Friends

Boy in car

Holy pink bathroom

Young Van Goghs?

I love walking the hallways of elementary schools and checking out the work of budding artists and writers. The tattered, colorful papers usually govern every available inch of hallway wall space, so sometimes it takes me a while to get back to the office -- which is, of course, a damn pity. Sit at a desk, or bask in innocence?
I found this display at a local school today. Van Gogh is one of my very most favorite artists, if in part because he was nuts. And he owned his insanity, like Laverne owned Shirley.
Incidently, I think the one on the bottom left looks more like a budding Picasso.

love your life. now.

Walking back from a lamely-executed assignment this morning (don't make me go to church at 7:30 in the morning on a Tuesday -- it is just not nice), I lifted my eyes briefly from my shuffling feet as I traversed the bridge and came upon this very life-affirming graffiti. I thought it was swell that someone found this message so important that they chose to share it with all attentive bridge-walkers. Definately better than the more typical "F#*K THE POLICE." I hope they don't "fix" it too quickly.

Fries with that?

Bizarro rocks.

Ten little piggies

Sleepy boy

Hoops

High school basketball game in Detroit, shot in a dark and dreary gymnasium. Backlit with one White Lightning on radio slave. I was feelin a little sassy, yes I was.

A little hiccup.

To any that may have noted the sudden disappearance of ol' girl Dazies, I apologize for any inconvenience or confusion that I may have caused. Of course, that is assuming anyone cares what I have to say in my little corner of the information super-highway. My information is in no way "super" -- and in fact, assigning any of my ramblings to such a lofty classification as "information" is certainly debatable.
But anyway.
I had to kill her, and execution style. Dazies talked too much, and all of a sudden too many people were listening to her. It was a relatively painless demise, I assure you, and I believe the event that forced my hand was actually a blessing in disguise.
From here on out, this space will be reserved for images, and perhaps the odd observation not intimately linked to my personal life. Most everything else will be re-relegated to the red satin journal currently gathering dust on my bedside table.
Thank you for being a friend.