I remember Paris

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

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

Never mind Elvis, here are the bollocks

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

How to proceed

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

Flip, Flop and Fly

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

Stop being so close-minded

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

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

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

Knowledge forsakes me again

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

Anti-anti-establishment

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

Nobody fucks with Tony Montana

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

God is from Belgium

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

Exposed, sort of

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

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

Some best friends are better than others

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

Gym etiquette, part one

My gym has an interesting list of “Gym Etiquette” posted, listing things like “Don’t drop the weights on the floor” and “Don’t wear jeans or sandals”. My favorite says “Don’t be paranoid.” It goes on to explain you don’t need to think everyone is watching you, and you can just concentrate on your workout. I know for a fact this is not true, as I personally, ruthlessly, judge every single person I see.

I have my own list I’d like to add, starting with:
1. Don’t shower with the door open. Your water splashes on me, which is disgusting.
2. Don’t shave with an electric shaver in front of the mirror, you fucks. All your disgusting little hairs fall onto the counter, around the hairdryer and cotton swabs. It’s not complicated, do it over the sink and clean up after yourself.
3. If you smell, go home. This includes bad breath, cigarette breath, body odor, farting, musty clothes, whatever. I need to breathe deeply when I exercise, and you make it hell for me.
4. Don’t sing in the goddamn shower. Do you really think I give the slightest fuck about your favorite song? No, I don’t, so shut the fuck up.
5. Never sit on a machine if you’re not using it, or are not about to use it. Also, don’t stand in front of a machine, blocking it, leaving it inaccessible. Why? Don’t ask me why. It’s obvious.
6. If I’m on the machine by the mirror don’t try to cut through to the other side. I have to stop to let your lazy ass through. Walk around, it’s a goddamn gym after all, get some fucking exercise you selfish cunt.
7. Never, ever, under any circumstances, leave a used band-aid in the shower stall.
8. Don’t read newspapers, magazines or books on the treadmill. You’re lying to yourself thinking you are getting exercise while reading and casually strolling on a self-moving machine. Don’t talk on phones either. If you have enough lung power to hold a conversation then you may as well be wandering aimlessly on the street, just as your aimless, pointless life dictates you do.
9. Don’t use your machine in time with the bland, over-produced pop covers on the speaker system. You’ll look like a dick.
10. Don’t do stupid yoga-style poses in the stretching area unless you’re an able-bodied girl. Again, you look like a dick.
11. And really, don’t drop the goddamn weights. If they’re really so heavy then choose lighter weights you stupid cock. Otherwise you’re obviously just trying to tell everyone how tough you are, which makes you a completely, stupid cock.

The Proselytizer Blues

I read an article in Time today that had a reference to the 22, once 23, Korean hostages in Afghanistan as “camcorder missionaries” – groups that go off on sponsored trips to raise the profile, and raise the income, of their local church group; with no real purpose other than private gain and the obstinate force of unfounded pride. The venomous spite welled up inside me. Don’t get me wrong, I hate Muslim zealots as much as I hate Christian ones, but when push comes to shove I’ll usually side with the resistor rather than the aggressor.
If those idiots make it back to Korea they’ll undoubtedly be hardened Christians and gain a big following of other idiots, and the whole thing will perpetuate – a magazine cover here, a huge donation there, and before you know it they’ll have statues of themselves with halos and poems about martyrdom. At this point, I just don’t care if they live or die. I really just don’t care.

Perspective

During high school I received detention only once. We had been given an assignment to write a story evoking “atmosphere”. I wrote about being on the beach, in the steamy heat, seeing the nipples of a beautiful girl poking out inside her bathing suit, toying with the straw of her drink with her tongue, and getting a hard on. It wasn’t a brilliant piece of writing, but it was a breakthrough in opening up a new horizon. My teacher called it “smut” and told me I could re-write it in detention.
That day my mother was volunteering in the school kitchen. When I went in to get my free pie my mother, who had heard about my creative endeavor, gave me a stern speech about how bad I was. Whatever. I had to wait for my free pie to cook, so I was forced to hang around the kitchen with my unfriendly Mum (who, in all fairness, has always been a much better person than myself). One by one the other teachers came in to get their food, and each one patted me on the back saying my story was being passed around the staff room and they all thought the whole thing was hilarious. By the time my lunch was finally ready, my mother was singing a different tune, something like “That’s my boy, he’s a little wild, but we still love him.”
I learned an important lesson that day. Sometimes it’s not exactly what you do, it’s how it’s presented. People are malleable, weak. Don’t accept another man’s truth, follow your own; the definition of right or wrong is up to you.

