My Narnia is the sunset strip circa 1987
Mischief and Thunder
A spiritual guide for the modern libertine
Posts tagged rock and roll:
“Don’t you just love this long hair, it’s better than mine” said the twenty two year old model imported from Moscow. Their conversation drifts into Russian and they faded further into the the G5’s cabin, now almost entirely filled in a haze of western Canada’s finest. I am certainly not partaking as the emails and obligations were far from finished, and the second we touch down I know all too well that nothing from New York would translate properly until my delirious return. We left out of Teterboro at 12:07pm and I was immediately poured a glass of Krug, the first in a never ending faucet of debauchery. I am one of only three males on the plane, the pilot and the owner share the distinction. With fourteen females on board the capacity level was beyond FAA recommendation…but my host graciously pointed out “the true beauty of traveling with models is that technically they count as one person weight-wise.”
My final pieces of work concluded with ninety-two pounds of cheekbone and leg draped across my lap, licking my face. “You and I are going to have the fun at Basel, yes?” my penchant for broken english kicks in as I stand up to join the sky high dance party. Surveying the scene I notice many of the women changing into their beachwear with no regard for American puritanical nudity norms. Out the window the miles and miles of beach are visible and the luxury air vehicle dives below my feet. Surfing the decent surrounded by beauty I can’t help but note how appropriate the Spank Rock song “Baby” was for the situation. “I’d sell my soul but the devil don’t want it, baby.”
Spin of the limousine wheels, seated gyration, playful interrogations, extended goodbyes, road cocktail…
Arrival at the hotel began in a rush of disorganization caused in equal parts by incompetence and a mass influx of aggro New Yorkers. The suite is sufficiently sprawling, if not a touch too “Miami”. Just as I begin to settle in the first of my co-conspirators burst in like Joe Walsh ready to knock down the walls. Mojito like concoctions in hand he explains the absurdities of the situation surrounding the first iPhone victim of Basel. The fury of the arrival was only matched by that of our departure.
The depth of beautiful talent on all fronts begins to sink in as we use our devil charms to acquire a prime table at Le Carte Blanche. The delectability of the meal was high, yet our nervous energy pulls at our collars. Outside we sprint to upstream those less agile and after a near miss in the middle of the street we find ourselves in a cab heading north at a testosterone injected pace.
The Villa Vecchio is a veritable fortress of opulence, complete with placement on the intercoastal and views of neon for miles. The abundance of scandinavian barbies desperately distracts us from the task at hand. Despite the gorgeous flock I start shooting what is playing out to be a eyes wide shut reenactment with a performance art tie in. The Hole gallery New York sponsored by Playboy provides for a thoroughly satisfying dive into the the sensual pleasures of nudity and barrels of acrylic paint. The bell has rung and the worlds well heeled pile into the ballroom fit for Versailles.
Hulton stands at the center looking like a nerdy Picasso knock off complete with striped t-shirt. I kept imagining he was actually Woody Allen chosen to play the enigmatic Pablo. In front of him lay a cross like quadrant of boards surrounding his “canvas”. Fortunately his mixed raced/leaning towards asian assistant provides aesthetic console until the show gets underway. The little man begins pouring thousands of dollars of art store standard in simple circular forms layered on top of each other. Needless to say this is no modern master, but one can’t deny how visually arresting it is watching an entire section of blick be poured in under two hours.
With our interest waning, cocktails emptied, and the whiny painter started to strain our nerves too far…the nubile nude model steps out into the spotlight to thunderous applause and refreshed glasses. Photographically the image is pure sticky lust and results in a piece fit for the front entrance of a gaudy mcmansion. The bystanders slowly thinned out and beyond their masses we spotted dashing crew teaming youthful artistic energy .
