Thursday, April 29, 2010

Public Service Announcement

Walking down Bleeker yesterday an oversized SUV town car pulled over and asked me the directions to 2nd ave. But when I turned around, the needed route in question was quickly shelved so he could make what I could only describe as convulsing neck thrusts mixed with wildly exaggerated imitations of kissing and biting.

"Baby, I want to eat you. I want to eat you all up," said he.

It's a wild world out there. Beware the motoring cannibals.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Ricky Martin is gay, but my dad is a straight up faggot.

Despite the adjective overlap, there's a huge gaping difference between the perfectly acceptable and the big fat jackass. It's called context, people. Not to mention, the first one isn't a choice. The other however is performed with deliberate glee. Everyone, meet my father:

click to enlarge

and now i pass it onto you. enjoy!

Wednesday, April 14, 2010


In a surprising turn of events, after posting this tweet earlier:

I was invited to a private screening of the very film. Perhaps I'm psychic. In which case Madame Concha will tell you your fortune for $5000 a pop. No refunds.

But I digress. Point is, I saw the doc. Tweet and you shall receive. Adverdouches abound. Now this isn't meant to be a film critique as I am not paid to do so. Nor am I about to provide a summary because Concha Libre headquarters is not a venue for book reports. I do however, have one observation. As we left, the pervasive reaction centered around one consensus. "Shit, ya'll. I wanna go make some art now. Anyone can do it." But just like adverdouches flocking to the film in hopes to augment their rank on the cool meter, to me it seems they're missing the point. Thousands of people waited outside for hours to see someone for whom artist is a questionable title. But the time they spent pales in comparison to the money; these "fans" made MBW a millionaire over night. Hype breeds fame. Fame breeds title. When our idea of artist is something we define, does that make MBW an artist, or are we just projecting, comfortable to live in a reality our perceptions have neatly defined?

Fuck me if I'm wrong, but I don't think the point was "anyone can make art." I think the crowd buys its own bullshit. Figuratively and literally. We thought we came to see a film about one artist, Banksy, who turned the camera on another, MBW. But is he an artist? Who's to say? If great art is supposed to hold a mirror to its audience, this film took it a step further by manipulating it. Quite Banksy-eque, if i'm even at liberty to draw such comparisons. Because here we are, busy looking for the face behind the silhouette. The point isn't "anyone can do it." Because how can anyone make "art," when we don't even know what it is in the first place?

Maybe there is a god. And it's Bansky. Laughing at anyone searching for meaning behind the goddamn hamster wheel.

Whatever. I've had a few beers. When there's no point to nothin', might as well.

Monday, April 12, 2010

once i was on gawker, twice.

remember when i used to be famous? no? yeah, i figured. because it's been a few thousand lunches since my blogger "limelight" was eclipsed by an endless shadow of unproduced advertising briefs. but here again today i find myself uncharacteristically unburdened by a 15 hour workload and all the galleries are closed. it's monday. fala-la-la-la-la.

as much as a loathe writing (there, i finally admitted it) and detest making ads even more, it would seem reasonable to assume a break from this double barrel nightmare would color me sunny in my happy-pants. but as the ever spinning anxiety galaxy in my general chest/gut area reminds me, no. not happy. no pants.

here's a photo i took, because words without pictures can suck

i don't think i'll ever "be" happy. forgive the new age-gypsy speak, but i realized something in yoga yesterday. (please, hold your eye rolls until the end). yoga is basically a set of poses. and just like most things, you have the choice to recreate the pose with every last tendon in your body, or half ass it. (which, i admit is what i do half the time...however, it's usually out of of fear more than laziness. but that's another therapy session.) here's the thing: besides the obvious benefits lost in a job halfway done, i realized there's a lot of stuff – bad stuff, the kind of stuff you exercise to purge – stay trapped inside you. an easy conclusion to reach thanks to the physicality of yoga. (i don't think this experience is limited to yoga, by the way. years of running have just restricted my knees to non-pounding exercise.) holding back ultimately leads to closing up. and if my 18 years of living with a bible thumper/parent can attest, constantly hiding/ keeping it all in, will land you on a therapist couch pretty quickly. but it doesn't make sense. i have a career, boyfriends, friends...what do you mean i'm depressed? so my very long winded semi-yoda/chicken-puke-for-the-soul point is this: no-half assing the poses. because the benefits aren't limited to the skills gained. it's the release of everything else. and as it is in yoga, so it is in writing. (because that happens to be what i do for a living.) you gotta go for it. else the negative shit gets trapped. and as with any practice, you'll suck until you get better. you have to write every day. come briefs or boredom. hence we have here a shitty blog entry. but i feel a little better. and if you want to read something more entertaining, feel free to scroll through the past entries. because my blog was on gawker once, twice.