Words: Nate Denver
Photo: Dennis McGrath
Chick Master is one of the greatest zines of all time. It doesn’t contain record reviews or political diatribes. It is page after beautiful page of jaw-dropping gorgeous women culled from hundreds of glossy magazines. Not porno mags like Hustler, but European fashion magazines, the ones that cost $15. It’s neat because the women don’t look angry or scared like they often do in pornos—they look rich and powerful. Some of them look really kind, like they might like to go on a nice date sometime. Chick Master was created by Thom Schmidt, the journalist, who during the ’90s, wrote for Big Brother magazine under the pen name Earl Parker. A lot has happened since Big Brother started: Thom’s been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder, he’s been homeless, he’s crisscrossed the country by bus and he’s written a movie for Spike Jonze. On a hot California day, photographer Dennis McGrath and I met Thom in front of the run-down Hollywood hotel he calls home, just a few yards from where he’d recently seen Armenian thugs battle some other kind of thugs.
The subversive skate company World Industries started Big Brother in 1992. It quickly became the most sought after skate magazine in the US and was eventually bought (and folded several years later) by Larry Flynt Publishing. The magazine also brought Johnny Knoxville to the world and served as the launching pad for “Jackass.” Big Brother inspired a generation of skaters to read with its consistently dark and funny articles that rarely had anything to do with skating. This was a stark contrast to magazines like Transworld Skateboarding and Thrasher, which had great photos, but were generally boring to read, save for the occasional interview with oddballs like Jason Jessee, who once turned an interview into a one-sided discussion about Black Flag singers. The appeal of Big Brother was that every article was like that. Chris Pontius of “Jackass” fame wrote articles detailing strange sexual encounters and interesting ways to be a jerk. As a good kid living way up in the mountains of Colorado, I had no idea why anyone would want to be a jerk, but the articles made tears of laughter roll down my cheeks. For a short period, Thom Schmidt was the flagship writer for the magazine. He was the skate equivalent of Bukowski or Hemingway, writing honestly about his strange life.
Schmidt was discovered by legendary skater Natas Kaupas, who saw Polyurethane Monthly, a witty skate zine Schmidt was making in high school. Natas showed the zine to Big Brother publisher and skate kingpin Steve Rocco and it was a wrap. Photographer Tobin Yelland recalls, “In the beginning and while he was there, Thom was their star quarterback. His zine was the inspiration for Big Brother. Steve Rocco asked him if he could move to California and do exactly what he was doing for his zine, but only for Big Brother.” Schmidt’s tenure at Big Brother wasn’t smooth. He came in as an editor and then transitioned from staff writer to on again, off again contributor while bouncing around the country on Greyhounds with very few dollars to his name. He wasn’t there any more when “Jackass” started, but he knows those dudes and says it’s strange to see them on billboards. Thom recently went to the Jackass: Number Two after party in Hollywood expecting to see his buddies, director Jeff Tremaine and Johnny Knoxville wasted at a bar. When he got there, he saw hundreds of people in suits sipping wine around a pool. “I guess I just have this idea that the world is a lot more punk than it really is.”
After leaving home to work for Big Brother, the voices and hallucinations Thom had always experienced growing up in Kansas City, Kansas, became amplified. He blames the increase on leaving his sheltered life at his parents’ home. “I have trouble dealing with assholes. I’m trying to do my best and the world is so harsh. That’s what a psych ward is for, it’s a controlled environment so you don’t have to deal with that world,” explains Thom, now 33. His condition is called schizoaffective disorder. Typical symptoms include severe depression and bipolar or manic-depressive illness. Apathy and incapacity for pleasure are also associated with the illness. By his own admission, everything that has happened to Thom, has been because of his writing. Today, Thom has hardly any interest in writing. “There are too many people in the world. [Journalism is] more of a nightmare, it’s a really bad profession and a really bad hobby.”
