Vegas that don't change

            I’ve long wanted to take an art shit with the Vegas I remember as the centerpiece.  I’ve had an impulse to go back on one of my visits and take pictures of all the nothing places I remember.  The real home I had in there.  In all the years I lived in Las Vegas it never seemed like I lived in LAS VEGAS.  LAS VEGAS was a million miles away from my life pretty much the whole time I lived there.

            There are still a few places in that town which haven’t changed at all over the years and chances are good they’ll never change at this point, except maybe in degradation as the sands eventually envelop the town.  You know the spots I mean if you live there.  It’s a filthy city.  The daylight has always been the enemy of that town in more ways than one.  It’s a tribute to the graveyard shift lifestyle since no one has to see the shit because everyone gets up at noon anyways.  At least I did.  When I look back on my time there it seems like I cut mornings out of my schedule for over a decade once high school was done.  Another tradition that my Vegas citizenship gave me.  My inability to sleep before 2am. 

            That place is becoming more and more a distant memory that I’ve really started to cherish in a masochistic way.  Mornings in Las Vegas.  The shivering winter mornings, and the blistering Summer ones.  Dusty, barely holding on grass in the bone dry schoolyard.  Playing football in 110˚ sunshine.  All day.  The chicken wire and stucco houses, the roach infested apartment buildings, the parking garages which reappeared in my dreams for years.  Piles of huge rocks.  The broken glass and gun shells everywhere.   Apocalyptic playgrounds.  We’d burn the shit to ground.  That’s what the environment is for in Vegas.  There’s just so much of it.  Or at least there was.  Now I’m a little hard pressed to find the vacant lots or long expanses of desert within the valley.  I found out if you go to the east side there’s still a few pockets here and there.

  

            I lived in Vegas for over 20 years so it’ll always be under my skin.  I’ll never be able to wash that dirt off.  Visits to the city have been infrequent and mixed over the years but every time I return I feel like I never even lived there at all.  Which doesn’t surprise me.  When I lived there I wasn’t really there.  Shit I’m barely here right now.      

            But I consider myself lucky for experiencing all the shit I did while living there.  I got away with a lot and somehow managed to survive relatively intact.  It feels like no one should be able to escape that place alive but I’m just feeding into Vegas own myth saying shit like that.  Or maybe it’s just that I’m still wondering why I’ve lived so long myself.  Tearing yourself to pieces was always the favorite pastime of the Vegas people and it’s a tradition I’m still trying to crawl out from under.    

            The things I’m most obsessed with are things that don’t exist anymore in that town and in the world at large.  That’s probably why history has become such an obsession of late.  And maybe these are the things that don’t exist in myself anymore?  Innocence.  Youth.  Destruction for destructions sake at a moments notice.  Easy answers.  Deep shit.  The small time hustle.  Ok maybe I still got the connection to the small time hustle.

    

            Anyway, I was in Vegas in January and I wanted to make some progress on an art idea with what little time I had, which ended up being a few hours.  I hoped to find those things in my mind which were still out there in the real world to photograph and remember.  It was a chance to photograph my memories of the places that are still around.  The real places I touched one time, the places which used to brush up against me.  I went out knowing I would never have the time or patience to find Old Ladies Cave, Hell Town, Mr. Wuji’s house, the fucked up ditches we vandalized, or the dozens of other rat’s nests that filled my brain, I decided to just fucking drive and stop to take photos at whatever was fucking cool.  Go art!

            I’ve always been straight up east side.  So I gravitated East of Eastern stopping here and there.  After a while it got to be too much trouble so I opted to videotape my ride.  These short videos are the result.  There’s not much effort that went into filming this but there was some time taken in the editing process.  Maybe this is just an exercise to keep my mind occupied.  I don’t know.  I think it’s cool so fuck you.

      

            I’m not trying to impose glamour on a subject that’s obviously lacking, nor am I trying to be ironic.  This was an active attempt to make memories “real” if capturing images digitally from a moving vehicle can make things any more “real.”  Twenty years from now maybe these vids will be memories for some but I wonder if much can change in these neighborhoods which haven’t changed much in thirty years time or more.    

            It’s not my intention to make some social/economic/political statement here.  It’s too easy read this as such and so to me that’s boring.  It’s impossible not to divorce those thoughts from your head if you contrast this with the usual images that come to mind when we collectively envision LAS VEGAS.  Instead I hope that I’m helping to open up a world that has been tucked away even though it’s in plain sight.  I hope this video will help to reintroduce viewers and creators to the beauty of the ordinary.  How’s that for being fucking profound.         

