Pablo Picasso

Mannequins with tits.

In the Pines

Shary Boyle

How I wound up in a small wood ten minutes outside of Seattle on a Vice magazine photo shoot is barely explainable, trust me, stranger things have never happened. I guess it's the freelance web work that I've been doing lately, and it's bringing me in contact with some pretty amazing artists. I am working for next to nothing, and word is getting around. So when I met Jacque last week about doing a site for him, we hit it off, and next thing you know we're on our way to Seattle on a moments notice so I can hold light reflectors above women dressed in chainmail g-strings amongst the greenery of the pacific northwest.

Tonight I just got home from drinks with, in my opinion, one of the best songwriters in canada. I am doing a website for his girlfriend in exchange for a painting. My name will get around, demand will follow, and the prices will go up. I will make a fortune, have my body frozen and stored at a warehouse in Fresno California. There I will rest amongst the manufactured landscapes of an industrial neighborhood, and wait for a future.

Fuck Me? Fuck You!

You just laughed it off,
it was all ok

Just outside my front door is a trailer full of swirling lights. All over town I can see them, like the batlight. When I am out with LeRoy, just like tonight, I only need to look through the rain that has returned, dripping off my nose and chilling me to the bone, to see how far I have strayed from home. And LeRoy, god bless his soul, who plied me with tin cans and chatter about the evening's problems to the sound of that drummer in the corner. Her skin, her neck, which I had run my lips across not fifteen minutes beforehand in the alley where I pissed.

A Pastoral Interlude

New Google HQ - via Curbed

I have seen the city streets this past week looking like they were painted with an oil stick. The word HOTEL, streaking, bleeding, into the darkness of the night as I roll down the avenue at 5pm, the dinner hour, but it's so black you'd think it 1am friday night, the world on fire. The toughest routes I ride, the 10, the 3, the 20. The beggars, the smelly, carrying animals in their jackets, jumping fares and struggling up the stairs with various apparatus that help them through this world. The bus pounds into the potholes at 36kms an hour, and out the window the flashing lights from the cruisers parked on the sidewalk fill the coach with blues and reds. There I am, in a spot chosen for the least resistance, and I see the litter on the floor and I think about the journeymen that will spray away the days debris when the run is over, making everything fresh and new again.

All for $2.25.

All Inclusive

man in good shoes - by Low

I tripped and fell off the stage last night, just after I told the audience that I was about to sing Cumon Baby light My Fire because I was a "fucking huge Jim Morrison fan." I was acting like an obnoxious shit though, and sang the song I always sing when handed the mic. After the set, with the PA shut off, I screamed the lyrics acapella to the Morrison anthem overtop the house music. Then, after the set, loading up the gear, I got into an argument with the bartender because I was drinking in the alley. I was a bit tight.

We took the money we had and went to a late night pizza place where we ordered a greek salad, fries and gravy, an order of hot wings, some zucchini sticks, and a large vegetarian pizza. It was 5am, I had a coffee, and told my closest friends I thought we should take a break from playing shows.

Two nights before that, at about the same hour of the early morning, after we had spent the entire night in a recording studio in an industrial park somewhere in the bowels of the valley, after LeRoy nearly barfed in his german omlette, I spent 4$. Making me officially broke, and I have been at the mercy of others ever since. I wrote Dragica a poem about party ice for a lunch, and a must see movie list in exchange for three beers from Remington, but I am tiring of this.

When I woke up this morning all I could do was prop my head up on its side so I could watch His Girl Friday. The phone rang 11 times, and I just watched the call display go blank each time, relieving me of the need to speak. I am losing the war at keeping it connected, the phone. The Hydro may get cut too. I own only 2 pairs of socks, and I found my last pair of shoes in the trash. I owe money all over the place, but I am going to Mexico anyway.

Let's Be Happy!

You shared a cab with Karen O
Oh oh, Oh oh oh
You're talking hyper bollocks
You're talking saleries
Oh yeh, you work in Insurance?
30k? OTE
You met Electrelane

There are wires running up and down the sidewalk. Thick coils wrapped together carry lies to screens in select cities. Parked outside are generators pumping electricity to powerful lights that make night seem like day. Groups of people stand around dressed in orange vests. They hold silent walkie-talkies.

And They've been shooting a movie in apartment #103 the past few days, but all the action is in suite #407.

Before Halloween, I was out of town on a carpet placed upon a stage, on an island amongst a crowd of art kids. There were costumes, but no one was dressed up. Unice walked in and came right up to the front of the crowd so I could see her while I was singing. The wild one had just walked into the room in a city neither of us had lived in. My eyes shifted towards hers as I sang my silly song, and in the morning my head rang with the reverberations of bank transactions and arrivals home.

I had an argument in the hallway last week. The neighbors came out to see what was going on. They found my date and I in a state of intoxication, arguing over how we could get her Fly London boot pulled up over her swollen ankle. When we finally made it to the cab driver downstairs who had our keys that we left at the restaurant earlier, he was supposed to charge us twelve dollars for their return. We got him to drive us to twelfth, where we asked him what he would accept as fair payment. He told us whatever was in our hearts. I had 15$ in my heart.

There's so much more to tell, but I have little interest in sharing it. I have enthusiasm all over the place, and crushes in every corner of the town. If you're bored, I can't help you.

Robert Mitchum and Burt Lancaster, Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon, Crispin Glover and Vincent Price, Spielberg and Wilder. There are movies.

Turn to the Cinema.

Poetry

Dan Siney

Rolling over that bridge in the back of the cab. Holy shit, it's a good thing I didn't kiss you. And then, there's that sweet moment, tucking your hair under a fabricated wig. Uh huh.

I swear...