Being alcoholic may have served well perhaps for someone like old boy McInereny for instance, but as of late -to say the very least, it simply didn't seem to be faring well for poor o'l Jay Lee.
It was another pristine desert afternoon off the coast in Max Dugan's version of Santa Monica, and now Jay waked sea sick but still land locked, so poisoned and crippled by his Californian hangover - a new hangover, which now sat so cruel in it's way seemingly to imply, point to all casual eminent doom - terror paradoxically existing in such beautiful setting; like Twin Peaks - where dread perpetually casts shadow amid the narrow, sunny and careless streets upon streets upon streets upon streets . . .
The annoying Hello Nasty Beastie Boys sample: "In Stere-eree-oh, in Stere-eree-oh," already littered through Jay's head, and it was too early for his, even though this mantra wackly repeated itself most everyday in Jay's dome - this happened of course in the mornings, all throughout the afternoon, into the evening and night. Most of the time Jay repeating this in his head to himself was just some tawdrily ironic exercise, which most of the time was harmlessly funny enough, an entertaining bauble or aside for his mind to throw around amid bored intervals of being alone, but certainly today this didn't seem to be such the case.
Again Jay reminded himself, thought about how there were exactly three kinds of career alcoholics; one who's function justified all other pedestrian's consumption (like say for instance, some pro skater or musician or writer) - then there were those, who merely squandered themselves and all whatever they were able to make, and the third type was just some vague combination of the two (again like some pro skater or musician or writer) - the latter to say the least now, Jay was more inclined to being aligned with, especially with all the shit that had been going down lately.
But Jay still remembered how it used to be so different back in the day, but then again, that was back in the day. But in Real SF, those Stereo Days, where the syncopated jazz seemed to sing into every corner of daylight darkness downtown in some pristine, Ultra Magnetic Quadraphonic Stereo Sound Fidelity - where that certain cosmopolitan splendor of romance evening, illusory promise of the heart of the night wafted in Frisco's terror twilight and would emminate, - that time, a much younger Jay could still get by with being so cute and so young, could get away with passing as appropriately naive and it all seemed so fashionable, and disfunctionally functional, where the Coit Tower Liquor hangovers didn't much seem to effect any of the covey footy he ever got or even much mess with how cool he may have looked in those photographs in the mags, those ground breaking Collegiate ads, and it surely didn't seem to much make even the slightest bit difference in the coherence of the interview answers - because back then it was all just a given, all given in the bay where at the end of every commerce cycle, the still sun burned down and would sink silently beneath the depth of the sea green foam of Ocean Beach, all of this existing off the very last Peninsula at the Northwest edge of the world, all synchronicity happening right on schedule as scheduled, all allowing such still to thrive, to be somehow seemingly impossibly possible, to workout so marvelously inside this invisible sphere of Bay Area success which only the real Cali heads knew.
Even though Jay hit water bumps over the sink in his apartment after he walked all the way back from Yagas last night, remnants of the dust still remained in his dome. When Jay awoke - he knew it was still inside his face - he would be off kilter for two or three serotonin depleted days.
Jay wanted to sleep for a thousand years, forced himself to at least try to sleep through the day, sunk back into an uncomfortable unconsciousness, but now his mind relentlessly flashed random images transmitted through the polluted waters of his mind, all random images repulsing him so; the terribly edited photos of naked boys in the ads of the phone sex numbers from the back of Hustler, vision of mince sewage from the sink laying on top of garbage in a kitchen without a garbage disposal, stock archival clips of bombs dropping on London, some poor mutt hit by a car lying traumatic and all alone on the pavement on the highway as dog completely disregarded by society's mercy, the flaming prams, the piles of black and white stock footage of burnt bodies upon bodies - all which really did inevitably exist somehow, the acknowledgement of the concept of holocosted locals of this land at the hands of new brutal settlers, and of course not to mention all those daft Skatemental ads and graphics and campaigns Jay was never the art director of.
Jay got out of bed, put on the boxers lying on the floor, walked into the living room and with a perfunctory collapse, crushed down onto the velvet of the Cabernet colored couch, now a bit thankful that at least the afternoon sunlight from the window had passed away from where he was now.
Although everything was so such a figurative and literal mess, there still seemed like there was nothing to do now. Jay thought perhaps he could begin by maybe straightening up his small apartment, but he didn't even know where to begin, nor did he much really feel facilitating such adjustments. His thoughts may have been analogous to his unkept place and if he tidied up a bit, it might lessen some of that unease he was drenched in, but even just thinking of making such trivial decisions; what to use for a dust pan, how to deal with the waste of piled dirty clothes in the cramped closet in his apartment which had no washer and dryer, not even knowing where to put stray pennies he found, stray guilt pennies he would just as soon as reluctantly throw away into his tiny chic garbage can he got from the gift shop at MOCA : all the trivial details of house keeping simply making Jay all so exhausted.
And there was nothing he could consume or to do, really, he knew - but just wait out for it to pass; a mercy bong hit just seemed now like bad medicine, he knew such would just descend him closer into slightly nulled midday panic.
Jay once read that Tommy Lee at the very end of the Girls, Girls, Girls tour had to be wheeled in a wheelchair through the airport home because the end sum of his tour consumption paralyzed him so to where he couldn't talk, walk, think- and Jay could always kind of relate to that.
There would be no ollies for Jay today, Jay barely able to form basic thought sentences, and when he could, no matter how mundane those thoughts could be, they would still jump out with too much volume, unregulated from the remnant chemicals - like how chicks on speed talked to each other in unnecessarily fueled intensity. This was annoying.
The only thing to do now was pull off, and no matter how wrecked Jay was the next day after partying- that was something he could still manage quiet well. Jay grabbed himself, but kind of half interestedly, looking at the Transworld on the beer table. Jay kept pulling off, then grabbed the Transworld, studied the cover of Justin Bokma back lipping Hubs, Jay still pulling but not really concentrating at all on it. Jay squinted, closely examined Bokma's pants, haircut - thought how Bokma kinda looked like he could have fit on old Stereo back in the day. Unfortunately now Jay remembered more walking under Hubs to the Safe Way across the street than ever actually getting any media there - this a veritable lifetime ago, way before Balma was even a name Jay reluctantly now had to rock in his head.
Aside from being totally pissed, Jay couldnt really care about it too much though. And Jay well knew Balma was trying to juice the Skatemental anyways. Why else would he get all close to Reese like that, AND so quick? Jay figured once Reese and Barry eventually compared thoughts, realized how their equally unoriginally shallow (or was it shallowly unoriginal?) plans were so predictably similar, they would just get into bed together like that, in front of the whole Action Sports Retailing Trade Association faster than you could say Asphalt Yact Club.
Jay knew it wasn't really about Lil' B coming out of the closet, making the pro deck commemorating that.
It WOULD'NT really be about Jay helping Bast make his exit move at the trade show like that yesterday (though tomorrow Reese would predictably begin using that against Jay).
Whether or not anyone eventually discovered the extra pallet of cruises or the other pallet still on it's way, didn't much even seem to matter now. Jay was already pretty familiar with the vibe there too - it very similar to when he bounced from Blind and it pretty much the exact same thing with Dune and Jim and Deluxe.
But look at Pastras now, Pastras so bloated, now working as some kind of freelance pundit for Nitro, anyways - the fact that that was inevitable always kind of making Jay believe Stereo had pretty much been doomed from the start.
Suffice to say before Visual Sound even dropped there had already been an unhealthy amount of personnel changes on the squad- new kids who skated hideously good, who didn't quiet deserve to be on, all the while the easily threatened overweight dark man makes sure all the OGs were getting gradually syphoned out, Liversage's athsma, Shippy's Alcoholism, Bertrand's college career, Ethan being Ethan . . .
But getting stoned out of his eyes in the Richmond, or wandering out across Golden Gate, bombing the Aves from Fort Miley, taking pictures by hand, developing them personally in the dark room at City College, using the Academy of Arts i-Mac lab downtown to color correct proofs and layout (Jay friends with Eric,the lab tech there as he had access to the facility between Market and Mission, despite Jay not being a student), Jay somehow being able to effortlessly punch out that quick succession of inspired ads in what was historically a really short period of time, those Felonious Monk album cover rip offs, everything a blatant rip off - that had really all been Jay all along, though no one at Deluxe much acknowledged this.
Right after Visual Sound Jim was just like: "Great, we can take things from here." Stereo then still ripped shit off, but it was now ripping the idea of itself off, as before with Jay in the Bay, something had really happened and Jay was the only one who could really see he had been just kind of simply there to receive it all, take it in, he knew he wasn't much in control of it either, really - to think: early nineties Jay was just some stoned captain sailing well in calm seas of navy scout's belts mist, truculent stark blue Stereo denim waves which could have capsized the entire fleet, decks which floated above the foam like bright pieces of candy bobbing in an ocean of subs of beer directly beneath the tepid Golden Gate. It would be much later that Jay realized it all really took more than having just some "eye" or some notion of "creativity". Everyone working in life style branding all walked around thinking they were geniuses, but when it really came down to it, only Jay still knew how no one couldn't even touch OG Stereo, Stereo as manifestation of treasure of the west, that Jay had discovered first and ONLY. Though also even now, so neutered and even that the more jaded, older Jay was quite aware he couldn't even be able to touch it again or now and this made him realize it was time to put the Transworld down and get back to the real matter at hand.
So, Industry line takes all perfunctory Skatemental stencil upon piano keys now,
And miles upon miles of treble clefts cut out in gorilla grip.
Take Prodigal Son,
Take Prodigal Son of the West tamed land.
Take Prodigal Hosoi avec fedora from Target, Hosoi now a midget throwing the same shaka which announced him and itself so irrelevant but still was celebrated by the same old lazy punks who eventually grewn up, Hosoi looking like some padded Leperchaun, Jagermiester plaid felt hat matching Jennifer Hosoi's.
Take Prodigal Jamie Thomas, the bully whom Jesus hated for juicing him so hard.
Prodigal Rodriquez, who's Nikes look designed too Mexican and what one would typically expect his preference as to be so uninterestingly ethnic.
Take Prodigal Koston. Cock adding vaudeville to the game, but never quiet making the cast cut to a real Spike Jones film, because he really gave Spike second hand embarrassment from years of being subjected to Koston's fake, egotistically ironic face which accidentally revealed itself not so ironic, all spewed out from the circle jerk of Girl media.
Take prodigal douchebobblehead Koston, who dressed like Will Smith's son, like an African American toddler, the tinker toy camo, the matching Fisher Price color coordination, the late in the game Supreme gear which looked bought at Champs.
Jay reluctantly done, simply left with "In Stere-ereo, in Stere-ereo . ." looping through his dome ad infinitum.