Mid-March in Austin means SXSW. And for many, if not all, SXSW means BBQ, booze and music. It's also a time where the locals can lend a helping hand. And, In this case, VICE's own Canadian Director of Marketing, Shawn Phelan, sought the gainful assistance of an authentic Texan steed to help setup VICE Kills Texas. In fact, the only thing Austin is better known for than their love of music, beef brisket, and a generous helping hand, is their strong encouragement of open sex with critters of every stripe. Even the goats live in fear. In turn, Canadians, like Shawn, are slowly learning a deeper appreciation for the Central Texas Reach Around. Now there's some cud fit for chewin'.
When a link is worth 1000 or so words there is no reason for me to even chime in-- though Lord knows I want to.
Hot on the heels of being declared an icon to the bearded and befuddled crowd by the New York Times (see excerpt below), Blackoutman steamrolled the competition at a Rockstar Games party last night. Their yet to be unveiled new Table Tennis game incorporates all of the dazzle of Ping Pong but without ever having to chase that pesky little ball around the garage. Interactive finger-fighters had been roped in from all over the Tri-State area, but VICE's Blackoutman was unfazed by this influx of overzealous game-boys announcing disdainfully, "It is only pushing buttons," before dismantling all comers from a standing position that could be considered nothing short of taunting.March 23, 2006
Paul Bunyan, Modern-Day Sex Symbol
By ERIC WILSON
LAST December John Martin sat in on a focus group for a trend-forecasting company at which young professionals were asked about their grooming habits. Mr. Martin found he had nothing useful to contribute. His shaving regimen involves the use of a razor about as frequently as the seasons change.
"Everyone else was chiming in about the products they use," said Mr. Martin, the advertising director for Vice, a lad magazine based in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. "I was totally mystified. I blanked."
Mr. Martin's idea of a style symbol, seriously, is Ulysses S. Grant, whose beard he came to admire after watching the 2003 Civil War-era drama "Cold Mountain." Two years ago, when he began experimenting with different beard styles, which he described as ranging from neat to burly to unkempt, his facial hair was an expression of individuality in a tide of metrosexual conformity. Now 10 of his 15 co-workers at Vice wear full, bushy beards. In that, they vie with the pro-facial-hair contingent of an editorial rival, Spin, where a rash of new beards has broken out.
"It's a sign of the times," Mr. Martin said. "People are into beards right now." At hipster hangouts and within fashion circles, the bearded revolution that began with raffishly trimmed whiskers a year or more ago has evolved into full-fledged Benjamin Harrisons. At New York Fashion Week last month at least a half-dozen designers turned up with furry faces.
No survey ever conducted about women's attitudes toward beards, even those not underwritten by the Gillette Company, has indicated that more than 2 or 3 percent of women would describe a full beard as sexy. ("I hang out with those girls who are in that 2 or 3 percent," Mr. Martin, of Vice, said.)
So in the immediate and foggy aftermath of SXSW, the powers that be here at VICE were summoned to Arizona for an Urban-themed meeting of the minds in the desert. This particular shindig was put together by the infamous Malbon Brothers for Toyota Scion to launch its “Release” sportswear collection at a fashion show MC'd by Sicky Ricky Powell in conjunction with a Swinging Celebrity Golf Invitational. Now it goes without saying that Canadians know very little about golf. It’s like asking a Texan about water-skiing. 
Here Jermey Piven, host of the weekends’ festivities, is forced to painfully conceded that VICE does indeed rule as he hands over the most coveted prize of the evening for best dressed participants, in front of a thoroughly bewildered crowd of urban baggy pantsers drinking Hennesy like it was cool-aid and they were on fire.
SXSW may have lost some of its underground cred but Austin is still the place every 3rd week in March for middle aged cretins to hook up with glamorous supermodel nerds spent on unhinged parties and extracurricular dazzle. You can't make shit like this up. This year saw VICE not only kill Texas but do certain damage to both the professional and physical futures of a number of the permanent staff. Individual updates are sure to follow. Like leadership?
