Through April and May 2015 I lived in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Most who know me know I’m all into hip hop/rap, love a good freestyle – still saving up to get T.H.U.G L.I.F.E tattooed across my stomach. So lucky star for me, there was a cool shit dive bar two steps from my apartment and on the night we rolled in, they homies was (gangsta talk, ya feel) showcasing a round robin of rappers, mixed and diverse (as in some of them were White … er of Caucasian, Anglo Saxon looking, non-African American, non – ..er … you know ethnic … let’s not do this here, maybe later on another topic) gents … and they had real talent. Small space, big crowd, mega beats, rainbow flashy lights and a screen playing some 70s porn (or porn from when it was the in thing for the chick to have a massive hairy bush).
It kicked off with some of it being great, after some drinks most of it was pure brilliance, at a much later point I saw all of it in 5D (like 3D but looks much closer), and then someone started blowing on an orchestra quality trumpet (was this person a hologram or real, who cares?). I became a witness to exceptional mastery and craft. Pay over a hundred bucks for a rah rah Broadway musical in Manhattan or pay hardly anything to take the grittier road off the sheeple grazing field … I pity the fool in this mad city who doesn’t know how to get get get it …
This instillation is the work of Pepon Osorio, a Puerto Rican artist. The cats are huge and imposing and looked quirkily cartoonish until I took in the whole scene with the gold OG baller medallions around their necks – once you do, it all starts to make too much sense.
‘ … These oversize domestic animals (their scale accentuated by the small table they sit on) may say something about the exaggerated role that our fears and denials play within our own imaginations.’
People like saying, saying through scribbling and pasting up thoughts, I’ve noticed in New York peeps particularly like doing this saying on city and council property (rebel ballers these Yanks, land of the free etc.). The ones I choose to capture are often just a short phrase, or even one word – relayed and positioned with intention, to show and not tell. A city of millions is also a massive pool of spontaneous brain transmissions and leakage branded throughout the city as everyone splits and rushes through the streets, tunnels and gutters. In one day I see so many sayings, an American friend asked me which ones I relate to and agree with the most – the ‘positive’ or ‘negative’, the ‘cynical’ or ‘uplifting’. I relate to being a real person so I also relate to the question itself being bullshit (sorry, but not sorry American friend). Do these ideas really have a set philosophical temperature? Are these notions rival separates – what, we pick a side and stick with it all gangland ride or die style till judgement day?
Consistency for mass produced goods is commerce, a person claiming it as their adopted state of mind is a liar.
I’ve both forgiven and revenge culled the shit out of those who’ve done me wrong.
I’ve both sidelined doubt and pride to fight on while other times I’ve folded and gotten shit faced when the odds were stacked up heavily against all my highest bets.
And I’ve craved and basked in the comfort of work security and then thought of fucking off doing the running man out the office door to be a pygmy nomad selling sexy dance to get by (‘eh, yoo wan sum boi?’). I never understood fully ascribing to militantly being an ‘optimist’ or ‘pessimist’, as a real person, is that possible? Just be honest. High, low, dark or light, joy, despair, loving life or willing death – perspectives and actions can dip along with the stages of life, when it’s hailing down shit pellets or when every egg is landing sunny side up – it’s all about the wisdom/vulnerability/resilience ratio at any time.
And remember for some, it can dip not because of where they’re at but because of what they have, so let them ride through that shit-storm even when all you see, no matter how hard you look, is all their eggs sunny side up.
As in I noticed the streets in this area are enticing you to become a drunk muthapickled drooling mummy with its endless rows of boards advertising Happy Hour … an hour so ‘happy happy good fanks’ it goes on for eight hours. If you have a hernia or just can’t afford to pay anyone to create you a new identity to escape your partner and kids etc., you can probably drink enough around a few blocks in this area on the cheap to dissolve your entire stomach, making you so wasted you’ll wake up looking like a lopsided mutant and have to go into hiding.
Someone’s always letting loose in the New York subway with that black marker. I’m not fully sure what ‘Your cells contain the universe’ means. Maybe it’s a statement about energy or that we’re all each within ourselves – enough, that all things as matter are inextricably linked and feed into each other in harmonious synthesis etc. I dunno son as these types of concepts don’t resonate with me. My observation is an overwhelming sense that many people feel that they’re far off from being enough, which is why they self-sabotage, regret, and/or just act like cunts.
When you read snap shot somethings, it usually only resonates if you agree and you’re able to actualise the sentiment from how you see others – confirmation bias rules it all fuckers. For myself, this subway message conveys a sense and state of peace that the Z-grade wiring and chemical orgy in my brain simply won’t allow. I think I get what it means but I don’t buy it. However, there was one sole person in my life that I sent this picture to directly because I knew she would get it and possibly does believe it. She has a sense of wonder and belief in the good graces of the universe that I have a misalignment with (I know, I know, how could you ever tell). But my disbelief doesn’t make noticing the words, taking the picture, and the act of sharing it any less sincere by me. And neither does my disbelief render the expression of the one who held the black marker any less true. The worth of things noticed, captured and shared doesn’t all start and end with me (or you) and thank fuck for that.
It was awhile ago but when it happened I was here …
And I’m still here (I’m everywhere – in the USA, in Australia, in your worst nightmares if you shit me) … here for whatever happens next … in the meanwhile here’s more of the Cheetos … and the Cheetos hat, plus some other pics:
Cos the Ching Chong Chup-Bowl don’t stop. No it never stops, riding off the flavour of the previous post, here’s a few snapshots of how the Choo Choo Ching Chong Chup-Bowl train just keeps on comin’ thru:
(Note: I can say Ching Chong cos I’m Ching Chong. If you have only the Ching or the Chong or neither, say it only if you like cigarette face burns & 3 fingers left on each hand in the morning. Ahhh the beauty of controversial racially inappropriate double standards – I’m onto it)
My dad baked a cake by mixing banana & tasty cheddar cheese together. He argued it was ‘cheesecake’ even though he used cheese meant for pizza. I was forced to eat it and then I gagged – not in a nightclub laneway ‘well I should keep on going cos the guy at the bar bought me a drink’ kind of way. But more in a ‘this is what a banana with a bacterial yeast infection tastes like’ kind of way. He might be trying to get this on the menu at Lucky Duck Chinese Restaurant. Keep on walking.
My dad plays ping pong every Sunday. He wears these shoes to Ping the Pong. I think my dad’s in a gang. And bright orange is their Wu Wong Tang gang bang colour. I need to look for chopsticks with p.i.m.p inscribed on the side with fake diamonds and hoes hiding in the rice storage bin to be sure. Meanwhile everyone beware. If you see and smell a Honda that’s using toilet freshener as car fragrance slowing rolling up beside you on the road – don’t try & be a hero when that ping pong bat points at you through the back window.
Dad bought this turbo massage chair. It’s compliance with health and safety standards is as questionable as the place of birth stated on his Australian passport. Sit in this chair for 20 minutes with the vibration settings on high and you’ll be circumcised – yes that includes you too ladies. It’s here to stay so I’ve decided I must de-sensitise myself to its power. To do this I will lay on it nightly … naked … face down …with a glass of wine … until it’s safe … hey don’t hate the player people, hate the manufacturer…
Dad installed this satellite on the roof. Communist Terrorist – Maybe. Gangster – Definitely. Check out the puffer vests below – rocked only by those feared in the hoods cos mum & dad are nothing but pure bad ass Chup-Bowl: