Similarities End Here.
"First There Is A Mountain, Then There Is No Mountain, Then There Is." Life is something like that. At one point, you did not exist. Now you do. At one point in the future, you will cease to exist. We need these reminders. Without them we get drunk on our own ambition, ambitions to buy new curtains for our colorblind kingdoms.
Evolution grabs us, from Wext's Neanderthal Recluse above to LaBrona's masterful family of thieves on the left. Human expression is what counts here; after it IS humans who get into all this trouble. All this trouble on the train tracks; all this trouble we take the time to document. All this trouble with spray-cans and "private property".
This trouble is made into "art". This trouble we celebrate and vindicate. This trouble we build an entire culture, language, music, marriage rights, on top of.
I like this kind of trouble.
I get into this kind of trouble all the time.
Cure - RC leaves us on the right, a somber reminder of the "ills of the working class". One could have a drink and ponder this. Or one could simply watch the hockey game and go to bed.
It's your call, Chester. As always, as always. Ain't nobody else gonna shine yo' shoes. What's left of the "working class" after work, is not much. Booze. Dinner. Sex. Slumping death-like in front of psychological gibberish rendered by David Letterman, or sanitized baby-food from CNN: it makes no difference. You sacrificed another day, just to die again tomorrow.
Sorry, we can't go nowhere without Randy Cobb. No one really knows who Randy is, but everybody cares. We care because we see ourselves in this dismal caricature. Seems to be the geeky kid who didn't fit in anywhere and finally committed suicide when no one was looking. Or grew up to be a parcel-pusher at a liquor store warehouse. No one knows; no one cares.
Working class turned to drugs, working class with bad ambitions in suburban decay. We wish it could be cheerier and brighter. We wish Disneyland was on instead of CNN's masturbated version of yet another Middle Eastern war.
It's a puzzling bit of sadness, the clown-faces, disturbed ghosts, angry Santa's. If one could renounce one's little rented room for a day and journey into the clouds, and look down from the freedom of a bird, what would we see?
Remove our bodies from the endless plights of "cops and robbers" for a day, for an instant. Look. See. What do you find? Sad, frightening, empty, angry, lonely, disturbed. The melancholy voices of mankind. A disheveled orchestra, a cacophony of bittersweet tributes to the labyrinth we call "home".
This gloomy white monster above is saying "hello", but would you want to enter his friendly house?
"Too much like Hallowe'en, too many tricks, too little treats". George is skiing on the right. George is decidedly "happy" despite his frailty on the rollercoaster of life. It's a trick of the modern senses: everything is right when you go to the circus and buy your rollercoaster ticket. Everything is right until that first hill, that first bottomless gravity pit, that first screaming of those around you losing life and limb.
But we smile for the cameras, because cameras don't lie.
Well, I could use another round. Take away the pain so I can face another "working-man's day". Phil on the left uses herbal deodorant, but that isn't the cause of his comedy. He's simply got the right brain chemistry to make it work. A delicate balance of correct neurotransmitters has blessed Flying Phil with a life-time of Irish Humor and German Beer.
This little rendering on the right is thoroughly interesting, manically obscene, and likely influenced by chemicals that fuck with neurotransmitters.
But that's okay.
Because it's now lodged in our cerebellum and it's digging in for the winter. A grinning skull containing deserts and sombreros to name a few. There's hidden landscapes in this artists hallway that could be the cause of parental concern.
Winnipeg endows us with a final tribute to the mangling of the human soul. Kind of a Buddha with an enlarged frontal lobe.
Thinking too much? Or drinking too much?
At the end of the day, it's your own money in your own pocket. There's snipers on the rooftop, but their guns are nothing compared to the bomb in this guy's head if it blows up. Too much pressure, one might guess? Inflate to 30 pounds, but no further. Humanity is getting stretched to its limits. How many "George Bushes" does it take to ruin one perfectly-fine planet?
We leave with you Gautama Buddha, one of the many versions, this one absconded from the Modern Museum of Man.
We compare his countenance, his demeanor, to the many angry and bewildered "tagging" personas that we've encountered.
We think to ourselves, "what's wrong with this picture?"
Or maybe it's more like, "what's RIGHT with this picture...?"
As always, we leave the answer in the blank pages of your own journal, oh brave and wondrous soul!