Archive for August, 2009
Get up! Get up! It’s Monday! Best day of the whole week!
I’ve been up since 5 AM, baby! Seriously. I’ve been awake since 5 in the morning.
But so what? Eddie Cave was a cobblers son, and you can bet your sweet sugary ass he got up early.
That’s Edward Cave on the left. Eddie was the publisher and editor of the worlds first magazine. It was founded in 1731 and was called The Gentleman’s Magazine. It was the first publication to report on a broad range of topics that the educated public was interested in… commodity prices, Latin poetry, shit like that. Fags.
To the right is another Cave called Nicholas Edward Cave. Nick is also involved in words and has a book coming out called
The Death of Bunny Munro. I hope it’s better than his first book, And the Ass saw the Angel, because that book was way too much work. AND I heard recently that he made up a bunch of the words in it. Seriously. He invented new words.
Frank the Horny Pig is a book I’m working on right now, and I’m almost done. I Just need to add a few more illustrations of men beating a pig with hockey sticks.
Anyway, whatever. That’s neither here nor there. What’s important right now is that I tell you about a friend I miss.
His name was Richard Holzman and we used to call him ‘The Littlest Maori’ because he was. He was six feet tall and at least 170 pounds, but he was still the littlest maori we’d ever seen.
Richard was quite possibly one of the funniest people I have ever met. He was instinctively hilarious. He didn’t have to think about it. It was hardwired to his autonomic nervous system: Breath, pump blood, make people piss themselves.
One time I came home and he had broken into my apartment. I found him dry humping my bed like a dog, all bug-eyed and lolling tongue, my smut-mag collection splashed across the room. I was disgusted and furious, but now, over ten years later, I see the funny side.
That’s time-release comedy. No one does that.
Richard would regularly stage impromptu dance performances for us in our living room, and they were fantastic. He’d even bring his own music!
There was a period where he would rock up to our pad, at any time of day or night, with Lou Reed’s Coney Island Baby on cassette.
He’d fast forward to the song ‘Kicks‘ and then just blow our minds with a hail of startlingly unusual shapes. Then he’d rewind and do it again… and then again. (Please click Kicks, close your eyes, and imagine a skinny, wild haired maori in cowboy boots dancing in your dimly lit living room)
And then, if we were lucky, he’d tenderly interpret the title track for us.
He was magical. He was Graceful. He was my special friend and I miss him deeply. We all do.
Richard, if you’re reading this, please reach out and say hi. Seriously. Where the fuck are you?
Read the rest of this entryI’m back!
After a hellish three-plane mission, fraught with rude stewards, savage turbulence, and endless screaming babies- I’m back.
To be honest there was only one screaming baby, but it was the worst screaming baby I have ever heard. For the entire five hours between LA and New York last night (the final leg of a mind-bending 30 hour jaunt) this one baby shrieked it’s blood-curdling cry non-stop. It was like Hervé Villechaize was being burnt alive in the seat behind me. It honestly sounded like the child was being tortured. I had to look back a couple of times just to be sure the father wasn’t holding a cigarette lighter under it’s feet.
I’ve heard babies cry before, lot’s of babies, but none have made my skin crawl like this one. It was this kind of sickening, burbling, grating, ear-stabbing wail that made you want it to stop immediately at any cost, even if that meant death. Yes. That’s right. I just said I wanted the baby to die. After three hours of this thing’s unholy caterwauling I actually thought that the best thing for it, and certainly the best thing for everyone else on the plane, would be it’s passing and subsequent return to hell.
I can’t really blame the baby though. It was the negligent-ass parents that should have met the firing squad. What a pair of unqualified, wooden-headed imbeciles they were. I don’t have any children of my own but I’m pretty sure you pass a distressed baby back and forth between you a bit in these situations. Not these idiots though. Not a chance! Instead they used the old ‘Dad incessantly saying Ssssh for five hours’ technique. Fucking morons. The only way I could get any sleep was to listen to Pantera at maximum volume, and even then I could still hear the evil little bastard screeching in the background.
