Saturday, 6 September 2014

Why I hate weirdos

School year has started. Streets are full again of impossibly horrible teenagers, screaming, spitting, shoving, stinking of perfumes you find in teen magazines and in general polluting my otherwise quiet world of morning city streets and park ways by being alive. It's just something I do my best to ignore, though it is nigh impossible, as they really are fucking appalling. Good thing I’m a photographer and I can always just look at them and think how pretty they are at this point. Before they grow up in unsalvageable assholes.
But this time also brings out the weirdos. Not teenage weirdos, those are all hysterical sociopathic egomaniacs with hormones for brains and zero worldly experience – but people pass adolescence who try to convince everyone else they are special. I guarantee you, anything can be praised or scrutinized – you can take the worst thing in all creation and if you want, find something positive to say about it (Even Hitler – that asshole could TALK!) or you can take the most perfect thing in all creation and say something negative about it, I dunno, like Van Gogh’s Almond blossoms painting – well, ye, but the guy was an epileptic socially inept manically depressed fag…  ANYBODY can belittle and anyone can praise. It just depends on how desperate you wanna seem at having your own opinion. No matter how stupid, no matter how unoriginal, no matter how pointless. Just as long as you ain’t mainstream, that must mean you should talk loud. Right?
The weirdos. The older they are, the worse.
One might think I would be far more sympathetic to people who have a hard time finding themselves and never get over the need to be hysterical sociopathic egomaniacs with hormones for brains and zero worldly experience, even as they are supposed to justify their appearance and behavior with some product already. After all, I am one. But then again I am also an artist and I don’t defend artists for being idiots and I am bisexual and still think a vast percentage of gays is a disgrace to something as lovely and intimate as a sexual congress between two (or more or one) people. Nobody cares how you fuck. Just please stop letting everybody else know how you do it. It is really not something you wanna make a political or socio-economic or religious or cultural issue. Sex is a very cheap excuse to talk about yourself. It will always be a taboo, but not because it is shameful but because it is supposed to be private. You don’t see me wearing latex and black leather just because I enjoy being spanked, do you? I certainly don't do it to shove it up to feminists. Do I think sexual sadists have the right to adopt babies? Who the fuck cares. It says nothing about them as humans outside the walls of their bedrooms. So get the fuck off that subject. If you have such strong opinions, pick on arms dealers and drug dealers, but no, oh, wait - those would kill you if you picked on them, wouldn't day?
We look back and think – all those amazing people – Socrates, Vincent, and Mozart and Schubert and William Blake and Allan Poe and Wilde and Vermeer… and countless, timeless more – all of them died very poor and deeply unappreciated, even shunned and ridiculed.. Oh, if only we could help them and save them and whatnot. Well, two hundred years from now this exact story will be repeated like a broken record –some hobo with awful social luck and bad press will be world famous, his dusty ashes on pedestal in some Paris graveyard and astounding statues will be built to commemorate their contribution to our culture, our majesty as species. Of course it will help if he was white and a drunk. How many African or Asian or Inuit individuals of great to-be inheritance do you notice on covers of Time and People and Forbes and New Yorker and so on. (I love it how the magazine with the most circulation in the entire world is The Watchtower. You know that terrible little thing that religious duets hand out to people in the street? That’s the one.) I think they exist in full, but are too busy changing our world for the better. Same as you have clandestine puppet masters who rule the world and yadda yadda, same you have excellence unlike God has ever seen. In 2000 years, nobody will remember the Rothschilds. But they will remember Van Gogh.
We will never find them while they are still alive. Because of the fucktard weirdos in their makeup and hair and fucked up clothes and fucked up cars and loud, oh so loud appearances, who would iron their own balls flat, just to be on the covers of magazines as great performance “artists” of our time and talked about and post YouTube videos of their dog’s shit covered in diamonds… Ugly people, attention starved, half crazy with the need to be considered anything, with their retarded hats and nail polish and props and jewellery… True creators never draw attention the way losers do. They are too busy drawing inspiration. Petty, petty thieves. How I shun them.
Yes, you can’t be for ever famous in your own time unless you suck some cocks of very rich people (always has been the case, always will be), but someone who genuinely believes in their own art, doesn’t spend tears and years fussing over their appearance. It never ceases to amaze me how people react to authors of no radical appearance. Someone who looks completely and utterly normal. They surely can’t be any good at what they do, can they? Surely if they were real artists, they would have green hair and would wear a Louis Vuitton purse as their underwear, wouldn’t they? Surely they would have the hottest parties in town? They would be trend setters and would have illegitimate babies with multimillion dollars paid athletes, wouldn’t they? How can they possibly be good at art, if nobody has ever heard of them or even noticed them in the street?