midnight juggernauts

cat and i have been hard at work in the studio all night. the clock strikes twelve and he tells me it's time for a break to stretch our legs. we should go for a walk. i grab my dysfunctional phone and follow.

it's dark and still outside. the signs of the day-breed loom down upon us, but we are not afraid. we don't see any conjoined giants anywhere.

cat checks to see if he can sense their tracks. he smells an odour he finds strangely erotic yet disturbing at the same time and pulls a strange face. sadly because my phone camera has poor low light performance [duh] you just have to imagine. one thing is clear, obviously the sign people should wash.

we move on forward. perhaps a little too fast and have a lost highway moment. we should slow down. we're on foot after all. cat's not even wearing shoes.

the obvious solution is to have a wash and consider our options. if tabloid hungry monsters lurk further than the naked eye can see, at least we know they stink. we have a better chance of not being detected if we neutralise our scent. we will spot them first.

cat transports himself mid-wash to the side of the road and continues unperturbed as if nothing strange has happened. "i had no idea you have magical powers" i say. he coughs up some fur patiently and gestures with his paw to the adjacent anomaly.

a tree spurts forth from a rubbish bin. it too acts like nothing is out of the ordinary and quietly grows out into the bleeding night. "who are you and who do you work for?" i ask cat.

"you want the truth... you can't handle the truth" he says, turning his back on me and refusing to discuss the topic any further. together we sit in silence in the middle of the road as the chortling bats in the trees above coax us back into action. i sulk quietly. "you should really floss", i say childishly. "you have fur stuck between your teeth" [yes, that's all i've got].

embarrassed i wander off on my own for a bit and pretend to make shapes in the shadows like figures in the clouds. but all i can see are dancing geometric patterns of light and something that reminds me of kate's film "the sleeper". perhaps this is another sign and it's time to go home to bed?

cat senses my confusion and stares at the wall with me. side by side we focus our energy on it until the shadows and light cease their waltz. the brick facade gradually takes on new monochromatic meaning. there are visible hieroglyphs whose ink strains forth from the mortar. they beckon us.

we are surrounded...

the message is clear. the world is our playground. we like this. but is everything in it our toys or are we? cat and i consider this ontological dilemma for a bit before conceding it doesn't really matter. we have no god complex. there is however the perplexing issue of the elusive twins to consider.

cat suddenly speeds off into the night. suspicious, i look down. he's stolen my shoes! i chase after him.

...and arrive at a dead end. an imposing tower lined with windows which blare cruel reality shifting light framed by rotting curtains stands tall on the asphalt. it mocks us with its doorless wall.

pairs of deeply ingrained gouges in the brickwork evidence the method the inhabitants enter and leave. the stench is incredible. my stomach heaves as i convulse and double up into the gutter.

i look around for cat.

he's on the other side of the road gathering energy to maintain our magic bubble and to stay black and white. the light almost got him. my running shoes are nowhere in sight. he apologises that it was a necessary ploy to disguise our tracks & and buy our safe passage.

he assures me that my trainers have gone to a better place. in order to appease the toy gods they were sacrificed to the fetid demons. the night caresses us with renewed promise. but it's time to return to the corner shop to do some work. footloose and fancy free we walk out into the seductive nothingness.

a fish without a bicycle

gloria steinem once said "a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle". it quickly became the mantra of the new wave of feminism & the stuff of graffiti even when i was loitering in the womens' room at uni back in the late eighties. it was a cool slogan, only it didn't work in practice for me no matter how independent i was.

once i was out of my difficult teens i liked men. or at least girlie boys. who were still technically men just with less dominating physical presence who were interested in things that mattered. like me as opposed to sport or other burly pursuits. me = girls who are boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they're girls who do boys like they're girls. simple really [thanks blur].

the trade-offs were pretty good: they wrote me songs, made art for my walls, brought fresh ideas, poetry to etch on my soul & drowned in my hungry flesh as we sought mutual release & explored the manifestations of beauty & the world around & in us together.

boys were great just as long as they weren't like my father. the scars of a life-long father daughter conflict ran deep & even now still i'm suspicious of unharnessed testosterone & wonder about the relevance of anyone beyond a textbook perfect man. they're usually my gay friends. straight men who tick multiple boxes are few & far between & ought to be savored like the precious rare specimens they truly are [hi danoxster].

