Sunday, September 26, 2004
Sometimes my nose looks Jewish, other times it doesn't. Sometimes, like on the picture to the left, it's a fat, bloated, crooked honker that belongs on some rag-selling cantor near Delancey Street.
But on other occasions, like the one captured at right, it's a sensibly proportioned white European nose...a Christian nose...a goyish nose...the sort of nose that forbids Jews from joining its country club.
And then, before you can blink, a Semitic snout emerges anew, a Hebraic proboscis of Old Testament proportions, a Talmudic parrot beak that belongs at the Wailing Wall, complaining to God about all its aches and pains and how its kids can't even bother to send a post card anymore.
I'm not sure why my olfactory apparatus can magically metamorphose from Jew to Gentile, and then back. I like to believe that it's a sign from God that I am a Chosen Being, one who is able to mend bridges and heal divisions. Do not look to your leaders for answers, my little lambs—look to my nose.
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Here's a picture of me riding public transportation. Definite jewnose there.
Posted by jg @ 06:44 PM PST []
Saturday, September 25, 2004
I am a man of action. A man of intrigue. A master of deception and subterfuge. A schemer and a conniver. A lover and a cheater. A killer and a healer. Your best friend and your worst enemy. America's Most Wanted and a goddamned VIP. An international playboy and a financial double-crosser. Purveyor of rare gems, fine furs, precious metals, and shoulder-mounted rocket launchers. Defender of the weak and needy, prosecutor of the strong and corrupt.
I call the shots and I roll the dice. It takes one phone call to either save or end your life.
The women want to suck my dick. The men, they want to suck my dick, too.
Be nice to me, or suffer the consequences.
Because I...
...am a man of action.
Posted by jg @ 06:01 PM PST []
Friday, September 24, 2004
The reason I haven't posted in a week has nothing to do with any personal calamities. I've just been slammed with writing assignments. Over the next few days, I'll be finishing my long-overdue "Skinheads Against White People" article for VICE.
The others pay me. You don't. Understand?
Instead of yet another oh-so-precious daily entry, today I offer you a photo of me looking happy and successful while standing next to a Boston Terrier in mid-flight.
Posted by jg @ 05:47 PM PST []
Saturday, September 18, 2004
In certain gynocentric circles, one commits heresy for suggesting that men don't typically fantasize about raping women. Beyond that, it's a capital crime to even whisper that there might be one woman...somewhere...who one time long, long ago...fantasized about being raped.
Yet in my endless locker-room sojourns where the conversations invariably become gritty and depraved, I've never encountered another male who confided to me that he fantasizes about committing rape. Not once.
Conversely, I've had dozens of ladies tell me they've habitually fantasized about being taken by force. I surmise that if they found their abductor remotely attractive, they wouldn't call it rape and dial 911, either.
A few of these damsels have explained their fantasy using the logic of daffy female vanity: If a man can't control his impulses around you, it implies you must be one SMOKIN'-HOT bitch.
On the other hand, if you're a man and you're driven to rape, the implication is that you can't snag tail any other way...not through charm or looks or money, or in my case, a really nice penis. Who wants to brag about being so UNdesirable?
This explanation, unlike the shrieking diarrhea spray from the activists' mouths, makes sense.
Rape is far more flattering to the victim than the perpetrator.
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Since you all demanded it, here's a picture of me hugging a giant pink-and-purple Cheshire cat.
Posted by jg @ 05:38 PM PST []
Friday, September 17, 2004
Amid all the hoo-hah and jibber-jabber and blibbety-blab about the messy war in Iraq, I'm bugged by one question that doesn't seem to have been asked by anyone in the major media:
Was the US accusing Iraq of developing any weapons—chemical, nuclear, biological, or those involving killer insects—which the US doesn't claim to ALREADY FUCKING HAVE itself?
That's really all I want to know—has any major US statesperson (I use the gender-neutral form because I'm HOT for Condoleezza Rice) publicly stated that the Iraqis were working on armaments which the Americans don't have...or at least don't know how to whip up in 5 minutes should the need arise?
