2 Dead Chinese People in the Sand

Richard Brautigan tells us that “anybody can catch VD”

With this, I agree. “Please see a doctor of you think you’ve got it”

More applicable it would have been if Brautigan had pleaded for his readership to get to a doctor, because in my experience those apt to bout with social disease are 1000 subway rides away from regular scheduled check-ups.

The City detests them and forces them (sometimes by the hair) to work early and to home late.

The Chinese people are clearly just sleeping.

ON DECK: playlist from the past

Drunken Butterfly - Sonic Youth

For a little while Greg, Tommy and I were doing a weekly show on IM Radio. At this time (It's since moved to Echo Park) IM Radio was broadcasting from a rad little spot in the window of the MJ Higgins gallery, which at that time (It has since moved a few blocks east) was on Spring between 5th and 6th; my block!

At that time we were all DJing together. We all found ourselves with Spring St. addresses (we have all since moved on, Tommy and I to the retired comforts of Silverlake and Greg to fuckin' Mexico City) and thusly operated under the banner of "Bruce SpringStreet" a local, very local DJ collective. It was a fun way to listen to Punk Rock records, stay out late on weeknights and drink enough pints of Schlitz to float a manatee.

Our radio show was a rather moist affair, as well, with bottles placed among the begged, borrowed and stolen Internet radio equipment. We always had fun but I wanted to banter. I felt like Greg always wanted to "get back to the music", leaving me silently screaming, "just let me get to my punch line!!"

Well, on the night which hosted this particular play list from the pleasant past was different, I was alone. Engagements of natures forgotten kept both of the boys away. I was alone to banter, ramble and play as much "new shit" as I pleased.

Knowing that I had no buddy at my saddle, ready with a vinyl life vest, I scratched the following play list. No song titles, just band names and denotations concerning medium; "vinyl", "7 inch","CD".


Set 1 (I call this my, "geez, go to The Smell much?" set)
1. Ponies
2. NO AGE(2)
3. Silver Daggers
4. Mika Miko
5. Abe Vigoda
-talk-

Set 2 (This is my, "I'm old but I still like drugs and only listen to KCRW sometimes" set
1. Phychic TV-Godstar
2. Feathers(7)-LSD MUSIC
3. Animal Collective-Feels
4. White Flight
5. Violent Femmes(18)-American Music
-talk-

Set 3 (Um???? this is like a "I go to college in Oregan and have mad natty dreads coming in" set. weird one)
1. Aesop Rock (last song)
2. Dangerdoom
3. Ghostface Killah
4. Paul Barman
5. Kimya Dawson
6. Juiceboxxx
-talk-

Set 4 (This is like a "fuck you I'm gonna play bands from high school and a couple from nowadays...and Buddy Holly" set)
1. Propaghandi
2. Black Flag
3. Upsilon Acrux
4. Buddy Holly
5. French Film Blurred
6. Clip'd Beaks
-talk-

Set 5 (This is my "raddest set EVER" set)
1. Raooul
2. Old Tyme Relijun
3. Econochrist
4. XBRX
5. Elvis Costello
6. Sonic Youth
-fin-

My favorite parts were when I got to -talk-

There Is Still Here

I think a lot about life as if I've lived several already. Like my past can be segmented into "past lives", beginning and end not tallied by birth and death but by events that I deem metamorphic. The logical tenant that occupies my head space warns that these events only seem important and the journey is much more congruent than I like to admit. In other words, your dead selves are always in tow.

When two of my best friends decided to collaborate on art project concerning text they brought this little poem out that I wrote a long time ago. "This poem will be the text", they said. "ummm, OK, rad."

There Is Still Here
There is still here because I still have burns and scars and tattoos from there and they're here. I still have cuts and tattoos and burns and burns from lighters that Aaron gave me in Lori's bedroom.


one of my old lives

Free Haircut On Your Birthday

I really thought I was about to get my fade lined-out on Christmas morning.

Devastated daily!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

American Gothic

Playa Vista Style...


This was the prelude to a grey-haired, wife beater-clad, gentleman chasing us from the basketball court of the Playa Vista planned community.

"You woke up my kid and I'm going to take your head off", he yelled as he swung his condo-sized garden implement.

"Fuck, how old is your kid, you old fart; 30?" , I thought as I jogged backwards away from my geriatric attacker. "I'll be back for you", I prophesied, and I meant it.

He scared Steffi badly, and for that he must pay. After all, IT WAS JUST SOME FUCKIN' MORTARS AND A COUPLE MAXIMUM THRUST.


This was our pre-4th trunk-stash. I still possess around 40% of the load

How To Disappear In America

fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you're cool, fuck you, i'm out...

