Maybe today I'll be a king, but I know not what tomorrow brings
I know, it's been awhile and I haven't called. I've been detained.
Let's leave it at that.
Anyway, what's changed? I have a new job, but I don't like it all that much. I have the same girl and I like her even more. I was in a big deal coffee table book. I've sold more posters. I've made a couple of show business friends from that and still get at least 3 emails a month from some shitty band somewhere--usually New York--asking me how much it will be to posters and logos for them and when it's more than $25, I get nothing else.
Actually it's this art stuff that's brought me out of hibernation. That and the generous parole programs the State of Illinois offers non-violent sex offenders. Because of the book situation and because of the bright lights recently shone upon my angelic puss due to that situation, I'm finding myself around more and more artist types. And, christ, I hate artists. I hated them in art school, I hate them even more now. I hate their little cliques. I hate their slang. I hate their silkscreen ink-splattered sweatshirts and the way they eat everything with fucking chopsticks. But mostly, I hate their superior talent and ability to use that talent to get more attention than me.
I'm actually going to be part of some group show soon, featuring artists that you probably know and, I don't know, there will be people there selling stuff and I'll be expected to talk to them and all that. And I hate that shit. Basically, I'm the reverse Groucho--I only want to be a member of a club that's dying to have me. And these assholes couldn't care less if I never crapped out another robotic ape in a space ship again. Rightly so, sure, but still.
And all of this retarded angst only serves to remind me that I also went to fucking art school and some asshole hates me just because I'm in this book and he's not so I should just shut the fuck up and put Pushead's cock in my mouth already.
See? Nothing's changed, it's okay, you're fine. I was hardly gone for 6 to 8 months at all.
Seriously, this is what you people consider punk rock? No wonder we live in a world where Jamie fucking Foxx is playing Ray Charles. N/C 12:00 AM
Monday, August 16, 2004
I've been fucking your daughters and pissing on your lawns
I'm not only not dead, but I'm on vacation until the first of September. Granted, it's my idea of vacation so I'm working the entire time, but at least I'm doing it at home where pants are (legally) optional.
As you can imagine, I have a lot to say and, when I get the two illustrations that are due by the end of the day tomorrow done, I'll share them with you--as you can surely also imagine, they're fucking great. N/C 12:18 PM
Friday, August 06, 2004
She's the devil, you know, she finds herself in Catholic school
So I'm not dead or anything. I've just had a very surreal, topsy-fucking-turvy week and I haven't been around. I spent the first few days working at the studio that I was hoping would hire me next week.
Yeah, I don't hope that any more.
The woman who runs the place, and who I actually really like as a person, is just too fucking weird and has to be one of the worst managers that I've ever run across. She's very much from the "How could you be so stupid?! You've ruined everything! school of management. She would literally berate me or another employee in front of everyone and then come back in 5 minutes, all sweet and nice, wanting to joke about reality tv or something. It was very strange, but that wasn't all. On a professional level we just couldn't seem to communicate, she hates computers so everything they have is old and crappy and cheap, she has totally different ideas about what constitutes design, and then there was this little exchange:
N/C (walking in and seeing that she has a giant poster featuring Richard Daley on her office wall) "Wow, that's pretty cool...did you do that?"
Her "No, I just have it because it's Richard Daley"
N/C "Because you like him or because you really don't like him?"
Her "Oh, I love Richard Daley. I mean he just had so much power. I wish I had that kind of power...I don't know, he could have been corrupt, but I don't care, that kind of power is realy cool."
N/C (Looks at her for a second and thinks about the fact that she's obviously an aging hippie and would have been in her early 20s in 1968) "Oh....yeah...I...I don't think there was much question that he was corrupt. Did you ever read...never mind...cool poster..." (backs slowly out of the room to call the other studio that wanted to hire him)
So, yeah. I mean I'm all for beating up hippies, but come on.
Anyway, I did call that other studio, I did meet with them and I did get an offer. It's not the offer that I would have wanted if I still had a job to fall back on, but it's better than nothing. I just have to making fucking sure they don't play that bullshit world music any more if I take the job. Either way, I wouldn't officially start there until the first of the month, so at least I'll get all caught up on my Ellen. N/C 9:28 AM
Thursday, July 29, 2004
It's murder in a foreign place, opression of a foreign race
I just bought an MIA retrospective.
