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Nervous

Flamer Writers

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Lets start this by saying that there is nothing wrong with being gay! I have no problems with gay males or females and I was just wondering the input from everybody else that has their two cents on this issue. I know that some will speak loudly and this topic probably has been raised before but time have changed and so have writers is being a bay writer more acceptable for a a female or male. And if it is frowned upon by those you dissagree with it, what is you reasoning. I am interested in the knowledge artist have and if the prodominately male sub-culture has a certain specific direction with the homosexual writer.

This is a question not an interagation, for those who know what interagation feels like we know what it's like to argue. All opinions are opinions and i hope we can discuss this freely...

LaterZ...

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Guest --zeSto--

here's an interesting paradox....

 

Graffiti can be in the 'hiphop' world, therefore no openly gay people.

Graffiti can be in the 'arts' world, therefore no shame about sexual preference.

 

so bombers cant be gay but canvas painters can be. (???)

 

ahhh paradox.

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Gay writers are hella tizight. Anyone who's got the balls to expose that much of themselves in such a close minded scene are cool in my book. More man than alot of the writers I know.

 

Here's a lil recomended reading on the subject...Vice Guide to New York Graffiti

 

matthewplusfrommyexperiencegayguysareprettyfuckinfuntohangoutwithtentimesmorepopularthanicouldeverhopetobeanddoashitloadofdrugsthirteen.

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Guest --zeSto--
Originally posted by Matthew13

more popular than i could ever hope to be, and do a shit load of drugs.

 

indeed!

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New York’s graffiti scene in 2001 is made up of some of the most reckless drug users in America. Their crew is called Irak. They are rude, illegal, sometimes gay and always on the verge of losing their lives. We like to write about people who get fucked up, but this is bigger: Sacer, Semen and Earsnot are more than just “most wanted” on the NYPD’s hit list. They are what New York looks like. If you close your eyes and think of this city you see the work of Irak and their peers. With this much hedonism getting this much credibility, it was time VICE put together the supreme guide to what, where, when, why and who is painting on the fifth biggest city in the world. We knew notorious fag filmmaker Bruce LaBruce hung out with them, so we flew him down to blow it wide open. We asked him to live with them for a week, go bombing with them, get Ryan McGinley to photograph everything and then research the history of this fucked up form of indigenous art.

He said sure, but then he got too wasted.

 

 

This isn’t an article about graffiti. If you want to read the definitive piece of journalism on throwing up (and I’m not talking about a Karen Carpenter profile), go to your local library and hunt down on microfilm an article from Rolling Stone called “Mean Streaks” dated February 9, 1995. In it, Kevin Heldman, a real journalist, trails a couple of spraypainters around New York (following them into subway tunnels to stand breathless by their side as the trains barrel past; clambering up the Manhattan Bridge to observe them hanging from their knees to bomb or tag the mammoth structure) and generally lays out the whole historical and sociological context of urban graffiti.

 

Fuck that shit. I ain’t no kamikaze reporter fresh from covering the events in the war-torn Republic of Chechnya, nor am I any kind of expert on the graffiti scene. I do, however, enjoy getting blotto with a couple of the most unusual and gifted kids currently bombing New York. When I was asked to do this story I had high hopes, but all I ended up getting was high. It isn’t easy trying to write about vandals when you’re getting fucked up with them.

 

I arrive on a Saturday with my long johns on under my clothes, having just escaped from a twenty below zero Toronto cold snap. I stomp sweatily up the five floor East Village walk-up with my heavy bags. Ryan McGinley answers the door. This young cutie, who follows the writers everywhere they go fanatically taking pictures, is just now saying good-bye to Marc, his model boyfriend. They seem like they’re really stoned which, I will soon discover, is due to the fact that Tyrone, Ryan’s best friend (a corporate head-hunter and part-time “rum-runner”) has just acquired some opium, a rare treat that only occurs a couple of times a year.

 

Ryan and I buy some beers and settle on the couch in the small, shabby living room in front of Tyrone’s widescreen digital TV with pirated cable to watch the Inauguration of America’s latest figurehead, Dubya. We get ridiculously high, like Withnail and I, just in time to witness the Latin queen Ricky Martin (who, incidentally, while a member of Menudo, was molested by the father of the Menendez brothers) do his queenly routine. He’s followed by a gays-in-the-military faggot who belts out “God Bless America” as if she’s in a Broadway revival of Neil Simon’s “The Star-Spangled Girl.”

 

 

I’m flying high on the opium magic carpet, my kundilini shooting out through the top of my head into space, but still trying to concentrate on Dubya’s speech and Tyrone and Ryan’s repartee. With his choked pauses and clipped phrasing, Dubya seems like an automaton. I half expect white liquid to start dripping out of the corners of his mouth. He talks in vague, populist homilies which don’t really mean anything, like Mao. I’m convinced in my altered state that Iraq is going to drop the bomb on him right here and now, which would be appropriate, since the name of the graffiti crew I’m here to observe is called Irak (not the country, silly — “I rak” as in “I shoplift”).

