buttons!!! are love.

Don't wanna form complete sentences lately. Don't like them. Too fascist, fragments seem more democratic. Made these for my band, (Stop worrying and) Love the Bomb. We're distributing them at our show on Saturday...

Originally I wanted the olive branch to be burning behind the dove. Not enough room.

Tribute to my Grandpappy, who was a B52 pilot in WWII, back before they had power steering. True story. He told his XO to F off one night, after something like a week of no sleep bombing the shit outta Belgium. Guess that's where I get it. He got his boys the day off though.

Tribute to my somewhat cripping obsession with apocalyptic imagery, zombie warfare and desensitizing video games. Note: The N Bomb in back with the RPG.

Here's how they started out


Excerpt from The Dead Romantics...

I'm going through the shoe box now. I haven't opened it in a while and there's always that fucking black book with the stupid fucking Companion Cube sticker sitting there. I want to read it, but I can't seem to open it. My brain won't let me. I'll come back in a few hours after these things kick in and try again.

(4 hours later.)

Alright, I'm ready. I know exactly which date to look for. This seems wrong. I don't know if I should. Oh well, I gotta do it sometime.

I really liked his handwriting.

February 14th, 1999

She left me a note on my car. At first I thought it was a parking ticket, since it was on this folded up pink paper. Plus I'm hungover as shit. Whatever. I said Oh fuck out loud, but no one was around so I didn't look too weird. But yeah, it was way fucking worse than a parking ticket.

'Hey Castor,
I'm going to get our abortion tonight. Wanna throw down?

Oh. No. How does she know what my car looks like. I started to panic. This instant paranoia. Every building grew eyes, each window like a pack of insects preparing to storm. Baby? What the FUCK! I never thought, I don't know what I thought. But I never thought that.

Oh God.

I can't decide what disturbs me more, the situation or her reaction. I know this girl. She's not playing around. I drove straight to---

The rest of it is scratched out. I can't read it. Maybe if I get one of those CSI kits I've seen at the Science Museum. Could probably like, use some fancy powder or some shit and get an outline.

I shouldn't be laughing about this, but the other option isn't as pleasant.

I can almost see a name but, damn, he sure didn't want anyone to know.

It doesn't fucking matter anyway. We all know where he went.


You are being watched...

...Or so we'd like to think?

Another shameful disclosure. I have to admit I am fascinated by the reality TV craze. Craze isn't exactly the right word. This sludge, this crap-- it's been around long enough to be considered a staple in pop culture. 51 Minds, the production company behind such masterpieces like Flavor of Love, have come up with such a horrifically brilliant formula. They create these "celeb-reality stars" by the dozen, and each specimen has potential to spawn into a spin-off of it's own.

There is such a strange relationship these specimens have to the camera and the audience. There's an artificial haze surrounding all the events that partake, the confessionals, the over-the-top debauchery and the escalating violence. I don't know why any of these shows even pretend to hold any noble schemes. By being cast on a reality show, people objectify their identities. And it's almost a celebrated stature. Are we supposed to desire this kind of attention?

My theory is that we are being primed to welcome this 24 hour surveillance, through increasing amounts of mind numbingly dumbed down garbage, whitewashing our minds of any free thought or disobedience. We are encouraged to document everything digitally, upload our experiences into public view, use unlimited text message plans to send private information over the network. Our cultural value is determined by the amount of hits we recieve, or subscribers or friends-- is connectivity power, or is it enslavement?

I see a mix of Fahrenheit 451's televised oppression with doses of 1984. I remember in a Crit Theory class, the professor asked us if we cared that there are security cameras everywhere. No one seemed passionate, claiming to value safety over privacy. Another student went further to say that people would rather be safe than free. I feel like breaking my cellphone. (Again.)

I should have put more eyes on this, but I got lazy.

In music news, everyone should go see Phil Collins' Beat, Gentlemen Jesse, Deep Sleep show at the Talking Head on Feb 2nd. Looks like someone appreciates Photoshop's cutout filter as much as I do...

Of course it's a Monday. It's no suprise at this point that any bands I like would rather play anywhere else on a weekend. But if you're into well written, feel good powerpop, check them out.


I has a speedball pen!

And I don't know how to use it.

Here were a couple early attempts before I spilled ink all over my sketchbook.

For some reason blogger didn't post thumbnails, and I'm too tired to fix it right now, so click on the scribbles to see full size.

Crucial Doodling. Ink vs. sketchbook.

The Bandit. Inspired by Fallout 3.

More Scribbling that turned into a band logo. Maybe we'll use it for the cassette tape demo insert.

Part of an ongoing "rant"/ novel about two beings from different dimensions coexisting in the same space.