brightside” – The Killers
I was kind of unsure about adding a song that I assumed everyone knows, but the test was to come up with the songs that fit the subject the best, and this ticks all the right boxes. This one almost got replaced by “Cookie Day” by Shonen Knife, but in the end I kind of started getting annoyed with them, and The Killers still excited me, so they won this prestigious placement. I always remember being in the gym and listening to these lyrics for the first time. I don’t know why that moment will always stand out in my mind.

“Get Over You” – The Undertones
The Undertones always struck me as one of the first power pop bands. They had the edge of punk and the confidence to make commercial music. The first mixed tape I ever received had Fergal Sharkey on it. It was almost 10 years later that I found out Fergal Sharkey was actually much more famous for his original band the Undertones. I think they are also famous for being the only band John Peel played twice in a row (with “Teenage Kicks”, which he said was the perfect pop record).

“Baby Talk” – Generation X/Billy Idol
I had a huge Billy Idol resurgence about a year ago after I discovered his recent album “Devil’s Playground”. I always felt he became just too commercially popular to keep his credentials. Having said that, though, “Whiplash Smile” is still one of the best albums ever recorded.

“Go Square Go!” – Glasvegas
Another example of a song that pushes so many of the right buttons you almost start to resent it. Everything I heard from Glasvegas is as exciting as this, and I’m a real sucker for a Scottish accent. I’d love to take Baby up there and get her to pick up some of those tones. Man, I’m dripping all over the floor just thinking about it.

“We’re All Going To Die” – Malcolm Middleton
This was a last minute entry, and I was very excited when I thought of it. It also made me realize 3 of the 8 entries are from Scotland (and only one from America). This song was being pushed by a few indie radio stations to become the English Christmas number one last year, but it didn’t make it unfortunately. Malcolm Middleton was also in the punk band Arab Strap, which I’m frantically trying to illegally download now.

“Jet Boy Jet Girl” – Elton Mortello (*extra special bonus track)
I was torn between this and the Plastic Bertrand version. I didn’t want to include them both as that would really eat away at my precious 8 slots. In the end I chose Plastic Bertrand as it’s the one I listen to more. I’ve tried to figure out which one was recorded first, but the more I read about these two songs, the more I start to believe that we, the public, are not supposed to ever know the truth. Essentially they are the same backing tracks, but the Belgian version has silly bubble-gum lyrics, and the English version is about a 15 year old boy who is introduced to sex with another guy, then gets his heart broken when he sees him playing around with girls. I’m pretty sure Plastic Bertrand was the drummer for Elton Mortello, and I also heard they used the same session musicians in two separate recordings, one after the other, to avoid any copyright infringement of the recordings.

Us and them

Looking through old photos today I said “It’s amazing how many of us are dead”, then I quickly checked myself “It’s amazing how many of THEM are dead”. A quick and shameful disassociation.

We like opiate!

Guys, guys! Baby and I have discovered something amazing! Television! That machine you use to watch DVDs and play Playstation, it can also show some kind of non-stop addictive visual entertainment called television. I’ve seen it before in hotel rooms and it’s amazing. Baby rented the first 3 episodes of “Lost” from Netflix, thinking it was a reality TV show. She’s dumb, I heard about it on the radio ages ago. Anyway, she rented it and it is really good. We rushed to rent the next episodes but couldn’t stand the excitement, so I Googled it and found all the episodes on the ABC website, so we’ve been watching them like we were Charlie and they were heroin.
We’ve just started Season II. It is like a kooky morality play, where every player has a clearly defined character, and we learn a little about ourselves and our place in mankind in every episode. Anyway, it seems it’s been on for ages on this television system. I HAVE to get one of these, and figure out how to access the television phenomenon.

Fine tuning

My parents’ conversation overheard while watching the US Open:
Mum: “Why doesn’t he wipe the sweat off?”
Dad: “How should I know?”
Mum: “You know everything.”
Dad: “I’m not telling you.”

What struck me was that this was pretty much a carbon copy of many petty arguments I have with my wife – she asks a stupid question, I reply in a dismissive manner, she retorts with a response that, though clever, indicates that she never really took the question seriously in the first place, I reply with a tender yet defiant remark.

I am 37 and I have definitely become my parents. I see it as a kind of step in evolution, where one repeats the past, in the hope that one day they can finally perfect it and move forward.

