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blog? what blog?

haven’t been around lately, but I’ve returned briefly to post this flyer I drew and watercolored:

I showed my mom this flyer a couple weeks ago, and she immediately yelled, “DON’T SMOKE!”

Dear Neighbors,

I can’t readily identify this fragrance, but it fucking smells like burnt hair, incense, and warm urine up in heah. plz stop

Love,
Hellen

While video-chatting with my sister yesterday (oh shit, it’s like, totally the future!), she remarked, “I thought you’d be dating some super skinny milquetoast,” (not her exact words) to which I replied, “Fuck naw, I want a MAN’S MAN!” (not my exact words, but pretty close.) Which explains my third Crush of the Day, the manliest of men, Chopper Read from Australian sketch comedy show, The Ronnie Johns Half Hour.

Those shit tattoos! Those short stodgy arms! That mustache! His affinity for the f-word! The character, played by Heath Franklin, is based on actual hardened criminal-turned-rapper Mark “Chopper” Read (who is described by wikipedia as having “spent a mere 13 months outside prison between the ages of 20 and 38″. The real Chopper is also missing ears because they were SLICED OFF IN PRISON.) Here’s the video that planted the seeds of love, in which the not-actual Chopper Read (the one I truly luv) advises Australia to harden the fuck up; keep a cold shower on the ready, lest you be SEIZED BY LUST

Two weeks ago, (pardon my delay; I’ve busy working box office, mourning my dead old iBook, and seducing strange men in Union City) I spent six days in Texas for SXSW. Though, to be strictly accurate, I did not participate in or attend any official SXSW shows or parties. That shit’s for chumps. Really really rich chumps. For the rest of us, there were hundreds of free or cheap unofficial shows to choose from, and I persevered to see as many bands as I could and do as much shit as I cared to, which I will document here. All photos were taken by my shit camera-phone, unless otherwise noted, and many were fucked up by a shoddy transfer process from former, decaying computer to newer shinier computer.

WEDNESDAY MARCH 12

Scrabbel arrives in Austin. I break into a stranger’s apartment to steal a cello, we eat and are unimpressed by Tex Mex, and we practice our set next door to a band doing Blur covers. God damn it is really fucking hot.

THURSDAY MARCH 13

We wake up, complain about the fetid pool of water that won’t drain from the sink, and then we pack our shit into a cab and bike across the river to downtown Austin.

Scrabbel plays at our only Austin show at The Bay Area Takeover. (I stole these photos.) We sweatily trudge across the finish line, and then I bolt, savoring the newfound taste of freeeeeeeeeeeeedom

I escape up the street to see fucking MOTÖRHEAD! For free! I can barely see Lemmy because I’m standing so far away, but he appears to be as shirtless (but not vest-less) and as mustachioed as ever. They play ‘Ace of Spades’ (!!!) which almost makes up for the fact that I missed Napalm Death, who had played earlier while Scrabbel was still slogging away.

I bike across the highway to the picturesque French Legation Museum in East Austin, but I get there too early and catch the last few songs of this New Yawk band called Jeffrey Lewis and the Jitters. Cute twee folky shit; they cover the entire history of punk music through song in under ten minutes!

After their set, I walk across the lawn to the tent in the rear to witness the spectacle that is Jay Reatard (of the Reatards) from Memphis. I am enthralled by his disheveled long hair and high tops and screeching squeal*.

After an awesomely fast (and awesomely short) set, I search in vain for a merch table (none to be found) so I bike back across the highway, and then about a mile west to N. Lamar and 6th Street (right next to the Whole Foods headquarters … goddamn hippies). I dump my bike with the rest,

and hang around waiting for the Dodos, a psychedelic folk pop band from San Francisco, to begin.

Despite the Dodos being a popular SF band, I’ve never actually seen them before, though I’ve seen the main guy Meric Long play once with the Akron/Family. I’m totally stunned by their first song; it’s super bluesy with heavy slide action and dual drummers. The people who organized this showcase try to entice traffic to stop by dancing around with a dragon kite… goddamn hippies. I am joined by the rest of the Scrabbel and some of our friends, and we sit around talkin’ ’bout how dreamy Meric Long is.

