If it wasn’t bad enough that every morning on NPR, they play this show about god vs. science, which is a real rotten way of waking up… Thankfully, I have a bunch of CDs in my car.
I wanted to go see a movie tonight. A movie. A good movie. So I looked to see what was playing hoping that either Pan’s Labyrinth or Children Of Men was playing at the local theatre or art theatre, but alas no.

It’s pretty bad when Atlanta or Dallas gets these movies before we do. That’s sucktastic.

I’m in the online Saatchi Gallery!

Check me out:
http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/yourgallery/artist_profile/Drub+Skin/22454.html

If you’ve got a body of work, this is a great place to showcase it.

The Saatchi Gallery and the Guardian have joined forces to create the first ‘reader-curated’ contemporary art show, which featured emerging new talent from Your Gallery. The exhibition ‘Your Gallery @ The Guardian’, which took place from 24-28 October in the Guardian’s gallery in London’s Clerkenwell, but you can still get in on the website.

When I saw Player’s work, I was overcome. A friend of mine showed it to me when I was over his place and I had to know more about who the creator of these Rockwell-esque dirty works was. Check out his website Playermen.com. In 2001 I commissioned a painting of my own from him and it’s in my bedroom.

Kind of apt, no?

If you are in New York, be sure to check out Buzzcock in January! It’s been on for one year and that’s frikkin’ awesome.
And lookie, new art from yours truly. Aww!

Late last night, a little bit after 3 AM, a car alarm goes off. That’s an odd one, I think to myself. I haven’t heard that one before. And I know, because every stupid moron on the street with one likes to stand in front of their car with theirs going as if frozen in time by it. Call me jaded or just call me immune to the noise, but I usually chalk it up to some jackass who can’t figure out that they shouldn’t open their door after they’ve used their key fob.

After the 2nd round of honking, I sat up in bed with a bit of a queazy feeling, waiting for that moron to shut off the alarm. After a moment, it stopped only to go off again for a 3rd and final time. Something strange made me want to get up but the lure of the warm electric blanket was too much.

In the morning I found the small back window of my Hyundai pried so hard that it smashed all over my back seat! That makes me the moron for not getting up to catch the prick who did it. Right in front of my house, too. And he didn’t even take my stereo or CDs. I now move everything inside each night and I have to learn to pay closer attention to my hunches I’ve been having lately.

I guess that the Performance Bike bag was the object of desire to the would-be thief. He must have been really sad to find out it wasn’t a Performance Audio bag filled with Christmas goodies, but the former filled with empty cans and water bottles from this weekend’s trip to Long Beach for work. Ha, Ha, cocksucker!

Then, while I am typing away some email once I got home today, a switch blows. So I have to go out into the dark around and flip the switch in the box on the side of the house back on. It seems that there is some faulty wiring in a lamp in the room I have the computer and this flipped the switch to the dining room and kitchen. But what do I expect from wiring from the 1930s?

And then to add insult to injury, I am doing some laundry and as I’m putting the load of whites into the dryer, I turn the nob to the gas dryer and it fails. Oh! By the way, did I tell you my dryer is in the backyard like some inbred Kentucky hillbilly? Yeah, that’s my landlady for you. Since her mother did the same thing she doesn’t understand why this would be a problem with the moisture and the rain of outside conditions. This happened 3 months ago to the dryer, which is pretty much brand new, and the appliance repair shop said the next time it happens she’d need to go get a new one.

I hate this place. I hate this termite-ridden house. I hate the stupid trees that produce more bio-mass than several midwestern states combined could ever muster in the wettest spring. I hate my day job. I hate my cheap ass boss. I hate the people who live here. I hate that the median price for a home is half a million dollars. I hate people who can’t use their turn signal. I hate stupid people on mobile phones. I hate trendy douche bag emo dorks who think they are so cool with their Led Zeppelin hair-don’t. I hate that I’m so angry at my situation and how I’m living. I hate owning anything. I hate having to wait to make decisions. I hate shallow, do-nothing Hillcrest faggots who think they have the world by the balls. I hate paying bills. I hate Christmas and the music it brings. I hate San Diego. I hate it so fucking much, I could kill someone. I so want out of here! Moving here was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.

