Where did that saying, “work like a dog” come from anyway? The only thing I’ve ever seen a dog work on was a room-clearing fart. Other than that, all they really do is lie around, roll in dead shit, and sniff people’s crotches. I’d like to work that hard. I mean, minus the “rolling in dead shit” shit, but, you know, if that’s all my responsibilities really amounted to… I think I could probably deal with it.
Anyway, it’s my first day off from masquerading around as a functional member of society with a respectable office-job in quite a while, so all I really feel like doing is getting stoned and watching skateboarding videos for the duration of the evening. Nonetheless, here I am, working like a dog, as it were, for the Dedleg faithful. And so, without further adieu, I present a room-clearing fart of my very own…
When it comes down to it, as a fartist - I mean artist - I’m really little more than the kid doing his signature over and over again in the margins of his notebook. Sure, that signature has evolved quite a bit over the years, but that’s kind of what happens when you do it for years in the first place.
Is this some radical new form of birth control? Psh, not if you’ve got some serious board control, amiright?
[photo via Lame Sauce]
One time I thought I was pregnant while I was skating, but it turned out my guts were just brewing up a mean batch of diarrhea.
You know, as much as I love skateboarding and wish my own mother had encouraged me to start doing it at a younger age so I’d suck a little less at it now, I’m still having a little trouble supporting this particular life choice. Even the kid in the back kind of looks like he’s thinking, “Man, I’m sure glad my mom didn’t do that.” Don’t get me wrong, I understand. Nine months is a long time to stay off your board. But the average human lifespan is also a long time to be, like, totally fucked up and deformed like a little Kuato in Nike SBs.
Basically, this fetus is either going to end up the next best skateboarder ever… or totally retarded.
This weekend, Dedleg Incorporated took a quick trip to South Hadley, Massachusetts for an artsy fartsy adventure in live-drawing, but that’s a story for another day. That said, the event was taking place in an extremely creepy old mill that had been converted to office space. Truthfully, it wasn’t much less-creepy than old mills that haven’t yet been converted to office space. Which is to say, if this place was in New York City, Dedleg would probably be signing the lease on its new corporate headquarters right now.
You know me, I just can’t say no to a little desolation and some eerie lighting!
Seriously, this place is not abandoned, but the filth on the window looks old enough to be left over from a time when it was.
Are you afraid of the dark? If so, you probably shouldn’t come here, like, ever.
Something about this scares me, and not even just because I have a deep-seated hatred of glitter.
Seriously though, fuck glitter too. Watch out for that shit when you’re getting your drink on in the club tonight, fellas. People may have warned you about things like “crabs” and “chlamydia” before, but listen to me here, once you get glitter, good goddamn luck getting rid of it. You may think it’s gone, but then, months later, you’ll see it again! I’m telling you, that shit might as well be an STI.
That headline is a horrendous attempt at a play on Taco Bell’s delicious Taco Supreme® — just wanted to let you guys know I’m being completely transparent with you. Even when I make mistakes - no - especially when I make mistakes.
In any case… today’s groan-worthy headline is inspired by the release of Supreme’s coveted Spring/Summer collection and the groan-worthy mass of kooks that event attracts. Looks like that whole “dress like a skater” trend isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
The crowd outside for the release of Supreme’s spring collection, scanning the shelves for anything with a box logo on it. For the record, this photo was taken around 7:30pm, a half-hour after Supreme closes. Time to camp out for Friday’s restock…
Fuck it, Ima start dressing like a longboarder instead. Does anybody wanna hook me up with a pair of plaid shorts, some completely inappropriate footwear, and a couple of those free t-shirts you get in college? You know, the ones they bribe you with when you go to stupid “community-building” events and shit like that? Actually, never mind. I’m not sure longboarders even wear shirts, now that I think about it.