Nathalie took this picture of me and Aya staring at him and coming to the agreement that he really is very handsome*, while Ol’ Man Stanley sits with arms crossed in the background, insisting that, “In ten years, he’s gonna lose that hair!” In any case, he’s still got all his hair now, and the Dodos play a really good show, so I buy the second album on CD and a t-shirt. We leave during the next band, who are decidedly less dreamy, and the rest of the day is a haphazard jumble of pulled pork sandwiches, tater tots, whiskey, and illicit substances.

I think this is also the same night we eat pizza on South Congress, where Aya sees Rachael Ray’s HUSBAND ordering a slice right behind us. After he walks away, she mockingly whispers, “FRITATA”, we laugh hysterically, and then we bike home.

FRIDAY MARCH 14

Apparently Friday is White Day, a “pseudo-Anglo” holiday celebrated in Japan (and Korea??) where girls are supposed to give boys gifts. Well I didn’t give anyone SHIT! Actually that’s not true; I unwittingly participated in this foreign holiday by pressing a Thundershevitz record on Oakland taste-maker George Chen at the kit show at the Okay Mountain gallery in East Austin.

kit is another active Bay Area band I’d never actually seen before coming to Austin. George says, “That’s cuz we never play in the city!” Yeah? Well fuck you too!!!!

sike, Oakland’s cool but don’t tell no one I said so

Their set is really fun (punk beats and a squawking girl-singer) so I buy a CD, harass George Chen, and set off to meet Dan and Aya at this Vice thing a few blocks up the hill. I hear snippets of the Raveonettes‘ songs while I park my bike.

I find Dan trying to decide between a brisket sandwich and a fat turkey leg (it looks like they chopped off the forearm of a burly man and barbecued it); ultimately Dan wimps out and chooses the sandwich. Aya provides me with some much needed sunscreen, and I head across the street to see Wooden Shjips, yet another popular San Francisco band I have never seen.

I am really looking forward to this show because I’d been hearing a lot of about this loud, heavy, bluesy psych band for the last year, but I am kind of disappointed when I get there. Sure they are loud and heavy, but I find their riffs repetitive and boring. Too bad!! I really wanted to like this band. I leave heavy-hearted and walked across the street to see Mika Miko from LA.

The last (and only) time I’ve seen this all-girl fast punk band was years ago at the Cereal Factory, and I thought they were SO cool! I’m a little older and less excitable now, but I still think they’re really awesome; the drummer, bassist, and guitarist are sweaty and rad, and I shake spastically in my seat to all the songs. I buy a t-shirt and bike back downtown with Aya and Dan to partake in some miserable Korean food. What the fuck, Texas! Afterwards, I bike with Atsushi for 2340598724 blocks to the UT campus, just in time to miss a show. Sucks, but we pass the famous Daniel Johnston mural on the way there:

We bike the entire way back to downtown Austin to wait in some long-ass line, and when we finally get inside, we discover a lame parking garage rooftop rave.

hahahahahahahaha… ha. We leave, and I’m tempted to yell at the still long line, “IT FUCKING SUCKS UP THERE; GO HOME YOU MORONS!” Scrabbel and co. go to a $10 show, and I opt to go to a $5 thing elsewhere. However, I have an hour to kill so I get a hot dog and walk around 6th Street (the blocked-off area where all of the bars and venues are located). I get a taste of the awful, public frat party-style kegger that SXSW really is, and it’s unbearable. I finally just take off across the I-35 to East Austin. I get to the warehouse show and sit around waiting for xNoBBQx to start. For some unknown reason, I think that this is a pseudonym of XBXRX and I am hoping for some divine Weasel Walter exposure, but I am completely mistaken.

xNoBBQx turns out to be an experimental, free-noise guitar and drum band (remember Wednesday nights at G3? zzzzzzzz) I am kind of upset that Weasel Walter is nowhere to be found, and that I am stuck listening to this aimless wank. Improv music can be awesome, but this is not awesome. The kid in silhouette later finds himself standing next to me in line for the bathroom, and he asks my impressions of Austin (I can tell he wants to ask me what my impressions of America are, but thankfully he doesn’t). I am so underwhelmed by the previous band that I can only answer curtly, “It’s fucken hot.” I return to the show in a dismal mood and with low expectations, but then local Austin hardcore band Total Abuse blows my tiny mind

Holy cow, they are so good! Their songs are fast and ugly, and I can feel the wellspring of aggression rising in my throat. YEAH!!!!!!!! In the background is the projection of some sort of hilarious gay softcore porn video, featuring vignettes of men showering on the beach and washing cars in hot pants, and it’s making all the hardcore boys giggle. Total Abuse is followed by Olympia, WA hardcore band Sex Vid, who are even better at inspiring the aggro.