            The editing isn’t too complicated but some will find it annoying.  Jump cuts abound, as well as manipulation of the time and space.  I’m going for a combination of reality and trickery that plays into the unreliable nature of memories.  It’s also an homage to the hundreds of films shot in Las Vegas where the geography is completely out of whack.  

            I’m sure a lot of people come to this blog with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia and I’ve certainly played into that.  This is probably the most blatant wax of nostalgia I’ve done so far here on the blog but there’s still time for me to do more cliché observations and inane arts fuckoffs.   Instead I’ll rationalize that I see this as an exercise in making a history where there isn’t one.   Another cute tradition of Vegas that makes me laugh to keep from puking. 

       There’s no final destination in these videos so for me the road going nowhere is dripping with anxiety.  It would be easy to say there’s nowhere to go in the middle of nowhere.  But if you’ve spent anytime in Vegas you’ll believe you been somewhere special.  And you’re right.  There’s no pace like it in the whole fucking world.  There’s no place like Tokyo either.  No place like Tecumseh, Missouri.  No place like Kabul.  Or y’know shit like that.  I know it’s hard not to but don’t get a swelled head Vegas.

     

            Since I’ve spent a little bit of time on this short project I can make the observation that this video was maybe an attempt to follow the long bus route we took going from Quanna Mcall 6^th grade center back to the far east side.  Now I wish I’d continued going down Carey Avenue to see that school as it is today.  Also City View park.  Damn!  I wonder if that Star Trek spaceship is still there.  Jesus fuck that park was ghetto.    

            A soundtrack would be distracting and pointless.  Yay for fucking art.  Feel free to download this art below.

Download All six files below:

Vegas that don't change •1•

Vegas that don't change •2•

Vegas that don't change •3•

Vegas that don't change •4•

Vegas that don't change •5•

Vegas that don't change •6•

Clay

            Clay Heximer has been a fixture of the Las Vegas underground having served time as drummer for the Heroines, Civic Minded Five, The Impotents, the Mapes, and I’m sure several more mediocre bands I might have missed along the way.  He’s also a complete smart ass douche bag full of whimsy as well as other things from time to time.  Maybe I should say he's full of whiskey so you don't think I'm implying that he's full of shit. But he's full of that too.

            He’s responsible for the cassette compilation I posted here a few years ago which unearthed some cool missing locally produced Las Vegas music which could have been lost forever without his efforts. In some cases it should have been lost forever.  I haven’t seen the man in forever but I’ve always tolerated him. 

            In case you are unawares Clay was recently diagnosed with cancer.    A fund has been set up to help him with his medical bills.  If you can please take the time to help a guy who’s been there.  Go here.

            I’m also including with this post a video that was made available by Rockin’ Chris Crud.  I think Clay had a hand in digitizing this video which doesn’t surprise me.  The video features Boba Fett Youth’s and Leap Frog Society’s first show which happened at the Rainbow Caves in May of 1994 I think?  Also included is a rockin set by Boba Fett Youth inside the Rainbow Caves as well as a set by an early incarnation of the Heroines when they had their first singer.  The video is fucking amazing in some parts and incredibly blurry is other parts but the audio is surprisingly good.  Eat a cookie bitch.

4 Year Anniversary

    I've been neglecting the shit out of this blog.  No excuses.  Not like I'm busier than usual.  Just trying to get out and enjoy life that's all.  As a result I got nothing to share on this the 4th anniversary of this thrown together project.  I resolve to pay more attention to this blog next year.  I've got a few small projects in the works so expect to see more in the next few weeks.  I promise.   

    I was tempted to retire the blog all together with that last post.  Still wondering if this thing will go out with a whimper instead of a bang.  It still feels like it's worth doing so I'll continue at a slower pace perhaps.  But I can't predict the future so maybe it will come out even stronger next year?  

    I'm not surprised that the blog has only gotten more popular.  Nobody gives a fuck about anything when you start out.  It's only when the train starts moving that people will climb on board.  Now the blog is averaging 2000-2500 hits a month.  Which is a little unsettling.  Who the fuck are all these people?  Not that I don't appreciate it.  I'm just usually content to live in my own underground.  And let's be realistic.  That many people is still far underground and for that I continue to be thankful.     