The stated pretense for the invasion—rather than the obvious ones, which are control of the oil supply, a bigger US cock in the Middle East, and a tip o' the hat toward our Israeli friends—was this whole "weapons of mass destruction" scare story. So what were the Iraqis supposed to have, and is America honestly claiming that it doesn't already have a thousand of them?
Can anyone help with this?
Again, I don't really care about whether it's a righteous war. But I'm fascinated with hypocrisy, especially if it's on such a grand, bloody scale.
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I'll be at the Ash Street Saloon in Portland next Wednesday (the 22nd) at 9PM with the Famous Mysterious Actor Players, then on Thursday (the 23rd—duh!) at Dante's with Patton Oswalt.
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Bought another suit. A tie this time, too.
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A few hardy souls have been e-mailing me and threatening to send "scientific studies" (i.e., philosophical treatises) claiming that "race doesn't exist." If that's true, then racists don't exist, either, and y'all shouldn't be getting so upset about them.
Posted by jg @ 07:10 PM PST []
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Dark misty early May night in Manhattan. We'd finished shooting our scenes for the sub-indie film and the director gave us each a $20 bill for cab fare.
Me and the female co-star decided that since we were in New York, it would make sense to go buy some street heroin. When in Rome...
A couple trains downtown and a walk into Alphabet City took us to the projects near D and Houston, where a Puerto Rican kid in shorts sold us two ten-dollar bindles he'd been stashing in the white socks which went up to his kneecaps.
Over to an all-night deli and we each took turns snorting it from the bathroom window ledge. As we walked outside, I tasted the sweet Spring air and knew that there would be no more war or disease or ethnic strife. Everything would be fiiiiiiinnnne.
Straight back to D and Houston. Two more ten-bags.
We tossed the powder down our throats this time while walking, ten seconds before a cop car skimmed past the weird white folks strolling in the middle of the night in Rican junktown.
The cops kept going, and we held hands and sang songs and pointed at the pretty rat scurrying across the street and the beautiful barbed wire and the glimmering broken glass.
I was sucked calmly inside the hum of the bus air-conditioner as we headed back uptown and I dropped her off at the fiance's apartment. Walked through Times Square, quietly respecting the neon Jumbotron cathedrals.
Cocooned inside bedroom blanket all alone, I thought about jerking off but decided it would be too much work.
Ten AM the next morning, I hovered over the toilet, throwing up.
.........................
And this is my worst drug experience ever.
Posted by jg @ 08:59 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
'Twas nearly a year ago that I was gallivanting around Sin City in broiling October heat when a news flash brought the fair Nevada burg to its knees: Roy Horn, one-half of gay-tigerman duo Siegfried & Roy, was nearly mauled to death by one of his presumptively homosexual giant kitty-cats. The Queen & Queen of Vegas were immediately forced to shut down their unreasonably lucrative fag-and-pony show.
Roy teetered on the brink of homosexual extinction for weeks and has emerged paralyzed, a Christopher Reeve of gay lion-tamers, his speech nearly incomprehensible, and his Porter Wagoner-looking "partner" cursing his luck.
I saw Roy tonight on some hilariously sanctimonious NBC special commemorating the mauling, and I wanted to ask him the question that the hot-shot network news jocks were too timid to pose:
Can you still suck dick, Roy?
I don't think it's an unfair question, nor an especially disrespectful one. Everyone and their mother knows that he used to suck dick, and that dick-sucking was probably very important to him, as it is to all homosexual animal trainers.
Of course, if you've ever seen more than a five-second clip of their tiger-taunting act, it's a miracle that one of these Uberkatzen didn't paw both of those poofters to death decades ago.
Posted by jg @ 10:39 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
...and I'm tired.
Plus, I have about a dozen writing assignments due by the end of the month.
So at 9:30 PM, I ask myself whether I should sit around and try to amuse you further. There's a woman—an exceedingly fetching specimen—who wants me to go over to her place and slip her some dick.
You lose.
To read the "Sweet Gene" liner notes, click on the 4sale tab on the left. Then look to the right and click there.
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No one has even tried to offer evidence of racial equality. The closest someone came to an attempt was some guy who said he read a study which concluded that racial groups all tend to stick to their own kind...but that's only evidence that the races act similar in one respect—it offers no proof of equivalent physical/intellectual abilities.