Why didn’t I just drug myself? I’ll tell you why- Because my girlfriend was controlling the drugs is why. She gingerly doled out the Xanax in halvsies, just enough to make you feel a teeny bit sleepy, but not enough to actually knock you out. I tried to reason with her that I was twice her size and therefore needed twice as much. She insisted that I was a “druggy” and needed to chill-out. I’m not sure what’s worse- An ‘enabling’ drug-user girlfriend- OR- the irreproachable Sister Mary Nicey-Nice I’m shacked up with now.
Just kidding, my little squirrel-paw. XXX
Anyway, I’m back now, and, after two weeks spent languishing in the pure country air, I’m ready to kick some ass… starting tomorrow. Way too weird today.
I found this reprehensible shelf in a local nick-nack store right after a grubby man walking down the street with a parrot and a squeeze box told me two tedious jokes about asian people (apparently they watch the sunrise sideways). You can’t make this stuff up.
Just another day in my home town of Xenophobaville.
I’ll be back after the weekend… If I don’t get tar ‘n feathered first.
This is the computer at my mother’s house. I am at my mother’s house. Expect little in the way of updates for a few more days.
I wonder if the Smithsonian knows about this? They should. How does anyone fall this far behind? They had more up-to-date machines at Grey Gardens!
“I just use it to pay my bills” says mother, and I guess that’s easier than lugging a great sack of cowry shells around to all the various utility companies.
Um… I think I saw Arthur Evans sniffing around in the backyard early this morning with a little brush and a pith helmet.
Thanks. Try the veal.
Which is unsurprising when you consider that it’s made in NZ, and those people rarely do anything in half measures.
New favorite beer.
It’s 6 AM Sunday morning in the city of Melbourne and I’m wide awake. Jet lag, that queer mistress, has me sitting at a desk in my buddy’s house, waiting for the sun to come up so I can nip out for a cup off coffee.
I kinda like jet lag in a weird way. It’s enlivening to be out of sync with your world. You keep strange hours and witness things you wouldn’t have under normal circumstances. For example- the sunrise. When was the last time you saw the sunrise? Probably the last time you had ecstasy, and if you’re like me that was at a New Years Eve party in 2000.
You’re probably anticipating a tangential and typically self indulgent screed right now but I’m far too weird to deliver.
Give me a couple of days to right myself. I feel like a frozen snow-dome.
Did ya’ll see this little skateboard review thing I threw together for Vice? Pretty stupid. The Urban Outfitters blog commissioned it but then reneged when they saw the word ‘Penis’ in the intro (no hard feelings). So I gave it to Vice.
For the record- I didn’t sell the merch, I gave it away. Kept the 5Boro cruiser for myself (thanks Steve!)
In other news- I’m off to Samana Cay for a couple of weeks to do a spot of hammer fishing with my ol’ buddy Peter DeLuise.
We went last year and had an unmitigated blast, even though there’s no electricity, no roads, and no people.
Besides the rock iguanas it’s completely uninhabited.
But this is where Columbus made his first landfall in the New World! I’m not sure how he did it without running aground on that perilous bastard reef surrounding the 8 mile long 1 mile wide island, but he did, and then he sailed on to Florida I guess. Who knows?
One of the best things about Samana Cay is the weed that grows wild in the hills there. When we arrived last year the first thing we did was trek inland about half a mile and rip up a couple of six footers. Then we set up camp on the beach and gorged ourselves on the Beluga caviar and prosecco that came with the boat we borrowed from a fellow ‘Yeti: Curse of the Snow Demon’ cast member.
It was pretty sweet, and Pete’s a great guy to go fishing with. He’s got tons of great stories to tell in those long drowsy hours when the fish seem to be somewhere else. Man, when you’re anchored twenty miles off shore with nothing to do but drink beer and listen to Coven’s debut album over and over again, stories, even stories that persistently refer back to 21 Jump St, are good to hear. Plus he does an awesome impression of his dad, and that makes me feel like Burt Reynolds.