As a Canadian in the land of the Yanks, the ascent of the Texas travesty unfolding before our eyes is stirring up my old political punk leanings, but strangely I will soon discover that Ryan and the graffiti kids he will be photographing, despite their radical pursuits and flagrant disregard for the law— racking and mopping on a daily basis, tagging and throwing up wherever they go (crimes against property in this new era of hypercapitalism are the worst you can commit)— are surprisingly apolitical. The only thing they seem to want to boycott is talking to me seriously about graffiti. Nikes, new or vintage, are ubiquitous amongst the crew (what sweatshops?) and any conversation regarding the motivation behind spraypainting is devoid of any specific political or even anarchistic socialist rhetoric. Sure they often destroy mass media billboards and mall-like chains, but it’s not adbusting. It’s just wrecking something to “ups fame” (an Earsnotism). The general impression is one of “apres moi, le deluge.” Things are so fucked up at this point in history, so monumentally surreal, that only the impulsive moment counts, the rush of adrenaline garnered from racking or tagging, the natural high.

 

But believe me, the unnatural high for these kids isn’t chopped liver, either. The amount of opiates and pharmaceutical powders and pills that course through their veins would put Judy Garland herself to shame. Lucky for me, it fits right in with my new diet regime: no food, and tons of drugs.

 

I’m so high at this point, the last thing I want to do is interview someone, but I do my duty and try to contact the graffiti kids. Nobody’s answering their cell phones. VICE wants me to profile the real legends.

 

 

 

Sacer. The guy you read about in The New York Times who did the ultimate throw up: The Brooklyn Bridge. This is a large deal for two reasons. One, when you do the bridge there is only a very tiny ledge separating you from the black water below and the odds of falling to your death are so high it makes me nauseous just thinking about it. Two, vandalizing a national monument is a felony which means if you do it more than twice you go to jail for life, or longer. Shortly after the bridge incident, he made the news again after throwing etching cream on a slew of high-end boutiques and pretentious galleries.

 

Earsnot. He’s more than one of the most prevalent tags in New York, he’s an infamous thief who often walks out of a store with three $400 North Face jackets. His crimes are popular with the press, too. So much so he’s had several two week stays at Riker’s.

 

And Semen. Semen is the one who draws those little sperms on every single door and window in New York. Once you start to look for them it becomes a challenge to find a block that hasn’t been hit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are the people I’m here to profile, but do I have to do it now? Anyway, I hear a rumor that Sacer has fled to Texas, where Dubya stands on the TV in front of me.

 

As we watch the Knicks game, a stream of Jersey boys revolve through the apartment. They all talk in advanced homese so sometimes I feel like a visitor from a foreign country, which I suppose I am. Whenever the door buzzer rings you have to be careful to see who it is. A couple of weeks ago the cops busted in during the night and dragged Ryan down to central booking for some outstanding warrants. He got into a little altercation during his day and a half jail visit, from which he is still sporting a bandage on his hand, and says he doesn’t want to ever repeat the experience.

 

We finally drag ourselves out of the apartment at 3AM and go to a neighborhood dive gay bar where we encounter a fag who works for Honcho, the porn mag to which I frequently contribute. That’s where my memory ends.

 

The next day I go to the excellent fag novelist Bruce Benderson’s annual Martin Luther King Jr. party, but I’m pretty burned out so I leave at around 11PM. On my arrival back at the apartment, who should I find but Ryan, Sacer, Earsnot and Marc, all in full party mode. The first thing that catches your eye when you see these kids is gold. Gold fronts, gold chains with gold tanks hanging off them and gold rings. Bling bling. After that it’s an expensive combination of high end Gucci hats and low end Nike Uptowns. They are all very high. Well, when in Rome, do coke, special K, Vicodin and Budweiser, I always say.

 

Semen drops by and, as it’s his birthday, we’re compelled to get even higher. We’re watching the patterns you can create by playing CDs on a Sega Playstation, an option, I was just reading in the newspaper, developed in cahoots with NASA scientists to control the brainwaves of hyperactive children, which most, if not all, graffiti writers surely are. The song we’re playing, appropriately, is “Paint it Black.”