Hello, beautiful

I was too tired after my Tammy Faye Messner extravaganza to clean off my make-up when I went to bed, and too rushed to notice it the next day. It wasn’t till lunch time when I glanced in the mirror and noticed how beautiful I looked. To be honest, this has happened several times before. The true test was when I forgot about it again and went to the gym in the evening. That place is full of mirrors, so it’s hard not check yourself out, between checking out all the men and women around you (while pretending you don’t notice anyone). I figured it out before I got to a mirror though because everyone looked twice at me. It was a bold experiment, and I’m not sure if I would have had the courage to try it on purpose. Ultimately, though, I really looked much better with darker eyes and fuller lips.
It’s now 2am, and I can’t find my lipstick anywhere. Perhaps someone stole it? Where’s my goddamn assistant when I need him? Useless sonofabitch. I know I have lipstick because I used it the last time I opened a bottle of champagne and painted Chinese love poetry all over my naked body.
This all reminds me of when I was 15 and walking through the streets of Hamilton, Bermuda in make-up, high heels and ridiculous hair. Some girl I never met before called me a “faggot”. I have no problem with being thought of as gay, but this was fighting talk. We went tit-for-tat, throwing high-school insults back and forth, while still walking, till we were almost out of ear-shot, when I yelled a finite “Suck my dick”, and she came straight back with “I can’t, it’s not big enough”. I’ll never forget it. She’d never even seen my dick before. She’d never even seen me before. I had no comeback. Later I thought of: “It’s more than you’ll ever get, you fat bitch”, possibly even whipping it out and stroking 'Mr Thriller' to his full magnificence, but it was way too late. I’ve forgotten so many episodes in my life, but this one has been dragging behind me for the last 22 years. Goddamn filthy whore. Who the fuck does she dare think she is, that useless, dirty-pussied, whorebag of a cunt?

I’ve been listening to Richard Hawley’s “Precious Sight” all night, convinced it is the best song ever recorded. I went online to buy his complete back catalog, just because I wanted to give him something back, but it’s not available.

Nemesisless

Tammy Faye Messner died today. I can’t make up my mind about her; she seems to be everything I hate and love all wrapped up into one tidy package. She’s a religious nut / she manipulated millions of weak-willed people into donating cash to her empire; she’s totally fake / she’s iconographic. Everything about her was contrived and carefully planned, yet she somehow remained innocent, possibly even sincere. Who knows? It’s brilliant and it’s disturbing. In tribute I painted my face tonight and drew.
She looked great on Larry King Live, days away from death, her broken face painted in grotesque make-up, part frightened, part immortal. She looked unusually alive for a human.

