So I open my mailbox this morning, and by morning I mean noon. I had received a letter. I was very excited to have received something. I opened it quickly, only to read this.
Dear David,
Since you are procrastinating with your spring-cleaning, I will procrastinate with spring. Enjoy the snow.
Love,
God
There’s something to be said about cosmic Alignment and the synchronization of the universe, but right now I just wanna relax and drink a coffee, so let’s talk about deep things some other time. Let’s talk about love, you say? No, that’s deep too, in a shallow kinda way.
There is something however to be said about old friends. There’s nothing really deep about old friends. Old friends just are. People come and go, but friends are forever. That’s what they say, right? True friends are forever, which makes absolutely no sense, because the same fucker who says that will turn around five seconds later and say, “oh well, nothing lasts forever.” I wish some people would just make up their minds.
I need some help people, because can you believe it, some of my old friends I can’t find on Facebook. WHAT THE FUCK? I thought you where supposed to “connect old friends,” Facebook. Get on your job! I’m oviously friends with Greg Hunt, but where is he? I know he’s alive because I watched this video through his eyes, so to speak. Who said a “cameraman” isn’t important? I miss that guy. He was so friendly. But again, I’m losing my thought. just a mention of the evil Facebook distracted me. DAMN YOU FACEBOOK!
The real reason I want your help today is to get a fan letter out to one of my all time heroes Bobby Puleo. This guy is just the coolest. Smooth, like something really really smooth. Smooth like the smoothest thing you can imagine. If you imagined a baby’s butt, you should seek help. I haven’t seen him in ages, or heard anything, from anyone, or had to write RIP in front of his name, Like Roc Raider, who I am also inspired by, so I guess he’s alive, but I’m afraid he might be lost. Lost in the “real world” with no Facebook to pull him back to reality, But fear not world, if we can get a stupid picture of a non musical pickle more fans than Nickelback, than someone, somewhere will know how to get this letter to Bobby. Please help y’all! Thanks a lot for your concern, everyone should get a chance to reach out to their heroes, and not just stalk Dj A-Track.
Yes, I’m sure we’ll get to him at some point as well.
Dear Bobby Puleo,
I’ve been a huge fan of yours since, let’s just say 1996. You and I where both living in San Francisco, and I most likely met you rolling around in some trash can or something strange like that. I was lucky enough to get to meet you, and I’m not sure if you remember, but you signed my copy of Thrasher Magazine with you on the cover! Thanks for that! Dude, you totally shred! You remember that Thrasher? The one where you mentioned myself being an “inspiration” to you in the interview? You claimed it was because I had “nothing.” Hilarious. I still have nothing Bobby, and I guess Dylan was right in saying, “when you aint got nothing, you aint got nothing to lose.” My song goes, “if you aint got nothing, when it comes to ladies, you aint got nothing, so you lose.” Bit different, but hey, I aint Dylan either. Speakin of acoustic guitars and harmonicas, remember when we hopped freight trains to Canada, from Oakland, but only made it as far as Oregon, and then got arrested in I think it was Concord, on the way home because we scratched tagged in the Bart station? We where so close to the finish line! Man, that was one of the best times of my life. I always wanted to do that. So glad I got to do that with you. It was raw, but we made it out alive, and we’re tougher than leather.
I admire you Bobby. You’re the human equivalent to a paradox. So fresh, so clean, yet so disgusting, and grimy. You are grimy. If there was professional league for LURKING, you would be the king. You’re the Michael Jordan of cutty lurkers. I remember when we both lived in New York. Let’s just say it was 2001. I didn’t see you a lot, but I came over your crib once to hang out when you had broken your leg. I remember how sad you where that you couldn’t skate. I mean you where devastated. You told me you didn’t know what to do with yourself, so you had been wandering around Brooklyn, picking up random things, that you thought where beautiful. It sounds poetic now, but at the time, when you said beautiful, it was slow and deliberate, a bit like a murderer might say it. You showed me a few boxes worth of stuff, and I get it Bobby. You thought because I was also some kind of alley cat, that I too would think this stuff was beautiful. You know what I thought Bobby? I thought, if this guy’s leg doesn’t heal tomorrow, he’ll be collecting straight jackets. I thought you where crazy. For real. PICKING UP TRASH? Scraps of notes and old photos, and tapes, and slips of scraps with notes on them, and to be honest, because at that point there was only three small boxes, I didn’t see the vision. And you didn’t either Bobby. You didn’t say, “this is art.” I asked you what the fuck you where gonna do with this shit and you said you didn’t know, you just liked it. Um, ok dude, right. Trash. Awesome. Easy enough to please this guy for his birthday.
