Hey

Look at this guy. He's riding a fucking lion like it's a horse.

Why Malibu is cool

I saw this newsflash today:

MALIBU, Calif. (AP) ―Authorities said hikers discovered human skeletal remains in a car that had apparently tumbled down a chasm into the mountains above Malibu.

Los Angeles Sheriff's Detective Gary Sica said the hikers found the car pointing nose-down about 800 feet below a heavily trafficked section of a winding canyon road on Sunday.

National Park Service Ranger James Herbaught said the car was covered by brush and was not visible to helicopters that routinely patrol the canyons for fallen vehicles. He says the hikers saw something glinting in the sun while hiking a nearby popular trail and went to investigate.

The Los Angeles County Coroner's Office is expected to identity the remains by Tuesday.

Sadly, when they announce the identity of this guy or lady it probably will be the highlight of my week.

I love how in the year 2009, you can fall off a mountain in a car in one of the most traveled, wealthy places on Earth and not be found for a very long time.
I feel bad that someone had to go out like that, but I think it's pretty fucking cool.
It's like hiking in Runyon Canyon (a popular dog park near my parent's house) and finding skeletons of a man and dog in a bush which had been there since 1874.

I am irritated they didn't mention the make of the car. Was it a T-Model Ford? A Camero? A souped up Honda? Was the skeleton still gripping a cell phone? a monocle?
If it was a monocle how did it not break on impact? Sometimes this stuff makes me wish I was forensics dude for the police.

This reminds me when a kooky lady I knew in N.Y. had a Halloween Party and thought it would be fun to have a 'scary story' time featuring a forensic detective. He told a story of how they found a headless body in a Brooklyn gutter and how he solved the crime. I remember how this retired, grinning, civil servant told the story in a lackadaisical manner——the same kind of way a doctor would tell a goofy story from his med school days when he dropped a heart he removed from a cadaver (oops!)— and when he got to the headless part of his goulish story, he grossed out the entire room—and not in a good way. It didn't help that the kooky hostess was like "YAY!!!" when he finished.

But back to the case of the Malibu skeleton. If they do positively identify the remains I hope it's someone with a good back story, like Jimmy Hoffa. Knotty will keep you posted...

Good To Know

"Candy Spelling told The Associated Press that she let her dog Madison, a soft-coated Wheaten Terrier, help pick out the best real estate agent for the task. She had her security bring the dog into the room every time she met one of the candidate agents and watched how the dog reacted. If Madison didn't like them, Spelling crossed them off the list."

ITALIANS DO IT BETTER

After seeing this Lindsay Lohan commercial for a cheap Italian fashion company, I was convinced much of their party, club/fashion culture, at base level, is stuck in 1983, in which everything is neon, Tron-like and stiff. I have to hand it to them for sticking to their guns. This video, like the Italo-disco classic below, probably made sometime in the 80s, are bedfellows.




Take a chance——Mr. Flagio

Plastic Surgery

What the Hell is wrong with people? I was in Beverly Hills today (no, I wasn't there to get my hair done or buy a luxury bag. I did the ONLY other thing one does in B.V.: I went to my shrink.) and saw the most nasty woman who looked not unlike the woman above.
Why do people do this to themselves? Do they hate the way they look that much to the point that they're willing to look like someone injected their face with Marshmellow fluff?
I'm not exaggerating when I say that they might as well pour Nepalm over their face because that would look AS disturbing to me anyway. The only one who gets a free pass is Michael Jackson. The man has been through enough. He can be a skull with sunglasses for all I care at this point. He's earned it.

REAL MAN

I heart this man today.

Oh my God I LOVE this song. From that woozy organ opening, to that Motown-ish swing, to that Beach Boys-y overtone of making something sound casual and rigorous at the same time. It's sweet, but not too much. And the lyrics sum up how I feel today pretty much exactly.



Real Man——Todd Rundgren

My mood improved

THIS IS SOME GOOD SHIT

This is the best house song I've heard in quite some time.



Love's Got Me High——Seven Grand Housing Authority

Be sure to listen to the breakdown at 1min 47sec-ish

ONE THING I LIKE

...and always have liked—especially on a hot day: the smell of water spilling on concrete from a garden hose.

Fear the Poor & Unfortunate no More!

Fear the Poor by Kristin Calabrese

Here yee, here yee. I've been talking about it for so long and finally I am willing to bring this idea out into the open. I have an idea that will change the way we see the the so-called mentally-ill and unfortunate.

Anyone who has been to downtown L.A. will know that there are plenty of homeless, self-talking 'mumblers' with nowhere else to go. Having lived alone now for about 6 months, I can understand and empathize with the so-called 'loonies'. If there is no one around to talk to you, you end up talking to yourself anyway. "Hey Max" said me, "..do do da da, la la. I needs a shower, but only after I eat."

