dickhouse

all-new loiter squad tonight on adult swim

There are words used in my daily keyboard repertoire that have permanently stained my fingers. Take the word "jackass" for instance. As soon as I get to the letter "C" my fingers are already off to the ingrained races without fail—or perhaps with fail at times, as this does affect any other word I attempt to type that starts off with "J-A-C". Like, say I had to tap out the seventh president of the United States, Andrew Jackson. Right there, without you even knowing it, I had to go back and correct my automatic misspelling of "Andrew Jackass" (kind of like how I just had to go back and fix the word "automatic" from "autoerotic asphyxiation"). Anyway, what I am trying to get at, in a not so straightforward fashion, is that I experience this very same issue with the word "squad". Apparently I've typed the word "squid" so often in my life that it's now just another one of my little finger Tourettes. So, please excuse me if I flub the fuck up and tell you that an all-new episode of Loiter Squid airs tonight on Adult Swim at 11:30pm ET/PT.

my hero

Here's a pic I snapped of The Emperor as he sat in his color-coordinated shirt and socks in my office today. It's not exactly in focus, but you can still make out those award-winning blue eyes of his. Directly behind Jeff is a painting Sarah Green gave me of Ryan Dunn, and standing in the doorway is Jeff's assistant Amanda.

Miss and love,

Knoxville

(Photo by Johnny Knoxville; Hollywood, California 2012)

breaking records v. breaking toilets

You can row or you can wade, but in the end it's all up to the jury to decide which way to let it all hang out. For Jolene Van Vugt of Nitro Circus fame it was to break a land speed record for the world's fastest toilet. For Dave England it was a more leisurely outing that ended awkwardly in a broken American Standard.

While I admire both for taking toilets to the extreme, I'm of the loosely moral, if not more bowel mindset that if you're going to do something it should be done all the way no matter what the cost, e.g. financial, physical, or mental. After all, is a toilet really a toilet if it's not being used as a toilet? Not to get all existentially bent, but someone somewhere would probably be thrilled to have a finely crafted ceramic flip-top chair* to sit upon simply for sitting purposes and not shitting porpoises. A stool without the stool, if you don't pardon my aforementioned merde.

The next level potty stunt, I think, and I believe Dave England would agree with me after his first misfired attempt at the hardware store prank in jackass the movie, is the stressful combination of a precision movement with imprecise movement. Timing becomes of the essence, not to mention focus and continence. Major cog though you may be in the production of said shitty stunt, you are still only one of many moving pieces and you're the piece that can't start moving until all others—cameramen, producers, etc.—are well in place. Because if it's not caught on tape then you might as well be that proverbial tree falling in the woods with no one around to hear it. In fact, if you're lucky, the only thing you may hear at all is an amazing argument between the director and the cameraman. Just a word to the wiseass, as everything I say does come from years of laughable and not so laughable professional experiences.

Congratulations, Jolene!

* Piles and prolapses may be a hazardous side effect of such an item, so do please use caution when considering such unorthodox interior furnishing options.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Portland, Oregon 2000)

photo of the day: party boy

I've never really been into that whole "hump day" expression. It just sounds wrong in none of the right ways for all of the unfortunately weird reasons. Perhaps it's a visual thing for me. Like it or not, instead of dromedary camels and other happy humpy things, I instantly go to a pair of sweaty, naked hunchbacks that are hunkered down in the mud, spasmodically rocking back and forth, and rubbing their hard-fat gelatinous mounds together while squealing and mewling like pigs—the last part of which always sends me back down to Deliverance* and a Ned Beatty place I never ever want to be. And see? Suddenly it's no longer just Wednesday, that harmless mid-week workday, but Forciblemalerapeday. How ya doin'. Welcome to Bummerland, population me. But maybe we, as a people, can come together, see the light, and denote this day as something altogether different. Something not so sad and sodomy. Let's do it for the children. For humanity. For パーティの男の子の日.

* By the way, fuck you, too, Kite Runner. 