ACT I, Scene II

ILYCH: If love was truly sprung from an arrow, I’d swear I saw Cupid before me now. Yet Uncle, why tonight of all nights do you start this tempest, where wounds have no chance to heal? Unless perhaps your arrow’s intention is to maim?
GREYGOR: This is a wretched night indeed. In truth, I never dared imagine it would come to pass. If I had, I would have acted. Now it is here, there is no excuse for inaction.
ILYCH: And what action do you seek?
GREYGOR: The liberation of beauty.
PACHEN: Ah, the beauty of liberation!
GREYGOR: What mirrored tongue is this?
PACHEN: The reflection is yours, Your Excellency.
ILYCH: Playing the fool, Pachen?
PACHEN: I am playing the master, my good Lord, who is fooling himself. Yet it would not be wise for me to call him a fool.
GREYGOR (laughing): Your courtesy exceeds you, my good rascal. Pray, continue.
PACHEN: From playing, to praying – this is the routine of many a scoundrel.
GREYGOR: But what of myself?
PACHEN: I would say you take more pleasure from the play than from the players.
ILYCH: Is this drama we are talking of now?
PACHEN: Comedy, tragedy – only the Good Lord knows. How easy it is for one to veil the other.
ILYCH (to himself): If I were the one to lift the veil…
PACHEN: Your tragedy unfolds, my good Lord, as the master’s folly begins.
GREYGOR: Your rhymes provoke and confuse.
PACHEN: Then charming they must be.
GREYGOR: And exhausting.
PACHEN: Some men retire when burdens grow, and slackness does embrace them; others retreat for they do know, time ripens their condition; whilst others yet will not be slow, and force chance’s decision.
GREYGOR: The time has come, without my beckoning. What would you say to this my charming servant?
PACHEN: If I were to serve you well I’d recommend rehearse no more, your tongue is learned, do not betray the script, or chaos will ensue.
GREYGOR: Impossible! Am I not the master of my own verse? Life is no play, my destiny cannot have a conclusion before it even ends!
PACHEN: While affectation plays companion to a man’s senses, liberation is his enemy. Such a man is only free when he forgets himself. Were such a man to step outside his surroundings, where would he be?
GREYGOR: Nowhere.
PACHEN: To himself, perhaps.
GREYGOR: I grow weary of being outwitted. To your point, my good fool.
PACHEN: As one acts, another reacts. The action’s foretold, directed by circumstance. Be neither swayed nor seek to sway and there you will find yourself free.
GREYGOR: This weary fool retires. The day has overcome me. If tomorrow’s script follows today’s I’d sooner be dumb, than sputter this nonsense before me. But act I will as happier I’d be to make ruin than follow this through to its unhappy end.

Exit Greygor

ILYCH: I follow my Uncle, it’s time for sleep; but in waking I’ll follow no more. He finds no pleasure in pleasure and is affronted by charm.

Exit Ilych

Beginning to see the light

I started a new game of Dynasty Warriors tonight. I decided, before I started, that I’d try a new strategy, just for fun. I decided to be as aggressive as possible, and not to be sentimental, and to forget my usual practice of not taxing the peasants. After a couple of games Jinuan Sanjae got captured. I killed the guy who captured him, then went on to destroy the whole empire that was associated with the battle, even though it was at the expense of other areas I controlled. I got Jinuan Sanjae back and it felt good. All along the way I kept pushing the peasants for more and more taxes to fund my campaign, to the point where Da Qiao actually suggested forced labour (an option I’d never seen before) – but I figured this would lead to revolt so I didn’t choose it.
Anyway, I had a great time and I was pretty successful, so I’d just like to apologize to the Bush administration. I didn’t realize before what a kick it is, and how profitable it is, to make a sacrifice here and there, all for the benefit of the key players.
All this awesome killing has left me with a new perspective on world events. I just hope it’s not too late to get a piece of the action.

Nirvana, here I come

Today I styled my hair just like my new best friend Artem (not actually my friend). I have made a very big decision – I will go ahead and get my “2046” haircut. I will be cool, I may even buy spats (http://www.benlocker.com/blog/?p=178). Progress, you little charlot. A full life is maybe 70, 80 years? We cram it full of shit – brand new televisions, homeopathic remedies, self-defense classes, comprehensive lists of battlefield locations. Goddamn it all to hell, all I ever wanted was a nice haircut and a few accessories, a little pussy and a whole lot of senseless fun.

Shooting a Russian

Another day of taking orchestra photos. Extra special mention has to be made of Artem, originally of Siberia, who did a Russian dance with his cello in his hands. Forget the fact that he was able to do it – just the fact that he did do it was beautiful, and he did it with humor and gusto. I just can’t help but admire people who dance and sing and laugh. Tomorrow feels fun already.

