VIEW ALL 200MOTELS' BLOG ENTRIES
appreciate the need for some people to write even when they have absolutely nothing to say. To them I say, do the world a favor – jump off a bridge. You know yourself how vacant you are, why would you want to inflict it on the rest of us?
For a while when I was young I did alright as a writer. I wrote myself a comedy act that was pretty freakin’ good, in the style of Richard Pryor, you could say. It got me a lot of press coverage up in Canada and I even got taken on as the Montreal stringer for a New York skin magazine, High Society, ‘til I finally blew a hole in the envelope and was invited to leave town, but fast!
Arriving in New York, I tried the same formula here, but it was the Reagan Revolution and people weren’t at all in the mood to see anybody white doing that kind of material.
Anyway, I had another agenda in New York: to keep off the street. I threw myself into my job in accessory design and once I got stabilized in that I hit the gym like a maniac. My few lame attempts at getting on stage were doomed from the beginning, white comedy having painted itself into a corner of Woody Allen/Jerry Seinfeld self-loathing. My loathing was directed outward at general world stupidity and blundering, and nobody was paying money to see that.
Then, in the summer of 2001, I had a dream about a beautiful fashion model who was born with three eyes because of pollution, and the story, which was entitled “The Third Eye of the Needle,” wrote itself. The passage relating to Paris of the future, in the throws of civil war and terrorism, I wrote before, during and after the airplane attacks on New York.
I felt validated. It was as though I were a guitar string being plucked by a cosmic force in time and made to vibrate in the general timbre of the universe.
Now that I felt I had a commercial property to promote, I got on the telephone and stated to hawk it to agents. Soon I got a bite, an old crone named Dorothy Thompson, who read the story and felt it had possibilities. But she didn’t have a clue what to do with it, so I broke my back hawking it to film producers, and she was supposed to step in and close the deal.
Anyway, the whole project went nowhere, and Dorothy and I soon parted company, but I sure became adept at pushing that story – in bars, you name it.
About a year later, I became unemployed on a structural basis, which is to say an economic recession. Benefits were increased by three months and I spent the whole summer at the beach or writing like a European at outdoor cafes.
Now I had obtained the knack of commercial concepts; fully set pieces with a beginning, middle and an end. I whipped up some really cool synopses, one, called “A Symphony of Fear,” a murder mystery-police procedural-romantic comedy with just a soupçon of supernatural interest.
But what really got the ball rolling for me was the introduction of blog technology. Here was something I could really swing with! You write a few pages, you post it and you get some hits. Right away 20 people read what you wrote, which, believe me, it doesn’t sound like a lot, but try to get 20 people to read something any other way! I guarantee you that prior to this innovation, playwrights with more talent than Shakespeare and poets who possessed more genius than William Blake died without reaching an audience of 20 people.
Now that I have been able to scrape my way back to the comedy business again, where I never should’ve left, believe me, I got a double whammy – no a triple whammy. First I got a whole new act because my friends Gladys and Bob convinced me to go the improv route and work my harmonica into the act. Then I come home and transcribe the show for my blog audience.
Now, here’s the new twist! With the new interned video technology that’s sweeping the ocean, I’m recording my whole act on video for posting on these sites like Utube, where 30 million people in China can potentially see my act.
Shit, if I get wild and loose enough with my act, I could end up causing riots in China! Oh Happy Day! Millions of Chinese marauding through Shanghai, destroying everything in sight because they saw 200motels shove a dildo through the hole in a bagel!
So why the dour, bummer title of this article? Because right here in New York, which is constantly reminding the world how great it is, and how talented and modern we all are, which is like a blown out, beat up old boxer who believes his own advance promotion until he is pounded into the around for good, you still got the same third-rate hack writers wasting our time with relentlessly tedious profiles of wasted jerkoffs who are trying to pass themselves off as artists.
The case in point is a profile in New York Magazine by Ariel Levy about Dash Snow, who features himself to be an artist in the tradition of Andy Warhol, but for me the guy is a fucking moron who mounts articles from The New York Post on construction paper and then jerks off on them.
Ooooohhhh, pretty far out!
I went to design school in Paris, where if you were off by a millimeter the teacher ripped your whole pattern to shreds and you had to start over.
I operated a leather boutique in Montreal, where I made shearling coats and leather threatical costumes for strippers and rock stars by hand.
When I came to New York, I had to train for years under German leather experts who tore you apart even if you were working right, because when you’re that young, you’re not supposed to know anything, by general principle.
So this guy gets his face on the cover of New York Magazine for jerking off on newspaper clippings.
Oh yeah, I forget to mention….he comes from a rich family.
Art, now there’s a hoary concept! Blah blah blah it’s in the eye of the beholder. But to qualify a freakin’ moron like this Dash Snow, or that Mapplethorpe, or the other idiot, Warhol, as artists in the category as Picasso or Michaelangelo speaks volumes about the kind of world we’re living in today, where a guy who nails his dick to a board is considered art, but the person who ridicules the act is castigated as a philistine.
Just so I could have the feeling that I knew a little bit about art, I took two years to read “The Lives of the Artists” by the sixteenth century artist and intellectual Giorgio Vasari. Two years just to read a damn book about art – and it was in English!
And this guy jerks off a Post photo of Giuliani and he calls himself an artist.
Excuse me while I go hang myself. Fuck!
Tags:
None
© All rights reserved.
Posted on 1/29/2007
(
Permanent Link
)
Read
466 Times
Send to Friend
