Posts Tagged "Grim Reaper"
The time: exactly one week ago, 6:30 pm. Let’s say you meet up with some of the skateboarding blogging elite for a happy hour of epic proportions — assuming your definition of “epic proportions” means “you all talked about dicks and shitting a lot.” And let’s say this happy hour starts to span the length of several hours, and many, many adult beverages are consumed over the course of these several hours. Then let’s say you suddenly wake up, sitting on a curb somewhere in the West Village, and some woman is in the street, yelling at you to wake up because the school bus is coming. Your wallet and phone are gone, and you’re left with a measly $13 bucks in your pocket. Bewildered, you wander off, trying to piece together the ruins of the night before, as a short bus full of kids smarter than you pulls up behind. They know all too well the lesson that you’ve since forgotten: too many juice boxes before bed… never a good thing.
It’s a grisly tale, and don’t let it happen to you. That’s all I’m saying.
Now, there are probably those of you out there who think my considerable talents would be better spent on illustrations and photography rather than word-vomitous reviews of big Hollywood slop. So I decided it was high time I put up a new drawing and, in doing so, likely prove how far that opinion is from the case.
Indeed, I was just as surprised as the rest of you that I had somehow not forgotten how to draw in the past few months, as the time I spent with my fingers wrapped around a pencil grew more sparse with every passing week. I originally started Dedleg, nearly 3 years ago now, as a place that wasn’t necessarily a receptacle for word-vomit, but life-vomit. Conceptually anyway, Dedleg is an online sketchbook / inspiration board of sorts, and it really got me drawing again after years of deliquency. And rather than backslide into the dark ages of my early twenties, when instead of being productive with my free time I just went on murderous chainsaw massacres in Grand Theft Auto, I decided it was past time to take the reigns again and ride the frothing, skeletal work horse that is Dedleg into battle once more, pending identity theft claims and mildly alcoholic tendencies aside. See you on the battlefields of creativity, brothers. Glory awaits us.
Another day, another creepy creature feature.
I was going through my slightly intimidating backlog of photography last night, as I am wont to do when I am faced with the rare free moment, and I discovered these lonely loners. They were relegated as an oddball castoffs when they didn’t fit in, thematically, with whatever else went up from their batch that day, sometime back in 2011. Oddbally enough, this is perfect, considering no other photos are going up today, so I’d say the theme actually is “oddball castoffs” this time around. I mean, that’s kind of always the theme at Dedleg, but I’m speaking relatively here.
Here’s a drawing I did today for a bigger project I’m working on. My lips are sealed for now, lest I incur the wrath of our kickflipping ghost with the most, but I will say the world will almost certainly be a better place once it’s done.
If you ever wanted to know what the Grim Reaper wears under his robe, well, wonder no more. He rocks basketball shorts, obviously. It’s all about comfort when you’re the harbinger of death. It’s not an easy job.
Figured I’d draw up something romantic for Valentine’s Day. Maybe give it as a card to my mom, who knows?
Don’t fear the Reaper, love him! Everyone needs a valentine, you guys, even the harbinger of death.
Also, I forgot to mention this, since I’ve just really been trying to focus on healing ever since Whitney passed away, but you’ll now be able to find me on The Berrics every Sunday, writing for their weekly news update. So if you like skateboarding, and/or me, be sure to pencil Sundays into your Internetting schedule. For the record, this marks the beginning of the “Industry Penetration” phase of Dedleg’s Global Takeover. Just wanted to let you know, so you can say to your kids one day, “Yes, I remember exactly where I was when Dedleg began the ‘Industry Penetration’ phase of his Global Takeover. Yes… like it was yesterday… I was in the office, slacking off at work, just like Dedleg would have wanted.”
Something came over me around 12:30 this morning — I felt suddenly compelled to bang out a drawing. It’s little more than a sketch, but I wanted to put something up since it’s already Thursday, and Friday’s alcohol-soaked, weekend traditions have a naughty habit of luring me in a tad early. Happy Thirsty Thursday, my fellow nightcrawlers.
