| pics and polls. |
[Sunday
July 12th, 2009 at 5:32pm] |
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- yesterday, i lived out every 14 year old fantasy and ate catering with the jonas brothers. the little one asked if he could spray me with silly string then i ate pot roast and joey fatones brother let me control the video screens. afterward, i went and watched UFC 100 with jim, boo, matt, the dtrain and assorted dudes. lesnar vs mir, both total turds who i hoped would have heart attacks. good fight nonetheless.
- if i ride up to the skatepark and skate by myself, does this make me sad or creepy in any way? keep in mind that i am a man. until i break my ankle, (which is bound to happen, its only a matter of time) i get all geeked to skate like its was 1990 all over again. all i need is a waxed up curb, a radio blasting black flags 'the first four years' and my punk girlfriend sitting on the street drawing hearts on her knee with a black sharpie.
- so my dude adam who played guitar in arma angelus with me recently posted pics of us in our prime. here they are with a total disregard for LJ cuts:
pw. me. todd. grimes. morgan. adam. NYC 2001.
selling merch in canada.
me. adam. todd. pw. playing cards outside of a 7-11 in NY.
before playing CBGBs in 2001.
and in our last bit of business, fruity wanted me to pose the following question:
Poll #1428857 'tell all your friends' or 'take this to your grave'?
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All if you had to choose: 'tell all your friends' or 'take this to your grave'?
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| REMNANTS - 21 undeniable accounts of life as we know it. AVAILABLE NOW. |
[Friday
July 10th, 2009 at 11:28pm] |
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Introduction
“It’s not about the story, it’s how you paint the picture.”
I was fascinated by the way she pulled the round brush through her long brown hair. Her head tilted back and to the right, mouth slightly open, looking down her nose into the mirror. The slight pulls and tugs. The long strokes. I watched as she alternated between light mists and quick bursts of hair spray.
“Why are you watching me?”
“I don’t know.”
Truth was, I didn’t. I was 14 and everything she did captivated me. She was so interesting down to her everyday mundane movements. I would watch as she pulled her hair back and looped a rubber band 2, 3, 4 times around a pony tail. Why 4? Why not 5 or 6?
As a teenager with an uncanny curiosity for the lives of others, I wanted nothing more than to burrow into her head and understand why she chewed peach flavored gum when it wasn’t even her favorite flavor, and why she got so excited to make me French fries in that old fry-daddy cooker on the counter.
As the years progressed I found myself exclusively reading biographies, watching documentaries and spending the last of my Euros watching people have sex behind glass in the red light district of Amsterdam. But it went far beyond the act of voyeurism; I began interviewing bands as an excuse to ask questions I had from years of obsession, none of which I ever had any intention to publish, nor did I.
I took notes on cocktail napkins in Vegas strip clubs while performing impromptu interviews with escorts. I asked CEOs of corporations what motivated them to get out of bed and watched silently as heroin addicts pushed the cooked up liquid into their veins.
Everyone is a resource, you can gain insight from every person you meet. While true, it was more of my excuse to satisfy my teenage compulsion to understand why people moved, thought, reacted and motivated them in this world.
The following stories are an extension of that voyeuristic obsession. It was my opportunity to ask some of the most interesting characters I knew to give me a peek into their lives. The only guideline given was that their story had to be true. An experiment in giving people from different countries, generations and lifestyles brushes and colors to see what art they create.
These are my friends, my colleagues, my mentors and my inspiration.
I hope this collection will motivate, provoke and entertain you in the ways they have inspired me.
— Christopher Gutierrez. June, 2009.
ships: august 1st, 2009.
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| sometimes i actually do like my neighborhood. |
[Friday
July 10th, 2009 at 3:59am] |
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music |
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hating the USPS. |
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you know, sometimes a brotha just wants some goddamn lime chips and sour cream. why is it every time my adorable ass walks down the street trying to get my chips on some shit has to go down.
yelling matches with totally respectable red faced drunk women. stepping in vomit (which happened once again tonight). running into ex-girlfriends. running into ex-um, kind of girlfriend-ish things that i met on the internets. getting guns pulled on me and apprehended because i looked like a robbery suspect. sigh. all a dude wants is some goddamn chips.