So you're either all racists, or no such evidence exists.
Posted by jg @ 09:45 PM PST []
Monday, September 13, 2004
There are millions and billions and skadillions of different viral infections which can afflict the human animal. Just like people, they come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. And even though they might come on strong, smell nice, and seem even charming at first, these microscopic critters are NOT your friends.
Yet despite the implications of that almost entirely unnecessary first paragraph, scientists in Del Mar Boca Vista, CA, have isolated a new virus which MAY prove to be a welcome friend of all mankind—that is, except for the jerks and assholes.
"It's uncanny," muses Edna Bursitis, a singularly unattractive middle-aged virologist with a grey ponytail, John Denver glasses, and a long black hair jutting from a wart on her cheek. "This new viral strain, which we're tentatively calling the Haskell Virus, is highly contagious, yet it's completely harmless to most people. In a normal human metabolism, the virus is unable to survive for more than a few seconds. However, it's positively lethal to all the jackbones, jayholes, and jerkasaurii who make daily life so unpleasant."
"But how does it know how to progress into the lethal stage only among hosts who are jerks and assholes?" I ask her, hoping she comes up with something clever before midnight and I miss another diary entry.
"That's what we can't figure out," she says, rubbing her legs like a cricket. "Like I said, it's uncanny. You won't find any cans in it at all."
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You'll hear a new Sweet Gene sound sample every day when this page loads.
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Today's choice for greatest rock band ever.
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Still no evidence of racial equality.
Posted by jg @ 10:45 PM PST []
Sunday, September 12, 2004
I don't have a fax machine anymore, but if anyone out there has any evidence of racial equality, could you, like, e-mail it to me?
I'd love to see some hard, cross-referenced data which conclusively proves that genetics are entirely unrelated to measurable racial differences in physiology and intellect.
I yearn to look at spreadsheets which prove that Jews 'n' Japs aren't really smarter and that blacks are in no way better at sports.
Would you be so nice as to prove to me that your average Russian chess master and your average Maori tribesman would score equally on IQ tests if they'd only been brought up the same?
Would you kindly explain in simple English why a hardworking Asian usually achieves a lot more than a hardworking Mexican?
Racial equality is an important idea. It matters so much that many people are willing to kill you or ruin your career if you don't believe in it.
So where's the proof, people?
I really want racial equality to be a scientific verity rather than a well-meaning but possibly dangerous fantasy. I'm not joking. I want to believe in it, but I want some proof. So if you have any evidence, please e-mail me and quell my suspicions.
+++++++++
I'm taking advance orders for the 80-minute, funny/terrifying "Sweet Gene" prank-calls CD, which will be ready next week. Click below to reserve a copy.
Posted by jg @ 09:21 PM PST []
Saturday, September 11, 2004
To me, what was most shocking about 9/11 wasn't the brilliantly executed military strike—it was how 99% of all fuck-the-government types metamorphosed into flag-waving Instant Nationalists during the weeks that followed.
Things have simmered, though, and most of the old-time radicals are back gettin' lippy and actin' radical again. But I remember those first few weeks, a bitter taste of McCarthyite national panic when almost everyone draped themselves in a flag, threatening to beat up dissenters and all those who looked vaguely Arabic.
Many people who should have known better were frightened into scary pro-Am conformity by this first-ever attack on the Continental 48. They scurried to buy little American flags, waving talismans to ward off all the bombs and anthrax their guilt complexes told them were imminent.
Beware of the ideologues. Feed them a little fear and a spoonful of peer pressure, and it quickly becomes evident how shallow their beliefs are. 99% of you would have been Nazis in 1938 Germany, 99% of you would have joined lynch mobs in 1918 Arkansas, and 99% of you would be Allah-fellating Mujahdeen if you'd been born in Afghanistan.
After the US starved a million Iraqi women and children to death during the 1990s, the only consistent surprise is that there haven't been more attacks both before and after. I'm not saying the US "deserved" it—I don't think in biblical terms like that—but it was an understandable animal response by the numberless camel jockeys and sand nigras who feel we oughta keep our dicks out of their oil wells.
I'd still rather live here, though.