Come on, let’s go

There comes a time during drawing when you’ve added too many layers, and the only thing to do is spray spray paint on your fingers and draw with that.
So many things to write today, so little time. Today we did a photo shoot of an orchestra. I liked all the musicians with their instruments. We also had a stylist, so the studio smells like hairspray, which smells like girl, which turns me on.
I’m listening to Neikka RPM tonight, made up of friends from college, most notably Domgirl. I was called Dominic, she was called Dominique, when the phone rang no one could tell if it was for me or her. Hence I became Domboy. I liked it also because it sounded like “cowboy”.
Special mention to the tropical Blue Moon butterfly, which in just 5 years evolved a gene to suppress the Wolbachia bacteria that was wiping out the males of the species in the South Pacific. Lazy humans take note. Isn’t it about time we evolved? I don’t know why we needed some things in the first place, but I’m sure we no longer need to fart, or have stinky armpits, or bleed between our legs every month. Come on people, this is the 21st Century, let’s evolve.

All the pussy you want

I went to the gym today after a 7 week break due to traveling and having a stupid, stupid cold. The gym is a fascinating microcosm. I watched a hapless man try to chat to a girl on a treadmill. She was half his height and maybe half his age. At the end he gave a pathetic punch in the air as if to say “Okay, get back to your work-out”. Fortunately she’d already put her headphones back on and was staring out the window. He was old enough to have realized he is a loser by now but, like my friend English Richard used to say – “If you don’t shoot, you can’t score”.
On the way down the escalator I saw another man leaning on the reception counter, staring out the side of his eyes at a girl’s ass, chewing gum with a look of contempt in his eyes. I bet he gets all the pussy he wants. If I ever have a son I’m going to teach him how to get girls – just treat them like dirt, and when you get them in bed make sure you give them a good fucking. Like Lisa Bonet said in Angelheart – “It’s always a bad ass that makes a girl’s heart beat faster”. Like Leonard Cohen said – “No man ever got a woman back by getting on his knees and begging”. Like I always say – “A man never becomes king by asking for it politely”. If my son is lucky like me he’ll find a good girl or boy and stick with them; but if not I really hope he doesn’t go around hoping for miracles. Well, what does it matter? If he’s worth his salt he’ll just do the opposite of whatever I tell him anyway.

The road to Texas

If I had to choose just one man to be, just one man that represents all the best qualities that I desire, I would choose Lyle Lovett. He is everything a man should be.

I have a Stetson. I bought it in Albuquerque while I was visiting my baby-doll in Santa Fe. I had fake snakeskin boots, blue jeans and a Stetson hat, and I felt like a real man. I stood up straight and, although I could take any man down, I was polite and charming. I belonged in that hat, in those boots, with that big sky stretched out above me and True Love Ways on the car stereo. I didn’t need any of you, I was complete.

Bite me

I drew this in charcoal, then I drank more, then I added spray paint, then I drank more, then I added acrylic, then I drank more, then I added ink, then I drank more, etc etc. There’s nothing like impatience to add energy to a man’s input. This is a mess, but it has poetry. I’m suddenly everything I ever wanted to be – independent, reckless, pointless and free. If you don’t like it, well, you know where I live. Bring it on.

Bear with me

Like a lot of people who are about to get married, I’ve had my photo taken a lot recently. I’ve been Japanese, I’ve been Chinese, I’ve been a soldier (my favorite) and I’ve been an angel. All this photo taking has reminded me of what a genius I am. I’ve had my head tilted, my hair fixed and my lighting adjusted, but I can’t smile for shit. When I smile I look like a really badly crafted wax dummy. My apologies to my good wife for ruining a lot of photos which would have looked amazing if they had been her alone. In contrast, when I take photos, the lighting sucks, the positions are not thought-out, but the sitters are slowly coaxed into shining, and smiling, no matter how uncomfortable they are when we start. I can adjust the white balance in Photoshop later, this is merely a technicality. So, I’ve been encouraged to smile more. This is me trying to smile. It took a while, but I finally realized what it reminds me of – it’s the same look that husky had in it’s eyes right before it attacked me – kind of glazed over – slightly lost and confused, slightly possessed. Pretty scary.

