Smoke On The Water

I was watching TV in Texas and turned on to a program talking about the effects of drilling for natural gas, which included clips from a film called Gas Land. All I saw was a man holding a lighter next to a running faucet for 20 seconds, then promptly shat myself when I saw what happened next:

CAN YOU DO THIS WITH YOUR TAP WATER? from JOSHFOX on Vimeo.

Now imagine every water based activity was eligible to be set fire to. Taking a bath. Water balloon fights. Water Skiing. Now be afraid.

Kiss My Ash.

Five years ago I was working out in Malaysia for a company that produced and filmed TV adverts. I had a good time despite working 70 to 80 hour weeks for literally no pay, though had I arrived a day earlier than I did, I'm told I would have been a shoe-in for being cast in a mobile phone advert which required 5 decent looking white guys to act like a boy band. In the end I had to settle for being the token white guy in a red bull advert, something I've not seen the end copy of to this day.

But as my stay with the company was drawing to an end, I began to contemplate what I should do with the few days left before I returned to the UK, and decided I should return to England with something I'd never owned before; a tan, or at least a decent one.

Having been diagnosed with a 2nd degree case of BRFP* when I was young, I had never really pulled off more than a healthy complexion after a week in the sun, and during my stay in Kuala Lumpur, I'd been very careful about putting on sun cream.

So, when the final day of work came, so did the smog. A cloud the size of England travelled up from Indonesia and successfully blocked out enough of the sun's light to create a permanent state of dusk.
The cloud was caused by Indonesian farmers burning their crops en mass, since apparently whatever it was they were growing was easier to pick after the fire, and was protected by a thick husk.



Cursing the farmers into even greater poverty, I returned home, untanned and still possessing a medical mask required for long term exposure to the cloud.



This year, it seems having failed to tan properly in California, I am being denied the opportunity once again, thanks to Iceland, the equivalent of the weird kid who tried to be cool and bring fireworks on a school trip, but instead got caught by the teacher, who then cancelled the whole trip, forever cementing its position as the nation that spoilt it for everyone else.

Thank's a lot Iceland. Dick.


*(Being Really Fucking Pasty)

If You're Going To San Francisco...

Whilst in San Francisco I made sure to couch surf with a group of people living in the Castro district, known worldwide as a the place gay was invented.
Whilst there I learnt several new genus' of gay; Bears (a large hairy gay men), Otters (a skinny or thin Bear) Wolves (an aggressive species of Otter) to name but a few.
On one street I saw a homeless woman with the cardboard sign that read 'Need money, drink or 420. Every little helps.', whilst the back read 'Need help: have terminal case of the munchies'.

As you may have noticed by now, I am fascinated by niche publications, as they tend to offer an insight into subcultures that are second only to tracking someone from said subculture down and quizzing them thoroughly. Since I didn't fancy walking round Castro asking if anyone knew where I could find an Otter, I instead found a gay magazine shop and spent a fair bit of time browsing what was on offer.

The magazines had odd names, such as Tom of Finland, Genre, and Beefcake, but the most fascinating thing in the shop was a bucket full of old photos, none of which looked professional. They were either amateur porn shots or simply taken by couples mid-shenanigans, but some of them were odd enough to warrant being purchased so I could write about them here, store them, and have my grandchildren ask me some very difficult questions when they uncover them in 60 years.

The first is a merely a dirty playing card from the 40s that I thought was pretty cool, and the second could just about be called artsy when I suspect it was taken in the 80s, but still baffles me.

















The last is quite literally balls-out ridiculous, and begs the question as to why Burt Reynolds is balancing a naked man on his shoulder.


So that I don't have to end this post on a picture of a naked man with a butterfly tattoo, I'm going to leave you with a limerick from a 60's straight porn mag I bought in the shop (Rogue, in case you were wondering) which I thought was quite charming.

Construction Derby

During my 3 week stay in Texas, I decided to a raging hick-on and travel out to Nacogdoches, a 3 hour drive east of Dallas, in order to see a destruction derby.
My host had informed my that contrary to my expectations, Nacogdoches was a fairly large and liberal town, a fact helped by the local university. Nevertheless when I reached the convention centre, I was stuck in a queue made up full-blown hicks, country gals and folks in full cowboy get-up, and stood directly behind a man with a swastika tattooed on the back of his red, red neck.
The centre itself was a rodeo pit with college football style raised benches on two sides, and slowly filled up to what must have been a 2000 head capacity.
Before the event started I had been wondering what sort of person it would attract, and I was interested to see groups of men, families with children and even couples on dates making up the audience.


