Interview with Jophen Stein

Let's face it: Art sucks and so do the people who make it. Everyone thinks they're a genius because once their dad molested them, so they went out and bought some circular stencils and colored pens. Fuck your colored pens. Just turn the TV back on, forget about making a difference, and shut the hell up. No one cares. Now, this being said, every now and then, once in a great while, some dick comes along from outer space that amazes me for a month or so, and I have to make an exception. Despite what you may have heard, Southern California doesn't have a lot of artist; it really doesn't have a lot of anything except traffic and smog. Consequently, there are probably only a dozen or so significant artist contributing anything worth a damn. I, lucky ducky that I am, happen to have met one of them ten years ago in a shitty camp ground somewhere in San Bernardino. Though he never really introduced himself, or even pretended to be nice, he did punch this guy in the face who was holding a screwdriver to some of my friends. We've kept in touch over the years, and I got him to reluctantly agree to an interview.

M: I remember first seeing your work spray-painted in a drainage ditch up in Mt. Baldy. I was really impressed, but, undeniably, your work seems to have really matured over the past decade. Describe where you began versus where you are at now and the positive/negative aspects of both.

JS: Maturity is a relative and questionable matter when it comes to my work; I think the pussy and fart jokes are still the same but my delivery is a little more subtle. Its been a long haul since the Graffiti days, but a lot of what I'm doing now is a direct result of those past experiences.

M: What does the word "art" mean to you, and what do you think of "artist"?

JS: I had this discussion with Jack Chick the other day. He compared the art world to a plane spinning out of control, and artists today are fighting over whose going to be the one to pull the yoke bringing the plane back to safety. I simply told him that I hope the fucker crashes, I'll be in the back mixing drinks and offering free last minute sex to the art fag passengers.

M: I love a good Jack Chick book as much as the next guy, but do you think talking to him is a good idea. Has his homosexuality influenced your work?

JS: It has influenced my art a great deal. Gays have it right; they're not making babies which seems to be where the majority of life's problems begins. Let me explain: If the dumb shit working class stopped making babies then the "MAN" wouldnt have poor people to push around. Only rich fagtard Cardigan wearing, Yacht sailing, Senator kids like JFK Junior Junior would be left. The gays have figured this out. This is why Bush hates gays so much, theyre trying to make sweaty lezbos out of his daughters.

M: My mom has characterized your "art" as "the work of the devil". Do you have any other influences?

JS: Satan mostly. I think your mom just has a general bias against me because I drew her with a crack pipe in her butt. If she knew that I hung out with Jack Chick on a regular basis shed probably have a different opinion about both Satan and me. Dodge ball was my other influence but that became gay pretty quick, so now Im onto switchblades.

M: Some of your work in the past seems to be pushing thinly-veiled sexual deviance through colorful commercial advertising aimed at fat children. What in the hell do you think you are doing?

JS: I don't really know; it's what I was taught in art school.

M: Are you trying to push somekind of political agenda through your "art"?

JS: No I'm not that smart I just steal everything the gays say and support the baby hate campaign. I guess I could say something about Texas Nazis or Terror men but I think 9/11 didnt just create a war of reactionary forces, but it also created a lot of bad art.

M: Sure, guy. Anyway, do you even know who Michael S. Dukakis is?

JS: Yeah, he was the guy who played Mr. Belvedere, on Different Strokes. I loved that show they had a train going through their house and Jay Jay was always saying Dy-no-mite to Michael Landon.

M: Right. You have an upcoming show featuring your "Transnational Space Race; The Final Moment in Black History" series. Could you maybe give us a brief description/warning about what we will be seeing?

JS: Transnational Space Race; The Final Moment in Black History," is about racism and outer space. Or more specifically, how Bush would go about convincing people that going to Mars is a good idea. Send a black man.

M: Where else can people go to view and/or buy your work?

JS: Check out http://web.archive.org/web/20050204025200/http://www.haistar.com/ or http://web.archive.org/web/20050204025200/http://www.scribbletheory.com/ they have a majority of my work. Ill have a site up some day at http://web.archive.org/web/20050204025200/http://www.skankstudios.com/, which will have all of the projects and collaborations that I am doing with other artists.

M: What is with your attitude? It seems really bad.

JS: I guess it just comes with the territory; it's hard being poor and getting little respect for what I do. Someone asked Hunter S. Thompson why doesnt he enjoy writing if it's something that he likes to do. He explained that writing was like sex, for amateurs it's all shits and giggles but when it becomes a job old whores arent laughing. I suppose thats where the smug cynicism and sarcasm in my art comes from.

M: Poor! You're not poor! Being poor is for jerks! [laughs]

JS: No...really, I am. I don't always get to eat.

M: Oh.