Anyway, Chef Livesay will be posting some more of his ‘culinary delights on-a-shoestring’ in my absence, and I’ll post up pics and stuff every couple of days, satellite pending.
I was transcribing something today and as an experiment I thought I’d actually keep my fingers on the home keys. I’m really trying to train myself to type with both hands, as opposed to Lefty having a snooze while Righty dances his clickety crab-like jig. So guess how much I got done in a little over two hours of that malarky? One and one quarter pages.
These days, in schools around the world, learning to type is like learning to tie your shoe. But when I was a nipper, typing was something you elected to do, like wood shop, home economics or pottery. Of course I chose pottery as one of my electives, because I like putting clay through a garlic press more than anything in the world. If I could find a job turning lumps of earth into spools of
mud-pubes I would do it and do it well.
Monkey’s spend a great deal of time masturbating up trees, and, prior to the age around 28, young men are basically monkeys. So why would you let a little wanking monkey decide what he wants to do? And exactly how many people grow up to be professional potters anyway? I mean real Pro-potters who can support a family and hold their head high in the check-out que? I’ll wager very few.
Besides, it’s long been known that Pottery is a racket fiendishly monopolized by an elite group of high-power pottery-lesbians. Newcomers to the calling are routinely intimidated with vile gestures and name calling. I wouldn’t stand a chance even I wanted to be a career potter.
I wish I’d been forced to type from a very young age. Perhaps then I’d have typed this blog entry up in less than the 45 minutes it’s taken so far. Old Lefty likes it this way though, it’s another activity where he doesn’t have to do shit. Lefty. Occasionally he’ll attend to an itch if Righty’s preoccupied with a whisk or something, but generally he just hangs heavy and limp at my side, like one of those long snake-like things that stop a breeze coming under the door at Grandma’s house.
Anyway, I’m learning how to type like a real person now. All thanks to this website I found called bbc.letstypeokrighton.com.uk
It’s basically an online typing school for kids and learning impaired adults, like yours truly.
A troop of hilarious cartoon animals take you through the basics while singing songs about finger positioning and posture . Which sounds heavily retarded now that I’ve said it, but I don’t care, I have to learn. I’m particularly fond of the Jamaican camel. He’s cool and likes to do the limbo.
You know what I was just thinking? How funny is it when people say “Rock ‘n Roll”? Like, “Okay bro, see you tomorrow. Rock ‘n Roll.”
Not only is it supernaturally gay- but it also makes no sense!
It’s a music genre, not an expression of agreement. What if I turned around and started saying ‘Reggae’ at the end of stuff?
Like, what if I said, “Hey man, I’ll see you tomorrow! Reggae!”
How fucking lame would that be? I hate reggae. The only thing worse than the people that make reggae are the ones pretending to like it. I can tolerate almost any kind of inane torture when I’m ripped off my head on bongs, but reggae makes me feel bilious. Horses for courses I guess.
Now before you start writing me a complaint on an old paper cup you found under the couch, rasta-balls, let me just say that I and I are just having a laugh.
I love reggae! Best music in the world! And I would never, NEVER, insult a Jamaican. I know how utterly bananas you fuckers are, and I like my pancreas on the inside of my body, not on the end of a stick.. that’s poking out my ass.
I feel an insanely random song coming on! Tumblweed! Enjoy!
My old PA Morgan Collett, and his buddies Josh Rosen and Colin Tunstall, have opened our new favorite coffee shop/surf store/heavy loiter lurk scene.
It’s called SATURDAY SURF NYC and it’s brilliant. 33 Crosby. Just above Grand.
I’m, really happy but slightly bummed. Morgan was the best PA I ever had, but I’m glad he’s getting out there, living the dream.
Anyway, you have to check it out. They use La Colombe coffee, which is by far the best we’ve tasted in the city.
Morgan wanted me to mention that the surf store in back is still under construction, but as you can see- the coffee’s hot and the livin’s easy.
