Yanked Cranks

When I spotted this article about Tom Cruise in the paper, what caught my eye was the diabolical character in the bottom right photo. The so-called #1 Fan is wearing a shirt emblazoned with the caption "Yes Suri" above depiction of the Cruise - Holmes hybrid -- WHICH IS INSANE. Reportedly, he was also walking around with a sign proclaiming "Yahtzee!" The thing I don't understand is that with Jake Byrd on Kimmel all the time, how could the Post have been duped into running this picture and the hilarious caption? And the answer: The people at the New York Post are idiots. But for a paper that is a $.25 litter box liner what can you expect!? Hah!


But I can't get over the feeling that Jake B and I have met someplace before. You know the feeling when you see someone you can't quite place -- like someone you once bought pot from, or the madman in the bar with the wig and painted moustache? Plus his voice reminds me of a sock puppet over a speaker phone.

Crank Yankers Niles Standish sounds just like Windy City Heat's John Quincy Adams and Tony Barbieri looks surprisingly like Mole if Jake Byrd was up on the weed. Like putting on?

A Day That Will Live In Infancy

Friday, September 5th 2003

Probably one of the more auspicious dates in VICE lore. Many staff members and hangers-on had convened in downtown San Diego for the VICE ASR party. As the photographic evidence shows, there's a slightly less cholesterolic Erik Lavoie beginning the courtship of Favourite Sons' Matt Werth.


It was the night that our leader drank a disputed 99 beers, proclaimed Your Enemies Friends the best band ever and promised them a record deal on VICE Records. Whoops, sorry!

The night was also notable for being the hiring of Ambassador Thrash by a trashed Lavoie! Note a very LA-ish Thrash in the background behind the lovely Berrin, and who is that next to him? Perhaps the genesis of Blackoutman, and a subsequent Smithian threatened employment termination.


Perhaps the cherry on top, was the deal closing by our Canadian friend of a very great client.

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Stay Outta MySpace

The very fabric of the VICE brand is predicated on the young, the social and the attractive. It's no surprise, then, that the said VICE brand employs the crème de la crème of hipster socialites with good genes. Minus a couple that slipped through the cracks (presumably hired for their ad sales prowess rather than their diminutive looks), the majority of VICE staffers are easy on the eyes. Even one of the Big Three was rumored to have doled out pink slips to employees that weren't attractive enough. It was maintained that your physical appearance falls directly in line with brand integrity.

And who knows brand integrity and attractiveness better than VICE's very own Canadian Marketing Manager Ryan Archibald? The strapping young Archie, already known for being "smoother than a gravy sandwich", has taken "networking" and "romance" to a whole new level. With a MySpace profile that boasts a Top 8 consisting of all-female Vice/Addvice employees, it's safe to assume that Mr. Archibald is on the prowl. And not for the next Dov Charney.

The most recent exchange was a steamy-make-you-blush chain of messages to a very amorous and very New York-stationed addvice staffer professing his love for all things VICE, but more importantly, all things female. One can only wonder where this will lead. More secret trips to the Rotten Apple? Dedicated online radio playlists? Romantic walks in the park? Who knows? But it does beg this question: how do the other Top 7 VICE females feel about this? From his west coast cutie right down to addvice's head honcho, it’s safe to say this recent succession of events will leave a sour taste in many mouths...amongst other things. Like jealousy?

Dusted Emotions

Associate publisher-cum-daily nosediver Erik Lavoie has recently gained notoriety and derision for his conversation skills, or lack thereof. His vacant response to seemingly innocent questions often comes out as a prolonged, starry-eyed 'maaaaayyyyyybeee'. Far from a canned response, this is legitimately the essence of Lavoie: he is perpetually on the fence; half in the closet, half out-- always powdered, though.

Our intrepid whizkid Encyclopedia Brown came up with this great graphic to illustrate how 'maaaybeee' is less an expression of indecisiveness, and more a statement about Lavoie's life. As you can see, he's well past the peak which was the Erik Lavoie issue, and is well into his golden years of decline. Maaaaaaayyyyyybeeeeee........

Mmmm.....Baby! or Would You Like A Side of VICE With That, Mr. Cruise?

Looks like the trend-setters here at VICE have done it again! Tom Cruise is licking his buck-toothed chops over the prospect of eating his baby's placenta. If only Mr. Cruise had swapped recipes with VICE's Mr. Crutchfield earlier, the height-challenged actor might have gained some precious inches from the placenta protein infusion. Mr. Crutchfield stands at a towering 6' 4", thanks in no small part to digesting the nutrient-rich bloody baby bags. Once acquiring a taste for them, I'm sure the vampirish actor will have no problem procuring more: scion skins will surely be the sacrifice of choice among the Scientology mummies!

