STUDIO SKATEBOARDS/Underworld./SBC Magazine are having a party tonight at Les Pas Sages. Thats 951 Rachel Street east/corner Mentana. Its a three dollar cover and it starts at ten pm. I will have some paintings hanging at the bar. Glommerous.

JORDAIN MONROE

Jordain Monroe looked older then his forty years of age. His tanned weathered skin looked like leather, like the underbelly of a fat eastern European insect. It creased at every fold on his face, under each eye, over his lip. His black shoulder length hair pushed back. Making his cheeks sink even further.
His eyes were luminent.
When it came to Jordain Monroe everyone always said he had fantastic vision. He had eyes like binoculars that could look up to the sky and see into a birds soul. He smoked his cigarettes with the style of an old Chinese man. Slow and assured. The way his hand slowly raised to his lips, like someone who had fucked with the cunt ways of life for too many years and had learned long ago to take it slow.
But you knew he could move fast. You sensed it. That in an instant he could move like a jungle cat in heat.
His eyes were a thick dark blue, almost liquid like drying oil paint. Two haunted lakes at dawn, filled with sea monsters, ship wrecks and broken treasures.

Monroe flicked his cigarette. He hated to be called by his first name, the way that pointless pretentious I sat between the n and the a. Of course he could just drop the I, but it was easier for Monroe to kill things instead of fixing them.

He watched as the cigarette bounced into a pool of thick black motor oil. The cigarette sinking as the sun cast dark green and purple rainbows across the black oily surface. Each rainbow strand moving like a slow centipede to devour the Marlboro mans latest gift, swallowing him in. DINNER IS SERVED YOU BEAUTIFUL OIL SERPENTS.

Monroe sat up from the stairs. He slowly walked up his apartment stairs to the top floor leaving the montreal summer day behind him. Floor 19. He always made the walk. Monroe never trusted elevators, all those gears and shafts, but no mind. This was the beginning of the robots takeover, who knew when they would first turn, one dirty black out, you, stuck between floor 9 and the end of your life. That’s when you find out these metal sluts have something up their sleeves. That wasn’t really it. It was something Monroe liked to say, whenever people asked him why he didn’t take elevators. Apoclyapytic paranoia kept almost everyone away. It was a risky game though, the ones it attracted were like leaches bubbling with electricity. They always wanted to shock you, more and more to shock you. The cure for these was simple, though a little more cruel. Either a glare so cold it could give an Eskimo a boner, or to simply grab them by the collar, thrusting them into the wall, then with a mickey rourke from bullet glare, and a slow tone, Monroe would say. CUT THE SHIT PONCHO. Monroe feared no man. If he had any sense he’d fear himself, but death he welcomed. He figured the only one with the guts and gears to give it to him, was his own skinny ass.

The name Monroe came from a mountain that hovered above a lake somewhere in Ireland. “The mount of the river joe”. It was one of those facts you learn about yourself that only stands to remind you how dull you really are, how long your family has represented something so banal. He never bothered to look up Jordain.

Monroe sat on the edge of his window sill. His black leather jacket arm holding a new cigarette. His leg dangling out the side of the 19th story window. His mouth was filled with mango juice. Monroe always sensed he had the taste buds of a black man.
The people moved in the street, far below, yet they still seemed to close. No matter how high up Monroe went, nothing ever seemed far enough away. That was the only hazard of his profession. He was a stunt man, mainly a jumper. It made everything seem so much closer. The flights to do a new jump, the whole world seemed so small. A quck trip in a jet. Maybe it was his Hollywood looks that made him work so well as a double for every action slime. He was always in demand. Maybe it was his professionalism. He spoke to know one, and asked for nothing more then mango juice or papaya juice. Cartons of cigarettes and a little bit of Russian vodka. The vodka wasn’t to numb the feeling for the jumps. They came as easy as anything in life. Sometimes easier then getting out of bed, then walking to the store. The vodka was to make dealing with people easier.
Everywhere he went it was the same dull conversations. He knew his face was emotionless, and he gave nothing in conversation, but he wanted nothing either. Nothing really in life.

He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten like this. His parents, now both dead from old age. Were loving enough, by no means cruel. His father was strict, but not to a point of insanity.
He had always had friends. Though they never meant much to him. And woman came easily, like, well like most woman came to a troubled boy with good looks. When he found crime it wasn’t cause he needed money. A woman hungry for vanity gave up all she had to have him on her arm. For him to be a new accessory at a party. Like a dangling earring. A high heel, none of the other girls could get, or afford. The crimes started for the adrenalin. But that faded quickly too.
When he robbed that liqour store twenty years ago, he didn’t need the money , he didn’t need the liqour. During the police chase he felt nothing, no urge to escape, and when he skidded up the curb hitting that 50 year old grey haired man he didn’t feel much either, he hit the breaks, sure he tried. And the old mans hips shattered like plate glass. Dead, so what.
Jail wasn’t much work. It was Wisconsin. And he kept to himself. He watched the murderers, the sneaks, and the murders and the sneaking. None of it mattered much. His caring wouldn’t change anything, and nothing looked like it needed much changing.
After ten years he was released on good behavior. And not long after, without much effort he met liberty. She liked to say she was liberty, a real southern belle. She had a nice accent, but it got old. And when he left her, he hadn’t planned where he was going. Though Montreal was where he finally ended up. He didn’t worry much about liberty, that southern belle would find another man to watch her, and the child she was carrying.

