*Based on his artwork, we assumed the artist Shalo P was a teenage degenerate. Turns out he’s a very intelligent and articulate adult man. Monster Children sat down with Shalo recently, and asked him some questions that we had prepared earlier.*
*Taking pictures isn’t easy. I used to be terrible at it. I’d go out with my camera, snap away for a while, and then when I got home I’d see that everything I shot looked like shit. ‘That looks shit,’ said my friends, and I was sad about that. So I did some readin’ and I did some studyin’ and now I take amazing photos! Do you want to be good at taking pictures, too? You do?! It’s easy! Here’s how!*
I mean duh. I know you must’ve heard this album already, but then I also know some of you are too busy playing with yourselves and pushing jelly beans up your nostrils to have a clue, so here we go.
I know we just did a BOOK CLUB! a few days ago, but I couldn’t wait to talk about this: Let's Explore Diabetes with Owls by David Sedaris. I just bought this book–or rather, just received my preordered copy via Kindle at exactly midnight–so I haven’t had a chance to read more than the first three stories. However, if the rest of the book is as funny as these opening tales, I’m in for a hoot!
I love David Sedaris, he cracks me up, and I’m always surprised and suspicious when I meet someone who claims to not like him. Not liking Sedaris is almost as unbelievable as not liking Led Zeppelin, and not liking Zeppelin is impossible–even if you think you don’t like Led Zepp, chances are you do but you just don’t know it yet; either that or you’re a solid-gold arsehole.
How can you not like Led Zeppelin? How can anyone hear the first few bars of Communication Breakdown or Kashmir and say, ‘Ugh. I don’t like this’? That’s fucking absurd. What else don’t you like? Food? Do you hate food, too? What about clean air and water, you fucking nitwit? What do you like? Standing in bear traps? Masturbating with sandpaper? What’s your problem? Great. Now you’ve put me in a bad mood.
Buy this book today or I’ll punch you in the dick.
Not a lot of people know this, but I was born with a gift: the ability to draw like a demon. I drew pictures constantly throughout my childhood, filling reams of note pads and jotters with my skillful doodlings. Then, when it came time to choose a career, I decided to spurn my gift and pursue something I wasn’t good at at all–writing. It’s a shame to let genius go to waste, so I’ve decided to share my gift with the world once again… by designing free tattoo flash. Here’s the first in a long and enthralling series of work I will be meting out over the next 45 years. You’re welcome.
Bill Bryson is one hell of an investigative journalist. I don’t know where he summons the curiosity to research his subjects as thoroughly as he does, but he does, and it’s a good thing. I just finished his biography Shakespeare: The World as Stage and I have to say I’m blown away. The lengths Bryson goes to to root out history’s most elusive figure is mind-boggling. Yes, Shakespeare was elusive; it’s amazing how little we know about him. For a start, there are but three extant renderings of the Bard, but none can be confirmed as being definitely him; no one knows for sure what the fucker actually looked like, and yet his–or whoever that dude is–is the most recognizable face in literature. How weird is that? The best part of the book is it dispels the ridiculous myth about Shaky not being the author of his own oeuvre. Who came up with that crap? You’ll have to read the book to find out (spoiler: a circle of fuckwits came up with that crap).
The most annoying thing about the ‘Shakespeare didn’t really write all that stuff’ conspiracy is that it’s based on snobbery: Shakespeare was a country boy without a degree, therefor he couldn’t possibly have written the greatest works in the history of the English language. You’re an idiot and a prick if you subscribe to this theory. Rimbaud was a hick, as was Nick Cave, and those guys are brilliant. It’s safe to assume that any scribe with a provincial background is more than likely a genius.
Get this book. Even if you were one of the kids in High School who didn’t ‘get’ Shakespeare, read this book, you’ll love it. At the very least you can draw cocks all through it.
After a long battle with cancer, the artist Storm Thorgerson died today at age 69. Thorgerson was the brains behind four decades of incredible album art, most notably Dark Side of the Moon, perhaps the most recognizable record sleeve ever made.
‘People pay me for my thoughts and my dreams. I think in that sense I'm very fortunate.’