The Black and Ivory gallery team is an absolute breath of electricity among the Basel regulars. We quickly acquire bottles of champagne and board a vessel resembling a frigate supposedly intended for our usage. Sheik turbans adorned with horn, 1980’s Hermes power ties, Crazy horse haircuts, striking mustaches, and a cornucopia of foreign accents were among the most memorable accessorizes as we climbed on. The slow amble down the waterway begins with bottle pops and TV On The Radios “Second Song” blaring as we float ominously away from the shore… “And when the night comes fiending like a pyro”
The glittering prize at the end of the ride is an inescapable desire for bacchanal. The gift began at Electric Room’s southern outpost, where nefarious eyes and all evil things translate easily into Floridian “culture”. The beats rage on as Nur oversees his court of the pretty things on loan from New York. My vision has converted to FPS lens mode and the shutter is incessant, drawing crowds of the fame hungry. Flute in my left hand, camera in my right. I respond to the pleads of a particularly voluptuous subject with flashes of glory in parallel with her suggestive poses. “I met a gin-soaked bar room queen in Memphis”
Upon exiting the momentum shifts heavily and the nights events become freeze frame images accompanied with social media like captions. Delano Pool fully dressed. Jeans don’t dry quickly. Trippy bug golf carts. “I like your collar bones”. “It’s Hermes”. “weren’t you just making out with her?” Silencio is soooo french. Fade to black.
The sun’s wrath beats down with a vengeance as the evenings unpaid bill cashes itself. A seemingly endless number of cell phones are ringing without a breath and my only goal is a large body of water. My messiah is a luke-warm bottle of perrier. The walk to the convention center to grab our credentials is broken up by a pit stop at the Dorchester for a bloody mariah and a casual interview with a hyper talented technical photographer. Her Infrared surrealist photography soothes the previous nights demons and entices my visual senses back into alignment.
Our white credit card size passes contain surprisingly attractive pictures of ourselves just above the three most important letters of the weekend “CNN”. The manilla walls act as a repellant and we flee the center swiftly. We are stranded without transport to Scope, until our human binoculars spot a fleet of inanimate Audi A8Ls. The purpose of the automobiles it to transport VIP’s, and as representatives of the worlds preeminent news source we feel entitled to such luxuries. After a lengthy introduction to the greatest chair of all time (an over-designed carbon fiber masterpiece) we indulge in the land boats sumptuous leather. Crossing the bridge I switch the Satellite radio to a Hair Metal station and appropriately Guns N’ Roses “It’s So Easy” rings through while the sun sets before us.
Scope is the brilliant ADHD child of Art Basel and it’s art justifies the lack of focus with an unbridled complexity and beauty. Among the notable are Gromquist’s weaponized taxidermy and the imported chinese “dragon horse” chairs…a new life essential. the Ivory and Black team jovially greet us as we successfully seek out Dionysus’s liquid. Fully back on the merry-go-round transport back to south beach is attained, but almost results in a full blown civil war. Almost being the key word.
As our meal at The Dutch concludes our energy level rise ferociously. Our lovely female guests depart to refresh and we are left to our own self destructive devices. Obviously we head to a Metro Zu/Superchief soiree where we begin to graffiti a Lamborghini under the influence of russian water. Images are made, pictures are taken, italian exotics are defiled. With a heavy growl of the engines it ends leaving us in a post coital sweat.
Walking south on Collins I spot a nubian princess of amazonian proportions dressed as scantily as is legal in the US. Confused by our appearance she strikes up conversation.
“Where are you crazy boys headed”
“The Dream. How about you darling? You should come”
“Oh honey that sounds nice, but I’m working”
“Really? What do you….OHHHHHHH.”
After a quick pop in at Electric we jump directly to the Shore Club and are greeted by the girls from dinner. The neon bedouin themed rear courtyard morphs into our haven of revelry and tequila becomes a prominent force in our veins. The ladies want to head to Soho House, I become their de-facto escort. Coupled up and exiting I pause as a troop of familiar feminine voices scream my name. I turn and see my favorite partners in crime, who like me are on leave from Manhattan, and decide to stay. I close the door to the cab with the unlucky kitty inside, paw on the glass as it drives away.
Once back behind the hotel we head for the Westway popup inside the red room. My flowing locks combined with a fetching female foursome, parts the sea of never getting ins. One lovely grabs the camera off my arm and disappears into the fray. My head sways in rhythm, only to pause for the inevitable photo opportunity. My pink tie, three piece suit sans blazer, and denim jacket combination develops both interested stares and splendid visuals in the viewfinder. The dance floor flows in waves of aggression and the sweat builds until the eventual tipping point is reached.