I decide it’s time to clean up their act so, with a shaky hand, I reshave Sacer’s hair into a Mr. T modified Mohawk in the bathroom as Ryan snaps photos. Sacer is nineteen, married, diminutive and cute as a fucking button, with epic tattooage and a killer smile. The first night I met him he and Earsnot snuck me into a very exclusive Ford model party at Lotus, where Kate Moss was spinning (she was also DJing). Sacer bought me drinks and told me about his tragic life, something about his parents dying in a bizarre ritualistic murder-suicide when he was a kid. Earsnot also filled me in on his sordid past, but I got the feeling that their personal bios are as fluid and transient as their tags. Earsnot is tall and handsome and has a big smile, but has been passed out about 73 percent of the time I’ve seen him. He’s a fag and has a preference for that burly, hairy, 40-plus subgenus known as the “bear.” He hibernates in the Bronx with just such a noble creature.

 

 

 

The fact that both Ryan and Earsnot are openly fag in the circles in which they travel is pretty remarkable, but it’s something you don’t really think about when you hang with them because they are so unfaggy. There’s a certain amount of machismo in the graffiti world. If you paint over another writer’s tag or write “toy” over it, the ultimate dis, you better be prepared to drop your paint cans and put up your dukes. And most writers aren’t really down with the gay thing, so it’s pretty brave for this crew to be so “fuck you” about it, even though only one of their members is a card-carrying faggot.

 

Sacer and Ryan and I amble on up to the roof to get some fresh air. Ryan is covered in a multicolored Indian blanket, looking like a cross between Howard Beale, Tiny Tim and the cutest white homeboy ever. Sacer is in tout camouflage and with his Mr. T do resembles a hot militia member. With a can of Bud in his hand,Sacer jumps up on the front ledge of the building and peers seven floors down into the black abyss as Ryan and I snap pictures. As Sacer dances and prances and does a jig on the precipice of death, I discover I don’t have the stomach for this. For a moment I think it’s a classic case of the Heisenberg principle—the presence of a “journalist” influencing the behavior of his subject, causing him to take risks in a way he normally wouldn’t—but then I realize I’m flattering myself. The adrenaline, the flirtation with death or jail or bodily harm, is as natural for these kids as peeing. Sacer is poised to lob a snowball at a passing car fifty feet below and as I fear that the momentum of the throw will send him over, I choose to retreat back to the apartment. I wait in anticipation for Ryan to come running down from the roof yelling that Sacer has gone over, is gone forever, but after a few minutes the two of them come stumbling into the room laughing. Ha ha.

 

The next night we all end up at a trendy place where, at various points in the evening, I see George Stephanopolous, a woman who looks like Catherine Deneuve in The Hunger, three Hell’s Angels with some loose models and a bunch of young artists and spraypainters. Sacer is underage, but he’s drinking for free and we’re doing lines right off the tables. Believe it or not, there’s a whole lot of other stuff going on that I can’t even write about, but ultimately, on the way home, a member of the Irak crew who shall remain nameless accidentally on purpose torches a huge bundle of Christmas trees propped up on the street in front of the bar. The flames are shooting twenty or thirty feet high as Ryan and I snap photos. It doesn’t seem like that big a deal to me, but after someone calls 911, Ryan convinces us that we should bust out fast so we hop in a cab and book. Dismissing the little incident as a harmless prank, we go to a friend’s restaurant and drink wine till the wee hours. At one point I get all weepy thinking of Sacer last night on the roof, plummeting into the void, supernova-ing. He pats my shoulder consolingly. He’s too beautiful a soul in an ugly world to burn out like that, but I suppose that’s why his life has to be constantly on the verge of sacrifice to make that point.

 

The next day, Ryan and I go to check out the damage outside the bar. Apparently a car caught fire and may have slightly exploded or something. It does look a little charred, like something you might have seen in Beirut in the 70s. The Irak crew member in question has to get out of town before sundown, heading, appropriately, south of the border into the sunset. So I guess that’s the end of my reportage.

I have accompanied the kids on bombing expeditions before and it’s pretty much what you might expect. Every square inch of the city is a potential target for their tags, every store a wealth of free goods. At this point their behavior is compulsive, an addiction and definitely not something that they can articulate, nor should they be expected to. I see them as antibodies attacking the infections of the modern world: corporatization, materialism, brainwashing, conformity, mass indifference. Graffiti is one of the last forms of rebellion left, and it looks pretty, so shut up.

I call the refugee Irak pyromaniac in Texas and he’s having a helluva time. He’s bombed some major billboards and at least sixty railroad cars. And he’s bringing me back a pillowcase full of pills from Mexico. So shut up.

 

BRUCE LABRUCE

 

 

 

Earsnot snuck me into a very exclusive Ford model party at Lotus where Kate Moss was spinning (she was also DJing). Sacer bought me drinks and told me about his tragic life, something about his parents dying in a bizarre ritualistic murder-suicide when he was a kid. Earsnot also filled me in on his sordid past, but I got the feeling that their personal bios are as fluid and transient as their tags. Earsnot is tall and handsome and has a big smile but has been passed out about seventy-three per cent of the time I’ve seen him. He’s a fag, and has a preference for that burly, hairy, 40-plus subgenus known as the "bear." He hibernates in the Bronx with just such a noble creature.