A bird sat on the sill across from Monroe. A pigeon with grey and white feathers. He watched it dive down into the street, its wings spread, gliding for some fry sauce laying on the curb. There was no kinship between it and Monroe. Even with all those high dives from buildings into huge inflatable breasts. Monroe liked to think of those huge bags waiting on the ground for him as mother natures pillowy air bags, her bosom blossoming from the hard cement that covered her fertile body. Bursting through the cracks and exploding to catch him. Sometimes Monroe wished he had a split personality. A side that cared about things, about people. Bi polar sounded so nice. To be down, to be up. Rollercoasters did nothing to Monroe but mess up his hair. All there were was thousands of concrete steps and no second thoughts.
He could have been a phenomenal shooter for profit. But he never actually wished to do harm to anyone, not physical anyways. And it seemed anyone who got involved with him must have seen whatever came to them coming. And if they didn’t, well maybe that was his purpose in life, to teach, teach a little reality to the dizzy.
The hardest part was having no one to hate, no devil, no enemies. That was almost worse then having no one to love. No spiteful father, if only an uncle touched him in his private area in middle school. If his aunt reached low on him before school that week she took care of them. But no one even loved him then enough to do that.

Monroe walked into the apartment, picking up his brown/orange eel skin suitcase with its yellow trim. He rolled up the sleeves on his black leather jacket. He looked down at his dark green shirt, a few drops of papaya condensation resting on the stomach of it. His black boots clicked five times before he was in the hall turning the keys to his apartment.

That was the thing, having no one to hate, it only left room for introspection. But there was nothing there, it was like how you couldn’t help an addict if they didn’t want to help themselves. There was no urge to love, to care inside him. All the introspection in the world, it was like trying to fuck your toaster till it loved you. Yet Monroe was very conscious of the way he looked. He needed people to be drawn to him, and then, to push them away. The world was like a yard of flies. He, like those electric bug zappers hanging blue and luminescent. And just when a deer fly, or pretty lightning bug came near, he would shut off. A constant game of taunting. And every once in awhile he’d let one get a little closer, just close enough to zap them silly.

He wanted to hate the law, hate his teachers hate his society, to scream FUCK YOU TELEVISION, CAPPITLISM, FUCK YOU MTV. FUCK YOU COMBO NUMBER ONE AT THE CHOPSTICK HOUSE. FUUUUUCK YOU EGGGGG ROLLLLLL.
But he could leave it all, he had the money, hell he’d bean everywhere else. But it was all the same, new faces that looked as interesting as the logos on sleeping pills, white toothed smiles filled with teeth, untouched, a series of white cigarette butts lined up in the cavity regions of the mouth. Menthol ones, from the reserve, bleached ultra white.

Monroe sat in his trailer, smoking a fresh cigarette and drinking back a stiff papaya and vodka. To his right lay a freshly opened carton of smokes. Monroe stared down at his ticket hanging from his bag. Montreal to Los angeles. The sun was setting outside, the sky looked like an orange flavored slush puppy. Monroe barked at the sky. He thought about smiling. But the moment had passed.

The jump was at 1pm tomorrow. A leap in place of val kilmer, he was going to have to wear some padding around his waist, for fat, and a blonde wig. He was going to make Val look better then he had ever known. Tonight though, tonight he would find a bar, something nearby, and a girl named Val to bring back to the trailer. Monroe didn’t much care about remembering the names a woman gave him. They were just an object for the night. He found it easier to name them before he met them. He would receive them his way, and he would remember them his way.

Monroe pushed val onto the bed. Her name was something else, jeanette or something, something with a j, maybe Jupiter. The girls always had strange names in LA, running away from something head first into the California dream. They all had new names, nobodies ever became stars, annes and amy’s, they all had to be stars beforehand, with names like precious and jupiter, even before the borders of California nipped at their heels.
The trailer light was shining off of monroes blonde wig as him and val or Jupiter made love. Maybe Jupiter was better he thought. This whole val thing was just getting weird. Monroe tossed the wig across the room. It landed next to the tall bottle of papaya drink, a small drop resting on the platinum long hair beside it. For an instance Monroe thought of pouring that papaya drink all over the hair, throwing it on, messing it up, and becoming the hulk, thrashing around the room and loving Jupiter up against the trailer wall, shaking the trailer like king kong on a death metal trip. The alcohol was taking a hold, Tone it down Monroe, keep it business. Monroe thrusted a few more times before easing out. The two lay on the bed, Monroe smoking, staring at the ceiling, not thinking much, maybe wishing there was a god up there for him to hate. As Jupiter talked and talked and talked.

Monroe walked out of his trailer, it was noon now. He looked across the set and quickly noticed the set director james. Monroe took a quick hit of vodka and ventured out into the heartland.

