Why won't we all admit that our fascination with zombies, warewolves, and vampires stems back to our boredom with Bible stories? We all secretly wish that Jesus would've done some cool stuff after he became un-dead, like neck-biting and terrorizing and such.
I plant to capitalize on the Twilight/Walking Dead craze with my new, patented, hand-painted Zombie Jesus Easter Egg, complete with crown of thorns and insatiable taste for human flesh:
farts and crafts: sean ate food from mcdonalds
Remember the words of Jesus, when he said from up on high at his famous sermon on the mount: "Eat others as you would want to be eaten."
I get distracted. "Distraction is Action?" In my case, maybe, but not necessarily productive.
I have been missing you zero weekly readers/many weekly visitors who mistakenly arrived here from google based upon this site's name and your sexual fetishism. Since this site is actually about life lessons (which are offered by someone who is in little position to give them), remember this: your sexual appetite can only get weirder/more fun for so long; then the day comes when "grandma put down the gun" is no longer a viable safe word and you end up naked in a closet acting out a suspicious episode of Kung Fu, so please stop searching for pooping videos. You'll be better for it, I promise.
That being said, I'm moving forward with some things, including the once-neglected but now resurrected Gremlins T-Shirt. Want one? Let me know in the comments section. Each will be made to order on a white vintage tee. Choose from sizes Small, Medium, Large, "Bulking Up For Winter"**, or "Jerry Springer, Cut Me Out of My House"**
** Limited quantities available, probably
Also, I made this today after discovering that some German guy already made the LOVE logo into the word LOST, which was a krautzenbummer. But this looks kinda cool, too, I think.
art is so easy!
Also, a little later today, my friend Sean and I are going to be getting down on some sacrilegious/offensive Easter eggs. I made some last year that were so good that my friend's mom wants to sell them out on the West Coast.
These were weird, but I think this year is going to be way better. I will leave no stone unturned!
(does anybody get that Jesus pushing the stone away joke? am I the only one who at least at one time attended Sunday School/faked reading the Bible?)
It feels good to know that even after all this time, this blog still sucks. YAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY I haven't missed a step!
This is a mash-up of a bunch of songs from the 90s brought to my attention by a fellow wild child of those halcyon days—days that are just as bleak even veiled by nostalgia.
If somebody with ProTools was able to similarly condense my existence spanning the years this music was made, the resulting song would entail a machine-gun staccato of crying, masturbating and taking Accutane for my acne. It would sound akin to a Joanna Newsom live album.
This summer went by quickly. I know that sentence makes me sound like a schoolteacher lamenting the return to the classroom, but I am not a schoolteacher because: a) what if anyone found this treasure trove of closet skeletons? and b) I do not like children. All of a sudden it's fall in New York and the sun is setting earlier and I am getting crankier but also reorienting myself with some direction. The blurry summer passed, a shot of methadone focus is definitely in order. Primarily, I am resolving to eliminate negativity (and sources of negativity) and only fight for and with that which fulfills me. My first thought after writing that sentence is to sell all my belongings, quit working and eat cheeseburgers and fried pickles every day until my heart explodes with joy and hypertension. Although that's one path to a greasy form of enlightenment, and Buddha is always depicted as a chubby fellah, it isn't really what I meant. I aim to seek out good people who appreciate my talents, encouraging and inspiring me, and not waste any time with or for those who do not.
Two quotes from one story by the incomparable Southern writer Barry Hannah struck a chord today:
Wretched hesitation ... is what embalms our lives, and that was what age demanded of you more and more, to get less and less life.
I've seen peers accept "less and less life" for the past ten years and it's a been a terrible thing to witness. People who used to seem so full of life are both aging toward boredom and personifying it. Their unnatural progression makes me want to quit Facebook. Ten years ago we flung ourselves toward excitement both haphazardly and erroneously without care or regard for the consequences, only a yearning for escape from suburban drudgery. I only assumed that my partners in crime would just grow older and choose wiser ways to get our fun, our "adult" kicks; instead of sneaking past our parents with a flask of whiskey we'd be vaulting past the rubes trading years of fluorescent office imprisonment for a chance at eventual freedom—retirement at 65, provided they live that long—with a freewheeling jaunt toward success without boundaries. And it hasn't happened. And as much as I'd like to think that they're the only ones who've given up, I must admit to my own struggles with "wretched hesitation."
Another:
I was desperate and would have been throbbing in shame but I was still drunk enough to ignore it and was majoring on the theme Whim of Fortune, and I believe trying to attach myself to a woman of such low estate that the two of us would destroy ourselves in spontaneous combustion at an impossible diving speed.