The good mormon

I’ve always hated mormons. Since the first moment I met one in South Korea and learned what they were I’ve freely despised them. I see them when I’m on the bus passing through Central. They always hang around outside Worldwide House because it’s full of Filipinos – the poor and mistreated are the easiest prey. For a long time I’ve wanted to dress like one except have “I hate mormons” on my badge, and go down to Worldwide House and preach the concept of intolerance of any one group of people that actively tries to convert people into a concept of segregation and blind faith. Mormons are like Hitler – so easy to hate you almost forget why you hated them in the first place.

Today, because I’m still sick, I allowed myself to watch another movie. This time I saw “New York Doll” – the documentary of the New York Dolls’ bassist Arthur ‘Killer’ Kane. I loved it apart from 2 things: 1. my new Tony Leung Chiu Wai hairstyle, which I haven’t even tried properly yet, quickly became superseded by the Dolls’ long hair and make-up, 2. all the mormons in the movie seemed to be genuinely nice people with sensible and useful things to say.
Man, just when you think you have the world summed up, someone throws you a curveball. It’s 2:40 in the morning and I have no idea who I should pretend to be tomorrow, who I should emulate, who I should persecute.

Wong Kar Wai did this to me

I watched Wong Kar Wai’s “2046” tonight. I’d heard mixed reviews of it and was expecting it to be a little clumsy. In the beginning I saw it was so well framed I was ready to forgive any bad acting or messy plot; by half way I was becoming very attached to the picture; and as it was nearing the end I was thinking it may be a masterpiece. The overwhelming nuance of time and memory and the continual overlap of storyline and conflict of personalities, each with their own timeline and memories, was amazing; together with the overlap of previous Wong Kar Wai movies and future ones it became something akin to truth – that indefinable, yet somehow tangible reality.

I’m getting over a cold – another one, which is strange for me. I watched a movie thinking it would be a pleasant way to pass the time and distract me from working, but it was too exciting. The movie made me want to start smoking and had me drinking whisky before it was finished, even though I’d planned not to drink till I’d stopped coughing up disease from my sticky lungs. Then afterwards I gave myself a side-parting like Tony Leung Chiu Wai, painted a fake moustache on my upper-lip, and drew this. Who the hell ever said “just be yourself”? Everything I love and ever loved has been on a pedestal. I’ve been myself, let me be you for a while.

Getting uneven

This is the one picture I managed to draw of my baby-doll in 2 weeks. Now she’s gone to NY and I can revert to different kinds of long, drunken nights of frenzy.

I have a new ambition now: to work for George W. Bush. Imagine the power. You can fuck anyone up and never, ever go to jail. Now that Johnnie Cochran is dead, a man needs some kind of unfair advantage when going about his business.

Don’t look forward

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

Brand new model

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

Brought eyes (sic)

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

Ain’t talkin’ ‘bout love

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

the Cure

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

Gee but it’s good to be home

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

Me!

Thanks to Yoichi for making this paper chain all around the living room. Today is my birthday and everyone is encouraged to admire and adore me!

Let's go

So long Kong Kong, hello Japan. The next 2 and a half weeks will be in Osaka, Kyoto and Yonnago preparing my wedding. I’m tireder than a motherfucker and ready and raring to go.

This is an old drawing. It was the first time I allowed myself to use colour. I always thought I had to study, study, study. Then finally I had the confidence to open up. I’ll never forget it.

Today was cruel

Today was cruel. It’s the day before I leave for Osaka, to join my wife and new family where I’m supposed to be all bright-eyed and funny. I expect a couple of last minute emergencies whenever I go away, and the customary last-minute photo shoot that always comes up, but for the last 24 hours I’ve been dealing with my clients’ fuck-ups. Just a bunch of “sorry” and “it’s urgent”. No extra cash, just desperate people who really need something. After a day of this I abandoned them all. Not to sleep; not to go on the town and get wild, but to get on with work from more reliable clients. I’m mad and now I’m fucked because everything’s late. So, now I have this opportunity, I’d like to say fuck everyone. Especially fuck George Bush. Fuck Dick Cheney. Fuck Tony Blair. Fuck the military junta in Burma. Fuck the pope. Fuck the whole fucking world and their fucking complete inability to make nothing but vague intellectual progress over the last century. Fuck you all you corrupt, selfish, irresponsible rats’ asses who can’t see beyond a pencil’s width into the future of your asinine actions. Titties, titties, titties.

