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Moving Pictures

With the holidays looming and my generally gloomy mood exasperated by a sagging economic outlook, I haven’t had much to write about. In search of inspiration I delved back into the archives and rediscovered the adventures of Steel-O-Man, which gave me an idea. I wonder what that guy is up to? Thankfully, cooking desserts for dead celebrities, singing to his Halloween tree and capturing Christ-like apparitions on camera are still part of his routine.

The Chef BeBe Episodes

Halloween Tree

What if God was One of us?

Lastly, here’s a glimpse into his studio that reveals what appears to be a vast collection of teddy bears, dolls and stuffed animals.

Keep ‘em coming, Phil.


6 comments for “Moving Pictures”

  1. That was the best 7 or 8 minutes of my life. Here are the thoughts that I was thinking as it happened:

    1. I thought that I would’ve enjoyed watching these clips during the 3 or 4 hours I spent at the emergency room. They were slamming me with morphine and a water drip to help me pass a kidney stone.

    2. I remembered the time in college that I first dosed up on LSD. My friend said: “I just saw God in that poster”. Nobody was taken aback by the statement, but rather, stared into the poster in the hopes of also seeing God. I missed it. (this thought occurred during the premonition video)

    3. I imagined it might be nice to hang out with this guy for a while after having smoked pot that made me really paranoid. I think it would have calmed me down and helped me enjoy the buzz better. I don’t smoke pot anymore, but I would with him.

    4. I particularly enjoyed the grunts and other weird gasps that he made. “oo0ooooh” “haaaaaaa” and the eating sound of his guest, shirley temple, as she tasted the pie. I wondered oddly, who would quit such a job for no reason at all? Who could it have been before shirley? Then it hit me, it must have been Hillary Clinton because he endorsed Obama. C’mon Hillary, taste the fucking pie.

    5. I have a doctor’s appointment about my kidney stone. I am hopeful that he will give me more pain medication so that I can view these clips again with a renewed interest and possibly a different insight as a result of my altered state of consciousness. Then I thought, perhaps I am relapsing into being a pill head instead of merely a drunk. I have been merely a drunk for several years now, but must admit, I have grown fond of opiates since the kidney stone episode.

    6. I imagined telling my friends about Art Good / Hitler Bad. Then I imagined them questioning me because it’s a San Francisco style, gay friendly, outsider art show run by to hot ass homo-erotic men. What are you doing reading the website by the gays? They would ask me. Then I would explain to them that their identities are much more than the single facet of gaydom. Moreover, they are culture consultants, saving one poor uncultured soul at a time with their message of observing the world without restraints or bullshit bias. That is; learning to merely appreciate people and things as they are… not being too critical… but just observing and understanding the greatness of the very peculiar world we live in. Yes, there is art in everything, and these culture consultants are my guides. It’s almost like being on a tour mobile in D.C. during the summer, without the crowds, without D.C., but with the sights and sounds, with a guide who has a bit of wit… enough to entertain you through the tourist experience without thinking about how goddamn hot the weather is… or how the cop on the corner slurs the mexican tourists because they are illegal aliens… or whatever. It’s about that. Just looking at it all and not feeling compelled to judge, write snark, but instead just observe and appreciate the strange world that is growing ever more strange. My culture consultants, they teach me not to be afraid of it. The antidote they are to my xenophobia. So really see, you’re a public service announcement without a government sponsor and the cheese (metaphorically and government cheese handed out as rations). You’re the salvation army of lost and forgotten oddities and antiquities. Nothing is better than a nice bowl of steaming art good / hitler bad here in our little internet soup kitchen.

