Blair's Demands.
昨日私がもう1つを除いて首相名声のブレア氏からの緊急なメッセージを受け取ったわけではない　ポール・ブレア服を脱ぐことのために福岡で有名なブレア　知らない　ダンスパーティー奴と一般に達者なYakuza日本人の侮辱的なブレアが(それほどいい賞 にかなり1人のポールだけにお世辞を言うことでそうすることができた)誰でもを飲んだ。 後に続くか　ものが　彼の需要(私がロンドンのルーマニア人の大使館の取引に送るだろうことを約束した)です：

Yesterday I received an urgent message from Mr. Blair, not of Prime Minister fame, but another Blair, Paul Blair, famous in Fukuoka for undressing unaware drunk blokes at dance parties and generally insulting (in that simlutaneously flattering way only a Paul Blair could) passerbys in fluent Yakuza Japanese. What follows are his demands, which I promised I would forward to my contacts at the Romanian Embassy in London:

this time tomorrow, a dour, smelly scot will run the cultural mish mash
we know as the united kuntdom
i am not united.
i demand that the monarch be killed
and all ginger
children be drowned in buckets.
furthermore,i demand gaelic be reinstalled
as our national lingo,
only gay weddings are permitted,
and we should be
allowed to eat dogs.
oh, i want an embassy in the gaza strip.
what can u do for me?

The museum is officially underway. A three-dimensional pop-up book style manga cut-up version of David Moscovich's novel Castro's Weatherman. Here are some photos of the initial construction and deconstruction. Bon voyage.
CASTRO’S WEATHERMAN
A tragicomedic novel or an exaggerated and prolonged way of clearing my throat

by David Moscovich

A schizophrenic expat living in Tokyo travels to the island of Cuba on a botched personal humanitarian mission to deliver thousands of free condoms to Cuban prostitutes in the midst of obsession, paranoia, murder and ancient voodoo rites in Fidel Castro’s Havana.

Woah. I just got off the phone [enter name brand internet calling company here] with Whitney Woolf. As always, she turned me on to something new which isn't new that I thought was new but that I knew before that somehow I had missed or thought I missed but in fact, knew. She indicated that her [new] blog is up and at 'em, a blog focused on her already prodigious [a couple weeks in, a couple weeks out] [[way out]] clip-art mail-art projects. She said she checked out all the Brian Gyson she could find at the Portland Public Library. She has quite a few new clips, and they're in color [this isn't black and white], they feature poems, or words [[{it's more complicated than art}]] assembled to be interpreted as poems, or nuclear landscapes [colored beakers within beakers] which bespeak a unique and quirky world [enter Whitney Woolf's name here] that is and can only be [(Whitney Woolf)] Whitney Woolf. In this all-too commericalized [enter hairspray endorsement (FABB-BITCH, hairstyle for your babbage)here] and franchised [enter fast-food hamburger link here (Slackdonalds: Slimmer cages Sicker Cows Snot Really Beef)] and plagiarized [enter own website here] and self-plagiarized [enter another hairspray ad here] re-appropriated self-plagiarized [Bicycle Basket Escargot: You are Where you Eat.)]and de-fabricated [enter here] and refabricated and remanipulated [enter Foucault] and reinvented [enter enter enter] and later fabricated from facsimile [exit exit exit here] and copied from modeled after [enter exit delete delete delete] and resmacked retapped rebaffled rebuttled remixed reconformed refit-to-size retyped restretched unbleached world, it's refreshing to hear a voice [although it's not a voice, it's visual art you rumpus] like Whitney and also [new not new to me two you] Chauney Peck whom Whitney sites as an influence and contemporary.

Shwweeeeet.

S-M Play Gallery Soap's 10th ann. party, hosted by Megahertz club in Kitakyushu. on the bill: The Munz, Common Laughing Point, heiraku G, The Tortoise City Band, Electro, and a tributary of DJ's... Atom, Gen, Jimi, Shim@, DJ Speedfarmer, Wada and Gizaju.

Starts at 20:00 1000 yen includes one drink and "food". Get there early, I reckon. 6.22.Friday.

This Saturday June 9th, at Love Gallery (near Reisen park in the Nakasu red light district of Fukuoka), if you happen to be in the Fukuoka area, stop by and see Lawrence English do his magic. I wonder why they call it Love. . . .

My buddy Paul Blair sent me an email early yesterday morning. This requires no explanation. If I were to explain the following email, I would ruin the suspense and humor carried within, which Paul himself carries within him, in his own special Paul Blair way, which I cannot and will not emulate, in my Moscovich way. If I were to attempt to emulate the Paul Blair way, I would end up sounding like Moscovich doing an impression of Paul Blair in the Moscovich way. Does that make sense? Incidentally, Paul Blair(e) told me there are many ways to spell his name, and the fact that I am using the Paul Blair way of spelling his name and not the Paul Blaire way of spelling his name is simply a tease. I say it's a tease because I think he mentioned some other way (the Gailic way) which may be entirely (other)different. I'm thinking further explanation is not going to detract from the following poem he sent me, as I said, yesterday morning, however, I will refrain from further explanation. I would like to add (if were hypothetically, to not refrain from further explanation, will you amuse me with your ear ((inner ear)) for a moment yes moscovich your nasty intercontinental belly is flopping tonight i can see) that lately I've found great pleasure (((presszure))((thats japanese for pleasure)(())) in introducing very short poems with long and pointless introductions. No doubt this self-satisfying playzure (playzury) in long introductions has its roots in (play-usury) a deep-seeded love for self-love (plagiar-usury) and intellectual self-flagellating seven bodied (seventh author) confusion infusion slash pumping of the trash lowbrow/highbrow hybrid sensibilities (Blare with me, now) included as in (real life architecture) of the parenthetical hyper-reality of living with a crash-course in the inimitible subtleties of the indirect gracefulness of passive aggressive Japanese prejudice (thank God ((with a capitol "G" as in Gaijin)) it's not a prejudice of the violent, virile, confederate flag waving variety in the modern (post-reality) north american south or confederate north for that matter ((read: go fuck yourself))). I may have forgotten to mention he sent this poem (((poem?))) to me very early, before nine in the morning, which is very early in the Moscovich way but perhaps not so unusually early in the Paul Blair(e) way way. And we're up, up and up again. Here's the poem. Here it is. At long last. May it ring through these plainless mountainless oceanless pollution-filled concrete pixelated streets (in the Paul Blair way).


ballad of moscovich


MOSCO BILLY
HAD A TEN FOOT WILLY
HE SHOWED IT TO THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

SHE THOUGHT IT WAS A SNAKE
AND HIT IT WITH A RAKE

NOW IT'S ONLY
THREE FOOT FOUR

-Paul Blair.