This is a new department called ‘What Paige the Assistant Said’. Paige the assistant is in her early twenties and she is, to use the raunchy patois of her tribe (Williamsburg kids), ‘hep to the jive.’ But while she might know everything about what’s cool in the world of today, it never ceases to amaze me how much she doesn’t know about the world of yesterday.
Today at the office I mentioned the cult classic movie Groundhog Day and Paige had this to say about it: ‘what is Groundhog Day?’
That concludes the first installment of ‘What Paige the Assitant Said.’
Time to Zimmer-frame it over to my comfortable chair, ease myself down, skull a bottle of Pepto-Bismol and recommend another record to you young, no-nuthin’ whippersnappers. Welcome to The Ain’t No Spring Chicken Record Review.
Man, I don’t wanna die. I know I have to, but that doesn’t mean I want to. Actually, I kinda do wanna die. Not today or anything, but eventually. Fuck scurrying around on this turd-ball for eternity; I can’t think of anything worse. The big question is, though, when will I die? How much time do I have left? When will The Reaper appear at the foot of my bed and say, ‘Oi, dickhead, get up; we’re going’? Fortunately the Internet is lousy with websites like this one that takes some of your details and then tells you when you’ll crap yourself. Do it, it’s really depressing! I’m checking out wa-hey sooner than I thought I would. I didn’t expect to get a letter from the queen or anything, but I thought I’d make it past 50. Oh well, as the French say, ‘Eeeeeeeeeh, Je suis un hibou et c'est mon saxophone chocolat. Voulez-vous toucher le pénis de mon oncle? Eeeeeeeh…?’
Our buddies at Indoek have kick started a kickstarter to help raise funds for their marijuana problems, I mean website. If you’re not familiar with the Indoek cats, you can familiarize yourself by clicking the text in the previous sentence that has been highlighted orange, or you can click here, or even here. Do not click here. To get involved, go to Indoek’s kickstarter page, here; and don’t be tight-arse: you can’t take it with you, you miser bastard Scotsman.
Today’s True New York Story is completely absurd. We moved Monster Children’s New York office from our less-glamorous-than-it-sounds Broadway location, to a bigger space in Tribeca, and I was waiting outside the Broadway building for the man with the van. I’d never met the man with the van; I contacted him through his ad on craigslist and had no idea what he looked like. There were no parks directly out front of the building so I expected he’d park around the corner and walk to meet me. An all-American looking man of about 55, wearing a Yankees cap came striding down the street. We looked at each other; he was walking directly toward me with what appeared to be purpose. I nodded; he nodded. When he reached me I extended my hand. ‘Jason,’ I said by way of introduction. He took my hand a shook it firmly. ‘Kenny.’ He said. ‘Are you the man with the van?’ I asked. Kenny tilted his head and squinted at me. ‘No,’ he said. I narrowed my eyes. ‘Then why are we shaking hands?’ I said. He shook his head, ‘I don’t know.’ Then he ambled off down Broadway.
Finally, after almost twenty years of letter writing on my part, Slayer and Anthrax have combined to form Slanthrax. Joey Belladonna and Tom Araya are on vocals, Kerry King and Scott Ian are shredding, Frank Bello is on bass and Charlie Benante is kicking the piss out of the drums. In an official statement to the press, Slanthrax said, ‘While we know many metal purists might balk at the idea of Slayer and Anthrax forming one act, recent circumstances have led the two bands to unite. And the result couldn’t be better! Get ready for some dual action vocals from Joey and Tom to go along with double barrel guitars from Kerry and Scott. See ya in the pit!’
In other news, Justin Beiber is still alive.
Are you in LA? I’m sorry. Here’s some good news, though– our buddies, CHIEF, have a Monday night residency at The Satellite on Silver Lake Blvd. If you didn’t catch them at our issue #37 launch out west (again, sorry if you live in LA) you should definitely get down to the Satellite tonight or next Monday or the Monday after that, or even the one after that; they'll be playing every monday for the month of April. Chief rule, and they’ll definitely keep you from taking a bunch of sleeping pills and swimming for the horizon because you live in LA.