    Posted by The Shit House Poet | December 17, 2008, 10:57 am
  2. O.K. I am back from my visit to the doctor. He advised me to see a urologist immediately. I did and was admitted to the hospital for overnight observation. Again, they slammed my veins with a morphine drip and saline. I stayed all night and half the next day. My urologist never showed up. Instead, another urologist showed up, wrote me 30 hydrocodones, and made me a follow up appointment. About 23 hours passed. I made the appointment, did Christmas shopping, bad ass deals at wal-mart on remington swiss army style knives. Bought four of them. Bought some perfume for my sisters and nieces. A few other items. I was pilled up the entire time, but not so pilled up that I couldn’t act normal. Though, pilled up enough that I honestly don’t know if the kidney stone is hurting me or not. I don’t intend to find out until I have to… that is; I’m staying pilled up until the mother fuckers run out completely. It’s on. Hydro Christmas ’08 has arrived. Just got off the phone with my spiritual advisor / healer who doubles as my sister’s AA sponsor. As fate would have it, she also was in the hospital lately. She had a bad reaction to morphine administered to her for a bad ass bladder infection. We both got ill about 3 days apart, no shit, went to the same hospital, had similar experiences. There was an alignment of planets she told me, and this warned her that something was afoot, but she didn’t know what. Anyway, 3 days apart, we both have similar illnesses, do the exact same drugs, (legally), and then she asks me to relay a message to her friend via the web. I did that just awhile ago. A friend she visited gave her a basket, hand made, and I told her that it meant that she would receive something to put in it. I bought jade earrings for my sister, but there were two pair, so now I am going to give her one pair as they are supposed to heal the stomach area and have mystical healing properties. Jade, as I just read, is a stone of mercury the messenger, and I am her messenger via email to her friend. I know, it all fits nicely. As you can see, the hydros and the crown and coke (only 1 drink) that I have had are really working for me in this post. I am now ready to watch these clips again with the renewed interest I promised.

    Let us begin:

    Clip 1: I am fixated with the question of the identity of chef bebe’s former tester who quit for no reason at all. I now believe that this was an actual person who had agreed to make the vid with him, but who backed out at the last minute. Clearly, he is hurt by this, more so than he should be, and he reaches out to us now for companionship. Don’t worry Chef bebe, I am lonesome too. Therefore, neither of us is actually alone. That is; we are alone together, or at least we’re not alone in feeling lonely. I particularly enjoyed the guttural “baaah” at the end. I am considering doing it out loud now. I just did it. It made me smile. I just laughed about it as I re-read that.

    Clip 2: I am going to take a piss. BRB. I’m back. Proceeding with clip 2. First thought, the crust is not brown enough on top. Second thought: He’s worried about “bubbling” and weighing it down with pebbles or marbles to prevent it. Final thought, He’s missing the point, it’s not brown enough on top. Also, I feel guilty for being critical, because I can’t cook shit. Yet, I insist on being critical. Yeah… just guilt for that.

    Clip 3: The guttural sounds he makes about 0:18 are almost disturbing me now. He is getting pleasure from this. It reminds me of an impotent man’s substitute for sex. A cruel thought. More guilt. Final thought, I imagine that I am there and he is offering to let me taste his pie. I wouldn’t really want to, but I would to be nice. Moreover, I’d probably slam it with a beer to avoid it if it tasted bad. I wouldn’t hide the fact that I was slamming beer to eat his food. It would be my way of letting him know that to offer more would be a waste of his pie. Then, I’d feel guilty for that.

    Clip 4: At 0:16 shirley temple hits the floor. I’m thinking that if I were there I’d pick the bitch up. Soon after she falls in the floor, he makes the “oooh” sounds as he penetrates the pie. Again, the reoccuring thought of this being a substitute for sex for chef bebe. Same level of guilt as before for thinking this. It’s just a nasty thought. At 0:22 he mimics the sound of shirley tasting the pie. I wonder if he has dentures, or if that is truly the sound of his gums and lips flapping about. Listen to it for yourself, you be the judge. Oddly, I have little feeling about this sound he makes. I find it the most entertaining and interesting facet of all the vids, bar none. I even replayed it a few times. I laughed a bit, but felt guilty for laughing. At 0:35 he waves with his hand as if shirley is waving goodbye as he says: “goodbye shirley”. Yeah, I don’t rightly know what to make of it. I just don’t. This is an instance in which you just appreciate an odd nuance and just let it be. It’s just there, experience it, but don’t think too much about it.

    I’ve decided to just stop it here. I can forsee myself saying something regrettable and I don’t want to. I can’t handle the guilt of it. It would be too easy to just make cruel fun of something. I just can’t do it.