Plus, Sex Vid has a totally hot merch guy (Asian dude with glasses, long hair, mustache, and the gnarliest beard I have ever seen on a yellow man), and when he leans in to ask me my tshirt size, my uterus totally explodes*. Man what a great show! Afterwards, I bike over to the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge and meet up with Scrabbel and friends in time to catch the first band, Brutal Knights.

I really couldn’t tell you what they sound like because the crowd surrounding the band is about fifty people thick; I have never been to a show where the music was completely muffled by bodies. The photo above depicts a section of the crowd, about thirty people, crowding around and climbing up a lamp post to get a better view of the band, but it’s so goddamn dark you can’t see what I’m dishing out to you. We wander around the crowd, and I spy none other than the legendary J MASCIS (of Dinosaur, Jr.!!!) applying Neosporin (TM) to some hippy-lookin’ dude’s scraped-up palm; Dan swears it is not a hippie man but rather a screeching fan girl, but I contend he is WRONG! He also notes that J Mascis looks like Gandalf (regarding this, I am in agreement) and refers to him as “the White Wizard” the rest of the weekend, whenever we excitedly tell and retell our anecdote to anyone who will listen to us. After a while, we realize that there’s no way we’re gonna actually see or hear anything, so Scrabbel takes off, fleeing to the First Street bridge, as the Lamar Pedestrian Bridge is completely unpassable, and there are a bunch of cop cars waiting on the other side anyway. It’s a shame we leave early though; we later learn that eventually the bridge actually began to buckle underneath the weight of the crowd, and several showgoers jumped off the bridge into the river to escape impending danger (although another article disputes that report, though you can take a look at these great photos and imagine it for yerselves). I have no regrets though, because we stop and eat at 24-hour Texas burger chain, Whataburger, for the first time, where I partake of a Honey Chicken Biscuit

and it fucking rules.

SATURDAY MARCH 15

I spend the morning and much of the afternoon being fucking lazy and oozing about the apartment, savoring my alone time. After eating all the leftover hummus and ciabatta bread, I congratulate myself by biking back over the river to see Jay Reatard one more time at Beerland

but I am oddly nonplussed by this set. I’m not sure why but suddenly I find his ’screeching squeal’, which was so charming to me on Thursday, really nasal and almost unacceptable. I halfheartedly stay for the rest of the set, and then I bike about a mile east to this random cafe called Hot Mama’s in the middle of nowhere to see a show organized by the girl whose cello I stole. (Her name is Henna and she really is a very generous robbery victim.) The cafe has a nice outdoor area, where I see the famous Kayo Dot for the first time.

They perform their plaintive, experimental melodies and symphonic sweeps very well, but the show confirms what I’ve known all along: I just can’t get into this band. They are too slow and introspective for me! They also have a token string player who’s an Asian girl, but she’s a huge internet celebrity with an irritating penchant for school girl outfits, so I don’t feel compelled to talk to her. I learn via text message (Lord bless SMS!) that Scrabbel and friends are at the French Legation Museum, so I bike north along the highway and plop down on the grass beside them. Despite the hot weather, it really is a glorious day, and I piously continue the earlier “I ain’t doin’ shit” vigil with everyone else:

The last photo, taken by Nathalie, depicts my prize find of the day: a heart-shaped 7″ vinyl record by the band Baby Shakes. I bought this at Beerland after searching in vain for Jay Reatard merch, and while I discover at a later date that I don’t actually like this band, I still think this thing is helluv fucking cool. While we’re all lyin’ around on the grass, J Mascis plays a set in the nearby tent; I’m too lazy to even get up to watch (I mean, didn’t I see the man HEAL a lesser being the other day???) so I take a photo from where I am sitting:

and I do the same during Thurston Moore’s set:

You might think I’m totally retarded for passing up these rare, FREE chances to witness these musical giants, but I’d be a poseur if I said I was even remotely familiar with their extended discographies. I grew up listening to shit like Christian rap and Korean house music, not Dinosaur, Jr. or Sonic Youth, so I’ll let the real fans crowd the house while I doze on the lawn and get stung by bees, ALRIGHT? A million hours later, I rouse myself from this afternoon stupor and bike over to Waterloo Park to see Brian Posehn perform some life-changing stand-up comedy. However, the show is really early, and I miss him by an hour, so instead I watch the comedy duo Human Giant exchange some retarded banter for five minutes, followed by the blasting of Third Eye Blind (?!) tshirts into the crowd via a tshirt cannon they have apparently invented.

I consider sticking around to see some of the bands (this is a huge, daylong event at Waterloo Park) but there are just too many bros wearing wifebeaters and plaid shorts hangin’ around. I hop back on muh bike and head southeast to punk house and public eyesore, the Typewriter Museum.

I don’t remember who I actually went to see, but the schedule is changed, and I end up watching a band I’ve never heard of before instead, called Shit & Shine. They play one 20-minute long, extremely loud and brash song, and they seriously have FIVE drummers (four of whom are depicted below) and it is the best fucking thing I’ve seen all day!

By now the hummus has completely worn off, and I need to eat. I join Nathalie and Aya at a hotel sports bar, where I stare longingly at the Frito Pie (holy shit!) but instead I get a delicious BBQ brisket sandwich. Afterwards I bike to a warehouse in East Austin for the Chunklet Blowout, which I have been looking forward to all week. However, as soon as I get there, I see the shitty little punkers milling around outside and I am stung by that all-too-familiar social anxiety. When I lived in Berkeley, I would go to shows by myself all the time, but when I’d get there, I’d be gripped by a suffocating discomfort and ill ease. What am I going to do with myself between bands?! Who will I talk to?!!! I’d usually end up bolting after every set and wasting time buying gum or donuts or hardboiled eggs or what have you, and I’d return in time to see the next band. It’s completely ridiculous that I’d be plagued by these old insecurities now when I’ve just spent the last two days going to countless shows alone and being totally cool with it. In any case, I can’t bring myself to go inside the warehouse just yet so I waste time walking around the neighborhood park and sending text messages. BAD IDEA! The fire marshall comes to the show in the meantime and declares that no more than fifty people may occupy the building at one time, so when I finally come back, I can’t get even in. I wait in the doorway like a loser, and hear (but don’t see) Sex Vid again.

Here’s a view of the back of people’s heads blocking the entryway into the Forbidden Land. I listen to Pissed Jeans in the same fashion.

I’m sad I don’t get to see them, but they play a set so awesome, I still enjoy it from my shitty vantage point. The bearded Sex Vid merch guy walks in and out with gusto, and even greets me. I totally Porky Pig it (”Nice to see-, nice to s-, nice to s, s, s-canyougetmeintotheshow?”) and when he says no, I give up, defeated and humiliated, and bike back to our home base in South Austin. I pace the apartment, frustrated and bored and sweaty (that bike ride is nothing to sneeze at) when Salaryman Anthony texts me James‘ phone number, as he happens to be in Austin too, giving away free ice cream for the Ice Cream Man. I quickly call him up and join him and his coworker Dave at some ultra-chintzy hotel on 6th Street for some whiskey (a shot of Glenlivet, neat, to show those ritzy fucking hotel patrons that even mallrat-looking assholes can drink fancy shit). We walk out into the mess of 6th Street until we stumble into a tent that’s got a really bad nu-metal band and GUITAR HERO!!!!!

James and Dave battle out a round while I drink a tall can of Coors Light (BLEH). Eventually, a young rogue notices James’ expert level skills, and he challenges him to several bouts in a row, while Dave and I share another can of that urine-y beer. The rogue particularly interests me; he looks really young (like, “18 or younger” young) and his wardrobe displays all the earnestness of a young innocent who has just discovered punk rock. He’s wearing a newly ripped up, unfaded black denim vest with shiny studs and a clean Crass backpatch, and his short, barely noticeable new mohawk peeks shyly from his scalp; he occasionally has to push up his wire-rimmed glasses to scantily cover his unchanging, guarded facial expression. At first, he is brazenly confident in his abilities and he sits on the ground to wage his battles, but he quickly realizes how much he’s underestimated the awesome talent of James, and so he reverently stands back up to finish the song.

I’m not sure who the ultimate winner is, but they depart with a sincere handshake, we polish off that crappy beer, and leave. While drunkenly wandering in the streets, we run into Nathalie and Atsushi, who inform us of a bangin’ party on the Eastside. I insist on retrieving my bike, so I separate and waddle back to the ritzy hotel where it was locked. Biking under the influence is a horrible idea, and I brilliantly illustrate this point by speeding down a street congested with standstill traffic, in the narrow margins between the parked cars and the moving cars. All the shitty beer has made me wildly unsteady, and I inevitably scrape a big shiny truck with my handlebars. I panic, and instead of stopping to inspect the damage and apologizing and being responsible, I bike even faster to run away, and my right pant leg gets caught in the gears as I try to flee.

It rips (of course), and I feel like I’ve been punished divinely for my sins (they are my most expensive pants!!!!!!!). Eventually I meet up with Nathalie and Atsushi, wildly recount my stupid adventure, and we head to the party, but sadly, NO ONE SHOWS UP. Apparently they had been expecting a large crowd too, because we discover that the shower is full of unused ice:

Eventually, I am satisfied with my evening and I bike back to Scrabbel HQ, taking these pictures while crossing the First Street bridge:

I get home, drunkenly blog on Aya’s computer, and pass out.

SUNDAY MARCH 16

I wake up and immediately regret my drunken blog, so I rush to delete it. But it’s too late, as the one person whom I didn’t want to read it has already read it, and I vaguely infer later that he is upset by it.* I FUCKED UP!

Because it’s Sunday, SXSW is officially over, but there are still a few unofficial shows being squeezed (squozen?) into our precious remaining time. I meet Stanley and my Glaswegian internet friend Doug (he sent me vegan haggis in the mail once) at Beerland to see Monotonix, an awesome band from Tel Aviv that I had been trying to see all fucking weekend (they played 11 shows and I missed all but the last!).

From the pictures we learn that Daniel Day Lewis and Borat are apparently members of this band. The set is totally chaotic and amazing; the singer and guitarist continually jostle their way through the crowd, pausing only to flop around on the floor and to empty garbage cans of filth over people’s heads. They eventually move the drumkit off the stage to the middle of the venue, so the band plays in the middle of the delighted audience while the super greasy, sweaty, half-naked, DDL-lookin’ singer gets up on the bar and shoves Beerland’s ice scoop repeatedly into his pants. I sure hope they threw that shit away. Afterwards, I buy a tshirt and a CD, and learn from their merch guy that during Monotonix’s set at the Chunklet Blowout of the previous night, they let everyone who had been patiently waiting outside into the warehouse. FUCK!! Also, I learn that I missed a real spectacle, as Monotonix lit the floor on the fire towards the end of the show and everyone freaked the fuck out. AW MAN. Anyway, we stick around to see Mika Miko again, but they’re so short, I can’t see them over the crowd, and I’m feelin’ so deflated by the news of what I’d missed, AGAIN, that I step outside and chew the fat with Doug. All the while, we’re being sketched unawares by some homeless dude, and it’s a pretty good sketch, but sadly, I lost it sometime between then and now so I can’t show it to you. Eventually we go to some taco place called Torchy’s, and I eat what might possibly be the worst fucking burrito ever. Stanley splits to eat again (and better) with the rest of Scrabbel, and Doug and I wander around downtown Austin, in search of an ATM. The sun begins to set, and suddenly all of the downtown area is completely besieged by the loudest, squawkingest birds I’ve ever heard, and it is totally amazing.

I’d kind of noticed these birds in days past but their noise wasn’t as obvious to me then as it is now, probably because of the complete absence of the SXSW street crowds. It’s like walking through an aviary, or the jungle! We head to the Mohawk to see the Dodos again, but we learn that we’re like, four hours early. “Sorry, we’re closed right now; how did you get inside the bar?” “Uuuuhhh we just walked in.” Ha! I take a photo of their soundcheck and embarrassingly leave.