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Tokyo, Japan 2002)

skate it or hang it!? the evolution of skateboard art

It's not exactly the age-old Chicken v. Egg quandary, but it is something that's actually considered nowadays. I mean, you didn't hear it at all in the '60s (okay, give or take the random OCD lunatic that inhabits the fringe of every subculture). And maybe someone somewhere in a Venice bungalow pondered it briefly in the late '70s (and possibly even tripped out on it with a blacklight experiment or two). There is documented proof that a smattering of synapses around the globe definitely sparked in the late '80s (*cough* OCDs *cough*), but it wasn't really until the '90s that eyebrows started to be roundly and openly arched in actual arty appreciation.

And with that, the skateboard transitioned from a relatively short, hard, and abusive life on the streets and ramps to a pristine existence of boundless years as unconventional interior wall decor. 

Ever since this circle of life was broken and the age of skart was entered, the art world has openly embraced skate culture with entire gallery and museum shows dedicated to the art and artists responsible for shaping its visual mythology*. This summer, the Museum of Design in Atlanta, Georgia, explores the evolution of skateboard art with "Skate It or Hang It?!" The exhibition opens Saturday, June 16, 2012, with a number of artists in attendance that day, including Andy Howell, Steve Olson, Lance Mountain, Wes Humpston, Michael Sieben, and, if you could kindly excuse the third person break, Sean Cliver.

For a timetable of special events, appearances, and information in general, please visit: museumofdesign.org

* Nostalgic inside joke.

tonight on ridiculousness... floyd mayweather jr.!

Synchronicity and serendipity. The old one-two punch combo. That's what it's all about in the entertainment trade. So even though tonight's all-new episode of Ridiculousness with special guest stars Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Miss Jackson was pre-taped, he's still quite the hot title-winning topic coming fresh off this past weekend's World Boxing Association super welterweight bout against Miguel Cotto. Sting himself couldn't have strung and sung it together any better and he sees ghosts in machines! Ridiculousness airs tonight at 10/9 C on the MTV.

(Photo by Rick Kosick; Hollywood, California 2012)

all-new loiter squad tonight on adult swim

Lately you may have seen a significant smear of excrement left here on the Great Wall of Dickhouse, but that's all my life has really been of late. And I'm not even a coprophiliac*! Although, admittedly, you would have every circumstantial right to think I'd be more than deviantly poo-curious by now, but I insist that the fascination is strictly entertained on a professional working basis. The other more serious rectal route requires far too much life dedication, a motley crew of like-minded others, and a significant monthly budget line for Visqueen and Saran-Wrap in bulk—no, wait, that still sounds a lot like jackass. Eh, it's like Shakespeare once wrote, "The lady doth protest too much," so give me my robe, put on my crown, and don't miss an all-new episode of Loiter Squad tonight on Adult Swim at 11:30pm ET/PT. Smell the glove:

* What I am, in fact, is a proud, sleep-deprived, new puppy owner—the equivalent to purchasing a scampering, yipping soft-serve machine that requires constant attention and servicing.

and now a word from preston lacy...

A brief preface: Every once in a while I'm reminded that there really is some semblance of sense in our universe. Call it what you will, but for me, myself, I like to call it the great plate of shrimp that binds each and every one of us together in the swill of human soup. Did Preston Lacy know where we'd just gone yesterday when he'd sent this later the same day? Honestly, I doubt it, making this just another leaf on the lattice of cosmic coincidence. Anyway, as promised, in briefs, today's debate: Do two so wrongs make a so right? You be the judge.

Dickhouse,

I've been doing some research experimenting with powdered laxatives. I took a double dose last night. When I woke up this morning, I couldn't poop at all. I went to Dos Burritos for brunch; three tacos and two cups of coffee later my belly started to rumble and ache. After ignoring the repeated, "No public restroom!" pleas from the staff, I made this beauty:

 

Preston Lacy

(Photo by Rick Kosick; Hollywood, California 2012)