Posted by jg @ 08:59 PM PST []
Friday, September 10, 2004
The Lucky Girl Who Gets to Take Jim Goad Home has invited me to attend her friend's wedding next week. My mind tunes in and out as her droning-yet-seductive voice holds forth on the impossibly elaborate bridal plans.
"Make sure to bring money with you to the wedding," she tells me, momentarily rousing me from my peaceful brain-wave flatlining.
"Why?" I ask, wondering whether people will be selling drugs there.
"Well, for the Money Dance, of course," she chides me.
In my seventy-eight years of life on this planet, I've been to at least a dozen weddings—Catholic weddings, Jewish weddings, goyish WASPy weddings, damn near every type of wedding except for a really rousing Negro wedding with tambourines—and it wasn't until tonight that I've heard of this "Money Dance."
I'm expected to stand in line and wait for my crack at a five-second tarantella with the bride, during which time my duty as a wedding attendee is to stuff some receptacle on her wrist fulla cash. But it doesn't stop there—I'm also obligated to sprinkle a li'l Green Sugar on the Money Tree and to cram some cabbage in the Money Box.
I've always wondered why people get married. Now I know.
Posted by jg @ 10:07 PM PST []
Thursday, September 9, 2004
The 43rd Annual Goadie Awards, hosted by the Jim Goad Foundation to Build a Safer World for Jim Goad's Ego, unfolded with few surprises last night—heavily favored Jim Goad captured most of the major trophies, with the main exception coming in the "Best Jim Goad Impersonation" category, snagged this year by the Jim Goad mannequin.
"Wow...you like me...you really, really REALLY like me!" Goad [pictured here with longtime personal valet and homosexual masseur Lord Ashleigh St. John] exclaimed to a sea of genetically engineered Jim Goad clones while accepting his eighteenth award of the evening, this one for "Best Photograph Taken by Jim Goad While Jim Goad Was Masturbating." Goad then launched into a long, self-pitying tirade about how others failed to "understand" him, but how "Jim Goad was always there for me. When I thought about cashing in all my chips, Jim Goad told me not to do it. When I thought that other people besides myself might have valuable opinions, Jim Goad looked me in the eye and told me I was wrong. Thank you, Jim Goad—it's a better world for Jim Goad with Jim Goad in it."
Posted by jg @ 08:18 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 8, 2004
Hating both my parents led me to hate my first and last names, so on the cusp of adolescence when so many Juniors seek to define themselves, I searched for another "handle." I wanted a cool nickname to reflect my cool Prince Valiant haircut and even-cooler platform shoes.
At first I insisted that schoolmates call me "Crazy Horse," because I was a mite touched in the head, the same head which sported a rebellious mane of long hair not unlike a horse's. I thought it was a fitting name for the early 70s fringed-rawhide back-to-the-garden transgressive youth culture of which I was still too young to be a part, but which promised the sex and drugs for which I pined.
Eventually dissatisfied with "Crazy Horse," I switched to "Geese," the nickname of Hubert Ausbie, the amiable Eddie Murphy-looking Harlem Globetrotter pictured at left. I liked Geese, and I liked his nickname, so in keeping with my Caucasian predilections, I stole something from the black man. I became "Geese." Geese Goad. Call me "Geese," please.
It's worth noting that both my namesakes—red man Crazy Horse and Negro hoopster Geese—were persons of color. I was way ahead of the curve in this anti-racist movement, all you bajiggety playa haters.
In prison, I considered "Skeeter" and "Skippy" before settling on "Corn Dogg," AKA "Corny D" and "Corn Diggety."
Now both my parents are dead, and I LOVE the name "Jim Goad." Two syllables, seven letters, and a megaton of raw sex.
+++++++++
ANSWER Me!: The First Three is finally going to be reprinted, along with a DVD of relevant news clips.
+++++++++
I've been informed that my "skin looks good" in the Shit Magnet promotional trailer.
Posted by jg @ 04:46 PM PST []
Tuesday, September 7, 2004
Explain again my innate fiduciary obligation to feed, clothe, and attempt to educate every squalling embryo shat out by every dysgenic, irresponsible slattern from coast to coast, will you? It wasn't MY decision for you to pop out that screaming sack of doom as if you were squeezing blood from a zit. If it were up to me, government agents would be tagging people like you and KILLING them, not SUBSIDIZING further generations of drooling, meth-addled primates.