two years ago, new york columnist maureen dowd drew international controversy from all camps with her book: "are men necessary?" one of the greatest arguments for men is their vital role in fatherhood. despite strong reports evidencing that single parenting is not ideal because fathers & mothers contribute differently to the process my daughter has turned out exceptionally well.

she does actually have a father & although he isn't completely absent, his involvement in her upbringing was mostly minimal after her first birthday when we parted ways. to be fair that wasn't completely due to his negligence, more my 80s indoctrinated feminist resolution. he never had a chance.

my own father was completely the opposite. enjoying the feverish adulation of my mother like some pre-lovecraft demi-god demanding human sacrifice, he ruled the roost with a twisted philosophy born of a fusion of 50s, 60s, and 70s thought.. naturally i rebelled against the iron hand which fell, burdened by his own demons & tormenting shoulder chips, on me.

my daughter was never going to grow up in the same environment. she would be free to... be. she would receive a different kind of education. i knew this before she was conceived. she still doesn't always realise that she's number one [which she is] which takes me back to paragraph two. noone's perfect. not even women.

now as i look at this ancient photo of my father & me on a no longer naked peninsula & feel a wave of emotion, i think about the man who i used to call "dad". he instilled in me a love of adventure & independence. also i have to honor that he encouraged my obsessive reading avarice from a young age & delighted in extending my range. when i was consuming five books a day he was hugely proud. my vocabulary was the talk of school reports & witty banter at the dinner table [usually in deference to my father's own & not quite so refined yet extensive version]. my pocket money & later part-time work income all went towards books or my philatelic collection.

lucky book club with its various incarnations depending on ability delivered each month or so beautiful new titles in class after ticking boxes well before. new books were heaven after reading the library dry. there were always books in my birthday presents, literature to free the mind whilst my body was imprisoned in his house until the day he kicked me out. i was sixteen, studying for scholarship & had come home late on a sunday night after going to the beach with friends, including a boy... i was never allowed in that house again. he then burnt my books. hundreds & hundreds of them.

i'm not saying all fathers fuck up. oh contrare! the world is not completely populated with king lear types stymied with communication issues. agamemnon & countless others on historical pages may have readily sacrificed their daughters rather than a son for a fair wind or to appease some vengeful god or even the neighbours because of perceived dishonour she brings to the family for not wearing the right clothes or daring to like the wrong boy.

loving engaged fathers are in high demand. as our modern lifestyle changes with more work flexibility this is increasingly becoming possible with men spending more time with their children. with that comes the opportunity to break through relationship taboos which lurk like shadows of the sub-conscious in faerie tales to capture the disturbing inadequacies men often experience once their little girls enter prepubescence & with it the chasm of separating relationship space.

this social taboo was wonderfully illustrated recently in the controversial henson case with his depiction of a naked "N"caught in that wonderful awkward time of discovery between child and womanhood. is it pornography or not? obviously not but not so obvious to some. this sparked such an enormous witchhunt that bill henson's internationally acclaimed work will forever be tainted in blood by the conservative sect who find nudity something children & adults ought to be protected from. in case some of you just can't help yourselves.

many fur a lesser known translation by the grimm brothers deals with the incest issue when a king falls for his daughter & she ultimately devises her escape. under the facade of fantasy complex human issues are often explored. in this case a violent separation in order to gain self-protection & maintain identity occurs. fact is, incest is statistically very low between a biological father and daughter. despite this there's very little positive documentation on this relationship at all.

linda nielson is a psychologist & professor of adolscent psychology & womens studies is a huge advocate of the need to supplant negative historical stereotypes & to introduce the value of healthy physical & emotional father daughter relationships.

she cites the teenage era as a particular time probably due to the misconstrued reasons discussed earlier for increased absenteeism. ironically this is the time a girl often needs her dad the most. it seems in order to break through some age-old unwritten social codes that society needs to face the elaborately composed music & appreciate that in its commitment to protect innocence, a void of miscommunication has been created. pedophile hysteria must be relegated to the realms it belongs, back in the fear-mongering dark ages especially out of the home.

i was never not going to be a feminist. it's almost like i had no choice. but like bridget jones i do have scales... and insist on fishily riding sidesaddle. on my bicycle.

to market, to market

no fat pigs except for me although i did espy at the growers markets an organic meat stall which involved some dragging of feet by my dear carnivorous companion. the markets are low-key magic; there is something for foodies of all shapes & sizes.

