"Baby Won't You Treat Me Right?"

It seems like a lot of songs, at least from the '50s and before, use that phrase. As if by refusing his love, the girl is just being a tease. Especially because I don't think the lyrics really elaborate much how exactly she won't treat him right. My brain's a little whack from the paint fumes I've been inhaling all day and night, but what you folks think?


Jizz Tae Fuck

The Doom Generation is a film from 1995 and it's about three young people on the lam, fucking each other and killing people. By director Gregg Araki. It's pretty good.


What The Cuss

Since becoming acquainted with torrents, I've been downloading a shit ton of music left and right. It's much easier to get into new music when money is not an issue. As a result, I've assembled a playlist of old R&B, ranging from LaVern Baker to Etta James to Little Richard to Howlin Wolf to Muddy Waters to Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers. For some reason I threw some Trashmen in there, though they're white surfy garage pop. That playlist kind've mutated out of what I could find of the Pink Flamingos soundtrack.

I've also just finished up a playlist of the most shamelessly eighties synth and pop. It's almost three hours long and I can't wait to force people to listen to it at work.

As far as movies go, I recommend Fantastic Mr. Fox and Pecker. FMF is beyond me; I really can't explain why everyone should see it, just that it shouldn't go unseen. I mean, aside from the fact that it's fucking STOP MOTION animation (jizzzzzzzz!), characters, dialogue, plot, etc., tickled me so much. Not to mention I couldn't name a single voice actor, which meant the voices were done really well.

Pecker has Edward fucking Furlong in it. Yeah, he's kinda gross nowadays, but in the nineties, oooh gurl was he fine! The only other John Waters film I've seen is Pink Flamingos, and, despite the immense, unfathomable differences between these two films, I could see certain touches in the characters and the ways they related to each other that seemed distinctly John Waters-y.

And, of course, 8 Femmes, one of the most terrible French movies I've ever watched in the name of education. A murder mystery, in which the master of the house is dispatched, and the eight women living there are trapped by a snowstorm, locked gates, cut phone line, and a shit car. The master's sister ends up making out with his wife, who was cheating on him with his business partner who was fucking his sister, but that's okay, because he was fucking the hot maid while the black cook was falling for his sister and his mother-in-law was reminiscing about poisoning his wife's father, while his frumpy sister-in-law tried to jump his bones and his eldest daughter who's not actually his daughter was getting knocked up by him, and the whole time his younger daughter plotted the whole thing because she, the plain, boyish daughter, wants to be his best girl.

I would be happy to suffer through that last one again with Kate, because I know she can appreciate such a piece of work. Plus the clothes and the women are pretty hot.

I have just blinded you all with science.


Joaquin, long and lean, slicked-down man machine, shimmering with a golden sheen

Joaquin Phoenix was damn fine. I didn't think he looked so bad with all that hair last year, but he certainly didn't look like himself. I'm also not sure what was funny about his interview with David Letterman. It looked to me like Joaquin didn't really want to be there and just didn't feel like talking, and all these people in the audience can't stop laughing at him. It's one thing if the celebrity is coming back with some good witticisms, and really getting into it with the show's host, but it's kind've pathetic to laugh so hysterically at someone who's so disengaged.

It sucks being under the scrutiny of a bunch of strangers, especially when you're so lethargic you can't even defend yourself.

Then again, maybe he was on drugs. Naturally. All famous people are totally always bonkers offa dem drugs in interviews and whatnot.



I'm not yet twenty-four, and yet I live on my own and support myself almost entirely with my piddley food-service income (with occasional small monies and frozen food from the fam). AND YET, until I am twenty-four, I still need my parents' information to fill out a fafsa form. There should be an option for young people who aren't emancipated but do make their own living. I'm a legal adult, en't I? I support myself, don't I? AND YET, the government treats me as though I were tied to my mother's apron strings. They have to make this big fecking deal out of giving me money for my education, when, according to many reliable authorities, an education is the only thing keeping me out of the crackhouse. Thank you, America.


A Part Of

Martin Starr is a babe. Bearded hipster babe. Ya dig?

I love having long, meandering conversations with strangers. Not most strangers, of course, but the strangers who are so easy to talk to we may as well have been friends for years and years. Somehow it's nice to be able to talk fluently with human beings outside my limited social sphere, even if they never become a part of it.


I Am The King Of Carrot Flowers

Reading over my last post, I realized that my analogy is completely batshit. I have no idea where the shit I was going with that, and how it was supposed to relate to my original topic.

But whatever. I'm practicing for the real world.

I've suddenly been exploding paint all over canvas lately. It started with a few colors, and now somehow it's vomited out a theme and these faces and figures keep appearing under my brush. I'm pretty ecstatic; except for a bout with acrylic a year ago, I haven't been able to finish any serious paintings. Now suddenly I can't stop and I'm worrying about running out of canvases. At the moment I'm working on No. 3 and No. 4, which were other things, but shitastic messes. As in, not worth it. I love glopping a shit-ton of paint on top of a failed piece. Yeah, my original idea ended up sucking, but I can put something new and awesome on top of it instead. I also just love glopping paint and building up texture.


Have Some Class

One of my pet peeves is the millions of parasites on the internet. The kind of people who see a photo or a piece of "art" on the internet and basically jizz all over their computer screen, and then comment so everyone else knows they jizzed all over their computer screen, too. The kind of people who don't actually know what good work really looks like, so they assume any half-fancy pretentious pile of shit is a masterpiece. I don't care what people think, it's when they start assuming everyone wants to know what they think, and spew accordingly. Kinda like when you strut out your front door in some slightly questionable getup. Yeah, it's not all there, but you sure feel awesome in it! You tell yourself, I don't care what they think! But as soon as you notice the stares, the whispers, the covert pointing, the giggling, you're about ready to shit yourself. You were fine with yourself until everyone else made it clear you weren't fine.

I don't think art was meant for the internet.