Well that explains the gay cowboy in all those books...

O' Bi - Curious George, we can only wonder at what new shennigans you'll get yourself into next.

Art Break: Andrew Bawidamann

Bad Habit


Captain


Death From Above

Check out his site here

It's Friday Afternoon...

The Meaning of Life
May 26th, 2006
~Rob M.


It's Friday afternoon and the Wild Man of Gallows City has been drunk since he's woken up. To be fair though he's only been up for a little over an hour. He would have slept in later in fact had he not been scraped out of his percocet induced coma by the insistent beeping of a school bus across the street from him. This was followed by the monkey house chattering of the children who were more than exuberant to hit the shores of their weekend. The Wild Man attempts to open his bedroom window to scream at the children but finds the frame is stuck with dried paint. He immediately grabs the nearest object at hand (a mud speckled combat boot that was under his pillow) and proceeds to smash the glass from the window. He then thrusts his head out and begins verbally assailing the children marshalled across the street from him.

"Lissen up you monstrous little turds, because i'm only going to say this once... you have nothing to laugh about! Your lives are a scam! A con job! Pure unadulterated bullshit! You're being bred to be little more than mindless consumers and cannon fodder for the Gulf War Four!" He ducked his head back in, scratched the crumbs out of his beard in meditation and stuck his head back out the window again, "Oh and your mommy lied to you.... I'm your real daddy!!!"

The chorus of screaming children left a smile on the face of the Wild Man of Gallows City. He sauntered out of bed, scratching the bad places under his boxers and made his way to the bathroom. He brushed his teeth with baking soda and gin in front of an acrylic painting of himself he used as a mirror. He then proceeded to make himself breakfast: First he measured out a small glass of bourbon. He placed two ice cubes in. Stirred in some club soda. Then immediately dumped said glass into the soil of a potted plant that was now (according to a recent CDC expedition into his home) a 'Zombie Fern'. The Zombie Fern released a telepathic whimper and begged the Wild Man to 'Kill me. Kill me now!'. Unfortunately the Wild Man doesn't speak fern. He downs the remainder of the bottle in one long gulp, that spilt over his cheeks and dripped down his shag carpeted chest. He then washed it down with a box of Coco-Crispys chaser.

He then stumbled into his living room, which resembled the lair of a mad scientist, had the mad scientist decided to live in a squat house rather than ohhh I don't know... an underground cavern or an anthropomorphically shaped island of some kind maybe. He fired up the net and proceeded to surf for porn sites for awhile, finally settling on one that specialized in robot-on-woman love. After that he then proceeded to write hate mail to local theater critics for reasons even I dare not speculate the origins of.

"Enough!" He shouted to no one in paticular, "My balls grow heavy with the ghost of love!" which even I, the author of this sad little splice of low-life, must confess to having no earthly idea what that possibly meant!

Keep in mind though that the Wild Man of Gallows City is not just another bohemian with a grudge, trying to front a Bukowski routine on unsuspecting Agnes Scott Humanitarian Majors! No sir, he's the real deal. He's a dying breed of artist - the artist that actually produces a body of work rather than shitting out some warmed over post structuralist bullshit on a gallery wall. He's from Karmafornia. He's a disciple of forgotten Gods who would've made Pan blush and Kali get wet behind the severed heads! He's a man whose skeletons have come out of the closet and promptly fled to safer burial grounds. His body smells like leather jackets in the rain and his hair is a savage white mans afro, where buried in the layers of curls, lies three joints he hid there roughly a month ago and has forgotten about since.

He steps outside to the back yard, plucking a fresh bottle of bourbon off the kitchen counter which had recently became it's own country since a bloodless coup d'tat of sink bugs won the revolution last week. Viva las Coocaroocha baby! He vampire shrieks at the sun that hits his eyes. He puts on a pair of industrial welding goggles and takes a seat at a rusted deck chair. In front of him are propped up frames filled with photographs of the city. They range from different periods of Terminus history. They are stacked one in front of the other. Behind them all is a framed empty canvas. He scratches his beard thoughtfully, picks up his pump action shotgun from under the chair and loads in 'the ammo'. These are specially designed shells he has filled with various shades of paint and broken glass. He pumps a round into the chamber. Aims at a digitally manipulated photo of a future highrise and blasts it.

As predicted the shot penetrates the domino row of enlarged photos and hits the canvas in a mixture of splattered reds & burnt fragments of the damaged pictures the shot pierced. He does this eight or twelve times. No one complains. The law don't do Gallows City, in fact the Wild Man is the law. But right now he's an artist! He gets up. He examines the canvas. The effect is satisfactory. The globs of photograph floating on the splashes of crimson cheers him up. He dubs the painting - "Menstrual Envy". He scratches his belly. He burps. He makes his way inside. It's been a rough day so far. If he was going to make the show tonight he'd need a nap first.

He finds a nice pile of dirty clothes in the hallway. He falls face first into it, letting the vaguely radioactive mound of socks lull him into a quick power nap.

This has been a Friday afternoon in Gallows City, oh and how's your day been?


"Don't forget to..."
May 26th, 2006
Rob M.