I said this while I was leafing through a drawer for a cable adapter the other day. I've been doing this a lot. When it became a habit I realized how superficial I was towards the mumbling denizens of downtown Los Angeles. Yet, there's always that survival mechanism in me that comes to the fore when I'm walking down the street head- on into a mumbler. It's an anxious few minutes as I pass this person wondering if I am going to get shanked with a fork.

If you have similar thoughts, think them no more! The solution? I will push for every mumbler to get their own blue tooth! The city will pay for their phone bills, or if they have no one to call they can be toy blue-teeth. It will improve their image in the eyes of the public and perhaps bring about social change.
Villaigrossa! Blue teeth for everyone!

Franz West Goes Westside

Hmm...I wish I could have thought of a better title....

The other night I saw Franz West 'in conversation' at USC. It was the worst thing I've ever seen and maybe the best at the same time. Actually, Rirkrit Travanjia's (I don't care enough to spell it right) lecture was the worst of all time. That was like watching a child on ludes performing a book report.

You cannot get it from the pics obviously but the room was doused in noise, blips, and reverberations. I had arrived a tad late and as result, I had to sit in the back. I thought this might have been the reason why I did not hear a coherent sentence for the entire 'conversation', but I talked to someone who was in the middle and they didn't make out anything either. We both heard the sentence "Do you like Music?", though; we heard that and them playing a warped old record of a man talking about what to do in case of Nuclear fallout. The conversation was most likely inane anyway due to the fact that West had only a moderate command of English.


(West in the between two guys I've never heard of, writers or friends of West. Sun woman who just stood there on the right.)


West had apparently flown out an electronic noise musician to play during the 'conversation', a performer at West's local biergarten in Austria or Germany or wherever there are krauty people. A number of USC MFA's made West-like paper mache sculptures, appointed a girl to be in a sun suit, and framed the whole thing like a gameshow, at least in the beginning, with a cue-card tossing presenter. I don't think all the parties who had anything to do with this event talked to each other beforehand about what they were going to do. Probably knowing that this might be a problem, one of the parties came up with a brilliant idea: hire a Bono impersonator to finish the event with U2's hit single "One Love"!



It was like watching a train wreck that didn't care that it was a train wreck. For that reason I'm glad I went.

HELLO? PLANET EARTH CALLING!!!!

The subject of this entry was what my philosophy professor at Calarts used to say all the time.

Get a load of this c-list post I found:



Are we gravediggers in Mongolia?

I love the response of this guy!!!!!

The Fat Duck

I recently read about an outbreak of some kind of stomach bug that sickened as many as 400 patrons of this restaurant. This would kill any restaurant——except this one.

Everyone please know that if you ever want to spend a ridiculous amount of money for one meal, which includes things like bacon and egg ice cream,THIS is the place to go, hands down. Look at the menu.

MANGO AND DOUGLAS FIR PUREE!!!!

The name of the dish alone!!!

BO KNOWS

I don't have 19 kids, but the boss man needs to give me another shot. On my last job, I got fired because I was 'too slow'. Well, he was slow mentally.

One of the coolest musicians of the 20th century, for serious.



Bo Diddley—Say Boss Man

ODE TO THE ORANGE

Lately I've been eating oranges—lots of them. Upon returning from the supermarket I never know where to put them all; they always overflow their designated areas. It is not unusual to find an errant orange beside my pillow or on my bed stand. I've seen one as far as my studio, eyeing me from its lodging in a tin can. I might need to build an orange hutch by year's end.

What with my chronic unemployment, sometimes I know my best friend is not the peach, pear, or plum. Nay, it is the orange (and the stealthy ice cream sandwich). They never let me down, even when their graces are slackened by an overly extended purgatory in a less than fabulous refrigerator.

You might be wondering why I love oranges. It might be because they were aplenty in Morocco. But I can't be sure. That oranges fulfill a powerful function in my daily life is enshrouded in mystery. Unlike any attempted description of God, Who can only be circumscribed in things he is not, an orange's power can only be touted as it is, as an orange-colored spherical entity.

Firstly, I love the rind and how it comes off the flesh like a bunny's hide. I love how nature has presupposed the orange eater, mostly human, likes things pre-sliced. It's like Trader Joe had a say in their making.

Ripping apart an orange creates a bitter spray. I don't recommend putting it in your eyes. Sometimes the object of love hurts you in return. Like the snake charmer and his spitting cobra, you can befriend the orange. By eating it, you both become one, just as the horn thingy makes the snake dance to the pleasure of fanny-packed tourists.

If only the orange could talk. What might it say? Sweet, a tad bitter, and stripped nude, the orange can only say one thing: yes.

R.I.P. Lulu Belle (1997-2009)

I hope you find some Pup-a-roni wherever you've gone, sweet Lulu. We'll miss you.