Elin Unnes of VICE Scandinavia loves cake and we love her because anyone who doesn’t think a "food fight fashion shoot" would erupt into a real live food fight is alright by us. Love rolling in food with girls? Why, yes, thanks for asking.
VICE Superhero Derrick Beckles rolls into New York tonite from his Toronto stomping grounds. The TV Carnage impresario has been cast as the lead in a VICE Films -produced anti-smoking documentary. This particularly fine-looking black man is obsessed with absurdity and his ability to track the most trivially inspid moments on television --like this pathetic bit on the dangers of moshing -- is unmatched, unchartered and unbelievable. And by the way, wasn't slam dancing a fine name to begin with? Moshing? WTF? Fucking marketing guys! But Beckles is much more than a compiler of clips and shorts, he is a man of action and TV Carnage is his first love, his white whale, his quest for fire. The guarantee is that someday, if you are lucky enough to run into him, you will either be oblivious to what he is talking about, deafened by his carnivalesque laughter, or be thoroughly embarassed that you hadn't prepped better. But if, however, you fall off a waterfall and need a motherfucker to throw you a rope,who you gonna call?
This Friday, March 10th, come out and meet your favorite rumor mule targets at Trash as the kids of VICE are planning a secret get together for a 9pm open bar accompanied by the country stylings of the Sharky Favorite Band. VICE and country music might not seem a natural fit but what is wrong with a little unatural behavior on occasssion. And Sharky's unhealthy blend of the Grand Olde Opry and Caesar's Palace makes for a humdinger of a jumpstart to a weekend destined to be as fucked up as a can of worms. Come out and perhaps see Melissa, our man Duffy, Thobey, sexy Aviva, Blackoutman, LaWow and his lady, Carnage, Trevor Forever, Intern Bill, or maybe even yours truly.
What can we say about SXSW that hasn't been spilled or soiled in another hundred places. This year we will, however, attempt to further obliterate our own recorded bouts of debauchery and if you think you might be able to contribute in any real way to a VICE "free-for all," feel free to RSVP. Need more evidence to coerce you into visiting? Dial in some true Texas insanity here!
Sometimes when people work together they get into synchronized cycles from the two most unpredictable and powerful forces on earth: fashion and the tidal moon. When Ryan and Gavin started working together, it was easy to tell them apart: one was a stud athlete and brilliant student, while the other was a cartooning prodigy and the voice of an unorthodox subculture. Like mixing oil and water, these two rarely emulsified--but were often seen swilling around the bottom of the barrel. Well, it seems in the end personalities, like eggs, scramble, as it is now virtually impossible to tell them apart from each other. Which is the dazzling hardcore singer and which is the married curmudgeon? Like mixing identities? You make the call.
I like eating, and I ain't gonna lie: sometimes I think about the horrible deaths of animals. But the pangs of guilt fade to black when the notion of a hamburger flirts across my consciousness. Still, I try to eat vegetables and phoney meat substitutes much of the time. To be fair, though, I have shot and slaughtered and cooked and eaten just about every critter imaginable. What can I say? Killing is fun sometimes. But when I opened my good buddy Thomas' fridge the other night, looking for a budweiser from a purchased six pack, I was floored. A whole fucking cow's head was there staring at me. Now, I like Thomas, but this was my first time over to his crib and I just split. I wigged out and blazed. I hope he doesn't see this and think I'm a pussy, but good God, what could he have been thinking? Either he's in the Mafia, he's taking a tamale making course at the New School or just maybe he asked the wrong chick for head?
Billy Moore is the latest in a long line of love 'em and leave 'em male VICE interns. By official count, he has now made out with six interns and one gainfully employed addVice babe. Whoever can correctly name the lucky gals who have tickled Bensonhurst Bill's golden tonsils will win one bottle of wine from Thobey's wine cellar and a free trip to the nearest automated photo booth for a reenactment. Like making out? Play Bill's guessing game.