    Posted by The Shit House Poet | December 19, 2008, 8:33 pm
  3. Oh, and Merry Christmas guys. I imagine you log on to your page and yell across the house to one another saying: Hey, Shithouse is back! I wonder if you laugh, grimace, read it aloud to one another or what. I thought of proposing that I be your official commentator. Then I thought, that is both pretentious and audacious. Someone with that kind of audacity really wouldn’t ask, they’d just do it. That’s what I think I have been doing here all along. So see, we’re back at the beginning of that whole thing. The Shit House poet strikes again, but really, it’s no surprise anymore. In fact, it’s expected. I am the bee bringing pollen to your hive. More honey pleazzzzze.


    Oh, and I suppose I should address how I arrived at the conclusion that you both have hot asses. I can tell by the way you write, your sense of style, all that… I can tell that a hot ass would be a priority for both of you. Knowing that, you would likely seek someone with a hot ass. (Though a hot ass is not the top priority for either of you.) Therefore it is highly probable that you both are two hot ass men from San Francisco. Are hot ass men a dime a dozen in San Francisco? Maybe… but your hot assness is not the whole of your identity, but rather a feature. How many of those minions of hot ass men trotting around San Fran, how many of them have your particular taste in things…? No, few, maybe none. It’s not your hot ass that draws us here… It’s the overall effect. This concludes my analysis of the hot ass question.

    What do you think of my kidney stone? Just kidding.

    P.S. I feel guilty for not having taken pictures of the stumps. I’m working on it.

    Posted by The Shit House Poet | December 19, 2008, 8:50 pm
  4. SHP,

    Already asked you to contribute guest posts about fun stuff in your neck of the woods. But oddly enough, you’d prefer to befoul ours.

    In all seriousness, I enjoy reading your posts. Within the densely worded mania lies some beautiful ideas and observations about the human condition and the passion which fuels art. Unfortunately, your own ego dominates the bulk of your commentary diluting the power of your observations.

    Take for example your second to last comment. After you tire of needlessly focusing on your own sense of self-importance, you manage to convey almost perfectly the sadistic pleasure and accompanying guilt that we all get watching this man and others characters like him, present their warts for all to see. Why couldn’t that be the bulk of your posts?

    Bathroom scribblings are concise and poignant observations, not ramblings incoherent monologues. Maybe it’s time to rethink your moniker?

    Oh, and hopefully you’re not so sheltered that you think all men is SF are homosexual Adonises! Perhaps that vision might excite your fancy, but luckily M. is married to a lovely gal pal of mine and I am sadly one of those serial daters who seems doomed to live out my boyhood fantasies until no woman would have me.

    So you see, James we all have lives in varying states of turmoil. I surely understand how you see small pieces of yourself in the art we present. I do as well. But what makes this blog special to us is the very fact that this art, which we obviously all love, is a brief DIVERSION from our own lives, not merely the catalyst with which to examine them. Simply said, we’re about the art, not the art critic.

    So please, stick around. Take this feedback constructively and grown from it. Enjoy our efforts and further the conversation. Contribute a post or two and help us reveal the hidden strands of overlooked splendor found in your America. But, moving forward don’t let yourself stand between your ideas and your audience.

    Happy holidays,

    Your vibrant and virile male fantasy.

    Posted by Charles | December 20, 2008, 1:00 pm
  5. I do have the self importance issue. I really do. (In fact I am a diagnosed narcissistic personality disorder and an INTJ in the jung personality test) I very nearly provided my urologist with the FEMA hot lines because I am fearful that someone will turn loose a biological pandemic flu on the potential 4 million D.C. inauguration visitors. From there, those visitors would spread the plague back to their home states I thought. Then, I stopped myself for two reasons.

    1. I can’t handle the embarassment of being labeled a conspiracy theorist like Dale Gribble from “King of the Hill” in the event that a biological attack doesn’t occur.

    2. The whole thing boils down to me not being able to submit to the fact that my Dr. can solve my kidney stone problem and I can’t. Even worse, that I need him to solve it. Which he did. Almost out of pain pills now, but still high as of now.

    I am truly shocked that M. is married to a woman. I was almost certain that you were house mates. In fact, on several occasions I defended gay marriage by saying that the relationship I thought you had with M. was true love and more pure than that of married heteros. I liked it better when I thought that you and M. were two hot ass gay dudes living together in S.F. in a state of true love that the world refuses to recognize.