Animal Collective—Doggy

Y PANTS

This goes out to, you guessed it, Pants. If I can't make you feel better the sun doesn't rise.




Y Pants*—Off The Hook


*One member of Y Pants is Barbara Ess, Bard college photo professor, so I guess this is a two'fer.

SHRUG IT OFF

First off, Google has to get its act together in the 'shrug' search category. Slim pickin's over there. I was hoping to find a female middle-aged African-American supermarket worker shrugging, but I guess I was out of my element. Why would I be looking for something like this?

That's because I just encountered somebody who happens to fit this description at the supermarket near my apartment. The market seemed to only carry one size of coffee filters and when I asked about it, the cashier shrugged and said "If you come walking into this supermarket, don't be surprised." She said I might have luck in the produce section, half sarcastically, but I guess I saw the glass half-empty. I paid for the filters and left. Ha ha, it was first time I've seen a worker so obviously blasé about his or her own place of work in such a long time.

AWARD

Get your meathooks off, douche.
Even though 2009 is far from over, the shoe-in for Knotty's A-Hole of the Year award goes to movie director Brett Ratner, the man behind all the Rush Hour(s), the last X-Men installment, among other things you will forget about—even while watching them. But the guy is powerful, as proven by the many ass-kissing ads that were taken out in his honor in Variety Magazine. I would 'place' these ads in their system slightly against my will when I worked there once.

I read a Vanity Fair exposé on him awhile back, in which he claims that he is an artist and that he's misunderstood. Afterall, he says, his films make lots of money. He probably gets the print space and air time because he's a loud Napoleonic Jew as well, a man with a bundle of Jewisma.
He's also buds with producer Robert Evans, the man behind Chinatown, Marathon Man, Rosemary's Baby, etc. I watched a film about Evans recently called The Kid Stays in The Picture, which I HIGHLY recommend. Not only for it's animated visuals, but for the story about his trials and tribulations as a studio head, a majestic producer, and a befallen coke head. The man is a real piece of work and I truly realized that true character and charisma can propel anyone quite far if you have lots of it. He has the charm and wile of a master salesman, which always comes through first. He had an eye for sure, but he made lots of mistakes too. "Was it all worth it?" he asks himself, "You bet your ass it was. It was one Hell of ride."

Only a little ways into watching it, did it occur to me that
Bob Odenkirk was spoofing Evans in a Mr. Show sketch when he played God recording his audio-biography in a studio.

All things told Evans might be as 'empty' as Ratner, but he has the charm, style, and charisma that that bratty jackass only could hope for. Does charisma only work for art? Julian Schnabel pulled it off, as did Kippenberger, though we realized there was substance under the addictive fumes. It remains to be seen about Ratner.

MALIAN MUSIC, CHEMICALS, & SUNDAY

I remember Lequin complaining about Sundays on her blog and I totally agree. If nuclear warheads were to come raze Los Angeles to dust, I'd prefer it would happen on a Sunday, please. Even though I am unemployed and have nothing to do tomorrow, for the exception of meeting with my 'art' accountant, who will hopefully hustle Unkey Sam for the highest tax refund possible, it still feels like the end of the times today.

However, there's one thing about Sunday that rules: no traffic. All those church-going folk and such are in their lazyboys watching basketball games and at the park grilling wieners, so people like me could drive to the beach in 5 minutes flat. But I didn't go to the beach today. I ran around the neighborhood and made happy on Skype with Pants. So I was contributing to the joys of Sunday by not driving. I made a difference.

Off the subject, here's HANDS DOWN the most beautiful recording I've heard coming from the African continent. It's of Malian origin and apparently sanctioned by the government. Mali is the 6th poorest country in the world, but at least they are siphoning the money to something that does a whole lot of good for the ears.
Here's a quiz, is Timbuktu a real place or a fictional place? Think of the answer and look it up.

Don't sleep on this stuff. It's HIGHLY recommended.




Ensemble Instrumental National du Mali—Side 1

Ensemble Instrumental National du Mali—Side 2


P.S. I happened upon a DEA press release regarding the crackdown on 'research chemical' websites, sites that peddle esoteric drug compounds. My interaction with one of them was not one too far away from when their proprietors got thrown in the can. Scary. As was the 'trip' they supplied me!
At any rate, look here, I can't get over the email names people use when doing their biz....

These website operators attempted to give an appearance of legitimacy to their websites by presumably selling these chemicals to bona fide researchers; however, a review of customer lists revealed purchasers with e-mail addresses such as acidtripo420@; ecstasylight@; madtriper17@; moontripperdipt@; partys_with_glow_sticks@; professor@; psychedelic_stoner@; and ravergirlny@.

I can't make fun though. My email was: trippingballshalfjew@aol.com