    I'm still not sure what the mission of the blog is in the grand scheme nor do I give a fuck.  Just keep laughing and celebrate the world and culture that has meant so much to my life.  I have to assume many of you are hoping to hear old tunes from the past.  I got no more old tunes but several people have contacted me saying they want to share their old tapes.  We'll see if that pans out next year.  Expect more surprises, experiments, and whatever else I can throw against the wall.  

    In the meantime I'm having fun in the now.  I hope you are too.  Happy new year.  

Usurp Toe revisited

   

         I feel like a dumbshit writing about art.  But that hasn’t stopped me from doing it.  Partially by design but mostly by accident this blog/project has become a repository for my own throw away “art” and a place where I like to think I’m celebrating the graveyard of art that nobody seems to give a shit about.  I’m stumbling around in the dark as I navigate these waters.  I’m sure it shows.     

            I’ve always been at a crossroad either lost in art and having a snide aversion to it.  Maybe I see too much “art” not enough action?  I’ve come to understand I’m surrounded by art, and artists and it’s like living in a made up world.  I mean that in the everyday sense.  From the movies I’ve seen to going to concerts to walking by billboards to taking a shit in a public toilet.  The art is everywhere and it feels like a façade with no real meaning that builds a reality that is shared and leased.  It’s made me start to revere history a little more as it seems to be less “made up” than art and a lot more hopeful than politics.  But my actions with this blog have been less than academic in respect to history.  I talk too much shit.  History is written by whoever takes the time but the permanency of the written word makes me feel like a fool.  I’m more interested in entertaining myself here as opposed to saying how shit “went down.”  But maybe the two are not mutually exclusive.  I mean history is made up too right? 

            A portion of this mixed feeling stems from my own lack of direction to where my “art” will be taking me next or if I’m willing to keep riding that art train at all.  I’m sick of always wondering what’s it all about.  But it doesn’t feel like I’m able to stop.  I still feel like yelling.  Constantly.  Loudly.  Even if it’s yelling at a wall.  And yet no matter how loud I get I’m screaming in a vacuum.  The intensity of the silence scares me knowing my voice is just echoing off the canyons and it’ll soon die down.  I think about all those things that happen that disappear into nothingness. 

            Mortality creeps in.  I sense the Earth and the universe of which I’m a tiny atom.  I talk myself into believing that to create is to make something that outlasts life.  It tricks me into thinking there’s more to what I’m doing then there really is.  Even if the words are bullshit the fact that they’re written and forever engraved on the page makes it truth whether or not it is.  The fact that so few people write makes it seem more truthful even if it’s lies.  Not just that; it also lives on as my mortal shell disintegrates.  It makes history appear as subjective as art.  It makes propaganda seem like valid education.  It makes me fucking flush with myself and perhaps that’s the point of creating to make something outside myself for which I have a semblance of control.  Goddamn it’s been a while since I got laid.

            Maybe some perspective is in order.

            I was dating a woman last year who worked as a stage manager for a local theatrical company.  One night we were talking about our work and she mentioned how she was looking to get out of the theatre world.  She’d grown tired of demanding actors and artists who lived only in the ME and punctuated it with a story about how she was involved in a play that had a rape scene.  She confided in me how she was a victim of sexual assault herself and went on to describe the pains she went through trying to maintain a professional disposition as an actor tried to immerse herself in the role of the rape victim over and over again in rehearsals.

           

            Art has been a religion to me at different times in my life.  Food and drink.  Sustenance.  When I see the shortcomings like the one illustrated above it makes me wonder how much phony bullshit I’ve been eating. How healthy can that be?  How much phony bullshit have I spouted?  How close to the truth can you come?  And who gives a shit if you did?  So what else can I do as I crawl into middle age?  Have a family? Activism? Terrorism? Hedonism? Hiding away?  I’ve been a chipping away at all these things too.  Except terrorism.  OK FBI?   

            Yelling at a wall is all well and good but it’s a few steps away from being a schizophrenic.  And perhaps it’s less amusing when everyone else is yelling too.  I laugh at how meaningless it can feel.  Somehow it relaxes me as I think of how unimportant my voice is among millions.  Billions.  It makes me more determined to never shut up.  Why stop now?  We’re all talking at the same time anyways and ultimately no one speaks for me.  I gave up caring whether I was heard a while ago.  Yet I keep listening, and I’m not hearing anything that has anything to do with me.  It’s that silence that pisses me off more than any sound in the world.  It’s unnerving more than pathetic to know there are so many people and yet a stony silence pervades.  It makes the loneliness more unbearable.