The event finally got underway with all 24 competing cars lining the outside ring of the arena, each driver then climbing out to stand on their cars, ranging from unrecognisably scratched chassis to immaculately painted show vehicles. The cars then emptied from the pit, save for the last 8, which began circling the actual arena, 'Nascar style', before a whistle blew and they immediately turned on each other.

The strategy appeared to be to reverse into your opponents, and keep yourself and particularly your engine out of the paths of any opponent able to get up enough momentum to do any damage.

The process of watching a car line up and then accelerate towards someone never failed to catch the crowd's attention, their volume rising as the vehicles neared one another and then exploding when they collided or letting a big 'aww' if they missed.
The match ended when only 4 cars were still in a position to move, the others having either been totalled or pushed far enough into the sand bank to be immobilized, and then everyone (even the loosers) was given time to make as many repairs to their car as possible before the next round.

The crowd didnt appear to have any loyalty to any one car, cheering no matter who rammed who, though my personal favourite was this little beauty:



As you can just about see, both of his rear wheels have come off, which on any rear wheel drive car might have caused a problem, but this guy just kept on going, managing not only survive the round, but take out another vehicle whilst severely crippled.
Meanwhile, the half time show consisted of hicks racing round on tricycles.



I'm probably taking most of the fun out the sport by explaining it in great detail, so I'll just leave up a videos and photos that help sum up the evening.

Doin' The Cockroach

My publication of choice whilst in the States has been a magazine, which can best be described as a weekly doomsday prophecy wiki, known as 'The Sun'. On top of foretelling our impending annihilation, it occasionally asks some of life's big questions, like 'What if someone snuck an iPhone into heaven?' and 'Why did the Australian navy travel to the future?'.
I'm going to write a full article about the magazine itself soon, but for now I'm going to dwell on a wonderful little museum in Texas that I found with the help of 'The Sun', called 'The Cockroach Hall of Fame'.


The museum itself is located in the back of a pest extermination shop in Plano, Texas, where I was greeted by an elderly man, who perked up immediately when it was evident I wanted more than just a can of Raid.

The man sprung up from his chair, and donned a wide brimmed hat lined with dead roaches.

"While I have this hat on, you may call me Cockroach Dundee."

He went on to tell me he had been 'collecting' since the 70s, and had once been interview by Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show as a result.

I was then shown a pair of glass cabinets, in which a couple dozen dead roaches were dressed and positioned like celebrities in creepy little dioramas.

There was Marilyn Monroach, tiny skirt blowing up in the air, Mark Twain roach, adrift on Huck Finn's raft, and most spectacularly, Liberoachy, complete with glittery costume and grand piano.


There was even a roach Bates' Motel located between Norman Roachwell's easel and Roachy O'Donnel's couch.
The tour climaxed with the handling of a giant roach, over two inches in length, which hissed repeatedly to display it's disapproval of being touched.
I left the museum with a T shirt, these photos and a strong desire to wash my hands.

Just Busted

Back home, my parents subscribe to a local paper called Confidential, which to the best of my knowledge, keeps them up to date on whoever locally has found themselves in court for petty debt or other small misdemeanors.
I found the concept of this somewhat repulsive, so you can imagine my reaction when I found a paper called 'Just Busted', which prints every mugshot taken by the police in the last week.
I bought the Tennessee edition for a dollar in a gas station, and despite it's sensationalist attitude, the paper graciously points out that "all pictured are presumed innocent until proven guilty" in it's small print.
The same goes for the "Sex Offenders Near Schools" section, where they briefly mention that not all the pictured offenders are in fact peadophiles, just sexual deviants, which is fortunate, given one man's sole crime is 'Sodomy'.
I could write a small essay on each of these people's faces, but instead I'll just post my favourite mugs and let you savour them. That said, I should point out that my absolute favourites are Mr Richard Palmer, Mr Royal Delbert Hall, and the exceedingly happy Justin, who appears to have been accused of Regiphilia.