Doug departs to do some laundry at a laundromat that stays open til 1AM (he is completely enchanted by their late hours of operation; I guess all the laundromats in Glasgow close early in the afternoon), and I … well I don’t remember what I did! But eventually I find my way back to the Dodos show with the rest of Scrabbel. When we learn there is a $5 cover charge, all three dudes balk at the price (having been spoiled by a weekend of free shows) and opt to go to our drummer’s other band’s show instead, but Aya and I pay and go inside. Five dollars is nothing when there are dreamy boys involved*. (Stanley had been making fun of me all weekend, constantly referring Meric Long as “Mr. Perfect” and “your dreamdate” until I eventually told Stanley that I hated him, at which point he reiterated that the Dodo was destined to soon lose all of his hair. FUCK YOU, STANLEY!) The Dodos play a good set, but I find it way less exciting than their Thursday show. Maybe four days of bands is finally wearing me out?

Afterwards, Aya chats up Meric Long (he’s played shows with her brother Goh before) and gives him Scrabbel CDs while I stand by dumbly. He unexpectedly hugs us, and we giggle about it all the way back to the Habana Annex show that the rest of Scrabbel is at, until we walk in and hear something … unbelievable. Turns out it’s Chris’ other band, Mr. and Mrs. Mays.

Words cannot describe this band, and I wouldn’t type them here even if I could. You ought to know, though, that the male singer looks exactly (but does not sound) like Billy Idol, and the female singer is wearing a red ribboned codpiece. Even on a Sunday night, Austin astounds me. We bike back home through light showers and once again stop and eat at Whataburger.

One of the employees recognizes us from the other night (a testament to how many Asians must have eaten at this establishment over the weekend) and seems glad to see us. I tell the cashier that there is no Whataburger in California, and she is absolutely stunned. “WHAT?! Do y’all even have McDonald’s?????” Totally awesome.

MONDAY MARCH 17

For lunch we join Dan’s friend, who was really cool but unfortunately whose name I can’t remember, for some UH-MAZE-INK barbecue.

Beef me, this meal fucking RULES!!! Clockwise from lower right: mac n cheese, pulled pork, baby back ribs, THE moistest, tastiest fucking brisket ever, roast chicken, glazed carrots, and creamed corn that tastes wonderful and sort of like marshmallows. My dad calls mid-meal, and he’s like “You’re in TEXAS?!” and I’m like “Didn’t Mom TELL you?!?!?!” After one last look at my ripped pants, we finally head to the airport.

The TSA officials make me check my backpack because I am carrying a mini U-lock, a-feared as they are of random acts of U-lock justice, and I grudgingly agree to, though I am extremely wary of checking anything. My intuition is correct; when we get to San Jose, my backpack is delivered in a plastic tub as they’ve completely destroyed the zipper (that bag was new, goddammit) and all my clothes are rumpled and my underwear is indiscreetly strewn on top. FUCKING JERKS! I hurriedly stuff all my shit into random tote bags rustled up by Aya and Stanley, kicking the wall and cussing my face off and eliciting startled glances from other people waiting for their baggage. Eventually we make it back to Aya’s house, where her mom feeds us delicious home-made corned beef and cabbage, and I hang out with Aya’s awesome asshole cat, whom I’ve secretly nicknamed the Scowling Little Pissant:

We then drive back up to SF, and life goes back to normal. Whew. I’ll end this super-long SXSW report with a slew of band links. I can’t believe you read this far, yuh suckers!

+ Motörhead (London)
+ Jeffrey Lewis & the Jitters (NYC)
+ Jay Reatard (Memphis)
+ The Dodos (SF)
+ kit (Oakland)
+ The Raveonettes (NYC/LA)
+ Wooden Shjips (SF)
+ Mika Miko (LA)
+ xNoBBQx (Sydney)
+ Total Abuse (Austin)
+ Sex Vid (Olympia)
+ Baby Shakes (NYC/Atlanta)
+ Kayo Dot (Brooklyn)
+ J Mascis (Amherst)
+ Thurston Moore (Brooklyn)
+ Shit N Shine (UK/TX)
+ Pissed Jeans (Pauline, SC)
+ Monotonix (Tel Aviv)
+ Mr. and Mrs. Mays (Austin)

*Chicken Wing, I apologize for my wandering eye. I swear I’ll never do it again. Or at least, I’ll never blog about it. Everyone else, quit reading this highly personal message that I’ve posted in a very public space!!!!

