I just read an ODB bio.  It wasn’t great (written by a hippy white girl from B.C.) but here are a few quotes/statements from it.

“I have no feelings towards the future because feelings are emotions and I don’t have those.”

Unidentified associate regarding ODB (near the end of his life.)
“Dirt was on pills for schizophrenia or multiple personality syndrome, I’m not sure which. He would get scared of stuff, there was a gay ghost that always fucked with him named Christoph.”

An old manager on ODB.
“Before Wu-Tang signed they were performing at corporate events for executives. There was one event at a retirement home in Connecticut where ODB came out with a stocking mask pulled over his face and singing ‘Over the Rainbow’ as loud as he could.”

“Notorious ain’t dead.  Tupac ain’t dead.  They exist within me…I went to the next dimension and I saw a poet in the land of nobody.”

“I’m too good looking to be in magazines for free anymore.”

Robert Shapiro on defending ODB.
“He’d come into court with two different shoes, labels with price tags attached, but still looking neat and clean.  The judge actually liked him.  Some days he showed up to court so loaded, with his hand up to his ear and talking to himself, just having a full conversation by himself.  One time he had his hat on backward, had on two different shoes, and he stood with his back to the judge with his hat facing the judge as if he was looking at the judge.  And the judge still liked him.”

Another lawyer on defending ODB.
“It was tough to maintain a “not guilty” plea after ODB fell asleep, then stared blankly at a female prosecutor and asked her “Do you find me horny?” and then shouted at the same prosecutor “SPERM DONOR!” while he picked his nose.”

“Hey Daily News, tell New York, ‘Fuck them’ and tell the world, ‘Fuck them too’.”

“You know, the whole fuckin’ world is after me.  Y’all know, I’m still surrounded,  I’m going to become a bird, and live on birdseed, you’ll see motherfuckers, you’ll see.  Y’all better leave some birdseed on your windowsills, because I may be flying by your home.”"

“I don’t like going back in history, because then I’m exploring the Devil.  He likes to climb mountains and go all up into our bodies and learn what type of frequencies we got, and what type of frequencies he can make, to cancel out our frequencies.  It’s fucked up when you got a helicopter over your head almost every day.  People all on your back.  Every time you turn around, somebody’s winking at you, or there’s a white man in a car or a black suited guy in the car looking at me.  Every day I see the same cars, and different days, there’s different cars.  It’s kind of scary.  That’s all, man.  I don’t like it.  I’ll be staying in the house sometimes.  I’m tired of this shit.  This is what happens to me every day.  They came up to me personally and told me who they was-they work for the government-and that they tried to kill me three times already.  I’m just tired of this shit, for real, I want peace.  I don’t want no war, and that’s all they’re about it seems like.  That’s all they do: plot, scheme, and scam.  Not only me, they’re going to try to kill my kids.  Every body thinks it’s a fucking joke and funny.  It ain’t happenin’ to the rest of them niggas, the Wu Tang members.  It’s only happening to me.  They think it’s a joke.  This shit is real.  That why I ain’t happy to get on the phone just to be talkin.  If I die, the CIA killed me.  That’s real.”

TAWDRY HOME.

I got a book of ridiculous patents entitled Patently Ridiculous. Here are some of my favourites.

This ride is amazing. Travel through the insides of a human? Great idea.

I want this now.

This was obviously conceived in the eighties under the influence of cocaine after watching Scarface.

I think I made this.

Funnel Horn.  HONK HONK!

CONDOM IN A NUT.

HOT.

This would be the creepiest feeling thing ever. How long until the hand job version is made. Finger in the butt version.

With streaks.

I always wanted something like this. Have sound effects like an old cartoon that you could use as a fight was going on. Just hitting buttons as a brawl takes place. If you went home with a girl, take your pants off and make a boing sound. Make a fart sound at a funeral beside the casket, lighten the whole scene. The possibilities never end.

The two things I picture this being used for paints a pretty grim picture, but on a high note, later in life the child will be great when it comes to oral. In fifteen years women around the world will be satasfied.

TAWDRY HOME.