For years James Stockbauer used to have parties during SXSW but alas it appears that bit of insanity has gone the way of so many good things in Austin. Now that he owns a a burgeoning bar empire, home entertaining has become a bit of a bother and 80 bucks won't get you the friends it used to. So I'll just say it, Party Cancelled. Some fantastic times were had at his Victorian Splendor and it's a sad bit of news to report but the show must go on-- it's just gonna have to go on over there a ways.
Whenever you go to a party you should always look for the chicks drinking beer first. They are easier to deal with and more fun than girls who insist upon drinking premium vodka. (The only exception is if the vodka is being consumed as Jello shots. Just count to 10, throw these babes on your shoulder--one on each--and lurch back to your cave.) In general, beer drinkers eat less healthier than wine drinkers, so buying her dinner will cost a fraction. Plus, how dazzling do they look when backdropped with cases upon cases of PBR? Beer drinking from bottles or cans is preferred, or cups only in the case of a kegger. However, if your mark has poured her beer from the bottle into a cup, best to steer clear. Too much maintenance already, and you know she is the type who travels with three knock-off Burberry roller suitcases instead of just a toothbrush. Girls who are pouring the beer from the keg are worth their weight in gold. Chances are, she'll be up for bringing you coffee in bed.
Why is it that so many people who dig popular music love to get up on the weed? You worry sometimes that A&R gurus are so stoned when they see bands that they will sign anyone with a chick in the band and a spare e-z wider. But when recording studios turn into grow rooms you know that either these guys love reggae more than is healthy or their thumbs are so green that even a few spilt seeds lead to cash crops of unprecedented potency and lushness. Like horticulture?
Who knows what is in the water over there, but something, um, fishy is going on for sure! Our online operatives have sent us this great screengrab of the addVice Cinderella's musical proclivities. Like coke-fueled egomania? Suck this.
Spotted at the VICE Brodeo in San Diego was our second favourite Jamaican Asian / Semetic couple, Jill Meisner and VICE's Nick Yin-Chen. We won't comment on his expression, but just check out the look on her face! She's picturing 3 children with perfect teeth, a two bathroom apartment on Gramercy Park and summers in the Hamptons. In a room full of gay cowboys, she really zeroed in on a winner. Emphasis on the ZERO. Like matrimony?
So VICE UK editor Andy Capper, the tall bastard in the middle, had his birthday on February 14th, but no one seems to have noticed. If a birthday candle is burning in the wind and no one sees it, well, you get the obtuse point. It's sad, but sometimes couples forget these things in the hustle and bustle of the modern world. The only hitch is that when your birthday falls on Valentine's Day, it seems unlikely a woman would forget. Don't you imagine? This seems one of the biggest arguments against same sex marriages or relationships so centered on debauchery and financial success that you forget to even tell each other your last names before the pregnancies and private school tuitions roll in, forever inuring yourself to a life of forgotten occasions and missed Valentines. Ain't love grand!
Sometimes flying around the world can make you crazy with jet lag and at other times it has no effect whatsoever. These three maginificent specimens were spotted after a long trip bogged down unexpectedly in cosmopolitan San Francisco. Seen shirtless and a bit stunned at the notorious EndUp at three on a Friday afternoon, one instantly wonders whether they had been up all night or were they merely getting an early jump on Friday evening? I don't know. But I do know that the EndUp is a gay bar open virtually non-stop and well known throughout "the community" as a clearinghouse for east asian crystal meth. The good stuff, you know, vice without the v, a particular blend of go-fast that will have you so wired for so long that the mere sight of a bed will elicit howls of delerious laughter from a user. What these three clean cut kids were looking for or how long they struggled against the prevailing winds of the EndUp are questions beyond the reach of this intern's table. Like blurred lines?