Relish

This morning I found myself walking across the piazza of the Grand Millennium Plaza after the gym, Green Tea Frappuccino in my hand, wearing my new, white trousers from Armani Exchange and a dark blue polo shirt hurriedly on the way to my design studio to catch up with work. I was everything I was brought up to hate. I blame Bob Dylan (or, more specifically, my childish interpretation of Dylan) for teaching me to despise anyone in a suit, anyone with money. It’s a defeatist attitude that allows people to dwell in dead-end jobs, in ill-fitting clothes, eating mass-market food from discount stores, with the defense that they are somehow anti-establishment. I was so hungry, I drank my Frappuccino with relish, hoping no one would notice me, till I caught the eye of a passing businessman while I was licking my lips, and I saw on his face “that looks tasty”. That scum, that over-paid, corrupted, corporate whore. I liked him. I wanted to be his friend.

Song for Kiriko

Call me a sucker, but my good wife Kiriko recently asked me to write a poem for her. As I've been indulging in over-romantic flights of fancy inspired by Shane MacGowan recently it was only natural I superimposed myself onto his genius and rode it from there.

Song for Kiriko
(after Shane MacGowan)

I’ve been loving you a long time,
From Hampton Bays to Silvermine,
From weekends dancing, oceans roaring,
Knocked down and stripped in the sunshine.

The train came slowly, from the city,
We climbed the rooftop, for some fun,
Those days could never be repeated,
Those days can never be undone.

Across the platform, you were silent,
Across the platform, I was dumb,
Across the years I always waited,
Across the years you were the one.

Then giving up, in dreamless sleeping,
Then waking up, in dreamless days,
Then passing through, I chanced to see you,
Then passing through, I chanced to stay.

One drunken night before the ocean,
We hid together in that room,
Till nothing left but naked moonlight,
Till nothing left, I stole moon.

Forget your sorrow, take my hands, babe,
Forget the past, it’s gone and died.
Put your arms, around my waist, babe,
And hold me close, and be my bride.

Don't trust anyone over 30

I gave a job interview today. I had on my best Alan Sugar but I don’t think the kid had seen that show so he just talked naturally. He had a bit of an edge and seemed to be certain about what he said. I liked it. I took a good, long look at myself before drawing tonight. I realized I don’t look anything like Johnny Depp. I realized my great new haircut doesn’t actually change anything. I looked tired, old and drunk. I realized I can’t keep living in a fantasy imagining every little girl wants me just by passing me on the street. I realized I need to start cultivating a more eccentric character to compensate for my diminishing natural appeal. I realized I need to start looking for cool wigs and start wearing make-up again. I realized I can never be real again. I must become an icon.

The final solution

I was at the hairdresser’s today contemplating how I could achieve global domination. I think it will be easy enough to become king of the world; pretty much all the leaders suck and nobody really likes them. There is the problem of all the religious groups though. I thought of setting up a new religion that is better, but these people are so delirious with their own gods it’s going to be such a lot of work to wean them away. Then I realized, all I need to do is discover a new planet that supports life. Then, I will tell them all that their god comes from this planet. Then, presumably, they will all rush over there and within a few months they’ll all kill each other. Sound a little harsh? Well, don’t blame me that they’re all a bunch of fucking idiots. I’m just trying to help.

Destruction of the fittest

Hi G, Snakes are scary, I think they’re designed that way. I have fake snakeskin boots, they look great. This is the trade-in we have made, don’t fight it. While the Native-Americans are at one with the environment, they are also wallowing in their defeat and humiliation, rounded like animals into futureless compounds, getting drunker and drunker, weaker and weaker. While we, the triumphant, manipulate nature to our whims, getting drunker and drunker, and more and more violent, more powerful.

Plan A

After I posted the last blog your hero and mine, Andrew Collins, posted a great blog entry about how the media is exploiting this case for nothing other than their own benefit. I still stick to my entry, except now I also see how much of a bandwagon this is, especially the point about how millionaires have been bullied into donating money rather than the surface impression that the whole community is pulling together for a united cause. All the same, let’s naively push our mortal bodies forward. I still hope one day I will write a manifesto that will teach the whole world to be nothing but a good time for everyone. If I ever really do give up and realize humans are inherently pointless, directionless monsters then plan B is to enslave the world for my raucous pleasure.

