Friday, February 13, 2004
But hold that thought for a minute, I have to fax something.
Well today is the anniversary of the birth of Ernst Fuchs, who besides having the coolest last name of all time except possibly Focker, was the “fantastic realist artist” most famous for his painting “Griffin and Dragon.” He was born in 1930 in Vienna, Austria.
And I have no fucking idea who he is.
I learned this tidbit from my HR Giger calendar, by the way, Mr. Giger’s birthday was last week Thursday and I forgot to mention it. I’ll probably burn in hell now.
Maybe I’ll try to find a picture of this griffin dragon dillio.
You know that the above paragraphs were so interesting that there may have been a danger of your whole body exploding in excitement & wonder. Sorry in advance. Or after the fact. Ummm, whichever is more appropriate in the instance of umm, the jurk storr parameters you’re currently operating under.
Hmmm, the innernet must be magic, cuz I found a bunch of shit. Ernst Fuchs was not a man to be fucked with, he was like, pretty down with it. he even kicked it with Salvadore Dali (pictured) which is like, gangsta to the degree of 83 astromedallions. Fuchs is the one with the little hat.
Click here to learn all about him. you know you want to. Come on, it's his birthday for Chrissake.
Well, I’m hitting a brick wall with finding the griffin dragon pic, but here’s a painting he did called “Christ before Pilate”
I picked this one because that very subject (Jesus and Pontius Pilate) was discussed in a very interesting set of thoughts I read the other day which you can see by clicking here.
They were responding to this post, the triumphant return of Sterling Fassbinder.
Whether it was from the recesses of a medulla oblongata or the towering mountains of Mannhattan is yet to be determined, at least in my mind.
Ok that’s it for now.
PS: GO BEARS
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Read this. Press on the upcoming batman movie. Looks promising.
I’m a little concerned with the choice of Michael Caine as Alfred the butler. I mean, Caine’s an incredible actor, fa sho, but I gots this fear that he’ll push it too hard or steal the scenes or, shit, hmm, I don’t know, it’ll prolly be ok.
Thank god they’re promising no nipples on the bat suit this time. That really bothered me. Like, a lot. Fukn bats and the crew’s costumes looked so heavy in the last one it was like how the fuck can they even walk around in that shit. stupid. And Arnold. And Uma. Crap. Megacrap.
This one’ll be better.
Ok I’m obsessing. Gimme a break. look at my name? You don’t think I care about reppin batman properly? Puh-leeze. Yah I’m a dork. Deal with it, contingent. Dillio frillio.
Oh yah! This is a pretty damn cool blog with this dude that like goes exploring through the abandoned skyscrapers of Detroit. I read almost like the whole thing and then clicked on this link which has a lot more shizzle about the ruinous remains of the D.
And that’s all well and good and very legit and the whole nine yards, but if you ask me for my money the most chronickest product with Detroit roots and affiliations in this day & age my brothers and sisters can be found by clicking here.
Apologies to Barry Sanders and Eminem but one retired too early and the other is for some reason starting to grate on my nerves. Drop another album, bangin, minus all these newfound bling blangin celebrity preconceptions and wherewithalls, and then we'll talk.
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
I mean totally and all kines shit is on the line with this shit, don’t fukn playa hate and then refuse to propogate that shit ain’t cool on this block or any other within the twelve contingents.
Did I say contingent?
So yah fuck all that other bullshit and know that the strait up real shit is always getting set to bubble up out the surface, I mean reality will strait up spank you in your bulbous ass if you don’t know that the seventh squadrant is railing up mad lines of knowledge for fresh delivery through your back door on the first & third of the month.
there’s a lot of different ways to start off in the game. Many varied kines of motivations which can bend shape mold any one of us on this planet or even mars into so many multiple reflections of ourselves that one can get dizzy even contemplating it.
for example imagine if at the moment of your birth you had looked left instead of right. You might have seen an image of some deformed old man with like this oozing puss secreting out of his nose, rather than the doe-eyed nurse calmly looking down at you with care and affection.
On one hand is the argument that you’d be scarred for life, on the other is that a newborn babe doesn’t really know that the man is ugly by society’s standards. This relic of another time, haphazardly wandering the halls of the hospital and somehow stumbling drunkenly into the delivery room, may appear to be the most beautiful thing in the world to a being that has yet to experience anything outside the womb.
On the third hand, the tail if you will, is for the sticklers who might say that a child strait out the gate has its eyes closed anyways. Well thanks, suckers, for just blowing my whole point across the desert sand. Be that as it may, I’d like to think that the relevant point here, that, um, shit I lost it, but whatever it was, in my opinion it still stands. Tall and strong, like a redwood.
If that’s considered one the strong tall trees, in comparison to others that is. I mean, prolly an oak or like a pine tree may be considered more sturdy. Fuck if I know, whut the fuck am I some kind of like tree-ologist or some shit? shit.
Monday, February 09, 2004
There’s really not THAT much to say, but fuck it, I’ll come up with some shit for y’all. Fuckn don’t even ever forget that when I say something, it’s super meaningful. Well, either that, or it don’t mean jack shit. but I try not to vagarate from those entities. Unless it’s somewhere in the middle. I know I’m going out on a limb by saying something like that, but fuck it, you’re dealing with that kind of committed individual, the kind of cat that will lay it all on the line for you like a fuckn whatever the fuck they call it.
Dang a nice cold beer would go down like tastey cakes right now. But what is it, like 8 am? Not necessarily the best time to be getting faded, but fuck, it’s blankey blank in stankety crank, ya right? Ya right. Nah, just playin with your emotions on that front, don’t stress, I’m not up in this bizzle like drankin on Schlitz ice or any shit like way shape form styles, at least not for another half hour or some shit like that.
One of the damn things that gets me going is that one thing that I can never remember. That simple fact in itself should be some form of an indicator that I should just let it go, but that just ain’t in my nature, ya dig? Like, if there’s some nugget of wisdom trying to extricate itself from my noggin, I just can’t rest, pick and shovel in hand, until said chunk is unearthed and revealed for whatever it may be, good, bad, or ugly. Cuz we’ve all got like way more than three personalities if you ever actually take inventory. I suggest it for one of these days, maybe a rainy one, when you’ve got nothing to do except pick lint out your belly button and watch the brain emaciator, ie that which sucks all life from your knowledge and builds up mad plaque in between the neural alleyways.