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I must be getting old because this three day weekend was devastating. In a good way. You kind of have to earn long weekends in reverse. You pay for them with that sizzling psychedelic haze the last day brings after getting too much sun and substance-abusing for three days straight. I feel kinda like this:

Scorched earth policy during Napoleon’s invasion of Russia - image via hardnewsinc.blogs.com

But it’s a good burn.

This was supposed to be a “quick one,” since I have a whole bunch of shit going on right now. And it of course it turned out not to be a “quick one” at all. Great.

Seriously though, I’m just going to give it to you mommy and daddy are getting a divorce style — I may have to scale back the posts a bit for the next few weeks. Never fear, for I will not be far from your thoughts, and I’ll still probably have something daily, but you see… I quit my job today, so like I said, I’ve got a whole bunch of shit going on right now.

Big dedleg shit going on too

Tentative title of Dedleg’s debut dance album: Sprain Monster. There are going to be costumes and shit. Fashion and spectacle. Currently accepting offers for cellphone and sunglasses sponsors.

Got my leg “electro-massaged” today. Overall, not nearly as unpleasant as getting massaged by electricity may sound. Still, it’s kind of like getting a charlie horse over and over again for 10 minutes straight. Is it helping? No idea.

They also gave the back of my leg an ultrasound, so maybe my knee is actually pregnant, not sprained? A whole baby in there would sure explain why it hurts so goddamned much.

Either way, after all of this, the various contortions they’ve been submitting my legs to, and a resume packed with sprain experience, I’m pretty convinced that the easiest way to cure a sprain is by never setting foot on a skateboard. But where’s the fun in that? Besides, getting injuries are a good excuse to get stoned and play video games, and that’s awesome.

Centuries ago, in a time marked by great darkness (to be clear, I’m talking about March here) I drew a few merit badges that reflected … well, to be honest, they didn’t really reflect much. I mostly just wanted to draw a bunch of Boy Scout looking shits but instead of focusing on stupid stuff like tying knots with the scoutmaster’s dick, opted for imagery involving skateboarding, alcohol, and cigarettes! So I guess they did reflect a certain sense of desperation — that whole “living to die” ethos that the chicks go nuts for these days.

At the time, I said I’d be drawing more of them, and smartly didn’t include any kind of time frame in which that promise would be fulfilled. Secretly, however, I intended to finish the rest of the batch within a week. So now, two months later, I finally kicked myself in the ass and got them done.

To be clear, I didn’t literally kick my ass over these — I don’t want you to think I was that serious about it, just in case these suck. And for the record, I can kick myself in the ass, quite literally, in case that happens to be something you’re willing to pay for.

A couple of weeks ago, I caught elusive stencil-maniac Banksy’s documentary (mockumentary?), Exit Through the Gift Shop. For those who don’t know, the film focuses on the considerably less elusive Thierry Guetta, and his ultimate rise as street artist / con man / delusional crazy person, Mr. Brainwash. And aside from inspiring me to write run-on sentences that read more like indecipherable code than blog post leads, it got me thinking about how derivative pop art is. By definition, it utilizes imagery from pop culture, which includes pop art — it’s an endless cycle of recycling the same symbol, each time in a barely new, but equally pointless way. For example, a fafillion artists have appropriated Andy Warhol’s iconic silkscreen prints of Marilyn Monroe. And now it’s a fafillion and one.

What better way to comment on artwork that is derivative of artwork that was derivative of pop culture, than by making a derivative parody of it? So, please no more Monroe. And no more metaphysical shit while we’re at it.

There’s plenty of iconic imagery out there, just begging to be beaten to death. Let’s finally give this horse a break.

Right after this, obviously.

From my laboratory in the castle east
To the master bedroom where the vampires feast
The ghouls all came from their humble abodes
To get a jolt from my electrodes 

This is perhaps a message that will resonate with many Mac owners. The fact of the matter is… MacBooks are, straight up, not meant to last. Like, not in any way — the hard drive goes, the CD drive goes, mine sounds like a little miniature tractor powering a carnival ride, the plastic all around the keyboard literally disintegrates, my battery doesn’t fit anymore because the shape of the laptop has warped, and they all turn kind of an unsavory yellowish gray. In two years.

The original hard drive in my iMac also failed, after two years exactly. See, say you’ve owned an Apple product for two years, guess what Apple was doing that whole time? Making new computers and shit! Shit that they really want you to buy! After all, it’s a pretty self-defeating business tactic to design a product that lasts forever, or in our blinged-out, stuff-crazy consumer culture approximately 5 years. If you’re an evil, blood-sucking corporation, that is.

