See the Steve Rolston Sketchblog for more of the same. He draws like a Canadian Philip Bond — sometimes; actually, he’s pretty versatile. I mention Bond only because he’s my favorite living artist, and thus I like the reference here.
There’s a design sense to Rolston that’s either facile or brilliantly accessible, I can’t decide. This could be for the reason that I, too, am either facile or brilliantly accessible.
I think this year is going to be my last for the orange-and-avocado ’60s mod Brini Maxwell Edie Sedgwick Myra Breckenridge Halston obsession. I’ve lived here for so long I forgot what it was like outside. Outside in 2007.
I don’t know where I’m going after this, though. The rehabilitation of one’s personal aesthetic is never easy. What will be my muse of the moment? I just hope it’s not Finland.
I think it’s going to end up fin-de-siècle Burbank chic, like that movie The Anniversary Party. Lots of framed black-and-white photos from the cameras of my friends, old retro Douglas Coupland apocalypse mushroom-cloud memorabilia.
But where will my army of action figures fit in? They’re not day-glo and they’re not primary colors. They’re just heroes from my dreams, and people I want to become.
I will xeriscape the world I live in, and wear lots of black clothes from the Gap. I won’t do coke but I will talk about it incessantly. I’ll only drink microbrews. Maybe I’ll buy a gigantic ergonomic pram and pretend to be a hot dad and walk it around to the store and stuff. “No, shh, sorry, you can’t see him. He’s sleeping.” What does my fin-de-siècle baby like? Montessori. Danish toys that are brightly colored instead of being fun. Flash cards.
I would call him “Jacob,” but that joke’s not funny anymore. It actually happened: “Jacob” has become facile and easily accessible. I never liked it, and then they paved it and put up a parking lot.
For my new grey-toned artsy lifestyle it would actually make sense to change it to “Jakob,” which I always wanted to do but was slightly not pretentious enough to do in precisely the way I would need to be.
I need a damned haircut. What says fin-de-siècle Burbank chic, in a hairstyle? Pictures and examples, please. All I’m seeing is ironic T2 emo Edward Furlong hair. Ironic black-framed glasses. I don’t know if I’m young enough for irony anymore. It gives me a toothache.
Did I ever tell about the book I want to write? It’s called Guilty Pleasure Is A Contradiction In Terms: Notes From The New Post-Ironic, but I think that’s kind of a long title. It’s all about how you need to get over yourself and just love simply, for the sake of loving. By “you,” I obviously mean “me.”
I want to write about how anorexia used to be the same thing as mountain climbing — something stupid you did to prove you were strong — but then the internet ruined everything. I want to write about furries and Viagra and the bisexual polyamorists and the Ren Faire Klingon S&M people and all the different ways of negotiating your sexuality for reasons of identity and posturing and performance, rather than pleasure.
I want to write about the apophetic construction of God and persona as it applies to geeks and nerds and the Internet and the Quebecois: how you can either be a person who says, “Yes,” who adds to the sculpture, or a person who says, “No,” who chips away at the marble. Two different kinds of people, two different kinds of art. But nerds and geeks and the French only know how to say, “No, no, no.” Which makes it hard if you, say, are writing about something that you both love, from the other direction. For every “and also,” they have a “not yet,” a “not actually,” an “I’m not sure about that.” It’s not far from that to feeling like a punching bag, and they’ll never know why, because they’re just using deductive reasoning. Which is handy in a toolkit, but really unfortunate if it’s the only tool you’ve got.
You know what pisses me off? People who cheered when that hateful Republican died. You know the one. I fucking hate that so, so much. Ben Gibbard said something the next day at the concert, about how happy he was. What? Everything wrong with this country, with the world, with people is contained in that concept: you have the right to cheer for a man’s death, based on his beliefs. I cannot tell you how deeply that offends me. I’m not one to make a big deal about getting offended — chances are, you’d never know if you offended me in conversation, because obviously I like you enough to have a conversation with, and that means I’m not interested in pulling moral rank by telling you why you’re wrong and I’m awesome — but God, that hacks me off.
It’s like the glee people get watching To Catch A Predator: the opportunity to hate without feeling like you’re going to get judged for it. It’s like: a child rapist who goes to prison is in for a bad time of it. But a murderer in jail who kills a child rapist, is he a hero? No. he found a way to hate and to kill without feeling like he was doing anything wrong, because he hurt the lowest of the low. Doesn’t make him a hero, makes him a murderer some more.
It’s like hippies and urban bohos who can say, from the center of their gentle and loving hearts, that they fucking hate Nazis. Who’s going to disagree? Who’s going to judge a rudeboy that beats up skins all the time? It’s just another expression of something internal that has nothing to do with racism or heroism, and everything to do with putting yourself even lower than the people you’re trying to be better than.
“But he hated you! He hated me! He hated us!”
Seriously. So? He’s not your problem. You are. People do shitty stuff every day, doesn’t make it okay for you to do shitty stuff. It’s not that complicated.