P.S. I really don't get the bit about Phil Spector's wig.

The Elephant in 'The Room'

Last night I had the privilege of going to see a screening of 'The Room'.
Directed by Tommy Wiseau.
Written by Tommy Wiseau.
Starring Tommy Wiseau.
Produced by Tommy Wiseau.


(This guy)

It was the first time I'd seen the film, and while I wont spoil it for you, I will let you know what its about. Tommy plays Johnny, a protagonist who looks like a fairy tale villain made from the bleached body parts of 8 different death row convicts. But beneath his lumpy skin is a warm heart, as we see Johnny buy lots of flowers for his fiancee, Lisa, who decides to toy with Johnny solely out of boredom. The next 90 minutes are filled with revelations about various characters struggles with drugs, cancer, acting, and what appears at one point to be a mid production recasting of the 5th biggest character.
The film is mostly set in one flat (and adjoining rooftop) where most of the drama stems from the fact that they dont have a front door lock, as a chain of people walk straight in with the express intent of fucking with or on Johnny's couch.



Throughout the film, Room veterans (of which the cinema contained 700) preceded to scream the films lines, juggle footballs, and throw plastic spoons at the screen every time a particular photo (of a spoon) showed up in the background, but the real excitement came when Mr Wiseau himself came out for a Q&A.



I quickly learnt that Tommy Wiseau is a dangerously insane man.

He came out wearing both a suit and 6 different belts round his waste, claiming at one point he had a 7th on his person.
He spoke incoherently, managing to avoid answering a single question he was asked, particularly the carefully worded ones that might have given us a clue as to his background (which is a complete mystery, as some fans argue he is from New Orleans, others from Belgium).
Watch this clip from the night as Tommy tells someone to tell him to fuck off, sings half of happy birthday, then picks him up and flips him over, as we cheer this lunatic on:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f3RXyAEypac


Truly terrifying.

4 Nights With The Devil

I dont like animals. You can't trust them, you can't understand them and you can't reason with them. Sure, some are small enough to be put in cages where they are only a danger to themselves, and I'm just fine with that, but when you have to share a living space with one is when I start to get uncomfortable.
I just spent 4 days in DC with a new set of hosts, who were all friendly enough, though when it came to sleeping I was left to sleep in their living room/kitchen with their cat, Wilson, a 9 month old ginger ball of concentrated cunt.

You'd think with so much in common, we'd get along great, but when it came for me to sleep, Wilson decided to let me know who was boss by doing the most foul smelling shit just inches from his litter box, and playfully scratching me every chance he got.

Gagging through my blanket, I made a bed for myself on the sofa, and lay down, expecting Wilson to take the lights going out as an indication to go to sleep, but instead he repeatedly tried to join me on the sofa, claws constantly out.

Fortunately my hosts had told me I could get him to move by squirting him with a little blue spray gun every time he did something wrong.

What transgressed was me sitting in the dark for 90 minutes (bear in mind people went to bed at 2AM having been at a party), frantically trying to spot and shoot Wilson before he came at me, hoping he would get the message, or at least learn to fear the bright blue weapon I waved in his face whenever he neared me or tried scratching my beloved coat.

No such luck.

I eventually tired, and put on a hoody and more blankets as a defence against his claws and the lingering odour. Within seconds of creating my cloth fort and hiding under it, I felt his weight and spikey paws land on my leg.
For a full 20 minutes, the Gestapocatbastard paced up and down my body, purring loudly, never settling. Around 4 AM, I snapped and deciding I would deal with the consequences in the morning, locked Wilson in the basement.
I felt bad, but he had pushed me to it, but as this little dance repeated itself each night, it got easier and easier. Like murder.

On the last day I gave up, and as soon as everyone else had gone to bed, wrapped Wilson in a blanket, threw him in the bathroom and opened the window, letting the little cooz freeze.

Seriously, fuck animals.

Election Protection

I was immensely pleased when I found someone selling political condoms on the street last week, so much so that I bought a few overpriced johnnies in a move so optimistic, it can be compared to Mr Obama's presidential campaign.

I'd read about the 'Election Protection' range a while back, but decided against making a purchase, but when I saw that there was also a Sarah Palin edition (for 'when abortion is not an option') I thought I'd pay the $10 for a set.