That’s why I’m writing you now Bobby.
I was living in Berlin, when suddenly, on the cover of the art magazine Lowdown, was your name. I flipped it open, until, to my surprise, I saw an interview with non other than the ARTIST, Bobby Puleo. The genius of junk, the wiz of what once was washed up, the duke of dumpster. Scrap master B. I saw amazing pictures of found objects all lined up perfectly. Not just ONE found yellow post it note with a number on it, BUT HUNDREDS, and hundreds, all perfectly laid out in a row! And like you Bobby, I saw the vision. I saw what this shit was telling you. I saw the beauty. It was breathtaking. I’m getting goose bumps right now telling you about it Bobby. I am so proud of that trash. It actually looked like art. It was like you where meant to break your leg Bobby. Like you where meant to be the absolute weirdest dude in the trash pile at any givin time. You’re that dude Bobby. You made it! I sincerely hope this letter reaches you. I miss you, I want an autograph for my copy of Lowdown that I don’t even own yet, and I think you still owe me $4.75 from a burrito I bought you in SF.
Oh, you made it. Congrats to me. Either I’m a good enough writer to bring you back, I’ve convinced you to check it out with my spamming abilities, or my photo is enticing enough to make you say, “wow, this good looking guy must have something to do with awesomeness, I mean he’s right there next to Yarah Bravo in the picture, he must be cool, or good at Photo shop. And look at that mustache.”
Anyway you look at it, I’m happy to have you. Hope you enjoy. Feel free to comment, unless of course you have something negative to say, in that case, shut your pie hole. I don’t need criticism here pal, I need what everyone needs, Talent affirming bullshit to prolong my denial, and boost my delusional mind state. That way, whatever I do can be believed to be close to worthy of anyone wasting any amount of precious time to check out.
As a disclaimer I must say, I’m not actually an “art school vet,” or a vet of any school at all. Like Biggie, I’m considered a fool cause I dropped outa high school. Speaking of rap music, this Guru situation is INSANE! If you don’t know who Guru is, you obviously don’t listen to hip hop, and if you do listen to hip hop and don’t know Guru or Gang Starr, please jump in front of the first large, fast moving vehicle, the world needs you not.
In all seriousness, the world needs Guru to live! I’m praying for his family, friends, and anyone who rolled with him ever. Death and near death situations go beyond beef, I thought everyone knew this, but apparently, some people are still holding grudges or something weird. I have no clue any inside shit, but this whole situation Just seems wrong. As a fan, I want Guru to live and make more hits with Dj Premier, a true SUPER PRODUCER! I’m not gonna throw anyone under the bus. I don’t need to, some people just run into the streets themselves and lay down while a bus is coincidentally speeding directly toward them. I’m just sayin. If I’m ever sick, I’d like to extend an invitation to all my enemies to feel free and visit me. It’s such a shame good art can’t transcend everything two people can’t agree on.
Like I’ve said over and over, Art and music are to life what breathing and breath is to lungs and the brain. I love art. without it, we’re all toast. Done.
GANG STARR FOREVER!
Speaking of art, I continued my spring cleaning this week. There is no better way to NOT clean your house, than try to learn animation. I have officially started my quest to complete a short animated film by this summer. If I load up a shotgun and kill the cashiers at the grocery store it’s because THIS SHIT TAKES A LONG FUCKIN TIME! This test I’m about to post is my first attempt to do something like making a cartoon talk, and I already thought 16 times, “go on David, just stab your eyes out, do it, I swear, it’s peaceful in heaven.”
Anyway. Talk animation test. CHECK!
Next comes walking. Then I’ll move on to advanced techniques like blowing the face off of zombie minimal techno heads. OH NO! I’m not tryin to give up to much information about this film.
It’s called “D is for EATH.” I’ll get back to you when I have some more info, or a trailer or something, or need a date.
Until then, enjoy the test and let’s all keep our minds above the clouds, where they belong.