sheltered beneath one of the original railway sheds - the skeleton shell offers protection from the elements & a leisurely hum. this contrasts significantly with my standard frequented markets in chinatown, which is pure hedonistic death of feet by ubiquitous trolley flattening bustle. eveleigh is so, dear is say it, civilised.

the growers are all personable & happy to leisurely discuss their farms & growing techniques around customers. the fruit of their labours bear testament to the love & pride they take in their craft. it's a very pleasant wander.

for 20 dollars i left "block 11" stand with a large bag of corn cobs, mammothian fennel which smelt like freshly hewn anise, broccoli, tamarillos, basil, yellow grape tomatoes and more... all organic packed with flavour, colour & much appreciated idiosyncrasy.

the proud bearers of the royal easter champion trophy for their alto extra virgin olive oil pose proudly after we discuss finer points of permaculture strategies for the pending mountain olive crop using the hardies mammoth strain. relative newcomers to the olive growing block, they can't keep the smiles off their faces. after winning two handfuls of medals in your market debut, why would you?

much liberal dousing is done in the aid of testing the award winning elixer of gold. mmm, zero defects, zero resistance to seconds, thirds, fourths. they promptly hide the bread as maddened drooling ensues.

perfection comes at a price but at 30 AUD for 750 mls, it's well worth it. i spend my alcohol money for the week & happily suck it up... and head back over to the potato man.

i am edith massey & those potatoes may as well be eggs. eggs, eggs, EGGS! i love the egg man slash potato man from robertson armed with fifteen different varieties.

a big brown paper bag of kipflers are acquired for 5 bucks & he throws in some purple congos to broaden my horizons. sadly, there's no phone number lying beneath the eyes. only eggs. which is fine.

i use these waxy purple skin honeys in the chargrilled vegetable salad later on with the rest of the hoard & prepare to sleep sated, before preparing to face the week on cabbage soup "dreaming of so many little eggies, and i'm still starving, and i'm going to eat them all before i go to sleepie".

eveleigh markets
243 wilson st
darlington, NSW
[next to carriageworks]

signs speak to me

dell pwns geeks @eveleigh markets... or would like to. as a retired bnet clan leader there was no evidence of my brethren this morning as i wandered around the bays, curious.

150 million of gamers are allegedly PC platform. dell wants a piece of that action bad. and who wouldn't? with 3D screens rolling out which will ultimately affect the home theatre environment, there's a massive market driven by the gaming community.

dell's subsidiary alienware was set up in the late 90s specifically to bleed edges & to bite off a piece of the massive sci-fi influenced demograph who gets their X files etymological references & customised high performance computer systems complete with wings & gills.

but didn't that show end in like the early 00s ultimately losing its longest-running sci fi series mantle in US broadcast history to the stargate franchise? maybe we'll see dell acquiring & manufacturing brands with SG wormhole nomenclature soon... now that's a clan challenge worth waiting around for.

some seventies fads must stay dead

togas make me involuntarily shudder. with them they bring back a deluge of hideous memories of a decade of 70s meets 80s all mashed. my semi-naked parents [as pictured above] had & went to toga parties. lots & lots of them. they were consummate fantasy goers. i guess we have more in common than i like to admit.

inspired by the national lampoon's breakout film "animal house" which featured a not so risqué [but stll quite primevally arq-like] yet infamous fraternity toga party scene [with john belushi dead anting], pseudo-graeco roman decadence experienced some kind of renaissance when it crossed over from frat life & bombarded popular culture in the late seventies to coincide with late adopters jumping on the free-love and drug vibe. the toga became a symbol of debauchery. orgies & the sexual revolution are so much easier sans underwear, especially when you BYO bed linen.

first lady, eleanor roosevelt ironically got in on the act fairly early & hosted one of the first known toga parties ever in the white house. i can't work out whether i like that concept or not.

swingers parties do tend to be frequented by people you definitely don't want to see without their clothes. and then some swingers are still gatecrashing the presidential palace nowdays...

regardless of a modern conception of sexual orientation, greeks & romans often engaged in anal sex. the toga guaranteed the convenience of a quick fix. according to wiki the penetrated partner was known as "sperma suscipio" while the penetrator was referred to as the "eltonius".