This weeks Foxy-but-Dead isn’t actually dead… which is a little rude I suppose, but what ever, she was a fox back in the day.
Mamie Van Doren.
Click the pic to see what she’s up to these days.
Jesus! How do you feel? Have a glass of water and a lie down.
In other incredible news: You have to watch this documentary about Vanity Fair scribe Dominick Dunne. It’s amazing.
It’s an instant on Netflix. Are you on Netflix? You should be, it’s very, very good. It’s putting those cock-suckers ‘Block Buster’ out of business, and I love them for it.
Block Buster was such a total joke, wasn’t it? I’m glad they’re on the way out. Inadequate dick-heads.
Anyway, this movie about Dominick Dunne is brilliant. I strongly urge you to watch it.
Alright, that’s it. 12:38 and I’ve done naught but play with the internet. Have a great weekend. Get some sun if you can.
You look a little wan.
Wan. Such a funny word. You know what else is funny? When people used to say ‘Singular’ instead of ‘Strange’ or ‘Unusual.’
I might try to bring that back.
Actually, something particularly singular happened yesterday at the bus stop. I was sitting in wait for the bus and… actually nothing happened. I didn’t even go to the bus stop. I hate the bus.
Remember when I complained about the taxis on 2nd Ave being ‘yellow barracuda’? Well, I take it back. They’re not so bad in comparison to those mindless whale shark bastard buses. Evil and bored is a bad combination. They drive back and forth across the same route ten hours a day, and they entertain themselves by being assholes.
Deadly morons is what they are, and I have absolutely no respect for them. They’ve tried to kill me.
If you’re as big a sucker as I am for a cameo, you’re gonna love this-
I have a simple rule for the upkeep of this rickety little media platform: Get it posted by 11AM or don’t post at all.
I have to restrict myself like this, otherwise I’ll be letting my eyeballs go dry, hunting around for interesting stuff to post.
Plus- I have work to do!
For instance, today I have to transcribe an interview I did with a British TV personality that recently migrated to New York. I spoke to her yesterday and I have to have it written up and submitted to a gayish fashion magazine tomorrow. I also have to FedEx some stuff to a store in the south. I have a review to finnish for a pop culture mag that was founded in Canada. I have to meet/interview a guy this afternoon for another mag. I gotta pick up some photos, chase a guy that doesn’t want to talk to me, write two letters- proper serious letters, take a crap before my ass turns into a pumpkin at noon, start writing a story about some bars I’ve been to, start writing a treatment for a TV show (not before finding out how to write a treatment for a TV show), visit my buddy Mike who swears he has a picture of me in some French magazine that labels me a paparazzi photographer (really), reply to a bunch of emails, make that fucking media-kit that hasn’t been done yet, pitch ideas to a surf/skate/art mag, seriously figure out a look that will distinguish me from the herd of dull hacks that are shouldering me from all sides (I feel like a blue M&M in big bag of blue M&Ms), finnish reading an article in the New Yorker I started this morning about Atticus Finch and how he never looked at the problem of racism outside of his own community of Maycomb, Alabama, and therefor he just wasn’t that good a guy after all, cook dinner for the fussiest little woman in the world, rub the feet of the same woman, and then have a nice long bath.
It’s not that much really, is it? I need to work harder.
I was serious about cultivating a ‘Look’
Have a look at this footage of Tom Wolfe pre white suit. He’s dead boring! What he’s saying more or less makes sense, but I can’t really hear him over the deafening banality of his attire.
Bugger. 11:01
See you tomorrow!
Where’s Chef Livesay at?
Today I’m going to let you in on a little secret.
People always ask me, “Hey Stud, how come you seem so together and into your groove?”
Well, the answer is simple- Every morning when I wake up I make a cup off coffee, stare out the window, and listen to
‘Solar Boat’ by Ray Manzarek.
Then I fondle a mango.
