THE BANKSY METHOD

Banksy is a well-known, provocative and controversial graffiti artist. His ironic art can sometimes be found on the dirty walls of an anonymous street, next to a PUB, on the side of a sexual health clinic or even on live animals.

His unique satirical approach is rather refreshing, amusing and depressing at the same time. Above all, I think he has a great sense of humour.

I'm guessing his official website may look something like this:

http://www.banksy.co.uk/

Mr. Banksy is sometimes described as an "Art Terrorist" (everyone's a terrorist nowadays...), because he sneakily hanged subverted versions of famous paintings on leading museums and prestigious galleries, without express permission from its directors (or his own parents).

He is actually famous for this modus operandi and a great inspiration for six-year-old children (and me) who also wish to see their House-With-Smiling-Sun-And-Family drawings on exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art.

He maintains some degree of anonymity to avoid arrest, because graffiti is illegal. Some believe his name's Robin Banks (a joke name for: "robbing banks") or, more seriously, Rob Banks from Bristol, UK. Yet, no one's really sure of his true identity (a bit like a superhero). Not even his parents who actually think, according to the man himself, that he's some sort of painter or decorator (or an accountant who just happens to own thousands of spray cans).

In 2005, he painted on the Israeli Wall which stands three times higher than the Berlin Wall and is, accordingly, three times more degrading for mankind (and also for the Israeli government).

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/4748063.stm

Well, soon after reading more about him, I found myself inclined to pull the same sort of stunt to slightly increase the popularity of this blog.

By the way, I wish to proudly announce that the readers sum now (amazingly) exceeds the rather depressing total of zero (Hurray…) and also to greet them all with much heartfelt love ("Hi Mom! Learn English, please..."); but are however still less than two, which is not that bad if put into the right perspective.

I hope to change this state of affairs in the next decade.

I've got plenty of time. I think…

My doctor has a different opinion and said to me that staying up all night, jumping meals, drinking and smoking like there's always another tomorrow was bad for me. All the other doctors I've visited seem to have attended the same boring medical school and I just can't find one that will let me sin against my self-preservation (without feeling kinda guilty about it, you know...).

After some meditation, I decided to take marketing guerrilla action into my own hands and chose a place where everybody had to go sooner or later. So I posted an advertising poster on the back of the local gravedigger without him noticing. It's harder than you might think at first as I had to play dead for some time until I got my chance.

It went pretty well up to the point when he had to lay off work and go home to his wife and kids. I ceased to immobilize him against a tombstone when I eventually realised that it's very hard to read anything when you're lying down under the ground.

Being dead, as I was later told, is an exceptionally time consuming occupation. There's no time to read anything longer than three small words.

Besides, the few undead who did read it said to me – and I quote: "you should perhaps pursue other interests such as erasing texts instead of writing them. It's a steady occupation and I heard there was an opening at the Paper Recycling Factory.".

It was a tempting idea and I knew it was the practical thing to do, therefore I didn't do it.

Banksy would be so proud of me for being anti-establishment and anti-capitalism. He more than once turned down a huge contract with Nike involving "mad money" (sic). How many of us could afford to do the same?

Apparently, he could. His works have been selling like hot cookies and have reached record values in auctions. His street and subversive artist image has been ironically appropriated by the rich and famous.

While one of these auctions was still going on, he sent a note to be read to all the auctioneers saying: "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU'RE BUYING THIS SHIT YOU THICK CUNTS.".

But the buyers there just didn't get the anti-commercial message and the note itself was subsequently auctioned for sale! (The irony in this is plainly unbelievable…)

In fact, all the commercialisation of his art is driving him nuts and he's much irritated by this entire media circus around him:

http://www.martian.fm/banksy_manifesto.htm

Anyway, I pursued my second alternative (which was also coincidentally my plan B) and targeted the Police Station.

However, in an attempt to deviate my marketing work from Banksy's, and thus make my feat more original, I decided to ask my parents for permission (therefore avoiding the copyright lawsuits Mr Banksy's lawyers had promised me over the phone when I asked for some free advice).

Unfortunately, when I phrased the question to my parents, I inadvertently commutated "…Police Station" with "…in my room.".

It was an understandable mistake but as so often happens (for some unknown reason especially with me), I was too embarrassed to retract myself and nailed my publicity post behind the door to my old room.

By the way, I "obviously" no longer live with my parents and I think anyone over thirty who still does should be ashamed and hide it as a state secret. I suggest you tell people that your parents are the ones living with you instead (like I used to do when I was twelve).

I finally went to the Police and very subtly managed to glue the blog advertisement to the counter while I complained that my priceless gold watch had been stolen.