This is a collection of concept sketches for the movie Labyrinth starring David Bowie.  I love this damn movie, and finding this book in the library was pretty exciting. The images are drawn by Brian Froud, with adjoining descriptions of the goblins by Terry Jones (From Monty Python fame, and here’s a little fact to stuff in your bonnet, Terry Jones was also the writer of the screenplay.)

Some of the descriptions are pretty funny. Here are some of my favorites from the book. You get the sense throughout the book that Brian Froud would send a series of images too Terry Jones and he would make quick descriptions based solely on the image.  Pretty fun stuff. First you get the image, and then you get the description. My favorites are Boink and Fowler.  Go forth and ENJOY!!!

TAWDRY HOME.

Groucho Marx on Christmas.

“At Christmas you can always count on at least a dozen obnoxious children bleating the latest novelty Christmas song hit.  A few years ago, it was that great ballad, “All I want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth.”  As a man who loves children, I want to say publicly, here and now, that I uttered a silent but solemn vow that if those precocious tots ever got those two front teeth they were constantly wailing about, I’d be only too happy to kick ‘em down their throats!”

TAWDRY HOME.

This is an excerpt from the Keith Richards book, Life.  It describes how one late night during a tour She Stones tracked down a studio to record in, somewhere down South.  The Studio was called Muscle Shoals and the two tracks “Brown Sugar” and “Wild Horses” were recorded, inconceivably in two takes each.  Jim Dickinson was one of the engineers and he recounts the tale below.  They went immediately from these sessions to the Altamont speedway where the Hells Angels altercations took place.  “From the sublime to the ridiculous.”

Jim Dickinson.

“They started running down “Brown Sugar” the first night, but they didn’t get a take.  I watched Mick write the lyrics.  It took him maybe forty-five minutes; it was disgusting.  He wrote it down as fast as he could move his hand.  I’d never seen anything like it.  He had one of those yellow legal pads, and he’d write a verse a page, just write a verse and then turn the page, and when he had three pages filled, they started to cut it.  It was amazing!

If you listen to the lyrics, he says, “Skydog slaver: (though it’s always written “scarred old slaver”).  What does that mean?  Skydog is what they called Duane Allman in Muscle Shoals, because he was high all the time.  And Jagger heard somebody say it and he thought it was a cool word so he used it.  He was writing about literally being in the South.  It was amazing to watch him do it.  The same thing happened with “Wild Horses.”  Keith had “Wild Horses” written as a lullaby.  It was about Marlon (his son) about not wanting to leave home because he’d just had a son.  And Jagger rewrote it, and it’s, perceptibly, about Marianne Faithfull, and Jagger was like a high school kid about it and he wrote the song about her.  He took a little more time with it, but not much more, maybe an hour.

The way he did it, Keith had some words and then he grunted and he groaned.  And somebody asked Mick, do you understand that?  And Jagger looked at him and said, of course.  It was like he was translating, you know?

They were unbelievable, the raw vocals.  They both stood at the microphone together with the fifth of bourbon, passing it back and forth, and sang the lead and the harmony into one microphone on all three songs, pretty much as quick as they could do it on the last night.”

TAWDRY HOME.

What follows below is the first chapter of Groucho and Me (1959).  The autobiography of and by Groucho Marx.

Chapter one.

The trouble with writing a book about yourself is that you can’t fool around.  If you write about someone else, you can stretch the truth from here to Finland.  If you write about yourself, the slightest deviation makes you realize instantly that there may be honor among thieves, but you are just a dirty liar.

Although it is generally known, I think it’s about time to announce that I was born at a very early age.  Before I had time to regret it, I was four and a half years old.  Now that we are on the subject of age, let’s skip it.  It isn’t important how old I am.  What is important, however, is whether enough people will buy this book to justify my spending the remnants of my rapidly waning vitality in writing it.

Age is not a particularly interesting subject.  Anyone can get old.  All you have to do is live long enough.  It always amuses me when the newspapers run a picture of a man who has finally lived to be a hundred.  He’s usually a pretty beat-up individual who invariably looks closer to two hundred than the century mark.  It isn’t enough that the paper runs a photo of this rickety, hollow shell.  The ancient oracle then has to sound off on the secret of his longevity.  “I’ve lived longer than all my friends,” he croaks, “because I never used a mattress, always slept on the floor, had raw turkey liver every morning for breakfast, and drank thirty-two glasses of water a day.”