I stand there in the supermarket checkout as the saggy-armpitted welfare whore whips out her Oregon Trail Card—paid for with MY sweat—to feed the dogpile of brainless Mongoloid pups squirming around her cart.
Why am I obligated to her? WHY? I never asked HER for anything! Why is it my American birthright to be financially chained to her bad genes and horrid decisions?
What has the government ever provided for ME besides a prison cell?
Posted by jg @ 03:58 PM PST []
Monday, September 6, 2004
Those whose lives are so empty and loveless that they've visited this site for over two years may remember The Suzy Evans Story, a shoestring-budget film I shot in Manhattan with professional Jerk/Cunt DebraJean Schwartz.
The climactic fifteen-minute murder scene, captured in a classy still on the left, was entirely improvised. After taking five minutes to kill her (during which she actually lost consciousness), I sat there and smoked a cigarette, soliloquizing for ten minutes. When it was over, the cold hamburger of a director was CRYING. He looked at me and said one word: "POWER." DebraJean was subsquently rushed to the hospital and given tons of fun pain medication for the arm I bruised.
I waited for months to see rushes from the film. The director, a mousy guy named Dave Taylor ("Who's he?" you ask) promised me repeatedly that he'd at least send a copy of the murder scene. Over the phone, he went so far as to jiggle a pretend VHS tape and say, "Hear that? That's the tape. I'm sending it to you today."
He never sent it. Crestfallen that DebraJean had become engaged to some mildly famous chubby musician, he shacked up with a stalker of said musical chubster. Driven insane that the Fat Rocker had chosen DJ's vagina over hers, this woman allegedly destroyed all the Suzy Evans tapes.
At least that's how one story goes. Someone else forwarded me an e-mail where Dave Taylor claims that although my performance was stellar, he felt it would be injurious to his "career" to release the movie. Even if that's true, he refuses to let go of the tapes, assuming they exist.
I've waited two years to say this, Dave: You HAVE no career. DebraJean and I do.
Punk.
+++++++++
To drive excitement over next week's release of the "Sweet Gene/Mick Jagger" prank calls up to a nearly intolerable level, I've uploaded another mp3 from the CD. And here's a pdf of "Weird Sexual Practices" I did for Exotic.
Posted by jg @ 07:24 PM PST []
Sunday, September 5, 2004
Posted by jg @ 08:59 PM PST []
Saturday, September 4, 2004
It was a few years ago at 4AM, and I'd recently arrived back to my tiny apartment from a marathon magazine deadline session. Exhausted, I'd taken my shoes off and was wandering around clad in my windbreaker, white socks, and a white mustache from a late-night vanilla protein shake—in short, I was looking SEXY.
A knock came on the door. It was a black stripper who lived in my building and looked remarkably like the girl to the right. She was obviously smashed. "Can I come in?" she slurred.
Um, sure.
"So," she said happily, tearing off her clothes to reveal a pair of mammoth coconuts, "I hear you're a Nazi."
No, well, that's not true.
It didn't matter if it was or wasn't. She was already naked and in my bed. Things transpired that evening, my friends, which would permanently disqualify me from membership in several top-flight white-supremacist organizations.
But I was always amused at the idea of a black girl who wanted to fuck me because she heard I was a Nazi.
In the morning, she smelled like garbage. I don't mean she merely smelled foul—she smelled precisely like a sodden brown bag filled with orange peels and coffee grounds that had been left out too long in the sun.
I'm not implying it had anything to do with her blackness, only that she smelled like garbage in the morning.
Posted by jg @ 09:47 PM PST []
Friday, September 3, 2004
Though I haven't seen my cousin Walter Goad in perhaps thirty years, I remember him looking somewhat like the puppet to the right. He was a few years older than me and a bit of a teasing, pinching, Eddie Haskell asshole jerky guy.
As a pubeless Goadling, I spent a few summers with Walter and his family in Vermont, up where black people don't exist and gentle squirrels nibble on pine cones as a morning mist rolls over the green hills across the river in New Hampshire.