    The self importance thing, I’m afraid, is something I’m not smart enough to defeat. Maybe it will wear off in time. The thing about being the shit house poet though… the whole thing with that is… having something pretty surrounded by something ugly. Did I ever tell you that I am considered racist by American standards? Actually though, I think I am a self separatist who makes exceptions one at a time. Though, even in that, I have my contradictions. There is a Jew, I suppose he is a Jew, named Paul Westerberg. He wrote a song called “even here we are”. In the song, a flower grows in a garbage dump. Like something poetic scribbled on the bathroom wall next to “for a good time call” and the “man from nantucket”… there also is the flower… something beautiful growing in the midst of much ugliness. So see, even here in the middle of the uncultured and often brutally racist South… even here there is someone trying to understand the feelings of others. Something, me, where I maybe ought not be, or am not supposed to be, or out of place. It raises the question of whether people are how they are because of genetics, because they are either good or bad individuals, or is it merely the environment? I think it is a bit of both blended. It’s nice sometimes to not be accepted. And I would be incredibly suspicious if everyone did accept me… it would indicate that something is wrong. Though, there are many crimes against nature… it’s a crime against nature that someone who learned to read when they were four years old to be wasted away because of environment, or because the intelligence is lopsided, or because someone needs to try to prove that everyone is equal, when really, we’re not. Is it not a greater crime against nature for someone who had a good mind to be marginalized and wasted because of a class system… is that not a greater crime against nature than two men having sex? Though, nobody focuses on the wasted talent of poor youths. Instead, they focus on what others choose to do with their bodies. See, here we begin to truly discover that society, not the individual, is the one with the psychological problem. There’s nothing wrong with the way you choose to live or what you do with your own body. This is your right. There is something wrong though, when good minds are not cultivated, when they are wasted… and much later upon realizing such… choose to waste themselves in protest. Sometimes I think this is why Sylvia Plathe stuck her head in that stove. Shen knew that there is something wrong with everything. She could neither accept nor ignore it. Finally, she couldn’t bear it. Why would God condemn her to hell for that? Or me for wasting my youth and talent? Or you for what you choose to do with your own body? Is it not given to you? The only tragedy I can think of in all cases is that something beautiful is forced to grow in ugliness… and if it can’t… it can’t.

    In her case, Sylvia’s, we are deprived of what she could have shared with us had she lived. (The same is true of Karen Carpenter)

    In my case, I will always wonder what I would have been like had I been born to a different class of people.

    In your case, a child will not have a father who would be a good one.

    In all cases, I wonder, what was God thinking. Really though, it could be that facet of it… that is what God really wants and is why things are the way they are… He is teaching us through injustices what justice or goodness really is…. Otherwise, we would only know good. If there were no bad that is….

    This is what Frost meant when he said in “choose something like a star”

    “because dark is what brings out your light”

    This is what Paul Westerberg means in “even here we are” except with a twist…. The twist being, no matter how ugly something or someone is… there is something beautiful also, but you have to look harder for it. If it were not there, you wouldn’t know that it was ugly at all.

    You’re a good man C.

    You say this:

    “Already asked you to contribute guest posts about fun stuff in your neck of the woods. But oddly enough, you’d prefer to befoul ours.”

    Maybe I want to make it even prettier by showing something ugly to contrast what you’re doing. Though too, I don’t think I have the nerve to do something of my own and be scrutinized. Too, I feel that there is something exploitive about putting chef bebe out there to be discussed. Really he put himself out there, but he’s innocent, because he doesn’t know about his own ridiculousness. I’m guilty, because I do know my own and do it anyway. Too, I’m a madman who likes pretty things, but sometimes can’t stand something too pretty. My own face even. It opens doors to social opportunities for me… but my heart opens other’s souls. Both can be good and bad things and have been both good and bad at times.

    Here is this though, and it is pretty, but not too pretty.

    “Beautiful flowers in your garden
    But the most beautiful by far
    The one growing wild in the garbage dump

    Even here
    Even here we are

    Song of the bird lives in the sky
    But the most beautiful by far
    Scream of the man who never learned to fly

    Even here
    Even here we are

    Sun shines bright, it’s a beautiful sight
    But the most beautiful by far
    Is the blind girl alone with the angel of the night

    Even here
    Even here we are”


    Posted by wonk-banned | January 1, 2009, 6:39 pm
  6. But it’s true, you guys do have totally hot asses.

    Posted by lulu | January 7, 2009, 3:57 pm

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