Sexy books

After a brief and torrid sojourn with the Motley Crue autobiography I have gone back to my true love, the Yukio Mishima Sea of Fertility tetralogy. This is the 2nd book, “Runaway Horses”. The way he writes about boys sets the heart racing. I can’t imagine how great it would be if he liked girls.

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This is part of a larger plate lithograph I drew from a photo of a gypsy and a dancing bear. I always loved this photo. Years later my friend showed me exactly the same photo, but I haven’t seen it since. After I finished the lithograph I decided to splash some random ink across a new plate a-la Toulouse Lautrec. It ruined it; the same way I ruined the silkscreen cat T-shirt by adding a purple box at the end, and the Danse Arts poster by deciding in the last minute to make a random pattern on each one.

Interlude

I saw a man on the street today playing electric guitar. He was wasted away, all muscle and bone, almost elderly, with a rock’n’roll hairstyle, singing Cantonese pop from the 60’s. His speakers were rigged to his bicycle, and he had a kind of shrine surrounding him of news articles and photos and a fluffy white pet resting on a stool with a sign in English and Chinese warning you not to touch the dog or it’ll bite.
Turns out it was Danny Hui, old rising star who was torn from fame by heroin abuse, now alive again and performing on a Mong Kok street, half circus act, half giant.
I gave him $10 then the rest of the crowd started dropping money into the various hats and buckets around him. It’s crowd mentality – very hard to be the first one when everyone is watching.
I can’t imagine the balls this man must have. It sounded great, amid all the empty noise and clutter on the street. Imagine, amid all those people … a human.

Selling death

Whenever it crosses my mind I might die, I try to evaluate how many cute girls may die too, and this is how I gauge how big a tragedy it will be.
When groups of people die though, the news always says something like: “Twelve people died, including 4 children”. What does that mean? Children are more valuable than adults?
I think it’s not fair; the papers should get some perspective.

Thoughts (part 2)

What if I was the last man on Earth? How would it work? Would different countries take turns sending their best women? Would they get one shot, or would it be like a set of 10 opportunities? Would I get to name all the offspring? Would I get holidays? Would the younger girls have to go to the back of the line because they still had a chance with the second generation?

Boy power

I still have the eye-liner I borrowed from my mother 20 years ago. I’ve been using it a lot recently … it’s my new look. I’m thinking of starting a whole product line – make-up for men. The theme will be part “I want to be beautiful” and part “I don’t give the slightest, tiny fuck”. I want to call it “Fuck you, fuck me.”

A successful descent

My plane landed in torrential rain, and for a moment while we were descending I let my imagination wander and felt the possibility of disaster. It seemed an okay time to die – I had just used one of my free passes into the “Prestige Lounge”, the next issue of the magazine was mostly laid out, I’d read most of the Motley Crue autobiography, I had recently procured a satisfying orgasm. I had called my parents a couple of days ago and my last blog entry mentioned crashing and going to heaven. It seemed an okay time to go, and as fear started to creep in I remembered Tommy Lee and Nikki Sixx standing up during turbulence and yelling “Fuck God, let’s crash!” and then I felt strong again.

Fun in Seoul

I’m en route from Old Lady Manhattan to Hong Kong, now in the Korean Air “Prestige Lounge” in Seoul. I must have crashed and gone to heaven. First a beautiful girl gave me a towel and took me to my own private shower room. After trying all the free hair products they had and taking “look-I’m-Tommy-Lee” naked photos of myself in the mirror with my phone I realised I was missing out on the free bar, so I dressed and hit the bottle, and the cappuccino machine, and the pastry counter. I finished the bottle of Jack, then when I went back to start on the Scotch there was a brand new bottle of Jack waiting for me. Man, I’m inspired. I gotta make money. This is how I want to live.

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I haven’t drawn for 2 weeks. This is a scan of an old plate lithograph from “Elfonzo’s Lost Cat”, a story I wrote about a man who lost his cat, then hatched a plan to find it by circling his house, gradually expanding the diameter of his search so as not to miss any spot. He grew obsessed, insane, looking for his cat. It ended with him taking a dump on the sidewalk and looking up and seeing his cat, but being too absorbed in his manic search to recognise the animal anymore.

Role-play

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

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

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

Thoughts (part 1)

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

Nothing can stop me now

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

That’s right, an accordion.

Diagnosis, murder

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

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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.