I’ve never been surrounded by more pathetic excuses for human beings in my entire life. People here don’t give two shits about anyone but themselves and if it’s just too much hassle, they ignore things that are important until the person or problem eventually goes away. There’s always some excuse for bad behavior or laziness or stupidity. All it’s got is good weather going for it, and as far as I’m concerned an earthquake measuring 9 on the Richter Scale couldn’t come quick enough.

So fuck all y’all! San Diego is a city full of dim wits who couldn’t fight their way out of a wet paper bag and for the few that do, they ruin it for the rest of the people with higher IQs than them!

I’m sure it’s not just San Diego, as stupidity and reckless retardation seems to have spread far and wide. The best thing that could happen to this planet is if a huge comet wiped out 60% of the people and the weak were picked off by the heavily armed and made into food.

I think I’m going to go to bed to see if I can masturbate myself into blindness.

What you need:

1 Bottle of household bleach
1 Spray bottle
1 Pair of Levi 501 jeans
1 Bottle of dish washing liquid
1 Cheap paint brush (optional)
1 Wire brush (optional)

Get your favorite pair of Levi’s 501 Dark Blue jeans or a pair of nice worn ones from your local thrift store – the darker the better. Fill your spray bottle with water.

In a very well ventilated area, like a bathroom with an open window or garage, lay down the pair of jeans you’ve selected to modify. In spots you want to leave dark, dribble little bits of the dish washing liquid on them. Remember to use sparingly! You may want to work the soap into the zipper area and around back pocket stitching to prevent wear and destruction of threading where you know your jeans will get lots of use (like, your wallet pocket or if you constantly yank your cock through your zipper).

Lay flat in a bathtub or large bin where you are not afraid to splash bleach. Open the bottle of bleach and start dribbling it out onto the jeans. A few splashes here and there and some drips, drabs, and work fast. Neat bleach will start eating away at the material and you still have the back to do! Spray water from your water bottle onto bleach areas where you want the bleach effect to bleed and not be so hard edged. Flip jeans over and repeat. You should start to see the blue fade out of your jeans quickly and the process, before washing, takes about 10-20 minutes depending on how far you want to bleach them out and the look you desire.

Quickly, bunch jeans up in a bucket and get them to a washing machine and wash on full cycle alone. This will “fix” the design you’ve created and stop the bleaching process. You may run another cycle to get the bleach smell out or you might want to dry them and do a little more bleaching on spots you missed or that didn’t fade as much as you liked. This can also create a nice layered look if you do so.

Optionally, after you dry your jeans, carefully take the wire brush to your crotch, knees, etc. This creates a nice “worn look” if done right.

Optional Tips/Words of Caution: Before you start, you may want to get a cheap paint brush and a plastic cup filled with some of the bleach. Dip the brush in the bleach and splatter the jeans. Steer clear of putting bleach in a flat pan and putting your soles of your boots in them and pressing them on your jeans. You’ll liable to ruin a nice pair of boots and your jeans will look ridiculous with boot prints on them! Also, don’t spell things on your jeans with a bleach pen as it will look like you are making jeans for a 14 year old girl.

If you have a denim jacket or T-shirt, splashing bleach in a controlled area can be a great place to paint a band logo, place an iron on design or stitch a patch!

Good luck and happy bleachin’!

All last week I busted my ass and fought with people. You know those moods where you are all business and don’t have time for shit? That was this week and weekend before my date on Sunday night. I’ve been cleaning my house and putting things in order, arguing about shit, being told that I’m a (selfish) jerk by various people, and I just want to relax even though I know I can’t. I have got lots to do. I’m in a mood that’s so absolutely rotten where the only thing that could make me happy would be if I was able to step out in front of a bus and finally be done with it all. It’s all so ironic, as to what takes place and how desperate I am for some friends I can relate to here.

What is it about guys?

It’s all really confusing. I go grocery shopping, usually after work and pop into places near my house. On Friday, there is this window washer in camos, stocky, hispanic, jet black flat top, older (around 40) going about his business at Vons and stops to check me out. I figure it’s just my hair or something and I’m not feeling very sexy or even worth looking at today… but he lingers long enough to catch my eye and smiles and nods. I smile back and he keeps watching. And then does it again on the way out. It’s too bad that I’m not in the mood.