P R O T E C T ME, The Strange Boys and Mika MIKo-The Smell, 6/29/09

I really like to push my gas tank to the razor's fucking edge. It's like I refuse to admit to myself that I WILL be using more than $8.50 worth of gas in the coming week. Or maybe I think that someone else will end up throwing duckets on the petrol. Whatever my thought process is, I really hate to break a Jackson at the gas station.

This being said, I set out for The Smell last night with only fumes and moxy to see me downtown. I took a right onto Silverlake Blvd, left onto the 101, pumping strong to the 110S interchange and put, put, put, I run out of fucking gas before I reached 3rd street.

The fumes had expired but the moxy kicked in, I coasted onto third, down the hill toward Beaudry coming to a cock-eyed stop in the parking lot made famous by the presence of Kike's "authentico" tacos and dogs.

Assuring the good people of Kike's that I would return, i set out, on foot, toward the 2nd street tunnel and the warmth and comfort of The Smell.

By the time I hit the alley Strange Boys was mid-set. I was bummed to miss it but soon re-stoked by one of the most fun Mika Miko sets in a hella long time.

"I danced to THREE songs and was soaking wet by the end of Mika Miko's set"-Raul Perez

no shit!

I then had to deal with the stalled whip, driving around with birthday boy Chris Zacher trying to find a gas station that sold fucking cans. When we finally do it's like this super-complicated gas can with all sorts of bells and whistles and levers and locks. You had to have earned a fucking 2-year degree to operate the thing.
Stopped at Sunset and Alvarado and broke the cycle, put in like $14.00. Off into the night bumping my newly acquired tape from P R O T E C T M E.

I got this too:

It's Strange Boys, Strange Boys and Girls Club on In The Red Records. This is only mildly noteworthy because it was the second In The Red album I had bought that day as I had JUST picked up The Oh Sees, HELP at Amoeba:



In The Red; Come to think of it sorta relates to the car scenario. Funny how that works.

back on the pedal

Dear Friends,

Please don't be so worried about me. I'm not doing anything that you wouldn't find reprehensible. I'm not placing anything anywhere that you wouldn't be hard-pressed to locate and once you found it wonder if the excruciating search was worth the closure.

Please don't worry about me. I'm just fine.

Summer Shoes

June Gloom has come and gone. The sunshine is here for an extended stay. While this is disagreeable to my ginger complexion, it's quite conducive to copping kicks. I may even fuck around and wear a baseball cap.


I copped these these at Marc by Marc Jacobs. They have an embroidery detail depicting a shroom on the upper, making it the second mushroom tip rocking below my knee.


FLORAL PRINT HIGH TOPS!! These kicks are retarded but so am I, another Marc X Marc creation.

Butt, Dick, AND Pussy

Barbie Bitch and long-time friend of The Cunt, Quentin has a new blog. It promises to spread the cheeks of the LA scene like never before, no homo. I thought you should know.


Our blogs may be at odds, but we heart each other, big time

a long drive home

and before I quite reached home a stopped and did something I haven't done in many years, since I lived in the desert. I pulled into 7-11, took a 32oz cup filled it half way Dr.Pepper and filled the rest with Mexico's favorite rice beverage; horchata.

That's right, horchata -pepper. or whorechata due to the bastardly nature from which thine hydrib hath sprung.

Works Every Time: The Make Out party, Fool's Gold and Abe Vigoda at the Colt 45 Party 06/06/09

(no photos because Vivi STILL has my camera...UGH!)

I think the unanimous decision is that Three of Clubs sucks for shows. It sounded bad and it was sectioned off into two lounges, which caused the show side of the bar to be packed tighter than an astro van full of Mexicans.

It was a Vice/Colt .45 party and was touted to have free tall boys, which it did for like 2 seconds. Maybe Billy D. Williams is a Black Jew, because those cocksuckers showed up with a six-pack. All you heard all night was, Sorry, we’re all out, try the other bar.” You know the other bar doesn’t have any, asshole!

Broken malt liquor promise aside, Thee Make Out Party was the first band to play. I was a virgin and I was pretty stoked. The garagey-power pop quartet played sweet songs about love, drugs and bubblegum. They wore the appearance of the kids who hung out beneath the bleachers in High School, eager to pontificate over Sabbath or The Stooges, Raw Power.

TMP finished strong and the room filled gypsies in anticipation of a Fool’s Gold performance. I don’t even know if these dudes were even singing in English but they were def, def getting down. My big Cousin, Luis, was there with some of his sorted friends. I overheard one of his homeboys say, “That fucking white boy GETS DOWN on that guitar, he OWNS that shit.” quite excitedly. This performance also marked the second in a week’s time that I bore witness to a dude that wasn’t scared to drop his primary instrument and toot a flute. The first time was Brittany’s Mexican wedding band leader, this time it was one of two Fool’s Gold sax players. Although, this time there was no drunken wedding crowd violently insisting that the band “play more Steppenwolf.”