tonight, im walking my happy ass the 3 blocks to the local 7-11 to get my dinner when i come upon this man:
he looks like hes having some trouble, to which i of predictably laugh out loud. it seems that said man has smoked/drank/injected something to cause him to behave like a t-rex in a garbage bag. so im looking at dude trying to figure out his deal. it seems that mr. intoxicated man was wearing a few of the XXXXL white shirts that are the mainstay to any good hip hip "outfit". dude must have gotten hot and tried to take off the shirts, got maybe one off and the rest, well, got wrapped up all over the t-rex's head.
so there he was, slowly thrashing around like a drunken shark while moaning like a dying goat. i laughed. after pointing and laughing for a few minutes, i walked up to him and said, "yo dude. haha. do you need any help?"
"BLLLLLAAARRRGGGHHH"
"uh, yeah, cool. but uh, you want me to like, i dunno, call someone or something?"
to which he responds by spitting inside of his little tshirt tent.
i walk on.
i spend a good 15 minutes rooting around the 7-11, reading tattoo magazines and debating on whether i should make it 6 nights in a row of chocolate donuts. i get my shit and walk out. and once again, i come upon same dude. ok, this dude has been trapped in his stupid big ass shirts for a good 20 minutes now.
and hey, i asked if dude needed help and he all tried giving me the herp or scabies or mouth crabs so i wasnt about to go near the dude... and neither was anyone else. of course the drunk regulars of the neighborhood were walking in the street to get around dude.
eventually the cops showed up:
so this is where you think, oh, partys over, right? wrong. this is chicago where the cops will sit and watch dude struggle for 10 minutes and LOL to themselves. dude even walked into oncoming traffic. cops laughed. taxis honked and couldnt get past in the street. cops laughed, never got out of their car and just waved em around. eventually, cops drove off laughing and left dude STILL stuck in his shirt.
so, so did i.
last i checked, he was still out there on sheffield wobbling around the sidewalk.
its been over an hour.
ps.
- week 4 framed handwritten passages ends TONIGHT at 11pm (chicago time)
- pre-sale for REMNANTS begins late tonight.
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| "cocaine is a hell of a drug." |
[Wednesday
July 8th, 2009 at 9:49pm] |
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music |
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chocolate donuts |
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so the internets have been all ablaze with the response to this picture of ryan ross of panic at the disco fame, some randoms and a plate of cocaine:
let me start by saying this, does this shock you? are you naive enough to think that its odd that a band of talented little kids who were handed fame weren't doing drugs? well, if you do then you havent met very many bands. i hate to piss on your donut but if you knew just how many of the people you have on your wall, who grace your cellphone backgrounds and light up your ipod, did coke and much worse, you would shit yourself. or maybe not. its just sad to think that this is what is expected.
hey man, you want to throw money away on drugs well who am i to tell you not to. its your world and we all have the right to make mistakes, but hopefully we learn from them. thats the distinction between character and a lack thereof.
but coke?
heres my beef with that; people who do coke think its ironic. you always hear, "oh no way, coke. haha, this is ridiculous." then someone does a line. its this stupid ironic hipster view on life. like, "ooh, look at how stupid this shirt/belt/dress/shoes/sunglasses/mustache make me look gaaah, let me consume of your ridiculousness. its so IRONIC."
rarely does anyone do coke alone. its a status drug. hence why you see that shit on a table with a bunch of chicks in the room. im sure if no one was around to impress, dude would have been doing his "ghetto" drugs.
its boring and cliche' and no matter how 'its cool because its so UNCOOL' you make it sound, you're just as common and dull as the people who made it "cool" in the 80s.
yawn.
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| excerpt # 3 from the upcoming book: REMNANTS. pre-sale begins friday. |
[Wednesday
July 8th, 2009 at 2:28am] |
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music |
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larry david saying "tit mouse". |
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"... “You have a good night now, Jersey boy.” He turned and walked away. As I leaned over to crank the window back up, I heard him say, “I’ll see you soon.”
The drive back home was 30 minutes tops. But it seemed like it was taking hours. I contemplated pulling over to the side of the road and shooting up but I didn’t need to get caught and if I got high without my friends, the hero’s welcome and pat on the back I would get arriving home could easily turn into a punch in the face.