The exterior scene reveals itself to be more tranquil as we cosy into a sea of pillows pleasantly situated under low hanging branches. The intoxicants are delivered now causing the seated ladies to monkey into the branches to perform an impromptu striptease. Hazily observing the scene my two male colleagues have disappeared into shadows and I find myself on the beach with both a blond and brunette. Both stunning. Both getting naked. Both in the ocean. Admiring the neon skyline into star filled oblivion, I disrobe and join them…Tom Sawyer ships, hard nips, sensual fingertips. “A new sensation”
The damp sand massages our feet as nude yoga is executed under the moon. The fair haired angel is cut from the scene as a rolling-sand-makeout-montage is filmed and quickly becomes too heated for PG-13 viewers. Mojito and salty skin play off each other as a delectable sweet and savory dish. The nights mischief comes to a close as natures light switch slowly slides up. Naked, soaking wet, and thoroughly sanded I begin the journey to my temporary home, smiling from ear to ear. “She got jumper cable lips. She got sunset on her breath. I inhaled just a little bit, now I’ve got no fear of death.”
The Libertine Oath:
In this life, it is my mission to bring overwhelming joy to as many beings as is possible. I will never back down from a challenge to aid those who are oppressed mentally, physically, or spiritually. I will explore every region imaginable with all the strength I have in my body, mind, and soul to invigorate my creative process and develop the innovations necessary to evolve the human race to a heightened level of existence. I will immerse myself fully in my artistic passions to fulfill the gifts bestowed upon me as a sentient being and produce gorgeous works to induce a profound emotional response. With the last flicker of life in my eyes, I will wink at this plane of existence before I exit to the dark beyond knowing my memory will serve as a vast armory of hope to all those who will be told their dreams are impossible.
Tokyo is the realization of our childhood Star Wars fantasies. Alien like entities lurk around every corner awaiting you to share kanpai with you. They have kuala yummies, beer vending machines on the street, and live band karaoke everywhere. However this is it not a place for the casual traveler whose greatest adventure is leaving their resort in Maui for an afternoon hike. The culture shock will astonish, and for me it reawakens my youthful awe with great delight. Nothing is easily translated, street signs and maps might as well be gibberish, human to human awareness is stabbed with a numbness worse than Manhattans…yet if you are willing to let everything you have composed into idiosyncratic tendencies fly right out the Shinkansen window you’ll be rewarded with pleasures never before imagined. So if you’re a true adventurer, with style, grace under pressure, fierce intelligence, striking good looks, and a nymphomaniac like lust for life, get your sculpted body on the first sky ship to the land of the rising sun. Stay in the Park Hyatt or equivalent, but be there sparingly. Get lights out smashed with the boys and girls with the giant orange hair, sing honkey tonk women in front of a hundred people, eat soba until you explode, Take advantage of the fact that you are the only alpha in the room, dance in the streets with strangers, stay up until five and decimate the fish market one luscious bite at a time, teach your new partners in crime about the nuances of hair metal, drink whiskey with breakfast, basque in the glory of the majority of women rocking bangs, accept motorcycle rides to seedier parts of town, get naughty with a cosplay girl next to the hotel pool and watch the staff get highly uncomfortable shyly asking you to stop, never sleep (or do so with caution) as there are only 84000 seconds in a day and in my opinion not a single one should be idle when surrounded by such beauty, opulence, and jovial debauchery…at least that’s how I felt and what I did yesterday.
You are my queen, I am your fool
Get in the ring
Bangkok Shocks, Saigon Shakes, Hanoi Rocks
#formalfridays
Viper’s Night
The most underrated band of all time?
The Voluptuary’s Exit
For those of you that don’t know me, it is no secret that I often play on the cusp of both the glorious and the fatal. The old adage goes that nothing is more enthralling than a life that constantly stares death straight in the eyes. To say such things of my existence would be a gross understatement. I have indecently kissed death on numerous occasions and it seems only a matter time before temptation wins out. Although many believe I am in fact immortal, I find it prudent to share my final wishes as they are too lurid and bizarre to be lost.