         And so the yelling continues.  I look into the past for some foothold from when I seemed to have a firm grasp.  Into the future I look for a destination to make sense.  In the present I shake in my shoes or find some way to light the fuse.  Or just to escape.   Again.    

            When I get in these moods when I’m so full of myself, full of shit, demanding too much, asking myself questions that are impossible to answer, jaded, uninspired, and flat out disgusted something fucking weird will usually happen.

            I met Dave Gilbert at the second Zinecon.  There were a lot of good zinesters, artists, and nincompoops in attendance but I was struck by Dave’s work.  I did a shitty interview with him that somehow got destroyed on tape.  It’s largely unwatchable but if you fast forward to about 2:45 in the clip posted above you’ll get a nice dose of his artwork that I was able to capture on that day.

            I walked away impressed with Usurp Toe and wondered how this guy was around for so long yet I’d never heard of him.  I bought a copy of his graphic novel and the years skipped by.  I posted this interview two years ago and quickly forgot about it. 

            Of all the forgotten artists I’ve written about on this blog I was most surprised when someone contact me about this horribly butchered video interview.  It happened when some guy named Thomas Cook from Ohio got in touch with me regarding Dave Gilbert.  Turns out he is a huge fan and he was real excited to see Dave in an interview.  We corresponded at length about Usurp Toe and Gilbert’s creations.  It got me excited to remember those hilarious comics that I barely got to enjoy.  I’ve since lost my one copy of Usurp Toe so I begged Thomas to send me some scans of his collection which I could share here.  He balked at the thought of sharing someone else’s work since it wasn’t his own.  But he sent along Dave’s address and told me to ask the man himself. 

            I wrote a letter to Dave anxious to see what he’s up to now.  The letter came back return to sender.  I continued to talk with Thomas Cook and we both wondered what had become of Dave.  Somewhere in the course of our emails he mentioned the fact that Dave had amassed a body of animated films.  Holy shit!  I’d forgotten how Dave mentioned working with animation in the interview and shortly thereafter Thomas sent me a link to those very animations.  It was here that I came to realize that Dave Gilbert has since passed away.  The youtube page with those animations states plainly that these are “Cartoons and videos by the late D.W. Gilbert.” 

            Mortality creeps in again but this time it was more than philosophizing about death, art, and egos.  The point being that the celebration of Gilbert’s life continues through the lasting impression of his incredible art and humor.  I justify my chest thumping stabs at free expression because I can’t see my self being represented but here is a voice that is saying the stuff I want to hear and creating worlds I want to know.  It’s that proximity to my life and my world that gives Dave’s work a value that’s hard to measure and a comfort that is hard to put into words. I see it as a gift from Dave.  He probably never thought of it that way which makes it all the more special.  It speaks to me and for me and that’s not something I see too often.  Maybe it will speak to you.  If not I really don’t care.                          

            The animations included here are only the tip of the iceberg.  I suggest cracking a beer and watching all the clips included on the Usurptoe youtube channel.  They are intelligent but grounded in reality making them equal parts genius and surreal firecracker thrown in your face.  Not to try and wrap this all up with a pretty bow but Usurp Toe is a genuine triumph of art.  Communication, understanding, and the ability to identify with something even if you aren’t sure what the point is. 

            I’m not sure what programs Dave used to make these short films but the personality and laughs are easy to discern.  It makes me thankful that he took the time to make these films.  I think he made them for himself because there is no intersection of art and commerce in these pieces.  Or maybe he was chasing the dream we’re all sold that we can be stars if we work hard enough?  That we can get our point across if we just keep trying.  In any event they’re made from pure inspiration and designed to inflict joy.  I think they do the job.

            His graphic novels were equally inspired.  I’m including the one issue that Mr. Thomas Cook was kind enough to scan for me.  Mr. Cook is a true fan of Dave’s work.  Thanks very much to him for reminding me of this immense talent.  In our email exchanges he mentioned to me that he feels that Dave Gilbert is an Outsider Artist through his work in film and illustration.  I think everyone I’ve touched on with this blog should be considered Outsider Artists.  If you’ll excuse me I’ve got some more walls to go yell at.     

            Below you will find the issue of Psychopath that Thomas Cook emailed to me.  Much thanks to Thomas for sharing. Hopefully he'll send more scans as it sounds like he's got several issues of Dave's work.