I’m not exactly sure how to say this without possibly hurting your feelings, but I’m just going to have to say it, because you’ve gone and over stepped your boundaries. Get the fuck outta here. When I invited you to come around and hang out back in November, I knew it was gonna be months and months of cold, wind, cold wind, slushy ice, loneliness, darkness, and an over all miserable vibe, full of darkness. I figured some snow here and there wouldn’t be so bad, it might even cheer me up, so to speak. Snow, you’re a lot like those over eager graffiti kids who don’t know when and where to start and stop tagging. When those kids show up at the over priced yuppie bars, They bring me cheer. I love the thought of the owner getting a call about a bunch of “ugly tags” all over the bathroom, but you guys show up at my house, when I’m having a party and don’t realize that me and my friends have the same exact artist, “fuck the world” kinda vibe, well, snow, you ruin the party, point blank. I suppose, snow, that you failed to notice, that when you left last week, and the sun peeked out a bit, and everyone had that first ice cream, and drank a coffee outside, right before walking through the park to look at the other bear like people who had just left their cave like dwellings for the first time in months. I guess you failed to notice that those people where happy. If you didn’t see that, you’ll never understand the next thing I’m gonna tell you snow, which is a shame. They where happy, snow, Because you where fuckin gone! You’re like that guy who shows up at a party, and no one cares about him right away, but by the end of the party, he’s gotten so obnoxiously drunk that he’s managed to chase off any cool girls that where there, and he never gets the vibe that he’s ruining the party, and even though he was kicked out, he manages to sneak back in, right in time to puke on the dance floor. Listen, snow, seriously, since you’re here now, stay for a few days, but come the fuck on, there’s no need for you to be here anymore. You’re pissing me off. That’s why I pissed on you tonight. TWICE! When you leave this time snow, don’t come back until next November or so, and I swear snow, I’ll forget this little incontinence happened. Shit, I’ll even welcome you with open arms, like I do every time I’m on a mountain with a piece of fiberglass strapped to my feet. But you never seem to want to come around much then, do you snow?
Well, it’s not really spring, but everyone wants spring so bad, maybe if I start writing about it, spring will come. You do know what spring means though, right? It means you better get your shit together if you want to spend the entire summer hanging out in the park and looking at girls! Spring is like that time before summer starts when everyone gets a few extra weeks to get that work done, write that paper, or pump up that six pack, like you claimed you where gonna do all winter. Seriously, summer is coming people. Let’s all take a few minutes right now to get off 150 crunches each. A great man told me once, if you say, I’ll do it tomorrow, do it today. If you say I’ll do it later, Do it right this second. So here we go. 150 crunches. GO!
YOOOOO!
Didn’t that feel great? Yeah I didn’t do them either. Fuck it.
You know what spring means to me?
Spring cleaning!
You know what spring cleaning means to me?
PROCRASTINATION!
Spring might as well be called winter to me, because I aint doin shit. Only difference is, I aint doin shit, outside, if the sun happens to be out.
So while I am procrastinating cleaning out under my bed, I’ll go through some old boxes of sentimental stuff. I actually found one of those backwards stickers from TWIST I was talking about.
I Also found all these stickers too. Including a few Probe stickers.
I also found a BONUS Bob Licky sticker.
I mentioned people that made a career out of stickers and Bob Licky was one of those dudes. I LOVED HIS STICKERS.
I also love procrastinating. I love it so much I’m gonna even stop looking through old pictures and tell you a story.
How about a Mark Gonzales story?
If you know the Gonz, feel free to skip directly to the story. You may pass go, and collect your 200 daps from me, a massive Mark Gonzales fan.If not, read along.
If you skateboard, and you don’t know Mark Gonzales, don’t worry, as bad as this is, it obviously means you’re young, and most likely living with your parents, so I’m sure your mother will have all the necessary tools to solve your absolutely unheard of ignorance. Check out the kitchen first. Make sure you look in all the counters, and when you find the cleaning supplies, just start drinking them. Looking for the ones with “Mr Yuk” or a skull and crossbones will speed up your medicinal healing, but either way, just chug-a-lug, you’ll be free in no time.
For non skaters it’s a bit more complex, I guess. Best thing I can suggest is not worry to much, because the old, it’s better late than never is about to kick in, and one really good thing is, you’ll get to watch his part in the Blind, “Video Days” movie for the very first time.
WOW! That’s making me excited for you, and therefore I’m not even gonna mention how you should smash yourselves in the genitalia for missing out on endless amounts of art, short stories, more art, films, videos, skateboarding, hilarious little moments, more art, and style that makes oreo cookies inventers scream in pain and wonder how they can make their almost perfect cookies have that “Mark Gonzales” flavor.
What the fuck can I say about The Gonz? He’s your favorite skaters skater?
Fuck that, to cliché for THE GONZ! Put it this way, do you have a massive “gap,” at one of the most legendary skate spots, in one of the most legendary skate cities in America named after you? HELL NO YOU DO NOT, unless of course your name is The Gonz.