Jophen Stein has an upcoming show the first Saturday of November at Scribble Theory from 7-10 p.m. His Transnational Space Race Series will be displayed among fellow artists' work in a group show. There is no cover charge and plenty of free beer and food. For more information and directions try scribble theory or jophen stein.

Going to Vomit

Let me start off by saying two things. One, I love the Mountain Goats, and two, you’re not getting any dick jokes out of me this time, so if that’s what you’re looking for, go here - [Stupid].

So where was I? Yeah, the Mountain Goats have been my absolute favorite band going on thirteen years now, and since 1995 I’ve seen only seen them twice because they rarely venture out to the west coast. Needless to say I was excited to hear they were going to play on the 10th, but as reality set in, I slowly came to realize that I wouldn’t be going. Below are two of the compelling reasons that kept me from going:

1) The show was at the Echo, in Echo Park. Now, I’ve never seen Mi Vida Loca, but I’ve heard the song about a thousand times, or at least often enough to know that Echo Park is infested with Mexicans, and by Mexicans I don’t mean the hard working Mexican-Americans that risked life and limb to get to this great country, who are productive members of society questing for the American dream. No, I mean that other kind of Mexican, the kind you went to school with, that pack of four foot tall cocksuckers walking around with chips on their shoulders because they got gang-raped by their uncles at a drunken backyard fiesta. And don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. We’ve all had to deal with these napoleon-complex assholes wearing dollar-store clothes, creased and buttoned in the wrong places so as to let everyone know they’re hard at work fucking up everybody’s insurance premiums and depreciating real estate values, saving up for the day that they can install that faux-gold plated gas cover on their 89 Sentra. Those guys.

But Mexitron, aren’t you Mexican? Yes. I’m half Mexican, half Black, and Japanese all over, but that doesn’t mean I can’t hate these cunts more than I hate waking up in the middle of the night to realize that I’ve had to much to drink and crapped the bed again. However, in the interest of fairness, you can email me [yellowtreats@aol.com] with a list of any ethnic majority, minority, clan, sect, tribe, division, culture, subculture, or micro-culture, and I’ll reply with a thorough and logical explanation as to why they should all be loaded onto a cattle-car and carted off to a lice ridden gulag on the tundra.

And do you know who I want to get on that trolley first? That’s right, the dumbshit hipster ass-cadavers that think it’s ultra hip to put a nightclub in fucking downtown DMZ. You know what’s a fuck of a lot cooler than that? Putting your club somewhere else so I don’t have to get hassled by three angry dwarves named Speedy, Joker, and Turtle. Not to mention the fact that it’s totally fucked up to promise some poor touring band a great show, only to have them arrive and realize they’ll be playing a condemned disco on the corner of Aggravated Assault St. and Teenage Pregnancy Ln., right next to Scabby Hooker Park. Fuck you whatever your name is. You know who you are*. Next time get a decent venue and charge me the extra five bucks. I’ll pay it and like it, and relish in the fact that I won’t have to take part in some insane right of passage for an ass backwards culture.

2) The fans. Jesus H. Christ in a wobbly shopping cart, do I hate the fans. Not all fans in general (at least, not for this review), but Mountain Goats fans in particular. It’s like they’ve all come from Planet Dorito Dust, where they spend their days leveling up on Ever Quest 2 and thinking of new and more banal ways to request Going to Georgia the next time they’re at a Goats show. And that’s exactly what they do. Once they’re done wiping off the crumb cake off their shirts and spilling their AZT mixed drinks, they all yell “Going to Georgia,” one at a time until John Darniel capitulates and plays it. The great thing is how he changes the lyrics so it’s a about a horse that can tell time, just to let his fans know exactly what he thinks of them and their mindless adoration for a song that’s as worn out as the paint around a Christopher street glory hole.

Here’s a thought: next time, why don’t you request something you’ve never heard before, something new? Maybe that would help you wrap your head around the fact that you drove out to see your band play instead of staying home and listening to the track you downloaded illegally in the bygone days of Napster, you unoriginal, chronic masturbating ass. Did you ever stop to think that if you only saw your girlfriend once a year, and you jacked yourself off before she had the chance to lift her skirt and show you her new tattoo, she’d dump you and tell everyone you were a faggot? Well, lady killers, that’s exactly what you’re doing every time you open your fat mouth and lisp “Going to Georgia,” halfway through the set, you sloppy mongoloids. Next time just shut the fuck up and let the artist do what you pay him to do, which is to have better taste and judgment than you and your homemade t-shirt. Yeah, the one that looks like Michael J. Fox sketched it during a car accident. That one. Fag.

So, in summary, fags and Mexicans made it so I couldn’t see my favoritist band in the whole entire world. Thanks guys.

*If you think I may be talking about you, yet inexplicably and simultaneously think that what I said about you isn’t true, then I’m not talking about you. Unless your name is Speedy, Joker, or Turtle, I don’t want to hear any shit from you. Got it?