I was putting this delightful collage together last night, giggling like a twit, when suddenly my ol’ lady came in. She took one look and said, “That’s just stupid boy humor”. I pointed out that almost all of these cakes were made by women for women, and she came back with, “Yeah, but… putting them all together like that on your website is silly boy humor”.
Whatever. I didn’t bake the filthy things and I certainly didn’t simulate fellatio on them the night before my wedding.
Incidentally, this is just the tip of the iceberg. For more cakes that look like the male copulatory organ go to flickr.com and search ‘penis cake’. I dare you.
The winner has to be the Hulk cake right down the bottom. I’m thinking of keeping a copy of that one in a locket.
By the way, this is as low as we’ll sink in terms of pornographic content. Hope we haven’t frightened you off, upset the future in laws, or embarrassed the family. Someone had to blow the whistle on this scandalous culinary practice and bring justice back to the oven.
I’d say sorry mom, but this is exactly the kind of thing she’d do given the opportunity. She’d whip up a penis cake in a cinch. That goes for pretty much every woman I know.
Terrible.
Wow. Way too many. You get it after the first three.
I don’t know why this review I just saw on Yelp is funny, but it is.
What a petty little bastard.
Aw, he would have liked some chippy-wippys while he waited. Be patient, fatty.
Sorry about all that suicidal nonsense last week. We was just messin’ around. Suicide. Ha ha…
I shouldn’t joke about the big peace-out, it’s just not funny. I’ve been fortunate enough to have never needed to seriously consider nutting myself… But that doesn’t mean I’m not tap dancing on the razors edge right now… Woops! There I go again. Sorry.
Speaking of tap dancing, I watched that Singin’ in the Rain yesterday, and I’m ashamed to say- It was very, very good. I had to go outside and pick a fight immediately afterward, just to reenstate my sense of masculinity, but otherwise it was good. Pretty talented that Gene Kelly, and surprisingly not at all fruity, according to wikipedia. I’m sure my homo-homies would beg to differ, but then they’re always trying to ‘out’ someone, and it’s rarely an ugly fat bloke. Know what I mean?
How about outing Joey Buttafuoco? What’s wrong? He could be gay. Give him a sporting chance.
Oddly, nobody has offered up some crap to swap for that deck! Aren’t we in a recession? We’re basically talking about free shit here. We’ll swap it for anything: A box of rocks, a bag of wet string, a pube! Anything!
Wake up and smell the maple.
In other news: I’ve quit sugar… sorta. My bird keeps telling me I’m a prime candidate for diabetes and my legs will be cut off. Naturally I scoffed at this, “Scoff, scoff. They’ll never take my legs!” I said, but then I saw a neighborhood guy (who used to stroll along with a Three Muskateers bar, a smile, and a comb in his ‘fro) limping down the street on crutches, one leg missing above the knee.
So I’m making a concerted effort to lay off the sugs. It’s only 10 am and I’ve got a no-sugar headache.
I’ll pull through though. I have to. I’m not selling my extremities to Hersheys. Imagine that sort of regret!
Imagine thinking, “If only I’d laid off the candy I’d still have my left leg”. Jesus! That’d easily eclipse my one and only true regret.
And what’s that? Never having the opportunity to write an obituary for William F Buckley.
The remourse eats away at me like a rapacious camel spider. Oh the contrition. Why didn’t I pay attention in school? Why couldn’t I select a vocation sooner? Why?
If I’d have known about him earlier I would have started working at the school paper!
It doesn’t seem fair. I feel the weight of my shortcomings riding upon my shoulders like gorilla on K.
I feel thoroughly dejected and woebegone.
I’m being crushed by a burden so onerous as to make one refer to oneself in the third. I need more seven dollar words!
What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculty! How deeply self satisfied with his dreadful teeth and smarmy maw! I’m off my tits!
What am I talking about? Who knows?
GIVE ME SOME FUCKING SUGAR!
I’m actually tripping a bit… I think… Jesus! I’m actually having a biological, psychological reaction here!
