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.