Big deal!  Thirty-two glasses of water a day.  This is the kind of man who is responsible for the water shortage in America.  Fortunes have been spent in the arid West, trying to convert sea water into something that can be swallowed with safety, and this old geezer, instead of drinking eight glasses of water a day like the rest of us, has to guzzle thirty-two a day, or enough water to keep four normal people going indefinitely……….

TAWDRY HOME.

Here is a collection of quotes by serial killers.  Happy New Year!!!!

-

“I really screwed up this time.”  JEFFREY DAHMER.

“When I was a boy I never had a friend in the world.”  HEINRICH POMMERENCKE.

“She was giving me oral sex, and she got carried away….So I choked her.”  ARTHUR SHAWCROSS.

“My aim was pretty good.”  FRANK G. SPISAK JR.

“The sixth commandment-’Thou Shalt Not Kill’-fascinated me….I always knew that someday I should defy it.”  JOHN CHRISTIE.

Q:  What do you think when you see a pretty girl walking down the street?

A:  One side of me says, ‘I’d like to talk to her, date her.’  The other side of me says, ‘I wonder how her head would look on a stick?’ EDMUND KEMPER.

“It wasn’t as dark and scary as it sounds.  I had a lotta fun….Killing somebody’s a funny experience.”  ALBERT DE SALVO.

“He started messing with the Christmas tree, telling me how nice the Christmas tree was.  So I shot him.”  DAVID BULLOCK.

“I was just cleaning up the place a bit.”  PETER SUTCLIFFE.

“Hurry it up, I could hang a dozen men while you’re fooling around.”  CARL PANZRAM (FINAL WORDS PRIOR TO EXECUTION.)

“I remember thinking, ‘You will have no more troubles, squire.”  DENNIS NILSEN.

“I bite.”  JEFFREY DAHMER.

“I should never have been convicted of anything more serious than running a cemetery without a license.”  JOHN WAYNE GACY.

“I haven’t blocked out the past.  I wouldn’t trade the person I am, or what I’ve done-or the people I’ve known-for anything.  So I do think about it.  And at times it’s a rather mellow trip to lay back and remember.”  TED BUNDY.

“Every man to his own tastes…mine is for corpses.”  HENRI BLOY.

“I carried it too far, that’s for sure.”  JEFFREY DAHMER.

“What I did is not such a great harm, with all these surplus women nowadays.  Anyway, I had a good time.”  RUDOLPH PLIEL.

“A clown can get away with murder.”  JOHN WAYNE GACY.

When asked if he wore the skin face masks over a prolonged time:

“Not too long, I had other things to do.”  ED GEIN.

“Look down on me; you will see a fool.  Look up at me; you will see your Lord.  Look straight at me, you will see yourself.”  CHARLES MANSON.

“I saw women dancing around the golden calf and I thought they were a fickle lot.  I knew I would have to kill.”  HEINRICH POMMERENCKE.

“If I gave a shit about the parents I wouldn’t have killed the kid.”  CLIFFORD OLSEN.

“Big deal, death comes with the territory…see you in Disneyland.”  RICHARD RAMIREZ.

“There is no happiness without tears, no life without death.  Beware!  I am going to make you cry.”  LUCIAN STANIAK.

“I may be a bit peculiar.”  GEORGE JOSEPH SMITH. Read more »

I found these first two books at a used book store recently. The Bergman on Bergman one is amazing. The third is a book on Rainer Werner Fassbinder I have out from the library. The book isn’t amazing, but the cover and title are. I looked up the interviewer from the Bergman book, I’ve read some other interview books by him and his stuff is top notch.  It seems he made a Faber and Faber film series book with Lars Von Trier called Trier On Von Trier in 2005. But for some reason its out of print and impossible to find, except used for 100US$ on Amazon.

