Whaddya say? Let's WING IT!
“Ivan! Where are you?”
THAT is a good question, Natasha, when regarded metaphorically. In relative space-time, I’m in the basic NYC area—take your standard 50-megaton Hydrogen Bomb, and using the Empire State Building as Ground Zero (a la Blackie in Fail-Safe), you’d vaporize me along with the rest of Manhattan.
But where is my spirit, my drive, my energy aimed? Kinda animalistic in that I’m in total job hunt mode—and I still whip myself for not doing enough.
BASTA! I’m not letting this turn into “Fear & Self-Loathing in Hyperspace”—
Let’s talk about T-shirts and collages!
THE FEAR has planted its big old self into my life, and there’s only one thing that will get rid of it:
MONEY! Got any extra lying around? Where’s Guy Grand when you need him? Why wasn’t the utter and total pursuit of filthy lucre not my raison d'être when I was younger?
But brief joys can be found at our own fingertips… Like these keeee-RAY-zee designs and collages surrounding this excessive verbiage? I made ’em! Taught myself Paint 3D and some of the Gimp system (yeah, I know, rah-rah: big deal), and as I mentioned the last time I posted, I’ve been turning them into T-shirts!
Read on, Macduff!
So thanks to the awesome fellows at Maximum Graphics (on Amsterdam Avenue), I started creating my own shirts.
This is my roundabout, ranting Leftie armchair quarterback way to look at the Invasion of the Maniacs in Washington, D.C. this past week. I’m hoping for the best (round up all the Fascist and bring back the firing squad—
said the man complaining about fascists), but not expecting much of anything.
And Damn it! Don’t they know they’re fucking up the stock market! That makes me pissed!
I really want to be impressed, I want to see politicos acting like they mean it, I want to see asses get kicked and names taken, I want the forces of good to overcome, I want redemption for my goddamn patience!
There’s so much I want to see in the wake of this Grand Shriek of the Batshit Crazies…but I’m not holding my breath….
Maybe the days will stop blurring into one another, maybe a center will hold, maybe we will get ourselves a new prescription for our third-eye-glasses…
“…[B]y just about any measure, 2020 was a clusterfuck inside a shit sandwich covered in stupid sauce.”
That pithy and succinct description of the 365 days from January 1, 2020, to December 31, 2020 (actually January 20, 2021—don’t be coy; you know what we’re talking about) comes to us from the fab political blogger Rude Pundit. He’s worth bookmarking!
“I’m gonna get twenty-twenty on your ass!”
“Our relationship totes went twenty-twenty; she even took the dog!”
“Five-Oh is twenty-twenty twenty-four-seven!”
“Blowtorches and vice grips on the testicles? How deliciously twenty-twenty …”
If a movie has an atomic bomb explode, and mutants appear, everyone knows the film is science fiction. But if a film has generals and soldiers trying to stop an atomic war, whether they succeed or fail, if the film stays in the realm of the realistic, viewers hardly consider it SF. But it is! (Especially if a doomsday machine is somehow involved…)