I had no friends during this time even though I called them that. They were “drug buddies.” We would retreat to our own little corners, get high and maybe watch TV with each other. But there were no hangs at the mall, no going to the movies or going to concerts. The friendliest gesture you could expect was having one of your buddies shoot you up cause you were too fucked to do it yourself. Some of the guys and girls would hook up but that was more for the sex. They wouldn’t be going to the prom.
There was one guy that I did hang with more than the others, Kevin. We had things in common. Mostly our reasons for starting this way of life, too numerous and cliché-filled to even get into, but we did share some kind of bond above the drug use. We did laugh together once in a while without being high, but that was rare. Nothing was humorous. This was a miserable existence. It was like being in a cocoon. Cut off from what could become real friends, girlfriends and family. Taking risks, sleeping in abandoned buildings, making up excuses that you know sounded as lame as hell and praying that parents and teachers bought it. You were sleepwalking from one fix to another with no thoughts other than where your next high was coming from. Sharing a laugh or a smile was an unusual thing.
Getting high during school was no problem. You never carried your works with you. Carrying needles was asking to be caught, but we smoked and snorted as much and as often as we wanted in the safety of the bathroom. Most teachers just cared about teaching the lessons for the day and getting home in one piece. Maybe they cared but there wasn’t much they could do. One particular day, before lunch period, Kevin decided he wanted to shoot. Don’t know why. Maybe he had a really shitty morning at home, got into it with his parents. I never knew. Sometimes we’d bitch to one another, but the response was all feigned interest and sympathy. It was just another excuse to get high.
I stood as a lookout while Kevin did his thing, not only for him but to cover my own ass. He offered it up to me, but I opted not to. We went to the lunchroom, got our food and sat at the other end of a table, away from the “normal” kids.
As I ate my lunch, all Kevin did was sit with his arm on the table, his hand holding up his head with his eyes closed. Seeing his food held no interest for him, I grabbed his tray and took it up with mine. I sat back down across from him.
“Hey Kev. We have to go.” Nothing. “Kev. C’mon man. Lunch is over.” He opened his eyes.
I read all the flowery terms to describe a person’s moment of death. About the “spark” or light being extinguished behind a person’s eyes. I thought it was just being overdramatic for literature’s sake. It’s not. I saw the light behind his eyes go out. His head slid off of his hand and hit the edge of the table. He landed on his back with such force I felt it vibrate the floor. I jumped up, pushed the table out of the way, yelling his name. I shook him again and again, but I could already see his face turning blue. One of the teachers on lunch duty that day grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back. I landed in a sitting position and sat watching the teacher attempt CPR. But it was too late. Kevin’s tongue fell back and closed his airway, suffocating him."
- taken from the story A Car in Harlem. by evan davis.
one of 21 stories.
- and since the new book goes on sale friday night, the week 4 handwritten framed passage will only be available until friday at 11pm (CST). plus my hand is getting cramped and im running out of frames, so get it while you can.
week 4: you are not the sum of your parents mistakes.
****SOLD OUT****
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| Toilet training? |
[Tuesday
July 7th, 2009 at 8:13pm] |
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Anyone here successfully trained any of their cats (or know someone who has) to use the toilet? Just curious about experiences...
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| 2nd excerpt from the upcoming book: REMNANTS |
[Tuesday
July 7th, 2009 at 1:13am] |
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music |
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charlie oscar delta and chocolate donuts. |
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"I actually Google searched “how to do porn” and sent a few headshots and fashion photos to an agent. The company responded quickly and booked me a flight and a hotel. So I boarded a plane in 2005 headed for Los Angeles. Even though I was now proud of my body, I was always the good, shy girl. I was never a slut or just “loved sex,” I just wanted to be truly reckless. I didn’t want to be surrounded by the cornfields that trapped me at home, I wanted the ocean’s endless waves. It’s the summer I’ll never forget — my summer in Los Angeles.
California was different, I figured out in the first two hours I was there. My agent quickly immersed me in Hollywood glamour. During my first night in Hollywood, I had full VIP treatment at a posh Sunset Boulevard nightclub. When I was waiting in line to use the toilet and was sandwiched in between rock stars and actors, I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed that my ass would sit in the exact same spot as theirs. Peeing never felt so exciting (though I made sure to line the toilet seat properly with paper).