Seriously, I must be stopped before I buy something that originally came out on Youth Of Today. N/C 7:03 PM
I'm in love with the goddamned glory hole
Unemployment, even though I technically won't really experience it for another week and a half, doesn't really agree with me. It's the free time. It's the fact that I'm not yet worried about my finances. It's not having anything to do that I really want to do.
It all boils down to this: boredom + iTunes = me very seriously considering buying a JFA collection. JFA! I just listened to Beach Blanket Bongout and I swear I nearly cried. As it stands I've been listening to the Dicks and Flipper and watching SCTV all afternoon, it may as well be the Summer of '84 and I may as well be punk again. N/C 4:54 PM
Tuesday, July 27, 2004
I think I've had it
I'm back. I've been torn from my wonderful and warm blue green womb and tossed on the cold metal table of real life, arms and legs akimbo, screaming and crying.
I had a for real, no phone calls, no leather shoes, sit-and-read-in-the-sun-and-have-squirt-gun-fights-with-little-kids vacation. I hung out with the people that I am closest to in the world, drank more wine than Caligula, and was worshipped and adored by babies. I waded in cold water and fed a giant fucking crayfish to a seagull. I cured cancer, got the Arabs to make out with the Jews and ate some of the worst "Mexican" food I've ever had. I also grilled giant steaks and drank cherry ginger ale--which is even better than it sounds and was made with cherries that were grown along the roads I sped down on my way to buy more wine, beer and Red Vine licorice. I had happiness and contentment and the LP was in a swimsuit for days on end.
I've never been more annoyed to be back in my Chicago. I have to go from not wearing a watch for nearly a week to making sure I don't go broke and/or insane with worry because of this job situation, and to freelance clients giving me shit and causing me problems. Things still seem rosy in general, but you never know until you're actually sitting at the desk, so I'm all stiff and stressed and waiting. I should have a better idea of where things are going today, but until then I'm going to close my eyes and pretend I'm still in a plastic chair 3 feet from the Bluest Water in North America.
Because it would seem to mean tacitly aligning myself with a bunch of far worse retards, to me at least, I stopped listening to the Hives when they became THE HIVES. This may or may not have been a mistake--I mean I have a million records by bands that sound like the Hives, but at the same time--Veni, Vedi, Vicious, was, in fact, a really great album.
But I don't trust popularity. I'm not asshole enough to automatically hate something just because everyone else does, but I do automatically wonder what that lowest common denominator is--I mean, let's face facts, People don't exactly a great fucking track record when it comes to appreciating...anything good.
Sometimes it's easy to understand; everyone fucking loves the White Stripes but not The Milkshakes/Thee Mighty Caesars/Thee Headcoats/Buff Medways because Jack White is prettier than Billy Childish and his lyrics make you feel smarter because you like them and they're really fucking poetic, man. Billy, a far, far, far, far more accomplished writer/artist (the guy fucking translated Celine and started an art movement), writes simple lyrics that tend to actually mean shit. Plus Bruce Brand, incredibly charming motherfucker that he is, isn't exactly fuckbait. I definitely think that another key to their popularity are the "sensitive" hipster boys who look at Meg and think "Man, I just know she could actually learn to play the drums if she'd only let me fuck her."
Simply said, Billy Childish is real, Jack White is an imitation of something real. I know I've written about that before and I know that it's pointless to even say it--especially since I actually have nothing against the guy, but it's the truth. Anyway, I've always thought that the Hives were real too, and People tend to be allergic to that shit like crazy, so I could never understand their popularity.
Either way, I bought their new lp last night, am listening to it right now and think it's pretty good. It's not as great as some people led me to believe that it was (but those people are drummers and we all know about drummers). Plus, they're touring with The Reigning Sound, so I'm probably right--they're probably very cool, very hip to the ridiculousness of their situation, and very mean to the hipsters that blindly worship them.
Anyway, that's it for me for awhile. I'm going to where it's green and blue and everyone eats fudge.