If you look at the photos, you'll see they've all got jokes on the packet, though at first I felt they'd missed a trick by not including 'When it comes to sex, NO means YES WE CAN', until I realized how rapey that sounds.

Anyway, all we need now is some Hilary Clinton spermicide, and a diaphragm shaped like McCain's bald spot, and we're ready to go.


Edit: Anyone who says there's already a Joe Biden douche, I thought of it first.

Nec Tamen Consumebatur?

"Would you like that microwaved, Sir?"

"No thank you, its a Snickers."

Extract from my first encounter with a NY shopkeeper, 2010

Contrary to this initial comment, the majority of my hosts so far have been very healthy eaters, so I stopped looking for evidence to the contrary, until I found this little beauty:

That's right, with the Col-Pop device, you no longer need to worry about using both hands when you stuff yourself on coke and friend chicken.
I would call the device ingenious, but it's impact was immediately diminished when I saw someone buy two at once; one for each hand. Sigh.

USA Part 1: In Which I Land and Get Cursed

A week ago today I landed into Newark Airport, and began my journey.
A succession of trains took me in to Manhattan, where I stumbled over to the East Village, and a street whose closest UK equivalent would be Camden Market. I met up with my couchsurfing host's flatmate, Sara, who showed me around their appartment until Amanda, who approved my visit, got back from work.
The flat had a novel set up, in that there were 2 bedrooms (housing 3 girls in US student bunk bed fashion), a living room/kitchen (where I slept on a sofa bed), and a bathroom, which could only be accessed by walking straight through Sara's bedroom, which never ceased to feel odd.
Nevertheless my hosts were really cool and didn't mind this creature sleeping in their living room.
The excitement picked up the following night, when we went out to meet Amanda's workmates for drinks.
We were told to meet them in a bar to the East of us, but when we tried to enter, the Amanda and Sara, being just 19, had their (fake) ID's taken by a bouncer. During the post eviction rant, I learned that being 'carded' was common, but actually having the fake cards confiscated was a rarity.
Kindly enough the people they knew in the bar came out to meet us and we found a dive bar just down the street, called The Blarney Cove.

The Blarney Cove was everything I'd imagined an American bar would look like, and as we passed the owner (a 50 something woman in black with a Clockwork Orange-esque tattoo round her left eye) and her clientele (big men with mustaches), I felt things were looking up.
The barmaid decided to ID us, but Amanda's friend Jason convinced her to let us stay if the 'minors' drank coke. Having agreed on this, the same barmaid instantly approved of serving everyone beer.
We, which by this point consisted of Amanda, Sara, Jason, Lindsay (another work person), 2 more work girls and I, sat and drank for 25 minutes, enjoying ourselves, until a woman in the bar punched the barmaid and after being thrown out, kept kicking the bar door, before shouting "I've got a gun", as if that would convince us to let her back in.
This prompted action from the bar's owner, who ran up and down, telling us about the 'psycho cunt's' prison record, before checking we all had ID for when the cops arrived. Upon finding out Sara and Amanda were 19, she decided 'cunt' was the word that would see her through the evening.
The owner told my hosts to get in the cellar and hide until the cops left, lest she loose her license. The girls obliged, and ran behind the bar and down into the Anne Frank re-enactment center.
The owner stormed up and down the bar, kicking the walls, throwing stools and proclaiming that she 'saw this coming', and that we were cursed until 2:11, thanks to a lunar eclipse.
This tirade of prophecy and profanity lasted 10 minutes before the cops arrived, and as Jason (who worked as a chugger) tried to get the cops to sign up for his charity, Lindsay and I shared glances and tried not to laugh or think about how much we would prefer to be outside with "psycho cunt" than inside with someone who listens to the moon.
Eventually the police turned up, took a statement and left without incident, before the owner threw us all out and told us to never come back.

I went to bed feeling my first 24 hours were well spent.

Lorraine Kelly Will Eat Your Young.

I found this at work today:


To sum it up the book states that she will start with the toddlers, then move on to the babies.
Horrific.

Eau noes!

Again, another old post, given a fresh airing on here, so excuse me if its a bit out of date.