To begin I refuse my final rights on this earth to be performed on any other day but the summer solstice. Please cryogenically freeze my body as is appropriate. Second, the setting for the event can only be on a peninsula shaped grassy cliff overlooking the ocean. Specific location is yet unidentified, but note that like everything I do, aesthetics take precedence over practicality.
The invitations to the great send off shall be written on aged parchment with burnt corners and sealed in black wax with my crest pressed on it. The content within is a treasure map to the location and the specific details of the affair. The invitations are to be hand delivered by men in full formal tailcoats without explanation besides a simple “compliments of Keenan”.
The affair is black tie with accents of the wild (I expect fur, leather, feathers etc to add flare to everyone’s outfit). There is no need for a rain location, it simply will not rain.
The site will have thirteen massive bonfires raging in a triangular shape. The thirteenth will be located at the point of the peninsula (and will be the largest) and pairs of bonfires will line up on opposite ends of the peninsula moving away from the point. On each of the twelve paired bonfires different game will be roasting (venison, bear, bore, geese, antelope, elk, pheasant, rabbit, duck, crocodile, elan, bison) in the center of these fires a massive dark banquet table will be set for a feast. The center pieces on the table will be elaborately adorned chainsaws of my own design.
Holographic screens will be placed to display images of me, my photographs and inspirations. A massive concert quality sound system will also be erected in order to ensure sound integrity. The ceremony begins at 9 pm and will continue until dawn. Guests will be informed to hydrate and rest well prior to arrival.
As the guests arrive they are separated by sex and handed both a flaming torch and a glass of Krug vintage brut 1996 champagne. Women will proceed to the peninsula first in procession while the Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero’s song “40 Day Daydream” as the reach their place on the left side of the table (staff will ensure it is clear) they will push their torch into the ground and be offered a decadent assortment of bites from the sea (caviar, seared scallops, assorted ceviches, lobster tacos, razor clams, cockles, oysters, Sea Urchin). The men will proceed after in exactly the same manner only to the right and with the Warren Zevon song “Werewolves of London” blaring.
Once all are in place they will be asked to shout out the heavens and rustle the gods as the live version of Oasis’s “Fucking in the Bushes” blasts over the sound system. As a sufficient decibel level is reached, a sound clip of Axl Rose screaming “wake up time to die” will play followed by “Welcome to the Jungle” in it’s entirety. All will applaud as my ebony and gold casket is carried to its place at the head of the table. The casket itself will have the head of wolf and be lined in coyote fur, designed by Peter Gronquist. I will be dressed in a tuxedo with mink collar and lapels and lined in purple silk (in death we are all royalty).
As instructed no glass will be left empty, and all servers will be beautiful nubile young females dressed in fur, leather, and flowers. The party will proceed and guests will mingle until a live drum session summons them to be seated at their marked place at the table. Once seated the Orphic Hymn to Dionysus will be recited in order properly evoke he who provides us with both ecstasy and sorrow.
“I call upon loud-roaring and revelling Dionysus,
primeval, double-natured, thrice-born, Bacchic lord,
wild, ineffable, secretive, two-horned and two-shaped.
Ivy-covered, bull-faced, warlike, howling, pure,
You take raw flesh, you have feasts,
wrapt in foliage, decked with grape clusters.
With your fair-girdled nymphs breathe on me
in a spirit of perfect agape.”
The week before the ceremony the guests will be asked to give a speech about a time I made them laugh, smile, cry, or made them angry. Essentially a time I stirred true emotion in them. If they are not comfortable speaking publicly they will be asked to submit their story in writing. At each person’s place setting a leather bound and gold leaf book will be set. Its contents will include images of me, excerpts of my writing, and inspirations I’ve cited.
The only time sorrow will be allowed is following the seating when Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” is played. It is the most beautifully melancholic song I have ever heard, but I will ask my guest to imagine the love spoken about in the song to be understood as life itself. It is my belief that life is in fact love and every moment can provide a warm embrace if you perceive it the correct way. While the song plays the stories of those that chose not to speak will be displayed. Directly after the rolling stone song “loving cup” will be played with the same understanding of word love, but with an entirely more joyful tinge. The remaining written stories will be displayed.