Have you ever in your life, EVER been the first to do anything? ANYTHING? Some of you bone heads can’t even be the first person to bite something properly. Half the town is on something, there’s a full length documentary movie, and Red Bullshit has a yearly tournament, and in you walk, like you just invented that shit. AS IF.
Mark Gonzales is to skateboarding what Sun Ra is to jazz. What Revs is to Graffiti art. What Dilla is to Rap.
Mark Gonzales’s creativity goes beyond his chosen medium.
You see, Gonz is one of the best skaters on the planet, because he’s one of the best humans on the planet. This dude walks and talks and most likely even pisses the bed with so much style it gets hard to come off with a proper simile powerful enough to describe it. He is eccentric. If your lucky enough to spend anytime with this guy, which I was, and I am EXTREMELY thank full for, than you will see, this guy is every bit as weird, goofy, fun and excited as you’ve ever seen him on video. He’s every bit as talented at making you smile as he was at skateboarding in 1991. This guys a pro. He’s a professional human being, and the world would be 1 million times better if a bunch of Mark Gonzales’s where running the world. Unfortunately, for world politics, there’s only one Mark.
On with the story!
MARK GONZALES DOES A WALL RIDE!
I met Mark Gonzales in 1996 or 1997, I’m way to lazy to try to remember exactly, or look up the information somewhere. Let’s not forget people, I’m still procrastinating, I mean spring cleaning.
How I met Mark, and the few times we hung out together, are all Mark Gonzales stories too, but I’ll save those for another time. Right now, the best one.
I interviewed Mark for my zine, “On Glue.” Maybe someday I’ll reprint the interview. His thoughts are worth a reprint. After I finished the zine, I met him and gave him a copy and somehow, through the grapevine he had heard I wrote graffiti.
Along with my name I would often write “God iz love” and sometimes draw angels and characters.
Mark thought this was cool, which I thought was even cooler. We discussed the bus stop poster phenomenon, where guys like TWIST, META, KAWS, QUEST LBK, and others would take out the giant posters at bus stops, paint them, then return them into the frames of the bus stops locking the art into a glass frame giving the artist a bit of a reverse Harry Houdini mysticism. I had a bus stop key, so I asked him if he would want to do one, and I could help him, or hang it up for him or whatever. He got real shy, but asked me in the most childish way if I would steal him one of the Bebe posters KAWS had been killing. Minus the KAWS art, of course, he just wanted the poster.
I said sure. Days later, after procuring the poster, I made an appointment to meet Mark at my house. He was gonna trade me a board for the poster. At the time I was living in a small warehouse space with a bunch of other people at 17th and Capp in the Mission. We had built some rinky dink mini ramp in our spot and a bunch of us where skating it daily. Mark stopped by and ended up giving me a movie he had made in return for the poster. I was a bit sad about that at first, but it turned out to be a signed numbered copy of a movie he made for a show in Japan. The movie of course was dope, but I lost it along my journey.
Don’t worry friends, I’m just looking for the bullets real quick and I will end myself for that one any minute now.
Are you still reading this? Either I’m a decent writer, you love the Gonz as much as I do, or you’re also dreading actually cleaning those skeletons out of the closet and PROCRASTINATING!
ANYWAY!
Longer story shorter.
I gave Gonz the poster and he rolled it up, tucked it under his arm, and we wondered outside. We started a small impromptu skate session in the street in front of my house where the greatest skate moment of my non skate career manifested. They say everyone gets there fifteen minutes of fame.
My fifteen minutes of fame lasted about 15 seconds.
Gonz, “Do a kickflip.”
Me, “Ok.”
Push, Snap, Ollie, Flip, Catch, Land, Roll Away, Smile.
Gonz, “NIIIICE DUDE!”
Yes, I landed a kickflip that the Gonz told me to do.
What’s funnier, the act of it, or me braggin about it 12 years later?
Look friends, you made it this far. You are obviously committed to this story, and although I won’t swear to god I won’t waste your time later in life, I won’t waste anymore of it today. This story is about to get juicy, son.
Impressed with my kick flip, it was Marks turn to impress me. He asked me if I wanted to see a 360 flip. I told him it was 1997, he needed to step his game up. 360 flips where cool in 1989. I wanted to see some shit. I tried pulling his leg. I told him I wanted to see him fly full speed, then, from the street, hit the curb cut, jumping the entire sidewalk, landing into a wall ride and then of course, ride away after successfully landing back on the sidewalk. I was being sarcastic of course, but obviously Mark Gonzales loves to get his leg pulled.