I escaped the mundane routine of life as a Central Illinois college student, money was about to pour in and I felt on top of the world. It was a relief not to give a shit about what people thought about me. Little did I know I had a long way to go and a lot of growing up to do.
Being a new girl in the porn industry was lonely. Other actresses didn’t warm up to me at first, or at all. I was competition and they were threatened. I had shoots every day and some of them were fading out. It was easier to make friends with the guys because we weren’t competing with one another. A few became protective, and looked out for me, like family in a distorted way. A few of these actors became more like brothers, sticking up for me at shoots. If there was something a producer wanted me to do that I didn’t feel comfortable with, they were right behind me, and let the crew know they weren’t going to let them take advantage of me.
I did find a few people in the industry that I could hold intelligent conversations with. They became part of my California family. We went out together, had movie nights and did everything friends would do. We made each other dinner, we cooked out, had jam sessions in the back yard, went to concerts and the mall together. I got to know some of the other actors before I started my first shoot. My friends gave me advice on what to do and even showed me how to use a vibrator. They knew this world was new to me and they helped get through it, the fun, tears and all.
My first shoot required me to travel again, which was probably my favorite part of the business. My first experience in pornography wasn’t in a studio with a bed or cheesy storyline like one would think: it was at a theme park in Phoenix, where a photographer snuck quick shots of my body in the arcade and on rides. The risk of being caught by park security or employees sent an adrenaline rush that I hadn’t experienced before. The spark of excitement made me want more. I didn’t feel demeaned by lifting up my shirt, I liked the thrill of being bad. There were no sex scenes. That was to come.
When you’re a civilian, there are lots of myths about the porn industry: basements, hotel rooms, moustaches, drugs, orgies and directors in Hawaiian shirts. For some reason I never thought about the bad side of porn when deciding to join the industry.
When I fantasized about making porn, I imagined myself wearing nothing but heels in a hotel room with a nude man setting up a camera. He would press record and start walking over to me, staring intently in my eyes. He would grab me by the waist and I would wrap my legs around him. We’d work the bed, the floor, the walls, flashing the camera a glance and a smile when we could. He’d pull my hair and I’d dig my fingernails in his back. And we were done… well, when we were done. But a fantasy that was, it was missing the staff of camera operators, photographers, sound crew, stylists, caterers, directors, producers, agents, bodyguards and the random celebrity that wants to watch because they’re thinking about doing porn as a scandal to get back in the spotlight. It was also lacking the multiple cuts and actions the director would yell out.
Porn was different than I expected. I had a driver, hair and makeup stylist, wardrobe specialist and there was always a production crew. Set locations were usually in studios or in mansions.
Sometimes there was no actual sex, just mimicked movements and strategically placed limbs. No one was allowed to touch me except for the model I was working with. Women worked in every department in the industry. Some of the nicest, most caring people worked in the porn industry, but there were the stereotypical low-life creepy perverts in the business that made sketchy porn. I positioned myself from the start to only work for the mainstream-commercial companies.
A girl’s first sex scene is up for bids. Every filmmaker wants to capture her first-time emotions on camera. My first scene was for a woman-run production company. Not only was this my first filmed sex scene, it was my first threesome… ever.
I arrived at the studio and found that the owner of the production company brought in another female model to ease my nerves. As if the pressure wasn’t on enough fucking one stranger. No how-to manuals came with this job. The only porn I had watched was scrambled with blurry images and distorted color. The closest Porn for Dummies I read was Jenna Jameson’s memoir on the plane ride to Los Angeles.
Watching two beautiful people have sex inches away from you is confusing and intimidating. I stood on set looking back at the director and camera crew for guidance. I had no clue what to do, what to touch or how to touch. I had never used toys or been with a girl. Plus there was the gorgeous male model to attend to. I was scared, not of everyone seeing my new persona, but of not doing it right.
Most of the scene I was being kissed and stroked, I could handle that. But with every touch, my heart would beat faster and my breaths became short and shallow. I knew I had to succumb to these strangers on set soon enough.