The feast itself will be served as all the roast beasts fill the table and are accompanied by Brussels sprouts in xo sauce, smashed curried cauliflower, candied artisanal carrots and roast parsnips in goose fat. All the china and flatware will be made of horn and bone, and and all place settings will be leather with feathered accents. To accompany the Krug, guests will have their selection of 1997 Giuseppe Quintarelli Amarone della Valpolicella Classico, Domaine de Chevalier Blanc 2009, Del Maguey Pechuga mezcal, Victory Brewing’s Golden Monkey Ale, Guinness (draft), Vieux Pontarlier Absinthe. Dessert will consist of roasted and caramelized fruit over the fire, Pierre Hermé Macarons, and Bilboquet chocolate mousse.
As the feast progresses the guests who would like to verbalize their story about me, shall be able to do so at will. A combination of live and recorded music will play to my exact specifications, I will release the list to a number of confidants in the near future. Once the feast is ended the table will be separated and moved to the sides with the chairs in order to make more room for my favorite pastime, ferocious dancing.
An hour into the party progression Motorhead’s “Ace of Spades” will play as my funeral vehicle is revealed, a navajo print seaplane with the words “Victory is Death” written on the wings. The guests will be encouraged to leave gifts within or write messages on the plane for my journey to the next world. The procession to do so will be accompanied by The Doors “The End”, specifically the seventeen minute live version from the second disk of their box set.
When dawn approaches my plane will be lowered to the sea by crane, and thirteen M60 machine guns will fire three thousand rounds into the sky each to clear my path. Guns N’ Rose’s “Paradise City” live in Tokyo will be played as the engines on the airplane are fired up with me in it. The controls will be set to automatic and the crowd will roar and cheer uncontrollably as I take off on my last ride into the sun.
All guests will wait until the plane is no longer visible, then begin to leave as the sun is fully risen. Sigur Ros’s “Glosoli” will play as each is handed custom machetes and tomahawks of my own design as keepsakes. The entire night will be recorded in video and photo, to be edited and sent out to every attendee. My possessions and estate will be distributed as I have specified to my attorney, their notice for collection will arrive in porcupine quill jewelry boxes the evening after the vicious event.
“Moderation is a fatal thing, nothing succeeds like excess.” -Oscar Wilde
One Speed, No Brakes
#formalfridays
Always out numbered. Never out gunned
Champagne and Hot Sauce
My eyes open from darkness to the front door slamming. The tranquilizer’s after-burn fights my movements, the ground a collage of gold metallic wrappers and scattered clothing. “Skin of the night” is playing softly on repeat. Reaching the marble counter covered in bottles and glasses, I find a legal pad lying sideways with “Laura 555-212-7341” written in sharpie. Australian? Brunette? Who cares… I open the aluminum door praying for coconut water; find nothing but a bottle of Veuve and some Cholula. Reprobates live on a Spartan diet.
My iPhone vibrates on the stone; “Sarah B. is at yoga works” who the fuck goes to yoga at, umm 3:30pm. Such things shouldn’t make me laugh. Such things should instill anxiety and urgency. In need of rescue I text Hann at the Bodega: “2 Zico, 2 apples, sugar free Popsicles”.
My position in the coyote fur hammock allows me a view of the city vibrantly churning below my loft. People rushing to complete tasks I’ll never experience, but understand to be essential in perpetuating the decadence. The bottle resting on my chest has a surprisingly long finish as it begins to alleviate the cloud. Vibration, Damon: “Oi, at The Randolph. Get here”. Ignore for now, one must salvage a bit of the Apollonian before submission to the inevitable bacchanal. A Libertine’s game of hard to get.
A text from Meaghan appears, and a faint sense of responsibility creeps in. “Babes are you still coming to brunch, we are seated?” The ramifications are low, but the reservation is under my name. Thankfully she is endlessly entertained by my reality. “She wouldn’t leave… I’ll meet you after.” Meaghan: “Hahaha, who? The one I met at Electric Room? You should bring her.” Horrendous idea. Was I at Electric? “So sorry darling, let’s play later”.