He goes flying away before I could say PSYCHE, giant plastic bus stop poster, rolled up like a giant cigar, under his arm. Now, as he’s pushing back toward me at full speed I see my whole posse of skater friends coming from the other direction. About 10 of them rolling up to me as Mark is flying toward us. I hear one friend say to another, “oh shit, is that Mark Gonzales?”
Mark sees them as well and I see his face turn from fun, to, OH SHIT……… His face is now screaming, Damn! PEOPLE! Groupies, autographs, questions, expectations, questions, talking, people, conversation, fuck, does that guy have a video camera?
SHIT! PEOPLE!!!
He’s rolling to fast to stop, and even though he most likely wished he would have just been able to role right by he’s got a challenge to complete. God damn if I didn’t complete my kick flip, now he has to do massive sidewalk ollie to wall ride.
Seriously people. There’s no one on this planet that could have gotten a skateboard rolling as fast as this guy had it right when he hit that curb cut. He launched himself about 15 feet and to mine, and everyone else’s surprise, was feet on board, poster under arm, and all eyes on Mark Gonzales, doing a fucking wall ride like a pro is supposed to. I was midway through the thought about how sick this dude is when suddenly the reality hit. Then the poster hit. Then Mark and his skateboard hit, then I guess the shit hit the fan, and I guess it was right about then that Too Short was even making a hit because Mark went sliding along the sidewalk getting a scraper from hell.
There was a collective groan and gasp for air as Mark jumped up, looked at a few bloody spots, looked around like he had just raped a small animal, rolled his poster up and skated quickly over to me. Before I could ask if he was ok, or anyone could ask for an autograph, Mark said, “I’ll be right back, I gotta go to the bathroom.” And rode off.
Like I said, Mark is eccentric.
Ps. I absolutely fell over when I heard Gonz say this about riding in traffic on a skateboard.
“Sometimes, these people, they honk. I’m like, think of something original. Everybody’s doin the honk.”
At what point did the whole “D.I.Y.” scene just disappear?
When and where did it stop being cool to do everything on your own, for the love of art, and not give two shits about fame and money? When did something like making a zine, riding a fixed gear bike, wearing a Mohawk, tattoos, graff, Djing, Indy rock and every other subculture, stop being about that actual thing, and start being some kind of cool guy, cool girl way to get noticed, or control some money making venture?
My guess is sometime around the first hip hop sprite commercial, or the first “super star” skater got his first wheaties box, video game, or sneaker, or speaking of sneakers, the first Nike shoe designed by, fill in the name of a famous graffiti artist you know and I guarantee…… shall I continue? oh well, now I sound like a bitter hater. But once again, it’s quite a paradox we have going on. A regular old classic game of hot potato catch 22!
Can’t blame “the man” for wantin to get down with what’s real, can ya? It’s like bein 12 all over again.
I started smoking weed at 12. I had an older sister, and one of the “benefits” of having an older sister, is getting turned onto all the “cool” things early. All my sister’s friends would love to watch her little nerdy brother smoke a joint and or drink four or five beers down and crawl around barking like a dog. I liked the attention too, I guess, because I kept it up. They handed me a drink. I drank. They handed me a joint. I smoked. They said jump, I said, “how high mother fucker.”
A lot of kids in my grade made fun of me for it. I’d hear on the other side of the locker room at gym class, “yeah, I heard he smokes weed, eeeewwww.” Three years later. Same guys, same locker room, different words. “No you ask him. No you. I know he knows where to get it, his jean jacket wreaks like it, you ask.” Nothing new.
Tommy Guerrero and Jim Thiebaud story. DROP DROP DROP DROP DROP DROP DROP DROP DROP.
I once found myself skating with Tommy Guerrero and Jim Thiebaud. Wow. What can I say? These guys are heroes to any skater, which includes myself. Tommy might be known as the first street skater with that new school style. What a beast!
They where in a pack of 20 or so people skating a school yard in San Francisco, and to skate with professional skaters in SF isn’t unheard of, so I kept my cool and just skated like everyone else. At one point Jim and I where both waiting for a line to the ledge to clear when a kid near us threw his board in frustration and yelled, “I hate this sport!” Jim and I looked at each other and he said to me, “when did skateboarding become a sport?” he laughed and rode off. What a great moment for a dirty little punk kid like me. While the rest of the skate world was trying to “get that crispy clean skate style,” I just wanted to skate.
Funniest thing about that, is Jim Thiebaud has a huge hand in DLX distribution, and I believe actually owns “Real” skateboards. Talk about contributions to the “sport” known as skateboarding. I’m sure he knows the exact date it became a sport.
