Looked for work downtown
Then salmon bisque on The Drive
Soup is for the poor
An Evening of Wine, Cheese and Beauty
13 years ago
5.26.2010
5.25.2010
5.24.2010
5.21.2010
5.20.2010
5.19.2010
5.18.2010
5.17.2010
5.16.2010
5.15.2010
5.13.2010
5.12.2010
5.11.2010
5.10.2010
5.09.2010
5.07.2010
5.06.2010
5.05.2010
5.04.2010
5.03.2010
5.01.2010
4.29.2010
4.28.2010
4.27.2010
4.26.2010
4.23.2010
4.22.2010
4.21.2010
4.20.2010
4.19.2010
4.15.2010
4.14.2010
4.13.2010
4.12.2010
4.09.2010
4.08.2010
4.07.2010
4.06.2010
4.05.2010
4.01.2010
3.31.2010
3.30.2010
3.29.2010
3.26.2010
3.25.2010
3.24.2010
3.23.2010
3.22.2010
3.19.2010
3.18.2010
3.17.2010
3.16.2010
3.15.2010
10.24.2009
10.23.2009
10.22.2009
10.21.2009
10.20.2009
10.19.2009
10.18.2009
10.17.2009
10.16.2009
10.15.2009
10.14.2009
10.13.2009
10.12.2009
10.11.2009
10.10.2009
10.09.2009
Of Zombies and All Hallowed Evenings...
So, Hallowe'een is by far my favorite holiday occurring during my favorite season. There's something about the earlier darkness setting in. The smell of the first wood fires smoldering in family hearths as the cold, still, foggy air wisps and curls around you trying to pierce your clothes. The smell of decaying leaves, shimmering in the sunlight as a bottle rocket whistles across the park, "Pop!" The smell of sulphur and cordite.
Autumn, or Fall, has always appealed to me. The macabre sense of nature as plants die and animals prepare to hibernate. Hallowe'en, it is said, is the one night of the year when the boundaries between the spirit world and the corporeal world are their thinnest. Of course this is complete bullshit, as there are no such things as ghosts, or ghouls, but it sure is fun to dress in our darkest (or sluttiest) and get wasted, and set off pound after pound of explosive fireworks.
In the spirit of the season, I have started a series of Zombie Portraits. My love (hate) of the Zombie is boundless and I search out Zombie film and literature almost religiously.
You can see an example at the top of the post, That's the lovely Violet Dear whose blog Madness and Beauty is just amazing. If you'd like to see more Zombies or other cool art click here to go to my website where you'll find a selection of the Undead just waiting for you.
* * *
I also do custom portraits, band pictures and posters, so if you need work done message me! I'm fast, professional, and inexpensive...
Cheers,
Willie
10.08.2009
10.07.2009
10.06.2009
10.05.2009
10.04.2009
10.03.2009
10.02.2009
10.01.2009
Chapter 7
Meanwhile...
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Eyes steely grey, The Man peered out of The Bank at the ring of police cars that encircled the building.
“Wagons...” he sighed, “But who're the Injuns?”
Sun high in the sky appley-pie hopes.
Loud speaker blast. “You in there... No one needs to get hurt. Come on out and give yourself up.... We have you surrounded... Etcetera.... Etcetera...”
It was 1pm
* * *
Chapter 6
Lunch Break. A liturgy taught by the ringing bells of our youth. Cutting into pills with steak knives, slicing off slivers of speed and barbiturates that numb and drive the populace. All
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
you can eat 6 Martini Lunch Special neon bright bulimic projectile vomit spattered stalls.
Rank and file stumble out of fluorescent lit offices into the streets shading eyes with designer sunglasses and hands, it permanently overcast but the light is still to bright white and burns unprotected skin. Vendors sell hotdogs slathered with hallucinogenic oils and pills scooped on like fried onions. The bitter reek of chalky stimulants permeates the air mixing with diesel fumes as drunks swill wood alcohol, long blind their distended bellies straining at threadbare vomit covered shirts. Like above-ground moles they hug The City's walls and follow the scent of their kind.
Smell of retch and mouthwash
An Orca was spotted in the harbour and was immediately set upon by a trio of slant-eyed bloodthirsty men in crimson kimonos. The whale is harpooned and dragged ashore on the beach where with long blades and cleavers it is disassembled, The pink fatty flesh is processed into small cubes which still bloody were served on tight sticky rice packets to a throng of people eager to taste the destruction of something pure and beautiful.
The Whore was fast asleep but slow to dream.
It was 12pm
* * *
Chapter 5
Here's how it was. The Man owes Another Man 10,000 dollars. The Other Man has given him until today to come up with the 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Here's how it is. The Man does not have 10,000 dollars.
Here's how it's gonna be.
Crack in the sky. Ashen grey clouds have rolled in pell-mell from the sea. The sun splits the crack open wedging in just wide enough, like when an axe fails to split a log but instead perforates just enough to let a slit of light through. Astringent metal smell mixes with salty ocean air diesel fumes. The clouds bunch up like revelers outside of a late-to-start concert hammering at stadium doors, foam and froth and the words “RIOT” sluicing from damp lips. The sky is a riot.