Everybody look

No need for me to try to say something clever here. This is a horrible, horrible story. It's a shame one abducted child is getting so much coverage when so many others are never heard of, but while the ball's rolling I like to think that people all around the world can familiarise themselves with her face and someone, somewhere, might see her. At least she has a slim chance. Then maybe we can start shouting at our leaders and encourage them to channel some of their money away from wars and towards breaking criminal networks down.

I can be a winner

I watched "the Apprentice UK" for the first time yesterday so I could see what your hero and mine, Andrew Collins, is rattling on about. All day I've been in imaginary conversations with Sir Alan Sugar. I've been weighing my words carefully, rewriting the arguments of the contestants like I generally would in day-to-day life when I pretend to be in different situations; it's a brilliant platform.

This is one of hundreds of the "Barber Shop" pictures, of the shop I used to have to pay my rent to when I lived in the gutters of Sai Ying Pun with those cool Indian kids and odd Filipinos.

Virtually true love

Anyone who knows me will tell you there’s nothing I like better than a night of rum and Cokes and playing “Dynasty Warriors” or “Samurai Warriors”. Tonight I passed the 60 hour mark on “Samurai Warriors” and unlocked the character of Nene after completing all the levels of the story of her husband Toyotomi Hideyoshi. This is significant because Nene has the (2nd) best ass in the virtual world. Traditionally, Zhen Ji from “Dynasty Warriors” has always been the best; superseded, of course, by the character of Kiriko (based on my wife who, coincidentally, also has the best ass in the non-virtual world). Nene surpasses Zhen Ji though, in that she somehow doesn’t seem to wear any underwear. My plan is to repeat the games of Toyotomi Hideyoshi (as he has the power of finding extra gold) and then use the money he makes to spend on Nene, who I intend to make the most powerful character thanks to all the gold I make from her husband. Art imitates life, just like in “Dynasty Warriors 4 Empires” I need to find Kiriko, defeat her, be able to afford to hire her, and then train her to be a great warrior. It’s just like real life, but without all the bullshit.

Getting Dick

I was thinking about US Vice President Dick Cheney today and what a dick he is, so I looked up some facts about him to prove my point, but I’m bored of it already. It really doesn’t take a lot of research. Secretary of Defense under Bush I, then became CEO of Halliburton, then became Vice President under Bush II, then started war which made Halliburton tens of billions of dollars. Sound fishy? Sure, but not just to me, to everyone. And who got mad about it? Nobody really. I imagine somewhere right now, some very, very rich person is laughing till they pee themselves.

First dance

Technically I was married last February in Las Vegas, but I have the main wedding event coming in October with all the friends, family and fireworks. While my wife focuses on dresses and flowers I am mainly concerned with the first dance. Gene Vincent's "You Belong to Me"? Buddy Holly's "True Love Ways"? Even the Pogues "Misty Morning, Albert Bridge" seems to work. I feel, though, over all this, it should be the Ramones "Baby I Love You". Can you imagine? That beat with those strings coming in, and we step up and join together and dance slower than the beat, oblivious, yet absorbed.

Youth sure was fun

Listening to the Velvet’s “Loaded” tonight while I draw I am reminded of all the drugs; all the incapacitating drugs that used to accompany long nights of work, until a night of drugs started meaning drawing would be impossible. Boy, youth sure was fun.

A conscious death

I’ve had a cold over the last few days. It has completely broken me. It’s like life is suddenly stolen from you, and all your petty habits and pleasures are no longer possible. It’s a hateful experience, having a runny nose. You question your very existence. You’re stripped of all your talents, all your strength. Imagine – you cannot fuck, cannot drink; there is no hope for cultivation or fun. All that’s left is a broken you, and all your broken dreams. No outlet, you can’t even lie to yourself. It’s like everything stops and all you have is your past. It’s like a conscious death.