But I heard him loud and clear.
He was saying that skateboarding will never be sport to me or him. At least not in our approach to it. We still have the right to skate for any reason we want to. Even with kids now making millions off of shoe sales, videos, boards, cereals, video games,TV shows, electric razors, sleeping pills, condoms, whatever, I can still skate for the same reason I always have. To roll like Captain America and Billy the Kid in Easy Rider baby. I keep that philosophy with me close in everything in life. You guys can have your money, cars, fancy clubs, nice phones, sneakers, Aero rimmed bikes, (I do like bikes I must admit), plasmas, and all the public spotlight you can hog up.
This is a very sticky topic and could very easily put me in a kind of pretentious quicksand, but I have to say this much. I went down to the Akademie der Kunste today to see the George Grosz exibit. That has little to nothing to do with this story, but I did enjoy the exibit. The problems arose later, when I was killing time in the book store and came across a few books entitled “street art Berlin, Part 35” or “pictures of awesome street art, part7” or something. These books have to be the most annoying mosquito bites in the book world. I have to say this, and I mean it. If you’ve ever written a book about what you might call “street art,” that is nothing more than photos of everyone else’s art, please go directly to the window and jump out. And while we’re at it, if you’re one of those assholes who prints posters, then goes out with some wheat paste and proceeds to cover up “tags” because you’re doing “art” and so on and so forth, you should also go to the window and jump, I hate you.
Where do I get off, you’re probably asking! That’s exactly what I’m also asking, Where can I get off this “Street art train?” Did it ever occur to anyone in this world to un hype anything? EVER? If there was any topic in the world that doesn’t need a fuckin book about it it’s graffiti. I’m not mad at art books, this isn’t directed to you SAM FLORES. You make art. You made a few books. Hopefully, you’re raping the art consumer’s pockets with the least amount of effort you can, so you can get on with your real life…. making paintings. One of my favorite graffiti artists, ESPO, wrote an insane book, called, “The Art Of Getting Over.” That book is the shit, but unfortunately, it’s more about stories of people than pictures and it’s watered down in a giant drink called “street art books.” Disgusting. I’m disgusted that no one has stabbed these people yet making books with pictures of other peoples art in them. Sure, it’s a free world, but there’s a certain code that comes with the “streets” that a lot of people wanna lighten up with the word “art” after it. I bet if there was a Cope piece on the cover of a book costing 15 euros in a gallery, not written by Cope, someone would get buck 50’d. There’s a huge difference in working, and raping the work of someone else. HUGE.
THE BARRY MGCEE PART
Let me try to explain it in a story.
In 1996, I was obsessed with graffiti. OBSESSED. I liked to write my name on things that didn’t belong to me in order to get other people to notice it and say, “my god, that dude is stupid dope.” I liked lurking in abandoned dark buildings. Climbing rooftops, bridges, train tunnels, highways, you get my point.
I didn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, I had no girlfriend. I worked 20 hours a week, and when I wasn’t getting Krylon, American Accents, Rusto, markers, giant cans of Marsh ink, Fat caps, streakers, phantoms, mops, pens, and griffon, I was emptying those things on the streets with my friends.
Barry Mcgee, AKA TWIST, was the undeniable god of San Francisco graffiti. Again, where you might know him as a gallery, or corporate guy, I knew him from his ridiculous amounts of fat cap tags, huge straight letters, fill ins, trucks, and stickers.
Everyone in San Francisco hit tags on stickers. It was something fun to do in the day, or to put on busses, or bus stops, stop signs, whatever. We had those red, “Hello my name is” stickers, ups stickers, priority mail stickers where the hit for a bit, and a lot of cats made homemade stickers. A girl who wrote PROBE made some of the best stickers I remember.
Are you still with me? I’m gonna make a point, I swear. Anyway.
At one point I remember TWIST would peel the stickers, tag on the sticky part with a black marker, then post the sticker somewhere inside out. He did this a lot, and fast, so in about 2 weeks it was very noticeable. He was getting up with his reverse stickers. TWIST had managed to use something common, and washed up, like making stickers, and made it so fresh and new it was ridiculous. Do you realize how much burn you get when you come off with an idea that revolutionizes a concept that’s already popular? It was genius. I’m not even 100% sure it was Barry’s original idea, but he was for sure, most defiantly, without a doubt the first person doing that in SF. I noticed it right away. He branded it! I also thought to myself how interesting it would be to see how long it would last before some tool steps up and bites. In my mind, that guy is the culprit. He’s the weak link in the armor. Once he bites, it’s perfectly ok for everyone else to because he already did it.