The Man pulls his collar up as the first stinging drops fall. They smell of failure and fear and ozone. A crack of lightning hangman-noose-neck-snaps across the sky, reminding The Man of the task at hand.
The Man approaches the Glass Building where the Coverall clad Workers chase off a group of pre-teen Boys and Girls pierced through with metal and glass wearing a sheen of leather and Vinyl. Chains and Filth. Spray cans and stencils jut out like cybernetic appendages from too small tiny fists and sharpies and pipes and straight razors are hidden amongst cracks folds and hair greased and glued and held tight by the same chemicals that leave their mark like dog urine on Glass Buildings and Concrete, Chemicals that are condensed into bags and inhaled until vomit and euphoria drive young minds to the edge of psychosis and into the abyss. The mean age of the Street Children is 16 and those that live to adulthood are either incarcerated or babbling insane degenerates writing Thompsonian novels and Burroughsesque poetry in the care of The State. They are instant bestsellers and their authors are lauded and talked about over cocktails and canapés at high end parties attended by Men in Charcoal Grey Suits and Women in Pencil Skirts and Artists in whatever the trend is that day.
This building is a Bank. There may no longer be Summer, but there will always be Banks. And Bankers.
The Man is wearing his least dirty clothes – tight black jeans and a collared cowboy shirt with real mother of pearl buttons- and has slicked back his dark hair with a pomade that causes it to glisten like an otter pulled from Prince William Sound.
The Bank is a Hive.
Charcoal Grey suits and Pencil Skirts rush this way and that passing documents, filing files, authorizing, rejecting, investing capital, investing themselves in a System that fails to recognize them. A System that demands homogeneity and growth. And knives. Sharp sharp sharp sharp knives.
The Man has a gun. He doesn't know what kind of gun it is, only that it was cheap and it is noisy. It is the type of gun with a revolving chamber and a long long long barrel. The size of barrel excites The Man and he maintains an erection whenever he carries it. The Gun holds 8 bullets, brassy and rounded and blunt. The man often wondered how such a dull point could penetrate such dense masses as the walls in the alley behind his Apartment. Flesh will be no problem for the rabid bloodthirsty rounds.
His erection throbbed as he drew the gun from his coat. Of course no one noticed as he wore neither Ivory Prada Suit or Black Pencil Skirt. The roar of the blast however drew an audible silence. A sharp tableau was drawn across the stage of the bank. The aging security guard who was nodding off at his post, awoke with a start, suffered a massive heart attack and died on the floor.
“Well, would yah look at that,” chuckled The Man.
“This here... Is a robbery.” The Man drawled as he approached a tellers window. He placed a cracked and aged leather valise upon the counter ledge.
“Fill it,” he demanded, “and no one has to die.”
Being well insured and trained in how to deal with the demands of a variety of robbers, terrorists and ultra-violent individuals, the Black Pencil Skirted Teller took the valise and duly filled its contents with paper money slipping her slim well manicured thumb onto a small red button and depressing it. The colour of the button matched that of her nail polish and she cracked a wee smile at the thought of it.
“What the fuck are you smiling at!?” demanded The Man, sighing once again. He really did not want to fire the revolver again as he'd only been able to afford 1 bullet and was relying on the fear factor of the massive weapon to get him through this ordeal.
The Teller in the Black Pencil Skirt passed the valise to The Man.
“Have a nice day,” she caught herself intoning and cut her lips shut at the last second. The Man just stared
“You too...”
It was 11am
* * *
Chapter 4
As the stores on Boulevard C begin to open, the Masses began to teem rat like across its sidewalks and into its boutiques and apothecaries, dispensaries and emporiums. The masses, obese and ignorant needed satiation.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
Behind thick plastic walls White Coated Pharmacists filled demands, slipping bottle after bag after vial of pill, lotions, tinctures and remedies into grasping hands of moaning come-down-withdrawal-addicts and nubile young post-human Forms. They needed their Breakfasts more than they needed their lovers. The pills were their lovers giving them the energy they needed to continue unabated and driving them to numbness that could only be pierced by the purchase of consumer goods piquing interests and pumping blood through veins weary of life and they had only just come to The City.
Women melded shoes to their feet in fetishistic body modifications as though reenacting Japanese body horror. Tokyo splatter-punk. Pins inserted laterally through their Jimmy Choos and Betsey Johnson's and vertically through the tops of their feet penetrating the soles of their Manolo Blahnick's like entomology pins affixing delicate butterflies to a board. Scalding sheets of molten lead and tin are sprayed, boiling flesh and cooking tender feminine meats. Smell of bacon and perfume, astringent metallic odours. The (a)scent of fashion. Fuck function.
Men gathered speed, smoked speed, popped pills, popped veins and then ran through the Parks, Through the barbed wire and spiked ditches and past dogs that gave chase to them tearing at calves and driving them to heart attacks and aneurysms until right at the point of death they plunged needles head long into hearts, into brains, that resuscitated them one last time (or not) and the rush gave them purpose and they stumbled spent from the parks into the arms of the Women that worshiped them in tin plated stumps and designer drug jackets and then they changed into Suits or Coveralls and dreamed of the next morning in which they could run once again through the park because in the park. They were all.
Equal.
It was 10 am.
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