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We all want to be healthy. Rather, we all want to feel healthy.
These two things are very different. Being healthy is often something hard to achieve, but you can feel healthy by doing something good for your body. It's put up with a lot recently, so it deserves a treat. You could wipe your conscience clean with a day's worth of salads and water, or by giving up booze for an hour, but in the end, you're no healthier than yesterday.

That's why the kind folks at Glaceau have invented Vitamin Water, the product with something for everyone.
Before I go off on one, I'll admit I've enjoyed a few of these in the past, albeit making sure everyone around me knows I just buy it for the placebo effect, lest I look like I fell for their advertising.
Anyway, at first glance the packaging looks fairly plain, just 2 colours and lots of black text, but stare at the bottle long enough, and it begins to look like a giant pill. See?

If it's a pill, its also medicine, right?

But the genius of the bottle lies in the fact it also looks like a container for medicine. The small black text is laid out specifically to look like the ingredients on a medicine bottle, while titles like Defence, Endurance, and Balance help you compensate for whatever your frail body lacks at the time. Fortunately, for those of you not taken in by those titles, there are also more scientific names, such as Multi - V and Formula 50.

The subtitles state the main 2 vitamins featured in your bottle, helping you break down your bodies' myriad needs into a dozen or so building blocks that can be accessed at any decent corner shop.
Nutrition experts will know better than to buy these drinks, if only because there are cheaper alternatives, but the product is not aimed at them, it is aimed a psuedo-nutritionites, who often buy something healthy, only to be seen with it.

They will often be curious about the contents of the bottle and might actually read ingredient style blurb on the side, are instead placated by cutesy informal messages about how these vitamins might help you through humorous situations throughout the day.
Obviously these is a list of ingredients on the bottle, but the company makes such an effort to distract you from it that I felt it was worth a mention.

All this said, its a great idea for a manipulative product design, I'm only moaning because I wish I'd come up with it.

Ursa Immodicus

Right, my blog was looking a little empty, so I've decided to update it with old news.
I made this just before I left uni. The assignment was to make an 'art'. It had to be printed, but that was all they said, other than you must later justify it.
So here it is, complete with my somewhat pretentious 'justification' of why I should be allowed to get away with nicking so many ideas from other artists.
Also, thought I've no right to complain, but a few months after I made this, a lot of Great Bear imitations appeared online, making this appear even less original. Pah.




Ursa Immodicus


March 2008


Essentially a re-working of Simon Patterson's The Great Bear (1992), which itself is an adaptation of Henry Beck's London Underground tube map, this print replaces each tube line with a particular theme, and while Patterson's creation dealt with famous explorers, actors and engineers, this piece charts topics of tabloid news stories.
As such, we see how casually topics as contrasting as horse racing, soft core pornography and child murder can be displayed together, prompting the viewer to consider the hypocrisy of such presentation.
The river Thames has undergone a colour change, increasing the presence of a tabloid colour scheme (in the vein of Gilbert & George's recent Tate Modern exhibition), but also implying drastic consequences of these journalistic misdeeds, as we are reminded of the biblical curse to make the rivers run red with blood.
At first, the map would appear to be a level playing ground, with only labels and names to go by, no one child is more adorable than another, no killer looks more suspicious.
Nevertheless, our eyes are inevitably drawn to the centre of the piece, which makes up a veritable who's who of missing children, public hate figures and Grand National winners, some names are inevitably pushed aside, meaning that the numerous dead of the recent Burma crisis will not be granted the same spotlight as that of a single infant who has been absent over a year.
Alas, infamy is also favoured over scale, hence your ability to recall the face, victims and miscellaneous details of a single murderer, whilst you are unable to recollect the region in which 100,000 people have recently died, contradicting the belief of 'the mors*, the merrier'.
We can also see that the centre of the map is surrounded, almost framed by an impenetrable wall of television channels, which, reassured by one another's company, can look out on all the distant people and incidents from their cyclical domain, endlessly following one another's leads.
While making numerous examples of tabloid content, be it good or bad, the piece also points out the omissions within the format, by including one theme on the key, but removing the corresponding thread from the map.
The name of the piece translates roughly as 'excessive bear', or in other words 'too much to bear', alluding to the grim nature of the tabloid content.

*[Latin: mortis, genitive of mors; death.]