‘Cause hey—guess what?

I really need to post this shit in a more expeditious manner, man.

Just so happens that–ahem–I might very well have a few issues of my own to deal with. (One of which is the preposition by which the previous sentence just ended, dangling like an unworn pair of silver Les Chiffoniers’ leggings aching for the latest Girl of the Moment to slide into them before dashing out to paint the town bloodshot. It’s as inherent a pairing as Edie Segwick hopped-up on a fistful of whites and having her coiff spray painted Just For The F Of It while donning Balenciaga originials. What other lack of logic explains the perfect sense it makes to purchase what’s essentially a thick pair of pantyhose with a thousand dollar price tag? Not really…but REALLY, babes.)

But oh, that’s but a footnote of damage from a former version of myself in which I worked as a technical writer. A footnote among essays within archives buried deep inside some virtual boneyard we’ll call The Chronicles of the Clintasaurus and opt to visit some other time just dust our hands of it.

.kthanxbai.

At least all this self-aggrandizing material is contained within a single post. Couldn’t give two turds about what ‘they’ might have said about me?

Scroll on; scroll on!

“Does Not Exist.”

What does exist, nonetheless, on the other acrylic claw:

Recent media in which I appear–sometimes but a smidgen; luckier instances full effing-on.

For instance, the following pic and mention in H Magazine is a case of what might be deemed “peripheral press.” Or, to utilize the vernacular of savvy SoCal realtors in sensible shoes: an “adjacent feature.”

And insofar as my image—the look I ‘turned out’* for bits and pieces of my soul to be sacrificed via Glenn’s manipulation of the bulky/beautiful Polaroid Big Shot favored by Warhol himself?

*’turned out’ by no means appropriating cred as if this was my own creation! Au contraire, it was the make-up of Stacey Humell; the cut/color/extensions of scissormeister Irene Urias of Hairroin, Hollywood’s hottest salon (www.hairroinsalon.com), and–excluding the Westwood brooch–another cerebellum-melding, history-making, custom couture creation by the genius Jared Gold

(moving right along…)

Big deal if I’m “giving away too many of my secrets” by sharing this delicious little inside joke—it friggin’ slaughters me how many people took the ‘pomp and pout’ of the picture at face value. I mean, if I’m going to rock an outfit, hair and make-up that ostentatious… how could I not get “in character”?

What ELSE would I do? Smile like a politician and “compassionately” hold a stranger’s baby?

And in the meantime, reword “Let Them Eat Cake” into something more…inclusive…in tone?

yeahRIIIGHT.

It’s like this: one wink or nudge of the elbow during the Polaroid shoot, or Nhat Nguyen’s studio takes thereafter in which I “amped the prance” so high; by foppish standards it was even off-the-charts, or even a single word cluing in ‘The Children’ a la Interwebz? (No worries now: it’s been months… and while it’s a hasty generalization, yes: gnats have better attention spans than they do, for the most part.)

Let’s face the music, sweetcheeks:

Simply wouldn’ta worked.

Art versus Artifice // Appearance versus Reality // Truth Revealed Through a Guise // Everything Is “Real”—Though What Of It Is Lies?

So many motifs swirling around in my head like a majorette’s glitter-fringed baton at half-time…

Yet all of them beg the question, it seems:

Exactly who or what is this ‘Clint Catalyst’ supposed to be, anyway?

And why would it even matter if he (and I) weren’t among the ‘Lucky Ones’ in Flaunt magazine, issue 96?

I’ll tell ya what it was like when I spot-checked the (who cares if it’s a mere thumb-nail sized) pic, standing there, thumbing through the pricey pages in the Echo Park 7-11:

the second I saw my little powder blue top hat (by L.A.’s premier Gothic Cholita, Creepsuela Switchletto: “big ups” to my shiv-wieldin’ glamour sis), I felt a surge of validation sweep over me like the frost-bitten clouds fleeing a freezer behind me as some nameless faceless customer opened then sealed shut the door.

No doubt this earth-shattering, molar-splitting, life-changing moment is fraught with layers of meaning… but c’mon, isn’t everything? (Unless, of course, it’s deconstructed to the bloodless core of nothingness—but that’s so Small-Town-Liberal-Arts-School-Curriculum-For-30K+-A-Year-Of-Make-Believe, I’d rather just ‘keep it real’ and say

Mostest Massive thanks to Photographer Melissa Manning and Flaunt magazine!

Shit you nunca, y’all: that was wickedcool of you, and was “Really Saying Something…”

[Fun.Boy.Three.From.This.One.Here.]

Verbose? Hell yes. I conquer “tl;dr” pussywillows one paragraph at a time—deal with it, or head off for culturally-stimulating activities like an episode of “Cops” or a Budweiser-fueled swirly-go-’round-and-then-down on the Sunset Strip’s Mechanical Bull.

“I.D.G.I,” arseholians. (Said, of course, with the deepest affection…)

Besides: this is kind of like, my diary…yo?

All the same, there’s somethin’ I gotta tell you, though: the printwork I’m most stoked about as of late is a two-page editorial in the latest Lipstick Prophets catalog/magazine.

Here’s one of the images from the spread…

Copies are available through LipstickProphets.com for a scant 2 1/2 bones — and that’s with free shipping and handling, dearlings.

With the American economy in the shitter as it is, at least somebody’s followed my lead regarding “Other Humanitarian Acts That Require Little or No Effort.”

The Clint’s Notes version?

Have passport; will travel. ‘Handling’ is subjective terminology best discussed in lush, exotic locales—and, as with everything else in life, varies from individual to individual (all the while assured that we’re treated equally: It is, after all, the American Way!).

Air Kisses and Ass Kissing,

CC “Giving You” L.A.

in the best of

worst of

ways

(and vice-versa)

ART FAG ALERT!

No, I don’t hit every line in the prose-poem verbatim.

Yes, I wrote it. It’s ancient history, actually…but I chose the piece as a ‘sampling of my wares’–so to speak–because it’s self-contained and just under the 10 minute mark.

BACKGROUND INFO: this monologue was filmed on the day that basically determined whether or not I’d have a sample of my art hanging in the Andy Warhol museum. By “hanging,” I mean via 50 inch flat-screen monitor and bitchen sound system with my monologue on endless repeat (entering the room on ‘Opening Night’ and hearing my far-from-soothing voice bouncing around the pristine white walls? SURREAL… and something I’m still processing.)

That Once-In-A-Lifetime pressure +

5 1/2 single-spaced pages of text?

I’m just glad I pulled it off…
And of course, exponentially more grateful to glenn kaino for including me as one of his “Uberstars” in the 8-year retrospective of his sculpture/photography in the reknown Andy Warhol museum in Pittsburgh!

Catalottalisp was “served, and proper” from May 3 – August 31st, 2008, thanks to Mr. kaino and the curators’ hospitality.

This clip would not exist without the camera skills of Nhat Nguyen and editing prowess of Diego Garza.

In this video clip:

Wardrobe by Jared Gold

Hair cut and color by Luis Payne of Hairroinsalon.com

† † †

Hairroin Salon, Hollywood’s white-hot epicenter of cool, is owned and run by scissormeister Janine Jarman.

† † †

For the image on exhibit, however?

Hair styling/color by Irene Urias of Hairroin;
make-up by Stacey Hummell.

(Watch for the “end result” of Kaino’s portrait of Clint, as taken by Polaroid Big Shot

in the compendium

The Work of Glenn Kaino: Communicating Rooks,

scheduled for an June 2009 release through the premier art publishing house, Hatje Cantz:

www.hatjecantz.de

Effing PROPS, all y’all!

x o x
C C