Barack Obama just scored a majority of Texas delegates. Good. I want the guy to lock up all the delegates, superdelegates, and swing voters he can. I thought young folks were excited about Obama, but I didn’t know it went this deep … have a look at this toddler joyfully endorsing Barack Obama:
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Hey there — I haven’t died or had my soul eaten while I dream or anything. I’ve just been on a bit of a break from the computer, taking a trip to Las Vegas for a wedding, visiting friends in LA and now in Norfolk, VA with my family.
I’ll be back in the mix soon enough … until then, have a look at this video, which sums up the low-budget charms of my hometown pretty nicely:
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Shepard Fairey’s cool and all, and Wooster Collective rounds up some of the best graffiti on the streets. But me, I love the dashed-off graffiti in New York the best — the hastily scrawled line or two that completely cracks me up. Simply scribbling a dirty word doesn’t cut ice. There’s got to be wit, vision, or some kind of instant art. I saw a poster for Cats once where people had sculpted little genitalia out of chewing gum and stuck it on all the leaping cat-dancer crotches in a sort of wordless 3-D sculpture.
I don’t know why this adulterated poster in the 8th Avenue A/C/E/L station cracks me up so much, but it sure enough does:
Here’s a closeup:
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I went to this cool Japanese pop-culture exhibit at the Kennedy Center a while back – and as you might imagine, robots were all OVER the place. There were a bunch of really cool robot toys on display, and I photographed most of them for some kind of gallery presentation. I wanted to try out a few different Photoshop techniques to make these into something other than snaps some guy took in like, ten minutes.
I’m trying to simulate they might look if I were approaching them through a gray, misty dawn, like they were looming up out of a toy plastic nightmare or emerging from mountain mist to shoot everyone’s eyes out with pre-safety obsession missiles shot from spring cannons on their arms and back.
And I have no idea what these things are named … apart from Tranzor Z and Godzilla. If you know the names, go ahead and drop ‘em in the comments.
I’ve pulled out a few of my favorites here, after the jump …
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I don’t usually go in for the kind of horse hockey honkified “Eat, Pray, Love” neo-spiritual bullshit that most white people like to espouse, but I will tell you this: there is a truth in repetition, a transcendental peace we find when we repeat something familiar over and over and over. God reaches down and our hearts open up, our pores become doorways into the land beyond and all of everything vibrates with a delicious lavender hum.
That’s the truth I’ve come to anyway, and it is the exact reason that I’ve listened to “Elvira” by The Oak Ridge Boys 10 times in a row already this morning.
Go on, try it — after five repetitions or so each “mow mow” gives your SOUL a cosmic prostate massage …
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“We Are The World” was the freaking Justice League of ’80s music. Every heavy-hitter got together in one room and crooned it out for the starving kids in Africa. And you know, it totally worked, too!
When I say “heavy hitter,” I mean:
Michael Jackson
Billy Joel
Diana Ross
Ray Charles
Stevie Wonder
Bruce Springsteen
Cyndi Lauper
Tina Turner
and so many more! What could be more awesome than every ’80s superstar getting together in one room and crooning it out for Africa? Think about it …
Give up? I’ll tell you:
The only thing that could be more awesome than “We Are the World” itself is this:
“We Are the World” sung by a crew of Japanese impersonators impersonating everyone listed above.
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To me, the Smurfs were an ambient childhood experience like the smell of apple juice, Cheerios, and urine. They were something I never consciously stepped towards or moved away from, they were just kinda around for a long time, and then gradually faded away.
The Smurfs were on for four hours every Saturday morning, and I never knew anyone who begged their Dad to set up the Betamax to tape the Smurfs. Kids just ended up watching the Smurfs the way that drunk people end up eating at Denny’s. Nobody does that on purpose either.
But live-action Smurf-themed porn … that’s something to SEE.
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Things have been dark lately — dark and funky. Not like a good Jamaican dub record from the late ’70s, either. I’ve been getting migraines in the middle of the night.
I feel sort of numb, like a deep cut that’s had a band-aid wrapped very tightly over its surface. When I sit still, things are sort of okay but moving around hurts like hell.
I have a good job and I’m surrounded by loving people but I can’t shake the terrible feeling that life is whistling past while I sit in the corner staring at a glowing screen. The seas are warming, ice is melting, and we’re all just pushing pixels around.
I know I’m not going to live in New York forever. At some point I’m going to have to — going to WANT to — go back to Virginia and help take care of my family. In the past month, four close family members have had some horrible health scares. One of them died. I feel removed from it all, not that my magical Superman doctor powers could help if I were down there, and I’d be miserable in Norfolk, VA — but I can’t help but wish I were on the scene helping out.
On the other hand, I just got here in July. My big fancy New York life has barely gotten started. But enough about that. The three paragraphs preceding this one have all started with “I,” a sure sign that I’m weeping salty tears onto my colon, crying the blues with my head jammed right up my ass.
This cartoon really put it in perspective for me. It’s from Cat and Girl, by Dorothy Gambrell. The image above is a cut-out from “Grace,” a cartoon that perfectly summed up my self-indulgent whinging and ended it all with a sweet, greasy ray of hope …
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