An Open Letter To Tits Roadkill Duchamp

You are not interesting or funny. A week old carcass scooped off the road with a snow shovel, sprinkled with organic garnish and served in a trailer is not a meal. It’s a misdemeanor. I am not opposed to eating meat, either. I will consume just about anything that has the misfortune of being below me on the food chain. I am just opposed to eating something whose time of death exceeds its time of refrigeration. And please stop calling yourself an artist. You are not. You are the annoying, alternative, Wiccan priestess, solstice-worshipping, patchouli-stink girl I sat next to in college who claimed to be an art major because you shit out 13 variations of the same Grateful Dead dancing bears painting in one semester. Real artists label themselves “artists”. Insecure girls who work full-time at Kenny Shoes and volunteer once a month at the community center teaching children art classes call themselves “Nomadic Shamanic Artists”.

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Sabbatical Off The Rails

Almost a year has passed since my last post on the MB. To say I have been focused on other things might be more of an understatement than when General Custer uttered, “Where did all these Indians come from?”

What have I been up to, you ask?

  • Making Babies. The wife and I are expecting a girl child at the end of March. I am studying my Disney princesses and learning how to braid hair.
  • Fathering The Boy. His obsessions with Spider-Man and trains are either legendary or emotionally damaging. He also has a penchant for stripping naked in the middle of the night and yelling at his stuffed animals.
  • Broz Design-ing. I have entered year three and may have to let go of some of my control issues and hire some help.

I am drinking copious amounts of coffee and occasionally sleeping. Every so often I will wipe the crust from eyes and emerge from the design bunker to kiss the wife, play a hockey game and have a whiskey.

I have been a creative juggernaut this past year. I will be uploading a smattering of essays in the coming months that I am hoping to piece together someday into a book. I am currently getting my Rembrandt on and painting a self-portrait. Finally, I am back posting to the MB once again. Bestiality links will be imminent.

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Link Goodness

  • Olympic gender-bending scandals.
  • A history of modern art in three paragraphs. Marcel Duchamp did change art forever. As for the Dadaists being radically opposed to rational thought? That does not make them punk rock. It just makes them rebellious.
  • Ted Kennedy is sleeping with Jesus. It has been a bad month for the Kennedys. I think Dennis Leary had it right: “They shot JFK, they shot RFK and when it came down to Ted they just said, ‘Leave him be. He will fuck it all up on his own.'”
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Ride, Demon Horse, Ride!

At the entrance to Denver International Airport (DIA), a lone sculpture stands amidst the backdrop of high prairie and the distant Rocky Mountain front range; Mesteno (or as I like to call it, Demon Horse). The sculpture is a polarizing fixture as its bright red eyes eerily glow out over Pena Boulevard (at dawn or dusk, the effect is particularly creepy) and most Coloradans despise the sight of it. I like the sculpture and enjoy the satanic evilness of it. Besides, how could I openly bash a sculpture that killed its own creator? I do not taunt Demon Horse. For he may come alive with the magical powers of hellfire and gallop across the prarie to claim my soul. Or, at the very least, just fall on top of me and sever one of my arteries.

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An Unemployed Artist’s Browser History

  • Punter stabbed by back-up punter.
  • Wikipedia for Bauhaus.
  • Rachel Bilson as Wonder Woman.
  • T-ball coach offers one of his players $25 to bean an autistic kid.
  • YouTube results for “hot chicks on LSD.”
  • Dwarf planet that caused Pluto’s downgrade named Eris after the Greek goddess of discord.
  • Jessica Biel: Kissing chicks with her meaty tongue.
  • Google results for “stabbing someone in the back of the head.”
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Chicago/Oregon: Epilogue

Highlights from my past two weeks of travel:

  • At the HOW Design Conference, I learned some new tricks, saw some awesome design work and ate deep-dish pizza and drank numerous beers with friend/former coworker Michael. I cannot wait to get back to work with renewed creative enthusiasm only to have it crushed in a matter of seconds when I am given four pages of copy and told to “make it work” on a one-sided direct mail postcard.
  • Caught a Cubs game at Wrigley Field. The future wife and I soon discovered that our alcohol tolerance is much higher in the Midwest that at altitude. I spent the entire game covered in sweat due to high humidity and a broken air conditioner on the El-Train ride out to the game that was packed butts to nuts.
  • Visited the Art Institute of Chicago and saw some amazing work (Picasso, an orgy of impressionism) and some atrocious work (minimalism and American Gothic). Best quote while looking at the Georgia O’Keeffe collection: “She is very vaginal.”
  • The future wife and I took a beautiful sunset architectural tour of Chicago.
  • Visited future in-laws in Eugene, Oregon. I found out that Eugene is almost identical to Boulder, minus the sex assaults, random rioting and the Flat Irons.
  • Animal House was filmed at the University of Oregon so the future wife’s cousin took us on the Animal House tour at U of O, showing us the infamous frat house (currently vacant) and the cafeteria where the food fight scene took place.
  • Drove up the Oregon coast on Highway 101 that is incredible for scenery, shitty for traffic and great for fried seafood joints.
  • Spent three days in Long Beach, Washington in the heart of Lewis and Clark Country. We did the tours of various Lewis and Clark outposts, forts and landings, learned that the proper pronunciation of Sacagawea is Sa-caca-we-ah and ate a cut of fresh fish the size of our heads in Oysterville, Washington.
  • The closest I got to the ocean was dipping my feet in the 42-degree water. The oceans surrounding the Columbia River are some of the roughest and most treacherous in the world. Mix that in with the fact they are as cold as an Eskimo’s vagina so swimming is not ideal (unless you are white trash parents laying out on towels “watching the kids play in the water” while smoking cigarettes).

Sidenote: After months of procrastination and toil, I finally got Broz Design up.

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How To Eat Pancakes While Tripping Balls

If you are thinking about taking LSD first consider this scenario:

You are sitting in a booth at the neighborhood IHOP and it is three in the morning. Patrons in the restaurant look like zombies from an all-night eatery of the damned. You are staring at the syrup rack because there is something “fucked up” going on with the strawberries. Your idiot friend is sitting across from you, cigarette hanging from his mouth with a two-inch ash and is pounding the table because demons are coming out of the knots in wood.

I now urge you to reevaluate your decision. If you are still going to drop Acid at least do something productive while under the influence. Like draw pictures. Or pitch a no-hitter.

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