Now this quote is not quite as introspective as its predecessor, but knowing Hannah's life I think it's more than semi-autobiographical. He's at the pulse of a feeling I've had once or twice or ten times in the past, and evoked with the dexterity of a F-15 fighter pilot, fingers flying Mach-1 over the keyboard. As a young writer, Hunter S. Thompson typed the novels of F. Scott Fitzgerald to get the flow of his hero's writing. To get his rhythm. I only hope that typing Hannah's words can move me in similar ways.
So was that mash-up above the soundtrack to my most awkward years, or have the songs to that time in my life even been written yet? I don't know. But after surviving my first earthquake (yes, in Brooklyn) and a hurricane that shut down all public transportation in the city and called for evacuations in the same week, I biked down to Greenwood Cemetery for a few hours of wandering mental clarity.
And then I grilled cheeseburgers. Everyone deals with mortality differently.
If you're a skateboarder over the age of 30 and you don't have a video game or a show on MTV, I'm judging you, and you've got a big hole to dig yourself out of for me to like you.
I want to start a website called etsy-wetsy.com. It will be the result of me and my rabbit going to craft fairs and peeing on kitchy, handmade items.
If you're a girl walking into my bedroom and you see one side of the bed is piled with clothes, magazines, drawings, pamphlets, empty shopping bags and newspapers, I didn't expect you to be here.
My life's Catch-22 is that I am good at everything but monotonous work, and monotonous work seems to be an essential part of the American Dream. Of course, this is what the American Dream looks like, so screw it:
redeemed by the cardiologist
I am seriously considering getting an online personal assistant from India or Bangladesh or whatever's cheapest because I become paralyzed by the most mundane, simple, routine tasks. This includes mailing a letter and writing a check. Or "paying rent."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: I really think it sucks that every time someone returns a pair of Tom's to the shoe store, they take a pair back from a needy child.
That being said, what a dream job.
I made this drawing. I call it "Jack Hannah-bal Lechter Goes To Australia." I probably need to color it in to show Jack's khaki shirt and koala blood.
They say cell phones cause brain cancer, but I feel like I'm safe since I pretty much text only. But then I realized I'm walking around with a $90-per-month asbestos cannon sitting in my pocket just two inches from my scrotum.
I overheard the following statement recently: "That's what sucks about autotune — it takes no talent."
I recently saw the best license plate I've ever seen in person, and risked death to get this photo:
the search continues
I think the term "runner's high" is nonsense, but I like to think of a "walker's high" as old people pushing their carts around stoned on pain meds.
I think abstinence is stupid. Who wants to sit around hearing someone brag about being an experienced virgin?
I not-so-secretly think it's okay to be pretentious (or at least educated) about almost everything — clothes, food, architecture, design, music, art, literature — but you should also understand that I wear my underwear and t-shirts until they literally disintegrate.
In my two years in New York, I have witnessed some weird stuff: two people getting urinated upon by bums, two fat old people make out — like, seriously go after it — in a thunderstorm, getting drenched all the way down to the control briefs and massive bra, heard countless stories of masturbating hobos on the subway flashing their crusty weiners at girls I know, but nothing could have prepared me for watching a woman hike her skirt and diarrhea in the street in broad daylight. Actually, that isn't true. I was prepared — I had my camera phone ready:
you see, the socks are protecting the sandals from splashback
I think this is all I have for today. I've been sort of manic-depressive lately over the completion of tasks and looking toward the next one, and to completing one thing before moving on to the next. I need to believe that I am, indeed, doing what I should be, even when sometimes it's very stressful and seems to be leading nowhere. And sometimes I just need to relax, and not be some damn high strung.
My good friend sent a text yesterday (that likely blasted my balls chock-full of cell phone radiation) telling me I'd been slacking on this blog, which gave me a little motivation to write a few things down that have been stuck in my head. Sorry they're all crazy...
I made this today. I don't know why. I rarely find memes funny, but somehow I stumbled upon a picture of a chayote squash or, as it's called in the South, a mirliton, and thought of how it looked like the face of a grumpy grandma with her dentures soaking in a glass on the nightstand.
Chayote squash are very delicious, I have had them pickled and also fried, which makes them taste very similar to fried green tomatoes. There is even a Mirliton Festival in the Bywater neighborhood of New Orleans every year, because people in New Orleans love frying things and hosting festivals.
While making this, I have been listening to some amazing old Hawaiian music, Leo Addeo & His Orchestra, Hawaii in Hi-Fi, that I found at that record store.
It's wonderfully calming and soothing, and although I can't find this album online, Stax-O-Wax has the follow-up album for download and it's great, too.
Labels:
creativity,
Easter Bunny,
why?,
Zombie Jesus