Monroe walked across the set. To james, James Woodbelle. Though everyone called him james wood belly. He was a huge man, with a thick brown beard. His belly vast, his black eyes both kind and menacing. His whole being that way. Like a cute tiger, that would rip your face from your skull in the African sun. Old fucking wood belly. He walked on, looking at all the people around him, like a flock of puffins. He felt their eyes all over him. His meticulously pushed back black hair, his leather jacket with no shirt under neath, his skinny muscular body. He welcomed their eyes, their foolish envy and lust. For someone who cared so little for them. For someone who was made sick by them. It wasn’t about being better, maybe about proving a point. The point, whats the difference, what we desire, what we desire to be. The superficiality of it all. The infomercial daydreams playing in everyones heads.

Monroe looked up from his thoughts. As he watched a stroller with a child rushing out of the left side of his eye, moving right across his path. He looked at the mother chasing it screaming. He looked up towards the rushing golf cart coming forwards, the driver on his phone paying no attention, yelling Hollywood lot nonsense. Get becky, where the fuck is becky, get becky. Becky was the star of the movie, another 30 minutes behind schedule, another thousands of dollars down the drain in a multi million dollar film about nothing.
Get becky get becky, he watched the fat over tanned head screaming, the tanned toned perfect mother, in designer workout clothes screaming, the child oblivious drifting into the collission.
Monroe watched it unfold. And then Monroe rushed forward, diving at the carriage like it was third down with one minute left. A serious fumble. A serious turn of events. He scooped the child out of the carriage, tucking it into his arms as he rolled, listening to the sound of the speeding cart crashing into the carriage.
The mother ran up to Monroe screaming frantically. My baby, my baby, god my baby. Monroe rolled onto his back looking into his arms, at the smiling giggling child.
Oh my god, my baby, the mother reached down taking it into her arms, he watched as her tears rolled down, petrified to lose her greatest fashion accessory.
Monroe stood as the mother threw herself into his bare chest.
You saved my baby, you saved my baby.
Monroe said nothing and quickly pushed her off and walked away.

He heard the mother screaming, wait, wait, stop that man, hes a hero, a hero.

Monroe looked around cautiously like a scientist who had just invented a death chemical and found himself with a boner, a man full of secrets better kept. He did this before sneaking back into his trailer, running to the vodka, taking a big city swig. He tilted his head back letting the liqour go down. Jesus he thought.

He checked his watch, a quarter until one. He had fifteen minutes, thank god only fifteen minutes. Monroe almost felt like he was feeling something, then he realized what it was. In his whole life, never before had Monroe wanted to jump more then he did now.

More old photos. classics.

PREPARE FOR ZZ HEADWARE.

These pictures are from five years ago. I was making a video, it was about the death of a bottle. My computer erased most things about three years ago. A handful of things survived somehow. I remember it started with loud intense god speed music with the sound of partying on a black screen, then there was a crash. A bottle smashing and a loud scream with echo, then a prince song came on, most likely the beautiful ones. It had a ton of reverb, as these images slowly zoomed forward on the screen. The music sounded like it was echoing off in the distance, like if you heard someone playing something really loud in another room, or dimension. It was haunting. It was the time between a bottle breaking and a bottles after life. As the song was about to explode a white flash of light burst on the screen and an angels voice sang paaaabst bluuuue ribbbbbon. I used to get drunk and watch it over and over. It made my blue eyes wet. But nows it gone, just like that bottle. But at least I still have these images, I think i know where im going to remake it, so its not all a loss. Not at all.

ELECTRIC INSECTORIUM FOR THE INSANE INSECT.

PINK PEPTO PALACE OF THE HEART.

SCREAMER SCREAMER.

LUNG.

THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNELL IS THE ENTRANCE TO MY LUNGS.

DREAMS.

PURPLE STAIN.

BLUE AFTERNOON.

BLUE EVENING.

BLOODY INTESTINES.

ALIVE AND BLUE.

I found a note book from four or five years ago. This is what was in it. (plus a few other things from that time.) More things coming tommorrow.

CLICK IMAGES FOR LARGER VIEW IN A NEW WINDOW.

EMPUSA EGENA LARVA

EMPEROR CRICKETS

INK STAINS

KEYS TO A HAPPY LIFE (SLEEP, DRINK, SMOKE, FINGER BANG)

ROBOTIC SELF PORTRAIT

HORROR BODIES IN VAGINA MOUNTAINS

THANK GOD FOR TITTIE

GREEN VELVET GLOVES AND TUSSIN.

CUT OFF.

NATIVE BLUE EYE.

I was looking for a file on my computer and found a bunch of older photos etc. Here are some.

VIDEO SECTION.

Theres some videos up in the video section. (Case ball, Rocket Launcher and Space Bike.)

I cant get the video section heading to show up at the top.
Heres a direct link.

VIDEOZ.

or you can go to the front page at tawdryproductions.com and link to it from there.

Plus all the canadian classics on my youtube page.

I dont know if anyone noticed, but im posting a documentary up here every monday. Here’s one on John Waters.