One evening when Walter was out stealing hubcaps or leading a circle jerk, I rummaged with fascination through his collection of 8-track tapes, a clumsy musical format possibly unfamiliar to our legions of younger readers. I remember him owning John Barleycorn Must Die by Traffic and lots of Emerson, Lake & Palmer, most notably the rampaging mechanical armadillo phallus on the cover of Tarkus.
What clobbered my jowls—and what, sadly, still resonates with me on several emotionally arrested aesthetic levels—was Alice Cooper's Killer, with the scary demonic snake on the cover and the uber-tasteless song "Dead Babies." I'd play and replay the song obsessively, lapping up the idea that someone would joyously trill about how "dead babies can't take things off the shelf."
I later heard that the song was a protest against non-childproof medication bottles, but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that. I'd prefer to savor the incongruity, that small patch of artistic cancer nestled in rustic Vermont.
Posted by jg @ 08:37 PM PST []
Thursday, September 2, 2004
Twelve years of Catholic school, of mandatory daily self-swaddling in a suit and necktie, weaned me for decades of the desire to wear a suit or play dress-up. I associated suits with sexual hysteria and face-slaps by nuns. Plus, I've never been able to figure why those nooselike devices called neckties exist except to remind males that if they misbehave, they might be lynched.
Whenever I'd hang with my public-school brethren, I envied their tie-dyed clothes, their doctrine of Free Love, and their Frank Frazetta-artwork-emblazoned roach stones. I sensed they were freer than me, and I reasoned it was because they didn't wear suits.
But though nothing inhabits a pair of jeans better than my ass 'n' package, there is something tres undignified about nearing fifty while stomping around in jeans, wifebeater, and engineer boots. Plus, with the shaved head, people get the wrong idea and assume I'm involved with some sort of youth gang, when the last gang I belonged to was the Boy Scouts.
So I recently purchased a used grey suit for ten bucks and invested another sawbuck in alterations and dry-cleaning. Within seconds of donning it, I became coated in a magical aura of authoritative dignity. I wanted to bust drug dealers and file motions before a judge.
People treated me differently, too. Instead of some thuggish Nazi ex-con, they espied perhaps a homosexual investment banker or a wealthy alternative coke dealer. These are the things I could be if I'd only shed the self-destructive slumming persona like a molted snakeskin.
A hundred years ago, even the lowliest sharecropper went about his daily business in a suit and hat. And even though people didn't have frozen yogurt or Tivo back then, they had sartorial style, an elegant sense of haberdashery which shames the modern-day monkeys clad lazily in sweat pants, baseball caps, and grimy T-shirts.
My suit suits me. For twenty bucks, I went from prole to plebe. Blow me, will you?
Posted by jg @ 11:47 PM PST []
Wednesday, September 1, 2004
While channel-surfing the other night, I swear I saw Isaac Hayes and his band gettin' jiggy at the Republican Convention as a sea of comically arrhythmic Caucasian delegates tried to boogie. Although it apparently wasn't Isaac Hayes, hours of online searching turned up nothing about this Mystery Black Republican Performer—I tried just about every possible keyword combination and could fetch neither a jot nor a tittle written about the event.
But it got me thinking about the strange relationship between Republicans and coloreds. The first Republican president was Abraham Lincoln, and in case no one told you, he freed the slaves. And in the post-Civil War South, the nearly all-black legislatures which emerged in Reconstruction were composed almost entirely of Republicans. Back then, the Democrats were the party of KKK terror and racial separatism. You can look it up—it's all true.
So whenever someone starts yappling about the Racist Redneck Republicans, I give them a little history lesson and walk away, basking in my brilliance.
I'm not sure when the switch occurred—when the Democrats became the Negro-friendly party—but I assume it was gradual and had more to do with inter-party power-jockeying than any genuine concern for the Afros.
But even today, the Republicans field the most able Nigra politicians—Colin Powell would win the presidency in a landslide if he ever chose to run, and Condoleezza Rice certainly has more marbles than Democratic voodoo priests such as Al Sharpton.
I'm not a Republican or a Democrat. I'm a felon who isn't allowed to vote, and I wouldn't vote even if they let me. I just enjoy fucking with people's heads and proving, more often than not, that the world is upside-down.