secret documentation reveals that the roman catholic church has been suppressing the truth about the historical prevalence of anal sex for centuries. biblically endorsed sex for hetero couples was encouraged allegedly to retain the sacred bond between a priest and an altar boy separate. don't even get me started on monk porn. toga-like robes.

most women didn't even wear togas in the ancient world. only prostitutes donned such garb, which i guess works well with the pornification of the original intentions stemming out from initiation rites/celebrations in american colleges at the time.

for suburban explorers in the late 20th century, such clothing was probably an excellent excuse to exercise sexual curiosity in a still cloak & dagger environment where all types of experimentation including [but not limited to] homo-eroticism, were still something largely living in the mainstream closet. with the toga came a liberation of sorts.

these people were baby boomers raised under the shadow of cold war conservatism by parents born of the depression, so they ate everything on their plate and tried not to be too different. the free love generation had a slow trickle-down effect compounded by distance from the source but accelerated post vietnam outside of the states. there was no internet for fast free exchange of ideas or imagery. sheets & what they represented were wild!

theoretically it's all out now & we have the freedom to be who we are without having to make excuses or hide. theoretically.

mechanisms such as the toga could comfortably remain in the realms of extinction or dormancy like glenn close in the fatal attraction bath. still who am i to belittle with my victorianisms the love for dress-ups & extroversion?

red bull's wings drown

a red bull race plane crashed into perth's swan river today. it is unknown whether the pilot had been drinking red bull or not. probably no, but in my initial ignorance i did wonder. the unfortunate pilot, adilson kindlemann was fished out of the water relatively quickly & is OK after being admitted into hospital earlier. his condition is described as "good".

the internationally acclaimed red bull air race was established in 2003 as an obvious marketing adjunct to the product's well known company slogan "red bull gives you wings". the event is usually held over water and tours many cities around the world.

pilots compete through a twisting turning slalom like course through pylons/air gates which are spectacular giant branded witches hats/traffic cones. the competition has been so successful for the brand that video games on iphones/playstation etc are prevalent. the multi-platform global audience is huge. it's been a marketer's wet dream.

the sport is visually spectacular & obviously gives extreme junkies and plane spotters a serious adrenaline kick. it's the most watched sport in brazil. in many countries the pilots are heralded as iconic sporting super heroes.

still the risks are immense. deaths do occur, none so far in the red bull race's history, but not everyone has been so lucky.

because of this red bull has actually initiated a rigorous underwater emergency training programme which commenced this season for the first time. this may or may not be part of the success in the safe extraction of today's crashed aviator.

people love success but ultimately they love fail. the only thing better than seeing a pilot against the odds pull out of a crazy aeronautical feat is watching the plane crash. which i guess keeps the extreme aficionados hanging in the... wings.

[photo copyright: www.aviationnews.eu]

a gold star for traffic congestion

recently whilst returning to sydney from a spell away in my secret mountain escape, we were unexpectedly marooned in goulburn for several hours after coming upon a severely blocked freeway. traffic was obviously not budging so with the benefits of my tonka toy 4WD unconventional, err, circumvention of the gridlock enabled an easyish return into ram town.

for those that don't know some of the great delights of goulburn, the rural inland dryland mecca of NSW, it hosts an oversized sheep as some kind of bizarre totem to agricultural prowess. by this token there should really be one in the major port ie. lyttleton, of new zealand standing proud like the grand lady of liberty in new york to welcome arrivals. anyway, i digress.

many hours were tediously killed in this rural anti-hub, an australian counterpart for douglas coupland's shampoo planet, an exposition of mindless mid west misanthropia. not just for gen X.

goulburn is a parched place crippled during drought time by extreme water restrictions. disenchanted youths rev up and down the main drag in hot rods & specced up utes in a dead-end town overshadowed by a maximum security prison, the national police college, a ghost abattoir and a shoe factory with operations long since migrated offshore.

on the back steets in the parks framed by brown grass, right wing family first conventions crackle alive with sausage sizzles on a sunday afternoon as aussie flags fly asunder even on an overcast day.

on auburn street the renovated mall goes off. after loading up on big macs & zesty salads, bottle-bronzed, powder-puffed girls with ironed hair waddle into supre basics. on australia day wknd the store boasted a full window display of a vast range of ozzie ozzie ozzie, & southern cross T shirts & singlets. there's nothing more australian.