“Spike made me write a movie. It was based on a 3-page magazine story and it wasn’t even a good story. Spike forced me to write a movie by getting the film company he worked for to pay me for it. It fucked my whole life up. I didn’t have any screen writing experience. Spike was like, ‘When are you gonna write your book?’ Bukowski didn’t write his first book until he was 40. I wrote my first script at 32.” Listening to him say this is heartbreaking. It seems like Thom is frustrated by the fact that people expect so much from him. But after spending time with him, I get it, I get why people expect a lot. He is one of a kind. I want him to write a book and I want Spike to make his movie, because I think they’ll be incredible. But maybe that’s asking too much. Two weeks ago when I asked about the movie he wrote for Spike, Street Stars, he wasn’t down on it at all. He said, “Features are weird because they can take two years before they get back to you.” He went on to explain how journalism is a specific kind of writing, a kind that doesn’t always transfer to film or books. “There are some people who are all-terrain writers, but that usually happens when you’re older.” He didn’t seem concerned with whether or not Spike Jonze makes his film. I hope Spike makes it. I’d go see it.
After bouncing around the country on buses and being homeless, Thom took up residence at the Madison Hotel, which is in downtown LA’s skid row. I’ve been in that hotel and it’s nothin’ nice. The concierge sits behind bulletproof glass and the lobby floor is dirty, like New York subway on a rainy day dirty. Hearing about living like that made me want to help Thom out somehow, because he’s such a nice dude. He’s nice, charming, intelligent and a phenomenal writer and it makes you think, Dammit, this guy should be a millionaire. I asked Yelland about the urge to help Thom and he said, “Yeah, he’s okay.” It was as if he’d had the same feeling, but realized Thom is gonna do what he wants.
Hollywood is strange. There’s an electricity in the air from all the opportunity, glitz and glamour. At the same time, there’s a heaviness in the air, from all the dreams and hopes that have been crushed. Dramatic, huh? But it’s true. Hollywood is the kind of place where a writer with schizoaffective disorder can live in a run down hotel in exchange for performing janitorial work, because the hotel is run by one of Andy Warhol’s former associates and he’s used to unusual arrangements. Yep, in exchange for janitorial work, Warhol’s one time homie, Joe Dallesandro aka Little Joe, provides Schmidt with a room and $25 a week. The Brevoort Hotel sits about six blocks from Sunset and Vine, the center of Hollywood, where people from around the world come to make it big. The place is run-down, but was clearly once a beautiful building and it still has a comfortable and cavernous lobby. There’s an autographed poster of Bjorn Borg on the second floor terrace of the lobby. Thom’s room is on the second floor. It’s a little smaller than a college dorm room and it houses a single bed, hot plate, desk, bathroom and a closet full of paintings and writings. The room sits above a courtyard with a garden that Schmidt tends. He chuckled and said that sometimes he’ll hear weirdos below saying “gimme my money” right next to his garden. “I kind of care about the garden.” Schmidt is accustomed to living in rugged conditions. One time , some girls staying at a hostel made fun of Thom for living in uncomfortable places. “They couldn’t do it, because they’re pussies. It takes skill to live places like that.” Then he laughed a light-hearted laugh.
While sitting in Thom’s room, he puts on a porno he was going to review for Barely Legal. I was curious to see it because it was called Silverlake Scensters and I live in Echo Park, right next to Silverlake. I thought I might see some people I know making love to each other. It turned out to be a bunch of professional porno people having sex in a room decorated to look like a ’80s rock video. The next time I came over, Thom had finished the review and was particularly proud of the line, “…these black cocks are too big to fit in these butts.” He likes writing for Larry Flynt because you can say, “black cock.” “Most magazines would say that’s racist.” But it’s not. After he told me about the review, I asked him if he likes Circle Jerks. He gave me a puzzled look, as if I’d presented an invitation. I realized what I’d said and quickly added, “the band Circle Jerks,” because they were playing in Echo Park the next night and I could get us in for free. Thom does like the Circle Jerks, but he didn’t go to the show.