I can only imagine the things Von Trier has to say.  I’m sure it is by his own hand that it is out of print…which only makes me want it more.  I need to find this book somehow. I need to find a job. I need to find two Cobras, a Banshee and a Math Horse. Set us free and watch this city burn. And in the words of the world famous Math Horse “I will not be held accountable.”

TAWDRY HOME.

An Excerpt from Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.

I have never seen a more sublime demonstration of the totalitarian mind, a mind which might be likened unto a system of gears whose teeth have been filed off at random. Such a snaggle-toothed thought machine, driven by a standard or even a substandard libido, whirls with the jerky, noisy, gaudy pointlessness of a cuckoo clock in Hell.

The boss G-man concluded wrongly that there were no teeth on the gears in the mind of Jones.  “you’re completely crazy,” he said.

Jones wasn’t completely crazy.  The dismaying thing about the classic totalitarian mind is that any given gear, though mutilated, willl have at its circumference unbroken sequences of teeth that are immaculately maintained, that are exquisitely machined.

Hence the cuckoo clock in Hell – keeping perfect time for eight minutes and thirty-three seconds, jumping ahead fourteen minutes, keeping perfect time for six seconds, jumping ahead two seconds, keeping perfect time for two hours and one second, then jumping ahead a year.

The missing teeth, of course, are simple, obvious truths, truths available and comprehensible even to ten year-olds, in most cases.

The willful filing off of gear teeth, the willful doing without certain obvious pieces of information.

That was how a household as contradictory as one composed of the Nazi leader Jones, The catholic Father Keely, Vice-Bundesfuehrer Krapptauer, and the the Black Fuehrer of Harlem could exist in relative harmony.

That was how my father-in-law could contain one mind an indifference toward slave women and love for a blue vase.

That was how Rudolf Hoess, Commandant of Auschwitz, could alternate over the loudspeakers of Auschwitz great music and calls for corpse-carriers.

That was how Nazi Germany could sense no important differences between civilization and hydrophobia.

That is the closest I can come to explaining the legions, the nations of lunatics I’ve seen in my time.  And for me to attempt such a mechanical explanation is perhaps a reflection of the father whose son I was.  Am. When I pause to think about it, which is rarely, I am, after all, the son of an engineer.

Since there is no one else to praise me, I will praise myself – will say that I have never tampered with a single tooth in my thought machine, such as it is.  There are teeth missing, God knows – some I was born without, teeth that will never grow.  And other teeth have been stripped by the clutchless shifts of history.

But never have I willfully destroyed a tooth on a gear of my thinking machine.  Never have I said to myself, “This fact I can do without.”

Howard W.  Campbell, Jr., praises himself!  There’s life in the old boy yet!

And, where there’s life-

There is life.

TAWDRY HOME.

I just rented the DVD for Rubber Johnny by Chris Cunningham (If you haven’t seen it the video is at the very bottom along with my interpretation of these images.)  It comes with a booklet with artwork relating to the film.  Look at some of these pictures.

Dawn of the new age of Filth. Perfect Holiday Cards for Aunt Barbara and Little Cousin Tucker.

The new age of perversion will be yourself in your own room with equipment and editing tools. Creating these altered images of the self.  Put them through Rendering generators, these mutants copulating in hyper space with other formations. Everyone is watching. Desire will be aimed at the physical inversion of the ego. New babies will come out through filters looking like worms. Each part of the worm body will be ripe with life, all of it flowing into itself.  No discerning between mind and elbow.  Slice them in half and they will mate with their other ends, bonding, the flow within increasing, the new fetus like glue, continuing to grow within themselves. Getting massive. Constant Fetuses for different purposes.  Creating their own food within, joining up. There wont be evil and good, just energy for the life force. It will not swallow the planet but become one with the planet. Soon the planet will start growing throughout it and out of it. Forests and people and animals populating the surface and orifices. The planet will truly be alive, and horny. When the planet fucks you with natural disasters it will really be fucking you. Pubic trees being trimmed for their pulp by the inhabitants. Tornado Quiffes in Idahoho. Ejaculate and urine Tsunamis. Rivers of Saliva and Blood. OK, enough.

TAWDRY HOME.