monsterously wild propaganda poster from 1944 depicting motifs such as beauty pageants, Gangsta life, materialism, mongrelization, decadence, and bloody foot bombs. This bizarre image is bound to get a reaction out of just about anybody.
e martë, 14 gusht 2007
vintage: I heart America
monsterously wild propaganda poster from 1944 depicting motifs such as beauty pageants, Gangsta life, materialism, mongrelization, decadence, and bloody foot bombs. This bizarre image is bound to get a reaction out of just about anybody.
e hënë, 13 gusht 2007
e diel, 12 gusht 2007
hair
Dear Dan the haircutter,
I just wanted to thank you for transforming my head into a vision of some deep layer of hell. My brother and I walked into your little backwoods roadside establishment with some fantasy that a mystic jovial barber with cleverly sharp banter, aged skilled hands, and all the warmth of a mountain holiday christmas special would be more than happy to put down his local newspaper and craft me a good old boy haircut. You my gruff bulldog friend were none of these. From the moment we walked in there with my long unkempt locks, you probably assumed my brother and I were ungodly homos from the big city, perhaps mocking you by daring to step foot in your "well respected" business. I did in fact notice your hand hewn GOD BLESS AMERICA sign swaying below your hours. Your first greeting was "well you gonna take your hat off?" You might remember my little brother making a circus of the ordeal by snapping away with his digital camera ... you getting more and more paranoid. As you wacked away at my long greasy locks, I realized that you were drifting away in your head to some distant hunting adventure, perhaps a 4-wheeling excursion to your favorite mud hole. And as that hair fell all around your ex-marine tattoos, I looked into the mirror and winced with horror at my decision to do this. You became visibly angry when I suggested you take it down a little bit more. It was all clear now. You assumed I was from California and decided that I must be looking for a skater haircut circa 1986. Mostly I regret the dollar tip I gave you. Consider that a generous gift sir.
It didn't help that as we got back in the car my brothers laughter steamrolled from a chuckle to a gurgling guffaw by the time the car door shut. "What the fuck?" I said. "What the fuck" he agreed. What merciful master craftsperson will fix my nickelodeon head?
My dear sir ... I must recommend you look into a career change at the soonest possible moment. Perhaps taxidermy, or maybe one of those militant rebound schools for wayward kids like me. Hell .. go bonsai enthusiast for all I care.
Please just stop with the cutting of the hair thing.
Cordially,
Scalped in Oregon
I just wanted to thank you for transforming my head into a vision of some deep layer of hell. My brother and I walked into your little backwoods roadside establishment with some fantasy that a mystic jovial barber with cleverly sharp banter, aged skilled hands, and all the warmth of a mountain holiday christmas special would be more than happy to put down his local newspaper and craft me a good old boy haircut. You my gruff bulldog friend were none of these. From the moment we walked in there with my long unkempt locks, you probably assumed my brother and I were ungodly homos from the big city, perhaps mocking you by daring to step foot in your "well respected" business. I did in fact notice your hand hewn GOD BLESS AMERICA sign swaying below your hours. Your first greeting was "well you gonna take your hat off?" You might remember my little brother making a circus of the ordeal by snapping away with his digital camera ... you getting more and more paranoid. As you wacked away at my long greasy locks, I realized that you were drifting away in your head to some distant hunting adventure, perhaps a 4-wheeling excursion to your favorite mud hole. And as that hair fell all around your ex-marine tattoos, I looked into the mirror and winced with horror at my decision to do this. You became visibly angry when I suggested you take it down a little bit more. It was all clear now. You assumed I was from California and decided that I must be looking for a skater haircut circa 1986. Mostly I regret the dollar tip I gave you. Consider that a generous gift sir.
It didn't help that as we got back in the car my brothers laughter steamrolled from a chuckle to a gurgling guffaw by the time the car door shut. "What the fuck?" I said. "What the fuck" he agreed. What merciful master craftsperson will fix my nickelodeon head?
My dear sir ... I must recommend you look into a career change at the soonest possible moment. Perhaps taxidermy, or maybe one of those militant rebound schools for wayward kids like me. Hell .. go bonsai enthusiast for all I care.
Please just stop with the cutting of the hair thing.
Cordially,
Scalped in Oregon
e mërkurë, 8 gusht 2007
high water marks
tues aug 7 - 8:38 EST
I've been vertical since 4am pacific time. Already bent by my mom's chronic lateness, I find myself spinning the tires of her ford focus (not going for cool points here) on the way to the airport.
Now I'm sitting on a humid couch in a humid New Hampshire. The crickets feel like nitrous. I'm still trying to see straight after I've left the diner as my thoughts are clouded by copious amounts of grease and sugar. Fried Clams with the gritty bellies intact only to be polished off with a solid root-beer float. I think that spending time with my blood is like an unwritten excuse to practice what it means to be unhealthy at the core. My mom is being her usually witty self on the plane and I'm already working my mood into something that resembles dread and homecoming all in one. My mom quit smoking in january yet here I am being scolded to shut my mouth and just go buy a pack of merit 100's for her at the Texaco station. We are here visiting my aunt who just got out of a rehab center for a combination stroke and kidney failure. I find myself paying attention to every feature in her face. The war. The high water marks. She tells her grandson the best thing that happened to her today was sitting in a chair. My little nephew trying to remember what my uncle was like when he was alive. Me wondering if i'll have time on this trip to visit my dads grave site. Me wondering when i'll grab my cousin and hit the nearest bar. Literally as I write this my cousins cat is dragging its asshole across the mustard linoleum tile. The revulsion will not be televised. Maybe it's as uncomfortable as me. I take another half assed pull from a tepid ale.
On a feathery note, the silver lining here is a new mini-golf mega-mountain that just opened up down the road. You bet your sweet ass I'm there.
I've been vertical since 4am pacific time. Already bent by my mom's chronic lateness, I find myself spinning the tires of her ford focus (not going for cool points here) on the way to the airport.
Now I'm sitting on a humid couch in a humid New Hampshire. The crickets feel like nitrous. I'm still trying to see straight after I've left the diner as my thoughts are clouded by copious amounts of grease and sugar. Fried Clams with the gritty bellies intact only to be polished off with a solid root-beer float. I think that spending time with my blood is like an unwritten excuse to practice what it means to be unhealthy at the core. My mom is being her usually witty self on the plane and I'm already working my mood into something that resembles dread and homecoming all in one. My mom quit smoking in january yet here I am being scolded to shut my mouth and just go buy a pack of merit 100's for her at the Texaco station. We are here visiting my aunt who just got out of a rehab center for a combination stroke and kidney failure. I find myself paying attention to every feature in her face. The war. The high water marks. She tells her grandson the best thing that happened to her today was sitting in a chair. My little nephew trying to remember what my uncle was like when he was alive. Me wondering if i'll have time on this trip to visit my dads grave site. Me wondering when i'll grab my cousin and hit the nearest bar. Literally as I write this my cousins cat is dragging its asshole across the mustard linoleum tile. The revulsion will not be televised. Maybe it's as uncomfortable as me. I take another half assed pull from a tepid ale.
On a feathery note, the silver lining here is a new mini-golf mega-mountain that just opened up down the road. You bet your sweet ass I'm there.
Abonohu te:
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