This is very “first season” material, you might say, but maybe that’s what the third season of Dedleg is all about. Getting back to my roots, figuring out who I really am, as an artist obviously — but sexually also. At least that’s what I’m telling myself.
Thought I’d try something a little seasonal today… so without further adieu (not that there was much adieu anyway), the Ghost of Dedleg’s Future!
That’s all for now, gang. The hour draws late, and I have a great many things to see to — the main one being, well, Dedleg’s future, of course!
While it may be true that during the summer months I have a propensity for soaking through t-shirts in sweat on a near daily basis, and during the winter months I have a propensity for soaking my sheets in sweat (I swear it isn’t pee anymore, mom), I’ve never really considered myself a “sweaty person.” Maybe I’m just delusional — hell, after reading that intro sentence I’m actually pretty sure I’m delusional. Nonetheless, under what I consider “normal” circumstances — circumstances that don’t involve eating a lot of meat in one sitting, or drinking a cup of coffee, or getting angry at the computer, of course — I really don’t sweat, like, very much at all. So the experience I had while riding the subway to work last week was something of an unpleasant surprise.
Last Friday, New York City was undergoing one of its usual, autumnal rainy periods. It was a warm day, and while it wasn’t actually raining yet, the moisture level in the air was goddamned jurassic. I walked at a brisk, though far from strenuous, pace to the subway station a mere two blocks from my apartment, and trotted down the stairs. Luckily, a train pulled in just as I set foot on the platform, and I hurriedly boarded the air-conditioned car. Nonetheless, as the doors closed and the train moved on to the next station, my heart rate was noticeably quick, and I could feel the familiar tingling of perspiration breaking through my body’s millions of pores. Wiping my forehead with my hand, a surprising amount of liquid wicked off. “My god it’s humid for October,” I thought. It then occurred to me that I might have actually been contributing to the local dew point with the ludicrous amount of liquid coming out of my body.
My face and back began to burn as I felt my internal temprature continuing to rise. “Keep cool… just chill for a second here under the air conditioner. Leave your jacket on, it’s not that hot, plus this way no one will be able to see the sweat soaking through your shirt,” I considered.
Seconds later… “Okay, fuck this, I gotta take this jacket off.. I’m fucking burning up man! This is ridiculous!”
Still, I tried to maintain my grasp on reason. “Hey, it is really humid, I can’t be the only one…” My eyes darted around the train, seeking some camaraderie, but instead only meeting stares and schadenfreude. Stares clothed in sweatshirts and jackets. I felt like a zoo animal… I probably smelled like a zoo animal.
I figured that once I accepted the fact that I couldn’t stop sweating, I’d probably relax and stop sweating. But seriously, you guys, I could not stop sweating!
“Man, I must look like one of those crazed drug addicts you see on the train,” only then, I realized I kind of was one of those crazed drug addicts! I remember reading on several occasions that cannabis has been linked to lowering body temperature. And it had been over 24-hours since I had last smoked marijuana, could it be that I was simply unacquainted with actually feeling this warm?
Beads of sweat rolled down my face as I pondered this. “Maybe people will just think I jumped right out of the shower in a rush, and threw my clothes on and that’s why I look so wet.” Then, I watched with horror as a single stream of sweat ran down my arm and splashed against the floor. Looking up, I immediately locked eyes with a middle-aged Hispanic woman staring at me. The disgust on her face mirrored my own feelings about my unfortunate condition. “What, like your ancestors have never toiled under the merciless oppression of the sun? Have you not known was it’s like to literally stand in a pool of your own sweat as your socks approach critical mass? Have you never felt the uncomfortable swamp land that becomes your own butt crack as rivulets of sweat continuously empty into your underpants?” These were questions left unanswered, which was probably a good thing, as my internal monologue devolved into a mire of frustration and expletives.
Terrified, but transfixed, I watched the dark spots on my chest and stomach grow in number, quickly joining to form blobs and then entire continents of perspiration on the ocean of my t-shirt. Or, at least, the ocean that my t-shirt was quickly becoming. I didn’t even want to consider what the back of my shirt looked like. “Maybe people will think I just went for a morning run… yeah… more like a morning run for my fucking life. What the hell is wrong with me?!”