It was a good spot as I knew that two of the Law Enforcers were fabled to have some sense of humour (they laughed a lot while writing traffic tickets).

The next part of my deviously conceived plan was to rob everybody in the neighbourhood in order to increase the number of people going to the police and therefore reading my clandestine advertisement.

I'm now writing this from jail.

Apparently, the two policemen I referred to earlier had retired from active duty and my blog post advert ("The Police: those stupid lazy bastards who pretend to protect us") was taken as evidence. I think they're not giving it back to me.

My splendid Banksy-styled plan had a minor flaw: my name was on the damn thing. Those clever detectives were able to crack the case in less than four hours, setting a new standard in criminal investigation for the whole country.

I still think however that this Police Station idea really looked, sounded and tasted like a good one (even though I usually prefer ideas such as roast turkey and chocolate ice cream).

In my cell, I was comforted by the thought that this has happened in the past to Einstein and his brilliant plan to end World War II by helping to build a bomb so powerful that it would end not only that one, but also all future wars.

He was probably aiming for a Nuclear Holocaust of biblical proportions enough to utterly destroy our planet, thus ensuring ever lasting peace in the rest of the Universe.

It was a great concept, but it didn't quite work and the planet is more or less still in one piece with everybody pretty much alive (extreme Pacifists are outraged to this very day).

I can now see even more clearly why Mr. Banksy goes to great lengths to protect his identity.

It's the secret winning strategy against the Law.

MORBID CURIOSITY

I made my higher studies away from home, about two hours away on a double-decker coach. As an incorrigible bohemian I did more than just study hard. Going out every single night with so many fascinating and wonderful people was a real life changing experience and if you have a choice between studying close to home (and not having your own room) and going into a different city, always prefer the latter. You won't be alone out there that much I can promise you.

"The devil you know is better than the devil you don't know" is a groovy Russian proverb that states the obvious: we fear the Unknown [*creepy church organ*]; and it holds somewhat true except in what concerns this very specific matter (and new girlfriends).

One late Friday afternoon, I was, as usual, on one of those journey's back home, switching between my new found world and the old one, when the bus suddenly stopped. I was travelling on the top level so I was able to see all the immobile cars lining up as far as I could perceive (this could be from three to four meters as I have a common visual impediment known as the "not changing glasses when you should" Syndrome).

At this point, as the proud and inveterate chain smoker that I am, I quickly began to distress. It was taking so long for our transportation to move that our stubborn driver finally gave in to the "smoking opportunity" argument and allowed us to go outside for some quick smokes (we were whining very loudly too).

While outside, by the side of the road, the rumours of an accident travelled all the way from the crash site until they reached our ears.

When the driver called us back in, I could not understand why, for we could easily follow our transportation on foot. It almost didn't move for several precious smoking minutes. A couple of arrogant snails were having a rare moment of glory as they passed us by, laughing their shells off.

Actually, we were moving so slowly that I imagined that this terrible disrupting disaster must have involved a long heavy truck filled with some high inflammable fluid and a radioactive secret NASA project that happened to be passing by. I was honestly expecting to see a replica of the Barringer Crater on the freeway (which - in the remote case you are not God - looks something like this when viewed from the sky: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Meteor.jpg).

Traffic authorities were now surely building a temporary bridge strong enough for us to pass over the huge crater filled with bodies similar to those from the "Night of the Living Dead" (but I tend to hyperbolise things, and sometimes even exaggerate – so I've been told).

Naturally, I was immensely disappointed when I saw the highway unbelievably still in one piece and, to my utter disbelief, not even a symbolic blood stain on the asphalt (or undead zombies' limbs for that matter). Every single driver was slowing down his march only to a get a peek on the possible horrid and sordid details which, to much general disappointment, only consisted in scratch paint and some smashed front lights. The policemen were signaling drivers to move along: "There's nothing to see here…". And there wasn't. Really.
I was amazed that such a sissy accident could make the traffic flow stop on BOTH directions! Cars on the opposite lane were also slowing down to check out this "Gentle Tragedy of the Slightly Broken Headlights".

But everybody – and I mean "everybody" (yours truly included) – had to take a long closer look. We wanted blood. The director's cut of the Tiananmen Square Massacre in stupid traffic jam flavour. Instead, it was a true fraud on one's great expectations of a free freak show… *sight*


And I must ask: Is this morbid curiosity phenomenae universal? Does it happen on other planets too? Why do human beings facing a car crash instantly become the traffic inspector of the month? Am I entitled to some sort of benefit for those hours forever stolen from my existence and which I can never get back? And if so, does the government pay by cheque or electronic transfer? (I'll leave these difficult questions open for further sociological study.)


After we had passed the accident scene and just when I fondly thought that the worst was over, I painfully began to realize that our driver was going as slowly as he possibly could (snails were again poking fun at us as they passed us by), probably because a flop crash is nevertheless a crash and it makes people somewhat more cautious. It takes away the courage from your otherwise intrepid maniacal suicide driver.

My two hour trip became a five hour odyssey where nothing interesting happens. In order to entertain myself a bit, I came up with some progressive and controversial ideas to stop this sort of thing from happening again. My mixed feelings of boredom and rebellion can be single out as the main inspiration for this first set of overwhelmingly surprising ideas:

a) Destroy all vehicles (except the coach that takes me home);

b) Blind everybody who is curious (or may be in the future);

c) Hunt down all the drivers who slow down when they see an accident (do not accept such lame and classic excuses as: "I was slowing down to see if assistance to the wounded was necessary");

d) Legally prevent people from having the liberty of stepping outside their homes - especially with a car - and call it the "National Home Imprisonment Act" (the "National" part is obviously intended to make it more appealing for both Neo-conservatism and National Socialism enthusiasts alike).

As these brilliant ideas came into my mind, I laughed a little bit (something along the lines of "BUA-HAHA-ha-ha-a…") and briefly recalled my lifelong dream of "founding of an Empire as big as planet Earth with someone really capable as its eternal ruler" (I usually say this while discreetly coughing and pointing very tactfully at my thorax), but soon realized they were not possible to put into practice, due to financial constraints.


So I had to try solving it some other (cheaper) way. In the spirit of the economically feasible, I devised a few products which could very well spell the end of "Morbid Curiosity" epidemic as we know it and in a very near future.

*drums* *suspense* *deep voice with reverb*:

Now, for the first time in Human History, presenting this unbelievable product designed to save us from the loss of priceless wasted traffic time…

*more suspense* *people biting their finger nails in excitement*

Yes!!! It's the incredible:

"Traffic Accident Curious Onlooker Preventing BLINDER" (tm)
(Patent pending)

*glorious [previously recorded] applause*

"But, how does this amazing invention work?" – You might ask.

Well, it's basically a curtain that completely surrounds the accident scene thus hindering the vicious inquisitive ones from satisfying their sordid peeking needs (like verifying the body count).

And it has such marvellous options: the optional dull photos which will make any curious driver look away for something more interesting (e.g. the grey sidewalk); and the stunning electric land mines (for those who try to come near and lift the screen).

As a complementary solution to this rather complex problem I then came up with "Simulated Car Collisions" (tm) (Patent also pending) to avoid speeding freaks from gathering the necessary mindless bravery by having some strategically placed false accidents just for show. This would mean having an office that would come up with different "motifs". We would, of course, need to pay handsomely to those people who have a sick enough imagination to help preventing traffic slowdowns and accidents by creating them (I'm available, by the way).

The third approach is the widely misunderstood "Fake-an-Accident Civil Program" (patent refused due to stupidity). It consists on "volunteers" (concept subject to redefinition without notice) that agree beforehand to have a small but effective accident on a busy freeway, aiming directly at cutting public expenses.


There must certainly be a market for these ideas; I will therefore be filthy rich pretty soon (and world domination will be at last within my grasp).

It is now, I believe, just a matter of time...

HOW LONG CAN YOU HOLD YOUR BREATH?

Today I decided to find out how long I could hold my breath by writing these lines in which I make no point in particular and that's something so I'm writing just to make sure you do know that ideas are hard to come by and also to become acquainted with this revolutionized method for checking your lungs and see if they really work and for these reasons alone I'm merely filling the blank paper or screen with this extremely long run-down sentence which does not say anything really or even addresses any sort of subject because of the reason stated earlier on this one sentence blog which will surely be remembered mostly during anger crises for its emptiness and lack of meaning and also the absence of punctuation that gives it this breathless property which I think it is kinda funny although no one I know would agree but that did not deter me from writing such a crazy idea while going on and on without ever stopping to catch my breath and turning blue for if you try to read it loud you'll find yourself waking up in the emergency room right next to me and thinking that this would never happen to you and was just because you really tried my stupid suggestion and thought that I was just kidding but I wasn't and it is getting progressively difficult to go on because oxygen is very important if we're ever to survive the next few minutes despite the fact that it is getting harder and harder to go on due to the intentional emptiness of it and I can't believe someone would read such a ridiculous meaningless thing for so long unless they were me or that I would ever write such dribbling nonsense unless I was someone else but there you have it and life is full of surprises after all so I bet you also didn't guess you'd be caught reading this and being unable to help yourself during this odd Monty-Python's-Zen-Twilight-Zone moment and that there must surely be a million and two things more important to do than to read an endless sentence that seems to go on and on forever although I can't really come up with a good example right now because my head is spinning and I'm dangerously close to some medical limit of the human body but it's great that I could hold on for so long because now I can proudly say that…

*FAINT*

MY PERSONAL HEROES - NIETZSCHE

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 -1900), the famous German gangster philosopher who had God murdered the moment he found out that although his elderly mother and his ugly sister were both going to Heaven someday (his greedy shameless sister was probably going straight to Hell for posing as a paid nurse to her brother when, in truth, she had been doing it all along for free), his cute cat wasn't and that really made him snap.
Not that he petted a cat. Actually he hated the damned parasites and was severely allergic to them.

In a paradoxical sense, I also have a cat which is not really mine (it's my neighbours), but insists on crawling surreptitiously and uninvited into my house most of the time so I feel obliged to feed him (cats adopt people nowadays or, at least in my experience, me). My charming and observant neighbours have, on occasion, called the police on me to retrieve the cat from my house (after it had been gone for a week…). Therefore, I understand Nietzsche's divine homicidal tendencies in a very profound and alternative manner.

Well, but to Nietzsche this prejudice against cats (or any form of life that doesn't have a soul, i.e., unable to contribute very generously with land or gold to the Church) disturbed him gravely. If this great western thinker did ever decide to get a cat (and call it "Timmy"), it just wasn't fair that God wouldn't stubbornly allow fluffy Timmy to do its thing in the Gardens of Eden (instead of the expensive 19th century couch). This was a matter of principle (and wasted cat food) and that's what I admire him for. If I ever grow up, I'll pet my own cat and name him "Timmy".

This respect for animals also reoccurred by the end of his life. Dramatically, Nietzsche's sickness got progressively worse in his last eleven years and madness crept into his mind. During this late period, rumour has it he was once seen in an Italian public square protecting a horse from being whipped by embracing it around the neck; and, with tears in his eyes, he begged the horse to forgive the crimes of Humanity (and certain politicians) against their enslaved brothers: the animals.
Apparently the disease also affected his eyesight as some onlookers also report him embracing the two policemen, who came to take him away, with the same sort of speech.

To this day, however, it is unknown if the domesticated quadruped (i.e. the animal, also known simply as "horse", or "Mr. Ed") bothered to answer him. Some eminent members of the philosophical community have argued that asking a question while gripping the throat of our interlocutor to the point of strangulation may prove difficult for him to answer.
Other renowned scholars, however, strongly disagree and think that he could have asked nicely while discreetly waving a bag of sweets.

Furthermore, experts couldn't gather a consensus on whether he should have posed this important symbolic question to a different animal instead, and popular academic suggestions include "to one that wasn't being whipped at that exact moment". This controversy promises to endure for many years as it so often happens with much of Nietzsche's work for its ambiguous nature tends to frustrate serious attempts of analysis.

A few days after this episode, he wrote a couple of short letters to some of his friends - known as "Madness Letters" - in a desperate attempt to spread the disease that plagued him and thus have some card-playing company at the mental clinic's playground, but to no avail. The director of the Clinic, Dr. Otto Binswanger, and conservative art historian Julius Langbehn (who was attempting to cure Nietzsche's illness with crayons), got hold of the notes and sent some of them as a replacement for their huge gambling bills.

Despite a tremendous difficult life, he managed to create, among other beautiful tributes to the lost art of thinking, the ambiguous and poetic "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" which is by far my favourite book; the most inspiring of them all and the most unreachable.

I'm usually a fast reader in what concerns much more light weighted material, such as novels (and comic books), but while reading this one I just had to go back three pages or so on a regular basis and pause to ponder on the new dense ideas it gave me (and how unfair it was that I didn't got to write them first). I would frequently just hold the book, let my fuelled mind wander into the deep space of amazing thoughts and dwell there for a while (some, like me, say I never came back).

Zarathustra is the book's extraordinary central figure who makes brave philosophical speeches (when he's sure that either no one can hear him or are just way too far to catch him).

Nietzsche stole the character of Zarathustra from that of the prophet of Zoroastrianism, better known as "Zoroaster", dated around the 10th century BCE. "The copyright had expired…" he later confessed to Richard Wagner with whom he maintained a close friendship that ended abruptly with the argument of who's time it was to pay for the dinner as both thought it was their own turn. The manager at the restaurant was happy to be paid twice for the same meal.

One of the book's most impressive key ideas is the "Eternal Recurrence" or "Eternal Return" concept which put into abstract terms means that I'll be beaten up again by a certain 5th grade classmate forever. I find this odd idea of circular time very reassuring and to give me some comfort during difficult times (especially because I had gotten taller by the 7th grade and knew precisely where he lived).

I was first drawn to the obsessive reading of Nietzsche, because he has such a brilliant name. I particularly love the "TZSCH" consonant cluster and once tried to change my name to "Aletzschandre" (notice its intellectual shine now) and made official arrangements for it to happen. The shallow people at the register office however, failed to take me seriously and replied something - which I can't exactly recall - around the subtle and intricate concepts of "get lost" followed immediately by "next, please".

As I'm not one who easily shuns from hopeless lost causes (unless I'm invited to a party), I was further introduced to the ever so popular bureaucratic concept of "call security" when, on the very next day, I chained myself to the office plant (a bonsai-like palm tree) and swallowed the key. I was forced to give up a week later because I could no longer afford that ridiculous rent.
I brought the plant as a souvenir and now carry it everywhere I go as I'm still waiting for the key to end her troubled relationship with my digestive system.

You can never get anything done in this country, unless you do it yourself. So I decided to forge my ID card (with a correction pen) and only answer by the name I'd chosen. I abandoned the whole idea while crossing a street. It's funny how the simple crossing of a street can make you change your mind on certain issues, especially if you got run over by a small truck. And also if your friends tried to warn you about the approaching menace by shouting: "Look out! Aletzschandre!". Unfortunately, I thought they were calling someone else and paid no attention to them.

I had plenty of time to reflect about this at the Hospital where I learned that I had made it into next year's edition of Guinness World Records ("Most Broken Bones Survivor" category). I am also now a case study for the medical science of Osteology for some mysterious reason.

I wish to take this opportunity to acknowledge the kind doctors who helped me with undying and unconditional love by breaking the remainder of the bones I needed to get the record.

Thank you all! I'll never forget you guys (or where you live...).

THE MUTANT CONTACT LENS FROM HELL

There's a slightly new different version of me nowadays.

You see, I used to wear glasses until very recently. I'm now trying out these cool water-based contact lenses and I'm actually feeling terrific with them. They give you the illusion that there's nothing wrong with your eyes, your natural face comes back to you and, above all, (this was obviously my primal motivation) you can once again make fun of people who do have glasses.

All is well, except for a minuscule… minor detail… nothing really… you can almost just pretend it isn't there. Yet, I must confess that I felt a bit challenged by the fact that it was pure hell to put them on. At this time, I only had to do it once. These specific lenses are the cool modern type you can sleep with for days (I call them "promiscuous lenses").

This morning, however, immediately after realizing that the expiration date on them was almost over (they're turning green and smelly), I took it like a man (a very coward man) and got into a panic state that made me run in circles for a few hours (screaming a few selected vowels) until I was lucky enough to slip on the kitchen carpet and hit my head against the fridge. It made me think. Life is fleeting and I hated that carpet. It was ugly, had stains on it that could make a grown man burst into tears and the day after I bought it, they lowered the price more than half.

While still on the floor and lacking the ability to move, my concussion further made me remember how, after I was miraculously able to get the first lens to finally stick to my right eye, I lost the second one and had to be on all fours looking for the damn thing with only one eye. Twenty minutes later, when it was no longer funny to pretend I was a one-eyed pirate, I eventually gave up and initiated the process of figuring out how to take it off (which I'm yet to find out). And there it was, that slimy blue bastard looking at me, laughing and making faces, glued to the mirror of the bathroom wall.

An hour later, after what can only be described as the single most traumatic experience of my past hour, I had won the "War on Lens" only to find out (nearly five minutes later) that I had somehow managed to put both lenses on the same eye and that indeed I wasn't even capable of seeing well enough to cross the bathroom door (and had been in fact bumping repeatedly into the sidewall that whole time). A disturbing episode I will most certainly recall an unhealthy number of times in my old age and perhaps also following that.

After cleaning some of the drops of blood from the wall (and throwing the carpet away) I immediately perceived this whole event as so daunting that I just had to write a few lines telling the entire world about it (and a few random strangers on the street therefore saving myself from the claws of professional therapy). The volumes that compose the trilogy on this painful subject should be out in less than two years.

I am currently looking for support groups in order to share my pain and thus help me surpass this horrible experience.

I am very confident I can defeat this.

I wonder, though, if taking them out will be any easier…