We Run With A Rough Crowd

Ivar, our Scandinavian distribution guy, went on a skiing trip to Åre in the north of Sweden. People are pretty harsh up there, but there are a lot of tourists too. So he’s hanging out at an outdoors pub, and this old guy, dead drunk, stumbles up to him and starts talking. The pub owners are cool, so they let the drunk hang out as long as he doesn’t bother anyone too much. Swedes love to get potted, so this is not really a shocking tale yet. Ivar, of course, is drawn to this sort, and I suppose the same must be said of the drunk to Ivar. Anyway, they pal around a bit and end up getting their picture taken together between drinks and the singing of innumerable nationalistic songs.

So after he’s gone, a rumour starts at the pub about how the drunk guy has travelled to Åre specifically to kill the man who raped his sister. Ivar doesn't buy it, and chalks it all up to just another Viking fairy tale so prevelant in the northern latitudes, or perhaps another strange delusion resulting from the pub's seven year continuous screening of For A Few Dollars More. Like icy desolation? (Traveler's tip: leave your gold pocketwatch at home unless you're fond of nordic bar brawls) But people continue to talk about it, until word comes later in the evening that the guy has been arrested at another bar carrying a gun. Guns are a real no no in Sweden, and it turns out the old guy had just been released from prison when he immediately procured a gun and a bottle of booze before heading straight to Åre to murder the man who raped his sister. Whoa! Anyways, here’s Ivar and the killer with that crazy cigarette poking through his scarf and what I can only assume is an innocent man in a choke hold.

addVice Causes Toronto Office Uproar

Interns came to the rescue late Monday afternoon after a close call at the Queen and Dunn space. A mailout of EMI recording artists The Vines had rendered the VICE office virtually paperless and pure chaos ensued. Montreal was notified, resulting in an exchange of pointed fingers and brazen jaws. Tallies of total paper consumption were taken, and after a consultation of pie charts, bar graphs, and e=mc2's, intern Jon Shouten took the metaphorical bull by the horns and accepted in-house re-stocking responsibility. But in the future, all work related complaints should be generated in this direction. Personal lives have no bearing in this regard.

This Just In From Texas

From the pages of Vanity Fair

Specifically, it's off to Vice magazine's parties. Vice started out as an ill-mannered skateboard-culture rag in 1994 and has since expanded into an ill-mannered juggernaut, with its own record label, publishing imprint, and Manhattan boutique. It has booked bands for two full days at three spaces, all on the same block. At one venue, AfriRampo, a pair of Japanese women in face paint and exotic red dresses, is making a holy racket on drums and guitar.

Minutes later, we happen upon the Young Knives at the Longbranch. When they're through, we agree to head over to the Victory Grill—except that we've got these free bourbon drinks to finish. Then it dawns on us that something exciting is about to happen. The bar is filling up, a line is forming outside. We decide to stay. The rule of thumb for trend spotters, as for politicians: look for the longest line and get in front of it.

Our reward is Islands, a freak-folk collective from Montreal whose singer is rocking that most uncompromising of hairdos: the Prince Valiant. There's also a black bass player wearing a white do-rag, a Caucasian dude on bass clarinet, two nerdy-looking Asian guys on violin, and someone somewhere playing a steel drum. "This song is called 'I Fucking Feel Evil,'" the singer announces as green smoke starts oozing from the headstock of his guitar. No wonder the scene-sters are lined up outside.

Islands, I will later learn, rose from the ashes of the Unicorns, a once promising group that may well have collapsed under the weight of its own precociousness. These days, all the bands from Canada appear to be morphing into collectives. As if to prove the point, a pair of M.C.'s—Subtitle and Busdriver—squeeze onto the "stage."

Vice keeps its bands on a tight schedule, but Islands decides to play one last song even though they don't have time. "I don't care," proclaims Prince Valiant, who goes by Nick Diamonds but whose real name is Nicholas Thorburn. "What are they gonna do? We've fucked up everything else we've ever done." Highly regimented and utterly wonderful anarchy erupts. Then the music ends, and the rock lemmings depart, off to some other in-crowd gem we've never heard of.

For more tales of VICE Killing Texas see the Vanity Fair Roundtable.

The Art of the Barfight

Barfights are a thing of the past for most -- unless perhaps you are a Canadian grifter working in the US illegally or the Bensonhurst Beltless Wonder. But whatever the occassion for your particular slugfest, you have to either be willing to grin and bear it in silence, or laugh at loud at the absurdity of testosterone-driven three-ring circuses. Luckily, we have a stable of buddies orbiting past this House of Lunacy whose speciality is making life's little hijinxes a bit easier to swallow. Like barfights? You'll love this one.

Blackoutman Rides Again

On Saturday, VICE was invited to the home opener and unveiling of the New York Red Bulls soccer club. In addition to free limos from the Tribeca Grand, Red Bull threw a huge party outside of Giants' Stadium in the Meadowlands with unlimited booze, delectable canapes, ubiquitious live music and even a rain lounge -- complete with couches and foosball tables. The occassion was marred a bit by youthful indescretions, an influx of bad weather, and the aborted shirtless group photo shoot. But much of that was to be expected, as that's just the way VICE roars! That said, we had a ball, and the good people at Red Bull deserve a thank you. The Red Bulls' side, however, couldn't put their foot on the ball, and were unable to score in the match against the New England Revolution, and the game ended in a tie. And a tie, as everyone knows, is like kissing your sister. Like making out?

