Brunch in Manhattan

New York, New York is one big, complex, endless dance that is completely improvised. The streets and avenues run the dance floor bustling with juking taxis and jiving pedestrians. Every traffic signal, every car horn, every flashing billboard, every neon sign, every jaywalker, every “fuck you” and “fuck me” and “I love you, you goddamn cheating son of a bitch” move to the rhythm of this city’s beating heart. There is a tourist for every New Yorker, and a New Yorker for every pigeon. Well, more like every 12 pigeons. Those fuckers are everywhere– I mean seriously, if an alien were to observe the dominant organisms of NYC, it would put them in this hierarchy: 1. Cars

2. Pigeons

3. Jews

4. Everyone Else

It’s a marvel that everyone hasn’t murdered each other with all this shoulder to shoulder, bumpin’ and grindin’, humpin’ and kissin’, cryin’ and sweatin’, laughin’ and scootin’, slappin’ and pickpocketin’ and dancin’ madness. It could make a grown man cry. And it does. Seriously, find the nearest homeless man and hand him your whole wallet and see the waterworks. Either he cries or he’ll shank you with a sharpened spoon he used to smoke crack. Either way it’s a win-win, for him at least– he gets a shitload of money to buy more crack in either outcome.

So bring all your weary and your merry men and women and other genders that are haphazardly slapped onto half the bathrooms here, for this city has a place for everyone, from the Wall Street Execs to the Struggling Actress/Waitress to the Hand Holding Annoying Couple to the Wheelchair Bound Cerebral Palsy Man Just Trying to Get a Few Bucks By Playing a Broken Fiddle So He Can Make It to the Other Side of Town Where He Sleep Under A Different Bridge Tonight. Either way, every one in New York, New York is a New Yorker.

And so the dance goes on.


circuit breakers

Beef cats ride the elephants painted as dragons into deeper tunnels on the Kraft cheese moon that orbits the crumbling hump of tiger temples echoing the hearty hurrahs of pharaohs nonexistent whom once thought of flying on the backs of shell-less turtles but were instead eaten by the snakes hidden behind their own lips– only now can the sheep-fish run free to die all over again.

I’ll be waiting for them in my rocket ship.


To Whom It May Concern…

I wrote this “Artist Statement” for a digital photography class in my school.  This is the last time I will be in this class, so I went all out on it and threw as much donkey shit as Mr. Tickles could muster at the screen.  Enjoy.

    Art has no functional purpose in society. Any civilization could survive without art, and may actually could progress further without it. The only purpose I find in art is a human purpose. Art can connect a million minds to one and spur new ideas, new perspectives, and even revolutions. It is an unspoken communication of emotions that just might make the world join hands and sing Kum-Bay-Yah. There is a certain power within art and all of its apostles. I find this power to be my intrinsic motivation in life– an eternal flame. To create, no matter what form, keeps my mind open and my heart singing. I do not need art to live, but in need it to be happy. I believe art can change the world. Everyday we hear about who killed who, what country has collapsed, how many people are kidnapped, how many people are sick– we are all dying. This mortality we must live hangs over my head like cloud of soot and empty lightning. I have had thoughts of suicide because of this. For a while I had lost all hope, and the only thing I could think of was dying. Eventually I had to make a choice: die or push on. Seeing that you’re reading this means I chose the latter, and I must say I am much glad I did. When we lose hope, then all is lost. Death is everywhere. It can only be dissipated by one emotion: love. Now when I say love, I mean all forms of love: romantic, plutonic, family, internal, external, whatever. Life’s entire purpose is to feel. What are dollar signs, trophies, conquered lands, or any achievements without feeling happy– without feeling the hearts of the species we all belong to? That’s why I live– to feel the love. If I can feel the love from others and from myself, I can find the will to live– the will to create a better day– the will to hope. Love is what inspires me. My photography, in this class, is not at all serious. Most of it I can hardly understand myself. It simply makes me feel good, and even laugh a little. I only hope that when I put Ellen Degeneres’s head on a hippo with a dancing pickle riding a rainbow in the background that someone may feel a little better, and even laugh a little. I honestly couldn’t tell you how I come up with my shizznit photos. I can only guess that I pick out objects in my mind that are the most attractive visually, comedically, or conceptually. The art I make is simply an expression of my emotions towards what I desire. The one thing I desire most is to feel good. Seeing a T-Rex ride a flying unicycle into a piranha hurricane whilst singing “Come On, Eileen” gives me a tingly feeling inside that I call “good.” And since I burn only for that good feeling, I can say that my art means everything to me.



Spring Break

the righteous gurus of topical rain forests flaunt their precious heart valves with the bravado of warriors returning from the battle of swordfish dragons that swore their allegiance to the procrastinating beluga whales of French Canada where fat kids dressed as cockatoo and lumberjacks that cry glittering rainbow tears into rusty cans (slapped with lust!) of gold and then sing the songs of old ice cream men that speed by little children eagerly waiting with dollars crumpled in hands now faltering with heart fallen crab cake eyes.  Porpoise.


Mr. Toots

for those who dont like peaches they seem like little fuzzy beetles without the shell because the whale birds dont know that the boats are coming for them and the snakes are singing the flute-bear’s ballad that says all ferrets should be ostrichized for the mass gifting of small blenders made of stone given to badgers with wings slicing clouds and air-raiding tortoise-tank military bathrooms so that the electric guitars may elicit the revolution of sword people since their homeworld was destroyed by golden-SOLO-cups brimming with the puppies of vengeance and infernapes so we are all blessed to be going down in such a colorful Armageddon.Image


This is chrapp.
No, this is awesum.
Tis be saddnesh.
No, it be happyness.
Why, I feel tiurd.
No, I am envigoraited.
Wait, is that angurr?
No, I think it’s tenassity.
Ugh! All is so Uckley.
No, still there be beauty.
Ha ha ha! Ensanitie.
No, perfect insanity.
Look! There goes hate.
No, there is still love.

You reek, ah!