I would never have been the guy to step up and imitate something so obviously not my idea, but of course, in this fame starved world we live in, Where the idea of being original is less intriguing than any abuse you will never take for being a follower, it took no longer than those few weeks before some sucker stepped up and took a gobble of the TWISTO steez. Wasn’t the first time, and wouldn’t be the last, I see a lot of TWIST bites out there, but the saddest part of that story, is what happens in usual events as well. Everyone just accepts it and moves on. SAD. I said to a friend a few months later when EVERYONE was now tagging the backs of stickers, “Wow, crazy how EVERYONE just bit TWIST with those backwards stickers, huh?”
He said, “You think TWIST invented that? Come on man, no one invented that, everyone just started doing that all at once.”
Makes me laugh even now.
New goal for 2010, do something no one has ever done before. Any suggestions?
Fame, fame, fame, fame. What is everyone’s massive fascination with fame? Fame is a bad word in my book. It does not, and I repeat, it does not mean that what you do is good, worthy of praise, decent, original, fresh, or making the world a better place. It should not be confused with credibility, respect, vision, props, or talent. Just ask Chris Crocker.
I see this quite a bit. In so many cases, people have a love for a band, artist, dj, whatever because other people like it. Other people like it because other people like it, and so on, and so on. I’m so sick of untalented people getting props. When will it be cool and fashionable to have your own opinion?
Fame is a mere product of people’s perception of what’s what in this world. People somehow get caught up in the hype machine of art and conform to the idea that any artist who has “made it” is anything more special than they are, or better, cooler, funnier, happier, sexier, with a bigger cock, or has better taste in food, music, wine, what the fuck ever, you get my point.
A good soccer player is nothing more than a guy who is good at soccer. A guy who has trained his whole fuckin life, to kick a little ball in a metal frame, without another little guy hitting it away, who has also trained his whole life to hit it away.. Lucky him! He’s good at something that stupid people want to see, and more importantly, pay money for! CONGRATULATIONS! Good at football=money=fame=super model wife. NOW! Think of this. Let’s say, the best, and I mean the very best. The number one, let’s say high jumper. The very best high jumper in the world. It takes a tremendous amount of athletic ability to high jump, and time to train and all that blah blah, but at the end of the day, millions of drunk fat fucks don’t give a shit about high jumping because the white corporate pigs in their shit box offices decided it wouldn’t get enough white fat men buying beer, so they don’t sponsor the world cup of high jump, so therefore, the best high jumper in the whole fuckin world can probably barely make enough to survive, train, and kick ass in the Olympics, but certainly doesn’t make MILLIONS, and therefore is most likely reduced to having to use actual wit, and charm to get a girl.
HA! Good luck with charm on a supermodel!
On the other hand, if you are an artist, there’s most likely going to be some kind of fame to deal with on some level. The balance between making respectable art and getting noticed for that art is entirely up to the artist him or herself. Me? All I want to do, and I mean this with my heart, is make people laugh. (I just smacked myself in the face with a raw piece of bacon, just for you.) I want to make people feel good, make people look around their lives and see what they have, see what we all have. We have each other. We have this world. It’s ours, to make what we want out of it. My dreams are to harvest the fruits of a decent comedy tree. Something, that will last beyond me. Something people will remember. Something I made myself. You can have the fame. I’m tryin to have fun over here.
Speaking of trying…
part 2
Doesn’t it just seem like everyone’s trying to hard? Don’t you hate a name dropper? I do. I know him, and I know her, and I do this with them when I want to say who, what, where, and why. If I was gonna drop names, I would make it count. Like I would mention the time I met Mike Tyson in the elevator of the Trump International hotel in NYC. I was so drunk that when Mike Tyson stepped onto the elevator with a blunt, I thought he was actually Kool Kieth. He’s not exactly as big as you would imagine. It was winter and he had a jacket on, but he wasn’t taller than myself and he really didn’t look that brutal, like he could smack my teeth out in one swing. He was wearing a massive medallion, also lending him that rapper look, more than that former heavyweight champ look he would garnish in the gym with gloves and trunks on. I was in the elevator with my then girlfriend Alexis and one other friend, let’s just call him Mr. Brown. Mr Brown was the man with the room at the Trump hotel, he also had quite a collection of exotic marijuana strains, and it turns out he has a better eye for former heavy weight champs than I did at the time, so when Mike Tyson offered him a hit of the blunt, he mearly said, “If you’ld like to smoke some real weed, come visit me in room 545. I got the knockout green.” Mike just smiled as the elevator doors opened. “What room?” Mike said.
Moments later, in the luxury sweet with Mr. Brown, We laughed, drank, and as he lit a bongs worth of chronic, there was a knock at the door. My then girlfriend Alexis peeped through the peephole. “It’s Mike Tyson, with two other guys”
Moments later with a freshly ordered bottle of Dom P in hand, Mr Brown poured us all a glass of champagne. Surely smoking weed with the former heavyweight champ, potentially the greatest heavyweight champ of all time was something to toast! “go on Mike, you make the toast.”
“To weed. If more people smoked this stuff, there would be no more war.”
I’ll drink to that!
On a side note. If I was a betting man, or even a smarter sports fan, I possibly could have made the easiest bet on a sporting event in my life. I met Mike Tyson around 6 or 7 months before he fought Lennox Lewis, a fight many thought would be the comeback of “Iron Mike.” After he left, Myself and my then girlfriend Alexis were leaving the hotel around 5am. We saw Mike and his “friends” hanging outside the front of the hotel. I said to her, “shouldn’t he be training?” what I should have said was, “where can I bet my life savings on Lennox Lewis?”
This is a blog. I hate the word Blog, but digital diary is absolutely ridiculous, and any other word I make up would just sound fake and everyone would end up calling this a blog anyway. So whatever. Here’s my point. This BLOG is to just get some of my own personal stories down. Share some funny drug moments, sleeping in a cardboard box moments, hop a freight train type of moments, you get my point. I’m sorry if you don’t relate or get it. It’s not my intention to share new and exciting music or fart on the face videos with you. I’m just telling stories. Stories which are 100% true, except the illegal parts. The illegal parts are made up to make me look and sound more exciting. Don’t get mad when you find out I didn’t really transport large bags of weed in a Saab 9000 turbo, or weigh stacks of coke laced 20 dollar bills to make sure they equaled 5,000 dollars. It just sounds BETTER than the truth.
Intro.
Allow me to re introduce myself. My name is David. (Insert Just Blaze banger here) That’s what my parents named me, and that’s what some people know me as. I apologize in advance for any grammar issues you may encounter in my writing, This is all about me. I am a proud high school drop out, semi illiterate, lazy, bad speller, Vandal, semi punk, with a touch of “I could give a shit” in my veins. I’m bout it bout it, but can’t really spell. You know you’re a bad speller when spell check has no clue what you’re tryin to say. I tried to type in disappear and spell check suggested diaphragm. Spelling doesn’t make the man though, which brings me to the next point. I also apologize in advance for any or all ego issues you may feel I possess. Again, it’s all about me, me, me, and me. I know I have an ego, and someone recently told me my ego was so big they had to create an ego just to battle mine. You guessed it, they lost.
WHOOP WHOOP!
You may know me as B.ski. Right, B.ski. That nickname was short for Beaver, the name which others, whom have known me for longer than the 6 years I’ve lived in Berlin, probably know me as. That nickname was created many years back, by two girls, on acid. Acid I had previously purchased at a Jerry Garcia concert at the Spectrum, in Philadelphia, in the state of Pennsylvania.
High, and in a state of psychedelic revelation, they seemed to believe I was the youngest son of June and Ward Cleaver. (German’s most likely need a google break here, we’ll wait. OK?) I tried adamantly to let them know that “leave it to Beaver” was a tv show. But they where in the mist of a proper Wavy Gravy moment, so telling these girls anything, was about as convincing as telling the wall it was really a floor. Needless to say, the nickname Beaver stuck with me, and that’s why some people call me that. I tried hard at times to rid myself of that name, but conversations sounded like this. Me, “David.” Group of guys at the party, “never heard of you.” Me, “I’m here with Jen, she calls me Beaver.” Guys, “ OOOOOOOH, this is the infamous Beaver huh? Got any acid?”
BOOOOOOM.
I was 17 when those hippy dress wearing, bell clad females gave me the name Beaver, and before that people just called me David, because that’s what my parents named me.
To me, it’s all the same. Different chapters. Same book. Same day. New adventure. Or, is it, new day, same adventure? It’s a massive paradox, which brings me to the point of this story, because right here, the story actually begins. The name of this story is……
David Deery is Low Fidelity funny. The "street artist" of stand up. The Cardboard King. The Burrito kid. Nerd master. Pimp of the ping pong palace. Class clown. The Dork from Ork. The most famous unknown comedian of all time and talented couch surfer extraordinaire. (thank you spell check)
I like to cook, paint boobs, and make music.