A not so brief epilogue: Where there is coincidence, karma is sure to follow. Yesterday, while fluffing the @jackassworld Twitter feed around noontime, I sent out a link to the pooey post saying "For those about to lunch... we salute you." A jerk move, sure, but it's not like anyone is really asking for alien anal probes either. Later that night, however, I was finishing up my dinner and decided to check my email. Up popped Preston's poop, right out of the gate. You would think this would have had an adverse effect on my appetite and tummy, but no. Nothing whatsoever. Instead I started to giggle, rather loudly, while continuing to eat, which then prompted my wife to ask what I was laughing about. I couldn't bring myself to tell her ... and not because of the disgusting (but impressive!) image. To do so would have opened up a morally flawed can of worms that I'm not ready to get into just yet. Beyond the psychologic pale, what further tickled my funny bone about this photo was that Rick Kosick was the one who shot it—or so Preston claimed in his email. So, if true, Preston would've had to exit the bathroom without flushing, return to the table and tell Rick about the breathtaking movement he'd just experienced, and then send him back into the thick of the shit to get the logjammin' shot. Amazing.

paging dave england relinked and revisited...

I don't know why I think of Dave England every time I hear or see the word poo, but perhaps it has to do with my witnessing him shoot shit and shat all over the place for the better part of ten years. In fact, I may have even witnessed him defecate more than any other person I know, including my son throughout his entire infant-to-toddler experience. Normally watching another man work through his primal anal urges would fall into the mid-level deviant category, but I, fortunately, have the escape clause of writing it off as work. I'm a professional! And Dave's a professional! So, together, we are professionals that do the poo we do to put food on the table. Sure, it's a shitty job, but I wouldn't have had it any other way in this lifetime*.

Anyway, here's the latest link to fall on my Facebook plate courtesy of web-comber Seth Casriel. It has to do with faux-poo—something we've never ever professionally messed or faked around with (our fallback poosition is always of animal origin)—but apparently there are other professional types that do. In particular, those in the toilet manufacturing business. They use an extruded soybean paste to do the shit trick (think a congealed miso poop, if that helps), but I really think they should reconsider their business practices and employ Dave England for the final certification process. You know, like a "scat of approval stamp" or something. I mean, I'd certainly buy a toilet endorsed by Dave, because whatever bowl can withstand that punishment is sure to become a family heirloom to be cherished and flushed for generations to come and go number two.

* Happily agnostic, I am, but just leaving the Hindu door open for any reincarnational shits and giggles!

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Hollywood, California 2006)

canadian transplant lands beer commercial spot

It doesn't take a Perry Farrell to point out there's nothing shocking at all about this post title. Canadians go together with beer like the Irish go together with whiskey, and where you find one you're bound and begorrah to find the other. However, it does take a good "Where's Waldo?" aficionado to spot said Canadian in said beer commercial spot. But, if you've an eagle eye for spotting the likes of say Johnny Knoxville or Stephanie Hodge in Coyote Ugly or Crash Richard of the world famous Deadly Syndrome as that freaky fuck of a Santa that was featured in some random wireless product (that now escapes me) print ad campaign back in December of 2008, then perhaps you've got this pinched up like a frightened anus. Hmm... sorry about that. Sometimes I don't even see those coming. Anyway, in the spirit of sportsmanship, let's start you off with this: "I spy with my little eye a Lauren Graham." There. Now you do the rest. I'm tired and, frankly, a little distressed after my own little mind's eye pictured that reluctant rectum a few sentences back.

guten walpurgisnacht!

Or May Day. Or whatever other pagan festivus you may have on the first of May. There's a bunch of them out there, feel free to pick one and celebrate accordingly, but the one that caught my eye for today's exploration into the increasingly random and how any of it may vaguely apply to a photo from the Dickhouse archives was that of Walpurgis Night—or, to be completely faithful to its Deutschland usage, Walpurgisnacht, which sounds like something Ozzy might've barked at the moon back in the early '80s. Actually, that's not too far off the metal mark, considering it does have to do with the wee hours of May 1st being exactly six months away from All Hallow's Eve on October 31st. And how do those wacky wiccans get down with their witchy selves for the Walpurgis occasion? By dancing around a bonfire and letting their big, fat, bra-less boobies with skillet-sized nipples get all higgledy-piggledy. Ouch! That's gotta hurt. Anyway, here's the Devil Himself, Chris Pontius, hard at combustible work, firing up the coals for Steve-O to go tip-toeing his way through a "Flaming Gauntlet" and into the jackass 3.5 release.

(Photo by Sean Cliver; Los Angeles, California 2010)