Fountains of Youth

When you are the leaders of a youth culture revolution it’s important for you to be able to relate to your core constituents. Simple enough, you say — kids know everything about kids. But people age in the fetid air of New York City at a rate equivalent to dog years, and when a VICE-based lifestyle is added to the equation, you had better adjust. This Dorian Gray-be-gone picture of Gavin and Suroosh taken last weekend shows how incredibly they have turned back a clock that once seemed a runaway train. Sadly, Shane’s photo is not quite so peachy, but soon he too will be the picture of dazzling vigor, thanks to the newly launched VICE Fountain of Youth. The discovery of a Guru named Jason while on retreat in Costa Rica led the Big Three to consider reversing their holistic fortunes.

Accordingly, a new health regimen is being implemented in the NYC office. Daily colonics are now mandatory, and in an unusual nod to privacy, a shower curtain has been hung. A full time wheatgrass extraction technician has been hired to administer that particular lawn clipping-based restorative, massage therapists are rubbing and cajoling everyone from addVice to VICE Records back to their youthful days of yore— kneading hangovers from livers and negative thoughts from psyches. Dietician-mandated Fresh Direct orders stream in as cases of smoked tempeh, firm tofu, arugula, walnuts and legumes of every shape and stripe are stacked from floor to ceiling around the office, forming a Burning Man-ish village of eco-cubicles. An ear candling station has been set up, bathtubs overflowing with enzyme-rich cedar mulch have been rolled into position near Blackoutman, and even one of those archaic weight-loss machines with the shaky belt made popular by the Three Stooges is currently being installed in the Executive Boredroom. In an effort to head future problems off at the pass, an electron microscope has been set up at the Mary Tyler Poppins of VICE’s desk (Melissa “Spoonful of Raw Cane Juice” Burgos), to screen hair strands for toxins. Loose-flowing batik office caftans and Roman sandals are even worn by the Execs to facilitate a proper oxygen-to-exposed-skin surface ratio. The big loser in all of this is Peter Luger’s. The long preferred VICE haunt for red meat is now on the “no visit list,” along with Bungalow 8 and Central Park. We have said it before, but indeed VICE is a revolution. Like cults?


PS: Our health insurance provider is very interested in testing results.

IM'ing Can Be A Crime, If You're A Criminal That Is

Old guys here forget all the time to turn off their computers when they make the 30th trip to the bathroom of the morning. Does coke shrink bladders or inflame prostates? Anyway, sneaking over and screen capturing deviant IM chats with their dominatrixes is like taking candy from a drunken baby. Like Mule?

Have You Seen This Man's Ring?

From: Thobey C

Subject: Morning Quandry

Good Morning VICE Office,

I am writing in regards to a very dire and befuddling situation that
occurred yesterday afternoon in the office.

As some of you may or may not remember, there were 8 bald men here yesterday meeting with Nadine, all of whom happened to bare an uncanny resemblance to each other. To be more clear, one (1) of them was meeting with Nadine; seven (7) of them were students from Denmark....!(?)

I was in the west-wing washroom during a small portion of their visit. When I came out, one of these said men was standing outside the door waiting, acceptable. As chances would have it, I left my very special VICE ring in the washroom. By the time I had developed the wherewithal to retrieve the ring it had disappeared, as had the Danish camp of genetic experimentees.

For reasons I can't get into right now, I have a picture of some of these Danish agents. I believe the culprit to be the one with the black jacket on at the far left-side of the photo.

Before I take the necessary steps to apprehend him, I need to know that no one else in the office found my ring. If so, I would greatly appreciate it if you could drop it off on my desk. Anonymous return policy may be in effect if need be.

Thank you,

--
Thobey C.
VICE
97 North 10th Street
Suite 202
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.599.3101 x 1136; c: 917.592.4108
www.viceland.com

The Usual Suspects?

Art School Sluts

Matt Schoen is a production intern here at VICE. He is from New Orleans and used to have dreadlocks, but now he sits in the front row with the rest of us interns and goes to art school at The Cooper Union, making him the envy of both artists and interns citywide. What does he do at VICE? He dreams up crackpot designs like this. What does he do at The Cooper Union? I have no idea but I am going to find out. Wanna go with me?

Rip Van Periwinkle

While late night plights and drunken fights are the norm for VICE staffers, it truly takes an addVice Marketing Baroness to raise the concept of 'recovery' to an art form. Snapped by our resident paparazzi, one can only wonder what kind of dusted emotional breakdown occurred to cause this case of in-meeting narcolepsy. Like sleeping? Nadine Gelineau does.