Auto-fiction story
While you where out
Auto-fiction story
T-shirt works
Paintings
L.A pre-made ideas
Paintings 2
Installation
Gloglo at the nudists of self-fiction or the necessity to appreciate a tragic period for a better
understanding of the present 2000.

Some inhabitants of Los Angeles didn’t send me a video cassette but as N.R. suggested, I won’t go see the Cure concert tomorrow because I wish to shit upon the old new wave that boils inside me like some crap caught in Vietnam in 1972 (I was 6 but knew nothing yet about pure opium). It’s oh so cool to let oneself be influenced by a person deliberately selected for his ability to fall asleep at the table, save for the fact that I myself have never slept at the table, I did however dream of killing my father who made so much noise while eating...frankly, I’d have prefered him to be American. That way, I’d also have been American, had a super skateboard, a dolphin , and lots of friends. I would have been a respected gang leader because I’d have been cooler than all the other dudes my age. What’s more, I’d have had a load of older pals to take me on secret trips to Woodstock where I’d have smoked joints, dropped acid, and beaten the world record for the youngest overdose (luckily a too cool doctor would have saved me without saying a word to the cops, meaning my parents would have remained in the dark, that way at 8 and a half, I’d have learned that I’d come into this world to do drugs but I’d have waited nonetheless for my communion before doing heroin. At 18, my best friend John was found dead in the high school toilets from one fucking overdose.
You should have seen the crowd at the funeral ! I was wearing my new jeans with the tiger heads embroidered onto the back pockets and I’d managed to avoid the barber so my hair was really long, so cool, I looked like a girl with a big nose, and I liked that. That gave an intelligent look. However, just after john’s burial, I also wanted to end it all to have plenty of people cry on my grave, so I bought 3 grams of white from some blacks in Harlem ( after shaking a police patrol on foot that wanted to take me back to my father, a real mafioso business man -whom I was secretely in love with - but who didn’t really give a fuck about me).
After leaving the dealers who begged me not to do anything stupid, I borrowed a needle from a totally imploded junkie in order to give myself the biggest shot of my life when some dude suddenly turned up to sign me for a film on rebel youth. I would have played Skunk, the hero who had tons of problems with the authorities
(there were lots of scenes with me running, always dressed to the hilt in top destroy style) but who became a rockstar at the end of the story. After, he met the Chancellor Helmut S. during a spring shower in a London park, and had a romantic love affair with him during the winter.
I was okay to play in the film, ‘cause I was really fed up with going to school, so boring, and brimming with asshole teachers and lame things to learn. Anyway, I was always bad at school and I know damn well that I’ll never get my diploma...what’s more nobody loves me so I listen to new-wave of the Cure, Dépèche Mode, or X-Small Deutschland kind. I hope nobody realized I was stupid, but whatever, anyway I’m going to die soon...I think suicide or madness are the only 2 solutions. Otherwise later on, I’ll certainly be somebody famous. In the meantime I’m not allowed to go see the Cure in Athens but one day I’ll get my revenge, and I’ll kiss the singer from Marilyn Manson on the mouth. We’ll be on television and my parents will die of sorrow when they see the scene at home on their boob-tube. I’ll wear dark glasses to their funeral, but people will see tears running under the tinted lenses (maybe too much Candy Flip or Special K). Brian, the singer form M.M. will wait in the limousine near the cemetery. After, we’ll just head back to L.A.

Toshiro Bishoko


Text published in n.254 of the Inrockuptibles, September 2000

A.F.A.A
18th Street Art Center