The nerves rushed through my body. I frantically began licking my lips and swirling my tongue around to rid my dry mouth and swallow. I wanted to yell cut but nothing came out. The male in the threesome sensed my anxiety and while the camera turned to the other woman, he looked at me and whispered in my ear, “You are so delicate. I won’t hurt you, I promise.” His voice was enchanting and his muscles were bulging. The camera focused on us and I wasn’t scared anymore. I wanted him then and there... "
- from the story Memoirs of a Porn Star, by holly thomas.
available august 1st, 2009.
pre-sale begins THIS WEEK.
chicago book release party at 44th ward dinner party coming early august.
- final week 4 handwritten frame coming soon. week 1 and 2 are in the mail.
- AUSTRALIAN tour dates:
Thursday 22nd Oct, TBA - Sydney
Friday 23rd Oct, 7pm: Adelaide - We Are Godzilla
Saturday 24th Oct, 2pm: Melbourne - Softbelly
Sunday 25th Oct, 4pm: Brisbane - The Hive
26th or 27th TBA - Sydney
straight edge revenge
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| Lynx point Siamese kitty named Chim Richalds. |
[Tuesday
July 7th, 2009 at 12:15am] |
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Yes- his name is Chim Richalds. My husband and I bought him on our one year anniversary (October 1, 08). We got his name from the movie Anchorman- its pretty ridiculous if you ask me.
I just had a couple of questions about Lynx point Siamese- maybe you guys could help me?
My cat is very very cautious of people and sometimes comes off as a little scardey cat. He doesn't like affection too much although he is such a little sweetheart he is extremely anti-social. Is this just how alot of cats that are Lynx point Siamese or do you think there is something that I can do to make him open up?
Here are some of his pictures!
( More Chim Richalds )
Thank you
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| Coco Update |
[Sunday
July 5th, 2009 at 2:06pm] |
Coco seems to be getting more comfortable around me. She still won't let me pet her when she's up walking around, but she does let me pet her when she's laying on my desk chair, and especially when I turn out the lights at night--she jumps up on my bed and lays down beside my face, begging for attention. lately when she'd curled up on my chair I've been able to scoop her up and hold her for short periods of time. At first she was scared and struggled to get away, but now she just meows in distaste but lets me hold her anyway. I think she's getting better on that front, haha. here's a couple of recent pics.
( not so excited for the photo shoot )
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[Sunday
July 5th, 2009 at 11:07am] |
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I woke to Mercedes licking me on the face. For a cat whom my friends affectionately refer to as "Satan", this really isn't typical behavior. Perhaps she was trying to determine if I was going to pair well with a nice chianti?
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| what the world needs. |
[Friday
July 3rd, 2009 at 4:55am] |
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music |
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PDF files and emails. |
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each one of us is born with some innate talent. think about it for a second. people along the line have told you you have a talent at something. disposable or ridiculous, insignificant or essential we dont choose it. it has chosen us a long time ago. if you're thinking to yourself, but not me. well thats because you havent been paying attention. either way, im here to tell you that odds are, its not touring in/for/with a band.
touring is rough and rigorous, tedious and boring all at the same time. it ages you and injects you with wisdom. you learn to appreciate the beauty in the most unlikely of cities and situations and marvel at how much of the world is populated with absolute garbage. i dare you to ask some of the old timers how they feel about touring. see if their description matches what you have idealized. if its your dream, do it. go out and see the world. play/tune/arrange/drive/manage/roadie the shit out of it. but dont forget, the talent you've been given was probably not as the best shirtseller in your town.
touring doesnt make you "punk". nor does not showering for days, sewing patches on your clothes and spiking your hair; that only makes you smelly and boring. the contemporary image of what is "punk" is simply a marketable fashion ideal, bought and sold by suburban moms as birthday gifts at your local mall. it only shows just how much you dont get it.
your heart, your head, your ideals, the way you treat people on the street, the way you articulate your feelings, inject your heart into your passion, continue to educate yourself, continue to challenge yourself, stand up for whats right, refuse to settle for 'good enough', question peoples archaic and out-dated traditions and never forget how to laugh and have fun. that is punk. punk isnt about the mohawks... its about what initially made people WANT to have them in the first place. its not about the swastika tshirts vivienne westwood sold in the 70s, its WHY she sold them. and punk certainly is not about ignoring your inherent talent that you have been given.
its about protesting against the side of your brain that convinces you that real life is vip passes, backstage food and bright overhead lights.
the world doesnt need another roadie.
the world doesnt need more songs about girlfriends.