As the air cleared of that funky waft that only a talented jam band could fill a room with, it was time for Abe. Michael was wearing a jacket I made, Juan was drinking a martini, and David was drunkenly celebrating a birthday and who the fuck is the white boy on drums. Jesus Christ, I need to get to The Smell more. I took my customary position aside Raul and Abe began with a pre-Skeleton crowd favorite and it began to degenerate from there. I was pelted with several beer cans, Juan’s guitar broke and I experienced the staple black-guy-in-the mosh-pit. There is always a non-punk black guy in the pit taking a sort of science experience approach to our not-so-sacred dance ritual. After being hit in the nose, not once but twice by the life-size Billy D. cardboard cut-out the set ended with Juan flat on his stomach (yummy) and David banging his bass on the low ceilings of The Three of Clubs. The white boy drummer gets 2 thumbs up, BTW.

This concludes the most racist show review I’ve ever written.

Taschen Porn

You know you're a classy dude when Taschen publishes your pornography

Glamour From The Ground Up, Ed Fox Your fav porn stars framed by Fox's impeccible composition


Do It Yourself, Uwe Ommer I love, love, love the idea of the subject deciding how they feel sexy. Please everyone, send your self-portrait nudes to weegngrcnt@gmail.com for me to enjoy


I read this one a lot, too (not Taschen)

Bukowski n' Me

Have you ever noticed that once you hear of something or say something for the first time, that thing will start popping up everywhere?

Like, maybe you’ve never seen or heard of a hovercraft before, then its all hovercraft, all the time for the next week.

Well, A few posts ago, on this very blog I was talking about Hugo Yunker and I mentioned that due to her Chinese ancestry her vagina very well may open sideways. I have heard his implied before but I have certainly never seen this written down or spoken of definitively.

Mere days after I wrote the piece on Hugo and her Asiatic twat opening I was reading Charles Bukowski’s 1982 novel, Ham On Rye when I came across this passage,

The elevator came up. The albino was still at the controls. “Hey, I hear you and Mewks made the bars last night!”
“He bought me a few beers. I’m broke.”
“You guys get laid?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why don’t you guys take me along next time? I’ll show you how to get some snatch.”
“What do you know?”
I’ve been around. Just last week I had a Chinese girl. And you know, it’s just like they say.”
“What’s that?”
We hit the basement and the doors opened.
“Their Snatch doesn’t run up and down, it runs from side to side.”


…Well, there you have it

Mike Watt and BARR @ Mountain Bar 03/21/09

Tommy and I went to see Mike Watt and BARR play at the Mountain Bar on Saturday night. How could the legendary Mike Watt of Minutemen and Firehouse fame play with Brendan Fowler of BARR and Disaster; one of the most well known musical personalities of the Smell phenomenon at the little-ass Chinatown Mountain Bar on a Saturday? It’s gotta be a shit show, right?

No. There was like 50 people there, and 40 of them had no idea who Watt was, let alone BARR. It was fucking insane. Sure enough, there was Mike Watt, spankin’ the shit out of his slap-shovel. Fowler was there too, wearing Air Max; ready to sing us the single and tell us why it sucks.


I guess it was an after-party for some art show, so the crowd was ready to get their art-fag on; hence the non-understanding of the punk that was about to go down.

I caught Mike Watt's set...Stellar! I was shooting the shit with Tommy's Limey-ass Kiwi friends and completely missed BARR. PISSSED! 'Ol T-Rex promised it was rad, I guess he played as BARR and rinsed the hits that make the Toms wearing girls ooze vagina creme. All and all an unexpected and super-stokeded evening.



Lonely Metro trip

Chinatown is my favorite

Steffi was there kicking it with the Minuteman, himself!

we met these chicks

pic sucks but you get the idea

your boy hit the love bucket in one toss!

all n' all, a pretty sweet ride


Dude is old, but still KILLS it


You've all heard this one

Shabu Shabu

A lot of Japanese girls come into my work, fucking tons. We get straight Pearl Harbored every day. I like them. They are so white, almost transparent, and doughy, like raw Pillsbury croissants. I was contemplating this today and I remembered this old one I wrote:

Shabu Shabu

Oriental girls walk together from the Shabu Shabu House with skin so dark they would make Hawaii jealous

They're arm n' arm, an intimacy reserved for the East, visible only to me upon importation, like anime or Pocky or special magic eye drops

Their flowy empire blouses may look dated on a white girl

Their tricot leggings may look dated on a white girl, if worn under mini skirts the way they don them

Their asymmetrical haircuts may look dated on a white girl

Their shoes are Chuck Taylor's which will never look dated on a white girl

They wear these items with a newness that suggests the height of fashion and picture of comfort

I heart them

Giger Resurgence

I have said on this very blog that 2009 is the year of the ginger; our year to shine. There are gingers popping up in the damndest places. Dont trip if there's a red president in 2012.

This is what the late-to-the-ging-party motherfuckers at Vice had to say about it. I love you Viceland!



The ginger resurgence
This post was written on March 17, 2009
Posted Under: hair



Either redheads have been getting way more action over the past few decades than we all thought, or L’Oreal’s sales of red hair dye have gone supersonic, because there are a hell of a lot of new gingers out there at the moment.

I can only assume that this is yet another part of the 90s revival, along with dungarees, DMs and people who, despite the fact they were about seven when it came off air, talking about how much they loved My So Called Life.

If, like me, you are now sprouting grey hairs, you will remember with nostalgia the first joyful application of rancid, eye-watering, toxic red hair dye. I think the shade I first turned to was something called “Berry Heaven” and I got it for about £2 from Boots. I remember stroking all the little nylon strips stuck along the bottom of the shelf that were supposed to show you how your hair was going to look after three hours of red battery acid scorching your head. The result, of course, never turned out like expected.

My friend Alix reminded me the other day of mahogany Shaders and Toners. Remember that? And can you remember hair mascara? Sweet mother of ill-advised attempts at punk! It was like wiping emulsion on your hair. It came out at around the same time many of my friends were trying to look like Angel from Home and Away by plaiting the two little bits of hair at the front (take note, 90s revivalists) and wearing anything white and made of crochet. By combining these fringe plaits with hair mascara, we successfully managed to make ourselves look like the entrance to a car wash.

The best thing about all those red 90s hair dyes was the fruity names the cosmetics companies had to resort to in order to disguise the fact that they were basically selling bottled gingivitis (I know, I know, that’s a side effect of malnutrition, but come on, it works). There was plum, cherry, bronze, berry, auburn, burnt caramel, mahogany and copper. Sometimes you’d get a combination of the two, so, for example, my friend Milly was a burnt copper-mahogany girl. No matter what combination you had, the colour always lightened to a glorious shade of Boris Becker after only a few hours in the sun.

The combination of semi-permanent plum hair dye and Sun-In will go down in fashion history as one of the worst hairborne toxic events in the twentieth century. And this summer, with all that newly dyed red hair flicking about, it will be creeping back on to the scalps of unsuspecting young hipsters across the country.

You have been warned.

NELL FRIZZELL

Your favorite comics are fucking retards

So, I ride past the Improv every day on my up Melrose to work. I always notice these abominable portrait murals. I finally traipsed down on my lunch and shot them. They are basically paintings of your favorite celebrities if they were suddenly stricken with adult on-set Downs Syndrome.


YAAAY! Marlin Wayans was born with an extra chromosome


Is that David Spade or Ellen Degeneres? Either way I'ma get up in them guts.


Straight up short bus Drew Carrey


OK, This one's pretty spot on



This dude is waaay before my time. I think he was in Princess Bride or some shit


Oh, Hell No. For real? Leno? isn't this nigga ugly enough without retardifying him in aerosol?

Haiku

Because you said that you like it when i write about you



My Dope mans grew mold
Nike Swoosh frowns on New York
No kicks since you left


Authors note: The photo of my moldy Cortezes featured above is real. I keep all of my slippers in plastic shoes boxes, this makes them easy to sort and stack. I've done this for along time without discovering live cultures living in my kicks. All of the sudden I pull my dope mans out to complete the perfect gangsta-cas(ual)-mac outfit and, voila, a fucking 5th grade science fair 3rd prize winner.

Thou Shalt Always Kill

Wait, wait, wait, Crass is not JUST a band.

Thou Shalt Always Kill - Dan Le Sac VS Scroobius Pip

Ok, I know this shit came out 2 full years ago but its been on the WGC turntable tough in the '09. Plus, we some Americans any-goddamn-way.

The Beatles… Were just a band.
Led Zepplin… Just a band.
The Beach Boys… Just a band.
The Sex Pistols… Just a band.
The Clash… Just a band.
Crass… Just a band.
Minor Threat… Just a band.
The Cure… Just a band.
The Smiths… Just a band.
Nirvana… Just a band.
The Pixies… Just a band.
Oasis… Just a band.
Radiohead… Just a band.
Bloc Party… Just a band.
The Arctic Monkeys… Just a band.
The Next Big Thing.. JUST A BAND.

Here's the stoppy-ass video if you want to waste 3 minutes 26 seconds more of your life