The porno review was returned to Thom because he hadn’t written it from a female’s perspective. What the f? They should make that clear before asking a guy to write a review. Thom asked if I’d like to buy a painting. I declined, not because the painting wasn’t beautiful, but because I was saving my money to buy a carbon wheel for my bike. Next, I looked at Chick Master. What a beautiful zine. Schmidt says he is usually able to sell zines only to friends, so he came up with a concept that he’d be able to sell to strangers. I was captivated by the glossy photos of women and Thom sort of laughed while saying, “So you like it?” Of course I liked it. Everyone likes looking at pictures of beautiful women, even Vikings. He gets the pictures from all kinds of fashion magazines and isn’t too shy to boost a magazine or two from an unsuspecting beauty salon. What’s Thom’s ultimate woman? “Heavy stock, good color rendition—preferably in a bikini. A quality four-color separation can be hard to come by, but I have the patience, and am counting on a National Geographic swimsuit issue. I prefer someone who is 4.99 or under.”
Over the period of a month or so, Thom and I had a few lunches and exchanged voicemails and Thom sent me text messages like “The car was a lemon” and “Bums have terminology for 25 cents—they refer to the absence of dimes, nickels and pennies as a case quarter. The joy of buying a pack of gum w a solid piece of metal…bitch!” I loved receiving those weird text messages. Dennis, the guy who shot the photos for this article told me Thom was mentioned in the New York Times. That’s good press, even though I’ve heard that paper is in a downward spiral and Thom has no plans to write in the future.
Bukowski lived in hotels. My version of being him was to live in hostels with wack-o people. Room 110 had always been kind of the crazy room. This guy checked in that had just been diagnosed with compulsive disorder—he was a bonified crazy person, it sucked a bunch. But I learned that I could challenge him by cutting of images of attractive women with razor blades. Even he didn’t know what to make of it. My new zine idea was so obvious, but brand new to the world. Though in Hollywood, a man might try buying a woman a drink instead of blowing his cash on lascivious magazines.
Tobin Yelland, a photographer in Manhattan printed the first issue and it was a huge hit with a few dudes. Angela Boatwright is the first female I’ve met that thought it was okay. Maybe it should be called Shapes instead. Those old painters used naked women as subjects often. In my opinion, the female form is a subject that man will never get to the bottom of. Men just look like a bunch of football players. Maybe there should be an erection on the cover so the zine could tell a story.
In Portland, Oregon, I found a magazine back issue warehouse. These types of places are a good bet. The employees are really open-minded and don’t care how many fashion magazines you buy. I got kicked out of there once in the 1990s for trying to shoplift some porn mags, but they didn’t remember me.
It’s actually different writing about this stuff than I imagined. It is a vain art form, a worship of people that doesn’t translate detail to detail into literature.
I sent a box with a bunch of crap to Spike Jonze’s office once, that contained many cut outs of women. The world famous Victoria’s Secret catalog is always good fodder. I’ve ran out of many beauty salons and had them sent to many addresses. They want you to buy them at the stores. Anything to change the minds of homosexuals though, and inspire many a young man to embark on a sexual awakening.
I found a brand new S.I. “Swimsuit Issue” in Hollywood, and decided to invent a coffee table book that would make my apartment a more interesting place to men. A bus ride to downtown Burbank was a nightmare. I questioned the worth of my retarded hobby. Maybe some day I should go shopping for a girlfriend. Unfortunately no such store exists though. I got a tip there and took another ride over by the Burbank airport.
It was some offices, with tons of magazines in the back warehouse part. He turned me loose. The middle of summer, I gave up when I found myself covered in sweat. On the way home I passed Warner Bros. studios where Spike’s new office was. I never went there, part-time movie writer; part-time weirdo. But I have learned not to spend my lunch money on magazines anymore. At Border’s books, I caused a shelf to fall down. But I have lost weight, and look more sexually attractive now without having any beer money.
I am either completely normal or a great artiste. Don’t hold it against me.