Saturday rolls around and my self-esteem is at a record breaking low. I don’t even want to leave the house as I feel like my soul has been crushed. Nevertheless, I’m at IKEA shopping for a flat file to store art stuff in, I’m unshaven (which is spotty and I look gross) and I stink. My clothes are filthy from cleaning and I even think I have sweat stains. I might have thought I looked ok if I didn’t know me, but, whatever. I don’t care, I just go. I’m flipping around a tape measure, grabbing the yellow strip and letting it pop back in and I look up and there is this rather classically handsome looking guy with two other obviously gay men looking at me. And then he smiles at me in a very “oo baby” kind of way as I’m walking toward him. I’m not into George Clooney and I’m so not expecting it, so I smirk in disgust as I’m going around the corner to go downstairs.

I’m downstairs and this short little fuzzy monkey looking guy with tattoos is purposefully going around the area I’m shopping in to get a better look at me. He’s cute and I’m not in the mood. I think I’ve ditched him and he circles back and we nearly collide into each other. He apologizes, eyes sparkling and all smiles and I nearly growl at him to leave me alone. I don’t. I just excuse myself and go away.

Today, I’m getting some Dick Wadd porno (It’s Two-fer Tuesday!) at The Crypt and in walks this mike messenger type guy, with tattoos, a bag of laundry from the laundromat across the street and his bike tire! He puts this all down. He’s got great legs but once again, I’ve slumped back into my mood from being pecked at all day – a real foul mood and I don’t even want to deal with people. He asks for tokens for the back room and then comes back and asks for 3 dollars more in addition to the amount he’s already got and he’s grinning at me. Aw jeez! Please. I pay and leave.

Why doesn’t this stuff happen when you are happy, full of confidence, and feel like you look good?

Maybe it’s Gwen Stefani on the Tonight Show grating on my nerves with what the world gladly shovels down their greedy little gullets and passes off as music when I know it to be giant turd-like creations or that I’m told how to drive and what lane to be in or that I have to go to Long Beach this weekend for work and hang out with a bunch of high school football players and cheerleaders.

I’m going to bed.

After a long week of work and then a whole weekend of picking up the house, throwing crap out, fighting over stupid shit, and general tidying up it’s nice to find out a pal you hooked up awhile back has come back to town again all the way from the Czech Republic. He’s one of those friends who like to kick off their sneakers and get right down to business – each other’s hot, sweaty socked feet!

I hooked up with this guy a couple of months after I moved here in San Diego and we both promised that if I was in Prague or if he came back to San Diego, we’d call the other one for some sweaty foot play. I always like a man of his word – especially one with hot, musky, meaty dawgs who likes ‘em just as much as I do.

I wore my tubesocks for the last 5 days, in my boots and sneakers, just to get a good funk going. He surprised me with some sexy, tight Nike rugby reds that had me stiff as soon as he pressed them to my face! He’s got these amazing, thick legs and he pulled his socks tight over his calves and showed off his thick toes and gorgeous arches. His big feet are a fucking work of art! Slurping, kissing, sucking, sniffing each other’s feet and mumbling affirmations under each other’s breath was all we both needed to beat our meat until we exploded.

Well within character, at one point I stood over him when he peeled off one of my socks and stuffed my entire size 8 to the back of his mouth repeatedly, watching the drool dribble out of the corners of his mouth.

I almost made him leave his socks behind, but I thought he probably wants to keep them, so I kept those thoughts to myself. After a little snooze, I woke him up to my bare feet in his face and made him blast off another round of hot white spunk.

I’m such a bastard.

All I know is when I’m back east again, somebody’s going to be literally on the ground as my foot rest, because I didn’t get to do that like I wanted to.

Is there a reason that I live so very far from fun things like this? Club Sweat? Sounds like a damn fun party to me. Socks, jocks, and footie kit? Sigh. I just don’t think I’ll understand the whole “chav” fetish thing – track pants, socks over the bottoms of their trackies, trashy looking sneakers, burberry, baseball caps, lots of gaudy gold bling and the romantic views this appropriation has with council tower block apartments? Wince. The American equivalent would be a fetish for trailer park trash, patchy facial hair, mullets, bolo ties and Wal-Mart fashion. “Ooh! You’re a football hooligan on the dole? That’s hot.” Somethings I’m glad will always remain British.

An order for 248 cards have been sent off to my European friends at Mr. B Rubber and Leather this week. That means all of you boys on the better continent have access to some really cheap smut just in time for the holidays.

And for all you dirty, filthy Americans – check out the novelty section of the site to get your hands on Red or Blue card sets. They are back in stock! PayPal is your friend.