The wall buzzes. Doorman: “Hann is here.”
Pay. Drink Zico. Run. Equinox. Ignore people. Church. Duncan Quinn. Odin. Milano’s Bar. Pint. Shower.
“You could be mine” erupts from the speakers while I select an outfit, a process in dire need of acceleration. Placing the first cuff link in with a twist, I’m interrupted by a familiar double beep “Anisia’s B-day Dinner at Felling”. Less than 15 minutes to get deep in Chinatown, and I’m not wearing pants. Skip? Can’t, the illustrator I’m “collaborating” with is invited.
Dress, eye drops, ATM, cab.
Arriving 30 minutes late, I’m the first in the party to arrive. The decor is heavy in reclaimed wood, accented by stainless saw blade chandeliers and shelves full of matte black chainsaws. The grizzly bartender takes my order as “Mr. Saturday Night Special” blares in the background. Rustic glam? Lumberjack chic? At least it’s packed with pretty people.
Who is staring at me? Did we stab a few weeks ago? No, this is new. An Intense gaze, collarbones, lithe arms, leather pants, stunning. She walks over to me, but I get a slap on my shoulder and turn. “Hey stud, are we the first ones?” It’s Fabian, the only person at this dinner I can actually tolerate. I turn back around and she’s gone. Panic. Fabian: “Why are you so pissy?” “It’s nothing, just loathe our punctuality”.
The private table next to the kitchen is a veritable minefield of my carnal history. It’s astonishing, could I have actually been with six out of eight? I need to move to Berlin. Thankfully Meaghan came. No sign of the girl from the bar. Predictable.
The meal is a seven course tasting of obscure New Brunswick game, mostly offal. Really? With only four men, most plates are poked at rather than eaten. Thankfully they are liberal with the Bollinger. “Sriracha, please?”
Mingle, bubbles, set meeting, flirt, bubbles, evade explanations, bubbles. Refuse dessert. Check. Cab.
The Boom Boom Room is pulsing, an increasingly rare sight. Fabian and Meaghan run upstairs to smoke, I take Anisia to the dance floor. The walk is an informal procession line. Everyone seems to be here. “Home” fades in from the speakers and the crowd begins to leap in waves. A glitter filled sea of elbows and smiles. Over my partner’s shoulder I see her. Head flung back, hair waving in rhythm. I go numb. Anisia: “Where are you going?” Nothing to say, no need to incite a scene.
I aggressively fight through to reach her; she sees me coming. Grasping her hand I pull it through to an empty space and pause. She corners my body, pulls on my lapels and kisses deeply. Warm sensations begin throbbing against the denim. She pulls away and brushes my hair from our mouths, “I like your hair”. “I like your…teeth?”
Our rush to the bizarre back restroom is simultaneously violent and efficient. We enter in an unbridled fury; I elevate her against the wall, a race to unbutton everything. Teeth, tongues, grasps, pulls, thrusts. We move to the sink, the skyline’s lights blur behind her. She feels like, Christmas.
The door swings open, “Oh hey sorry, uh, mind if I piss?” Before I can react she pushes away, jumps down, and leaves in haste. The Neanderthal offers 80’s era inspiration as reparation. “No meat, just get out of the way.” Sprinting downstairs I’m oppressed by the crowd, find nothing. Panic. Angst. No name, no number, 8 million people.
I search the roof with similar success. Meaghan spots me, “Are you ok? You look insane?” I look up “It can’t all be so ephemeral.” Perplexed she responds, “What happened between you and Anisia?” Annoyed, “Who?”
Walking downstairs, disappointment and lingering desire drown my synapses. Plowing towards the exit, I pretend not to notice my acquaintance’s shouts too contain me. I grab a flute from a tray, which is clearly intended for another. Vibration, a text from Damon: “Mate, Crystal Castles are about to hit the stage.” Salvation. Alice is an obsession. “In. Where?” I smirk as the glass presses against my lips and the city sharpens into view.
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