the world doesnt need another merch girl or tour manager or security guard.
what the world does need is for to you use your talent to make yourself happy so that one day you will be happy with the way you left the world a little less shitty than when you came into it.
touring is awesome. but its not everything. its a bunch of kids running around eating dessert before our meals. and thats cool. but its not how you grow strong. its not how you change the world. its not how you shine and its not the best use of your potential, blood and personality.
if you absolutely have to know what the sights and smells are, go get it. go find your place behind the table, on the stage, behind the wheel. get there and do it. jump higher than anyone ever has. sing harder. drive farther. drive longer. sleep shittier. do it more and better than anyone ever has. take as much as you can and give until you bleed. then make peace with your talent and evolve. because god forbid you're touring when you're 50 years old.
of course this is only directed at the 99% of you who have more talent and intelligence than to spend the rest of your life being monkeys or monkey handlers.
but for the rest of you 1%...
ill see you out there.
- ends tonight.
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| Sweetest Kitty in Kimchi Land |
[Wednesday
July 1st, 2009 at 6:46pm] |
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Such a sweet little kitty, she is :)
I'm going on a trip (little more than a week), and her kitty sitters fell threw (not their fault). I'm boarding her at the vet. The vet doesn't speak much English (I live in South Korea) and my Korean isn't good, but he's kind to Holly and the secretary is so sweet. I'm sure Holly won't like it, but it won't be long. But everytime I think about preparing for my trip, this is face I see in my mind, "Don't leeeaaave me!!!!!" Awww.
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| 1st excerpt from the upcoming book: REMNANTS |
[Wednesday
July 1st, 2009 at 2:02am] |
| [ |
music |
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swallowing pool water. |
] |
"... He crutched over to me and said, “Muahnuah nuh nuh man nuh shirt.” — Cole spoke very softly in a sort-of mumbled Ebonics, and at the best of times I could just barely understand what he was saying. But apparently I was great at translating because the other teachers couldn’t understand a damn thing he said. I had him repeat himself three or four times and I still couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I told him to wait there and I’d go get him another shirt.
On my way to the main office to retrieve a new shirt I thought, why the heck would this boy come back into the classroom in his undershirt, with the other two balled up? What could have happened? Then, I got back to the room and opened the door and the realization hit me along with the smell.
I quickly gave Cole the shirt and he asked me, “Wha I do wit dis?” and he gestured to his other shirts. I opened a plastic bag and he dropped the other shirts in. I tied it off as quickly as I could and dropped it next to his desk, Miss A. mouthed to me, “What are you doing?” I then told Cole to put the bag in his locker and he crutched his way off. Two other students were still in the room, so I couldn’t tell Miss A. my concerns, so I wrote on a Post-It, “I think he shit himself,” and passed it off to her. She read it and tried to stifle a laugh and said, “Nooo, no way.”
I told her, “It is either that or vomit, and we should probably check the bathroom to see which it is because either way it’s a biohazard.”
We sent the remaining three students to lunch and then checked the bathroom. Miss A. went in and rapidly came out hysterically laughing and gasped out, “That was a good call. You have got to go see this. It’s worth it.”
Against my better judgment I went into the bathroom and as soon as I stepped through the double door I knew what was on Cole’s shirts. I looked into the first stall and saw a sight I never thought I’d ever have to behold. It was like looking at something physically impossible. The toilet was crammed to just below the point of overflowing, with toilet paper, shit and brown water, which in and of itself really isn’t all that spectacular. But there were actual full-size watery TURDS resembling semi-solid diarrhea ON THE TOILET SEAT, and chunky spatter, covering a large portion of the toilet, handle, floor and walls of the stall… that was what took me aback. Reaching the height of a good two feet above the toilet, the walls of the stall were covered in what looked like someone took a blender into the stall, tossed in a few melted Snickers bars, pressed the “Frappe” button, and neglected to put the lid on top. It was like a Jackson Pollock painting of shit on stall..."
taken from the story 'Cha Cha Cha' by brooke matelis from the upcoming book: REMNANTS - 21 Undeniable Accounts of Life as We Know It
out august 1st from The Deadxstop Publishing Corporation.
- ATTN: australia... does anyone attend the university of NSW? if so, please comment. we need your help for tour related information.
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