China is real humdinger of a place. The television is full of the most absurd cartoon characterizations, the streets are teaming with stuff that can turn even studly videographers into sci-fi warlords and every menu is replete with bull penises and hot pot dog. For tourist-businessmen it's very easy to accomplish the most difficult tasks here while the simplest things could take weeks. Simple requests fall on a thousand deaf ears, but a single simple mistake is taken to great magnitudes... they only hear what they want to hear.
Sometimes in the pursuit of booze we've all been known to push down old people or belly our way past the burgeoning hipsters. But blindly backhanding fellow patrons is absurd. Here the irrepressible John Martin can been seen sending VICE elder statesman Trace Crutchfield ass over teakettle off a Greenpoint barstool. The excuse: I was reaching for my beer! Critical lunacy indeed.
Eric, formerly of Fenchurch and now of DVS/Lakai/Matix Europe, is our favorite non-employee and the person continually asked more about VICE Magazine than VICE employees at trade shows. That could be because the hired hands are usually too hungover too speak or they have yet to sneak out of some whore's flat to get back to the work of Media. Que lastima! Anyway this is Eric in our office during the Bread and Butter tradeshow. Despite his menacing appearance, he's as gentle as a giant. Currently he can be found in Berlin subsisting on the traditional fare of sausage salad and beir, though it could be pils, bock, dunkel, hell, or weizen if he is really desperate, and T. Drucker's vodka is spent. And you wonder why they lost the war.
Sometimes certain people are blessed with such pristine genome double-helix's that they resemble what geneticists call 'total babes'. Take our friend Steve for example. Here he's seen here with his doppelganger twin, Mark David Chapman. They are identical aside from one's long buttrock mane and the other's knowing smirk. Well, except for the fact that the Hessian is a Hollywood star and our pal is in the employ of a corporation involved with smooches of the Gallic variety. It should be noted that his lovely lady will be moving East shortly, effectively ending her days of lounging with B-list nymphettes and washed up goth rocksters. Paging Agent Mule! Rumor has it that when they first met, she was under the assumption that poor Steve was in fact, the other 'Steve' errr...Jared. No, not THAT Jared. What all does this have to do with VICE? Well the impending move has thrown hearts all aflutter far across the East River in our dear offices. Will a certain someone's take this well? Go ask Alexis.
The VICE New York Office is one horny place. The goings on at the intern table itself are a bewildering swirl of intrigue and innuendo but it's the heavy hitters with drawers full mind altering and schlong-bending concoctions that is the craziest. A cursory glance in even the most unassuming player's desk yields sexual dynamite. So if you notice Trevor washing down a handful EXOTICA with Black Pearl Libido Enhancer you should probably step back about about 10 inches or so. Or be prepared to step up your game.
Along with assorted yuks this great interview with our man Mr. McInnes contains a nice summation of the differences between Canadians and Americans. These, however, may soon disappear with the results of last night's national elections in Canada in which the conservatives soundly thrashed the liberals. Everyone reports this outcome will lead to Canada jumping happily into the sack with America at every opportunity. Oh Canada!
Some of the guys who work at VICE Magazine go to trade shows on occasion to busk for the company. I have no idea what really goes on at events like ASR in San Diego or Magic in Vegas, but I'm certain that some of it involves hero worship by young asian-canadians and the debauched behavior of our Murse. This picture captures Toronto hotshot-hustler Nick Chen-Yin, decked out in straightedge gear downing a bit of liquid courage before meeting Bam Margera. The two-hour wait to get Mr. Margera's autograph, ostensibly for a sister conveniently named Nicki, is something we'll never forget. Brothers this good are hard to find even if there's really no evidence of said sister.
Having kids is the most selfish thing in the world no matter what anyone sez, and yet also totally understandable. Everybody wants to dial in a kid that will elicit roars of approval from friends and teachers alike. Beautiful, brilliant children are the dream of every man, drunk or sober. The funny part is when wooden cigar store indian salesman like James Stockbauer start cranking out offspring, the kids are so much cuter and composed they make the father look like a nervous wreck on a failed business trip while she is as beautiful and perfect as a Russian doll.
Sometimes the dazzlers here at VICE have to travel and thus miss out on important family events like bat mitzvahs, birthdays, and even Valentine's Days. So it is with tremendous glee that us lowly interns, who rarely go anywhere but to the horrible Williamsburg post office, are invited to an uptown downtown party. Our wonderful friend is having a birthday party and all the boys are planning to make a big shirtless splash. Well except one!
This past Friday the ad sales team went out to the local pub to say goodbye to our good friend Will Evans over some cold drinks and hijinx. When we all head out on Fridays, or any other night for that matter, we rarely back track. On this particular night, aside from being Friday the 13th and another day Thobey made a false promise, things went pretty much as usual. John Martin's shirt was off and Intern Bill and Melissa were dazzled by Thobey's open tab and ankled pants. Beckles and Gavin did their routine countlessly and the rest of us argued and flirted and stumbled eventually home. But perhaps the jinx of wearing a pink sweatshirt on such a historically unlucky day or the pressing nerves of the impending Patriots battle with Denver caused Duffy's jaunt home to detour. And not to another bar or his lady friend's pad, as one would expect, but back to the office-- his reasoning lost to us in spent brain cells and urine. Luckily, our crack editorial staffer captured this image late that very evening, or about 11pm. The photo depicts Ryan Duffy one of VBS/MTV's shining-stars drooling and/or dreaming about something obviously untoward while drunkenly snuggling with himself on our high-brow Italian leather couches. Like drinking? Like blackouts?
This is the year for wild men in politics. Texas has the unique vision of Kinky Freidman's gubernatorial candidacy to worry about while Minnesota has much darker problems as Jonathon "The Impaler" Sharkey is a the favorite of vampires in the Land of a 1000 Lakes. They both wear both dark clothes, sleep late and make great campaign promises, while each race has poignant theme song: Kinky has the Texas Jew Boys' "God Bless John Wayne (People Who Read People Magazine)" while Sharkey favors Bauhaus' "Bela Lugosi Is Dead." It’s refreshing to see politicians who are overt freaks. Saves the public the expense of costly inquires, congressional hearings, and impeachment proceedings to wrest the skeletons from the closets. Hooray for exposed skeletons.
America was founded on a bedrock of land grabs, slavery, religious extremism, colonial ambition, and genocide. The notion that America was innocent prior to Jack Kennedy's murder is preposterous; by the rules he lived by, Jack got what he deserved. He took aid from organized crime during the 1960 election; he repaid the debt by siccing his kid brother Bobby on the Mob at large. He betrayed the Cuban exiles at the Bay of Pigs. He pissed off a hot-headed troika of mobsters, exiles and renegade CIA men involved in the Cuban cause. They whacked him for it. His death derived from the perennial motives of money and turf. It was a gaudy homicide that set the stage for the out-of-control America that I portray in The Cold Six Thousand.
Martin Luther King, the greatest 20th-century American, was a true hero of the 1960s. His promiscuity was directly related to, and served as a counterbalance to, the terror he experienced during his 13-year tenure as a marked man, from the Montgomery Bus Boycott to the time of his death. King's social agenda expanded during the last 2 years of his life -- almost in the manner of a kamikaze attack on American society. He was physically and morally exhausted. His agenda was a shriek of self-martyrdom. He wanted to alienate as much as he wanted to heal. His long transit of courage brought him to the point of calling forth his own death.
Here at VICE they make all new employees, even us lowly interns, sign a host of legal docs, one is a confidentiality agreement to protect corporate secrets like Andy Capper's hushed penchant for walking in circles on LSD, another is a non-compete agreement, so none of us immediately rush over to Teen Beat after getting our feelings hurt by Timothy, plus a notarized affidavit swearing we believe in both Good and Evil, for the obvious reasons.
A funny article on the World Wide Internet about the intrinsic pitfalls evident in comparing sports stars across the gulf of race and time went on to note thatAging American white people have been waiting for another Larry Bird in the same way aging hippies have been waiting for another Bob Dylan, but nobody ever gets what he or she wants: Tom Gugliotta ended up being Beck; Keith Van Horn turned out to be Conor Oberst; Mike Dunleavy is probably Ryan Adams.
Unless you're a newly hatched pod person, you already know that the VICE Rumor Mule uses people and destroys lives without compunction. But let me add that cannibalism is both a belief system and a material, institutional reality. To get right down to it, the VICE Rumor Mule's thinking is fenced in by many constraints. Their minds are not free because they dare not be. The VICE Rumor Mule favors manipulative psychological techniques over honest discussion, and besides, some organizations are responsible and others are not. The VICE Rumor Mule falls into the category of "not". The VICE Rumor Mule insists that it can override nature. In the long run, however, it's only fooling itself. The VICE Rumor Mule would be better off if it just admitted to itself that it respects the English language and believes in the use of words as a means of communication. Officious, wild schmoes like it, however, consider spoken communication as merely a set of noises uttered to excite emotions in sententious, filthy ogres in order to convince them to batten on the credulity of the ignorant. If you think that this is humorous or exaggerated, you're wrong. In the end, the VICE Rumor Mule's behavior is completely out of line.
The gang here at VICE spent much of this holiday season waffling over bilinis at brunches about whether or not to see Brokeback Mountain. We love rugged individualism and rolls in the hay but some were afraid the subject matter might prove too enticing for our hedonistic sensibilities. But before we could muster up the manpower to untrap ourselves from our closets, after seeing what had happened to R. Kelly, we allowed our friend Larry David take the lead with a Times Op-Ed.. New York Times
January 1, 2006
Op-Ed Contributor
Cowboys Are My Weakness
By LARRY DAVID
SOMEBODY had to write this, and it might as well be me. I haven't seen "Brokeback Mountain," nor do I have any intention of seeing it. In fact, cowboys would have to lasso me, drag me into the theater and tie me to the seat, and even then I would make every effort to close my eyes and cover my ears.
And I love gay people. Hey, I've got gay acquaintances. Good acquaintances, who know they can call me anytime if they had my phone number. I'm for gay marriage, gay divorce, gay this and gay that. I just don't want to watch two straight men, alone on the prairie, fall in love and kiss and hug and hold hands and whatnot. That's all.
Is that so terrible? Does that mean I'm homophobic? And if I am, well, then that's too bad. Because you can call me any name you want, but I'm still not going to that movie.
To my surprise, I have some straight friends who've not only seen the movie but liked it. "One of the best love stories ever," one gushed. Another went on, "Oh, my God, you completely forget that it's two men. You in particular will love it."
"Why me?"
"You just will, trust me."
But I don't trust him. If two cowboys, male icons who are 100 percent all-man, can succumb, what chance to do I have, half- to a quarter of a man, depending on whom I'm with at the time? I'm a very susceptible person, easily influenced, a natural-born follower with no sales-resistance. When I walk into a store, clerks wrestle one another trying to get to me first. My wife won't let me watch infomercials because of all the junk I've ordered that's now piled up in the garage. My medicine cabinet is filled with vitamins and bald cures.
So who's to say I won't become enamored with the whole gay business? Let's face it, there is some appeal there. I know I've always gotten along great with men. I never once paced in my room rehearsing what to say before asking a guy if he wanted to go to the movies. And I generally don't pay for men, which of course is their most appealing attribute.
And gay guys always seem like they're having a great time. At the Christmas party I went to, they were the only ones who sang. Boy that looked like fun. I would love to sing, but this weighty, self-conscious heterosexuality I'm saddled with won't permit it.
I just know if I saw that movie, the voice inside my head that delights in torturing me would have a field day. "You like those cowboys, don't you? They're kind of cute. Go ahead, admit it, they're cute. You can't fool me, gay man. Go ahead, stop fighting it. You're gay! You're gay!"
Not that there's anything wrong with it.
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