The other day, while visiting my folks in dumb ol’ Gilroy, I tried to casually mention this boy (whom I shall hereafter refer to as “My Boyfriend”) to my mom while she was chopping an onion. She grew kind of silent for a minute (I think she was trying not to express incredulity) and then she asked,

“Is he Korean?”

“no”

“Is he tall?”

“no”

“Is he cuter than your dad?”

“what”

My mom: making me uncomfortable since 1983

I was gonna tell you this awesome joke, but then I read what I wrote and I was all, “fuckin’ STEW-PID”, so I’ll just give you the punchline:

And then I said, “Breast you!”

… still totally fucking stupid

I just stayed up all night to finish these two motherfukkin’ pieces for the next GRSF group show, At the Movies, opening on Saturday. The theme is like, movies and shit, cuz it’s scheduled to take place alongside the SF International Asian American Film Festival, where I am employed as a fishmonger. I mean, box office cashier.

I chose to illustrate scenes and images from two of my favorite Korean horror films: Janghwa, Hongryeon (aka A Tale of Two Sisters) and Yeogo goedam (aka Whispering Corridors). Medium is a combination of Higgins Black Magic ink, Staedler pigment liners and Microns, gouache (used very poorly, I assure you), Chicken of the Sea, and Mexi-Corn. I plan to mat and/or frame these fukken things in the next couple hours, and I’m going to price them so high, your wallet will explode

I won’t be at the opening reception (nor will I be working The Box at the opening weekend of the film festival) because I will be in Austin TX, boozin’ and floozin’ for six straight days. When I return, would someone kindly set aside a fresh liver, and leave it in an icebox at the box office for me?

P.S. Check out the sponsor for the GRSF show. Why is Toyota all up in my shit these days?! Get the hell away from me!

——————

I took this internet disease-y photo of myself to show Haesue my no-longer-new haircut (same old shit, dude), but upon closer inspection, I discovered that I am also kind of cross-eyed. I learn more and more about myself every day!

I try not to blog about the shit I buy or wear, cuz that’s hella boring. But today I bought the dumbest shoes ever, and I want to announce it to the world! I followed Mimi and Elbert to this vintage Adidas shoe store called Harputs and was confronted by these bright red puffy aerobic high-tops with laces and a velcro strap. I owned a pair of the white low-top Reeboks in sixth grade, and I thought they were the ugliest fucking shoes ever. But now I’m an adult with really bad taste, and I think they accurately reflect my inner ugly:

While lacing them up in the store, I already knew I wanted them but I paused for a moment to reflect on the wisdom of such a purchase. Can I pull these off? Will I look like Ronald McDonald? Don’t I already own a pair of super ugly bright red sneakers? These are some complex questions that really force you to recognize the terrible choices you’ve made in the past. And by you, I mean me. I think the dude at the store recognized this crucial nexus in my silent decision-making process, when he suddenly revealed, “Oh hey, have you seen the new Missy Elliott video? Those shoes you’re wearing are totally featured in it!”

“ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!” (that’s me, I yelled that out loud.) All my senses came crashing to the floor (obviously I didn’t need much convincing), and next thing I know, I was out the door with The Worst Shoes Ever. I was in such an excitable and animated mood that when I showed up for work ten minutes later, and I learned from my coworkers that I was actually an hour late (what?!), I enthusiastically cussed out the entire movie theatre in the presence of an elderly customer and the festival director (whom I did not recognize until I stopped swearing to breathe), and after all that, I was still in a good mood.

Anyway, here’s the video for the new Missy Elliott single, Ching-a-ling; it’s got the 1986 Adidas Power Phase K’s (that’s really what they’re called) all over the place, with the additional bonus of hot Asian guyz: