Because the recession hasn’t affected people’s advertising budgets as much as you’d have thought, Scion flew me half way around the world to attend the opening of the Los Angeles Vice Photo Issue 2009 exhibition. Yay!
The obligatory plane window shot. British Airways has the WORST in flight entertainment. I looked on my camera once I arrived at the hotel and I’d taken 220 pictures out of the window. Read more »
You see that topless cutie beckoning to you over there on the twin bed? Jamie Lee Curtis Taete took that for our Photo Issue. Right now he’s in LA, where he used to live for a few months (sans car, like a lunatic), purging ambrosial drops of labour dew in the Scion gallery, prepping for the Photo Show opening tomorrow night that no-one in the UK gets to go to.
I somehow managed to live in LA for six months without seeing a single celebrity. Actually, that’s not true, I saw the brown-haired girl from Baywatch, but I didn’t recognize her until someone behind me said, “Wasn’t that the brown haired girl from Baywatch?” All my grandma asks when she calls is if I’ve seen any celebrities. That’s why I decided to go straight to the source: the paparazzi, also called the paps. In this case, my friend’s friend Chris, who, like David Beckham, came from Manchester to LA to carry on the fine British tradition of tabloidery. So I tagged along for one day on a ride that turned out to be not so fast and sadly involved neither wigs nor big sunglasses, just a whole lot of waiting.
We get sent a lot of dog-shit books. Cook books for squatters, body modification encyclopedias, novels with pastel coloured covers for menopausal women, street-art stencil packs. Imagine a few hundred pages of tepid, banal dross, and we’ve probably seen it. But the other day, the grade boundaries were shattered when this atomic tome of shit slapped down on our door-mat. Read more »
Hello, my name is Chris Nieratko. You might know me from such films as Skinema: Love on the Rocks or My Wife’s Mouth Will Not Get Pregnant. Or you may not. Either way, Vice has found me, my wife Cris, our dog Benny and my wife’s retarded (literally) Uncle Lonnie interesting enough (maybe stupid is a better word) to share our life with you on a weekly basis. I hope you enjoy us.
(But I know you won’t because you’re so tragically hip that you can’t enjoy the comedy of domesticity. Oh well. Tough titty.) Read more »
Williamsburg is known as the new Lower East Side which is fine and everything but can somebody please explain what happened over the East River where everyone became funky Barcelonans?
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I envy the currently nonexistent fetus who someday gets to whip out this picture and say, “Here’s my mom and dad before I was born.”
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