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one time painting i took my little brother a long, and he'd never painted before, so i gave him a can of semi flat black and let him loose. he wrote "i <3 men" (thats a heart). he's not gay, but it was funny as shit at the time.

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good article i like this part

 

 

The first thing that catches your eye when you see these kids is gold. Gold fronts, gold chains with gold tanks hanging off them and gold rings. Bling bling. After that it’s an expensive combination of high end Gucci hats and low end Nike Uptowns. They are all very high. Well, when in Rome, do coke, special K, Vicodin and Budweiser, I always say.

 

sounds like those LD's

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I never check third rail so I never saw that...

O' Well...these kids could learn a thing or two from picking up vice or checking out viceland.com once in a while...never killed me to read the same thing twice, my time's not that important.

Edit-

I'm just pissed that the record store across the street doesn't get it anymore, I hate reading it on the internet, yet I don't wanna drive the hour into the city to get a copy?!?! Whats a guy to do?

 

matthewthirt13n.

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Guest --zeSto--

vice has some good points...

but I was only going to electroclash nights because of a girl, honestly.

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earth to nervous, 'flamer' is a derogatory term. its like starting a topc called "niggers in hockey" then saying, 'dont get me wrong, ive got nothing against blacks..."

you very well might not have anything against gay folks, but if you're trying to come across as inteligent and open minded, you should really be mindful of the words out of your mouth (fingers).

 

and this topic has been discussed so many times... jesus... not to mention that mearly bringing it up is offensive to everyone.

graffiti is about what, where, and how much you paint, not about who you fuck.

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congrad-u-fucking-lations

 

I know this is probably not the post anyone was expecting from bodice_ripper.....................

 

....................people on this board, and the writers I have met personally, have been more open-minded, tolerant and understanding than I could ever have expected. For real. Of course there are jerks, lots of them. But for a subculture consisting of almost excusively boys between 15 and 30, not bad at all.

 

http://www.bio.unipd.it/~pilastro/GlisMoms.gif'>

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lets not forget you're a girl.

if you were a guy, i'll gurantee a different experience. ive never met a guy that hated on lesbians, atleast not as a group...

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Guest willy.wonka

heres the question that ends it all...

 

is the penis made for antoher "human" male's asshole? no.am i right?

 

does teh females nipple belong in another females clit? no, but i must say that it sure looks cool.

 

but the answer is no...so stop trying to be like MTV and makin GAY look perfectly natural.

 

i on the other hand have no problem with openly gay people...i just dont like them openly flamin hero gay people..the kind that cant stop hittin on you ar stop actin like a little bitch at the dinner table.

 

its funny..

 

so what is gay?

is it a disease? i cant help it.

is it the way you were born? i cant help it.

or is it just a lame excuse? i cant help it.

 

who knows.all i know that the dingaling was not made for "man-ass"

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then why is homosexuality among animals fairly common?

 

the penis wasnt made for a womans ass either, but do you also think that its wrong?

 

unless you believe in some 'god' that 'tells' you its wrong, how can you possibly say that any act, agreed upon by two consenting people, is 'wrong'? you dont have to take part in it, you dont even have to like it, but how can you be the judge of what is right and wrong on such a vast, abstract plane?

 

i dont particularly care for overly flamboyant, effeminite gay men either, but ill take them any day over an overly masculine, masogynistic man.

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Guest willy.wonka

my asshole and the turning in my stomache tells me its wrong...why, do you feel differently?hahahahaha...as in God..i believe if you're good at heart, God loves no matter what.

 

some guys story"""

shortened"""

after being gay for a while, he couldnt satisfy his urge and began to start to look at children and starting to feel the urge to have sex with them.

 

i guess its a mental thing...who knows...back in ALEXANDER THE GREAT'S day, women were there just for breeding purposes and men and maybe children were there for sexual needs...this whole world thought it was alright to be gay at a time.im sure not everybody was gay.

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Originally posted by willy.wonka

heres the question that ends it all...

 

is the penis made for antoher "human" male's asshole? no.am i right?

 

 

 

No, but it wasn't made for a girls mouth either honey:p

 

 

seeking - I understand it would be different if i were a bloke. But I don't just mean "no one bothers me", I mean in my experience writers seem fairly indifferent to the whole thing really, they just don't seem to care one way or the other. Which is healthy. And don't give me that about guys don't hate on lesbians. Guys don't hate on porn bitches who do lesbian scenes. That's not the same thing...............................Anyway, I was enjoying saying something positive for a change.

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Guest --zeSto--

That man was sick beyond being slightly 'abnormal'.

 

and willy... If you want to play the 'god made it for a reason angle'...

The mouth is for eating and drinking and talking.

No more blowjobs... ever.

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