after catching up on the various overheard goss in local bars which increasingly fill up with wayward travelers deigning to wait out the pile-up with rumours of overturned trucks on the freeway & no end in sight, we succumb to an extended stay & look for dinner. there's only so many hours one can spend in a pub when there's still another two which could become five or more to go.

enter the golden star. a very brave move by both the proprieters and my fellow shaolin warrior diner. down the road is the remnants of another chinese restaurant which bears the apparent scars of fire-bombing. on arrival this diamond in the rough was a morgue but the service was warm without being suspiciously desperate.

funnily enough by the time we left it was fast filling up with like-minded frustrated nomads, sharing tales between tables in hushed whispers of banked up traffic woes. we just shut up, soaked up the ambience with our fellow pioneers, enjoy the kitsch imagery, baby pink folded napkins, vegetarian friendly menu [featuring a sad but woefully necessary "australian section" starring T bone steak & chips] and the food, which was actually pretty good!

mostly we felt thankful that we weren't stuck out on the motorway immobile without the basics of food water to help alleviate the boredom of extreme traffic congestion which often precedes road rage.

i am reminded of all this because this week NSW roads minister says "fur will fly" after a major traffic delay on the F3. motorists were stuck for up to twelve hours after a fuel tanker overturned and blocked the flow and contingency plans failed with a capital F.

thousands of people stranded for hours in their cars, isolated without news, water or food. it's scary how fast everything can break down and how unlikely heroes are made, jobs are lost, epic tales are told.

once more yesterday i sat in an environment where i was privy secondhand to people relating their experiences to strangers placed in a common bond which broke the unspoken barrier of public non-communication.

and it made me think of the unlikely little shining star which fell off the flag in the town of the golden fleece that day & saved us against the flow.

golden star

chinese restaurant

151 auburn St
goulburn NSW 2580
(02) 4821 0388

gathering moss on rolling asphalt

yesterday it came to my attention that breaking news on new zealand TV was the "vandalisation" of a goat with anti-police graffiti. the town goat now sports fluoro orange lettering "FTP" which is thought to stand for "fuck the police". i wonder if the kids responsible has seen banksy's cow series? or seen the hairdresser's painted poodles up on crown street in surry hills, sydney...

anyway recently whilst cruising the redfern back alleys i came across this wonderful mixed media graffiti which i've been meaning to share but a sabbatical from the daily grind resulted in extreme blog neglect until NOW!

moss typography clinging to wall crevices supplemented by clever pavement stencil work. plan big is an initiative of the adelaide & bendigo banks tapping into the gutter zeitgeist to flog their wares which ultimately is a nationwide mega mentoring program traversing multiple disciplines. personally i despise banks but little banks are kinda cooler. more banksy.

if you do have big plans check out their rhetoric. if it doesn't work out graffiti their asses. they're undoubtedly up whilst their heads are down thinking big. which reminds me [but not to be confused with] of robert muldoon's unpopular interventionist political strategy in the 80s.

one of my most loved gold towns, old cromwell was drowned under the sour deluge of aluminium smelting meets dam construction. perhaps there's a clyde dam goat to tell that story. another time.

lego-rama

after getting all inspired last week by the eliasson exhibition at the MCA in its final hours, i'm now seeing lego everywhere...

grievous bodily harm

gamma hydroxy butyrate and i have a very intense 2 degrees of separation relationship. it changed my life forever. and it wasn't even because i took it. it cost me literally hundred of thousands of dollars but more than that it almost cost me my sanity, my life.

someone i was once close to used it to train-wreck their own life and then consequently bring mine down with it. i still wear the fading scars & sometime my story will be told. just not today.

for those who don't know, GHB which is essentally floor stripper [GBL] mixed with drain cleaner [sodium hydroxide] is not an honorable drug. some drugs are arguably more equal than others and if there was a narcotics caste system, this would have to be down there in the gutter. i think even hammer has more integrity: there's a romanticism about the opiates which comes from historical context & ultimately the natural connection to the earth despite the trail of corruption which is inextricably interwoven in the production & trafficking process.

the home office in the UK finally banned GBL & other chemical solvents such as synthetic cannabinoids and piperazines at the end of last year. up until then there was actually a loophole which although illegal in australia enabled international mail-order B class drugs to be let loose on the date rape scene. remember dianne brimble?