Maybe I should print a really super limited number of these on shirts, like so few of them that they’re all gone before the cease-and-desist arrives.

Introducing the newest addition to every urban-dwelling 20-something’s uniform. I figure they’ll get really popular once the trend dies in a year or so in a “never forget” kind of way, you know?

I wanted to make sure my jump over the shark didn’t fall short, considering the disastrous implications. So I figured if I was going to do a cliche parody of an icon-turned-cliche, I might as well use cliche cool-guy tattoo lettering and pump it full of the most cliche pattern possible.

Damn it… I knew I should have given the heart some Wayfarers and a headband… anyway…

Admittedly, it’s hard to stand by flannel and plaid when every 13 year old girl in suburbia is wearing it. But it looks like flannel’s domination over hipstard fashion is finally waning, probably because it doesn’t look “poor” enough anymore. I hear burlap’s the next big thing. 2011 is going to be burlap everything — burlap shirts, burlap hats, even burlap thongs. And after that, steel wool.

It’s no stretch to say that I have a bit of a fixation when it comes to drawing the grim, ghoulish, and gross. And while the fiends in my newest drawing may be terrifying to some, scarier still are the real life monsters that inspired this cast of creatures. 

If you’re a size queen, you can click here for a larger version.

It should come as no surprise that goats are so often associated with the demonic, considering they have nightmare eyeballs capable of gazing into the apocalypse.

Goat eye - photo via webshots.com

Scariest of all, however, is this chance correlation I discovered while researching for my doodle. Observe how freakishly similar goats’ eyes are to octopus eyes — a fact that both amazes me and makes me want to round up all the goats and octopuses on Earth, stuff them in a rocket, and shoot it at a wall.

Octopus eye - photo by Matt Gieselman

Are these two animals, who seemingly couldn’t be more dissimilar, actually be long-lost relatives? All data is pointing towards one obvious conclusion: yes.

According to the scientistic geniuses at Listverse.com, these disturbing, evil eyes do have their advantages:

Goats have horizontal slits which are nearly rectangular when dilated. This gives goats vision covering 320 – 340 degrees; this means they can see virtually all around them without having to move (humans have vision covering 160 – 210 degrees). Consequently, animals with rectangular eyes can see better at night due to having larger pupils that can be closed more tightly during the day to restrict light. 

Excellent night vision would be helpful, now wouldn’t it… say, in the blackest depths of hell? Clearly, that is where these abominations made their happy home before settling into a career of terrorizing the mortal world. I think my work here is done.

I happened upon this article about art school and surviving as an artist today. This quote resonated particularly strongly:

“It’s hard to set aside time for art on a regular basis in this culture if you aren’t immediately getting money to do it,” says Arsem. “But to develop as an artist, you need to trust that it’s going to be worth it eventually.” 

What if “eventually” never comes? At what point do you hang up your brushes, as it were? Or does even considering the option make your art less valid? Probably… I don’t know… yeah, probably. But, I do know that blind faith can get you many places — however, not all of them are necessarily places you want to go.

And really, you should create art just because you feel compelled to. Nonetheless, that doesn’t mean some monies wouldn’t be nice.

Whenever you meet someone who doesn’t like music (and yes, they do exist), be on guard immediately. They’re probably a machine.

Anyway, that’s step one. Congratulations, you’re human. Then there’s a fucking… ahem, stairway to heaven’s number of steps in between liking music and liking good music. In fact, a diagram of that would probably look something like this:

Onward! All that text was merely an incredibly tangential intro to my latest doodle, which certainly ain’t no M. C. Escher fucked up staircase shit.

It only seemed appropriate to post some actual music in light of the rest of the post, and since we’re on the topic of noise now, I’d like to introduce you to Mux Mool. What I mean is, a lot of people hate electronic music, because it’s filled with bleeps and bloops and a whole bunch of noise. Nonetheless, without it, raves may have never existed, and that would have put the whole Ring Pop industry out of business — a catastrophic moment for the United States in the 90s, avoided thanks to the introduction of people making music with computers instead of actual musical instruments.

And Mux Mool is definitely into some computery shit. His debut full-length, Skulltaste, sounds kinda like what would happen if The Avalanches, J Dilla and a Super Nintendo had their very own Captain Planet, with a blacklight reactive costume.

That may not have sounded like a glowing recommendation depending on your tastes; regardless, I’ve had the taste of skull stuck in my head for weeks. It’s a great party mix — a hooky, psychedelic roller-coaster of an album packed with dense, brilliantly constructed material.