A sense of doom swept over me as I saw dark patches appearing on my thighs. “Hey,” I mused, “On the bright side, at least people won’t think I pissed myself if my shirt’s already completely soaked through.” Then my eyes met those of a young child, maybe 6 years in age, staring at me as he sat slumped against his mother. In those eyes, I could see the anticipation, the inevitable… when he would dart up suddenly, thrusting his tiny, judgmental finger in my direction and shriek, “Look, Mommy! That guy just peed in his pants!”
“Fucking kids… there should be an age restriction on riding the subway…” My malcontent was abruptly interrupted as, thank fucking god, it was time to transfer trains. Leaving one sweatbox and approaching the doors of another, a level-10, red-alert ginger glanced my way as he left the train. He studied me with a smug expression on his face, obviously seeing through the pained look on my own… and probably seeing through my t-shirt, straight into my nipples, as well. “Fuck you, ginger! I snarled silently, “I might be soaked in sweat today, but your eyelashes are invisible every day!”
As my stop approached, I considered my next move. I’d have to stop in the Duane Reade on the way to my office, buy a pack of white t-shirts and change in the bathroom. I began to settle into a sort of calm determination, knowing that this was the only viable option as I emerged from the train car. Resolved, I slowly, but steadfastly marched up the stairs of the subway station…
And walked into the pouring rain.
It was understandable when we previously encroached on skateboarding’s territory in our blackhole-like tendency to implode every major visual artifact we’ve ever seen. After all, I’ve made blood offerings in countless empty lots and alley ways; some of that aforementioned territory now includes my flesh, so I think I’m entitled a little ownership. However, when it comes to touching on mainstream sports, even I hesitate, considering I know, well, absolutely nothing about them. But fear not, I’m no fan of silly games. Unless you count “killing it everyday” a game, in which case… it’s the only game I play.
Going with our official colors was sort of a must, but this one was just begging for some more colorways. And it’s generally not a good idea to refuse someone clutching a scythe.
Figured a grave, monotone version was more than appropriate for our deathly friend here. And then of course, how could I resist…
Somehow, someway, I keep coming up with funky ass shit, like, every single day.
I’d much rather somebody tell me that I’m “killing it,” as opposed to simply being told I’m doing a good job. Indeed, the phrase “killing it” seems to imply a degree of badassery inherent in general mode of operation, and that’s something I try to strive for both in the professional world and even when it comes to things like “who can eat the most Doritos.”
As for killing the most? Unfortunately I can’t claim that title with any degree of authenticity. I killed a whole bunch of ants the other day, but that’s about as far my blood lust goes. This guy, on the other hand? You don’t want to wake up in the night and see him standing over your bed.
On the extremely rare chance that you come to this here Internet website to improve your English… you should probably stop doing that right now.
It’s sort of a ridiculous idea to even bring up, actually, considering some of my writing can be pretty hard to get through even if you do know how to read English. And that’s assuming anybody even bothers to try reading it at all. It’s okay boo, I know you’re just here for the pretty pictures — I am too.
Case in point? I just wrote 84 words on the premise that people even go to websites to improve their English aptitude. I mean aside from Rosetta Stone’s site, smartass. Who knows, maybe somebody will email me in response to this that there’s a huge segment of the population that learns how to read English by downloading a lot of Internet porno. It honestly wouldn’t surprise me.
Introducing the newest member of Dedleg’s premiere skate team — Death himself! Dude drove a hard bargain, but we’re confident signing The Bone Daddy is a solid investment since, let’s face it, skateboarding loves skeletons. But make no mistake, this is most definitely not the guy you want lurking at the skate spot. The incentive to land your tricks would be plenty strong, at the very least, but nothing kills a session like having to make funeral arrangements.
From this point forward, I will be officially referring to my skateboard as my scythe. It just sounds tougher than “shred stick”. Not by much, though.
Before I go — my Malaysian sweatshop employees just informed me that small tie-dye t-shirts are sold out, but a bunch of asphalt still exist. Just sayin’ is all