september 2002: 24 hours after getting on a cruise liner she was dead from a fusion of alcohol/GHB which had been allegedly slipped into her drink by an unconvicted ring of sexual vultures seeking to enjoy the benefits of the disinhibition & sense of sexual freedom that the drug is associated with. before she experienced some of the less fortunate effects ie: permanent loss of consciousness, after engaging in multiple sexual activities which were documented on a seized reformatted memory stick from one of the eight involved perpetrators' camera. the men argued the sex was consensual but the retrieved graphic photos of brimble lying unconscious naked between men having lost control of her bodily functions clearly suggest otherwise. the jury was unable to make a verdict & brimble's drug-induced death fell into the quagmire of yesterday's news.

in the last 24 hours GBH re-emerged its ugly head back into my life via a friend & a handful of his pretty young things most probably being involuntarily drugged at a high profile CBD bar party in town yesterday.

after having lost consciousness upon passing out in the gilded confines of the stylin' establishment, they woke up several hours later found themselves at guildford. i don't even know where that is but i know it's certainly beyond the most flexible perception of the inner west boundary. and yes they did have on all their clothes & money. someone probably did spike their drinks for kicks. or just to get the party started...

noone remembers anything, except that they barely drank. but in a dreamlike phase remember becoming inhibition free semi-naked party animals. the rest, a non-existent void where confused re-entry into consciousness was permeated with slurring, amnesia, rambling incoherent speech, horniness. obviously this doesn't sound all bad & ultimately some would use it as a positive reinforcement or advertising, unless you never wake up again or while you were sleeping you mysteriously become pregnant etc. this can obviously happen on alcohol too but then that's your choice.

from my experience drug dealers, sexual predators or party promoters don't care so much about that. it's all about dollar return on the investment and how many tens of thousands they make back from their much smaller initial one. in the end it is just a numbers game, part of the business model.

so watch your drink & trust your instincts re: instant friends bearing gifts. PS. intuition doesn't work so well if already in a sedated state. if you want an excuse to take your pants off or run amok, do it when you're conscious and aware so you can remember all the fine details afterward.

and now the end is near...

malcom mclaren is dead.

party response unit

follow that... van!

catching herpes from a tapas fork

apart from being chronically accident prone to the point of ridiculousness, lately whilst on my deep hermit sabbatical i've been privy to a recent wave of gastro... all around me. sometimes literally in a double M helicopter like sputtering spiral in elevating fits and starts.

what makes me excited is the idea of people doing all sorts of dirty dirty things, then handling food and subsequently making peeps really ill. i've witnessed numerous episodes in bars & restaurants. by staff. true there was no bestiality or strange manipulations involved with three day old dead rats or chickens but...

being a big fan of fundamentally filthy practices [one of my many nicknames is "stinky mummy" - apparently a term of endearment], i'd never be naive enough to suggest there's a time and place. make it forbidden, and i'll be lining up next to you for an all out splatter fest. it seems really obvious but weirdly enough these overtly common sense facts, like safe sex with strangers, seem to have been recently lost in the wash. AIDS like hep A have become diseases of the 80s.

all i'm saying is if you wipe your ass slumdog millionaire style or whatever else turns you on before you head into the kitchen, and then if you're going to then make tapas directly after could you please just run your smegma encrusted finger nails under the tap? that includes changing your tampon before pouring a fresh glass of that new zealand savignon blanc for me. try the soap. don't be shy. the germs you're transferring are not.

because if i get genital herpes as described in the above fear-mongering photo from eating marinated olives, i am going to feel very fucking ripped off especially if i have to spell diarrhoea [because it looks funny everywhere] and will feel it is my moral duty to bring back the free love generation all over your goddam bar counter. perhaps that is what sydney's night life is actually missing?

subway zoetrope

bill brand's 1980 public artwork "masstransiscope" which is animated through the passing movement of trains in the subway was restored in 2008 and can be seen on the Q and B trains from dekalb ave. a mass transit zoetrope. in brooklyn going into manhattan toward canal or grand st. look out the window on the right.

thanks to jack feldstein for bringing this into my life. sydney misses you but we live vicariously through your errant adventures.



here's another example of subway motion art. this time with a more commercial bent from russia.

easter bunnies

don't shave for christ.

despite what gillette say: it won't make your peen bigger or open any easter eggs.

what would jesus do? being an adaptive carpenter maybe he'd focus on the craft & not blame the tools. just saying.