Nonetheless, as an actual, real, live skater, and one who considered Supreme the paragon of New York City skate style when I was but a wee boy, it’s hard not to get annoyed when you see hundreds of oblivious goons decked out in pristine Supreme uniforms lining Lafayette Street every time some new merchandise drops. You know, if these kids pursued a creative endeavor with even a fraction of the amount of passion they put into pursuing expensive, cool-guy clothing, they’d probably be cool enough that they wouldn’t even need to pursue expensive, cool-guy clothing anymore to be perceived as cool. Just a thought. I know, I know, thinking is bad. I just had a lot of time to ponder these sorts of things while I was waiting in line at Supreme yesterday
Tirade over. And this photo has nothing to do with the rest of this post, except for the fact that I took it on the way home yesterday. But fuck it. Buttfuck it? Weird. Taking decent photos on the train proves ever difficult, taking not-so-good ones that are, nonetheless, visually interesting is considerably easier. Well, anyway, at least now I can say the photo wasn’t the most off-track this post got…
Just a quick update today to let you know I’m still alive. No, I only feel like I’m dying inside. But nobody likes a whiner, and hey, death ain’t so bad anyway. In fact, pop culture teaches us that death’s kinda cool! So really, I… I feel cool! And why shouldn’t I?
That dusty thing there, that weird remnant of another time, is — I believe — an old cigarette vending machine. A remnant from a time when people really thought death was cool, no doubt. My building has one of these, I suppose, because it too is old and dusty. Old and dusty, as I shall be, when I am finally dead- I mean, cool
The All Seeing Eye in the Pie knows my deepest, darkest secret: I’m hungry.
Surely, whatever foodstuff you eat for lunch today can only hope to be reincarnated as a pizza in its next stage of existence. And if you happen to actually eat pizza for lunch, then that pizza can only hope to one day be reincarnated as better pizza. In my optimistic view of the universe, pizza’s potential to be good extends on toward infinity — I pray to god every night that I never meet the best pizza ever created, as from then on my life will amount to little more than a series of disappointments. There will be nothing left to see, nothing left to achieve. My purpose for living will have at once been realized and destroyed.
It’s safe to say that were it not for pizza, I would not be the man I am today… which is to say, an overgrown teenager with a gut.
So let’s hear it for pizza! The tastiest vegetable that isn’t actually a vegetable, but kind of is anyway, because our culture has become a parody of itself.
I’m a bit hesitant to jump the gun when it comes to meteorological issues in general, since even the guys paid to predict this shit usually get it wrong, but with 58-degree-temperatures tentatively scheduled for later this week and February quickly approaching its abrupt end, “real winter” is looking like less and less of a possibility this year. Is it a sign of the end times? Who fucking cares! If the weather’s going to be this mild in hell, I’ll book my ticket in advance.
Nonetheless, last Saturday saw bitter, merciless wind and even a passing snow squall — perhaps a gentle warning that winter’s still got it, and maybe we shouldn’t push our luck. Rather, we should push our skateboards and enjoy the snow-free streets while we can. And who knows, we might just end up pushing straight on to spring.
The best part of a snowy, winter weekend night? The thought of heading home to a cold beer, oddly enough.
It occurred to me around this time that taking the long way home may have been a poor choice.
Nonetheless, walking through Prospect Park late at night is great if you, like me, wish your daily commute looked a little bit more like the Elven-outpost of Rivendell.
Magical as the view may have been, my fingers, numb from the biting wind, were turning into clumsy, bloated sausages by the minute. It was definitely time to head home and fill my blood with the warmth of an mildly alcoholic buzz.
Figured I’d put up a few flicks since it was kind of dedsville around here towards the end of the week, and it’s a Saturday and I’ve got nothing better to do so… yeah… here’s my last resort. I’m so bored I’m actually updating my blog. Just kidding, I love you Dedleg. Yes, that’s right, I love me. You should love me, too.
Some graffiti artists work in ink, some in paint, some in… a harder medium.…
Utah catching permanent tags, son.
Brew, for two, please.
Fill-ins are nice and all, but bathroom wall art is really the purest form of street art. Even if it’s not, uh, actually on the street, but whatever. It’s not all pee pee and poo poo talk, and drawings of weiners and vaginas, and “you’re gay” this and “call this guy’s mom for a good time” that. I mean, it is all those things, but there’s so much more. There’s some real insightful shit to be found in bathrooms the world over, and I don’t think it’s any coincidence that I just happen to be the most insightful while I’m shitting.
After Apple releases Mountain Lion, then what? Sabretooth Tiger? Radioactive Werecat? Thundercat? Fuck it, how about just Snarf?
Look at him there, like a statue of a Greek god. A true champion for the Olympians of our time — consumer electronics. It’s perfect.